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NLP Research Group 9

you ever have any problems? LISA (Murmurs, kissing him) I have one now. JEFF So do I. LISA (Kissing) Tell me about it. JEFF (Slight pause) Why would a man leave his apartment three times, on a rainy night, with a suitcase? And come back three times? LISA He likes the way his wife welcomes him home. JEFF Not that salesman's wife. And why didn't he go to work today? LISA Homework. It's more interesting. JEFF What's interesting about a butcher's knife and a small saw wrapped up in a newspaper? LISA Nothing, thank heaven. JEFF (Looking again) Why hasn't he gone into his wife's bedroom all day? LISA I wouldn't dare answer that. JEFF (After pause) Lisa -- there's something terribly wrong. She gives up trying to interest him in romance, and moves back from the embrace. THE CAMERA PULL BACK. LISA And I'm afraid it's with me. Lisa stands, straightens out her dress, stretches a little then she turns to the divan, apparently not too interested in his observation about the salesman's life. JEFF (Looks at Lisa) What do you think? LISA (Without returning his look) Something too frightful to utter. Jeff is thoughtful for a moment, then he relaxes and smiles a little. He turns to the window to look out again. Lisa exits the picture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa stretches herself out on the divan. Her head rest on the cushion at the far end, and she instinctively falls into an attractive pose. However, her expression is disturbed as she watches Jeff. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP He stares intently out the window. JEFF He went out a few minutes ago -- in his undershirt -- and he hasn't come back yet. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Lisa weighs this information, trying to make some sense out of it. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns his eyes from the salesman's apartment, and looks down reflectively. He looks up again, and then his eyes catches sight of something. He leans forward slightly. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso is lying, face down, on her divan bed. The only light in the apartment is from a reading lamp. She is reading a book held in one hand, while eating a sandwich in another. Her back is bare, and all she wears is a pair of brief dark blue shorts. At one point, she lifts her torso up slightly to brush crumbs out from beneath her. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP He looks away from Miss Torso, thoughtfully. JEFF You know -- that would be terrible job to tackle. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa leans forward and looks out the window to see what Jeff is referring to. She turns back to him with a blank stare. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns and looks at her, quite unaware of her surprise at his comment. JEFF How would you begin to cut up a human body? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa sits bolt upright on the divan. She reaches back quickly and pulls on the overhead light. At that moment the songwriter returns to his composing. We can see him over Lisa's shoulder. He is beginning his song again, and it has taken on new fullness and melody. Although it is not complete, it is farther along then before, and he plays his theme a number of different ways, trying to move it note by note to its completion. Lisa just stares at Jeff for a moment. LISA Jeff -- I'll be honest with you -- you're beginning to scare me a little. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is staring out of the window again. Over this we hear Lisa's voice: LISA (Quietly insistent) Jeff -- did you hear what I said? You're beginning to -- Jeff puts out a restraining hand. JEFF (Interrupting) Be quiet! Shhh! (Pause) He's coming back! EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT At last the salesman is seen coming along the corridor. He does not wear shirt, but only an undershirt. Slung over one shoulder, with his arm through is, is a large coil of sturdy rope. He goes through the living room into the bedroom. He does not put on the bedroom lights. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff reaches quickly for his binoculars, and trains them on the salesman's apartment. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT As seen though the binoculars, the salesman comes out of the bedroom, to the kitchen, where he gets a carving knife. He turns around and goes back to the bedroom. The lights go on behind the draw shades, after a short moment. The dim shadow of the salesman is seen moving around the room. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa, still stretched out on the divan looking at Jeff, suddenly sits upright and then getting up from the divan, mover over to Jeff, THE CAMERA GOING WITH her. In a sudden surprise move, she swings his chair completely around so that his back is to the window. He drops the binoculars into his lap in surprise. THE CAMERA MOVES IN as Lisa leans over Jeff, gripping both sides of his chair LISA (sharply) Jeff -- if you could only see yourself. JEFF Now, Lisa -- LISA (Abruptly) Sitting around, looking out a window to kill time, is one thing -- but doing it the way you are -- (She gestures) -- with, with binoculars, and with wild opinions about every little movement you see -- is, is diseased! JEFF Do you think I consider this recreation? LISA I don't know what you consider it -- but if you don't stop it, I'm getting out of here. JEFF You'd better before you catch the disease! LISA (Insistent) What is it you're looking for? JEFF I want to find out what's wrong with the salesman's wife. Does that make me sound like a madman? LISA What makes you think something's wrong with her? LISA A lot of things. She's an invalid who needs constant care -- and yet the husband nor anyone else has been in there all day. LISA Maybe she died. JEFF Where's the doctor -- the undertakers? LISA She could be under sedatives, sleeping. (Looks up) He's in the room now. Jeff tries to turn around, but she won't let the chair move. JEFF Lisa, please! LISA There's nothing to see. JEFF There is -- I've seen things through that window! Bickering, family fights, mysterious trips at night, knives, saws, rope -- and since last evening, not a sight or sound of his wife! Now you tell me where she is and what she's doing! LISA Maybe he's leaving his wife. I don't know, and I don't care. Lots of people have saws, knives and ropes around their houses. Lots of men don't speak to their wives all day. Lots of wives nag, and men hate them, and trouble starts -- but very, very, very few of them end up in murder -- if that's what you're thinking. JEFF It's pretty hard to stay away from that word isn't is? LISA You could see all the things he did, couldn't you? JEFF What are you getting at? LISA You could see that he did because he had the shades in his apartment up, and walked along the corridor, and the streets and the backyard? JEFF Yeah. LISA Jeff, do you think a murderer would let you see all that? That he shouldn't keep his shades down and hide behind them? JEFF That's where he's being clever. Acting nonchalant. LISA And that's where you're not being clever. He wouldn't parade his crime in front of the open shades. She turns the wheelchair slightly to her left so that he can see the newlyweds' apartment. LISA (Pointing) For all you know -- there's something a lot more sinister going on behind those shades. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT The drawn shades of the newlyweds' apartment. A dim light burning behind them. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff looks, turns back to her, trying to suppress a chuckle. JEFF No comment. LISA Don't you see how silly you're being? JEFF Okay, Lisa -- probably you're right. He's probably in the bedroom now, entertaining his wife with the indian rope trick. I'll admit to criminal insanity. Now when do I start the cure? Lisa half looks up and out the window. She opens her mouth to answer, but a new look overtakes her face. It is concern, surprise, and a little shock. Jeff sees the change, is sobered, and quickly turns the chair around. He looks out the window, using his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT The shades in the bedroom are now up. Both beds are empty, and stripped of their linen, the mattresses thrown up over the end of the beds. The salesman, sweating heavily, stands over a large, square trunk in the center of the room. It is stoutly bound by the heavy rope we previously saw him bring into the apartment. He wipes one forearm across his brow, and then heads for the kitchen. In the kitchen, he produces a bottle, pours himself two or three straight drinks, then leans with a display of exhaustion against the kitchen sink. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff lowers the glasses. His look is sober. Lisa stands behind him, one hand on the back of the wheelchair. She, too, is serious. THE CAMERA MOVES IN until Lisa's head fills the screen. She says, slowly: LISA Let's start from the beginning again, Jeff. Tell me everything you saw -- and what you think it means. She is still staring out the window, as the scene FADES OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated in the dark, his face lit by the faint glow from the distant street. He is looking out of the window tensely, as THE CAMERA MOVES IN, until he is in big profile. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT From Jeff's viewpoint, all the windows are dark. The couple are sleeping on the fire escape. The salesman's apartment is dark as well. Suddenly a match flares, and we see the salesman light a cigar. The flame of the match illuminates his face for a moment. When is dies out, we see just the glow of the cigar burning. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP The CAMERA is now facing Jeff. We see that his left hand rests on the telephone receiver which is close to him. The phone starts to RING, but makes only the slightest sound, as he instantly picks it up. As he talks, in a low voice, he keeps his eyes on the salesman's apartment. JEFF Yeah? INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP We get an impression of Sixth Avenue behind Lisa at the phone. Lisa also talks in a low, quiet voice. LISA The name on the second floor rear mailbox reads Mr. And Mrs. Lars, that's L-A-R-S, Lars Thorwald. JEFF (Filter) What's the apartment house number? LISA 125 West Ninth Street. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff, still looks toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Thanks, Lisa. INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa smilingly says: LISA Okay, chief. What's my next assignment. JEFF To get on home. LISA All right -- but what's he doing now? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff is still looking toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Just sitting in the living room. In the dark. And he hasn't gone near the bedroom. Now get some sleep. Goodnight. He puts the receiver down, and resumes his vigil. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT All we can see is the glow of the salesman's cigar. FADE OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated by the window in his wheelchair. He is talking on the telephone while his eyes are still on the neighborhood. There is a touch of urgency in his voice. JEFF Look, Doyle -- it's just one of those things I can't tell you on the phone. You have to be here, and see the whole set-up. The CAMERA PULLS BACK slightly as Stella emerges from the kitchen. She is carrying a tray with breakfast on it. Eggs, bacon, toast and coffee. JEFF It's probably nothing important -- just a little neighborhood murder, that's all. As a matter of fact, I did say "murder". Stella squeezes past the right side of Jeff, and places the food tray on a windowseat in front of him. She peers out cautiously toward Thorwald's apartment for a moment. Then she squeezes back, moving to the sideboard against which leans a small table on an adjustable stand. JEFF My only thought was to throw a little business your way. A good detective, I reasoned, would jump at the chance to detect. Stella returns with the table, and sets it up so that it is across Jeff's lap. She gets the tray of food pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment. Then she places the breakfast on the tray table in front of Jeff. He has moved back a little to avoid getting the phone cable tangled in the food and dishes. JEFF Well, I usually took my best pictures on my day off. (nods) Okay, Doyle -- soon as you can. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP He hangs up. Stella takes the phone and puts it down for him. He looks at the breakfast, reaches for a knife and fork. JEFF Stella, I -- I can't tell you what a welcome sight this is. No wonder your husband's still in love with you. STELLA Police? JEFF (Pauses in cutting food) Huh? STELLA You called the police? JEFF Oh. Well, yes and no. It wasn't an official call. He's just a friend. (Almost to himself) An old, ornery friend. He begins eating, appreciatively. She moves behind his chair, pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment again. Jeff is just lifting a piece of bacon to his lips when Stella speaks. STELLA (Half to herself) Now just where do you suppose he cut her up? The hand carrying the bacon to Jeff's mouth hesitates for a moment. STELLA (Answering herself) Oh -- of course! In the bathtub. That's the only place he could wash away the blood. The hand holding the bacon moves back to the plate. Jeff just stares ahead. Stella turns and walks into the kitchen. Jeff pushes the food away, and picks up the coffee cup instead. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes, over the coffee cup, are staring intently at the backyard. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. The shades up. No one moving. The rope-tied trunk still sits in the bedroom. To the left we see the basket lowering with the dog in it. We HEAR the woman WHISTLING an aria. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP His eyes stray in an upward direction as he puts down the coffee cup. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The CAMERA PANS UP past the woman lowering the dog, up to the roof where one of the sunbathers can be seen sitting up, rubbing her body with sun tan oil. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes moves down again. Abstractedly his hand strays toward the piece of bacon. He picks it up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. We are now aware that the salesman is now in his living room, lying out of sight on the sofa, because the smoke from a newly lighted cigar is starting to ascend toward the ceiling of his room. Stella's voice is heard calling out from the kitchen: STELLA'S VOICE He'd better get that trunk out of there before is starts to leak. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Again the bacon stops before is reaches Jeff's mouth. He puts it down on the plate again, as his eyes move slightly toward the left. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet outfit, is hanging up a small wash on a clothes line. It consists mostly of lingerie. She is doing her inevitable leg practice at the same time. THE CAMERA PANS OVER SUDDENLY TO Thorwald's apartment, and except for the smoke rising from the unseen sofa, there is no activity. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff seems to be getting a bit listless, or bored, by constantly watching Thorwald's apartment. His eyes sort of stray around the neighborhood, and end up looking toward: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The newlywed's apartment. Shade down, business as usual. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles affectionately, and starts to turn his eyes away; but something startles him, and he looks quickly back. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The shade suddenly going up in the newlywed's apartment. The young husband leans his hands on the windowsill, and looks out. He is wearing only his pajama bottoms, because of the heat, and we see that he is a well-muscled, attractive young man. He looks around with some satisfaction. He turns at the sound of a woman's voice behind him. GIRL'S VOICE H-a-a-r-r-e-e... He turns his head, is thoughtful for a brief moment, then he pulls down the shade. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP His smile almost becomes a private chuckle. Stella's abrupt voice breaks in urgently: STELLA'S VOICE Look! Look -- Mr. Jefferies! Jeff's head snaps toward the center of his window. Stella has appeared behind his wheelchair. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Two men wearing tan coveralls are standing outside Thorwald's door. One of them carries a clipboard. Suddenly Thorwald is seen sitting up on the living room sofa. His hair is disheveled and he is unshaved. He stands up, and moves toward the door. He opens it, and after a short exchange of dialogue, he admits the two men, leaving the door open behind them. He leads the two man across the living room to the bedroom. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Stella and Jeff watching intently. He is feeling down alongside his wheelchair for his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT A close view shows the two man carrying the trunk across the living room toward the corridor. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars quickly. JEFF (Agitated) I thought Doyle would get here before the trunk went -- or I'd have called the police. (To Stella) Now we're going to lose it. Stella moves toward the door quickly. Jeff turns quickly over his shoulder to watch her. She is already going up the steps. JEFF Stella, don't do anything reckless! As Stella goes out the door, she calls back: STELLA I'm just going to get the name of their truck! JEFF (Up) I'll watch the alleyway -- in case it goes that way. We hear nothing from Stella, but the sound of her heavy tread down the hallway stairs. Jeff returns to Thorwald. He eases himself back into the shadows a bit and then raises his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT Jeff concentrates his attention on the alley-way that leads to the street. Just normal traffic. The binoculars swing to Thorwald apartment. The salesman is now at the telephone. He has picked up the receiver, and proceeds to dial 221. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP The binoculars still up to Jeff's face. Under them his mouth moves, as if he's talking to himself. JEFF Long Distance. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT The salesman speaks some words to the operator. Placing the call. As he does this, he reaches with his other hand for a nearly bottle, and working the cork out with one hand, he pours a stiff drink into a tumbler. He drinks it as soon as he finishes talking with the operator. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars a little, and takes a normal eye sight on the alleyway. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Pulling across to the far side of the street we see the hood and cab of a freight truck. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff quickly puts the glasses up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT By the time the binoculars are up, another truck has crossed from the left. In momentarily blocks out the side of our freight truck. By the time the two trucks part, we can only see the back half of the freight truck before it pulls out of sight. Jeff is only able to read the words "FREIGHT LINES". The binoculars are held for a moment until we see a puffing and blowing Stella arrive at the opening of the alleyway. She looks toward the front of Thorwald's apartment house. And by her attitude we can see that there is no truck outside. She looks about her for a moment. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars, discouraged. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT The figure of Stella is seen, looking up toward Jeff's apartment, and arms outspread in a helpless gesture. LAP DISSOLVE TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT SHOOTING TOWARDS the big window, with the neighborhood beyond, Jeff is as usual seated in his wheelchair on the left of the window, but now turned toward a newcomer. The second man is standing near the divan looking out the window with the binoculars. This newcomer is POLICE DETECTIVE LIEUTENANT THOMAS J. DOYLE, the man Jeff phoned earlier in the day. He is an intelligent-appearing, well-dressed modern detective. He has a sense of humor. He lowers the glasses, and turns to Jeff. DOYLE You didn't see the killing, or the body? How do you know there was a murder? JEFF Because everything that man's done has been suspicious. Trips at night in the rain, saws, knives, trunks with rope, and a wife that isn't there any more. DOYLE I'll admit it all has a mysterious sound -- but is could mean a number of different things. Murder is the least likely. JEFF Go ahead, Doyle -- tell me he's an unemployed magician -- amusing the neighborhood with sleight-of-hand. Doyle paces a little. DOYLE It's too stupid and obvious a way to murder -- in full view of fifty windows -- and then sit over there -- (He points) -- smoking a cigar -- waiting for the police to pick him up. JEFF Well, officer -- do your duty. DOYLE You've got a lot to lean about homicide, Jeff. Morons have committed murder so shrewdly that it took a hundred trained police minds to catch them. That salesman wouldn't just knock off his wife after dinner, toss her in a trunk and put her in storage. JEFF I'll bet it's been done. DOYLE Almost everything's been done -- under panic. But this is a thousand to one shot. That man's still sitting around his apartment; he isn't panicked. JEFF (A pause) You think I made all this up? DOYLE I think you saw something -- that probably has a very simple explanation. JEFF For instance? DOYLE (Shrugs) His wife took a trip. JEFF She -- was -- an -- invalid! DOYLE You told me. (Looks at watch) I've got to run, Jeff. JEFF All right -- you don't believe me. Doyle saunters toward steps, picking up his hat on the way. Stops. DOYLE I -- uh -- won't report it to the Department. Let me poke into a little on my own. No point in you getting any ridiculous publicity. JEFF (Coldly) Thanks. DOYLE We know the wife is gone. I'll see if I can find out where. JEFF Do that. He goes up the steps to the door, putting on his hat. He pauses his hand on the door knob. DOYLE You have any headaches lately? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers, showing only the slightest irritation. JEFF Not 'til you showed up. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Doyle, still at the door: DOYLE Uh-huh. Well, it'll wear off in time -- along with the hallucinations. See you around. He starts to go out the door, and closes it behind him. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT From Doyle's viewpoint. Jeff lifts his hand in a feeble parting gesture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Before the door has completely closed, Doyle opens it again, and looks in. DOYLE By the way what happened to your leg? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP JEFF I was jaywalking. DOYLE'S VOICE (O.S.) Where? JEFF (With nonchalance) The Indianapolis Speedway. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP The door starts to close again, as if Doyle considered Jeff's answer quite reasonable. Then the door pops open and Doyle's head comes in, a surprised expression across his face. DOYLE During the race? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers with a straight face. JEFF Yup. It sure stopped traffic. We don't see Doyle again, but only HEAR the sharp slam of the DOOR off. Jeff chuckles. Then he turns back to the window. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's attention is drawn to something in the yard below. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The little dog is busily scratching away at Thorwald's pet flower bed. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles mischievously. Suddenly his face changes as he sees: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald coming out of his basement door, carrying a watering can. He fills it from a nearby faucet. He does not notice the little dog's destructive activities. When the watering can is filled, he straightens up, turns toward the flower bed. He stops for the briefest moment, when he sees the dog. He walks to the dog, gently lifts him out of the garden, and giving him a friendly little pat, sends him off. He proceeds to patiently brush back the disturbed earth, and then begins his watering. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is frankly puzzled by the salesman's friendly attitude toward the dog. He looks off in another direction, as he catches of: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Doyle, who has appeared, at the street opening. The detective is surveying the front of the apartment building where Thorwald lives. A paper seller behind him offers to sell him a paper. Doyle isn't interested. As Doyle saunters forward toward the salesman house, the scene: LAP DISSOLVES TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Doyle is nonchalantly leaning up against the side board, with a highball in one hand. Jeff has turned his chair around from the window to face him. DOYLE He has a six months lease, and has used up a little over five and a half months of it. (Takes a sip of drink) Quiet. Drinks, but not to drunkenness. Pays his bill promptly, with money earned as a consume jewelry salesman -- wholesale. Keeps to himself, and none of the neighbors got close to him, or his wife. JEFF I think they missed their chance with her. DOYLE (Studies drink) She never left the apartment -- JEFF (Interrupting) Then where is she -- in the ice box? DOYLE (Continues) -- until yesterday morning. JEFF (Alert) What time? DOYLE Six ayem. Jeff looks thoughtful a moment, and then says, with a touch of discouragement: JEFF I think that's about the time I fell asleep. DOYLE Too bad. The Thorwalds were just leaving the apartment house at that time. He puts down his drink, and strolls toward the window, looking out. THE CAMERA MOVES IN slightly to tighten the shot. DOYLE Feel a little foolish? JEFF Not yet. Doyle becomes interested in watching something out the window. Unconsciously he smooths out his coat and tie. He even smiles somewhat secretly to himself at what he sees. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet costume, practicing her dance on the outside balcony. She is exciting and desirable. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - TIGHT TWO SHOT Jeff notices Doyle's interest. JEFF How's your wife? Startled at being observed, Doyle moves quickly away from the window, affecting nonchalance. THE CAMERA MOVES BACK as Doyle returns to his drink. Jeff smiles at catching Doyle enjoying Miss Torso. DOYLE Oh -- oh, she's fine. (Not too convincing) Just fine. He tosses off the rest of the drink, and his movement is almost a comment. Jeff's face grows serious. JEFF Who said they left then? DOYLE Who left -- where? JEFF The Thorwalds -- at six in the morning? Doyle quickly collects his thoughts, and gets back to the case at hand. DOYLE The building superintendent, and two tenants. Flat statements -- no hesitation. And they all jibed to the letter. The Thorwalds were leaving for the railroad station. JEFF Now how could anybody guess that? They had, perhaps, signs on their luggage, "Grand Central Or Bust!"? DOYLE (Sighs) The superintendent met Thorwald coming back. He said Thorwald told him he had just put his wife on the train for the country. JEFF A very convenient guy -- this superintendent. Have you checked his bank deposits lately? DOYLE Jeff -- huh? JEFF (Sharply) Well -- what good is his information?!! It's a second-hand version of an unsupported statement by the murderer himself -- Thorwald! Anybody actually see the wife get on the train? DOYLE I hate to remind you -- but this all started because you said she was murdered. Now

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you ever have any problems? LISA (Murmurs, kissing him) I have one now. JEFF So do I. LISA (Kissing) Tell me about it. JEFF (Slight pause) Why would a man leave his apartment three times, on a rainy night, with a suitcase? And come back three times? LISA He likes the way his wife welcomes him home. JEFF Not that salesman's wife. And why didn't he go to work today? LISA Homework. It's more interesting. JEFF What's interesting about a butcher's knife and a small saw wrapped up in a newspaper? LISA Nothing, thank heaven. JEFF (Looking again) Why hasn't he gone into his wife's bedroom all day? LISA I wouldn't dare answer that. JEFF (After pause) Lisa -- there's something terribly wrong. She gives up trying to interest him in romance, and moves back from the embrace. THE CAMERA PULL BACK. LISA And I'm afraid it's with me. Lisa stands, straightens out her dress, stretches a little then she turns to the divan, apparently not too interested in his observation about the salesman's life. JEFF (Looks at Lisa) What do you think? LISA (Without returning his look) Something too frightful to utter. Jeff is thoughtful for a moment, then he relaxes and smiles a little. He turns to the window to look out again. Lisa exits the picture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa stretches herself out on the divan. Her head rest on the cushion at the far end, and she instinctively falls into an attractive pose. However, her expression is disturbed as she watches Jeff. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP He stares intently out the window. JEFF He went out a few minutes ago -- in his undershirt -- and he hasn't come back yet. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Lisa weighs this information, trying to make some sense out of it. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns his eyes from the salesman's apartment, and looks down reflectively. He looks up again, and then his eyes catches sight of something. He leans forward slightly. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso is lying, face down, on her divan bed. The only light in the apartment is from a reading lamp. She is reading a book held in one hand, while eating a sandwich in another. Her back is bare, and all she wears is a pair of brief dark blue shorts. At one point, she lifts her torso up slightly to brush crumbs out from beneath her. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP He looks away from Miss Torso, thoughtfully. JEFF You know -- that would be terrible job to tackle. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa leans forward and looks out the window to see what Jeff is referring to. She turns back to him with a blank stare. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns and looks at her, quite unaware of her surprise at his comment. JEFF How would you begin to cut up a human body? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa sits bolt upright on the divan. She reaches back quickly and pulls on the overhead light. At that moment the songwriter returns to his composing. We can see him over Lisa's shoulder. He is beginning his song again, and it has taken on new fullness and melody. Although it is not complete, it is farther along then before, and he plays his theme a number of different ways, trying to move it note by note to its completion. Lisa just stares at Jeff for a moment. LISA Jeff -- I'll be honest with you -- you're beginning to scare me a little. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is staring out of the window again. Over this we hear Lisa's voice: LISA (Quietly insistent) Jeff -- did you hear what I said? You're beginning to -- Jeff puts out a restraining hand. JEFF (Interrupting) Be quiet! Shhh! (Pause) He's coming back! EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT At last the salesman is seen coming along the corridor. He does not wear shirt, but only an undershirt. Slung over one shoulder, with his arm through is, is a large coil of sturdy rope. He goes through the living room into the bedroom. He does not put on the bedroom lights. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff reaches quickly for his binoculars, and trains them on the salesman's apartment. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT As seen though the binoculars, the salesman comes out of the bedroom, to the kitchen, where he gets a carving knife. He turns around and goes back to the bedroom. The lights go on behind the draw shades, after a short moment. The dim shadow of the salesman is seen moving around the room. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa, still stretched out on the divan looking at Jeff, suddenly sits upright and then getting up from the divan, mover over to Jeff, THE CAMERA GOING WITH her. In a sudden surprise move, she swings his chair completely around so that his back is to the window. He drops the binoculars into his lap in surprise. THE CAMERA MOVES IN as Lisa leans over Jeff, gripping both sides of his chair LISA (sharply) Jeff -- if you could only see yourself. JEFF Now, Lisa -- LISA (Abruptly) Sitting around, looking out a window to kill time, is one thing -- but doing it the way you are -- (She gestures) -- with, with binoculars, and with wild opinions about every little movement you see -- is, is diseased! JEFF Do you think I consider this recreation? LISA I don't know what you consider it -- but if you don't stop it, I'm getting out of here. JEFF You'd better before you catch the disease! LISA (Insistent) What is it you're looking for? JEFF I want to find out what's wrong with the salesman's wife. Does that make me sound like a madman? LISA What makes you think something's wrong with her? LISA A lot of things. She's an invalid who needs constant care -- and yet the husband nor anyone else has been in there all day. LISA Maybe she died. JEFF Where's the doctor -- the undertakers? LISA She could be under sedatives, sleeping. (Looks up) He's in the room now. Jeff tries to turn around, but she won't let the chair move. JEFF Lisa, please! LISA There's nothing to see. JEFF There is -- I've seen things through that window! Bickering, family fights, mysterious trips at night, knives, saws, rope -- and since last evening, not a sight or sound of his wife! Now you tell me where she is and what she's doing! LISA Maybe he's leaving his wife. I don't know, and I don't care. Lots of people have saws, knives and ropes around their houses. Lots of men don't speak to their wives all day. Lots of wives nag, and men hate them, and trouble starts -- but very, very, very few of them end up in murder -- if that's what you're thinking. JEFF It's pretty hard to stay away from that word isn't is? LISA You could see all the things he did, couldn't you? JEFF What are you getting at? LISA You could see that he did because he had the shades in his apartment up, and walked along the corridor, and the streets and the backyard? JEFF Yeah. LISA Jeff, do you think a murderer would let you see all that? That he shouldn't keep his shades down and hide behind them? JEFF That's where he's being clever. Acting nonchalant. LISA And that's where you're not being clever. He wouldn't parade his crime in front of the open shades. She turns the wheelchair slightly to her left so that he can see the newlyweds' apartment. LISA (Pointing) For all you know -- there's something a lot more sinister going on behind those shades. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT The drawn shades of the newlyweds' apartment. A dim light burning behind them. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff looks, turns back to her, trying to suppress a chuckle. JEFF No comment. LISA Don't you see how silly you're being? JEFF Okay, Lisa -- probably you're right. He's probably in the bedroom now, entertaining his wife with the indian rope trick. I'll admit to criminal insanity. Now when do I start the cure? Lisa half looks up and out the window. She opens her mouth to answer, but a new look overtakes her face. It is concern, surprise, and a little shock. Jeff sees the change, is sobered, and quickly turns the chair around. He looks out the window, using his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT The shades in the bedroom are now up. Both beds are empty, and stripped of their linen, the mattresses thrown up over the end of the beds. The salesman, sweating heavily, stands over a large, square trunk in the center of the room. It is stoutly bound by the heavy rope we previously saw him bring into the apartment. He wipes one forearm across his brow, and then heads for the kitchen. In the kitchen, he produces a bottle, pours himself two or three straight drinks, then leans with a display of exhaustion against the kitchen sink. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff lowers the glasses. His look is sober. Lisa stands behind him, one hand on the back of the wheelchair. She, too, is serious. THE CAMERA MOVES IN until Lisa's head fills the screen. She says, slowly: LISA Let's start from the beginning again, Jeff. Tell me everything you saw -- and what you think it means. She is still staring out the window, as the scene FADES OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated in the dark, his face lit by the faint glow from the distant street. He is looking out of the window tensely, as THE CAMERA MOVES IN, until he is in big profile. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT From Jeff's viewpoint, all the windows are dark. The couple are sleeping on the fire escape. The salesman's apartment is dark as well. Suddenly a match flares, and we see the salesman light a cigar. The flame of the match illuminates his face for a moment. When is dies out, we see just the glow of the cigar burning. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP The CAMERA is now facing Jeff. We see that his left hand rests on the telephone receiver which is close to him. The phone starts to RING, but makes only the slightest sound, as he instantly picks it up. As he talks, in a low voice, he keeps his eyes on the salesman's apartment. JEFF Yeah? INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP We get an impression of Sixth Avenue behind Lisa at the phone. Lisa also talks in a low, quiet voice. LISA The name on the second floor rear mailbox reads Mr. And Mrs. Lars, that's L-A-R-S, Lars Thorwald. JEFF (Filter) What's the apartment house number? LISA 125 West Ninth Street. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff, still looks toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Thanks, Lisa. INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa smilingly says: LISA Okay, chief. What's my next assignment. JEFF To get on home. LISA All right -- but what's he doing now? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff is still looking toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Just sitting in the living room. In the dark. And he hasn't gone near the bedroom. Now get some sleep. Goodnight. He puts the receiver down, and resumes his vigil. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT All we can see is the glow of the salesman's cigar. FADE OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated by the window in his wheelchair. He is talking on the telephone while his eyes are still on the neighborhood. There is a touch of urgency in his voice. JEFF Look, Doyle -- it's just one of those things I can't tell you on the phone. You have to be here, and see the whole set-up. The CAMERA PULLS BACK slightly as Stella emerges from the kitchen. She is carrying a tray with breakfast on it. Eggs, bacon, toast and coffee. JEFF It's probably nothing important -- just a little neighborhood murder, that's all. As a matter of fact, I did say "murder". Stella squeezes past the right side of Jeff, and places the food tray on a windowseat in front of him. She peers out cautiously toward Thorwald's apartment for a moment. Then she squeezes back, moving to the sideboard against which leans a small table on an adjustable stand. JEFF My only thought was to throw a little business your way. A good detective, I reasoned, would jump at the chance to detect. Stella returns with the table, and sets it up so that it is across Jeff's lap. She gets the tray of food pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment. Then she places the breakfast on the tray table in front of Jeff. He has moved back a little to avoid getting the phone cable tangled in the food and dishes. JEFF Well, I usually took my best pictures on my day off. (nods) Okay, Doyle -- soon as you can. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP He hangs up. Stella takes the phone and puts it down for him. He looks at the breakfast, reaches for a knife and fork. JEFF Stella, I -- I can't tell you what a welcome sight this is. No wonder your husband's still in love with you. STELLA Police? JEFF (Pauses in cutting food) Huh? STELLA You called the police? JEFF Oh. Well, yes and no. It wasn't an official call. He's just a friend. (Almost to himself) An old, ornery friend. He begins eating, appreciatively. She moves behind his chair, pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment again. Jeff is just lifting a piece of bacon to his lips when Stella speaks. STELLA (Half to herself) Now just where do you suppose he cut her up? The hand carrying the bacon to Jeff's mouth hesitates for a moment. STELLA (Answering herself) Oh -- of course! In the bathtub. That's the only place he could wash away the blood. The hand holding the bacon moves back to the plate. Jeff just stares ahead. Stella turns and walks into the kitchen. Jeff pushes the food away, and picks up the coffee cup instead. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes, over the coffee cup, are staring intently at the backyard. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. The shades up. No one moving. The rope-tied trunk still sits in the bedroom. To the left we see the basket lowering with the dog in it. We HEAR the woman WHISTLING an aria. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP His eyes stray in an upward direction as he puts down the coffee cup. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The CAMERA PANS UP past the woman lowering the dog, up to the roof where one of the sunbathers can be seen sitting up, rubbing her body with sun tan oil. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes moves down again. Abstractedly his hand strays toward the piece of bacon. He picks it up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. We are now aware that the salesman is now in his living room, lying out of sight on the sofa, because the smoke from a newly lighted cigar is starting to ascend toward the ceiling of his room. Stella's voice is heard calling out from the kitchen: STELLA'S VOICE He'd better get that trunk out of there before is starts to leak. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Again the bacon stops before is reaches Jeff's mouth. He puts it down on the plate again, as his eyes move slightly toward the left. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet outfit, is hanging up a small wash on a clothes line. It consists mostly of lingerie. She is doing her inevitable leg practice at the same time. THE CAMERA PANS OVER SUDDENLY TO Thorwald's apartment, and except for the smoke rising from the unseen sofa, there is no activity. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff seems to be getting a bit listless, or bored, by constantly watching Thorwald's apartment. His eyes sort of stray around the neighborhood, and end up looking toward: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The newlywed's apartment. Shade down, business as usual. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles affectionately, and starts to turn his eyes away; but something startles him, and he looks quickly back. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The shade suddenly going up in the newlywed's apartment. The young husband leans his hands on the windowsill, and looks out. He is wearing only his pajama bottoms, because of the heat, and we see that he is a well-muscled, attractive young man. He looks around with some satisfaction. He turns at the sound of a woman's voice behind him. GIRL'S VOICE H-a-a-r-r-e-e... He turns his head, is thoughtful for a brief moment, then he pulls down the shade. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP His smile almost becomes a private chuckle. Stella's abrupt voice breaks in urgently: STELLA'S VOICE Look! Look -- Mr. Jefferies! Jeff's head snaps toward the center of his window. Stella has appeared behind his wheelchair. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Two men wearing tan coveralls are standing outside Thorwald's door. One of them carries a clipboard. Suddenly Thorwald is seen sitting up on the living room sofa. His hair is disheveled and he is unshaved. He stands up, and moves toward the door. He opens it, and after a short exchange of dialogue, he admits the two men, leaving the door open behind them. He leads the two man across the living room to the bedroom. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Stella and Jeff watching intently. He is feeling down alongside his wheelchair for his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT A close view shows the two man carrying the trunk across the living room toward the corridor. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars quickly. JEFF (Agitated) I thought Doyle would get here before the trunk went -- or I'd have called the police. (To Stella) Now we're going to lose it. Stella moves toward the door quickly. Jeff turns quickly over his shoulder to watch her. She is already going up the steps. JEFF Stella, don't do anything reckless! As Stella goes out the door, she calls back: STELLA I'm just going to get the name of their truck! JEFF (Up) I'll watch the alleyway -- in case it goes that way. We hear nothing from Stella, but the sound of her heavy tread down the hallway stairs. Jeff returns to Thorwald. He eases himself back into the shadows a bit and then raises his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT Jeff concentrates his attention on the alley-way that leads to the street. Just normal traffic. The binoculars swing to Thorwald apartment. The salesman is now at the telephone. He has picked up the receiver, and proceeds to dial 221. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP The binoculars still up to Jeff's face. Under them his mouth moves, as if he's talking to himself. JEFF Long Distance. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT The salesman speaks some words to the operator. Placing the call. As he does this, he reaches with his other hand for a nearly bottle, and working the cork out with one hand, he pours a stiff drink into a tumbler. He drinks it as soon as he finishes talking with the operator. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars a little, and takes a normal eye sight on the alleyway. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Pulling across to the far side of the street we see the hood and cab of a freight truck. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff quickly puts the glasses up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT By the time the binoculars are up, another truck has crossed from the left. In momentarily blocks out the side of our freight truck. By the time the two trucks part, we can only see the back half of the freight truck before it pulls out of sight. Jeff is only able to read the words "FREIGHT LINES". The binoculars are held for a moment until we see a puffing and blowing Stella arrive at the opening of the alleyway. She looks toward the front of Thorwald's apartment house. And by her attitude we can see that there is no truck outside. She looks about her for a moment. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars, discouraged. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT The figure of Stella is seen, looking up toward Jeff's apartment, and arms outspread in a helpless gesture. LAP DISSOLVE TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT SHOOTING TOWARDS the big window, with the neighborhood beyond, Jeff is as usual seated in his wheelchair on the left of the window, but now turned toward a newcomer. The second man is standing near the divan looking out the window with the binoculars. This newcomer is POLICE DETECTIVE LIEUTENANT THOMAS J. DOYLE, the man Jeff phoned earlier in the day. He is an intelligent-appearing, well-dressed modern detective. He has a sense of humor. He lowers the glasses, and turns to Jeff. DOYLE You didn't see the killing, or the body? How do you know there was a murder? JEFF Because everything that man's done has been suspicious. Trips at night in the rain, saws, knives, trunks with rope, and a wife that isn't there any more. DOYLE I'll admit it all has a mysterious sound -- but is could mean a number of different things. Murder is the least likely. JEFF Go ahead, Doyle -- tell me he's an unemployed magician -- amusing the neighborhood with sleight-of-hand. Doyle paces a little. DOYLE It's too stupid and obvious a way to murder -- in full view of fifty windows -- and then sit over there -- (He points) -- smoking a cigar -- waiting for the police to pick him up. JEFF Well, officer -- do your duty. DOYLE You've got a lot to lean about homicide, Jeff. Morons have committed murder so shrewdly that it took a hundred trained police minds to catch them. That salesman wouldn't just knock off his wife after dinner, toss her in a trunk and put her in storage. JEFF I'll bet it's been done. DOYLE Almost everything's been done -- under panic. But this is a thousand to one shot. That man's still sitting around his apartment; he isn't panicked. JEFF (A pause) You think I made all this up? DOYLE I think you saw something -- that probably has a very simple explanation. JEFF For instance? DOYLE (Shrugs) His wife took a trip. JEFF She -- was -- an -- invalid! DOYLE You told me. (Looks at watch) I've got to run, Jeff. JEFF All right -- you don't believe me. Doyle saunters toward steps, picking up his hat on the way. Stops. DOYLE I -- uh -- won't report it to the Department. Let me poke into a little on my own. No point in you getting any ridiculous publicity. JEFF (Coldly) Thanks. DOYLE We know the wife is gone. I'll see if I can find out where. JEFF Do that. He goes up the steps to the door, putting on his hat. He pauses his hand on the door knob. DOYLE You have any headaches lately? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers, showing only the slightest irritation. JEFF Not 'til you showed up. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Doyle, still at the door: DOYLE Uh-huh. Well, it'll wear off in time -- along with the hallucinations. See you around. He starts to go out the door, and closes it behind him. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT From Doyle's viewpoint. Jeff lifts his hand in a feeble parting gesture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Before the door has completely closed, Doyle opens it again, and looks in. DOYLE By the way what happened to your leg? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP JEFF I was jaywalking. DOYLE'S VOICE (O.S.) Where? JEFF (With nonchalance) The Indianapolis Speedway. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP The door starts to close again, as if Doyle considered Jeff's answer quite reasonable. Then the door pops open and Doyle's head comes in, a surprised expression across his face. DOYLE During the race? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers with a straight face. JEFF Yup. It sure stopped traffic. We don't see Doyle again, but only HEAR the sharp slam of the DOOR off. Jeff chuckles. Then he turns back to the window. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's attention is drawn to something in the yard below. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The little dog is busily scratching away at Thorwald's pet flower bed. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles mischievously. Suddenly his face changes as he sees: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald coming out of his basement door, carrying a watering can. He fills it from a nearby faucet. He does not notice the little dog's destructive activities. When the watering can is filled, he straightens up, turns toward the flower bed. He stops for the briefest moment, when he sees the dog. He walks to the dog, gently lifts him out of the garden, and giving him a friendly little pat, sends him off. He proceeds to patiently brush back the disturbed earth, and then begins his watering. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is frankly puzzled by the salesman's friendly attitude toward the dog. He looks off in another direction, as he catches of: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Doyle, who has appeared, at the street opening. The detective is surveying the front of the apartment building where Thorwald lives. A paper seller behind him offers to sell him a paper. Doyle isn't interested. As Doyle saunters forward toward the salesman house, the scene: LAP DISSOLVES TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Doyle is nonchalantly leaning up against the side board, with a highball in one hand. Jeff has turned his chair around from the window to face him. DOYLE He has a six months lease, and has used up a little over five and a half months of it. (Takes a sip of drink) Quiet. Drinks, but not to drunkenness. Pays his bill promptly, with money earned as a consume jewelry salesman -- wholesale. Keeps to himself, and none of the neighbors got close to him, or his wife. JEFF I think they missed their chance with her. DOYLE (Studies drink) She never left the apartment -- JEFF (Interrupting) Then where is she -- in the ice box? DOYLE (Continues) -- until yesterday morning. JEFF (Alert) What time? DOYLE Six ayem. Jeff looks thoughtful a moment, and then says, with a touch of discouragement: JEFF I think that's about the time I fell asleep. DOYLE Too bad. The Thorwalds were just leaving the apartment house at that time. He puts down his drink, and strolls toward the window, looking out. THE CAMERA MOVES IN slightly to tighten the shot. DOYLE Feel a little foolish? JEFF Not yet. Doyle becomes interested in watching something out the window. Unconsciously he smooths out his coat and tie. He even smiles somewhat secretly to himself at what he sees. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet costume, practicing her dance on the outside balcony. She is exciting and desirable. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - TIGHT TWO SHOT Jeff notices Doyle's interest. JEFF How's your wife? Startled at being observed, Doyle moves quickly away from the window, affecting nonchalance. THE CAMERA MOVES BACK as Doyle returns to his drink. Jeff smiles at catching Doyle enjoying Miss Torso. DOYLE Oh -- oh, she's fine. (Not too convincing) Just fine. He tosses off the rest of the drink, and his movement is almost a comment. Jeff's face grows serious. JEFF Who said they left then? DOYLE Who left -- where? JEFF The Thorwalds -- at six in the morning? Doyle quickly collects his thoughts, and gets back to the case at hand. DOYLE The building superintendent, and two tenants. Flat statements -- no hesitation. And they all jibed to the letter. The Thorwalds were leaving for the railroad station. JEFF Now how could anybody guess that? They had, perhaps, signs on their luggage, "Grand Central Or Bust!"? DOYLE (Sighs) The superintendent met Thorwald coming back. He said Thorwald told him he had just put his wife on the train for the country. JEFF A very convenient guy -- this superintendent. Have you checked his bank deposits lately? DOYLE Jeff -- huh? JEFF (Sharply) Well -- what good is his information?!! It's a second-hand version of an unsupported statement by the murderer himself -- Thorwald! Anybody actually see the wife get on the train? DOYLE I hate to remind you -- but this all started because you said she was murdered. Now

shadow

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

you ever have any problems? LISA (Murmurs, kissing him) I have one now. JEFF So do I. LISA (Kissing) Tell me about it. JEFF (Slight pause) Why would a man leave his apartment three times, on a rainy night, with a suitcase? And come back three times? LISA He likes the way his wife welcomes him home. JEFF Not that salesman's wife. And why didn't he go to work today? LISA Homework. It's more interesting. JEFF What's interesting about a butcher's knife and a small saw wrapped up in a newspaper? LISA Nothing, thank heaven. JEFF (Looking again) Why hasn't he gone into his wife's bedroom all day? LISA I wouldn't dare answer that. JEFF (After pause) Lisa -- there's something terribly wrong. She gives up trying to interest him in romance, and moves back from the embrace. THE CAMERA PULL BACK. LISA And I'm afraid it's with me. Lisa stands, straightens out her dress, stretches a little then she turns to the divan, apparently not too interested in his observation about the salesman's life. JEFF (Looks at Lisa) What do you think? LISA (Without returning his look) Something too frightful to utter. Jeff is thoughtful for a moment, then he relaxes and smiles a little. He turns to the window to look out again. Lisa exits the picture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa stretches herself out on the divan. Her head rest on the cushion at the far end, and she instinctively falls into an attractive pose. However, her expression is disturbed as she watches Jeff. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP He stares intently out the window. JEFF He went out a few minutes ago -- in his undershirt -- and he hasn't come back yet. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Lisa weighs this information, trying to make some sense out of it. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns his eyes from the salesman's apartment, and looks down reflectively. He looks up again, and then his eyes catches sight of something. He leans forward slightly. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso is lying, face down, on her divan bed. The only light in the apartment is from a reading lamp. She is reading a book held in one hand, while eating a sandwich in another. Her back is bare, and all she wears is a pair of brief dark blue shorts. At one point, she lifts her torso up slightly to brush crumbs out from beneath her. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP He looks away from Miss Torso, thoughtfully. JEFF You know -- that would be terrible job to tackle. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa leans forward and looks out the window to see what Jeff is referring to. She turns back to him with a blank stare. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns and looks at her, quite unaware of her surprise at his comment. JEFF How would you begin to cut up a human body? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa sits bolt upright on the divan. She reaches back quickly and pulls on the overhead light. At that moment the songwriter returns to his composing. We can see him over Lisa's shoulder. He is beginning his song again, and it has taken on new fullness and melody. Although it is not complete, it is farther along then before, and he plays his theme a number of different ways, trying to move it note by note to its completion. Lisa just stares at Jeff for a moment. LISA Jeff -- I'll be honest with you -- you're beginning to scare me a little. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is staring out of the window again. Over this we hear Lisa's voice: LISA (Quietly insistent) Jeff -- did you hear what I said? You're beginning to -- Jeff puts out a restraining hand. JEFF (Interrupting) Be quiet! Shhh! (Pause) He's coming back! EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT At last the salesman is seen coming along the corridor. He does not wear shirt, but only an undershirt. Slung over one shoulder, with his arm through is, is a large coil of sturdy rope. He goes through the living room into the bedroom. He does not put on the bedroom lights. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff reaches quickly for his binoculars, and trains them on the salesman's apartment. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT As seen though the binoculars, the salesman comes out of the bedroom, to the kitchen, where he gets a carving knife. He turns around and goes back to the bedroom. The lights go on behind the draw shades, after a short moment. The dim shadow of the salesman is seen moving around the room. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa, still stretched out on the divan looking at Jeff, suddenly sits upright and then getting up from the divan, mover over to Jeff, THE CAMERA GOING WITH her. In a sudden surprise move, she swings his chair completely around so that his back is to the window. He drops the binoculars into his lap in surprise. THE CAMERA MOVES IN as Lisa leans over Jeff, gripping both sides of his chair LISA (sharply) Jeff -- if you could only see yourself. JEFF Now, Lisa -- LISA (Abruptly) Sitting around, looking out a window to kill time, is one thing -- but doing it the way you are -- (She gestures) -- with, with binoculars, and with wild opinions about every little movement you see -- is, is diseased! JEFF Do you think I consider this recreation? LISA I don't know what you consider it -- but if you don't stop it, I'm getting out of here. JEFF You'd better before you catch the disease! LISA (Insistent) What is it you're looking for? JEFF I want to find out what's wrong with the salesman's wife. Does that make me sound like a madman? LISA What makes you think something's wrong with her? LISA A lot of things. She's an invalid who needs constant care -- and yet the husband nor anyone else has been in there all day. LISA Maybe she died. JEFF Where's the doctor -- the undertakers? LISA She could be under sedatives, sleeping. (Looks up) He's in the room now. Jeff tries to turn around, but she won't let the chair move. JEFF Lisa, please! LISA There's nothing to see. JEFF There is -- I've seen things through that window! Bickering, family fights, mysterious trips at night, knives, saws, rope -- and since last evening, not a sight or sound of his wife! Now you tell me where she is and what she's doing! LISA Maybe he's leaving his wife. I don't know, and I don't care. Lots of people have saws, knives and ropes around their houses. Lots of men don't speak to their wives all day. Lots of wives nag, and men hate them, and trouble starts -- but very, very, very few of them end up in murder -- if that's what you're thinking. JEFF It's pretty hard to stay away from that word isn't is? LISA You could see all the things he did, couldn't you? JEFF What are you getting at? LISA You could see that he did because he had the shades in his apartment up, and walked along the corridor, and the streets and the backyard? JEFF Yeah. LISA Jeff, do you think a murderer would let you see all that? That he shouldn't keep his shades down and hide behind them? JEFF That's where he's being clever. Acting nonchalant. LISA And that's where you're not being clever. He wouldn't parade his crime in front of the open shades. She turns the wheelchair slightly to her left so that he can see the newlyweds' apartment. LISA (Pointing) For all you know -- there's something a lot more sinister going on behind those shades. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT The drawn shades of the newlyweds' apartment. A dim light burning behind them. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff looks, turns back to her, trying to suppress a chuckle. JEFF No comment. LISA Don't you see how silly you're being? JEFF Okay, Lisa -- probably you're right. He's probably in the bedroom now, entertaining his wife with the indian rope trick. I'll admit to criminal insanity. Now when do I start the cure? Lisa half looks up and out the window. She opens her mouth to answer, but a new look overtakes her face. It is concern, surprise, and a little shock. Jeff sees the change, is sobered, and quickly turns the chair around. He looks out the window, using his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT The shades in the bedroom are now up. Both beds are empty, and stripped of their linen, the mattresses thrown up over the end of the beds. The salesman, sweating heavily, stands over a large, square trunk in the center of the room. It is stoutly bound by the heavy rope we previously saw him bring into the apartment. He wipes one forearm across his brow, and then heads for the kitchen. In the kitchen, he produces a bottle, pours himself two or three straight drinks, then leans with a display of exhaustion against the kitchen sink. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff lowers the glasses. His look is sober. Lisa stands behind him, one hand on the back of the wheelchair. She, too, is serious. THE CAMERA MOVES IN until Lisa's head fills the screen. She says, slowly: LISA Let's start from the beginning again, Jeff. Tell me everything you saw -- and what you think it means. She is still staring out the window, as the scene FADES OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated in the dark, his face lit by the faint glow from the distant street. He is looking out of the window tensely, as THE CAMERA MOVES IN, until he is in big profile. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT From Jeff's viewpoint, all the windows are dark. The couple are sleeping on the fire escape. The salesman's apartment is dark as well. Suddenly a match flares, and we see the salesman light a cigar. The flame of the match illuminates his face for a moment. When is dies out, we see just the glow of the cigar burning. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP The CAMERA is now facing Jeff. We see that his left hand rests on the telephone receiver which is close to him. The phone starts to RING, but makes only the slightest sound, as he instantly picks it up. As he talks, in a low voice, he keeps his eyes on the salesman's apartment. JEFF Yeah? INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP We get an impression of Sixth Avenue behind Lisa at the phone. Lisa also talks in a low, quiet voice. LISA The name on the second floor rear mailbox reads Mr. And Mrs. Lars, that's L-A-R-S, Lars Thorwald. JEFF (Filter) What's the apartment house number? LISA 125 West Ninth Street. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff, still looks toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Thanks, Lisa. INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa smilingly says: LISA Okay, chief. What's my next assignment. JEFF To get on home. LISA All right -- but what's he doing now? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff is still looking toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Just sitting in the living room. In the dark. And he hasn't gone near the bedroom. Now get some sleep. Goodnight. He puts the receiver down, and resumes his vigil. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT All we can see is the glow of the salesman's cigar. FADE OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated by the window in his wheelchair. He is talking on the telephone while his eyes are still on the neighborhood. There is a touch of urgency in his voice. JEFF Look, Doyle -- it's just one of those things I can't tell you on the phone. You have to be here, and see the whole set-up. The CAMERA PULLS BACK slightly as Stella emerges from the kitchen. She is carrying a tray with breakfast on it. Eggs, bacon, toast and coffee. JEFF It's probably nothing important -- just a little neighborhood murder, that's all. As a matter of fact, I did say "murder". Stella squeezes past the right side of Jeff, and places the food tray on a windowseat in front of him. She peers out cautiously toward Thorwald's apartment for a moment. Then she squeezes back, moving to the sideboard against which leans a small table on an adjustable stand. JEFF My only thought was to throw a little business your way. A good detective, I reasoned, would jump at the chance to detect. Stella returns with the table, and sets it up so that it is across Jeff's lap. She gets the tray of food pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment. Then she places the breakfast on the tray table in front of Jeff. He has moved back a little to avoid getting the phone cable tangled in the food and dishes. JEFF Well, I usually took my best pictures on my day off. (nods) Okay, Doyle -- soon as you can. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP He hangs up. Stella takes the phone and puts it down for him. He looks at the breakfast, reaches for a knife and fork. JEFF Stella, I -- I can't tell you what a welcome sight this is. No wonder your husband's still in love with you. STELLA Police? JEFF (Pauses in cutting food) Huh? STELLA You called the police? JEFF Oh. Well, yes and no. It wasn't an official call. He's just a friend. (Almost to himself) An old, ornery friend. He begins eating, appreciatively. She moves behind his chair, pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment again. Jeff is just lifting a piece of bacon to his lips when Stella speaks. STELLA (Half to herself) Now just where do you suppose he cut her up? The hand carrying the bacon to Jeff's mouth hesitates for a moment. STELLA (Answering herself) Oh -- of course! In the bathtub. That's the only place he could wash away the blood. The hand holding the bacon moves back to the plate. Jeff just stares ahead. Stella turns and walks into the kitchen. Jeff pushes the food away, and picks up the coffee cup instead. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes, over the coffee cup, are staring intently at the backyard. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. The shades up. No one moving. The rope-tied trunk still sits in the bedroom. To the left we see the basket lowering with the dog in it. We HEAR the woman WHISTLING an aria. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP His eyes stray in an upward direction as he puts down the coffee cup. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The CAMERA PANS UP past the woman lowering the dog, up to the roof where one of the sunbathers can be seen sitting up, rubbing her body with sun tan oil. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes moves down again. Abstractedly his hand strays toward the piece of bacon. He picks it up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. We are now aware that the salesman is now in his living room, lying out of sight on the sofa, because the smoke from a newly lighted cigar is starting to ascend toward the ceiling of his room. Stella's voice is heard calling out from the kitchen: STELLA'S VOICE He'd better get that trunk out of there before is starts to leak. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Again the bacon stops before is reaches Jeff's mouth. He puts it down on the plate again, as his eyes move slightly toward the left. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet outfit, is hanging up a small wash on a clothes line. It consists mostly of lingerie. She is doing her inevitable leg practice at the same time. THE CAMERA PANS OVER SUDDENLY TO Thorwald's apartment, and except for the smoke rising from the unseen sofa, there is no activity. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff seems to be getting a bit listless, or bored, by constantly watching Thorwald's apartment. His eyes sort of stray around the neighborhood, and end up looking toward: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The newlywed's apartment. Shade down, business as usual. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles affectionately, and starts to turn his eyes away; but something startles him, and he looks quickly back. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The shade suddenly going up in the newlywed's apartment. The young husband leans his hands on the windowsill, and looks out. He is wearing only his pajama bottoms, because of the heat, and we see that he is a well-muscled, attractive young man. He looks around with some satisfaction. He turns at the sound of a woman's voice behind him. GIRL'S VOICE H-a-a-r-r-e-e... He turns his head, is thoughtful for a brief moment, then he pulls down the shade. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP His smile almost becomes a private chuckle. Stella's abrupt voice breaks in urgently: STELLA'S VOICE Look! Look -- Mr. Jefferies! Jeff's head snaps toward the center of his window. Stella has appeared behind his wheelchair. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Two men wearing tan coveralls are standing outside Thorwald's door. One of them carries a clipboard. Suddenly Thorwald is seen sitting up on the living room sofa. His hair is disheveled and he is unshaved. He stands up, and moves toward the door. He opens it, and after a short exchange of dialogue, he admits the two men, leaving the door open behind them. He leads the two man across the living room to the bedroom. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Stella and Jeff watching intently. He is feeling down alongside his wheelchair for his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT A close view shows the two man carrying the trunk across the living room toward the corridor. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars quickly. JEFF (Agitated) I thought Doyle would get here before the trunk went -- or I'd have called the police. (To Stella) Now we're going to lose it. Stella moves toward the door quickly. Jeff turns quickly over his shoulder to watch her. She is already going up the steps. JEFF Stella, don't do anything reckless! As Stella goes out the door, she calls back: STELLA I'm just going to get the name of their truck! JEFF (Up) I'll watch the alleyway -- in case it goes that way. We hear nothing from Stella, but the sound of her heavy tread down the hallway stairs. Jeff returns to Thorwald. He eases himself back into the shadows a bit and then raises his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT Jeff concentrates his attention on the alley-way that leads to the street. Just normal traffic. The binoculars swing to Thorwald apartment. The salesman is now at the telephone. He has picked up the receiver, and proceeds to dial 221. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP The binoculars still up to Jeff's face. Under them his mouth moves, as if he's talking to himself. JEFF Long Distance. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT The salesman speaks some words to the operator. Placing the call. As he does this, he reaches with his other hand for a nearly bottle, and working the cork out with one hand, he pours a stiff drink into a tumbler. He drinks it as soon as he finishes talking with the operator. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars a little, and takes a normal eye sight on the alleyway. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Pulling across to the far side of the street we see the hood and cab of a freight truck. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff quickly puts the glasses up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT By the time the binoculars are up, another truck has crossed from the left. In momentarily blocks out the side of our freight truck. By the time the two trucks part, we can only see the back half of the freight truck before it pulls out of sight. Jeff is only able to read the words "FREIGHT LINES". The binoculars are held for a moment until we see a puffing and blowing Stella arrive at the opening of the alleyway. She looks toward the front of Thorwald's apartment house. And by her attitude we can see that there is no truck outside. She looks about her for a moment. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars, discouraged. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT The figure of Stella is seen, looking up toward Jeff's apartment, and arms outspread in a helpless gesture. LAP DISSOLVE TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT SHOOTING TOWARDS the big window, with the neighborhood beyond, Jeff is as usual seated in his wheelchair on the left of the window, but now turned toward a newcomer. The second man is standing near the divan looking out the window with the binoculars. This newcomer is POLICE DETECTIVE LIEUTENANT THOMAS J. DOYLE, the man Jeff phoned earlier in the day. He is an intelligent-appearing, well-dressed modern detective. He has a sense of humor. He lowers the glasses, and turns to Jeff. DOYLE You didn't see the killing, or the body? How do you know there was a murder? JEFF Because everything that man's done has been suspicious. Trips at night in the rain, saws, knives, trunks with rope, and a wife that isn't there any more. DOYLE I'll admit it all has a mysterious sound -- but is could mean a number of different things. Murder is the least likely. JEFF Go ahead, Doyle -- tell me he's an unemployed magician -- amusing the neighborhood with sleight-of-hand. Doyle paces a little. DOYLE It's too stupid and obvious a way to murder -- in full view of fifty windows -- and then sit over there -- (He points) -- smoking a cigar -- waiting for the police to pick him up. JEFF Well, officer -- do your duty. DOYLE You've got a lot to lean about homicide, Jeff. Morons have committed murder so shrewdly that it took a hundred trained police minds to catch them. That salesman wouldn't just knock off his wife after dinner, toss her in a trunk and put her in storage. JEFF I'll bet it's been done. DOYLE Almost everything's been done -- under panic. But this is a thousand to one shot. That man's still sitting around his apartment; he isn't panicked. JEFF (A pause) You think I made all this up? DOYLE I think you saw something -- that probably has a very simple explanation. JEFF For instance? DOYLE (Shrugs) His wife took a trip. JEFF She -- was -- an -- invalid! DOYLE You told me. (Looks at watch) I've got to run, Jeff. JEFF All right -- you don't believe me. Doyle saunters toward steps, picking up his hat on the way. Stops. DOYLE I -- uh -- won't report it to the Department. Let me poke into a little on my own. No point in you getting any ridiculous publicity. JEFF (Coldly) Thanks. DOYLE We know the wife is gone. I'll see if I can find out where. JEFF Do that. He goes up the steps to the door, putting on his hat. He pauses his hand on the door knob. DOYLE You have any headaches lately? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers, showing only the slightest irritation. JEFF Not 'til you showed up. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Doyle, still at the door: DOYLE Uh-huh. Well, it'll wear off in time -- along with the hallucinations. See you around. He starts to go out the door, and closes it behind him. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT From Doyle's viewpoint. Jeff lifts his hand in a feeble parting gesture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Before the door has completely closed, Doyle opens it again, and looks in. DOYLE By the way what happened to your leg? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP JEFF I was jaywalking. DOYLE'S VOICE (O.S.) Where? JEFF (With nonchalance) The Indianapolis Speedway. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP The door starts to close again, as if Doyle considered Jeff's answer quite reasonable. Then the door pops open and Doyle's head comes in, a surprised expression across his face. DOYLE During the race? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers with a straight face. JEFF Yup. It sure stopped traffic. We don't see Doyle again, but only HEAR the sharp slam of the DOOR off. Jeff chuckles. Then he turns back to the window. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's attention is drawn to something in the yard below. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The little dog is busily scratching away at Thorwald's pet flower bed. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles mischievously. Suddenly his face changes as he sees: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald coming out of his basement door, carrying a watering can. He fills it from a nearby faucet. He does not notice the little dog's destructive activities. When the watering can is filled, he straightens up, turns toward the flower bed. He stops for the briefest moment, when he sees the dog. He walks to the dog, gently lifts him out of the garden, and giving him a friendly little pat, sends him off. He proceeds to patiently brush back the disturbed earth, and then begins his watering. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is frankly puzzled by the salesman's friendly attitude toward the dog. He looks off in another direction, as he catches of: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Doyle, who has appeared, at the street opening. The detective is surveying the front of the apartment building where Thorwald lives. A paper seller behind him offers to sell him a paper. Doyle isn't interested. As Doyle saunters forward toward the salesman house, the scene: LAP DISSOLVES TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Doyle is nonchalantly leaning up against the side board, with a highball in one hand. Jeff has turned his chair around from the window to face him. DOYLE He has a six months lease, and has used up a little over five and a half months of it. (Takes a sip of drink) Quiet. Drinks, but not to drunkenness. Pays his bill promptly, with money earned as a consume jewelry salesman -- wholesale. Keeps to himself, and none of the neighbors got close to him, or his wife. JEFF I think they missed their chance with her. DOYLE (Studies drink) She never left the apartment -- JEFF (Interrupting) Then where is she -- in the ice box? DOYLE (Continues) -- until yesterday morning. JEFF (Alert) What time? DOYLE Six ayem. Jeff looks thoughtful a moment, and then says, with a touch of discouragement: JEFF I think that's about the time I fell asleep. DOYLE Too bad. The Thorwalds were just leaving the apartment house at that time. He puts down his drink, and strolls toward the window, looking out. THE CAMERA MOVES IN slightly to tighten the shot. DOYLE Feel a little foolish? JEFF Not yet. Doyle becomes interested in watching something out the window. Unconsciously he smooths out his coat and tie. He even smiles somewhat secretly to himself at what he sees. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet costume, practicing her dance on the outside balcony. She is exciting and desirable. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - TIGHT TWO SHOT Jeff notices Doyle's interest. JEFF How's your wife? Startled at being observed, Doyle moves quickly away from the window, affecting nonchalance. THE CAMERA MOVES BACK as Doyle returns to his drink. Jeff smiles at catching Doyle enjoying Miss Torso. DOYLE Oh -- oh, she's fine. (Not too convincing) Just fine. He tosses off the rest of the drink, and his movement is almost a comment. Jeff's face grows serious. JEFF Who said they left then? DOYLE Who left -- where? JEFF The Thorwalds -- at six in the morning? Doyle quickly collects his thoughts, and gets back to the case at hand. DOYLE The building superintendent, and two tenants. Flat statements -- no hesitation. And they all jibed to the letter. The Thorwalds were leaving for the railroad station. JEFF Now how could anybody guess that? They had, perhaps, signs on their luggage, "Grand Central Or Bust!"? DOYLE (Sighs) The superintendent met Thorwald coming back. He said Thorwald told him he had just put his wife on the train for the country. JEFF A very convenient guy -- this superintendent. Have you checked his bank deposits lately? DOYLE Jeff -- huh? JEFF (Sharply) Well -- what good is his information?!! It's a second-hand version of an unsupported statement by the murderer himself -- Thorwald! Anybody actually see the wife get on the train? DOYLE I hate to remind you -- but this all started because you said she was murdered. Now

lars

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

you ever have any problems? LISA (Murmurs, kissing him) I have one now. JEFF So do I. LISA (Kissing) Tell me about it. JEFF (Slight pause) Why would a man leave his apartment three times, on a rainy night, with a suitcase? And come back three times? LISA He likes the way his wife welcomes him home. JEFF Not that salesman's wife. And why didn't he go to work today? LISA Homework. It's more interesting. JEFF What's interesting about a butcher's knife and a small saw wrapped up in a newspaper? LISA Nothing, thank heaven. JEFF (Looking again) Why hasn't he gone into his wife's bedroom all day? LISA I wouldn't dare answer that. JEFF (After pause) Lisa -- there's something terribly wrong. She gives up trying to interest him in romance, and moves back from the embrace. THE CAMERA PULL BACK. LISA And I'm afraid it's with me. Lisa stands, straightens out her dress, stretches a little then she turns to the divan, apparently not too interested in his observation about the salesman's life. JEFF (Looks at Lisa) What do you think? LISA (Without returning his look) Something too frightful to utter. Jeff is thoughtful for a moment, then he relaxes and smiles a little. He turns to the window to look out again. Lisa exits the picture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa stretches herself out on the divan. Her head rest on the cushion at the far end, and she instinctively falls into an attractive pose. However, her expression is disturbed as she watches Jeff. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP He stares intently out the window. JEFF He went out a few minutes ago -- in his undershirt -- and he hasn't come back yet. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Lisa weighs this information, trying to make some sense out of it. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns his eyes from the salesman's apartment, and looks down reflectively. He looks up again, and then his eyes catches sight of something. He leans forward slightly. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso is lying, face down, on her divan bed. The only light in the apartment is from a reading lamp. She is reading a book held in one hand, while eating a sandwich in another. Her back is bare, and all she wears is a pair of brief dark blue shorts. At one point, she lifts her torso up slightly to brush crumbs out from beneath her. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP He looks away from Miss Torso, thoughtfully. JEFF You know -- that would be terrible job to tackle. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa leans forward and looks out the window to see what Jeff is referring to. She turns back to him with a blank stare. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns and looks at her, quite unaware of her surprise at his comment. JEFF How would you begin to cut up a human body? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa sits bolt upright on the divan. She reaches back quickly and pulls on the overhead light. At that moment the songwriter returns to his composing. We can see him over Lisa's shoulder. He is beginning his song again, and it has taken on new fullness and melody. Although it is not complete, it is farther along then before, and he plays his theme a number of different ways, trying to move it note by note to its completion. Lisa just stares at Jeff for a moment. LISA Jeff -- I'll be honest with you -- you're beginning to scare me a little. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is staring out of the window again. Over this we hear Lisa's voice: LISA (Quietly insistent) Jeff -- did you hear what I said? You're beginning to -- Jeff puts out a restraining hand. JEFF (Interrupting) Be quiet! Shhh! (Pause) He's coming back! EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT At last the salesman is seen coming along the corridor. He does not wear shirt, but only an undershirt. Slung over one shoulder, with his arm through is, is a large coil of sturdy rope. He goes through the living room into the bedroom. He does not put on the bedroom lights. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff reaches quickly for his binoculars, and trains them on the salesman's apartment. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT As seen though the binoculars, the salesman comes out of the bedroom, to the kitchen, where he gets a carving knife. He turns around and goes back to the bedroom. The lights go on behind the draw shades, after a short moment. The dim shadow of the salesman is seen moving around the room. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa, still stretched out on the divan looking at Jeff, suddenly sits upright and then getting up from the divan, mover over to Jeff, THE CAMERA GOING WITH her. In a sudden surprise move, she swings his chair completely around so that his back is to the window. He drops the binoculars into his lap in surprise. THE CAMERA MOVES IN as Lisa leans over Jeff, gripping both sides of his chair LISA (sharply) Jeff -- if you could only see yourself. JEFF Now, Lisa -- LISA (Abruptly) Sitting around, looking out a window to kill time, is one thing -- but doing it the way you are -- (She gestures) -- with, with binoculars, and with wild opinions about every little movement you see -- is, is diseased! JEFF Do you think I consider this recreation? LISA I don't know what you consider it -- but if you don't stop it, I'm getting out of here. JEFF You'd better before you catch the disease! LISA (Insistent) What is it you're looking for? JEFF I want to find out what's wrong with the salesman's wife. Does that make me sound like a madman? LISA What makes you think something's wrong with her? LISA A lot of things. She's an invalid who needs constant care -- and yet the husband nor anyone else has been in there all day. LISA Maybe she died. JEFF Where's the doctor -- the undertakers? LISA She could be under sedatives, sleeping. (Looks up) He's in the room now. Jeff tries to turn around, but she won't let the chair move. JEFF Lisa, please! LISA There's nothing to see. JEFF There is -- I've seen things through that window! Bickering, family fights, mysterious trips at night, knives, saws, rope -- and since last evening, not a sight or sound of his wife! Now you tell me where she is and what she's doing! LISA Maybe he's leaving his wife. I don't know, and I don't care. Lots of people have saws, knives and ropes around their houses. Lots of men don't speak to their wives all day. Lots of wives nag, and men hate them, and trouble starts -- but very, very, very few of them end up in murder -- if that's what you're thinking. JEFF It's pretty hard to stay away from that word isn't is? LISA You could see all the things he did, couldn't you? JEFF What are you getting at? LISA You could see that he did because he had the shades in his apartment up, and walked along the corridor, and the streets and the backyard? JEFF Yeah. LISA Jeff, do you think a murderer would let you see all that? That he shouldn't keep his shades down and hide behind them? JEFF That's where he's being clever. Acting nonchalant. LISA And that's where you're not being clever. He wouldn't parade his crime in front of the open shades. She turns the wheelchair slightly to her left so that he can see the newlyweds' apartment. LISA (Pointing) For all you know -- there's something a lot more sinister going on behind those shades. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT The drawn shades of the newlyweds' apartment. A dim light burning behind them. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff looks, turns back to her, trying to suppress a chuckle. JEFF No comment. LISA Don't you see how silly you're being? JEFF Okay, Lisa -- probably you're right. He's probably in the bedroom now, entertaining his wife with the indian rope trick. I'll admit to criminal insanity. Now when do I start the cure? Lisa half looks up and out the window. She opens her mouth to answer, but a new look overtakes her face. It is concern, surprise, and a little shock. Jeff sees the change, is sobered, and quickly turns the chair around. He looks out the window, using his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT The shades in the bedroom are now up. Both beds are empty, and stripped of their linen, the mattresses thrown up over the end of the beds. The salesman, sweating heavily, stands over a large, square trunk in the center of the room. It is stoutly bound by the heavy rope we previously saw him bring into the apartment. He wipes one forearm across his brow, and then heads for the kitchen. In the kitchen, he produces a bottle, pours himself two or three straight drinks, then leans with a display of exhaustion against the kitchen sink. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff lowers the glasses. His look is sober. Lisa stands behind him, one hand on the back of the wheelchair. She, too, is serious. THE CAMERA MOVES IN until Lisa's head fills the screen. She says, slowly: LISA Let's start from the beginning again, Jeff. Tell me everything you saw -- and what you think it means. She is still staring out the window, as the scene FADES OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated in the dark, his face lit by the faint glow from the distant street. He is looking out of the window tensely, as THE CAMERA MOVES IN, until he is in big profile. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT From Jeff's viewpoint, all the windows are dark. The couple are sleeping on the fire escape. The salesman's apartment is dark as well. Suddenly a match flares, and we see the salesman light a cigar. The flame of the match illuminates his face for a moment. When is dies out, we see just the glow of the cigar burning. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP The CAMERA is now facing Jeff. We see that his left hand rests on the telephone receiver which is close to him. The phone starts to RING, but makes only the slightest sound, as he instantly picks it up. As he talks, in a low voice, he keeps his eyes on the salesman's apartment. JEFF Yeah? INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP We get an impression of Sixth Avenue behind Lisa at the phone. Lisa also talks in a low, quiet voice. LISA The name on the second floor rear mailbox reads Mr. And Mrs. Lars, that's L-A-R-S, Lars Thorwald. JEFF (Filter) What's the apartment house number? LISA 125 West Ninth Street. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff, still looks toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Thanks, Lisa. INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa smilingly says: LISA Okay, chief. What's my next assignment. JEFF To get on home. LISA All right -- but what's he doing now? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff is still looking toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Just sitting in the living room. In the dark. And he hasn't gone near the bedroom. Now get some sleep. Goodnight. He puts the receiver down, and resumes his vigil. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT All we can see is the glow of the salesman's cigar. FADE OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated by the window in his wheelchair. He is talking on the telephone while his eyes are still on the neighborhood. There is a touch of urgency in his voice. JEFF Look, Doyle -- it's just one of those things I can't tell you on the phone. You have to be here, and see the whole set-up. The CAMERA PULLS BACK slightly as Stella emerges from the kitchen. She is carrying a tray with breakfast on it. Eggs, bacon, toast and coffee. JEFF It's probably nothing important -- just a little neighborhood murder, that's all. As a matter of fact, I did say "murder". Stella squeezes past the right side of Jeff, and places the food tray on a windowseat in front of him. She peers out cautiously toward Thorwald's apartment for a moment. Then she squeezes back, moving to the sideboard against which leans a small table on an adjustable stand. JEFF My only thought was to throw a little business your way. A good detective, I reasoned, would jump at the chance to detect. Stella returns with the table, and sets it up so that it is across Jeff's lap. She gets the tray of food pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment. Then she places the breakfast on the tray table in front of Jeff. He has moved back a little to avoid getting the phone cable tangled in the food and dishes. JEFF Well, I usually took my best pictures on my day off. (nods) Okay, Doyle -- soon as you can. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP He hangs up. Stella takes the phone and puts it down for him. He looks at the breakfast, reaches for a knife and fork. JEFF Stella, I -- I can't tell you what a welcome sight this is. No wonder your husband's still in love with you. STELLA Police? JEFF (Pauses in cutting food) Huh? STELLA You called the police? JEFF Oh. Well, yes and no. It wasn't an official call. He's just a friend. (Almost to himself) An old, ornery friend. He begins eating, appreciatively. She moves behind his chair, pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment again. Jeff is just lifting a piece of bacon to his lips when Stella speaks. STELLA (Half to herself) Now just where do you suppose he cut her up? The hand carrying the bacon to Jeff's mouth hesitates for a moment. STELLA (Answering herself) Oh -- of course! In the bathtub. That's the only place he could wash away the blood. The hand holding the bacon moves back to the plate. Jeff just stares ahead. Stella turns and walks into the kitchen. Jeff pushes the food away, and picks up the coffee cup instead. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes, over the coffee cup, are staring intently at the backyard. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. The shades up. No one moving. The rope-tied trunk still sits in the bedroom. To the left we see the basket lowering with the dog in it. We HEAR the woman WHISTLING an aria. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP His eyes stray in an upward direction as he puts down the coffee cup. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The CAMERA PANS UP past the woman lowering the dog, up to the roof where one of the sunbathers can be seen sitting up, rubbing her body with sun tan oil. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes moves down again. Abstractedly his hand strays toward the piece of bacon. He picks it up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. We are now aware that the salesman is now in his living room, lying out of sight on the sofa, because the smoke from a newly lighted cigar is starting to ascend toward the ceiling of his room. Stella's voice is heard calling out from the kitchen: STELLA'S VOICE He'd better get that trunk out of there before is starts to leak. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Again the bacon stops before is reaches Jeff's mouth. He puts it down on the plate again, as his eyes move slightly toward the left. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet outfit, is hanging up a small wash on a clothes line. It consists mostly of lingerie. She is doing her inevitable leg practice at the same time. THE CAMERA PANS OVER SUDDENLY TO Thorwald's apartment, and except for the smoke rising from the unseen sofa, there is no activity. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff seems to be getting a bit listless, or bored, by constantly watching Thorwald's apartment. His eyes sort of stray around the neighborhood, and end up looking toward: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The newlywed's apartment. Shade down, business as usual. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles affectionately, and starts to turn his eyes away; but something startles him, and he looks quickly back. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The shade suddenly going up in the newlywed's apartment. The young husband leans his hands on the windowsill, and looks out. He is wearing only his pajama bottoms, because of the heat, and we see that he is a well-muscled, attractive young man. He looks around with some satisfaction. He turns at the sound of a woman's voice behind him. GIRL'S VOICE H-a-a-r-r-e-e... He turns his head, is thoughtful for a brief moment, then he pulls down the shade. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP His smile almost becomes a private chuckle. Stella's abrupt voice breaks in urgently: STELLA'S VOICE Look! Look -- Mr. Jefferies! Jeff's head snaps toward the center of his window. Stella has appeared behind his wheelchair. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Two men wearing tan coveralls are standing outside Thorwald's door. One of them carries a clipboard. Suddenly Thorwald is seen sitting up on the living room sofa. His hair is disheveled and he is unshaved. He stands up, and moves toward the door. He opens it, and after a short exchange of dialogue, he admits the two men, leaving the door open behind them. He leads the two man across the living room to the bedroom. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Stella and Jeff watching intently. He is feeling down alongside his wheelchair for his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT A close view shows the two man carrying the trunk across the living room toward the corridor. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars quickly. JEFF (Agitated) I thought Doyle would get here before the trunk went -- or I'd have called the police. (To Stella) Now we're going to lose it. Stella moves toward the door quickly. Jeff turns quickly over his shoulder to watch her. She is already going up the steps. JEFF Stella, don't do anything reckless! As Stella goes out the door, she calls back: STELLA I'm just going to get the name of their truck! JEFF (Up) I'll watch the alleyway -- in case it goes that way. We hear nothing from Stella, but the sound of her heavy tread down the hallway stairs. Jeff returns to Thorwald. He eases himself back into the shadows a bit and then raises his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT Jeff concentrates his attention on the alley-way that leads to the street. Just normal traffic. The binoculars swing to Thorwald apartment. The salesman is now at the telephone. He has picked up the receiver, and proceeds to dial 221. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP The binoculars still up to Jeff's face. Under them his mouth moves, as if he's talking to himself. JEFF Long Distance. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT The salesman speaks some words to the operator. Placing the call. As he does this, he reaches with his other hand for a nearly bottle, and working the cork out with one hand, he pours a stiff drink into a tumbler. He drinks it as soon as he finishes talking with the operator. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars a little, and takes a normal eye sight on the alleyway. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Pulling across to the far side of the street we see the hood and cab of a freight truck. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff quickly puts the glasses up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT By the time the binoculars are up, another truck has crossed from the left. In momentarily blocks out the side of our freight truck. By the time the two trucks part, we can only see the back half of the freight truck before it pulls out of sight. Jeff is only able to read the words "FREIGHT LINES". The binoculars are held for a moment until we see a puffing and blowing Stella arrive at the opening of the alleyway. She looks toward the front of Thorwald's apartment house. And by her attitude we can see that there is no truck outside. She looks about her for a moment. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars, discouraged. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT The figure of Stella is seen, looking up toward Jeff's apartment, and arms outspread in a helpless gesture. LAP DISSOLVE TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT SHOOTING TOWARDS the big window, with the neighborhood beyond, Jeff is as usual seated in his wheelchair on the left of the window, but now turned toward a newcomer. The second man is standing near the divan looking out the window with the binoculars. This newcomer is POLICE DETECTIVE LIEUTENANT THOMAS J. DOYLE, the man Jeff phoned earlier in the day. He is an intelligent-appearing, well-dressed modern detective. He has a sense of humor. He lowers the glasses, and turns to Jeff. DOYLE You didn't see the killing, or the body? How do you know there was a murder? JEFF Because everything that man's done has been suspicious. Trips at night in the rain, saws, knives, trunks with rope, and a wife that isn't there any more. DOYLE I'll admit it all has a mysterious sound -- but is could mean a number of different things. Murder is the least likely. JEFF Go ahead, Doyle -- tell me he's an unemployed magician -- amusing the neighborhood with sleight-of-hand. Doyle paces a little. DOYLE It's too stupid and obvious a way to murder -- in full view of fifty windows -- and then sit over there -- (He points) -- smoking a cigar -- waiting for the police to pick him up. JEFF Well, officer -- do your duty. DOYLE You've got a lot to lean about homicide, Jeff. Morons have committed murder so shrewdly that it took a hundred trained police minds to catch them. That salesman wouldn't just knock off his wife after dinner, toss her in a trunk and put her in storage. JEFF I'll bet it's been done. DOYLE Almost everything's been done -- under panic. But this is a thousand to one shot. That man's still sitting around his apartment; he isn't panicked. JEFF (A pause) You think I made all this up? DOYLE I think you saw something -- that probably has a very simple explanation. JEFF For instance? DOYLE (Shrugs) His wife took a trip. JEFF She -- was -- an -- invalid! DOYLE You told me. (Looks at watch) I've got to run, Jeff. JEFF All right -- you don't believe me. Doyle saunters toward steps, picking up his hat on the way. Stops. DOYLE I -- uh -- won't report it to the Department. Let me poke into a little on my own. No point in you getting any ridiculous publicity. JEFF (Coldly) Thanks. DOYLE We know the wife is gone. I'll see if I can find out where. JEFF Do that. He goes up the steps to the door, putting on his hat. He pauses his hand on the door knob. DOYLE You have any headaches lately? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers, showing only the slightest irritation. JEFF Not 'til you showed up. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Doyle, still at the door: DOYLE Uh-huh. Well, it'll wear off in time -- along with the hallucinations. See you around. He starts to go out the door, and closes it behind him. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT From Doyle's viewpoint. Jeff lifts his hand in a feeble parting gesture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Before the door has completely closed, Doyle opens it again, and looks in. DOYLE By the way what happened to your leg? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP JEFF I was jaywalking. DOYLE'S VOICE (O.S.) Where? JEFF (With nonchalance) The Indianapolis Speedway. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP The door starts to close again, as if Doyle considered Jeff's answer quite reasonable. Then the door pops open and Doyle's head comes in, a surprised expression across his face. DOYLE During the race? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers with a straight face. JEFF Yup. It sure stopped traffic. We don't see Doyle again, but only HEAR the sharp slam of the DOOR off. Jeff chuckles. Then he turns back to the window. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's attention is drawn to something in the yard below. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The little dog is busily scratching away at Thorwald's pet flower bed. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles mischievously. Suddenly his face changes as he sees: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald coming out of his basement door, carrying a watering can. He fills it from a nearby faucet. He does not notice the little dog's destructive activities. When the watering can is filled, he straightens up, turns toward the flower bed. He stops for the briefest moment, when he sees the dog. He walks to the dog, gently lifts him out of the garden, and giving him a friendly little pat, sends him off. He proceeds to patiently brush back the disturbed earth, and then begins his watering. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is frankly puzzled by the salesman's friendly attitude toward the dog. He looks off in another direction, as he catches of: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Doyle, who has appeared, at the street opening. The detective is surveying the front of the apartment building where Thorwald lives. A paper seller behind him offers to sell him a paper. Doyle isn't interested. As Doyle saunters forward toward the salesman house, the scene: LAP DISSOLVES TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Doyle is nonchalantly leaning up against the side board, with a highball in one hand. Jeff has turned his chair around from the window to face him. DOYLE He has a six months lease, and has used up a little over five and a half months of it. (Takes a sip of drink) Quiet. Drinks, but not to drunkenness. Pays his bill promptly, with money earned as a consume jewelry salesman -- wholesale. Keeps to himself, and none of the neighbors got close to him, or his wife. JEFF I think they missed their chance with her. DOYLE (Studies drink) She never left the apartment -- JEFF (Interrupting) Then where is she -- in the ice box? DOYLE (Continues) -- until yesterday morning. JEFF (Alert) What time? DOYLE Six ayem. Jeff looks thoughtful a moment, and then says, with a touch of discouragement: JEFF I think that's about the time I fell asleep. DOYLE Too bad. The Thorwalds were just leaving the apartment house at that time. He puts down his drink, and strolls toward the window, looking out. THE CAMERA MOVES IN slightly to tighten the shot. DOYLE Feel a little foolish? JEFF Not yet. Doyle becomes interested in watching something out the window. Unconsciously he smooths out his coat and tie. He even smiles somewhat secretly to himself at what he sees. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet costume, practicing her dance on the outside balcony. She is exciting and desirable. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - TIGHT TWO SHOT Jeff notices Doyle's interest. JEFF How's your wife? Startled at being observed, Doyle moves quickly away from the window, affecting nonchalance. THE CAMERA MOVES BACK as Doyle returns to his drink. Jeff smiles at catching Doyle enjoying Miss Torso. DOYLE Oh -- oh, she's fine. (Not too convincing) Just fine. He tosses off the rest of the drink, and his movement is almost a comment. Jeff's face grows serious. JEFF Who said they left then? DOYLE Who left -- where? JEFF The Thorwalds -- at six in the morning? Doyle quickly collects his thoughts, and gets back to the case at hand. DOYLE The building superintendent, and two tenants. Flat statements -- no hesitation. And they all jibed to the letter. The Thorwalds were leaving for the railroad station. JEFF Now how could anybody guess that? They had, perhaps, signs on their luggage, "Grand Central Or Bust!"? DOYLE (Sighs) The superintendent met Thorwald coming back. He said Thorwald told him he had just put his wife on the train for the country. JEFF A very convenient guy -- this superintendent. Have you checked his bank deposits lately? DOYLE Jeff -- huh? JEFF (Sharply) Well -- what good is his information?!! It's a second-hand version of an unsupported statement by the murderer himself -- Thorwald! Anybody actually see the wife get on the train? DOYLE I hate to remind you -- but this all started because you said she was murdered. Now

plaize

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

you ever have any problems? LISA (Murmurs, kissing him) I have one now. JEFF So do I. LISA (Kissing) Tell me about it. JEFF (Slight pause) Why would a man leave his apartment three times, on a rainy night, with a suitcase? And come back three times? LISA He likes the way his wife welcomes him home. JEFF Not that salesman's wife. And why didn't he go to work today? LISA Homework. It's more interesting. JEFF What's interesting about a butcher's knife and a small saw wrapped up in a newspaper? LISA Nothing, thank heaven. JEFF (Looking again) Why hasn't he gone into his wife's bedroom all day? LISA I wouldn't dare answer that. JEFF (After pause) Lisa -- there's something terribly wrong. She gives up trying to interest him in romance, and moves back from the embrace. THE CAMERA PULL BACK. LISA And I'm afraid it's with me. Lisa stands, straightens out her dress, stretches a little then she turns to the divan, apparently not too interested in his observation about the salesman's life. JEFF (Looks at Lisa) What do you think? LISA (Without returning his look) Something too frightful to utter. Jeff is thoughtful for a moment, then he relaxes and smiles a little. He turns to the window to look out again. Lisa exits the picture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa stretches herself out on the divan. Her head rest on the cushion at the far end, and she instinctively falls into an attractive pose. However, her expression is disturbed as she watches Jeff. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP He stares intently out the window. JEFF He went out a few minutes ago -- in his undershirt -- and he hasn't come back yet. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Lisa weighs this information, trying to make some sense out of it. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns his eyes from the salesman's apartment, and looks down reflectively. He looks up again, and then his eyes catches sight of something. He leans forward slightly. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso is lying, face down, on her divan bed. The only light in the apartment is from a reading lamp. She is reading a book held in one hand, while eating a sandwich in another. Her back is bare, and all she wears is a pair of brief dark blue shorts. At one point, she lifts her torso up slightly to brush crumbs out from beneath her. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP He looks away from Miss Torso, thoughtfully. JEFF You know -- that would be terrible job to tackle. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa leans forward and looks out the window to see what Jeff is referring to. She turns back to him with a blank stare. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns and looks at her, quite unaware of her surprise at his comment. JEFF How would you begin to cut up a human body? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa sits bolt upright on the divan. She reaches back quickly and pulls on the overhead light. At that moment the songwriter returns to his composing. We can see him over Lisa's shoulder. He is beginning his song again, and it has taken on new fullness and melody. Although it is not complete, it is farther along then before, and he plays his theme a number of different ways, trying to move it note by note to its completion. Lisa just stares at Jeff for a moment. LISA Jeff -- I'll be honest with you -- you're beginning to scare me a little. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is staring out of the window again. Over this we hear Lisa's voice: LISA (Quietly insistent) Jeff -- did you hear what I said? You're beginning to -- Jeff puts out a restraining hand. JEFF (Interrupting) Be quiet! Shhh! (Pause) He's coming back! EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT At last the salesman is seen coming along the corridor. He does not wear shirt, but only an undershirt. Slung over one shoulder, with his arm through is, is a large coil of sturdy rope. He goes through the living room into the bedroom. He does not put on the bedroom lights. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff reaches quickly for his binoculars, and trains them on the salesman's apartment. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT As seen though the binoculars, the salesman comes out of the bedroom, to the kitchen, where he gets a carving knife. He turns around and goes back to the bedroom. The lights go on behind the draw shades, after a short moment. The dim shadow of the salesman is seen moving around the room. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa, still stretched out on the divan looking at Jeff, suddenly sits upright and then getting up from the divan, mover over to Jeff, THE CAMERA GOING WITH her. In a sudden surprise move, she swings his chair completely around so that his back is to the window. He drops the binoculars into his lap in surprise. THE CAMERA MOVES IN as Lisa leans over Jeff, gripping both sides of his chair LISA (sharply) Jeff -- if you could only see yourself. JEFF Now, Lisa -- LISA (Abruptly) Sitting around, looking out a window to kill time, is one thing -- but doing it the way you are -- (She gestures) -- with, with binoculars, and with wild opinions about every little movement you see -- is, is diseased! JEFF Do you think I consider this recreation? LISA I don't know what you consider it -- but if you don't stop it, I'm getting out of here. JEFF You'd better before you catch the disease! LISA (Insistent) What is it you're looking for? JEFF I want to find out what's wrong with the salesman's wife. Does that make me sound like a madman? LISA What makes you think something's wrong with her? LISA A lot of things. She's an invalid who needs constant care -- and yet the husband nor anyone else has been in there all day. LISA Maybe she died. JEFF Where's the doctor -- the undertakers? LISA She could be under sedatives, sleeping. (Looks up) He's in the room now. Jeff tries to turn around, but she won't let the chair move. JEFF Lisa, please! LISA There's nothing to see. JEFF There is -- I've seen things through that window! Bickering, family fights, mysterious trips at night, knives, saws, rope -- and since last evening, not a sight or sound of his wife! Now you tell me where she is and what she's doing! LISA Maybe he's leaving his wife. I don't know, and I don't care. Lots of people have saws, knives and ropes around their houses. Lots of men don't speak to their wives all day. Lots of wives nag, and men hate them, and trouble starts -- but very, very, very few of them end up in murder -- if that's what you're thinking. JEFF It's pretty hard to stay away from that word isn't is? LISA You could see all the things he did, couldn't you? JEFF What are you getting at? LISA You could see that he did because he had the shades in his apartment up, and walked along the corridor, and the streets and the backyard? JEFF Yeah. LISA Jeff, do you think a murderer would let you see all that? That he shouldn't keep his shades down and hide behind them? JEFF That's where he's being clever. Acting nonchalant. LISA And that's where you're not being clever. He wouldn't parade his crime in front of the open shades. She turns the wheelchair slightly to her left so that he can see the newlyweds' apartment. LISA (Pointing) For all you know -- there's something a lot more sinister going on behind those shades. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT The drawn shades of the newlyweds' apartment. A dim light burning behind them. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff looks, turns back to her, trying to suppress a chuckle. JEFF No comment. LISA Don't you see how silly you're being? JEFF Okay, Lisa -- probably you're right. He's probably in the bedroom now, entertaining his wife with the indian rope trick. I'll admit to criminal insanity. Now when do I start the cure? Lisa half looks up and out the window. She opens her mouth to answer, but a new look overtakes her face. It is concern, surprise, and a little shock. Jeff sees the change, is sobered, and quickly turns the chair around. He looks out the window, using his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT The shades in the bedroom are now up. Both beds are empty, and stripped of their linen, the mattresses thrown up over the end of the beds. The salesman, sweating heavily, stands over a large, square trunk in the center of the room. It is stoutly bound by the heavy rope we previously saw him bring into the apartment. He wipes one forearm across his brow, and then heads for the kitchen. In the kitchen, he produces a bottle, pours himself two or three straight drinks, then leans with a display of exhaustion against the kitchen sink. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff lowers the glasses. His look is sober. Lisa stands behind him, one hand on the back of the wheelchair. She, too, is serious. THE CAMERA MOVES IN until Lisa's head fills the screen. She says, slowly: LISA Let's start from the beginning again, Jeff. Tell me everything you saw -- and what you think it means. She is still staring out the window, as the scene FADES OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated in the dark, his face lit by the faint glow from the distant street. He is looking out of the window tensely, as THE CAMERA MOVES IN, until he is in big profile. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT From Jeff's viewpoint, all the windows are dark. The couple are sleeping on the fire escape. The salesman's apartment is dark as well. Suddenly a match flares, and we see the salesman light a cigar. The flame of the match illuminates his face for a moment. When is dies out, we see just the glow of the cigar burning. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP The CAMERA is now facing Jeff. We see that his left hand rests on the telephone receiver which is close to him. The phone starts to RING, but makes only the slightest sound, as he instantly picks it up. As he talks, in a low voice, he keeps his eyes on the salesman's apartment. JEFF Yeah? INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP We get an impression of Sixth Avenue behind Lisa at the phone. Lisa also talks in a low, quiet voice. LISA The name on the second floor rear mailbox reads Mr. And Mrs. Lars, that's L-A-R-S, Lars Thorwald. JEFF (Filter) What's the apartment house number? LISA 125 West Ninth Street. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff, still looks toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Thanks, Lisa. INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa smilingly says: LISA Okay, chief. What's my next assignment. JEFF To get on home. LISA All right -- but what's he doing now? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff is still looking toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Just sitting in the living room. In the dark. And he hasn't gone near the bedroom. Now get some sleep. Goodnight. He puts the receiver down, and resumes his vigil. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT All we can see is the glow of the salesman's cigar. FADE OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated by the window in his wheelchair. He is talking on the telephone while his eyes are still on the neighborhood. There is a touch of urgency in his voice. JEFF Look, Doyle -- it's just one of those things I can't tell you on the phone. You have to be here, and see the whole set-up. The CAMERA PULLS BACK slightly as Stella emerges from the kitchen. She is carrying a tray with breakfast on it. Eggs, bacon, toast and coffee. JEFF It's probably nothing important -- just a little neighborhood murder, that's all. As a matter of fact, I did say "murder". Stella squeezes past the right side of Jeff, and places the food tray on a windowseat in front of him. She peers out cautiously toward Thorwald's apartment for a moment. Then she squeezes back, moving to the sideboard against which leans a small table on an adjustable stand. JEFF My only thought was to throw a little business your way. A good detective, I reasoned, would jump at the chance to detect. Stella returns with the table, and sets it up so that it is across Jeff's lap. She gets the tray of food pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment. Then she places the breakfast on the tray table in front of Jeff. He has moved back a little to avoid getting the phone cable tangled in the food and dishes. JEFF Well, I usually took my best pictures on my day off. (nods) Okay, Doyle -- soon as you can. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP He hangs up. Stella takes the phone and puts it down for him. He looks at the breakfast, reaches for a knife and fork. JEFF Stella, I -- I can't tell you what a welcome sight this is. No wonder your husband's still in love with you. STELLA Police? JEFF (Pauses in cutting food) Huh? STELLA You called the police? JEFF Oh. Well, yes and no. It wasn't an official call. He's just a friend. (Almost to himself) An old, ornery friend. He begins eating, appreciatively. She moves behind his chair, pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment again. Jeff is just lifting a piece of bacon to his lips when Stella speaks. STELLA (Half to herself) Now just where do you suppose he cut her up? The hand carrying the bacon to Jeff's mouth hesitates for a moment. STELLA (Answering herself) Oh -- of course! In the bathtub. That's the only place he could wash away the blood. The hand holding the bacon moves back to the plate. Jeff just stares ahead. Stella turns and walks into the kitchen. Jeff pushes the food away, and picks up the coffee cup instead. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes, over the coffee cup, are staring intently at the backyard. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. The shades up. No one moving. The rope-tied trunk still sits in the bedroom. To the left we see the basket lowering with the dog in it. We HEAR the woman WHISTLING an aria. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP His eyes stray in an upward direction as he puts down the coffee cup. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The CAMERA PANS UP past the woman lowering the dog, up to the roof where one of the sunbathers can be seen sitting up, rubbing her body with sun tan oil. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes moves down again. Abstractedly his hand strays toward the piece of bacon. He picks it up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. We are now aware that the salesman is now in his living room, lying out of sight on the sofa, because the smoke from a newly lighted cigar is starting to ascend toward the ceiling of his room. Stella's voice is heard calling out from the kitchen: STELLA'S VOICE He'd better get that trunk out of there before is starts to leak. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Again the bacon stops before is reaches Jeff's mouth. He puts it down on the plate again, as his eyes move slightly toward the left. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet outfit, is hanging up a small wash on a clothes line. It consists mostly of lingerie. She is doing her inevitable leg practice at the same time. THE CAMERA PANS OVER SUDDENLY TO Thorwald's apartment, and except for the smoke rising from the unseen sofa, there is no activity. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff seems to be getting a bit listless, or bored, by constantly watching Thorwald's apartment. His eyes sort of stray around the neighborhood, and end up looking toward: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The newlywed's apartment. Shade down, business as usual. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles affectionately, and starts to turn his eyes away; but something startles him, and he looks quickly back. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The shade suddenly going up in the newlywed's apartment. The young husband leans his hands on the windowsill, and looks out. He is wearing only his pajama bottoms, because of the heat, and we see that he is a well-muscled, attractive young man. He looks around with some satisfaction. He turns at the sound of a woman's voice behind him. GIRL'S VOICE H-a-a-r-r-e-e... He turns his head, is thoughtful for a brief moment, then he pulls down the shade. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP His smile almost becomes a private chuckle. Stella's abrupt voice breaks in urgently: STELLA'S VOICE Look! Look -- Mr. Jefferies! Jeff's head snaps toward the center of his window. Stella has appeared behind his wheelchair. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Two men wearing tan coveralls are standing outside Thorwald's door. One of them carries a clipboard. Suddenly Thorwald is seen sitting up on the living room sofa. His hair is disheveled and he is unshaved. He stands up, and moves toward the door. He opens it, and after a short exchange of dialogue, he admits the two men, leaving the door open behind them. He leads the two man across the living room to the bedroom. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Stella and Jeff watching intently. He is feeling down alongside his wheelchair for his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT A close view shows the two man carrying the trunk across the living room toward the corridor. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars quickly. JEFF (Agitated) I thought Doyle would get here before the trunk went -- or I'd have called the police. (To Stella) Now we're going to lose it. Stella moves toward the door quickly. Jeff turns quickly over his shoulder to watch her. She is already going up the steps. JEFF Stella, don't do anything reckless! As Stella goes out the door, she calls back: STELLA I'm just going to get the name of their truck! JEFF (Up) I'll watch the alleyway -- in case it goes that way. We hear nothing from Stella, but the sound of her heavy tread down the hallway stairs. Jeff returns to Thorwald. He eases himself back into the shadows a bit and then raises his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT Jeff concentrates his attention on the alley-way that leads to the street. Just normal traffic. The binoculars swing to Thorwald apartment. The salesman is now at the telephone. He has picked up the receiver, and proceeds to dial 221. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP The binoculars still up to Jeff's face. Under them his mouth moves, as if he's talking to himself. JEFF Long Distance. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT The salesman speaks some words to the operator. Placing the call. As he does this, he reaches with his other hand for a nearly bottle, and working the cork out with one hand, he pours a stiff drink into a tumbler. He drinks it as soon as he finishes talking with the operator. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars a little, and takes a normal eye sight on the alleyway. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Pulling across to the far side of the street we see the hood and cab of a freight truck. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff quickly puts the glasses up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT By the time the binoculars are up, another truck has crossed from the left. In momentarily blocks out the side of our freight truck. By the time the two trucks part, we can only see the back half of the freight truck before it pulls out of sight. Jeff is only able to read the words "FREIGHT LINES". The binoculars are held for a moment until we see a puffing and blowing Stella arrive at the opening of the alleyway. She looks toward the front of Thorwald's apartment house. And by her attitude we can see that there is no truck outside. She looks about her for a moment. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars, discouraged. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT The figure of Stella is seen, looking up toward Jeff's apartment, and arms outspread in a helpless gesture. LAP DISSOLVE TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT SHOOTING TOWARDS the big window, with the neighborhood beyond, Jeff is as usual seated in his wheelchair on the left of the window, but now turned toward a newcomer. The second man is standing near the divan looking out the window with the binoculars. This newcomer is POLICE DETECTIVE LIEUTENANT THOMAS J. DOYLE, the man Jeff phoned earlier in the day. He is an intelligent-appearing, well-dressed modern detective. He has a sense of humor. He lowers the glasses, and turns to Jeff. DOYLE You didn't see the killing, or the body? How do you know there was a murder? JEFF Because everything that man's done has been suspicious. Trips at night in the rain, saws, knives, trunks with rope, and a wife that isn't there any more. DOYLE I'll admit it all has a mysterious sound -- but is could mean a number of different things. Murder is the least likely. JEFF Go ahead, Doyle -- tell me he's an unemployed magician -- amusing the neighborhood with sleight-of-hand. Doyle paces a little. DOYLE It's too stupid and obvious a way to murder -- in full view of fifty windows -- and then sit over there -- (He points) -- smoking a cigar -- waiting for the police to pick him up. JEFF Well, officer -- do your duty. DOYLE You've got a lot to lean about homicide, Jeff. Morons have committed murder so shrewdly that it took a hundred trained police minds to catch them. That salesman wouldn't just knock off his wife after dinner, toss her in a trunk and put her in storage. JEFF I'll bet it's been done. DOYLE Almost everything's been done -- under panic. But this is a thousand to one shot. That man's still sitting around his apartment; he isn't panicked. JEFF (A pause) You think I made all this up? DOYLE I think you saw something -- that probably has a very simple explanation. JEFF For instance? DOYLE (Shrugs) His wife took a trip. JEFF She -- was -- an -- invalid! DOYLE You told me. (Looks at watch) I've got to run, Jeff. JEFF All right -- you don't believe me. Doyle saunters toward steps, picking up his hat on the way. Stops. DOYLE I -- uh -- won't report it to the Department. Let me poke into a little on my own. No point in you getting any ridiculous publicity. JEFF (Coldly) Thanks. DOYLE We know the wife is gone. I'll see if I can find out where. JEFF Do that. He goes up the steps to the door, putting on his hat. He pauses his hand on the door knob. DOYLE You have any headaches lately? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers, showing only the slightest irritation. JEFF Not 'til you showed up. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Doyle, still at the door: DOYLE Uh-huh. Well, it'll wear off in time -- along with the hallucinations. See you around. He starts to go out the door, and closes it behind him. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT From Doyle's viewpoint. Jeff lifts his hand in a feeble parting gesture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Before the door has completely closed, Doyle opens it again, and looks in. DOYLE By the way what happened to your leg? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP JEFF I was jaywalking. DOYLE'S VOICE (O.S.) Where? JEFF (With nonchalance) The Indianapolis Speedway. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP The door starts to close again, as if Doyle considered Jeff's answer quite reasonable. Then the door pops open and Doyle's head comes in, a surprised expression across his face. DOYLE During the race? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers with a straight face. JEFF Yup. It sure stopped traffic. We don't see Doyle again, but only HEAR the sharp slam of the DOOR off. Jeff chuckles. Then he turns back to the window. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's attention is drawn to something in the yard below. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The little dog is busily scratching away at Thorwald's pet flower bed. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles mischievously. Suddenly his face changes as he sees: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald coming out of his basement door, carrying a watering can. He fills it from a nearby faucet. He does not notice the little dog's destructive activities. When the watering can is filled, he straightens up, turns toward the flower bed. He stops for the briefest moment, when he sees the dog. He walks to the dog, gently lifts him out of the garden, and giving him a friendly little pat, sends him off. He proceeds to patiently brush back the disturbed earth, and then begins his watering. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is frankly puzzled by the salesman's friendly attitude toward the dog. He looks off in another direction, as he catches of: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Doyle, who has appeared, at the street opening. The detective is surveying the front of the apartment building where Thorwald lives. A paper seller behind him offers to sell him a paper. Doyle isn't interested. As Doyle saunters forward toward the salesman house, the scene: LAP DISSOLVES TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Doyle is nonchalantly leaning up against the side board, with a highball in one hand. Jeff has turned his chair around from the window to face him. DOYLE He has a six months lease, and has used up a little over five and a half months of it. (Takes a sip of drink) Quiet. Drinks, but not to drunkenness. Pays his bill promptly, with money earned as a consume jewelry salesman -- wholesale. Keeps to himself, and none of the neighbors got close to him, or his wife. JEFF I think they missed their chance with her. DOYLE (Studies drink) She never left the apartment -- JEFF (Interrupting) Then where is she -- in the ice box? DOYLE (Continues) -- until yesterday morning. JEFF (Alert) What time? DOYLE Six ayem. Jeff looks thoughtful a moment, and then says, with a touch of discouragement: JEFF I think that's about the time I fell asleep. DOYLE Too bad. The Thorwalds were just leaving the apartment house at that time. He puts down his drink, and strolls toward the window, looking out. THE CAMERA MOVES IN slightly to tighten the shot. DOYLE Feel a little foolish? JEFF Not yet. Doyle becomes interested in watching something out the window. Unconsciously he smooths out his coat and tie. He even smiles somewhat secretly to himself at what he sees. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet costume, practicing her dance on the outside balcony. She is exciting and desirable. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - TIGHT TWO SHOT Jeff notices Doyle's interest. JEFF How's your wife? Startled at being observed, Doyle moves quickly away from the window, affecting nonchalance. THE CAMERA MOVES BACK as Doyle returns to his drink. Jeff smiles at catching Doyle enjoying Miss Torso. DOYLE Oh -- oh, she's fine. (Not too convincing) Just fine. He tosses off the rest of the drink, and his movement is almost a comment. Jeff's face grows serious. JEFF Who said they left then? DOYLE Who left -- where? JEFF The Thorwalds -- at six in the morning? Doyle quickly collects his thoughts, and gets back to the case at hand. DOYLE The building superintendent, and two tenants. Flat statements -- no hesitation. And they all jibed to the letter. The Thorwalds were leaving for the railroad station. JEFF Now how could anybody guess that? They had, perhaps, signs on their luggage, "Grand Central Or Bust!"? DOYLE (Sighs) The superintendent met Thorwald coming back. He said Thorwald told him he had just put his wife on the train for the country. JEFF A very convenient guy -- this superintendent. Have you checked his bank deposits lately? DOYLE Jeff -- huh? JEFF (Sharply) Well -- what good is his information?!! It's a second-hand version of an unsupported statement by the murderer himself -- Thorwald! Anybody actually see the wife get on the train? DOYLE I hate to remind you -- but this all started because you said she was murdered. Now

pausing

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

you ever have any problems? LISA (Murmurs, kissing him) I have one now. JEFF So do I. LISA (Kissing) Tell me about it. JEFF (Slight pause) Why would a man leave his apartment three times, on a rainy night, with a suitcase? And come back three times? LISA He likes the way his wife welcomes him home. JEFF Not that salesman's wife. And why didn't he go to work today? LISA Homework. It's more interesting. JEFF What's interesting about a butcher's knife and a small saw wrapped up in a newspaper? LISA Nothing, thank heaven. JEFF (Looking again) Why hasn't he gone into his wife's bedroom all day? LISA I wouldn't dare answer that. JEFF (After pause) Lisa -- there's something terribly wrong. She gives up trying to interest him in romance, and moves back from the embrace. THE CAMERA PULL BACK. LISA And I'm afraid it's with me. Lisa stands, straightens out her dress, stretches a little then she turns to the divan, apparently not too interested in his observation about the salesman's life. JEFF (Looks at Lisa) What do you think? LISA (Without returning his look) Something too frightful to utter. Jeff is thoughtful for a moment, then he relaxes and smiles a little. He turns to the window to look out again. Lisa exits the picture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa stretches herself out on the divan. Her head rest on the cushion at the far end, and she instinctively falls into an attractive pose. However, her expression is disturbed as she watches Jeff. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP He stares intently out the window. JEFF He went out a few minutes ago -- in his undershirt -- and he hasn't come back yet. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Lisa weighs this information, trying to make some sense out of it. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns his eyes from the salesman's apartment, and looks down reflectively. He looks up again, and then his eyes catches sight of something. He leans forward slightly. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso is lying, face down, on her divan bed. The only light in the apartment is from a reading lamp. She is reading a book held in one hand, while eating a sandwich in another. Her back is bare, and all she wears is a pair of brief dark blue shorts. At one point, she lifts her torso up slightly to brush crumbs out from beneath her. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP He looks away from Miss Torso, thoughtfully. JEFF You know -- that would be terrible job to tackle. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa leans forward and looks out the window to see what Jeff is referring to. She turns back to him with a blank stare. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns and looks at her, quite unaware of her surprise at his comment. JEFF How would you begin to cut up a human body? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa sits bolt upright on the divan. She reaches back quickly and pulls on the overhead light. At that moment the songwriter returns to his composing. We can see him over Lisa's shoulder. He is beginning his song again, and it has taken on new fullness and melody. Although it is not complete, it is farther along then before, and he plays his theme a number of different ways, trying to move it note by note to its completion. Lisa just stares at Jeff for a moment. LISA Jeff -- I'll be honest with you -- you're beginning to scare me a little. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is staring out of the window again. Over this we hear Lisa's voice: LISA (Quietly insistent) Jeff -- did you hear what I said? You're beginning to -- Jeff puts out a restraining hand. JEFF (Interrupting) Be quiet! Shhh! (Pause) He's coming back! EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT At last the salesman is seen coming along the corridor. He does not wear shirt, but only an undershirt. Slung over one shoulder, with his arm through is, is a large coil of sturdy rope. He goes through the living room into the bedroom. He does not put on the bedroom lights. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff reaches quickly for his binoculars, and trains them on the salesman's apartment. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT As seen though the binoculars, the salesman comes out of the bedroom, to the kitchen, where he gets a carving knife. He turns around and goes back to the bedroom. The lights go on behind the draw shades, after a short moment. The dim shadow of the salesman is seen moving around the room. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa, still stretched out on the divan looking at Jeff, suddenly sits upright and then getting up from the divan, mover over to Jeff, THE CAMERA GOING WITH her. In a sudden surprise move, she swings his chair completely around so that his back is to the window. He drops the binoculars into his lap in surprise. THE CAMERA MOVES IN as Lisa leans over Jeff, gripping both sides of his chair LISA (sharply) Jeff -- if you could only see yourself. JEFF Now, Lisa -- LISA (Abruptly) Sitting around, looking out a window to kill time, is one thing -- but doing it the way you are -- (She gestures) -- with, with binoculars, and with wild opinions about every little movement you see -- is, is diseased! JEFF Do you think I consider this recreation? LISA I don't know what you consider it -- but if you don't stop it, I'm getting out of here. JEFF You'd better before you catch the disease! LISA (Insistent) What is it you're looking for? JEFF I want to find out what's wrong with the salesman's wife. Does that make me sound like a madman? LISA What makes you think something's wrong with her? LISA A lot of things. She's an invalid who needs constant care -- and yet the husband nor anyone else has been in there all day. LISA Maybe she died. JEFF Where's the doctor -- the undertakers? LISA She could be under sedatives, sleeping. (Looks up) He's in the room now. Jeff tries to turn around, but she won't let the chair move. JEFF Lisa, please! LISA There's nothing to see. JEFF There is -- I've seen things through that window! Bickering, family fights, mysterious trips at night, knives, saws, rope -- and since last evening, not a sight or sound of his wife! Now you tell me where she is and what she's doing! LISA Maybe he's leaving his wife. I don't know, and I don't care. Lots of people have saws, knives and ropes around their houses. Lots of men don't speak to their wives all day. Lots of wives nag, and men hate them, and trouble starts -- but very, very, very few of them end up in murder -- if that's what you're thinking. JEFF It's pretty hard to stay away from that word isn't is? LISA You could see all the things he did, couldn't you? JEFF What are you getting at? LISA You could see that he did because he had the shades in his apartment up, and walked along the corridor, and the streets and the backyard? JEFF Yeah. LISA Jeff, do you think a murderer would let you see all that? That he shouldn't keep his shades down and hide behind them? JEFF That's where he's being clever. Acting nonchalant. LISA And that's where you're not being clever. He wouldn't parade his crime in front of the open shades. She turns the wheelchair slightly to her left so that he can see the newlyweds' apartment. LISA (Pointing) For all you know -- there's something a lot more sinister going on behind those shades. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT The drawn shades of the newlyweds' apartment. A dim light burning behind them. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff looks, turns back to her, trying to suppress a chuckle. JEFF No comment. LISA Don't you see how silly you're being? JEFF Okay, Lisa -- probably you're right. He's probably in the bedroom now, entertaining his wife with the indian rope trick. I'll admit to criminal insanity. Now when do I start the cure? Lisa half looks up and out the window. She opens her mouth to answer, but a new look overtakes her face. It is concern, surprise, and a little shock. Jeff sees the change, is sobered, and quickly turns the chair around. He looks out the window, using his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT The shades in the bedroom are now up. Both beds are empty, and stripped of their linen, the mattresses thrown up over the end of the beds. The salesman, sweating heavily, stands over a large, square trunk in the center of the room. It is stoutly bound by the heavy rope we previously saw him bring into the apartment. He wipes one forearm across his brow, and then heads for the kitchen. In the kitchen, he produces a bottle, pours himself two or three straight drinks, then leans with a display of exhaustion against the kitchen sink. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff lowers the glasses. His look is sober. Lisa stands behind him, one hand on the back of the wheelchair. She, too, is serious. THE CAMERA MOVES IN until Lisa's head fills the screen. She says, slowly: LISA Let's start from the beginning again, Jeff. Tell me everything you saw -- and what you think it means. She is still staring out the window, as the scene FADES OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated in the dark, his face lit by the faint glow from the distant street. He is looking out of the window tensely, as THE CAMERA MOVES IN, until he is in big profile. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT From Jeff's viewpoint, all the windows are dark. The couple are sleeping on the fire escape. The salesman's apartment is dark as well. Suddenly a match flares, and we see the salesman light a cigar. The flame of the match illuminates his face for a moment. When is dies out, we see just the glow of the cigar burning. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP The CAMERA is now facing Jeff. We see that his left hand rests on the telephone receiver which is close to him. The phone starts to RING, but makes only the slightest sound, as he instantly picks it up. As he talks, in a low voice, he keeps his eyes on the salesman's apartment. JEFF Yeah? INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP We get an impression of Sixth Avenue behind Lisa at the phone. Lisa also talks in a low, quiet voice. LISA The name on the second floor rear mailbox reads Mr. And Mrs. Lars, that's L-A-R-S, Lars Thorwald. JEFF (Filter) What's the apartment house number? LISA 125 West Ninth Street. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff, still looks toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Thanks, Lisa. INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa smilingly says: LISA Okay, chief. What's my next assignment. JEFF To get on home. LISA All right -- but what's he doing now? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff is still looking toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Just sitting in the living room. In the dark. And he hasn't gone near the bedroom. Now get some sleep. Goodnight. He puts the receiver down, and resumes his vigil. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT All we can see is the glow of the salesman's cigar. FADE OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated by the window in his wheelchair. He is talking on the telephone while his eyes are still on the neighborhood. There is a touch of urgency in his voice. JEFF Look, Doyle -- it's just one of those things I can't tell you on the phone. You have to be here, and see the whole set-up. The CAMERA PULLS BACK slightly as Stella emerges from the kitchen. She is carrying a tray with breakfast on it. Eggs, bacon, toast and coffee. JEFF It's probably nothing important -- just a little neighborhood murder, that's all. As a matter of fact, I did say "murder". Stella squeezes past the right side of Jeff, and places the food tray on a windowseat in front of him. She peers out cautiously toward Thorwald's apartment for a moment. Then she squeezes back, moving to the sideboard against which leans a small table on an adjustable stand. JEFF My only thought was to throw a little business your way. A good detective, I reasoned, would jump at the chance to detect. Stella returns with the table, and sets it up so that it is across Jeff's lap. She gets the tray of food pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment. Then she places the breakfast on the tray table in front of Jeff. He has moved back a little to avoid getting the phone cable tangled in the food and dishes. JEFF Well, I usually took my best pictures on my day off. (nods) Okay, Doyle -- soon as you can. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP He hangs up. Stella takes the phone and puts it down for him. He looks at the breakfast, reaches for a knife and fork. JEFF Stella, I -- I can't tell you what a welcome sight this is. No wonder your husband's still in love with you. STELLA Police? JEFF (Pauses in cutting food) Huh? STELLA You called the police? JEFF Oh. Well, yes and no. It wasn't an official call. He's just a friend. (Almost to himself) An old, ornery friend. He begins eating, appreciatively. She moves behind his chair, pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment again. Jeff is just lifting a piece of bacon to his lips when Stella speaks. STELLA (Half to herself) Now just where do you suppose he cut her up? The hand carrying the bacon to Jeff's mouth hesitates for a moment. STELLA (Answering herself) Oh -- of course! In the bathtub. That's the only place he could wash away the blood. The hand holding the bacon moves back to the plate. Jeff just stares ahead. Stella turns and walks into the kitchen. Jeff pushes the food away, and picks up the coffee cup instead. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes, over the coffee cup, are staring intently at the backyard. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. The shades up. No one moving. The rope-tied trunk still sits in the bedroom. To the left we see the basket lowering with the dog in it. We HEAR the woman WHISTLING an aria. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP His eyes stray in an upward direction as he puts down the coffee cup. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The CAMERA PANS UP past the woman lowering the dog, up to the roof where one of the sunbathers can be seen sitting up, rubbing her body with sun tan oil. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes moves down again. Abstractedly his hand strays toward the piece of bacon. He picks it up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. We are now aware that the salesman is now in his living room, lying out of sight on the sofa, because the smoke from a newly lighted cigar is starting to ascend toward the ceiling of his room. Stella's voice is heard calling out from the kitchen: STELLA'S VOICE He'd better get that trunk out of there before is starts to leak. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Again the bacon stops before is reaches Jeff's mouth. He puts it down on the plate again, as his eyes move slightly toward the left. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet outfit, is hanging up a small wash on a clothes line. It consists mostly of lingerie. She is doing her inevitable leg practice at the same time. THE CAMERA PANS OVER SUDDENLY TO Thorwald's apartment, and except for the smoke rising from the unseen sofa, there is no activity. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff seems to be getting a bit listless, or bored, by constantly watching Thorwald's apartment. His eyes sort of stray around the neighborhood, and end up looking toward: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The newlywed's apartment. Shade down, business as usual. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles affectionately, and starts to turn his eyes away; but something startles him, and he looks quickly back. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The shade suddenly going up in the newlywed's apartment. The young husband leans his hands on the windowsill, and looks out. He is wearing only his pajama bottoms, because of the heat, and we see that he is a well-muscled, attractive young man. He looks around with some satisfaction. He turns at the sound of a woman's voice behind him. GIRL'S VOICE H-a-a-r-r-e-e... He turns his head, is thoughtful for a brief moment, then he pulls down the shade. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP His smile almost becomes a private chuckle. Stella's abrupt voice breaks in urgently: STELLA'S VOICE Look! Look -- Mr. Jefferies! Jeff's head snaps toward the center of his window. Stella has appeared behind his wheelchair. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Two men wearing tan coveralls are standing outside Thorwald's door. One of them carries a clipboard. Suddenly Thorwald is seen sitting up on the living room sofa. His hair is disheveled and he is unshaved. He stands up, and moves toward the door. He opens it, and after a short exchange of dialogue, he admits the two men, leaving the door open behind them. He leads the two man across the living room to the bedroom. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Stella and Jeff watching intently. He is feeling down alongside his wheelchair for his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT A close view shows the two man carrying the trunk across the living room toward the corridor. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars quickly. JEFF (Agitated) I thought Doyle would get here before the trunk went -- or I'd have called the police. (To Stella) Now we're going to lose it. Stella moves toward the door quickly. Jeff turns quickly over his shoulder to watch her. She is already going up the steps. JEFF Stella, don't do anything reckless! As Stella goes out the door, she calls back: STELLA I'm just going to get the name of their truck! JEFF (Up) I'll watch the alleyway -- in case it goes that way. We hear nothing from Stella, but the sound of her heavy tread down the hallway stairs. Jeff returns to Thorwald. He eases himself back into the shadows a bit and then raises his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT Jeff concentrates his attention on the alley-way that leads to the street. Just normal traffic. The binoculars swing to Thorwald apartment. The salesman is now at the telephone. He has picked up the receiver, and proceeds to dial 221. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP The binoculars still up to Jeff's face. Under them his mouth moves, as if he's talking to himself. JEFF Long Distance. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT The salesman speaks some words to the operator. Placing the call. As he does this, he reaches with his other hand for a nearly bottle, and working the cork out with one hand, he pours a stiff drink into a tumbler. He drinks it as soon as he finishes talking with the operator. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars a little, and takes a normal eye sight on the alleyway. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Pulling across to the far side of the street we see the hood and cab of a freight truck. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff quickly puts the glasses up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT By the time the binoculars are up, another truck has crossed from the left. In momentarily blocks out the side of our freight truck. By the time the two trucks part, we can only see the back half of the freight truck before it pulls out of sight. Jeff is only able to read the words "FREIGHT LINES". The binoculars are held for a moment until we see a puffing and blowing Stella arrive at the opening of the alleyway. She looks toward the front of Thorwald's apartment house. And by her attitude we can see that there is no truck outside. She looks about her for a moment. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars, discouraged. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT The figure of Stella is seen, looking up toward Jeff's apartment, and arms outspread in a helpless gesture. LAP DISSOLVE TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT SHOOTING TOWARDS the big window, with the neighborhood beyond, Jeff is as usual seated in his wheelchair on the left of the window, but now turned toward a newcomer. The second man is standing near the divan looking out the window with the binoculars. This newcomer is POLICE DETECTIVE LIEUTENANT THOMAS J. DOYLE, the man Jeff phoned earlier in the day. He is an intelligent-appearing, well-dressed modern detective. He has a sense of humor. He lowers the glasses, and turns to Jeff. DOYLE You didn't see the killing, or the body? How do you know there was a murder? JEFF Because everything that man's done has been suspicious. Trips at night in the rain, saws, knives, trunks with rope, and a wife that isn't there any more. DOYLE I'll admit it all has a mysterious sound -- but is could mean a number of different things. Murder is the least likely. JEFF Go ahead, Doyle -- tell me he's an unemployed magician -- amusing the neighborhood with sleight-of-hand. Doyle paces a little. DOYLE It's too stupid and obvious a way to murder -- in full view of fifty windows -- and then sit over there -- (He points) -- smoking a cigar -- waiting for the police to pick him up. JEFF Well, officer -- do your duty. DOYLE You've got a lot to lean about homicide, Jeff. Morons have committed murder so shrewdly that it took a hundred trained police minds to catch them. That salesman wouldn't just knock off his wife after dinner, toss her in a trunk and put her in storage. JEFF I'll bet it's been done. DOYLE Almost everything's been done -- under panic. But this is a thousand to one shot. That man's still sitting around his apartment; he isn't panicked. JEFF (A pause) You think I made all this up? DOYLE I think you saw something -- that probably has a very simple explanation. JEFF For instance? DOYLE (Shrugs) His wife took a trip. JEFF She -- was -- an -- invalid! DOYLE You told me. (Looks at watch) I've got to run, Jeff. JEFF All right -- you don't believe me. Doyle saunters toward steps, picking up his hat on the way. Stops. DOYLE I -- uh -- won't report it to the Department. Let me poke into a little on my own. No point in you getting any ridiculous publicity. JEFF (Coldly) Thanks. DOYLE We know the wife is gone. I'll see if I can find out where. JEFF Do that. He goes up the steps to the door, putting on his hat. He pauses his hand on the door knob. DOYLE You have any headaches lately? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers, showing only the slightest irritation. JEFF Not 'til you showed up. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Doyle, still at the door: DOYLE Uh-huh. Well, it'll wear off in time -- along with the hallucinations. See you around. He starts to go out the door, and closes it behind him. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT From Doyle's viewpoint. Jeff lifts his hand in a feeble parting gesture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Before the door has completely closed, Doyle opens it again, and looks in. DOYLE By the way what happened to your leg? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP JEFF I was jaywalking. DOYLE'S VOICE (O.S.) Where? JEFF (With nonchalance) The Indianapolis Speedway. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP The door starts to close again, as if Doyle considered Jeff's answer quite reasonable. Then the door pops open and Doyle's head comes in, a surprised expression across his face. DOYLE During the race? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers with a straight face. JEFF Yup. It sure stopped traffic. We don't see Doyle again, but only HEAR the sharp slam of the DOOR off. Jeff chuckles. Then he turns back to the window. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's attention is drawn to something in the yard below. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The little dog is busily scratching away at Thorwald's pet flower bed. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles mischievously. Suddenly his face changes as he sees: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald coming out of his basement door, carrying a watering can. He fills it from a nearby faucet. He does not notice the little dog's destructive activities. When the watering can is filled, he straightens up, turns toward the flower bed. He stops for the briefest moment, when he sees the dog. He walks to the dog, gently lifts him out of the garden, and giving him a friendly little pat, sends him off. He proceeds to patiently brush back the disturbed earth, and then begins his watering. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is frankly puzzled by the salesman's friendly attitude toward the dog. He looks off in another direction, as he catches of: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Doyle, who has appeared, at the street opening. The detective is surveying the front of the apartment building where Thorwald lives. A paper seller behind him offers to sell him a paper. Doyle isn't interested. As Doyle saunters forward toward the salesman house, the scene: LAP DISSOLVES TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Doyle is nonchalantly leaning up against the side board, with a highball in one hand. Jeff has turned his chair around from the window to face him. DOYLE He has a six months lease, and has used up a little over five and a half months of it. (Takes a sip of drink) Quiet. Drinks, but not to drunkenness. Pays his bill promptly, with money earned as a consume jewelry salesman -- wholesale. Keeps to himself, and none of the neighbors got close to him, or his wife. JEFF I think they missed their chance with her. DOYLE (Studies drink) She never left the apartment -- JEFF (Interrupting) Then where is she -- in the ice box? DOYLE (Continues) -- until yesterday morning. JEFF (Alert) What time? DOYLE Six ayem. Jeff looks thoughtful a moment, and then says, with a touch of discouragement: JEFF I think that's about the time I fell asleep. DOYLE Too bad. The Thorwalds were just leaving the apartment house at that time. He puts down his drink, and strolls toward the window, looking out. THE CAMERA MOVES IN slightly to tighten the shot. DOYLE Feel a little foolish? JEFF Not yet. Doyle becomes interested in watching something out the window. Unconsciously he smooths out his coat and tie. He even smiles somewhat secretly to himself at what he sees. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet costume, practicing her dance on the outside balcony. She is exciting and desirable. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - TIGHT TWO SHOT Jeff notices Doyle's interest. JEFF How's your wife? Startled at being observed, Doyle moves quickly away from the window, affecting nonchalance. THE CAMERA MOVES BACK as Doyle returns to his drink. Jeff smiles at catching Doyle enjoying Miss Torso. DOYLE Oh -- oh, she's fine. (Not too convincing) Just fine. He tosses off the rest of the drink, and his movement is almost a comment. Jeff's face grows serious. JEFF Who said they left then? DOYLE Who left -- where? JEFF The Thorwalds -- at six in the morning? Doyle quickly collects his thoughts, and gets back to the case at hand. DOYLE The building superintendent, and two tenants. Flat statements -- no hesitation. And they all jibed to the letter. The Thorwalds were leaving for the railroad station. JEFF Now how could anybody guess that? They had, perhaps, signs on their luggage, "Grand Central Or Bust!"? DOYLE (Sighs) The superintendent met Thorwald coming back. He said Thorwald told him he had just put his wife on the train for the country. JEFF A very convenient guy -- this superintendent. Have you checked his bank deposits lately? DOYLE Jeff -- huh? JEFF (Sharply) Well -- what good is his information?!! It's a second-hand version of an unsupported statement by the murderer himself -- Thorwald! Anybody actually see the wife get on the train? DOYLE I hate to remind you -- but this all started because you said she was murdered. Now

opinion

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

you ever have any problems? LISA (Murmurs, kissing him) I have one now. JEFF So do I. LISA (Kissing) Tell me about it. JEFF (Slight pause) Why would a man leave his apartment three times, on a rainy night, with a suitcase? And come back three times? LISA He likes the way his wife welcomes him home. JEFF Not that salesman's wife. And why didn't he go to work today? LISA Homework. It's more interesting. JEFF What's interesting about a butcher's knife and a small saw wrapped up in a newspaper? LISA Nothing, thank heaven. JEFF (Looking again) Why hasn't he gone into his wife's bedroom all day? LISA I wouldn't dare answer that. JEFF (After pause) Lisa -- there's something terribly wrong. She gives up trying to interest him in romance, and moves back from the embrace. THE CAMERA PULL BACK. LISA And I'm afraid it's with me. Lisa stands, straightens out her dress, stretches a little then she turns to the divan, apparently not too interested in his observation about the salesman's life. JEFF (Looks at Lisa) What do you think? LISA (Without returning his look) Something too frightful to utter. Jeff is thoughtful for a moment, then he relaxes and smiles a little. He turns to the window to look out again. Lisa exits the picture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa stretches herself out on the divan. Her head rest on the cushion at the far end, and she instinctively falls into an attractive pose. However, her expression is disturbed as she watches Jeff. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP He stares intently out the window. JEFF He went out a few minutes ago -- in his undershirt -- and he hasn't come back yet. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Lisa weighs this information, trying to make some sense out of it. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns his eyes from the salesman's apartment, and looks down reflectively. He looks up again, and then his eyes catches sight of something. He leans forward slightly. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso is lying, face down, on her divan bed. The only light in the apartment is from a reading lamp. She is reading a book held in one hand, while eating a sandwich in another. Her back is bare, and all she wears is a pair of brief dark blue shorts. At one point, she lifts her torso up slightly to brush crumbs out from beneath her. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP He looks away from Miss Torso, thoughtfully. JEFF You know -- that would be terrible job to tackle. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa leans forward and looks out the window to see what Jeff is referring to. She turns back to him with a blank stare. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns and looks at her, quite unaware of her surprise at his comment. JEFF How would you begin to cut up a human body? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa sits bolt upright on the divan. She reaches back quickly and pulls on the overhead light. At that moment the songwriter returns to his composing. We can see him over Lisa's shoulder. He is beginning his song again, and it has taken on new fullness and melody. Although it is not complete, it is farther along then before, and he plays his theme a number of different ways, trying to move it note by note to its completion. Lisa just stares at Jeff for a moment. LISA Jeff -- I'll be honest with you -- you're beginning to scare me a little. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is staring out of the window again. Over this we hear Lisa's voice: LISA (Quietly insistent) Jeff -- did you hear what I said? You're beginning to -- Jeff puts out a restraining hand. JEFF (Interrupting) Be quiet! Shhh! (Pause) He's coming back! EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT At last the salesman is seen coming along the corridor. He does not wear shirt, but only an undershirt. Slung over one shoulder, with his arm through is, is a large coil of sturdy rope. He goes through the living room into the bedroom. He does not put on the bedroom lights. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff reaches quickly for his binoculars, and trains them on the salesman's apartment. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT As seen though the binoculars, the salesman comes out of the bedroom, to the kitchen, where he gets a carving knife. He turns around and goes back to the bedroom. The lights go on behind the draw shades, after a short moment. The dim shadow of the salesman is seen moving around the room. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa, still stretched out on the divan looking at Jeff, suddenly sits upright and then getting up from the divan, mover over to Jeff, THE CAMERA GOING WITH her. In a sudden surprise move, she swings his chair completely around so that his back is to the window. He drops the binoculars into his lap in surprise. THE CAMERA MOVES IN as Lisa leans over Jeff, gripping both sides of his chair LISA (sharply) Jeff -- if you could only see yourself. JEFF Now, Lisa -- LISA (Abruptly) Sitting around, looking out a window to kill time, is one thing -- but doing it the way you are -- (She gestures) -- with, with binoculars, and with wild opinions about every little movement you see -- is, is diseased! JEFF Do you think I consider this recreation? LISA I don't know what you consider it -- but if you don't stop it, I'm getting out of here. JEFF You'd better before you catch the disease! LISA (Insistent) What is it you're looking for? JEFF I want to find out what's wrong with the salesman's wife. Does that make me sound like a madman? LISA What makes you think something's wrong with her? LISA A lot of things. She's an invalid who needs constant care -- and yet the husband nor anyone else has been in there all day. LISA Maybe she died. JEFF Where's the doctor -- the undertakers? LISA She could be under sedatives, sleeping. (Looks up) He's in the room now. Jeff tries to turn around, but she won't let the chair move. JEFF Lisa, please! LISA There's nothing to see. JEFF There is -- I've seen things through that window! Bickering, family fights, mysterious trips at night, knives, saws, rope -- and since last evening, not a sight or sound of his wife! Now you tell me where she is and what she's doing! LISA Maybe he's leaving his wife. I don't know, and I don't care. Lots of people have saws, knives and ropes around their houses. Lots of men don't speak to their wives all day. Lots of wives nag, and men hate them, and trouble starts -- but very, very, very few of them end up in murder -- if that's what you're thinking. JEFF It's pretty hard to stay away from that word isn't is? LISA You could see all the things he did, couldn't you? JEFF What are you getting at? LISA You could see that he did because he had the shades in his apartment up, and walked along the corridor, and the streets and the backyard? JEFF Yeah. LISA Jeff, do you think a murderer would let you see all that? That he shouldn't keep his shades down and hide behind them? JEFF That's where he's being clever. Acting nonchalant. LISA And that's where you're not being clever. He wouldn't parade his crime in front of the open shades. She turns the wheelchair slightly to her left so that he can see the newlyweds' apartment. LISA (Pointing) For all you know -- there's something a lot more sinister going on behind those shades. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT The drawn shades of the newlyweds' apartment. A dim light burning behind them. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff looks, turns back to her, trying to suppress a chuckle. JEFF No comment. LISA Don't you see how silly you're being? JEFF Okay, Lisa -- probably you're right. He's probably in the bedroom now, entertaining his wife with the indian rope trick. I'll admit to criminal insanity. Now when do I start the cure? Lisa half looks up and out the window. She opens her mouth to answer, but a new look overtakes her face. It is concern, surprise, and a little shock. Jeff sees the change, is sobered, and quickly turns the chair around. He looks out the window, using his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT The shades in the bedroom are now up. Both beds are empty, and stripped of their linen, the mattresses thrown up over the end of the beds. The salesman, sweating heavily, stands over a large, square trunk in the center of the room. It is stoutly bound by the heavy rope we previously saw him bring into the apartment. He wipes one forearm across his brow, and then heads for the kitchen. In the kitchen, he produces a bottle, pours himself two or three straight drinks, then leans with a display of exhaustion against the kitchen sink. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff lowers the glasses. His look is sober. Lisa stands behind him, one hand on the back of the wheelchair. She, too, is serious. THE CAMERA MOVES IN until Lisa's head fills the screen. She says, slowly: LISA Let's start from the beginning again, Jeff. Tell me everything you saw -- and what you think it means. She is still staring out the window, as the scene FADES OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated in the dark, his face lit by the faint glow from the distant street. He is looking out of the window tensely, as THE CAMERA MOVES IN, until he is in big profile. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT From Jeff's viewpoint, all the windows are dark. The couple are sleeping on the fire escape. The salesman's apartment is dark as well. Suddenly a match flares, and we see the salesman light a cigar. The flame of the match illuminates his face for a moment. When is dies out, we see just the glow of the cigar burning. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP The CAMERA is now facing Jeff. We see that his left hand rests on the telephone receiver which is close to him. The phone starts to RING, but makes only the slightest sound, as he instantly picks it up. As he talks, in a low voice, he keeps his eyes on the salesman's apartment. JEFF Yeah? INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP We get an impression of Sixth Avenue behind Lisa at the phone. Lisa also talks in a low, quiet voice. LISA The name on the second floor rear mailbox reads Mr. And Mrs. Lars, that's L-A-R-S, Lars Thorwald. JEFF (Filter) What's the apartment house number? LISA 125 West Ninth Street. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff, still looks toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Thanks, Lisa. INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa smilingly says: LISA Okay, chief. What's my next assignment. JEFF To get on home. LISA All right -- but what's he doing now? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff is still looking toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Just sitting in the living room. In the dark. And he hasn't gone near the bedroom. Now get some sleep. Goodnight. He puts the receiver down, and resumes his vigil. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT All we can see is the glow of the salesman's cigar. FADE OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated by the window in his wheelchair. He is talking on the telephone while his eyes are still on the neighborhood. There is a touch of urgency in his voice. JEFF Look, Doyle -- it's just one of those things I can't tell you on the phone. You have to be here, and see the whole set-up. The CAMERA PULLS BACK slightly as Stella emerges from the kitchen. She is carrying a tray with breakfast on it. Eggs, bacon, toast and coffee. JEFF It's probably nothing important -- just a little neighborhood murder, that's all. As a matter of fact, I did say "murder". Stella squeezes past the right side of Jeff, and places the food tray on a windowseat in front of him. She peers out cautiously toward Thorwald's apartment for a moment. Then she squeezes back, moving to the sideboard against which leans a small table on an adjustable stand. JEFF My only thought was to throw a little business your way. A good detective, I reasoned, would jump at the chance to detect. Stella returns with the table, and sets it up so that it is across Jeff's lap. She gets the tray of food pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment. Then she places the breakfast on the tray table in front of Jeff. He has moved back a little to avoid getting the phone cable tangled in the food and dishes. JEFF Well, I usually took my best pictures on my day off. (nods) Okay, Doyle -- soon as you can. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP He hangs up. Stella takes the phone and puts it down for him. He looks at the breakfast, reaches for a knife and fork. JEFF Stella, I -- I can't tell you what a welcome sight this is. No wonder your husband's still in love with you. STELLA Police? JEFF (Pauses in cutting food) Huh? STELLA You called the police? JEFF Oh. Well, yes and no. It wasn't an official call. He's just a friend. (Almost to himself) An old, ornery friend. He begins eating, appreciatively. She moves behind his chair, pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment again. Jeff is just lifting a piece of bacon to his lips when Stella speaks. STELLA (Half to herself) Now just where do you suppose he cut her up? The hand carrying the bacon to Jeff's mouth hesitates for a moment. STELLA (Answering herself) Oh -- of course! In the bathtub. That's the only place he could wash away the blood. The hand holding the bacon moves back to the plate. Jeff just stares ahead. Stella turns and walks into the kitchen. Jeff pushes the food away, and picks up the coffee cup instead. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes, over the coffee cup, are staring intently at the backyard. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. The shades up. No one moving. The rope-tied trunk still sits in the bedroom. To the left we see the basket lowering with the dog in it. We HEAR the woman WHISTLING an aria. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP His eyes stray in an upward direction as he puts down the coffee cup. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The CAMERA PANS UP past the woman lowering the dog, up to the roof where one of the sunbathers can be seen sitting up, rubbing her body with sun tan oil. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes moves down again. Abstractedly his hand strays toward the piece of bacon. He picks it up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. We are now aware that the salesman is now in his living room, lying out of sight on the sofa, because the smoke from a newly lighted cigar is starting to ascend toward the ceiling of his room. Stella's voice is heard calling out from the kitchen: STELLA'S VOICE He'd better get that trunk out of there before is starts to leak. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Again the bacon stops before is reaches Jeff's mouth. He puts it down on the plate again, as his eyes move slightly toward the left. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet outfit, is hanging up a small wash on a clothes line. It consists mostly of lingerie. She is doing her inevitable leg practice at the same time. THE CAMERA PANS OVER SUDDENLY TO Thorwald's apartment, and except for the smoke rising from the unseen sofa, there is no activity. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff seems to be getting a bit listless, or bored, by constantly watching Thorwald's apartment. His eyes sort of stray around the neighborhood, and end up looking toward: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The newlywed's apartment. Shade down, business as usual. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles affectionately, and starts to turn his eyes away; but something startles him, and he looks quickly back. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The shade suddenly going up in the newlywed's apartment. The young husband leans his hands on the windowsill, and looks out. He is wearing only his pajama bottoms, because of the heat, and we see that he is a well-muscled, attractive young man. He looks around with some satisfaction. He turns at the sound of a woman's voice behind him. GIRL'S VOICE H-a-a-r-r-e-e... He turns his head, is thoughtful for a brief moment, then he pulls down the shade. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP His smile almost becomes a private chuckle. Stella's abrupt voice breaks in urgently: STELLA'S VOICE Look! Look -- Mr. Jefferies! Jeff's head snaps toward the center of his window. Stella has appeared behind his wheelchair. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Two men wearing tan coveralls are standing outside Thorwald's door. One of them carries a clipboard. Suddenly Thorwald is seen sitting up on the living room sofa. His hair is disheveled and he is unshaved. He stands up, and moves toward the door. He opens it, and after a short exchange of dialogue, he admits the two men, leaving the door open behind them. He leads the two man across the living room to the bedroom. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Stella and Jeff watching intently. He is feeling down alongside his wheelchair for his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT A close view shows the two man carrying the trunk across the living room toward the corridor. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars quickly. JEFF (Agitated) I thought Doyle would get here before the trunk went -- or I'd have called the police. (To Stella) Now we're going to lose it. Stella moves toward the door quickly. Jeff turns quickly over his shoulder to watch her. She is already going up the steps. JEFF Stella, don't do anything reckless! As Stella goes out the door, she calls back: STELLA I'm just going to get the name of their truck! JEFF (Up) I'll watch the alleyway -- in case it goes that way. We hear nothing from Stella, but the sound of her heavy tread down the hallway stairs. Jeff returns to Thorwald. He eases himself back into the shadows a bit and then raises his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT Jeff concentrates his attention on the alley-way that leads to the street. Just normal traffic. The binoculars swing to Thorwald apartment. The salesman is now at the telephone. He has picked up the receiver, and proceeds to dial 221. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP The binoculars still up to Jeff's face. Under them his mouth moves, as if he's talking to himself. JEFF Long Distance. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT The salesman speaks some words to the operator. Placing the call. As he does this, he reaches with his other hand for a nearly bottle, and working the cork out with one hand, he pours a stiff drink into a tumbler. He drinks it as soon as he finishes talking with the operator. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars a little, and takes a normal eye sight on the alleyway. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Pulling across to the far side of the street we see the hood and cab of a freight truck. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff quickly puts the glasses up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT By the time the binoculars are up, another truck has crossed from the left. In momentarily blocks out the side of our freight truck. By the time the two trucks part, we can only see the back half of the freight truck before it pulls out of sight. Jeff is only able to read the words "FREIGHT LINES". The binoculars are held for a moment until we see a puffing and blowing Stella arrive at the opening of the alleyway. She looks toward the front of Thorwald's apartment house. And by her attitude we can see that there is no truck outside. She looks about her for a moment. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars, discouraged. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT The figure of Stella is seen, looking up toward Jeff's apartment, and arms outspread in a helpless gesture. LAP DISSOLVE TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT SHOOTING TOWARDS the big window, with the neighborhood beyond, Jeff is as usual seated in his wheelchair on the left of the window, but now turned toward a newcomer. The second man is standing near the divan looking out the window with the binoculars. This newcomer is POLICE DETECTIVE LIEUTENANT THOMAS J. DOYLE, the man Jeff phoned earlier in the day. He is an intelligent-appearing, well-dressed modern detective. He has a sense of humor. He lowers the glasses, and turns to Jeff. DOYLE You didn't see the killing, or the body? How do you know there was a murder? JEFF Because everything that man's done has been suspicious. Trips at night in the rain, saws, knives, trunks with rope, and a wife that isn't there any more. DOYLE I'll admit it all has a mysterious sound -- but is could mean a number of different things. Murder is the least likely. JEFF Go ahead, Doyle -- tell me he's an unemployed magician -- amusing the neighborhood with sleight-of-hand. Doyle paces a little. DOYLE It's too stupid and obvious a way to murder -- in full view of fifty windows -- and then sit over there -- (He points) -- smoking a cigar -- waiting for the police to pick him up. JEFF Well, officer -- do your duty. DOYLE You've got a lot to lean about homicide, Jeff. Morons have committed murder so shrewdly that it took a hundred trained police minds to catch them. That salesman wouldn't just knock off his wife after dinner, toss her in a trunk and put her in storage. JEFF I'll bet it's been done. DOYLE Almost everything's been done -- under panic. But this is a thousand to one shot. That man's still sitting around his apartment; he isn't panicked. JEFF (A pause) You think I made all this up? DOYLE I think you saw something -- that probably has a very simple explanation. JEFF For instance? DOYLE (Shrugs) His wife took a trip. JEFF She -- was -- an -- invalid! DOYLE You told me. (Looks at watch) I've got to run, Jeff. JEFF All right -- you don't believe me. Doyle saunters toward steps, picking up his hat on the way. Stops. DOYLE I -- uh -- won't report it to the Department. Let me poke into a little on my own. No point in you getting any ridiculous publicity. JEFF (Coldly) Thanks. DOYLE We know the wife is gone. I'll see if I can find out where. JEFF Do that. He goes up the steps to the door, putting on his hat. He pauses his hand on the door knob. DOYLE You have any headaches lately? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers, showing only the slightest irritation. JEFF Not 'til you showed up. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Doyle, still at the door: DOYLE Uh-huh. Well, it'll wear off in time -- along with the hallucinations. See you around. He starts to go out the door, and closes it behind him. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT From Doyle's viewpoint. Jeff lifts his hand in a feeble parting gesture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Before the door has completely closed, Doyle opens it again, and looks in. DOYLE By the way what happened to your leg? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP JEFF I was jaywalking. DOYLE'S VOICE (O.S.) Where? JEFF (With nonchalance) The Indianapolis Speedway. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP The door starts to close again, as if Doyle considered Jeff's answer quite reasonable. Then the door pops open and Doyle's head comes in, a surprised expression across his face. DOYLE During the race? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers with a straight face. JEFF Yup. It sure stopped traffic. We don't see Doyle again, but only HEAR the sharp slam of the DOOR off. Jeff chuckles. Then he turns back to the window. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's attention is drawn to something in the yard below. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The little dog is busily scratching away at Thorwald's pet flower bed. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles mischievously. Suddenly his face changes as he sees: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald coming out of his basement door, carrying a watering can. He fills it from a nearby faucet. He does not notice the little dog's destructive activities. When the watering can is filled, he straightens up, turns toward the flower bed. He stops for the briefest moment, when he sees the dog. He walks to the dog, gently lifts him out of the garden, and giving him a friendly little pat, sends him off. He proceeds to patiently brush back the disturbed earth, and then begins his watering. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is frankly puzzled by the salesman's friendly attitude toward the dog. He looks off in another direction, as he catches of: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Doyle, who has appeared, at the street opening. The detective is surveying the front of the apartment building where Thorwald lives. A paper seller behind him offers to sell him a paper. Doyle isn't interested. As Doyle saunters forward toward the salesman house, the scene: LAP DISSOLVES TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Doyle is nonchalantly leaning up against the side board, with a highball in one hand. Jeff has turned his chair around from the window to face him. DOYLE He has a six months lease, and has used up a little over five and a half months of it. (Takes a sip of drink) Quiet. Drinks, but not to drunkenness. Pays his bill promptly, with money earned as a consume jewelry salesman -- wholesale. Keeps to himself, and none of the neighbors got close to him, or his wife. JEFF I think they missed their chance with her. DOYLE (Studies drink) She never left the apartment -- JEFF (Interrupting) Then where is she -- in the ice box? DOYLE (Continues) -- until yesterday morning. JEFF (Alert) What time? DOYLE Six ayem. Jeff looks thoughtful a moment, and then says, with a touch of discouragement: JEFF I think that's about the time I fell asleep. DOYLE Too bad. The Thorwalds were just leaving the apartment house at that time. He puts down his drink, and strolls toward the window, looking out. THE CAMERA MOVES IN slightly to tighten the shot. DOYLE Feel a little foolish? JEFF Not yet. Doyle becomes interested in watching something out the window. Unconsciously he smooths out his coat and tie. He even smiles somewhat secretly to himself at what he sees. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet costume, practicing her dance on the outside balcony. She is exciting and desirable. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - TIGHT TWO SHOT Jeff notices Doyle's interest. JEFF How's your wife? Startled at being observed, Doyle moves quickly away from the window, affecting nonchalance. THE CAMERA MOVES BACK as Doyle returns to his drink. Jeff smiles at catching Doyle enjoying Miss Torso. DOYLE Oh -- oh, she's fine. (Not too convincing) Just fine. He tosses off the rest of the drink, and his movement is almost a comment. Jeff's face grows serious. JEFF Who said they left then? DOYLE Who left -- where? JEFF The Thorwalds -- at six in the morning? Doyle quickly collects his thoughts, and gets back to the case at hand. DOYLE The building superintendent, and two tenants. Flat statements -- no hesitation. And they all jibed to the letter. The Thorwalds were leaving for the railroad station. JEFF Now how could anybody guess that? They had, perhaps, signs on their luggage, "Grand Central Or Bust!"? DOYLE (Sighs) The superintendent met Thorwald coming back. He said Thorwald told him he had just put his wife on the train for the country. JEFF A very convenient guy -- this superintendent. Have you checked his bank deposits lately? DOYLE Jeff -- huh? JEFF (Sharply) Well -- what good is his information?!! It's a second-hand version of an unsupported statement by the murderer himself -- Thorwald! Anybody actually see the wife get on the train? DOYLE I hate to remind you -- but this all started because you said she was murdered. Now

but

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

you ever have any problems? LISA (Murmurs, kissing him) I have one now. JEFF So do I. LISA (Kissing) Tell me about it. JEFF (Slight pause) Why would a man leave his apartment three times, on a rainy night, with a suitcase? And come back three times? LISA He likes the way his wife welcomes him home. JEFF Not that salesman's wife. And why didn't he go to work today? LISA Homework. It's more interesting. JEFF What's interesting about a butcher's knife and a small saw wrapped up in a newspaper? LISA Nothing, thank heaven. JEFF (Looking again) Why hasn't he gone into his wife's bedroom all day? LISA I wouldn't dare answer that. JEFF (After pause) Lisa -- there's something terribly wrong. She gives up trying to interest him in romance, and moves back from the embrace. THE CAMERA PULL BACK. LISA And I'm afraid it's with me. Lisa stands, straightens out her dress, stretches a little then she turns to the divan, apparently not too interested in his observation about the salesman's life. JEFF (Looks at Lisa) What do you think? LISA (Without returning his look) Something too frightful to utter. Jeff is thoughtful for a moment, then he relaxes and smiles a little. He turns to the window to look out again. Lisa exits the picture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa stretches herself out on the divan. Her head rest on the cushion at the far end, and she instinctively falls into an attractive pose. However, her expression is disturbed as she watches Jeff. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP He stares intently out the window. JEFF He went out a few minutes ago -- in his undershirt -- and he hasn't come back yet. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Lisa weighs this information, trying to make some sense out of it. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns his eyes from the salesman's apartment, and looks down reflectively. He looks up again, and then his eyes catches sight of something. He leans forward slightly. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso is lying, face down, on her divan bed. The only light in the apartment is from a reading lamp. She is reading a book held in one hand, while eating a sandwich in another. Her back is bare, and all she wears is a pair of brief dark blue shorts. At one point, she lifts her torso up slightly to brush crumbs out from beneath her. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP He looks away from Miss Torso, thoughtfully. JEFF You know -- that would be terrible job to tackle. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa leans forward and looks out the window to see what Jeff is referring to. She turns back to him with a blank stare. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns and looks at her, quite unaware of her surprise at his comment. JEFF How would you begin to cut up a human body? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa sits bolt upright on the divan. She reaches back quickly and pulls on the overhead light. At that moment the songwriter returns to his composing. We can see him over Lisa's shoulder. He is beginning his song again, and it has taken on new fullness and melody. Although it is not complete, it is farther along then before, and he plays his theme a number of different ways, trying to move it note by note to its completion. Lisa just stares at Jeff for a moment. LISA Jeff -- I'll be honest with you -- you're beginning to scare me a little. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is staring out of the window again. Over this we hear Lisa's voice: LISA (Quietly insistent) Jeff -- did you hear what I said? You're beginning to -- Jeff puts out a restraining hand. JEFF (Interrupting) Be quiet! Shhh! (Pause) He's coming back! EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT At last the salesman is seen coming along the corridor. He does not wear shirt, but only an undershirt. Slung over one shoulder, with his arm through is, is a large coil of sturdy rope. He goes through the living room into the bedroom. He does not put on the bedroom lights. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff reaches quickly for his binoculars, and trains them on the salesman's apartment. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT As seen though the binoculars, the salesman comes out of the bedroom, to the kitchen, where he gets a carving knife. He turns around and goes back to the bedroom. The lights go on behind the draw shades, after a short moment. The dim shadow of the salesman is seen moving around the room. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa, still stretched out on the divan looking at Jeff, suddenly sits upright and then getting up from the divan, mover over to Jeff, THE CAMERA GOING WITH her. In a sudden surprise move, she swings his chair completely around so that his back is to the window. He drops the binoculars into his lap in surprise. THE CAMERA MOVES IN as Lisa leans over Jeff, gripping both sides of his chair LISA (sharply) Jeff -- if you could only see yourself. JEFF Now, Lisa -- LISA (Abruptly) Sitting around, looking out a window to kill time, is one thing -- but doing it the way you are -- (She gestures) -- with, with binoculars, and with wild opinions about every little movement you see -- is, is diseased! JEFF Do you think I consider this recreation? LISA I don't know what you consider it -- but if you don't stop it, I'm getting out of here. JEFF You'd better before you catch the disease! LISA (Insistent) What is it you're looking for? JEFF I want to find out what's wrong with the salesman's wife. Does that make me sound like a madman? LISA What makes you think something's wrong with her? LISA A lot of things. She's an invalid who needs constant care -- and yet the husband nor anyone else has been in there all day. LISA Maybe she died. JEFF Where's the doctor -- the undertakers? LISA She could be under sedatives, sleeping. (Looks up) He's in the room now. Jeff tries to turn around, but she won't let the chair move. JEFF Lisa, please! LISA There's nothing to see. JEFF There is -- I've seen things through that window! Bickering, family fights, mysterious trips at night, knives, saws, rope -- and since last evening, not a sight or sound of his wife! Now you tell me where she is and what she's doing! LISA Maybe he's leaving his wife. I don't know, and I don't care. Lots of people have saws, knives and ropes around their houses. Lots of men don't speak to their wives all day. Lots of wives nag, and men hate them, and trouble starts -- but very, very, very few of them end up in murder -- if that's what you're thinking. JEFF It's pretty hard to stay away from that word isn't is? LISA You could see all the things he did, couldn't you? JEFF What are you getting at? LISA You could see that he did because he had the shades in his apartment up, and walked along the corridor, and the streets and the backyard? JEFF Yeah. LISA Jeff, do you think a murderer would let you see all that? That he shouldn't keep his shades down and hide behind them? JEFF That's where he's being clever. Acting nonchalant. LISA And that's where you're not being clever. He wouldn't parade his crime in front of the open shades. She turns the wheelchair slightly to her left so that he can see the newlyweds' apartment. LISA (Pointing) For all you know -- there's something a lot more sinister going on behind those shades. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT The drawn shades of the newlyweds' apartment. A dim light burning behind them. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff looks, turns back to her, trying to suppress a chuckle. JEFF No comment. LISA Don't you see how silly you're being? JEFF Okay, Lisa -- probably you're right. He's probably in the bedroom now, entertaining his wife with the indian rope trick. I'll admit to criminal insanity. Now when do I start the cure? Lisa half looks up and out the window. She opens her mouth to answer, but a new look overtakes her face. It is concern, surprise, and a little shock. Jeff sees the change, is sobered, and quickly turns the chair around. He looks out the window, using his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT The shades in the bedroom are now up. Both beds are empty, and stripped of their linen, the mattresses thrown up over the end of the beds. The salesman, sweating heavily, stands over a large, square trunk in the center of the room. It is stoutly bound by the heavy rope we previously saw him bring into the apartment. He wipes one forearm across his brow, and then heads for the kitchen. In the kitchen, he produces a bottle, pours himself two or three straight drinks, then leans with a display of exhaustion against the kitchen sink. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff lowers the glasses. His look is sober. Lisa stands behind him, one hand on the back of the wheelchair. She, too, is serious. THE CAMERA MOVES IN until Lisa's head fills the screen. She says, slowly: LISA Let's start from the beginning again, Jeff. Tell me everything you saw -- and what you think it means. She is still staring out the window, as the scene FADES OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated in the dark, his face lit by the faint glow from the distant street. He is looking out of the window tensely, as THE CAMERA MOVES IN, until he is in big profile. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT From Jeff's viewpoint, all the windows are dark. The couple are sleeping on the fire escape. The salesman's apartment is dark as well. Suddenly a match flares, and we see the salesman light a cigar. The flame of the match illuminates his face for a moment. When is dies out, we see just the glow of the cigar burning. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP The CAMERA is now facing Jeff. We see that his left hand rests on the telephone receiver which is close to him. The phone starts to RING, but makes only the slightest sound, as he instantly picks it up. As he talks, in a low voice, he keeps his eyes on the salesman's apartment. JEFF Yeah? INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP We get an impression of Sixth Avenue behind Lisa at the phone. Lisa also talks in a low, quiet voice. LISA The name on the second floor rear mailbox reads Mr. And Mrs. Lars, that's L-A-R-S, Lars Thorwald. JEFF (Filter) What's the apartment house number? LISA 125 West Ninth Street. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff, still looks toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Thanks, Lisa. INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa smilingly says: LISA Okay, chief. What's my next assignment. JEFF To get on home. LISA All right -- but what's he doing now? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff is still looking toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Just sitting in the living room. In the dark. And he hasn't gone near the bedroom. Now get some sleep. Goodnight. He puts the receiver down, and resumes his vigil. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT All we can see is the glow of the salesman's cigar. FADE OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated by the window in his wheelchair. He is talking on the telephone while his eyes are still on the neighborhood. There is a touch of urgency in his voice. JEFF Look, Doyle -- it's just one of those things I can't tell you on the phone. You have to be here, and see the whole set-up. The CAMERA PULLS BACK slightly as Stella emerges from the kitchen. She is carrying a tray with breakfast on it. Eggs, bacon, toast and coffee. JEFF It's probably nothing important -- just a little neighborhood murder, that's all. As a matter of fact, I did say "murder". Stella squeezes past the right side of Jeff, and places the food tray on a windowseat in front of him. She peers out cautiously toward Thorwald's apartment for a moment. Then she squeezes back, moving to the sideboard against which leans a small table on an adjustable stand. JEFF My only thought was to throw a little business your way. A good detective, I reasoned, would jump at the chance to detect. Stella returns with the table, and sets it up so that it is across Jeff's lap. She gets the tray of food pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment. Then she places the breakfast on the tray table in front of Jeff. He has moved back a little to avoid getting the phone cable tangled in the food and dishes. JEFF Well, I usually took my best pictures on my day off. (nods) Okay, Doyle -- soon as you can. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP He hangs up. Stella takes the phone and puts it down for him. He looks at the breakfast, reaches for a knife and fork. JEFF Stella, I -- I can't tell you what a welcome sight this is. No wonder your husband's still in love with you. STELLA Police? JEFF (Pauses in cutting food) Huh? STELLA You called the police? JEFF Oh. Well, yes and no. It wasn't an official call. He's just a friend. (Almost to himself) An old, ornery friend. He begins eating, appreciatively. She moves behind his chair, pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment again. Jeff is just lifting a piece of bacon to his lips when Stella speaks. STELLA (Half to herself) Now just where do you suppose he cut her up? The hand carrying the bacon to Jeff's mouth hesitates for a moment. STELLA (Answering herself) Oh -- of course! In the bathtub. That's the only place he could wash away the blood. The hand holding the bacon moves back to the plate. Jeff just stares ahead. Stella turns and walks into the kitchen. Jeff pushes the food away, and picks up the coffee cup instead. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes, over the coffee cup, are staring intently at the backyard. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. The shades up. No one moving. The rope-tied trunk still sits in the bedroom. To the left we see the basket lowering with the dog in it. We HEAR the woman WHISTLING an aria. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP His eyes stray in an upward direction as he puts down the coffee cup. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The CAMERA PANS UP past the woman lowering the dog, up to the roof where one of the sunbathers can be seen sitting up, rubbing her body with sun tan oil. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes moves down again. Abstractedly his hand strays toward the piece of bacon. He picks it up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. We are now aware that the salesman is now in his living room, lying out of sight on the sofa, because the smoke from a newly lighted cigar is starting to ascend toward the ceiling of his room. Stella's voice is heard calling out from the kitchen: STELLA'S VOICE He'd better get that trunk out of there before is starts to leak. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Again the bacon stops before is reaches Jeff's mouth. He puts it down on the plate again, as his eyes move slightly toward the left. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet outfit, is hanging up a small wash on a clothes line. It consists mostly of lingerie. She is doing her inevitable leg practice at the same time. THE CAMERA PANS OVER SUDDENLY TO Thorwald's apartment, and except for the smoke rising from the unseen sofa, there is no activity. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff seems to be getting a bit listless, or bored, by constantly watching Thorwald's apartment. His eyes sort of stray around the neighborhood, and end up looking toward: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The newlywed's apartment. Shade down, business as usual. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles affectionately, and starts to turn his eyes away; but something startles him, and he looks quickly back. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The shade suddenly going up in the newlywed's apartment. The young husband leans his hands on the windowsill, and looks out. He is wearing only his pajama bottoms, because of the heat, and we see that he is a well-muscled, attractive young man. He looks around with some satisfaction. He turns at the sound of a woman's voice behind him. GIRL'S VOICE H-a-a-r-r-e-e... He turns his head, is thoughtful for a brief moment, then he pulls down the shade. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP His smile almost becomes a private chuckle. Stella's abrupt voice breaks in urgently: STELLA'S VOICE Look! Look -- Mr. Jefferies! Jeff's head snaps toward the center of his window. Stella has appeared behind his wheelchair. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Two men wearing tan coveralls are standing outside Thorwald's door. One of them carries a clipboard. Suddenly Thorwald is seen sitting up on the living room sofa. His hair is disheveled and he is unshaved. He stands up, and moves toward the door. He opens it, and after a short exchange of dialogue, he admits the two men, leaving the door open behind them. He leads the two man across the living room to the bedroom. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Stella and Jeff watching intently. He is feeling down alongside his wheelchair for his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT A close view shows the two man carrying the trunk across the living room toward the corridor. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars quickly. JEFF (Agitated) I thought Doyle would get here before the trunk went -- or I'd have called the police. (To Stella) Now we're going to lose it. Stella moves toward the door quickly. Jeff turns quickly over his shoulder to watch her. She is already going up the steps. JEFF Stella, don't do anything reckless! As Stella goes out the door, she calls back: STELLA I'm just going to get the name of their truck! JEFF (Up) I'll watch the alleyway -- in case it goes that way. We hear nothing from Stella, but the sound of her heavy tread down the hallway stairs. Jeff returns to Thorwald. He eases himself back into the shadows a bit and then raises his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT Jeff concentrates his attention on the alley-way that leads to the street. Just normal traffic. The binoculars swing to Thorwald apartment. The salesman is now at the telephone. He has picked up the receiver, and proceeds to dial 221. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP The binoculars still up to Jeff's face. Under them his mouth moves, as if he's talking to himself. JEFF Long Distance. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT The salesman speaks some words to the operator. Placing the call. As he does this, he reaches with his other hand for a nearly bottle, and working the cork out with one hand, he pours a stiff drink into a tumbler. He drinks it as soon as he finishes talking with the operator. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars a little, and takes a normal eye sight on the alleyway. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Pulling across to the far side of the street we see the hood and cab of a freight truck. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff quickly puts the glasses up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT By the time the binoculars are up, another truck has crossed from the left. In momentarily blocks out the side of our freight truck. By the time the two trucks part, we can only see the back half of the freight truck before it pulls out of sight. Jeff is only able to read the words "FREIGHT LINES". The binoculars are held for a moment until we see a puffing and blowing Stella arrive at the opening of the alleyway. She looks toward the front of Thorwald's apartment house. And by her attitude we can see that there is no truck outside. She looks about her for a moment. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars, discouraged. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT The figure of Stella is seen, looking up toward Jeff's apartment, and arms outspread in a helpless gesture. LAP DISSOLVE TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT SHOOTING TOWARDS the big window, with the neighborhood beyond, Jeff is as usual seated in his wheelchair on the left of the window, but now turned toward a newcomer. The second man is standing near the divan looking out the window with the binoculars. This newcomer is POLICE DETECTIVE LIEUTENANT THOMAS J. DOYLE, the man Jeff phoned earlier in the day. He is an intelligent-appearing, well-dressed modern detective. He has a sense of humor. He lowers the glasses, and turns to Jeff. DOYLE You didn't see the killing, or the body? How do you know there was a murder? JEFF Because everything that man's done has been suspicious. Trips at night in the rain, saws, knives, trunks with rope, and a wife that isn't there any more. DOYLE I'll admit it all has a mysterious sound -- but is could mean a number of different things. Murder is the least likely. JEFF Go ahead, Doyle -- tell me he's an unemployed magician -- amusing the neighborhood with sleight-of-hand. Doyle paces a little. DOYLE It's too stupid and obvious a way to murder -- in full view of fifty windows -- and then sit over there -- (He points) -- smoking a cigar -- waiting for the police to pick him up. JEFF Well, officer -- do your duty. DOYLE You've got a lot to lean about homicide, Jeff. Morons have committed murder so shrewdly that it took a hundred trained police minds to catch them. That salesman wouldn't just knock off his wife after dinner, toss her in a trunk and put her in storage. JEFF I'll bet it's been done. DOYLE Almost everything's been done -- under panic. But this is a thousand to one shot. That man's still sitting around his apartment; he isn't panicked. JEFF (A pause) You think I made all this up? DOYLE I think you saw something -- that probably has a very simple explanation. JEFF For instance? DOYLE (Shrugs) His wife took a trip. JEFF She -- was -- an -- invalid! DOYLE You told me. (Looks at watch) I've got to run, Jeff. JEFF All right -- you don't believe me. Doyle saunters toward steps, picking up his hat on the way. Stops. DOYLE I -- uh -- won't report it to the Department. Let me poke into a little on my own. No point in you getting any ridiculous publicity. JEFF (Coldly) Thanks. DOYLE We know the wife is gone. I'll see if I can find out where. JEFF Do that. He goes up the steps to the door, putting on his hat. He pauses his hand on the door knob. DOYLE You have any headaches lately? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers, showing only the slightest irritation. JEFF Not 'til you showed up. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Doyle, still at the door: DOYLE Uh-huh. Well, it'll wear off in time -- along with the hallucinations. See you around. He starts to go out the door, and closes it behind him. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT From Doyle's viewpoint. Jeff lifts his hand in a feeble parting gesture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Before the door has completely closed, Doyle opens it again, and looks in. DOYLE By the way what happened to your leg? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP JEFF I was jaywalking. DOYLE'S VOICE (O.S.) Where? JEFF (With nonchalance) The Indianapolis Speedway. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP The door starts to close again, as if Doyle considered Jeff's answer quite reasonable. Then the door pops open and Doyle's head comes in, a surprised expression across his face. DOYLE During the race? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers with a straight face. JEFF Yup. It sure stopped traffic. We don't see Doyle again, but only HEAR the sharp slam of the DOOR off. Jeff chuckles. Then he turns back to the window. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's attention is drawn to something in the yard below. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The little dog is busily scratching away at Thorwald's pet flower bed. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles mischievously. Suddenly his face changes as he sees: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald coming out of his basement door, carrying a watering can. He fills it from a nearby faucet. He does not notice the little dog's destructive activities. When the watering can is filled, he straightens up, turns toward the flower bed. He stops for the briefest moment, when he sees the dog. He walks to the dog, gently lifts him out of the garden, and giving him a friendly little pat, sends him off. He proceeds to patiently brush back the disturbed earth, and then begins his watering. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is frankly puzzled by the salesman's friendly attitude toward the dog. He looks off in another direction, as he catches of: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Doyle, who has appeared, at the street opening. The detective is surveying the front of the apartment building where Thorwald lives. A paper seller behind him offers to sell him a paper. Doyle isn't interested. As Doyle saunters forward toward the salesman house, the scene: LAP DISSOLVES TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Doyle is nonchalantly leaning up against the side board, with a highball in one hand. Jeff has turned his chair around from the window to face him. DOYLE He has a six months lease, and has used up a little over five and a half months of it. (Takes a sip of drink) Quiet. Drinks, but not to drunkenness. Pays his bill promptly, with money earned as a consume jewelry salesman -- wholesale. Keeps to himself, and none of the neighbors got close to him, or his wife. JEFF I think they missed their chance with her. DOYLE (Studies drink) She never left the apartment -- JEFF (Interrupting) Then where is she -- in the ice box? DOYLE (Continues) -- until yesterday morning. JEFF (Alert) What time? DOYLE Six ayem. Jeff looks thoughtful a moment, and then says, with a touch of discouragement: JEFF I think that's about the time I fell asleep. DOYLE Too bad. The Thorwalds were just leaving the apartment house at that time. He puts down his drink, and strolls toward the window, looking out. THE CAMERA MOVES IN slightly to tighten the shot. DOYLE Feel a little foolish? JEFF Not yet. Doyle becomes interested in watching something out the window. Unconsciously he smooths out his coat and tie. He even smiles somewhat secretly to himself at what he sees. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet costume, practicing her dance on the outside balcony. She is exciting and desirable. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - TIGHT TWO SHOT Jeff notices Doyle's interest. JEFF How's your wife? Startled at being observed, Doyle moves quickly away from the window, affecting nonchalance. THE CAMERA MOVES BACK as Doyle returns to his drink. Jeff smiles at catching Doyle enjoying Miss Torso. DOYLE Oh -- oh, she's fine. (Not too convincing) Just fine. He tosses off the rest of the drink, and his movement is almost a comment. Jeff's face grows serious. JEFF Who said they left then? DOYLE Who left -- where? JEFF The Thorwalds -- at six in the morning? Doyle quickly collects his thoughts, and gets back to the case at hand. DOYLE The building superintendent, and two tenants. Flat statements -- no hesitation. And they all jibed to the letter. The Thorwalds were leaving for the railroad station. JEFF Now how could anybody guess that? They had, perhaps, signs on their luggage, "Grand Central Or Bust!"? DOYLE (Sighs) The superintendent met Thorwald coming back. He said Thorwald told him he had just put his wife on the train for the country. JEFF A very convenient guy -- this superintendent. Have you checked his bank deposits lately? DOYLE Jeff -- huh? JEFF (Sharply) Well -- what good is his information?!! It's a second-hand version of an unsupported statement by the murderer himself -- Thorwald! Anybody actually see the wife get on the train? DOYLE I hate to remind you -- but this all started because you said she was murdered. Now

astride

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

you ever have any problems? LISA (Murmurs, kissing him) I have one now. JEFF So do I. LISA (Kissing) Tell me about it. JEFF (Slight pause) Why would a man leave his apartment three times, on a rainy night, with a suitcase? And come back three times? LISA He likes the way his wife welcomes him home. JEFF Not that salesman's wife. And why didn't he go to work today? LISA Homework. It's more interesting. JEFF What's interesting about a butcher's knife and a small saw wrapped up in a newspaper? LISA Nothing, thank heaven. JEFF (Looking again) Why hasn't he gone into his wife's bedroom all day? LISA I wouldn't dare answer that. JEFF (After pause) Lisa -- there's something terribly wrong. She gives up trying to interest him in romance, and moves back from the embrace. THE CAMERA PULL BACK. LISA And I'm afraid it's with me. Lisa stands, straightens out her dress, stretches a little then she turns to the divan, apparently not too interested in his observation about the salesman's life. JEFF (Looks at Lisa) What do you think? LISA (Without returning his look) Something too frightful to utter. Jeff is thoughtful for a moment, then he relaxes and smiles a little. He turns to the window to look out again. Lisa exits the picture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa stretches herself out on the divan. Her head rest on the cushion at the far end, and she instinctively falls into an attractive pose. However, her expression is disturbed as she watches Jeff. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP He stares intently out the window. JEFF He went out a few minutes ago -- in his undershirt -- and he hasn't come back yet. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Lisa weighs this information, trying to make some sense out of it. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns his eyes from the salesman's apartment, and looks down reflectively. He looks up again, and then his eyes catches sight of something. He leans forward slightly. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso is lying, face down, on her divan bed. The only light in the apartment is from a reading lamp. She is reading a book held in one hand, while eating a sandwich in another. Her back is bare, and all she wears is a pair of brief dark blue shorts. At one point, she lifts her torso up slightly to brush crumbs out from beneath her. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP He looks away from Miss Torso, thoughtfully. JEFF You know -- that would be terrible job to tackle. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa leans forward and looks out the window to see what Jeff is referring to. She turns back to him with a blank stare. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns and looks at her, quite unaware of her surprise at his comment. JEFF How would you begin to cut up a human body? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa sits bolt upright on the divan. She reaches back quickly and pulls on the overhead light. At that moment the songwriter returns to his composing. We can see him over Lisa's shoulder. He is beginning his song again, and it has taken on new fullness and melody. Although it is not complete, it is farther along then before, and he plays his theme a number of different ways, trying to move it note by note to its completion. Lisa just stares at Jeff for a moment. LISA Jeff -- I'll be honest with you -- you're beginning to scare me a little. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is staring out of the window again. Over this we hear Lisa's voice: LISA (Quietly insistent) Jeff -- did you hear what I said? You're beginning to -- Jeff puts out a restraining hand. JEFF (Interrupting) Be quiet! Shhh! (Pause) He's coming back! EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT At last the salesman is seen coming along the corridor. He does not wear shirt, but only an undershirt. Slung over one shoulder, with his arm through is, is a large coil of sturdy rope. He goes through the living room into the bedroom. He does not put on the bedroom lights. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff reaches quickly for his binoculars, and trains them on the salesman's apartment. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT As seen though the binoculars, the salesman comes out of the bedroom, to the kitchen, where he gets a carving knife. He turns around and goes back to the bedroom. The lights go on behind the draw shades, after a short moment. The dim shadow of the salesman is seen moving around the room. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa, still stretched out on the divan looking at Jeff, suddenly sits upright and then getting up from the divan, mover over to Jeff, THE CAMERA GOING WITH her. In a sudden surprise move, she swings his chair completely around so that his back is to the window. He drops the binoculars into his lap in surprise. THE CAMERA MOVES IN as Lisa leans over Jeff, gripping both sides of his chair LISA (sharply) Jeff -- if you could only see yourself. JEFF Now, Lisa -- LISA (Abruptly) Sitting around, looking out a window to kill time, is one thing -- but doing it the way you are -- (She gestures) -- with, with binoculars, and with wild opinions about every little movement you see -- is, is diseased! JEFF Do you think I consider this recreation? LISA I don't know what you consider it -- but if you don't stop it, I'm getting out of here. JEFF You'd better before you catch the disease! LISA (Insistent) What is it you're looking for? JEFF I want to find out what's wrong with the salesman's wife. Does that make me sound like a madman? LISA What makes you think something's wrong with her? LISA A lot of things. She's an invalid who needs constant care -- and yet the husband nor anyone else has been in there all day. LISA Maybe she died. JEFF Where's the doctor -- the undertakers? LISA She could be under sedatives, sleeping. (Looks up) He's in the room now. Jeff tries to turn around, but she won't let the chair move. JEFF Lisa, please! LISA There's nothing to see. JEFF There is -- I've seen things through that window! Bickering, family fights, mysterious trips at night, knives, saws, rope -- and since last evening, not a sight or sound of his wife! Now you tell me where she is and what she's doing! LISA Maybe he's leaving his wife. I don't know, and I don't care. Lots of people have saws, knives and ropes around their houses. Lots of men don't speak to their wives all day. Lots of wives nag, and men hate them, and trouble starts -- but very, very, very few of them end up in murder -- if that's what you're thinking. JEFF It's pretty hard to stay away from that word isn't is? LISA You could see all the things he did, couldn't you? JEFF What are you getting at? LISA You could see that he did because he had the shades in his apartment up, and walked along the corridor, and the streets and the backyard? JEFF Yeah. LISA Jeff, do you think a murderer would let you see all that? That he shouldn't keep his shades down and hide behind them? JEFF That's where he's being clever. Acting nonchalant. LISA And that's where you're not being clever. He wouldn't parade his crime in front of the open shades. She turns the wheelchair slightly to her left so that he can see the newlyweds' apartment. LISA (Pointing) For all you know -- there's something a lot more sinister going on behind those shades. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT The drawn shades of the newlyweds' apartment. A dim light burning behind them. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff looks, turns back to her, trying to suppress a chuckle. JEFF No comment. LISA Don't you see how silly you're being? JEFF Okay, Lisa -- probably you're right. He's probably in the bedroom now, entertaining his wife with the indian rope trick. I'll admit to criminal insanity. Now when do I start the cure? Lisa half looks up and out the window. She opens her mouth to answer, but a new look overtakes her face. It is concern, surprise, and a little shock. Jeff sees the change, is sobered, and quickly turns the chair around. He looks out the window, using his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT The shades in the bedroom are now up. Both beds are empty, and stripped of their linen, the mattresses thrown up over the end of the beds. The salesman, sweating heavily, stands over a large, square trunk in the center of the room. It is stoutly bound by the heavy rope we previously saw him bring into the apartment. He wipes one forearm across his brow, and then heads for the kitchen. In the kitchen, he produces a bottle, pours himself two or three straight drinks, then leans with a display of exhaustion against the kitchen sink. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff lowers the glasses. His look is sober. Lisa stands behind him, one hand on the back of the wheelchair. She, too, is serious. THE CAMERA MOVES IN until Lisa's head fills the screen. She says, slowly: LISA Let's start from the beginning again, Jeff. Tell me everything you saw -- and what you think it means. She is still staring out the window, as the scene FADES OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated in the dark, his face lit by the faint glow from the distant street. He is looking out of the window tensely, as THE CAMERA MOVES IN, until he is in big profile. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT From Jeff's viewpoint, all the windows are dark. The couple are sleeping on the fire escape. The salesman's apartment is dark as well. Suddenly a match flares, and we see the salesman light a cigar. The flame of the match illuminates his face for a moment. When is dies out, we see just the glow of the cigar burning. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP The CAMERA is now facing Jeff. We see that his left hand rests on the telephone receiver which is close to him. The phone starts to RING, but makes only the slightest sound, as he instantly picks it up. As he talks, in a low voice, he keeps his eyes on the salesman's apartment. JEFF Yeah? INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP We get an impression of Sixth Avenue behind Lisa at the phone. Lisa also talks in a low, quiet voice. LISA The name on the second floor rear mailbox reads Mr. And Mrs. Lars, that's L-A-R-S, Lars Thorwald. JEFF (Filter) What's the apartment house number? LISA 125 West Ninth Street. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff, still looks toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Thanks, Lisa. INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa smilingly says: LISA Okay, chief. What's my next assignment. JEFF To get on home. LISA All right -- but what's he doing now? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff is still looking toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Just sitting in the living room. In the dark. And he hasn't gone near the bedroom. Now get some sleep. Goodnight. He puts the receiver down, and resumes his vigil. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT All we can see is the glow of the salesman's cigar. FADE OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated by the window in his wheelchair. He is talking on the telephone while his eyes are still on the neighborhood. There is a touch of urgency in his voice. JEFF Look, Doyle -- it's just one of those things I can't tell you on the phone. You have to be here, and see the whole set-up. The CAMERA PULLS BACK slightly as Stella emerges from the kitchen. She is carrying a tray with breakfast on it. Eggs, bacon, toast and coffee. JEFF It's probably nothing important -- just a little neighborhood murder, that's all. As a matter of fact, I did say "murder". Stella squeezes past the right side of Jeff, and places the food tray on a windowseat in front of him. She peers out cautiously toward Thorwald's apartment for a moment. Then she squeezes back, moving to the sideboard against which leans a small table on an adjustable stand. JEFF My only thought was to throw a little business your way. A good detective, I reasoned, would jump at the chance to detect. Stella returns with the table, and sets it up so that it is across Jeff's lap. She gets the tray of food pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment. Then she places the breakfast on the tray table in front of Jeff. He has moved back a little to avoid getting the phone cable tangled in the food and dishes. JEFF Well, I usually took my best pictures on my day off. (nods) Okay, Doyle -- soon as you can. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP He hangs up. Stella takes the phone and puts it down for him. He looks at the breakfast, reaches for a knife and fork. JEFF Stella, I -- I can't tell you what a welcome sight this is. No wonder your husband's still in love with you. STELLA Police? JEFF (Pauses in cutting food) Huh? STELLA You called the police? JEFF Oh. Well, yes and no. It wasn't an official call. He's just a friend. (Almost to himself) An old, ornery friend. He begins eating, appreciatively. She moves behind his chair, pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment again. Jeff is just lifting a piece of bacon to his lips when Stella speaks. STELLA (Half to herself) Now just where do you suppose he cut her up? The hand carrying the bacon to Jeff's mouth hesitates for a moment. STELLA (Answering herself) Oh -- of course! In the bathtub. That's the only place he could wash away the blood. The hand holding the bacon moves back to the plate. Jeff just stares ahead. Stella turns and walks into the kitchen. Jeff pushes the food away, and picks up the coffee cup instead. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes, over the coffee cup, are staring intently at the backyard. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. The shades up. No one moving. The rope-tied trunk still sits in the bedroom. To the left we see the basket lowering with the dog in it. We HEAR the woman WHISTLING an aria. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP His eyes stray in an upward direction as he puts down the coffee cup. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The CAMERA PANS UP past the woman lowering the dog, up to the roof where one of the sunbathers can be seen sitting up, rubbing her body with sun tan oil. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes moves down again. Abstractedly his hand strays toward the piece of bacon. He picks it up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. We are now aware that the salesman is now in his living room, lying out of sight on the sofa, because the smoke from a newly lighted cigar is starting to ascend toward the ceiling of his room. Stella's voice is heard calling out from the kitchen: STELLA'S VOICE He'd better get that trunk out of there before is starts to leak. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Again the bacon stops before is reaches Jeff's mouth. He puts it down on the plate again, as his eyes move slightly toward the left. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet outfit, is hanging up a small wash on a clothes line. It consists mostly of lingerie. She is doing her inevitable leg practice at the same time. THE CAMERA PANS OVER SUDDENLY TO Thorwald's apartment, and except for the smoke rising from the unseen sofa, there is no activity. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff seems to be getting a bit listless, or bored, by constantly watching Thorwald's apartment. His eyes sort of stray around the neighborhood, and end up looking toward: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The newlywed's apartment. Shade down, business as usual. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles affectionately, and starts to turn his eyes away; but something startles him, and he looks quickly back. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The shade suddenly going up in the newlywed's apartment. The young husband leans his hands on the windowsill, and looks out. He is wearing only his pajama bottoms, because of the heat, and we see that he is a well-muscled, attractive young man. He looks around with some satisfaction. He turns at the sound of a woman's voice behind him. GIRL'S VOICE H-a-a-r-r-e-e... He turns his head, is thoughtful for a brief moment, then he pulls down the shade. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP His smile almost becomes a private chuckle. Stella's abrupt voice breaks in urgently: STELLA'S VOICE Look! Look -- Mr. Jefferies! Jeff's head snaps toward the center of his window. Stella has appeared behind his wheelchair. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Two men wearing tan coveralls are standing outside Thorwald's door. One of them carries a clipboard. Suddenly Thorwald is seen sitting up on the living room sofa. His hair is disheveled and he is unshaved. He stands up, and moves toward the door. He opens it, and after a short exchange of dialogue, he admits the two men, leaving the door open behind them. He leads the two man across the living room to the bedroom. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Stella and Jeff watching intently. He is feeling down alongside his wheelchair for his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT A close view shows the two man carrying the trunk across the living room toward the corridor. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars quickly. JEFF (Agitated) I thought Doyle would get here before the trunk went -- or I'd have called the police. (To Stella) Now we're going to lose it. Stella moves toward the door quickly. Jeff turns quickly over his shoulder to watch her. She is already going up the steps. JEFF Stella, don't do anything reckless! As Stella goes out the door, she calls back: STELLA I'm just going to get the name of their truck! JEFF (Up) I'll watch the alleyway -- in case it goes that way. We hear nothing from Stella, but the sound of her heavy tread down the hallway stairs. Jeff returns to Thorwald. He eases himself back into the shadows a bit and then raises his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT Jeff concentrates his attention on the alley-way that leads to the street. Just normal traffic. The binoculars swing to Thorwald apartment. The salesman is now at the telephone. He has picked up the receiver, and proceeds to dial 221. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP The binoculars still up to Jeff's face. Under them his mouth moves, as if he's talking to himself. JEFF Long Distance. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT The salesman speaks some words to the operator. Placing the call. As he does this, he reaches with his other hand for a nearly bottle, and working the cork out with one hand, he pours a stiff drink into a tumbler. He drinks it as soon as he finishes talking with the operator. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars a little, and takes a normal eye sight on the alleyway. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Pulling across to the far side of the street we see the hood and cab of a freight truck. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff quickly puts the glasses up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT By the time the binoculars are up, another truck has crossed from the left. In momentarily blocks out the side of our freight truck. By the time the two trucks part, we can only see the back half of the freight truck before it pulls out of sight. Jeff is only able to read the words "FREIGHT LINES". The binoculars are held for a moment until we see a puffing and blowing Stella arrive at the opening of the alleyway. She looks toward the front of Thorwald's apartment house. And by her attitude we can see that there is no truck outside. She looks about her for a moment. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars, discouraged. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT The figure of Stella is seen, looking up toward Jeff's apartment, and arms outspread in a helpless gesture. LAP DISSOLVE TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT SHOOTING TOWARDS the big window, with the neighborhood beyond, Jeff is as usual seated in his wheelchair on the left of the window, but now turned toward a newcomer. The second man is standing near the divan looking out the window with the binoculars. This newcomer is POLICE DETECTIVE LIEUTENANT THOMAS J. DOYLE, the man Jeff phoned earlier in the day. He is an intelligent-appearing, well-dressed modern detective. He has a sense of humor. He lowers the glasses, and turns to Jeff. DOYLE You didn't see the killing, or the body? How do you know there was a murder? JEFF Because everything that man's done has been suspicious. Trips at night in the rain, saws, knives, trunks with rope, and a wife that isn't there any more. DOYLE I'll admit it all has a mysterious sound -- but is could mean a number of different things. Murder is the least likely. JEFF Go ahead, Doyle -- tell me he's an unemployed magician -- amusing the neighborhood with sleight-of-hand. Doyle paces a little. DOYLE It's too stupid and obvious a way to murder -- in full view of fifty windows -- and then sit over there -- (He points) -- smoking a cigar -- waiting for the police to pick him up. JEFF Well, officer -- do your duty. DOYLE You've got a lot to lean about homicide, Jeff. Morons have committed murder so shrewdly that it took a hundred trained police minds to catch them. That salesman wouldn't just knock off his wife after dinner, toss her in a trunk and put her in storage. JEFF I'll bet it's been done. DOYLE Almost everything's been done -- under panic. But this is a thousand to one shot. That man's still sitting around his apartment; he isn't panicked. JEFF (A pause) You think I made all this up? DOYLE I think you saw something -- that probably has a very simple explanation. JEFF For instance? DOYLE (Shrugs) His wife took a trip. JEFF She -- was -- an -- invalid! DOYLE You told me. (Looks at watch) I've got to run, Jeff. JEFF All right -- you don't believe me. Doyle saunters toward steps, picking up his hat on the way. Stops. DOYLE I -- uh -- won't report it to the Department. Let me poke into a little on my own. No point in you getting any ridiculous publicity. JEFF (Coldly) Thanks. DOYLE We know the wife is gone. I'll see if I can find out where. JEFF Do that. He goes up the steps to the door, putting on his hat. He pauses his hand on the door knob. DOYLE You have any headaches lately? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers, showing only the slightest irritation. JEFF Not 'til you showed up. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Doyle, still at the door: DOYLE Uh-huh. Well, it'll wear off in time -- along with the hallucinations. See you around. He starts to go out the door, and closes it behind him. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT From Doyle's viewpoint. Jeff lifts his hand in a feeble parting gesture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Before the door has completely closed, Doyle opens it again, and looks in. DOYLE By the way what happened to your leg? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP JEFF I was jaywalking. DOYLE'S VOICE (O.S.) Where? JEFF (With nonchalance) The Indianapolis Speedway. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP The door starts to close again, as if Doyle considered Jeff's answer quite reasonable. Then the door pops open and Doyle's head comes in, a surprised expression across his face. DOYLE During the race? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers with a straight face. JEFF Yup. It sure stopped traffic. We don't see Doyle again, but only HEAR the sharp slam of the DOOR off. Jeff chuckles. Then he turns back to the window. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's attention is drawn to something in the yard below. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The little dog is busily scratching away at Thorwald's pet flower bed. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles mischievously. Suddenly his face changes as he sees: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald coming out of his basement door, carrying a watering can. He fills it from a nearby faucet. He does not notice the little dog's destructive activities. When the watering can is filled, he straightens up, turns toward the flower bed. He stops for the briefest moment, when he sees the dog. He walks to the dog, gently lifts him out of the garden, and giving him a friendly little pat, sends him off. He proceeds to patiently brush back the disturbed earth, and then begins his watering. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is frankly puzzled by the salesman's friendly attitude toward the dog. He looks off in another direction, as he catches of: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Doyle, who has appeared, at the street opening. The detective is surveying the front of the apartment building where Thorwald lives. A paper seller behind him offers to sell him a paper. Doyle isn't interested. As Doyle saunters forward toward the salesman house, the scene: LAP DISSOLVES TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Doyle is nonchalantly leaning up against the side board, with a highball in one hand. Jeff has turned his chair around from the window to face him. DOYLE He has a six months lease, and has used up a little over five and a half months of it. (Takes a sip of drink) Quiet. Drinks, but not to drunkenness. Pays his bill promptly, with money earned as a consume jewelry salesman -- wholesale. Keeps to himself, and none of the neighbors got close to him, or his wife. JEFF I think they missed their chance with her. DOYLE (Studies drink) She never left the apartment -- JEFF (Interrupting) Then where is she -- in the ice box? DOYLE (Continues) -- until yesterday morning. JEFF (Alert) What time? DOYLE Six ayem. Jeff looks thoughtful a moment, and then says, with a touch of discouragement: JEFF I think that's about the time I fell asleep. DOYLE Too bad. The Thorwalds were just leaving the apartment house at that time. He puts down his drink, and strolls toward the window, looking out. THE CAMERA MOVES IN slightly to tighten the shot. DOYLE Feel a little foolish? JEFF Not yet. Doyle becomes interested in watching something out the window. Unconsciously he smooths out his coat and tie. He even smiles somewhat secretly to himself at what he sees. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet costume, practicing her dance on the outside balcony. She is exciting and desirable. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - TIGHT TWO SHOT Jeff notices Doyle's interest. JEFF How's your wife? Startled at being observed, Doyle moves quickly away from the window, affecting nonchalance. THE CAMERA MOVES BACK as Doyle returns to his drink. Jeff smiles at catching Doyle enjoying Miss Torso. DOYLE Oh -- oh, she's fine. (Not too convincing) Just fine. He tosses off the rest of the drink, and his movement is almost a comment. Jeff's face grows serious. JEFF Who said they left then? DOYLE Who left -- where? JEFF The Thorwalds -- at six in the morning? Doyle quickly collects his thoughts, and gets back to the case at hand. DOYLE The building superintendent, and two tenants. Flat statements -- no hesitation. And they all jibed to the letter. The Thorwalds were leaving for the railroad station. JEFF Now how could anybody guess that? They had, perhaps, signs on their luggage, "Grand Central Or Bust!"? DOYLE (Sighs) The superintendent met Thorwald coming back. He said Thorwald told him he had just put his wife on the train for the country. JEFF A very convenient guy -- this superintendent. Have you checked his bank deposits lately? DOYLE Jeff -- huh? JEFF (Sharply) Well -- what good is his information?!! It's a second-hand version of an unsupported statement by the murderer himself -- Thorwald! Anybody actually see the wife get on the train? DOYLE I hate to remind you -- but this all started because you said she was murdered. Now

being

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

you ever have any problems? LISA (Murmurs, kissing him) I have one now. JEFF So do I. LISA (Kissing) Tell me about it. JEFF (Slight pause) Why would a man leave his apartment three times, on a rainy night, with a suitcase? And come back three times? LISA He likes the way his wife welcomes him home. JEFF Not that salesman's wife. And why didn't he go to work today? LISA Homework. It's more interesting. JEFF What's interesting about a butcher's knife and a small saw wrapped up in a newspaper? LISA Nothing, thank heaven. JEFF (Looking again) Why hasn't he gone into his wife's bedroom all day? LISA I wouldn't dare answer that. JEFF (After pause) Lisa -- there's something terribly wrong. She gives up trying to interest him in romance, and moves back from the embrace. THE CAMERA PULL BACK. LISA And I'm afraid it's with me. Lisa stands, straightens out her dress, stretches a little then she turns to the divan, apparently not too interested in his observation about the salesman's life. JEFF (Looks at Lisa) What do you think? LISA (Without returning his look) Something too frightful to utter. Jeff is thoughtful for a moment, then he relaxes and smiles a little. He turns to the window to look out again. Lisa exits the picture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa stretches herself out on the divan. Her head rest on the cushion at the far end, and she instinctively falls into an attractive pose. However, her expression is disturbed as she watches Jeff. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP He stares intently out the window. JEFF He went out a few minutes ago -- in his undershirt -- and he hasn't come back yet. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Lisa weighs this information, trying to make some sense out of it. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns his eyes from the salesman's apartment, and looks down reflectively. He looks up again, and then his eyes catches sight of something. He leans forward slightly. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso is lying, face down, on her divan bed. The only light in the apartment is from a reading lamp. She is reading a book held in one hand, while eating a sandwich in another. Her back is bare, and all she wears is a pair of brief dark blue shorts. At one point, she lifts her torso up slightly to brush crumbs out from beneath her. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP He looks away from Miss Torso, thoughtfully. JEFF You know -- that would be terrible job to tackle. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa leans forward and looks out the window to see what Jeff is referring to. She turns back to him with a blank stare. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns and looks at her, quite unaware of her surprise at his comment. JEFF How would you begin to cut up a human body? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa sits bolt upright on the divan. She reaches back quickly and pulls on the overhead light. At that moment the songwriter returns to his composing. We can see him over Lisa's shoulder. He is beginning his song again, and it has taken on new fullness and melody. Although it is not complete, it is farther along then before, and he plays his theme a number of different ways, trying to move it note by note to its completion. Lisa just stares at Jeff for a moment. LISA Jeff -- I'll be honest with you -- you're beginning to scare me a little. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is staring out of the window again. Over this we hear Lisa's voice: LISA (Quietly insistent) Jeff -- did you hear what I said? You're beginning to -- Jeff puts out a restraining hand. JEFF (Interrupting) Be quiet! Shhh! (Pause) He's coming back! EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT At last the salesman is seen coming along the corridor. He does not wear shirt, but only an undershirt. Slung over one shoulder, with his arm through is, is a large coil of sturdy rope. He goes through the living room into the bedroom. He does not put on the bedroom lights. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff reaches quickly for his binoculars, and trains them on the salesman's apartment. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT As seen though the binoculars, the salesman comes out of the bedroom, to the kitchen, where he gets a carving knife. He turns around and goes back to the bedroom. The lights go on behind the draw shades, after a short moment. The dim shadow of the salesman is seen moving around the room. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa, still stretched out on the divan looking at Jeff, suddenly sits upright and then getting up from the divan, mover over to Jeff, THE CAMERA GOING WITH her. In a sudden surprise move, she swings his chair completely around so that his back is to the window. He drops the binoculars into his lap in surprise. THE CAMERA MOVES IN as Lisa leans over Jeff, gripping both sides of his chair LISA (sharply) Jeff -- if you could only see yourself. JEFF Now, Lisa -- LISA (Abruptly) Sitting around, looking out a window to kill time, is one thing -- but doing it the way you are -- (She gestures) -- with, with binoculars, and with wild opinions about every little movement you see -- is, is diseased! JEFF Do you think I consider this recreation? LISA I don't know what you consider it -- but if you don't stop it, I'm getting out of here. JEFF You'd better before you catch the disease! LISA (Insistent) What is it you're looking for? JEFF I want to find out what's wrong with the salesman's wife. Does that make me sound like a madman? LISA What makes you think something's wrong with her? LISA A lot of things. She's an invalid who needs constant care -- and yet the husband nor anyone else has been in there all day. LISA Maybe she died. JEFF Where's the doctor -- the undertakers? LISA She could be under sedatives, sleeping. (Looks up) He's in the room now. Jeff tries to turn around, but she won't let the chair move. JEFF Lisa, please! LISA There's nothing to see. JEFF There is -- I've seen things through that window! Bickering, family fights, mysterious trips at night, knives, saws, rope -- and since last evening, not a sight or sound of his wife! Now you tell me where she is and what she's doing! LISA Maybe he's leaving his wife. I don't know, and I don't care. Lots of people have saws, knives and ropes around their houses. Lots of men don't speak to their wives all day. Lots of wives nag, and men hate them, and trouble starts -- but very, very, very few of them end up in murder -- if that's what you're thinking. JEFF It's pretty hard to stay away from that word isn't is? LISA You could see all the things he did, couldn't you? JEFF What are you getting at? LISA You could see that he did because he had the shades in his apartment up, and walked along the corridor, and the streets and the backyard? JEFF Yeah. LISA Jeff, do you think a murderer would let you see all that? That he shouldn't keep his shades down and hide behind them? JEFF That's where he's being clever. Acting nonchalant. LISA And that's where you're not being clever. He wouldn't parade his crime in front of the open shades. She turns the wheelchair slightly to her left so that he can see the newlyweds' apartment. LISA (Pointing) For all you know -- there's something a lot more sinister going on behind those shades. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT The drawn shades of the newlyweds' apartment. A dim light burning behind them. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff looks, turns back to her, trying to suppress a chuckle. JEFF No comment. LISA Don't you see how silly you're being? JEFF Okay, Lisa -- probably you're right. He's probably in the bedroom now, entertaining his wife with the indian rope trick. I'll admit to criminal insanity. Now when do I start the cure? Lisa half looks up and out the window. She opens her mouth to answer, but a new look overtakes her face. It is concern, surprise, and a little shock. Jeff sees the change, is sobered, and quickly turns the chair around. He looks out the window, using his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT The shades in the bedroom are now up. Both beds are empty, and stripped of their linen, the mattresses thrown up over the end of the beds. The salesman, sweating heavily, stands over a large, square trunk in the center of the room. It is stoutly bound by the heavy rope we previously saw him bring into the apartment. He wipes one forearm across his brow, and then heads for the kitchen. In the kitchen, he produces a bottle, pours himself two or three straight drinks, then leans with a display of exhaustion against the kitchen sink. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff lowers the glasses. His look is sober. Lisa stands behind him, one hand on the back of the wheelchair. She, too, is serious. THE CAMERA MOVES IN until Lisa's head fills the screen. She says, slowly: LISA Let's start from the beginning again, Jeff. Tell me everything you saw -- and what you think it means. She is still staring out the window, as the scene FADES OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated in the dark, his face lit by the faint glow from the distant street. He is looking out of the window tensely, as THE CAMERA MOVES IN, until he is in big profile. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT From Jeff's viewpoint, all the windows are dark. The couple are sleeping on the fire escape. The salesman's apartment is dark as well. Suddenly a match flares, and we see the salesman light a cigar. The flame of the match illuminates his face for a moment. When is dies out, we see just the glow of the cigar burning. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP The CAMERA is now facing Jeff. We see that his left hand rests on the telephone receiver which is close to him. The phone starts to RING, but makes only the slightest sound, as he instantly picks it up. As he talks, in a low voice, he keeps his eyes on the salesman's apartment. JEFF Yeah? INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP We get an impression of Sixth Avenue behind Lisa at the phone. Lisa also talks in a low, quiet voice. LISA The name on the second floor rear mailbox reads Mr. And Mrs. Lars, that's L-A-R-S, Lars Thorwald. JEFF (Filter) What's the apartment house number? LISA 125 West Ninth Street. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff, still looks toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Thanks, Lisa. INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa smilingly says: LISA Okay, chief. What's my next assignment. JEFF To get on home. LISA All right -- but what's he doing now? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff is still looking toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Just sitting in the living room. In the dark. And he hasn't gone near the bedroom. Now get some sleep. Goodnight. He puts the receiver down, and resumes his vigil. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT All we can see is the glow of the salesman's cigar. FADE OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated by the window in his wheelchair. He is talking on the telephone while his eyes are still on the neighborhood. There is a touch of urgency in his voice. JEFF Look, Doyle -- it's just one of those things I can't tell you on the phone. You have to be here, and see the whole set-up. The CAMERA PULLS BACK slightly as Stella emerges from the kitchen. She is carrying a tray with breakfast on it. Eggs, bacon, toast and coffee. JEFF It's probably nothing important -- just a little neighborhood murder, that's all. As a matter of fact, I did say "murder". Stella squeezes past the right side of Jeff, and places the food tray on a windowseat in front of him. She peers out cautiously toward Thorwald's apartment for a moment. Then she squeezes back, moving to the sideboard against which leans a small table on an adjustable stand. JEFF My only thought was to throw a little business your way. A good detective, I reasoned, would jump at the chance to detect. Stella returns with the table, and sets it up so that it is across Jeff's lap. She gets the tray of food pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment. Then she places the breakfast on the tray table in front of Jeff. He has moved back a little to avoid getting the phone cable tangled in the food and dishes. JEFF Well, I usually took my best pictures on my day off. (nods) Okay, Doyle -- soon as you can. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP He hangs up. Stella takes the phone and puts it down for him. He looks at the breakfast, reaches for a knife and fork. JEFF Stella, I -- I can't tell you what a welcome sight this is. No wonder your husband's still in love with you. STELLA Police? JEFF (Pauses in cutting food) Huh? STELLA You called the police? JEFF Oh. Well, yes and no. It wasn't an official call. He's just a friend. (Almost to himself) An old, ornery friend. He begins eating, appreciatively. She moves behind his chair, pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment again. Jeff is just lifting a piece of bacon to his lips when Stella speaks. STELLA (Half to herself) Now just where do you suppose he cut her up? The hand carrying the bacon to Jeff's mouth hesitates for a moment. STELLA (Answering herself) Oh -- of course! In the bathtub. That's the only place he could wash away the blood. The hand holding the bacon moves back to the plate. Jeff just stares ahead. Stella turns and walks into the kitchen. Jeff pushes the food away, and picks up the coffee cup instead. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes, over the coffee cup, are staring intently at the backyard. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. The shades up. No one moving. The rope-tied trunk still sits in the bedroom. To the left we see the basket lowering with the dog in it. We HEAR the woman WHISTLING an aria. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP His eyes stray in an upward direction as he puts down the coffee cup. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The CAMERA PANS UP past the woman lowering the dog, up to the roof where one of the sunbathers can be seen sitting up, rubbing her body with sun tan oil. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes moves down again. Abstractedly his hand strays toward the piece of bacon. He picks it up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. We are now aware that the salesman is now in his living room, lying out of sight on the sofa, because the smoke from a newly lighted cigar is starting to ascend toward the ceiling of his room. Stella's voice is heard calling out from the kitchen: STELLA'S VOICE He'd better get that trunk out of there before is starts to leak. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Again the bacon stops before is reaches Jeff's mouth. He puts it down on the plate again, as his eyes move slightly toward the left. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet outfit, is hanging up a small wash on a clothes line. It consists mostly of lingerie. She is doing her inevitable leg practice at the same time. THE CAMERA PANS OVER SUDDENLY TO Thorwald's apartment, and except for the smoke rising from the unseen sofa, there is no activity. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff seems to be getting a bit listless, or bored, by constantly watching Thorwald's apartment. His eyes sort of stray around the neighborhood, and end up looking toward: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The newlywed's apartment. Shade down, business as usual. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles affectionately, and starts to turn his eyes away; but something startles him, and he looks quickly back. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The shade suddenly going up in the newlywed's apartment. The young husband leans his hands on the windowsill, and looks out. He is wearing only his pajama bottoms, because of the heat, and we see that he is a well-muscled, attractive young man. He looks around with some satisfaction. He turns at the sound of a woman's voice behind him. GIRL'S VOICE H-a-a-r-r-e-e... He turns his head, is thoughtful for a brief moment, then he pulls down the shade. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP His smile almost becomes a private chuckle. Stella's abrupt voice breaks in urgently: STELLA'S VOICE Look! Look -- Mr. Jefferies! Jeff's head snaps toward the center of his window. Stella has appeared behind his wheelchair. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Two men wearing tan coveralls are standing outside Thorwald's door. One of them carries a clipboard. Suddenly Thorwald is seen sitting up on the living room sofa. His hair is disheveled and he is unshaved. He stands up, and moves toward the door. He opens it, and after a short exchange of dialogue, he admits the two men, leaving the door open behind them. He leads the two man across the living room to the bedroom. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Stella and Jeff watching intently. He is feeling down alongside his wheelchair for his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT A close view shows the two man carrying the trunk across the living room toward the corridor. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars quickly. JEFF (Agitated) I thought Doyle would get here before the trunk went -- or I'd have called the police. (To Stella) Now we're going to lose it. Stella moves toward the door quickly. Jeff turns quickly over his shoulder to watch her. She is already going up the steps. JEFF Stella, don't do anything reckless! As Stella goes out the door, she calls back: STELLA I'm just going to get the name of their truck! JEFF (Up) I'll watch the alleyway -- in case it goes that way. We hear nothing from Stella, but the sound of her heavy tread down the hallway stairs. Jeff returns to Thorwald. He eases himself back into the shadows a bit and then raises his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT Jeff concentrates his attention on the alley-way that leads to the street. Just normal traffic. The binoculars swing to Thorwald apartment. The salesman is now at the telephone. He has picked up the receiver, and proceeds to dial 221. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP The binoculars still up to Jeff's face. Under them his mouth moves, as if he's talking to himself. JEFF Long Distance. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT The salesman speaks some words to the operator. Placing the call. As he does this, he reaches with his other hand for a nearly bottle, and working the cork out with one hand, he pours a stiff drink into a tumbler. He drinks it as soon as he finishes talking with the operator. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars a little, and takes a normal eye sight on the alleyway. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Pulling across to the far side of the street we see the hood and cab of a freight truck. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff quickly puts the glasses up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT By the time the binoculars are up, another truck has crossed from the left. In momentarily blocks out the side of our freight truck. By the time the two trucks part, we can only see the back half of the freight truck before it pulls out of sight. Jeff is only able to read the words "FREIGHT LINES". The binoculars are held for a moment until we see a puffing and blowing Stella arrive at the opening of the alleyway. She looks toward the front of Thorwald's apartment house. And by her attitude we can see that there is no truck outside. She looks about her for a moment. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars, discouraged. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT The figure of Stella is seen, looking up toward Jeff's apartment, and arms outspread in a helpless gesture. LAP DISSOLVE TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT SHOOTING TOWARDS the big window, with the neighborhood beyond, Jeff is as usual seated in his wheelchair on the left of the window, but now turned toward a newcomer. The second man is standing near the divan looking out the window with the binoculars. This newcomer is POLICE DETECTIVE LIEUTENANT THOMAS J. DOYLE, the man Jeff phoned earlier in the day. He is an intelligent-appearing, well-dressed modern detective. He has a sense of humor. He lowers the glasses, and turns to Jeff. DOYLE You didn't see the killing, or the body? How do you know there was a murder? JEFF Because everything that man's done has been suspicious. Trips at night in the rain, saws, knives, trunks with rope, and a wife that isn't there any more. DOYLE I'll admit it all has a mysterious sound -- but is could mean a number of different things. Murder is the least likely. JEFF Go ahead, Doyle -- tell me he's an unemployed magician -- amusing the neighborhood with sleight-of-hand. Doyle paces a little. DOYLE It's too stupid and obvious a way to murder -- in full view of fifty windows -- and then sit over there -- (He points) -- smoking a cigar -- waiting for the police to pick him up. JEFF Well, officer -- do your duty. DOYLE You've got a lot to lean about homicide, Jeff. Morons have committed murder so shrewdly that it took a hundred trained police minds to catch them. That salesman wouldn't just knock off his wife after dinner, toss her in a trunk and put her in storage. JEFF I'll bet it's been done. DOYLE Almost everything's been done -- under panic. But this is a thousand to one shot. That man's still sitting around his apartment; he isn't panicked. JEFF (A pause) You think I made all this up? DOYLE I think you saw something -- that probably has a very simple explanation. JEFF For instance? DOYLE (Shrugs) His wife took a trip. JEFF She -- was -- an -- invalid! DOYLE You told me. (Looks at watch) I've got to run, Jeff. JEFF All right -- you don't believe me. Doyle saunters toward steps, picking up his hat on the way. Stops. DOYLE I -- uh -- won't report it to the Department. Let me poke into a little on my own. No point in you getting any ridiculous publicity. JEFF (Coldly) Thanks. DOYLE We know the wife is gone. I'll see if I can find out where. JEFF Do that. He goes up the steps to the door, putting on his hat. He pauses his hand on the door knob. DOYLE You have any headaches lately? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers, showing only the slightest irritation. JEFF Not 'til you showed up. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Doyle, still at the door: DOYLE Uh-huh. Well, it'll wear off in time -- along with the hallucinations. See you around. He starts to go out the door, and closes it behind him. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT From Doyle's viewpoint. Jeff lifts his hand in a feeble parting gesture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Before the door has completely closed, Doyle opens it again, and looks in. DOYLE By the way what happened to your leg? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP JEFF I was jaywalking. DOYLE'S VOICE (O.S.) Where? JEFF (With nonchalance) The Indianapolis Speedway. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP The door starts to close again, as if Doyle considered Jeff's answer quite reasonable. Then the door pops open and Doyle's head comes in, a surprised expression across his face. DOYLE During the race? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers with a straight face. JEFF Yup. It sure stopped traffic. We don't see Doyle again, but only HEAR the sharp slam of the DOOR off. Jeff chuckles. Then he turns back to the window. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's attention is drawn to something in the yard below. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The little dog is busily scratching away at Thorwald's pet flower bed. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles mischievously. Suddenly his face changes as he sees: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald coming out of his basement door, carrying a watering can. He fills it from a nearby faucet. He does not notice the little dog's destructive activities. When the watering can is filled, he straightens up, turns toward the flower bed. He stops for the briefest moment, when he sees the dog. He walks to the dog, gently lifts him out of the garden, and giving him a friendly little pat, sends him off. He proceeds to patiently brush back the disturbed earth, and then begins his watering. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is frankly puzzled by the salesman's friendly attitude toward the dog. He looks off in another direction, as he catches of: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Doyle, who has appeared, at the street opening. The detective is surveying the front of the apartment building where Thorwald lives. A paper seller behind him offers to sell him a paper. Doyle isn't interested. As Doyle saunters forward toward the salesman house, the scene: LAP DISSOLVES TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Doyle is nonchalantly leaning up against the side board, with a highball in one hand. Jeff has turned his chair around from the window to face him. DOYLE He has a six months lease, and has used up a little over five and a half months of it. (Takes a sip of drink) Quiet. Drinks, but not to drunkenness. Pays his bill promptly, with money earned as a consume jewelry salesman -- wholesale. Keeps to himself, and none of the neighbors got close to him, or his wife. JEFF I think they missed their chance with her. DOYLE (Studies drink) She never left the apartment -- JEFF (Interrupting) Then where is she -- in the ice box? DOYLE (Continues) -- until yesterday morning. JEFF (Alert) What time? DOYLE Six ayem. Jeff looks thoughtful a moment, and then says, with a touch of discouragement: JEFF I think that's about the time I fell asleep. DOYLE Too bad. The Thorwalds were just leaving the apartment house at that time. He puts down his drink, and strolls toward the window, looking out. THE CAMERA MOVES IN slightly to tighten the shot. DOYLE Feel a little foolish? JEFF Not yet. Doyle becomes interested in watching something out the window. Unconsciously he smooths out his coat and tie. He even smiles somewhat secretly to himself at what he sees. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet costume, practicing her dance on the outside balcony. She is exciting and desirable. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - TIGHT TWO SHOT Jeff notices Doyle's interest. JEFF How's your wife? Startled at being observed, Doyle moves quickly away from the window, affecting nonchalance. THE CAMERA MOVES BACK as Doyle returns to his drink. Jeff smiles at catching Doyle enjoying Miss Torso. DOYLE Oh -- oh, she's fine. (Not too convincing) Just fine. He tosses off the rest of the drink, and his movement is almost a comment. Jeff's face grows serious. JEFF Who said they left then? DOYLE Who left -- where? JEFF The Thorwalds -- at six in the morning? Doyle quickly collects his thoughts, and gets back to the case at hand. DOYLE The building superintendent, and two tenants. Flat statements -- no hesitation. And they all jibed to the letter. The Thorwalds were leaving for the railroad station. JEFF Now how could anybody guess that? They had, perhaps, signs on their luggage, "Grand Central Or Bust!"? DOYLE (Sighs) The superintendent met Thorwald coming back. He said Thorwald told him he had just put his wife on the train for the country. JEFF A very convenient guy -- this superintendent. Have you checked his bank deposits lately? DOYLE Jeff -- huh? JEFF (Sharply) Well -- what good is his information?!! It's a second-hand version of an unsupported statement by the murderer himself -- Thorwald! Anybody actually see the wife get on the train? DOYLE I hate to remind you -- but this all started because you said she was murdered. Now

sallying

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

you ever have any problems? LISA (Murmurs, kissing him) I have one now. JEFF So do I. LISA (Kissing) Tell me about it. JEFF (Slight pause) Why would a man leave his apartment three times, on a rainy night, with a suitcase? And come back three times? LISA He likes the way his wife welcomes him home. JEFF Not that salesman's wife. And why didn't he go to work today? LISA Homework. It's more interesting. JEFF What's interesting about a butcher's knife and a small saw wrapped up in a newspaper? LISA Nothing, thank heaven. JEFF (Looking again) Why hasn't he gone into his wife's bedroom all day? LISA I wouldn't dare answer that. JEFF (After pause) Lisa -- there's something terribly wrong. She gives up trying to interest him in romance, and moves back from the embrace. THE CAMERA PULL BACK. LISA And I'm afraid it's with me. Lisa stands, straightens out her dress, stretches a little then she turns to the divan, apparently not too interested in his observation about the salesman's life. JEFF (Looks at Lisa) What do you think? LISA (Without returning his look) Something too frightful to utter. Jeff is thoughtful for a moment, then he relaxes and smiles a little. He turns to the window to look out again. Lisa exits the picture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa stretches herself out on the divan. Her head rest on the cushion at the far end, and she instinctively falls into an attractive pose. However, her expression is disturbed as she watches Jeff. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP He stares intently out the window. JEFF He went out a few minutes ago -- in his undershirt -- and he hasn't come back yet. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Lisa weighs this information, trying to make some sense out of it. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns his eyes from the salesman's apartment, and looks down reflectively. He looks up again, and then his eyes catches sight of something. He leans forward slightly. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso is lying, face down, on her divan bed. The only light in the apartment is from a reading lamp. She is reading a book held in one hand, while eating a sandwich in another. Her back is bare, and all she wears is a pair of brief dark blue shorts. At one point, she lifts her torso up slightly to brush crumbs out from beneath her. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP He looks away from Miss Torso, thoughtfully. JEFF You know -- that would be terrible job to tackle. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa leans forward and looks out the window to see what Jeff is referring to. She turns back to him with a blank stare. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns and looks at her, quite unaware of her surprise at his comment. JEFF How would you begin to cut up a human body? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa sits bolt upright on the divan. She reaches back quickly and pulls on the overhead light. At that moment the songwriter returns to his composing. We can see him over Lisa's shoulder. He is beginning his song again, and it has taken on new fullness and melody. Although it is not complete, it is farther along then before, and he plays his theme a number of different ways, trying to move it note by note to its completion. Lisa just stares at Jeff for a moment. LISA Jeff -- I'll be honest with you -- you're beginning to scare me a little. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is staring out of the window again. Over this we hear Lisa's voice: LISA (Quietly insistent) Jeff -- did you hear what I said? You're beginning to -- Jeff puts out a restraining hand. JEFF (Interrupting) Be quiet! Shhh! (Pause) He's coming back! EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT At last the salesman is seen coming along the corridor. He does not wear shirt, but only an undershirt. Slung over one shoulder, with his arm through is, is a large coil of sturdy rope. He goes through the living room into the bedroom. He does not put on the bedroom lights. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff reaches quickly for his binoculars, and trains them on the salesman's apartment. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT As seen though the binoculars, the salesman comes out of the bedroom, to the kitchen, where he gets a carving knife. He turns around and goes back to the bedroom. The lights go on behind the draw shades, after a short moment. The dim shadow of the salesman is seen moving around the room. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa, still stretched out on the divan looking at Jeff, suddenly sits upright and then getting up from the divan, mover over to Jeff, THE CAMERA GOING WITH her. In a sudden surprise move, she swings his chair completely around so that his back is to the window. He drops the binoculars into his lap in surprise. THE CAMERA MOVES IN as Lisa leans over Jeff, gripping both sides of his chair LISA (sharply) Jeff -- if you could only see yourself. JEFF Now, Lisa -- LISA (Abruptly) Sitting around, looking out a window to kill time, is one thing -- but doing it the way you are -- (She gestures) -- with, with binoculars, and with wild opinions about every little movement you see -- is, is diseased! JEFF Do you think I consider this recreation? LISA I don't know what you consider it -- but if you don't stop it, I'm getting out of here. JEFF You'd better before you catch the disease! LISA (Insistent) What is it you're looking for? JEFF I want to find out what's wrong with the salesman's wife. Does that make me sound like a madman? LISA What makes you think something's wrong with her? LISA A lot of things. She's an invalid who needs constant care -- and yet the husband nor anyone else has been in there all day. LISA Maybe she died. JEFF Where's the doctor -- the undertakers? LISA She could be under sedatives, sleeping. (Looks up) He's in the room now. Jeff tries to turn around, but she won't let the chair move. JEFF Lisa, please! LISA There's nothing to see. JEFF There is -- I've seen things through that window! Bickering, family fights, mysterious trips at night, knives, saws, rope -- and since last evening, not a sight or sound of his wife! Now you tell me where she is and what she's doing! LISA Maybe he's leaving his wife. I don't know, and I don't care. Lots of people have saws, knives and ropes around their houses. Lots of men don't speak to their wives all day. Lots of wives nag, and men hate them, and trouble starts -- but very, very, very few of them end up in murder -- if that's what you're thinking. JEFF It's pretty hard to stay away from that word isn't is? LISA You could see all the things he did, couldn't you? JEFF What are you getting at? LISA You could see that he did because he had the shades in his apartment up, and walked along the corridor, and the streets and the backyard? JEFF Yeah. LISA Jeff, do you think a murderer would let you see all that? That he shouldn't keep his shades down and hide behind them? JEFF That's where he's being clever. Acting nonchalant. LISA And that's where you're not being clever. He wouldn't parade his crime in front of the open shades. She turns the wheelchair slightly to her left so that he can see the newlyweds' apartment. LISA (Pointing) For all you know -- there's something a lot more sinister going on behind those shades. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT The drawn shades of the newlyweds' apartment. A dim light burning behind them. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff looks, turns back to her, trying to suppress a chuckle. JEFF No comment. LISA Don't you see how silly you're being? JEFF Okay, Lisa -- probably you're right. He's probably in the bedroom now, entertaining his wife with the indian rope trick. I'll admit to criminal insanity. Now when do I start the cure? Lisa half looks up and out the window. She opens her mouth to answer, but a new look overtakes her face. It is concern, surprise, and a little shock. Jeff sees the change, is sobered, and quickly turns the chair around. He looks out the window, using his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT The shades in the bedroom are now up. Both beds are empty, and stripped of their linen, the mattresses thrown up over the end of the beds. The salesman, sweating heavily, stands over a large, square trunk in the center of the room. It is stoutly bound by the heavy rope we previously saw him bring into the apartment. He wipes one forearm across his brow, and then heads for the kitchen. In the kitchen, he produces a bottle, pours himself two or three straight drinks, then leans with a display of exhaustion against the kitchen sink. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff lowers the glasses. His look is sober. Lisa stands behind him, one hand on the back of the wheelchair. She, too, is serious. THE CAMERA MOVES IN until Lisa's head fills the screen. She says, slowly: LISA Let's start from the beginning again, Jeff. Tell me everything you saw -- and what you think it means. She is still staring out the window, as the scene FADES OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated in the dark, his face lit by the faint glow from the distant street. He is looking out of the window tensely, as THE CAMERA MOVES IN, until he is in big profile. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT From Jeff's viewpoint, all the windows are dark. The couple are sleeping on the fire escape. The salesman's apartment is dark as well. Suddenly a match flares, and we see the salesman light a cigar. The flame of the match illuminates his face for a moment. When is dies out, we see just the glow of the cigar burning. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP The CAMERA is now facing Jeff. We see that his left hand rests on the telephone receiver which is close to him. The phone starts to RING, but makes only the slightest sound, as he instantly picks it up. As he talks, in a low voice, he keeps his eyes on the salesman's apartment. JEFF Yeah? INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP We get an impression of Sixth Avenue behind Lisa at the phone. Lisa also talks in a low, quiet voice. LISA The name on the second floor rear mailbox reads Mr. And Mrs. Lars, that's L-A-R-S, Lars Thorwald. JEFF (Filter) What's the apartment house number? LISA 125 West Ninth Street. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff, still looks toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Thanks, Lisa. INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa smilingly says: LISA Okay, chief. What's my next assignment. JEFF To get on home. LISA All right -- but what's he doing now? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff is still looking toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Just sitting in the living room. In the dark. And he hasn't gone near the bedroom. Now get some sleep. Goodnight. He puts the receiver down, and resumes his vigil. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT All we can see is the glow of the salesman's cigar. FADE OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated by the window in his wheelchair. He is talking on the telephone while his eyes are still on the neighborhood. There is a touch of urgency in his voice. JEFF Look, Doyle -- it's just one of those things I can't tell you on the phone. You have to be here, and see the whole set-up. The CAMERA PULLS BACK slightly as Stella emerges from the kitchen. She is carrying a tray with breakfast on it. Eggs, bacon, toast and coffee. JEFF It's probably nothing important -- just a little neighborhood murder, that's all. As a matter of fact, I did say "murder". Stella squeezes past the right side of Jeff, and places the food tray on a windowseat in front of him. She peers out cautiously toward Thorwald's apartment for a moment. Then she squeezes back, moving to the sideboard against which leans a small table on an adjustable stand. JEFF My only thought was to throw a little business your way. A good detective, I reasoned, would jump at the chance to detect. Stella returns with the table, and sets it up so that it is across Jeff's lap. She gets the tray of food pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment. Then she places the breakfast on the tray table in front of Jeff. He has moved back a little to avoid getting the phone cable tangled in the food and dishes. JEFF Well, I usually took my best pictures on my day off. (nods) Okay, Doyle -- soon as you can. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP He hangs up. Stella takes the phone and puts it down for him. He looks at the breakfast, reaches for a knife and fork. JEFF Stella, I -- I can't tell you what a welcome sight this is. No wonder your husband's still in love with you. STELLA Police? JEFF (Pauses in cutting food) Huh? STELLA You called the police? JEFF Oh. Well, yes and no. It wasn't an official call. He's just a friend. (Almost to himself) An old, ornery friend. He begins eating, appreciatively. She moves behind his chair, pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment again. Jeff is just lifting a piece of bacon to his lips when Stella speaks. STELLA (Half to herself) Now just where do you suppose he cut her up? The hand carrying the bacon to Jeff's mouth hesitates for a moment. STELLA (Answering herself) Oh -- of course! In the bathtub. That's the only place he could wash away the blood. The hand holding the bacon moves back to the plate. Jeff just stares ahead. Stella turns and walks into the kitchen. Jeff pushes the food away, and picks up the coffee cup instead. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes, over the coffee cup, are staring intently at the backyard. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. The shades up. No one moving. The rope-tied trunk still sits in the bedroom. To the left we see the basket lowering with the dog in it. We HEAR the woman WHISTLING an aria. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP His eyes stray in an upward direction as he puts down the coffee cup. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The CAMERA PANS UP past the woman lowering the dog, up to the roof where one of the sunbathers can be seen sitting up, rubbing her body with sun tan oil. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes moves down again. Abstractedly his hand strays toward the piece of bacon. He picks it up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. We are now aware that the salesman is now in his living room, lying out of sight on the sofa, because the smoke from a newly lighted cigar is starting to ascend toward the ceiling of his room. Stella's voice is heard calling out from the kitchen: STELLA'S VOICE He'd better get that trunk out of there before is starts to leak. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Again the bacon stops before is reaches Jeff's mouth. He puts it down on the plate again, as his eyes move slightly toward the left. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet outfit, is hanging up a small wash on a clothes line. It consists mostly of lingerie. She is doing her inevitable leg practice at the same time. THE CAMERA PANS OVER SUDDENLY TO Thorwald's apartment, and except for the smoke rising from the unseen sofa, there is no activity. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff seems to be getting a bit listless, or bored, by constantly watching Thorwald's apartment. His eyes sort of stray around the neighborhood, and end up looking toward: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The newlywed's apartment. Shade down, business as usual. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles affectionately, and starts to turn his eyes away; but something startles him, and he looks quickly back. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The shade suddenly going up in the newlywed's apartment. The young husband leans his hands on the windowsill, and looks out. He is wearing only his pajama bottoms, because of the heat, and we see that he is a well-muscled, attractive young man. He looks around with some satisfaction. He turns at the sound of a woman's voice behind him. GIRL'S VOICE H-a-a-r-r-e-e... He turns his head, is thoughtful for a brief moment, then he pulls down the shade. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP His smile almost becomes a private chuckle. Stella's abrupt voice breaks in urgently: STELLA'S VOICE Look! Look -- Mr. Jefferies! Jeff's head snaps toward the center of his window. Stella has appeared behind his wheelchair. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Two men wearing tan coveralls are standing outside Thorwald's door. One of them carries a clipboard. Suddenly Thorwald is seen sitting up on the living room sofa. His hair is disheveled and he is unshaved. He stands up, and moves toward the door. He opens it, and after a short exchange of dialogue, he admits the two men, leaving the door open behind them. He leads the two man across the living room to the bedroom. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Stella and Jeff watching intently. He is feeling down alongside his wheelchair for his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT A close view shows the two man carrying the trunk across the living room toward the corridor. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars quickly. JEFF (Agitated) I thought Doyle would get here before the trunk went -- or I'd have called the police. (To Stella) Now we're going to lose it. Stella moves toward the door quickly. Jeff turns quickly over his shoulder to watch her. She is already going up the steps. JEFF Stella, don't do anything reckless! As Stella goes out the door, she calls back: STELLA I'm just going to get the name of their truck! JEFF (Up) I'll watch the alleyway -- in case it goes that way. We hear nothing from Stella, but the sound of her heavy tread down the hallway stairs. Jeff returns to Thorwald. He eases himself back into the shadows a bit and then raises his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT Jeff concentrates his attention on the alley-way that leads to the street. Just normal traffic. The binoculars swing to Thorwald apartment. The salesman is now at the telephone. He has picked up the receiver, and proceeds to dial 221. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP The binoculars still up to Jeff's face. Under them his mouth moves, as if he's talking to himself. JEFF Long Distance. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT The salesman speaks some words to the operator. Placing the call. As he does this, he reaches with his other hand for a nearly bottle, and working the cork out with one hand, he pours a stiff drink into a tumbler. He drinks it as soon as he finishes talking with the operator. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars a little, and takes a normal eye sight on the alleyway. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Pulling across to the far side of the street we see the hood and cab of a freight truck. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff quickly puts the glasses up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT By the time the binoculars are up, another truck has crossed from the left. In momentarily blocks out the side of our freight truck. By the time the two trucks part, we can only see the back half of the freight truck before it pulls out of sight. Jeff is only able to read the words "FREIGHT LINES". The binoculars are held for a moment until we see a puffing and blowing Stella arrive at the opening of the alleyway. She looks toward the front of Thorwald's apartment house. And by her attitude we can see that there is no truck outside. She looks about her for a moment. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars, discouraged. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT The figure of Stella is seen, looking up toward Jeff's apartment, and arms outspread in a helpless gesture. LAP DISSOLVE TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT SHOOTING TOWARDS the big window, with the neighborhood beyond, Jeff is as usual seated in his wheelchair on the left of the window, but now turned toward a newcomer. The second man is standing near the divan looking out the window with the binoculars. This newcomer is POLICE DETECTIVE LIEUTENANT THOMAS J. DOYLE, the man Jeff phoned earlier in the day. He is an intelligent-appearing, well-dressed modern detective. He has a sense of humor. He lowers the glasses, and turns to Jeff. DOYLE You didn't see the killing, or the body? How do you know there was a murder? JEFF Because everything that man's done has been suspicious. Trips at night in the rain, saws, knives, trunks with rope, and a wife that isn't there any more. DOYLE I'll admit it all has a mysterious sound -- but is could mean a number of different things. Murder is the least likely. JEFF Go ahead, Doyle -- tell me he's an unemployed magician -- amusing the neighborhood with sleight-of-hand. Doyle paces a little. DOYLE It's too stupid and obvious a way to murder -- in full view of fifty windows -- and then sit over there -- (He points) -- smoking a cigar -- waiting for the police to pick him up. JEFF Well, officer -- do your duty. DOYLE You've got a lot to lean about homicide, Jeff. Morons have committed murder so shrewdly that it took a hundred trained police minds to catch them. That salesman wouldn't just knock off his wife after dinner, toss her in a trunk and put her in storage. JEFF I'll bet it's been done. DOYLE Almost everything's been done -- under panic. But this is a thousand to one shot. That man's still sitting around his apartment; he isn't panicked. JEFF (A pause) You think I made all this up? DOYLE I think you saw something -- that probably has a very simple explanation. JEFF For instance? DOYLE (Shrugs) His wife took a trip. JEFF She -- was -- an -- invalid! DOYLE You told me. (Looks at watch) I've got to run, Jeff. JEFF All right -- you don't believe me. Doyle saunters toward steps, picking up his hat on the way. Stops. DOYLE I -- uh -- won't report it to the Department. Let me poke into a little on my own. No point in you getting any ridiculous publicity. JEFF (Coldly) Thanks. DOYLE We know the wife is gone. I'll see if I can find out where. JEFF Do that. He goes up the steps to the door, putting on his hat. He pauses his hand on the door knob. DOYLE You have any headaches lately? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers, showing only the slightest irritation. JEFF Not 'til you showed up. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Doyle, still at the door: DOYLE Uh-huh. Well, it'll wear off in time -- along with the hallucinations. See you around. He starts to go out the door, and closes it behind him. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT From Doyle's viewpoint. Jeff lifts his hand in a feeble parting gesture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Before the door has completely closed, Doyle opens it again, and looks in. DOYLE By the way what happened to your leg? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP JEFF I was jaywalking. DOYLE'S VOICE (O.S.) Where? JEFF (With nonchalance) The Indianapolis Speedway. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP The door starts to close again, as if Doyle considered Jeff's answer quite reasonable. Then the door pops open and Doyle's head comes in, a surprised expression across his face. DOYLE During the race? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers with a straight face. JEFF Yup. It sure stopped traffic. We don't see Doyle again, but only HEAR the sharp slam of the DOOR off. Jeff chuckles. Then he turns back to the window. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's attention is drawn to something in the yard below. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The little dog is busily scratching away at Thorwald's pet flower bed. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles mischievously. Suddenly his face changes as he sees: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald coming out of his basement door, carrying a watering can. He fills it from a nearby faucet. He does not notice the little dog's destructive activities. When the watering can is filled, he straightens up, turns toward the flower bed. He stops for the briefest moment, when he sees the dog. He walks to the dog, gently lifts him out of the garden, and giving him a friendly little pat, sends him off. He proceeds to patiently brush back the disturbed earth, and then begins his watering. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is frankly puzzled by the salesman's friendly attitude toward the dog. He looks off in another direction, as he catches of: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Doyle, who has appeared, at the street opening. The detective is surveying the front of the apartment building where Thorwald lives. A paper seller behind him offers to sell him a paper. Doyle isn't interested. As Doyle saunters forward toward the salesman house, the scene: LAP DISSOLVES TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Doyle is nonchalantly leaning up against the side board, with a highball in one hand. Jeff has turned his chair around from the window to face him. DOYLE He has a six months lease, and has used up a little over five and a half months of it. (Takes a sip of drink) Quiet. Drinks, but not to drunkenness. Pays his bill promptly, with money earned as a consume jewelry salesman -- wholesale. Keeps to himself, and none of the neighbors got close to him, or his wife. JEFF I think they missed their chance with her. DOYLE (Studies drink) She never left the apartment -- JEFF (Interrupting) Then where is she -- in the ice box? DOYLE (Continues) -- until yesterday morning. JEFF (Alert) What time? DOYLE Six ayem. Jeff looks thoughtful a moment, and then says, with a touch of discouragement: JEFF I think that's about the time I fell asleep. DOYLE Too bad. The Thorwalds were just leaving the apartment house at that time. He puts down his drink, and strolls toward the window, looking out. THE CAMERA MOVES IN slightly to tighten the shot. DOYLE Feel a little foolish? JEFF Not yet. Doyle becomes interested in watching something out the window. Unconsciously he smooths out his coat and tie. He even smiles somewhat secretly to himself at what he sees. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet costume, practicing her dance on the outside balcony. She is exciting and desirable. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - TIGHT TWO SHOT Jeff notices Doyle's interest. JEFF How's your wife? Startled at being observed, Doyle moves quickly away from the window, affecting nonchalance. THE CAMERA MOVES BACK as Doyle returns to his drink. Jeff smiles at catching Doyle enjoying Miss Torso. DOYLE Oh -- oh, she's fine. (Not too convincing) Just fine. He tosses off the rest of the drink, and his movement is almost a comment. Jeff's face grows serious. JEFF Who said they left then? DOYLE Who left -- where? JEFF The Thorwalds -- at six in the morning? Doyle quickly collects his thoughts, and gets back to the case at hand. DOYLE The building superintendent, and two tenants. Flat statements -- no hesitation. And they all jibed to the letter. The Thorwalds were leaving for the railroad station. JEFF Now how could anybody guess that? They had, perhaps, signs on their luggage, "Grand Central Or Bust!"? DOYLE (Sighs) The superintendent met Thorwald coming back. He said Thorwald told him he had just put his wife on the train for the country. JEFF A very convenient guy -- this superintendent. Have you checked his bank deposits lately? DOYLE Jeff -- huh? JEFF (Sharply) Well -- what good is his information?!! It's a second-hand version of an unsupported statement by the murderer himself -- Thorwald! Anybody actually see the wife get on the train? DOYLE I hate to remind you -- but this all started because you said she was murdered. Now

delightful

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

you ever have any problems? LISA (Murmurs, kissing him) I have one now. JEFF So do I. LISA (Kissing) Tell me about it. JEFF (Slight pause) Why would a man leave his apartment three times, on a rainy night, with a suitcase? And come back three times? LISA He likes the way his wife welcomes him home. JEFF Not that salesman's wife. And why didn't he go to work today? LISA Homework. It's more interesting. JEFF What's interesting about a butcher's knife and a small saw wrapped up in a newspaper? LISA Nothing, thank heaven. JEFF (Looking again) Why hasn't he gone into his wife's bedroom all day? LISA I wouldn't dare answer that. JEFF (After pause) Lisa -- there's something terribly wrong. She gives up trying to interest him in romance, and moves back from the embrace. THE CAMERA PULL BACK. LISA And I'm afraid it's with me. Lisa stands, straightens out her dress, stretches a little then she turns to the divan, apparently not too interested in his observation about the salesman's life. JEFF (Looks at Lisa) What do you think? LISA (Without returning his look) Something too frightful to utter. Jeff is thoughtful for a moment, then he relaxes and smiles a little. He turns to the window to look out again. Lisa exits the picture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa stretches herself out on the divan. Her head rest on the cushion at the far end, and she instinctively falls into an attractive pose. However, her expression is disturbed as she watches Jeff. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP He stares intently out the window. JEFF He went out a few minutes ago -- in his undershirt -- and he hasn't come back yet. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Lisa weighs this information, trying to make some sense out of it. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns his eyes from the salesman's apartment, and looks down reflectively. He looks up again, and then his eyes catches sight of something. He leans forward slightly. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso is lying, face down, on her divan bed. The only light in the apartment is from a reading lamp. She is reading a book held in one hand, while eating a sandwich in another. Her back is bare, and all she wears is a pair of brief dark blue shorts. At one point, she lifts her torso up slightly to brush crumbs out from beneath her. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP He looks away from Miss Torso, thoughtfully. JEFF You know -- that would be terrible job to tackle. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa leans forward and looks out the window to see what Jeff is referring to. She turns back to him with a blank stare. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns and looks at her, quite unaware of her surprise at his comment. JEFF How would you begin to cut up a human body? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa sits bolt upright on the divan. She reaches back quickly and pulls on the overhead light. At that moment the songwriter returns to his composing. We can see him over Lisa's shoulder. He is beginning his song again, and it has taken on new fullness and melody. Although it is not complete, it is farther along then before, and he plays his theme a number of different ways, trying to move it note by note to its completion. Lisa just stares at Jeff for a moment. LISA Jeff -- I'll be honest with you -- you're beginning to scare me a little. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is staring out of the window again. Over this we hear Lisa's voice: LISA (Quietly insistent) Jeff -- did you hear what I said? You're beginning to -- Jeff puts out a restraining hand. JEFF (Interrupting) Be quiet! Shhh! (Pause) He's coming back! EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT At last the salesman is seen coming along the corridor. He does not wear shirt, but only an undershirt. Slung over one shoulder, with his arm through is, is a large coil of sturdy rope. He goes through the living room into the bedroom. He does not put on the bedroom lights. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff reaches quickly for his binoculars, and trains them on the salesman's apartment. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT As seen though the binoculars, the salesman comes out of the bedroom, to the kitchen, where he gets a carving knife. He turns around and goes back to the bedroom. The lights go on behind the draw shades, after a short moment. The dim shadow of the salesman is seen moving around the room. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa, still stretched out on the divan looking at Jeff, suddenly sits upright and then getting up from the divan, mover over to Jeff, THE CAMERA GOING WITH her. In a sudden surprise move, she swings his chair completely around so that his back is to the window. He drops the binoculars into his lap in surprise. THE CAMERA MOVES IN as Lisa leans over Jeff, gripping both sides of his chair LISA (sharply) Jeff -- if you could only see yourself. JEFF Now, Lisa -- LISA (Abruptly) Sitting around, looking out a window to kill time, is one thing -- but doing it the way you are -- (She gestures) -- with, with binoculars, and with wild opinions about every little movement you see -- is, is diseased! JEFF Do you think I consider this recreation? LISA I don't know what you consider it -- but if you don't stop it, I'm getting out of here. JEFF You'd better before you catch the disease! LISA (Insistent) What is it you're looking for? JEFF I want to find out what's wrong with the salesman's wife. Does that make me sound like a madman? LISA What makes you think something's wrong with her? LISA A lot of things. She's an invalid who needs constant care -- and yet the husband nor anyone else has been in there all day. LISA Maybe she died. JEFF Where's the doctor -- the undertakers? LISA She could be under sedatives, sleeping. (Looks up) He's in the room now. Jeff tries to turn around, but she won't let the chair move. JEFF Lisa, please! LISA There's nothing to see. JEFF There is -- I've seen things through that window! Bickering, family fights, mysterious trips at night, knives, saws, rope -- and since last evening, not a sight or sound of his wife! Now you tell me where she is and what she's doing! LISA Maybe he's leaving his wife. I don't know, and I don't care. Lots of people have saws, knives and ropes around their houses. Lots of men don't speak to their wives all day. Lots of wives nag, and men hate them, and trouble starts -- but very, very, very few of them end up in murder -- if that's what you're thinking. JEFF It's pretty hard to stay away from that word isn't is? LISA You could see all the things he did, couldn't you? JEFF What are you getting at? LISA You could see that he did because he had the shades in his apartment up, and walked along the corridor, and the streets and the backyard? JEFF Yeah. LISA Jeff, do you think a murderer would let you see all that? That he shouldn't keep his shades down and hide behind them? JEFF That's where he's being clever. Acting nonchalant. LISA And that's where you're not being clever. He wouldn't parade his crime in front of the open shades. She turns the wheelchair slightly to her left so that he can see the newlyweds' apartment. LISA (Pointing) For all you know -- there's something a lot more sinister going on behind those shades. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT The drawn shades of the newlyweds' apartment. A dim light burning behind them. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff looks, turns back to her, trying to suppress a chuckle. JEFF No comment. LISA Don't you see how silly you're being? JEFF Okay, Lisa -- probably you're right. He's probably in the bedroom now, entertaining his wife with the indian rope trick. I'll admit to criminal insanity. Now when do I start the cure? Lisa half looks up and out the window. She opens her mouth to answer, but a new look overtakes her face. It is concern, surprise, and a little shock. Jeff sees the change, is sobered, and quickly turns the chair around. He looks out the window, using his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT The shades in the bedroom are now up. Both beds are empty, and stripped of their linen, the mattresses thrown up over the end of the beds. The salesman, sweating heavily, stands over a large, square trunk in the center of the room. It is stoutly bound by the heavy rope we previously saw him bring into the apartment. He wipes one forearm across his brow, and then heads for the kitchen. In the kitchen, he produces a bottle, pours himself two or three straight drinks, then leans with a display of exhaustion against the kitchen sink. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff lowers the glasses. His look is sober. Lisa stands behind him, one hand on the back of the wheelchair. She, too, is serious. THE CAMERA MOVES IN until Lisa's head fills the screen. She says, slowly: LISA Let's start from the beginning again, Jeff. Tell me everything you saw -- and what you think it means. She is still staring out the window, as the scene FADES OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated in the dark, his face lit by the faint glow from the distant street. He is looking out of the window tensely, as THE CAMERA MOVES IN, until he is in big profile. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT From Jeff's viewpoint, all the windows are dark. The couple are sleeping on the fire escape. The salesman's apartment is dark as well. Suddenly a match flares, and we see the salesman light a cigar. The flame of the match illuminates his face for a moment. When is dies out, we see just the glow of the cigar burning. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP The CAMERA is now facing Jeff. We see that his left hand rests on the telephone receiver which is close to him. The phone starts to RING, but makes only the slightest sound, as he instantly picks it up. As he talks, in a low voice, he keeps his eyes on the salesman's apartment. JEFF Yeah? INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP We get an impression of Sixth Avenue behind Lisa at the phone. Lisa also talks in a low, quiet voice. LISA The name on the second floor rear mailbox reads Mr. And Mrs. Lars, that's L-A-R-S, Lars Thorwald. JEFF (Filter) What's the apartment house number? LISA 125 West Ninth Street. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff, still looks toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Thanks, Lisa. INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa smilingly says: LISA Okay, chief. What's my next assignment. JEFF To get on home. LISA All right -- but what's he doing now? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff is still looking toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Just sitting in the living room. In the dark. And he hasn't gone near the bedroom. Now get some sleep. Goodnight. He puts the receiver down, and resumes his vigil. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT All we can see is the glow of the salesman's cigar. FADE OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated by the window in his wheelchair. He is talking on the telephone while his eyes are still on the neighborhood. There is a touch of urgency in his voice. JEFF Look, Doyle -- it's just one of those things I can't tell you on the phone. You have to be here, and see the whole set-up. The CAMERA PULLS BACK slightly as Stella emerges from the kitchen. She is carrying a tray with breakfast on it. Eggs, bacon, toast and coffee. JEFF It's probably nothing important -- just a little neighborhood murder, that's all. As a matter of fact, I did say "murder". Stella squeezes past the right side of Jeff, and places the food tray on a windowseat in front of him. She peers out cautiously toward Thorwald's apartment for a moment. Then she squeezes back, moving to the sideboard against which leans a small table on an adjustable stand. JEFF My only thought was to throw a little business your way. A good detective, I reasoned, would jump at the chance to detect. Stella returns with the table, and sets it up so that it is across Jeff's lap. She gets the tray of food pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment. Then she places the breakfast on the tray table in front of Jeff. He has moved back a little to avoid getting the phone cable tangled in the food and dishes. JEFF Well, I usually took my best pictures on my day off. (nods) Okay, Doyle -- soon as you can. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP He hangs up. Stella takes the phone and puts it down for him. He looks at the breakfast, reaches for a knife and fork. JEFF Stella, I -- I can't tell you what a welcome sight this is. No wonder your husband's still in love with you. STELLA Police? JEFF (Pauses in cutting food) Huh? STELLA You called the police? JEFF Oh. Well, yes and no. It wasn't an official call. He's just a friend. (Almost to himself) An old, ornery friend. He begins eating, appreciatively. She moves behind his chair, pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment again. Jeff is just lifting a piece of bacon to his lips when Stella speaks. STELLA (Half to herself) Now just where do you suppose he cut her up? The hand carrying the bacon to Jeff's mouth hesitates for a moment. STELLA (Answering herself) Oh -- of course! In the bathtub. That's the only place he could wash away the blood. The hand holding the bacon moves back to the plate. Jeff just stares ahead. Stella turns and walks into the kitchen. Jeff pushes the food away, and picks up the coffee cup instead. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes, over the coffee cup, are staring intently at the backyard. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. The shades up. No one moving. The rope-tied trunk still sits in the bedroom. To the left we see the basket lowering with the dog in it. We HEAR the woman WHISTLING an aria. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP His eyes stray in an upward direction as he puts down the coffee cup. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The CAMERA PANS UP past the woman lowering the dog, up to the roof where one of the sunbathers can be seen sitting up, rubbing her body with sun tan oil. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes moves down again. Abstractedly his hand strays toward the piece of bacon. He picks it up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. We are now aware that the salesman is now in his living room, lying out of sight on the sofa, because the smoke from a newly lighted cigar is starting to ascend toward the ceiling of his room. Stella's voice is heard calling out from the kitchen: STELLA'S VOICE He'd better get that trunk out of there before is starts to leak. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Again the bacon stops before is reaches Jeff's mouth. He puts it down on the plate again, as his eyes move slightly toward the left. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet outfit, is hanging up a small wash on a clothes line. It consists mostly of lingerie. She is doing her inevitable leg practice at the same time. THE CAMERA PANS OVER SUDDENLY TO Thorwald's apartment, and except for the smoke rising from the unseen sofa, there is no activity. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff seems to be getting a bit listless, or bored, by constantly watching Thorwald's apartment. His eyes sort of stray around the neighborhood, and end up looking toward: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The newlywed's apartment. Shade down, business as usual. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles affectionately, and starts to turn his eyes away; but something startles him, and he looks quickly back. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The shade suddenly going up in the newlywed's apartment. The young husband leans his hands on the windowsill, and looks out. He is wearing only his pajama bottoms, because of the heat, and we see that he is a well-muscled, attractive young man. He looks around with some satisfaction. He turns at the sound of a woman's voice behind him. GIRL'S VOICE H-a-a-r-r-e-e... He turns his head, is thoughtful for a brief moment, then he pulls down the shade. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP His smile almost becomes a private chuckle. Stella's abrupt voice breaks in urgently: STELLA'S VOICE Look! Look -- Mr. Jefferies! Jeff's head snaps toward the center of his window. Stella has appeared behind his wheelchair. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Two men wearing tan coveralls are standing outside Thorwald's door. One of them carries a clipboard. Suddenly Thorwald is seen sitting up on the living room sofa. His hair is disheveled and he is unshaved. He stands up, and moves toward the door. He opens it, and after a short exchange of dialogue, he admits the two men, leaving the door open behind them. He leads the two man across the living room to the bedroom. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Stella and Jeff watching intently. He is feeling down alongside his wheelchair for his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT A close view shows the two man carrying the trunk across the living room toward the corridor. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars quickly. JEFF (Agitated) I thought Doyle would get here before the trunk went -- or I'd have called the police. (To Stella) Now we're going to lose it. Stella moves toward the door quickly. Jeff turns quickly over his shoulder to watch her. She is already going up the steps. JEFF Stella, don't do anything reckless! As Stella goes out the door, she calls back: STELLA I'm just going to get the name of their truck! JEFF (Up) I'll watch the alleyway -- in case it goes that way. We hear nothing from Stella, but the sound of her heavy tread down the hallway stairs. Jeff returns to Thorwald. He eases himself back into the shadows a bit and then raises his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT Jeff concentrates his attention on the alley-way that leads to the street. Just normal traffic. The binoculars swing to Thorwald apartment. The salesman is now at the telephone. He has picked up the receiver, and proceeds to dial 221. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP The binoculars still up to Jeff's face. Under them his mouth moves, as if he's talking to himself. JEFF Long Distance. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT The salesman speaks some words to the operator. Placing the call. As he does this, he reaches with his other hand for a nearly bottle, and working the cork out with one hand, he pours a stiff drink into a tumbler. He drinks it as soon as he finishes talking with the operator. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars a little, and takes a normal eye sight on the alleyway. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Pulling across to the far side of the street we see the hood and cab of a freight truck. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff quickly puts the glasses up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT By the time the binoculars are up, another truck has crossed from the left. In momentarily blocks out the side of our freight truck. By the time the two trucks part, we can only see the back half of the freight truck before it pulls out of sight. Jeff is only able to read the words "FREIGHT LINES". The binoculars are held for a moment until we see a puffing and blowing Stella arrive at the opening of the alleyway. She looks toward the front of Thorwald's apartment house. And by her attitude we can see that there is no truck outside. She looks about her for a moment. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars, discouraged. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT The figure of Stella is seen, looking up toward Jeff's apartment, and arms outspread in a helpless gesture. LAP DISSOLVE TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT SHOOTING TOWARDS the big window, with the neighborhood beyond, Jeff is as usual seated in his wheelchair on the left of the window, but now turned toward a newcomer. The second man is standing near the divan looking out the window with the binoculars. This newcomer is POLICE DETECTIVE LIEUTENANT THOMAS J. DOYLE, the man Jeff phoned earlier in the day. He is an intelligent-appearing, well-dressed modern detective. He has a sense of humor. He lowers the glasses, and turns to Jeff. DOYLE You didn't see the killing, or the body? How do you know there was a murder? JEFF Because everything that man's done has been suspicious. Trips at night in the rain, saws, knives, trunks with rope, and a wife that isn't there any more. DOYLE I'll admit it all has a mysterious sound -- but is could mean a number of different things. Murder is the least likely. JEFF Go ahead, Doyle -- tell me he's an unemployed magician -- amusing the neighborhood with sleight-of-hand. Doyle paces a little. DOYLE It's too stupid and obvious a way to murder -- in full view of fifty windows -- and then sit over there -- (He points) -- smoking a cigar -- waiting for the police to pick him up. JEFF Well, officer -- do your duty. DOYLE You've got a lot to lean about homicide, Jeff. Morons have committed murder so shrewdly that it took a hundred trained police minds to catch them. That salesman wouldn't just knock off his wife after dinner, toss her in a trunk and put her in storage. JEFF I'll bet it's been done. DOYLE Almost everything's been done -- under panic. But this is a thousand to one shot. That man's still sitting around his apartment; he isn't panicked. JEFF (A pause) You think I made all this up? DOYLE I think you saw something -- that probably has a very simple explanation. JEFF For instance? DOYLE (Shrugs) His wife took a trip. JEFF She -- was -- an -- invalid! DOYLE You told me. (Looks at watch) I've got to run, Jeff. JEFF All right -- you don't believe me. Doyle saunters toward steps, picking up his hat on the way. Stops. DOYLE I -- uh -- won't report it to the Department. Let me poke into a little on my own. No point in you getting any ridiculous publicity. JEFF (Coldly) Thanks. DOYLE We know the wife is gone. I'll see if I can find out where. JEFF Do that. He goes up the steps to the door, putting on his hat. He pauses his hand on the door knob. DOYLE You have any headaches lately? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers, showing only the slightest irritation. JEFF Not 'til you showed up. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Doyle, still at the door: DOYLE Uh-huh. Well, it'll wear off in time -- along with the hallucinations. See you around. He starts to go out the door, and closes it behind him. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT From Doyle's viewpoint. Jeff lifts his hand in a feeble parting gesture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Before the door has completely closed, Doyle opens it again, and looks in. DOYLE By the way what happened to your leg? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP JEFF I was jaywalking. DOYLE'S VOICE (O.S.) Where? JEFF (With nonchalance) The Indianapolis Speedway. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP The door starts to close again, as if Doyle considered Jeff's answer quite reasonable. Then the door pops open and Doyle's head comes in, a surprised expression across his face. DOYLE During the race? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers with a straight face. JEFF Yup. It sure stopped traffic. We don't see Doyle again, but only HEAR the sharp slam of the DOOR off. Jeff chuckles. Then he turns back to the window. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's attention is drawn to something in the yard below. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The little dog is busily scratching away at Thorwald's pet flower bed. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles mischievously. Suddenly his face changes as he sees: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald coming out of his basement door, carrying a watering can. He fills it from a nearby faucet. He does not notice the little dog's destructive activities. When the watering can is filled, he straightens up, turns toward the flower bed. He stops for the briefest moment, when he sees the dog. He walks to the dog, gently lifts him out of the garden, and giving him a friendly little pat, sends him off. He proceeds to patiently brush back the disturbed earth, and then begins his watering. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is frankly puzzled by the salesman's friendly attitude toward the dog. He looks off in another direction, as he catches of: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Doyle, who has appeared, at the street opening. The detective is surveying the front of the apartment building where Thorwald lives. A paper seller behind him offers to sell him a paper. Doyle isn't interested. As Doyle saunters forward toward the salesman house, the scene: LAP DISSOLVES TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Doyle is nonchalantly leaning up against the side board, with a highball in one hand. Jeff has turned his chair around from the window to face him. DOYLE He has a six months lease, and has used up a little over five and a half months of it. (Takes a sip of drink) Quiet. Drinks, but not to drunkenness. Pays his bill promptly, with money earned as a consume jewelry salesman -- wholesale. Keeps to himself, and none of the neighbors got close to him, or his wife. JEFF I think they missed their chance with her. DOYLE (Studies drink) She never left the apartment -- JEFF (Interrupting) Then where is she -- in the ice box? DOYLE (Continues) -- until yesterday morning. JEFF (Alert) What time? DOYLE Six ayem. Jeff looks thoughtful a moment, and then says, with a touch of discouragement: JEFF I think that's about the time I fell asleep. DOYLE Too bad. The Thorwalds were just leaving the apartment house at that time. He puts down his drink, and strolls toward the window, looking out. THE CAMERA MOVES IN slightly to tighten the shot. DOYLE Feel a little foolish? JEFF Not yet. Doyle becomes interested in watching something out the window. Unconsciously he smooths out his coat and tie. He even smiles somewhat secretly to himself at what he sees. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet costume, practicing her dance on the outside balcony. She is exciting and desirable. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - TIGHT TWO SHOT Jeff notices Doyle's interest. JEFF How's your wife? Startled at being observed, Doyle moves quickly away from the window, affecting nonchalance. THE CAMERA MOVES BACK as Doyle returns to his drink. Jeff smiles at catching Doyle enjoying Miss Torso. DOYLE Oh -- oh, she's fine. (Not too convincing) Just fine. He tosses off the rest of the drink, and his movement is almost a comment. Jeff's face grows serious. JEFF Who said they left then? DOYLE Who left -- where? JEFF The Thorwalds -- at six in the morning? Doyle quickly collects his thoughts, and gets back to the case at hand. DOYLE The building superintendent, and two tenants. Flat statements -- no hesitation. And they all jibed to the letter. The Thorwalds were leaving for the railroad station. JEFF Now how could anybody guess that? They had, perhaps, signs on their luggage, "Grand Central Or Bust!"? DOYLE (Sighs) The superintendent met Thorwald coming back. He said Thorwald told him he had just put his wife on the train for the country. JEFF A very convenient guy -- this superintendent. Have you checked his bank deposits lately? DOYLE Jeff -- huh? JEFF (Sharply) Well -- what good is his information?!! It's a second-hand version of an unsupported statement by the murderer himself -- Thorwald! Anybody actually see the wife get on the train? DOYLE I hate to remind you -- but this all started because you said she was murdered. Now

woman

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

you ever have any problems? LISA (Murmurs, kissing him) I have one now. JEFF So do I. LISA (Kissing) Tell me about it. JEFF (Slight pause) Why would a man leave his apartment three times, on a rainy night, with a suitcase? And come back three times? LISA He likes the way his wife welcomes him home. JEFF Not that salesman's wife. And why didn't he go to work today? LISA Homework. It's more interesting. JEFF What's interesting about a butcher's knife and a small saw wrapped up in a newspaper? LISA Nothing, thank heaven. JEFF (Looking again) Why hasn't he gone into his wife's bedroom all day? LISA I wouldn't dare answer that. JEFF (After pause) Lisa -- there's something terribly wrong. She gives up trying to interest him in romance, and moves back from the embrace. THE CAMERA PULL BACK. LISA And I'm afraid it's with me. Lisa stands, straightens out her dress, stretches a little then she turns to the divan, apparently not too interested in his observation about the salesman's life. JEFF (Looks at Lisa) What do you think? LISA (Without returning his look) Something too frightful to utter. Jeff is thoughtful for a moment, then he relaxes and smiles a little. He turns to the window to look out again. Lisa exits the picture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa stretches herself out on the divan. Her head rest on the cushion at the far end, and she instinctively falls into an attractive pose. However, her expression is disturbed as she watches Jeff. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP He stares intently out the window. JEFF He went out a few minutes ago -- in his undershirt -- and he hasn't come back yet. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Lisa weighs this information, trying to make some sense out of it. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns his eyes from the salesman's apartment, and looks down reflectively. He looks up again, and then his eyes catches sight of something. He leans forward slightly. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso is lying, face down, on her divan bed. The only light in the apartment is from a reading lamp. She is reading a book held in one hand, while eating a sandwich in another. Her back is bare, and all she wears is a pair of brief dark blue shorts. At one point, she lifts her torso up slightly to brush crumbs out from beneath her. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP He looks away from Miss Torso, thoughtfully. JEFF You know -- that would be terrible job to tackle. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa leans forward and looks out the window to see what Jeff is referring to. She turns back to him with a blank stare. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns and looks at her, quite unaware of her surprise at his comment. JEFF How would you begin to cut up a human body? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa sits bolt upright on the divan. She reaches back quickly and pulls on the overhead light. At that moment the songwriter returns to his composing. We can see him over Lisa's shoulder. He is beginning his song again, and it has taken on new fullness and melody. Although it is not complete, it is farther along then before, and he plays his theme a number of different ways, trying to move it note by note to its completion. Lisa just stares at Jeff for a moment. LISA Jeff -- I'll be honest with you -- you're beginning to scare me a little. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is staring out of the window again. Over this we hear Lisa's voice: LISA (Quietly insistent) Jeff -- did you hear what I said? You're beginning to -- Jeff puts out a restraining hand. JEFF (Interrupting) Be quiet! Shhh! (Pause) He's coming back! EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT At last the salesman is seen coming along the corridor. He does not wear shirt, but only an undershirt. Slung over one shoulder, with his arm through is, is a large coil of sturdy rope. He goes through the living room into the bedroom. He does not put on the bedroom lights. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff reaches quickly for his binoculars, and trains them on the salesman's apartment. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT As seen though the binoculars, the salesman comes out of the bedroom, to the kitchen, where he gets a carving knife. He turns around and goes back to the bedroom. The lights go on behind the draw shades, after a short moment. The dim shadow of the salesman is seen moving around the room. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa, still stretched out on the divan looking at Jeff, suddenly sits upright and then getting up from the divan, mover over to Jeff, THE CAMERA GOING WITH her. In a sudden surprise move, she swings his chair completely around so that his back is to the window. He drops the binoculars into his lap in surprise. THE CAMERA MOVES IN as Lisa leans over Jeff, gripping both sides of his chair LISA (sharply) Jeff -- if you could only see yourself. JEFF Now, Lisa -- LISA (Abruptly) Sitting around, looking out a window to kill time, is one thing -- but doing it the way you are -- (She gestures) -- with, with binoculars, and with wild opinions about every little movement you see -- is, is diseased! JEFF Do you think I consider this recreation? LISA I don't know what you consider it -- but if you don't stop it, I'm getting out of here. JEFF You'd better before you catch the disease! LISA (Insistent) What is it you're looking for? JEFF I want to find out what's wrong with the salesman's wife. Does that make me sound like a madman? LISA What makes you think something's wrong with her? LISA A lot of things. She's an invalid who needs constant care -- and yet the husband nor anyone else has been in there all day. LISA Maybe she died. JEFF Where's the doctor -- the undertakers? LISA She could be under sedatives, sleeping. (Looks up) He's in the room now. Jeff tries to turn around, but she won't let the chair move. JEFF Lisa, please! LISA There's nothing to see. JEFF There is -- I've seen things through that window! Bickering, family fights, mysterious trips at night, knives, saws, rope -- and since last evening, not a sight or sound of his wife! Now you tell me where she is and what she's doing! LISA Maybe he's leaving his wife. I don't know, and I don't care. Lots of people have saws, knives and ropes around their houses. Lots of men don't speak to their wives all day. Lots of wives nag, and men hate them, and trouble starts -- but very, very, very few of them end up in murder -- if that's what you're thinking. JEFF It's pretty hard to stay away from that word isn't is? LISA You could see all the things he did, couldn't you? JEFF What are you getting at? LISA You could see that he did because he had the shades in his apartment up, and walked along the corridor, and the streets and the backyard? JEFF Yeah. LISA Jeff, do you think a murderer would let you see all that? That he shouldn't keep his shades down and hide behind them? JEFF That's where he's being clever. Acting nonchalant. LISA And that's where you're not being clever. He wouldn't parade his crime in front of the open shades. She turns the wheelchair slightly to her left so that he can see the newlyweds' apartment. LISA (Pointing) For all you know -- there's something a lot more sinister going on behind those shades. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT The drawn shades of the newlyweds' apartment. A dim light burning behind them. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff looks, turns back to her, trying to suppress a chuckle. JEFF No comment. LISA Don't you see how silly you're being? JEFF Okay, Lisa -- probably you're right. He's probably in the bedroom now, entertaining his wife with the indian rope trick. I'll admit to criminal insanity. Now when do I start the cure? Lisa half looks up and out the window. She opens her mouth to answer, but a new look overtakes her face. It is concern, surprise, and a little shock. Jeff sees the change, is sobered, and quickly turns the chair around. He looks out the window, using his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT The shades in the bedroom are now up. Both beds are empty, and stripped of their linen, the mattresses thrown up over the end of the beds. The salesman, sweating heavily, stands over a large, square trunk in the center of the room. It is stoutly bound by the heavy rope we previously saw him bring into the apartment. He wipes one forearm across his brow, and then heads for the kitchen. In the kitchen, he produces a bottle, pours himself two or three straight drinks, then leans with a display of exhaustion against the kitchen sink. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff lowers the glasses. His look is sober. Lisa stands behind him, one hand on the back of the wheelchair. She, too, is serious. THE CAMERA MOVES IN until Lisa's head fills the screen. She says, slowly: LISA Let's start from the beginning again, Jeff. Tell me everything you saw -- and what you think it means. She is still staring out the window, as the scene FADES OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated in the dark, his face lit by the faint glow from the distant street. He is looking out of the window tensely, as THE CAMERA MOVES IN, until he is in big profile. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT From Jeff's viewpoint, all the windows are dark. The couple are sleeping on the fire escape. The salesman's apartment is dark as well. Suddenly a match flares, and we see the salesman light a cigar. The flame of the match illuminates his face for a moment. When is dies out, we see just the glow of the cigar burning. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP The CAMERA is now facing Jeff. We see that his left hand rests on the telephone receiver which is close to him. The phone starts to RING, but makes only the slightest sound, as he instantly picks it up. As he talks, in a low voice, he keeps his eyes on the salesman's apartment. JEFF Yeah? INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP We get an impression of Sixth Avenue behind Lisa at the phone. Lisa also talks in a low, quiet voice. LISA The name on the second floor rear mailbox reads Mr. And Mrs. Lars, that's L-A-R-S, Lars Thorwald. JEFF (Filter) What's the apartment house number? LISA 125 West Ninth Street. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff, still looks toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Thanks, Lisa. INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa smilingly says: LISA Okay, chief. What's my next assignment. JEFF To get on home. LISA All right -- but what's he doing now? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff is still looking toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Just sitting in the living room. In the dark. And he hasn't gone near the bedroom. Now get some sleep. Goodnight. He puts the receiver down, and resumes his vigil. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT All we can see is the glow of the salesman's cigar. FADE OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated by the window in his wheelchair. He is talking on the telephone while his eyes are still on the neighborhood. There is a touch of urgency in his voice. JEFF Look, Doyle -- it's just one of those things I can't tell you on the phone. You have to be here, and see the whole set-up. The CAMERA PULLS BACK slightly as Stella emerges from the kitchen. She is carrying a tray with breakfast on it. Eggs, bacon, toast and coffee. JEFF It's probably nothing important -- just a little neighborhood murder, that's all. As a matter of fact, I did say "murder". Stella squeezes past the right side of Jeff, and places the food tray on a windowseat in front of him. She peers out cautiously toward Thorwald's apartment for a moment. Then she squeezes back, moving to the sideboard against which leans a small table on an adjustable stand. JEFF My only thought was to throw a little business your way. A good detective, I reasoned, would jump at the chance to detect. Stella returns with the table, and sets it up so that it is across Jeff's lap. She gets the tray of food pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment. Then she places the breakfast on the tray table in front of Jeff. He has moved back a little to avoid getting the phone cable tangled in the food and dishes. JEFF Well, I usually took my best pictures on my day off. (nods) Okay, Doyle -- soon as you can. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP He hangs up. Stella takes the phone and puts it down for him. He looks at the breakfast, reaches for a knife and fork. JEFF Stella, I -- I can't tell you what a welcome sight this is. No wonder your husband's still in love with you. STELLA Police? JEFF (Pauses in cutting food) Huh? STELLA You called the police? JEFF Oh. Well, yes and no. It wasn't an official call. He's just a friend. (Almost to himself) An old, ornery friend. He begins eating, appreciatively. She moves behind his chair, pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment again. Jeff is just lifting a piece of bacon to his lips when Stella speaks. STELLA (Half to herself) Now just where do you suppose he cut her up? The hand carrying the bacon to Jeff's mouth hesitates for a moment. STELLA (Answering herself) Oh -- of course! In the bathtub. That's the only place he could wash away the blood. The hand holding the bacon moves back to the plate. Jeff just stares ahead. Stella turns and walks into the kitchen. Jeff pushes the food away, and picks up the coffee cup instead. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes, over the coffee cup, are staring intently at the backyard. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. The shades up. No one moving. The rope-tied trunk still sits in the bedroom. To the left we see the basket lowering with the dog in it. We HEAR the woman WHISTLING an aria. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP His eyes stray in an upward direction as he puts down the coffee cup. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The CAMERA PANS UP past the woman lowering the dog, up to the roof where one of the sunbathers can be seen sitting up, rubbing her body with sun tan oil. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes moves down again. Abstractedly his hand strays toward the piece of bacon. He picks it up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. We are now aware that the salesman is now in his living room, lying out of sight on the sofa, because the smoke from a newly lighted cigar is starting to ascend toward the ceiling of his room. Stella's voice is heard calling out from the kitchen: STELLA'S VOICE He'd better get that trunk out of there before is starts to leak. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Again the bacon stops before is reaches Jeff's mouth. He puts it down on the plate again, as his eyes move slightly toward the left. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet outfit, is hanging up a small wash on a clothes line. It consists mostly of lingerie. She is doing her inevitable leg practice at the same time. THE CAMERA PANS OVER SUDDENLY TO Thorwald's apartment, and except for the smoke rising from the unseen sofa, there is no activity. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff seems to be getting a bit listless, or bored, by constantly watching Thorwald's apartment. His eyes sort of stray around the neighborhood, and end up looking toward: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The newlywed's apartment. Shade down, business as usual. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles affectionately, and starts to turn his eyes away; but something startles him, and he looks quickly back. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The shade suddenly going up in the newlywed's apartment. The young husband leans his hands on the windowsill, and looks out. He is wearing only his pajama bottoms, because of the heat, and we see that he is a well-muscled, attractive young man. He looks around with some satisfaction. He turns at the sound of a woman's voice behind him. GIRL'S VOICE H-a-a-r-r-e-e... He turns his head, is thoughtful for a brief moment, then he pulls down the shade. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP His smile almost becomes a private chuckle. Stella's abrupt voice breaks in urgently: STELLA'S VOICE Look! Look -- Mr. Jefferies! Jeff's head snaps toward the center of his window. Stella has appeared behind his wheelchair. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Two men wearing tan coveralls are standing outside Thorwald's door. One of them carries a clipboard. Suddenly Thorwald is seen sitting up on the living room sofa. His hair is disheveled and he is unshaved. He stands up, and moves toward the door. He opens it, and after a short exchange of dialogue, he admits the two men, leaving the door open behind them. He leads the two man across the living room to the bedroom. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Stella and Jeff watching intently. He is feeling down alongside his wheelchair for his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT A close view shows the two man carrying the trunk across the living room toward the corridor. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars quickly. JEFF (Agitated) I thought Doyle would get here before the trunk went -- or I'd have called the police. (To Stella) Now we're going to lose it. Stella moves toward the door quickly. Jeff turns quickly over his shoulder to watch her. She is already going up the steps. JEFF Stella, don't do anything reckless! As Stella goes out the door, she calls back: STELLA I'm just going to get the name of their truck! JEFF (Up) I'll watch the alleyway -- in case it goes that way. We hear nothing from Stella, but the sound of her heavy tread down the hallway stairs. Jeff returns to Thorwald. He eases himself back into the shadows a bit and then raises his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT Jeff concentrates his attention on the alley-way that leads to the street. Just normal traffic. The binoculars swing to Thorwald apartment. The salesman is now at the telephone. He has picked up the receiver, and proceeds to dial 221. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP The binoculars still up to Jeff's face. Under them his mouth moves, as if he's talking to himself. JEFF Long Distance. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT The salesman speaks some words to the operator. Placing the call. As he does this, he reaches with his other hand for a nearly bottle, and working the cork out with one hand, he pours a stiff drink into a tumbler. He drinks it as soon as he finishes talking with the operator. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars a little, and takes a normal eye sight on the alleyway. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Pulling across to the far side of the street we see the hood and cab of a freight truck. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff quickly puts the glasses up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT By the time the binoculars are up, another truck has crossed from the left. In momentarily blocks out the side of our freight truck. By the time the two trucks part, we can only see the back half of the freight truck before it pulls out of sight. Jeff is only able to read the words "FREIGHT LINES". The binoculars are held for a moment until we see a puffing and blowing Stella arrive at the opening of the alleyway. She looks toward the front of Thorwald's apartment house. And by her attitude we can see that there is no truck outside. She looks about her for a moment. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars, discouraged. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT The figure of Stella is seen, looking up toward Jeff's apartment, and arms outspread in a helpless gesture. LAP DISSOLVE TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT SHOOTING TOWARDS the big window, with the neighborhood beyond, Jeff is as usual seated in his wheelchair on the left of the window, but now turned toward a newcomer. The second man is standing near the divan looking out the window with the binoculars. This newcomer is POLICE DETECTIVE LIEUTENANT THOMAS J. DOYLE, the man Jeff phoned earlier in the day. He is an intelligent-appearing, well-dressed modern detective. He has a sense of humor. He lowers the glasses, and turns to Jeff. DOYLE You didn't see the killing, or the body? How do you know there was a murder? JEFF Because everything that man's done has been suspicious. Trips at night in the rain, saws, knives, trunks with rope, and a wife that isn't there any more. DOYLE I'll admit it all has a mysterious sound -- but is could mean a number of different things. Murder is the least likely. JEFF Go ahead, Doyle -- tell me he's an unemployed magician -- amusing the neighborhood with sleight-of-hand. Doyle paces a little. DOYLE It's too stupid and obvious a way to murder -- in full view of fifty windows -- and then sit over there -- (He points) -- smoking a cigar -- waiting for the police to pick him up. JEFF Well, officer -- do your duty. DOYLE You've got a lot to lean about homicide, Jeff. Morons have committed murder so shrewdly that it took a hundred trained police minds to catch them. That salesman wouldn't just knock off his wife after dinner, toss her in a trunk and put her in storage. JEFF I'll bet it's been done. DOYLE Almost everything's been done -- under panic. But this is a thousand to one shot. That man's still sitting around his apartment; he isn't panicked. JEFF (A pause) You think I made all this up? DOYLE I think you saw something -- that probably has a very simple explanation. JEFF For instance? DOYLE (Shrugs) His wife took a trip. JEFF She -- was -- an -- invalid! DOYLE You told me. (Looks at watch) I've got to run, Jeff. JEFF All right -- you don't believe me. Doyle saunters toward steps, picking up his hat on the way. Stops. DOYLE I -- uh -- won't report it to the Department. Let me poke into a little on my own. No point in you getting any ridiculous publicity. JEFF (Coldly) Thanks. DOYLE We know the wife is gone. I'll see if I can find out where. JEFF Do that. He goes up the steps to the door, putting on his hat. He pauses his hand on the door knob. DOYLE You have any headaches lately? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers, showing only the slightest irritation. JEFF Not 'til you showed up. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Doyle, still at the door: DOYLE Uh-huh. Well, it'll wear off in time -- along with the hallucinations. See you around. He starts to go out the door, and closes it behind him. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT From Doyle's viewpoint. Jeff lifts his hand in a feeble parting gesture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Before the door has completely closed, Doyle opens it again, and looks in. DOYLE By the way what happened to your leg? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP JEFF I was jaywalking. DOYLE'S VOICE (O.S.) Where? JEFF (With nonchalance) The Indianapolis Speedway. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP The door starts to close again, as if Doyle considered Jeff's answer quite reasonable. Then the door pops open and Doyle's head comes in, a surprised expression across his face. DOYLE During the race? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers with a straight face. JEFF Yup. It sure stopped traffic. We don't see Doyle again, but only HEAR the sharp slam of the DOOR off. Jeff chuckles. Then he turns back to the window. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's attention is drawn to something in the yard below. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The little dog is busily scratching away at Thorwald's pet flower bed. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles mischievously. Suddenly his face changes as he sees: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald coming out of his basement door, carrying a watering can. He fills it from a nearby faucet. He does not notice the little dog's destructive activities. When the watering can is filled, he straightens up, turns toward the flower bed. He stops for the briefest moment, when he sees the dog. He walks to the dog, gently lifts him out of the garden, and giving him a friendly little pat, sends him off. He proceeds to patiently brush back the disturbed earth, and then begins his watering. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is frankly puzzled by the salesman's friendly attitude toward the dog. He looks off in another direction, as he catches of: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Doyle, who has appeared, at the street opening. The detective is surveying the front of the apartment building where Thorwald lives. A paper seller behind him offers to sell him a paper. Doyle isn't interested. As Doyle saunters forward toward the salesman house, the scene: LAP DISSOLVES TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Doyle is nonchalantly leaning up against the side board, with a highball in one hand. Jeff has turned his chair around from the window to face him. DOYLE He has a six months lease, and has used up a little over five and a half months of it. (Takes a sip of drink) Quiet. Drinks, but not to drunkenness. Pays his bill promptly, with money earned as a consume jewelry salesman -- wholesale. Keeps to himself, and none of the neighbors got close to him, or his wife. JEFF I think they missed their chance with her. DOYLE (Studies drink) She never left the apartment -- JEFF (Interrupting) Then where is she -- in the ice box? DOYLE (Continues) -- until yesterday morning. JEFF (Alert) What time? DOYLE Six ayem. Jeff looks thoughtful a moment, and then says, with a touch of discouragement: JEFF I think that's about the time I fell asleep. DOYLE Too bad. The Thorwalds were just leaving the apartment house at that time. He puts down his drink, and strolls toward the window, looking out. THE CAMERA MOVES IN slightly to tighten the shot. DOYLE Feel a little foolish? JEFF Not yet. Doyle becomes interested in watching something out the window. Unconsciously he smooths out his coat and tie. He even smiles somewhat secretly to himself at what he sees. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet costume, practicing her dance on the outside balcony. She is exciting and desirable. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - TIGHT TWO SHOT Jeff notices Doyle's interest. JEFF How's your wife? Startled at being observed, Doyle moves quickly away from the window, affecting nonchalance. THE CAMERA MOVES BACK as Doyle returns to his drink. Jeff smiles at catching Doyle enjoying Miss Torso. DOYLE Oh -- oh, she's fine. (Not too convincing) Just fine. He tosses off the rest of the drink, and his movement is almost a comment. Jeff's face grows serious. JEFF Who said they left then? DOYLE Who left -- where? JEFF The Thorwalds -- at six in the morning? Doyle quickly collects his thoughts, and gets back to the case at hand. DOYLE The building superintendent, and two tenants. Flat statements -- no hesitation. And they all jibed to the letter. The Thorwalds were leaving for the railroad station. JEFF Now how could anybody guess that? They had, perhaps, signs on their luggage, "Grand Central Or Bust!"? DOYLE (Sighs) The superintendent met Thorwald coming back. He said Thorwald told him he had just put his wife on the train for the country. JEFF A very convenient guy -- this superintendent. Have you checked his bank deposits lately? DOYLE Jeff -- huh? JEFF (Sharply) Well -- what good is his information?!! It's a second-hand version of an unsupported statement by the murderer himself -- Thorwald! Anybody actually see the wife get on the train? DOYLE I hate to remind you -- but this all started because you said she was murdered. Now

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you ever have any problems? LISA (Murmurs, kissing him) I have one now. JEFF So do I. LISA (Kissing) Tell me about it. JEFF (Slight pause) Why would a man leave his apartment three times, on a rainy night, with a suitcase? And come back three times? LISA He likes the way his wife welcomes him home. JEFF Not that salesman's wife. And why didn't he go to work today? LISA Homework. It's more interesting. JEFF What's interesting about a butcher's knife and a small saw wrapped up in a newspaper? LISA Nothing, thank heaven. JEFF (Looking again) Why hasn't he gone into his wife's bedroom all day? LISA I wouldn't dare answer that. JEFF (After pause) Lisa -- there's something terribly wrong. She gives up trying to interest him in romance, and moves back from the embrace. THE CAMERA PULL BACK. LISA And I'm afraid it's with me. Lisa stands, straightens out her dress, stretches a little then she turns to the divan, apparently not too interested in his observation about the salesman's life. JEFF (Looks at Lisa) What do you think? LISA (Without returning his look) Something too frightful to utter. Jeff is thoughtful for a moment, then he relaxes and smiles a little. He turns to the window to look out again. Lisa exits the picture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa stretches herself out on the divan. Her head rest on the cushion at the far end, and she instinctively falls into an attractive pose. However, her expression is disturbed as she watches Jeff. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP He stares intently out the window. JEFF He went out a few minutes ago -- in his undershirt -- and he hasn't come back yet. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Lisa weighs this information, trying to make some sense out of it. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns his eyes from the salesman's apartment, and looks down reflectively. He looks up again, and then his eyes catches sight of something. He leans forward slightly. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso is lying, face down, on her divan bed. The only light in the apartment is from a reading lamp. She is reading a book held in one hand, while eating a sandwich in another. Her back is bare, and all she wears is a pair of brief dark blue shorts. At one point, she lifts her torso up slightly to brush crumbs out from beneath her. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP He looks away from Miss Torso, thoughtfully. JEFF You know -- that would be terrible job to tackle. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa leans forward and looks out the window to see what Jeff is referring to. She turns back to him with a blank stare. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns and looks at her, quite unaware of her surprise at his comment. JEFF How would you begin to cut up a human body? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa sits bolt upright on the divan. She reaches back quickly and pulls on the overhead light. At that moment the songwriter returns to his composing. We can see him over Lisa's shoulder. He is beginning his song again, and it has taken on new fullness and melody. Although it is not complete, it is farther along then before, and he plays his theme a number of different ways, trying to move it note by note to its completion. Lisa just stares at Jeff for a moment. LISA Jeff -- I'll be honest with you -- you're beginning to scare me a little. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is staring out of the window again. Over this we hear Lisa's voice: LISA (Quietly insistent) Jeff -- did you hear what I said? You're beginning to -- Jeff puts out a restraining hand. JEFF (Interrupting) Be quiet! Shhh! (Pause) He's coming back! EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT At last the salesman is seen coming along the corridor. He does not wear shirt, but only an undershirt. Slung over one shoulder, with his arm through is, is a large coil of sturdy rope. He goes through the living room into the bedroom. He does not put on the bedroom lights. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff reaches quickly for his binoculars, and trains them on the salesman's apartment. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT As seen though the binoculars, the salesman comes out of the bedroom, to the kitchen, where he gets a carving knife. He turns around and goes back to the bedroom. The lights go on behind the draw shades, after a short moment. The dim shadow of the salesman is seen moving around the room. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa, still stretched out on the divan looking at Jeff, suddenly sits upright and then getting up from the divan, mover over to Jeff, THE CAMERA GOING WITH her. In a sudden surprise move, she swings his chair completely around so that his back is to the window. He drops the binoculars into his lap in surprise. THE CAMERA MOVES IN as Lisa leans over Jeff, gripping both sides of his chair LISA (sharply) Jeff -- if you could only see yourself. JEFF Now, Lisa -- LISA (Abruptly) Sitting around, looking out a window to kill time, is one thing -- but doing it the way you are -- (She gestures) -- with, with binoculars, and with wild opinions about every little movement you see -- is, is diseased! JEFF Do you think I consider this recreation? LISA I don't know what you consider it -- but if you don't stop it, I'm getting out of here. JEFF You'd better before you catch the disease! LISA (Insistent) What is it you're looking for? JEFF I want to find out what's wrong with the salesman's wife. Does that make me sound like a madman? LISA What makes you think something's wrong with her? LISA A lot of things. She's an invalid who needs constant care -- and yet the husband nor anyone else has been in there all day. LISA Maybe she died. JEFF Where's the doctor -- the undertakers? LISA She could be under sedatives, sleeping. (Looks up) He's in the room now. Jeff tries to turn around, but she won't let the chair move. JEFF Lisa, please! LISA There's nothing to see. JEFF There is -- I've seen things through that window! Bickering, family fights, mysterious trips at night, knives, saws, rope -- and since last evening, not a sight or sound of his wife! Now you tell me where she is and what she's doing! LISA Maybe he's leaving his wife. I don't know, and I don't care. Lots of people have saws, knives and ropes around their houses. Lots of men don't speak to their wives all day. Lots of wives nag, and men hate them, and trouble starts -- but very, very, very few of them end up in murder -- if that's what you're thinking. JEFF It's pretty hard to stay away from that word isn't is? LISA You could see all the things he did, couldn't you? JEFF What are you getting at? LISA You could see that he did because he had the shades in his apartment up, and walked along the corridor, and the streets and the backyard? JEFF Yeah. LISA Jeff, do you think a murderer would let you see all that? That he shouldn't keep his shades down and hide behind them? JEFF That's where he's being clever. Acting nonchalant. LISA And that's where you're not being clever. He wouldn't parade his crime in front of the open shades. She turns the wheelchair slightly to her left so that he can see the newlyweds' apartment. LISA (Pointing) For all you know -- there's something a lot more sinister going on behind those shades. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT The drawn shades of the newlyweds' apartment. A dim light burning behind them. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff looks, turns back to her, trying to suppress a chuckle. JEFF No comment. LISA Don't you see how silly you're being? JEFF Okay, Lisa -- probably you're right. He's probably in the bedroom now, entertaining his wife with the indian rope trick. I'll admit to criminal insanity. Now when do I start the cure? Lisa half looks up and out the window. She opens her mouth to answer, but a new look overtakes her face. It is concern, surprise, and a little shock. Jeff sees the change, is sobered, and quickly turns the chair around. He looks out the window, using his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT The shades in the bedroom are now up. Both beds are empty, and stripped of their linen, the mattresses thrown up over the end of the beds. The salesman, sweating heavily, stands over a large, square trunk in the center of the room. It is stoutly bound by the heavy rope we previously saw him bring into the apartment. He wipes one forearm across his brow, and then heads for the kitchen. In the kitchen, he produces a bottle, pours himself two or three straight drinks, then leans with a display of exhaustion against the kitchen sink. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff lowers the glasses. His look is sober. Lisa stands behind him, one hand on the back of the wheelchair. She, too, is serious. THE CAMERA MOVES IN until Lisa's head fills the screen. She says, slowly: LISA Let's start from the beginning again, Jeff. Tell me everything you saw -- and what you think it means. She is still staring out the window, as the scene FADES OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated in the dark, his face lit by the faint glow from the distant street. He is looking out of the window tensely, as THE CAMERA MOVES IN, until he is in big profile. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT From Jeff's viewpoint, all the windows are dark. The couple are sleeping on the fire escape. The salesman's apartment is dark as well. Suddenly a match flares, and we see the salesman light a cigar. The flame of the match illuminates his face for a moment. When is dies out, we see just the glow of the cigar burning. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP The CAMERA is now facing Jeff. We see that his left hand rests on the telephone receiver which is close to him. The phone starts to RING, but makes only the slightest sound, as he instantly picks it up. As he talks, in a low voice, he keeps his eyes on the salesman's apartment. JEFF Yeah? INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP We get an impression of Sixth Avenue behind Lisa at the phone. Lisa also talks in a low, quiet voice. LISA The name on the second floor rear mailbox reads Mr. And Mrs. Lars, that's L-A-R-S, Lars Thorwald. JEFF (Filter) What's the apartment house number? LISA 125 West Ninth Street. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff, still looks toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Thanks, Lisa. INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa smilingly says: LISA Okay, chief. What's my next assignment. JEFF To get on home. LISA All right -- but what's he doing now? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff is still looking toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Just sitting in the living room. In the dark. And he hasn't gone near the bedroom. Now get some sleep. Goodnight. He puts the receiver down, and resumes his vigil. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT All we can see is the glow of the salesman's cigar. FADE OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated by the window in his wheelchair. He is talking on the telephone while his eyes are still on the neighborhood. There is a touch of urgency in his voice. JEFF Look, Doyle -- it's just one of those things I can't tell you on the phone. You have to be here, and see the whole set-up. The CAMERA PULLS BACK slightly as Stella emerges from the kitchen. She is carrying a tray with breakfast on it. Eggs, bacon, toast and coffee. JEFF It's probably nothing important -- just a little neighborhood murder, that's all. As a matter of fact, I did say "murder". Stella squeezes past the right side of Jeff, and places the food tray on a windowseat in front of him. She peers out cautiously toward Thorwald's apartment for a moment. Then she squeezes back, moving to the sideboard against which leans a small table on an adjustable stand. JEFF My only thought was to throw a little business your way. A good detective, I reasoned, would jump at the chance to detect. Stella returns with the table, and sets it up so that it is across Jeff's lap. She gets the tray of food pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment. Then she places the breakfast on the tray table in front of Jeff. He has moved back a little to avoid getting the phone cable tangled in the food and dishes. JEFF Well, I usually took my best pictures on my day off. (nods) Okay, Doyle -- soon as you can. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP He hangs up. Stella takes the phone and puts it down for him. He looks at the breakfast, reaches for a knife and fork. JEFF Stella, I -- I can't tell you what a welcome sight this is. No wonder your husband's still in love with you. STELLA Police? JEFF (Pauses in cutting food) Huh? STELLA You called the police? JEFF Oh. Well, yes and no. It wasn't an official call. He's just a friend. (Almost to himself) An old, ornery friend. He begins eating, appreciatively. She moves behind his chair, pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment again. Jeff is just lifting a piece of bacon to his lips when Stella speaks. STELLA (Half to herself) Now just where do you suppose he cut her up? The hand carrying the bacon to Jeff's mouth hesitates for a moment. STELLA (Answering herself) Oh -- of course! In the bathtub. That's the only place he could wash away the blood. The hand holding the bacon moves back to the plate. Jeff just stares ahead. Stella turns and walks into the kitchen. Jeff pushes the food away, and picks up the coffee cup instead. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes, over the coffee cup, are staring intently at the backyard. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. The shades up. No one moving. The rope-tied trunk still sits in the bedroom. To the left we see the basket lowering with the dog in it. We HEAR the woman WHISTLING an aria. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP His eyes stray in an upward direction as he puts down the coffee cup. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The CAMERA PANS UP past the woman lowering the dog, up to the roof where one of the sunbathers can be seen sitting up, rubbing her body with sun tan oil. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes moves down again. Abstractedly his hand strays toward the piece of bacon. He picks it up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. We are now aware that the salesman is now in his living room, lying out of sight on the sofa, because the smoke from a newly lighted cigar is starting to ascend toward the ceiling of his room. Stella's voice is heard calling out from the kitchen: STELLA'S VOICE He'd better get that trunk out of there before is starts to leak. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Again the bacon stops before is reaches Jeff's mouth. He puts it down on the plate again, as his eyes move slightly toward the left. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet outfit, is hanging up a small wash on a clothes line. It consists mostly of lingerie. She is doing her inevitable leg practice at the same time. THE CAMERA PANS OVER SUDDENLY TO Thorwald's apartment, and except for the smoke rising from the unseen sofa, there is no activity. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff seems to be getting a bit listless, or bored, by constantly watching Thorwald's apartment. His eyes sort of stray around the neighborhood, and end up looking toward: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The newlywed's apartment. Shade down, business as usual. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles affectionately, and starts to turn his eyes away; but something startles him, and he looks quickly back. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The shade suddenly going up in the newlywed's apartment. The young husband leans his hands on the windowsill, and looks out. He is wearing only his pajama bottoms, because of the heat, and we see that he is a well-muscled, attractive young man. He looks around with some satisfaction. He turns at the sound of a woman's voice behind him. GIRL'S VOICE H-a-a-r-r-e-e... He turns his head, is thoughtful for a brief moment, then he pulls down the shade. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP His smile almost becomes a private chuckle. Stella's abrupt voice breaks in urgently: STELLA'S VOICE Look! Look -- Mr. Jefferies! Jeff's head snaps toward the center of his window. Stella has appeared behind his wheelchair. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Two men wearing tan coveralls are standing outside Thorwald's door. One of them carries a clipboard. Suddenly Thorwald is seen sitting up on the living room sofa. His hair is disheveled and he is unshaved. He stands up, and moves toward the door. He opens it, and after a short exchange of dialogue, he admits the two men, leaving the door open behind them. He leads the two man across the living room to the bedroom. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Stella and Jeff watching intently. He is feeling down alongside his wheelchair for his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT A close view shows the two man carrying the trunk across the living room toward the corridor. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars quickly. JEFF (Agitated) I thought Doyle would get here before the trunk went -- or I'd have called the police. (To Stella) Now we're going to lose it. Stella moves toward the door quickly. Jeff turns quickly over his shoulder to watch her. She is already going up the steps. JEFF Stella, don't do anything reckless! As Stella goes out the door, she calls back: STELLA I'm just going to get the name of their truck! JEFF (Up) I'll watch the alleyway -- in case it goes that way. We hear nothing from Stella, but the sound of her heavy tread down the hallway stairs. Jeff returns to Thorwald. He eases himself back into the shadows a bit and then raises his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT Jeff concentrates his attention on the alley-way that leads to the street. Just normal traffic. The binoculars swing to Thorwald apartment. The salesman is now at the telephone. He has picked up the receiver, and proceeds to dial 221. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP The binoculars still up to Jeff's face. Under them his mouth moves, as if he's talking to himself. JEFF Long Distance. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT The salesman speaks some words to the operator. Placing the call. As he does this, he reaches with his other hand for a nearly bottle, and working the cork out with one hand, he pours a stiff drink into a tumbler. He drinks it as soon as he finishes talking with the operator. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars a little, and takes a normal eye sight on the alleyway. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Pulling across to the far side of the street we see the hood and cab of a freight truck. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff quickly puts the glasses up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT By the time the binoculars are up, another truck has crossed from the left. In momentarily blocks out the side of our freight truck. By the time the two trucks part, we can only see the back half of the freight truck before it pulls out of sight. Jeff is only able to read the words "FREIGHT LINES". The binoculars are held for a moment until we see a puffing and blowing Stella arrive at the opening of the alleyway. She looks toward the front of Thorwald's apartment house. And by her attitude we can see that there is no truck outside. She looks about her for a moment. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars, discouraged. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT The figure of Stella is seen, looking up toward Jeff's apartment, and arms outspread in a helpless gesture. LAP DISSOLVE TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT SHOOTING TOWARDS the big window, with the neighborhood beyond, Jeff is as usual seated in his wheelchair on the left of the window, but now turned toward a newcomer. The second man is standing near the divan looking out the window with the binoculars. This newcomer is POLICE DETECTIVE LIEUTENANT THOMAS J. DOYLE, the man Jeff phoned earlier in the day. He is an intelligent-appearing, well-dressed modern detective. He has a sense of humor. He lowers the glasses, and turns to Jeff. DOYLE You didn't see the killing, or the body? How do you know there was a murder? JEFF Because everything that man's done has been suspicious. Trips at night in the rain, saws, knives, trunks with rope, and a wife that isn't there any more. DOYLE I'll admit it all has a mysterious sound -- but is could mean a number of different things. Murder is the least likely. JEFF Go ahead, Doyle -- tell me he's an unemployed magician -- amusing the neighborhood with sleight-of-hand. Doyle paces a little. DOYLE It's too stupid and obvious a way to murder -- in full view of fifty windows -- and then sit over there -- (He points) -- smoking a cigar -- waiting for the police to pick him up. JEFF Well, officer -- do your duty. DOYLE You've got a lot to lean about homicide, Jeff. Morons have committed murder so shrewdly that it took a hundred trained police minds to catch them. That salesman wouldn't just knock off his wife after dinner, toss her in a trunk and put her in storage. JEFF I'll bet it's been done. DOYLE Almost everything's been done -- under panic. But this is a thousand to one shot. That man's still sitting around his apartment; he isn't panicked. JEFF (A pause) You think I made all this up? DOYLE I think you saw something -- that probably has a very simple explanation. JEFF For instance? DOYLE (Shrugs) His wife took a trip. JEFF She -- was -- an -- invalid! DOYLE You told me. (Looks at watch) I've got to run, Jeff. JEFF All right -- you don't believe me. Doyle saunters toward steps, picking up his hat on the way. Stops. DOYLE I -- uh -- won't report it to the Department. Let me poke into a little on my own. No point in you getting any ridiculous publicity. JEFF (Coldly) Thanks. DOYLE We know the wife is gone. I'll see if I can find out where. JEFF Do that. He goes up the steps to the door, putting on his hat. He pauses his hand on the door knob. DOYLE You have any headaches lately? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers, showing only the slightest irritation. JEFF Not 'til you showed up. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Doyle, still at the door: DOYLE Uh-huh. Well, it'll wear off in time -- along with the hallucinations. See you around. He starts to go out the door, and closes it behind him. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT From Doyle's viewpoint. Jeff lifts his hand in a feeble parting gesture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Before the door has completely closed, Doyle opens it again, and looks in. DOYLE By the way what happened to your leg? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP JEFF I was jaywalking. DOYLE'S VOICE (O.S.) Where? JEFF (With nonchalance) The Indianapolis Speedway. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP The door starts to close again, as if Doyle considered Jeff's answer quite reasonable. Then the door pops open and Doyle's head comes in, a surprised expression across his face. DOYLE During the race? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers with a straight face. JEFF Yup. It sure stopped traffic. We don't see Doyle again, but only HEAR the sharp slam of the DOOR off. Jeff chuckles. Then he turns back to the window. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's attention is drawn to something in the yard below. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The little dog is busily scratching away at Thorwald's pet flower bed. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles mischievously. Suddenly his face changes as he sees: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald coming out of his basement door, carrying a watering can. He fills it from a nearby faucet. He does not notice the little dog's destructive activities. When the watering can is filled, he straightens up, turns toward the flower bed. He stops for the briefest moment, when he sees the dog. He walks to the dog, gently lifts him out of the garden, and giving him a friendly little pat, sends him off. He proceeds to patiently brush back the disturbed earth, and then begins his watering. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is frankly puzzled by the salesman's friendly attitude toward the dog. He looks off in another direction, as he catches of: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Doyle, who has appeared, at the street opening. The detective is surveying the front of the apartment building where Thorwald lives. A paper seller behind him offers to sell him a paper. Doyle isn't interested. As Doyle saunters forward toward the salesman house, the scene: LAP DISSOLVES TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Doyle is nonchalantly leaning up against the side board, with a highball in one hand. Jeff has turned his chair around from the window to face him. DOYLE He has a six months lease, and has used up a little over five and a half months of it. (Takes a sip of drink) Quiet. Drinks, but not to drunkenness. Pays his bill promptly, with money earned as a consume jewelry salesman -- wholesale. Keeps to himself, and none of the neighbors got close to him, or his wife. JEFF I think they missed their chance with her. DOYLE (Studies drink) She never left the apartment -- JEFF (Interrupting) Then where is she -- in the ice box? DOYLE (Continues) -- until yesterday morning. JEFF (Alert) What time? DOYLE Six ayem. Jeff looks thoughtful a moment, and then says, with a touch of discouragement: JEFF I think that's about the time I fell asleep. DOYLE Too bad. The Thorwalds were just leaving the apartment house at that time. He puts down his drink, and strolls toward the window, looking out. THE CAMERA MOVES IN slightly to tighten the shot. DOYLE Feel a little foolish? JEFF Not yet. Doyle becomes interested in watching something out the window. Unconsciously he smooths out his coat and tie. He even smiles somewhat secretly to himself at what he sees. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet costume, practicing her dance on the outside balcony. She is exciting and desirable. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - TIGHT TWO SHOT Jeff notices Doyle's interest. JEFF How's your wife? Startled at being observed, Doyle moves quickly away from the window, affecting nonchalance. THE CAMERA MOVES BACK as Doyle returns to his drink. Jeff smiles at catching Doyle enjoying Miss Torso. DOYLE Oh -- oh, she's fine. (Not too convincing) Just fine. He tosses off the rest of the drink, and his movement is almost a comment. Jeff's face grows serious. JEFF Who said they left then? DOYLE Who left -- where? JEFF The Thorwalds -- at six in the morning? Doyle quickly collects his thoughts, and gets back to the case at hand. DOYLE The building superintendent, and two tenants. Flat statements -- no hesitation. And they all jibed to the letter. The Thorwalds were leaving for the railroad station. JEFF Now how could anybody guess that? They had, perhaps, signs on their luggage, "Grand Central Or Bust!"? DOYLE (Sighs) The superintendent met Thorwald coming back. He said Thorwald told him he had just put his wife on the train for the country. JEFF A very convenient guy -- this superintendent. Have you checked his bank deposits lately? DOYLE Jeff -- huh? JEFF (Sharply) Well -- what good is his information?!! It's a second-hand version of an unsupported statement by the murderer himself -- Thorwald! Anybody actually see the wife get on the train? DOYLE I hate to remind you -- but this all started because you said she was murdered. Now

only

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

you ever have any problems? LISA (Murmurs, kissing him) I have one now. JEFF So do I. LISA (Kissing) Tell me about it. JEFF (Slight pause) Why would a man leave his apartment three times, on a rainy night, with a suitcase? And come back three times? LISA He likes the way his wife welcomes him home. JEFF Not that salesman's wife. And why didn't he go to work today? LISA Homework. It's more interesting. JEFF What's interesting about a butcher's knife and a small saw wrapped up in a newspaper? LISA Nothing, thank heaven. JEFF (Looking again) Why hasn't he gone into his wife's bedroom all day? LISA I wouldn't dare answer that. JEFF (After pause) Lisa -- there's something terribly wrong. She gives up trying to interest him in romance, and moves back from the embrace. THE CAMERA PULL BACK. LISA And I'm afraid it's with me. Lisa stands, straightens out her dress, stretches a little then she turns to the divan, apparently not too interested in his observation about the salesman's life. JEFF (Looks at Lisa) What do you think? LISA (Without returning his look) Something too frightful to utter. Jeff is thoughtful for a moment, then he relaxes and smiles a little. He turns to the window to look out again. Lisa exits the picture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa stretches herself out on the divan. Her head rest on the cushion at the far end, and she instinctively falls into an attractive pose. However, her expression is disturbed as she watches Jeff. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP He stares intently out the window. JEFF He went out a few minutes ago -- in his undershirt -- and he hasn't come back yet. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Lisa weighs this information, trying to make some sense out of it. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns his eyes from the salesman's apartment, and looks down reflectively. He looks up again, and then his eyes catches sight of something. He leans forward slightly. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso is lying, face down, on her divan bed. The only light in the apartment is from a reading lamp. She is reading a book held in one hand, while eating a sandwich in another. Her back is bare, and all she wears is a pair of brief dark blue shorts. At one point, she lifts her torso up slightly to brush crumbs out from beneath her. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP He looks away from Miss Torso, thoughtfully. JEFF You know -- that would be terrible job to tackle. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa leans forward and looks out the window to see what Jeff is referring to. She turns back to him with a blank stare. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns and looks at her, quite unaware of her surprise at his comment. JEFF How would you begin to cut up a human body? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa sits bolt upright on the divan. She reaches back quickly and pulls on the overhead light. At that moment the songwriter returns to his composing. We can see him over Lisa's shoulder. He is beginning his song again, and it has taken on new fullness and melody. Although it is not complete, it is farther along then before, and he plays his theme a number of different ways, trying to move it note by note to its completion. Lisa just stares at Jeff for a moment. LISA Jeff -- I'll be honest with you -- you're beginning to scare me a little. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is staring out of the window again. Over this we hear Lisa's voice: LISA (Quietly insistent) Jeff -- did you hear what I said? You're beginning to -- Jeff puts out a restraining hand. JEFF (Interrupting) Be quiet! Shhh! (Pause) He's coming back! EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT At last the salesman is seen coming along the corridor. He does not wear shirt, but only an undershirt. Slung over one shoulder, with his arm through is, is a large coil of sturdy rope. He goes through the living room into the bedroom. He does not put on the bedroom lights. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff reaches quickly for his binoculars, and trains them on the salesman's apartment. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT As seen though the binoculars, the salesman comes out of the bedroom, to the kitchen, where he gets a carving knife. He turns around and goes back to the bedroom. The lights go on behind the draw shades, after a short moment. The dim shadow of the salesman is seen moving around the room. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa, still stretched out on the divan looking at Jeff, suddenly sits upright and then getting up from the divan, mover over to Jeff, THE CAMERA GOING WITH her. In a sudden surprise move, she swings his chair completely around so that his back is to the window. He drops the binoculars into his lap in surprise. THE CAMERA MOVES IN as Lisa leans over Jeff, gripping both sides of his chair LISA (sharply) Jeff -- if you could only see yourself. JEFF Now, Lisa -- LISA (Abruptly) Sitting around, looking out a window to kill time, is one thing -- but doing it the way you are -- (She gestures) -- with, with binoculars, and with wild opinions about every little movement you see -- is, is diseased! JEFF Do you think I consider this recreation? LISA I don't know what you consider it -- but if you don't stop it, I'm getting out of here. JEFF You'd better before you catch the disease! LISA (Insistent) What is it you're looking for? JEFF I want to find out what's wrong with the salesman's wife. Does that make me sound like a madman? LISA What makes you think something's wrong with her? LISA A lot of things. She's an invalid who needs constant care -- and yet the husband nor anyone else has been in there all day. LISA Maybe she died. JEFF Where's the doctor -- the undertakers? LISA She could be under sedatives, sleeping. (Looks up) He's in the room now. Jeff tries to turn around, but she won't let the chair move. JEFF Lisa, please! LISA There's nothing to see. JEFF There is -- I've seen things through that window! Bickering, family fights, mysterious trips at night, knives, saws, rope -- and since last evening, not a sight or sound of his wife! Now you tell me where she is and what she's doing! LISA Maybe he's leaving his wife. I don't know, and I don't care. Lots of people have saws, knives and ropes around their houses. Lots of men don't speak to their wives all day. Lots of wives nag, and men hate them, and trouble starts -- but very, very, very few of them end up in murder -- if that's what you're thinking. JEFF It's pretty hard to stay away from that word isn't is? LISA You could see all the things he did, couldn't you? JEFF What are you getting at? LISA You could see that he did because he had the shades in his apartment up, and walked along the corridor, and the streets and the backyard? JEFF Yeah. LISA Jeff, do you think a murderer would let you see all that? That he shouldn't keep his shades down and hide behind them? JEFF That's where he's being clever. Acting nonchalant. LISA And that's where you're not being clever. He wouldn't parade his crime in front of the open shades. She turns the wheelchair slightly to her left so that he can see the newlyweds' apartment. LISA (Pointing) For all you know -- there's something a lot more sinister going on behind those shades. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT The drawn shades of the newlyweds' apartment. A dim light burning behind them. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff looks, turns back to her, trying to suppress a chuckle. JEFF No comment. LISA Don't you see how silly you're being? JEFF Okay, Lisa -- probably you're right. He's probably in the bedroom now, entertaining his wife with the indian rope trick. I'll admit to criminal insanity. Now when do I start the cure? Lisa half looks up and out the window. She opens her mouth to answer, but a new look overtakes her face. It is concern, surprise, and a little shock. Jeff sees the change, is sobered, and quickly turns the chair around. He looks out the window, using his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT The shades in the bedroom are now up. Both beds are empty, and stripped of their linen, the mattresses thrown up over the end of the beds. The salesman, sweating heavily, stands over a large, square trunk in the center of the room. It is stoutly bound by the heavy rope we previously saw him bring into the apartment. He wipes one forearm across his brow, and then heads for the kitchen. In the kitchen, he produces a bottle, pours himself two or three straight drinks, then leans with a display of exhaustion against the kitchen sink. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff lowers the glasses. His look is sober. Lisa stands behind him, one hand on the back of the wheelchair. She, too, is serious. THE CAMERA MOVES IN until Lisa's head fills the screen. She says, slowly: LISA Let's start from the beginning again, Jeff. Tell me everything you saw -- and what you think it means. She is still staring out the window, as the scene FADES OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated in the dark, his face lit by the faint glow from the distant street. He is looking out of the window tensely, as THE CAMERA MOVES IN, until he is in big profile. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT From Jeff's viewpoint, all the windows are dark. The couple are sleeping on the fire escape. The salesman's apartment is dark as well. Suddenly a match flares, and we see the salesman light a cigar. The flame of the match illuminates his face for a moment. When is dies out, we see just the glow of the cigar burning. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP The CAMERA is now facing Jeff. We see that his left hand rests on the telephone receiver which is close to him. The phone starts to RING, but makes only the slightest sound, as he instantly picks it up. As he talks, in a low voice, he keeps his eyes on the salesman's apartment. JEFF Yeah? INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP We get an impression of Sixth Avenue behind Lisa at the phone. Lisa also talks in a low, quiet voice. LISA The name on the second floor rear mailbox reads Mr. And Mrs. Lars, that's L-A-R-S, Lars Thorwald. JEFF (Filter) What's the apartment house number? LISA 125 West Ninth Street. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff, still looks toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Thanks, Lisa. INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa smilingly says: LISA Okay, chief. What's my next assignment. JEFF To get on home. LISA All right -- but what's he doing now? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff is still looking toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Just sitting in the living room. In the dark. And he hasn't gone near the bedroom. Now get some sleep. Goodnight. He puts the receiver down, and resumes his vigil. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT All we can see is the glow of the salesman's cigar. FADE OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated by the window in his wheelchair. He is talking on the telephone while his eyes are still on the neighborhood. There is a touch of urgency in his voice. JEFF Look, Doyle -- it's just one of those things I can't tell you on the phone. You have to be here, and see the whole set-up. The CAMERA PULLS BACK slightly as Stella emerges from the kitchen. She is carrying a tray with breakfast on it. Eggs, bacon, toast and coffee. JEFF It's probably nothing important -- just a little neighborhood murder, that's all. As a matter of fact, I did say "murder". Stella squeezes past the right side of Jeff, and places the food tray on a windowseat in front of him. She peers out cautiously toward Thorwald's apartment for a moment. Then she squeezes back, moving to the sideboard against which leans a small table on an adjustable stand. JEFF My only thought was to throw a little business your way. A good detective, I reasoned, would jump at the chance to detect. Stella returns with the table, and sets it up so that it is across Jeff's lap. She gets the tray of food pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment. Then she places the breakfast on the tray table in front of Jeff. He has moved back a little to avoid getting the phone cable tangled in the food and dishes. JEFF Well, I usually took my best pictures on my day off. (nods) Okay, Doyle -- soon as you can. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP He hangs up. Stella takes the phone and puts it down for him. He looks at the breakfast, reaches for a knife and fork. JEFF Stella, I -- I can't tell you what a welcome sight this is. No wonder your husband's still in love with you. STELLA Police? JEFF (Pauses in cutting food) Huh? STELLA You called the police? JEFF Oh. Well, yes and no. It wasn't an official call. He's just a friend. (Almost to himself) An old, ornery friend. He begins eating, appreciatively. She moves behind his chair, pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment again. Jeff is just lifting a piece of bacon to his lips when Stella speaks. STELLA (Half to herself) Now just where do you suppose he cut her up? The hand carrying the bacon to Jeff's mouth hesitates for a moment. STELLA (Answering herself) Oh -- of course! In the bathtub. That's the only place he could wash away the blood. The hand holding the bacon moves back to the plate. Jeff just stares ahead. Stella turns and walks into the kitchen. Jeff pushes the food away, and picks up the coffee cup instead. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes, over the coffee cup, are staring intently at the backyard. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. The shades up. No one moving. The rope-tied trunk still sits in the bedroom. To the left we see the basket lowering with the dog in it. We HEAR the woman WHISTLING an aria. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP His eyes stray in an upward direction as he puts down the coffee cup. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The CAMERA PANS UP past the woman lowering the dog, up to the roof where one of the sunbathers can be seen sitting up, rubbing her body with sun tan oil. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes moves down again. Abstractedly his hand strays toward the piece of bacon. He picks it up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. We are now aware that the salesman is now in his living room, lying out of sight on the sofa, because the smoke from a newly lighted cigar is starting to ascend toward the ceiling of his room. Stella's voice is heard calling out from the kitchen: STELLA'S VOICE He'd better get that trunk out of there before is starts to leak. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Again the bacon stops before is reaches Jeff's mouth. He puts it down on the plate again, as his eyes move slightly toward the left. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet outfit, is hanging up a small wash on a clothes line. It consists mostly of lingerie. She is doing her inevitable leg practice at the same time. THE CAMERA PANS OVER SUDDENLY TO Thorwald's apartment, and except for the smoke rising from the unseen sofa, there is no activity. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff seems to be getting a bit listless, or bored, by constantly watching Thorwald's apartment. His eyes sort of stray around the neighborhood, and end up looking toward: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The newlywed's apartment. Shade down, business as usual. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles affectionately, and starts to turn his eyes away; but something startles him, and he looks quickly back. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The shade suddenly going up in the newlywed's apartment. The young husband leans his hands on the windowsill, and looks out. He is wearing only his pajama bottoms, because of the heat, and we see that he is a well-muscled, attractive young man. He looks around with some satisfaction. He turns at the sound of a woman's voice behind him. GIRL'S VOICE H-a-a-r-r-e-e... He turns his head, is thoughtful for a brief moment, then he pulls down the shade. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP His smile almost becomes a private chuckle. Stella's abrupt voice breaks in urgently: STELLA'S VOICE Look! Look -- Mr. Jefferies! Jeff's head snaps toward the center of his window. Stella has appeared behind his wheelchair. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Two men wearing tan coveralls are standing outside Thorwald's door. One of them carries a clipboard. Suddenly Thorwald is seen sitting up on the living room sofa. His hair is disheveled and he is unshaved. He stands up, and moves toward the door. He opens it, and after a short exchange of dialogue, he admits the two men, leaving the door open behind them. He leads the two man across the living room to the bedroom. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Stella and Jeff watching intently. He is feeling down alongside his wheelchair for his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT A close view shows the two man carrying the trunk across the living room toward the corridor. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars quickly. JEFF (Agitated) I thought Doyle would get here before the trunk went -- or I'd have called the police. (To Stella) Now we're going to lose it. Stella moves toward the door quickly. Jeff turns quickly over his shoulder to watch her. She is already going up the steps. JEFF Stella, don't do anything reckless! As Stella goes out the door, she calls back: STELLA I'm just going to get the name of their truck! JEFF (Up) I'll watch the alleyway -- in case it goes that way. We hear nothing from Stella, but the sound of her heavy tread down the hallway stairs. Jeff returns to Thorwald. He eases himself back into the shadows a bit and then raises his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT Jeff concentrates his attention on the alley-way that leads to the street. Just normal traffic. The binoculars swing to Thorwald apartment. The salesman is now at the telephone. He has picked up the receiver, and proceeds to dial 221. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP The binoculars still up to Jeff's face. Under them his mouth moves, as if he's talking to himself. JEFF Long Distance. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT The salesman speaks some words to the operator. Placing the call. As he does this, he reaches with his other hand for a nearly bottle, and working the cork out with one hand, he pours a stiff drink into a tumbler. He drinks it as soon as he finishes talking with the operator. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars a little, and takes a normal eye sight on the alleyway. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Pulling across to the far side of the street we see the hood and cab of a freight truck. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff quickly puts the glasses up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT By the time the binoculars are up, another truck has crossed from the left. In momentarily blocks out the side of our freight truck. By the time the two trucks part, we can only see the back half of the freight truck before it pulls out of sight. Jeff is only able to read the words "FREIGHT LINES". The binoculars are held for a moment until we see a puffing and blowing Stella arrive at the opening of the alleyway. She looks toward the front of Thorwald's apartment house. And by her attitude we can see that there is no truck outside. She looks about her for a moment. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars, discouraged. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT The figure of Stella is seen, looking up toward Jeff's apartment, and arms outspread in a helpless gesture. LAP DISSOLVE TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT SHOOTING TOWARDS the big window, with the neighborhood beyond, Jeff is as usual seated in his wheelchair on the left of the window, but now turned toward a newcomer. The second man is standing near the divan looking out the window with the binoculars. This newcomer is POLICE DETECTIVE LIEUTENANT THOMAS J. DOYLE, the man Jeff phoned earlier in the day. He is an intelligent-appearing, well-dressed modern detective. He has a sense of humor. He lowers the glasses, and turns to Jeff. DOYLE You didn't see the killing, or the body? How do you know there was a murder? JEFF Because everything that man's done has been suspicious. Trips at night in the rain, saws, knives, trunks with rope, and a wife that isn't there any more. DOYLE I'll admit it all has a mysterious sound -- but is could mean a number of different things. Murder is the least likely. JEFF Go ahead, Doyle -- tell me he's an unemployed magician -- amusing the neighborhood with sleight-of-hand. Doyle paces a little. DOYLE It's too stupid and obvious a way to murder -- in full view of fifty windows -- and then sit over there -- (He points) -- smoking a cigar -- waiting for the police to pick him up. JEFF Well, officer -- do your duty. DOYLE You've got a lot to lean about homicide, Jeff. Morons have committed murder so shrewdly that it took a hundred trained police minds to catch them. That salesman wouldn't just knock off his wife after dinner, toss her in a trunk and put her in storage. JEFF I'll bet it's been done. DOYLE Almost everything's been done -- under panic. But this is a thousand to one shot. That man's still sitting around his apartment; he isn't panicked. JEFF (A pause) You think I made all this up? DOYLE I think you saw something -- that probably has a very simple explanation. JEFF For instance? DOYLE (Shrugs) His wife took a trip. JEFF She -- was -- an -- invalid! DOYLE You told me. (Looks at watch) I've got to run, Jeff. JEFF All right -- you don't believe me. Doyle saunters toward steps, picking up his hat on the way. Stops. DOYLE I -- uh -- won't report it to the Department. Let me poke into a little on my own. No point in you getting any ridiculous publicity. JEFF (Coldly) Thanks. DOYLE We know the wife is gone. I'll see if I can find out where. JEFF Do that. He goes up the steps to the door, putting on his hat. He pauses his hand on the door knob. DOYLE You have any headaches lately? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers, showing only the slightest irritation. JEFF Not 'til you showed up. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Doyle, still at the door: DOYLE Uh-huh. Well, it'll wear off in time -- along with the hallucinations. See you around. He starts to go out the door, and closes it behind him. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT From Doyle's viewpoint. Jeff lifts his hand in a feeble parting gesture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Before the door has completely closed, Doyle opens it again, and looks in. DOYLE By the way what happened to your leg? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP JEFF I was jaywalking. DOYLE'S VOICE (O.S.) Where? JEFF (With nonchalance) The Indianapolis Speedway. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP The door starts to close again, as if Doyle considered Jeff's answer quite reasonable. Then the door pops open and Doyle's head comes in, a surprised expression across his face. DOYLE During the race? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers with a straight face. JEFF Yup. It sure stopped traffic. We don't see Doyle again, but only HEAR the sharp slam of the DOOR off. Jeff chuckles. Then he turns back to the window. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's attention is drawn to something in the yard below. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The little dog is busily scratching away at Thorwald's pet flower bed. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles mischievously. Suddenly his face changes as he sees: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald coming out of his basement door, carrying a watering can. He fills it from a nearby faucet. He does not notice the little dog's destructive activities. When the watering can is filled, he straightens up, turns toward the flower bed. He stops for the briefest moment, when he sees the dog. He walks to the dog, gently lifts him out of the garden, and giving him a friendly little pat, sends him off. He proceeds to patiently brush back the disturbed earth, and then begins his watering. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is frankly puzzled by the salesman's friendly attitude toward the dog. He looks off in another direction, as he catches of: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Doyle, who has appeared, at the street opening. The detective is surveying the front of the apartment building where Thorwald lives. A paper seller behind him offers to sell him a paper. Doyle isn't interested. As Doyle saunters forward toward the salesman house, the scene: LAP DISSOLVES TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Doyle is nonchalantly leaning up against the side board, with a highball in one hand. Jeff has turned his chair around from the window to face him. DOYLE He has a six months lease, and has used up a little over five and a half months of it. (Takes a sip of drink) Quiet. Drinks, but not to drunkenness. Pays his bill promptly, with money earned as a consume jewelry salesman -- wholesale. Keeps to himself, and none of the neighbors got close to him, or his wife. JEFF I think they missed their chance with her. DOYLE (Studies drink) She never left the apartment -- JEFF (Interrupting) Then where is she -- in the ice box? DOYLE (Continues) -- until yesterday morning. JEFF (Alert) What time? DOYLE Six ayem. Jeff looks thoughtful a moment, and then says, with a touch of discouragement: JEFF I think that's about the time I fell asleep. DOYLE Too bad. The Thorwalds were just leaving the apartment house at that time. He puts down his drink, and strolls toward the window, looking out. THE CAMERA MOVES IN slightly to tighten the shot. DOYLE Feel a little foolish? JEFF Not yet. Doyle becomes interested in watching something out the window. Unconsciously he smooths out his coat and tie. He even smiles somewhat secretly to himself at what he sees. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet costume, practicing her dance on the outside balcony. She is exciting and desirable. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - TIGHT TWO SHOT Jeff notices Doyle's interest. JEFF How's your wife? Startled at being observed, Doyle moves quickly away from the window, affecting nonchalance. THE CAMERA MOVES BACK as Doyle returns to his drink. Jeff smiles at catching Doyle enjoying Miss Torso. DOYLE Oh -- oh, she's fine. (Not too convincing) Just fine. He tosses off the rest of the drink, and his movement is almost a comment. Jeff's face grows serious. JEFF Who said they left then? DOYLE Who left -- where? JEFF The Thorwalds -- at six in the morning? Doyle quickly collects his thoughts, and gets back to the case at hand. DOYLE The building superintendent, and two tenants. Flat statements -- no hesitation. And they all jibed to the letter. The Thorwalds were leaving for the railroad station. JEFF Now how could anybody guess that? They had, perhaps, signs on their luggage, "Grand Central Or Bust!"? DOYLE (Sighs) The superintendent met Thorwald coming back. He said Thorwald told him he had just put his wife on the train for the country. JEFF A very convenient guy -- this superintendent. Have you checked his bank deposits lately? DOYLE Jeff -- huh? JEFF (Sharply) Well -- what good is his information?!! It's a second-hand version of an unsupported statement by the murderer himself -- Thorwald! Anybody actually see the wife get on the train? DOYLE I hate to remind you -- but this all started because you said she was murdered. Now

make

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

you ever have any problems? LISA (Murmurs, kissing him) I have one now. JEFF So do I. LISA (Kissing) Tell me about it. JEFF (Slight pause) Why would a man leave his apartment three times, on a rainy night, with a suitcase? And come back three times? LISA He likes the way his wife welcomes him home. JEFF Not that salesman's wife. And why didn't he go to work today? LISA Homework. It's more interesting. JEFF What's interesting about a butcher's knife and a small saw wrapped up in a newspaper? LISA Nothing, thank heaven. JEFF (Looking again) Why hasn't he gone into his wife's bedroom all day? LISA I wouldn't dare answer that. JEFF (After pause) Lisa -- there's something terribly wrong. She gives up trying to interest him in romance, and moves back from the embrace. THE CAMERA PULL BACK. LISA And I'm afraid it's with me. Lisa stands, straightens out her dress, stretches a little then she turns to the divan, apparently not too interested in his observation about the salesman's life. JEFF (Looks at Lisa) What do you think? LISA (Without returning his look) Something too frightful to utter. Jeff is thoughtful for a moment, then he relaxes and smiles a little. He turns to the window to look out again. Lisa exits the picture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa stretches herself out on the divan. Her head rest on the cushion at the far end, and she instinctively falls into an attractive pose. However, her expression is disturbed as she watches Jeff. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP He stares intently out the window. JEFF He went out a few minutes ago -- in his undershirt -- and he hasn't come back yet. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Lisa weighs this information, trying to make some sense out of it. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns his eyes from the salesman's apartment, and looks down reflectively. He looks up again, and then his eyes catches sight of something. He leans forward slightly. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso is lying, face down, on her divan bed. The only light in the apartment is from a reading lamp. She is reading a book held in one hand, while eating a sandwich in another. Her back is bare, and all she wears is a pair of brief dark blue shorts. At one point, she lifts her torso up slightly to brush crumbs out from beneath her. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP He looks away from Miss Torso, thoughtfully. JEFF You know -- that would be terrible job to tackle. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa leans forward and looks out the window to see what Jeff is referring to. She turns back to him with a blank stare. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns and looks at her, quite unaware of her surprise at his comment. JEFF How would you begin to cut up a human body? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa sits bolt upright on the divan. She reaches back quickly and pulls on the overhead light. At that moment the songwriter returns to his composing. We can see him over Lisa's shoulder. He is beginning his song again, and it has taken on new fullness and melody. Although it is not complete, it is farther along then before, and he plays his theme a number of different ways, trying to move it note by note to its completion. Lisa just stares at Jeff for a moment. LISA Jeff -- I'll be honest with you -- you're beginning to scare me a little. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is staring out of the window again. Over this we hear Lisa's voice: LISA (Quietly insistent) Jeff -- did you hear what I said? You're beginning to -- Jeff puts out a restraining hand. JEFF (Interrupting) Be quiet! Shhh! (Pause) He's coming back! EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT At last the salesman is seen coming along the corridor. He does not wear shirt, but only an undershirt. Slung over one shoulder, with his arm through is, is a large coil of sturdy rope. He goes through the living room into the bedroom. He does not put on the bedroom lights. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff reaches quickly for his binoculars, and trains them on the salesman's apartment. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT As seen though the binoculars, the salesman comes out of the bedroom, to the kitchen, where he gets a carving knife. He turns around and goes back to the bedroom. The lights go on behind the draw shades, after a short moment. The dim shadow of the salesman is seen moving around the room. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa, still stretched out on the divan looking at Jeff, suddenly sits upright and then getting up from the divan, mover over to Jeff, THE CAMERA GOING WITH her. In a sudden surprise move, she swings his chair completely around so that his back is to the window. He drops the binoculars into his lap in surprise. THE CAMERA MOVES IN as Lisa leans over Jeff, gripping both sides of his chair LISA (sharply) Jeff -- if you could only see yourself. JEFF Now, Lisa -- LISA (Abruptly) Sitting around, looking out a window to kill time, is one thing -- but doing it the way you are -- (She gestures) -- with, with binoculars, and with wild opinions about every little movement you see -- is, is diseased! JEFF Do you think I consider this recreation? LISA I don't know what you consider it -- but if you don't stop it, I'm getting out of here. JEFF You'd better before you catch the disease! LISA (Insistent) What is it you're looking for? JEFF I want to find out what's wrong with the salesman's wife. Does that make me sound like a madman? LISA What makes you think something's wrong with her? LISA A lot of things. She's an invalid who needs constant care -- and yet the husband nor anyone else has been in there all day. LISA Maybe she died. JEFF Where's the doctor -- the undertakers? LISA She could be under sedatives, sleeping. (Looks up) He's in the room now. Jeff tries to turn around, but she won't let the chair move. JEFF Lisa, please! LISA There's nothing to see. JEFF There is -- I've seen things through that window! Bickering, family fights, mysterious trips at night, knives, saws, rope -- and since last evening, not a sight or sound of his wife! Now you tell me where she is and what she's doing! LISA Maybe he's leaving his wife. I don't know, and I don't care. Lots of people have saws, knives and ropes around their houses. Lots of men don't speak to their wives all day. Lots of wives nag, and men hate them, and trouble starts -- but very, very, very few of them end up in murder -- if that's what you're thinking. JEFF It's pretty hard to stay away from that word isn't is? LISA You could see all the things he did, couldn't you? JEFF What are you getting at? LISA You could see that he did because he had the shades in his apartment up, and walked along the corridor, and the streets and the backyard? JEFF Yeah. LISA Jeff, do you think a murderer would let you see all that? That he shouldn't keep his shades down and hide behind them? JEFF That's where he's being clever. Acting nonchalant. LISA And that's where you're not being clever. He wouldn't parade his crime in front of the open shades. She turns the wheelchair slightly to her left so that he can see the newlyweds' apartment. LISA (Pointing) For all you know -- there's something a lot more sinister going on behind those shades. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT The drawn shades of the newlyweds' apartment. A dim light burning behind them. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff looks, turns back to her, trying to suppress a chuckle. JEFF No comment. LISA Don't you see how silly you're being? JEFF Okay, Lisa -- probably you're right. He's probably in the bedroom now, entertaining his wife with the indian rope trick. I'll admit to criminal insanity. Now when do I start the cure? Lisa half looks up and out the window. She opens her mouth to answer, but a new look overtakes her face. It is concern, surprise, and a little shock. Jeff sees the change, is sobered, and quickly turns the chair around. He looks out the window, using his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT The shades in the bedroom are now up. Both beds are empty, and stripped of their linen, the mattresses thrown up over the end of the beds. The salesman, sweating heavily, stands over a large, square trunk in the center of the room. It is stoutly bound by the heavy rope we previously saw him bring into the apartment. He wipes one forearm across his brow, and then heads for the kitchen. In the kitchen, he produces a bottle, pours himself two or three straight drinks, then leans with a display of exhaustion against the kitchen sink. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff lowers the glasses. His look is sober. Lisa stands behind him, one hand on the back of the wheelchair. She, too, is serious. THE CAMERA MOVES IN until Lisa's head fills the screen. She says, slowly: LISA Let's start from the beginning again, Jeff. Tell me everything you saw -- and what you think it means. She is still staring out the window, as the scene FADES OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated in the dark, his face lit by the faint glow from the distant street. He is looking out of the window tensely, as THE CAMERA MOVES IN, until he is in big profile. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT From Jeff's viewpoint, all the windows are dark. The couple are sleeping on the fire escape. The salesman's apartment is dark as well. Suddenly a match flares, and we see the salesman light a cigar. The flame of the match illuminates his face for a moment. When is dies out, we see just the glow of the cigar burning. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP The CAMERA is now facing Jeff. We see that his left hand rests on the telephone receiver which is close to him. The phone starts to RING, but makes only the slightest sound, as he instantly picks it up. As he talks, in a low voice, he keeps his eyes on the salesman's apartment. JEFF Yeah? INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP We get an impression of Sixth Avenue behind Lisa at the phone. Lisa also talks in a low, quiet voice. LISA The name on the second floor rear mailbox reads Mr. And Mrs. Lars, that's L-A-R-S, Lars Thorwald. JEFF (Filter) What's the apartment house number? LISA 125 West Ninth Street. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff, still looks toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Thanks, Lisa. INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa smilingly says: LISA Okay, chief. What's my next assignment. JEFF To get on home. LISA All right -- but what's he doing now? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff is still looking toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Just sitting in the living room. In the dark. And he hasn't gone near the bedroom. Now get some sleep. Goodnight. He puts the receiver down, and resumes his vigil. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT All we can see is the glow of the salesman's cigar. FADE OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated by the window in his wheelchair. He is talking on the telephone while his eyes are still on the neighborhood. There is a touch of urgency in his voice. JEFF Look, Doyle -- it's just one of those things I can't tell you on the phone. You have to be here, and see the whole set-up. The CAMERA PULLS BACK slightly as Stella emerges from the kitchen. She is carrying a tray with breakfast on it. Eggs, bacon, toast and coffee. JEFF It's probably nothing important -- just a little neighborhood murder, that's all. As a matter of fact, I did say "murder". Stella squeezes past the right side of Jeff, and places the food tray on a windowseat in front of him. She peers out cautiously toward Thorwald's apartment for a moment. Then she squeezes back, moving to the sideboard against which leans a small table on an adjustable stand. JEFF My only thought was to throw a little business your way. A good detective, I reasoned, would jump at the chance to detect. Stella returns with the table, and sets it up so that it is across Jeff's lap. She gets the tray of food pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment. Then she places the breakfast on the tray table in front of Jeff. He has moved back a little to avoid getting the phone cable tangled in the food and dishes. JEFF Well, I usually took my best pictures on my day off. (nods) Okay, Doyle -- soon as you can. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP He hangs up. Stella takes the phone and puts it down for him. He looks at the breakfast, reaches for a knife and fork. JEFF Stella, I -- I can't tell you what a welcome sight this is. No wonder your husband's still in love with you. STELLA Police? JEFF (Pauses in cutting food) Huh? STELLA You called the police? JEFF Oh. Well, yes and no. It wasn't an official call. He's just a friend. (Almost to himself) An old, ornery friend. He begins eating, appreciatively. She moves behind his chair, pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment again. Jeff is just lifting a piece of bacon to his lips when Stella speaks. STELLA (Half to herself) Now just where do you suppose he cut her up? The hand carrying the bacon to Jeff's mouth hesitates for a moment. STELLA (Answering herself) Oh -- of course! In the bathtub. That's the only place he could wash away the blood. The hand holding the bacon moves back to the plate. Jeff just stares ahead. Stella turns and walks into the kitchen. Jeff pushes the food away, and picks up the coffee cup instead. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes, over the coffee cup, are staring intently at the backyard. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. The shades up. No one moving. The rope-tied trunk still sits in the bedroom. To the left we see the basket lowering with the dog in it. We HEAR the woman WHISTLING an aria. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP His eyes stray in an upward direction as he puts down the coffee cup. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The CAMERA PANS UP past the woman lowering the dog, up to the roof where one of the sunbathers can be seen sitting up, rubbing her body with sun tan oil. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes moves down again. Abstractedly his hand strays toward the piece of bacon. He picks it up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. We are now aware that the salesman is now in his living room, lying out of sight on the sofa, because the smoke from a newly lighted cigar is starting to ascend toward the ceiling of his room. Stella's voice is heard calling out from the kitchen: STELLA'S VOICE He'd better get that trunk out of there before is starts to leak. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Again the bacon stops before is reaches Jeff's mouth. He puts it down on the plate again, as his eyes move slightly toward the left. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet outfit, is hanging up a small wash on a clothes line. It consists mostly of lingerie. She is doing her inevitable leg practice at the same time. THE CAMERA PANS OVER SUDDENLY TO Thorwald's apartment, and except for the smoke rising from the unseen sofa, there is no activity. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff seems to be getting a bit listless, or bored, by constantly watching Thorwald's apartment. His eyes sort of stray around the neighborhood, and end up looking toward: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The newlywed's apartment. Shade down, business as usual. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles affectionately, and starts to turn his eyes away; but something startles him, and he looks quickly back. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The shade suddenly going up in the newlywed's apartment. The young husband leans his hands on the windowsill, and looks out. He is wearing only his pajama bottoms, because of the heat, and we see that he is a well-muscled, attractive young man. He looks around with some satisfaction. He turns at the sound of a woman's voice behind him. GIRL'S VOICE H-a-a-r-r-e-e... He turns his head, is thoughtful for a brief moment, then he pulls down the shade. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP His smile almost becomes a private chuckle. Stella's abrupt voice breaks in urgently: STELLA'S VOICE Look! Look -- Mr. Jefferies! Jeff's head snaps toward the center of his window. Stella has appeared behind his wheelchair. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Two men wearing tan coveralls are standing outside Thorwald's door. One of them carries a clipboard. Suddenly Thorwald is seen sitting up on the living room sofa. His hair is disheveled and he is unshaved. He stands up, and moves toward the door. He opens it, and after a short exchange of dialogue, he admits the two men, leaving the door open behind them. He leads the two man across the living room to the bedroom. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Stella and Jeff watching intently. He is feeling down alongside his wheelchair for his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT A close view shows the two man carrying the trunk across the living room toward the corridor. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars quickly. JEFF (Agitated) I thought Doyle would get here before the trunk went -- or I'd have called the police. (To Stella) Now we're going to lose it. Stella moves toward the door quickly. Jeff turns quickly over his shoulder to watch her. She is already going up the steps. JEFF Stella, don't do anything reckless! As Stella goes out the door, she calls back: STELLA I'm just going to get the name of their truck! JEFF (Up) I'll watch the alleyway -- in case it goes that way. We hear nothing from Stella, but the sound of her heavy tread down the hallway stairs. Jeff returns to Thorwald. He eases himself back into the shadows a bit and then raises his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT Jeff concentrates his attention on the alley-way that leads to the street. Just normal traffic. The binoculars swing to Thorwald apartment. The salesman is now at the telephone. He has picked up the receiver, and proceeds to dial 221. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP The binoculars still up to Jeff's face. Under them his mouth moves, as if he's talking to himself. JEFF Long Distance. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT The salesman speaks some words to the operator. Placing the call. As he does this, he reaches with his other hand for a nearly bottle, and working the cork out with one hand, he pours a stiff drink into a tumbler. He drinks it as soon as he finishes talking with the operator. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars a little, and takes a normal eye sight on the alleyway. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Pulling across to the far side of the street we see the hood and cab of a freight truck. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff quickly puts the glasses up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT By the time the binoculars are up, another truck has crossed from the left. In momentarily blocks out the side of our freight truck. By the time the two trucks part, we can only see the back half of the freight truck before it pulls out of sight. Jeff is only able to read the words "FREIGHT LINES". The binoculars are held for a moment until we see a puffing and blowing Stella arrive at the opening of the alleyway. She looks toward the front of Thorwald's apartment house. And by her attitude we can see that there is no truck outside. She looks about her for a moment. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars, discouraged. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT The figure of Stella is seen, looking up toward Jeff's apartment, and arms outspread in a helpless gesture. LAP DISSOLVE TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT SHOOTING TOWARDS the big window, with the neighborhood beyond, Jeff is as usual seated in his wheelchair on the left of the window, but now turned toward a newcomer. The second man is standing near the divan looking out the window with the binoculars. This newcomer is POLICE DETECTIVE LIEUTENANT THOMAS J. DOYLE, the man Jeff phoned earlier in the day. He is an intelligent-appearing, well-dressed modern detective. He has a sense of humor. He lowers the glasses, and turns to Jeff. DOYLE You didn't see the killing, or the body? How do you know there was a murder? JEFF Because everything that man's done has been suspicious. Trips at night in the rain, saws, knives, trunks with rope, and a wife that isn't there any more. DOYLE I'll admit it all has a mysterious sound -- but is could mean a number of different things. Murder is the least likely. JEFF Go ahead, Doyle -- tell me he's an unemployed magician -- amusing the neighborhood with sleight-of-hand. Doyle paces a little. DOYLE It's too stupid and obvious a way to murder -- in full view of fifty windows -- and then sit over there -- (He points) -- smoking a cigar -- waiting for the police to pick him up. JEFF Well, officer -- do your duty. DOYLE You've got a lot to lean about homicide, Jeff. Morons have committed murder so shrewdly that it took a hundred trained police minds to catch them. That salesman wouldn't just knock off his wife after dinner, toss her in a trunk and put her in storage. JEFF I'll bet it's been done. DOYLE Almost everything's been done -- under panic. But this is a thousand to one shot. That man's still sitting around his apartment; he isn't panicked. JEFF (A pause) You think I made all this up? DOYLE I think you saw something -- that probably has a very simple explanation. JEFF For instance? DOYLE (Shrugs) His wife took a trip. JEFF She -- was -- an -- invalid! DOYLE You told me. (Looks at watch) I've got to run, Jeff. JEFF All right -- you don't believe me. Doyle saunters toward steps, picking up his hat on the way. Stops. DOYLE I -- uh -- won't report it to the Department. Let me poke into a little on my own. No point in you getting any ridiculous publicity. JEFF (Coldly) Thanks. DOYLE We know the wife is gone. I'll see if I can find out where. JEFF Do that. He goes up the steps to the door, putting on his hat. He pauses his hand on the door knob. DOYLE You have any headaches lately? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers, showing only the slightest irritation. JEFF Not 'til you showed up. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Doyle, still at the door: DOYLE Uh-huh. Well, it'll wear off in time -- along with the hallucinations. See you around. He starts to go out the door, and closes it behind him. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT From Doyle's viewpoint. Jeff lifts his hand in a feeble parting gesture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Before the door has completely closed, Doyle opens it again, and looks in. DOYLE By the way what happened to your leg? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP JEFF I was jaywalking. DOYLE'S VOICE (O.S.) Where? JEFF (With nonchalance) The Indianapolis Speedway. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP The door starts to close again, as if Doyle considered Jeff's answer quite reasonable. Then the door pops open and Doyle's head comes in, a surprised expression across his face. DOYLE During the race? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers with a straight face. JEFF Yup. It sure stopped traffic. We don't see Doyle again, but only HEAR the sharp slam of the DOOR off. Jeff chuckles. Then he turns back to the window. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's attention is drawn to something in the yard below. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The little dog is busily scratching away at Thorwald's pet flower bed. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles mischievously. Suddenly his face changes as he sees: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald coming out of his basement door, carrying a watering can. He fills it from a nearby faucet. He does not notice the little dog's destructive activities. When the watering can is filled, he straightens up, turns toward the flower bed. He stops for the briefest moment, when he sees the dog. He walks to the dog, gently lifts him out of the garden, and giving him a friendly little pat, sends him off. He proceeds to patiently brush back the disturbed earth, and then begins his watering. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is frankly puzzled by the salesman's friendly attitude toward the dog. He looks off in another direction, as he catches of: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Doyle, who has appeared, at the street opening. The detective is surveying the front of the apartment building where Thorwald lives. A paper seller behind him offers to sell him a paper. Doyle isn't interested. As Doyle saunters forward toward the salesman house, the scene: LAP DISSOLVES TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Doyle is nonchalantly leaning up against the side board, with a highball in one hand. Jeff has turned his chair around from the window to face him. DOYLE He has a six months lease, and has used up a little over five and a half months of it. (Takes a sip of drink) Quiet. Drinks, but not to drunkenness. Pays his bill promptly, with money earned as a consume jewelry salesman -- wholesale. Keeps to himself, and none of the neighbors got close to him, or his wife. JEFF I think they missed their chance with her. DOYLE (Studies drink) She never left the apartment -- JEFF (Interrupting) Then where is she -- in the ice box? DOYLE (Continues) -- until yesterday morning. JEFF (Alert) What time? DOYLE Six ayem. Jeff looks thoughtful a moment, and then says, with a touch of discouragement: JEFF I think that's about the time I fell asleep. DOYLE Too bad. The Thorwalds were just leaving the apartment house at that time. He puts down his drink, and strolls toward the window, looking out. THE CAMERA MOVES IN slightly to tighten the shot. DOYLE Feel a little foolish? JEFF Not yet. Doyle becomes interested in watching something out the window. Unconsciously he smooths out his coat and tie. He even smiles somewhat secretly to himself at what he sees. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet costume, practicing her dance on the outside balcony. She is exciting and desirable. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - TIGHT TWO SHOT Jeff notices Doyle's interest. JEFF How's your wife? Startled at being observed, Doyle moves quickly away from the window, affecting nonchalance. THE CAMERA MOVES BACK as Doyle returns to his drink. Jeff smiles at catching Doyle enjoying Miss Torso. DOYLE Oh -- oh, she's fine. (Not too convincing) Just fine. He tosses off the rest of the drink, and his movement is almost a comment. Jeff's face grows serious. JEFF Who said they left then? DOYLE Who left -- where? JEFF The Thorwalds -- at six in the morning? Doyle quickly collects his thoughts, and gets back to the case at hand. DOYLE The building superintendent, and two tenants. Flat statements -- no hesitation. And they all jibed to the letter. The Thorwalds were leaving for the railroad station. JEFF Now how could anybody guess that? They had, perhaps, signs on their luggage, "Grand Central Or Bust!"? DOYLE (Sighs) The superintendent met Thorwald coming back. He said Thorwald told him he had just put his wife on the train for the country. JEFF A very convenient guy -- this superintendent. Have you checked his bank deposits lately? DOYLE Jeff -- huh? JEFF (Sharply) Well -- what good is his information?!! It's a second-hand version of an unsupported statement by the murderer himself -- Thorwald! Anybody actually see the wife get on the train? DOYLE I hate to remind you -- but this all started because you said she was murdered. Now

friend

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

you ever have any problems? LISA (Murmurs, kissing him) I have one now. JEFF So do I. LISA (Kissing) Tell me about it. JEFF (Slight pause) Why would a man leave his apartment three times, on a rainy night, with a suitcase? And come back three times? LISA He likes the way his wife welcomes him home. JEFF Not that salesman's wife. And why didn't he go to work today? LISA Homework. It's more interesting. JEFF What's interesting about a butcher's knife and a small saw wrapped up in a newspaper? LISA Nothing, thank heaven. JEFF (Looking again) Why hasn't he gone into his wife's bedroom all day? LISA I wouldn't dare answer that. JEFF (After pause) Lisa -- there's something terribly wrong. She gives up trying to interest him in romance, and moves back from the embrace. THE CAMERA PULL BACK. LISA And I'm afraid it's with me. Lisa stands, straightens out her dress, stretches a little then she turns to the divan, apparently not too interested in his observation about the salesman's life. JEFF (Looks at Lisa) What do you think? LISA (Without returning his look) Something too frightful to utter. Jeff is thoughtful for a moment, then he relaxes and smiles a little. He turns to the window to look out again. Lisa exits the picture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa stretches herself out on the divan. Her head rest on the cushion at the far end, and she instinctively falls into an attractive pose. However, her expression is disturbed as she watches Jeff. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP He stares intently out the window. JEFF He went out a few minutes ago -- in his undershirt -- and he hasn't come back yet. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Lisa weighs this information, trying to make some sense out of it. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns his eyes from the salesman's apartment, and looks down reflectively. He looks up again, and then his eyes catches sight of something. He leans forward slightly. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso is lying, face down, on her divan bed. The only light in the apartment is from a reading lamp. She is reading a book held in one hand, while eating a sandwich in another. Her back is bare, and all she wears is a pair of brief dark blue shorts. At one point, she lifts her torso up slightly to brush crumbs out from beneath her. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP He looks away from Miss Torso, thoughtfully. JEFF You know -- that would be terrible job to tackle. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa leans forward and looks out the window to see what Jeff is referring to. She turns back to him with a blank stare. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns and looks at her, quite unaware of her surprise at his comment. JEFF How would you begin to cut up a human body? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa sits bolt upright on the divan. She reaches back quickly and pulls on the overhead light. At that moment the songwriter returns to his composing. We can see him over Lisa's shoulder. He is beginning his song again, and it has taken on new fullness and melody. Although it is not complete, it is farther along then before, and he plays his theme a number of different ways, trying to move it note by note to its completion. Lisa just stares at Jeff for a moment. LISA Jeff -- I'll be honest with you -- you're beginning to scare me a little. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is staring out of the window again. Over this we hear Lisa's voice: LISA (Quietly insistent) Jeff -- did you hear what I said? You're beginning to -- Jeff puts out a restraining hand. JEFF (Interrupting) Be quiet! Shhh! (Pause) He's coming back! EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT At last the salesman is seen coming along the corridor. He does not wear shirt, but only an undershirt. Slung over one shoulder, with his arm through is, is a large coil of sturdy rope. He goes through the living room into the bedroom. He does not put on the bedroom lights. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff reaches quickly for his binoculars, and trains them on the salesman's apartment. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT As seen though the binoculars, the salesman comes out of the bedroom, to the kitchen, where he gets a carving knife. He turns around and goes back to the bedroom. The lights go on behind the draw shades, after a short moment. The dim shadow of the salesman is seen moving around the room. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa, still stretched out on the divan looking at Jeff, suddenly sits upright and then getting up from the divan, mover over to Jeff, THE CAMERA GOING WITH her. In a sudden surprise move, she swings his chair completely around so that his back is to the window. He drops the binoculars into his lap in surprise. THE CAMERA MOVES IN as Lisa leans over Jeff, gripping both sides of his chair LISA (sharply) Jeff -- if you could only see yourself. JEFF Now, Lisa -- LISA (Abruptly) Sitting around, looking out a window to kill time, is one thing -- but doing it the way you are -- (She gestures) -- with, with binoculars, and with wild opinions about every little movement you see -- is, is diseased! JEFF Do you think I consider this recreation? LISA I don't know what you consider it -- but if you don't stop it, I'm getting out of here. JEFF You'd better before you catch the disease! LISA (Insistent) What is it you're looking for? JEFF I want to find out what's wrong with the salesman's wife. Does that make me sound like a madman? LISA What makes you think something's wrong with her? LISA A lot of things. She's an invalid who needs constant care -- and yet the husband nor anyone else has been in there all day. LISA Maybe she died. JEFF Where's the doctor -- the undertakers? LISA She could be under sedatives, sleeping. (Looks up) He's in the room now. Jeff tries to turn around, but she won't let the chair move. JEFF Lisa, please! LISA There's nothing to see. JEFF There is -- I've seen things through that window! Bickering, family fights, mysterious trips at night, knives, saws, rope -- and since last evening, not a sight or sound of his wife! Now you tell me where she is and what she's doing! LISA Maybe he's leaving his wife. I don't know, and I don't care. Lots of people have saws, knives and ropes around their houses. Lots of men don't speak to their wives all day. Lots of wives nag, and men hate them, and trouble starts -- but very, very, very few of them end up in murder -- if that's what you're thinking. JEFF It's pretty hard to stay away from that word isn't is? LISA You could see all the things he did, couldn't you? JEFF What are you getting at? LISA You could see that he did because he had the shades in his apartment up, and walked along the corridor, and the streets and the backyard? JEFF Yeah. LISA Jeff, do you think a murderer would let you see all that? That he shouldn't keep his shades down and hide behind them? JEFF That's where he's being clever. Acting nonchalant. LISA And that's where you're not being clever. He wouldn't parade his crime in front of the open shades. She turns the wheelchair slightly to her left so that he can see the newlyweds' apartment. LISA (Pointing) For all you know -- there's something a lot more sinister going on behind those shades. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT The drawn shades of the newlyweds' apartment. A dim light burning behind them. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff looks, turns back to her, trying to suppress a chuckle. JEFF No comment. LISA Don't you see how silly you're being? JEFF Okay, Lisa -- probably you're right. He's probably in the bedroom now, entertaining his wife with the indian rope trick. I'll admit to criminal insanity. Now when do I start the cure? Lisa half looks up and out the window. She opens her mouth to answer, but a new look overtakes her face. It is concern, surprise, and a little shock. Jeff sees the change, is sobered, and quickly turns the chair around. He looks out the window, using his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT The shades in the bedroom are now up. Both beds are empty, and stripped of their linen, the mattresses thrown up over the end of the beds. The salesman, sweating heavily, stands over a large, square trunk in the center of the room. It is stoutly bound by the heavy rope we previously saw him bring into the apartment. He wipes one forearm across his brow, and then heads for the kitchen. In the kitchen, he produces a bottle, pours himself two or three straight drinks, then leans with a display of exhaustion against the kitchen sink. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff lowers the glasses. His look is sober. Lisa stands behind him, one hand on the back of the wheelchair. She, too, is serious. THE CAMERA MOVES IN until Lisa's head fills the screen. She says, slowly: LISA Let's start from the beginning again, Jeff. Tell me everything you saw -- and what you think it means. She is still staring out the window, as the scene FADES OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated in the dark, his face lit by the faint glow from the distant street. He is looking out of the window tensely, as THE CAMERA MOVES IN, until he is in big profile. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT From Jeff's viewpoint, all the windows are dark. The couple are sleeping on the fire escape. The salesman's apartment is dark as well. Suddenly a match flares, and we see the salesman light a cigar. The flame of the match illuminates his face for a moment. When is dies out, we see just the glow of the cigar burning. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP The CAMERA is now facing Jeff. We see that his left hand rests on the telephone receiver which is close to him. The phone starts to RING, but makes only the slightest sound, as he instantly picks it up. As he talks, in a low voice, he keeps his eyes on the salesman's apartment. JEFF Yeah? INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP We get an impression of Sixth Avenue behind Lisa at the phone. Lisa also talks in a low, quiet voice. LISA The name on the second floor rear mailbox reads Mr. And Mrs. Lars, that's L-A-R-S, Lars Thorwald. JEFF (Filter) What's the apartment house number? LISA 125 West Ninth Street. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff, still looks toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Thanks, Lisa. INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa smilingly says: LISA Okay, chief. What's my next assignment. JEFF To get on home. LISA All right -- but what's he doing now? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff is still looking toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Just sitting in the living room. In the dark. And he hasn't gone near the bedroom. Now get some sleep. Goodnight. He puts the receiver down, and resumes his vigil. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT All we can see is the glow of the salesman's cigar. FADE OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated by the window in his wheelchair. He is talking on the telephone while his eyes are still on the neighborhood. There is a touch of urgency in his voice. JEFF Look, Doyle -- it's just one of those things I can't tell you on the phone. You have to be here, and see the whole set-up. The CAMERA PULLS BACK slightly as Stella emerges from the kitchen. She is carrying a tray with breakfast on it. Eggs, bacon, toast and coffee. JEFF It's probably nothing important -- just a little neighborhood murder, that's all. As a matter of fact, I did say "murder". Stella squeezes past the right side of Jeff, and places the food tray on a windowseat in front of him. She peers out cautiously toward Thorwald's apartment for a moment. Then she squeezes back, moving to the sideboard against which leans a small table on an adjustable stand. JEFF My only thought was to throw a little business your way. A good detective, I reasoned, would jump at the chance to detect. Stella returns with the table, and sets it up so that it is across Jeff's lap. She gets the tray of food pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment. Then she places the breakfast on the tray table in front of Jeff. He has moved back a little to avoid getting the phone cable tangled in the food and dishes. JEFF Well, I usually took my best pictures on my day off. (nods) Okay, Doyle -- soon as you can. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP He hangs up. Stella takes the phone and puts it down for him. He looks at the breakfast, reaches for a knife and fork. JEFF Stella, I -- I can't tell you what a welcome sight this is. No wonder your husband's still in love with you. STELLA Police? JEFF (Pauses in cutting food) Huh? STELLA You called the police? JEFF Oh. Well, yes and no. It wasn't an official call. He's just a friend. (Almost to himself) An old, ornery friend. He begins eating, appreciatively. She moves behind his chair, pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment again. Jeff is just lifting a piece of bacon to his lips when Stella speaks. STELLA (Half to herself) Now just where do you suppose he cut her up? The hand carrying the bacon to Jeff's mouth hesitates for a moment. STELLA (Answering herself) Oh -- of course! In the bathtub. That's the only place he could wash away the blood. The hand holding the bacon moves back to the plate. Jeff just stares ahead. Stella turns and walks into the kitchen. Jeff pushes the food away, and picks up the coffee cup instead. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes, over the coffee cup, are staring intently at the backyard. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. The shades up. No one moving. The rope-tied trunk still sits in the bedroom. To the left we see the basket lowering with the dog in it. We HEAR the woman WHISTLING an aria. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP His eyes stray in an upward direction as he puts down the coffee cup. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The CAMERA PANS UP past the woman lowering the dog, up to the roof where one of the sunbathers can be seen sitting up, rubbing her body with sun tan oil. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes moves down again. Abstractedly his hand strays toward the piece of bacon. He picks it up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. We are now aware that the salesman is now in his living room, lying out of sight on the sofa, because the smoke from a newly lighted cigar is starting to ascend toward the ceiling of his room. Stella's voice is heard calling out from the kitchen: STELLA'S VOICE He'd better get that trunk out of there before is starts to leak. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Again the bacon stops before is reaches Jeff's mouth. He puts it down on the plate again, as his eyes move slightly toward the left. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet outfit, is hanging up a small wash on a clothes line. It consists mostly of lingerie. She is doing her inevitable leg practice at the same time. THE CAMERA PANS OVER SUDDENLY TO Thorwald's apartment, and except for the smoke rising from the unseen sofa, there is no activity. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff seems to be getting a bit listless, or bored, by constantly watching Thorwald's apartment. His eyes sort of stray around the neighborhood, and end up looking toward: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The newlywed's apartment. Shade down, business as usual. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles affectionately, and starts to turn his eyes away; but something startles him, and he looks quickly back. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The shade suddenly going up in the newlywed's apartment. The young husband leans his hands on the windowsill, and looks out. He is wearing only his pajama bottoms, because of the heat, and we see that he is a well-muscled, attractive young man. He looks around with some satisfaction. He turns at the sound of a woman's voice behind him. GIRL'S VOICE H-a-a-r-r-e-e... He turns his head, is thoughtful for a brief moment, then he pulls down the shade. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP His smile almost becomes a private chuckle. Stella's abrupt voice breaks in urgently: STELLA'S VOICE Look! Look -- Mr. Jefferies! Jeff's head snaps toward the center of his window. Stella has appeared behind his wheelchair. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Two men wearing tan coveralls are standing outside Thorwald's door. One of them carries a clipboard. Suddenly Thorwald is seen sitting up on the living room sofa. His hair is disheveled and he is unshaved. He stands up, and moves toward the door. He opens it, and after a short exchange of dialogue, he admits the two men, leaving the door open behind them. He leads the two man across the living room to the bedroom. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Stella and Jeff watching intently. He is feeling down alongside his wheelchair for his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT A close view shows the two man carrying the trunk across the living room toward the corridor. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars quickly. JEFF (Agitated) I thought Doyle would get here before the trunk went -- or I'd have called the police. (To Stella) Now we're going to lose it. Stella moves toward the door quickly. Jeff turns quickly over his shoulder to watch her. She is already going up the steps. JEFF Stella, don't do anything reckless! As Stella goes out the door, she calls back: STELLA I'm just going to get the name of their truck! JEFF (Up) I'll watch the alleyway -- in case it goes that way. We hear nothing from Stella, but the sound of her heavy tread down the hallway stairs. Jeff returns to Thorwald. He eases himself back into the shadows a bit and then raises his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT Jeff concentrates his attention on the alley-way that leads to the street. Just normal traffic. The binoculars swing to Thorwald apartment. The salesman is now at the telephone. He has picked up the receiver, and proceeds to dial 221. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP The binoculars still up to Jeff's face. Under them his mouth moves, as if he's talking to himself. JEFF Long Distance. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT The salesman speaks some words to the operator. Placing the call. As he does this, he reaches with his other hand for a nearly bottle, and working the cork out with one hand, he pours a stiff drink into a tumbler. He drinks it as soon as he finishes talking with the operator. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars a little, and takes a normal eye sight on the alleyway. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Pulling across to the far side of the street we see the hood and cab of a freight truck. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff quickly puts the glasses up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT By the time the binoculars are up, another truck has crossed from the left. In momentarily blocks out the side of our freight truck. By the time the two trucks part, we can only see the back half of the freight truck before it pulls out of sight. Jeff is only able to read the words "FREIGHT LINES". The binoculars are held for a moment until we see a puffing and blowing Stella arrive at the opening of the alleyway. She looks toward the front of Thorwald's apartment house. And by her attitude we can see that there is no truck outside. She looks about her for a moment. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars, discouraged. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT The figure of Stella is seen, looking up toward Jeff's apartment, and arms outspread in a helpless gesture. LAP DISSOLVE TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT SHOOTING TOWARDS the big window, with the neighborhood beyond, Jeff is as usual seated in his wheelchair on the left of the window, but now turned toward a newcomer. The second man is standing near the divan looking out the window with the binoculars. This newcomer is POLICE DETECTIVE LIEUTENANT THOMAS J. DOYLE, the man Jeff phoned earlier in the day. He is an intelligent-appearing, well-dressed modern detective. He has a sense of humor. He lowers the glasses, and turns to Jeff. DOYLE You didn't see the killing, or the body? How do you know there was a murder? JEFF Because everything that man's done has been suspicious. Trips at night in the rain, saws, knives, trunks with rope, and a wife that isn't there any more. DOYLE I'll admit it all has a mysterious sound -- but is could mean a number of different things. Murder is the least likely. JEFF Go ahead, Doyle -- tell me he's an unemployed magician -- amusing the neighborhood with sleight-of-hand. Doyle paces a little. DOYLE It's too stupid and obvious a way to murder -- in full view of fifty windows -- and then sit over there -- (He points) -- smoking a cigar -- waiting for the police to pick him up. JEFF Well, officer -- do your duty. DOYLE You've got a lot to lean about homicide, Jeff. Morons have committed murder so shrewdly that it took a hundred trained police minds to catch them. That salesman wouldn't just knock off his wife after dinner, toss her in a trunk and put her in storage. JEFF I'll bet it's been done. DOYLE Almost everything's been done -- under panic. But this is a thousand to one shot. That man's still sitting around his apartment; he isn't panicked. JEFF (A pause) You think I made all this up? DOYLE I think you saw something -- that probably has a very simple explanation. JEFF For instance? DOYLE (Shrugs) His wife took a trip. JEFF She -- was -- an -- invalid! DOYLE You told me. (Looks at watch) I've got to run, Jeff. JEFF All right -- you don't believe me. Doyle saunters toward steps, picking up his hat on the way. Stops. DOYLE I -- uh -- won't report it to the Department. Let me poke into a little on my own. No point in you getting any ridiculous publicity. JEFF (Coldly) Thanks. DOYLE We know the wife is gone. I'll see if I can find out where. JEFF Do that. He goes up the steps to the door, putting on his hat. He pauses his hand on the door knob. DOYLE You have any headaches lately? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers, showing only the slightest irritation. JEFF Not 'til you showed up. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Doyle, still at the door: DOYLE Uh-huh. Well, it'll wear off in time -- along with the hallucinations. See you around. He starts to go out the door, and closes it behind him. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT From Doyle's viewpoint. Jeff lifts his hand in a feeble parting gesture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Before the door has completely closed, Doyle opens it again, and looks in. DOYLE By the way what happened to your leg? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP JEFF I was jaywalking. DOYLE'S VOICE (O.S.) Where? JEFF (With nonchalance) The Indianapolis Speedway. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP The door starts to close again, as if Doyle considered Jeff's answer quite reasonable. Then the door pops open and Doyle's head comes in, a surprised expression across his face. DOYLE During the race? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers with a straight face. JEFF Yup. It sure stopped traffic. We don't see Doyle again, but only HEAR the sharp slam of the DOOR off. Jeff chuckles. Then he turns back to the window. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's attention is drawn to something in the yard below. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The little dog is busily scratching away at Thorwald's pet flower bed. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles mischievously. Suddenly his face changes as he sees: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald coming out of his basement door, carrying a watering can. He fills it from a nearby faucet. He does not notice the little dog's destructive activities. When the watering can is filled, he straightens up, turns toward the flower bed. He stops for the briefest moment, when he sees the dog. He walks to the dog, gently lifts him out of the garden, and giving him a friendly little pat, sends him off. He proceeds to patiently brush back the disturbed earth, and then begins his watering. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is frankly puzzled by the salesman's friendly attitude toward the dog. He looks off in another direction, as he catches of: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Doyle, who has appeared, at the street opening. The detective is surveying the front of the apartment building where Thorwald lives. A paper seller behind him offers to sell him a paper. Doyle isn't interested. As Doyle saunters forward toward the salesman house, the scene: LAP DISSOLVES TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Doyle is nonchalantly leaning up against the side board, with a highball in one hand. Jeff has turned his chair around from the window to face him. DOYLE He has a six months lease, and has used up a little over five and a half months of it. (Takes a sip of drink) Quiet. Drinks, but not to drunkenness. Pays his bill promptly, with money earned as a consume jewelry salesman -- wholesale. Keeps to himself, and none of the neighbors got close to him, or his wife. JEFF I think they missed their chance with her. DOYLE (Studies drink) She never left the apartment -- JEFF (Interrupting) Then where is she -- in the ice box? DOYLE (Continues) -- until yesterday morning. JEFF (Alert) What time? DOYLE Six ayem. Jeff looks thoughtful a moment, and then says, with a touch of discouragement: JEFF I think that's about the time I fell asleep. DOYLE Too bad. The Thorwalds were just leaving the apartment house at that time. He puts down his drink, and strolls toward the window, looking out. THE CAMERA MOVES IN slightly to tighten the shot. DOYLE Feel a little foolish? JEFF Not yet. Doyle becomes interested in watching something out the window. Unconsciously he smooths out his coat and tie. He even smiles somewhat secretly to himself at what he sees. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet costume, practicing her dance on the outside balcony. She is exciting and desirable. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - TIGHT TWO SHOT Jeff notices Doyle's interest. JEFF How's your wife? Startled at being observed, Doyle moves quickly away from the window, affecting nonchalance. THE CAMERA MOVES BACK as Doyle returns to his drink. Jeff smiles at catching Doyle enjoying Miss Torso. DOYLE Oh -- oh, she's fine. (Not too convincing) Just fine. He tosses off the rest of the drink, and his movement is almost a comment. Jeff's face grows serious. JEFF Who said they left then? DOYLE Who left -- where? JEFF The Thorwalds -- at six in the morning? Doyle quickly collects his thoughts, and gets back to the case at hand. DOYLE The building superintendent, and two tenants. Flat statements -- no hesitation. And they all jibed to the letter. The Thorwalds were leaving for the railroad station. JEFF Now how could anybody guess that? They had, perhaps, signs on their luggage, "Grand Central Or Bust!"? DOYLE (Sighs) The superintendent met Thorwald coming back. He said Thorwald told him he had just put his wife on the train for the country. JEFF A very convenient guy -- this superintendent. Have you checked his bank deposits lately? DOYLE Jeff -- huh? JEFF (Sharply) Well -- what good is his information?!! It's a second-hand version of an unsupported statement by the murderer himself -- Thorwald! Anybody actually see the wife get on the train? DOYLE I hate to remind you -- but this all started because you said she was murdered. Now

wrapped

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

you ever have any problems? LISA (Murmurs, kissing him) I have one now. JEFF So do I. LISA (Kissing) Tell me about it. JEFF (Slight pause) Why would a man leave his apartment three times, on a rainy night, with a suitcase? And come back three times? LISA He likes the way his wife welcomes him home. JEFF Not that salesman's wife. And why didn't he go to work today? LISA Homework. It's more interesting. JEFF What's interesting about a butcher's knife and a small saw wrapped up in a newspaper? LISA Nothing, thank heaven. JEFF (Looking again) Why hasn't he gone into his wife's bedroom all day? LISA I wouldn't dare answer that. JEFF (After pause) Lisa -- there's something terribly wrong. She gives up trying to interest him in romance, and moves back from the embrace. THE CAMERA PULL BACK. LISA And I'm afraid it's with me. Lisa stands, straightens out her dress, stretches a little then she turns to the divan, apparently not too interested in his observation about the salesman's life. JEFF (Looks at Lisa) What do you think? LISA (Without returning his look) Something too frightful to utter. Jeff is thoughtful for a moment, then he relaxes and smiles a little. He turns to the window to look out again. Lisa exits the picture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa stretches herself out on the divan. Her head rest on the cushion at the far end, and she instinctively falls into an attractive pose. However, her expression is disturbed as she watches Jeff. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP He stares intently out the window. JEFF He went out a few minutes ago -- in his undershirt -- and he hasn't come back yet. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Lisa weighs this information, trying to make some sense out of it. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns his eyes from the salesman's apartment, and looks down reflectively. He looks up again, and then his eyes catches sight of something. He leans forward slightly. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso is lying, face down, on her divan bed. The only light in the apartment is from a reading lamp. She is reading a book held in one hand, while eating a sandwich in another. Her back is bare, and all she wears is a pair of brief dark blue shorts. At one point, she lifts her torso up slightly to brush crumbs out from beneath her. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP He looks away from Miss Torso, thoughtfully. JEFF You know -- that would be terrible job to tackle. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa leans forward and looks out the window to see what Jeff is referring to. She turns back to him with a blank stare. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns and looks at her, quite unaware of her surprise at his comment. JEFF How would you begin to cut up a human body? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa sits bolt upright on the divan. She reaches back quickly and pulls on the overhead light. At that moment the songwriter returns to his composing. We can see him over Lisa's shoulder. He is beginning his song again, and it has taken on new fullness and melody. Although it is not complete, it is farther along then before, and he plays his theme a number of different ways, trying to move it note by note to its completion. Lisa just stares at Jeff for a moment. LISA Jeff -- I'll be honest with you -- you're beginning to scare me a little. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is staring out of the window again. Over this we hear Lisa's voice: LISA (Quietly insistent) Jeff -- did you hear what I said? You're beginning to -- Jeff puts out a restraining hand. JEFF (Interrupting) Be quiet! Shhh! (Pause) He's coming back! EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT At last the salesman is seen coming along the corridor. He does not wear shirt, but only an undershirt. Slung over one shoulder, with his arm through is, is a large coil of sturdy rope. He goes through the living room into the bedroom. He does not put on the bedroom lights. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff reaches quickly for his binoculars, and trains them on the salesman's apartment. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT As seen though the binoculars, the salesman comes out of the bedroom, to the kitchen, where he gets a carving knife. He turns around and goes back to the bedroom. The lights go on behind the draw shades, after a short moment. The dim shadow of the salesman is seen moving around the room. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa, still stretched out on the divan looking at Jeff, suddenly sits upright and then getting up from the divan, mover over to Jeff, THE CAMERA GOING WITH her. In a sudden surprise move, she swings his chair completely around so that his back is to the window. He drops the binoculars into his lap in surprise. THE CAMERA MOVES IN as Lisa leans over Jeff, gripping both sides of his chair LISA (sharply) Jeff -- if you could only see yourself. JEFF Now, Lisa -- LISA (Abruptly) Sitting around, looking out a window to kill time, is one thing -- but doing it the way you are -- (She gestures) -- with, with binoculars, and with wild opinions about every little movement you see -- is, is diseased! JEFF Do you think I consider this recreation? LISA I don't know what you consider it -- but if you don't stop it, I'm getting out of here. JEFF You'd better before you catch the disease! LISA (Insistent) What is it you're looking for? JEFF I want to find out what's wrong with the salesman's wife. Does that make me sound like a madman? LISA What makes you think something's wrong with her? LISA A lot of things. She's an invalid who needs constant care -- and yet the husband nor anyone else has been in there all day. LISA Maybe she died. JEFF Where's the doctor -- the undertakers? LISA She could be under sedatives, sleeping. (Looks up) He's in the room now. Jeff tries to turn around, but she won't let the chair move. JEFF Lisa, please! LISA There's nothing to see. JEFF There is -- I've seen things through that window! Bickering, family fights, mysterious trips at night, knives, saws, rope -- and since last evening, not a sight or sound of his wife! Now you tell me where she is and what she's doing! LISA Maybe he's leaving his wife. I don't know, and I don't care. Lots of people have saws, knives and ropes around their houses. Lots of men don't speak to their wives all day. Lots of wives nag, and men hate them, and trouble starts -- but very, very, very few of them end up in murder -- if that's what you're thinking. JEFF It's pretty hard to stay away from that word isn't is? LISA You could see all the things he did, couldn't you? JEFF What are you getting at? LISA You could see that he did because he had the shades in his apartment up, and walked along the corridor, and the streets and the backyard? JEFF Yeah. LISA Jeff, do you think a murderer would let you see all that? That he shouldn't keep his shades down and hide behind them? JEFF That's where he's being clever. Acting nonchalant. LISA And that's where you're not being clever. He wouldn't parade his crime in front of the open shades. She turns the wheelchair slightly to her left so that he can see the newlyweds' apartment. LISA (Pointing) For all you know -- there's something a lot more sinister going on behind those shades. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT The drawn shades of the newlyweds' apartment. A dim light burning behind them. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff looks, turns back to her, trying to suppress a chuckle. JEFF No comment. LISA Don't you see how silly you're being? JEFF Okay, Lisa -- probably you're right. He's probably in the bedroom now, entertaining his wife with the indian rope trick. I'll admit to criminal insanity. Now when do I start the cure? Lisa half looks up and out the window. She opens her mouth to answer, but a new look overtakes her face. It is concern, surprise, and a little shock. Jeff sees the change, is sobered, and quickly turns the chair around. He looks out the window, using his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT The shades in the bedroom are now up. Both beds are empty, and stripped of their linen, the mattresses thrown up over the end of the beds. The salesman, sweating heavily, stands over a large, square trunk in the center of the room. It is stoutly bound by the heavy rope we previously saw him bring into the apartment. He wipes one forearm across his brow, and then heads for the kitchen. In the kitchen, he produces a bottle, pours himself two or three straight drinks, then leans with a display of exhaustion against the kitchen sink. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff lowers the glasses. His look is sober. Lisa stands behind him, one hand on the back of the wheelchair. She, too, is serious. THE CAMERA MOVES IN until Lisa's head fills the screen. She says, slowly: LISA Let's start from the beginning again, Jeff. Tell me everything you saw -- and what you think it means. She is still staring out the window, as the scene FADES OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated in the dark, his face lit by the faint glow from the distant street. He is looking out of the window tensely, as THE CAMERA MOVES IN, until he is in big profile. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT From Jeff's viewpoint, all the windows are dark. The couple are sleeping on the fire escape. The salesman's apartment is dark as well. Suddenly a match flares, and we see the salesman light a cigar. The flame of the match illuminates his face for a moment. When is dies out, we see just the glow of the cigar burning. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP The CAMERA is now facing Jeff. We see that his left hand rests on the telephone receiver which is close to him. The phone starts to RING, but makes only the slightest sound, as he instantly picks it up. As he talks, in a low voice, he keeps his eyes on the salesman's apartment. JEFF Yeah? INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP We get an impression of Sixth Avenue behind Lisa at the phone. Lisa also talks in a low, quiet voice. LISA The name on the second floor rear mailbox reads Mr. And Mrs. Lars, that's L-A-R-S, Lars Thorwald. JEFF (Filter) What's the apartment house number? LISA 125 West Ninth Street. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff, still looks toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Thanks, Lisa. INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa smilingly says: LISA Okay, chief. What's my next assignment. JEFF To get on home. LISA All right -- but what's he doing now? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff is still looking toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Just sitting in the living room. In the dark. And he hasn't gone near the bedroom. Now get some sleep. Goodnight. He puts the receiver down, and resumes his vigil. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT All we can see is the glow of the salesman's cigar. FADE OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated by the window in his wheelchair. He is talking on the telephone while his eyes are still on the neighborhood. There is a touch of urgency in his voice. JEFF Look, Doyle -- it's just one of those things I can't tell you on the phone. You have to be here, and see the whole set-up. The CAMERA PULLS BACK slightly as Stella emerges from the kitchen. She is carrying a tray with breakfast on it. Eggs, bacon, toast and coffee. JEFF It's probably nothing important -- just a little neighborhood murder, that's all. As a matter of fact, I did say "murder". Stella squeezes past the right side of Jeff, and places the food tray on a windowseat in front of him. She peers out cautiously toward Thorwald's apartment for a moment. Then she squeezes back, moving to the sideboard against which leans a small table on an adjustable stand. JEFF My only thought was to throw a little business your way. A good detective, I reasoned, would jump at the chance to detect. Stella returns with the table, and sets it up so that it is across Jeff's lap. She gets the tray of food pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment. Then she places the breakfast on the tray table in front of Jeff. He has moved back a little to avoid getting the phone cable tangled in the food and dishes. JEFF Well, I usually took my best pictures on my day off. (nods) Okay, Doyle -- soon as you can. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP He hangs up. Stella takes the phone and puts it down for him. He looks at the breakfast, reaches for a knife and fork. JEFF Stella, I -- I can't tell you what a welcome sight this is. No wonder your husband's still in love with you. STELLA Police? JEFF (Pauses in cutting food) Huh? STELLA You called the police? JEFF Oh. Well, yes and no. It wasn't an official call. He's just a friend. (Almost to himself) An old, ornery friend. He begins eating, appreciatively. She moves behind his chair, pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment again. Jeff is just lifting a piece of bacon to his lips when Stella speaks. STELLA (Half to herself) Now just where do you suppose he cut her up? The hand carrying the bacon to Jeff's mouth hesitates for a moment. STELLA (Answering herself) Oh -- of course! In the bathtub. That's the only place he could wash away the blood. The hand holding the bacon moves back to the plate. Jeff just stares ahead. Stella turns and walks into the kitchen. Jeff pushes the food away, and picks up the coffee cup instead. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes, over the coffee cup, are staring intently at the backyard. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. The shades up. No one moving. The rope-tied trunk still sits in the bedroom. To the left we see the basket lowering with the dog in it. We HEAR the woman WHISTLING an aria. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP His eyes stray in an upward direction as he puts down the coffee cup. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The CAMERA PANS UP past the woman lowering the dog, up to the roof where one of the sunbathers can be seen sitting up, rubbing her body with sun tan oil. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes moves down again. Abstractedly his hand strays toward the piece of bacon. He picks it up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. We are now aware that the salesman is now in his living room, lying out of sight on the sofa, because the smoke from a newly lighted cigar is starting to ascend toward the ceiling of his room. Stella's voice is heard calling out from the kitchen: STELLA'S VOICE He'd better get that trunk out of there before is starts to leak. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Again the bacon stops before is reaches Jeff's mouth. He puts it down on the plate again, as his eyes move slightly toward the left. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet outfit, is hanging up a small wash on a clothes line. It consists mostly of lingerie. She is doing her inevitable leg practice at the same time. THE CAMERA PANS OVER SUDDENLY TO Thorwald's apartment, and except for the smoke rising from the unseen sofa, there is no activity. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff seems to be getting a bit listless, or bored, by constantly watching Thorwald's apartment. His eyes sort of stray around the neighborhood, and end up looking toward: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The newlywed's apartment. Shade down, business as usual. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles affectionately, and starts to turn his eyes away; but something startles him, and he looks quickly back. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The shade suddenly going up in the newlywed's apartment. The young husband leans his hands on the windowsill, and looks out. He is wearing only his pajama bottoms, because of the heat, and we see that he is a well-muscled, attractive young man. He looks around with some satisfaction. He turns at the sound of a woman's voice behind him. GIRL'S VOICE H-a-a-r-r-e-e... He turns his head, is thoughtful for a brief moment, then he pulls down the shade. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP His smile almost becomes a private chuckle. Stella's abrupt voice breaks in urgently: STELLA'S VOICE Look! Look -- Mr. Jefferies! Jeff's head snaps toward the center of his window. Stella has appeared behind his wheelchair. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Two men wearing tan coveralls are standing outside Thorwald's door. One of them carries a clipboard. Suddenly Thorwald is seen sitting up on the living room sofa. His hair is disheveled and he is unshaved. He stands up, and moves toward the door. He opens it, and after a short exchange of dialogue, he admits the two men, leaving the door open behind them. He leads the two man across the living room to the bedroom. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Stella and Jeff watching intently. He is feeling down alongside his wheelchair for his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT A close view shows the two man carrying the trunk across the living room toward the corridor. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars quickly. JEFF (Agitated) I thought Doyle would get here before the trunk went -- or I'd have called the police. (To Stella) Now we're going to lose it. Stella moves toward the door quickly. Jeff turns quickly over his shoulder to watch her. She is already going up the steps. JEFF Stella, don't do anything reckless! As Stella goes out the door, she calls back: STELLA I'm just going to get the name of their truck! JEFF (Up) I'll watch the alleyway -- in case it goes that way. We hear nothing from Stella, but the sound of her heavy tread down the hallway stairs. Jeff returns to Thorwald. He eases himself back into the shadows a bit and then raises his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT Jeff concentrates his attention on the alley-way that leads to the street. Just normal traffic. The binoculars swing to Thorwald apartment. The salesman is now at the telephone. He has picked up the receiver, and proceeds to dial 221. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP The binoculars still up to Jeff's face. Under them his mouth moves, as if he's talking to himself. JEFF Long Distance. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT The salesman speaks some words to the operator. Placing the call. As he does this, he reaches with his other hand for a nearly bottle, and working the cork out with one hand, he pours a stiff drink into a tumbler. He drinks it as soon as he finishes talking with the operator. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars a little, and takes a normal eye sight on the alleyway. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Pulling across to the far side of the street we see the hood and cab of a freight truck. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff quickly puts the glasses up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT By the time the binoculars are up, another truck has crossed from the left. In momentarily blocks out the side of our freight truck. By the time the two trucks part, we can only see the back half of the freight truck before it pulls out of sight. Jeff is only able to read the words "FREIGHT LINES". The binoculars are held for a moment until we see a puffing and blowing Stella arrive at the opening of the alleyway. She looks toward the front of Thorwald's apartment house. And by her attitude we can see that there is no truck outside. She looks about her for a moment. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars, discouraged. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT The figure of Stella is seen, looking up toward Jeff's apartment, and arms outspread in a helpless gesture. LAP DISSOLVE TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT SHOOTING TOWARDS the big window, with the neighborhood beyond, Jeff is as usual seated in his wheelchair on the left of the window, but now turned toward a newcomer. The second man is standing near the divan looking out the window with the binoculars. This newcomer is POLICE DETECTIVE LIEUTENANT THOMAS J. DOYLE, the man Jeff phoned earlier in the day. He is an intelligent-appearing, well-dressed modern detective. He has a sense of humor. He lowers the glasses, and turns to Jeff. DOYLE You didn't see the killing, or the body? How do you know there was a murder? JEFF Because everything that man's done has been suspicious. Trips at night in the rain, saws, knives, trunks with rope, and a wife that isn't there any more. DOYLE I'll admit it all has a mysterious sound -- but is could mean a number of different things. Murder is the least likely. JEFF Go ahead, Doyle -- tell me he's an unemployed magician -- amusing the neighborhood with sleight-of-hand. Doyle paces a little. DOYLE It's too stupid and obvious a way to murder -- in full view of fifty windows -- and then sit over there -- (He points) -- smoking a cigar -- waiting for the police to pick him up. JEFF Well, officer -- do your duty. DOYLE You've got a lot to lean about homicide, Jeff. Morons have committed murder so shrewdly that it took a hundred trained police minds to catch them. That salesman wouldn't just knock off his wife after dinner, toss her in a trunk and put her in storage. JEFF I'll bet it's been done. DOYLE Almost everything's been done -- under panic. But this is a thousand to one shot. That man's still sitting around his apartment; he isn't panicked. JEFF (A pause) You think I made all this up? DOYLE I think you saw something -- that probably has a very simple explanation. JEFF For instance? DOYLE (Shrugs) His wife took a trip. JEFF She -- was -- an -- invalid! DOYLE You told me. (Looks at watch) I've got to run, Jeff. JEFF All right -- you don't believe me. Doyle saunters toward steps, picking up his hat on the way. Stops. DOYLE I -- uh -- won't report it to the Department. Let me poke into a little on my own. No point in you getting any ridiculous publicity. JEFF (Coldly) Thanks. DOYLE We know the wife is gone. I'll see if I can find out where. JEFF Do that. He goes up the steps to the door, putting on his hat. He pauses his hand on the door knob. DOYLE You have any headaches lately? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers, showing only the slightest irritation. JEFF Not 'til you showed up. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Doyle, still at the door: DOYLE Uh-huh. Well, it'll wear off in time -- along with the hallucinations. See you around. He starts to go out the door, and closes it behind him. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT From Doyle's viewpoint. Jeff lifts his hand in a feeble parting gesture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Before the door has completely closed, Doyle opens it again, and looks in. DOYLE By the way what happened to your leg? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP JEFF I was jaywalking. DOYLE'S VOICE (O.S.) Where? JEFF (With nonchalance) The Indianapolis Speedway. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP The door starts to close again, as if Doyle considered Jeff's answer quite reasonable. Then the door pops open and Doyle's head comes in, a surprised expression across his face. DOYLE During the race? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers with a straight face. JEFF Yup. It sure stopped traffic. We don't see Doyle again, but only HEAR the sharp slam of the DOOR off. Jeff chuckles. Then he turns back to the window. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's attention is drawn to something in the yard below. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The little dog is busily scratching away at Thorwald's pet flower bed. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles mischievously. Suddenly his face changes as he sees: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald coming out of his basement door, carrying a watering can. He fills it from a nearby faucet. He does not notice the little dog's destructive activities. When the watering can is filled, he straightens up, turns toward the flower bed. He stops for the briefest moment, when he sees the dog. He walks to the dog, gently lifts him out of the garden, and giving him a friendly little pat, sends him off. He proceeds to patiently brush back the disturbed earth, and then begins his watering. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is frankly puzzled by the salesman's friendly attitude toward the dog. He looks off in another direction, as he catches of: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Doyle, who has appeared, at the street opening. The detective is surveying the front of the apartment building where Thorwald lives. A paper seller behind him offers to sell him a paper. Doyle isn't interested. As Doyle saunters forward toward the salesman house, the scene: LAP DISSOLVES TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Doyle is nonchalantly leaning up against the side board, with a highball in one hand. Jeff has turned his chair around from the window to face him. DOYLE He has a six months lease, and has used up a little over five and a half months of it. (Takes a sip of drink) Quiet. Drinks, but not to drunkenness. Pays his bill promptly, with money earned as a consume jewelry salesman -- wholesale. Keeps to himself, and none of the neighbors got close to him, or his wife. JEFF I think they missed their chance with her. DOYLE (Studies drink) She never left the apartment -- JEFF (Interrupting) Then where is she -- in the ice box? DOYLE (Continues) -- until yesterday morning. JEFF (Alert) What time? DOYLE Six ayem. Jeff looks thoughtful a moment, and then says, with a touch of discouragement: JEFF I think that's about the time I fell asleep. DOYLE Too bad. The Thorwalds were just leaving the apartment house at that time. He puts down his drink, and strolls toward the window, looking out. THE CAMERA MOVES IN slightly to tighten the shot. DOYLE Feel a little foolish? JEFF Not yet. Doyle becomes interested in watching something out the window. Unconsciously he smooths out his coat and tie. He even smiles somewhat secretly to himself at what he sees. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet costume, practicing her dance on the outside balcony. She is exciting and desirable. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - TIGHT TWO SHOT Jeff notices Doyle's interest. JEFF How's your wife? Startled at being observed, Doyle moves quickly away from the window, affecting nonchalance. THE CAMERA MOVES BACK as Doyle returns to his drink. Jeff smiles at catching Doyle enjoying Miss Torso. DOYLE Oh -- oh, she's fine. (Not too convincing) Just fine. He tosses off the rest of the drink, and his movement is almost a comment. Jeff's face grows serious. JEFF Who said they left then? DOYLE Who left -- where? JEFF The Thorwalds -- at six in the morning? Doyle quickly collects his thoughts, and gets back to the case at hand. DOYLE The building superintendent, and two tenants. Flat statements -- no hesitation. And they all jibed to the letter. The Thorwalds were leaving for the railroad station. JEFF Now how could anybody guess that? They had, perhaps, signs on their luggage, "Grand Central Or Bust!"? DOYLE (Sighs) The superintendent met Thorwald coming back. He said Thorwald told him he had just put his wife on the train for the country. JEFF A very convenient guy -- this superintendent. Have you checked his bank deposits lately? DOYLE Jeff -- huh? JEFF (Sharply) Well -- what good is his information?!! It's a second-hand version of an unsupported statement by the murderer himself -- Thorwald! Anybody actually see the wife get on the train? DOYLE I hate to remind you -- but this all started because you said she was murdered. Now

reaches

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

you ever have any problems? LISA (Murmurs, kissing him) I have one now. JEFF So do I. LISA (Kissing) Tell me about it. JEFF (Slight pause) Why would a man leave his apartment three times, on a rainy night, with a suitcase? And come back three times? LISA He likes the way his wife welcomes him home. JEFF Not that salesman's wife. And why didn't he go to work today? LISA Homework. It's more interesting. JEFF What's interesting about a butcher's knife and a small saw wrapped up in a newspaper? LISA Nothing, thank heaven. JEFF (Looking again) Why hasn't he gone into his wife's bedroom all day? LISA I wouldn't dare answer that. JEFF (After pause) Lisa -- there's something terribly wrong. She gives up trying to interest him in romance, and moves back from the embrace. THE CAMERA PULL BACK. LISA And I'm afraid it's with me. Lisa stands, straightens out her dress, stretches a little then she turns to the divan, apparently not too interested in his observation about the salesman's life. JEFF (Looks at Lisa) What do you think? LISA (Without returning his look) Something too frightful to utter. Jeff is thoughtful for a moment, then he relaxes and smiles a little. He turns to the window to look out again. Lisa exits the picture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa stretches herself out on the divan. Her head rest on the cushion at the far end, and she instinctively falls into an attractive pose. However, her expression is disturbed as she watches Jeff. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP He stares intently out the window. JEFF He went out a few minutes ago -- in his undershirt -- and he hasn't come back yet. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Lisa weighs this information, trying to make some sense out of it. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns his eyes from the salesman's apartment, and looks down reflectively. He looks up again, and then his eyes catches sight of something. He leans forward slightly. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso is lying, face down, on her divan bed. The only light in the apartment is from a reading lamp. She is reading a book held in one hand, while eating a sandwich in another. Her back is bare, and all she wears is a pair of brief dark blue shorts. At one point, she lifts her torso up slightly to brush crumbs out from beneath her. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP He looks away from Miss Torso, thoughtfully. JEFF You know -- that would be terrible job to tackle. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa leans forward and looks out the window to see what Jeff is referring to. She turns back to him with a blank stare. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns and looks at her, quite unaware of her surprise at his comment. JEFF How would you begin to cut up a human body? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa sits bolt upright on the divan. She reaches back quickly and pulls on the overhead light. At that moment the songwriter returns to his composing. We can see him over Lisa's shoulder. He is beginning his song again, and it has taken on new fullness and melody. Although it is not complete, it is farther along then before, and he plays his theme a number of different ways, trying to move it note by note to its completion. Lisa just stares at Jeff for a moment. LISA Jeff -- I'll be honest with you -- you're beginning to scare me a little. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is staring out of the window again. Over this we hear Lisa's voice: LISA (Quietly insistent) Jeff -- did you hear what I said? You're beginning to -- Jeff puts out a restraining hand. JEFF (Interrupting) Be quiet! Shhh! (Pause) He's coming back! EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT At last the salesman is seen coming along the corridor. He does not wear shirt, but only an undershirt. Slung over one shoulder, with his arm through is, is a large coil of sturdy rope. He goes through the living room into the bedroom. He does not put on the bedroom lights. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff reaches quickly for his binoculars, and trains them on the salesman's apartment. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT As seen though the binoculars, the salesman comes out of the bedroom, to the kitchen, where he gets a carving knife. He turns around and goes back to the bedroom. The lights go on behind the draw shades, after a short moment. The dim shadow of the salesman is seen moving around the room. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa, still stretched out on the divan looking at Jeff, suddenly sits upright and then getting up from the divan, mover over to Jeff, THE CAMERA GOING WITH her. In a sudden surprise move, she swings his chair completely around so that his back is to the window. He drops the binoculars into his lap in surprise. THE CAMERA MOVES IN as Lisa leans over Jeff, gripping both sides of his chair LISA (sharply) Jeff -- if you could only see yourself. JEFF Now, Lisa -- LISA (Abruptly) Sitting around, looking out a window to kill time, is one thing -- but doing it the way you are -- (She gestures) -- with, with binoculars, and with wild opinions about every little movement you see -- is, is diseased! JEFF Do you think I consider this recreation? LISA I don't know what you consider it -- but if you don't stop it, I'm getting out of here. JEFF You'd better before you catch the disease! LISA (Insistent) What is it you're looking for? JEFF I want to find out what's wrong with the salesman's wife. Does that make me sound like a madman? LISA What makes you think something's wrong with her? LISA A lot of things. She's an invalid who needs constant care -- and yet the husband nor anyone else has been in there all day. LISA Maybe she died. JEFF Where's the doctor -- the undertakers? LISA She could be under sedatives, sleeping. (Looks up) He's in the room now. Jeff tries to turn around, but she won't let the chair move. JEFF Lisa, please! LISA There's nothing to see. JEFF There is -- I've seen things through that window! Bickering, family fights, mysterious trips at night, knives, saws, rope -- and since last evening, not a sight or sound of his wife! Now you tell me where she is and what she's doing! LISA Maybe he's leaving his wife. I don't know, and I don't care. Lots of people have saws, knives and ropes around their houses. Lots of men don't speak to their wives all day. Lots of wives nag, and men hate them, and trouble starts -- but very, very, very few of them end up in murder -- if that's what you're thinking. JEFF It's pretty hard to stay away from that word isn't is? LISA You could see all the things he did, couldn't you? JEFF What are you getting at? LISA You could see that he did because he had the shades in his apartment up, and walked along the corridor, and the streets and the backyard? JEFF Yeah. LISA Jeff, do you think a murderer would let you see all that? That he shouldn't keep his shades down and hide behind them? JEFF That's where he's being clever. Acting nonchalant. LISA And that's where you're not being clever. He wouldn't parade his crime in front of the open shades. She turns the wheelchair slightly to her left so that he can see the newlyweds' apartment. LISA (Pointing) For all you know -- there's something a lot more sinister going on behind those shades. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT The drawn shades of the newlyweds' apartment. A dim light burning behind them. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff looks, turns back to her, trying to suppress a chuckle. JEFF No comment. LISA Don't you see how silly you're being? JEFF Okay, Lisa -- probably you're right. He's probably in the bedroom now, entertaining his wife with the indian rope trick. I'll admit to criminal insanity. Now when do I start the cure? Lisa half looks up and out the window. She opens her mouth to answer, but a new look overtakes her face. It is concern, surprise, and a little shock. Jeff sees the change, is sobered, and quickly turns the chair around. He looks out the window, using his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT The shades in the bedroom are now up. Both beds are empty, and stripped of their linen, the mattresses thrown up over the end of the beds. The salesman, sweating heavily, stands over a large, square trunk in the center of the room. It is stoutly bound by the heavy rope we previously saw him bring into the apartment. He wipes one forearm across his brow, and then heads for the kitchen. In the kitchen, he produces a bottle, pours himself two or three straight drinks, then leans with a display of exhaustion against the kitchen sink. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff lowers the glasses. His look is sober. Lisa stands behind him, one hand on the back of the wheelchair. She, too, is serious. THE CAMERA MOVES IN until Lisa's head fills the screen. She says, slowly: LISA Let's start from the beginning again, Jeff. Tell me everything you saw -- and what you think it means. She is still staring out the window, as the scene FADES OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated in the dark, his face lit by the faint glow from the distant street. He is looking out of the window tensely, as THE CAMERA MOVES IN, until he is in big profile. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT From Jeff's viewpoint, all the windows are dark. The couple are sleeping on the fire escape. The salesman's apartment is dark as well. Suddenly a match flares, and we see the salesman light a cigar. The flame of the match illuminates his face for a moment. When is dies out, we see just the glow of the cigar burning. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP The CAMERA is now facing Jeff. We see that his left hand rests on the telephone receiver which is close to him. The phone starts to RING, but makes only the slightest sound, as he instantly picks it up. As he talks, in a low voice, he keeps his eyes on the salesman's apartment. JEFF Yeah? INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP We get an impression of Sixth Avenue behind Lisa at the phone. Lisa also talks in a low, quiet voice. LISA The name on the second floor rear mailbox reads Mr. And Mrs. Lars, that's L-A-R-S, Lars Thorwald. JEFF (Filter) What's the apartment house number? LISA 125 West Ninth Street. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff, still looks toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Thanks, Lisa. INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa smilingly says: LISA Okay, chief. What's my next assignment. JEFF To get on home. LISA All right -- but what's he doing now? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff is still looking toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Just sitting in the living room. In the dark. And he hasn't gone near the bedroom. Now get some sleep. Goodnight. He puts the receiver down, and resumes his vigil. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT All we can see is the glow of the salesman's cigar. FADE OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated by the window in his wheelchair. He is talking on the telephone while his eyes are still on the neighborhood. There is a touch of urgency in his voice. JEFF Look, Doyle -- it's just one of those things I can't tell you on the phone. You have to be here, and see the whole set-up. The CAMERA PULLS BACK slightly as Stella emerges from the kitchen. She is carrying a tray with breakfast on it. Eggs, bacon, toast and coffee. JEFF It's probably nothing important -- just a little neighborhood murder, that's all. As a matter of fact, I did say "murder". Stella squeezes past the right side of Jeff, and places the food tray on a windowseat in front of him. She peers out cautiously toward Thorwald's apartment for a moment. Then she squeezes back, moving to the sideboard against which leans a small table on an adjustable stand. JEFF My only thought was to throw a little business your way. A good detective, I reasoned, would jump at the chance to detect. Stella returns with the table, and sets it up so that it is across Jeff's lap. She gets the tray of food pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment. Then she places the breakfast on the tray table in front of Jeff. He has moved back a little to avoid getting the phone cable tangled in the food and dishes. JEFF Well, I usually took my best pictures on my day off. (nods) Okay, Doyle -- soon as you can. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP He hangs up. Stella takes the phone and puts it down for him. He looks at the breakfast, reaches for a knife and fork. JEFF Stella, I -- I can't tell you what a welcome sight this is. No wonder your husband's still in love with you. STELLA Police? JEFF (Pauses in cutting food) Huh? STELLA You called the police? JEFF Oh. Well, yes and no. It wasn't an official call. He's just a friend. (Almost to himself) An old, ornery friend. He begins eating, appreciatively. She moves behind his chair, pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment again. Jeff is just lifting a piece of bacon to his lips when Stella speaks. STELLA (Half to herself) Now just where do you suppose he cut her up? The hand carrying the bacon to Jeff's mouth hesitates for a moment. STELLA (Answering herself) Oh -- of course! In the bathtub. That's the only place he could wash away the blood. The hand holding the bacon moves back to the plate. Jeff just stares ahead. Stella turns and walks into the kitchen. Jeff pushes the food away, and picks up the coffee cup instead. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes, over the coffee cup, are staring intently at the backyard. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. The shades up. No one moving. The rope-tied trunk still sits in the bedroom. To the left we see the basket lowering with the dog in it. We HEAR the woman WHISTLING an aria. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP His eyes stray in an upward direction as he puts down the coffee cup. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The CAMERA PANS UP past the woman lowering the dog, up to the roof where one of the sunbathers can be seen sitting up, rubbing her body with sun tan oil. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes moves down again. Abstractedly his hand strays toward the piece of bacon. He picks it up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. We are now aware that the salesman is now in his living room, lying out of sight on the sofa, because the smoke from a newly lighted cigar is starting to ascend toward the ceiling of his room. Stella's voice is heard calling out from the kitchen: STELLA'S VOICE He'd better get that trunk out of there before is starts to leak. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Again the bacon stops before is reaches Jeff's mouth. He puts it down on the plate again, as his eyes move slightly toward the left. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet outfit, is hanging up a small wash on a clothes line. It consists mostly of lingerie. She is doing her inevitable leg practice at the same time. THE CAMERA PANS OVER SUDDENLY TO Thorwald's apartment, and except for the smoke rising from the unseen sofa, there is no activity. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff seems to be getting a bit listless, or bored, by constantly watching Thorwald's apartment. His eyes sort of stray around the neighborhood, and end up looking toward: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The newlywed's apartment. Shade down, business as usual. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles affectionately, and starts to turn his eyes away; but something startles him, and he looks quickly back. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The shade suddenly going up in the newlywed's apartment. The young husband leans his hands on the windowsill, and looks out. He is wearing only his pajama bottoms, because of the heat, and we see that he is a well-muscled, attractive young man. He looks around with some satisfaction. He turns at the sound of a woman's voice behind him. GIRL'S VOICE H-a-a-r-r-e-e... He turns his head, is thoughtful for a brief moment, then he pulls down the shade. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP His smile almost becomes a private chuckle. Stella's abrupt voice breaks in urgently: STELLA'S VOICE Look! Look -- Mr. Jefferies! Jeff's head snaps toward the center of his window. Stella has appeared behind his wheelchair. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Two men wearing tan coveralls are standing outside Thorwald's door. One of them carries a clipboard. Suddenly Thorwald is seen sitting up on the living room sofa. His hair is disheveled and he is unshaved. He stands up, and moves toward the door. He opens it, and after a short exchange of dialogue, he admits the two men, leaving the door open behind them. He leads the two man across the living room to the bedroom. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Stella and Jeff watching intently. He is feeling down alongside his wheelchair for his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT A close view shows the two man carrying the trunk across the living room toward the corridor. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars quickly. JEFF (Agitated) I thought Doyle would get here before the trunk went -- or I'd have called the police. (To Stella) Now we're going to lose it. Stella moves toward the door quickly. Jeff turns quickly over his shoulder to watch her. She is already going up the steps. JEFF Stella, don't do anything reckless! As Stella goes out the door, she calls back: STELLA I'm just going to get the name of their truck! JEFF (Up) I'll watch the alleyway -- in case it goes that way. We hear nothing from Stella, but the sound of her heavy tread down the hallway stairs. Jeff returns to Thorwald. He eases himself back into the shadows a bit and then raises his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT Jeff concentrates his attention on the alley-way that leads to the street. Just normal traffic. The binoculars swing to Thorwald apartment. The salesman is now at the telephone. He has picked up the receiver, and proceeds to dial 221. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP The binoculars still up to Jeff's face. Under them his mouth moves, as if he's talking to himself. JEFF Long Distance. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT The salesman speaks some words to the operator. Placing the call. As he does this, he reaches with his other hand for a nearly bottle, and working the cork out with one hand, he pours a stiff drink into a tumbler. He drinks it as soon as he finishes talking with the operator. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars a little, and takes a normal eye sight on the alleyway. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Pulling across to the far side of the street we see the hood and cab of a freight truck. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff quickly puts the glasses up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT By the time the binoculars are up, another truck has crossed from the left. In momentarily blocks out the side of our freight truck. By the time the two trucks part, we can only see the back half of the freight truck before it pulls out of sight. Jeff is only able to read the words "FREIGHT LINES". The binoculars are held for a moment until we see a puffing and blowing Stella arrive at the opening of the alleyway. She looks toward the front of Thorwald's apartment house. And by her attitude we can see that there is no truck outside. She looks about her for a moment. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars, discouraged. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT The figure of Stella is seen, looking up toward Jeff's apartment, and arms outspread in a helpless gesture. LAP DISSOLVE TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT SHOOTING TOWARDS the big window, with the neighborhood beyond, Jeff is as usual seated in his wheelchair on the left of the window, but now turned toward a newcomer. The second man is standing near the divan looking out the window with the binoculars. This newcomer is POLICE DETECTIVE LIEUTENANT THOMAS J. DOYLE, the man Jeff phoned earlier in the day. He is an intelligent-appearing, well-dressed modern detective. He has a sense of humor. He lowers the glasses, and turns to Jeff. DOYLE You didn't see the killing, or the body? How do you know there was a murder? JEFF Because everything that man's done has been suspicious. Trips at night in the rain, saws, knives, trunks with rope, and a wife that isn't there any more. DOYLE I'll admit it all has a mysterious sound -- but is could mean a number of different things. Murder is the least likely. JEFF Go ahead, Doyle -- tell me he's an unemployed magician -- amusing the neighborhood with sleight-of-hand. Doyle paces a little. DOYLE It's too stupid and obvious a way to murder -- in full view of fifty windows -- and then sit over there -- (He points) -- smoking a cigar -- waiting for the police to pick him up. JEFF Well, officer -- do your duty. DOYLE You've got a lot to lean about homicide, Jeff. Morons have committed murder so shrewdly that it took a hundred trained police minds to catch them. That salesman wouldn't just knock off his wife after dinner, toss her in a trunk and put her in storage. JEFF I'll bet it's been done. DOYLE Almost everything's been done -- under panic. But this is a thousand to one shot. That man's still sitting around his apartment; he isn't panicked. JEFF (A pause) You think I made all this up? DOYLE I think you saw something -- that probably has a very simple explanation. JEFF For instance? DOYLE (Shrugs) His wife took a trip. JEFF She -- was -- an -- invalid! DOYLE You told me. (Looks at watch) I've got to run, Jeff. JEFF All right -- you don't believe me. Doyle saunters toward steps, picking up his hat on the way. Stops. DOYLE I -- uh -- won't report it to the Department. Let me poke into a little on my own. No point in you getting any ridiculous publicity. JEFF (Coldly) Thanks. DOYLE We know the wife is gone. I'll see if I can find out where. JEFF Do that. He goes up the steps to the door, putting on his hat. He pauses his hand on the door knob. DOYLE You have any headaches lately? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers, showing only the slightest irritation. JEFF Not 'til you showed up. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Doyle, still at the door: DOYLE Uh-huh. Well, it'll wear off in time -- along with the hallucinations. See you around. He starts to go out the door, and closes it behind him. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT From Doyle's viewpoint. Jeff lifts his hand in a feeble parting gesture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Before the door has completely closed, Doyle opens it again, and looks in. DOYLE By the way what happened to your leg? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP JEFF I was jaywalking. DOYLE'S VOICE (O.S.) Where? JEFF (With nonchalance) The Indianapolis Speedway. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP The door starts to close again, as if Doyle considered Jeff's answer quite reasonable. Then the door pops open and Doyle's head comes in, a surprised expression across his face. DOYLE During the race? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers with a straight face. JEFF Yup. It sure stopped traffic. We don't see Doyle again, but only HEAR the sharp slam of the DOOR off. Jeff chuckles. Then he turns back to the window. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's attention is drawn to something in the yard below. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The little dog is busily scratching away at Thorwald's pet flower bed. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles mischievously. Suddenly his face changes as he sees: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald coming out of his basement door, carrying a watering can. He fills it from a nearby faucet. He does not notice the little dog's destructive activities. When the watering can is filled, he straightens up, turns toward the flower bed. He stops for the briefest moment, when he sees the dog. He walks to the dog, gently lifts him out of the garden, and giving him a friendly little pat, sends him off. He proceeds to patiently brush back the disturbed earth, and then begins his watering. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is frankly puzzled by the salesman's friendly attitude toward the dog. He looks off in another direction, as he catches of: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Doyle, who has appeared, at the street opening. The detective is surveying the front of the apartment building where Thorwald lives. A paper seller behind him offers to sell him a paper. Doyle isn't interested. As Doyle saunters forward toward the salesman house, the scene: LAP DISSOLVES TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Doyle is nonchalantly leaning up against the side board, with a highball in one hand. Jeff has turned his chair around from the window to face him. DOYLE He has a six months lease, and has used up a little over five and a half months of it. (Takes a sip of drink) Quiet. Drinks, but not to drunkenness. Pays his bill promptly, with money earned as a consume jewelry salesman -- wholesale. Keeps to himself, and none of the neighbors got close to him, or his wife. JEFF I think they missed their chance with her. DOYLE (Studies drink) She never left the apartment -- JEFF (Interrupting) Then where is she -- in the ice box? DOYLE (Continues) -- until yesterday morning. JEFF (Alert) What time? DOYLE Six ayem. Jeff looks thoughtful a moment, and then says, with a touch of discouragement: JEFF I think that's about the time I fell asleep. DOYLE Too bad. The Thorwalds were just leaving the apartment house at that time. He puts down his drink, and strolls toward the window, looking out. THE CAMERA MOVES IN slightly to tighten the shot. DOYLE Feel a little foolish? JEFF Not yet. Doyle becomes interested in watching something out the window. Unconsciously he smooths out his coat and tie. He even smiles somewhat secretly to himself at what he sees. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet costume, practicing her dance on the outside balcony. She is exciting and desirable. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - TIGHT TWO SHOT Jeff notices Doyle's interest. JEFF How's your wife? Startled at being observed, Doyle moves quickly away from the window, affecting nonchalance. THE CAMERA MOVES BACK as Doyle returns to his drink. Jeff smiles at catching Doyle enjoying Miss Torso. DOYLE Oh -- oh, she's fine. (Not too convincing) Just fine. He tosses off the rest of the drink, and his movement is almost a comment. Jeff's face grows serious. JEFF Who said they left then? DOYLE Who left -- where? JEFF The Thorwalds -- at six in the morning? Doyle quickly collects his thoughts, and gets back to the case at hand. DOYLE The building superintendent, and two tenants. Flat statements -- no hesitation. And they all jibed to the letter. The Thorwalds were leaving for the railroad station. JEFF Now how could anybody guess that? They had, perhaps, signs on their luggage, "Grand Central Or Bust!"? DOYLE (Sighs) The superintendent met Thorwald coming back. He said Thorwald told him he had just put his wife on the train for the country. JEFF A very convenient guy -- this superintendent. Have you checked his bank deposits lately? DOYLE Jeff -- huh? JEFF (Sharply) Well -- what good is his information?!! It's a second-hand version of an unsupported statement by the murderer himself -- Thorwald! Anybody actually see the wife get on the train? DOYLE I hate to remind you -- but this all started because you said she was murdered. Now

for

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

you ever have any problems? LISA (Murmurs, kissing him) I have one now. JEFF So do I. LISA (Kissing) Tell me about it. JEFF (Slight pause) Why would a man leave his apartment three times, on a rainy night, with a suitcase? And come back three times? LISA He likes the way his wife welcomes him home. JEFF Not that salesman's wife. And why didn't he go to work today? LISA Homework. It's more interesting. JEFF What's interesting about a butcher's knife and a small saw wrapped up in a newspaper? LISA Nothing, thank heaven. JEFF (Looking again) Why hasn't he gone into his wife's bedroom all day? LISA I wouldn't dare answer that. JEFF (After pause) Lisa -- there's something terribly wrong. She gives up trying to interest him in romance, and moves back from the embrace. THE CAMERA PULL BACK. LISA And I'm afraid it's with me. Lisa stands, straightens out her dress, stretches a little then she turns to the divan, apparently not too interested in his observation about the salesman's life. JEFF (Looks at Lisa) What do you think? LISA (Without returning his look) Something too frightful to utter. Jeff is thoughtful for a moment, then he relaxes and smiles a little. He turns to the window to look out again. Lisa exits the picture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa stretches herself out on the divan. Her head rest on the cushion at the far end, and she instinctively falls into an attractive pose. However, her expression is disturbed as she watches Jeff. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP He stares intently out the window. JEFF He went out a few minutes ago -- in his undershirt -- and he hasn't come back yet. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Lisa weighs this information, trying to make some sense out of it. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns his eyes from the salesman's apartment, and looks down reflectively. He looks up again, and then his eyes catches sight of something. He leans forward slightly. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso is lying, face down, on her divan bed. The only light in the apartment is from a reading lamp. She is reading a book held in one hand, while eating a sandwich in another. Her back is bare, and all she wears is a pair of brief dark blue shorts. At one point, she lifts her torso up slightly to brush crumbs out from beneath her. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP He looks away from Miss Torso, thoughtfully. JEFF You know -- that would be terrible job to tackle. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa leans forward and looks out the window to see what Jeff is referring to. She turns back to him with a blank stare. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff turns and looks at her, quite unaware of her surprise at his comment. JEFF How would you begin to cut up a human body? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa sits bolt upright on the divan. She reaches back quickly and pulls on the overhead light. At that moment the songwriter returns to his composing. We can see him over Lisa's shoulder. He is beginning his song again, and it has taken on new fullness and melody. Although it is not complete, it is farther along then before, and he plays his theme a number of different ways, trying to move it note by note to its completion. Lisa just stares at Jeff for a moment. LISA Jeff -- I'll be honest with you -- you're beginning to scare me a little. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is staring out of the window again. Over this we hear Lisa's voice: LISA (Quietly insistent) Jeff -- did you hear what I said? You're beginning to -- Jeff puts out a restraining hand. JEFF (Interrupting) Be quiet! Shhh! (Pause) He's coming back! EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT At last the salesman is seen coming along the corridor. He does not wear shirt, but only an undershirt. Slung over one shoulder, with his arm through is, is a large coil of sturdy rope. He goes through the living room into the bedroom. He does not put on the bedroom lights. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff reaches quickly for his binoculars, and trains them on the salesman's apartment. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT As seen though the binoculars, the salesman comes out of the bedroom, to the kitchen, where he gets a carving knife. He turns around and goes back to the bedroom. The lights go on behind the draw shades, after a short moment. The dim shadow of the salesman is seen moving around the room. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Lisa, still stretched out on the divan looking at Jeff, suddenly sits upright and then getting up from the divan, mover over to Jeff, THE CAMERA GOING WITH her. In a sudden surprise move, she swings his chair completely around so that his back is to the window. He drops the binoculars into his lap in surprise. THE CAMERA MOVES IN as Lisa leans over Jeff, gripping both sides of his chair LISA (sharply) Jeff -- if you could only see yourself. JEFF Now, Lisa -- LISA (Abruptly) Sitting around, looking out a window to kill time, is one thing -- but doing it the way you are -- (She gestures) -- with, with binoculars, and with wild opinions about every little movement you see -- is, is diseased! JEFF Do you think I consider this recreation? LISA I don't know what you consider it -- but if you don't stop it, I'm getting out of here. JEFF You'd better before you catch the disease! LISA (Insistent) What is it you're looking for? JEFF I want to find out what's wrong with the salesman's wife. Does that make me sound like a madman? LISA What makes you think something's wrong with her? LISA A lot of things. She's an invalid who needs constant care -- and yet the husband nor anyone else has been in there all day. LISA Maybe she died. JEFF Where's the doctor -- the undertakers? LISA She could be under sedatives, sleeping. (Looks up) He's in the room now. Jeff tries to turn around, but she won't let the chair move. JEFF Lisa, please! LISA There's nothing to see. JEFF There is -- I've seen things through that window! Bickering, family fights, mysterious trips at night, knives, saws, rope -- and since last evening, not a sight or sound of his wife! Now you tell me where she is and what she's doing! LISA Maybe he's leaving his wife. I don't know, and I don't care. Lots of people have saws, knives and ropes around their houses. Lots of men don't speak to their wives all day. Lots of wives nag, and men hate them, and trouble starts -- but very, very, very few of them end up in murder -- if that's what you're thinking. JEFF It's pretty hard to stay away from that word isn't is? LISA You could see all the things he did, couldn't you? JEFF What are you getting at? LISA You could see that he did because he had the shades in his apartment up, and walked along the corridor, and the streets and the backyard? JEFF Yeah. LISA Jeff, do you think a murderer would let you see all that? That he shouldn't keep his shades down and hide behind them? JEFF That's where he's being clever. Acting nonchalant. LISA And that's where you're not being clever. He wouldn't parade his crime in front of the open shades. She turns the wheelchair slightly to her left so that he can see the newlyweds' apartment. LISA (Pointing) For all you know -- there's something a lot more sinister going on behind those shades. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT The drawn shades of the newlyweds' apartment. A dim light burning behind them. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff looks, turns back to her, trying to suppress a chuckle. JEFF No comment. LISA Don't you see how silly you're being? JEFF Okay, Lisa -- probably you're right. He's probably in the bedroom now, entertaining his wife with the indian rope trick. I'll admit to criminal insanity. Now when do I start the cure? Lisa half looks up and out the window. She opens her mouth to answer, but a new look overtakes her face. It is concern, surprise, and a little shock. Jeff sees the change, is sobered, and quickly turns the chair around. He looks out the window, using his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - SEMI-LONG SHOT The shades in the bedroom are now up. Both beds are empty, and stripped of their linen, the mattresses thrown up over the end of the beds. The salesman, sweating heavily, stands over a large, square trunk in the center of the room. It is stoutly bound by the heavy rope we previously saw him bring into the apartment. He wipes one forearm across his brow, and then heads for the kitchen. In the kitchen, he produces a bottle, pours himself two or three straight drinks, then leans with a display of exhaustion against the kitchen sink. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff lowers the glasses. His look is sober. Lisa stands behind him, one hand on the back of the wheelchair. She, too, is serious. THE CAMERA MOVES IN until Lisa's head fills the screen. She says, slowly: LISA Let's start from the beginning again, Jeff. Tell me everything you saw -- and what you think it means. She is still staring out the window, as the scene FADES OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated in the dark, his face lit by the faint glow from the distant street. He is looking out of the window tensely, as THE CAMERA MOVES IN, until he is in big profile. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT From Jeff's viewpoint, all the windows are dark. The couple are sleeping on the fire escape. The salesman's apartment is dark as well. Suddenly a match flares, and we see the salesman light a cigar. The flame of the match illuminates his face for a moment. When is dies out, we see just the glow of the cigar burning. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - SEMI-CLOSEUP The CAMERA is now facing Jeff. We see that his left hand rests on the telephone receiver which is close to him. The phone starts to RING, but makes only the slightest sound, as he instantly picks it up. As he talks, in a low voice, he keeps his eyes on the salesman's apartment. JEFF Yeah? INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP We get an impression of Sixth Avenue behind Lisa at the phone. Lisa also talks in a low, quiet voice. LISA The name on the second floor rear mailbox reads Mr. And Mrs. Lars, that's L-A-R-S, Lars Thorwald. JEFF (Filter) What's the apartment house number? LISA 125 West Ninth Street. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff, still looks toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Thanks, Lisa. INT. PHONE BOOTH - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Lisa smilingly says: LISA Okay, chief. What's my next assignment. JEFF To get on home. LISA All right -- but what's he doing now? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - CLOSEUP Jeff is still looking toward the salesman's apartment. JEFF Just sitting in the living room. In the dark. And he hasn't gone near the bedroom. Now get some sleep. Goodnight. He puts the receiver down, and resumes his vigil. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT - LONG SHOT All we can see is the glow of the salesman's cigar. FADE OUT: FADE IN: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Jeff is seated by the window in his wheelchair. He is talking on the telephone while his eyes are still on the neighborhood. There is a touch of urgency in his voice. JEFF Look, Doyle -- it's just one of those things I can't tell you on the phone. You have to be here, and see the whole set-up. The CAMERA PULLS BACK slightly as Stella emerges from the kitchen. She is carrying a tray with breakfast on it. Eggs, bacon, toast and coffee. JEFF It's probably nothing important -- just a little neighborhood murder, that's all. As a matter of fact, I did say "murder". Stella squeezes past the right side of Jeff, and places the food tray on a windowseat in front of him. She peers out cautiously toward Thorwald's apartment for a moment. Then she squeezes back, moving to the sideboard against which leans a small table on an adjustable stand. JEFF My only thought was to throw a little business your way. A good detective, I reasoned, would jump at the chance to detect. Stella returns with the table, and sets it up so that it is across Jeff's lap. She gets the tray of food pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment. Then she places the breakfast on the tray table in front of Jeff. He has moved back a little to avoid getting the phone cable tangled in the food and dishes. JEFF Well, I usually took my best pictures on my day off. (nods) Okay, Doyle -- soon as you can. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP He hangs up. Stella takes the phone and puts it down for him. He looks at the breakfast, reaches for a knife and fork. JEFF Stella, I -- I can't tell you what a welcome sight this is. No wonder your husband's still in love with you. STELLA Police? JEFF (Pauses in cutting food) Huh? STELLA You called the police? JEFF Oh. Well, yes and no. It wasn't an official call. He's just a friend. (Almost to himself) An old, ornery friend. He begins eating, appreciatively. She moves behind his chair, pausing to look toward Thorwald's apartment again. Jeff is just lifting a piece of bacon to his lips when Stella speaks. STELLA (Half to herself) Now just where do you suppose he cut her up? The hand carrying the bacon to Jeff's mouth hesitates for a moment. STELLA (Answering herself) Oh -- of course! In the bathtub. That's the only place he could wash away the blood. The hand holding the bacon moves back to the plate. Jeff just stares ahead. Stella turns and walks into the kitchen. Jeff pushes the food away, and picks up the coffee cup instead. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes, over the coffee cup, are staring intently at the backyard. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. The shades up. No one moving. The rope-tied trunk still sits in the bedroom. To the left we see the basket lowering with the dog in it. We HEAR the woman WHISTLING an aria. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP His eyes stray in an upward direction as he puts down the coffee cup. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The CAMERA PANS UP past the woman lowering the dog, up to the roof where one of the sunbathers can be seen sitting up, rubbing her body with sun tan oil. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's eyes moves down again. Abstractedly his hand strays toward the piece of bacon. He picks it up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald's apartment. We are now aware that the salesman is now in his living room, lying out of sight on the sofa, because the smoke from a newly lighted cigar is starting to ascend toward the ceiling of his room. Stella's voice is heard calling out from the kitchen: STELLA'S VOICE He'd better get that trunk out of there before is starts to leak. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Again the bacon stops before is reaches Jeff's mouth. He puts it down on the plate again, as his eyes move slightly toward the left. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet outfit, is hanging up a small wash on a clothes line. It consists mostly of lingerie. She is doing her inevitable leg practice at the same time. THE CAMERA PANS OVER SUDDENLY TO Thorwald's apartment, and except for the smoke rising from the unseen sofa, there is no activity. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff seems to be getting a bit listless, or bored, by constantly watching Thorwald's apartment. His eyes sort of stray around the neighborhood, and end up looking toward: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The newlywed's apartment. Shade down, business as usual. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles affectionately, and starts to turn his eyes away; but something startles him, and he looks quickly back. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT The shade suddenly going up in the newlywed's apartment. The young husband leans his hands on the windowsill, and looks out. He is wearing only his pajama bottoms, because of the heat, and we see that he is a well-muscled, attractive young man. He looks around with some satisfaction. He turns at the sound of a woman's voice behind him. GIRL'S VOICE H-a-a-r-r-e-e... He turns his head, is thoughtful for a brief moment, then he pulls down the shade. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP His smile almost becomes a private chuckle. Stella's abrupt voice breaks in urgently: STELLA'S VOICE Look! Look -- Mr. Jefferies! Jeff's head snaps toward the center of his window. Stella has appeared behind his wheelchair. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Two men wearing tan coveralls are standing outside Thorwald's door. One of them carries a clipboard. Suddenly Thorwald is seen sitting up on the living room sofa. His hair is disheveled and he is unshaved. He stands up, and moves toward the door. He opens it, and after a short exchange of dialogue, he admits the two men, leaving the door open behind them. He leads the two man across the living room to the bedroom. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Stella and Jeff watching intently. He is feeling down alongside his wheelchair for his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT A close view shows the two man carrying the trunk across the living room toward the corridor. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars quickly. JEFF (Agitated) I thought Doyle would get here before the trunk went -- or I'd have called the police. (To Stella) Now we're going to lose it. Stella moves toward the door quickly. Jeff turns quickly over his shoulder to watch her. She is already going up the steps. JEFF Stella, don't do anything reckless! As Stella goes out the door, she calls back: STELLA I'm just going to get the name of their truck! JEFF (Up) I'll watch the alleyway -- in case it goes that way. We hear nothing from Stella, but the sound of her heavy tread down the hallway stairs. Jeff returns to Thorwald. He eases himself back into the shadows a bit and then raises his binoculars. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT Jeff concentrates his attention on the alley-way that leads to the street. Just normal traffic. The binoculars swing to Thorwald apartment. The salesman is now at the telephone. He has picked up the receiver, and proceeds to dial 221. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP The binoculars still up to Jeff's face. Under them his mouth moves, as if he's talking to himself. JEFF Long Distance. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT The salesman speaks some words to the operator. Placing the call. As he does this, he reaches with his other hand for a nearly bottle, and working the cork out with one hand, he pours a stiff drink into a tumbler. He drinks it as soon as he finishes talking with the operator. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars a little, and takes a normal eye sight on the alleyway. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Pulling across to the far side of the street we see the hood and cab of a freight truck. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff quickly puts the glasses up. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - BINOCULAR SHOT By the time the binoculars are up, another truck has crossed from the left. In momentarily blocks out the side of our freight truck. By the time the two trucks part, we can only see the back half of the freight truck before it pulls out of sight. Jeff is only able to read the words "FREIGHT LINES". The binoculars are held for a moment until we see a puffing and blowing Stella arrive at the opening of the alleyway. She looks toward the front of Thorwald's apartment house. And by her attitude we can see that there is no truck outside. She looks about her for a moment. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff lowers the binoculars, discouraged. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT The figure of Stella is seen, looking up toward Jeff's apartment, and arms outspread in a helpless gesture. LAP DISSOLVE TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT SHOOTING TOWARDS the big window, with the neighborhood beyond, Jeff is as usual seated in his wheelchair on the left of the window, but now turned toward a newcomer. The second man is standing near the divan looking out the window with the binoculars. This newcomer is POLICE DETECTIVE LIEUTENANT THOMAS J. DOYLE, the man Jeff phoned earlier in the day. He is an intelligent-appearing, well-dressed modern detective. He has a sense of humor. He lowers the glasses, and turns to Jeff. DOYLE You didn't see the killing, or the body? How do you know there was a murder? JEFF Because everything that man's done has been suspicious. Trips at night in the rain, saws, knives, trunks with rope, and a wife that isn't there any more. DOYLE I'll admit it all has a mysterious sound -- but is could mean a number of different things. Murder is the least likely. JEFF Go ahead, Doyle -- tell me he's an unemployed magician -- amusing the neighborhood with sleight-of-hand. Doyle paces a little. DOYLE It's too stupid and obvious a way to murder -- in full view of fifty windows -- and then sit over there -- (He points) -- smoking a cigar -- waiting for the police to pick him up. JEFF Well, officer -- do your duty. DOYLE You've got a lot to lean about homicide, Jeff. Morons have committed murder so shrewdly that it took a hundred trained police minds to catch them. That salesman wouldn't just knock off his wife after dinner, toss her in a trunk and put her in storage. JEFF I'll bet it's been done. DOYLE Almost everything's been done -- under panic. But this is a thousand to one shot. That man's still sitting around his apartment; he isn't panicked. JEFF (A pause) You think I made all this up? DOYLE I think you saw something -- that probably has a very simple explanation. JEFF For instance? DOYLE (Shrugs) His wife took a trip. JEFF She -- was -- an -- invalid! DOYLE You told me. (Looks at watch) I've got to run, Jeff. JEFF All right -- you don't believe me. Doyle saunters toward steps, picking up his hat on the way. Stops. DOYLE I -- uh -- won't report it to the Department. Let me poke into a little on my own. No point in you getting any ridiculous publicity. JEFF (Coldly) Thanks. DOYLE We know the wife is gone. I'll see if I can find out where. JEFF Do that. He goes up the steps to the door, putting on his hat. He pauses his hand on the door knob. DOYLE You have any headaches lately? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers, showing only the slightest irritation. JEFF Not 'til you showed up. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Doyle, still at the door: DOYLE Uh-huh. Well, it'll wear off in time -- along with the hallucinations. See you around. He starts to go out the door, and closes it behind him. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT From Doyle's viewpoint. Jeff lifts his hand in a feeble parting gesture. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Before the door has completely closed, Doyle opens it again, and looks in. DOYLE By the way what happened to your leg? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP JEFF I was jaywalking. DOYLE'S VOICE (O.S.) Where? JEFF (With nonchalance) The Indianapolis Speedway. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP The door starts to close again, as if Doyle considered Jeff's answer quite reasonable. Then the door pops open and Doyle's head comes in, a surprised expression across his face. DOYLE During the race? INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff answers with a straight face. JEFF Yup. It sure stopped traffic. We don't see Doyle again, but only HEAR the sharp slam of the DOOR off. Jeff chuckles. Then he turns back to the window. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff's attention is drawn to something in the yard below. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT The little dog is busily scratching away at Thorwald's pet flower bed. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP Jeff smiles mischievously. Suddenly his face changes as he sees: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Thorwald coming out of his basement door, carrying a watering can. He fills it from a nearby faucet. He does not notice the little dog's destructive activities. When the watering can is filled, he straightens up, turns toward the flower bed. He stops for the briefest moment, when he sees the dog. He walks to the dog, gently lifts him out of the garden, and giving him a friendly little pat, sends him off. He proceeds to patiently brush back the disturbed earth, and then begins his watering. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP Jeff is frankly puzzled by the salesman's friendly attitude toward the dog. He looks off in another direction, as he catches of: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT Doyle, who has appeared, at the street opening. The detective is surveying the front of the apartment building where Thorwald lives. A paper seller behind him offers to sell him a paper. Doyle isn't interested. As Doyle saunters forward toward the salesman house, the scene: LAP DISSOLVES TO: INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT Doyle is nonchalantly leaning up against the side board, with a highball in one hand. Jeff has turned his chair around from the window to face him. DOYLE He has a six months lease, and has used up a little over five and a half months of it. (Takes a sip of drink) Quiet. Drinks, but not to drunkenness. Pays his bill promptly, with money earned as a consume jewelry salesman -- wholesale. Keeps to himself, and none of the neighbors got close to him, or his wife. JEFF I think they missed their chance with her. DOYLE (Studies drink) She never left the apartment -- JEFF (Interrupting) Then where is she -- in the ice box? DOYLE (Continues) -- until yesterday morning. JEFF (Alert) What time? DOYLE Six ayem. Jeff looks thoughtful a moment, and then says, with a touch of discouragement: JEFF I think that's about the time I fell asleep. DOYLE Too bad. The Thorwalds were just leaving the apartment house at that time. He puts down his drink, and strolls toward the window, looking out. THE CAMERA MOVES IN slightly to tighten the shot. DOYLE Feel a little foolish? JEFF Not yet. Doyle becomes interested in watching something out the window. Unconsciously he smooths out his coat and tie. He even smiles somewhat secretly to himself at what he sees. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT Miss Torso, in ballet costume, practicing her dance on the outside balcony. She is exciting and desirable. INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - TIGHT TWO SHOT Jeff notices Doyle's interest. JEFF How's your wife? Startled at being observed, Doyle moves quickly away from the window, affecting nonchalance. THE CAMERA MOVES BACK as Doyle returns to his drink. Jeff smiles at catching Doyle enjoying Miss Torso. DOYLE Oh -- oh, she's fine. (Not too convincing) Just fine. He tosses off the rest of the drink, and his movement is almost a comment. Jeff's face grows serious. JEFF Who said they left then? DOYLE Who left -- where? JEFF The Thorwalds -- at six in the morning? Doyle quickly collects his thoughts, and gets back to the case at hand. DOYLE The building superintendent, and two tenants. Flat statements -- no hesitation. And they all jibed to the letter. The Thorwalds were leaving for the railroad station. JEFF Now how could anybody guess that? They had, perhaps, signs on their luggage, "Grand Central Or Bust!"? DOYLE (Sighs) The superintendent met Thorwald coming back. He said Thorwald told him he had just put his wife on the train for the country. JEFF A very convenient guy -- this superintendent. Have you checked his bank deposits lately? DOYLE Jeff -- huh? JEFF (Sharply) Well -- what good is his information?!! It's a second-hand version of an unsupported statement by the murderer himself -- Thorwald! Anybody actually see the wife get on the train? DOYLE I hate to remind you -- but this all started because you said she was murdered. Now

booth

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

you forgive me. And yet, if you only knew how I am rent by remorse, if you only knew how I suffer, perhaps you would have pity. No, no pity for me. I should like to die here at your feet, overwhelmed by shame and grief. She spoke in this manner for hours together, passing from despair to hope, condemning and then pardoning herself; she assumed the voice, brief and plaintive in turn, of a little sick girl; she flattened herself on the ground and drew herself up again, acting upon all the ideas of humility and pride, of repentance and revolt that entered her head. Sometimes even, forgetting she was on her knees before Madame Raquin, she continued her monologue as in a dream. When she had made herself thoroughly giddy with her own words, she rose staggering and dazed, to go down to the shop in a calmer frame of mind, no longer fearing to burst into sobs before her customers. When she again felt inclined for remorse, she ran upstairs and knelt at the feet of the impotent woman. This scene was repeated ten times a day. Therese never reflected that her tears, and display of repentance must impose ineffable anguish on her aunt. The truth was that if she had desired to invent a torment to torture Madame Raquin, it would not have been possible to have found a more frightful one than the comedy of remorse she performed before her. The paralysed woman could see the egotism concealed beneath these effusions of grief. She suffered horribly from these long monologues which she was compelled to listen to at every instant, and which always brought the murder of Camille before her eyes. She could not pardon, she never departed from the implacable thought of vengeance that her impotency rendered more keen, and all day long she had to listen to pleas for pardon, and to humble and cowardly prayers. She would have liked to give an answer; certain sentences of her niece brought crushing refusals to her lips, but she had to remain mute and allow Therese to plead her cause without once interrupting her. The impossibility of crying out and stopping her ears caused her inexpressible torture. The words of the young woman entered her mind, slow and plaintive, as an irritating ditty. At first, she fancied the murderers inflicted this kind of torture on her out of sheer diabolical cruelty. Her sole means of defence was to close her eyes, as soon as her niece knelt before her, then although she heard, she did not see her. Therese, at last, had the impudence to kiss her aunt. One day, in a fit of repentance, she feigned she had perceived a gleam of mercy in the eyes of the paralysed woman; and she dragged herself along on her knees, she raised herself up, exclaiming in a distracted tone: You forgive me! You forgive me! Then she kissed the forehead and cheeks of the poor old creature, who was unable to throw her head backward so as to avoid the embrace. The cold skin on which Therese placed her lips, caused her violent disgust. She fancied this disgust, like the tears of remorse, would be an excellent remedy to appease her nerves; and she continued to kiss the impotent old woman daily, by way of penitence, and also to relieve herself. Oh! How good you are! she sometimes exclaimed. I can see my tears have touched you. Your eyes are full of pity. I am saved. Then she smothered her with caresses, placing the head of the infirm old lady on her knees, kissing her hands, smiling at her happily, and attending to all her requirements with a display of passionate affection. After a time, she believed in the reality of this comedy, she imagined she had obtained the pardon of Madame Raquin, and spoke of nothing but the delight she experienced at having secured her pardon. This was too much for the paralysed woman. It almost killed her. At the kisses of her niece, she again felt that sensation of bitter repugnance and rage which came over her, morning and night, when Laurent took her in his arms to lift her up, or lay her down. She was obliged to submit to the disgusting caresses of the wretch who had betrayed and killed her son. She could not even use her hand to wipe away the kisses that this woman left on her cheeks; and, for hours and hours together, she felt these kisses burning her. She became the doll of the murderers of Camille, a doll that they dressed, that they turned to right and left, and that they made use of according to their requirements and whims. She remained inert in their hands, as if she had been a lay-figure, and yet she lived, and became excited and indignant at the least contact with Therese or Laurent. What particularly exasperated her was the atrocious mockery of the young woman, who pretended she perceived expressions of mercy in her eyes, when she would have liked to have brought down fire from heaven on the head of the criminal. She frequently made supreme efforts to utter a cry of protestation, and loaded her looks with hatred. But Therese, who found it answered her purpose to repeat twenty times a day that she was pardoned, redoubled her caresses, and would see nothing. So the paralysed woman had to accept the thanks and effusions that her heart repelled. Henceforth, she lived in a state of bitter but powerless irritation, face to face with her yielding niece who displayed adorable acts of tenderness to recompense her for what she termed her heavenly goodness. When Therese knelt before Madame Raquin, in the presence of her husband, he brutally brought her to her feet. No acting, said he. Do I weep, do I prostrate myself? You do all this to trouble me. The remorse of Therese caused him peculiar agitation. His suffering increased now that his accomplice dragged herself about him, with eyes red by weeping, and supplicating lips. The sight of this living example of regret redoubled his fright and added to his uneasiness. It was like an everlasting reproach wandering through the house. Then he feared that repentance would one day drive his wife to reveal everything. He would have preferred her to remain rigid and threatening, bitterly defending herself against his accusations. But she had changed her tactics. She now readily recognised the share she had taken in the crime. She even accused herself. She had become yielding and timid, and starting from this point implored redemption with ardent humility. This attitude irritated Laurent, and every evening the quarrels of the couple became more afflicting and sinister. Listen to me, said Therese to her husband, we are very guilty. We must repent if we wish to enjoy tranquillity. Look at me. Since I have been weeping I am more peaceable. Imitate me. Let us say together that we are justly punished for having committed a horrible crime. Bah! roughly answered Laurent, you can say what you please. I know you are deucedly clever and hypocritical. Weep, if that diverts you. But I must beg you not to worry me with your tears. Ah! said she, you are bad. You reject remorse. You are cowardly. You acted as a traitor to Camille. Do you mean to say that I alone am guilty? he inquired. No, she replied, I do not say that. I am guilty, more guilty than you are. I ought to have saved my husband from your hands. Oh! I am aware of all the horror of my fault. But I have sought pardon, and I have succeeded, Laurent, whereas you continue to lead a disconsolate life. You have not even had the feeling to spare my poor aunt the sight of your vile anger. You have never even addressed a word of regret to her. And she embraced Madame Raquin, who shut her eyes. She hovered round her, raising the pillow that propped up her head, and showing her all kinds of attention. Laurent was infuriated. Oh, leave her alone, he cried. Can t you see that your services, and the very sight of you are odious to her. If she could lift her hand she would slap your face. The slow and plaintive words of his wife, and her attitudes of resignation, gradually drove him into blinding fits of anger. He understood her tactics; she no longer wished to be at one with him, but to set herself apart wrapped in her regret, so as to escape the clasp of the drowned man. And, at moments, he said to himself that she had perhaps taken the right path, that tears might cure her of her terror, and he shuddered at the thought of having to suffer, and contend with fright alone. He also would have liked to repent, or at least to have performed the comedy of repentance, to see what effect it would have. Unable to find the sobs and necessary words, he flung himself into violence again, stirring up Therese so as to irritate her and lead her back with him to furious madness. But the young woman took care to remain inert, to answer his cries of anger by tearful submission, and to meet his coarseness by a proportionate display of humility and repentance. Laurent was thus gradually driven to fury. To crown his irritation, Therese always ended with the panegyric of Camille so as to display the virtues of the victim. He was good, said she, and we must have been very cruel to assail such a warm-hearted man who had never a bad thought. He was good, yes, I know, jeered Laurent. You mean to say he was a fool. You must have forgotten! You pretended you were irritated at the slightest thing he said, that he could not open his mouth without letting out some stupidity. Don t jeer, said Therese. It only remains for you to insult the man you murdered. You know nothing about the feelings of a woman, Laurent; Camille loved me and I loved him. You loved him! Ah! Really what a capital idea, exclaimed Laurent. And no doubt it was because you loved your husband, that you took me as a sweetheart. I remember one day when we were together, that you told me Camille disgusted you, when you felt the end of your fingers enter his flesh as if it were soft clay. Oh! I know why you loved me. You required more vigorous arms than those of that poor devil. I loved him as a sister, answered Therese. He was the son of my benefactress. He had all the delicate feelings of a feeble man. He showed himself noble and generous, serviceable and loving. And we killed him, good God! good God! She wept, and swooned away. Madame Raquin cast piercing glances at her, indignant to hear the praise of Camille sung by such a pair of lips. Laurent who was unable to do anything against this overflow of tears, walked to and fro with furious strides, searching in his head for some means to stifle the remorse of Therese. All the good he heard said of his victim ended by causing him poignant anxiety. Now and again he let himself be caught by the heartrending accents of his wife. He really believed in the virtues of Camille, and his terror redoubled. But what tried his patience beyond measure was the comparison that the widow of the drowned man never failed to draw between her first and second husband, and which was all to the advantage of the former. Well! Yes, she cried, he was better than you. I would sooner he were alive now, and you in his place underground. Laurent first of all shrugged his shoulders. Say what you will, she continued, becoming animated, although I perhaps failed to love him in his lifetime, yet I remember all his good qualities now, and do love him. Yes, I love him and hate you, do you hear? For you are an assassin. Will you hold your tongue? yelled Laurent. And he is a victim, she went on, notwithstanding the threatening attitude of her husband, an upright man killed by a rascal. Oh! I am not afraid of you. You know well enough that you are a miserable wretch, a brute of a man without a heart, and without a soul. How can you expect me to love you, now that you are reeking with the blood of Camille? Camille was full of tenderness for me, and I would kill you, do you hear, if that could bring him to life again, and give me back his love. Will you hold your tongue, you wretch? shouted Laurent. Why should I hold my tongue? she retorted. I am speaking the truth. I would purchase forgiveness at the price of your blood. Ah! How I weep, and how I suffer! It is my own fault if a scoundrel, such as you, murdered my husband. I must go, one of these nights, and kiss the ground where he rests. That will be my final rapture. Laurent, beside himself, rendered furious by the atrocious pictures that Therese spread out before his eyes, rushed upon her, and threw her down, menacing her with his uplifted fist. That s it, she cried, strike me, kill me! Camille never once raised his hand to me, but you are a monster. And Laurent, spurred on by what she said, shook her with rage, beat her, bruised her body with his clenched fists. In two instances he almost strangled her. Therese yielded to his blows. She experienced keen delight in being struck, delivering herself up, thrusting her body forward, provoking her husband in every way, so that he might half kill her again. This was another remedy for her suffering. She slept better at night when she had been thoroughly beaten in the evening. Madame Raquin enjoyed exquisite pleasure, when Laurent dragged her niece along the floor in this way, belabouring her with thumps and kicks. The existence of the assassin had become terrible since the day when Therese conceived the infernal idea of feeling remorse and of mourning Camille aloud. From that moment the wretch lived everlastingly with his victim. At every hour, he had to listen to his wife praising and regretting her first husband. The least incident became a pretext: Camille did this, Camille did that, Camille had such and such qualities, Camille loved in such and such a way. It was always Camille! Ever sad remarks bewailing his death. Therese had recourse to all her spitefulness to render this torture, which she inflicted on Laurent so as to shield her own self, as cruel as possible. She went into details, relating a thousand insignificant incidents connected with her youth, accompanied by sighs and expressions of regret, and in this manner, mingled the remembrance of the drowned man with every action of her daily life. The corpse which already haunted the house, was introduced there openly. It sat on the chairs, took its place at table, extended itself on the bed, making use of the various articles of furniture, and of the objects lying about hither and thither. Laurent could touch nothing, not a fork, not a brush, without Therese making him feel that Camille had touched it before him. The murderer being ceaselessly thrust, so to say, against the man he had killed, ended by experiencing a strange sensation that very nearly drove him out of his mind. By being so constantly compared to Camille, by making use of the different articles Camille had used, he imagined he was Camille himself, that he was identical with his victim. Then, with his brain fit to burst, he flew at his wife to make her hold her tongue, so as to no longer hear the words that drove him frantic. All their quarrels now ended in blows. CHAPTER XXX A time came when Madame Raquin, in order to escape the sufferings she endured, thought of starving herself to death. She had reached the end of her courage, she could no longer support the martyrdom that the presence of the two murderers imposed on her, she longed to find supreme relief in death. Each day her anguish grew more keen, when Therese embraced her, and when Laurent took her in his arms to carry her along like a child. She determined on freeing herself from these clasps and caresses that caused her such horrible disgust. As she had not sufficient life left within her to permit of her avenging her son, she preferred to be entirely dead, and to leave naught in the hands of the assassins but a corpse that could feel nothing, and with which they could do as they pleased. For two days she refused all nourishment, employing her remaining strength to clench her teeth or to eject anything that Therese succeeded in introducing into her mouth. Therese was in despair. She was asking herself at the foot of which post she should go to weep and repent, when her aunt would be no longer there. She kept up an interminable discourse to prove to Madame Raquin that she should live. She wept, she even became angry, bursting into her former fits of rage, opening the jaw of the paralysed woman as you open that of an animal which resists. Madame Raquin held out, and an odious scene ensued. Laurent remained absolutely neutral and indifferent. He was astonished at the efforts of Therese to prevent the impotent old woman committing suicide. Now that the presence of the old lady had become useless to them he desired her death. He would not have killed her, but as she wished to die, he did not see the use of depriving her of the means to do so. But, let her be! he shouted to his wife. It will be a good riddance. We shall, perhaps, be happier when she is no longer here. This remark repeated several times in the hearing of Madame Raquin, caused her extraordinary emotion. She feared that the hope expressed by Laurent might be realised, and that after her death the couple would enjoy calm and happiness. And she said to herself that it would be cowardly to die, that she had no right to go away before she had seen the end of the sinister adventure. Then, only, could she descend into darkness, to say to Camille: You are avenged. The idea of suicide became oppressive, when she all at once reflected that she would sink into the grave ignorant as to what had happened to the two murderers of her son. There, she would lie in the cold and silent earth, eternally tormented by uncertainty concerning the punishment of her tormentors. To thoroughly enjoy the slumber of death, she must be hushed to rest by the sweet delight of vengeance, she must carry away with her a dream of satisfied hatred, a dream that would last throughout eternity. So she took the food her niece presented to her, and consented to live on. Apart from this, it was easy for her to perceive that the climax could not be far off. Each day the position of the married couple became more strained and unbearable. A crash that would smash everything was imminent. At every moment, Therese and Laurent started up face to face in a more threatening manner. It was no longer at nighttime, alone, that they suffered from their intimacy; entire days were passed amidst anxiety and harrowing shocks. It was one constant scene of pain and terror. They lived in a perfect pandemonium, fighting, rendering all they did and said bitter and cruel, seeking to fling one another to the bottom of the abyss which they felt beneath their feet, and falling into it together. Ideas of separation had, indeed, occurred to both of them. Each had thought of flight, of seeking some repose far from this Arcade of the Pont Neuf where the damp and filth seemed adapted to their desolated life. But they dared not, they could not run away. It seemed impossible for them to avoid reviling each other, to avoid remaining there to suffer and cause pain. They proved obstinate in their hatred and cruelty. A sort of repulsion and attraction separated and kept them together at the same time. They behaved in the identical manner of two persons who, after quarrelling, wish to part, and who, nevertheless, continue returning to shout out fresh insults at one another. Moreover, material obstacles stood in the way of flight. What were they to do with the impotent woman? What could be said to the Thursday evening guests? If they fled, these people would, perhaps, suspect something. At this thought, they imagined they were being pursued and dragged to the guillotine. So they remained where they were through cowardice, wretchedly dragging out their lives amidst the horror of their surroundings. During the morning and afternoon, when Laurent was absent, Therese went from the dining-room to the shop in anxiety and trouble, at a loss to know what to do to fill up the void in her existence that daily became more pronounced. When not kneeling at the feet of Madame Raquin or receiving blows and insults from her husband, she had no occupation. As soon as she was seated alone in the shop, she became dejected, watching with a doltish expression, the people passing through the dirty, dark gallery. She felt ready to die of sadness in the middle of this gloomy vault, which had the odour of a cemetery, and ended by begging Suzanne to come and pass entire days with her, in the hope that the presence of this poor, gentle, pale creature might calm her. Suzanne accepted her offer with delight; she continued to feel a sort of respectful friendship for Therese, and had long desired to come and work with her, while Olivier was at his office. Bringing her embroidery with her, she took the vacant chair of Madame Raquin behind the counter. From that day Therese rather neglected her aunt. She went upstairs less frequently to weep on her knees and kiss the deathlike face of the invalid. She had something else to do. She made efforts to listen with interest to the dilatory gossip of Suzanne, who spoke of her home, and of the trivialities of her monotonous life. This relieved Therese of her own thoughts. Sometimes she caught herself paying attention to nonsense that brought a bitter smile to her face. By degrees, she lost all her customers. Since her aunt had been confined to her armchair upstairs, she had let the shop go from bad to worse, abandoning the goods to dust and damp. A smell of mildew hung in the atmosphere, spiders came down from the ceiling, the floor was but rarely swept. But what put the customers to flight was the strange way in which Therese sometimes welcomed them. When she happened to be upstairs, receiving blows from Laurent or agitated by a shock of terror, and the bell at the shop door tinkled imperiously, she had to go down, barely taking time to do up her hair or brush away the tears. On such occasions she served the persons awaiting her roughly; sometimes she even spared herself the trouble of serving, answering from the top of the staircase, that she no longer kept what was asked for. This kind of off-hand behaviour, was not calculated to retain custom. The little work-girls of the quarter, who were used to the sweet amiability of Madame Raquin, were driven away by the harshness and wild looks of Therese. When the latter took Suzanne with her to keep her company, the defection became complete. To avoid being disturbed in their gossip, the two young woman managed to drive away the few remaining purchasers who visited the shop. Henceforth, the mercery business ceased to bring in a sou towards the household expenses, and it became necessary to encroach on the capital of forty thousand francs and more. Sometimes, Therese absented herself the entire afternoon. No one knew where she went. Her reason for having Suzanne with her was no doubt partly for the purpose of securing company but also to mind the shop, while she was away. When she returned in the evening, worn out, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion, it was to find the little wife of Olivier still behind the counter, bowed down, with a vague smile on her lips, in the same attitude as she had left her five hours previously. Therese had a bad fright about five months after her marriage to Laurent. She found out she was pregnant and detested the thought of having a child of Laurent s. She had the fear that she would give birth to a drowned body. She thought that she could feel inside herself a soft, decomposing corpse. No matter what, she had to rid herself of this child. She did not tell Laurent. One day she cruelly provoked him and turned her stomach towards him, hoping to receive a kick. He kicked her and she let him go on kicking her in the stomach until she thought she would die. The next day her wish was fulfilled and she had a miscarriage. Laurent also led a frightful existence. The days seemed insupportably long; each brought the same anguish, the same heavy weariness which overwhelmed him at certain hours with crushing monotony and regularity. He dragged on his life, terrified every night by the recollections of the day, and the expectation of the morrow. He knew that henceforth, all his days would resemble one another, and bring him equal suffering. And he saw the weeks, months and years gloomily and implacably awaiting him, coming one after the other to fall upon him and gradually smother him. When there is no hope in the future, the present appears atrociously bitter. Laurent no longer resisted, he became lumpish, abandoning himself to the nothingness that was already gaining possession of his being. Idleness was killing him. In the morning he went out, without knowing where to go, disgusted at the thought of doing what he had done on the previous day, and compelled, in spite of himself, to do it again. He went to his studio by habit, by mania. This room, with its grey walls, whence he could see naught but a bare square of sky, filled him with mournful sadness. He grovelled on the divan heavy in thought and with pendent arms. He dared not touch a brush. He had made fresh attempts at painting, but only to find on each occasion, the head of Camille appear jeering on the canvas. So as not to go out of his mind, he ended by throwing his colour-box into a corner, and imposing the most absolute idleness on himself. This obligatory laziness weighed upon him terribly. In the afternoon, he questioned himself in distress to find out what he should do. For half an hour, he remained on the pavement in the Rue Mazarine, thinking and hesitating as to how he could divert himself. He rejected the idea of returning to the studio, and invariably decided on going down the Rue Guenegaud, to walk along the quays. And, until evening, he went along, dazed and seized with sudden shudders whenever he looked at the Seine. Whether in his studio or in the streets, his dejection was the same. The following day he began again. He passed the morning on his divan, and dragged himself along the quays in the afternoon. This lasted for months, and might last for years. Occasionally Laurent reflected that he had killed Camille so as to do nothing ever afterwards, and now that he did nothing, he was quite astonished to suffer so much. He would have liked to force himself to be happy. He proved to his own satisfaction, that he did wrong to suffer, that he had just attained supreme felicity, consisting in crossing his arms, and that he was an idiot not to enjoy this bliss in peace. But his reasoning exploded in the face of facts. He was constrained to confess, at the bottom of his heart, that this idleness rendered his anguish the more cruel, by leaving him every hour of his life to ponder on the despair and deepen its incurable bitterness. Laziness, that brutish existence which had been his dream, proved his punishment. At moments, he ardently hoped for some occupation to draw him from his thoughts. Then he lost all energy, relapsing beneath the weight of implacable fatality that bound his limbs so as to more surely crush him. In truth, he only found some relief when beating Therese, at night. This brutality alone relieved him of his enervated anguish. But his keenest suffering, both physical and moral, came from the bite Camille had given him in the neck. At certain moments, he imagined that this scar covered the whole of his body. If he came to forget the past, he all at once fancied he felt a burning puncture, that recalled the murder both to his frame and mind. When under the influence of emotion, he could not stand before a looking-glass without noticing this phenomenon which he had so frequently remarked and which always terrified him; the blood flew to his neck, purpling the scar, which then began to gnaw the skin. This sort of wound that lived upon him, which became active, flushed, and biting at the slightest trouble, frightened and tortured him. He ended by believing that the teeth of the drowned man had planted an insect there which was devouring him. The part of his neck where the scar appeared, seemed to him to no longer belong to

angry

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

you forgive me. And yet, if you only knew how I am rent by remorse, if you only knew how I suffer, perhaps you would have pity. No, no pity for me. I should like to die here at your feet, overwhelmed by shame and grief. She spoke in this manner for hours together, passing from despair to hope, condemning and then pardoning herself; she assumed the voice, brief and plaintive in turn, of a little sick girl; she flattened herself on the ground and drew herself up again, acting upon all the ideas of humility and pride, of repentance and revolt that entered her head. Sometimes even, forgetting she was on her knees before Madame Raquin, she continued her monologue as in a dream. When she had made herself thoroughly giddy with her own words, she rose staggering and dazed, to go down to the shop in a calmer frame of mind, no longer fearing to burst into sobs before her customers. When she again felt inclined for remorse, she ran upstairs and knelt at the feet of the impotent woman. This scene was repeated ten times a day. Therese never reflected that her tears, and display of repentance must impose ineffable anguish on her aunt. The truth was that if she had desired to invent a torment to torture Madame Raquin, it would not have been possible to have found a more frightful one than the comedy of remorse she performed before her. The paralysed woman could see the egotism concealed beneath these effusions of grief. She suffered horribly from these long monologues which she was compelled to listen to at every instant, and which always brought the murder of Camille before her eyes. She could not pardon, she never departed from the implacable thought of vengeance that her impotency rendered more keen, and all day long she had to listen to pleas for pardon, and to humble and cowardly prayers. She would have liked to give an answer; certain sentences of her niece brought crushing refusals to her lips, but she had to remain mute and allow Therese to plead her cause without once interrupting her. The impossibility of crying out and stopping her ears caused her inexpressible torture. The words of the young woman entered her mind, slow and plaintive, as an irritating ditty. At first, she fancied the murderers inflicted this kind of torture on her out of sheer diabolical cruelty. Her sole means of defence was to close her eyes, as soon as her niece knelt before her, then although she heard, she did not see her. Therese, at last, had the impudence to kiss her aunt. One day, in a fit of repentance, she feigned she had perceived a gleam of mercy in the eyes of the paralysed woman; and she dragged herself along on her knees, she raised herself up, exclaiming in a distracted tone: You forgive me! You forgive me! Then she kissed the forehead and cheeks of the poor old creature, who was unable to throw her head backward so as to avoid the embrace. The cold skin on which Therese placed her lips, caused her violent disgust. She fancied this disgust, like the tears of remorse, would be an excellent remedy to appease her nerves; and she continued to kiss the impotent old woman daily, by way of penitence, and also to relieve herself. Oh! How good you are! she sometimes exclaimed. I can see my tears have touched you. Your eyes are full of pity. I am saved. Then she smothered her with caresses, placing the head of the infirm old lady on her knees, kissing her hands, smiling at her happily, and attending to all her requirements with a display of passionate affection. After a time, she believed in the reality of this comedy, she imagined she had obtained the pardon of Madame Raquin, and spoke of nothing but the delight she experienced at having secured her pardon. This was too much for the paralysed woman. It almost killed her. At the kisses of her niece, she again felt that sensation of bitter repugnance and rage which came over her, morning and night, when Laurent took her in his arms to lift her up, or lay her down. She was obliged to submit to the disgusting caresses of the wretch who had betrayed and killed her son. She could not even use her hand to wipe away the kisses that this woman left on her cheeks; and, for hours and hours together, she felt these kisses burning her. She became the doll of the murderers of Camille, a doll that they dressed, that they turned to right and left, and that they made use of according to their requirements and whims. She remained inert in their hands, as if she had been a lay-figure, and yet she lived, and became excited and indignant at the least contact with Therese or Laurent. What particularly exasperated her was the atrocious mockery of the young woman, who pretended she perceived expressions of mercy in her eyes, when she would have liked to have brought down fire from heaven on the head of the criminal. She frequently made supreme efforts to utter a cry of protestation, and loaded her looks with hatred. But Therese, who found it answered her purpose to repeat twenty times a day that she was pardoned, redoubled her caresses, and would see nothing. So the paralysed woman had to accept the thanks and effusions that her heart repelled. Henceforth, she lived in a state of bitter but powerless irritation, face to face with her yielding niece who displayed adorable acts of tenderness to recompense her for what she termed her heavenly goodness. When Therese knelt before Madame Raquin, in the presence of her husband, he brutally brought her to her feet. No acting, said he. Do I weep, do I prostrate myself? You do all this to trouble me. The remorse of Therese caused him peculiar agitation. His suffering increased now that his accomplice dragged herself about him, with eyes red by weeping, and supplicating lips. The sight of this living example of regret redoubled his fright and added to his uneasiness. It was like an everlasting reproach wandering through the house. Then he feared that repentance would one day drive his wife to reveal everything. He would have preferred her to remain rigid and threatening, bitterly defending herself against his accusations. But she had changed her tactics. She now readily recognised the share she had taken in the crime. She even accused herself. She had become yielding and timid, and starting from this point implored redemption with ardent humility. This attitude irritated Laurent, and every evening the quarrels of the couple became more afflicting and sinister. Listen to me, said Therese to her husband, we are very guilty. We must repent if we wish to enjoy tranquillity. Look at me. Since I have been weeping I am more peaceable. Imitate me. Let us say together that we are justly punished for having committed a horrible crime. Bah! roughly answered Laurent, you can say what you please. I know you are deucedly clever and hypocritical. Weep, if that diverts you. But I must beg you not to worry me with your tears. Ah! said she, you are bad. You reject remorse. You are cowardly. You acted as a traitor to Camille. Do you mean to say that I alone am guilty? he inquired. No, she replied, I do not say that. I am guilty, more guilty than you are. I ought to have saved my husband from your hands. Oh! I am aware of all the horror of my fault. But I have sought pardon, and I have succeeded, Laurent, whereas you continue to lead a disconsolate life. You have not even had the feeling to spare my poor aunt the sight of your vile anger. You have never even addressed a word of regret to her. And she embraced Madame Raquin, who shut her eyes. She hovered round her, raising the pillow that propped up her head, and showing her all kinds of attention. Laurent was infuriated. Oh, leave her alone, he cried. Can t you see that your services, and the very sight of you are odious to her. If she could lift her hand she would slap your face. The slow and plaintive words of his wife, and her attitudes of resignation, gradually drove him into blinding fits of anger. He understood her tactics; she no longer wished to be at one with him, but to set herself apart wrapped in her regret, so as to escape the clasp of the drowned man. And, at moments, he said to himself that she had perhaps taken the right path, that tears might cure her of her terror, and he shuddered at the thought of having to suffer, and contend with fright alone. He also would have liked to repent, or at least to have performed the comedy of repentance, to see what effect it would have. Unable to find the sobs and necessary words, he flung himself into violence again, stirring up Therese so as to irritate her and lead her back with him to furious madness. But the young woman took care to remain inert, to answer his cries of anger by tearful submission, and to meet his coarseness by a proportionate display of humility and repentance. Laurent was thus gradually driven to fury. To crown his irritation, Therese always ended with the panegyric of Camille so as to display the virtues of the victim. He was good, said she, and we must have been very cruel to assail such a warm-hearted man who had never a bad thought. He was good, yes, I know, jeered Laurent. You mean to say he was a fool. You must have forgotten! You pretended you were irritated at the slightest thing he said, that he could not open his mouth without letting out some stupidity. Don t jeer, said Therese. It only remains for you to insult the man you murdered. You know nothing about the feelings of a woman, Laurent; Camille loved me and I loved him. You loved him! Ah! Really what a capital idea, exclaimed Laurent. And no doubt it was because you loved your husband, that you took me as a sweetheart. I remember one day when we were together, that you told me Camille disgusted you, when you felt the end of your fingers enter his flesh as if it were soft clay. Oh! I know why you loved me. You required more vigorous arms than those of that poor devil. I loved him as a sister, answered Therese. He was the son of my benefactress. He had all the delicate feelings of a feeble man. He showed himself noble and generous, serviceable and loving. And we killed him, good God! good God! She wept, and swooned away. Madame Raquin cast piercing glances at her, indignant to hear the praise of Camille sung by such a pair of lips. Laurent who was unable to do anything against this overflow of tears, walked to and fro with furious strides, searching in his head for some means to stifle the remorse of Therese. All the good he heard said of his victim ended by causing him poignant anxiety. Now and again he let himself be caught by the heartrending accents of his wife. He really believed in the virtues of Camille, and his terror redoubled. But what tried his patience beyond measure was the comparison that the widow of the drowned man never failed to draw between her first and second husband, and which was all to the advantage of the former. Well! Yes, she cried, he was better than you. I would sooner he were alive now, and you in his place underground. Laurent first of all shrugged his shoulders. Say what you will, she continued, becoming animated, although I perhaps failed to love him in his lifetime, yet I remember all his good qualities now, and do love him. Yes, I love him and hate you, do you hear? For you are an assassin. Will you hold your tongue? yelled Laurent. And he is a victim, she went on, notwithstanding the threatening attitude of her husband, an upright man killed by a rascal. Oh! I am not afraid of you. You know well enough that you are a miserable wretch, a brute of a man without a heart, and without a soul. How can you expect me to love you, now that you are reeking with the blood of Camille? Camille was full of tenderness for me, and I would kill you, do you hear, if that could bring him to life again, and give me back his love. Will you hold your tongue, you wretch? shouted Laurent. Why should I hold my tongue? she retorted. I am speaking the truth. I would purchase forgiveness at the price of your blood. Ah! How I weep, and how I suffer! It is my own fault if a scoundrel, such as you, murdered my husband. I must go, one of these nights, and kiss the ground where he rests. That will be my final rapture. Laurent, beside himself, rendered furious by the atrocious pictures that Therese spread out before his eyes, rushed upon her, and threw her down, menacing her with his uplifted fist. That s it, she cried, strike me, kill me! Camille never once raised his hand to me, but you are a monster. And Laurent, spurred on by what she said, shook her with rage, beat her, bruised her body with his clenched fists. In two instances he almost strangled her. Therese yielded to his blows. She experienced keen delight in being struck, delivering herself up, thrusting her body forward, provoking her husband in every way, so that he might half kill her again. This was another remedy for her suffering. She slept better at night when she had been thoroughly beaten in the evening. Madame Raquin enjoyed exquisite pleasure, when Laurent dragged her niece along the floor in this way, belabouring her with thumps and kicks. The existence of the assassin had become terrible since the day when Therese conceived the infernal idea of feeling remorse and of mourning Camille aloud. From that moment the wretch lived everlastingly with his victim. At every hour, he had to listen to his wife praising and regretting her first husband. The least incident became a pretext: Camille did this, Camille did that, Camille had such and such qualities, Camille loved in such and such a way. It was always Camille! Ever sad remarks bewailing his death. Therese had recourse to all her spitefulness to render this torture, which she inflicted on Laurent so as to shield her own self, as cruel as possible. She went into details, relating a thousand insignificant incidents connected with her youth, accompanied by sighs and expressions of regret, and in this manner, mingled the remembrance of the drowned man with every action of her daily life. The corpse which already haunted the house, was introduced there openly. It sat on the chairs, took its place at table, extended itself on the bed, making use of the various articles of furniture, and of the objects lying about hither and thither. Laurent could touch nothing, not a fork, not a brush, without Therese making him feel that Camille had touched it before him. The murderer being ceaselessly thrust, so to say, against the man he had killed, ended by experiencing a strange sensation that very nearly drove him out of his mind. By being so constantly compared to Camille, by making use of the different articles Camille had used, he imagined he was Camille himself, that he was identical with his victim. Then, with his brain fit to burst, he flew at his wife to make her hold her tongue, so as to no longer hear the words that drove him frantic. All their quarrels now ended in blows. CHAPTER XXX A time came when Madame Raquin, in order to escape the sufferings she endured, thought of starving herself to death. She had reached the end of her courage, she could no longer support the martyrdom that the presence of the two murderers imposed on her, she longed to find supreme relief in death. Each day her anguish grew more keen, when Therese embraced her, and when Laurent took her in his arms to carry her along like a child. She determined on freeing herself from these clasps and caresses that caused her such horrible disgust. As she had not sufficient life left within her to permit of her avenging her son, she preferred to be entirely dead, and to leave naught in the hands of the assassins but a corpse that could feel nothing, and with which they could do as they pleased. For two days she refused all nourishment, employing her remaining strength to clench her teeth or to eject anything that Therese succeeded in introducing into her mouth. Therese was in despair. She was asking herself at the foot of which post she should go to weep and repent, when her aunt would be no longer there. She kept up an interminable discourse to prove to Madame Raquin that she should live. She wept, she even became angry, bursting into her former fits of rage, opening the jaw of the paralysed woman as you open that of an animal which resists. Madame Raquin held out, and an odious scene ensued. Laurent remained absolutely neutral and indifferent. He was astonished at the efforts of Therese to prevent the impotent old woman committing suicide. Now that the presence of the old lady had become useless to them he desired her death. He would not have killed her, but as she wished to die, he did not see the use of depriving her of the means to do so. But, let her be! he shouted to his wife. It will be a good riddance. We shall, perhaps, be happier when she is no longer here. This remark repeated several times in the hearing of Madame Raquin, caused her extraordinary emotion. She feared that the hope expressed by Laurent might be realised, and that after her death the couple would enjoy calm and happiness. And she said to herself that it would be cowardly to die, that she had no right to go away before she had seen the end of the sinister adventure. Then, only, could she descend into darkness, to say to Camille: You are avenged. The idea of suicide became oppressive, when she all at once reflected that she would sink into the grave ignorant as to what had happened to the two murderers of her son. There, she would lie in the cold and silent earth, eternally tormented by uncertainty concerning the punishment of her tormentors. To thoroughly enjoy the slumber of death, she must be hushed to rest by the sweet delight of vengeance, she must carry away with her a dream of satisfied hatred, a dream that would last throughout eternity. So she took the food her niece presented to her, and consented to live on. Apart from this, it was easy for her to perceive that the climax could not be far off. Each day the position of the married couple became more strained and unbearable. A crash that would smash everything was imminent. At every moment, Therese and Laurent started up face to face in a more threatening manner. It was no longer at nighttime, alone, that they suffered from their intimacy; entire days were passed amidst anxiety and harrowing shocks. It was one constant scene of pain and terror. They lived in a perfect pandemonium, fighting, rendering all they did and said bitter and cruel, seeking to fling one another to the bottom of the abyss which they felt beneath their feet, and falling into it together. Ideas of separation had, indeed, occurred to both of them. Each had thought of flight, of seeking some repose far from this Arcade of the Pont Neuf where the damp and filth seemed adapted to their desolated life. But they dared not, they could not run away. It seemed impossible for them to avoid reviling each other, to avoid remaining there to suffer and cause pain. They proved obstinate in their hatred and cruelty. A sort of repulsion and attraction separated and kept them together at the same time. They behaved in the identical manner of two persons who, after quarrelling, wish to part, and who, nevertheless, continue returning to shout out fresh insults at one another. Moreover, material obstacles stood in the way of flight. What were they to do with the impotent woman? What could be said to the Thursday evening guests? If they fled, these people would, perhaps, suspect something. At this thought, they imagined they were being pursued and dragged to the guillotine. So they remained where they were through cowardice, wretchedly dragging out their lives amidst the horror of their surroundings. During the morning and afternoon, when Laurent was absent, Therese went from the dining-room to the shop in anxiety and trouble, at a loss to know what to do to fill up the void in her existence that daily became more pronounced. When not kneeling at the feet of Madame Raquin or receiving blows and insults from her husband, she had no occupation. As soon as she was seated alone in the shop, she became dejected, watching with a doltish expression, the people passing through the dirty, dark gallery. She felt ready to die of sadness in the middle of this gloomy vault, which had the odour of a cemetery, and ended by begging Suzanne to come and pass entire days with her, in the hope that the presence of this poor, gentle, pale creature might calm her. Suzanne accepted her offer with delight; she continued to feel a sort of respectful friendship for Therese, and had long desired to come and work with her, while Olivier was at his office. Bringing her embroidery with her, she took the vacant chair of Madame Raquin behind the counter. From that day Therese rather neglected her aunt. She went upstairs less frequently to weep on her knees and kiss the deathlike face of the invalid. She had something else to do. She made efforts to listen with interest to the dilatory gossip of Suzanne, who spoke of her home, and of the trivialities of her monotonous life. This relieved Therese of her own thoughts. Sometimes she caught herself paying attention to nonsense that brought a bitter smile to her face. By degrees, she lost all her customers. Since her aunt had been confined to her armchair upstairs, she had let the shop go from bad to worse, abandoning the goods to dust and damp. A smell of mildew hung in the atmosphere, spiders came down from the ceiling, the floor was but rarely swept. But what put the customers to flight was the strange way in which Therese sometimes welcomed them. When she happened to be upstairs, receiving blows from Laurent or agitated by a shock of terror, and the bell at the shop door tinkled imperiously, she had to go down, barely taking time to do up her hair or brush away the tears. On such occasions she served the persons awaiting her roughly; sometimes she even spared herself the trouble of serving, answering from the top of the staircase, that she no longer kept what was asked for. This kind of off-hand behaviour, was not calculated to retain custom. The little work-girls of the quarter, who were used to the sweet amiability of Madame Raquin, were driven away by the harshness and wild looks of Therese. When the latter took Suzanne with her to keep her company, the defection became complete. To avoid being disturbed in their gossip, the two young woman managed to drive away the few remaining purchasers who visited the shop. Henceforth, the mercery business ceased to bring in a sou towards the household expenses, and it became necessary to encroach on the capital of forty thousand francs and more. Sometimes, Therese absented herself the entire afternoon. No one knew where she went. Her reason for having Suzanne with her was no doubt partly for the purpose of securing company but also to mind the shop, while she was away. When she returned in the evening, worn out, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion, it was to find the little wife of Olivier still behind the counter, bowed down, with a vague smile on her lips, in the same attitude as she had left her five hours previously. Therese had a bad fright about five months after her marriage to Laurent. She found out she was pregnant and detested the thought of having a child of Laurent s. She had the fear that she would give birth to a drowned body. She thought that she could feel inside herself a soft, decomposing corpse. No matter what, she had to rid herself of this child. She did not tell Laurent. One day she cruelly provoked him and turned her stomach towards him, hoping to receive a kick. He kicked her and she let him go on kicking her in the stomach until she thought she would die. The next day her wish was fulfilled and she had a miscarriage. Laurent also led a frightful existence. The days seemed insupportably long; each brought the same anguish, the same heavy weariness which overwhelmed him at certain hours with crushing monotony and regularity. He dragged on his life, terrified every night by the recollections of the day, and the expectation of the morrow. He knew that henceforth, all his days would resemble one another, and bring him equal suffering. And he saw the weeks, months and years gloomily and implacably awaiting him, coming one after the other to fall upon him and gradually smother him. When there is no hope in the future, the present appears atrociously bitter. Laurent no longer resisted, he became lumpish, abandoning himself to the nothingness that was already gaining possession of his being. Idleness was killing him. In the morning he went out, without knowing where to go, disgusted at the thought of doing what he had done on the previous day, and compelled, in spite of himself, to do it again. He went to his studio by habit, by mania. This room, with its grey walls, whence he could see naught but a bare square of sky, filled him with mournful sadness. He grovelled on the divan heavy in thought and with pendent arms. He dared not touch a brush. He had made fresh attempts at painting, but only to find on each occasion, the head of Camille appear jeering on the canvas. So as not to go out of his mind, he ended by throwing his colour-box into a corner, and imposing the most absolute idleness on himself. This obligatory laziness weighed upon him terribly. In the afternoon, he questioned himself in distress to find out what he should do. For half an hour, he remained on the pavement in the Rue Mazarine, thinking and hesitating as to how he could divert himself. He rejected the idea of returning to the studio, and invariably decided on going down the Rue Guenegaud, to walk along the quays. And, until evening, he went along, dazed and seized with sudden shudders whenever he looked at the Seine. Whether in his studio or in the streets, his dejection was the same. The following day he began again. He passed the morning on his divan, and dragged himself along the quays in the afternoon. This lasted for months, and might last for years. Occasionally Laurent reflected that he had killed Camille so as to do nothing ever afterwards, and now that he did nothing, he was quite astonished to suffer so much. He would have liked to force himself to be happy. He proved to his own satisfaction, that he did wrong to suffer, that he had just attained supreme felicity, consisting in crossing his arms, and that he was an idiot not to enjoy this bliss in peace. But his reasoning exploded in the face of facts. He was constrained to confess, at the bottom of his heart, that this idleness rendered his anguish the more cruel, by leaving him every hour of his life to ponder on the despair and deepen its incurable bitterness. Laziness, that brutish existence which had been his dream, proved his punishment. At moments, he ardently hoped for some occupation to draw him from his thoughts. Then he lost all energy, relapsing beneath the weight of implacable fatality that bound his limbs so as to more surely crush him. In truth, he only found some relief when beating Therese, at night. This brutality alone relieved him of his enervated anguish. But his keenest suffering, both physical and moral, came from the bite Camille had given him in the neck. At certain moments, he imagined that this scar covered the whole of his body. If he came to forget the past, he all at once fancied he felt a burning puncture, that recalled the murder both to his frame and mind. When under the influence of emotion, he could not stand before a looking-glass without noticing this phenomenon which he had so frequently remarked and which always terrified him; the blood flew to his neck, purpling the scar, which then began to gnaw the skin. This sort of wound that lived upon him, which became active, flushed, and biting at the slightest trouble, frightened and tortured him. He ended by believing that the teeth of the drowned man had planted an insect there which was devouring him. The part of his neck where the scar appeared, seemed to him to no longer belong to

attributes

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

you forgive me. And yet, if you only knew how I am rent by remorse, if you only knew how I suffer, perhaps you would have pity. No, no pity for me. I should like to die here at your feet, overwhelmed by shame and grief. She spoke in this manner for hours together, passing from despair to hope, condemning and then pardoning herself; she assumed the voice, brief and plaintive in turn, of a little sick girl; she flattened herself on the ground and drew herself up again, acting upon all the ideas of humility and pride, of repentance and revolt that entered her head. Sometimes even, forgetting she was on her knees before Madame Raquin, she continued her monologue as in a dream. When she had made herself thoroughly giddy with her own words, she rose staggering and dazed, to go down to the shop in a calmer frame of mind, no longer fearing to burst into sobs before her customers. When she again felt inclined for remorse, she ran upstairs and knelt at the feet of the impotent woman. This scene was repeated ten times a day. Therese never reflected that her tears, and display of repentance must impose ineffable anguish on her aunt. The truth was that if she had desired to invent a torment to torture Madame Raquin, it would not have been possible to have found a more frightful one than the comedy of remorse she performed before her. The paralysed woman could see the egotism concealed beneath these effusions of grief. She suffered horribly from these long monologues which she was compelled to listen to at every instant, and which always brought the murder of Camille before her eyes. She could not pardon, she never departed from the implacable thought of vengeance that her impotency rendered more keen, and all day long she had to listen to pleas for pardon, and to humble and cowardly prayers. She would have liked to give an answer; certain sentences of her niece brought crushing refusals to her lips, but she had to remain mute and allow Therese to plead her cause without once interrupting her. The impossibility of crying out and stopping her ears caused her inexpressible torture. The words of the young woman entered her mind, slow and plaintive, as an irritating ditty. At first, she fancied the murderers inflicted this kind of torture on her out of sheer diabolical cruelty. Her sole means of defence was to close her eyes, as soon as her niece knelt before her, then although she heard, she did not see her. Therese, at last, had the impudence to kiss her aunt. One day, in a fit of repentance, she feigned she had perceived a gleam of mercy in the eyes of the paralysed woman; and she dragged herself along on her knees, she raised herself up, exclaiming in a distracted tone: You forgive me! You forgive me! Then she kissed the forehead and cheeks of the poor old creature, who was unable to throw her head backward so as to avoid the embrace. The cold skin on which Therese placed her lips, caused her violent disgust. She fancied this disgust, like the tears of remorse, would be an excellent remedy to appease her nerves; and she continued to kiss the impotent old woman daily, by way of penitence, and also to relieve herself. Oh! How good you are! she sometimes exclaimed. I can see my tears have touched you. Your eyes are full of pity. I am saved. Then she smothered her with caresses, placing the head of the infirm old lady on her knees, kissing her hands, smiling at her happily, and attending to all her requirements with a display of passionate affection. After a time, she believed in the reality of this comedy, she imagined she had obtained the pardon of Madame Raquin, and spoke of nothing but the delight she experienced at having secured her pardon. This was too much for the paralysed woman. It almost killed her. At the kisses of her niece, she again felt that sensation of bitter repugnance and rage which came over her, morning and night, when Laurent took her in his arms to lift her up, or lay her down. She was obliged to submit to the disgusting caresses of the wretch who had betrayed and killed her son. She could not even use her hand to wipe away the kisses that this woman left on her cheeks; and, for hours and hours together, she felt these kisses burning her. She became the doll of the murderers of Camille, a doll that they dressed, that they turned to right and left, and that they made use of according to their requirements and whims. She remained inert in their hands, as if she had been a lay-figure, and yet she lived, and became excited and indignant at the least contact with Therese or Laurent. What particularly exasperated her was the atrocious mockery of the young woman, who pretended she perceived expressions of mercy in her eyes, when she would have liked to have brought down fire from heaven on the head of the criminal. She frequently made supreme efforts to utter a cry of protestation, and loaded her looks with hatred. But Therese, who found it answered her purpose to repeat twenty times a day that she was pardoned, redoubled her caresses, and would see nothing. So the paralysed woman had to accept the thanks and effusions that her heart repelled. Henceforth, she lived in a state of bitter but powerless irritation, face to face with her yielding niece who displayed adorable acts of tenderness to recompense her for what she termed her heavenly goodness. When Therese knelt before Madame Raquin, in the presence of her husband, he brutally brought her to her feet. No acting, said he. Do I weep, do I prostrate myself? You do all this to trouble me. The remorse of Therese caused him peculiar agitation. His suffering increased now that his accomplice dragged herself about him, with eyes red by weeping, and supplicating lips. The sight of this living example of regret redoubled his fright and added to his uneasiness. It was like an everlasting reproach wandering through the house. Then he feared that repentance would one day drive his wife to reveal everything. He would have preferred her to remain rigid and threatening, bitterly defending herself against his accusations. But she had changed her tactics. She now readily recognised the share she had taken in the crime. She even accused herself. She had become yielding and timid, and starting from this point implored redemption with ardent humility. This attitude irritated Laurent, and every evening the quarrels of the couple became more afflicting and sinister. Listen to me, said Therese to her husband, we are very guilty. We must repent if we wish to enjoy tranquillity. Look at me. Since I have been weeping I am more peaceable. Imitate me. Let us say together that we are justly punished for having committed a horrible crime. Bah! roughly answered Laurent, you can say what you please. I know you are deucedly clever and hypocritical. Weep, if that diverts you. But I must beg you not to worry me with your tears. Ah! said she, you are bad. You reject remorse. You are cowardly. You acted as a traitor to Camille. Do you mean to say that I alone am guilty? he inquired. No, she replied, I do not say that. I am guilty, more guilty than you are. I ought to have saved my husband from your hands. Oh! I am aware of all the horror of my fault. But I have sought pardon, and I have succeeded, Laurent, whereas you continue to lead a disconsolate life. You have not even had the feeling to spare my poor aunt the sight of your vile anger. You have never even addressed a word of regret to her. And she embraced Madame Raquin, who shut her eyes. She hovered round her, raising the pillow that propped up her head, and showing her all kinds of attention. Laurent was infuriated. Oh, leave her alone, he cried. Can t you see that your services, and the very sight of you are odious to her. If she could lift her hand she would slap your face. The slow and plaintive words of his wife, and her attitudes of resignation, gradually drove him into blinding fits of anger. He understood her tactics; she no longer wished to be at one with him, but to set herself apart wrapped in her regret, so as to escape the clasp of the drowned man. And, at moments, he said to himself that she had perhaps taken the right path, that tears might cure her of her terror, and he shuddered at the thought of having to suffer, and contend with fright alone. He also would have liked to repent, or at least to have performed the comedy of repentance, to see what effect it would have. Unable to find the sobs and necessary words, he flung himself into violence again, stirring up Therese so as to irritate her and lead her back with him to furious madness. But the young woman took care to remain inert, to answer his cries of anger by tearful submission, and to meet his coarseness by a proportionate display of humility and repentance. Laurent was thus gradually driven to fury. To crown his irritation, Therese always ended with the panegyric of Camille so as to display the virtues of the victim. He was good, said she, and we must have been very cruel to assail such a warm-hearted man who had never a bad thought. He was good, yes, I know, jeered Laurent. You mean to say he was a fool. You must have forgotten! You pretended you were irritated at the slightest thing he said, that he could not open his mouth without letting out some stupidity. Don t jeer, said Therese. It only remains for you to insult the man you murdered. You know nothing about the feelings of a woman, Laurent; Camille loved me and I loved him. You loved him! Ah! Really what a capital idea, exclaimed Laurent. And no doubt it was because you loved your husband, that you took me as a sweetheart. I remember one day when we were together, that you told me Camille disgusted you, when you felt the end of your fingers enter his flesh as if it were soft clay. Oh! I know why you loved me. You required more vigorous arms than those of that poor devil. I loved him as a sister, answered Therese. He was the son of my benefactress. He had all the delicate feelings of a feeble man. He showed himself noble and generous, serviceable and loving. And we killed him, good God! good God! She wept, and swooned away. Madame Raquin cast piercing glances at her, indignant to hear the praise of Camille sung by such a pair of lips. Laurent who was unable to do anything against this overflow of tears, walked to and fro with furious strides, searching in his head for some means to stifle the remorse of Therese. All the good he heard said of his victim ended by causing him poignant anxiety. Now and again he let himself be caught by the heartrending accents of his wife. He really believed in the virtues of Camille, and his terror redoubled. But what tried his patience beyond measure was the comparison that the widow of the drowned man never failed to draw between her first and second husband, and which was all to the advantage of the former. Well! Yes, she cried, he was better than you. I would sooner he were alive now, and you in his place underground. Laurent first of all shrugged his shoulders. Say what you will, she continued, becoming animated, although I perhaps failed to love him in his lifetime, yet I remember all his good qualities now, and do love him. Yes, I love him and hate you, do you hear? For you are an assassin. Will you hold your tongue? yelled Laurent. And he is a victim, she went on, notwithstanding the threatening attitude of her husband, an upright man killed by a rascal. Oh! I am not afraid of you. You know well enough that you are a miserable wretch, a brute of a man without a heart, and without a soul. How can you expect me to love you, now that you are reeking with the blood of Camille? Camille was full of tenderness for me, and I would kill you, do you hear, if that could bring him to life again, and give me back his love. Will you hold your tongue, you wretch? shouted Laurent. Why should I hold my tongue? she retorted. I am speaking the truth. I would purchase forgiveness at the price of your blood. Ah! How I weep, and how I suffer! It is my own fault if a scoundrel, such as you, murdered my husband. I must go, one of these nights, and kiss the ground where he rests. That will be my final rapture. Laurent, beside himself, rendered furious by the atrocious pictures that Therese spread out before his eyes, rushed upon her, and threw her down, menacing her with his uplifted fist. That s it, she cried, strike me, kill me! Camille never once raised his hand to me, but you are a monster. And Laurent, spurred on by what she said, shook her with rage, beat her, bruised her body with his clenched fists. In two instances he almost strangled her. Therese yielded to his blows. She experienced keen delight in being struck, delivering herself up, thrusting her body forward, provoking her husband in every way, so that he might half kill her again. This was another remedy for her suffering. She slept better at night when she had been thoroughly beaten in the evening. Madame Raquin enjoyed exquisite pleasure, when Laurent dragged her niece along the floor in this way, belabouring her with thumps and kicks. The existence of the assassin had become terrible since the day when Therese conceived the infernal idea of feeling remorse and of mourning Camille aloud. From that moment the wretch lived everlastingly with his victim. At every hour, he had to listen to his wife praising and regretting her first husband. The least incident became a pretext: Camille did this, Camille did that, Camille had such and such qualities, Camille loved in such and such a way. It was always Camille! Ever sad remarks bewailing his death. Therese had recourse to all her spitefulness to render this torture, which she inflicted on Laurent so as to shield her own self, as cruel as possible. She went into details, relating a thousand insignificant incidents connected with her youth, accompanied by sighs and expressions of regret, and in this manner, mingled the remembrance of the drowned man with every action of her daily life. The corpse which already haunted the house, was introduced there openly. It sat on the chairs, took its place at table, extended itself on the bed, making use of the various articles of furniture, and of the objects lying about hither and thither. Laurent could touch nothing, not a fork, not a brush, without Therese making him feel that Camille had touched it before him. The murderer being ceaselessly thrust, so to say, against the man he had killed, ended by experiencing a strange sensation that very nearly drove him out of his mind. By being so constantly compared to Camille, by making use of the different articles Camille had used, he imagined he was Camille himself, that he was identical with his victim. Then, with his brain fit to burst, he flew at his wife to make her hold her tongue, so as to no longer hear the words that drove him frantic. All their quarrels now ended in blows. CHAPTER XXX A time came when Madame Raquin, in order to escape the sufferings she endured, thought of starving herself to death. She had reached the end of her courage, she could no longer support the martyrdom that the presence of the two murderers imposed on her, she longed to find supreme relief in death. Each day her anguish grew more keen, when Therese embraced her, and when Laurent took her in his arms to carry her along like a child. She determined on freeing herself from these clasps and caresses that caused her such horrible disgust. As she had not sufficient life left within her to permit of her avenging her son, she preferred to be entirely dead, and to leave naught in the hands of the assassins but a corpse that could feel nothing, and with which they could do as they pleased. For two days she refused all nourishment, employing her remaining strength to clench her teeth or to eject anything that Therese succeeded in introducing into her mouth. Therese was in despair. She was asking herself at the foot of which post she should go to weep and repent, when her aunt would be no longer there. She kept up an interminable discourse to prove to Madame Raquin that she should live. She wept, she even became angry, bursting into her former fits of rage, opening the jaw of the paralysed woman as you open that of an animal which resists. Madame Raquin held out, and an odious scene ensued. Laurent remained absolutely neutral and indifferent. He was astonished at the efforts of Therese to prevent the impotent old woman committing suicide. Now that the presence of the old lady had become useless to them he desired her death. He would not have killed her, but as she wished to die, he did not see the use of depriving her of the means to do so. But, let her be! he shouted to his wife. It will be a good riddance. We shall, perhaps, be happier when she is no longer here. This remark repeated several times in the hearing of Madame Raquin, caused her extraordinary emotion. She feared that the hope expressed by Laurent might be realised, and that after her death the couple would enjoy calm and happiness. And she said to herself that it would be cowardly to die, that she had no right to go away before she had seen the end of the sinister adventure. Then, only, could she descend into darkness, to say to Camille: You are avenged. The idea of suicide became oppressive, when she all at once reflected that she would sink into the grave ignorant as to what had happened to the two murderers of her son. There, she would lie in the cold and silent earth, eternally tormented by uncertainty concerning the punishment of her tormentors. To thoroughly enjoy the slumber of death, she must be hushed to rest by the sweet delight of vengeance, she must carry away with her a dream of satisfied hatred, a dream that would last throughout eternity. So she took the food her niece presented to her, and consented to live on. Apart from this, it was easy for her to perceive that the climax could not be far off. Each day the position of the married couple became more strained and unbearable. A crash that would smash everything was imminent. At every moment, Therese and Laurent started up face to face in a more threatening manner. It was no longer at nighttime, alone, that they suffered from their intimacy; entire days were passed amidst anxiety and harrowing shocks. It was one constant scene of pain and terror. They lived in a perfect pandemonium, fighting, rendering all they did and said bitter and cruel, seeking to fling one another to the bottom of the abyss which they felt beneath their feet, and falling into it together. Ideas of separation had, indeed, occurred to both of them. Each had thought of flight, of seeking some repose far from this Arcade of the Pont Neuf where the damp and filth seemed adapted to their desolated life. But they dared not, they could not run away. It seemed impossible for them to avoid reviling each other, to avoid remaining there to suffer and cause pain. They proved obstinate in their hatred and cruelty. A sort of repulsion and attraction separated and kept them together at the same time. They behaved in the identical manner of two persons who, after quarrelling, wish to part, and who, nevertheless, continue returning to shout out fresh insults at one another. Moreover, material obstacles stood in the way of flight. What were they to do with the impotent woman? What could be said to the Thursday evening guests? If they fled, these people would, perhaps, suspect something. At this thought, they imagined they were being pursued and dragged to the guillotine. So they remained where they were through cowardice, wretchedly dragging out their lives amidst the horror of their surroundings. During the morning and afternoon, when Laurent was absent, Therese went from the dining-room to the shop in anxiety and trouble, at a loss to know what to do to fill up the void in her existence that daily became more pronounced. When not kneeling at the feet of Madame Raquin or receiving blows and insults from her husband, she had no occupation. As soon as she was seated alone in the shop, she became dejected, watching with a doltish expression, the people passing through the dirty, dark gallery. She felt ready to die of sadness in the middle of this gloomy vault, which had the odour of a cemetery, and ended by begging Suzanne to come and pass entire days with her, in the hope that the presence of this poor, gentle, pale creature might calm her. Suzanne accepted her offer with delight; she continued to feel a sort of respectful friendship for Therese, and had long desired to come and work with her, while Olivier was at his office. Bringing her embroidery with her, she took the vacant chair of Madame Raquin behind the counter. From that day Therese rather neglected her aunt. She went upstairs less frequently to weep on her knees and kiss the deathlike face of the invalid. She had something else to do. She made efforts to listen with interest to the dilatory gossip of Suzanne, who spoke of her home, and of the trivialities of her monotonous life. This relieved Therese of her own thoughts. Sometimes she caught herself paying attention to nonsense that brought a bitter smile to her face. By degrees, she lost all her customers. Since her aunt had been confined to her armchair upstairs, she had let the shop go from bad to worse, abandoning the goods to dust and damp. A smell of mildew hung in the atmosphere, spiders came down from the ceiling, the floor was but rarely swept. But what put the customers to flight was the strange way in which Therese sometimes welcomed them. When she happened to be upstairs, receiving blows from Laurent or agitated by a shock of terror, and the bell at the shop door tinkled imperiously, she had to go down, barely taking time to do up her hair or brush away the tears. On such occasions she served the persons awaiting her roughly; sometimes she even spared herself the trouble of serving, answering from the top of the staircase, that she no longer kept what was asked for. This kind of off-hand behaviour, was not calculated to retain custom. The little work-girls of the quarter, who were used to the sweet amiability of Madame Raquin, were driven away by the harshness and wild looks of Therese. When the latter took Suzanne with her to keep her company, the defection became complete. To avoid being disturbed in their gossip, the two young woman managed to drive away the few remaining purchasers who visited the shop. Henceforth, the mercery business ceased to bring in a sou towards the household expenses, and it became necessary to encroach on the capital of forty thousand francs and more. Sometimes, Therese absented herself the entire afternoon. No one knew where she went. Her reason for having Suzanne with her was no doubt partly for the purpose of securing company but also to mind the shop, while she was away. When she returned in the evening, worn out, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion, it was to find the little wife of Olivier still behind the counter, bowed down, with a vague smile on her lips, in the same attitude as she had left her five hours previously. Therese had a bad fright about five months after her marriage to Laurent. She found out she was pregnant and detested the thought of having a child of Laurent s. She had the fear that she would give birth to a drowned body. She thought that she could feel inside herself a soft, decomposing corpse. No matter what, she had to rid herself of this child. She did not tell Laurent. One day she cruelly provoked him and turned her stomach towards him, hoping to receive a kick. He kicked her and she let him go on kicking her in the stomach until she thought she would die. The next day her wish was fulfilled and she had a miscarriage. Laurent also led a frightful existence. The days seemed insupportably long; each brought the same anguish, the same heavy weariness which overwhelmed him at certain hours with crushing monotony and regularity. He dragged on his life, terrified every night by the recollections of the day, and the expectation of the morrow. He knew that henceforth, all his days would resemble one another, and bring him equal suffering. And he saw the weeks, months and years gloomily and implacably awaiting him, coming one after the other to fall upon him and gradually smother him. When there is no hope in the future, the present appears atrociously bitter. Laurent no longer resisted, he became lumpish, abandoning himself to the nothingness that was already gaining possession of his being. Idleness was killing him. In the morning he went out, without knowing where to go, disgusted at the thought of doing what he had done on the previous day, and compelled, in spite of himself, to do it again. He went to his studio by habit, by mania. This room, with its grey walls, whence he could see naught but a bare square of sky, filled him with mournful sadness. He grovelled on the divan heavy in thought and with pendent arms. He dared not touch a brush. He had made fresh attempts at painting, but only to find on each occasion, the head of Camille appear jeering on the canvas. So as not to go out of his mind, he ended by throwing his colour-box into a corner, and imposing the most absolute idleness on himself. This obligatory laziness weighed upon him terribly. In the afternoon, he questioned himself in distress to find out what he should do. For half an hour, he remained on the pavement in the Rue Mazarine, thinking and hesitating as to how he could divert himself. He rejected the idea of returning to the studio, and invariably decided on going down the Rue Guenegaud, to walk along the quays. And, until evening, he went along, dazed and seized with sudden shudders whenever he looked at the Seine. Whether in his studio or in the streets, his dejection was the same. The following day he began again. He passed the morning on his divan, and dragged himself along the quays in the afternoon. This lasted for months, and might last for years. Occasionally Laurent reflected that he had killed Camille so as to do nothing ever afterwards, and now that he did nothing, he was quite astonished to suffer so much. He would have liked to force himself to be happy. He proved to his own satisfaction, that he did wrong to suffer, that he had just attained supreme felicity, consisting in crossing his arms, and that he was an idiot not to enjoy this bliss in peace. But his reasoning exploded in the face of facts. He was constrained to confess, at the bottom of his heart, that this idleness rendered his anguish the more cruel, by leaving him every hour of his life to ponder on the despair and deepen its incurable bitterness. Laziness, that brutish existence which had been his dream, proved his punishment. At moments, he ardently hoped for some occupation to draw him from his thoughts. Then he lost all energy, relapsing beneath the weight of implacable fatality that bound his limbs so as to more surely crush him. In truth, he only found some relief when beating Therese, at night. This brutality alone relieved him of his enervated anguish. But his keenest suffering, both physical and moral, came from the bite Camille had given him in the neck. At certain moments, he imagined that this scar covered the whole of his body. If he came to forget the past, he all at once fancied he felt a burning puncture, that recalled the murder both to his frame and mind. When under the influence of emotion, he could not stand before a looking-glass without noticing this phenomenon which he had so frequently remarked and which always terrified him; the blood flew to his neck, purpling the scar, which then began to gnaw the skin. This sort of wound that lived upon him, which became active, flushed, and biting at the slightest trouble, frightened and tortured him. He ended by believing that the teeth of the drowned man had planted an insect there which was devouring him. The part of his neck where the scar appeared, seemed to him to no longer belong to

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you forgive me. And yet, if you only knew how I am rent by remorse, if you only knew how I suffer, perhaps you would have pity. No, no pity for me. I should like to die here at your feet, overwhelmed by shame and grief. She spoke in this manner for hours together, passing from despair to hope, condemning and then pardoning herself; she assumed the voice, brief and plaintive in turn, of a little sick girl; she flattened herself on the ground and drew herself up again, acting upon all the ideas of humility and pride, of repentance and revolt that entered her head. Sometimes even, forgetting she was on her knees before Madame Raquin, she continued her monologue as in a dream. When she had made herself thoroughly giddy with her own words, she rose staggering and dazed, to go down to the shop in a calmer frame of mind, no longer fearing to burst into sobs before her customers. When she again felt inclined for remorse, she ran upstairs and knelt at the feet of the impotent woman. This scene was repeated ten times a day. Therese never reflected that her tears, and display of repentance must impose ineffable anguish on her aunt. The truth was that if she had desired to invent a torment to torture Madame Raquin, it would not have been possible to have found a more frightful one than the comedy of remorse she performed before her. The paralysed woman could see the egotism concealed beneath these effusions of grief. She suffered horribly from these long monologues which she was compelled to listen to at every instant, and which always brought the murder of Camille before her eyes. She could not pardon, she never departed from the implacable thought of vengeance that her impotency rendered more keen, and all day long she had to listen to pleas for pardon, and to humble and cowardly prayers. She would have liked to give an answer; certain sentences of her niece brought crushing refusals to her lips, but she had to remain mute and allow Therese to plead her cause without once interrupting her. The impossibility of crying out and stopping her ears caused her inexpressible torture. The words of the young woman entered her mind, slow and plaintive, as an irritating ditty. At first, she fancied the murderers inflicted this kind of torture on her out of sheer diabolical cruelty. Her sole means of defence was to close her eyes, as soon as her niece knelt before her, then although she heard, she did not see her. Therese, at last, had the impudence to kiss her aunt. One day, in a fit of repentance, she feigned she had perceived a gleam of mercy in the eyes of the paralysed woman; and she dragged herself along on her knees, she raised herself up, exclaiming in a distracted tone: You forgive me! You forgive me! Then she kissed the forehead and cheeks of the poor old creature, who was unable to throw her head backward so as to avoid the embrace. The cold skin on which Therese placed her lips, caused her violent disgust. She fancied this disgust, like the tears of remorse, would be an excellent remedy to appease her nerves; and she continued to kiss the impotent old woman daily, by way of penitence, and also to relieve herself. Oh! How good you are! she sometimes exclaimed. I can see my tears have touched you. Your eyes are full of pity. I am saved. Then she smothered her with caresses, placing the head of the infirm old lady on her knees, kissing her hands, smiling at her happily, and attending to all her requirements with a display of passionate affection. After a time, she believed in the reality of this comedy, she imagined she had obtained the pardon of Madame Raquin, and spoke of nothing but the delight she experienced at having secured her pardon. This was too much for the paralysed woman. It almost killed her. At the kisses of her niece, she again felt that sensation of bitter repugnance and rage which came over her, morning and night, when Laurent took her in his arms to lift her up, or lay her down. She was obliged to submit to the disgusting caresses of the wretch who had betrayed and killed her son. She could not even use her hand to wipe away the kisses that this woman left on her cheeks; and, for hours and hours together, she felt these kisses burning her. She became the doll of the murderers of Camille, a doll that they dressed, that they turned to right and left, and that they made use of according to their requirements and whims. She remained inert in their hands, as if she had been a lay-figure, and yet she lived, and became excited and indignant at the least contact with Therese or Laurent. What particularly exasperated her was the atrocious mockery of the young woman, who pretended she perceived expressions of mercy in her eyes, when she would have liked to have brought down fire from heaven on the head of the criminal. She frequently made supreme efforts to utter a cry of protestation, and loaded her looks with hatred. But Therese, who found it answered her purpose to repeat twenty times a day that she was pardoned, redoubled her caresses, and would see nothing. So the paralysed woman had to accept the thanks and effusions that her heart repelled. Henceforth, she lived in a state of bitter but powerless irritation, face to face with her yielding niece who displayed adorable acts of tenderness to recompense her for what she termed her heavenly goodness. When Therese knelt before Madame Raquin, in the presence of her husband, he brutally brought her to her feet. No acting, said he. Do I weep, do I prostrate myself? You do all this to trouble me. The remorse of Therese caused him peculiar agitation. His suffering increased now that his accomplice dragged herself about him, with eyes red by weeping, and supplicating lips. The sight of this living example of regret redoubled his fright and added to his uneasiness. It was like an everlasting reproach wandering through the house. Then he feared that repentance would one day drive his wife to reveal everything. He would have preferred her to remain rigid and threatening, bitterly defending herself against his accusations. But she had changed her tactics. She now readily recognised the share she had taken in the crime. She even accused herself. She had become yielding and timid, and starting from this point implored redemption with ardent humility. This attitude irritated Laurent, and every evening the quarrels of the couple became more afflicting and sinister. Listen to me, said Therese to her husband, we are very guilty. We must repent if we wish to enjoy tranquillity. Look at me. Since I have been weeping I am more peaceable. Imitate me. Let us say together that we are justly punished for having committed a horrible crime. Bah! roughly answered Laurent, you can say what you please. I know you are deucedly clever and hypocritical. Weep, if that diverts you. But I must beg you not to worry me with your tears. Ah! said she, you are bad. You reject remorse. You are cowardly. You acted as a traitor to Camille. Do you mean to say that I alone am guilty? he inquired. No, she replied, I do not say that. I am guilty, more guilty than you are. I ought to have saved my husband from your hands. Oh! I am aware of all the horror of my fault. But I have sought pardon, and I have succeeded, Laurent, whereas you continue to lead a disconsolate life. You have not even had the feeling to spare my poor aunt the sight of your vile anger. You have never even addressed a word of regret to her. And she embraced Madame Raquin, who shut her eyes. She hovered round her, raising the pillow that propped up her head, and showing her all kinds of attention. Laurent was infuriated. Oh, leave her alone, he cried. Can t you see that your services, and the very sight of you are odious to her. If she could lift her hand she would slap your face. The slow and plaintive words of his wife, and her attitudes of resignation, gradually drove him into blinding fits of anger. He understood her tactics; she no longer wished to be at one with him, but to set herself apart wrapped in her regret, so as to escape the clasp of the drowned man. And, at moments, he said to himself that she had perhaps taken the right path, that tears might cure her of her terror, and he shuddered at the thought of having to suffer, and contend with fright alone. He also would have liked to repent, or at least to have performed the comedy of repentance, to see what effect it would have. Unable to find the sobs and necessary words, he flung himself into violence again, stirring up Therese so as to irritate her and lead her back with him to furious madness. But the young woman took care to remain inert, to answer his cries of anger by tearful submission, and to meet his coarseness by a proportionate display of humility and repentance. Laurent was thus gradually driven to fury. To crown his irritation, Therese always ended with the panegyric of Camille so as to display the virtues of the victim. He was good, said she, and we must have been very cruel to assail such a warm-hearted man who had never a bad thought. He was good, yes, I know, jeered Laurent. You mean to say he was a fool. You must have forgotten! You pretended you were irritated at the slightest thing he said, that he could not open his mouth without letting out some stupidity. Don t jeer, said Therese. It only remains for you to insult the man you murdered. You know nothing about the feelings of a woman, Laurent; Camille loved me and I loved him. You loved him! Ah! Really what a capital idea, exclaimed Laurent. And no doubt it was because you loved your husband, that you took me as a sweetheart. I remember one day when we were together, that you told me Camille disgusted you, when you felt the end of your fingers enter his flesh as if it were soft clay. Oh! I know why you loved me. You required more vigorous arms than those of that poor devil. I loved him as a sister, answered Therese. He was the son of my benefactress. He had all the delicate feelings of a feeble man. He showed himself noble and generous, serviceable and loving. And we killed him, good God! good God! She wept, and swooned away. Madame Raquin cast piercing glances at her, indignant to hear the praise of Camille sung by such a pair of lips. Laurent who was unable to do anything against this overflow of tears, walked to and fro with furious strides, searching in his head for some means to stifle the remorse of Therese. All the good he heard said of his victim ended by causing him poignant anxiety. Now and again he let himself be caught by the heartrending accents of his wife. He really believed in the virtues of Camille, and his terror redoubled. But what tried his patience beyond measure was the comparison that the widow of the drowned man never failed to draw between her first and second husband, and which was all to the advantage of the former. Well! Yes, she cried, he was better than you. I would sooner he were alive now, and you in his place underground. Laurent first of all shrugged his shoulders. Say what you will, she continued, becoming animated, although I perhaps failed to love him in his lifetime, yet I remember all his good qualities now, and do love him. Yes, I love him and hate you, do you hear? For you are an assassin. Will you hold your tongue? yelled Laurent. And he is a victim, she went on, notwithstanding the threatening attitude of her husband, an upright man killed by a rascal. Oh! I am not afraid of you. You know well enough that you are a miserable wretch, a brute of a man without a heart, and without a soul. How can you expect me to love you, now that you are reeking with the blood of Camille? Camille was full of tenderness for me, and I would kill you, do you hear, if that could bring him to life again, and give me back his love. Will you hold your tongue, you wretch? shouted Laurent. Why should I hold my tongue? she retorted. I am speaking the truth. I would purchase forgiveness at the price of your blood. Ah! How I weep, and how I suffer! It is my own fault if a scoundrel, such as you, murdered my husband. I must go, one of these nights, and kiss the ground where he rests. That will be my final rapture. Laurent, beside himself, rendered furious by the atrocious pictures that Therese spread out before his eyes, rushed upon her, and threw her down, menacing her with his uplifted fist. That s it, she cried, strike me, kill me! Camille never once raised his hand to me, but you are a monster. And Laurent, spurred on by what she said, shook her with rage, beat her, bruised her body with his clenched fists. In two instances he almost strangled her. Therese yielded to his blows. She experienced keen delight in being struck, delivering herself up, thrusting her body forward, provoking her husband in every way, so that he might half kill her again. This was another remedy for her suffering. She slept better at night when she had been thoroughly beaten in the evening. Madame Raquin enjoyed exquisite pleasure, when Laurent dragged her niece along the floor in this way, belabouring her with thumps and kicks. The existence of the assassin had become terrible since the day when Therese conceived the infernal idea of feeling remorse and of mourning Camille aloud. From that moment the wretch lived everlastingly with his victim. At every hour, he had to listen to his wife praising and regretting her first husband. The least incident became a pretext: Camille did this, Camille did that, Camille had such and such qualities, Camille loved in such and such a way. It was always Camille! Ever sad remarks bewailing his death. Therese had recourse to all her spitefulness to render this torture, which she inflicted on Laurent so as to shield her own self, as cruel as possible. She went into details, relating a thousand insignificant incidents connected with her youth, accompanied by sighs and expressions of regret, and in this manner, mingled the remembrance of the drowned man with every action of her daily life. The corpse which already haunted the house, was introduced there openly. It sat on the chairs, took its place at table, extended itself on the bed, making use of the various articles of furniture, and of the objects lying about hither and thither. Laurent could touch nothing, not a fork, not a brush, without Therese making him feel that Camille had touched it before him. The murderer being ceaselessly thrust, so to say, against the man he had killed, ended by experiencing a strange sensation that very nearly drove him out of his mind. By being so constantly compared to Camille, by making use of the different articles Camille had used, he imagined he was Camille himself, that he was identical with his victim. Then, with his brain fit to burst, he flew at his wife to make her hold her tongue, so as to no longer hear the words that drove him frantic. All their quarrels now ended in blows. CHAPTER XXX A time came when Madame Raquin, in order to escape the sufferings she endured, thought of starving herself to death. She had reached the end of her courage, she could no longer support the martyrdom that the presence of the two murderers imposed on her, she longed to find supreme relief in death. Each day her anguish grew more keen, when Therese embraced her, and when Laurent took her in his arms to carry her along like a child. She determined on freeing herself from these clasps and caresses that caused her such horrible disgust. As she had not sufficient life left within her to permit of her avenging her son, she preferred to be entirely dead, and to leave naught in the hands of the assassins but a corpse that could feel nothing, and with which they could do as they pleased. For two days she refused all nourishment, employing her remaining strength to clench her teeth or to eject anything that Therese succeeded in introducing into her mouth. Therese was in despair. She was asking herself at the foot of which post she should go to weep and repent, when her aunt would be no longer there. She kept up an interminable discourse to prove to Madame Raquin that she should live. She wept, she even became angry, bursting into her former fits of rage, opening the jaw of the paralysed woman as you open that of an animal which resists. Madame Raquin held out, and an odious scene ensued. Laurent remained absolutely neutral and indifferent. He was astonished at the efforts of Therese to prevent the impotent old woman committing suicide. Now that the presence of the old lady had become useless to them he desired her death. He would not have killed her, but as she wished to die, he did not see the use of depriving her of the means to do so. But, let her be! he shouted to his wife. It will be a good riddance. We shall, perhaps, be happier when she is no longer here. This remark repeated several times in the hearing of Madame Raquin, caused her extraordinary emotion. She feared that the hope expressed by Laurent might be realised, and that after her death the couple would enjoy calm and happiness. And she said to herself that it would be cowardly to die, that she had no right to go away before she had seen the end of the sinister adventure. Then, only, could she descend into darkness, to say to Camille: You are avenged. The idea of suicide became oppressive, when she all at once reflected that she would sink into the grave ignorant as to what had happened to the two murderers of her son. There, she would lie in the cold and silent earth, eternally tormented by uncertainty concerning the punishment of her tormentors. To thoroughly enjoy the slumber of death, she must be hushed to rest by the sweet delight of vengeance, she must carry away with her a dream of satisfied hatred, a dream that would last throughout eternity. So she took the food her niece presented to her, and consented to live on. Apart from this, it was easy for her to perceive that the climax could not be far off. Each day the position of the married couple became more strained and unbearable. A crash that would smash everything was imminent. At every moment, Therese and Laurent started up face to face in a more threatening manner. It was no longer at nighttime, alone, that they suffered from their intimacy; entire days were passed amidst anxiety and harrowing shocks. It was one constant scene of pain and terror. They lived in a perfect pandemonium, fighting, rendering all they did and said bitter and cruel, seeking to fling one another to the bottom of the abyss which they felt beneath their feet, and falling into it together. Ideas of separation had, indeed, occurred to both of them. Each had thought of flight, of seeking some repose far from this Arcade of the Pont Neuf where the damp and filth seemed adapted to their desolated life. But they dared not, they could not run away. It seemed impossible for them to avoid reviling each other, to avoid remaining there to suffer and cause pain. They proved obstinate in their hatred and cruelty. A sort of repulsion and attraction separated and kept them together at the same time. They behaved in the identical manner of two persons who, after quarrelling, wish to part, and who, nevertheless, continue returning to shout out fresh insults at one another. Moreover, material obstacles stood in the way of flight. What were they to do with the impotent woman? What could be said to the Thursday evening guests? If they fled, these people would, perhaps, suspect something. At this thought, they imagined they were being pursued and dragged to the guillotine. So they remained where they were through cowardice, wretchedly dragging out their lives amidst the horror of their surroundings. During the morning and afternoon, when Laurent was absent, Therese went from the dining-room to the shop in anxiety and trouble, at a loss to know what to do to fill up the void in her existence that daily became more pronounced. When not kneeling at the feet of Madame Raquin or receiving blows and insults from her husband, she had no occupation. As soon as she was seated alone in the shop, she became dejected, watching with a doltish expression, the people passing through the dirty, dark gallery. She felt ready to die of sadness in the middle of this gloomy vault, which had the odour of a cemetery, and ended by begging Suzanne to come and pass entire days with her, in the hope that the presence of this poor, gentle, pale creature might calm her. Suzanne accepted her offer with delight; she continued to feel a sort of respectful friendship for Therese, and had long desired to come and work with her, while Olivier was at his office. Bringing her embroidery with her, she took the vacant chair of Madame Raquin behind the counter. From that day Therese rather neglected her aunt. She went upstairs less frequently to weep on her knees and kiss the deathlike face of the invalid. She had something else to do. She made efforts to listen with interest to the dilatory gossip of Suzanne, who spoke of her home, and of the trivialities of her monotonous life. This relieved Therese of her own thoughts. Sometimes she caught herself paying attention to nonsense that brought a bitter smile to her face. By degrees, she lost all her customers. Since her aunt had been confined to her armchair upstairs, she had let the shop go from bad to worse, abandoning the goods to dust and damp. A smell of mildew hung in the atmosphere, spiders came down from the ceiling, the floor was but rarely swept. But what put the customers to flight was the strange way in which Therese sometimes welcomed them. When she happened to be upstairs, receiving blows from Laurent or agitated by a shock of terror, and the bell at the shop door tinkled imperiously, she had to go down, barely taking time to do up her hair or brush away the tears. On such occasions she served the persons awaiting her roughly; sometimes she even spared herself the trouble of serving, answering from the top of the staircase, that she no longer kept what was asked for. This kind of off-hand behaviour, was not calculated to retain custom. The little work-girls of the quarter, who were used to the sweet amiability of Madame Raquin, were driven away by the harshness and wild looks of Therese. When the latter took Suzanne with her to keep her company, the defection became complete. To avoid being disturbed in their gossip, the two young woman managed to drive away the few remaining purchasers who visited the shop. Henceforth, the mercery business ceased to bring in a sou towards the household expenses, and it became necessary to encroach on the capital of forty thousand francs and more. Sometimes, Therese absented herself the entire afternoon. No one knew where she went. Her reason for having Suzanne with her was no doubt partly for the purpose of securing company but also to mind the shop, while she was away. When she returned in the evening, worn out, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion, it was to find the little wife of Olivier still behind the counter, bowed down, with a vague smile on her lips, in the same attitude as she had left her five hours previously. Therese had a bad fright about five months after her marriage to Laurent. She found out she was pregnant and detested the thought of having a child of Laurent s. She had the fear that she would give birth to a drowned body. She thought that she could feel inside herself a soft, decomposing corpse. No matter what, she had to rid herself of this child. She did not tell Laurent. One day she cruelly provoked him and turned her stomach towards him, hoping to receive a kick. He kicked her and she let him go on kicking her in the stomach until she thought she would die. The next day her wish was fulfilled and she had a miscarriage. Laurent also led a frightful existence. The days seemed insupportably long; each brought the same anguish, the same heavy weariness which overwhelmed him at certain hours with crushing monotony and regularity. He dragged on his life, terrified every night by the recollections of the day, and the expectation of the morrow. He knew that henceforth, all his days would resemble one another, and bring him equal suffering. And he saw the weeks, months and years gloomily and implacably awaiting him, coming one after the other to fall upon him and gradually smother him. When there is no hope in the future, the present appears atrociously bitter. Laurent no longer resisted, he became lumpish, abandoning himself to the nothingness that was already gaining possession of his being. Idleness was killing him. In the morning he went out, without knowing where to go, disgusted at the thought of doing what he had done on the previous day, and compelled, in spite of himself, to do it again. He went to his studio by habit, by mania. This room, with its grey walls, whence he could see naught but a bare square of sky, filled him with mournful sadness. He grovelled on the divan heavy in thought and with pendent arms. He dared not touch a brush. He had made fresh attempts at painting, but only to find on each occasion, the head of Camille appear jeering on the canvas. So as not to go out of his mind, he ended by throwing his colour-box into a corner, and imposing the most absolute idleness on himself. This obligatory laziness weighed upon him terribly. In the afternoon, he questioned himself in distress to find out what he should do. For half an hour, he remained on the pavement in the Rue Mazarine, thinking and hesitating as to how he could divert himself. He rejected the idea of returning to the studio, and invariably decided on going down the Rue Guenegaud, to walk along the quays. And, until evening, he went along, dazed and seized with sudden shudders whenever he looked at the Seine. Whether in his studio or in the streets, his dejection was the same. The following day he began again. He passed the morning on his divan, and dragged himself along the quays in the afternoon. This lasted for months, and might last for years. Occasionally Laurent reflected that he had killed Camille so as to do nothing ever afterwards, and now that he did nothing, he was quite astonished to suffer so much. He would have liked to force himself to be happy. He proved to his own satisfaction, that he did wrong to suffer, that he had just attained supreme felicity, consisting in crossing his arms, and that he was an idiot not to enjoy this bliss in peace. But his reasoning exploded in the face of facts. He was constrained to confess, at the bottom of his heart, that this idleness rendered his anguish the more cruel, by leaving him every hour of his life to ponder on the despair and deepen its incurable bitterness. Laziness, that brutish existence which had been his dream, proved his punishment. At moments, he ardently hoped for some occupation to draw him from his thoughts. Then he lost all energy, relapsing beneath the weight of implacable fatality that bound his limbs so as to more surely crush him. In truth, he only found some relief when beating Therese, at night. This brutality alone relieved him of his enervated anguish. But his keenest suffering, both physical and moral, came from the bite Camille had given him in the neck. At certain moments, he imagined that this scar covered the whole of his body. If he came to forget the past, he all at once fancied he felt a burning puncture, that recalled the murder both to his frame and mind. When under the influence of emotion, he could not stand before a looking-glass without noticing this phenomenon which he had so frequently remarked and which always terrified him; the blood flew to his neck, purpling the scar, which then began to gnaw the skin. This sort of wound that lived upon him, which became active, flushed, and biting at the slightest trouble, frightened and tortured him. He ended by believing that the teeth of the drowned man had planted an insect there which was devouring him. The part of his neck where the scar appeared, seemed to him to no longer belong to

keen

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

you forgive me. And yet, if you only knew how I am rent by remorse, if you only knew how I suffer, perhaps you would have pity. No, no pity for me. I should like to die here at your feet, overwhelmed by shame and grief. She spoke in this manner for hours together, passing from despair to hope, condemning and then pardoning herself; she assumed the voice, brief and plaintive in turn, of a little sick girl; she flattened herself on the ground and drew herself up again, acting upon all the ideas of humility and pride, of repentance and revolt that entered her head. Sometimes even, forgetting she was on her knees before Madame Raquin, she continued her monologue as in a dream. When she had made herself thoroughly giddy with her own words, she rose staggering and dazed, to go down to the shop in a calmer frame of mind, no longer fearing to burst into sobs before her customers. When she again felt inclined for remorse, she ran upstairs and knelt at the feet of the impotent woman. This scene was repeated ten times a day. Therese never reflected that her tears, and display of repentance must impose ineffable anguish on her aunt. The truth was that if she had desired to invent a torment to torture Madame Raquin, it would not have been possible to have found a more frightful one than the comedy of remorse she performed before her. The paralysed woman could see the egotism concealed beneath these effusions of grief. She suffered horribly from these long monologues which she was compelled to listen to at every instant, and which always brought the murder of Camille before her eyes. She could not pardon, she never departed from the implacable thought of vengeance that her impotency rendered more keen, and all day long she had to listen to pleas for pardon, and to humble and cowardly prayers. She would have liked to give an answer; certain sentences of her niece brought crushing refusals to her lips, but she had to remain mute and allow Therese to plead her cause without once interrupting her. The impossibility of crying out and stopping her ears caused her inexpressible torture. The words of the young woman entered her mind, slow and plaintive, as an irritating ditty. At first, she fancied the murderers inflicted this kind of torture on her out of sheer diabolical cruelty. Her sole means of defence was to close her eyes, as soon as her niece knelt before her, then although she heard, she did not see her. Therese, at last, had the impudence to kiss her aunt. One day, in a fit of repentance, she feigned she had perceived a gleam of mercy in the eyes of the paralysed woman; and she dragged herself along on her knees, she raised herself up, exclaiming in a distracted tone: You forgive me! You forgive me! Then she kissed the forehead and cheeks of the poor old creature, who was unable to throw her head backward so as to avoid the embrace. The cold skin on which Therese placed her lips, caused her violent disgust. She fancied this disgust, like the tears of remorse, would be an excellent remedy to appease her nerves; and she continued to kiss the impotent old woman daily, by way of penitence, and also to relieve herself. Oh! How good you are! she sometimes exclaimed. I can see my tears have touched you. Your eyes are full of pity. I am saved. Then she smothered her with caresses, placing the head of the infirm old lady on her knees, kissing her hands, smiling at her happily, and attending to all her requirements with a display of passionate affection. After a time, she believed in the reality of this comedy, she imagined she had obtained the pardon of Madame Raquin, and spoke of nothing but the delight she experienced at having secured her pardon. This was too much for the paralysed woman. It almost killed her. At the kisses of her niece, she again felt that sensation of bitter repugnance and rage which came over her, morning and night, when Laurent took her in his arms to lift her up, or lay her down. She was obliged to submit to the disgusting caresses of the wretch who had betrayed and killed her son. She could not even use her hand to wipe away the kisses that this woman left on her cheeks; and, for hours and hours together, she felt these kisses burning her. She became the doll of the murderers of Camille, a doll that they dressed, that they turned to right and left, and that they made use of according to their requirements and whims. She remained inert in their hands, as if she had been a lay-figure, and yet she lived, and became excited and indignant at the least contact with Therese or Laurent. What particularly exasperated her was the atrocious mockery of the young woman, who pretended she perceived expressions of mercy in her eyes, when she would have liked to have brought down fire from heaven on the head of the criminal. She frequently made supreme efforts to utter a cry of protestation, and loaded her looks with hatred. But Therese, who found it answered her purpose to repeat twenty times a day that she was pardoned, redoubled her caresses, and would see nothing. So the paralysed woman had to accept the thanks and effusions that her heart repelled. Henceforth, she lived in a state of bitter but powerless irritation, face to face with her yielding niece who displayed adorable acts of tenderness to recompense her for what she termed her heavenly goodness. When Therese knelt before Madame Raquin, in the presence of her husband, he brutally brought her to her feet. No acting, said he. Do I weep, do I prostrate myself? You do all this to trouble me. The remorse of Therese caused him peculiar agitation. His suffering increased now that his accomplice dragged herself about him, with eyes red by weeping, and supplicating lips. The sight of this living example of regret redoubled his fright and added to his uneasiness. It was like an everlasting reproach wandering through the house. Then he feared that repentance would one day drive his wife to reveal everything. He would have preferred her to remain rigid and threatening, bitterly defending herself against his accusations. But she had changed her tactics. She now readily recognised the share she had taken in the crime. She even accused herself. She had become yielding and timid, and starting from this point implored redemption with ardent humility. This attitude irritated Laurent, and every evening the quarrels of the couple became more afflicting and sinister. Listen to me, said Therese to her husband, we are very guilty. We must repent if we wish to enjoy tranquillity. Look at me. Since I have been weeping I am more peaceable. Imitate me. Let us say together that we are justly punished for having committed a horrible crime. Bah! roughly answered Laurent, you can say what you please. I know you are deucedly clever and hypocritical. Weep, if that diverts you. But I must beg you not to worry me with your tears. Ah! said she, you are bad. You reject remorse. You are cowardly. You acted as a traitor to Camille. Do you mean to say that I alone am guilty? he inquired. No, she replied, I do not say that. I am guilty, more guilty than you are. I ought to have saved my husband from your hands. Oh! I am aware of all the horror of my fault. But I have sought pardon, and I have succeeded, Laurent, whereas you continue to lead a disconsolate life. You have not even had the feeling to spare my poor aunt the sight of your vile anger. You have never even addressed a word of regret to her. And she embraced Madame Raquin, who shut her eyes. She hovered round her, raising the pillow that propped up her head, and showing her all kinds of attention. Laurent was infuriated. Oh, leave her alone, he cried. Can t you see that your services, and the very sight of you are odious to her. If she could lift her hand she would slap your face. The slow and plaintive words of his wife, and her attitudes of resignation, gradually drove him into blinding fits of anger. He understood her tactics; she no longer wished to be at one with him, but to set herself apart wrapped in her regret, so as to escape the clasp of the drowned man. And, at moments, he said to himself that she had perhaps taken the right path, that tears might cure her of her terror, and he shuddered at the thought of having to suffer, and contend with fright alone. He also would have liked to repent, or at least to have performed the comedy of repentance, to see what effect it would have. Unable to find the sobs and necessary words, he flung himself into violence again, stirring up Therese so as to irritate her and lead her back with him to furious madness. But the young woman took care to remain inert, to answer his cries of anger by tearful submission, and to meet his coarseness by a proportionate display of humility and repentance. Laurent was thus gradually driven to fury. To crown his irritation, Therese always ended with the panegyric of Camille so as to display the virtues of the victim. He was good, said she, and we must have been very cruel to assail such a warm-hearted man who had never a bad thought. He was good, yes, I know, jeered Laurent. You mean to say he was a fool. You must have forgotten! You pretended you were irritated at the slightest thing he said, that he could not open his mouth without letting out some stupidity. Don t jeer, said Therese. It only remains for you to insult the man you murdered. You know nothing about the feelings of a woman, Laurent; Camille loved me and I loved him. You loved him! Ah! Really what a capital idea, exclaimed Laurent. And no doubt it was because you loved your husband, that you took me as a sweetheart. I remember one day when we were together, that you told me Camille disgusted you, when you felt the end of your fingers enter his flesh as if it were soft clay. Oh! I know why you loved me. You required more vigorous arms than those of that poor devil. I loved him as a sister, answered Therese. He was the son of my benefactress. He had all the delicate feelings of a feeble man. He showed himself noble and generous, serviceable and loving. And we killed him, good God! good God! She wept, and swooned away. Madame Raquin cast piercing glances at her, indignant to hear the praise of Camille sung by such a pair of lips. Laurent who was unable to do anything against this overflow of tears, walked to and fro with furious strides, searching in his head for some means to stifle the remorse of Therese. All the good he heard said of his victim ended by causing him poignant anxiety. Now and again he let himself be caught by the heartrending accents of his wife. He really believed in the virtues of Camille, and his terror redoubled. But what tried his patience beyond measure was the comparison that the widow of the drowned man never failed to draw between her first and second husband, and which was all to the advantage of the former. Well! Yes, she cried, he was better than you. I would sooner he were alive now, and you in his place underground. Laurent first of all shrugged his shoulders. Say what you will, she continued, becoming animated, although I perhaps failed to love him in his lifetime, yet I remember all his good qualities now, and do love him. Yes, I love him and hate you, do you hear? For you are an assassin. Will you hold your tongue? yelled Laurent. And he is a victim, she went on, notwithstanding the threatening attitude of her husband, an upright man killed by a rascal. Oh! I am not afraid of you. You know well enough that you are a miserable wretch, a brute of a man without a heart, and without a soul. How can you expect me to love you, now that you are reeking with the blood of Camille? Camille was full of tenderness for me, and I would kill you, do you hear, if that could bring him to life again, and give me back his love. Will you hold your tongue, you wretch? shouted Laurent. Why should I hold my tongue? she retorted. I am speaking the truth. I would purchase forgiveness at the price of your blood. Ah! How I weep, and how I suffer! It is my own fault if a scoundrel, such as you, murdered my husband. I must go, one of these nights, and kiss the ground where he rests. That will be my final rapture. Laurent, beside himself, rendered furious by the atrocious pictures that Therese spread out before his eyes, rushed upon her, and threw her down, menacing her with his uplifted fist. That s it, she cried, strike me, kill me! Camille never once raised his hand to me, but you are a monster. And Laurent, spurred on by what she said, shook her with rage, beat her, bruised her body with his clenched fists. In two instances he almost strangled her. Therese yielded to his blows. She experienced keen delight in being struck, delivering herself up, thrusting her body forward, provoking her husband in every way, so that he might half kill her again. This was another remedy for her suffering. She slept better at night when she had been thoroughly beaten in the evening. Madame Raquin enjoyed exquisite pleasure, when Laurent dragged her niece along the floor in this way, belabouring her with thumps and kicks. The existence of the assassin had become terrible since the day when Therese conceived the infernal idea of feeling remorse and of mourning Camille aloud. From that moment the wretch lived everlastingly with his victim. At every hour, he had to listen to his wife praising and regretting her first husband. The least incident became a pretext: Camille did this, Camille did that, Camille had such and such qualities, Camille loved in such and such a way. It was always Camille! Ever sad remarks bewailing his death. Therese had recourse to all her spitefulness to render this torture, which she inflicted on Laurent so as to shield her own self, as cruel as possible. She went into details, relating a thousand insignificant incidents connected with her youth, accompanied by sighs and expressions of regret, and in this manner, mingled the remembrance of the drowned man with every action of her daily life. The corpse which already haunted the house, was introduced there openly. It sat on the chairs, took its place at table, extended itself on the bed, making use of the various articles of furniture, and of the objects lying about hither and thither. Laurent could touch nothing, not a fork, not a brush, without Therese making him feel that Camille had touched it before him. The murderer being ceaselessly thrust, so to say, against the man he had killed, ended by experiencing a strange sensation that very nearly drove him out of his mind. By being so constantly compared to Camille, by making use of the different articles Camille had used, he imagined he was Camille himself, that he was identical with his victim. Then, with his brain fit to burst, he flew at his wife to make her hold her tongue, so as to no longer hear the words that drove him frantic. All their quarrels now ended in blows. CHAPTER XXX A time came when Madame Raquin, in order to escape the sufferings she endured, thought of starving herself to death. She had reached the end of her courage, she could no longer support the martyrdom that the presence of the two murderers imposed on her, she longed to find supreme relief in death. Each day her anguish grew more keen, when Therese embraced her, and when Laurent took her in his arms to carry her along like a child. She determined on freeing herself from these clasps and caresses that caused her such horrible disgust. As she had not sufficient life left within her to permit of her avenging her son, she preferred to be entirely dead, and to leave naught in the hands of the assassins but a corpse that could feel nothing, and with which they could do as they pleased. For two days she refused all nourishment, employing her remaining strength to clench her teeth or to eject anything that Therese succeeded in introducing into her mouth. Therese was in despair. She was asking herself at the foot of which post she should go to weep and repent, when her aunt would be no longer there. She kept up an interminable discourse to prove to Madame Raquin that she should live. She wept, she even became angry, bursting into her former fits of rage, opening the jaw of the paralysed woman as you open that of an animal which resists. Madame Raquin held out, and an odious scene ensued. Laurent remained absolutely neutral and indifferent. He was astonished at the efforts of Therese to prevent the impotent old woman committing suicide. Now that the presence of the old lady had become useless to them he desired her death. He would not have killed her, but as she wished to die, he did not see the use of depriving her of the means to do so. But, let her be! he shouted to his wife. It will be a good riddance. We shall, perhaps, be happier when she is no longer here. This remark repeated several times in the hearing of Madame Raquin, caused her extraordinary emotion. She feared that the hope expressed by Laurent might be realised, and that after her death the couple would enjoy calm and happiness. And she said to herself that it would be cowardly to die, that she had no right to go away before she had seen the end of the sinister adventure. Then, only, could she descend into darkness, to say to Camille: You are avenged. The idea of suicide became oppressive, when she all at once reflected that she would sink into the grave ignorant as to what had happened to the two murderers of her son. There, she would lie in the cold and silent earth, eternally tormented by uncertainty concerning the punishment of her tormentors. To thoroughly enjoy the slumber of death, she must be hushed to rest by the sweet delight of vengeance, she must carry away with her a dream of satisfied hatred, a dream that would last throughout eternity. So she took the food her niece presented to her, and consented to live on. Apart from this, it was easy for her to perceive that the climax could not be far off. Each day the position of the married couple became more strained and unbearable. A crash that would smash everything was imminent. At every moment, Therese and Laurent started up face to face in a more threatening manner. It was no longer at nighttime, alone, that they suffered from their intimacy; entire days were passed amidst anxiety and harrowing shocks. It was one constant scene of pain and terror. They lived in a perfect pandemonium, fighting, rendering all they did and said bitter and cruel, seeking to fling one another to the bottom of the abyss which they felt beneath their feet, and falling into it together. Ideas of separation had, indeed, occurred to both of them. Each had thought of flight, of seeking some repose far from this Arcade of the Pont Neuf where the damp and filth seemed adapted to their desolated life. But they dared not, they could not run away. It seemed impossible for them to avoid reviling each other, to avoid remaining there to suffer and cause pain. They proved obstinate in their hatred and cruelty. A sort of repulsion and attraction separated and kept them together at the same time. They behaved in the identical manner of two persons who, after quarrelling, wish to part, and who, nevertheless, continue returning to shout out fresh insults at one another. Moreover, material obstacles stood in the way of flight. What were they to do with the impotent woman? What could be said to the Thursday evening guests? If they fled, these people would, perhaps, suspect something. At this thought, they imagined they were being pursued and dragged to the guillotine. So they remained where they were through cowardice, wretchedly dragging out their lives amidst the horror of their surroundings. During the morning and afternoon, when Laurent was absent, Therese went from the dining-room to the shop in anxiety and trouble, at a loss to know what to do to fill up the void in her existence that daily became more pronounced. When not kneeling at the feet of Madame Raquin or receiving blows and insults from her husband, she had no occupation. As soon as she was seated alone in the shop, she became dejected, watching with a doltish expression, the people passing through the dirty, dark gallery. She felt ready to die of sadness in the middle of this gloomy vault, which had the odour of a cemetery, and ended by begging Suzanne to come and pass entire days with her, in the hope that the presence of this poor, gentle, pale creature might calm her. Suzanne accepted her offer with delight; she continued to feel a sort of respectful friendship for Therese, and had long desired to come and work with her, while Olivier was at his office. Bringing her embroidery with her, she took the vacant chair of Madame Raquin behind the counter. From that day Therese rather neglected her aunt. She went upstairs less frequently to weep on her knees and kiss the deathlike face of the invalid. She had something else to do. She made efforts to listen with interest to the dilatory gossip of Suzanne, who spoke of her home, and of the trivialities of her monotonous life. This relieved Therese of her own thoughts. Sometimes she caught herself paying attention to nonsense that brought a bitter smile to her face. By degrees, she lost all her customers. Since her aunt had been confined to her armchair upstairs, she had let the shop go from bad to worse, abandoning the goods to dust and damp. A smell of mildew hung in the atmosphere, spiders came down from the ceiling, the floor was but rarely swept. But what put the customers to flight was the strange way in which Therese sometimes welcomed them. When she happened to be upstairs, receiving blows from Laurent or agitated by a shock of terror, and the bell at the shop door tinkled imperiously, she had to go down, barely taking time to do up her hair or brush away the tears. On such occasions she served the persons awaiting her roughly; sometimes she even spared herself the trouble of serving, answering from the top of the staircase, that she no longer kept what was asked for. This kind of off-hand behaviour, was not calculated to retain custom. The little work-girls of the quarter, who were used to the sweet amiability of Madame Raquin, were driven away by the harshness and wild looks of Therese. When the latter took Suzanne with her to keep her company, the defection became complete. To avoid being disturbed in their gossip, the two young woman managed to drive away the few remaining purchasers who visited the shop. Henceforth, the mercery business ceased to bring in a sou towards the household expenses, and it became necessary to encroach on the capital of forty thousand francs and more. Sometimes, Therese absented herself the entire afternoon. No one knew where she went. Her reason for having Suzanne with her was no doubt partly for the purpose of securing company but also to mind the shop, while she was away. When she returned in the evening, worn out, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion, it was to find the little wife of Olivier still behind the counter, bowed down, with a vague smile on her lips, in the same attitude as she had left her five hours previously. Therese had a bad fright about five months after her marriage to Laurent. She found out she was pregnant and detested the thought of having a child of Laurent s. She had the fear that she would give birth to a drowned body. She thought that she could feel inside herself a soft, decomposing corpse. No matter what, she had to rid herself of this child. She did not tell Laurent. One day she cruelly provoked him and turned her stomach towards him, hoping to receive a kick. He kicked her and she let him go on kicking her in the stomach until she thought she would die. The next day her wish was fulfilled and she had a miscarriage. Laurent also led a frightful existence. The days seemed insupportably long; each brought the same anguish, the same heavy weariness which overwhelmed him at certain hours with crushing monotony and regularity. He dragged on his life, terrified every night by the recollections of the day, and the expectation of the morrow. He knew that henceforth, all his days would resemble one another, and bring him equal suffering. And he saw the weeks, months and years gloomily and implacably awaiting him, coming one after the other to fall upon him and gradually smother him. When there is no hope in the future, the present appears atrociously bitter. Laurent no longer resisted, he became lumpish, abandoning himself to the nothingness that was already gaining possession of his being. Idleness was killing him. In the morning he went out, without knowing where to go, disgusted at the thought of doing what he had done on the previous day, and compelled, in spite of himself, to do it again. He went to his studio by habit, by mania. This room, with its grey walls, whence he could see naught but a bare square of sky, filled him with mournful sadness. He grovelled on the divan heavy in thought and with pendent arms. He dared not touch a brush. He had made fresh attempts at painting, but only to find on each occasion, the head of Camille appear jeering on the canvas. So as not to go out of his mind, he ended by throwing his colour-box into a corner, and imposing the most absolute idleness on himself. This obligatory laziness weighed upon him terribly. In the afternoon, he questioned himself in distress to find out what he should do. For half an hour, he remained on the pavement in the Rue Mazarine, thinking and hesitating as to how he could divert himself. He rejected the idea of returning to the studio, and invariably decided on going down the Rue Guenegaud, to walk along the quays. And, until evening, he went along, dazed and seized with sudden shudders whenever he looked at the Seine. Whether in his studio or in the streets, his dejection was the same. The following day he began again. He passed the morning on his divan, and dragged himself along the quays in the afternoon. This lasted for months, and might last for years. Occasionally Laurent reflected that he had killed Camille so as to do nothing ever afterwards, and now that he did nothing, he was quite astonished to suffer so much. He would have liked to force himself to be happy. He proved to his own satisfaction, that he did wrong to suffer, that he had just attained supreme felicity, consisting in crossing his arms, and that he was an idiot not to enjoy this bliss in peace. But his reasoning exploded in the face of facts. He was constrained to confess, at the bottom of his heart, that this idleness rendered his anguish the more cruel, by leaving him every hour of his life to ponder on the despair and deepen its incurable bitterness. Laziness, that brutish existence which had been his dream, proved his punishment. At moments, he ardently hoped for some occupation to draw him from his thoughts. Then he lost all energy, relapsing beneath the weight of implacable fatality that bound his limbs so as to more surely crush him. In truth, he only found some relief when beating Therese, at night. This brutality alone relieved him of his enervated anguish. But his keenest suffering, both physical and moral, came from the bite Camille had given him in the neck. At certain moments, he imagined that this scar covered the whole of his body. If he came to forget the past, he all at once fancied he felt a burning puncture, that recalled the murder both to his frame and mind. When under the influence of emotion, he could not stand before a looking-glass without noticing this phenomenon which he had so frequently remarked and which always terrified him; the blood flew to his neck, purpling the scar, which then began to gnaw the skin. This sort of wound that lived upon him, which became active, flushed, and biting at the slightest trouble, frightened and tortured him. He ended by believing that the teeth of the drowned man had planted an insect there which was devouring him. The part of his neck where the scar appeared, seemed to him to no longer belong to

day

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

you forgive me. And yet, if you only knew how I am rent by remorse, if you only knew how I suffer, perhaps you would have pity. No, no pity for me. I should like to die here at your feet, overwhelmed by shame and grief. She spoke in this manner for hours together, passing from despair to hope, condemning and then pardoning herself; she assumed the voice, brief and plaintive in turn, of a little sick girl; she flattened herself on the ground and drew herself up again, acting upon all the ideas of humility and pride, of repentance and revolt that entered her head. Sometimes even, forgetting she was on her knees before Madame Raquin, she continued her monologue as in a dream. When she had made herself thoroughly giddy with her own words, she rose staggering and dazed, to go down to the shop in a calmer frame of mind, no longer fearing to burst into sobs before her customers. When she again felt inclined for remorse, she ran upstairs and knelt at the feet of the impotent woman. This scene was repeated ten times a day. Therese never reflected that her tears, and display of repentance must impose ineffable anguish on her aunt. The truth was that if she had desired to invent a torment to torture Madame Raquin, it would not have been possible to have found a more frightful one than the comedy of remorse she performed before her. The paralysed woman could see the egotism concealed beneath these effusions of grief. She suffered horribly from these long monologues which she was compelled to listen to at every instant, and which always brought the murder of Camille before her eyes. She could not pardon, she never departed from the implacable thought of vengeance that her impotency rendered more keen, and all day long she had to listen to pleas for pardon, and to humble and cowardly prayers. She would have liked to give an answer; certain sentences of her niece brought crushing refusals to her lips, but she had to remain mute and allow Therese to plead her cause without once interrupting her. The impossibility of crying out and stopping her ears caused her inexpressible torture. The words of the young woman entered her mind, slow and plaintive, as an irritating ditty. At first, she fancied the murderers inflicted this kind of torture on her out of sheer diabolical cruelty. Her sole means of defence was to close her eyes, as soon as her niece knelt before her, then although she heard, she did not see her. Therese, at last, had the impudence to kiss her aunt. One day, in a fit of repentance, she feigned she had perceived a gleam of mercy in the eyes of the paralysed woman; and she dragged herself along on her knees, she raised herself up, exclaiming in a distracted tone: You forgive me! You forgive me! Then she kissed the forehead and cheeks of the poor old creature, who was unable to throw her head backward so as to avoid the embrace. The cold skin on which Therese placed her lips, caused her violent disgust. She fancied this disgust, like the tears of remorse, would be an excellent remedy to appease her nerves; and she continued to kiss the impotent old woman daily, by way of penitence, and also to relieve herself. Oh! How good you are! she sometimes exclaimed. I can see my tears have touched you. Your eyes are full of pity. I am saved. Then she smothered her with caresses, placing the head of the infirm old lady on her knees, kissing her hands, smiling at her happily, and attending to all her requirements with a display of passionate affection. After a time, she believed in the reality of this comedy, she imagined she had obtained the pardon of Madame Raquin, and spoke of nothing but the delight she experienced at having secured her pardon. This was too much for the paralysed woman. It almost killed her. At the kisses of her niece, she again felt that sensation of bitter repugnance and rage which came over her, morning and night, when Laurent took her in his arms to lift her up, or lay her down. She was obliged to submit to the disgusting caresses of the wretch who had betrayed and killed her son. She could not even use her hand to wipe away the kisses that this woman left on her cheeks; and, for hours and hours together, she felt these kisses burning her. She became the doll of the murderers of Camille, a doll that they dressed, that they turned to right and left, and that they made use of according to their requirements and whims. She remained inert in their hands, as if she had been a lay-figure, and yet she lived, and became excited and indignant at the least contact with Therese or Laurent. What particularly exasperated her was the atrocious mockery of the young woman, who pretended she perceived expressions of mercy in her eyes, when she would have liked to have brought down fire from heaven on the head of the criminal. She frequently made supreme efforts to utter a cry of protestation, and loaded her looks with hatred. But Therese, who found it answered her purpose to repeat twenty times a day that she was pardoned, redoubled her caresses, and would see nothing. So the paralysed woman had to accept the thanks and effusions that her heart repelled. Henceforth, she lived in a state of bitter but powerless irritation, face to face with her yielding niece who displayed adorable acts of tenderness to recompense her for what she termed her heavenly goodness. When Therese knelt before Madame Raquin, in the presence of her husband, he brutally brought her to her feet. No acting, said he. Do I weep, do I prostrate myself? You do all this to trouble me. The remorse of Therese caused him peculiar agitation. His suffering increased now that his accomplice dragged herself about him, with eyes red by weeping, and supplicating lips. The sight of this living example of regret redoubled his fright and added to his uneasiness. It was like an everlasting reproach wandering through the house. Then he feared that repentance would one day drive his wife to reveal everything. He would have preferred her to remain rigid and threatening, bitterly defending herself against his accusations. But she had changed her tactics. She now readily recognised the share she had taken in the crime. She even accused herself. She had become yielding and timid, and starting from this point implored redemption with ardent humility. This attitude irritated Laurent, and every evening the quarrels of the couple became more afflicting and sinister. Listen to me, said Therese to her husband, we are very guilty. We must repent if we wish to enjoy tranquillity. Look at me. Since I have been weeping I am more peaceable. Imitate me. Let us say together that we are justly punished for having committed a horrible crime. Bah! roughly answered Laurent, you can say what you please. I know you are deucedly clever and hypocritical. Weep, if that diverts you. But I must beg you not to worry me with your tears. Ah! said she, you are bad. You reject remorse. You are cowardly. You acted as a traitor to Camille. Do you mean to say that I alone am guilty? he inquired. No, she replied, I do not say that. I am guilty, more guilty than you are. I ought to have saved my husband from your hands. Oh! I am aware of all the horror of my fault. But I have sought pardon, and I have succeeded, Laurent, whereas you continue to lead a disconsolate life. You have not even had the feeling to spare my poor aunt the sight of your vile anger. You have never even addressed a word of regret to her. And she embraced Madame Raquin, who shut her eyes. She hovered round her, raising the pillow that propped up her head, and showing her all kinds of attention. Laurent was infuriated. Oh, leave her alone, he cried. Can t you see that your services, and the very sight of you are odious to her. If she could lift her hand she would slap your face. The slow and plaintive words of his wife, and her attitudes of resignation, gradually drove him into blinding fits of anger. He understood her tactics; she no longer wished to be at one with him, but to set herself apart wrapped in her regret, so as to escape the clasp of the drowned man. And, at moments, he said to himself that she had perhaps taken the right path, that tears might cure her of her terror, and he shuddered at the thought of having to suffer, and contend with fright alone. He also would have liked to repent, or at least to have performed the comedy of repentance, to see what effect it would have. Unable to find the sobs and necessary words, he flung himself into violence again, stirring up Therese so as to irritate her and lead her back with him to furious madness. But the young woman took care to remain inert, to answer his cries of anger by tearful submission, and to meet his coarseness by a proportionate display of humility and repentance. Laurent was thus gradually driven to fury. To crown his irritation, Therese always ended with the panegyric of Camille so as to display the virtues of the victim. He was good, said she, and we must have been very cruel to assail such a warm-hearted man who had never a bad thought. He was good, yes, I know, jeered Laurent. You mean to say he was a fool. You must have forgotten! You pretended you were irritated at the slightest thing he said, that he could not open his mouth without letting out some stupidity. Don t jeer, said Therese. It only remains for you to insult the man you murdered. You know nothing about the feelings of a woman, Laurent; Camille loved me and I loved him. You loved him! Ah! Really what a capital idea, exclaimed Laurent. And no doubt it was because you loved your husband, that you took me as a sweetheart. I remember one day when we were together, that you told me Camille disgusted you, when you felt the end of your fingers enter his flesh as if it were soft clay. Oh! I know why you loved me. You required more vigorous arms than those of that poor devil. I loved him as a sister, answered Therese. He was the son of my benefactress. He had all the delicate feelings of a feeble man. He showed himself noble and generous, serviceable and loving. And we killed him, good God! good God! She wept, and swooned away. Madame Raquin cast piercing glances at her, indignant to hear the praise of Camille sung by such a pair of lips. Laurent who was unable to do anything against this overflow of tears, walked to and fro with furious strides, searching in his head for some means to stifle the remorse of Therese. All the good he heard said of his victim ended by causing him poignant anxiety. Now and again he let himself be caught by the heartrending accents of his wife. He really believed in the virtues of Camille, and his terror redoubled. But what tried his patience beyond measure was the comparison that the widow of the drowned man never failed to draw between her first and second husband, and which was all to the advantage of the former. Well! Yes, she cried, he was better than you. I would sooner he were alive now, and you in his place underground. Laurent first of all shrugged his shoulders. Say what you will, she continued, becoming animated, although I perhaps failed to love him in his lifetime, yet I remember all his good qualities now, and do love him. Yes, I love him and hate you, do you hear? For you are an assassin. Will you hold your tongue? yelled Laurent. And he is a victim, she went on, notwithstanding the threatening attitude of her husband, an upright man killed by a rascal. Oh! I am not afraid of you. You know well enough that you are a miserable wretch, a brute of a man without a heart, and without a soul. How can you expect me to love you, now that you are reeking with the blood of Camille? Camille was full of tenderness for me, and I would kill you, do you hear, if that could bring him to life again, and give me back his love. Will you hold your tongue, you wretch? shouted Laurent. Why should I hold my tongue? she retorted. I am speaking the truth. I would purchase forgiveness at the price of your blood. Ah! How I weep, and how I suffer! It is my own fault if a scoundrel, such as you, murdered my husband. I must go, one of these nights, and kiss the ground where he rests. That will be my final rapture. Laurent, beside himself, rendered furious by the atrocious pictures that Therese spread out before his eyes, rushed upon her, and threw her down, menacing her with his uplifted fist. That s it, she cried, strike me, kill me! Camille never once raised his hand to me, but you are a monster. And Laurent, spurred on by what she said, shook her with rage, beat her, bruised her body with his clenched fists. In two instances he almost strangled her. Therese yielded to his blows. She experienced keen delight in being struck, delivering herself up, thrusting her body forward, provoking her husband in every way, so that he might half kill her again. This was another remedy for her suffering. She slept better at night when she had been thoroughly beaten in the evening. Madame Raquin enjoyed exquisite pleasure, when Laurent dragged her niece along the floor in this way, belabouring her with thumps and kicks. The existence of the assassin had become terrible since the day when Therese conceived the infernal idea of feeling remorse and of mourning Camille aloud. From that moment the wretch lived everlastingly with his victim. At every hour, he had to listen to his wife praising and regretting her first husband. The least incident became a pretext: Camille did this, Camille did that, Camille had such and such qualities, Camille loved in such and such a way. It was always Camille! Ever sad remarks bewailing his death. Therese had recourse to all her spitefulness to render this torture, which she inflicted on Laurent so as to shield her own self, as cruel as possible. She went into details, relating a thousand insignificant incidents connected with her youth, accompanied by sighs and expressions of regret, and in this manner, mingled the remembrance of the drowned man with every action of her daily life. The corpse which already haunted the house, was introduced there openly. It sat on the chairs, took its place at table, extended itself on the bed, making use of the various articles of furniture, and of the objects lying about hither and thither. Laurent could touch nothing, not a fork, not a brush, without Therese making him feel that Camille had touched it before him. The murderer being ceaselessly thrust, so to say, against the man he had killed, ended by experiencing a strange sensation that very nearly drove him out of his mind. By being so constantly compared to Camille, by making use of the different articles Camille had used, he imagined he was Camille himself, that he was identical with his victim. Then, with his brain fit to burst, he flew at his wife to make her hold her tongue, so as to no longer hear the words that drove him frantic. All their quarrels now ended in blows. CHAPTER XXX A time came when Madame Raquin, in order to escape the sufferings she endured, thought of starving herself to death. She had reached the end of her courage, she could no longer support the martyrdom that the presence of the two murderers imposed on her, she longed to find supreme relief in death. Each day her anguish grew more keen, when Therese embraced her, and when Laurent took her in his arms to carry her along like a child. She determined on freeing herself from these clasps and caresses that caused her such horrible disgust. As she had not sufficient life left within her to permit of her avenging her son, she preferred to be entirely dead, and to leave naught in the hands of the assassins but a corpse that could feel nothing, and with which they could do as they pleased. For two days she refused all nourishment, employing her remaining strength to clench her teeth or to eject anything that Therese succeeded in introducing into her mouth. Therese was in despair. She was asking herself at the foot of which post she should go to weep and repent, when her aunt would be no longer there. She kept up an interminable discourse to prove to Madame Raquin that she should live. She wept, she even became angry, bursting into her former fits of rage, opening the jaw of the paralysed woman as you open that of an animal which resists. Madame Raquin held out, and an odious scene ensued. Laurent remained absolutely neutral and indifferent. He was astonished at the efforts of Therese to prevent the impotent old woman committing suicide. Now that the presence of the old lady had become useless to them he desired her death. He would not have killed her, but as she wished to die, he did not see the use of depriving her of the means to do so. But, let her be! he shouted to his wife. It will be a good riddance. We shall, perhaps, be happier when she is no longer here. This remark repeated several times in the hearing of Madame Raquin, caused her extraordinary emotion. She feared that the hope expressed by Laurent might be realised, and that after her death the couple would enjoy calm and happiness. And she said to herself that it would be cowardly to die, that she had no right to go away before she had seen the end of the sinister adventure. Then, only, could she descend into darkness, to say to Camille: You are avenged. The idea of suicide became oppressive, when she all at once reflected that she would sink into the grave ignorant as to what had happened to the two murderers of her son. There, she would lie in the cold and silent earth, eternally tormented by uncertainty concerning the punishment of her tormentors. To thoroughly enjoy the slumber of death, she must be hushed to rest by the sweet delight of vengeance, she must carry away with her a dream of satisfied hatred, a dream that would last throughout eternity. So she took the food her niece presented to her, and consented to live on. Apart from this, it was easy for her to perceive that the climax could not be far off. Each day the position of the married couple became more strained and unbearable. A crash that would smash everything was imminent. At every moment, Therese and Laurent started up face to face in a more threatening manner. It was no longer at nighttime, alone, that they suffered from their intimacy; entire days were passed amidst anxiety and harrowing shocks. It was one constant scene of pain and terror. They lived in a perfect pandemonium, fighting, rendering all they did and said bitter and cruel, seeking to fling one another to the bottom of the abyss which they felt beneath their feet, and falling into it together. Ideas of separation had, indeed, occurred to both of them. Each had thought of flight, of seeking some repose far from this Arcade of the Pont Neuf where the damp and filth seemed adapted to their desolated life. But they dared not, they could not run away. It seemed impossible for them to avoid reviling each other, to avoid remaining there to suffer and cause pain. They proved obstinate in their hatred and cruelty. A sort of repulsion and attraction separated and kept them together at the same time. They behaved in the identical manner of two persons who, after quarrelling, wish to part, and who, nevertheless, continue returning to shout out fresh insults at one another. Moreover, material obstacles stood in the way of flight. What were they to do with the impotent woman? What could be said to the Thursday evening guests? If they fled, these people would, perhaps, suspect something. At this thought, they imagined they were being pursued and dragged to the guillotine. So they remained where they were through cowardice, wretchedly dragging out their lives amidst the horror of their surroundings. During the morning and afternoon, when Laurent was absent, Therese went from the dining-room to the shop in anxiety and trouble, at a loss to know what to do to fill up the void in her existence that daily became more pronounced. When not kneeling at the feet of Madame Raquin or receiving blows and insults from her husband, she had no occupation. As soon as she was seated alone in the shop, she became dejected, watching with a doltish expression, the people passing through the dirty, dark gallery. She felt ready to die of sadness in the middle of this gloomy vault, which had the odour of a cemetery, and ended by begging Suzanne to come and pass entire days with her, in the hope that the presence of this poor, gentle, pale creature might calm her. Suzanne accepted her offer with delight; she continued to feel a sort of respectful friendship for Therese, and had long desired to come and work with her, while Olivier was at his office. Bringing her embroidery with her, she took the vacant chair of Madame Raquin behind the counter. From that day Therese rather neglected her aunt. She went upstairs less frequently to weep on her knees and kiss the deathlike face of the invalid. She had something else to do. She made efforts to listen with interest to the dilatory gossip of Suzanne, who spoke of her home, and of the trivialities of her monotonous life. This relieved Therese of her own thoughts. Sometimes she caught herself paying attention to nonsense that brought a bitter smile to her face. By degrees, she lost all her customers. Since her aunt had been confined to her armchair upstairs, she had let the shop go from bad to worse, abandoning the goods to dust and damp. A smell of mildew hung in the atmosphere, spiders came down from the ceiling, the floor was but rarely swept. But what put the customers to flight was the strange way in which Therese sometimes welcomed them. When she happened to be upstairs, receiving blows from Laurent or agitated by a shock of terror, and the bell at the shop door tinkled imperiously, she had to go down, barely taking time to do up her hair or brush away the tears. On such occasions she served the persons awaiting her roughly; sometimes she even spared herself the trouble of serving, answering from the top of the staircase, that she no longer kept what was asked for. This kind of off-hand behaviour, was not calculated to retain custom. The little work-girls of the quarter, who were used to the sweet amiability of Madame Raquin, were driven away by the harshness and wild looks of Therese. When the latter took Suzanne with her to keep her company, the defection became complete. To avoid being disturbed in their gossip, the two young woman managed to drive away the few remaining purchasers who visited the shop. Henceforth, the mercery business ceased to bring in a sou towards the household expenses, and it became necessary to encroach on the capital of forty thousand francs and more. Sometimes, Therese absented herself the entire afternoon. No one knew where she went. Her reason for having Suzanne with her was no doubt partly for the purpose of securing company but also to mind the shop, while she was away. When she returned in the evening, worn out, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion, it was to find the little wife of Olivier still behind the counter, bowed down, with a vague smile on her lips, in the same attitude as she had left her five hours previously. Therese had a bad fright about five months after her marriage to Laurent. She found out she was pregnant and detested the thought of having a child of Laurent s. She had the fear that she would give birth to a drowned body. She thought that she could feel inside herself a soft, decomposing corpse. No matter what, she had to rid herself of this child. She did not tell Laurent. One day she cruelly provoked him and turned her stomach towards him, hoping to receive a kick. He kicked her and she let him go on kicking her in the stomach until she thought she would die. The next day her wish was fulfilled and she had a miscarriage. Laurent also led a frightful existence. The days seemed insupportably long; each brought the same anguish, the same heavy weariness which overwhelmed him at certain hours with crushing monotony and regularity. He dragged on his life, terrified every night by the recollections of the day, and the expectation of the morrow. He knew that henceforth, all his days would resemble one another, and bring him equal suffering. And he saw the weeks, months and years gloomily and implacably awaiting him, coming one after the other to fall upon him and gradually smother him. When there is no hope in the future, the present appears atrociously bitter. Laurent no longer resisted, he became lumpish, abandoning himself to the nothingness that was already gaining possession of his being. Idleness was killing him. In the morning he went out, without knowing where to go, disgusted at the thought of doing what he had done on the previous day, and compelled, in spite of himself, to do it again. He went to his studio by habit, by mania. This room, with its grey walls, whence he could see naught but a bare square of sky, filled him with mournful sadness. He grovelled on the divan heavy in thought and with pendent arms. He dared not touch a brush. He had made fresh attempts at painting, but only to find on each occasion, the head of Camille appear jeering on the canvas. So as not to go out of his mind, he ended by throwing his colour-box into a corner, and imposing the most absolute idleness on himself. This obligatory laziness weighed upon him terribly. In the afternoon, he questioned himself in distress to find out what he should do. For half an hour, he remained on the pavement in the Rue Mazarine, thinking and hesitating as to how he could divert himself. He rejected the idea of returning to the studio, and invariably decided on going down the Rue Guenegaud, to walk along the quays. And, until evening, he went along, dazed and seized with sudden shudders whenever he looked at the Seine. Whether in his studio or in the streets, his dejection was the same. The following day he began again. He passed the morning on his divan, and dragged himself along the quays in the afternoon. This lasted for months, and might last for years. Occasionally Laurent reflected that he had killed Camille so as to do nothing ever afterwards, and now that he did nothing, he was quite astonished to suffer so much. He would have liked to force himself to be happy. He proved to his own satisfaction, that he did wrong to suffer, that he had just attained supreme felicity, consisting in crossing his arms, and that he was an idiot not to enjoy this bliss in peace. But his reasoning exploded in the face of facts. He was constrained to confess, at the bottom of his heart, that this idleness rendered his anguish the more cruel, by leaving him every hour of his life to ponder on the despair and deepen its incurable bitterness. Laziness, that brutish existence which had been his dream, proved his punishment. At moments, he ardently hoped for some occupation to draw him from his thoughts. Then he lost all energy, relapsing beneath the weight of implacable fatality that bound his limbs so as to more surely crush him. In truth, he only found some relief when beating Therese, at night. This brutality alone relieved him of his enervated anguish. But his keenest suffering, both physical and moral, came from the bite Camille had given him in the neck. At certain moments, he imagined that this scar covered the whole of his body. If he came to forget the past, he all at once fancied he felt a burning puncture, that recalled the murder both to his frame and mind. When under the influence of emotion, he could not stand before a looking-glass without noticing this phenomenon which he had so frequently remarked and which always terrified him; the blood flew to his neck, purpling the scar, which then began to gnaw the skin. This sort of wound that lived upon him, which became active, flushed, and biting at the slightest trouble, frightened and tortured him. He ended by believing that the teeth of the drowned man had planted an insect there which was devouring him. The part of his neck where the scar appeared, seemed to him to no longer belong to

fault

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

you forgive me. And yet, if you only knew how I am rent by remorse, if you only knew how I suffer, perhaps you would have pity. No, no pity for me. I should like to die here at your feet, overwhelmed by shame and grief. She spoke in this manner for hours together, passing from despair to hope, condemning and then pardoning herself; she assumed the voice, brief and plaintive in turn, of a little sick girl; she flattened herself on the ground and drew herself up again, acting upon all the ideas of humility and pride, of repentance and revolt that entered her head. Sometimes even, forgetting she was on her knees before Madame Raquin, she continued her monologue as in a dream. When she had made herself thoroughly giddy with her own words, she rose staggering and dazed, to go down to the shop in a calmer frame of mind, no longer fearing to burst into sobs before her customers. When she again felt inclined for remorse, she ran upstairs and knelt at the feet of the impotent woman. This scene was repeated ten times a day. Therese never reflected that her tears, and display of repentance must impose ineffable anguish on her aunt. The truth was that if she had desired to invent a torment to torture Madame Raquin, it would not have been possible to have found a more frightful one than the comedy of remorse she performed before her. The paralysed woman could see the egotism concealed beneath these effusions of grief. She suffered horribly from these long monologues which she was compelled to listen to at every instant, and which always brought the murder of Camille before her eyes. She could not pardon, she never departed from the implacable thought of vengeance that her impotency rendered more keen, and all day long she had to listen to pleas for pardon, and to humble and cowardly prayers. She would have liked to give an answer; certain sentences of her niece brought crushing refusals to her lips, but she had to remain mute and allow Therese to plead her cause without once interrupting her. The impossibility of crying out and stopping her ears caused her inexpressible torture. The words of the young woman entered her mind, slow and plaintive, as an irritating ditty. At first, she fancied the murderers inflicted this kind of torture on her out of sheer diabolical cruelty. Her sole means of defence was to close her eyes, as soon as her niece knelt before her, then although she heard, she did not see her. Therese, at last, had the impudence to kiss her aunt. One day, in a fit of repentance, she feigned she had perceived a gleam of mercy in the eyes of the paralysed woman; and she dragged herself along on her knees, she raised herself up, exclaiming in a distracted tone: You forgive me! You forgive me! Then she kissed the forehead and cheeks of the poor old creature, who was unable to throw her head backward so as to avoid the embrace. The cold skin on which Therese placed her lips, caused her violent disgust. She fancied this disgust, like the tears of remorse, would be an excellent remedy to appease her nerves; and she continued to kiss the impotent old woman daily, by way of penitence, and also to relieve herself. Oh! How good you are! she sometimes exclaimed. I can see my tears have touched you. Your eyes are full of pity. I am saved. Then she smothered her with caresses, placing the head of the infirm old lady on her knees, kissing her hands, smiling at her happily, and attending to all her requirements with a display of passionate affection. After a time, she believed in the reality of this comedy, she imagined she had obtained the pardon of Madame Raquin, and spoke of nothing but the delight she experienced at having secured her pardon. This was too much for the paralysed woman. It almost killed her. At the kisses of her niece, she again felt that sensation of bitter repugnance and rage which came over her, morning and night, when Laurent took her in his arms to lift her up, or lay her down. She was obliged to submit to the disgusting caresses of the wretch who had betrayed and killed her son. She could not even use her hand to wipe away the kisses that this woman left on her cheeks; and, for hours and hours together, she felt these kisses burning her. She became the doll of the murderers of Camille, a doll that they dressed, that they turned to right and left, and that they made use of according to their requirements and whims. She remained inert in their hands, as if she had been a lay-figure, and yet she lived, and became excited and indignant at the least contact with Therese or Laurent. What particularly exasperated her was the atrocious mockery of the young woman, who pretended she perceived expressions of mercy in her eyes, when she would have liked to have brought down fire from heaven on the head of the criminal. She frequently made supreme efforts to utter a cry of protestation, and loaded her looks with hatred. But Therese, who found it answered her purpose to repeat twenty times a day that she was pardoned, redoubled her caresses, and would see nothing. So the paralysed woman had to accept the thanks and effusions that her heart repelled. Henceforth, she lived in a state of bitter but powerless irritation, face to face with her yielding niece who displayed adorable acts of tenderness to recompense her for what she termed her heavenly goodness. When Therese knelt before Madame Raquin, in the presence of her husband, he brutally brought her to her feet. No acting, said he. Do I weep, do I prostrate myself? You do all this to trouble me. The remorse of Therese caused him peculiar agitation. His suffering increased now that his accomplice dragged herself about him, with eyes red by weeping, and supplicating lips. The sight of this living example of regret redoubled his fright and added to his uneasiness. It was like an everlasting reproach wandering through the house. Then he feared that repentance would one day drive his wife to reveal everything. He would have preferred her to remain rigid and threatening, bitterly defending herself against his accusations. But she had changed her tactics. She now readily recognised the share she had taken in the crime. She even accused herself. She had become yielding and timid, and starting from this point implored redemption with ardent humility. This attitude irritated Laurent, and every evening the quarrels of the couple became more afflicting and sinister. Listen to me, said Therese to her husband, we are very guilty. We must repent if we wish to enjoy tranquillity. Look at me. Since I have been weeping I am more peaceable. Imitate me. Let us say together that we are justly punished for having committed a horrible crime. Bah! roughly answered Laurent, you can say what you please. I know you are deucedly clever and hypocritical. Weep, if that diverts you. But I must beg you not to worry me with your tears. Ah! said she, you are bad. You reject remorse. You are cowardly. You acted as a traitor to Camille. Do you mean to say that I alone am guilty? he inquired. No, she replied, I do not say that. I am guilty, more guilty than you are. I ought to have saved my husband from your hands. Oh! I am aware of all the horror of my fault. But I have sought pardon, and I have succeeded, Laurent, whereas you continue to lead a disconsolate life. You have not even had the feeling to spare my poor aunt the sight of your vile anger. You have never even addressed a word of regret to her. And she embraced Madame Raquin, who shut her eyes. She hovered round her, raising the pillow that propped up her head, and showing her all kinds of attention. Laurent was infuriated. Oh, leave her alone, he cried. Can t you see that your services, and the very sight of you are odious to her. If she could lift her hand she would slap your face. The slow and plaintive words of his wife, and her attitudes of resignation, gradually drove him into blinding fits of anger. He understood her tactics; she no longer wished to be at one with him, but to set herself apart wrapped in her regret, so as to escape the clasp of the drowned man. And, at moments, he said to himself that she had perhaps taken the right path, that tears might cure her of her terror, and he shuddered at the thought of having to suffer, and contend with fright alone. He also would have liked to repent, or at least to have performed the comedy of repentance, to see what effect it would have. Unable to find the sobs and necessary words, he flung himself into violence again, stirring up Therese so as to irritate her and lead her back with him to furious madness. But the young woman took care to remain inert, to answer his cries of anger by tearful submission, and to meet his coarseness by a proportionate display of humility and repentance. Laurent was thus gradually driven to fury. To crown his irritation, Therese always ended with the panegyric of Camille so as to display the virtues of the victim. He was good, said she, and we must have been very cruel to assail such a warm-hearted man who had never a bad thought. He was good, yes, I know, jeered Laurent. You mean to say he was a fool. You must have forgotten! You pretended you were irritated at the slightest thing he said, that he could not open his mouth without letting out some stupidity. Don t jeer, said Therese. It only remains for you to insult the man you murdered. You know nothing about the feelings of a woman, Laurent; Camille loved me and I loved him. You loved him! Ah! Really what a capital idea, exclaimed Laurent. And no doubt it was because you loved your husband, that you took me as a sweetheart. I remember one day when we were together, that you told me Camille disgusted you, when you felt the end of your fingers enter his flesh as if it were soft clay. Oh! I know why you loved me. You required more vigorous arms than those of that poor devil. I loved him as a sister, answered Therese. He was the son of my benefactress. He had all the delicate feelings of a feeble man. He showed himself noble and generous, serviceable and loving. And we killed him, good God! good God! She wept, and swooned away. Madame Raquin cast piercing glances at her, indignant to hear the praise of Camille sung by such a pair of lips. Laurent who was unable to do anything against this overflow of tears, walked to and fro with furious strides, searching in his head for some means to stifle the remorse of Therese. All the good he heard said of his victim ended by causing him poignant anxiety. Now and again he let himself be caught by the heartrending accents of his wife. He really believed in the virtues of Camille, and his terror redoubled. But what tried his patience beyond measure was the comparison that the widow of the drowned man never failed to draw between her first and second husband, and which was all to the advantage of the former. Well! Yes, she cried, he was better than you. I would sooner he were alive now, and you in his place underground. Laurent first of all shrugged his shoulders. Say what you will, she continued, becoming animated, although I perhaps failed to love him in his lifetime, yet I remember all his good qualities now, and do love him. Yes, I love him and hate you, do you hear? For you are an assassin. Will you hold your tongue? yelled Laurent. And he is a victim, she went on, notwithstanding the threatening attitude of her husband, an upright man killed by a rascal. Oh! I am not afraid of you. You know well enough that you are a miserable wretch, a brute of a man without a heart, and without a soul. How can you expect me to love you, now that you are reeking with the blood of Camille? Camille was full of tenderness for me, and I would kill you, do you hear, if that could bring him to life again, and give me back his love. Will you hold your tongue, you wretch? shouted Laurent. Why should I hold my tongue? she retorted. I am speaking the truth. I would purchase forgiveness at the price of your blood. Ah! How I weep, and how I suffer! It is my own fault if a scoundrel, such as you, murdered my husband. I must go, one of these nights, and kiss the ground where he rests. That will be my final rapture. Laurent, beside himself, rendered furious by the atrocious pictures that Therese spread out before his eyes, rushed upon her, and threw her down, menacing her with his uplifted fist. That s it, she cried, strike me, kill me! Camille never once raised his hand to me, but you are a monster. And Laurent, spurred on by what she said, shook her with rage, beat her, bruised her body with his clenched fists. In two instances he almost strangled her. Therese yielded to his blows. She experienced keen delight in being struck, delivering herself up, thrusting her body forward, provoking her husband in every way, so that he might half kill her again. This was another remedy for her suffering. She slept better at night when she had been thoroughly beaten in the evening. Madame Raquin enjoyed exquisite pleasure, when Laurent dragged her niece along the floor in this way, belabouring her with thumps and kicks. The existence of the assassin had become terrible since the day when Therese conceived the infernal idea of feeling remorse and of mourning Camille aloud. From that moment the wretch lived everlastingly with his victim. At every hour, he had to listen to his wife praising and regretting her first husband. The least incident became a pretext: Camille did this, Camille did that, Camille had such and such qualities, Camille loved in such and such a way. It was always Camille! Ever sad remarks bewailing his death. Therese had recourse to all her spitefulness to render this torture, which she inflicted on Laurent so as to shield her own self, as cruel as possible. She went into details, relating a thousand insignificant incidents connected with her youth, accompanied by sighs and expressions of regret, and in this manner, mingled the remembrance of the drowned man with every action of her daily life. The corpse which already haunted the house, was introduced there openly. It sat on the chairs, took its place at table, extended itself on the bed, making use of the various articles of furniture, and of the objects lying about hither and thither. Laurent could touch nothing, not a fork, not a brush, without Therese making him feel that Camille had touched it before him. The murderer being ceaselessly thrust, so to say, against the man he had killed, ended by experiencing a strange sensation that very nearly drove him out of his mind. By being so constantly compared to Camille, by making use of the different articles Camille had used, he imagined he was Camille himself, that he was identical with his victim. Then, with his brain fit to burst, he flew at his wife to make her hold her tongue, so as to no longer hear the words that drove him frantic. All their quarrels now ended in blows. CHAPTER XXX A time came when Madame Raquin, in order to escape the sufferings she endured, thought of starving herself to death. She had reached the end of her courage, she could no longer support the martyrdom that the presence of the two murderers imposed on her, she longed to find supreme relief in death. Each day her anguish grew more keen, when Therese embraced her, and when Laurent took her in his arms to carry her along like a child. She determined on freeing herself from these clasps and caresses that caused her such horrible disgust. As she had not sufficient life left within her to permit of her avenging her son, she preferred to be entirely dead, and to leave naught in the hands of the assassins but a corpse that could feel nothing, and with which they could do as they pleased. For two days she refused all nourishment, employing her remaining strength to clench her teeth or to eject anything that Therese succeeded in introducing into her mouth. Therese was in despair. She was asking herself at the foot of which post she should go to weep and repent, when her aunt would be no longer there. She kept up an interminable discourse to prove to Madame Raquin that she should live. She wept, she even became angry, bursting into her former fits of rage, opening the jaw of the paralysed woman as you open that of an animal which resists. Madame Raquin held out, and an odious scene ensued. Laurent remained absolutely neutral and indifferent. He was astonished at the efforts of Therese to prevent the impotent old woman committing suicide. Now that the presence of the old lady had become useless to them he desired her death. He would not have killed her, but as she wished to die, he did not see the use of depriving her of the means to do so. But, let her be! he shouted to his wife. It will be a good riddance. We shall, perhaps, be happier when she is no longer here. This remark repeated several times in the hearing of Madame Raquin, caused her extraordinary emotion. She feared that the hope expressed by Laurent might be realised, and that after her death the couple would enjoy calm and happiness. And she said to herself that it would be cowardly to die, that she had no right to go away before she had seen the end of the sinister adventure. Then, only, could she descend into darkness, to say to Camille: You are avenged. The idea of suicide became oppressive, when she all at once reflected that she would sink into the grave ignorant as to what had happened to the two murderers of her son. There, she would lie in the cold and silent earth, eternally tormented by uncertainty concerning the punishment of her tormentors. To thoroughly enjoy the slumber of death, she must be hushed to rest by the sweet delight of vengeance, she must carry away with her a dream of satisfied hatred, a dream that would last throughout eternity. So she took the food her niece presented to her, and consented to live on. Apart from this, it was easy for her to perceive that the climax could not be far off. Each day the position of the married couple became more strained and unbearable. A crash that would smash everything was imminent. At every moment, Therese and Laurent started up face to face in a more threatening manner. It was no longer at nighttime, alone, that they suffered from their intimacy; entire days were passed amidst anxiety and harrowing shocks. It was one constant scene of pain and terror. They lived in a perfect pandemonium, fighting, rendering all they did and said bitter and cruel, seeking to fling one another to the bottom of the abyss which they felt beneath their feet, and falling into it together. Ideas of separation had, indeed, occurred to both of them. Each had thought of flight, of seeking some repose far from this Arcade of the Pont Neuf where the damp and filth seemed adapted to their desolated life. But they dared not, they could not run away. It seemed impossible for them to avoid reviling each other, to avoid remaining there to suffer and cause pain. They proved obstinate in their hatred and cruelty. A sort of repulsion and attraction separated and kept them together at the same time. They behaved in the identical manner of two persons who, after quarrelling, wish to part, and who, nevertheless, continue returning to shout out fresh insults at one another. Moreover, material obstacles stood in the way of flight. What were they to do with the impotent woman? What could be said to the Thursday evening guests? If they fled, these people would, perhaps, suspect something. At this thought, they imagined they were being pursued and dragged to the guillotine. So they remained where they were through cowardice, wretchedly dragging out their lives amidst the horror of their surroundings. During the morning and afternoon, when Laurent was absent, Therese went from the dining-room to the shop in anxiety and trouble, at a loss to know what to do to fill up the void in her existence that daily became more pronounced. When not kneeling at the feet of Madame Raquin or receiving blows and insults from her husband, she had no occupation. As soon as she was seated alone in the shop, she became dejected, watching with a doltish expression, the people passing through the dirty, dark gallery. She felt ready to die of sadness in the middle of this gloomy vault, which had the odour of a cemetery, and ended by begging Suzanne to come and pass entire days with her, in the hope that the presence of this poor, gentle, pale creature might calm her. Suzanne accepted her offer with delight; she continued to feel a sort of respectful friendship for Therese, and had long desired to come and work with her, while Olivier was at his office. Bringing her embroidery with her, she took the vacant chair of Madame Raquin behind the counter. From that day Therese rather neglected her aunt. She went upstairs less frequently to weep on her knees and kiss the deathlike face of the invalid. She had something else to do. She made efforts to listen with interest to the dilatory gossip of Suzanne, who spoke of her home, and of the trivialities of her monotonous life. This relieved Therese of her own thoughts. Sometimes she caught herself paying attention to nonsense that brought a bitter smile to her face. By degrees, she lost all her customers. Since her aunt had been confined to her armchair upstairs, she had let the shop go from bad to worse, abandoning the goods to dust and damp. A smell of mildew hung in the atmosphere, spiders came down from the ceiling, the floor was but rarely swept. But what put the customers to flight was the strange way in which Therese sometimes welcomed them. When she happened to be upstairs, receiving blows from Laurent or agitated by a shock of terror, and the bell at the shop door tinkled imperiously, she had to go down, barely taking time to do up her hair or brush away the tears. On such occasions she served the persons awaiting her roughly; sometimes she even spared herself the trouble of serving, answering from the top of the staircase, that she no longer kept what was asked for. This kind of off-hand behaviour, was not calculated to retain custom. The little work-girls of the quarter, who were used to the sweet amiability of Madame Raquin, were driven away by the harshness and wild looks of Therese. When the latter took Suzanne with her to keep her company, the defection became complete. To avoid being disturbed in their gossip, the two young woman managed to drive away the few remaining purchasers who visited the shop. Henceforth, the mercery business ceased to bring in a sou towards the household expenses, and it became necessary to encroach on the capital of forty thousand francs and more. Sometimes, Therese absented herself the entire afternoon. No one knew where she went. Her reason for having Suzanne with her was no doubt partly for the purpose of securing company but also to mind the shop, while she was away. When she returned in the evening, worn out, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion, it was to find the little wife of Olivier still behind the counter, bowed down, with a vague smile on her lips, in the same attitude as she had left her five hours previously. Therese had a bad fright about five months after her marriage to Laurent. She found out she was pregnant and detested the thought of having a child of Laurent s. She had the fear that she would give birth to a drowned body. She thought that she could feel inside herself a soft, decomposing corpse. No matter what, she had to rid herself of this child. She did not tell Laurent. One day she cruelly provoked him and turned her stomach towards him, hoping to receive a kick. He kicked her and she let him go on kicking her in the stomach until she thought she would die. The next day her wish was fulfilled and she had a miscarriage. Laurent also led a frightful existence. The days seemed insupportably long; each brought the same anguish, the same heavy weariness which overwhelmed him at certain hours with crushing monotony and regularity. He dragged on his life, terrified every night by the recollections of the day, and the expectation of the morrow. He knew that henceforth, all his days would resemble one another, and bring him equal suffering. And he saw the weeks, months and years gloomily and implacably awaiting him, coming one after the other to fall upon him and gradually smother him. When there is no hope in the future, the present appears atrociously bitter. Laurent no longer resisted, he became lumpish, abandoning himself to the nothingness that was already gaining possession of his being. Idleness was killing him. In the morning he went out, without knowing where to go, disgusted at the thought of doing what he had done on the previous day, and compelled, in spite of himself, to do it again. He went to his studio by habit, by mania. This room, with its grey walls, whence he could see naught but a bare square of sky, filled him with mournful sadness. He grovelled on the divan heavy in thought and with pendent arms. He dared not touch a brush. He had made fresh attempts at painting, but only to find on each occasion, the head of Camille appear jeering on the canvas. So as not to go out of his mind, he ended by throwing his colour-box into a corner, and imposing the most absolute idleness on himself. This obligatory laziness weighed upon him terribly. In the afternoon, he questioned himself in distress to find out what he should do. For half an hour, he remained on the pavement in the Rue Mazarine, thinking and hesitating as to how he could divert himself. He rejected the idea of returning to the studio, and invariably decided on going down the Rue Guenegaud, to walk along the quays. And, until evening, he went along, dazed and seized with sudden shudders whenever he looked at the Seine. Whether in his studio or in the streets, his dejection was the same. The following day he began again. He passed the morning on his divan, and dragged himself along the quays in the afternoon. This lasted for months, and might last for years. Occasionally Laurent reflected that he had killed Camille so as to do nothing ever afterwards, and now that he did nothing, he was quite astonished to suffer so much. He would have liked to force himself to be happy. He proved to his own satisfaction, that he did wrong to suffer, that he had just attained supreme felicity, consisting in crossing his arms, and that he was an idiot not to enjoy this bliss in peace. But his reasoning exploded in the face of facts. He was constrained to confess, at the bottom of his heart, that this idleness rendered his anguish the more cruel, by leaving him every hour of his life to ponder on the despair and deepen its incurable bitterness. Laziness, that brutish existence which had been his dream, proved his punishment. At moments, he ardently hoped for some occupation to draw him from his thoughts. Then he lost all energy, relapsing beneath the weight of implacable fatality that bound his limbs so as to more surely crush him. In truth, he only found some relief when beating Therese, at night. This brutality alone relieved him of his enervated anguish. But his keenest suffering, both physical and moral, came from the bite Camille had given him in the neck. At certain moments, he imagined that this scar covered the whole of his body. If he came to forget the past, he all at once fancied he felt a burning puncture, that recalled the murder both to his frame and mind. When under the influence of emotion, he could not stand before a looking-glass without noticing this phenomenon which he had so frequently remarked and which always terrified him; the blood flew to his neck, purpling the scar, which then began to gnaw the skin. This sort of wound that lived upon him, which became active, flushed, and biting at the slightest trouble, frightened and tortured him. He ended by believing that the teeth of the drowned man had planted an insect there which was devouring him. The part of his neck where the scar appeared, seemed to him to no longer belong to

specially-

How many times the word 'specially-' appears in the text?

you forgive me. And yet, if you only knew how I am rent by remorse, if you only knew how I suffer, perhaps you would have pity. No, no pity for me. I should like to die here at your feet, overwhelmed by shame and grief. She spoke in this manner for hours together, passing from despair to hope, condemning and then pardoning herself; she assumed the voice, brief and plaintive in turn, of a little sick girl; she flattened herself on the ground and drew herself up again, acting upon all the ideas of humility and pride, of repentance and revolt that entered her head. Sometimes even, forgetting she was on her knees before Madame Raquin, she continued her monologue as in a dream. When she had made herself thoroughly giddy with her own words, she rose staggering and dazed, to go down to the shop in a calmer frame of mind, no longer fearing to burst into sobs before her customers. When she again felt inclined for remorse, she ran upstairs and knelt at the feet of the impotent woman. This scene was repeated ten times a day. Therese never reflected that her tears, and display of repentance must impose ineffable anguish on her aunt. The truth was that if she had desired to invent a torment to torture Madame Raquin, it would not have been possible to have found a more frightful one than the comedy of remorse she performed before her. The paralysed woman could see the egotism concealed beneath these effusions of grief. She suffered horribly from these long monologues which she was compelled to listen to at every instant, and which always brought the murder of Camille before her eyes. She could not pardon, she never departed from the implacable thought of vengeance that her impotency rendered more keen, and all day long she had to listen to pleas for pardon, and to humble and cowardly prayers. She would have liked to give an answer; certain sentences of her niece brought crushing refusals to her lips, but she had to remain mute and allow Therese to plead her cause without once interrupting her. The impossibility of crying out and stopping her ears caused her inexpressible torture. The words of the young woman entered her mind, slow and plaintive, as an irritating ditty. At first, she fancied the murderers inflicted this kind of torture on her out of sheer diabolical cruelty. Her sole means of defence was to close her eyes, as soon as her niece knelt before her, then although she heard, she did not see her. Therese, at last, had the impudence to kiss her aunt. One day, in a fit of repentance, she feigned she had perceived a gleam of mercy in the eyes of the paralysed woman; and she dragged herself along on her knees, she raised herself up, exclaiming in a distracted tone: You forgive me! You forgive me! Then she kissed the forehead and cheeks of the poor old creature, who was unable to throw her head backward so as to avoid the embrace. The cold skin on which Therese placed her lips, caused her violent disgust. She fancied this disgust, like the tears of remorse, would be an excellent remedy to appease her nerves; and she continued to kiss the impotent old woman daily, by way of penitence, and also to relieve herself. Oh! How good you are! she sometimes exclaimed. I can see my tears have touched you. Your eyes are full of pity. I am saved. Then she smothered her with caresses, placing the head of the infirm old lady on her knees, kissing her hands, smiling at her happily, and attending to all her requirements with a display of passionate affection. After a time, she believed in the reality of this comedy, she imagined she had obtained the pardon of Madame Raquin, and spoke of nothing but the delight she experienced at having secured her pardon. This was too much for the paralysed woman. It almost killed her. At the kisses of her niece, she again felt that sensation of bitter repugnance and rage which came over her, morning and night, when Laurent took her in his arms to lift her up, or lay her down. She was obliged to submit to the disgusting caresses of the wretch who had betrayed and killed her son. She could not even use her hand to wipe away the kisses that this woman left on her cheeks; and, for hours and hours together, she felt these kisses burning her. She became the doll of the murderers of Camille, a doll that they dressed, that they turned to right and left, and that they made use of according to their requirements and whims. She remained inert in their hands, as if she had been a lay-figure, and yet she lived, and became excited and indignant at the least contact with Therese or Laurent. What particularly exasperated her was the atrocious mockery of the young woman, who pretended she perceived expressions of mercy in her eyes, when she would have liked to have brought down fire from heaven on the head of the criminal. She frequently made supreme efforts to utter a cry of protestation, and loaded her looks with hatred. But Therese, who found it answered her purpose to repeat twenty times a day that she was pardoned, redoubled her caresses, and would see nothing. So the paralysed woman had to accept the thanks and effusions that her heart repelled. Henceforth, she lived in a state of bitter but powerless irritation, face to face with her yielding niece who displayed adorable acts of tenderness to recompense her for what she termed her heavenly goodness. When Therese knelt before Madame Raquin, in the presence of her husband, he brutally brought her to her feet. No acting, said he. Do I weep, do I prostrate myself? You do all this to trouble me. The remorse of Therese caused him peculiar agitation. His suffering increased now that his accomplice dragged herself about him, with eyes red by weeping, and supplicating lips. The sight of this living example of regret redoubled his fright and added to his uneasiness. It was like an everlasting reproach wandering through the house. Then he feared that repentance would one day drive his wife to reveal everything. He would have preferred her to remain rigid and threatening, bitterly defending herself against his accusations. But she had changed her tactics. She now readily recognised the share she had taken in the crime. She even accused herself. She had become yielding and timid, and starting from this point implored redemption with ardent humility. This attitude irritated Laurent, and every evening the quarrels of the couple became more afflicting and sinister. Listen to me, said Therese to her husband, we are very guilty. We must repent if we wish to enjoy tranquillity. Look at me. Since I have been weeping I am more peaceable. Imitate me. Let us say together that we are justly punished for having committed a horrible crime. Bah! roughly answered Laurent, you can say what you please. I know you are deucedly clever and hypocritical. Weep, if that diverts you. But I must beg you not to worry me with your tears. Ah! said she, you are bad. You reject remorse. You are cowardly. You acted as a traitor to Camille. Do you mean to say that I alone am guilty? he inquired. No, she replied, I do not say that. I am guilty, more guilty than you are. I ought to have saved my husband from your hands. Oh! I am aware of all the horror of my fault. But I have sought pardon, and I have succeeded, Laurent, whereas you continue to lead a disconsolate life. You have not even had the feeling to spare my poor aunt the sight of your vile anger. You have never even addressed a word of regret to her. And she embraced Madame Raquin, who shut her eyes. She hovered round her, raising the pillow that propped up her head, and showing her all kinds of attention. Laurent was infuriated. Oh, leave her alone, he cried. Can t you see that your services, and the very sight of you are odious to her. If she could lift her hand she would slap your face. The slow and plaintive words of his wife, and her attitudes of resignation, gradually drove him into blinding fits of anger. He understood her tactics; she no longer wished to be at one with him, but to set herself apart wrapped in her regret, so as to escape the clasp of the drowned man. And, at moments, he said to himself that she had perhaps taken the right path, that tears might cure her of her terror, and he shuddered at the thought of having to suffer, and contend with fright alone. He also would have liked to repent, or at least to have performed the comedy of repentance, to see what effect it would have. Unable to find the sobs and necessary words, he flung himself into violence again, stirring up Therese so as to irritate her and lead her back with him to furious madness. But the young woman took care to remain inert, to answer his cries of anger by tearful submission, and to meet his coarseness by a proportionate display of humility and repentance. Laurent was thus gradually driven to fury. To crown his irritation, Therese always ended with the panegyric of Camille so as to display the virtues of the victim. He was good, said she, and we must have been very cruel to assail such a warm-hearted man who had never a bad thought. He was good, yes, I know, jeered Laurent. You mean to say he was a fool. You must have forgotten! You pretended you were irritated at the slightest thing he said, that he could not open his mouth without letting out some stupidity. Don t jeer, said Therese. It only remains for you to insult the man you murdered. You know nothing about the feelings of a woman, Laurent; Camille loved me and I loved him. You loved him! Ah! Really what a capital idea, exclaimed Laurent. And no doubt it was because you loved your husband, that you took me as a sweetheart. I remember one day when we were together, that you told me Camille disgusted you, when you felt the end of your fingers enter his flesh as if it were soft clay. Oh! I know why you loved me. You required more vigorous arms than those of that poor devil. I loved him as a sister, answered Therese. He was the son of my benefactress. He had all the delicate feelings of a feeble man. He showed himself noble and generous, serviceable and loving. And we killed him, good God! good God! She wept, and swooned away. Madame Raquin cast piercing glances at her, indignant to hear the praise of Camille sung by such a pair of lips. Laurent who was unable to do anything against this overflow of tears, walked to and fro with furious strides, searching in his head for some means to stifle the remorse of Therese. All the good he heard said of his victim ended by causing him poignant anxiety. Now and again he let himself be caught by the heartrending accents of his wife. He really believed in the virtues of Camille, and his terror redoubled. But what tried his patience beyond measure was the comparison that the widow of the drowned man never failed to draw between her first and second husband, and which was all to the advantage of the former. Well! Yes, she cried, he was better than you. I would sooner he were alive now, and you in his place underground. Laurent first of all shrugged his shoulders. Say what you will, she continued, becoming animated, although I perhaps failed to love him in his lifetime, yet I remember all his good qualities now, and do love him. Yes, I love him and hate you, do you hear? For you are an assassin. Will you hold your tongue? yelled Laurent. And he is a victim, she went on, notwithstanding the threatening attitude of her husband, an upright man killed by a rascal. Oh! I am not afraid of you. You know well enough that you are a miserable wretch, a brute of a man without a heart, and without a soul. How can you expect me to love you, now that you are reeking with the blood of Camille? Camille was full of tenderness for me, and I would kill you, do you hear, if that could bring him to life again, and give me back his love. Will you hold your tongue, you wretch? shouted Laurent. Why should I hold my tongue? she retorted. I am speaking the truth. I would purchase forgiveness at the price of your blood. Ah! How I weep, and how I suffer! It is my own fault if a scoundrel, such as you, murdered my husband. I must go, one of these nights, and kiss the ground where he rests. That will be my final rapture. Laurent, beside himself, rendered furious by the atrocious pictures that Therese spread out before his eyes, rushed upon her, and threw her down, menacing her with his uplifted fist. That s it, she cried, strike me, kill me! Camille never once raised his hand to me, but you are a monster. And Laurent, spurred on by what she said, shook her with rage, beat her, bruised her body with his clenched fists. In two instances he almost strangled her. Therese yielded to his blows. She experienced keen delight in being struck, delivering herself up, thrusting her body forward, provoking her husband in every way, so that he might half kill her again. This was another remedy for her suffering. She slept better at night when she had been thoroughly beaten in the evening. Madame Raquin enjoyed exquisite pleasure, when Laurent dragged her niece along the floor in this way, belabouring her with thumps and kicks. The existence of the assassin had become terrible since the day when Therese conceived the infernal idea of feeling remorse and of mourning Camille aloud. From that moment the wretch lived everlastingly with his victim. At every hour, he had to listen to his wife praising and regretting her first husband. The least incident became a pretext: Camille did this, Camille did that, Camille had such and such qualities, Camille loved in such and such a way. It was always Camille! Ever sad remarks bewailing his death. Therese had recourse to all her spitefulness to render this torture, which she inflicted on Laurent so as to shield her own self, as cruel as possible. She went into details, relating a thousand insignificant incidents connected with her youth, accompanied by sighs and expressions of regret, and in this manner, mingled the remembrance of the drowned man with every action of her daily life. The corpse which already haunted the house, was introduced there openly. It sat on the chairs, took its place at table, extended itself on the bed, making use of the various articles of furniture, and of the objects lying about hither and thither. Laurent could touch nothing, not a fork, not a brush, without Therese making him feel that Camille had touched it before him. The murderer being ceaselessly thrust, so to say, against the man he had killed, ended by experiencing a strange sensation that very nearly drove him out of his mind. By being so constantly compared to Camille, by making use of the different articles Camille had used, he imagined he was Camille himself, that he was identical with his victim. Then, with his brain fit to burst, he flew at his wife to make her hold her tongue, so as to no longer hear the words that drove him frantic. All their quarrels now ended in blows. CHAPTER XXX A time came when Madame Raquin, in order to escape the sufferings she endured, thought of starving herself to death. She had reached the end of her courage, she could no longer support the martyrdom that the presence of the two murderers imposed on her, she longed to find supreme relief in death. Each day her anguish grew more keen, when Therese embraced her, and when Laurent took her in his arms to carry her along like a child. She determined on freeing herself from these clasps and caresses that caused her such horrible disgust. As she had not sufficient life left within her to permit of her avenging her son, she preferred to be entirely dead, and to leave naught in the hands of the assassins but a corpse that could feel nothing, and with which they could do as they pleased. For two days she refused all nourishment, employing her remaining strength to clench her teeth or to eject anything that Therese succeeded in introducing into her mouth. Therese was in despair. She was asking herself at the foot of which post she should go to weep and repent, when her aunt would be no longer there. She kept up an interminable discourse to prove to Madame Raquin that she should live. She wept, she even became angry, bursting into her former fits of rage, opening the jaw of the paralysed woman as you open that of an animal which resists. Madame Raquin held out, and an odious scene ensued. Laurent remained absolutely neutral and indifferent. He was astonished at the efforts of Therese to prevent the impotent old woman committing suicide. Now that the presence of the old lady had become useless to them he desired her death. He would not have killed her, but as she wished to die, he did not see the use of depriving her of the means to do so. But, let her be! he shouted to his wife. It will be a good riddance. We shall, perhaps, be happier when she is no longer here. This remark repeated several times in the hearing of Madame Raquin, caused her extraordinary emotion. She feared that the hope expressed by Laurent might be realised, and that after her death the couple would enjoy calm and happiness. And she said to herself that it would be cowardly to die, that she had no right to go away before she had seen the end of the sinister adventure. Then, only, could she descend into darkness, to say to Camille: You are avenged. The idea of suicide became oppressive, when she all at once reflected that she would sink into the grave ignorant as to what had happened to the two murderers of her son. There, she would lie in the cold and silent earth, eternally tormented by uncertainty concerning the punishment of her tormentors. To thoroughly enjoy the slumber of death, she must be hushed to rest by the sweet delight of vengeance, she must carry away with her a dream of satisfied hatred, a dream that would last throughout eternity. So she took the food her niece presented to her, and consented to live on. Apart from this, it was easy for her to perceive that the climax could not be far off. Each day the position of the married couple became more strained and unbearable. A crash that would smash everything was imminent. At every moment, Therese and Laurent started up face to face in a more threatening manner. It was no longer at nighttime, alone, that they suffered from their intimacy; entire days were passed amidst anxiety and harrowing shocks. It was one constant scene of pain and terror. They lived in a perfect pandemonium, fighting, rendering all they did and said bitter and cruel, seeking to fling one another to the bottom of the abyss which they felt beneath their feet, and falling into it together. Ideas of separation had, indeed, occurred to both of them. Each had thought of flight, of seeking some repose far from this Arcade of the Pont Neuf where the damp and filth seemed adapted to their desolated life. But they dared not, they could not run away. It seemed impossible for them to avoid reviling each other, to avoid remaining there to suffer and cause pain. They proved obstinate in their hatred and cruelty. A sort of repulsion and attraction separated and kept them together at the same time. They behaved in the identical manner of two persons who, after quarrelling, wish to part, and who, nevertheless, continue returning to shout out fresh insults at one another. Moreover, material obstacles stood in the way of flight. What were they to do with the impotent woman? What could be said to the Thursday evening guests? If they fled, these people would, perhaps, suspect something. At this thought, they imagined they were being pursued and dragged to the guillotine. So they remained where they were through cowardice, wretchedly dragging out their lives amidst the horror of their surroundings. During the morning and afternoon, when Laurent was absent, Therese went from the dining-room to the shop in anxiety and trouble, at a loss to know what to do to fill up the void in her existence that daily became more pronounced. When not kneeling at the feet of Madame Raquin or receiving blows and insults from her husband, she had no occupation. As soon as she was seated alone in the shop, she became dejected, watching with a doltish expression, the people passing through the dirty, dark gallery. She felt ready to die of sadness in the middle of this gloomy vault, which had the odour of a cemetery, and ended by begging Suzanne to come and pass entire days with her, in the hope that the presence of this poor, gentle, pale creature might calm her. Suzanne accepted her offer with delight; she continued to feel a sort of respectful friendship for Therese, and had long desired to come and work with her, while Olivier was at his office. Bringing her embroidery with her, she took the vacant chair of Madame Raquin behind the counter. From that day Therese rather neglected her aunt. She went upstairs less frequently to weep on her knees and kiss the deathlike face of the invalid. She had something else to do. She made efforts to listen with interest to the dilatory gossip of Suzanne, who spoke of her home, and of the trivialities of her monotonous life. This relieved Therese of her own thoughts. Sometimes she caught herself paying attention to nonsense that brought a bitter smile to her face. By degrees, she lost all her customers. Since her aunt had been confined to her armchair upstairs, she had let the shop go from bad to worse, abandoning the goods to dust and damp. A smell of mildew hung in the atmosphere, spiders came down from the ceiling, the floor was but rarely swept. But what put the customers to flight was the strange way in which Therese sometimes welcomed them. When she happened to be upstairs, receiving blows from Laurent or agitated by a shock of terror, and the bell at the shop door tinkled imperiously, she had to go down, barely taking time to do up her hair or brush away the tears. On such occasions she served the persons awaiting her roughly; sometimes she even spared herself the trouble of serving, answering from the top of the staircase, that she no longer kept what was asked for. This kind of off-hand behaviour, was not calculated to retain custom. The little work-girls of the quarter, who were used to the sweet amiability of Madame Raquin, were driven away by the harshness and wild looks of Therese. When the latter took Suzanne with her to keep her company, the defection became complete. To avoid being disturbed in their gossip, the two young woman managed to drive away the few remaining purchasers who visited the shop. Henceforth, the mercery business ceased to bring in a sou towards the household expenses, and it became necessary to encroach on the capital of forty thousand francs and more. Sometimes, Therese absented herself the entire afternoon. No one knew where she went. Her reason for having Suzanne with her was no doubt partly for the purpose of securing company but also to mind the shop, while she was away. When she returned in the evening, worn out, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion, it was to find the little wife of Olivier still behind the counter, bowed down, with a vague smile on her lips, in the same attitude as she had left her five hours previously. Therese had a bad fright about five months after her marriage to Laurent. She found out she was pregnant and detested the thought of having a child of Laurent s. She had the fear that she would give birth to a drowned body. She thought that she could feel inside herself a soft, decomposing corpse. No matter what, she had to rid herself of this child. She did not tell Laurent. One day she cruelly provoked him and turned her stomach towards him, hoping to receive a kick. He kicked her and she let him go on kicking her in the stomach until she thought she would die. The next day her wish was fulfilled and she had a miscarriage. Laurent also led a frightful existence. The days seemed insupportably long; each brought the same anguish, the same heavy weariness which overwhelmed him at certain hours with crushing monotony and regularity. He dragged on his life, terrified every night by the recollections of the day, and the expectation of the morrow. He knew that henceforth, all his days would resemble one another, and bring him equal suffering. And he saw the weeks, months and years gloomily and implacably awaiting him, coming one after the other to fall upon him and gradually smother him. When there is no hope in the future, the present appears atrociously bitter. Laurent no longer resisted, he became lumpish, abandoning himself to the nothingness that was already gaining possession of his being. Idleness was killing him. In the morning he went out, without knowing where to go, disgusted at the thought of doing what he had done on the previous day, and compelled, in spite of himself, to do it again. He went to his studio by habit, by mania. This room, with its grey walls, whence he could see naught but a bare square of sky, filled him with mournful sadness. He grovelled on the divan heavy in thought and with pendent arms. He dared not touch a brush. He had made fresh attempts at painting, but only to find on each occasion, the head of Camille appear jeering on the canvas. So as not to go out of his mind, he ended by throwing his colour-box into a corner, and imposing the most absolute idleness on himself. This obligatory laziness weighed upon him terribly. In the afternoon, he questioned himself in distress to find out what he should do. For half an hour, he remained on the pavement in the Rue Mazarine, thinking and hesitating as to how he could divert himself. He rejected the idea of returning to the studio, and invariably decided on going down the Rue Guenegaud, to walk along the quays. And, until evening, he went along, dazed and seized with sudden shudders whenever he looked at the Seine. Whether in his studio or in the streets, his dejection was the same. The following day he began again. He passed the morning on his divan, and dragged himself along the quays in the afternoon. This lasted for months, and might last for years. Occasionally Laurent reflected that he had killed Camille so as to do nothing ever afterwards, and now that he did nothing, he was quite astonished to suffer so much. He would have liked to force himself to be happy. He proved to his own satisfaction, that he did wrong to suffer, that he had just attained supreme felicity, consisting in crossing his arms, and that he was an idiot not to enjoy this bliss in peace. But his reasoning exploded in the face of facts. He was constrained to confess, at the bottom of his heart, that this idleness rendered his anguish the more cruel, by leaving him every hour of his life to ponder on the despair and deepen its incurable bitterness. Laziness, that brutish existence which had been his dream, proved his punishment. At moments, he ardently hoped for some occupation to draw him from his thoughts. Then he lost all energy, relapsing beneath the weight of implacable fatality that bound his limbs so as to more surely crush him. In truth, he only found some relief when beating Therese, at night. This brutality alone relieved him of his enervated anguish. But his keenest suffering, both physical and moral, came from the bite Camille had given him in the neck. At certain moments, he imagined that this scar covered the whole of his body. If he came to forget the past, he all at once fancied he felt a burning puncture, that recalled the murder both to his frame and mind. When under the influence of emotion, he could not stand before a looking-glass without noticing this phenomenon which he had so frequently remarked and which always terrified him; the blood flew to his neck, purpling the scar, which then began to gnaw the skin. This sort of wound that lived upon him, which became active, flushed, and biting at the slightest trouble, frightened and tortured him. He ended by believing that the teeth of the drowned man had planted an insect there which was devouring him. The part of his neck where the scar appeared, seemed to him to no longer belong to

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

you forgive me. And yet, if you only knew how I am rent by remorse, if you only knew how I suffer, perhaps you would have pity. No, no pity for me. I should like to die here at your feet, overwhelmed by shame and grief. She spoke in this manner for hours together, passing from despair to hope, condemning and then pardoning herself; she assumed the voice, brief and plaintive in turn, of a little sick girl; she flattened herself on the ground and drew herself up again, acting upon all the ideas of humility and pride, of repentance and revolt that entered her head. Sometimes even, forgetting she was on her knees before Madame Raquin, she continued her monologue as in a dream. When she had made herself thoroughly giddy with her own words, she rose staggering and dazed, to go down to the shop in a calmer frame of mind, no longer fearing to burst into sobs before her customers. When she again felt inclined for remorse, she ran upstairs and knelt at the feet of the impotent woman. This scene was repeated ten times a day. Therese never reflected that her tears, and display of repentance must impose ineffable anguish on her aunt. The truth was that if she had desired to invent a torment to torture Madame Raquin, it would not have been possible to have found a more frightful one than the comedy of remorse she performed before her. The paralysed woman could see the egotism concealed beneath these effusions of grief. She suffered horribly from these long monologues which she was compelled to listen to at every instant, and which always brought the murder of Camille before her eyes. She could not pardon, she never departed from the implacable thought of vengeance that her impotency rendered more keen, and all day long she had to listen to pleas for pardon, and to humble and cowardly prayers. She would have liked to give an answer; certain sentences of her niece brought crushing refusals to her lips, but she had to remain mute and allow Therese to plead her cause without once interrupting her. The impossibility of crying out and stopping her ears caused her inexpressible torture. The words of the young woman entered her mind, slow and plaintive, as an irritating ditty. At first, she fancied the murderers inflicted this kind of torture on her out of sheer diabolical cruelty. Her sole means of defence was to close her eyes, as soon as her niece knelt before her, then although she heard, she did not see her. Therese, at last, had the impudence to kiss her aunt. One day, in a fit of repentance, she feigned she had perceived a gleam of mercy in the eyes of the paralysed woman; and she dragged herself along on her knees, she raised herself up, exclaiming in a distracted tone: You forgive me! You forgive me! Then she kissed the forehead and cheeks of the poor old creature, who was unable to throw her head backward so as to avoid the embrace. The cold skin on which Therese placed her lips, caused her violent disgust. She fancied this disgust, like the tears of remorse, would be an excellent remedy to appease her nerves; and she continued to kiss the impotent old woman daily, by way of penitence, and also to relieve herself. Oh! How good you are! she sometimes exclaimed. I can see my tears have touched you. Your eyes are full of pity. I am saved. Then she smothered her with caresses, placing the head of the infirm old lady on her knees, kissing her hands, smiling at her happily, and attending to all her requirements with a display of passionate affection. After a time, she believed in the reality of this comedy, she imagined she had obtained the pardon of Madame Raquin, and spoke of nothing but the delight she experienced at having secured her pardon. This was too much for the paralysed woman. It almost killed her. At the kisses of her niece, she again felt that sensation of bitter repugnance and rage which came over her, morning and night, when Laurent took her in his arms to lift her up, or lay her down. She was obliged to submit to the disgusting caresses of the wretch who had betrayed and killed her son. She could not even use her hand to wipe away the kisses that this woman left on her cheeks; and, for hours and hours together, she felt these kisses burning her. She became the doll of the murderers of Camille, a doll that they dressed, that they turned to right and left, and that they made use of according to their requirements and whims. She remained inert in their hands, as if she had been a lay-figure, and yet she lived, and became excited and indignant at the least contact with Therese or Laurent. What particularly exasperated her was the atrocious mockery of the young woman, who pretended she perceived expressions of mercy in her eyes, when she would have liked to have brought down fire from heaven on the head of the criminal. She frequently made supreme efforts to utter a cry of protestation, and loaded her looks with hatred. But Therese, who found it answered her purpose to repeat twenty times a day that she was pardoned, redoubled her caresses, and would see nothing. So the paralysed woman had to accept the thanks and effusions that her heart repelled. Henceforth, she lived in a state of bitter but powerless irritation, face to face with her yielding niece who displayed adorable acts of tenderness to recompense her for what she termed her heavenly goodness. When Therese knelt before Madame Raquin, in the presence of her husband, he brutally brought her to her feet. No acting, said he. Do I weep, do I prostrate myself? You do all this to trouble me. The remorse of Therese caused him peculiar agitation. His suffering increased now that his accomplice dragged herself about him, with eyes red by weeping, and supplicating lips. The sight of this living example of regret redoubled his fright and added to his uneasiness. It was like an everlasting reproach wandering through the house. Then he feared that repentance would one day drive his wife to reveal everything. He would have preferred her to remain rigid and threatening, bitterly defending herself against his accusations. But she had changed her tactics. She now readily recognised the share she had taken in the crime. She even accused herself. She had become yielding and timid, and starting from this point implored redemption with ardent humility. This attitude irritated Laurent, and every evening the quarrels of the couple became more afflicting and sinister. Listen to me, said Therese to her husband, we are very guilty. We must repent if we wish to enjoy tranquillity. Look at me. Since I have been weeping I am more peaceable. Imitate me. Let us say together that we are justly punished for having committed a horrible crime. Bah! roughly answered Laurent, you can say what you please. I know you are deucedly clever and hypocritical. Weep, if that diverts you. But I must beg you not to worry me with your tears. Ah! said she, you are bad. You reject remorse. You are cowardly. You acted as a traitor to Camille. Do you mean to say that I alone am guilty? he inquired. No, she replied, I do not say that. I am guilty, more guilty than you are. I ought to have saved my husband from your hands. Oh! I am aware of all the horror of my fault. But I have sought pardon, and I have succeeded, Laurent, whereas you continue to lead a disconsolate life. You have not even had the feeling to spare my poor aunt the sight of your vile anger. You have never even addressed a word of regret to her. And she embraced Madame Raquin, who shut her eyes. She hovered round her, raising the pillow that propped up her head, and showing her all kinds of attention. Laurent was infuriated. Oh, leave her alone, he cried. Can t you see that your services, and the very sight of you are odious to her. If she could lift her hand she would slap your face. The slow and plaintive words of his wife, and her attitudes of resignation, gradually drove him into blinding fits of anger. He understood her tactics; she no longer wished to be at one with him, but to set herself apart wrapped in her regret, so as to escape the clasp of the drowned man. And, at moments, he said to himself that she had perhaps taken the right path, that tears might cure her of her terror, and he shuddered at the thought of having to suffer, and contend with fright alone. He also would have liked to repent, or at least to have performed the comedy of repentance, to see what effect it would have. Unable to find the sobs and necessary words, he flung himself into violence again, stirring up Therese so as to irritate her and lead her back with him to furious madness. But the young woman took care to remain inert, to answer his cries of anger by tearful submission, and to meet his coarseness by a proportionate display of humility and repentance. Laurent was thus gradually driven to fury. To crown his irritation, Therese always ended with the panegyric of Camille so as to display the virtues of the victim. He was good, said she, and we must have been very cruel to assail such a warm-hearted man who had never a bad thought. He was good, yes, I know, jeered Laurent. You mean to say he was a fool. You must have forgotten! You pretended you were irritated at the slightest thing he said, that he could not open his mouth without letting out some stupidity. Don t jeer, said Therese. It only remains for you to insult the man you murdered. You know nothing about the feelings of a woman, Laurent; Camille loved me and I loved him. You loved him! Ah! Really what a capital idea, exclaimed Laurent. And no doubt it was because you loved your husband, that you took me as a sweetheart. I remember one day when we were together, that you told me Camille disgusted you, when you felt the end of your fingers enter his flesh as if it were soft clay. Oh! I know why you loved me. You required more vigorous arms than those of that poor devil. I loved him as a sister, answered Therese. He was the son of my benefactress. He had all the delicate feelings of a feeble man. He showed himself noble and generous, serviceable and loving. And we killed him, good God! good God! She wept, and swooned away. Madame Raquin cast piercing glances at her, indignant to hear the praise of Camille sung by such a pair of lips. Laurent who was unable to do anything against this overflow of tears, walked to and fro with furious strides, searching in his head for some means to stifle the remorse of Therese. All the good he heard said of his victim ended by causing him poignant anxiety. Now and again he let himself be caught by the heartrending accents of his wife. He really believed in the virtues of Camille, and his terror redoubled. But what tried his patience beyond measure was the comparison that the widow of the drowned man never failed to draw between her first and second husband, and which was all to the advantage of the former. Well! Yes, she cried, he was better than you. I would sooner he were alive now, and you in his place underground. Laurent first of all shrugged his shoulders. Say what you will, she continued, becoming animated, although I perhaps failed to love him in his lifetime, yet I remember all his good qualities now, and do love him. Yes, I love him and hate you, do you hear? For you are an assassin. Will you hold your tongue? yelled Laurent. And he is a victim, she went on, notwithstanding the threatening attitude of her husband, an upright man killed by a rascal. Oh! I am not afraid of you. You know well enough that you are a miserable wretch, a brute of a man without a heart, and without a soul. How can you expect me to love you, now that you are reeking with the blood of Camille? Camille was full of tenderness for me, and I would kill you, do you hear, if that could bring him to life again, and give me back his love. Will you hold your tongue, you wretch? shouted Laurent. Why should I hold my tongue? she retorted. I am speaking the truth. I would purchase forgiveness at the price of your blood. Ah! How I weep, and how I suffer! It is my own fault if a scoundrel, such as you, murdered my husband. I must go, one of these nights, and kiss the ground where he rests. That will be my final rapture. Laurent, beside himself, rendered furious by the atrocious pictures that Therese spread out before his eyes, rushed upon her, and threw her down, menacing her with his uplifted fist. That s it, she cried, strike me, kill me! Camille never once raised his hand to me, but you are a monster. And Laurent, spurred on by what she said, shook her with rage, beat her, bruised her body with his clenched fists. In two instances he almost strangled her. Therese yielded to his blows. She experienced keen delight in being struck, delivering herself up, thrusting her body forward, provoking her husband in every way, so that he might half kill her again. This was another remedy for her suffering. She slept better at night when she had been thoroughly beaten in the evening. Madame Raquin enjoyed exquisite pleasure, when Laurent dragged her niece along the floor in this way, belabouring her with thumps and kicks. The existence of the assassin had become terrible since the day when Therese conceived the infernal idea of feeling remorse and of mourning Camille aloud. From that moment the wretch lived everlastingly with his victim. At every hour, he had to listen to his wife praising and regretting her first husband. The least incident became a pretext: Camille did this, Camille did that, Camille had such and such qualities, Camille loved in such and such a way. It was always Camille! Ever sad remarks bewailing his death. Therese had recourse to all her spitefulness to render this torture, which she inflicted on Laurent so as to shield her own self, as cruel as possible. She went into details, relating a thousand insignificant incidents connected with her youth, accompanied by sighs and expressions of regret, and in this manner, mingled the remembrance of the drowned man with every action of her daily life. The corpse which already haunted the house, was introduced there openly. It sat on the chairs, took its place at table, extended itself on the bed, making use of the various articles of furniture, and of the objects lying about hither and thither. Laurent could touch nothing, not a fork, not a brush, without Therese making him feel that Camille had touched it before him. The murderer being ceaselessly thrust, so to say, against the man he had killed, ended by experiencing a strange sensation that very nearly drove him out of his mind. By being so constantly compared to Camille, by making use of the different articles Camille had used, he imagined he was Camille himself, that he was identical with his victim. Then, with his brain fit to burst, he flew at his wife to make her hold her tongue, so as to no longer hear the words that drove him frantic. All their quarrels now ended in blows. CHAPTER XXX A time came when Madame Raquin, in order to escape the sufferings she endured, thought of starving herself to death. She had reached the end of her courage, she could no longer support the martyrdom that the presence of the two murderers imposed on her, she longed to find supreme relief in death. Each day her anguish grew more keen, when Therese embraced her, and when Laurent took her in his arms to carry her along like a child. She determined on freeing herself from these clasps and caresses that caused her such horrible disgust. As she had not sufficient life left within her to permit of her avenging her son, she preferred to be entirely dead, and to leave naught in the hands of the assassins but a corpse that could feel nothing, and with which they could do as they pleased. For two days she refused all nourishment, employing her remaining strength to clench her teeth or to eject anything that Therese succeeded in introducing into her mouth. Therese was in despair. She was asking herself at the foot of which post she should go to weep and repent, when her aunt would be no longer there. She kept up an interminable discourse to prove to Madame Raquin that she should live. She wept, she even became angry, bursting into her former fits of rage, opening the jaw of the paralysed woman as you open that of an animal which resists. Madame Raquin held out, and an odious scene ensued. Laurent remained absolutely neutral and indifferent. He was astonished at the efforts of Therese to prevent the impotent old woman committing suicide. Now that the presence of the old lady had become useless to them he desired her death. He would not have killed her, but as she wished to die, he did not see the use of depriving her of the means to do so. But, let her be! he shouted to his wife. It will be a good riddance. We shall, perhaps, be happier when she is no longer here. This remark repeated several times in the hearing of Madame Raquin, caused her extraordinary emotion. She feared that the hope expressed by Laurent might be realised, and that after her death the couple would enjoy calm and happiness. And she said to herself that it would be cowardly to die, that she had no right to go away before she had seen the end of the sinister adventure. Then, only, could she descend into darkness, to say to Camille: You are avenged. The idea of suicide became oppressive, when she all at once reflected that she would sink into the grave ignorant as to what had happened to the two murderers of her son. There, she would lie in the cold and silent earth, eternally tormented by uncertainty concerning the punishment of her tormentors. To thoroughly enjoy the slumber of death, she must be hushed to rest by the sweet delight of vengeance, she must carry away with her a dream of satisfied hatred, a dream that would last throughout eternity. So she took the food her niece presented to her, and consented to live on. Apart from this, it was easy for her to perceive that the climax could not be far off. Each day the position of the married couple became more strained and unbearable. A crash that would smash everything was imminent. At every moment, Therese and Laurent started up face to face in a more threatening manner. It was no longer at nighttime, alone, that they suffered from their intimacy; entire days were passed amidst anxiety and harrowing shocks. It was one constant scene of pain and terror. They lived in a perfect pandemonium, fighting, rendering all they did and said bitter and cruel, seeking to fling one another to the bottom of the abyss which they felt beneath their feet, and falling into it together. Ideas of separation had, indeed, occurred to both of them. Each had thought of flight, of seeking some repose far from this Arcade of the Pont Neuf where the damp and filth seemed adapted to their desolated life. But they dared not, they could not run away. It seemed impossible for them to avoid reviling each other, to avoid remaining there to suffer and cause pain. They proved obstinate in their hatred and cruelty. A sort of repulsion and attraction separated and kept them together at the same time. They behaved in the identical manner of two persons who, after quarrelling, wish to part, and who, nevertheless, continue returning to shout out fresh insults at one another. Moreover, material obstacles stood in the way of flight. What were they to do with the impotent woman? What could be said to the Thursday evening guests? If they fled, these people would, perhaps, suspect something. At this thought, they imagined they were being pursued and dragged to the guillotine. So they remained where they were through cowardice, wretchedly dragging out their lives amidst the horror of their surroundings. During the morning and afternoon, when Laurent was absent, Therese went from the dining-room to the shop in anxiety and trouble, at a loss to know what to do to fill up the void in her existence that daily became more pronounced. When not kneeling at the feet of Madame Raquin or receiving blows and insults from her husband, she had no occupation. As soon as she was seated alone in the shop, she became dejected, watching with a doltish expression, the people passing through the dirty, dark gallery. She felt ready to die of sadness in the middle of this gloomy vault, which had the odour of a cemetery, and ended by begging Suzanne to come and pass entire days with her, in the hope that the presence of this poor, gentle, pale creature might calm her. Suzanne accepted her offer with delight; she continued to feel a sort of respectful friendship for Therese, and had long desired to come and work with her, while Olivier was at his office. Bringing her embroidery with her, she took the vacant chair of Madame Raquin behind the counter. From that day Therese rather neglected her aunt. She went upstairs less frequently to weep on her knees and kiss the deathlike face of the invalid. She had something else to do. She made efforts to listen with interest to the dilatory gossip of Suzanne, who spoke of her home, and of the trivialities of her monotonous life. This relieved Therese of her own thoughts. Sometimes she caught herself paying attention to nonsense that brought a bitter smile to her face. By degrees, she lost all her customers. Since her aunt had been confined to her armchair upstairs, she had let the shop go from bad to worse, abandoning the goods to dust and damp. A smell of mildew hung in the atmosphere, spiders came down from the ceiling, the floor was but rarely swept. But what put the customers to flight was the strange way in which Therese sometimes welcomed them. When she happened to be upstairs, receiving blows from Laurent or agitated by a shock of terror, and the bell at the shop door tinkled imperiously, she had to go down, barely taking time to do up her hair or brush away the tears. On such occasions she served the persons awaiting her roughly; sometimes she even spared herself the trouble of serving, answering from the top of the staircase, that she no longer kept what was asked for. This kind of off-hand behaviour, was not calculated to retain custom. The little work-girls of the quarter, who were used to the sweet amiability of Madame Raquin, were driven away by the harshness and wild looks of Therese. When the latter took Suzanne with her to keep her company, the defection became complete. To avoid being disturbed in their gossip, the two young woman managed to drive away the few remaining purchasers who visited the shop. Henceforth, the mercery business ceased to bring in a sou towards the household expenses, and it became necessary to encroach on the capital of forty thousand francs and more. Sometimes, Therese absented herself the entire afternoon. No one knew where she went. Her reason for having Suzanne with her was no doubt partly for the purpose of securing company but also to mind the shop, while she was away. When she returned in the evening, worn out, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion, it was to find the little wife of Olivier still behind the counter, bowed down, with a vague smile on her lips, in the same attitude as she had left her five hours previously. Therese had a bad fright about five months after her marriage to Laurent. She found out she was pregnant and detested the thought of having a child of Laurent s. She had the fear that she would give birth to a drowned body. She thought that she could feel inside herself a soft, decomposing corpse. No matter what, she had to rid herself of this child. She did not tell Laurent. One day she cruelly provoked him and turned her stomach towards him, hoping to receive a kick. He kicked her and she let him go on kicking her in the stomach until she thought she would die. The next day her wish was fulfilled and she had a miscarriage. Laurent also led a frightful existence. The days seemed insupportably long; each brought the same anguish, the same heavy weariness which overwhelmed him at certain hours with crushing monotony and regularity. He dragged on his life, terrified every night by the recollections of the day, and the expectation of the morrow. He knew that henceforth, all his days would resemble one another, and bring him equal suffering. And he saw the weeks, months and years gloomily and implacably awaiting him, coming one after the other to fall upon him and gradually smother him. When there is no hope in the future, the present appears atrociously bitter. Laurent no longer resisted, he became lumpish, abandoning himself to the nothingness that was already gaining possession of his being. Idleness was killing him. In the morning he went out, without knowing where to go, disgusted at the thought of doing what he had done on the previous day, and compelled, in spite of himself, to do it again. He went to his studio by habit, by mania. This room, with its grey walls, whence he could see naught but a bare square of sky, filled him with mournful sadness. He grovelled on the divan heavy in thought and with pendent arms. He dared not touch a brush. He had made fresh attempts at painting, but only to find on each occasion, the head of Camille appear jeering on the canvas. So as not to go out of his mind, he ended by throwing his colour-box into a corner, and imposing the most absolute idleness on himself. This obligatory laziness weighed upon him terribly. In the afternoon, he questioned himself in distress to find out what he should do. For half an hour, he remained on the pavement in the Rue Mazarine, thinking and hesitating as to how he could divert himself. He rejected the idea of returning to the studio, and invariably decided on going down the Rue Guenegaud, to walk along the quays. And, until evening, he went along, dazed and seized with sudden shudders whenever he looked at the Seine. Whether in his studio or in the streets, his dejection was the same. The following day he began again. He passed the morning on his divan, and dragged himself along the quays in the afternoon. This lasted for months, and might last for years. Occasionally Laurent reflected that he had killed Camille so as to do nothing ever afterwards, and now that he did nothing, he was quite astonished to suffer so much. He would have liked to force himself to be happy. He proved to his own satisfaction, that he did wrong to suffer, that he had just attained supreme felicity, consisting in crossing his arms, and that he was an idiot not to enjoy this bliss in peace. But his reasoning exploded in the face of facts. He was constrained to confess, at the bottom of his heart, that this idleness rendered his anguish the more cruel, by leaving him every hour of his life to ponder on the despair and deepen its incurable bitterness. Laziness, that brutish existence which had been his dream, proved his punishment. At moments, he ardently hoped for some occupation to draw him from his thoughts. Then he lost all energy, relapsing beneath the weight of implacable fatality that bound his limbs so as to more surely crush him. In truth, he only found some relief when beating Therese, at night. This brutality alone relieved him of his enervated anguish. But his keenest suffering, both physical and moral, came from the bite Camille had given him in the neck. At certain moments, he imagined that this scar covered the whole of his body. If he came to forget the past, he all at once fancied he felt a burning puncture, that recalled the murder both to his frame and mind. When under the influence of emotion, he could not stand before a looking-glass without noticing this phenomenon which he had so frequently remarked and which always terrified him; the blood flew to his neck, purpling the scar, which then began to gnaw the skin. This sort of wound that lived upon him, which became active, flushed, and biting at the slightest trouble, frightened and tortured him. He ended by believing that the teeth of the drowned man had planted an insect there which was devouring him. The part of his neck where the scar appeared, seemed to him to no longer belong to

smiling

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

you forgive me. And yet, if you only knew how I am rent by remorse, if you only knew how I suffer, perhaps you would have pity. No, no pity for me. I should like to die here at your feet, overwhelmed by shame and grief. She spoke in this manner for hours together, passing from despair to hope, condemning and then pardoning herself; she assumed the voice, brief and plaintive in turn, of a little sick girl; she flattened herself on the ground and drew herself up again, acting upon all the ideas of humility and pride, of repentance and revolt that entered her head. Sometimes even, forgetting she was on her knees before Madame Raquin, she continued her monologue as in a dream. When she had made herself thoroughly giddy with her own words, she rose staggering and dazed, to go down to the shop in a calmer frame of mind, no longer fearing to burst into sobs before her customers. When she again felt inclined for remorse, she ran upstairs and knelt at the feet of the impotent woman. This scene was repeated ten times a day. Therese never reflected that her tears, and display of repentance must impose ineffable anguish on her aunt. The truth was that if she had desired to invent a torment to torture Madame Raquin, it would not have been possible to have found a more frightful one than the comedy of remorse she performed before her. The paralysed woman could see the egotism concealed beneath these effusions of grief. She suffered horribly from these long monologues which she was compelled to listen to at every instant, and which always brought the murder of Camille before her eyes. She could not pardon, she never departed from the implacable thought of vengeance that her impotency rendered more keen, and all day long she had to listen to pleas for pardon, and to humble and cowardly prayers. She would have liked to give an answer; certain sentences of her niece brought crushing refusals to her lips, but she had to remain mute and allow Therese to plead her cause without once interrupting her. The impossibility of crying out and stopping her ears caused her inexpressible torture. The words of the young woman entered her mind, slow and plaintive, as an irritating ditty. At first, she fancied the murderers inflicted this kind of torture on her out of sheer diabolical cruelty. Her sole means of defence was to close her eyes, as soon as her niece knelt before her, then although she heard, she did not see her. Therese, at last, had the impudence to kiss her aunt. One day, in a fit of repentance, she feigned she had perceived a gleam of mercy in the eyes of the paralysed woman; and she dragged herself along on her knees, she raised herself up, exclaiming in a distracted tone: You forgive me! You forgive me! Then she kissed the forehead and cheeks of the poor old creature, who was unable to throw her head backward so as to avoid the embrace. The cold skin on which Therese placed her lips, caused her violent disgust. She fancied this disgust, like the tears of remorse, would be an excellent remedy to appease her nerves; and she continued to kiss the impotent old woman daily, by way of penitence, and also to relieve herself. Oh! How good you are! she sometimes exclaimed. I can see my tears have touched you. Your eyes are full of pity. I am saved. Then she smothered her with caresses, placing the head of the infirm old lady on her knees, kissing her hands, smiling at her happily, and attending to all her requirements with a display of passionate affection. After a time, she believed in the reality of this comedy, she imagined she had obtained the pardon of Madame Raquin, and spoke of nothing but the delight she experienced at having secured her pardon. This was too much for the paralysed woman. It almost killed her. At the kisses of her niece, she again felt that sensation of bitter repugnance and rage which came over her, morning and night, when Laurent took her in his arms to lift her up, or lay her down. She was obliged to submit to the disgusting caresses of the wretch who had betrayed and killed her son. She could not even use her hand to wipe away the kisses that this woman left on her cheeks; and, for hours and hours together, she felt these kisses burning her. She became the doll of the murderers of Camille, a doll that they dressed, that they turned to right and left, and that they made use of according to their requirements and whims. She remained inert in their hands, as if she had been a lay-figure, and yet she lived, and became excited and indignant at the least contact with Therese or Laurent. What particularly exasperated her was the atrocious mockery of the young woman, who pretended she perceived expressions of mercy in her eyes, when she would have liked to have brought down fire from heaven on the head of the criminal. She frequently made supreme efforts to utter a cry of protestation, and loaded her looks with hatred. But Therese, who found it answered her purpose to repeat twenty times a day that she was pardoned, redoubled her caresses, and would see nothing. So the paralysed woman had to accept the thanks and effusions that her heart repelled. Henceforth, she lived in a state of bitter but powerless irritation, face to face with her yielding niece who displayed adorable acts of tenderness to recompense her for what she termed her heavenly goodness. When Therese knelt before Madame Raquin, in the presence of her husband, he brutally brought her to her feet. No acting, said he. Do I weep, do I prostrate myself? You do all this to trouble me. The remorse of Therese caused him peculiar agitation. His suffering increased now that his accomplice dragged herself about him, with eyes red by weeping, and supplicating lips. The sight of this living example of regret redoubled his fright and added to his uneasiness. It was like an everlasting reproach wandering through the house. Then he feared that repentance would one day drive his wife to reveal everything. He would have preferred her to remain rigid and threatening, bitterly defending herself against his accusations. But she had changed her tactics. She now readily recognised the share she had taken in the crime. She even accused herself. She had become yielding and timid, and starting from this point implored redemption with ardent humility. This attitude irritated Laurent, and every evening the quarrels of the couple became more afflicting and sinister. Listen to me, said Therese to her husband, we are very guilty. We must repent if we wish to enjoy tranquillity. Look at me. Since I have been weeping I am more peaceable. Imitate me. Let us say together that we are justly punished for having committed a horrible crime. Bah! roughly answered Laurent, you can say what you please. I know you are deucedly clever and hypocritical. Weep, if that diverts you. But I must beg you not to worry me with your tears. Ah! said she, you are bad. You reject remorse. You are cowardly. You acted as a traitor to Camille. Do you mean to say that I alone am guilty? he inquired. No, she replied, I do not say that. I am guilty, more guilty than you are. I ought to have saved my husband from your hands. Oh! I am aware of all the horror of my fault. But I have sought pardon, and I have succeeded, Laurent, whereas you continue to lead a disconsolate life. You have not even had the feeling to spare my poor aunt the sight of your vile anger. You have never even addressed a word of regret to her. And she embraced Madame Raquin, who shut her eyes. She hovered round her, raising the pillow that propped up her head, and showing her all kinds of attention. Laurent was infuriated. Oh, leave her alone, he cried. Can t you see that your services, and the very sight of you are odious to her. If she could lift her hand she would slap your face. The slow and plaintive words of his wife, and her attitudes of resignation, gradually drove him into blinding fits of anger. He understood her tactics; she no longer wished to be at one with him, but to set herself apart wrapped in her regret, so as to escape the clasp of the drowned man. And, at moments, he said to himself that she had perhaps taken the right path, that tears might cure her of her terror, and he shuddered at the thought of having to suffer, and contend with fright alone. He also would have liked to repent, or at least to have performed the comedy of repentance, to see what effect it would have. Unable to find the sobs and necessary words, he flung himself into violence again, stirring up Therese so as to irritate her and lead her back with him to furious madness. But the young woman took care to remain inert, to answer his cries of anger by tearful submission, and to meet his coarseness by a proportionate display of humility and repentance. Laurent was thus gradually driven to fury. To crown his irritation, Therese always ended with the panegyric of Camille so as to display the virtues of the victim. He was good, said she, and we must have been very cruel to assail such a warm-hearted man who had never a bad thought. He was good, yes, I know, jeered Laurent. You mean to say he was a fool. You must have forgotten! You pretended you were irritated at the slightest thing he said, that he could not open his mouth without letting out some stupidity. Don t jeer, said Therese. It only remains for you to insult the man you murdered. You know nothing about the feelings of a woman, Laurent; Camille loved me and I loved him. You loved him! Ah! Really what a capital idea, exclaimed Laurent. And no doubt it was because you loved your husband, that you took me as a sweetheart. I remember one day when we were together, that you told me Camille disgusted you, when you felt the end of your fingers enter his flesh as if it were soft clay. Oh! I know why you loved me. You required more vigorous arms than those of that poor devil. I loved him as a sister, answered Therese. He was the son of my benefactress. He had all the delicate feelings of a feeble man. He showed himself noble and generous, serviceable and loving. And we killed him, good God! good God! She wept, and swooned away. Madame Raquin cast piercing glances at her, indignant to hear the praise of Camille sung by such a pair of lips. Laurent who was unable to do anything against this overflow of tears, walked to and fro with furious strides, searching in his head for some means to stifle the remorse of Therese. All the good he heard said of his victim ended by causing him poignant anxiety. Now and again he let himself be caught by the heartrending accents of his wife. He really believed in the virtues of Camille, and his terror redoubled. But what tried his patience beyond measure was the comparison that the widow of the drowned man never failed to draw between her first and second husband, and which was all to the advantage of the former. Well! Yes, she cried, he was better than you. I would sooner he were alive now, and you in his place underground. Laurent first of all shrugged his shoulders. Say what you will, she continued, becoming animated, although I perhaps failed to love him in his lifetime, yet I remember all his good qualities now, and do love him. Yes, I love him and hate you, do you hear? For you are an assassin. Will you hold your tongue? yelled Laurent. And he is a victim, she went on, notwithstanding the threatening attitude of her husband, an upright man killed by a rascal. Oh! I am not afraid of you. You know well enough that you are a miserable wretch, a brute of a man without a heart, and without a soul. How can you expect me to love you, now that you are reeking with the blood of Camille? Camille was full of tenderness for me, and I would kill you, do you hear, if that could bring him to life again, and give me back his love. Will you hold your tongue, you wretch? shouted Laurent. Why should I hold my tongue? she retorted. I am speaking the truth. I would purchase forgiveness at the price of your blood. Ah! How I weep, and how I suffer! It is my own fault if a scoundrel, such as you, murdered my husband. I must go, one of these nights, and kiss the ground where he rests. That will be my final rapture. Laurent, beside himself, rendered furious by the atrocious pictures that Therese spread out before his eyes, rushed upon her, and threw her down, menacing her with his uplifted fist. That s it, she cried, strike me, kill me! Camille never once raised his hand to me, but you are a monster. And Laurent, spurred on by what she said, shook her with rage, beat her, bruised her body with his clenched fists. In two instances he almost strangled her. Therese yielded to his blows. She experienced keen delight in being struck, delivering herself up, thrusting her body forward, provoking her husband in every way, so that he might half kill her again. This was another remedy for her suffering. She slept better at night when she had been thoroughly beaten in the evening. Madame Raquin enjoyed exquisite pleasure, when Laurent dragged her niece along the floor in this way, belabouring her with thumps and kicks. The existence of the assassin had become terrible since the day when Therese conceived the infernal idea of feeling remorse and of mourning Camille aloud. From that moment the wretch lived everlastingly with his victim. At every hour, he had to listen to his wife praising and regretting her first husband. The least incident became a pretext: Camille did this, Camille did that, Camille had such and such qualities, Camille loved in such and such a way. It was always Camille! Ever sad remarks bewailing his death. Therese had recourse to all her spitefulness to render this torture, which she inflicted on Laurent so as to shield her own self, as cruel as possible. She went into details, relating a thousand insignificant incidents connected with her youth, accompanied by sighs and expressions of regret, and in this manner, mingled the remembrance of the drowned man with every action of her daily life. The corpse which already haunted the house, was introduced there openly. It sat on the chairs, took its place at table, extended itself on the bed, making use of the various articles of furniture, and of the objects lying about hither and thither. Laurent could touch nothing, not a fork, not a brush, without Therese making him feel that Camille had touched it before him. The murderer being ceaselessly thrust, so to say, against the man he had killed, ended by experiencing a strange sensation that very nearly drove him out of his mind. By being so constantly compared to Camille, by making use of the different articles Camille had used, he imagined he was Camille himself, that he was identical with his victim. Then, with his brain fit to burst, he flew at his wife to make her hold her tongue, so as to no longer hear the words that drove him frantic. All their quarrels now ended in blows. CHAPTER XXX A time came when Madame Raquin, in order to escape the sufferings she endured, thought of starving herself to death. She had reached the end of her courage, she could no longer support the martyrdom that the presence of the two murderers imposed on her, she longed to find supreme relief in death. Each day her anguish grew more keen, when Therese embraced her, and when Laurent took her in his arms to carry her along like a child. She determined on freeing herself from these clasps and caresses that caused her such horrible disgust. As she had not sufficient life left within her to permit of her avenging her son, she preferred to be entirely dead, and to leave naught in the hands of the assassins but a corpse that could feel nothing, and with which they could do as they pleased. For two days she refused all nourishment, employing her remaining strength to clench her teeth or to eject anything that Therese succeeded in introducing into her mouth. Therese was in despair. She was asking herself at the foot of which post she should go to weep and repent, when her aunt would be no longer there. She kept up an interminable discourse to prove to Madame Raquin that she should live. She wept, she even became angry, bursting into her former fits of rage, opening the jaw of the paralysed woman as you open that of an animal which resists. Madame Raquin held out, and an odious scene ensued. Laurent remained absolutely neutral and indifferent. He was astonished at the efforts of Therese to prevent the impotent old woman committing suicide. Now that the presence of the old lady had become useless to them he desired her death. He would not have killed her, but as she wished to die, he did not see the use of depriving her of the means to do so. But, let her be! he shouted to his wife. It will be a good riddance. We shall, perhaps, be happier when she is no longer here. This remark repeated several times in the hearing of Madame Raquin, caused her extraordinary emotion. She feared that the hope expressed by Laurent might be realised, and that after her death the couple would enjoy calm and happiness. And she said to herself that it would be cowardly to die, that she had no right to go away before she had seen the end of the sinister adventure. Then, only, could she descend into darkness, to say to Camille: You are avenged. The idea of suicide became oppressive, when she all at once reflected that she would sink into the grave ignorant as to what had happened to the two murderers of her son. There, she would lie in the cold and silent earth, eternally tormented by uncertainty concerning the punishment of her tormentors. To thoroughly enjoy the slumber of death, she must be hushed to rest by the sweet delight of vengeance, she must carry away with her a dream of satisfied hatred, a dream that would last throughout eternity. So she took the food her niece presented to her, and consented to live on. Apart from this, it was easy for her to perceive that the climax could not be far off. Each day the position of the married couple became more strained and unbearable. A crash that would smash everything was imminent. At every moment, Therese and Laurent started up face to face in a more threatening manner. It was no longer at nighttime, alone, that they suffered from their intimacy; entire days were passed amidst anxiety and harrowing shocks. It was one constant scene of pain and terror. They lived in a perfect pandemonium, fighting, rendering all they did and said bitter and cruel, seeking to fling one another to the bottom of the abyss which they felt beneath their feet, and falling into it together. Ideas of separation had, indeed, occurred to both of them. Each had thought of flight, of seeking some repose far from this Arcade of the Pont Neuf where the damp and filth seemed adapted to their desolated life. But they dared not, they could not run away. It seemed impossible for them to avoid reviling each other, to avoid remaining there to suffer and cause pain. They proved obstinate in their hatred and cruelty. A sort of repulsion and attraction separated and kept them together at the same time. They behaved in the identical manner of two persons who, after quarrelling, wish to part, and who, nevertheless, continue returning to shout out fresh insults at one another. Moreover, material obstacles stood in the way of flight. What were they to do with the impotent woman? What could be said to the Thursday evening guests? If they fled, these people would, perhaps, suspect something. At this thought, they imagined they were being pursued and dragged to the guillotine. So they remained where they were through cowardice, wretchedly dragging out their lives amidst the horror of their surroundings. During the morning and afternoon, when Laurent was absent, Therese went from the dining-room to the shop in anxiety and trouble, at a loss to know what to do to fill up the void in her existence that daily became more pronounced. When not kneeling at the feet of Madame Raquin or receiving blows and insults from her husband, she had no occupation. As soon as she was seated alone in the shop, she became dejected, watching with a doltish expression, the people passing through the dirty, dark gallery. She felt ready to die of sadness in the middle of this gloomy vault, which had the odour of a cemetery, and ended by begging Suzanne to come and pass entire days with her, in the hope that the presence of this poor, gentle, pale creature might calm her. Suzanne accepted her offer with delight; she continued to feel a sort of respectful friendship for Therese, and had long desired to come and work with her, while Olivier was at his office. Bringing her embroidery with her, she took the vacant chair of Madame Raquin behind the counter. From that day Therese rather neglected her aunt. She went upstairs less frequently to weep on her knees and kiss the deathlike face of the invalid. She had something else to do. She made efforts to listen with interest to the dilatory gossip of Suzanne, who spoke of her home, and of the trivialities of her monotonous life. This relieved Therese of her own thoughts. Sometimes she caught herself paying attention to nonsense that brought a bitter smile to her face. By degrees, she lost all her customers. Since her aunt had been confined to her armchair upstairs, she had let the shop go from bad to worse, abandoning the goods to dust and damp. A smell of mildew hung in the atmosphere, spiders came down from the ceiling, the floor was but rarely swept. But what put the customers to flight was the strange way in which Therese sometimes welcomed them. When she happened to be upstairs, receiving blows from Laurent or agitated by a shock of terror, and the bell at the shop door tinkled imperiously, she had to go down, barely taking time to do up her hair or brush away the tears. On such occasions she served the persons awaiting her roughly; sometimes she even spared herself the trouble of serving, answering from the top of the staircase, that she no longer kept what was asked for. This kind of off-hand behaviour, was not calculated to retain custom. The little work-girls of the quarter, who were used to the sweet amiability of Madame Raquin, were driven away by the harshness and wild looks of Therese. When the latter took Suzanne with her to keep her company, the defection became complete. To avoid being disturbed in their gossip, the two young woman managed to drive away the few remaining purchasers who visited the shop. Henceforth, the mercery business ceased to bring in a sou towards the household expenses, and it became necessary to encroach on the capital of forty thousand francs and more. Sometimes, Therese absented herself the entire afternoon. No one knew where she went. Her reason for having Suzanne with her was no doubt partly for the purpose of securing company but also to mind the shop, while she was away. When she returned in the evening, worn out, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion, it was to find the little wife of Olivier still behind the counter, bowed down, with a vague smile on her lips, in the same attitude as she had left her five hours previously. Therese had a bad fright about five months after her marriage to Laurent. She found out she was pregnant and detested the thought of having a child of Laurent s. She had the fear that she would give birth to a drowned body. She thought that she could feel inside herself a soft, decomposing corpse. No matter what, she had to rid herself of this child. She did not tell Laurent. One day she cruelly provoked him and turned her stomach towards him, hoping to receive a kick. He kicked her and she let him go on kicking her in the stomach until she thought she would die. The next day her wish was fulfilled and she had a miscarriage. Laurent also led a frightful existence. The days seemed insupportably long; each brought the same anguish, the same heavy weariness which overwhelmed him at certain hours with crushing monotony and regularity. He dragged on his life, terrified every night by the recollections of the day, and the expectation of the morrow. He knew that henceforth, all his days would resemble one another, and bring him equal suffering. And he saw the weeks, months and years gloomily and implacably awaiting him, coming one after the other to fall upon him and gradually smother him. When there is no hope in the future, the present appears atrociously bitter. Laurent no longer resisted, he became lumpish, abandoning himself to the nothingness that was already gaining possession of his being. Idleness was killing him. In the morning he went out, without knowing where to go, disgusted at the thought of doing what he had done on the previous day, and compelled, in spite of himself, to do it again. He went to his studio by habit, by mania. This room, with its grey walls, whence he could see naught but a bare square of sky, filled him with mournful sadness. He grovelled on the divan heavy in thought and with pendent arms. He dared not touch a brush. He had made fresh attempts at painting, but only to find on each occasion, the head of Camille appear jeering on the canvas. So as not to go out of his mind, he ended by throwing his colour-box into a corner, and imposing the most absolute idleness on himself. This obligatory laziness weighed upon him terribly. In the afternoon, he questioned himself in distress to find out what he should do. For half an hour, he remained on the pavement in the Rue Mazarine, thinking and hesitating as to how he could divert himself. He rejected the idea of returning to the studio, and invariably decided on going down the Rue Guenegaud, to walk along the quays. And, until evening, he went along, dazed and seized with sudden shudders whenever he looked at the Seine. Whether in his studio or in the streets, his dejection was the same. The following day he began again. He passed the morning on his divan, and dragged himself along the quays in the afternoon. This lasted for months, and might last for years. Occasionally Laurent reflected that he had killed Camille so as to do nothing ever afterwards, and now that he did nothing, he was quite astonished to suffer so much. He would have liked to force himself to be happy. He proved to his own satisfaction, that he did wrong to suffer, that he had just attained supreme felicity, consisting in crossing his arms, and that he was an idiot not to enjoy this bliss in peace. But his reasoning exploded in the face of facts. He was constrained to confess, at the bottom of his heart, that this idleness rendered his anguish the more cruel, by leaving him every hour of his life to ponder on the despair and deepen its incurable bitterness. Laziness, that brutish existence which had been his dream, proved his punishment. At moments, he ardently hoped for some occupation to draw him from his thoughts. Then he lost all energy, relapsing beneath the weight of implacable fatality that bound his limbs so as to more surely crush him. In truth, he only found some relief when beating Therese, at night. This brutality alone relieved him of his enervated anguish. But his keenest suffering, both physical and moral, came from the bite Camille had given him in the neck. At certain moments, he imagined that this scar covered the whole of his body. If he came to forget the past, he all at once fancied he felt a burning puncture, that recalled the murder both to his frame and mind. When under the influence of emotion, he could not stand before a looking-glass without noticing this phenomenon which he had so frequently remarked and which always terrified him; the blood flew to his neck, purpling the scar, which then began to gnaw the skin. This sort of wound that lived upon him, which became active, flushed, and biting at the slightest trouble, frightened and tortured him. He ended by believing that the teeth of the drowned man had planted an insect there which was devouring him. The part of his neck where the scar appeared, seemed to him to no longer belong to

kiss

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

you forgive me. And yet, if you only knew how I am rent by remorse, if you only knew how I suffer, perhaps you would have pity. No, no pity for me. I should like to die here at your feet, overwhelmed by shame and grief. She spoke in this manner for hours together, passing from despair to hope, condemning and then pardoning herself; she assumed the voice, brief and plaintive in turn, of a little sick girl; she flattened herself on the ground and drew herself up again, acting upon all the ideas of humility and pride, of repentance and revolt that entered her head. Sometimes even, forgetting she was on her knees before Madame Raquin, she continued her monologue as in a dream. When she had made herself thoroughly giddy with her own words, she rose staggering and dazed, to go down to the shop in a calmer frame of mind, no longer fearing to burst into sobs before her customers. When she again felt inclined for remorse, she ran upstairs and knelt at the feet of the impotent woman. This scene was repeated ten times a day. Therese never reflected that her tears, and display of repentance must impose ineffable anguish on her aunt. The truth was that if she had desired to invent a torment to torture Madame Raquin, it would not have been possible to have found a more frightful one than the comedy of remorse she performed before her. The paralysed woman could see the egotism concealed beneath these effusions of grief. She suffered horribly from these long monologues which she was compelled to listen to at every instant, and which always brought the murder of Camille before her eyes. She could not pardon, she never departed from the implacable thought of vengeance that her impotency rendered more keen, and all day long she had to listen to pleas for pardon, and to humble and cowardly prayers. She would have liked to give an answer; certain sentences of her niece brought crushing refusals to her lips, but she had to remain mute and allow Therese to plead her cause without once interrupting her. The impossibility of crying out and stopping her ears caused her inexpressible torture. The words of the young woman entered her mind, slow and plaintive, as an irritating ditty. At first, she fancied the murderers inflicted this kind of torture on her out of sheer diabolical cruelty. Her sole means of defence was to close her eyes, as soon as her niece knelt before her, then although she heard, she did not see her. Therese, at last, had the impudence to kiss her aunt. One day, in a fit of repentance, she feigned she had perceived a gleam of mercy in the eyes of the paralysed woman; and she dragged herself along on her knees, she raised herself up, exclaiming in a distracted tone: You forgive me! You forgive me! Then she kissed the forehead and cheeks of the poor old creature, who was unable to throw her head backward so as to avoid the embrace. The cold skin on which Therese placed her lips, caused her violent disgust. She fancied this disgust, like the tears of remorse, would be an excellent remedy to appease her nerves; and she continued to kiss the impotent old woman daily, by way of penitence, and also to relieve herself. Oh! How good you are! she sometimes exclaimed. I can see my tears have touched you. Your eyes are full of pity. I am saved. Then she smothered her with caresses, placing the head of the infirm old lady on her knees, kissing her hands, smiling at her happily, and attending to all her requirements with a display of passionate affection. After a time, she believed in the reality of this comedy, she imagined she had obtained the pardon of Madame Raquin, and spoke of nothing but the delight she experienced at having secured her pardon. This was too much for the paralysed woman. It almost killed her. At the kisses of her niece, she again felt that sensation of bitter repugnance and rage which came over her, morning and night, when Laurent took her in his arms to lift her up, or lay her down. She was obliged to submit to the disgusting caresses of the wretch who had betrayed and killed her son. She could not even use her hand to wipe away the kisses that this woman left on her cheeks; and, for hours and hours together, she felt these kisses burning her. She became the doll of the murderers of Camille, a doll that they dressed, that they turned to right and left, and that they made use of according to their requirements and whims. She remained inert in their hands, as if she had been a lay-figure, and yet she lived, and became excited and indignant at the least contact with Therese or Laurent. What particularly exasperated her was the atrocious mockery of the young woman, who pretended she perceived expressions of mercy in her eyes, when she would have liked to have brought down fire from heaven on the head of the criminal. She frequently made supreme efforts to utter a cry of protestation, and loaded her looks with hatred. But Therese, who found it answered her purpose to repeat twenty times a day that she was pardoned, redoubled her caresses, and would see nothing. So the paralysed woman had to accept the thanks and effusions that her heart repelled. Henceforth, she lived in a state of bitter but powerless irritation, face to face with her yielding niece who displayed adorable acts of tenderness to recompense her for what she termed her heavenly goodness. When Therese knelt before Madame Raquin, in the presence of her husband, he brutally brought her to her feet. No acting, said he. Do I weep, do I prostrate myself? You do all this to trouble me. The remorse of Therese caused him peculiar agitation. His suffering increased now that his accomplice dragged herself about him, with eyes red by weeping, and supplicating lips. The sight of this living example of regret redoubled his fright and added to his uneasiness. It was like an everlasting reproach wandering through the house. Then he feared that repentance would one day drive his wife to reveal everything. He would have preferred her to remain rigid and threatening, bitterly defending herself against his accusations. But she had changed her tactics. She now readily recognised the share she had taken in the crime. She even accused herself. She had become yielding and timid, and starting from this point implored redemption with ardent humility. This attitude irritated Laurent, and every evening the quarrels of the couple became more afflicting and sinister. Listen to me, said Therese to her husband, we are very guilty. We must repent if we wish to enjoy tranquillity. Look at me. Since I have been weeping I am more peaceable. Imitate me. Let us say together that we are justly punished for having committed a horrible crime. Bah! roughly answered Laurent, you can say what you please. I know you are deucedly clever and hypocritical. Weep, if that diverts you. But I must beg you not to worry me with your tears. Ah! said she, you are bad. You reject remorse. You are cowardly. You acted as a traitor to Camille. Do you mean to say that I alone am guilty? he inquired. No, she replied, I do not say that. I am guilty, more guilty than you are. I ought to have saved my husband from your hands. Oh! I am aware of all the horror of my fault. But I have sought pardon, and I have succeeded, Laurent, whereas you continue to lead a disconsolate life. You have not even had the feeling to spare my poor aunt the sight of your vile anger. You have never even addressed a word of regret to her. And she embraced Madame Raquin, who shut her eyes. She hovered round her, raising the pillow that propped up her head, and showing her all kinds of attention. Laurent was infuriated. Oh, leave her alone, he cried. Can t you see that your services, and the very sight of you are odious to her. If she could lift her hand she would slap your face. The slow and plaintive words of his wife, and her attitudes of resignation, gradually drove him into blinding fits of anger. He understood her tactics; she no longer wished to be at one with him, but to set herself apart wrapped in her regret, so as to escape the clasp of the drowned man. And, at moments, he said to himself that she had perhaps taken the right path, that tears might cure her of her terror, and he shuddered at the thought of having to suffer, and contend with fright alone. He also would have liked to repent, or at least to have performed the comedy of repentance, to see what effect it would have. Unable to find the sobs and necessary words, he flung himself into violence again, stirring up Therese so as to irritate her and lead her back with him to furious madness. But the young woman took care to remain inert, to answer his cries of anger by tearful submission, and to meet his coarseness by a proportionate display of humility and repentance. Laurent was thus gradually driven to fury. To crown his irritation, Therese always ended with the panegyric of Camille so as to display the virtues of the victim. He was good, said she, and we must have been very cruel to assail such a warm-hearted man who had never a bad thought. He was good, yes, I know, jeered Laurent. You mean to say he was a fool. You must have forgotten! You pretended you were irritated at the slightest thing he said, that he could not open his mouth without letting out some stupidity. Don t jeer, said Therese. It only remains for you to insult the man you murdered. You know nothing about the feelings of a woman, Laurent; Camille loved me and I loved him. You loved him! Ah! Really what a capital idea, exclaimed Laurent. And no doubt it was because you loved your husband, that you took me as a sweetheart. I remember one day when we were together, that you told me Camille disgusted you, when you felt the end of your fingers enter his flesh as if it were soft clay. Oh! I know why you loved me. You required more vigorous arms than those of that poor devil. I loved him as a sister, answered Therese. He was the son of my benefactress. He had all the delicate feelings of a feeble man. He showed himself noble and generous, serviceable and loving. And we killed him, good God! good God! She wept, and swooned away. Madame Raquin cast piercing glances at her, indignant to hear the praise of Camille sung by such a pair of lips. Laurent who was unable to do anything against this overflow of tears, walked to and fro with furious strides, searching in his head for some means to stifle the remorse of Therese. All the good he heard said of his victim ended by causing him poignant anxiety. Now and again he let himself be caught by the heartrending accents of his wife. He really believed in the virtues of Camille, and his terror redoubled. But what tried his patience beyond measure was the comparison that the widow of the drowned man never failed to draw between her first and second husband, and which was all to the advantage of the former. Well! Yes, she cried, he was better than you. I would sooner he were alive now, and you in his place underground. Laurent first of all shrugged his shoulders. Say what you will, she continued, becoming animated, although I perhaps failed to love him in his lifetime, yet I remember all his good qualities now, and do love him. Yes, I love him and hate you, do you hear? For you are an assassin. Will you hold your tongue? yelled Laurent. And he is a victim, she went on, notwithstanding the threatening attitude of her husband, an upright man killed by a rascal. Oh! I am not afraid of you. You know well enough that you are a miserable wretch, a brute of a man without a heart, and without a soul. How can you expect me to love you, now that you are reeking with the blood of Camille? Camille was full of tenderness for me, and I would kill you, do you hear, if that could bring him to life again, and give me back his love. Will you hold your tongue, you wretch? shouted Laurent. Why should I hold my tongue? she retorted. I am speaking the truth. I would purchase forgiveness at the price of your blood. Ah! How I weep, and how I suffer! It is my own fault if a scoundrel, such as you, murdered my husband. I must go, one of these nights, and kiss the ground where he rests. That will be my final rapture. Laurent, beside himself, rendered furious by the atrocious pictures that Therese spread out before his eyes, rushed upon her, and threw her down, menacing her with his uplifted fist. That s it, she cried, strike me, kill me! Camille never once raised his hand to me, but you are a monster. And Laurent, spurred on by what she said, shook her with rage, beat her, bruised her body with his clenched fists. In two instances he almost strangled her. Therese yielded to his blows. She experienced keen delight in being struck, delivering herself up, thrusting her body forward, provoking her husband in every way, so that he might half kill her again. This was another remedy for her suffering. She slept better at night when she had been thoroughly beaten in the evening. Madame Raquin enjoyed exquisite pleasure, when Laurent dragged her niece along the floor in this way, belabouring her with thumps and kicks. The existence of the assassin had become terrible since the day when Therese conceived the infernal idea of feeling remorse and of mourning Camille aloud. From that moment the wretch lived everlastingly with his victim. At every hour, he had to listen to his wife praising and regretting her first husband. The least incident became a pretext: Camille did this, Camille did that, Camille had such and such qualities, Camille loved in such and such a way. It was always Camille! Ever sad remarks bewailing his death. Therese had recourse to all her spitefulness to render this torture, which she inflicted on Laurent so as to shield her own self, as cruel as possible. She went into details, relating a thousand insignificant incidents connected with her youth, accompanied by sighs and expressions of regret, and in this manner, mingled the remembrance of the drowned man with every action of her daily life. The corpse which already haunted the house, was introduced there openly. It sat on the chairs, took its place at table, extended itself on the bed, making use of the various articles of furniture, and of the objects lying about hither and thither. Laurent could touch nothing, not a fork, not a brush, without Therese making him feel that Camille had touched it before him. The murderer being ceaselessly thrust, so to say, against the man he had killed, ended by experiencing a strange sensation that very nearly drove him out of his mind. By being so constantly compared to Camille, by making use of the different articles Camille had used, he imagined he was Camille himself, that he was identical with his victim. Then, with his brain fit to burst, he flew at his wife to make her hold her tongue, so as to no longer hear the words that drove him frantic. All their quarrels now ended in blows. CHAPTER XXX A time came when Madame Raquin, in order to escape the sufferings she endured, thought of starving herself to death. She had reached the end of her courage, she could no longer support the martyrdom that the presence of the two murderers imposed on her, she longed to find supreme relief in death. Each day her anguish grew more keen, when Therese embraced her, and when Laurent took her in his arms to carry her along like a child. She determined on freeing herself from these clasps and caresses that caused her such horrible disgust. As she had not sufficient life left within her to permit of her avenging her son, she preferred to be entirely dead, and to leave naught in the hands of the assassins but a corpse that could feel nothing, and with which they could do as they pleased. For two days she refused all nourishment, employing her remaining strength to clench her teeth or to eject anything that Therese succeeded in introducing into her mouth. Therese was in despair. She was asking herself at the foot of which post she should go to weep and repent, when her aunt would be no longer there. She kept up an interminable discourse to prove to Madame Raquin that she should live. She wept, she even became angry, bursting into her former fits of rage, opening the jaw of the paralysed woman as you open that of an animal which resists. Madame Raquin held out, and an odious scene ensued. Laurent remained absolutely neutral and indifferent. He was astonished at the efforts of Therese to prevent the impotent old woman committing suicide. Now that the presence of the old lady had become useless to them he desired her death. He would not have killed her, but as she wished to die, he did not see the use of depriving her of the means to do so. But, let her be! he shouted to his wife. It will be a good riddance. We shall, perhaps, be happier when she is no longer here. This remark repeated several times in the hearing of Madame Raquin, caused her extraordinary emotion. She feared that the hope expressed by Laurent might be realised, and that after her death the couple would enjoy calm and happiness. And she said to herself that it would be cowardly to die, that she had no right to go away before she had seen the end of the sinister adventure. Then, only, could she descend into darkness, to say to Camille: You are avenged. The idea of suicide became oppressive, when she all at once reflected that she would sink into the grave ignorant as to what had happened to the two murderers of her son. There, she would lie in the cold and silent earth, eternally tormented by uncertainty concerning the punishment of her tormentors. To thoroughly enjoy the slumber of death, she must be hushed to rest by the sweet delight of vengeance, she must carry away with her a dream of satisfied hatred, a dream that would last throughout eternity. So she took the food her niece presented to her, and consented to live on. Apart from this, it was easy for her to perceive that the climax could not be far off. Each day the position of the married couple became more strained and unbearable. A crash that would smash everything was imminent. At every moment, Therese and Laurent started up face to face in a more threatening manner. It was no longer at nighttime, alone, that they suffered from their intimacy; entire days were passed amidst anxiety and harrowing shocks. It was one constant scene of pain and terror. They lived in a perfect pandemonium, fighting, rendering all they did and said bitter and cruel, seeking to fling one another to the bottom of the abyss which they felt beneath their feet, and falling into it together. Ideas of separation had, indeed, occurred to both of them. Each had thought of flight, of seeking some repose far from this Arcade of the Pont Neuf where the damp and filth seemed adapted to their desolated life. But they dared not, they could not run away. It seemed impossible for them to avoid reviling each other, to avoid remaining there to suffer and cause pain. They proved obstinate in their hatred and cruelty. A sort of repulsion and attraction separated and kept them together at the same time. They behaved in the identical manner of two persons who, after quarrelling, wish to part, and who, nevertheless, continue returning to shout out fresh insults at one another. Moreover, material obstacles stood in the way of flight. What were they to do with the impotent woman? What could be said to the Thursday evening guests? If they fled, these people would, perhaps, suspect something. At this thought, they imagined they were being pursued and dragged to the guillotine. So they remained where they were through cowardice, wretchedly dragging out their lives amidst the horror of their surroundings. During the morning and afternoon, when Laurent was absent, Therese went from the dining-room to the shop in anxiety and trouble, at a loss to know what to do to fill up the void in her existence that daily became more pronounced. When not kneeling at the feet of Madame Raquin or receiving blows and insults from her husband, she had no occupation. As soon as she was seated alone in the shop, she became dejected, watching with a doltish expression, the people passing through the dirty, dark gallery. She felt ready to die of sadness in the middle of this gloomy vault, which had the odour of a cemetery, and ended by begging Suzanne to come and pass entire days with her, in the hope that the presence of this poor, gentle, pale creature might calm her. Suzanne accepted her offer with delight; she continued to feel a sort of respectful friendship for Therese, and had long desired to come and work with her, while Olivier was at his office. Bringing her embroidery with her, she took the vacant chair of Madame Raquin behind the counter. From that day Therese rather neglected her aunt. She went upstairs less frequently to weep on her knees and kiss the deathlike face of the invalid. She had something else to do. She made efforts to listen with interest to the dilatory gossip of Suzanne, who spoke of her home, and of the trivialities of her monotonous life. This relieved Therese of her own thoughts. Sometimes she caught herself paying attention to nonsense that brought a bitter smile to her face. By degrees, she lost all her customers. Since her aunt had been confined to her armchair upstairs, she had let the shop go from bad to worse, abandoning the goods to dust and damp. A smell of mildew hung in the atmosphere, spiders came down from the ceiling, the floor was but rarely swept. But what put the customers to flight was the strange way in which Therese sometimes welcomed them. When she happened to be upstairs, receiving blows from Laurent or agitated by a shock of terror, and the bell at the shop door tinkled imperiously, she had to go down, barely taking time to do up her hair or brush away the tears. On such occasions she served the persons awaiting her roughly; sometimes she even spared herself the trouble of serving, answering from the top of the staircase, that she no longer kept what was asked for. This kind of off-hand behaviour, was not calculated to retain custom. The little work-girls of the quarter, who were used to the sweet amiability of Madame Raquin, were driven away by the harshness and wild looks of Therese. When the latter took Suzanne with her to keep her company, the defection became complete. To avoid being disturbed in their gossip, the two young woman managed to drive away the few remaining purchasers who visited the shop. Henceforth, the mercery business ceased to bring in a sou towards the household expenses, and it became necessary to encroach on the capital of forty thousand francs and more. Sometimes, Therese absented herself the entire afternoon. No one knew where she went. Her reason for having Suzanne with her was no doubt partly for the purpose of securing company but also to mind the shop, while she was away. When she returned in the evening, worn out, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion, it was to find the little wife of Olivier still behind the counter, bowed down, with a vague smile on her lips, in the same attitude as she had left her five hours previously. Therese had a bad fright about five months after her marriage to Laurent. She found out she was pregnant and detested the thought of having a child of Laurent s. She had the fear that she would give birth to a drowned body. She thought that she could feel inside herself a soft, decomposing corpse. No matter what, she had to rid herself of this child. She did not tell Laurent. One day she cruelly provoked him and turned her stomach towards him, hoping to receive a kick. He kicked her and she let him go on kicking her in the stomach until she thought she would die. The next day her wish was fulfilled and she had a miscarriage. Laurent also led a frightful existence. The days seemed insupportably long; each brought the same anguish, the same heavy weariness which overwhelmed him at certain hours with crushing monotony and regularity. He dragged on his life, terrified every night by the recollections of the day, and the expectation of the morrow. He knew that henceforth, all his days would resemble one another, and bring him equal suffering. And he saw the weeks, months and years gloomily and implacably awaiting him, coming one after the other to fall upon him and gradually smother him. When there is no hope in the future, the present appears atrociously bitter. Laurent no longer resisted, he became lumpish, abandoning himself to the nothingness that was already gaining possession of his being. Idleness was killing him. In the morning he went out, without knowing where to go, disgusted at the thought of doing what he had done on the previous day, and compelled, in spite of himself, to do it again. He went to his studio by habit, by mania. This room, with its grey walls, whence he could see naught but a bare square of sky, filled him with mournful sadness. He grovelled on the divan heavy in thought and with pendent arms. He dared not touch a brush. He had made fresh attempts at painting, but only to find on each occasion, the head of Camille appear jeering on the canvas. So as not to go out of his mind, he ended by throwing his colour-box into a corner, and imposing the most absolute idleness on himself. This obligatory laziness weighed upon him terribly. In the afternoon, he questioned himself in distress to find out what he should do. For half an hour, he remained on the pavement in the Rue Mazarine, thinking and hesitating as to how he could divert himself. He rejected the idea of returning to the studio, and invariably decided on going down the Rue Guenegaud, to walk along the quays. And, until evening, he went along, dazed and seized with sudden shudders whenever he looked at the Seine. Whether in his studio or in the streets, his dejection was the same. The following day he began again. He passed the morning on his divan, and dragged himself along the quays in the afternoon. This lasted for months, and might last for years. Occasionally Laurent reflected that he had killed Camille so as to do nothing ever afterwards, and now that he did nothing, he was quite astonished to suffer so much. He would have liked to force himself to be happy. He proved to his own satisfaction, that he did wrong to suffer, that he had just attained supreme felicity, consisting in crossing his arms, and that he was an idiot not to enjoy this bliss in peace. But his reasoning exploded in the face of facts. He was constrained to confess, at the bottom of his heart, that this idleness rendered his anguish the more cruel, by leaving him every hour of his life to ponder on the despair and deepen its incurable bitterness. Laziness, that brutish existence which had been his dream, proved his punishment. At moments, he ardently hoped for some occupation to draw him from his thoughts. Then he lost all energy, relapsing beneath the weight of implacable fatality that bound his limbs so as to more surely crush him. In truth, he only found some relief when beating Therese, at night. This brutality alone relieved him of his enervated anguish. But his keenest suffering, both physical and moral, came from the bite Camille had given him in the neck. At certain moments, he imagined that this scar covered the whole of his body. If he came to forget the past, he all at once fancied he felt a burning puncture, that recalled the murder both to his frame and mind. When under the influence of emotion, he could not stand before a looking-glass without noticing this phenomenon which he had so frequently remarked and which always terrified him; the blood flew to his neck, purpling the scar, which then began to gnaw the skin. This sort of wound that lived upon him, which became active, flushed, and biting at the slightest trouble, frightened and tortured him. He ended by believing that the teeth of the drowned man had planted an insect there which was devouring him. The part of his neck where the scar appeared, seemed to him to no longer belong to

monterey

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

you forgive me. And yet, if you only knew how I am rent by remorse, if you only knew how I suffer, perhaps you would have pity. No, no pity for me. I should like to die here at your feet, overwhelmed by shame and grief. She spoke in this manner for hours together, passing from despair to hope, condemning and then pardoning herself; she assumed the voice, brief and plaintive in turn, of a little sick girl; she flattened herself on the ground and drew herself up again, acting upon all the ideas of humility and pride, of repentance and revolt that entered her head. Sometimes even, forgetting she was on her knees before Madame Raquin, she continued her monologue as in a dream. When she had made herself thoroughly giddy with her own words, she rose staggering and dazed, to go down to the shop in a calmer frame of mind, no longer fearing to burst into sobs before her customers. When she again felt inclined for remorse, she ran upstairs and knelt at the feet of the impotent woman. This scene was repeated ten times a day. Therese never reflected that her tears, and display of repentance must impose ineffable anguish on her aunt. The truth was that if she had desired to invent a torment to torture Madame Raquin, it would not have been possible to have found a more frightful one than the comedy of remorse she performed before her. The paralysed woman could see the egotism concealed beneath these effusions of grief. She suffered horribly from these long monologues which she was compelled to listen to at every instant, and which always brought the murder of Camille before her eyes. She could not pardon, she never departed from the implacable thought of vengeance that her impotency rendered more keen, and all day long she had to listen to pleas for pardon, and to humble and cowardly prayers. She would have liked to give an answer; certain sentences of her niece brought crushing refusals to her lips, but she had to remain mute and allow Therese to plead her cause without once interrupting her. The impossibility of crying out and stopping her ears caused her inexpressible torture. The words of the young woman entered her mind, slow and plaintive, as an irritating ditty. At first, she fancied the murderers inflicted this kind of torture on her out of sheer diabolical cruelty. Her sole means of defence was to close her eyes, as soon as her niece knelt before her, then although she heard, she did not see her. Therese, at last, had the impudence to kiss her aunt. One day, in a fit of repentance, she feigned she had perceived a gleam of mercy in the eyes of the paralysed woman; and she dragged herself along on her knees, she raised herself up, exclaiming in a distracted tone: You forgive me! You forgive me! Then she kissed the forehead and cheeks of the poor old creature, who was unable to throw her head backward so as to avoid the embrace. The cold skin on which Therese placed her lips, caused her violent disgust. She fancied this disgust, like the tears of remorse, would be an excellent remedy to appease her nerves; and she continued to kiss the impotent old woman daily, by way of penitence, and also to relieve herself. Oh! How good you are! she sometimes exclaimed. I can see my tears have touched you. Your eyes are full of pity. I am saved. Then she smothered her with caresses, placing the head of the infirm old lady on her knees, kissing her hands, smiling at her happily, and attending to all her requirements with a display of passionate affection. After a time, she believed in the reality of this comedy, she imagined she had obtained the pardon of Madame Raquin, and spoke of nothing but the delight she experienced at having secured her pardon. This was too much for the paralysed woman. It almost killed her. At the kisses of her niece, she again felt that sensation of bitter repugnance and rage which came over her, morning and night, when Laurent took her in his arms to lift her up, or lay her down. She was obliged to submit to the disgusting caresses of the wretch who had betrayed and killed her son. She could not even use her hand to wipe away the kisses that this woman left on her cheeks; and, for hours and hours together, she felt these kisses burning her. She became the doll of the murderers of Camille, a doll that they dressed, that they turned to right and left, and that they made use of according to their requirements and whims. She remained inert in their hands, as if she had been a lay-figure, and yet she lived, and became excited and indignant at the least contact with Therese or Laurent. What particularly exasperated her was the atrocious mockery of the young woman, who pretended she perceived expressions of mercy in her eyes, when she would have liked to have brought down fire from heaven on the head of the criminal. She frequently made supreme efforts to utter a cry of protestation, and loaded her looks with hatred. But Therese, who found it answered her purpose to repeat twenty times a day that she was pardoned, redoubled her caresses, and would see nothing. So the paralysed woman had to accept the thanks and effusions that her heart repelled. Henceforth, she lived in a state of bitter but powerless irritation, face to face with her yielding niece who displayed adorable acts of tenderness to recompense her for what she termed her heavenly goodness. When Therese knelt before Madame Raquin, in the presence of her husband, he brutally brought her to her feet. No acting, said he. Do I weep, do I prostrate myself? You do all this to trouble me. The remorse of Therese caused him peculiar agitation. His suffering increased now that his accomplice dragged herself about him, with eyes red by weeping, and supplicating lips. The sight of this living example of regret redoubled his fright and added to his uneasiness. It was like an everlasting reproach wandering through the house. Then he feared that repentance would one day drive his wife to reveal everything. He would have preferred her to remain rigid and threatening, bitterly defending herself against his accusations. But she had changed her tactics. She now readily recognised the share she had taken in the crime. She even accused herself. She had become yielding and timid, and starting from this point implored redemption with ardent humility. This attitude irritated Laurent, and every evening the quarrels of the couple became more afflicting and sinister. Listen to me, said Therese to her husband, we are very guilty. We must repent if we wish to enjoy tranquillity. Look at me. Since I have been weeping I am more peaceable. Imitate me. Let us say together that we are justly punished for having committed a horrible crime. Bah! roughly answered Laurent, you can say what you please. I know you are deucedly clever and hypocritical. Weep, if that diverts you. But I must beg you not to worry me with your tears. Ah! said she, you are bad. You reject remorse. You are cowardly. You acted as a traitor to Camille. Do you mean to say that I alone am guilty? he inquired. No, she replied, I do not say that. I am guilty, more guilty than you are. I ought to have saved my husband from your hands. Oh! I am aware of all the horror of my fault. But I have sought pardon, and I have succeeded, Laurent, whereas you continue to lead a disconsolate life. You have not even had the feeling to spare my poor aunt the sight of your vile anger. You have never even addressed a word of regret to her. And she embraced Madame Raquin, who shut her eyes. She hovered round her, raising the pillow that propped up her head, and showing her all kinds of attention. Laurent was infuriated. Oh, leave her alone, he cried. Can t you see that your services, and the very sight of you are odious to her. If she could lift her hand she would slap your face. The slow and plaintive words of his wife, and her attitudes of resignation, gradually drove him into blinding fits of anger. He understood her tactics; she no longer wished to be at one with him, but to set herself apart wrapped in her regret, so as to escape the clasp of the drowned man. And, at moments, he said to himself that she had perhaps taken the right path, that tears might cure her of her terror, and he shuddered at the thought of having to suffer, and contend with fright alone. He also would have liked to repent, or at least to have performed the comedy of repentance, to see what effect it would have. Unable to find the sobs and necessary words, he flung himself into violence again, stirring up Therese so as to irritate her and lead her back with him to furious madness. But the young woman took care to remain inert, to answer his cries of anger by tearful submission, and to meet his coarseness by a proportionate display of humility and repentance. Laurent was thus gradually driven to fury. To crown his irritation, Therese always ended with the panegyric of Camille so as to display the virtues of the victim. He was good, said she, and we must have been very cruel to assail such a warm-hearted man who had never a bad thought. He was good, yes, I know, jeered Laurent. You mean to say he was a fool. You must have forgotten! You pretended you were irritated at the slightest thing he said, that he could not open his mouth without letting out some stupidity. Don t jeer, said Therese. It only remains for you to insult the man you murdered. You know nothing about the feelings of a woman, Laurent; Camille loved me and I loved him. You loved him! Ah! Really what a capital idea, exclaimed Laurent. And no doubt it was because you loved your husband, that you took me as a sweetheart. I remember one day when we were together, that you told me Camille disgusted you, when you felt the end of your fingers enter his flesh as if it were soft clay. Oh! I know why you loved me. You required more vigorous arms than those of that poor devil. I loved him as a sister, answered Therese. He was the son of my benefactress. He had all the delicate feelings of a feeble man. He showed himself noble and generous, serviceable and loving. And we killed him, good God! good God! She wept, and swooned away. Madame Raquin cast piercing glances at her, indignant to hear the praise of Camille sung by such a pair of lips. Laurent who was unable to do anything against this overflow of tears, walked to and fro with furious strides, searching in his head for some means to stifle the remorse of Therese. All the good he heard said of his victim ended by causing him poignant anxiety. Now and again he let himself be caught by the heartrending accents of his wife. He really believed in the virtues of Camille, and his terror redoubled. But what tried his patience beyond measure was the comparison that the widow of the drowned man never failed to draw between her first and second husband, and which was all to the advantage of the former. Well! Yes, she cried, he was better than you. I would sooner he were alive now, and you in his place underground. Laurent first of all shrugged his shoulders. Say what you will, she continued, becoming animated, although I perhaps failed to love him in his lifetime, yet I remember all his good qualities now, and do love him. Yes, I love him and hate you, do you hear? For you are an assassin. Will you hold your tongue? yelled Laurent. And he is a victim, she went on, notwithstanding the threatening attitude of her husband, an upright man killed by a rascal. Oh! I am not afraid of you. You know well enough that you are a miserable wretch, a brute of a man without a heart, and without a soul. How can you expect me to love you, now that you are reeking with the blood of Camille? Camille was full of tenderness for me, and I would kill you, do you hear, if that could bring him to life again, and give me back his love. Will you hold your tongue, you wretch? shouted Laurent. Why should I hold my tongue? she retorted. I am speaking the truth. I would purchase forgiveness at the price of your blood. Ah! How I weep, and how I suffer! It is my own fault if a scoundrel, such as you, murdered my husband. I must go, one of these nights, and kiss the ground where he rests. That will be my final rapture. Laurent, beside himself, rendered furious by the atrocious pictures that Therese spread out before his eyes, rushed upon her, and threw her down, menacing her with his uplifted fist. That s it, she cried, strike me, kill me! Camille never once raised his hand to me, but you are a monster. And Laurent, spurred on by what she said, shook her with rage, beat her, bruised her body with his clenched fists. In two instances he almost strangled her. Therese yielded to his blows. She experienced keen delight in being struck, delivering herself up, thrusting her body forward, provoking her husband in every way, so that he might half kill her again. This was another remedy for her suffering. She slept better at night when she had been thoroughly beaten in the evening. Madame Raquin enjoyed exquisite pleasure, when Laurent dragged her niece along the floor in this way, belabouring her with thumps and kicks. The existence of the assassin had become terrible since the day when Therese conceived the infernal idea of feeling remorse and of mourning Camille aloud. From that moment the wretch lived everlastingly with his victim. At every hour, he had to listen to his wife praising and regretting her first husband. The least incident became a pretext: Camille did this, Camille did that, Camille had such and such qualities, Camille loved in such and such a way. It was always Camille! Ever sad remarks bewailing his death. Therese had recourse to all her spitefulness to render this torture, which she inflicted on Laurent so as to shield her own self, as cruel as possible. She went into details, relating a thousand insignificant incidents connected with her youth, accompanied by sighs and expressions of regret, and in this manner, mingled the remembrance of the drowned man with every action of her daily life. The corpse which already haunted the house, was introduced there openly. It sat on the chairs, took its place at table, extended itself on the bed, making use of the various articles of furniture, and of the objects lying about hither and thither. Laurent could touch nothing, not a fork, not a brush, without Therese making him feel that Camille had touched it before him. The murderer being ceaselessly thrust, so to say, against the man he had killed, ended by experiencing a strange sensation that very nearly drove him out of his mind. By being so constantly compared to Camille, by making use of the different articles Camille had used, he imagined he was Camille himself, that he was identical with his victim. Then, with his brain fit to burst, he flew at his wife to make her hold her tongue, so as to no longer hear the words that drove him frantic. All their quarrels now ended in blows. CHAPTER XXX A time came when Madame Raquin, in order to escape the sufferings she endured, thought of starving herself to death. She had reached the end of her courage, she could no longer support the martyrdom that the presence of the two murderers imposed on her, she longed to find supreme relief in death. Each day her anguish grew more keen, when Therese embraced her, and when Laurent took her in his arms to carry her along like a child. She determined on freeing herself from these clasps and caresses that caused her such horrible disgust. As she had not sufficient life left within her to permit of her avenging her son, she preferred to be entirely dead, and to leave naught in the hands of the assassins but a corpse that could feel nothing, and with which they could do as they pleased. For two days she refused all nourishment, employing her remaining strength to clench her teeth or to eject anything that Therese succeeded in introducing into her mouth. Therese was in despair. She was asking herself at the foot of which post she should go to weep and repent, when her aunt would be no longer there. She kept up an interminable discourse to prove to Madame Raquin that she should live. She wept, she even became angry, bursting into her former fits of rage, opening the jaw of the paralysed woman as you open that of an animal which resists. Madame Raquin held out, and an odious scene ensued. Laurent remained absolutely neutral and indifferent. He was astonished at the efforts of Therese to prevent the impotent old woman committing suicide. Now that the presence of the old lady had become useless to them he desired her death. He would not have killed her, but as she wished to die, he did not see the use of depriving her of the means to do so. But, let her be! he shouted to his wife. It will be a good riddance. We shall, perhaps, be happier when she is no longer here. This remark repeated several times in the hearing of Madame Raquin, caused her extraordinary emotion. She feared that the hope expressed by Laurent might be realised, and that after her death the couple would enjoy calm and happiness. And she said to herself that it would be cowardly to die, that she had no right to go away before she had seen the end of the sinister adventure. Then, only, could she descend into darkness, to say to Camille: You are avenged. The idea of suicide became oppressive, when she all at once reflected that she would sink into the grave ignorant as to what had happened to the two murderers of her son. There, she would lie in the cold and silent earth, eternally tormented by uncertainty concerning the punishment of her tormentors. To thoroughly enjoy the slumber of death, she must be hushed to rest by the sweet delight of vengeance, she must carry away with her a dream of satisfied hatred, a dream that would last throughout eternity. So she took the food her niece presented to her, and consented to live on. Apart from this, it was easy for her to perceive that the climax could not be far off. Each day the position of the married couple became more strained and unbearable. A crash that would smash everything was imminent. At every moment, Therese and Laurent started up face to face in a more threatening manner. It was no longer at nighttime, alone, that they suffered from their intimacy; entire days were passed amidst anxiety and harrowing shocks. It was one constant scene of pain and terror. They lived in a perfect pandemonium, fighting, rendering all they did and said bitter and cruel, seeking to fling one another to the bottom of the abyss which they felt beneath their feet, and falling into it together. Ideas of separation had, indeed, occurred to both of them. Each had thought of flight, of seeking some repose far from this Arcade of the Pont Neuf where the damp and filth seemed adapted to their desolated life. But they dared not, they could not run away. It seemed impossible for them to avoid reviling each other, to avoid remaining there to suffer and cause pain. They proved obstinate in their hatred and cruelty. A sort of repulsion and attraction separated and kept them together at the same time. They behaved in the identical manner of two persons who, after quarrelling, wish to part, and who, nevertheless, continue returning to shout out fresh insults at one another. Moreover, material obstacles stood in the way of flight. What were they to do with the impotent woman? What could be said to the Thursday evening guests? If they fled, these people would, perhaps, suspect something. At this thought, they imagined they were being pursued and dragged to the guillotine. So they remained where they were through cowardice, wretchedly dragging out their lives amidst the horror of their surroundings. During the morning and afternoon, when Laurent was absent, Therese went from the dining-room to the shop in anxiety and trouble, at a loss to know what to do to fill up the void in her existence that daily became more pronounced. When not kneeling at the feet of Madame Raquin or receiving blows and insults from her husband, she had no occupation. As soon as she was seated alone in the shop, she became dejected, watching with a doltish expression, the people passing through the dirty, dark gallery. She felt ready to die of sadness in the middle of this gloomy vault, which had the odour of a cemetery, and ended by begging Suzanne to come and pass entire days with her, in the hope that the presence of this poor, gentle, pale creature might calm her. Suzanne accepted her offer with delight; she continued to feel a sort of respectful friendship for Therese, and had long desired to come and work with her, while Olivier was at his office. Bringing her embroidery with her, she took the vacant chair of Madame Raquin behind the counter. From that day Therese rather neglected her aunt. She went upstairs less frequently to weep on her knees and kiss the deathlike face of the invalid. She had something else to do. She made efforts to listen with interest to the dilatory gossip of Suzanne, who spoke of her home, and of the trivialities of her monotonous life. This relieved Therese of her own thoughts. Sometimes she caught herself paying attention to nonsense that brought a bitter smile to her face. By degrees, she lost all her customers. Since her aunt had been confined to her armchair upstairs, she had let the shop go from bad to worse, abandoning the goods to dust and damp. A smell of mildew hung in the atmosphere, spiders came down from the ceiling, the floor was but rarely swept. But what put the customers to flight was the strange way in which Therese sometimes welcomed them. When she happened to be upstairs, receiving blows from Laurent or agitated by a shock of terror, and the bell at the shop door tinkled imperiously, she had to go down, barely taking time to do up her hair or brush away the tears. On such occasions she served the persons awaiting her roughly; sometimes she even spared herself the trouble of serving, answering from the top of the staircase, that she no longer kept what was asked for. This kind of off-hand behaviour, was not calculated to retain custom. The little work-girls of the quarter, who were used to the sweet amiability of Madame Raquin, were driven away by the harshness and wild looks of Therese. When the latter took Suzanne with her to keep her company, the defection became complete. To avoid being disturbed in their gossip, the two young woman managed to drive away the few remaining purchasers who visited the shop. Henceforth, the mercery business ceased to bring in a sou towards the household expenses, and it became necessary to encroach on the capital of forty thousand francs and more. Sometimes, Therese absented herself the entire afternoon. No one knew where she went. Her reason for having Suzanne with her was no doubt partly for the purpose of securing company but also to mind the shop, while she was away. When she returned in the evening, worn out, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion, it was to find the little wife of Olivier still behind the counter, bowed down, with a vague smile on her lips, in the same attitude as she had left her five hours previously. Therese had a bad fright about five months after her marriage to Laurent. She found out she was pregnant and detested the thought of having a child of Laurent s. She had the fear that she would give birth to a drowned body. She thought that she could feel inside herself a soft, decomposing corpse. No matter what, she had to rid herself of this child. She did not tell Laurent. One day she cruelly provoked him and turned her stomach towards him, hoping to receive a kick. He kicked her and she let him go on kicking her in the stomach until she thought she would die. The next day her wish was fulfilled and she had a miscarriage. Laurent also led a frightful existence. The days seemed insupportably long; each brought the same anguish, the same heavy weariness which overwhelmed him at certain hours with crushing monotony and regularity. He dragged on his life, terrified every night by the recollections of the day, and the expectation of the morrow. He knew that henceforth, all his days would resemble one another, and bring him equal suffering. And he saw the weeks, months and years gloomily and implacably awaiting him, coming one after the other to fall upon him and gradually smother him. When there is no hope in the future, the present appears atrociously bitter. Laurent no longer resisted, he became lumpish, abandoning himself to the nothingness that was already gaining possession of his being. Idleness was killing him. In the morning he went out, without knowing where to go, disgusted at the thought of doing what he had done on the previous day, and compelled, in spite of himself, to do it again. He went to his studio by habit, by mania. This room, with its grey walls, whence he could see naught but a bare square of sky, filled him with mournful sadness. He grovelled on the divan heavy in thought and with pendent arms. He dared not touch a brush. He had made fresh attempts at painting, but only to find on each occasion, the head of Camille appear jeering on the canvas. So as not to go out of his mind, he ended by throwing his colour-box into a corner, and imposing the most absolute idleness on himself. This obligatory laziness weighed upon him terribly. In the afternoon, he questioned himself in distress to find out what he should do. For half an hour, he remained on the pavement in the Rue Mazarine, thinking and hesitating as to how he could divert himself. He rejected the idea of returning to the studio, and invariably decided on going down the Rue Guenegaud, to walk along the quays. And, until evening, he went along, dazed and seized with sudden shudders whenever he looked at the Seine. Whether in his studio or in the streets, his dejection was the same. The following day he began again. He passed the morning on his divan, and dragged himself along the quays in the afternoon. This lasted for months, and might last for years. Occasionally Laurent reflected that he had killed Camille so as to do nothing ever afterwards, and now that he did nothing, he was quite astonished to suffer so much. He would have liked to force himself to be happy. He proved to his own satisfaction, that he did wrong to suffer, that he had just attained supreme felicity, consisting in crossing his arms, and that he was an idiot not to enjoy this bliss in peace. But his reasoning exploded in the face of facts. He was constrained to confess, at the bottom of his heart, that this idleness rendered his anguish the more cruel, by leaving him every hour of his life to ponder on the despair and deepen its incurable bitterness. Laziness, that brutish existence which had been his dream, proved his punishment. At moments, he ardently hoped for some occupation to draw him from his thoughts. Then he lost all energy, relapsing beneath the weight of implacable fatality that bound his limbs so as to more surely crush him. In truth, he only found some relief when beating Therese, at night. This brutality alone relieved him of his enervated anguish. But his keenest suffering, both physical and moral, came from the bite Camille had given him in the neck. At certain moments, he imagined that this scar covered the whole of his body. If he came to forget the past, he all at once fancied he felt a burning puncture, that recalled the murder both to his frame and mind. When under the influence of emotion, he could not stand before a looking-glass without noticing this phenomenon which he had so frequently remarked and which always terrified him; the blood flew to his neck, purpling the scar, which then began to gnaw the skin. This sort of wound that lived upon him, which became active, flushed, and biting at the slightest trouble, frightened and tortured him. He ended by believing that the teeth of the drowned man had planted an insect there which was devouring him. The part of his neck where the scar appeared, seemed to him to no longer belong to

knelt

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

you forgive me. And yet, if you only knew how I am rent by remorse, if you only knew how I suffer, perhaps you would have pity. No, no pity for me. I should like to die here at your feet, overwhelmed by shame and grief. She spoke in this manner for hours together, passing from despair to hope, condemning and then pardoning herself; she assumed the voice, brief and plaintive in turn, of a little sick girl; she flattened herself on the ground and drew herself up again, acting upon all the ideas of humility and pride, of repentance and revolt that entered her head. Sometimes even, forgetting she was on her knees before Madame Raquin, she continued her monologue as in a dream. When she had made herself thoroughly giddy with her own words, she rose staggering and dazed, to go down to the shop in a calmer frame of mind, no longer fearing to burst into sobs before her customers. When she again felt inclined for remorse, she ran upstairs and knelt at the feet of the impotent woman. This scene was repeated ten times a day. Therese never reflected that her tears, and display of repentance must impose ineffable anguish on her aunt. The truth was that if she had desired to invent a torment to torture Madame Raquin, it would not have been possible to have found a more frightful one than the comedy of remorse she performed before her. The paralysed woman could see the egotism concealed beneath these effusions of grief. She suffered horribly from these long monologues which she was compelled to listen to at every instant, and which always brought the murder of Camille before her eyes. She could not pardon, she never departed from the implacable thought of vengeance that her impotency rendered more keen, and all day long she had to listen to pleas for pardon, and to humble and cowardly prayers. She would have liked to give an answer; certain sentences of her niece brought crushing refusals to her lips, but she had to remain mute and allow Therese to plead her cause without once interrupting her. The impossibility of crying out and stopping her ears caused her inexpressible torture. The words of the young woman entered her mind, slow and plaintive, as an irritating ditty. At first, she fancied the murderers inflicted this kind of torture on her out of sheer diabolical cruelty. Her sole means of defence was to close her eyes, as soon as her niece knelt before her, then although she heard, she did not see her. Therese, at last, had the impudence to kiss her aunt. One day, in a fit of repentance, she feigned she had perceived a gleam of mercy in the eyes of the paralysed woman; and she dragged herself along on her knees, she raised herself up, exclaiming in a distracted tone: You forgive me! You forgive me! Then she kissed the forehead and cheeks of the poor old creature, who was unable to throw her head backward so as to avoid the embrace. The cold skin on which Therese placed her lips, caused her violent disgust. She fancied this disgust, like the tears of remorse, would be an excellent remedy to appease her nerves; and she continued to kiss the impotent old woman daily, by way of penitence, and also to relieve herself. Oh! How good you are! she sometimes exclaimed. I can see my tears have touched you. Your eyes are full of pity. I am saved. Then she smothered her with caresses, placing the head of the infirm old lady on her knees, kissing her hands, smiling at her happily, and attending to all her requirements with a display of passionate affection. After a time, she believed in the reality of this comedy, she imagined she had obtained the pardon of Madame Raquin, and spoke of nothing but the delight she experienced at having secured her pardon. This was too much for the paralysed woman. It almost killed her. At the kisses of her niece, she again felt that sensation of bitter repugnance and rage which came over her, morning and night, when Laurent took her in his arms to lift her up, or lay her down. She was obliged to submit to the disgusting caresses of the wretch who had betrayed and killed her son. She could not even use her hand to wipe away the kisses that this woman left on her cheeks; and, for hours and hours together, she felt these kisses burning her. She became the doll of the murderers of Camille, a doll that they dressed, that they turned to right and left, and that they made use of according to their requirements and whims. She remained inert in their hands, as if she had been a lay-figure, and yet she lived, and became excited and indignant at the least contact with Therese or Laurent. What particularly exasperated her was the atrocious mockery of the young woman, who pretended she perceived expressions of mercy in her eyes, when she would have liked to have brought down fire from heaven on the head of the criminal. She frequently made supreme efforts to utter a cry of protestation, and loaded her looks with hatred. But Therese, who found it answered her purpose to repeat twenty times a day that she was pardoned, redoubled her caresses, and would see nothing. So the paralysed woman had to accept the thanks and effusions that her heart repelled. Henceforth, she lived in a state of bitter but powerless irritation, face to face with her yielding niece who displayed adorable acts of tenderness to recompense her for what she termed her heavenly goodness. When Therese knelt before Madame Raquin, in the presence of her husband, he brutally brought her to her feet. No acting, said he. Do I weep, do I prostrate myself? You do all this to trouble me. The remorse of Therese caused him peculiar agitation. His suffering increased now that his accomplice dragged herself about him, with eyes red by weeping, and supplicating lips. The sight of this living example of regret redoubled his fright and added to his uneasiness. It was like an everlasting reproach wandering through the house. Then he feared that repentance would one day drive his wife to reveal everything. He would have preferred her to remain rigid and threatening, bitterly defending herself against his accusations. But she had changed her tactics. She now readily recognised the share she had taken in the crime. She even accused herself. She had become yielding and timid, and starting from this point implored redemption with ardent humility. This attitude irritated Laurent, and every evening the quarrels of the couple became more afflicting and sinister. Listen to me, said Therese to her husband, we are very guilty. We must repent if we wish to enjoy tranquillity. Look at me. Since I have been weeping I am more peaceable. Imitate me. Let us say together that we are justly punished for having committed a horrible crime. Bah! roughly answered Laurent, you can say what you please. I know you are deucedly clever and hypocritical. Weep, if that diverts you. But I must beg you not to worry me with your tears. Ah! said she, you are bad. You reject remorse. You are cowardly. You acted as a traitor to Camille. Do you mean to say that I alone am guilty? he inquired. No, she replied, I do not say that. I am guilty, more guilty than you are. I ought to have saved my husband from your hands. Oh! I am aware of all the horror of my fault. But I have sought pardon, and I have succeeded, Laurent, whereas you continue to lead a disconsolate life. You have not even had the feeling to spare my poor aunt the sight of your vile anger. You have never even addressed a word of regret to her. And she embraced Madame Raquin, who shut her eyes. She hovered round her, raising the pillow that propped up her head, and showing her all kinds of attention. Laurent was infuriated. Oh, leave her alone, he cried. Can t you see that your services, and the very sight of you are odious to her. If she could lift her hand she would slap your face. The slow and plaintive words of his wife, and her attitudes of resignation, gradually drove him into blinding fits of anger. He understood her tactics; she no longer wished to be at one with him, but to set herself apart wrapped in her regret, so as to escape the clasp of the drowned man. And, at moments, he said to himself that she had perhaps taken the right path, that tears might cure her of her terror, and he shuddered at the thought of having to suffer, and contend with fright alone. He also would have liked to repent, or at least to have performed the comedy of repentance, to see what effect it would have. Unable to find the sobs and necessary words, he flung himself into violence again, stirring up Therese so as to irritate her and lead her back with him to furious madness. But the young woman took care to remain inert, to answer his cries of anger by tearful submission, and to meet his coarseness by a proportionate display of humility and repentance. Laurent was thus gradually driven to fury. To crown his irritation, Therese always ended with the panegyric of Camille so as to display the virtues of the victim. He was good, said she, and we must have been very cruel to assail such a warm-hearted man who had never a bad thought. He was good, yes, I know, jeered Laurent. You mean to say he was a fool. You must have forgotten! You pretended you were irritated at the slightest thing he said, that he could not open his mouth without letting out some stupidity. Don t jeer, said Therese. It only remains for you to insult the man you murdered. You know nothing about the feelings of a woman, Laurent; Camille loved me and I loved him. You loved him! Ah! Really what a capital idea, exclaimed Laurent. And no doubt it was because you loved your husband, that you took me as a sweetheart. I remember one day when we were together, that you told me Camille disgusted you, when you felt the end of your fingers enter his flesh as if it were soft clay. Oh! I know why you loved me. You required more vigorous arms than those of that poor devil. I loved him as a sister, answered Therese. He was the son of my benefactress. He had all the delicate feelings of a feeble man. He showed himself noble and generous, serviceable and loving. And we killed him, good God! good God! She wept, and swooned away. Madame Raquin cast piercing glances at her, indignant to hear the praise of Camille sung by such a pair of lips. Laurent who was unable to do anything against this overflow of tears, walked to and fro with furious strides, searching in his head for some means to stifle the remorse of Therese. All the good he heard said of his victim ended by causing him poignant anxiety. Now and again he let himself be caught by the heartrending accents of his wife. He really believed in the virtues of Camille, and his terror redoubled. But what tried his patience beyond measure was the comparison that the widow of the drowned man never failed to draw between her first and second husband, and which was all to the advantage of the former. Well! Yes, she cried, he was better than you. I would sooner he were alive now, and you in his place underground. Laurent first of all shrugged his shoulders. Say what you will, she continued, becoming animated, although I perhaps failed to love him in his lifetime, yet I remember all his good qualities now, and do love him. Yes, I love him and hate you, do you hear? For you are an assassin. Will you hold your tongue? yelled Laurent. And he is a victim, she went on, notwithstanding the threatening attitude of her husband, an upright man killed by a rascal. Oh! I am not afraid of you. You know well enough that you are a miserable wretch, a brute of a man without a heart, and without a soul. How can you expect me to love you, now that you are reeking with the blood of Camille? Camille was full of tenderness for me, and I would kill you, do you hear, if that could bring him to life again, and give me back his love. Will you hold your tongue, you wretch? shouted Laurent. Why should I hold my tongue? she retorted. I am speaking the truth. I would purchase forgiveness at the price of your blood. Ah! How I weep, and how I suffer! It is my own fault if a scoundrel, such as you, murdered my husband. I must go, one of these nights, and kiss the ground where he rests. That will be my final rapture. Laurent, beside himself, rendered furious by the atrocious pictures that Therese spread out before his eyes, rushed upon her, and threw her down, menacing her with his uplifted fist. That s it, she cried, strike me, kill me! Camille never once raised his hand to me, but you are a monster. And Laurent, spurred on by what she said, shook her with rage, beat her, bruised her body with his clenched fists. In two instances he almost strangled her. Therese yielded to his blows. She experienced keen delight in being struck, delivering herself up, thrusting her body forward, provoking her husband in every way, so that he might half kill her again. This was another remedy for her suffering. She slept better at night when she had been thoroughly beaten in the evening. Madame Raquin enjoyed exquisite pleasure, when Laurent dragged her niece along the floor in this way, belabouring her with thumps and kicks. The existence of the assassin had become terrible since the day when Therese conceived the infernal idea of feeling remorse and of mourning Camille aloud. From that moment the wretch lived everlastingly with his victim. At every hour, he had to listen to his wife praising and regretting her first husband. The least incident became a pretext: Camille did this, Camille did that, Camille had such and such qualities, Camille loved in such and such a way. It was always Camille! Ever sad remarks bewailing his death. Therese had recourse to all her spitefulness to render this torture, which she inflicted on Laurent so as to shield her own self, as cruel as possible. She went into details, relating a thousand insignificant incidents connected with her youth, accompanied by sighs and expressions of regret, and in this manner, mingled the remembrance of the drowned man with every action of her daily life. The corpse which already haunted the house, was introduced there openly. It sat on the chairs, took its place at table, extended itself on the bed, making use of the various articles of furniture, and of the objects lying about hither and thither. Laurent could touch nothing, not a fork, not a brush, without Therese making him feel that Camille had touched it before him. The murderer being ceaselessly thrust, so to say, against the man he had killed, ended by experiencing a strange sensation that very nearly drove him out of his mind. By being so constantly compared to Camille, by making use of the different articles Camille had used, he imagined he was Camille himself, that he was identical with his victim. Then, with his brain fit to burst, he flew at his wife to make her hold her tongue, so as to no longer hear the words that drove him frantic. All their quarrels now ended in blows. CHAPTER XXX A time came when Madame Raquin, in order to escape the sufferings she endured, thought of starving herself to death. She had reached the end of her courage, she could no longer support the martyrdom that the presence of the two murderers imposed on her, she longed to find supreme relief in death. Each day her anguish grew more keen, when Therese embraced her, and when Laurent took her in his arms to carry her along like a child. She determined on freeing herself from these clasps and caresses that caused her such horrible disgust. As she had not sufficient life left within her to permit of her avenging her son, she preferred to be entirely dead, and to leave naught in the hands of the assassins but a corpse that could feel nothing, and with which they could do as they pleased. For two days she refused all nourishment, employing her remaining strength to clench her teeth or to eject anything that Therese succeeded in introducing into her mouth. Therese was in despair. She was asking herself at the foot of which post she should go to weep and repent, when her aunt would be no longer there. She kept up an interminable discourse to prove to Madame Raquin that she should live. She wept, she even became angry, bursting into her former fits of rage, opening the jaw of the paralysed woman as you open that of an animal which resists. Madame Raquin held out, and an odious scene ensued. Laurent remained absolutely neutral and indifferent. He was astonished at the efforts of Therese to prevent the impotent old woman committing suicide. Now that the presence of the old lady had become useless to them he desired her death. He would not have killed her, but as she wished to die, he did not see the use of depriving her of the means to do so. But, let her be! he shouted to his wife. It will be a good riddance. We shall, perhaps, be happier when she is no longer here. This remark repeated several times in the hearing of Madame Raquin, caused her extraordinary emotion. She feared that the hope expressed by Laurent might be realised, and that after her death the couple would enjoy calm and happiness. And she said to herself that it would be cowardly to die, that she had no right to go away before she had seen the end of the sinister adventure. Then, only, could she descend into darkness, to say to Camille: You are avenged. The idea of suicide became oppressive, when she all at once reflected that she would sink into the grave ignorant as to what had happened to the two murderers of her son. There, she would lie in the cold and silent earth, eternally tormented by uncertainty concerning the punishment of her tormentors. To thoroughly enjoy the slumber of death, she must be hushed to rest by the sweet delight of vengeance, she must carry away with her a dream of satisfied hatred, a dream that would last throughout eternity. So she took the food her niece presented to her, and consented to live on. Apart from this, it was easy for her to perceive that the climax could not be far off. Each day the position of the married couple became more strained and unbearable. A crash that would smash everything was imminent. At every moment, Therese and Laurent started up face to face in a more threatening manner. It was no longer at nighttime, alone, that they suffered from their intimacy; entire days were passed amidst anxiety and harrowing shocks. It was one constant scene of pain and terror. They lived in a perfect pandemonium, fighting, rendering all they did and said bitter and cruel, seeking to fling one another to the bottom of the abyss which they felt beneath their feet, and falling into it together. Ideas of separation had, indeed, occurred to both of them. Each had thought of flight, of seeking some repose far from this Arcade of the Pont Neuf where the damp and filth seemed adapted to their desolated life. But they dared not, they could not run away. It seemed impossible for them to avoid reviling each other, to avoid remaining there to suffer and cause pain. They proved obstinate in their hatred and cruelty. A sort of repulsion and attraction separated and kept them together at the same time. They behaved in the identical manner of two persons who, after quarrelling, wish to part, and who, nevertheless, continue returning to shout out fresh insults at one another. Moreover, material obstacles stood in the way of flight. What were they to do with the impotent woman? What could be said to the Thursday evening guests? If they fled, these people would, perhaps, suspect something. At this thought, they imagined they were being pursued and dragged to the guillotine. So they remained where they were through cowardice, wretchedly dragging out their lives amidst the horror of their surroundings. During the morning and afternoon, when Laurent was absent, Therese went from the dining-room to the shop in anxiety and trouble, at a loss to know what to do to fill up the void in her existence that daily became more pronounced. When not kneeling at the feet of Madame Raquin or receiving blows and insults from her husband, she had no occupation. As soon as she was seated alone in the shop, she became dejected, watching with a doltish expression, the people passing through the dirty, dark gallery. She felt ready to die of sadness in the middle of this gloomy vault, which had the odour of a cemetery, and ended by begging Suzanne to come and pass entire days with her, in the hope that the presence of this poor, gentle, pale creature might calm her. Suzanne accepted her offer with delight; she continued to feel a sort of respectful friendship for Therese, and had long desired to come and work with her, while Olivier was at his office. Bringing her embroidery with her, she took the vacant chair of Madame Raquin behind the counter. From that day Therese rather neglected her aunt. She went upstairs less frequently to weep on her knees and kiss the deathlike face of the invalid. She had something else to do. She made efforts to listen with interest to the dilatory gossip of Suzanne, who spoke of her home, and of the trivialities of her monotonous life. This relieved Therese of her own thoughts. Sometimes she caught herself paying attention to nonsense that brought a bitter smile to her face. By degrees, she lost all her customers. Since her aunt had been confined to her armchair upstairs, she had let the shop go from bad to worse, abandoning the goods to dust and damp. A smell of mildew hung in the atmosphere, spiders came down from the ceiling, the floor was but rarely swept. But what put the customers to flight was the strange way in which Therese sometimes welcomed them. When she happened to be upstairs, receiving blows from Laurent or agitated by a shock of terror, and the bell at the shop door tinkled imperiously, she had to go down, barely taking time to do up her hair or brush away the tears. On such occasions she served the persons awaiting her roughly; sometimes she even spared herself the trouble of serving, answering from the top of the staircase, that she no longer kept what was asked for. This kind of off-hand behaviour, was not calculated to retain custom. The little work-girls of the quarter, who were used to the sweet amiability of Madame Raquin, were driven away by the harshness and wild looks of Therese. When the latter took Suzanne with her to keep her company, the defection became complete. To avoid being disturbed in their gossip, the two young woman managed to drive away the few remaining purchasers who visited the shop. Henceforth, the mercery business ceased to bring in a sou towards the household expenses, and it became necessary to encroach on the capital of forty thousand francs and more. Sometimes, Therese absented herself the entire afternoon. No one knew where she went. Her reason for having Suzanne with her was no doubt partly for the purpose of securing company but also to mind the shop, while she was away. When she returned in the evening, worn out, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion, it was to find the little wife of Olivier still behind the counter, bowed down, with a vague smile on her lips, in the same attitude as she had left her five hours previously. Therese had a bad fright about five months after her marriage to Laurent. She found out she was pregnant and detested the thought of having a child of Laurent s. She had the fear that she would give birth to a drowned body. She thought that she could feel inside herself a soft, decomposing corpse. No matter what, she had to rid herself of this child. She did not tell Laurent. One day she cruelly provoked him and turned her stomach towards him, hoping to receive a kick. He kicked her and she let him go on kicking her in the stomach until she thought she would die. The next day her wish was fulfilled and she had a miscarriage. Laurent also led a frightful existence. The days seemed insupportably long; each brought the same anguish, the same heavy weariness which overwhelmed him at certain hours with crushing monotony and regularity. He dragged on his life, terrified every night by the recollections of the day, and the expectation of the morrow. He knew that henceforth, all his days would resemble one another, and bring him equal suffering. And he saw the weeks, months and years gloomily and implacably awaiting him, coming one after the other to fall upon him and gradually smother him. When there is no hope in the future, the present appears atrociously bitter. Laurent no longer resisted, he became lumpish, abandoning himself to the nothingness that was already gaining possession of his being. Idleness was killing him. In the morning he went out, without knowing where to go, disgusted at the thought of doing what he had done on the previous day, and compelled, in spite of himself, to do it again. He went to his studio by habit, by mania. This room, with its grey walls, whence he could see naught but a bare square of sky, filled him with mournful sadness. He grovelled on the divan heavy in thought and with pendent arms. He dared not touch a brush. He had made fresh attempts at painting, but only to find on each occasion, the head of Camille appear jeering on the canvas. So as not to go out of his mind, he ended by throwing his colour-box into a corner, and imposing the most absolute idleness on himself. This obligatory laziness weighed upon him terribly. In the afternoon, he questioned himself in distress to find out what he should do. For half an hour, he remained on the pavement in the Rue Mazarine, thinking and hesitating as to how he could divert himself. He rejected the idea of returning to the studio, and invariably decided on going down the Rue Guenegaud, to walk along the quays. And, until evening, he went along, dazed and seized with sudden shudders whenever he looked at the Seine. Whether in his studio or in the streets, his dejection was the same. The following day he began again. He passed the morning on his divan, and dragged himself along the quays in the afternoon. This lasted for months, and might last for years. Occasionally Laurent reflected that he had killed Camille so as to do nothing ever afterwards, and now that he did nothing, he was quite astonished to suffer so much. He would have liked to force himself to be happy. He proved to his own satisfaction, that he did wrong to suffer, that he had just attained supreme felicity, consisting in crossing his arms, and that he was an idiot not to enjoy this bliss in peace. But his reasoning exploded in the face of facts. He was constrained to confess, at the bottom of his heart, that this idleness rendered his anguish the more cruel, by leaving him every hour of his life to ponder on the despair and deepen its incurable bitterness. Laziness, that brutish existence which had been his dream, proved his punishment. At moments, he ardently hoped for some occupation to draw him from his thoughts. Then he lost all energy, relapsing beneath the weight of implacable fatality that bound his limbs so as to more surely crush him. In truth, he only found some relief when beating Therese, at night. This brutality alone relieved him of his enervated anguish. But his keenest suffering, both physical and moral, came from the bite Camille had given him in the neck. At certain moments, he imagined that this scar covered the whole of his body. If he came to forget the past, he all at once fancied he felt a burning puncture, that recalled the murder both to his frame and mind. When under the influence of emotion, he could not stand before a looking-glass without noticing this phenomenon which he had so frequently remarked and which always terrified him; the blood flew to his neck, purpling the scar, which then began to gnaw the skin. This sort of wound that lived upon him, which became active, flushed, and biting at the slightest trouble, frightened and tortured him. He ended by believing that the teeth of the drowned man had planted an insect there which was devouring him. The part of his neck where the scar appeared, seemed to him to no longer belong to

ah

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

you forgive me. And yet, if you only knew how I am rent by remorse, if you only knew how I suffer, perhaps you would have pity. No, no pity for me. I should like to die here at your feet, overwhelmed by shame and grief. She spoke in this manner for hours together, passing from despair to hope, condemning and then pardoning herself; she assumed the voice, brief and plaintive in turn, of a little sick girl; she flattened herself on the ground and drew herself up again, acting upon all the ideas of humility and pride, of repentance and revolt that entered her head. Sometimes even, forgetting she was on her knees before Madame Raquin, she continued her monologue as in a dream. When she had made herself thoroughly giddy with her own words, she rose staggering and dazed, to go down to the shop in a calmer frame of mind, no longer fearing to burst into sobs before her customers. When she again felt inclined for remorse, she ran upstairs and knelt at the feet of the impotent woman. This scene was repeated ten times a day. Therese never reflected that her tears, and display of repentance must impose ineffable anguish on her aunt. The truth was that if she had desired to invent a torment to torture Madame Raquin, it would not have been possible to have found a more frightful one than the comedy of remorse she performed before her. The paralysed woman could see the egotism concealed beneath these effusions of grief. She suffered horribly from these long monologues which she was compelled to listen to at every instant, and which always brought the murder of Camille before her eyes. She could not pardon, she never departed from the implacable thought of vengeance that her impotency rendered more keen, and all day long she had to listen to pleas for pardon, and to humble and cowardly prayers. She would have liked to give an answer; certain sentences of her niece brought crushing refusals to her lips, but she had to remain mute and allow Therese to plead her cause without once interrupting her. The impossibility of crying out and stopping her ears caused her inexpressible torture. The words of the young woman entered her mind, slow and plaintive, as an irritating ditty. At first, she fancied the murderers inflicted this kind of torture on her out of sheer diabolical cruelty. Her sole means of defence was to close her eyes, as soon as her niece knelt before her, then although she heard, she did not see her. Therese, at last, had the impudence to kiss her aunt. One day, in a fit of repentance, she feigned she had perceived a gleam of mercy in the eyes of the paralysed woman; and she dragged herself along on her knees, she raised herself up, exclaiming in a distracted tone: You forgive me! You forgive me! Then she kissed the forehead and cheeks of the poor old creature, who was unable to throw her head backward so as to avoid the embrace. The cold skin on which Therese placed her lips, caused her violent disgust. She fancied this disgust, like the tears of remorse, would be an excellent remedy to appease her nerves; and she continued to kiss the impotent old woman daily, by way of penitence, and also to relieve herself. Oh! How good you are! she sometimes exclaimed. I can see my tears have touched you. Your eyes are full of pity. I am saved. Then she smothered her with caresses, placing the head of the infirm old lady on her knees, kissing her hands, smiling at her happily, and attending to all her requirements with a display of passionate affection. After a time, she believed in the reality of this comedy, she imagined she had obtained the pardon of Madame Raquin, and spoke of nothing but the delight she experienced at having secured her pardon. This was too much for the paralysed woman. It almost killed her. At the kisses of her niece, she again felt that sensation of bitter repugnance and rage which came over her, morning and night, when Laurent took her in his arms to lift her up, or lay her down. She was obliged to submit to the disgusting caresses of the wretch who had betrayed and killed her son. She could not even use her hand to wipe away the kisses that this woman left on her cheeks; and, for hours and hours together, she felt these kisses burning her. She became the doll of the murderers of Camille, a doll that they dressed, that they turned to right and left, and that they made use of according to their requirements and whims. She remained inert in their hands, as if she had been a lay-figure, and yet she lived, and became excited and indignant at the least contact with Therese or Laurent. What particularly exasperated her was the atrocious mockery of the young woman, who pretended she perceived expressions of mercy in her eyes, when she would have liked to have brought down fire from heaven on the head of the criminal. She frequently made supreme efforts to utter a cry of protestation, and loaded her looks with hatred. But Therese, who found it answered her purpose to repeat twenty times a day that she was pardoned, redoubled her caresses, and would see nothing. So the paralysed woman had to accept the thanks and effusions that her heart repelled. Henceforth, she lived in a state of bitter but powerless irritation, face to face with her yielding niece who displayed adorable acts of tenderness to recompense her for what she termed her heavenly goodness. When Therese knelt before Madame Raquin, in the presence of her husband, he brutally brought her to her feet. No acting, said he. Do I weep, do I prostrate myself? You do all this to trouble me. The remorse of Therese caused him peculiar agitation. His suffering increased now that his accomplice dragged herself about him, with eyes red by weeping, and supplicating lips. The sight of this living example of regret redoubled his fright and added to his uneasiness. It was like an everlasting reproach wandering through the house. Then he feared that repentance would one day drive his wife to reveal everything. He would have preferred her to remain rigid and threatening, bitterly defending herself against his accusations. But she had changed her tactics. She now readily recognised the share she had taken in the crime. She even accused herself. She had become yielding and timid, and starting from this point implored redemption with ardent humility. This attitude irritated Laurent, and every evening the quarrels of the couple became more afflicting and sinister. Listen to me, said Therese to her husband, we are very guilty. We must repent if we wish to enjoy tranquillity. Look at me. Since I have been weeping I am more peaceable. Imitate me. Let us say together that we are justly punished for having committed a horrible crime. Bah! roughly answered Laurent, you can say what you please. I know you are deucedly clever and hypocritical. Weep, if that diverts you. But I must beg you not to worry me with your tears. Ah! said she, you are bad. You reject remorse. You are cowardly. You acted as a traitor to Camille. Do you mean to say that I alone am guilty? he inquired. No, she replied, I do not say that. I am guilty, more guilty than you are. I ought to have saved my husband from your hands. Oh! I am aware of all the horror of my fault. But I have sought pardon, and I have succeeded, Laurent, whereas you continue to lead a disconsolate life. You have not even had the feeling to spare my poor aunt the sight of your vile anger. You have never even addressed a word of regret to her. And she embraced Madame Raquin, who shut her eyes. She hovered round her, raising the pillow that propped up her head, and showing her all kinds of attention. Laurent was infuriated. Oh, leave her alone, he cried. Can t you see that your services, and the very sight of you are odious to her. If she could lift her hand she would slap your face. The slow and plaintive words of his wife, and her attitudes of resignation, gradually drove him into blinding fits of anger. He understood her tactics; she no longer wished to be at one with him, but to set herself apart wrapped in her regret, so as to escape the clasp of the drowned man. And, at moments, he said to himself that she had perhaps taken the right path, that tears might cure her of her terror, and he shuddered at the thought of having to suffer, and contend with fright alone. He also would have liked to repent, or at least to have performed the comedy of repentance, to see what effect it would have. Unable to find the sobs and necessary words, he flung himself into violence again, stirring up Therese so as to irritate her and lead her back with him to furious madness. But the young woman took care to remain inert, to answer his cries of anger by tearful submission, and to meet his coarseness by a proportionate display of humility and repentance. Laurent was thus gradually driven to fury. To crown his irritation, Therese always ended with the panegyric of Camille so as to display the virtues of the victim. He was good, said she, and we must have been very cruel to assail such a warm-hearted man who had never a bad thought. He was good, yes, I know, jeered Laurent. You mean to say he was a fool. You must have forgotten! You pretended you were irritated at the slightest thing he said, that he could not open his mouth without letting out some stupidity. Don t jeer, said Therese. It only remains for you to insult the man you murdered. You know nothing about the feelings of a woman, Laurent; Camille loved me and I loved him. You loved him! Ah! Really what a capital idea, exclaimed Laurent. And no doubt it was because you loved your husband, that you took me as a sweetheart. I remember one day when we were together, that you told me Camille disgusted you, when you felt the end of your fingers enter his flesh as if it were soft clay. Oh! I know why you loved me. You required more vigorous arms than those of that poor devil. I loved him as a sister, answered Therese. He was the son of my benefactress. He had all the delicate feelings of a feeble man. He showed himself noble and generous, serviceable and loving. And we killed him, good God! good God! She wept, and swooned away. Madame Raquin cast piercing glances at her, indignant to hear the praise of Camille sung by such a pair of lips. Laurent who was unable to do anything against this overflow of tears, walked to and fro with furious strides, searching in his head for some means to stifle the remorse of Therese. All the good he heard said of his victim ended by causing him poignant anxiety. Now and again he let himself be caught by the heartrending accents of his wife. He really believed in the virtues of Camille, and his terror redoubled. But what tried his patience beyond measure was the comparison that the widow of the drowned man never failed to draw between her first and second husband, and which was all to the advantage of the former. Well! Yes, she cried, he was better than you. I would sooner he were alive now, and you in his place underground. Laurent first of all shrugged his shoulders. Say what you will, she continued, becoming animated, although I perhaps failed to love him in his lifetime, yet I remember all his good qualities now, and do love him. Yes, I love him and hate you, do you hear? For you are an assassin. Will you hold your tongue? yelled Laurent. And he is a victim, she went on, notwithstanding the threatening attitude of her husband, an upright man killed by a rascal. Oh! I am not afraid of you. You know well enough that you are a miserable wretch, a brute of a man without a heart, and without a soul. How can you expect me to love you, now that you are reeking with the blood of Camille? Camille was full of tenderness for me, and I would kill you, do you hear, if that could bring him to life again, and give me back his love. Will you hold your tongue, you wretch? shouted Laurent. Why should I hold my tongue? she retorted. I am speaking the truth. I would purchase forgiveness at the price of your blood. Ah! How I weep, and how I suffer! It is my own fault if a scoundrel, such as you, murdered my husband. I must go, one of these nights, and kiss the ground where he rests. That will be my final rapture. Laurent, beside himself, rendered furious by the atrocious pictures that Therese spread out before his eyes, rushed upon her, and threw her down, menacing her with his uplifted fist. That s it, she cried, strike me, kill me! Camille never once raised his hand to me, but you are a monster. And Laurent, spurred on by what she said, shook her with rage, beat her, bruised her body with his clenched fists. In two instances he almost strangled her. Therese yielded to his blows. She experienced keen delight in being struck, delivering herself up, thrusting her body forward, provoking her husband in every way, so that he might half kill her again. This was another remedy for her suffering. She slept better at night when she had been thoroughly beaten in the evening. Madame Raquin enjoyed exquisite pleasure, when Laurent dragged her niece along the floor in this way, belabouring her with thumps and kicks. The existence of the assassin had become terrible since the day when Therese conceived the infernal idea of feeling remorse and of mourning Camille aloud. From that moment the wretch lived everlastingly with his victim. At every hour, he had to listen to his wife praising and regretting her first husband. The least incident became a pretext: Camille did this, Camille did that, Camille had such and such qualities, Camille loved in such and such a way. It was always Camille! Ever sad remarks bewailing his death. Therese had recourse to all her spitefulness to render this torture, which she inflicted on Laurent so as to shield her own self, as cruel as possible. She went into details, relating a thousand insignificant incidents connected with her youth, accompanied by sighs and expressions of regret, and in this manner, mingled the remembrance of the drowned man with every action of her daily life. The corpse which already haunted the house, was introduced there openly. It sat on the chairs, took its place at table, extended itself on the bed, making use of the various articles of furniture, and of the objects lying about hither and thither. Laurent could touch nothing, not a fork, not a brush, without Therese making him feel that Camille had touched it before him. The murderer being ceaselessly thrust, so to say, against the man he had killed, ended by experiencing a strange sensation that very nearly drove him out of his mind. By being so constantly compared to Camille, by making use of the different articles Camille had used, he imagined he was Camille himself, that he was identical with his victim. Then, with his brain fit to burst, he flew at his wife to make her hold her tongue, so as to no longer hear the words that drove him frantic. All their quarrels now ended in blows. CHAPTER XXX A time came when Madame Raquin, in order to escape the sufferings she endured, thought of starving herself to death. She had reached the end of her courage, she could no longer support the martyrdom that the presence of the two murderers imposed on her, she longed to find supreme relief in death. Each day her anguish grew more keen, when Therese embraced her, and when Laurent took her in his arms to carry her along like a child. She determined on freeing herself from these clasps and caresses that caused her such horrible disgust. As she had not sufficient life left within her to permit of her avenging her son, she preferred to be entirely dead, and to leave naught in the hands of the assassins but a corpse that could feel nothing, and with which they could do as they pleased. For two days she refused all nourishment, employing her remaining strength to clench her teeth or to eject anything that Therese succeeded in introducing into her mouth. Therese was in despair. She was asking herself at the foot of which post she should go to weep and repent, when her aunt would be no longer there. She kept up an interminable discourse to prove to Madame Raquin that she should live. She wept, she even became angry, bursting into her former fits of rage, opening the jaw of the paralysed woman as you open that of an animal which resists. Madame Raquin held out, and an odious scene ensued. Laurent remained absolutely neutral and indifferent. He was astonished at the efforts of Therese to prevent the impotent old woman committing suicide. Now that the presence of the old lady had become useless to them he desired her death. He would not have killed her, but as she wished to die, he did not see the use of depriving her of the means to do so. But, let her be! he shouted to his wife. It will be a good riddance. We shall, perhaps, be happier when she is no longer here. This remark repeated several times in the hearing of Madame Raquin, caused her extraordinary emotion. She feared that the hope expressed by Laurent might be realised, and that after her death the couple would enjoy calm and happiness. And she said to herself that it would be cowardly to die, that she had no right to go away before she had seen the end of the sinister adventure. Then, only, could she descend into darkness, to say to Camille: You are avenged. The idea of suicide became oppressive, when she all at once reflected that she would sink into the grave ignorant as to what had happened to the two murderers of her son. There, she would lie in the cold and silent earth, eternally tormented by uncertainty concerning the punishment of her tormentors. To thoroughly enjoy the slumber of death, she must be hushed to rest by the sweet delight of vengeance, she must carry away with her a dream of satisfied hatred, a dream that would last throughout eternity. So she took the food her niece presented to her, and consented to live on. Apart from this, it was easy for her to perceive that the climax could not be far off. Each day the position of the married couple became more strained and unbearable. A crash that would smash everything was imminent. At every moment, Therese and Laurent started up face to face in a more threatening manner. It was no longer at nighttime, alone, that they suffered from their intimacy; entire days were passed amidst anxiety and harrowing shocks. It was one constant scene of pain and terror. They lived in a perfect pandemonium, fighting, rendering all they did and said bitter and cruel, seeking to fling one another to the bottom of the abyss which they felt beneath their feet, and falling into it together. Ideas of separation had, indeed, occurred to both of them. Each had thought of flight, of seeking some repose far from this Arcade of the Pont Neuf where the damp and filth seemed adapted to their desolated life. But they dared not, they could not run away. It seemed impossible for them to avoid reviling each other, to avoid remaining there to suffer and cause pain. They proved obstinate in their hatred and cruelty. A sort of repulsion and attraction separated and kept them together at the same time. They behaved in the identical manner of two persons who, after quarrelling, wish to part, and who, nevertheless, continue returning to shout out fresh insults at one another. Moreover, material obstacles stood in the way of flight. What were they to do with the impotent woman? What could be said to the Thursday evening guests? If they fled, these people would, perhaps, suspect something. At this thought, they imagined they were being pursued and dragged to the guillotine. So they remained where they were through cowardice, wretchedly dragging out their lives amidst the horror of their surroundings. During the morning and afternoon, when Laurent was absent, Therese went from the dining-room to the shop in anxiety and trouble, at a loss to know what to do to fill up the void in her existence that daily became more pronounced. When not kneeling at the feet of Madame Raquin or receiving blows and insults from her husband, she had no occupation. As soon as she was seated alone in the shop, she became dejected, watching with a doltish expression, the people passing through the dirty, dark gallery. She felt ready to die of sadness in the middle of this gloomy vault, which had the odour of a cemetery, and ended by begging Suzanne to come and pass entire days with her, in the hope that the presence of this poor, gentle, pale creature might calm her. Suzanne accepted her offer with delight; she continued to feel a sort of respectful friendship for Therese, and had long desired to come and work with her, while Olivier was at his office. Bringing her embroidery with her, she took the vacant chair of Madame Raquin behind the counter. From that day Therese rather neglected her aunt. She went upstairs less frequently to weep on her knees and kiss the deathlike face of the invalid. She had something else to do. She made efforts to listen with interest to the dilatory gossip of Suzanne, who spoke of her home, and of the trivialities of her monotonous life. This relieved Therese of her own thoughts. Sometimes she caught herself paying attention to nonsense that brought a bitter smile to her face. By degrees, she lost all her customers. Since her aunt had been confined to her armchair upstairs, she had let the shop go from bad to worse, abandoning the goods to dust and damp. A smell of mildew hung in the atmosphere, spiders came down from the ceiling, the floor was but rarely swept. But what put the customers to flight was the strange way in which Therese sometimes welcomed them. When she happened to be upstairs, receiving blows from Laurent or agitated by a shock of terror, and the bell at the shop door tinkled imperiously, she had to go down, barely taking time to do up her hair or brush away the tears. On such occasions she served the persons awaiting her roughly; sometimes she even spared herself the trouble of serving, answering from the top of the staircase, that she no longer kept what was asked for. This kind of off-hand behaviour, was not calculated to retain custom. The little work-girls of the quarter, who were used to the sweet amiability of Madame Raquin, were driven away by the harshness and wild looks of Therese. When the latter took Suzanne with her to keep her company, the defection became complete. To avoid being disturbed in their gossip, the two young woman managed to drive away the few remaining purchasers who visited the shop. Henceforth, the mercery business ceased to bring in a sou towards the household expenses, and it became necessary to encroach on the capital of forty thousand francs and more. Sometimes, Therese absented herself the entire afternoon. No one knew where she went. Her reason for having Suzanne with her was no doubt partly for the purpose of securing company but also to mind the shop, while she was away. When she returned in the evening, worn out, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion, it was to find the little wife of Olivier still behind the counter, bowed down, with a vague smile on her lips, in the same attitude as she had left her five hours previously. Therese had a bad fright about five months after her marriage to Laurent. She found out she was pregnant and detested the thought of having a child of Laurent s. She had the fear that she would give birth to a drowned body. She thought that she could feel inside herself a soft, decomposing corpse. No matter what, she had to rid herself of this child. She did not tell Laurent. One day she cruelly provoked him and turned her stomach towards him, hoping to receive a kick. He kicked her and she let him go on kicking her in the stomach until she thought she would die. The next day her wish was fulfilled and she had a miscarriage. Laurent also led a frightful existence. The days seemed insupportably long; each brought the same anguish, the same heavy weariness which overwhelmed him at certain hours with crushing monotony and regularity. He dragged on his life, terrified every night by the recollections of the day, and the expectation of the morrow. He knew that henceforth, all his days would resemble one another, and bring him equal suffering. And he saw the weeks, months and years gloomily and implacably awaiting him, coming one after the other to fall upon him and gradually smother him. When there is no hope in the future, the present appears atrociously bitter. Laurent no longer resisted, he became lumpish, abandoning himself to the nothingness that was already gaining possession of his being. Idleness was killing him. In the morning he went out, without knowing where to go, disgusted at the thought of doing what he had done on the previous day, and compelled, in spite of himself, to do it again. He went to his studio by habit, by mania. This room, with its grey walls, whence he could see naught but a bare square of sky, filled him with mournful sadness. He grovelled on the divan heavy in thought and with pendent arms. He dared not touch a brush. He had made fresh attempts at painting, but only to find on each occasion, the head of Camille appear jeering on the canvas. So as not to go out of his mind, he ended by throwing his colour-box into a corner, and imposing the most absolute idleness on himself. This obligatory laziness weighed upon him terribly. In the afternoon, he questioned himself in distress to find out what he should do. For half an hour, he remained on the pavement in the Rue Mazarine, thinking and hesitating as to how he could divert himself. He rejected the idea of returning to the studio, and invariably decided on going down the Rue Guenegaud, to walk along the quays. And, until evening, he went along, dazed and seized with sudden shudders whenever he looked at the Seine. Whether in his studio or in the streets, his dejection was the same. The following day he began again. He passed the morning on his divan, and dragged himself along the quays in the afternoon. This lasted for months, and might last for years. Occasionally Laurent reflected that he had killed Camille so as to do nothing ever afterwards, and now that he did nothing, he was quite astonished to suffer so much. He would have liked to force himself to be happy. He proved to his own satisfaction, that he did wrong to suffer, that he had just attained supreme felicity, consisting in crossing his arms, and that he was an idiot not to enjoy this bliss in peace. But his reasoning exploded in the face of facts. He was constrained to confess, at the bottom of his heart, that this idleness rendered his anguish the more cruel, by leaving him every hour of his life to ponder on the despair and deepen its incurable bitterness. Laziness, that brutish existence which had been his dream, proved his punishment. At moments, he ardently hoped for some occupation to draw him from his thoughts. Then he lost all energy, relapsing beneath the weight of implacable fatality that bound his limbs so as to more surely crush him. In truth, he only found some relief when beating Therese, at night. This brutality alone relieved him of his enervated anguish. But his keenest suffering, both physical and moral, came from the bite Camille had given him in the neck. At certain moments, he imagined that this scar covered the whole of his body. If he came to forget the past, he all at once fancied he felt a burning puncture, that recalled the murder both to his frame and mind. When under the influence of emotion, he could not stand before a looking-glass without noticing this phenomenon which he had so frequently remarked and which always terrified him; the blood flew to his neck, purpling the scar, which then began to gnaw the skin. This sort of wound that lived upon him, which became active, flushed, and biting at the slightest trouble, frightened and tortured him. He ended by believing that the teeth of the drowned man had planted an insect there which was devouring him. The part of his neck where the scar appeared, seemed to him to no longer belong to

acts

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

you forgive me. And yet, if you only knew how I am rent by remorse, if you only knew how I suffer, perhaps you would have pity. No, no pity for me. I should like to die here at your feet, overwhelmed by shame and grief. She spoke in this manner for hours together, passing from despair to hope, condemning and then pardoning herself; she assumed the voice, brief and plaintive in turn, of a little sick girl; she flattened herself on the ground and drew herself up again, acting upon all the ideas of humility and pride, of repentance and revolt that entered her head. Sometimes even, forgetting she was on her knees before Madame Raquin, she continued her monologue as in a dream. When she had made herself thoroughly giddy with her own words, she rose staggering and dazed, to go down to the shop in a calmer frame of mind, no longer fearing to burst into sobs before her customers. When she again felt inclined for remorse, she ran upstairs and knelt at the feet of the impotent woman. This scene was repeated ten times a day. Therese never reflected that her tears, and display of repentance must impose ineffable anguish on her aunt. The truth was that if she had desired to invent a torment to torture Madame Raquin, it would not have been possible to have found a more frightful one than the comedy of remorse she performed before her. The paralysed woman could see the egotism concealed beneath these effusions of grief. She suffered horribly from these long monologues which she was compelled to listen to at every instant, and which always brought the murder of Camille before her eyes. She could not pardon, she never departed from the implacable thought of vengeance that her impotency rendered more keen, and all day long she had to listen to pleas for pardon, and to humble and cowardly prayers. She would have liked to give an answer; certain sentences of her niece brought crushing refusals to her lips, but she had to remain mute and allow Therese to plead her cause without once interrupting her. The impossibility of crying out and stopping her ears caused her inexpressible torture. The words of the young woman entered her mind, slow and plaintive, as an irritating ditty. At first, she fancied the murderers inflicted this kind of torture on her out of sheer diabolical cruelty. Her sole means of defence was to close her eyes, as soon as her niece knelt before her, then although she heard, she did not see her. Therese, at last, had the impudence to kiss her aunt. One day, in a fit of repentance, she feigned she had perceived a gleam of mercy in the eyes of the paralysed woman; and she dragged herself along on her knees, she raised herself up, exclaiming in a distracted tone: You forgive me! You forgive me! Then she kissed the forehead and cheeks of the poor old creature, who was unable to throw her head backward so as to avoid the embrace. The cold skin on which Therese placed her lips, caused her violent disgust. She fancied this disgust, like the tears of remorse, would be an excellent remedy to appease her nerves; and she continued to kiss the impotent old woman daily, by way of penitence, and also to relieve herself. Oh! How good you are! she sometimes exclaimed. I can see my tears have touched you. Your eyes are full of pity. I am saved. Then she smothered her with caresses, placing the head of the infirm old lady on her knees, kissing her hands, smiling at her happily, and attending to all her requirements with a display of passionate affection. After a time, she believed in the reality of this comedy, she imagined she had obtained the pardon of Madame Raquin, and spoke of nothing but the delight she experienced at having secured her pardon. This was too much for the paralysed woman. It almost killed her. At the kisses of her niece, she again felt that sensation of bitter repugnance and rage which came over her, morning and night, when Laurent took her in his arms to lift her up, or lay her down. She was obliged to submit to the disgusting caresses of the wretch who had betrayed and killed her son. She could not even use her hand to wipe away the kisses that this woman left on her cheeks; and, for hours and hours together, she felt these kisses burning her. She became the doll of the murderers of Camille, a doll that they dressed, that they turned to right and left, and that they made use of according to their requirements and whims. She remained inert in their hands, as if she had been a lay-figure, and yet she lived, and became excited and indignant at the least contact with Therese or Laurent. What particularly exasperated her was the atrocious mockery of the young woman, who pretended she perceived expressions of mercy in her eyes, when she would have liked to have brought down fire from heaven on the head of the criminal. She frequently made supreme efforts to utter a cry of protestation, and loaded her looks with hatred. But Therese, who found it answered her purpose to repeat twenty times a day that she was pardoned, redoubled her caresses, and would see nothing. So the paralysed woman had to accept the thanks and effusions that her heart repelled. Henceforth, she lived in a state of bitter but powerless irritation, face to face with her yielding niece who displayed adorable acts of tenderness to recompense her for what she termed her heavenly goodness. When Therese knelt before Madame Raquin, in the presence of her husband, he brutally brought her to her feet. No acting, said he. Do I weep, do I prostrate myself? You do all this to trouble me. The remorse of Therese caused him peculiar agitation. His suffering increased now that his accomplice dragged herself about him, with eyes red by weeping, and supplicating lips. The sight of this living example of regret redoubled his fright and added to his uneasiness. It was like an everlasting reproach wandering through the house. Then he feared that repentance would one day drive his wife to reveal everything. He would have preferred her to remain rigid and threatening, bitterly defending herself against his accusations. But she had changed her tactics. She now readily recognised the share she had taken in the crime. She even accused herself. She had become yielding and timid, and starting from this point implored redemption with ardent humility. This attitude irritated Laurent, and every evening the quarrels of the couple became more afflicting and sinister. Listen to me, said Therese to her husband, we are very guilty. We must repent if we wish to enjoy tranquillity. Look at me. Since I have been weeping I am more peaceable. Imitate me. Let us say together that we are justly punished for having committed a horrible crime. Bah! roughly answered Laurent, you can say what you please. I know you are deucedly clever and hypocritical. Weep, if that diverts you. But I must beg you not to worry me with your tears. Ah! said she, you are bad. You reject remorse. You are cowardly. You acted as a traitor to Camille. Do you mean to say that I alone am guilty? he inquired. No, she replied, I do not say that. I am guilty, more guilty than you are. I ought to have saved my husband from your hands. Oh! I am aware of all the horror of my fault. But I have sought pardon, and I have succeeded, Laurent, whereas you continue to lead a disconsolate life. You have not even had the feeling to spare my poor aunt the sight of your vile anger. You have never even addressed a word of regret to her. And she embraced Madame Raquin, who shut her eyes. She hovered round her, raising the pillow that propped up her head, and showing her all kinds of attention. Laurent was infuriated. Oh, leave her alone, he cried. Can t you see that your services, and the very sight of you are odious to her. If she could lift her hand she would slap your face. The slow and plaintive words of his wife, and her attitudes of resignation, gradually drove him into blinding fits of anger. He understood her tactics; she no longer wished to be at one with him, but to set herself apart wrapped in her regret, so as to escape the clasp of the drowned man. And, at moments, he said to himself that she had perhaps taken the right path, that tears might cure her of her terror, and he shuddered at the thought of having to suffer, and contend with fright alone. He also would have liked to repent, or at least to have performed the comedy of repentance, to see what effect it would have. Unable to find the sobs and necessary words, he flung himself into violence again, stirring up Therese so as to irritate her and lead her back with him to furious madness. But the young woman took care to remain inert, to answer his cries of anger by tearful submission, and to meet his coarseness by a proportionate display of humility and repentance. Laurent was thus gradually driven to fury. To crown his irritation, Therese always ended with the panegyric of Camille so as to display the virtues of the victim. He was good, said she, and we must have been very cruel to assail such a warm-hearted man who had never a bad thought. He was good, yes, I know, jeered Laurent. You mean to say he was a fool. You must have forgotten! You pretended you were irritated at the slightest thing he said, that he could not open his mouth without letting out some stupidity. Don t jeer, said Therese. It only remains for you to insult the man you murdered. You know nothing about the feelings of a woman, Laurent; Camille loved me and I loved him. You loved him! Ah! Really what a capital idea, exclaimed Laurent. And no doubt it was because you loved your husband, that you took me as a sweetheart. I remember one day when we were together, that you told me Camille disgusted you, when you felt the end of your fingers enter his flesh as if it were soft clay. Oh! I know why you loved me. You required more vigorous arms than those of that poor devil. I loved him as a sister, answered Therese. He was the son of my benefactress. He had all the delicate feelings of a feeble man. He showed himself noble and generous, serviceable and loving. And we killed him, good God! good God! She wept, and swooned away. Madame Raquin cast piercing glances at her, indignant to hear the praise of Camille sung by such a pair of lips. Laurent who was unable to do anything against this overflow of tears, walked to and fro with furious strides, searching in his head for some means to stifle the remorse of Therese. All the good he heard said of his victim ended by causing him poignant anxiety. Now and again he let himself be caught by the heartrending accents of his wife. He really believed in the virtues of Camille, and his terror redoubled. But what tried his patience beyond measure was the comparison that the widow of the drowned man never failed to draw between her first and second husband, and which was all to the advantage of the former. Well! Yes, she cried, he was better than you. I would sooner he were alive now, and you in his place underground. Laurent first of all shrugged his shoulders. Say what you will, she continued, becoming animated, although I perhaps failed to love him in his lifetime, yet I remember all his good qualities now, and do love him. Yes, I love him and hate you, do you hear? For you are an assassin. Will you hold your tongue? yelled Laurent. And he is a victim, she went on, notwithstanding the threatening attitude of her husband, an upright man killed by a rascal. Oh! I am not afraid of you. You know well enough that you are a miserable wretch, a brute of a man without a heart, and without a soul. How can you expect me to love you, now that you are reeking with the blood of Camille? Camille was full of tenderness for me, and I would kill you, do you hear, if that could bring him to life again, and give me back his love. Will you hold your tongue, you wretch? shouted Laurent. Why should I hold my tongue? she retorted. I am speaking the truth. I would purchase forgiveness at the price of your blood. Ah! How I weep, and how I suffer! It is my own fault if a scoundrel, such as you, murdered my husband. I must go, one of these nights, and kiss the ground where he rests. That will be my final rapture. Laurent, beside himself, rendered furious by the atrocious pictures that Therese spread out before his eyes, rushed upon her, and threw her down, menacing her with his uplifted fist. That s it, she cried, strike me, kill me! Camille never once raised his hand to me, but you are a monster. And Laurent, spurred on by what she said, shook her with rage, beat her, bruised her body with his clenched fists. In two instances he almost strangled her. Therese yielded to his blows. She experienced keen delight in being struck, delivering herself up, thrusting her body forward, provoking her husband in every way, so that he might half kill her again. This was another remedy for her suffering. She slept better at night when she had been thoroughly beaten in the evening. Madame Raquin enjoyed exquisite pleasure, when Laurent dragged her niece along the floor in this way, belabouring her with thumps and kicks. The existence of the assassin had become terrible since the day when Therese conceived the infernal idea of feeling remorse and of mourning Camille aloud. From that moment the wretch lived everlastingly with his victim. At every hour, he had to listen to his wife praising and regretting her first husband. The least incident became a pretext: Camille did this, Camille did that, Camille had such and such qualities, Camille loved in such and such a way. It was always Camille! Ever sad remarks bewailing his death. Therese had recourse to all her spitefulness to render this torture, which she inflicted on Laurent so as to shield her own self, as cruel as possible. She went into details, relating a thousand insignificant incidents connected with her youth, accompanied by sighs and expressions of regret, and in this manner, mingled the remembrance of the drowned man with every action of her daily life. The corpse which already haunted the house, was introduced there openly. It sat on the chairs, took its place at table, extended itself on the bed, making use of the various articles of furniture, and of the objects lying about hither and thither. Laurent could touch nothing, not a fork, not a brush, without Therese making him feel that Camille had touched it before him. The murderer being ceaselessly thrust, so to say, against the man he had killed, ended by experiencing a strange sensation that very nearly drove him out of his mind. By being so constantly compared to Camille, by making use of the different articles Camille had used, he imagined he was Camille himself, that he was identical with his victim. Then, with his brain fit to burst, he flew at his wife to make her hold her tongue, so as to no longer hear the words that drove him frantic. All their quarrels now ended in blows. CHAPTER XXX A time came when Madame Raquin, in order to escape the sufferings she endured, thought of starving herself to death. She had reached the end of her courage, she could no longer support the martyrdom that the presence of the two murderers imposed on her, she longed to find supreme relief in death. Each day her anguish grew more keen, when Therese embraced her, and when Laurent took her in his arms to carry her along like a child. She determined on freeing herself from these clasps and caresses that caused her such horrible disgust. As she had not sufficient life left within her to permit of her avenging her son, she preferred to be entirely dead, and to leave naught in the hands of the assassins but a corpse that could feel nothing, and with which they could do as they pleased. For two days she refused all nourishment, employing her remaining strength to clench her teeth or to eject anything that Therese succeeded in introducing into her mouth. Therese was in despair. She was asking herself at the foot of which post she should go to weep and repent, when her aunt would be no longer there. She kept up an interminable discourse to prove to Madame Raquin that she should live. She wept, she even became angry, bursting into her former fits of rage, opening the jaw of the paralysed woman as you open that of an animal which resists. Madame Raquin held out, and an odious scene ensued. Laurent remained absolutely neutral and indifferent. He was astonished at the efforts of Therese to prevent the impotent old woman committing suicide. Now that the presence of the old lady had become useless to them he desired her death. He would not have killed her, but as she wished to die, he did not see the use of depriving her of the means to do so. But, let her be! he shouted to his wife. It will be a good riddance. We shall, perhaps, be happier when she is no longer here. This remark repeated several times in the hearing of Madame Raquin, caused her extraordinary emotion. She feared that the hope expressed by Laurent might be realised, and that after her death the couple would enjoy calm and happiness. And she said to herself that it would be cowardly to die, that she had no right to go away before she had seen the end of the sinister adventure. Then, only, could she descend into darkness, to say to Camille: You are avenged. The idea of suicide became oppressive, when she all at once reflected that she would sink into the grave ignorant as to what had happened to the two murderers of her son. There, she would lie in the cold and silent earth, eternally tormented by uncertainty concerning the punishment of her tormentors. To thoroughly enjoy the slumber of death, she must be hushed to rest by the sweet delight of vengeance, she must carry away with her a dream of satisfied hatred, a dream that would last throughout eternity. So she took the food her niece presented to her, and consented to live on. Apart from this, it was easy for her to perceive that the climax could not be far off. Each day the position of the married couple became more strained and unbearable. A crash that would smash everything was imminent. At every moment, Therese and Laurent started up face to face in a more threatening manner. It was no longer at nighttime, alone, that they suffered from their intimacy; entire days were passed amidst anxiety and harrowing shocks. It was one constant scene of pain and terror. They lived in a perfect pandemonium, fighting, rendering all they did and said bitter and cruel, seeking to fling one another to the bottom of the abyss which they felt beneath their feet, and falling into it together. Ideas of separation had, indeed, occurred to both of them. Each had thought of flight, of seeking some repose far from this Arcade of the Pont Neuf where the damp and filth seemed adapted to their desolated life. But they dared not, they could not run away. It seemed impossible for them to avoid reviling each other, to avoid remaining there to suffer and cause pain. They proved obstinate in their hatred and cruelty. A sort of repulsion and attraction separated and kept them together at the same time. They behaved in the identical manner of two persons who, after quarrelling, wish to part, and who, nevertheless, continue returning to shout out fresh insults at one another. Moreover, material obstacles stood in the way of flight. What were they to do with the impotent woman? What could be said to the Thursday evening guests? If they fled, these people would, perhaps, suspect something. At this thought, they imagined they were being pursued and dragged to the guillotine. So they remained where they were through cowardice, wretchedly dragging out their lives amidst the horror of their surroundings. During the morning and afternoon, when Laurent was absent, Therese went from the dining-room to the shop in anxiety and trouble, at a loss to know what to do to fill up the void in her existence that daily became more pronounced. When not kneeling at the feet of Madame Raquin or receiving blows and insults from her husband, she had no occupation. As soon as she was seated alone in the shop, she became dejected, watching with a doltish expression, the people passing through the dirty, dark gallery. She felt ready to die of sadness in the middle of this gloomy vault, which had the odour of a cemetery, and ended by begging Suzanne to come and pass entire days with her, in the hope that the presence of this poor, gentle, pale creature might calm her. Suzanne accepted her offer with delight; she continued to feel a sort of respectful friendship for Therese, and had long desired to come and work with her, while Olivier was at his office. Bringing her embroidery with her, she took the vacant chair of Madame Raquin behind the counter. From that day Therese rather neglected her aunt. She went upstairs less frequently to weep on her knees and kiss the deathlike face of the invalid. She had something else to do. She made efforts to listen with interest to the dilatory gossip of Suzanne, who spoke of her home, and of the trivialities of her monotonous life. This relieved Therese of her own thoughts. Sometimes she caught herself paying attention to nonsense that brought a bitter smile to her face. By degrees, she lost all her customers. Since her aunt had been confined to her armchair upstairs, she had let the shop go from bad to worse, abandoning the goods to dust and damp. A smell of mildew hung in the atmosphere, spiders came down from the ceiling, the floor was but rarely swept. But what put the customers to flight was the strange way in which Therese sometimes welcomed them. When she happened to be upstairs, receiving blows from Laurent or agitated by a shock of terror, and the bell at the shop door tinkled imperiously, she had to go down, barely taking time to do up her hair or brush away the tears. On such occasions she served the persons awaiting her roughly; sometimes she even spared herself the trouble of serving, answering from the top of the staircase, that she no longer kept what was asked for. This kind of off-hand behaviour, was not calculated to retain custom. The little work-girls of the quarter, who were used to the sweet amiability of Madame Raquin, were driven away by the harshness and wild looks of Therese. When the latter took Suzanne with her to keep her company, the defection became complete. To avoid being disturbed in their gossip, the two young woman managed to drive away the few remaining purchasers who visited the shop. Henceforth, the mercery business ceased to bring in a sou towards the household expenses, and it became necessary to encroach on the capital of forty thousand francs and more. Sometimes, Therese absented herself the entire afternoon. No one knew where she went. Her reason for having Suzanne with her was no doubt partly for the purpose of securing company but also to mind the shop, while she was away. When she returned in the evening, worn out, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion, it was to find the little wife of Olivier still behind the counter, bowed down, with a vague smile on her lips, in the same attitude as she had left her five hours previously. Therese had a bad fright about five months after her marriage to Laurent. She found out she was pregnant and detested the thought of having a child of Laurent s. She had the fear that she would give birth to a drowned body. She thought that she could feel inside herself a soft, decomposing corpse. No matter what, she had to rid herself of this child. She did not tell Laurent. One day she cruelly provoked him and turned her stomach towards him, hoping to receive a kick. He kicked her and she let him go on kicking her in the stomach until she thought she would die. The next day her wish was fulfilled and she had a miscarriage. Laurent also led a frightful existence. The days seemed insupportably long; each brought the same anguish, the same heavy weariness which overwhelmed him at certain hours with crushing monotony and regularity. He dragged on his life, terrified every night by the recollections of the day, and the expectation of the morrow. He knew that henceforth, all his days would resemble one another, and bring him equal suffering. And he saw the weeks, months and years gloomily and implacably awaiting him, coming one after the other to fall upon him and gradually smother him. When there is no hope in the future, the present appears atrociously bitter. Laurent no longer resisted, he became lumpish, abandoning himself to the nothingness that was already gaining possession of his being. Idleness was killing him. In the morning he went out, without knowing where to go, disgusted at the thought of doing what he had done on the previous day, and compelled, in spite of himself, to do it again. He went to his studio by habit, by mania. This room, with its grey walls, whence he could see naught but a bare square of sky, filled him with mournful sadness. He grovelled on the divan heavy in thought and with pendent arms. He dared not touch a brush. He had made fresh attempts at painting, but only to find on each occasion, the head of Camille appear jeering on the canvas. So as not to go out of his mind, he ended by throwing his colour-box into a corner, and imposing the most absolute idleness on himself. This obligatory laziness weighed upon him terribly. In the afternoon, he questioned himself in distress to find out what he should do. For half an hour, he remained on the pavement in the Rue Mazarine, thinking and hesitating as to how he could divert himself. He rejected the idea of returning to the studio, and invariably decided on going down the Rue Guenegaud, to walk along the quays. And, until evening, he went along, dazed and seized with sudden shudders whenever he looked at the Seine. Whether in his studio or in the streets, his dejection was the same. The following day he began again. He passed the morning on his divan, and dragged himself along the quays in the afternoon. This lasted for months, and might last for years. Occasionally Laurent reflected that he had killed Camille so as to do nothing ever afterwards, and now that he did nothing, he was quite astonished to suffer so much. He would have liked to force himself to be happy. He proved to his own satisfaction, that he did wrong to suffer, that he had just attained supreme felicity, consisting in crossing his arms, and that he was an idiot not to enjoy this bliss in peace. But his reasoning exploded in the face of facts. He was constrained to confess, at the bottom of his heart, that this idleness rendered his anguish the more cruel, by leaving him every hour of his life to ponder on the despair and deepen its incurable bitterness. Laziness, that brutish existence which had been his dream, proved his punishment. At moments, he ardently hoped for some occupation to draw him from his thoughts. Then he lost all energy, relapsing beneath the weight of implacable fatality that bound his limbs so as to more surely crush him. In truth, he only found some relief when beating Therese, at night. This brutality alone relieved him of his enervated anguish. But his keenest suffering, both physical and moral, came from the bite Camille had given him in the neck. At certain moments, he imagined that this scar covered the whole of his body. If he came to forget the past, he all at once fancied he felt a burning puncture, that recalled the murder both to his frame and mind. When under the influence of emotion, he could not stand before a looking-glass without noticing this phenomenon which he had so frequently remarked and which always terrified him; the blood flew to his neck, purpling the scar, which then began to gnaw the skin. This sort of wound that lived upon him, which became active, flushed, and biting at the slightest trouble, frightened and tortured him. He ended by believing that the teeth of the drowned man had planted an insect there which was devouring him. The part of his neck where the scar appeared, seemed to him to no longer belong to

should

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

you forgive me. And yet, if you only knew how I am rent by remorse, if you only knew how I suffer, perhaps you would have pity. No, no pity for me. I should like to die here at your feet, overwhelmed by shame and grief. She spoke in this manner for hours together, passing from despair to hope, condemning and then pardoning herself; she assumed the voice, brief and plaintive in turn, of a little sick girl; she flattened herself on the ground and drew herself up again, acting upon all the ideas of humility and pride, of repentance and revolt that entered her head. Sometimes even, forgetting she was on her knees before Madame Raquin, she continued her monologue as in a dream. When she had made herself thoroughly giddy with her own words, she rose staggering and dazed, to go down to the shop in a calmer frame of mind, no longer fearing to burst into sobs before her customers. When she again felt inclined for remorse, she ran upstairs and knelt at the feet of the impotent woman. This scene was repeated ten times a day. Therese never reflected that her tears, and display of repentance must impose ineffable anguish on her aunt. The truth was that if she had desired to invent a torment to torture Madame Raquin, it would not have been possible to have found a more frightful one than the comedy of remorse she performed before her. The paralysed woman could see the egotism concealed beneath these effusions of grief. She suffered horribly from these long monologues which she was compelled to listen to at every instant, and which always brought the murder of Camille before her eyes. She could not pardon, she never departed from the implacable thought of vengeance that her impotency rendered more keen, and all day long she had to listen to pleas for pardon, and to humble and cowardly prayers. She would have liked to give an answer; certain sentences of her niece brought crushing refusals to her lips, but she had to remain mute and allow Therese to plead her cause without once interrupting her. The impossibility of crying out and stopping her ears caused her inexpressible torture. The words of the young woman entered her mind, slow and plaintive, as an irritating ditty. At first, she fancied the murderers inflicted this kind of torture on her out of sheer diabolical cruelty. Her sole means of defence was to close her eyes, as soon as her niece knelt before her, then although she heard, she did not see her. Therese, at last, had the impudence to kiss her aunt. One day, in a fit of repentance, she feigned she had perceived a gleam of mercy in the eyes of the paralysed woman; and she dragged herself along on her knees, she raised herself up, exclaiming in a distracted tone: You forgive me! You forgive me! Then she kissed the forehead and cheeks of the poor old creature, who was unable to throw her head backward so as to avoid the embrace. The cold skin on which Therese placed her lips, caused her violent disgust. She fancied this disgust, like the tears of remorse, would be an excellent remedy to appease her nerves; and she continued to kiss the impotent old woman daily, by way of penitence, and also to relieve herself. Oh! How good you are! she sometimes exclaimed. I can see my tears have touched you. Your eyes are full of pity. I am saved. Then she smothered her with caresses, placing the head of the infirm old lady on her knees, kissing her hands, smiling at her happily, and attending to all her requirements with a display of passionate affection. After a time, she believed in the reality of this comedy, she imagined she had obtained the pardon of Madame Raquin, and spoke of nothing but the delight she experienced at having secured her pardon. This was too much for the paralysed woman. It almost killed her. At the kisses of her niece, she again felt that sensation of bitter repugnance and rage which came over her, morning and night, when Laurent took her in his arms to lift her up, or lay her down. She was obliged to submit to the disgusting caresses of the wretch who had betrayed and killed her son. She could not even use her hand to wipe away the kisses that this woman left on her cheeks; and, for hours and hours together, she felt these kisses burning her. She became the doll of the murderers of Camille, a doll that they dressed, that they turned to right and left, and that they made use of according to their requirements and whims. She remained inert in their hands, as if she had been a lay-figure, and yet she lived, and became excited and indignant at the least contact with Therese or Laurent. What particularly exasperated her was the atrocious mockery of the young woman, who pretended she perceived expressions of mercy in her eyes, when she would have liked to have brought down fire from heaven on the head of the criminal. She frequently made supreme efforts to utter a cry of protestation, and loaded her looks with hatred. But Therese, who found it answered her purpose to repeat twenty times a day that she was pardoned, redoubled her caresses, and would see nothing. So the paralysed woman had to accept the thanks and effusions that her heart repelled. Henceforth, she lived in a state of bitter but powerless irritation, face to face with her yielding niece who displayed adorable acts of tenderness to recompense her for what she termed her heavenly goodness. When Therese knelt before Madame Raquin, in the presence of her husband, he brutally brought her to her feet. No acting, said he. Do I weep, do I prostrate myself? You do all this to trouble me. The remorse of Therese caused him peculiar agitation. His suffering increased now that his accomplice dragged herself about him, with eyes red by weeping, and supplicating lips. The sight of this living example of regret redoubled his fright and added to his uneasiness. It was like an everlasting reproach wandering through the house. Then he feared that repentance would one day drive his wife to reveal everything. He would have preferred her to remain rigid and threatening, bitterly defending herself against his accusations. But she had changed her tactics. She now readily recognised the share she had taken in the crime. She even accused herself. She had become yielding and timid, and starting from this point implored redemption with ardent humility. This attitude irritated Laurent, and every evening the quarrels of the couple became more afflicting and sinister. Listen to me, said Therese to her husband, we are very guilty. We must repent if we wish to enjoy tranquillity. Look at me. Since I have been weeping I am more peaceable. Imitate me. Let us say together that we are justly punished for having committed a horrible crime. Bah! roughly answered Laurent, you can say what you please. I know you are deucedly clever and hypocritical. Weep, if that diverts you. But I must beg you not to worry me with your tears. Ah! said she, you are bad. You reject remorse. You are cowardly. You acted as a traitor to Camille. Do you mean to say that I alone am guilty? he inquired. No, she replied, I do not say that. I am guilty, more guilty than you are. I ought to have saved my husband from your hands. Oh! I am aware of all the horror of my fault. But I have sought pardon, and I have succeeded, Laurent, whereas you continue to lead a disconsolate life. You have not even had the feeling to spare my poor aunt the sight of your vile anger. You have never even addressed a word of regret to her. And she embraced Madame Raquin, who shut her eyes. She hovered round her, raising the pillow that propped up her head, and showing her all kinds of attention. Laurent was infuriated. Oh, leave her alone, he cried. Can t you see that your services, and the very sight of you are odious to her. If she could lift her hand she would slap your face. The slow and plaintive words of his wife, and her attitudes of resignation, gradually drove him into blinding fits of anger. He understood her tactics; she no longer wished to be at one with him, but to set herself apart wrapped in her regret, so as to escape the clasp of the drowned man. And, at moments, he said to himself that she had perhaps taken the right path, that tears might cure her of her terror, and he shuddered at the thought of having to suffer, and contend with fright alone. He also would have liked to repent, or at least to have performed the comedy of repentance, to see what effect it would have. Unable to find the sobs and necessary words, he flung himself into violence again, stirring up Therese so as to irritate her and lead her back with him to furious madness. But the young woman took care to remain inert, to answer his cries of anger by tearful submission, and to meet his coarseness by a proportionate display of humility and repentance. Laurent was thus gradually driven to fury. To crown his irritation, Therese always ended with the panegyric of Camille so as to display the virtues of the victim. He was good, said she, and we must have been very cruel to assail such a warm-hearted man who had never a bad thought. He was good, yes, I know, jeered Laurent. You mean to say he was a fool. You must have forgotten! You pretended you were irritated at the slightest thing he said, that he could not open his mouth without letting out some stupidity. Don t jeer, said Therese. It only remains for you to insult the man you murdered. You know nothing about the feelings of a woman, Laurent; Camille loved me and I loved him. You loved him! Ah! Really what a capital idea, exclaimed Laurent. And no doubt it was because you loved your husband, that you took me as a sweetheart. I remember one day when we were together, that you told me Camille disgusted you, when you felt the end of your fingers enter his flesh as if it were soft clay. Oh! I know why you loved me. You required more vigorous arms than those of that poor devil. I loved him as a sister, answered Therese. He was the son of my benefactress. He had all the delicate feelings of a feeble man. He showed himself noble and generous, serviceable and loving. And we killed him, good God! good God! She wept, and swooned away. Madame Raquin cast piercing glances at her, indignant to hear the praise of Camille sung by such a pair of lips. Laurent who was unable to do anything against this overflow of tears, walked to and fro with furious strides, searching in his head for some means to stifle the remorse of Therese. All the good he heard said of his victim ended by causing him poignant anxiety. Now and again he let himself be caught by the heartrending accents of his wife. He really believed in the virtues of Camille, and his terror redoubled. But what tried his patience beyond measure was the comparison that the widow of the drowned man never failed to draw between her first and second husband, and which was all to the advantage of the former. Well! Yes, she cried, he was better than you. I would sooner he were alive now, and you in his place underground. Laurent first of all shrugged his shoulders. Say what you will, she continued, becoming animated, although I perhaps failed to love him in his lifetime, yet I remember all his good qualities now, and do love him. Yes, I love him and hate you, do you hear? For you are an assassin. Will you hold your tongue? yelled Laurent. And he is a victim, she went on, notwithstanding the threatening attitude of her husband, an upright man killed by a rascal. Oh! I am not afraid of you. You know well enough that you are a miserable wretch, a brute of a man without a heart, and without a soul. How can you expect me to love you, now that you are reeking with the blood of Camille? Camille was full of tenderness for me, and I would kill you, do you hear, if that could bring him to life again, and give me back his love. Will you hold your tongue, you wretch? shouted Laurent. Why should I hold my tongue? she retorted. I am speaking the truth. I would purchase forgiveness at the price of your blood. Ah! How I weep, and how I suffer! It is my own fault if a scoundrel, such as you, murdered my husband. I must go, one of these nights, and kiss the ground where he rests. That will be my final rapture. Laurent, beside himself, rendered furious by the atrocious pictures that Therese spread out before his eyes, rushed upon her, and threw her down, menacing her with his uplifted fist. That s it, she cried, strike me, kill me! Camille never once raised his hand to me, but you are a monster. And Laurent, spurred on by what she said, shook her with rage, beat her, bruised her body with his clenched fists. In two instances he almost strangled her. Therese yielded to his blows. She experienced keen delight in being struck, delivering herself up, thrusting her body forward, provoking her husband in every way, so that he might half kill her again. This was another remedy for her suffering. She slept better at night when she had been thoroughly beaten in the evening. Madame Raquin enjoyed exquisite pleasure, when Laurent dragged her niece along the floor in this way, belabouring her with thumps and kicks. The existence of the assassin had become terrible since the day when Therese conceived the infernal idea of feeling remorse and of mourning Camille aloud. From that moment the wretch lived everlastingly with his victim. At every hour, he had to listen to his wife praising and regretting her first husband. The least incident became a pretext: Camille did this, Camille did that, Camille had such and such qualities, Camille loved in such and such a way. It was always Camille! Ever sad remarks bewailing his death. Therese had recourse to all her spitefulness to render this torture, which she inflicted on Laurent so as to shield her own self, as cruel as possible. She went into details, relating a thousand insignificant incidents connected with her youth, accompanied by sighs and expressions of regret, and in this manner, mingled the remembrance of the drowned man with every action of her daily life. The corpse which already haunted the house, was introduced there openly. It sat on the chairs, took its place at table, extended itself on the bed, making use of the various articles of furniture, and of the objects lying about hither and thither. Laurent could touch nothing, not a fork, not a brush, without Therese making him feel that Camille had touched it before him. The murderer being ceaselessly thrust, so to say, against the man he had killed, ended by experiencing a strange sensation that very nearly drove him out of his mind. By being so constantly compared to Camille, by making use of the different articles Camille had used, he imagined he was Camille himself, that he was identical with his victim. Then, with his brain fit to burst, he flew at his wife to make her hold her tongue, so as to no longer hear the words that drove him frantic. All their quarrels now ended in blows. CHAPTER XXX A time came when Madame Raquin, in order to escape the sufferings she endured, thought of starving herself to death. She had reached the end of her courage, she could no longer support the martyrdom that the presence of the two murderers imposed on her, she longed to find supreme relief in death. Each day her anguish grew more keen, when Therese embraced her, and when Laurent took her in his arms to carry her along like a child. She determined on freeing herself from these clasps and caresses that caused her such horrible disgust. As she had not sufficient life left within her to permit of her avenging her son, she preferred to be entirely dead, and to leave naught in the hands of the assassins but a corpse that could feel nothing, and with which they could do as they pleased. For two days she refused all nourishment, employing her remaining strength to clench her teeth or to eject anything that Therese succeeded in introducing into her mouth. Therese was in despair. She was asking herself at the foot of which post she should go to weep and repent, when her aunt would be no longer there. She kept up an interminable discourse to prove to Madame Raquin that she should live. She wept, she even became angry, bursting into her former fits of rage, opening the jaw of the paralysed woman as you open that of an animal which resists. Madame Raquin held out, and an odious scene ensued. Laurent remained absolutely neutral and indifferent. He was astonished at the efforts of Therese to prevent the impotent old woman committing suicide. Now that the presence of the old lady had become useless to them he desired her death. He would not have killed her, but as she wished to die, he did not see the use of depriving her of the means to do so. But, let her be! he shouted to his wife. It will be a good riddance. We shall, perhaps, be happier when she is no longer here. This remark repeated several times in the hearing of Madame Raquin, caused her extraordinary emotion. She feared that the hope expressed by Laurent might be realised, and that after her death the couple would enjoy calm and happiness. And she said to herself that it would be cowardly to die, that she had no right to go away before she had seen the end of the sinister adventure. Then, only, could she descend into darkness, to say to Camille: You are avenged. The idea of suicide became oppressive, when she all at once reflected that she would sink into the grave ignorant as to what had happened to the two murderers of her son. There, she would lie in the cold and silent earth, eternally tormented by uncertainty concerning the punishment of her tormentors. To thoroughly enjoy the slumber of death, she must be hushed to rest by the sweet delight of vengeance, she must carry away with her a dream of satisfied hatred, a dream that would last throughout eternity. So she took the food her niece presented to her, and consented to live on. Apart from this, it was easy for her to perceive that the climax could not be far off. Each day the position of the married couple became more strained and unbearable. A crash that would smash everything was imminent. At every moment, Therese and Laurent started up face to face in a more threatening manner. It was no longer at nighttime, alone, that they suffered from their intimacy; entire days were passed amidst anxiety and harrowing shocks. It was one constant scene of pain and terror. They lived in a perfect pandemonium, fighting, rendering all they did and said bitter and cruel, seeking to fling one another to the bottom of the abyss which they felt beneath their feet, and falling into it together. Ideas of separation had, indeed, occurred to both of them. Each had thought of flight, of seeking some repose far from this Arcade of the Pont Neuf where the damp and filth seemed adapted to their desolated life. But they dared not, they could not run away. It seemed impossible for them to avoid reviling each other, to avoid remaining there to suffer and cause pain. They proved obstinate in their hatred and cruelty. A sort of repulsion and attraction separated and kept them together at the same time. They behaved in the identical manner of two persons who, after quarrelling, wish to part, and who, nevertheless, continue returning to shout out fresh insults at one another. Moreover, material obstacles stood in the way of flight. What were they to do with the impotent woman? What could be said to the Thursday evening guests? If they fled, these people would, perhaps, suspect something. At this thought, they imagined they were being pursued and dragged to the guillotine. So they remained where they were through cowardice, wretchedly dragging out their lives amidst the horror of their surroundings. During the morning and afternoon, when Laurent was absent, Therese went from the dining-room to the shop in anxiety and trouble, at a loss to know what to do to fill up the void in her existence that daily became more pronounced. When not kneeling at the feet of Madame Raquin or receiving blows and insults from her husband, she had no occupation. As soon as she was seated alone in the shop, she became dejected, watching with a doltish expression, the people passing through the dirty, dark gallery. She felt ready to die of sadness in the middle of this gloomy vault, which had the odour of a cemetery, and ended by begging Suzanne to come and pass entire days with her, in the hope that the presence of this poor, gentle, pale creature might calm her. Suzanne accepted her offer with delight; she continued to feel a sort of respectful friendship for Therese, and had long desired to come and work with her, while Olivier was at his office. Bringing her embroidery with her, she took the vacant chair of Madame Raquin behind the counter. From that day Therese rather neglected her aunt. She went upstairs less frequently to weep on her knees and kiss the deathlike face of the invalid. She had something else to do. She made efforts to listen with interest to the dilatory gossip of Suzanne, who spoke of her home, and of the trivialities of her monotonous life. This relieved Therese of her own thoughts. Sometimes she caught herself paying attention to nonsense that brought a bitter smile to her face. By degrees, she lost all her customers. Since her aunt had been confined to her armchair upstairs, she had let the shop go from bad to worse, abandoning the goods to dust and damp. A smell of mildew hung in the atmosphere, spiders came down from the ceiling, the floor was but rarely swept. But what put the customers to flight was the strange way in which Therese sometimes welcomed them. When she happened to be upstairs, receiving blows from Laurent or agitated by a shock of terror, and the bell at the shop door tinkled imperiously, she had to go down, barely taking time to do up her hair or brush away the tears. On such occasions she served the persons awaiting her roughly; sometimes she even spared herself the trouble of serving, answering from the top of the staircase, that she no longer kept what was asked for. This kind of off-hand behaviour, was not calculated to retain custom. The little work-girls of the quarter, who were used to the sweet amiability of Madame Raquin, were driven away by the harshness and wild looks of Therese. When the latter took Suzanne with her to keep her company, the defection became complete. To avoid being disturbed in their gossip, the two young woman managed to drive away the few remaining purchasers who visited the shop. Henceforth, the mercery business ceased to bring in a sou towards the household expenses, and it became necessary to encroach on the capital of forty thousand francs and more. Sometimes, Therese absented herself the entire afternoon. No one knew where she went. Her reason for having Suzanne with her was no doubt partly for the purpose of securing company but also to mind the shop, while she was away. When she returned in the evening, worn out, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion, it was to find the little wife of Olivier still behind the counter, bowed down, with a vague smile on her lips, in the same attitude as she had left her five hours previously. Therese had a bad fright about five months after her marriage to Laurent. She found out she was pregnant and detested the thought of having a child of Laurent s. She had the fear that she would give birth to a drowned body. She thought that she could feel inside herself a soft, decomposing corpse. No matter what, she had to rid herself of this child. She did not tell Laurent. One day she cruelly provoked him and turned her stomach towards him, hoping to receive a kick. He kicked her and she let him go on kicking her in the stomach until she thought she would die. The next day her wish was fulfilled and she had a miscarriage. Laurent also led a frightful existence. The days seemed insupportably long; each brought the same anguish, the same heavy weariness which overwhelmed him at certain hours with crushing monotony and regularity. He dragged on his life, terrified every night by the recollections of the day, and the expectation of the morrow. He knew that henceforth, all his days would resemble one another, and bring him equal suffering. And he saw the weeks, months and years gloomily and implacably awaiting him, coming one after the other to fall upon him and gradually smother him. When there is no hope in the future, the present appears atrociously bitter. Laurent no longer resisted, he became lumpish, abandoning himself to the nothingness that was already gaining possession of his being. Idleness was killing him. In the morning he went out, without knowing where to go, disgusted at the thought of doing what he had done on the previous day, and compelled, in spite of himself, to do it again. He went to his studio by habit, by mania. This room, with its grey walls, whence he could see naught but a bare square of sky, filled him with mournful sadness. He grovelled on the divan heavy in thought and with pendent arms. He dared not touch a brush. He had made fresh attempts at painting, but only to find on each occasion, the head of Camille appear jeering on the canvas. So as not to go out of his mind, he ended by throwing his colour-box into a corner, and imposing the most absolute idleness on himself. This obligatory laziness weighed upon him terribly. In the afternoon, he questioned himself in distress to find out what he should do. For half an hour, he remained on the pavement in the Rue Mazarine, thinking and hesitating as to how he could divert himself. He rejected the idea of returning to the studio, and invariably decided on going down the Rue Guenegaud, to walk along the quays. And, until evening, he went along, dazed and seized with sudden shudders whenever he looked at the Seine. Whether in his studio or in the streets, his dejection was the same. The following day he began again. He passed the morning on his divan, and dragged himself along the quays in the afternoon. This lasted for months, and might last for years. Occasionally Laurent reflected that he had killed Camille so as to do nothing ever afterwards, and now that he did nothing, he was quite astonished to suffer so much. He would have liked to force himself to be happy. He proved to his own satisfaction, that he did wrong to suffer, that he had just attained supreme felicity, consisting in crossing his arms, and that he was an idiot not to enjoy this bliss in peace. But his reasoning exploded in the face of facts. He was constrained to confess, at the bottom of his heart, that this idleness rendered his anguish the more cruel, by leaving him every hour of his life to ponder on the despair and deepen its incurable bitterness. Laziness, that brutish existence which had been his dream, proved his punishment. At moments, he ardently hoped for some occupation to draw him from his thoughts. Then he lost all energy, relapsing beneath the weight of implacable fatality that bound his limbs so as to more surely crush him. In truth, he only found some relief when beating Therese, at night. This brutality alone relieved him of his enervated anguish. But his keenest suffering, both physical and moral, came from the bite Camille had given him in the neck. At certain moments, he imagined that this scar covered the whole of his body. If he came to forget the past, he all at once fancied he felt a burning puncture, that recalled the murder both to his frame and mind. When under the influence of emotion, he could not stand before a looking-glass without noticing this phenomenon which he had so frequently remarked and which always terrified him; the blood flew to his neck, purpling the scar, which then began to gnaw the skin. This sort of wound that lived upon him, which became active, flushed, and biting at the slightest trouble, frightened and tortured him. He ended by believing that the teeth of the drowned man had planted an insect there which was devouring him. The part of his neck where the scar appeared, seemed to him to no longer belong to

cold

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

you forgive me. And yet, if you only knew how I am rent by remorse, if you only knew how I suffer, perhaps you would have pity. No, no pity for me. I should like to die here at your feet, overwhelmed by shame and grief. She spoke in this manner for hours together, passing from despair to hope, condemning and then pardoning herself; she assumed the voice, brief and plaintive in turn, of a little sick girl; she flattened herself on the ground and drew herself up again, acting upon all the ideas of humility and pride, of repentance and revolt that entered her head. Sometimes even, forgetting she was on her knees before Madame Raquin, she continued her monologue as in a dream. When she had made herself thoroughly giddy with her own words, she rose staggering and dazed, to go down to the shop in a calmer frame of mind, no longer fearing to burst into sobs before her customers. When she again felt inclined for remorse, she ran upstairs and knelt at the feet of the impotent woman. This scene was repeated ten times a day. Therese never reflected that her tears, and display of repentance must impose ineffable anguish on her aunt. The truth was that if she had desired to invent a torment to torture Madame Raquin, it would not have been possible to have found a more frightful one than the comedy of remorse she performed before her. The paralysed woman could see the egotism concealed beneath these effusions of grief. She suffered horribly from these long monologues which she was compelled to listen to at every instant, and which always brought the murder of Camille before her eyes. She could not pardon, she never departed from the implacable thought of vengeance that her impotency rendered more keen, and all day long she had to listen to pleas for pardon, and to humble and cowardly prayers. She would have liked to give an answer; certain sentences of her niece brought crushing refusals to her lips, but she had to remain mute and allow Therese to plead her cause without once interrupting her. The impossibility of crying out and stopping her ears caused her inexpressible torture. The words of the young woman entered her mind, slow and plaintive, as an irritating ditty. At first, she fancied the murderers inflicted this kind of torture on her out of sheer diabolical cruelty. Her sole means of defence was to close her eyes, as soon as her niece knelt before her, then although she heard, she did not see her. Therese, at last, had the impudence to kiss her aunt. One day, in a fit of repentance, she feigned she had perceived a gleam of mercy in the eyes of the paralysed woman; and she dragged herself along on her knees, she raised herself up, exclaiming in a distracted tone: You forgive me! You forgive me! Then she kissed the forehead and cheeks of the poor old creature, who was unable to throw her head backward so as to avoid the embrace. The cold skin on which Therese placed her lips, caused her violent disgust. She fancied this disgust, like the tears of remorse, would be an excellent remedy to appease her nerves; and she continued to kiss the impotent old woman daily, by way of penitence, and also to relieve herself. Oh! How good you are! she sometimes exclaimed. I can see my tears have touched you. Your eyes are full of pity. I am saved. Then she smothered her with caresses, placing the head of the infirm old lady on her knees, kissing her hands, smiling at her happily, and attending to all her requirements with a display of passionate affection. After a time, she believed in the reality of this comedy, she imagined she had obtained the pardon of Madame Raquin, and spoke of nothing but the delight she experienced at having secured her pardon. This was too much for the paralysed woman. It almost killed her. At the kisses of her niece, she again felt that sensation of bitter repugnance and rage which came over her, morning and night, when Laurent took her in his arms to lift her up, or lay her down. She was obliged to submit to the disgusting caresses of the wretch who had betrayed and killed her son. She could not even use her hand to wipe away the kisses that this woman left on her cheeks; and, for hours and hours together, she felt these kisses burning her. She became the doll of the murderers of Camille, a doll that they dressed, that they turned to right and left, and that they made use of according to their requirements and whims. She remained inert in their hands, as if she had been a lay-figure, and yet she lived, and became excited and indignant at the least contact with Therese or Laurent. What particularly exasperated her was the atrocious mockery of the young woman, who pretended she perceived expressions of mercy in her eyes, when she would have liked to have brought down fire from heaven on the head of the criminal. She frequently made supreme efforts to utter a cry of protestation, and loaded her looks with hatred. But Therese, who found it answered her purpose to repeat twenty times a day that she was pardoned, redoubled her caresses, and would see nothing. So the paralysed woman had to accept the thanks and effusions that her heart repelled. Henceforth, she lived in a state of bitter but powerless irritation, face to face with her yielding niece who displayed adorable acts of tenderness to recompense her for what she termed her heavenly goodness. When Therese knelt before Madame Raquin, in the presence of her husband, he brutally brought her to her feet. No acting, said he. Do I weep, do I prostrate myself? You do all this to trouble me. The remorse of Therese caused him peculiar agitation. His suffering increased now that his accomplice dragged herself about him, with eyes red by weeping, and supplicating lips. The sight of this living example of regret redoubled his fright and added to his uneasiness. It was like an everlasting reproach wandering through the house. Then he feared that repentance would one day drive his wife to reveal everything. He would have preferred her to remain rigid and threatening, bitterly defending herself against his accusations. But she had changed her tactics. She now readily recognised the share she had taken in the crime. She even accused herself. She had become yielding and timid, and starting from this point implored redemption with ardent humility. This attitude irritated Laurent, and every evening the quarrels of the couple became more afflicting and sinister. Listen to me, said Therese to her husband, we are very guilty. We must repent if we wish to enjoy tranquillity. Look at me. Since I have been weeping I am more peaceable. Imitate me. Let us say together that we are justly punished for having committed a horrible crime. Bah! roughly answered Laurent, you can say what you please. I know you are deucedly clever and hypocritical. Weep, if that diverts you. But I must beg you not to worry me with your tears. Ah! said she, you are bad. You reject remorse. You are cowardly. You acted as a traitor to Camille. Do you mean to say that I alone am guilty? he inquired. No, she replied, I do not say that. I am guilty, more guilty than you are. I ought to have saved my husband from your hands. Oh! I am aware of all the horror of my fault. But I have sought pardon, and I have succeeded, Laurent, whereas you continue to lead a disconsolate life. You have not even had the feeling to spare my poor aunt the sight of your vile anger. You have never even addressed a word of regret to her. And she embraced Madame Raquin, who shut her eyes. She hovered round her, raising the pillow that propped up her head, and showing her all kinds of attention. Laurent was infuriated. Oh, leave her alone, he cried. Can t you see that your services, and the very sight of you are odious to her. If she could lift her hand she would slap your face. The slow and plaintive words of his wife, and her attitudes of resignation, gradually drove him into blinding fits of anger. He understood her tactics; she no longer wished to be at one with him, but to set herself apart wrapped in her regret, so as to escape the clasp of the drowned man. And, at moments, he said to himself that she had perhaps taken the right path, that tears might cure her of her terror, and he shuddered at the thought of having to suffer, and contend with fright alone. He also would have liked to repent, or at least to have performed the comedy of repentance, to see what effect it would have. Unable to find the sobs and necessary words, he flung himself into violence again, stirring up Therese so as to irritate her and lead her back with him to furious madness. But the young woman took care to remain inert, to answer his cries of anger by tearful submission, and to meet his coarseness by a proportionate display of humility and repentance. Laurent was thus gradually driven to fury. To crown his irritation, Therese always ended with the panegyric of Camille so as to display the virtues of the victim. He was good, said she, and we must have been very cruel to assail such a warm-hearted man who had never a bad thought. He was good, yes, I know, jeered Laurent. You mean to say he was a fool. You must have forgotten! You pretended you were irritated at the slightest thing he said, that he could not open his mouth without letting out some stupidity. Don t jeer, said Therese. It only remains for you to insult the man you murdered. You know nothing about the feelings of a woman, Laurent; Camille loved me and I loved him. You loved him! Ah! Really what a capital idea, exclaimed Laurent. And no doubt it was because you loved your husband, that you took me as a sweetheart. I remember one day when we were together, that you told me Camille disgusted you, when you felt the end of your fingers enter his flesh as if it were soft clay. Oh! I know why you loved me. You required more vigorous arms than those of that poor devil. I loved him as a sister, answered Therese. He was the son of my benefactress. He had all the delicate feelings of a feeble man. He showed himself noble and generous, serviceable and loving. And we killed him, good God! good God! She wept, and swooned away. Madame Raquin cast piercing glances at her, indignant to hear the praise of Camille sung by such a pair of lips. Laurent who was unable to do anything against this overflow of tears, walked to and fro with furious strides, searching in his head for some means to stifle the remorse of Therese. All the good he heard said of his victim ended by causing him poignant anxiety. Now and again he let himself be caught by the heartrending accents of his wife. He really believed in the virtues of Camille, and his terror redoubled. But what tried his patience beyond measure was the comparison that the widow of the drowned man never failed to draw between her first and second husband, and which was all to the advantage of the former. Well! Yes, she cried, he was better than you. I would sooner he were alive now, and you in his place underground. Laurent first of all shrugged his shoulders. Say what you will, she continued, becoming animated, although I perhaps failed to love him in his lifetime, yet I remember all his good qualities now, and do love him. Yes, I love him and hate you, do you hear? For you are an assassin. Will you hold your tongue? yelled Laurent. And he is a victim, she went on, notwithstanding the threatening attitude of her husband, an upright man killed by a rascal. Oh! I am not afraid of you. You know well enough that you are a miserable wretch, a brute of a man without a heart, and without a soul. How can you expect me to love you, now that you are reeking with the blood of Camille? Camille was full of tenderness for me, and I would kill you, do you hear, if that could bring him to life again, and give me back his love. Will you hold your tongue, you wretch? shouted Laurent. Why should I hold my tongue? she retorted. I am speaking the truth. I would purchase forgiveness at the price of your blood. Ah! How I weep, and how I suffer! It is my own fault if a scoundrel, such as you, murdered my husband. I must go, one of these nights, and kiss the ground where he rests. That will be my final rapture. Laurent, beside himself, rendered furious by the atrocious pictures that Therese spread out before his eyes, rushed upon her, and threw her down, menacing her with his uplifted fist. That s it, she cried, strike me, kill me! Camille never once raised his hand to me, but you are a monster. And Laurent, spurred on by what she said, shook her with rage, beat her, bruised her body with his clenched fists. In two instances he almost strangled her. Therese yielded to his blows. She experienced keen delight in being struck, delivering herself up, thrusting her body forward, provoking her husband in every way, so that he might half kill her again. This was another remedy for her suffering. She slept better at night when she had been thoroughly beaten in the evening. Madame Raquin enjoyed exquisite pleasure, when Laurent dragged her niece along the floor in this way, belabouring her with thumps and kicks. The existence of the assassin had become terrible since the day when Therese conceived the infernal idea of feeling remorse and of mourning Camille aloud. From that moment the wretch lived everlastingly with his victim. At every hour, he had to listen to his wife praising and regretting her first husband. The least incident became a pretext: Camille did this, Camille did that, Camille had such and such qualities, Camille loved in such and such a way. It was always Camille! Ever sad remarks bewailing his death. Therese had recourse to all her spitefulness to render this torture, which she inflicted on Laurent so as to shield her own self, as cruel as possible. She went into details, relating a thousand insignificant incidents connected with her youth, accompanied by sighs and expressions of regret, and in this manner, mingled the remembrance of the drowned man with every action of her daily life. The corpse which already haunted the house, was introduced there openly. It sat on the chairs, took its place at table, extended itself on the bed, making use of the various articles of furniture, and of the objects lying about hither and thither. Laurent could touch nothing, not a fork, not a brush, without Therese making him feel that Camille had touched it before him. The murderer being ceaselessly thrust, so to say, against the man he had killed, ended by experiencing a strange sensation that very nearly drove him out of his mind. By being so constantly compared to Camille, by making use of the different articles Camille had used, he imagined he was Camille himself, that he was identical with his victim. Then, with his brain fit to burst, he flew at his wife to make her hold her tongue, so as to no longer hear the words that drove him frantic. All their quarrels now ended in blows. CHAPTER XXX A time came when Madame Raquin, in order to escape the sufferings she endured, thought of starving herself to death. She had reached the end of her courage, she could no longer support the martyrdom that the presence of the two murderers imposed on her, she longed to find supreme relief in death. Each day her anguish grew more keen, when Therese embraced her, and when Laurent took her in his arms to carry her along like a child. She determined on freeing herself from these clasps and caresses that caused her such horrible disgust. As she had not sufficient life left within her to permit of her avenging her son, she preferred to be entirely dead, and to leave naught in the hands of the assassins but a corpse that could feel nothing, and with which they could do as they pleased. For two days she refused all nourishment, employing her remaining strength to clench her teeth or to eject anything that Therese succeeded in introducing into her mouth. Therese was in despair. She was asking herself at the foot of which post she should go to weep and repent, when her aunt would be no longer there. She kept up an interminable discourse to prove to Madame Raquin that she should live. She wept, she even became angry, bursting into her former fits of rage, opening the jaw of the paralysed woman as you open that of an animal which resists. Madame Raquin held out, and an odious scene ensued. Laurent remained absolutely neutral and indifferent. He was astonished at the efforts of Therese to prevent the impotent old woman committing suicide. Now that the presence of the old lady had become useless to them he desired her death. He would not have killed her, but as she wished to die, he did not see the use of depriving her of the means to do so. But, let her be! he shouted to his wife. It will be a good riddance. We shall, perhaps, be happier when she is no longer here. This remark repeated several times in the hearing of Madame Raquin, caused her extraordinary emotion. She feared that the hope expressed by Laurent might be realised, and that after her death the couple would enjoy calm and happiness. And she said to herself that it would be cowardly to die, that she had no right to go away before she had seen the end of the sinister adventure. Then, only, could she descend into darkness, to say to Camille: You are avenged. The idea of suicide became oppressive, when she all at once reflected that she would sink into the grave ignorant as to what had happened to the two murderers of her son. There, she would lie in the cold and silent earth, eternally tormented by uncertainty concerning the punishment of her tormentors. To thoroughly enjoy the slumber of death, she must be hushed to rest by the sweet delight of vengeance, she must carry away with her a dream of satisfied hatred, a dream that would last throughout eternity. So she took the food her niece presented to her, and consented to live on. Apart from this, it was easy for her to perceive that the climax could not be far off. Each day the position of the married couple became more strained and unbearable. A crash that would smash everything was imminent. At every moment, Therese and Laurent started up face to face in a more threatening manner. It was no longer at nighttime, alone, that they suffered from their intimacy; entire days were passed amidst anxiety and harrowing shocks. It was one constant scene of pain and terror. They lived in a perfect pandemonium, fighting, rendering all they did and said bitter and cruel, seeking to fling one another to the bottom of the abyss which they felt beneath their feet, and falling into it together. Ideas of separation had, indeed, occurred to both of them. Each had thought of flight, of seeking some repose far from this Arcade of the Pont Neuf where the damp and filth seemed adapted to their desolated life. But they dared not, they could not run away. It seemed impossible for them to avoid reviling each other, to avoid remaining there to suffer and cause pain. They proved obstinate in their hatred and cruelty. A sort of repulsion and attraction separated and kept them together at the same time. They behaved in the identical manner of two persons who, after quarrelling, wish to part, and who, nevertheless, continue returning to shout out fresh insults at one another. Moreover, material obstacles stood in the way of flight. What were they to do with the impotent woman? What could be said to the Thursday evening guests? If they fled, these people would, perhaps, suspect something. At this thought, they imagined they were being pursued and dragged to the guillotine. So they remained where they were through cowardice, wretchedly dragging out their lives amidst the horror of their surroundings. During the morning and afternoon, when Laurent was absent, Therese went from the dining-room to the shop in anxiety and trouble, at a loss to know what to do to fill up the void in her existence that daily became more pronounced. When not kneeling at the feet of Madame Raquin or receiving blows and insults from her husband, she had no occupation. As soon as she was seated alone in the shop, she became dejected, watching with a doltish expression, the people passing through the dirty, dark gallery. She felt ready to die of sadness in the middle of this gloomy vault, which had the odour of a cemetery, and ended by begging Suzanne to come and pass entire days with her, in the hope that the presence of this poor, gentle, pale creature might calm her. Suzanne accepted her offer with delight; she continued to feel a sort of respectful friendship for Therese, and had long desired to come and work with her, while Olivier was at his office. Bringing her embroidery with her, she took the vacant chair of Madame Raquin behind the counter. From that day Therese rather neglected her aunt. She went upstairs less frequently to weep on her knees and kiss the deathlike face of the invalid. She had something else to do. She made efforts to listen with interest to the dilatory gossip of Suzanne, who spoke of her home, and of the trivialities of her monotonous life. This relieved Therese of her own thoughts. Sometimes she caught herself paying attention to nonsense that brought a bitter smile to her face. By degrees, she lost all her customers. Since her aunt had been confined to her armchair upstairs, she had let the shop go from bad to worse, abandoning the goods to dust and damp. A smell of mildew hung in the atmosphere, spiders came down from the ceiling, the floor was but rarely swept. But what put the customers to flight was the strange way in which Therese sometimes welcomed them. When she happened to be upstairs, receiving blows from Laurent or agitated by a shock of terror, and the bell at the shop door tinkled imperiously, she had to go down, barely taking time to do up her hair or brush away the tears. On such occasions she served the persons awaiting her roughly; sometimes she even spared herself the trouble of serving, answering from the top of the staircase, that she no longer kept what was asked for. This kind of off-hand behaviour, was not calculated to retain custom. The little work-girls of the quarter, who were used to the sweet amiability of Madame Raquin, were driven away by the harshness and wild looks of Therese. When the latter took Suzanne with her to keep her company, the defection became complete. To avoid being disturbed in their gossip, the two young woman managed to drive away the few remaining purchasers who visited the shop. Henceforth, the mercery business ceased to bring in a sou towards the household expenses, and it became necessary to encroach on the capital of forty thousand francs and more. Sometimes, Therese absented herself the entire afternoon. No one knew where she went. Her reason for having Suzanne with her was no doubt partly for the purpose of securing company but also to mind the shop, while she was away. When she returned in the evening, worn out, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion, it was to find the little wife of Olivier still behind the counter, bowed down, with a vague smile on her lips, in the same attitude as she had left her five hours previously. Therese had a bad fright about five months after her marriage to Laurent. She found out she was pregnant and detested the thought of having a child of Laurent s. She had the fear that she would give birth to a drowned body. She thought that she could feel inside herself a soft, decomposing corpse. No matter what, she had to rid herself of this child. She did not tell Laurent. One day she cruelly provoked him and turned her stomach towards him, hoping to receive a kick. He kicked her and she let him go on kicking her in the stomach until she thought she would die. The next day her wish was fulfilled and she had a miscarriage. Laurent also led a frightful existence. The days seemed insupportably long; each brought the same anguish, the same heavy weariness which overwhelmed him at certain hours with crushing monotony and regularity. He dragged on his life, terrified every night by the recollections of the day, and the expectation of the morrow. He knew that henceforth, all his days would resemble one another, and bring him equal suffering. And he saw the weeks, months and years gloomily and implacably awaiting him, coming one after the other to fall upon him and gradually smother him. When there is no hope in the future, the present appears atrociously bitter. Laurent no longer resisted, he became lumpish, abandoning himself to the nothingness that was already gaining possession of his being. Idleness was killing him. In the morning he went out, without knowing where to go, disgusted at the thought of doing what he had done on the previous day, and compelled, in spite of himself, to do it again. He went to his studio by habit, by mania. This room, with its grey walls, whence he could see naught but a bare square of sky, filled him with mournful sadness. He grovelled on the divan heavy in thought and with pendent arms. He dared not touch a brush. He had made fresh attempts at painting, but only to find on each occasion, the head of Camille appear jeering on the canvas. So as not to go out of his mind, he ended by throwing his colour-box into a corner, and imposing the most absolute idleness on himself. This obligatory laziness weighed upon him terribly. In the afternoon, he questioned himself in distress to find out what he should do. For half an hour, he remained on the pavement in the Rue Mazarine, thinking and hesitating as to how he could divert himself. He rejected the idea of returning to the studio, and invariably decided on going down the Rue Guenegaud, to walk along the quays. And, until evening, he went along, dazed and seized with sudden shudders whenever he looked at the Seine. Whether in his studio or in the streets, his dejection was the same. The following day he began again. He passed the morning on his divan, and dragged himself along the quays in the afternoon. This lasted for months, and might last for years. Occasionally Laurent reflected that he had killed Camille so as to do nothing ever afterwards, and now that he did nothing, he was quite astonished to suffer so much. He would have liked to force himself to be happy. He proved to his own satisfaction, that he did wrong to suffer, that he had just attained supreme felicity, consisting in crossing his arms, and that he was an idiot not to enjoy this bliss in peace. But his reasoning exploded in the face of facts. He was constrained to confess, at the bottom of his heart, that this idleness rendered his anguish the more cruel, by leaving him every hour of his life to ponder on the despair and deepen its incurable bitterness. Laziness, that brutish existence which had been his dream, proved his punishment. At moments, he ardently hoped for some occupation to draw him from his thoughts. Then he lost all energy, relapsing beneath the weight of implacable fatality that bound his limbs so as to more surely crush him. In truth, he only found some relief when beating Therese, at night. This brutality alone relieved him of his enervated anguish. But his keenest suffering, both physical and moral, came from the bite Camille had given him in the neck. At certain moments, he imagined that this scar covered the whole of his body. If he came to forget the past, he all at once fancied he felt a burning puncture, that recalled the murder both to his frame and mind. When under the influence of emotion, he could not stand before a looking-glass without noticing this phenomenon which he had so frequently remarked and which always terrified him; the blood flew to his neck, purpling the scar, which then began to gnaw the skin. This sort of wound that lived upon him, which became active, flushed, and biting at the slightest trouble, frightened and tortured him. He ended by believing that the teeth of the drowned man had planted an insect there which was devouring him. The part of his neck where the scar appeared, seemed to him to no longer belong to

wished

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

you forgive me. And yet, if you only knew how I am rent by remorse, if you only knew how I suffer, perhaps you would have pity. No, no pity for me. I should like to die here at your feet, overwhelmed by shame and grief. She spoke in this manner for hours together, passing from despair to hope, condemning and then pardoning herself; she assumed the voice, brief and plaintive in turn, of a little sick girl; she flattened herself on the ground and drew herself up again, acting upon all the ideas of humility and pride, of repentance and revolt that entered her head. Sometimes even, forgetting she was on her knees before Madame Raquin, she continued her monologue as in a dream. When she had made herself thoroughly giddy with her own words, she rose staggering and dazed, to go down to the shop in a calmer frame of mind, no longer fearing to burst into sobs before her customers. When she again felt inclined for remorse, she ran upstairs and knelt at the feet of the impotent woman. This scene was repeated ten times a day. Therese never reflected that her tears, and display of repentance must impose ineffable anguish on her aunt. The truth was that if she had desired to invent a torment to torture Madame Raquin, it would not have been possible to have found a more frightful one than the comedy of remorse she performed before her. The paralysed woman could see the egotism concealed beneath these effusions of grief. She suffered horribly from these long monologues which she was compelled to listen to at every instant, and which always brought the murder of Camille before her eyes. She could not pardon, she never departed from the implacable thought of vengeance that her impotency rendered more keen, and all day long she had to listen to pleas for pardon, and to humble and cowardly prayers. She would have liked to give an answer; certain sentences of her niece brought crushing refusals to her lips, but she had to remain mute and allow Therese to plead her cause without once interrupting her. The impossibility of crying out and stopping her ears caused her inexpressible torture. The words of the young woman entered her mind, slow and plaintive, as an irritating ditty. At first, she fancied the murderers inflicted this kind of torture on her out of sheer diabolical cruelty. Her sole means of defence was to close her eyes, as soon as her niece knelt before her, then although she heard, she did not see her. Therese, at last, had the impudence to kiss her aunt. One day, in a fit of repentance, she feigned she had perceived a gleam of mercy in the eyes of the paralysed woman; and she dragged herself along on her knees, she raised herself up, exclaiming in a distracted tone: You forgive me! You forgive me! Then she kissed the forehead and cheeks of the poor old creature, who was unable to throw her head backward so as to avoid the embrace. The cold skin on which Therese placed her lips, caused her violent disgust. She fancied this disgust, like the tears of remorse, would be an excellent remedy to appease her nerves; and she continued to kiss the impotent old woman daily, by way of penitence, and also to relieve herself. Oh! How good you are! she sometimes exclaimed. I can see my tears have touched you. Your eyes are full of pity. I am saved. Then she smothered her with caresses, placing the head of the infirm old lady on her knees, kissing her hands, smiling at her happily, and attending to all her requirements with a display of passionate affection. After a time, she believed in the reality of this comedy, she imagined she had obtained the pardon of Madame Raquin, and spoke of nothing but the delight she experienced at having secured her pardon. This was too much for the paralysed woman. It almost killed her. At the kisses of her niece, she again felt that sensation of bitter repugnance and rage which came over her, morning and night, when Laurent took her in his arms to lift her up, or lay her down. She was obliged to submit to the disgusting caresses of the wretch who had betrayed and killed her son. She could not even use her hand to wipe away the kisses that this woman left on her cheeks; and, for hours and hours together, she felt these kisses burning her. She became the doll of the murderers of Camille, a doll that they dressed, that they turned to right and left, and that they made use of according to their requirements and whims. She remained inert in their hands, as if she had been a lay-figure, and yet she lived, and became excited and indignant at the least contact with Therese or Laurent. What particularly exasperated her was the atrocious mockery of the young woman, who pretended she perceived expressions of mercy in her eyes, when she would have liked to have brought down fire from heaven on the head of the criminal. She frequently made supreme efforts to utter a cry of protestation, and loaded her looks with hatred. But Therese, who found it answered her purpose to repeat twenty times a day that she was pardoned, redoubled her caresses, and would see nothing. So the paralysed woman had to accept the thanks and effusions that her heart repelled. Henceforth, she lived in a state of bitter but powerless irritation, face to face with her yielding niece who displayed adorable acts of tenderness to recompense her for what she termed her heavenly goodness. When Therese knelt before Madame Raquin, in the presence of her husband, he brutally brought her to her feet. No acting, said he. Do I weep, do I prostrate myself? You do all this to trouble me. The remorse of Therese caused him peculiar agitation. His suffering increased now that his accomplice dragged herself about him, with eyes red by weeping, and supplicating lips. The sight of this living example of regret redoubled his fright and added to his uneasiness. It was like an everlasting reproach wandering through the house. Then he feared that repentance would one day drive his wife to reveal everything. He would have preferred her to remain rigid and threatening, bitterly defending herself against his accusations. But she had changed her tactics. She now readily recognised the share she had taken in the crime. She even accused herself. She had become yielding and timid, and starting from this point implored redemption with ardent humility. This attitude irritated Laurent, and every evening the quarrels of the couple became more afflicting and sinister. Listen to me, said Therese to her husband, we are very guilty. We must repent if we wish to enjoy tranquillity. Look at me. Since I have been weeping I am more peaceable. Imitate me. Let us say together that we are justly punished for having committed a horrible crime. Bah! roughly answered Laurent, you can say what you please. I know you are deucedly clever and hypocritical. Weep, if that diverts you. But I must beg you not to worry me with your tears. Ah! said she, you are bad. You reject remorse. You are cowardly. You acted as a traitor to Camille. Do you mean to say that I alone am guilty? he inquired. No, she replied, I do not say that. I am guilty, more guilty than you are. I ought to have saved my husband from your hands. Oh! I am aware of all the horror of my fault. But I have sought pardon, and I have succeeded, Laurent, whereas you continue to lead a disconsolate life. You have not even had the feeling to spare my poor aunt the sight of your vile anger. You have never even addressed a word of regret to her. And she embraced Madame Raquin, who shut her eyes. She hovered round her, raising the pillow that propped up her head, and showing her all kinds of attention. Laurent was infuriated. Oh, leave her alone, he cried. Can t you see that your services, and the very sight of you are odious to her. If she could lift her hand she would slap your face. The slow and plaintive words of his wife, and her attitudes of resignation, gradually drove him into blinding fits of anger. He understood her tactics; she no longer wished to be at one with him, but to set herself apart wrapped in her regret, so as to escape the clasp of the drowned man. And, at moments, he said to himself that she had perhaps taken the right path, that tears might cure her of her terror, and he shuddered at the thought of having to suffer, and contend with fright alone. He also would have liked to repent, or at least to have performed the comedy of repentance, to see what effect it would have. Unable to find the sobs and necessary words, he flung himself into violence again, stirring up Therese so as to irritate her and lead her back with him to furious madness. But the young woman took care to remain inert, to answer his cries of anger by tearful submission, and to meet his coarseness by a proportionate display of humility and repentance. Laurent was thus gradually driven to fury. To crown his irritation, Therese always ended with the panegyric of Camille so as to display the virtues of the victim. He was good, said she, and we must have been very cruel to assail such a warm-hearted man who had never a bad thought. He was good, yes, I know, jeered Laurent. You mean to say he was a fool. You must have forgotten! You pretended you were irritated at the slightest thing he said, that he could not open his mouth without letting out some stupidity. Don t jeer, said Therese. It only remains for you to insult the man you murdered. You know nothing about the feelings of a woman, Laurent; Camille loved me and I loved him. You loved him! Ah! Really what a capital idea, exclaimed Laurent. And no doubt it was because you loved your husband, that you took me as a sweetheart. I remember one day when we were together, that you told me Camille disgusted you, when you felt the end of your fingers enter his flesh as if it were soft clay. Oh! I know why you loved me. You required more vigorous arms than those of that poor devil. I loved him as a sister, answered Therese. He was the son of my benefactress. He had all the delicate feelings of a feeble man. He showed himself noble and generous, serviceable and loving. And we killed him, good God! good God! She wept, and swooned away. Madame Raquin cast piercing glances at her, indignant to hear the praise of Camille sung by such a pair of lips. Laurent who was unable to do anything against this overflow of tears, walked to and fro with furious strides, searching in his head for some means to stifle the remorse of Therese. All the good he heard said of his victim ended by causing him poignant anxiety. Now and again he let himself be caught by the heartrending accents of his wife. He really believed in the virtues of Camille, and his terror redoubled. But what tried his patience beyond measure was the comparison that the widow of the drowned man never failed to draw between her first and second husband, and which was all to the advantage of the former. Well! Yes, she cried, he was better than you. I would sooner he were alive now, and you in his place underground. Laurent first of all shrugged his shoulders. Say what you will, she continued, becoming animated, although I perhaps failed to love him in his lifetime, yet I remember all his good qualities now, and do love him. Yes, I love him and hate you, do you hear? For you are an assassin. Will you hold your tongue? yelled Laurent. And he is a victim, she went on, notwithstanding the threatening attitude of her husband, an upright man killed by a rascal. Oh! I am not afraid of you. You know well enough that you are a miserable wretch, a brute of a man without a heart, and without a soul. How can you expect me to love you, now that you are reeking with the blood of Camille? Camille was full of tenderness for me, and I would kill you, do you hear, if that could bring him to life again, and give me back his love. Will you hold your tongue, you wretch? shouted Laurent. Why should I hold my tongue? she retorted. I am speaking the truth. I would purchase forgiveness at the price of your blood. Ah! How I weep, and how I suffer! It is my own fault if a scoundrel, such as you, murdered my husband. I must go, one of these nights, and kiss the ground where he rests. That will be my final rapture. Laurent, beside himself, rendered furious by the atrocious pictures that Therese spread out before his eyes, rushed upon her, and threw her down, menacing her with his uplifted fist. That s it, she cried, strike me, kill me! Camille never once raised his hand to me, but you are a monster. And Laurent, spurred on by what she said, shook her with rage, beat her, bruised her body with his clenched fists. In two instances he almost strangled her. Therese yielded to his blows. She experienced keen delight in being struck, delivering herself up, thrusting her body forward, provoking her husband in every way, so that he might half kill her again. This was another remedy for her suffering. She slept better at night when she had been thoroughly beaten in the evening. Madame Raquin enjoyed exquisite pleasure, when Laurent dragged her niece along the floor in this way, belabouring her with thumps and kicks. The existence of the assassin had become terrible since the day when Therese conceived the infernal idea of feeling remorse and of mourning Camille aloud. From that moment the wretch lived everlastingly with his victim. At every hour, he had to listen to his wife praising and regretting her first husband. The least incident became a pretext: Camille did this, Camille did that, Camille had such and such qualities, Camille loved in such and such a way. It was always Camille! Ever sad remarks bewailing his death. Therese had recourse to all her spitefulness to render this torture, which she inflicted on Laurent so as to shield her own self, as cruel as possible. She went into details, relating a thousand insignificant incidents connected with her youth, accompanied by sighs and expressions of regret, and in this manner, mingled the remembrance of the drowned man with every action of her daily life. The corpse which already haunted the house, was introduced there openly. It sat on the chairs, took its place at table, extended itself on the bed, making use of the various articles of furniture, and of the objects lying about hither and thither. Laurent could touch nothing, not a fork, not a brush, without Therese making him feel that Camille had touched it before him. The murderer being ceaselessly thrust, so to say, against the man he had killed, ended by experiencing a strange sensation that very nearly drove him out of his mind. By being so constantly compared to Camille, by making use of the different articles Camille had used, he imagined he was Camille himself, that he was identical with his victim. Then, with his brain fit to burst, he flew at his wife to make her hold her tongue, so as to no longer hear the words that drove him frantic. All their quarrels now ended in blows. CHAPTER XXX A time came when Madame Raquin, in order to escape the sufferings she endured, thought of starving herself to death. She had reached the end of her courage, she could no longer support the martyrdom that the presence of the two murderers imposed on her, she longed to find supreme relief in death. Each day her anguish grew more keen, when Therese embraced her, and when Laurent took her in his arms to carry her along like a child. She determined on freeing herself from these clasps and caresses that caused her such horrible disgust. As she had not sufficient life left within her to permit of her avenging her son, she preferred to be entirely dead, and to leave naught in the hands of the assassins but a corpse that could feel nothing, and with which they could do as they pleased. For two days she refused all nourishment, employing her remaining strength to clench her teeth or to eject anything that Therese succeeded in introducing into her mouth. Therese was in despair. She was asking herself at the foot of which post she should go to weep and repent, when her aunt would be no longer there. She kept up an interminable discourse to prove to Madame Raquin that she should live. She wept, she even became angry, bursting into her former fits of rage, opening the jaw of the paralysed woman as you open that of an animal which resists. Madame Raquin held out, and an odious scene ensued. Laurent remained absolutely neutral and indifferent. He was astonished at the efforts of Therese to prevent the impotent old woman committing suicide. Now that the presence of the old lady had become useless to them he desired her death. He would not have killed her, but as she wished to die, he did not see the use of depriving her of the means to do so. But, let her be! he shouted to his wife. It will be a good riddance. We shall, perhaps, be happier when she is no longer here. This remark repeated several times in the hearing of Madame Raquin, caused her extraordinary emotion. She feared that the hope expressed by Laurent might be realised, and that after her death the couple would enjoy calm and happiness. And she said to herself that it would be cowardly to die, that she had no right to go away before she had seen the end of the sinister adventure. Then, only, could she descend into darkness, to say to Camille: You are avenged. The idea of suicide became oppressive, when she all at once reflected that she would sink into the grave ignorant as to what had happened to the two murderers of her son. There, she would lie in the cold and silent earth, eternally tormented by uncertainty concerning the punishment of her tormentors. To thoroughly enjoy the slumber of death, she must be hushed to rest by the sweet delight of vengeance, she must carry away with her a dream of satisfied hatred, a dream that would last throughout eternity. So she took the food her niece presented to her, and consented to live on. Apart from this, it was easy for her to perceive that the climax could not be far off. Each day the position of the married couple became more strained and unbearable. A crash that would smash everything was imminent. At every moment, Therese and Laurent started up face to face in a more threatening manner. It was no longer at nighttime, alone, that they suffered from their intimacy; entire days were passed amidst anxiety and harrowing shocks. It was one constant scene of pain and terror. They lived in a perfect pandemonium, fighting, rendering all they did and said bitter and cruel, seeking to fling one another to the bottom of the abyss which they felt beneath their feet, and falling into it together. Ideas of separation had, indeed, occurred to both of them. Each had thought of flight, of seeking some repose far from this Arcade of the Pont Neuf where the damp and filth seemed adapted to their desolated life. But they dared not, they could not run away. It seemed impossible for them to avoid reviling each other, to avoid remaining there to suffer and cause pain. They proved obstinate in their hatred and cruelty. A sort of repulsion and attraction separated and kept them together at the same time. They behaved in the identical manner of two persons who, after quarrelling, wish to part, and who, nevertheless, continue returning to shout out fresh insults at one another. Moreover, material obstacles stood in the way of flight. What were they to do with the impotent woman? What could be said to the Thursday evening guests? If they fled, these people would, perhaps, suspect something. At this thought, they imagined they were being pursued and dragged to the guillotine. So they remained where they were through cowardice, wretchedly dragging out their lives amidst the horror of their surroundings. During the morning and afternoon, when Laurent was absent, Therese went from the dining-room to the shop in anxiety and trouble, at a loss to know what to do to fill up the void in her existence that daily became more pronounced. When not kneeling at the feet of Madame Raquin or receiving blows and insults from her husband, she had no occupation. As soon as she was seated alone in the shop, she became dejected, watching with a doltish expression, the people passing through the dirty, dark gallery. She felt ready to die of sadness in the middle of this gloomy vault, which had the odour of a cemetery, and ended by begging Suzanne to come and pass entire days with her, in the hope that the presence of this poor, gentle, pale creature might calm her. Suzanne accepted her offer with delight; she continued to feel a sort of respectful friendship for Therese, and had long desired to come and work with her, while Olivier was at his office. Bringing her embroidery with her, she took the vacant chair of Madame Raquin behind the counter. From that day Therese rather neglected her aunt. She went upstairs less frequently to weep on her knees and kiss the deathlike face of the invalid. She had something else to do. She made efforts to listen with interest to the dilatory gossip of Suzanne, who spoke of her home, and of the trivialities of her monotonous life. This relieved Therese of her own thoughts. Sometimes she caught herself paying attention to nonsense that brought a bitter smile to her face. By degrees, she lost all her customers. Since her aunt had been confined to her armchair upstairs, she had let the shop go from bad to worse, abandoning the goods to dust and damp. A smell of mildew hung in the atmosphere, spiders came down from the ceiling, the floor was but rarely swept. But what put the customers to flight was the strange way in which Therese sometimes welcomed them. When she happened to be upstairs, receiving blows from Laurent or agitated by a shock of terror, and the bell at the shop door tinkled imperiously, she had to go down, barely taking time to do up her hair or brush away the tears. On such occasions she served the persons awaiting her roughly; sometimes she even spared herself the trouble of serving, answering from the top of the staircase, that she no longer kept what was asked for. This kind of off-hand behaviour, was not calculated to retain custom. The little work-girls of the quarter, who were used to the sweet amiability of Madame Raquin, were driven away by the harshness and wild looks of Therese. When the latter took Suzanne with her to keep her company, the defection became complete. To avoid being disturbed in their gossip, the two young woman managed to drive away the few remaining purchasers who visited the shop. Henceforth, the mercery business ceased to bring in a sou towards the household expenses, and it became necessary to encroach on the capital of forty thousand francs and more. Sometimes, Therese absented herself the entire afternoon. No one knew where she went. Her reason for having Suzanne with her was no doubt partly for the purpose of securing company but also to mind the shop, while she was away. When she returned in the evening, worn out, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion, it was to find the little wife of Olivier still behind the counter, bowed down, with a vague smile on her lips, in the same attitude as she had left her five hours previously. Therese had a bad fright about five months after her marriage to Laurent. She found out she was pregnant and detested the thought of having a child of Laurent s. She had the fear that she would give birth to a drowned body. She thought that she could feel inside herself a soft, decomposing corpse. No matter what, she had to rid herself of this child. She did not tell Laurent. One day she cruelly provoked him and turned her stomach towards him, hoping to receive a kick. He kicked her and she let him go on kicking her in the stomach until she thought she would die. The next day her wish was fulfilled and she had a miscarriage. Laurent also led a frightful existence. The days seemed insupportably long; each brought the same anguish, the same heavy weariness which overwhelmed him at certain hours with crushing monotony and regularity. He dragged on his life, terrified every night by the recollections of the day, and the expectation of the morrow. He knew that henceforth, all his days would resemble one another, and bring him equal suffering. And he saw the weeks, months and years gloomily and implacably awaiting him, coming one after the other to fall upon him and gradually smother him. When there is no hope in the future, the present appears atrociously bitter. Laurent no longer resisted, he became lumpish, abandoning himself to the nothingness that was already gaining possession of his being. Idleness was killing him. In the morning he went out, without knowing where to go, disgusted at the thought of doing what he had done on the previous day, and compelled, in spite of himself, to do it again. He went to his studio by habit, by mania. This room, with its grey walls, whence he could see naught but a bare square of sky, filled him with mournful sadness. He grovelled on the divan heavy in thought and with pendent arms. He dared not touch a brush. He had made fresh attempts at painting, but only to find on each occasion, the head of Camille appear jeering on the canvas. So as not to go out of his mind, he ended by throwing his colour-box into a corner, and imposing the most absolute idleness on himself. This obligatory laziness weighed upon him terribly. In the afternoon, he questioned himself in distress to find out what he should do. For half an hour, he remained on the pavement in the Rue Mazarine, thinking and hesitating as to how he could divert himself. He rejected the idea of returning to the studio, and invariably decided on going down the Rue Guenegaud, to walk along the quays. And, until evening, he went along, dazed and seized with sudden shudders whenever he looked at the Seine. Whether in his studio or in the streets, his dejection was the same. The following day he began again. He passed the morning on his divan, and dragged himself along the quays in the afternoon. This lasted for months, and might last for years. Occasionally Laurent reflected that he had killed Camille so as to do nothing ever afterwards, and now that he did nothing, he was quite astonished to suffer so much. He would have liked to force himself to be happy. He proved to his own satisfaction, that he did wrong to suffer, that he had just attained supreme felicity, consisting in crossing his arms, and that he was an idiot not to enjoy this bliss in peace. But his reasoning exploded in the face of facts. He was constrained to confess, at the bottom of his heart, that this idleness rendered his anguish the more cruel, by leaving him every hour of his life to ponder on the despair and deepen its incurable bitterness. Laziness, that brutish existence which had been his dream, proved his punishment. At moments, he ardently hoped for some occupation to draw him from his thoughts. Then he lost all energy, relapsing beneath the weight of implacable fatality that bound his limbs so as to more surely crush him. In truth, he only found some relief when beating Therese, at night. This brutality alone relieved him of his enervated anguish. But his keenest suffering, both physical and moral, came from the bite Camille had given him in the neck. At certain moments, he imagined that this scar covered the whole of his body. If he came to forget the past, he all at once fancied he felt a burning puncture, that recalled the murder both to his frame and mind. When under the influence of emotion, he could not stand before a looking-glass without noticing this phenomenon which he had so frequently remarked and which always terrified him; the blood flew to his neck, purpling the scar, which then began to gnaw the skin. This sort of wound that lived upon him, which became active, flushed, and biting at the slightest trouble, frightened and tortured him. He ended by believing that the teeth of the drowned man had planted an insect there which was devouring him. The part of his neck where the scar appeared, seemed to him to no longer belong to

habitually

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

you forgive me. And yet, if you only knew how I am rent by remorse, if you only knew how I suffer, perhaps you would have pity. No, no pity for me. I should like to die here at your feet, overwhelmed by shame and grief. She spoke in this manner for hours together, passing from despair to hope, condemning and then pardoning herself; she assumed the voice, brief and plaintive in turn, of a little sick girl; she flattened herself on the ground and drew herself up again, acting upon all the ideas of humility and pride, of repentance and revolt that entered her head. Sometimes even, forgetting she was on her knees before Madame Raquin, she continued her monologue as in a dream. When she had made herself thoroughly giddy with her own words, she rose staggering and dazed, to go down to the shop in a calmer frame of mind, no longer fearing to burst into sobs before her customers. When she again felt inclined for remorse, she ran upstairs and knelt at the feet of the impotent woman. This scene was repeated ten times a day. Therese never reflected that her tears, and display of repentance must impose ineffable anguish on her aunt. The truth was that if she had desired to invent a torment to torture Madame Raquin, it would not have been possible to have found a more frightful one than the comedy of remorse she performed before her. The paralysed woman could see the egotism concealed beneath these effusions of grief. She suffered horribly from these long monologues which she was compelled to listen to at every instant, and which always brought the murder of Camille before her eyes. She could not pardon, she never departed from the implacable thought of vengeance that her impotency rendered more keen, and all day long she had to listen to pleas for pardon, and to humble and cowardly prayers. She would have liked to give an answer; certain sentences of her niece brought crushing refusals to her lips, but she had to remain mute and allow Therese to plead her cause without once interrupting her. The impossibility of crying out and stopping her ears caused her inexpressible torture. The words of the young woman entered her mind, slow and plaintive, as an irritating ditty. At first, she fancied the murderers inflicted this kind of torture on her out of sheer diabolical cruelty. Her sole means of defence was to close her eyes, as soon as her niece knelt before her, then although she heard, she did not see her. Therese, at last, had the impudence to kiss her aunt. One day, in a fit of repentance, she feigned she had perceived a gleam of mercy in the eyes of the paralysed woman; and she dragged herself along on her knees, she raised herself up, exclaiming in a distracted tone: You forgive me! You forgive me! Then she kissed the forehead and cheeks of the poor old creature, who was unable to throw her head backward so as to avoid the embrace. The cold skin on which Therese placed her lips, caused her violent disgust. She fancied this disgust, like the tears of remorse, would be an excellent remedy to appease her nerves; and she continued to kiss the impotent old woman daily, by way of penitence, and also to relieve herself. Oh! How good you are! she sometimes exclaimed. I can see my tears have touched you. Your eyes are full of pity. I am saved. Then she smothered her with caresses, placing the head of the infirm old lady on her knees, kissing her hands, smiling at her happily, and attending to all her requirements with a display of passionate affection. After a time, she believed in the reality of this comedy, she imagined she had obtained the pardon of Madame Raquin, and spoke of nothing but the delight she experienced at having secured her pardon. This was too much for the paralysed woman. It almost killed her. At the kisses of her niece, she again felt that sensation of bitter repugnance and rage which came over her, morning and night, when Laurent took her in his arms to lift her up, or lay her down. She was obliged to submit to the disgusting caresses of the wretch who had betrayed and killed her son. She could not even use her hand to wipe away the kisses that this woman left on her cheeks; and, for hours and hours together, she felt these kisses burning her. She became the doll of the murderers of Camille, a doll that they dressed, that they turned to right and left, and that they made use of according to their requirements and whims. She remained inert in their hands, as if she had been a lay-figure, and yet she lived, and became excited and indignant at the least contact with Therese or Laurent. What particularly exasperated her was the atrocious mockery of the young woman, who pretended she perceived expressions of mercy in her eyes, when she would have liked to have brought down fire from heaven on the head of the criminal. She frequently made supreme efforts to utter a cry of protestation, and loaded her looks with hatred. But Therese, who found it answered her purpose to repeat twenty times a day that she was pardoned, redoubled her caresses, and would see nothing. So the paralysed woman had to accept the thanks and effusions that her heart repelled. Henceforth, she lived in a state of bitter but powerless irritation, face to face with her yielding niece who displayed adorable acts of tenderness to recompense her for what she termed her heavenly goodness. When Therese knelt before Madame Raquin, in the presence of her husband, he brutally brought her to her feet. No acting, said he. Do I weep, do I prostrate myself? You do all this to trouble me. The remorse of Therese caused him peculiar agitation. His suffering increased now that his accomplice dragged herself about him, with eyes red by weeping, and supplicating lips. The sight of this living example of regret redoubled his fright and added to his uneasiness. It was like an everlasting reproach wandering through the house. Then he feared that repentance would one day drive his wife to reveal everything. He would have preferred her to remain rigid and threatening, bitterly defending herself against his accusations. But she had changed her tactics. She now readily recognised the share she had taken in the crime. She even accused herself. She had become yielding and timid, and starting from this point implored redemption with ardent humility. This attitude irritated Laurent, and every evening the quarrels of the couple became more afflicting and sinister. Listen to me, said Therese to her husband, we are very guilty. We must repent if we wish to enjoy tranquillity. Look at me. Since I have been weeping I am more peaceable. Imitate me. Let us say together that we are justly punished for having committed a horrible crime. Bah! roughly answered Laurent, you can say what you please. I know you are deucedly clever and hypocritical. Weep, if that diverts you. But I must beg you not to worry me with your tears. Ah! said she, you are bad. You reject remorse. You are cowardly. You acted as a traitor to Camille. Do you mean to say that I alone am guilty? he inquired. No, she replied, I do not say that. I am guilty, more guilty than you are. I ought to have saved my husband from your hands. Oh! I am aware of all the horror of my fault. But I have sought pardon, and I have succeeded, Laurent, whereas you continue to lead a disconsolate life. You have not even had the feeling to spare my poor aunt the sight of your vile anger. You have never even addressed a word of regret to her. And she embraced Madame Raquin, who shut her eyes. She hovered round her, raising the pillow that propped up her head, and showing her all kinds of attention. Laurent was infuriated. Oh, leave her alone, he cried. Can t you see that your services, and the very sight of you are odious to her. If she could lift her hand she would slap your face. The slow and plaintive words of his wife, and her attitudes of resignation, gradually drove him into blinding fits of anger. He understood her tactics; she no longer wished to be at one with him, but to set herself apart wrapped in her regret, so as to escape the clasp of the drowned man. And, at moments, he said to himself that she had perhaps taken the right path, that tears might cure her of her terror, and he shuddered at the thought of having to suffer, and contend with fright alone. He also would have liked to repent, or at least to have performed the comedy of repentance, to see what effect it would have. Unable to find the sobs and necessary words, he flung himself into violence again, stirring up Therese so as to irritate her and lead her back with him to furious madness. But the young woman took care to remain inert, to answer his cries of anger by tearful submission, and to meet his coarseness by a proportionate display of humility and repentance. Laurent was thus gradually driven to fury. To crown his irritation, Therese always ended with the panegyric of Camille so as to display the virtues of the victim. He was good, said she, and we must have been very cruel to assail such a warm-hearted man who had never a bad thought. He was good, yes, I know, jeered Laurent. You mean to say he was a fool. You must have forgotten! You pretended you were irritated at the slightest thing he said, that he could not open his mouth without letting out some stupidity. Don t jeer, said Therese. It only remains for you to insult the man you murdered. You know nothing about the feelings of a woman, Laurent; Camille loved me and I loved him. You loved him! Ah! Really what a capital idea, exclaimed Laurent. And no doubt it was because you loved your husband, that you took me as a sweetheart. I remember one day when we were together, that you told me Camille disgusted you, when you felt the end of your fingers enter his flesh as if it were soft clay. Oh! I know why you loved me. You required more vigorous arms than those of that poor devil. I loved him as a sister, answered Therese. He was the son of my benefactress. He had all the delicate feelings of a feeble man. He showed himself noble and generous, serviceable and loving. And we killed him, good God! good God! She wept, and swooned away. Madame Raquin cast piercing glances at her, indignant to hear the praise of Camille sung by such a pair of lips. Laurent who was unable to do anything against this overflow of tears, walked to and fro with furious strides, searching in his head for some means to stifle the remorse of Therese. All the good he heard said of his victim ended by causing him poignant anxiety. Now and again he let himself be caught by the heartrending accents of his wife. He really believed in the virtues of Camille, and his terror redoubled. But what tried his patience beyond measure was the comparison that the widow of the drowned man never failed to draw between her first and second husband, and which was all to the advantage of the former. Well! Yes, she cried, he was better than you. I would sooner he were alive now, and you in his place underground. Laurent first of all shrugged his shoulders. Say what you will, she continued, becoming animated, although I perhaps failed to love him in his lifetime, yet I remember all his good qualities now, and do love him. Yes, I love him and hate you, do you hear? For you are an assassin. Will you hold your tongue? yelled Laurent. And he is a victim, she went on, notwithstanding the threatening attitude of her husband, an upright man killed by a rascal. Oh! I am not afraid of you. You know well enough that you are a miserable wretch, a brute of a man without a heart, and without a soul. How can you expect me to love you, now that you are reeking with the blood of Camille? Camille was full of tenderness for me, and I would kill you, do you hear, if that could bring him to life again, and give me back his love. Will you hold your tongue, you wretch? shouted Laurent. Why should I hold my tongue? she retorted. I am speaking the truth. I would purchase forgiveness at the price of your blood. Ah! How I weep, and how I suffer! It is my own fault if a scoundrel, such as you, murdered my husband. I must go, one of these nights, and kiss the ground where he rests. That will be my final rapture. Laurent, beside himself, rendered furious by the atrocious pictures that Therese spread out before his eyes, rushed upon her, and threw her down, menacing her with his uplifted fist. That s it, she cried, strike me, kill me! Camille never once raised his hand to me, but you are a monster. And Laurent, spurred on by what she said, shook her with rage, beat her, bruised her body with his clenched fists. In two instances he almost strangled her. Therese yielded to his blows. She experienced keen delight in being struck, delivering herself up, thrusting her body forward, provoking her husband in every way, so that he might half kill her again. This was another remedy for her suffering. She slept better at night when she had been thoroughly beaten in the evening. Madame Raquin enjoyed exquisite pleasure, when Laurent dragged her niece along the floor in this way, belabouring her with thumps and kicks. The existence of the assassin had become terrible since the day when Therese conceived the infernal idea of feeling remorse and of mourning Camille aloud. From that moment the wretch lived everlastingly with his victim. At every hour, he had to listen to his wife praising and regretting her first husband. The least incident became a pretext: Camille did this, Camille did that, Camille had such and such qualities, Camille loved in such and such a way. It was always Camille! Ever sad remarks bewailing his death. Therese had recourse to all her spitefulness to render this torture, which she inflicted on Laurent so as to shield her own self, as cruel as possible. She went into details, relating a thousand insignificant incidents connected with her youth, accompanied by sighs and expressions of regret, and in this manner, mingled the remembrance of the drowned man with every action of her daily life. The corpse which already haunted the house, was introduced there openly. It sat on the chairs, took its place at table, extended itself on the bed, making use of the various articles of furniture, and of the objects lying about hither and thither. Laurent could touch nothing, not a fork, not a brush, without Therese making him feel that Camille had touched it before him. The murderer being ceaselessly thrust, so to say, against the man he had killed, ended by experiencing a strange sensation that very nearly drove him out of his mind. By being so constantly compared to Camille, by making use of the different articles Camille had used, he imagined he was Camille himself, that he was identical with his victim. Then, with his brain fit to burst, he flew at his wife to make her hold her tongue, so as to no longer hear the words that drove him frantic. All their quarrels now ended in blows. CHAPTER XXX A time came when Madame Raquin, in order to escape the sufferings she endured, thought of starving herself to death. She had reached the end of her courage, she could no longer support the martyrdom that the presence of the two murderers imposed on her, she longed to find supreme relief in death. Each day her anguish grew more keen, when Therese embraced her, and when Laurent took her in his arms to carry her along like a child. She determined on freeing herself from these clasps and caresses that caused her such horrible disgust. As she had not sufficient life left within her to permit of her avenging her son, she preferred to be entirely dead, and to leave naught in the hands of the assassins but a corpse that could feel nothing, and with which they could do as they pleased. For two days she refused all nourishment, employing her remaining strength to clench her teeth or to eject anything that Therese succeeded in introducing into her mouth. Therese was in despair. She was asking herself at the foot of which post she should go to weep and repent, when her aunt would be no longer there. She kept up an interminable discourse to prove to Madame Raquin that she should live. She wept, she even became angry, bursting into her former fits of rage, opening the jaw of the paralysed woman as you open that of an animal which resists. Madame Raquin held out, and an odious scene ensued. Laurent remained absolutely neutral and indifferent. He was astonished at the efforts of Therese to prevent the impotent old woman committing suicide. Now that the presence of the old lady had become useless to them he desired her death. He would not have killed her, but as she wished to die, he did not see the use of depriving her of the means to do so. But, let her be! he shouted to his wife. It will be a good riddance. We shall, perhaps, be happier when she is no longer here. This remark repeated several times in the hearing of Madame Raquin, caused her extraordinary emotion. She feared that the hope expressed by Laurent might be realised, and that after her death the couple would enjoy calm and happiness. And she said to herself that it would be cowardly to die, that she had no right to go away before she had seen the end of the sinister adventure. Then, only, could she descend into darkness, to say to Camille: You are avenged. The idea of suicide became oppressive, when she all at once reflected that she would sink into the grave ignorant as to what had happened to the two murderers of her son. There, she would lie in the cold and silent earth, eternally tormented by uncertainty concerning the punishment of her tormentors. To thoroughly enjoy the slumber of death, she must be hushed to rest by the sweet delight of vengeance, she must carry away with her a dream of satisfied hatred, a dream that would last throughout eternity. So she took the food her niece presented to her, and consented to live on. Apart from this, it was easy for her to perceive that the climax could not be far off. Each day the position of the married couple became more strained and unbearable. A crash that would smash everything was imminent. At every moment, Therese and Laurent started up face to face in a more threatening manner. It was no longer at nighttime, alone, that they suffered from their intimacy; entire days were passed amidst anxiety and harrowing shocks. It was one constant scene of pain and terror. They lived in a perfect pandemonium, fighting, rendering all they did and said bitter and cruel, seeking to fling one another to the bottom of the abyss which they felt beneath their feet, and falling into it together. Ideas of separation had, indeed, occurred to both of them. Each had thought of flight, of seeking some repose far from this Arcade of the Pont Neuf where the damp and filth seemed adapted to their desolated life. But they dared not, they could not run away. It seemed impossible for them to avoid reviling each other, to avoid remaining there to suffer and cause pain. They proved obstinate in their hatred and cruelty. A sort of repulsion and attraction separated and kept them together at the same time. They behaved in the identical manner of two persons who, after quarrelling, wish to part, and who, nevertheless, continue returning to shout out fresh insults at one another. Moreover, material obstacles stood in the way of flight. What were they to do with the impotent woman? What could be said to the Thursday evening guests? If they fled, these people would, perhaps, suspect something. At this thought, they imagined they were being pursued and dragged to the guillotine. So they remained where they were through cowardice, wretchedly dragging out their lives amidst the horror of their surroundings. During the morning and afternoon, when Laurent was absent, Therese went from the dining-room to the shop in anxiety and trouble, at a loss to know what to do to fill up the void in her existence that daily became more pronounced. When not kneeling at the feet of Madame Raquin or receiving blows and insults from her husband, she had no occupation. As soon as she was seated alone in the shop, she became dejected, watching with a doltish expression, the people passing through the dirty, dark gallery. She felt ready to die of sadness in the middle of this gloomy vault, which had the odour of a cemetery, and ended by begging Suzanne to come and pass entire days with her, in the hope that the presence of this poor, gentle, pale creature might calm her. Suzanne accepted her offer with delight; she continued to feel a sort of respectful friendship for Therese, and had long desired to come and work with her, while Olivier was at his office. Bringing her embroidery with her, she took the vacant chair of Madame Raquin behind the counter. From that day Therese rather neglected her aunt. She went upstairs less frequently to weep on her knees and kiss the deathlike face of the invalid. She had something else to do. She made efforts to listen with interest to the dilatory gossip of Suzanne, who spoke of her home, and of the trivialities of her monotonous life. This relieved Therese of her own thoughts. Sometimes she caught herself paying attention to nonsense that brought a bitter smile to her face. By degrees, she lost all her customers. Since her aunt had been confined to her armchair upstairs, she had let the shop go from bad to worse, abandoning the goods to dust and damp. A smell of mildew hung in the atmosphere, spiders came down from the ceiling, the floor was but rarely swept. But what put the customers to flight was the strange way in which Therese sometimes welcomed them. When she happened to be upstairs, receiving blows from Laurent or agitated by a shock of terror, and the bell at the shop door tinkled imperiously, she had to go down, barely taking time to do up her hair or brush away the tears. On such occasions she served the persons awaiting her roughly; sometimes she even spared herself the trouble of serving, answering from the top of the staircase, that she no longer kept what was asked for. This kind of off-hand behaviour, was not calculated to retain custom. The little work-girls of the quarter, who were used to the sweet amiability of Madame Raquin, were driven away by the harshness and wild looks of Therese. When the latter took Suzanne with her to keep her company, the defection became complete. To avoid being disturbed in their gossip, the two young woman managed to drive away the few remaining purchasers who visited the shop. Henceforth, the mercery business ceased to bring in a sou towards the household expenses, and it became necessary to encroach on the capital of forty thousand francs and more. Sometimes, Therese absented herself the entire afternoon. No one knew where she went. Her reason for having Suzanne with her was no doubt partly for the purpose of securing company but also to mind the shop, while she was away. When she returned in the evening, worn out, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion, it was to find the little wife of Olivier still behind the counter, bowed down, with a vague smile on her lips, in the same attitude as she had left her five hours previously. Therese had a bad fright about five months after her marriage to Laurent. She found out she was pregnant and detested the thought of having a child of Laurent s. She had the fear that she would give birth to a drowned body. She thought that she could feel inside herself a soft, decomposing corpse. No matter what, she had to rid herself of this child. She did not tell Laurent. One day she cruelly provoked him and turned her stomach towards him, hoping to receive a kick. He kicked her and she let him go on kicking her in the stomach until she thought she would die. The next day her wish was fulfilled and she had a miscarriage. Laurent also led a frightful existence. The days seemed insupportably long; each brought the same anguish, the same heavy weariness which overwhelmed him at certain hours with crushing monotony and regularity. He dragged on his life, terrified every night by the recollections of the day, and the expectation of the morrow. He knew that henceforth, all his days would resemble one another, and bring him equal suffering. And he saw the weeks, months and years gloomily and implacably awaiting him, coming one after the other to fall upon him and gradually smother him. When there is no hope in the future, the present appears atrociously bitter. Laurent no longer resisted, he became lumpish, abandoning himself to the nothingness that was already gaining possession of his being. Idleness was killing him. In the morning he went out, without knowing where to go, disgusted at the thought of doing what he had done on the previous day, and compelled, in spite of himself, to do it again. He went to his studio by habit, by mania. This room, with its grey walls, whence he could see naught but a bare square of sky, filled him with mournful sadness. He grovelled on the divan heavy in thought and with pendent arms. He dared not touch a brush. He had made fresh attempts at painting, but only to find on each occasion, the head of Camille appear jeering on the canvas. So as not to go out of his mind, he ended by throwing his colour-box into a corner, and imposing the most absolute idleness on himself. This obligatory laziness weighed upon him terribly. In the afternoon, he questioned himself in distress to find out what he should do. For half an hour, he remained on the pavement in the Rue Mazarine, thinking and hesitating as to how he could divert himself. He rejected the idea of returning to the studio, and invariably decided on going down the Rue Guenegaud, to walk along the quays. And, until evening, he went along, dazed and seized with sudden shudders whenever he looked at the Seine. Whether in his studio or in the streets, his dejection was the same. The following day he began again. He passed the morning on his divan, and dragged himself along the quays in the afternoon. This lasted for months, and might last for years. Occasionally Laurent reflected that he had killed Camille so as to do nothing ever afterwards, and now that he did nothing, he was quite astonished to suffer so much. He would have liked to force himself to be happy. He proved to his own satisfaction, that he did wrong to suffer, that he had just attained supreme felicity, consisting in crossing his arms, and that he was an idiot not to enjoy this bliss in peace. But his reasoning exploded in the face of facts. He was constrained to confess, at the bottom of his heart, that this idleness rendered his anguish the more cruel, by leaving him every hour of his life to ponder on the despair and deepen its incurable bitterness. Laziness, that brutish existence which had been his dream, proved his punishment. At moments, he ardently hoped for some occupation to draw him from his thoughts. Then he lost all energy, relapsing beneath the weight of implacable fatality that bound his limbs so as to more surely crush him. In truth, he only found some relief when beating Therese, at night. This brutality alone relieved him of his enervated anguish. But his keenest suffering, both physical and moral, came from the bite Camille had given him in the neck. At certain moments, he imagined that this scar covered the whole of his body. If he came to forget the past, he all at once fancied he felt a burning puncture, that recalled the murder both to his frame and mind. When under the influence of emotion, he could not stand before a looking-glass without noticing this phenomenon which he had so frequently remarked and which always terrified him; the blood flew to his neck, purpling the scar, which then began to gnaw the skin. This sort of wound that lived upon him, which became active, flushed, and biting at the slightest trouble, frightened and tortured him. He ended by believing that the teeth of the drowned man had planted an insect there which was devouring him. The part of his neck where the scar appeared, seemed to him to no longer belong to

perhaps

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

you forgive me. And yet, if you only knew how I am rent by remorse, if you only knew how I suffer, perhaps you would have pity. No, no pity for me. I should like to die here at your feet, overwhelmed by shame and grief. She spoke in this manner for hours together, passing from despair to hope, condemning and then pardoning herself; she assumed the voice, brief and plaintive in turn, of a little sick girl; she flattened herself on the ground and drew herself up again, acting upon all the ideas of humility and pride, of repentance and revolt that entered her head. Sometimes even, forgetting she was on her knees before Madame Raquin, she continued her monologue as in a dream. When she had made herself thoroughly giddy with her own words, she rose staggering and dazed, to go down to the shop in a calmer frame of mind, no longer fearing to burst into sobs before her customers. When she again felt inclined for remorse, she ran upstairs and knelt at the feet of the impotent woman. This scene was repeated ten times a day. Therese never reflected that her tears, and display of repentance must impose ineffable anguish on her aunt. The truth was that if she had desired to invent a torment to torture Madame Raquin, it would not have been possible to have found a more frightful one than the comedy of remorse she performed before her. The paralysed woman could see the egotism concealed beneath these effusions of grief. She suffered horribly from these long monologues which she was compelled to listen to at every instant, and which always brought the murder of Camille before her eyes. She could not pardon, she never departed from the implacable thought of vengeance that her impotency rendered more keen, and all day long she had to listen to pleas for pardon, and to humble and cowardly prayers. She would have liked to give an answer; certain sentences of her niece brought crushing refusals to her lips, but she had to remain mute and allow Therese to plead her cause without once interrupting her. The impossibility of crying out and stopping her ears caused her inexpressible torture. The words of the young woman entered her mind, slow and plaintive, as an irritating ditty. At first, she fancied the murderers inflicted this kind of torture on her out of sheer diabolical cruelty. Her sole means of defence was to close her eyes, as soon as her niece knelt before her, then although she heard, she did not see her. Therese, at last, had the impudence to kiss her aunt. One day, in a fit of repentance, she feigned she had perceived a gleam of mercy in the eyes of the paralysed woman; and she dragged herself along on her knees, she raised herself up, exclaiming in a distracted tone: You forgive me! You forgive me! Then she kissed the forehead and cheeks of the poor old creature, who was unable to throw her head backward so as to avoid the embrace. The cold skin on which Therese placed her lips, caused her violent disgust. She fancied this disgust, like the tears of remorse, would be an excellent remedy to appease her nerves; and she continued to kiss the impotent old woman daily, by way of penitence, and also to relieve herself. Oh! How good you are! she sometimes exclaimed. I can see my tears have touched you. Your eyes are full of pity. I am saved. Then she smothered her with caresses, placing the head of the infirm old lady on her knees, kissing her hands, smiling at her happily, and attending to all her requirements with a display of passionate affection. After a time, she believed in the reality of this comedy, she imagined she had obtained the pardon of Madame Raquin, and spoke of nothing but the delight she experienced at having secured her pardon. This was too much for the paralysed woman. It almost killed her. At the kisses of her niece, she again felt that sensation of bitter repugnance and rage which came over her, morning and night, when Laurent took her in his arms to lift her up, or lay her down. She was obliged to submit to the disgusting caresses of the wretch who had betrayed and killed her son. She could not even use her hand to wipe away the kisses that this woman left on her cheeks; and, for hours and hours together, she felt these kisses burning her. She became the doll of the murderers of Camille, a doll that they dressed, that they turned to right and left, and that they made use of according to their requirements and whims. She remained inert in their hands, as if she had been a lay-figure, and yet she lived, and became excited and indignant at the least contact with Therese or Laurent. What particularly exasperated her was the atrocious mockery of the young woman, who pretended she perceived expressions of mercy in her eyes, when she would have liked to have brought down fire from heaven on the head of the criminal. She frequently made supreme efforts to utter a cry of protestation, and loaded her looks with hatred. But Therese, who found it answered her purpose to repeat twenty times a day that she was pardoned, redoubled her caresses, and would see nothing. So the paralysed woman had to accept the thanks and effusions that her heart repelled. Henceforth, she lived in a state of bitter but powerless irritation, face to face with her yielding niece who displayed adorable acts of tenderness to recompense her for what she termed her heavenly goodness. When Therese knelt before Madame Raquin, in the presence of her husband, he brutally brought her to her feet. No acting, said he. Do I weep, do I prostrate myself? You do all this to trouble me. The remorse of Therese caused him peculiar agitation. His suffering increased now that his accomplice dragged herself about him, with eyes red by weeping, and supplicating lips. The sight of this living example of regret redoubled his fright and added to his uneasiness. It was like an everlasting reproach wandering through the house. Then he feared that repentance would one day drive his wife to reveal everything. He would have preferred her to remain rigid and threatening, bitterly defending herself against his accusations. But she had changed her tactics. She now readily recognised the share she had taken in the crime. She even accused herself. She had become yielding and timid, and starting from this point implored redemption with ardent humility. This attitude irritated Laurent, and every evening the quarrels of the couple became more afflicting and sinister. Listen to me, said Therese to her husband, we are very guilty. We must repent if we wish to enjoy tranquillity. Look at me. Since I have been weeping I am more peaceable. Imitate me. Let us say together that we are justly punished for having committed a horrible crime. Bah! roughly answered Laurent, you can say what you please. I know you are deucedly clever and hypocritical. Weep, if that diverts you. But I must beg you not to worry me with your tears. Ah! said she, you are bad. You reject remorse. You are cowardly. You acted as a traitor to Camille. Do you mean to say that I alone am guilty? he inquired. No, she replied, I do not say that. I am guilty, more guilty than you are. I ought to have saved my husband from your hands. Oh! I am aware of all the horror of my fault. But I have sought pardon, and I have succeeded, Laurent, whereas you continue to lead a disconsolate life. You have not even had the feeling to spare my poor aunt the sight of your vile anger. You have never even addressed a word of regret to her. And she embraced Madame Raquin, who shut her eyes. She hovered round her, raising the pillow that propped up her head, and showing her all kinds of attention. Laurent was infuriated. Oh, leave her alone, he cried. Can t you see that your services, and the very sight of you are odious to her. If she could lift her hand she would slap your face. The slow and plaintive words of his wife, and her attitudes of resignation, gradually drove him into blinding fits of anger. He understood her tactics; she no longer wished to be at one with him, but to set herself apart wrapped in her regret, so as to escape the clasp of the drowned man. And, at moments, he said to himself that she had perhaps taken the right path, that tears might cure her of her terror, and he shuddered at the thought of having to suffer, and contend with fright alone. He also would have liked to repent, or at least to have performed the comedy of repentance, to see what effect it would have. Unable to find the sobs and necessary words, he flung himself into violence again, stirring up Therese so as to irritate her and lead her back with him to furious madness. But the young woman took care to remain inert, to answer his cries of anger by tearful submission, and to meet his coarseness by a proportionate display of humility and repentance. Laurent was thus gradually driven to fury. To crown his irritation, Therese always ended with the panegyric of Camille so as to display the virtues of the victim. He was good, said she, and we must have been very cruel to assail such a warm-hearted man who had never a bad thought. He was good, yes, I know, jeered Laurent. You mean to say he was a fool. You must have forgotten! You pretended you were irritated at the slightest thing he said, that he could not open his mouth without letting out some stupidity. Don t jeer, said Therese. It only remains for you to insult the man you murdered. You know nothing about the feelings of a woman, Laurent; Camille loved me and I loved him. You loved him! Ah! Really what a capital idea, exclaimed Laurent. And no doubt it was because you loved your husband, that you took me as a sweetheart. I remember one day when we were together, that you told me Camille disgusted you, when you felt the end of your fingers enter his flesh as if it were soft clay. Oh! I know why you loved me. You required more vigorous arms than those of that poor devil. I loved him as a sister, answered Therese. He was the son of my benefactress. He had all the delicate feelings of a feeble man. He showed himself noble and generous, serviceable and loving. And we killed him, good God! good God! She wept, and swooned away. Madame Raquin cast piercing glances at her, indignant to hear the praise of Camille sung by such a pair of lips. Laurent who was unable to do anything against this overflow of tears, walked to and fro with furious strides, searching in his head for some means to stifle the remorse of Therese. All the good he heard said of his victim ended by causing him poignant anxiety. Now and again he let himself be caught by the heartrending accents of his wife. He really believed in the virtues of Camille, and his terror redoubled. But what tried his patience beyond measure was the comparison that the widow of the drowned man never failed to draw between her first and second husband, and which was all to the advantage of the former. Well! Yes, she cried, he was better than you. I would sooner he were alive now, and you in his place underground. Laurent first of all shrugged his shoulders. Say what you will, she continued, becoming animated, although I perhaps failed to love him in his lifetime, yet I remember all his good qualities now, and do love him. Yes, I love him and hate you, do you hear? For you are an assassin. Will you hold your tongue? yelled Laurent. And he is a victim, she went on, notwithstanding the threatening attitude of her husband, an upright man killed by a rascal. Oh! I am not afraid of you. You know well enough that you are a miserable wretch, a brute of a man without a heart, and without a soul. How can you expect me to love you, now that you are reeking with the blood of Camille? Camille was full of tenderness for me, and I would kill you, do you hear, if that could bring him to life again, and give me back his love. Will you hold your tongue, you wretch? shouted Laurent. Why should I hold my tongue? she retorted. I am speaking the truth. I would purchase forgiveness at the price of your blood. Ah! How I weep, and how I suffer! It is my own fault if a scoundrel, such as you, murdered my husband. I must go, one of these nights, and kiss the ground where he rests. That will be my final rapture. Laurent, beside himself, rendered furious by the atrocious pictures that Therese spread out before his eyes, rushed upon her, and threw her down, menacing her with his uplifted fist. That s it, she cried, strike me, kill me! Camille never once raised his hand to me, but you are a monster. And Laurent, spurred on by what she said, shook her with rage, beat her, bruised her body with his clenched fists. In two instances he almost strangled her. Therese yielded to his blows. She experienced keen delight in being struck, delivering herself up, thrusting her body forward, provoking her husband in every way, so that he might half kill her again. This was another remedy for her suffering. She slept better at night when she had been thoroughly beaten in the evening. Madame Raquin enjoyed exquisite pleasure, when Laurent dragged her niece along the floor in this way, belabouring her with thumps and kicks. The existence of the assassin had become terrible since the day when Therese conceived the infernal idea of feeling remorse and of mourning Camille aloud. From that moment the wretch lived everlastingly with his victim. At every hour, he had to listen to his wife praising and regretting her first husband. The least incident became a pretext: Camille did this, Camille did that, Camille had such and such qualities, Camille loved in such and such a way. It was always Camille! Ever sad remarks bewailing his death. Therese had recourse to all her spitefulness to render this torture, which she inflicted on Laurent so as to shield her own self, as cruel as possible. She went into details, relating a thousand insignificant incidents connected with her youth, accompanied by sighs and expressions of regret, and in this manner, mingled the remembrance of the drowned man with every action of her daily life. The corpse which already haunted the house, was introduced there openly. It sat on the chairs, took its place at table, extended itself on the bed, making use of the various articles of furniture, and of the objects lying about hither and thither. Laurent could touch nothing, not a fork, not a brush, without Therese making him feel that Camille had touched it before him. The murderer being ceaselessly thrust, so to say, against the man he had killed, ended by experiencing a strange sensation that very nearly drove him out of his mind. By being so constantly compared to Camille, by making use of the different articles Camille had used, he imagined he was Camille himself, that he was identical with his victim. Then, with his brain fit to burst, he flew at his wife to make her hold her tongue, so as to no longer hear the words that drove him frantic. All their quarrels now ended in blows. CHAPTER XXX A time came when Madame Raquin, in order to escape the sufferings she endured, thought of starving herself to death. She had reached the end of her courage, she could no longer support the martyrdom that the presence of the two murderers imposed on her, she longed to find supreme relief in death. Each day her anguish grew more keen, when Therese embraced her, and when Laurent took her in his arms to carry her along like a child. She determined on freeing herself from these clasps and caresses that caused her such horrible disgust. As she had not sufficient life left within her to permit of her avenging her son, she preferred to be entirely dead, and to leave naught in the hands of the assassins but a corpse that could feel nothing, and with which they could do as they pleased. For two days she refused all nourishment, employing her remaining strength to clench her teeth or to eject anything that Therese succeeded in introducing into her mouth. Therese was in despair. She was asking herself at the foot of which post she should go to weep and repent, when her aunt would be no longer there. She kept up an interminable discourse to prove to Madame Raquin that she should live. She wept, she even became angry, bursting into her former fits of rage, opening the jaw of the paralysed woman as you open that of an animal which resists. Madame Raquin held out, and an odious scene ensued. Laurent remained absolutely neutral and indifferent. He was astonished at the efforts of Therese to prevent the impotent old woman committing suicide. Now that the presence of the old lady had become useless to them he desired her death. He would not have killed her, but as she wished to die, he did not see the use of depriving her of the means to do so. But, let her be! he shouted to his wife. It will be a good riddance. We shall, perhaps, be happier when she is no longer here. This remark repeated several times in the hearing of Madame Raquin, caused her extraordinary emotion. She feared that the hope expressed by Laurent might be realised, and that after her death the couple would enjoy calm and happiness. And she said to herself that it would be cowardly to die, that she had no right to go away before she had seen the end of the sinister adventure. Then, only, could she descend into darkness, to say to Camille: You are avenged. The idea of suicide became oppressive, when she all at once reflected that she would sink into the grave ignorant as to what had happened to the two murderers of her son. There, she would lie in the cold and silent earth, eternally tormented by uncertainty concerning the punishment of her tormentors. To thoroughly enjoy the slumber of death, she must be hushed to rest by the sweet delight of vengeance, she must carry away with her a dream of satisfied hatred, a dream that would last throughout eternity. So she took the food her niece presented to her, and consented to live on. Apart from this, it was easy for her to perceive that the climax could not be far off. Each day the position of the married couple became more strained and unbearable. A crash that would smash everything was imminent. At every moment, Therese and Laurent started up face to face in a more threatening manner. It was no longer at nighttime, alone, that they suffered from their intimacy; entire days were passed amidst anxiety and harrowing shocks. It was one constant scene of pain and terror. They lived in a perfect pandemonium, fighting, rendering all they did and said bitter and cruel, seeking to fling one another to the bottom of the abyss which they felt beneath their feet, and falling into it together. Ideas of separation had, indeed, occurred to both of them. Each had thought of flight, of seeking some repose far from this Arcade of the Pont Neuf where the damp and filth seemed adapted to their desolated life. But they dared not, they could not run away. It seemed impossible for them to avoid reviling each other, to avoid remaining there to suffer and cause pain. They proved obstinate in their hatred and cruelty. A sort of repulsion and attraction separated and kept them together at the same time. They behaved in the identical manner of two persons who, after quarrelling, wish to part, and who, nevertheless, continue returning to shout out fresh insults at one another. Moreover, material obstacles stood in the way of flight. What were they to do with the impotent woman? What could be said to the Thursday evening guests? If they fled, these people would, perhaps, suspect something. At this thought, they imagined they were being pursued and dragged to the guillotine. So they remained where they were through cowardice, wretchedly dragging out their lives amidst the horror of their surroundings. During the morning and afternoon, when Laurent was absent, Therese went from the dining-room to the shop in anxiety and trouble, at a loss to know what to do to fill up the void in her existence that daily became more pronounced. When not kneeling at the feet of Madame Raquin or receiving blows and insults from her husband, she had no occupation. As soon as she was seated alone in the shop, she became dejected, watching with a doltish expression, the people passing through the dirty, dark gallery. She felt ready to die of sadness in the middle of this gloomy vault, which had the odour of a cemetery, and ended by begging Suzanne to come and pass entire days with her, in the hope that the presence of this poor, gentle, pale creature might calm her. Suzanne accepted her offer with delight; she continued to feel a sort of respectful friendship for Therese, and had long desired to come and work with her, while Olivier was at his office. Bringing her embroidery with her, she took the vacant chair of Madame Raquin behind the counter. From that day Therese rather neglected her aunt. She went upstairs less frequently to weep on her knees and kiss the deathlike face of the invalid. She had something else to do. She made efforts to listen with interest to the dilatory gossip of Suzanne, who spoke of her home, and of the trivialities of her monotonous life. This relieved Therese of her own thoughts. Sometimes she caught herself paying attention to nonsense that brought a bitter smile to her face. By degrees, she lost all her customers. Since her aunt had been confined to her armchair upstairs, she had let the shop go from bad to worse, abandoning the goods to dust and damp. A smell of mildew hung in the atmosphere, spiders came down from the ceiling, the floor was but rarely swept. But what put the customers to flight was the strange way in which Therese sometimes welcomed them. When she happened to be upstairs, receiving blows from Laurent or agitated by a shock of terror, and the bell at the shop door tinkled imperiously, she had to go down, barely taking time to do up her hair or brush away the tears. On such occasions she served the persons awaiting her roughly; sometimes she even spared herself the trouble of serving, answering from the top of the staircase, that she no longer kept what was asked for. This kind of off-hand behaviour, was not calculated to retain custom. The little work-girls of the quarter, who were used to the sweet amiability of Madame Raquin, were driven away by the harshness and wild looks of Therese. When the latter took Suzanne with her to keep her company, the defection became complete. To avoid being disturbed in their gossip, the two young woman managed to drive away the few remaining purchasers who visited the shop. Henceforth, the mercery business ceased to bring in a sou towards the household expenses, and it became necessary to encroach on the capital of forty thousand francs and more. Sometimes, Therese absented herself the entire afternoon. No one knew where she went. Her reason for having Suzanne with her was no doubt partly for the purpose of securing company but also to mind the shop, while she was away. When she returned in the evening, worn out, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion, it was to find the little wife of Olivier still behind the counter, bowed down, with a vague smile on her lips, in the same attitude as she had left her five hours previously. Therese had a bad fright about five months after her marriage to Laurent. She found out she was pregnant and detested the thought of having a child of Laurent s. She had the fear that she would give birth to a drowned body. She thought that she could feel inside herself a soft, decomposing corpse. No matter what, she had to rid herself of this child. She did not tell Laurent. One day she cruelly provoked him and turned her stomach towards him, hoping to receive a kick. He kicked her and she let him go on kicking her in the stomach until she thought she would die. The next day her wish was fulfilled and she had a miscarriage. Laurent also led a frightful existence. The days seemed insupportably long; each brought the same anguish, the same heavy weariness which overwhelmed him at certain hours with crushing monotony and regularity. He dragged on his life, terrified every night by the recollections of the day, and the expectation of the morrow. He knew that henceforth, all his days would resemble one another, and bring him equal suffering. And he saw the weeks, months and years gloomily and implacably awaiting him, coming one after the other to fall upon him and gradually smother him. When there is no hope in the future, the present appears atrociously bitter. Laurent no longer resisted, he became lumpish, abandoning himself to the nothingness that was already gaining possession of his being. Idleness was killing him. In the morning he went out, without knowing where to go, disgusted at the thought of doing what he had done on the previous day, and compelled, in spite of himself, to do it again. He went to his studio by habit, by mania. This room, with its grey walls, whence he could see naught but a bare square of sky, filled him with mournful sadness. He grovelled on the divan heavy in thought and with pendent arms. He dared not touch a brush. He had made fresh attempts at painting, but only to find on each occasion, the head of Camille appear jeering on the canvas. So as not to go out of his mind, he ended by throwing his colour-box into a corner, and imposing the most absolute idleness on himself. This obligatory laziness weighed upon him terribly. In the afternoon, he questioned himself in distress to find out what he should do. For half an hour, he remained on the pavement in the Rue Mazarine, thinking and hesitating as to how he could divert himself. He rejected the idea of returning to the studio, and invariably decided on going down the Rue Guenegaud, to walk along the quays. And, until evening, he went along, dazed and seized with sudden shudders whenever he looked at the Seine. Whether in his studio or in the streets, his dejection was the same. The following day he began again. He passed the morning on his divan, and dragged himself along the quays in the afternoon. This lasted for months, and might last for years. Occasionally Laurent reflected that he had killed Camille so as to do nothing ever afterwards, and now that he did nothing, he was quite astonished to suffer so much. He would have liked to force himself to be happy. He proved to his own satisfaction, that he did wrong to suffer, that he had just attained supreme felicity, consisting in crossing his arms, and that he was an idiot not to enjoy this bliss in peace. But his reasoning exploded in the face of facts. He was constrained to confess, at the bottom of his heart, that this idleness rendered his anguish the more cruel, by leaving him every hour of his life to ponder on the despair and deepen its incurable bitterness. Laziness, that brutish existence which had been his dream, proved his punishment. At moments, he ardently hoped for some occupation to draw him from his thoughts. Then he lost all energy, relapsing beneath the weight of implacable fatality that bound his limbs so as to more surely crush him. In truth, he only found some relief when beating Therese, at night. This brutality alone relieved him of his enervated anguish. But his keenest suffering, both physical and moral, came from the bite Camille had given him in the neck. At certain moments, he imagined that this scar covered the whole of his body. If he came to forget the past, he all at once fancied he felt a burning puncture, that recalled the murder both to his frame and mind. When under the influence of emotion, he could not stand before a looking-glass without noticing this phenomenon which he had so frequently remarked and which always terrified him; the blood flew to his neck, purpling the scar, which then began to gnaw the skin. This sort of wound that lived upon him, which became active, flushed, and biting at the slightest trouble, frightened and tortured him. He ended by believing that the teeth of the drowned man had planted an insect there which was devouring him. The part of his neck where the scar appeared, seemed to him to no longer belong to

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you know--I thought you always said so--I have always told mamma so as if it came from yourself." "Beatrice, do not tell anything to Lady Arabella as though it came from me; I do not want anything to be told to her, either of me or from me. Say what you like to me yourself; whatever you say will not anger me. Indeed, I know what you would say--and yet I love you. Oh, I love you, Trichy--Trichy, I do love you so much! Don't turn away from me!" There was such a mixture in Mary's manner of tenderness and almost ferocity, that poor Beatrice could hardly follow her. "Turn away from you, Mary! no never; but this does make me unhappy." "It is better that you should know it all, and then you will not be led into fighting my battles again. You cannot fight them so that I should win; I do love your brother; love him truly, fondly, tenderly. I would wish to have him for my husband as you wish to have Mr Oriel." "But, Mary, you cannot marry him!" "Why not?" said she, in a loud voice. "Why can I not marry him? If the priest says a blessing over us, shall we not be married as well as you and your husband?" "But you know he cannot marry unless his wife shall have money." "Money--money; and he is to sell himself for money? Oh, Trichy! do not you talk about money. It is horrible. But, Trichy, I will grant it--I cannot marry him; but still, I love him. He has a name, a place in the world, and fortune, family, high blood, position, everything. He has all this, and I have nothing. Of course I cannot marry him. But yet I do love him." "Are you engaged to him, Mary?" "He is not engaged to me; but I am to him." "Oh, Mary, that is impossible!" "It is not impossible: it is the case--I am pledged to him; but he is not pledged to me." "But, Mary, don't look at me in that way. I do not quite understand you. What is the good of your being engaged if you cannot marry him?" "Good! there is no good. But can I help it, if I love him? Can I make myself not love him by just wishing it? Oh, I would do it if I could. But now you will understand why I shake my head when you talk of my coming to your house. Your ways and my ways must be different." Beatrice was startled, and, for a time, silenced. What Mary said of the difference of their ways was quite true. Beatrice had dearly loved her friend, and had thought of her with affection through all this long period in which they had been separated; but she had given her love and her thoughts on the understanding, as it were, that they were in unison as to the impropriety of Frank's conduct. She had always spoken, with a grave face, of Frank and his love as of a great misfortune, even to Mary herself; and her pity for Mary had been founded on the conviction of her innocence. Now all those ideas had to be altered. Mary owned her fault, confessed herself to be guilty of all that Lady Arabella so frequently laid to her charge, and confessed herself anxious to commit every crime as to which Beatrice had been ever so ready to defend her. Had Beatrice up to this dreamed that Mary was in love with Frank, she would doubtless have sympathised with her more or less, sooner or later. As it was, it was beyond all doubt that she would soon sympathise with her. But, at the moment, the suddenness of the declaration seemed to harden her heart, and she forgot, as it were, to speak tenderly to her friend. She was silent, therefore, and dismayed; and looked as though she thought that her ways and Mary's ways must be different. Mary saw all that was passing in the other's mind: no, not all; all the hostility, the disappointment, the disapproval, the unhappiness, she did see; but not the under-current of love, which was strong enough to well up and drown all these, if only time could be allowed for it to do so. "I am glad I have told you," said Mary, curbing herself, "for deceit and hypocrisy are detestable." "It was a misunderstanding, not deceit," said Beatrice. "Well, now we understand each other; now you know that I have a heart within me, which like those of some others has not always been under my own control. Lady Arabella believes that I am intriguing to be the mistress of Greshamsbury. You, at any rate, will not think that of me. If it could be discovered to-morrow that Frank were not the heir, I might have some chance of happiness." "But, Mary--" "Well?" "You say you love him." "Yes; I do say so." "But if he does not love you, will you cease to do so?" "If I have a fever, I will get rid of it if I can; in such case I must do so, or die." "I fear," continued Beatrice, "you hardly know, perhaps do not think, what is Frank's real character. He is not made to settle down early in life; even now, I believe he is attached to some lady in London, whom, of course, he cannot marry." Beatrice said this in perfect trueness of heart. She had heard of Frank's new love-affair, and believing what she had heard, thought it best to tell the truth. But the information was not of a kind to quiet Mary's spirit. "Very well," said she, "let it be so. I have nothing to say against it." "But are you not preparing wretchedness and unhappiness for yourself?" "Very likely." "Oh, Mary, do not be so cold with me! you know how delighted I should be to have you for a sister-in-law, if only it were possible." "Yes, Trichy; but it is impossible, is it not? Impossible that Francis Gresham of Greshamsbury should disgrace himself by marrying such a poor creature as I am. Of course, I know it; of course, I am prepared for unhappiness and misery. He can amuse himself as he likes with me or others--with anybody. It is his privilege. It is quite enough to say that he is not made for settling down. I know my own position;--and yet I love him." "But, Mary, has he asked you to be his wife? If so--" "You ask home-questions, Beatrice. Let me ask you one; has he ever told you that he has done so?" At this moment Beatrice was not disposed to repeat all that Frank had said. A year ago, before he went away, he had told his sister a score of times that he meant to marry Mary Thorne if she would have him; but Beatrice now looked on all that as idle, boyish vapouring. The pity was, that Mary should have looked on it differently. "We will each keep our secret," said Mary. "Only remember this: should Frank marry to-morrow, I shall have no ground for blaming him. He is free as far I as am concerned. He can take the London lady if he likes. You may tell him so from me. But, Trichy, what else I have told you, I have told you only." "Oh, yes!" said Beatrice, sadly; "I shall say nothing of it to anybody. It is very sad, very, very; I was so happy when I came here, and now I am so wretched." This was the end of that delicious talk to which she had looked forward with so much eagerness. "Don't be wretched about me, dearest; I shall get through it. I sometimes think I was born to be unhappy, and that unhappiness agrees with me best. Kiss me now, Trichy, and don't be wretched any more. You owe it to Mr Oriel to be as happy as the day is long." And then they parted. Beatrice, as she went out, saw Dr Thorne in his little shop on the right-hand side of the passage, deeply engaged in some derogatory branch of an apothecary's mechanical trade; mixing a dose, perhaps, for a little child. She would have passed him without speaking if she could have been sure of doing so without notice, for her heart was full, and her eyes were red with tears; but it was so long since she had been in his house that she was more than ordinarily anxious not to appear uncourteous or unkind to him. "Good morning, doctor," she said, changing her countenance as best she might, and attempting a smile. "Ah, my fairy!" said he, leaving his villainous compounds, and coming out to her; "and you, too, are about to become a steady old lady." "Indeed, I am not, doctor; I don't mean to be either steady or old for the next ten years. But who has told you? I suppose Mary has been a traitor." "Well, I will confess, Mary was the traitor. But hadn't I a right to be told, seeing how often I have brought you sugar-plums in my pocket? But I wish you joy with all my heart,--with all my heart. Oriel is an excellent, good fellow." "Is he not, doctor?" "An excellent, good fellow. I never heard but of one fault that he had." "What was that one fault, Doctor Thorne?" "He thought that clergymen should not marry. But you have cured that, and now he's perfect." "Thank you, doctor. I declare that you say the prettiest things of all my friends." "And none of your friends wish prettier things for you. I do congratulate you, Beatrice, and hope you may be happy with the man you have chosen;" and taking both her hands in his, he pressed them warmly, and bade God bless her. "Oh, doctor! I do so hope the time will come when we shall all be friends again." "I hope it as well, my dear. But let it come, or let it not come, my regard for you will be the same:" and then she parted from him also, and went her way. Nothing was spoken of that evening between Dr Thorne and his niece excepting Beatrice's future happiness; nothing, at least, having reference to what had passed that morning. But on the following morning circumstances led to Frank Gresham's name being mentioned. At the usual breakfast-hour the doctor entered the parlour with a harassed face. He had an open letter in his hand, and it was at once clear to Mary that he was going to speak on some subject that vexed him. "That unfortunate fellow is again in trouble. Here is a letter from Greyson." Greyson was a London apothecary, who had been appointed as medical attendant to Sir Louis Scatcherd, and whose real business consisted in keeping a watch on the baronet, and reporting to Dr Thorne when anything was very much amiss. "Here is a letter from Greyson; he has been drunk for the last three days, and is now laid up in a terribly nervous state." "You won't go up to town again; will you, uncle?" "I hardly know what to do. No, I think not. He talks of coming down here to Greshamsbury." "Who, Sir Louis?" "Yes, Sir Louis. Greyson says that he will be down as soon as he can get out of his room." "What! to this house?" "What other house can he come to?" "Oh, uncle! I hope not. Pray, pray do not let him come here." "I cannot prevent it, my dear. I cannot shut my door on him." They sat down to breakfast, and Mary gave him his tea in silence. "I am going over to Boxall Hill before dinner," said he. "Have you any message to send to Lady Scatcherd?" "Message! no, I have no message; not especially: give her my love, of course," she said listlessly. And then, as though a thought had suddenly struck her, she spoke with more energy. "But, couldn't I go to Boxall Hill again? I should be so delighted." "What! to run away from Sir Louis? No, dearest, we will have no more running away. He will probably also go to Boxall Hill, and he could annoy you much more there than he can here." "But, uncle, Mr Gresham will be home on the 12th," she said, blushing. "What! Frank?" "Yes. Beatrice said he was to be here on the 12th." "And would you run away from him too, Mary?" "I do not know: I do not know what to do." "No; we will have no more running away: I am sorry that you ever did so. It was my fault, altogether my fault; but it was foolish." "Uncle, I am not happy here." As she said this, she put down the cup which she had held, and, leaning her elbows on the table, rested her forehead on her hands. "And would you be happier at Boxall Hill? It is not the place makes the happiness." "No, I know that; it is not the place. I do not look to be happy in any place; but I should be quieter, more tranquil elsewhere than here." "I also sometimes think that it will be better for us to take up our staves and walk away out of Greshamsbury;--leave it altogether, and settle elsewhere; miles, miles, miles away from here. Should you like that, dearest?" Miles, miles, miles away from Greshamsbury! There was something in the sound that fell very cold on Mary's ears, unhappy as she was. Greshamsbury had been so dear to her; in spite of all that had passed, was still so dear to her! Was she prepared to take up her staff, as her uncle said, and walk forth from the place with the full understanding that she was to return to it no more; with a mind resolved that there should be an inseparable gulf between her and its inhabitants? Such she knew was the proposed nature of the walking away of which her uncle spoke. So she sat there, resting on her arms, and gave no answer to the question that had been asked her. "No, we will stay a while yet," said her uncle. "It may come to that, but this is not the time. For one season longer let us face--I will not say our enemies; I cannot call anybody my enemy who bears the name of Gresham." And then he went on for a moment with his breakfast. "So Frank will be here on the 12th?" "Yes, uncle." "Well, dearest, I have no questions to ask you: no directions to give. I know how good you are, and how prudent; I am anxious only for your happiness; not at all--" "Happiness, uncle, is out of the question." "I hope not. It is never out of the question, never can be out of the question. But, as I was saying, I am quite satisfied your conduct will be good, and, therefore, I have no questions to ask. We will remain here; and, whether good or evil come, we will not be ashamed to show our faces." She sat for a while again silent, collecting her courage on the subject that was nearest her heart. She would have given the world that he should ask her questions; but she could not bid him to do so; and she found it impossible to talk openly to him about Frank unless he did so. "Will he come here?" at last she said, in a low-toned voice. "Who? He, Louis? Yes, I think that in all probability he will." "No; but Frank," she said, in a still lower voice. "Ah! my darling, that I cannot tell; but will it be well that he should come here?" "I do not know," she said. "No, I suppose not. But, uncle, I don't think he will come." She was now sitting on a sofa away from the table, and he got up, sat down beside her, and took her hands in his. "Mary," said he, "you must be strong now; strong to endure, not to attack. I think you have that strength; but, if not, perhaps it will be better that we should go away." "I will be strong," said she, rising up and going towards the door. "Never mind me, uncle; don't follow me; I will be strong. It will be base, cowardly, mean, to run away; very base in me to make you do so." "No, dearest, not so; it will be the same to me." "No," said she, "I will not run away from Lady Arabella. And, as for him--if he loves this other one, he shall hear no reproach from me. Uncle, I will be strong;" and running back to him, she threw her arms round him and kissed him. And, still restraining her tears, she got safely to her bedroom. In what way she may there have shown her strength, it would not be well for us to inquire. CHAPTER XXXIV A Barouche and Four Arrives at Greshamsbury During the last twelve months Sir Louis Scatcherd had been very efficacious in bringing trouble, turmoil, and vexation upon Greshamsbury. Now that it was too late to take steps to save himself, Dr Thorne found that the will left by Sir Roger was so made as to entail upon him duties that he would find it almost impossible to perform. Sir Louis, though his father had wished to make him still a child in the eye of the law, was no child. He knew his own rights and was determined to exact them; and before Sir Roger had been dead three months, the doctor found himself in continual litigation with a low Barchester attorney, who was acting on behalf of his, the doctor's, own ward. And if the doctor suffered so did the squire, and so did those who had hitherto had the management of the squire's affairs. Dr Thorne soon perceived that he was to be driven into litigation, not only with Mr Finnie, the Barchester attorney, but with the squire himself. While Finnie harassed him, he was compelled to harass Mr Gresham. He was no lawyer himself; and though he had been able to manage very well between the squire and Sir Roger, and had perhaps given himself some credit for his lawyer-like ability in so doing, he was utterly unable to manage between Sir Louis and Mr Gresham. He had, therefore, to employ a lawyer on his own account, and it seemed probable that the whole amount of Sir Roger's legacy to himself would by degrees be expended in this manner. And then, the squire's lawyers had to take up the matter; and they did so greatly to the detriment of poor Mr Yates Umbleby, who was found to have made a mess of the affairs entrusted to him. Mr Umbleby's accounts were incorrect; his mind was anything but clear, and he confessed, when put to it by the very sharp gentleman that came down from London, that he was "bothered;" and so, after a while, he was suspended from his duties, and Mr Gazebee, the sharp gentleman from London, reigned over the diminished rent-roll of the Greshamsbury estate. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury--with the one exception of Mr Oriel and his love-suit. Miss Gushing attributed the deposition of Mr Umbleby to the narrowness of the victory which Beatrice had won in carrying off Mr Oriel. For Miss Gushing was a relation of the Umblebys, and had been for many years one of their family. "If she had only chosen to exert herself as Miss Gresham had done, she could have had Mr Oriel, easily; oh, too easily! but she had despised such work," so she said. "But though she had despised it, the Greshams had not been less irritated, and, therefore, Mr Umbleby had been driven out of his house." We can hardly believe this, as victory generally makes men generous. Miss Gushing, however, stated it as a fact so often that it is probable she was induced to believe it herself. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury, and the squire himself was especially a sufferer. Umbleby had at any rate been his own man, and he could do what he liked with him. He could see him when he liked, and where he liked, and how he liked; could scold him if in an ill-humour, and laugh at him when in a good humour. All this Mr Umbleby knew, and bore. But Mr Gazebee was a very different sort of gentleman; he was the junior partner in the firm of Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, of Mount Street, a house that never defiled itself with any other business than the agency business, and that in the very highest line. They drew out leases, and managed property both for the Duke of Omnium and Lord de Courcy; and ever since her marriage, it had been one of the objects dearest to Lady Arabella's heart, that the Greshamsbury acres should be superintended by the polite skill and polished legal ability of that all but elegant firm in Mount Street. The squire had long stood firm, and had delighted in having everything done under his own eye by poor Mr Yates Umbleby. But now, alas! he could stand it no longer. He had put off the evil day as long as he could; he had deferred the odious work of investigation till things had seemed resolved on investigating themselves; and then, when it was absolutely necessary that Mr Umbleby should go, there was nothing for him left but to fall into the ready hands of Messrs Gumption, Gazebee and Gazebee. It must not be supposed that Messrs Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee were in the least like the ordinary run of attorneys. They wrote no letters for six-and-eightpence each: they collected no debts, filed no bills, made no charge per folio for "whereases" and "as aforesaids;" they did no dirty work, and probably were as ignorant of the interior of a court of law as any young lady living in their Mayfair vicinity. No; their business was to manage the property of great people, draw up leases, make legal assignments, get the family marriage settlements made, and look after wills. Occasionally, also, they had to raise money; but it was generally understood that this was done by proxy. The firm had been going on for a hundred and fifty years, and the designation had often been altered; but it always consisted of Gumptions and Gazebees differently arranged, and no less hallowed names had ever been permitted to appear. It had been Gazebee, Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee, Gumption & Gumption; then Gumption, Gumption & Gazebee; and now it was Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee. Mr Gazebee, the junior member of this firm, was a very elegant young man. While looking at him riding in Rotten Row, you would hardly have taken him for an attorney; and had he heard that you had so taken him, he would have been very much surprised indeed. He was rather bald; not being, as people say, quite so young as he was once. His exact age was thirty-eight. But he had a really remarkable pair of jet-black whiskers, which fully made up for any deficiency as to his head; he had also dark eyes, and a beaked nose, what may be called a distinguished mouth, and was always dressed in fashionable attire. The fact was, that Mr Mortimer Gazebee, junior partner in the firm Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, by no means considered himself to be made of that very disagreeable material which mortals call small beer. When this great firm was applied to, to get Mr Gresham through his difficulties, and when the state of his affairs was made known to them, they at first expressed rather a disinclination for the work. But at last, moved doubtless by their respect for the de Courcy interest, they assented; and Mr Gazebee, junior, went down to Greshamsbury. The poor squire passed many a sad day after that before he again felt himself to be master even of his own domain. Nevertheless, when Mr Mortimer Gazebee visited Greshamsbury, which he did on more than one or two occasions, he was always received _en grand seigneur_. To Lady Arabella he was by no means an unwelcome guest, for she found herself able, for the first time in her life, to speak confidentially on her husband's pecuniary affairs with the man who had the management of her husband's property. Mr Gazebee also was a pet with Lady de Courcy; and being known to be a fashionable man in London, and quite a different sort of person from poor Mr Umbleby, he was always received with smiles. He had a hundred little ways of making himself agreeable, and Augusta declared to her cousin, the Lady Amelia, after having been acquainted with him for a few months, that he would be a perfect gentleman, only, that his family had never been anything but attorneys. The Lady Amelia smiled in her own peculiarly aristocratic way, shrugged her shoulders slightly, and said, "that Mr Mortimer Gazebee was a very good sort of a person, very." Poor Augusta felt herself snubbed, thinking perhaps of the tailor's son; but as there was never any appeal against the Lady Amelia, she said nothing more at that moment in favour of Mr Mortimer Gazebee. All these evils--Mr Mortimer Gazebee being the worst of them--had Sir Louis Scatcherd brought down on the poor squire's head. There may be those who will say that the squire had brought them on himself, by running into debt; and so, doubtless, he had; but it was not the less true that the baronet's interference was unnecessary, vexatious, and one might almost say, malicious. His interest would have been quite safe in the doctor's hands, and he had, in fact, no legal right to meddle; but neither the doctor nor the squire could prevent him. Mr Finnie knew very well what he was about, if Sir Louis did not; and so the three went on, each with his own lawyer, and each of them distrustful, unhappy, and ill at ease. This was hard upon the doctor, for he was not in debt, and had borrowed no money. There was not much reason to suppose that the visit of Sir Louis to Greshamsbury would much improve matters. It must be presumed that he was not coming with any amicable views, but with the object rather of looking after his own; a phrase which was now constantly in his mouth. He might probably find it necessary while looking after his own at Greshamsbury, to say some very disagreeable things to the squire; and the doctor, therefore, hardly expected that the visit would go off pleasantly. When last we saw Sir Louis, now nearly twelve months since, he was intent on making a proposal of marriage to Miss Thorne. This intention he carried out about two days after Frank Gresham had done the same thing. He had delayed doing so till he had succeeded in purchasing his friend Jenkins's Arab pony, imagining that such a present could not but go far in weaning Mary's heart from her other lover. Poor Mary was put to the trouble of refusing both the baronet and the pony, and a very bad time she had of it while doing so. Sir Louis was a man easily angered, and not very easily pacified, and Mary had to endure a good deal of annoyance; from any other person, indeed, she would have called it impertinence. Sir Louis, however, had to bear his rejection as best he could, and, after a perseverance of three days, returned to London in disgust; and Mary had not seen him since. Mr Greyson's first letter was followed by a second; and the second was followed by the baronet in person. He also required to be received _en grand seigneur_, perhaps more imperatively than Mr Mortimer Gazebee himself. He came with four posters from the Barchester Station, and had himself rattled up to the doctor's door in a way that took the breath away from all Greshamsbury. Why! the squire himself for a many long year had been contented to come home with a pair of horses; and four were never seen in the place, except when the de Courcys came to Greshamsbury, or Lady Arabella with all her daughters returned from her hard-fought metropolitan campaigns. Sir Louis, however, came with four, and very arrogant he looked, leaning back in the barouche belonging to the George and Dragon, and wrapped up in fur, although it was now midsummer. And up in the dicky behind was a servant, more arrogant, if possible, than his master--the baronet's own man, who was the object of Dr Thorne's special detestation and disgust. He was a little fellow, chosen originally on account of his light weight on horseback; but if that may be considered a merit, it was the only one he had. His out-door show dress was a little tight frock-coat, round which a polished strap was always buckled tightly, a stiff white choker, leather breeches, top-boots, and a hat, with a cockade, stuck on one side of his head. His name was Jonah, which his master and his master's friends shortened into Joe; none, however, but those who were very intimate with his master were allowed to do so with impunity. This Joe was Dr Thorne's special aversion. In his anxiety to take every possible step to keep Sir Louis from poisoning himself, he had at first attempted to enlist the baronet's "own man" in the cause. Joe had promised fairly, but had betrayed the doctor at once, and had become the worst

running

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

you know--I thought you always said so--I have always told mamma so as if it came from yourself." "Beatrice, do not tell anything to Lady Arabella as though it came from me; I do not want anything to be told to her, either of me or from me. Say what you like to me yourself; whatever you say will not anger me. Indeed, I know what you would say--and yet I love you. Oh, I love you, Trichy--Trichy, I do love you so much! Don't turn away from me!" There was such a mixture in Mary's manner of tenderness and almost ferocity, that poor Beatrice could hardly follow her. "Turn away from you, Mary! no never; but this does make me unhappy." "It is better that you should know it all, and then you will not be led into fighting my battles again. You cannot fight them so that I should win; I do love your brother; love him truly, fondly, tenderly. I would wish to have him for my husband as you wish to have Mr Oriel." "But, Mary, you cannot marry him!" "Why not?" said she, in a loud voice. "Why can I not marry him? If the priest says a blessing over us, shall we not be married as well as you and your husband?" "But you know he cannot marry unless his wife shall have money." "Money--money; and he is to sell himself for money? Oh, Trichy! do not you talk about money. It is horrible. But, Trichy, I will grant it--I cannot marry him; but still, I love him. He has a name, a place in the world, and fortune, family, high blood, position, everything. He has all this, and I have nothing. Of course I cannot marry him. But yet I do love him." "Are you engaged to him, Mary?" "He is not engaged to me; but I am to him." "Oh, Mary, that is impossible!" "It is not impossible: it is the case--I am pledged to him; but he is not pledged to me." "But, Mary, don't look at me in that way. I do not quite understand you. What is the good of your being engaged if you cannot marry him?" "Good! there is no good. But can I help it, if I love him? Can I make myself not love him by just wishing it? Oh, I would do it if I could. But now you will understand why I shake my head when you talk of my coming to your house. Your ways and my ways must be different." Beatrice was startled, and, for a time, silenced. What Mary said of the difference of their ways was quite true. Beatrice had dearly loved her friend, and had thought of her with affection through all this long period in which they had been separated; but she had given her love and her thoughts on the understanding, as it were, that they were in unison as to the impropriety of Frank's conduct. She had always spoken, with a grave face, of Frank and his love as of a great misfortune, even to Mary herself; and her pity for Mary had been founded on the conviction of her innocence. Now all those ideas had to be altered. Mary owned her fault, confessed herself to be guilty of all that Lady Arabella so frequently laid to her charge, and confessed herself anxious to commit every crime as to which Beatrice had been ever so ready to defend her. Had Beatrice up to this dreamed that Mary was in love with Frank, she would doubtless have sympathised with her more or less, sooner or later. As it was, it was beyond all doubt that she would soon sympathise with her. But, at the moment, the suddenness of the declaration seemed to harden her heart, and she forgot, as it were, to speak tenderly to her friend. She was silent, therefore, and dismayed; and looked as though she thought that her ways and Mary's ways must be different. Mary saw all that was passing in the other's mind: no, not all; all the hostility, the disappointment, the disapproval, the unhappiness, she did see; but not the under-current of love, which was strong enough to well up and drown all these, if only time could be allowed for it to do so. "I am glad I have told you," said Mary, curbing herself, "for deceit and hypocrisy are detestable." "It was a misunderstanding, not deceit," said Beatrice. "Well, now we understand each other; now you know that I have a heart within me, which like those of some others has not always been under my own control. Lady Arabella believes that I am intriguing to be the mistress of Greshamsbury. You, at any rate, will not think that of me. If it could be discovered to-morrow that Frank were not the heir, I might have some chance of happiness." "But, Mary--" "Well?" "You say you love him." "Yes; I do say so." "But if he does not love you, will you cease to do so?" "If I have a fever, I will get rid of it if I can; in such case I must do so, or die." "I fear," continued Beatrice, "you hardly know, perhaps do not think, what is Frank's real character. He is not made to settle down early in life; even now, I believe he is attached to some lady in London, whom, of course, he cannot marry." Beatrice said this in perfect trueness of heart. She had heard of Frank's new love-affair, and believing what she had heard, thought it best to tell the truth. But the information was not of a kind to quiet Mary's spirit. "Very well," said she, "let it be so. I have nothing to say against it." "But are you not preparing wretchedness and unhappiness for yourself?" "Very likely." "Oh, Mary, do not be so cold with me! you know how delighted I should be to have you for a sister-in-law, if only it were possible." "Yes, Trichy; but it is impossible, is it not? Impossible that Francis Gresham of Greshamsbury should disgrace himself by marrying such a poor creature as I am. Of course, I know it; of course, I am prepared for unhappiness and misery. He can amuse himself as he likes with me or others--with anybody. It is his privilege. It is quite enough to say that he is not made for settling down. I know my own position;--and yet I love him." "But, Mary, has he asked you to be his wife? If so--" "You ask home-questions, Beatrice. Let me ask you one; has he ever told you that he has done so?" At this moment Beatrice was not disposed to repeat all that Frank had said. A year ago, before he went away, he had told his sister a score of times that he meant to marry Mary Thorne if she would have him; but Beatrice now looked on all that as idle, boyish vapouring. The pity was, that Mary should have looked on it differently. "We will each keep our secret," said Mary. "Only remember this: should Frank marry to-morrow, I shall have no ground for blaming him. He is free as far I as am concerned. He can take the London lady if he likes. You may tell him so from me. But, Trichy, what else I have told you, I have told you only." "Oh, yes!" said Beatrice, sadly; "I shall say nothing of it to anybody. It is very sad, very, very; I was so happy when I came here, and now I am so wretched." This was the end of that delicious talk to which she had looked forward with so much eagerness. "Don't be wretched about me, dearest; I shall get through it. I sometimes think I was born to be unhappy, and that unhappiness agrees with me best. Kiss me now, Trichy, and don't be wretched any more. You owe it to Mr Oriel to be as happy as the day is long." And then they parted. Beatrice, as she went out, saw Dr Thorne in his little shop on the right-hand side of the passage, deeply engaged in some derogatory branch of an apothecary's mechanical trade; mixing a dose, perhaps, for a little child. She would have passed him without speaking if she could have been sure of doing so without notice, for her heart was full, and her eyes were red with tears; but it was so long since she had been in his house that she was more than ordinarily anxious not to appear uncourteous or unkind to him. "Good morning, doctor," she said, changing her countenance as best she might, and attempting a smile. "Ah, my fairy!" said he, leaving his villainous compounds, and coming out to her; "and you, too, are about to become a steady old lady." "Indeed, I am not, doctor; I don't mean to be either steady or old for the next ten years. But who has told you? I suppose Mary has been a traitor." "Well, I will confess, Mary was the traitor. But hadn't I a right to be told, seeing how often I have brought you sugar-plums in my pocket? But I wish you joy with all my heart,--with all my heart. Oriel is an excellent, good fellow." "Is he not, doctor?" "An excellent, good fellow. I never heard but of one fault that he had." "What was that one fault, Doctor Thorne?" "He thought that clergymen should not marry. But you have cured that, and now he's perfect." "Thank you, doctor. I declare that you say the prettiest things of all my friends." "And none of your friends wish prettier things for you. I do congratulate you, Beatrice, and hope you may be happy with the man you have chosen;" and taking both her hands in his, he pressed them warmly, and bade God bless her. "Oh, doctor! I do so hope the time will come when we shall all be friends again." "I hope it as well, my dear. But let it come, or let it not come, my regard for you will be the same:" and then she parted from him also, and went her way. Nothing was spoken of that evening between Dr Thorne and his niece excepting Beatrice's future happiness; nothing, at least, having reference to what had passed that morning. But on the following morning circumstances led to Frank Gresham's name being mentioned. At the usual breakfast-hour the doctor entered the parlour with a harassed face. He had an open letter in his hand, and it was at once clear to Mary that he was going to speak on some subject that vexed him. "That unfortunate fellow is again in trouble. Here is a letter from Greyson." Greyson was a London apothecary, who had been appointed as medical attendant to Sir Louis Scatcherd, and whose real business consisted in keeping a watch on the baronet, and reporting to Dr Thorne when anything was very much amiss. "Here is a letter from Greyson; he has been drunk for the last three days, and is now laid up in a terribly nervous state." "You won't go up to town again; will you, uncle?" "I hardly know what to do. No, I think not. He talks of coming down here to Greshamsbury." "Who, Sir Louis?" "Yes, Sir Louis. Greyson says that he will be down as soon as he can get out of his room." "What! to this house?" "What other house can he come to?" "Oh, uncle! I hope not. Pray, pray do not let him come here." "I cannot prevent it, my dear. I cannot shut my door on him." They sat down to breakfast, and Mary gave him his tea in silence. "I am going over to Boxall Hill before dinner," said he. "Have you any message to send to Lady Scatcherd?" "Message! no, I have no message; not especially: give her my love, of course," she said listlessly. And then, as though a thought had suddenly struck her, she spoke with more energy. "But, couldn't I go to Boxall Hill again? I should be so delighted." "What! to run away from Sir Louis? No, dearest, we will have no more running away. He will probably also go to Boxall Hill, and he could annoy you much more there than he can here." "But, uncle, Mr Gresham will be home on the 12th," she said, blushing. "What! Frank?" "Yes. Beatrice said he was to be here on the 12th." "And would you run away from him too, Mary?" "I do not know: I do not know what to do." "No; we will have no more running away: I am sorry that you ever did so. It was my fault, altogether my fault; but it was foolish." "Uncle, I am not happy here." As she said this, she put down the cup which she had held, and, leaning her elbows on the table, rested her forehead on her hands. "And would you be happier at Boxall Hill? It is not the place makes the happiness." "No, I know that; it is not the place. I do not look to be happy in any place; but I should be quieter, more tranquil elsewhere than here." "I also sometimes think that it will be better for us to take up our staves and walk away out of Greshamsbury;--leave it altogether, and settle elsewhere; miles, miles, miles away from here. Should you like that, dearest?" Miles, miles, miles away from Greshamsbury! There was something in the sound that fell very cold on Mary's ears, unhappy as she was. Greshamsbury had been so dear to her; in spite of all that had passed, was still so dear to her! Was she prepared to take up her staff, as her uncle said, and walk forth from the place with the full understanding that she was to return to it no more; with a mind resolved that there should be an inseparable gulf between her and its inhabitants? Such she knew was the proposed nature of the walking away of which her uncle spoke. So she sat there, resting on her arms, and gave no answer to the question that had been asked her. "No, we will stay a while yet," said her uncle. "It may come to that, but this is not the time. For one season longer let us face--I will not say our enemies; I cannot call anybody my enemy who bears the name of Gresham." And then he went on for a moment with his breakfast. "So Frank will be here on the 12th?" "Yes, uncle." "Well, dearest, I have no questions to ask you: no directions to give. I know how good you are, and how prudent; I am anxious only for your happiness; not at all--" "Happiness, uncle, is out of the question." "I hope not. It is never out of the question, never can be out of the question. But, as I was saying, I am quite satisfied your conduct will be good, and, therefore, I have no questions to ask. We will remain here; and, whether good or evil come, we will not be ashamed to show our faces." She sat for a while again silent, collecting her courage on the subject that was nearest her heart. She would have given the world that he should ask her questions; but she could not bid him to do so; and she found it impossible to talk openly to him about Frank unless he did so. "Will he come here?" at last she said, in a low-toned voice. "Who? He, Louis? Yes, I think that in all probability he will." "No; but Frank," she said, in a still lower voice. "Ah! my darling, that I cannot tell; but will it be well that he should come here?" "I do not know," she said. "No, I suppose not. But, uncle, I don't think he will come." She was now sitting on a sofa away from the table, and he got up, sat down beside her, and took her hands in his. "Mary," said he, "you must be strong now; strong to endure, not to attack. I think you have that strength; but, if not, perhaps it will be better that we should go away." "I will be strong," said she, rising up and going towards the door. "Never mind me, uncle; don't follow me; I will be strong. It will be base, cowardly, mean, to run away; very base in me to make you do so." "No, dearest, not so; it will be the same to me." "No," said she, "I will not run away from Lady Arabella. And, as for him--if he loves this other one, he shall hear no reproach from me. Uncle, I will be strong;" and running back to him, she threw her arms round him and kissed him. And, still restraining her tears, she got safely to her bedroom. In what way she may there have shown her strength, it would not be well for us to inquire. CHAPTER XXXIV A Barouche and Four Arrives at Greshamsbury During the last twelve months Sir Louis Scatcherd had been very efficacious in bringing trouble, turmoil, and vexation upon Greshamsbury. Now that it was too late to take steps to save himself, Dr Thorne found that the will left by Sir Roger was so made as to entail upon him duties that he would find it almost impossible to perform. Sir Louis, though his father had wished to make him still a child in the eye of the law, was no child. He knew his own rights and was determined to exact them; and before Sir Roger had been dead three months, the doctor found himself in continual litigation with a low Barchester attorney, who was acting on behalf of his, the doctor's, own ward. And if the doctor suffered so did the squire, and so did those who had hitherto had the management of the squire's affairs. Dr Thorne soon perceived that he was to be driven into litigation, not only with Mr Finnie, the Barchester attorney, but with the squire himself. While Finnie harassed him, he was compelled to harass Mr Gresham. He was no lawyer himself; and though he had been able to manage very well between the squire and Sir Roger, and had perhaps given himself some credit for his lawyer-like ability in so doing, he was utterly unable to manage between Sir Louis and Mr Gresham. He had, therefore, to employ a lawyer on his own account, and it seemed probable that the whole amount of Sir Roger's legacy to himself would by degrees be expended in this manner. And then, the squire's lawyers had to take up the matter; and they did so greatly to the detriment of poor Mr Yates Umbleby, who was found to have made a mess of the affairs entrusted to him. Mr Umbleby's accounts were incorrect; his mind was anything but clear, and he confessed, when put to it by the very sharp gentleman that came down from London, that he was "bothered;" and so, after a while, he was suspended from his duties, and Mr Gazebee, the sharp gentleman from London, reigned over the diminished rent-roll of the Greshamsbury estate. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury--with the one exception of Mr Oriel and his love-suit. Miss Gushing attributed the deposition of Mr Umbleby to the narrowness of the victory which Beatrice had won in carrying off Mr Oriel. For Miss Gushing was a relation of the Umblebys, and had been for many years one of their family. "If she had only chosen to exert herself as Miss Gresham had done, she could have had Mr Oriel, easily; oh, too easily! but she had despised such work," so she said. "But though she had despised it, the Greshams had not been less irritated, and, therefore, Mr Umbleby had been driven out of his house." We can hardly believe this, as victory generally makes men generous. Miss Gushing, however, stated it as a fact so often that it is probable she was induced to believe it herself. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury, and the squire himself was especially a sufferer. Umbleby had at any rate been his own man, and he could do what he liked with him. He could see him when he liked, and where he liked, and how he liked; could scold him if in an ill-humour, and laugh at him when in a good humour. All this Mr Umbleby knew, and bore. But Mr Gazebee was a very different sort of gentleman; he was the junior partner in the firm of Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, of Mount Street, a house that never defiled itself with any other business than the agency business, and that in the very highest line. They drew out leases, and managed property both for the Duke of Omnium and Lord de Courcy; and ever since her marriage, it had been one of the objects dearest to Lady Arabella's heart, that the Greshamsbury acres should be superintended by the polite skill and polished legal ability of that all but elegant firm in Mount Street. The squire had long stood firm, and had delighted in having everything done under his own eye by poor Mr Yates Umbleby. But now, alas! he could stand it no longer. He had put off the evil day as long as he could; he had deferred the odious work of investigation till things had seemed resolved on investigating themselves; and then, when it was absolutely necessary that Mr Umbleby should go, there was nothing for him left but to fall into the ready hands of Messrs Gumption, Gazebee and Gazebee. It must not be supposed that Messrs Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee were in the least like the ordinary run of attorneys. They wrote no letters for six-and-eightpence each: they collected no debts, filed no bills, made no charge per folio for "whereases" and "as aforesaids;" they did no dirty work, and probably were as ignorant of the interior of a court of law as any young lady living in their Mayfair vicinity. No; their business was to manage the property of great people, draw up leases, make legal assignments, get the family marriage settlements made, and look after wills. Occasionally, also, they had to raise money; but it was generally understood that this was done by proxy. The firm had been going on for a hundred and fifty years, and the designation had often been altered; but it always consisted of Gumptions and Gazebees differently arranged, and no less hallowed names had ever been permitted to appear. It had been Gazebee, Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee, Gumption & Gumption; then Gumption, Gumption & Gazebee; and now it was Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee. Mr Gazebee, the junior member of this firm, was a very elegant young man. While looking at him riding in Rotten Row, you would hardly have taken him for an attorney; and had he heard that you had so taken him, he would have been very much surprised indeed. He was rather bald; not being, as people say, quite so young as he was once. His exact age was thirty-eight. But he had a really remarkable pair of jet-black whiskers, which fully made up for any deficiency as to his head; he had also dark eyes, and a beaked nose, what may be called a distinguished mouth, and was always dressed in fashionable attire. The fact was, that Mr Mortimer Gazebee, junior partner in the firm Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, by no means considered himself to be made of that very disagreeable material which mortals call small beer. When this great firm was applied to, to get Mr Gresham through his difficulties, and when the state of his affairs was made known to them, they at first expressed rather a disinclination for the work. But at last, moved doubtless by their respect for the de Courcy interest, they assented; and Mr Gazebee, junior, went down to Greshamsbury. The poor squire passed many a sad day after that before he again felt himself to be master even of his own domain. Nevertheless, when Mr Mortimer Gazebee visited Greshamsbury, which he did on more than one or two occasions, he was always received _en grand seigneur_. To Lady Arabella he was by no means an unwelcome guest, for she found herself able, for the first time in her life, to speak confidentially on her husband's pecuniary affairs with the man who had the management of her husband's property. Mr Gazebee also was a pet with Lady de Courcy; and being known to be a fashionable man in London, and quite a different sort of person from poor Mr Umbleby, he was always received with smiles. He had a hundred little ways of making himself agreeable, and Augusta declared to her cousin, the Lady Amelia, after having been acquainted with him for a few months, that he would be a perfect gentleman, only, that his family had never been anything but attorneys. The Lady Amelia smiled in her own peculiarly aristocratic way, shrugged her shoulders slightly, and said, "that Mr Mortimer Gazebee was a very good sort of a person, very." Poor Augusta felt herself snubbed, thinking perhaps of the tailor's son; but as there was never any appeal against the Lady Amelia, she said nothing more at that moment in favour of Mr Mortimer Gazebee. All these evils--Mr Mortimer Gazebee being the worst of them--had Sir Louis Scatcherd brought down on the poor squire's head. There may be those who will say that the squire had brought them on himself, by running into debt; and so, doubtless, he had; but it was not the less true that the baronet's interference was unnecessary, vexatious, and one might almost say, malicious. His interest would have been quite safe in the doctor's hands, and he had, in fact, no legal right to meddle; but neither the doctor nor the squire could prevent him. Mr Finnie knew very well what he was about, if Sir Louis did not; and so the three went on, each with his own lawyer, and each of them distrustful, unhappy, and ill at ease. This was hard upon the doctor, for he was not in debt, and had borrowed no money. There was not much reason to suppose that the visit of Sir Louis to Greshamsbury would much improve matters. It must be presumed that he was not coming with any amicable views, but with the object rather of looking after his own; a phrase which was now constantly in his mouth. He might probably find it necessary while looking after his own at Greshamsbury, to say some very disagreeable things to the squire; and the doctor, therefore, hardly expected that the visit would go off pleasantly. When last we saw Sir Louis, now nearly twelve months since, he was intent on making a proposal of marriage to Miss Thorne. This intention he carried out about two days after Frank Gresham had done the same thing. He had delayed doing so till he had succeeded in purchasing his friend Jenkins's Arab pony, imagining that such a present could not but go far in weaning Mary's heart from her other lover. Poor Mary was put to the trouble of refusing both the baronet and the pony, and a very bad time she had of it while doing so. Sir Louis was a man easily angered, and not very easily pacified, and Mary had to endure a good deal of annoyance; from any other person, indeed, she would have called it impertinence. Sir Louis, however, had to bear his rejection as best he could, and, after a perseverance of three days, returned to London in disgust; and Mary had not seen him since. Mr Greyson's first letter was followed by a second; and the second was followed by the baronet in person. He also required to be received _en grand seigneur_, perhaps more imperatively than Mr Mortimer Gazebee himself. He came with four posters from the Barchester Station, and had himself rattled up to the doctor's door in a way that took the breath away from all Greshamsbury. Why! the squire himself for a many long year had been contented to come home with a pair of horses; and four were never seen in the place, except when the de Courcys came to Greshamsbury, or Lady Arabella with all her daughters returned from her hard-fought metropolitan campaigns. Sir Louis, however, came with four, and very arrogant he looked, leaning back in the barouche belonging to the George and Dragon, and wrapped up in fur, although it was now midsummer. And up in the dicky behind was a servant, more arrogant, if possible, than his master--the baronet's own man, who was the object of Dr Thorne's special detestation and disgust. He was a little fellow, chosen originally on account of his light weight on horseback; but if that may be considered a merit, it was the only one he had. His out-door show dress was a little tight frock-coat, round which a polished strap was always buckled tightly, a stiff white choker, leather breeches, top-boots, and a hat, with a cockade, stuck on one side of his head. His name was Jonah, which his master and his master's friends shortened into Joe; none, however, but those who were very intimate with his master were allowed to do so with impunity. This Joe was Dr Thorne's special aversion. In his anxiety to take every possible step to keep Sir Louis from poisoning himself, he had at first attempted to enlist the baronet's "own man" in the cause. Joe had promised fairly, but had betrayed the doctor at once, and had become the worst

prepared

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

you know--I thought you always said so--I have always told mamma so as if it came from yourself." "Beatrice, do not tell anything to Lady Arabella as though it came from me; I do not want anything to be told to her, either of me or from me. Say what you like to me yourself; whatever you say will not anger me. Indeed, I know what you would say--and yet I love you. Oh, I love you, Trichy--Trichy, I do love you so much! Don't turn away from me!" There was such a mixture in Mary's manner of tenderness and almost ferocity, that poor Beatrice could hardly follow her. "Turn away from you, Mary! no never; but this does make me unhappy." "It is better that you should know it all, and then you will not be led into fighting my battles again. You cannot fight them so that I should win; I do love your brother; love him truly, fondly, tenderly. I would wish to have him for my husband as you wish to have Mr Oriel." "But, Mary, you cannot marry him!" "Why not?" said she, in a loud voice. "Why can I not marry him? If the priest says a blessing over us, shall we not be married as well as you and your husband?" "But you know he cannot marry unless his wife shall have money." "Money--money; and he is to sell himself for money? Oh, Trichy! do not you talk about money. It is horrible. But, Trichy, I will grant it--I cannot marry him; but still, I love him. He has a name, a place in the world, and fortune, family, high blood, position, everything. He has all this, and I have nothing. Of course I cannot marry him. But yet I do love him." "Are you engaged to him, Mary?" "He is not engaged to me; but I am to him." "Oh, Mary, that is impossible!" "It is not impossible: it is the case--I am pledged to him; but he is not pledged to me." "But, Mary, don't look at me in that way. I do not quite understand you. What is the good of your being engaged if you cannot marry him?" "Good! there is no good. But can I help it, if I love him? Can I make myself not love him by just wishing it? Oh, I would do it if I could. But now you will understand why I shake my head when you talk of my coming to your house. Your ways and my ways must be different." Beatrice was startled, and, for a time, silenced. What Mary said of the difference of their ways was quite true. Beatrice had dearly loved her friend, and had thought of her with affection through all this long period in which they had been separated; but she had given her love and her thoughts on the understanding, as it were, that they were in unison as to the impropriety of Frank's conduct. She had always spoken, with a grave face, of Frank and his love as of a great misfortune, even to Mary herself; and her pity for Mary had been founded on the conviction of her innocence. Now all those ideas had to be altered. Mary owned her fault, confessed herself to be guilty of all that Lady Arabella so frequently laid to her charge, and confessed herself anxious to commit every crime as to which Beatrice had been ever so ready to defend her. Had Beatrice up to this dreamed that Mary was in love with Frank, she would doubtless have sympathised with her more or less, sooner or later. As it was, it was beyond all doubt that she would soon sympathise with her. But, at the moment, the suddenness of the declaration seemed to harden her heart, and she forgot, as it were, to speak tenderly to her friend. She was silent, therefore, and dismayed; and looked as though she thought that her ways and Mary's ways must be different. Mary saw all that was passing in the other's mind: no, not all; all the hostility, the disappointment, the disapproval, the unhappiness, she did see; but not the under-current of love, which was strong enough to well up and drown all these, if only time could be allowed for it to do so. "I am glad I have told you," said Mary, curbing herself, "for deceit and hypocrisy are detestable." "It was a misunderstanding, not deceit," said Beatrice. "Well, now we understand each other; now you know that I have a heart within me, which like those of some others has not always been under my own control. Lady Arabella believes that I am intriguing to be the mistress of Greshamsbury. You, at any rate, will not think that of me. If it could be discovered to-morrow that Frank were not the heir, I might have some chance of happiness." "But, Mary--" "Well?" "You say you love him." "Yes; I do say so." "But if he does not love you, will you cease to do so?" "If I have a fever, I will get rid of it if I can; in such case I must do so, or die." "I fear," continued Beatrice, "you hardly know, perhaps do not think, what is Frank's real character. He is not made to settle down early in life; even now, I believe he is attached to some lady in London, whom, of course, he cannot marry." Beatrice said this in perfect trueness of heart. She had heard of Frank's new love-affair, and believing what she had heard, thought it best to tell the truth. But the information was not of a kind to quiet Mary's spirit. "Very well," said she, "let it be so. I have nothing to say against it." "But are you not preparing wretchedness and unhappiness for yourself?" "Very likely." "Oh, Mary, do not be so cold with me! you know how delighted I should be to have you for a sister-in-law, if only it were possible." "Yes, Trichy; but it is impossible, is it not? Impossible that Francis Gresham of Greshamsbury should disgrace himself by marrying such a poor creature as I am. Of course, I know it; of course, I am prepared for unhappiness and misery. He can amuse himself as he likes with me or others--with anybody. It is his privilege. It is quite enough to say that he is not made for settling down. I know my own position;--and yet I love him." "But, Mary, has he asked you to be his wife? If so--" "You ask home-questions, Beatrice. Let me ask you one; has he ever told you that he has done so?" At this moment Beatrice was not disposed to repeat all that Frank had said. A year ago, before he went away, he had told his sister a score of times that he meant to marry Mary Thorne if she would have him; but Beatrice now looked on all that as idle, boyish vapouring. The pity was, that Mary should have looked on it differently. "We will each keep our secret," said Mary. "Only remember this: should Frank marry to-morrow, I shall have no ground for blaming him. He is free as far I as am concerned. He can take the London lady if he likes. You may tell him so from me. But, Trichy, what else I have told you, I have told you only." "Oh, yes!" said Beatrice, sadly; "I shall say nothing of it to anybody. It is very sad, very, very; I was so happy when I came here, and now I am so wretched." This was the end of that delicious talk to which she had looked forward with so much eagerness. "Don't be wretched about me, dearest; I shall get through it. I sometimes think I was born to be unhappy, and that unhappiness agrees with me best. Kiss me now, Trichy, and don't be wretched any more. You owe it to Mr Oriel to be as happy as the day is long." And then they parted. Beatrice, as she went out, saw Dr Thorne in his little shop on the right-hand side of the passage, deeply engaged in some derogatory branch of an apothecary's mechanical trade; mixing a dose, perhaps, for a little child. She would have passed him without speaking if she could have been sure of doing so without notice, for her heart was full, and her eyes were red with tears; but it was so long since she had been in his house that she was more than ordinarily anxious not to appear uncourteous or unkind to him. "Good morning, doctor," she said, changing her countenance as best she might, and attempting a smile. "Ah, my fairy!" said he, leaving his villainous compounds, and coming out to her; "and you, too, are about to become a steady old lady." "Indeed, I am not, doctor; I don't mean to be either steady or old for the next ten years. But who has told you? I suppose Mary has been a traitor." "Well, I will confess, Mary was the traitor. But hadn't I a right to be told, seeing how often I have brought you sugar-plums in my pocket? But I wish you joy with all my heart,--with all my heart. Oriel is an excellent, good fellow." "Is he not, doctor?" "An excellent, good fellow. I never heard but of one fault that he had." "What was that one fault, Doctor Thorne?" "He thought that clergymen should not marry. But you have cured that, and now he's perfect." "Thank you, doctor. I declare that you say the prettiest things of all my friends." "And none of your friends wish prettier things for you. I do congratulate you, Beatrice, and hope you may be happy with the man you have chosen;" and taking both her hands in his, he pressed them warmly, and bade God bless her. "Oh, doctor! I do so hope the time will come when we shall all be friends again." "I hope it as well, my dear. But let it come, or let it not come, my regard for you will be the same:" and then she parted from him also, and went her way. Nothing was spoken of that evening between Dr Thorne and his niece excepting Beatrice's future happiness; nothing, at least, having reference to what had passed that morning. But on the following morning circumstances led to Frank Gresham's name being mentioned. At the usual breakfast-hour the doctor entered the parlour with a harassed face. He had an open letter in his hand, and it was at once clear to Mary that he was going to speak on some subject that vexed him. "That unfortunate fellow is again in trouble. Here is a letter from Greyson." Greyson was a London apothecary, who had been appointed as medical attendant to Sir Louis Scatcherd, and whose real business consisted in keeping a watch on the baronet, and reporting to Dr Thorne when anything was very much amiss. "Here is a letter from Greyson; he has been drunk for the last three days, and is now laid up in a terribly nervous state." "You won't go up to town again; will you, uncle?" "I hardly know what to do. No, I think not. He talks of coming down here to Greshamsbury." "Who, Sir Louis?" "Yes, Sir Louis. Greyson says that he will be down as soon as he can get out of his room." "What! to this house?" "What other house can he come to?" "Oh, uncle! I hope not. Pray, pray do not let him come here." "I cannot prevent it, my dear. I cannot shut my door on him." They sat down to breakfast, and Mary gave him his tea in silence. "I am going over to Boxall Hill before dinner," said he. "Have you any message to send to Lady Scatcherd?" "Message! no, I have no message; not especially: give her my love, of course," she said listlessly. And then, as though a thought had suddenly struck her, she spoke with more energy. "But, couldn't I go to Boxall Hill again? I should be so delighted." "What! to run away from Sir Louis? No, dearest, we will have no more running away. He will probably also go to Boxall Hill, and he could annoy you much more there than he can here." "But, uncle, Mr Gresham will be home on the 12th," she said, blushing. "What! Frank?" "Yes. Beatrice said he was to be here on the 12th." "And would you run away from him too, Mary?" "I do not know: I do not know what to do." "No; we will have no more running away: I am sorry that you ever did so. It was my fault, altogether my fault; but it was foolish." "Uncle, I am not happy here." As she said this, she put down the cup which she had held, and, leaning her elbows on the table, rested her forehead on her hands. "And would you be happier at Boxall Hill? It is not the place makes the happiness." "No, I know that; it is not the place. I do not look to be happy in any place; but I should be quieter, more tranquil elsewhere than here." "I also sometimes think that it will be better for us to take up our staves and walk away out of Greshamsbury;--leave it altogether, and settle elsewhere; miles, miles, miles away from here. Should you like that, dearest?" Miles, miles, miles away from Greshamsbury! There was something in the sound that fell very cold on Mary's ears, unhappy as she was. Greshamsbury had been so dear to her; in spite of all that had passed, was still so dear to her! Was she prepared to take up her staff, as her uncle said, and walk forth from the place with the full understanding that she was to return to it no more; with a mind resolved that there should be an inseparable gulf between her and its inhabitants? Such she knew was the proposed nature of the walking away of which her uncle spoke. So she sat there, resting on her arms, and gave no answer to the question that had been asked her. "No, we will stay a while yet," said her uncle. "It may come to that, but this is not the time. For one season longer let us face--I will not say our enemies; I cannot call anybody my enemy who bears the name of Gresham." And then he went on for a moment with his breakfast. "So Frank will be here on the 12th?" "Yes, uncle." "Well, dearest, I have no questions to ask you: no directions to give. I know how good you are, and how prudent; I am anxious only for your happiness; not at all--" "Happiness, uncle, is out of the question." "I hope not. It is never out of the question, never can be out of the question. But, as I was saying, I am quite satisfied your conduct will be good, and, therefore, I have no questions to ask. We will remain here; and, whether good or evil come, we will not be ashamed to show our faces." She sat for a while again silent, collecting her courage on the subject that was nearest her heart. She would have given the world that he should ask her questions; but she could not bid him to do so; and she found it impossible to talk openly to him about Frank unless he did so. "Will he come here?" at last she said, in a low-toned voice. "Who? He, Louis? Yes, I think that in all probability he will." "No; but Frank," she said, in a still lower voice. "Ah! my darling, that I cannot tell; but will it be well that he should come here?" "I do not know," she said. "No, I suppose not. But, uncle, I don't think he will come." She was now sitting on a sofa away from the table, and he got up, sat down beside her, and took her hands in his. "Mary," said he, "you must be strong now; strong to endure, not to attack. I think you have that strength; but, if not, perhaps it will be better that we should go away." "I will be strong," said she, rising up and going towards the door. "Never mind me, uncle; don't follow me; I will be strong. It will be base, cowardly, mean, to run away; very base in me to make you do so." "No, dearest, not so; it will be the same to me." "No," said she, "I will not run away from Lady Arabella. And, as for him--if he loves this other one, he shall hear no reproach from me. Uncle, I will be strong;" and running back to him, she threw her arms round him and kissed him. And, still restraining her tears, she got safely to her bedroom. In what way she may there have shown her strength, it would not be well for us to inquire. CHAPTER XXXIV A Barouche and Four Arrives at Greshamsbury During the last twelve months Sir Louis Scatcherd had been very efficacious in bringing trouble, turmoil, and vexation upon Greshamsbury. Now that it was too late to take steps to save himself, Dr Thorne found that the will left by Sir Roger was so made as to entail upon him duties that he would find it almost impossible to perform. Sir Louis, though his father had wished to make him still a child in the eye of the law, was no child. He knew his own rights and was determined to exact them; and before Sir Roger had been dead three months, the doctor found himself in continual litigation with a low Barchester attorney, who was acting on behalf of his, the doctor's, own ward. And if the doctor suffered so did the squire, and so did those who had hitherto had the management of the squire's affairs. Dr Thorne soon perceived that he was to be driven into litigation, not only with Mr Finnie, the Barchester attorney, but with the squire himself. While Finnie harassed him, he was compelled to harass Mr Gresham. He was no lawyer himself; and though he had been able to manage very well between the squire and Sir Roger, and had perhaps given himself some credit for his lawyer-like ability in so doing, he was utterly unable to manage between Sir Louis and Mr Gresham. He had, therefore, to employ a lawyer on his own account, and it seemed probable that the whole amount of Sir Roger's legacy to himself would by degrees be expended in this manner. And then, the squire's lawyers had to take up the matter; and they did so greatly to the detriment of poor Mr Yates Umbleby, who was found to have made a mess of the affairs entrusted to him. Mr Umbleby's accounts were incorrect; his mind was anything but clear, and he confessed, when put to it by the very sharp gentleman that came down from London, that he was "bothered;" and so, after a while, he was suspended from his duties, and Mr Gazebee, the sharp gentleman from London, reigned over the diminished rent-roll of the Greshamsbury estate. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury--with the one exception of Mr Oriel and his love-suit. Miss Gushing attributed the deposition of Mr Umbleby to the narrowness of the victory which Beatrice had won in carrying off Mr Oriel. For Miss Gushing was a relation of the Umblebys, and had been for many years one of their family. "If she had only chosen to exert herself as Miss Gresham had done, she could have had Mr Oriel, easily; oh, too easily! but she had despised such work," so she said. "But though she had despised it, the Greshams had not been less irritated, and, therefore, Mr Umbleby had been driven out of his house." We can hardly believe this, as victory generally makes men generous. Miss Gushing, however, stated it as a fact so often that it is probable she was induced to believe it herself. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury, and the squire himself was especially a sufferer. Umbleby had at any rate been his own man, and he could do what he liked with him. He could see him when he liked, and where he liked, and how he liked; could scold him if in an ill-humour, and laugh at him when in a good humour. All this Mr Umbleby knew, and bore. But Mr Gazebee was a very different sort of gentleman; he was the junior partner in the firm of Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, of Mount Street, a house that never defiled itself with any other business than the agency business, and that in the very highest line. They drew out leases, and managed property both for the Duke of Omnium and Lord de Courcy; and ever since her marriage, it had been one of the objects dearest to Lady Arabella's heart, that the Greshamsbury acres should be superintended by the polite skill and polished legal ability of that all but elegant firm in Mount Street. The squire had long stood firm, and had delighted in having everything done under his own eye by poor Mr Yates Umbleby. But now, alas! he could stand it no longer. He had put off the evil day as long as he could; he had deferred the odious work of investigation till things had seemed resolved on investigating themselves; and then, when it was absolutely necessary that Mr Umbleby should go, there was nothing for him left but to fall into the ready hands of Messrs Gumption, Gazebee and Gazebee. It must not be supposed that Messrs Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee were in the least like the ordinary run of attorneys. They wrote no letters for six-and-eightpence each: they collected no debts, filed no bills, made no charge per folio for "whereases" and "as aforesaids;" they did no dirty work, and probably were as ignorant of the interior of a court of law as any young lady living in their Mayfair vicinity. No; their business was to manage the property of great people, draw up leases, make legal assignments, get the family marriage settlements made, and look after wills. Occasionally, also, they had to raise money; but it was generally understood that this was done by proxy. The firm had been going on for a hundred and fifty years, and the designation had often been altered; but it always consisted of Gumptions and Gazebees differently arranged, and no less hallowed names had ever been permitted to appear. It had been Gazebee, Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee, Gumption & Gumption; then Gumption, Gumption & Gazebee; and now it was Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee. Mr Gazebee, the junior member of this firm, was a very elegant young man. While looking at him riding in Rotten Row, you would hardly have taken him for an attorney; and had he heard that you had so taken him, he would have been very much surprised indeed. He was rather bald; not being, as people say, quite so young as he was once. His exact age was thirty-eight. But he had a really remarkable pair of jet-black whiskers, which fully made up for any deficiency as to his head; he had also dark eyes, and a beaked nose, what may be called a distinguished mouth, and was always dressed in fashionable attire. The fact was, that Mr Mortimer Gazebee, junior partner in the firm Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, by no means considered himself to be made of that very disagreeable material which mortals call small beer. When this great firm was applied to, to get Mr Gresham through his difficulties, and when the state of his affairs was made known to them, they at first expressed rather a disinclination for the work. But at last, moved doubtless by their respect for the de Courcy interest, they assented; and Mr Gazebee, junior, went down to Greshamsbury. The poor squire passed many a sad day after that before he again felt himself to be master even of his own domain. Nevertheless, when Mr Mortimer Gazebee visited Greshamsbury, which he did on more than one or two occasions, he was always received _en grand seigneur_. To Lady Arabella he was by no means an unwelcome guest, for she found herself able, for the first time in her life, to speak confidentially on her husband's pecuniary affairs with the man who had the management of her husband's property. Mr Gazebee also was a pet with Lady de Courcy; and being known to be a fashionable man in London, and quite a different sort of person from poor Mr Umbleby, he was always received with smiles. He had a hundred little ways of making himself agreeable, and Augusta declared to her cousin, the Lady Amelia, after having been acquainted with him for a few months, that he would be a perfect gentleman, only, that his family had never been anything but attorneys. The Lady Amelia smiled in her own peculiarly aristocratic way, shrugged her shoulders slightly, and said, "that Mr Mortimer Gazebee was a very good sort of a person, very." Poor Augusta felt herself snubbed, thinking perhaps of the tailor's son; but as there was never any appeal against the Lady Amelia, she said nothing more at that moment in favour of Mr Mortimer Gazebee. All these evils--Mr Mortimer Gazebee being the worst of them--had Sir Louis Scatcherd brought down on the poor squire's head. There may be those who will say that the squire had brought them on himself, by running into debt; and so, doubtless, he had; but it was not the less true that the baronet's interference was unnecessary, vexatious, and one might almost say, malicious. His interest would have been quite safe in the doctor's hands, and he had, in fact, no legal right to meddle; but neither the doctor nor the squire could prevent him. Mr Finnie knew very well what he was about, if Sir Louis did not; and so the three went on, each with his own lawyer, and each of them distrustful, unhappy, and ill at ease. This was hard upon the doctor, for he was not in debt, and had borrowed no money. There was not much reason to suppose that the visit of Sir Louis to Greshamsbury would much improve matters. It must be presumed that he was not coming with any amicable views, but with the object rather of looking after his own; a phrase which was now constantly in his mouth. He might probably find it necessary while looking after his own at Greshamsbury, to say some very disagreeable things to the squire; and the doctor, therefore, hardly expected that the visit would go off pleasantly. When last we saw Sir Louis, now nearly twelve months since, he was intent on making a proposal of marriage to Miss Thorne. This intention he carried out about two days after Frank Gresham had done the same thing. He had delayed doing so till he had succeeded in purchasing his friend Jenkins's Arab pony, imagining that such a present could not but go far in weaning Mary's heart from her other lover. Poor Mary was put to the trouble of refusing both the baronet and the pony, and a very bad time she had of it while doing so. Sir Louis was a man easily angered, and not very easily pacified, and Mary had to endure a good deal of annoyance; from any other person, indeed, she would have called it impertinence. Sir Louis, however, had to bear his rejection as best he could, and, after a perseverance of three days, returned to London in disgust; and Mary had not seen him since. Mr Greyson's first letter was followed by a second; and the second was followed by the baronet in person. He also required to be received _en grand seigneur_, perhaps more imperatively than Mr Mortimer Gazebee himself. He came with four posters from the Barchester Station, and had himself rattled up to the doctor's door in a way that took the breath away from all Greshamsbury. Why! the squire himself for a many long year had been contented to come home with a pair of horses; and four were never seen in the place, except when the de Courcys came to Greshamsbury, or Lady Arabella with all her daughters returned from her hard-fought metropolitan campaigns. Sir Louis, however, came with four, and very arrogant he looked, leaning back in the barouche belonging to the George and Dragon, and wrapped up in fur, although it was now midsummer. And up in the dicky behind was a servant, more arrogant, if possible, than his master--the baronet's own man, who was the object of Dr Thorne's special detestation and disgust. He was a little fellow, chosen originally on account of his light weight on horseback; but if that may be considered a merit, it was the only one he had. His out-door show dress was a little tight frock-coat, round which a polished strap was always buckled tightly, a stiff white choker, leather breeches, top-boots, and a hat, with a cockade, stuck on one side of his head. His name was Jonah, which his master and his master's friends shortened into Joe; none, however, but those who were very intimate with his master were allowed to do so with impunity. This Joe was Dr Thorne's special aversion. In his anxiety to take every possible step to keep Sir Louis from poisoning himself, he had at first attempted to enlist the baronet's "own man" in the cause. Joe had promised fairly, but had betrayed the doctor at once, and had become the worst

profits

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

you know--I thought you always said so--I have always told mamma so as if it came from yourself." "Beatrice, do not tell anything to Lady Arabella as though it came from me; I do not want anything to be told to her, either of me or from me. Say what you like to me yourself; whatever you say will not anger me. Indeed, I know what you would say--and yet I love you. Oh, I love you, Trichy--Trichy, I do love you so much! Don't turn away from me!" There was such a mixture in Mary's manner of tenderness and almost ferocity, that poor Beatrice could hardly follow her. "Turn away from you, Mary! no never; but this does make me unhappy." "It is better that you should know it all, and then you will not be led into fighting my battles again. You cannot fight them so that I should win; I do love your brother; love him truly, fondly, tenderly. I would wish to have him for my husband as you wish to have Mr Oriel." "But, Mary, you cannot marry him!" "Why not?" said she, in a loud voice. "Why can I not marry him? If the priest says a blessing over us, shall we not be married as well as you and your husband?" "But you know he cannot marry unless his wife shall have money." "Money--money; and he is to sell himself for money? Oh, Trichy! do not you talk about money. It is horrible. But, Trichy, I will grant it--I cannot marry him; but still, I love him. He has a name, a place in the world, and fortune, family, high blood, position, everything. He has all this, and I have nothing. Of course I cannot marry him. But yet I do love him." "Are you engaged to him, Mary?" "He is not engaged to me; but I am to him." "Oh, Mary, that is impossible!" "It is not impossible: it is the case--I am pledged to him; but he is not pledged to me." "But, Mary, don't look at me in that way. I do not quite understand you. What is the good of your being engaged if you cannot marry him?" "Good! there is no good. But can I help it, if I love him? Can I make myself not love him by just wishing it? Oh, I would do it if I could. But now you will understand why I shake my head when you talk of my coming to your house. Your ways and my ways must be different." Beatrice was startled, and, for a time, silenced. What Mary said of the difference of their ways was quite true. Beatrice had dearly loved her friend, and had thought of her with affection through all this long period in which they had been separated; but she had given her love and her thoughts on the understanding, as it were, that they were in unison as to the impropriety of Frank's conduct. She had always spoken, with a grave face, of Frank and his love as of a great misfortune, even to Mary herself; and her pity for Mary had been founded on the conviction of her innocence. Now all those ideas had to be altered. Mary owned her fault, confessed herself to be guilty of all that Lady Arabella so frequently laid to her charge, and confessed herself anxious to commit every crime as to which Beatrice had been ever so ready to defend her. Had Beatrice up to this dreamed that Mary was in love with Frank, she would doubtless have sympathised with her more or less, sooner or later. As it was, it was beyond all doubt that she would soon sympathise with her. But, at the moment, the suddenness of the declaration seemed to harden her heart, and she forgot, as it were, to speak tenderly to her friend. She was silent, therefore, and dismayed; and looked as though she thought that her ways and Mary's ways must be different. Mary saw all that was passing in the other's mind: no, not all; all the hostility, the disappointment, the disapproval, the unhappiness, she did see; but not the under-current of love, which was strong enough to well up and drown all these, if only time could be allowed for it to do so. "I am glad I have told you," said Mary, curbing herself, "for deceit and hypocrisy are detestable." "It was a misunderstanding, not deceit," said Beatrice. "Well, now we understand each other; now you know that I have a heart within me, which like those of some others has not always been under my own control. Lady Arabella believes that I am intriguing to be the mistress of Greshamsbury. You, at any rate, will not think that of me. If it could be discovered to-morrow that Frank were not the heir, I might have some chance of happiness." "But, Mary--" "Well?" "You say you love him." "Yes; I do say so." "But if he does not love you, will you cease to do so?" "If I have a fever, I will get rid of it if I can; in such case I must do so, or die." "I fear," continued Beatrice, "you hardly know, perhaps do not think, what is Frank's real character. He is not made to settle down early in life; even now, I believe he is attached to some lady in London, whom, of course, he cannot marry." Beatrice said this in perfect trueness of heart. She had heard of Frank's new love-affair, and believing what she had heard, thought it best to tell the truth. But the information was not of a kind to quiet Mary's spirit. "Very well," said she, "let it be so. I have nothing to say against it." "But are you not preparing wretchedness and unhappiness for yourself?" "Very likely." "Oh, Mary, do not be so cold with me! you know how delighted I should be to have you for a sister-in-law, if only it were possible." "Yes, Trichy; but it is impossible, is it not? Impossible that Francis Gresham of Greshamsbury should disgrace himself by marrying such a poor creature as I am. Of course, I know it; of course, I am prepared for unhappiness and misery. He can amuse himself as he likes with me or others--with anybody. It is his privilege. It is quite enough to say that he is not made for settling down. I know my own position;--and yet I love him." "But, Mary, has he asked you to be his wife? If so--" "You ask home-questions, Beatrice. Let me ask you one; has he ever told you that he has done so?" At this moment Beatrice was not disposed to repeat all that Frank had said. A year ago, before he went away, he had told his sister a score of times that he meant to marry Mary Thorne if she would have him; but Beatrice now looked on all that as idle, boyish vapouring. The pity was, that Mary should have looked on it differently. "We will each keep our secret," said Mary. "Only remember this: should Frank marry to-morrow, I shall have no ground for blaming him. He is free as far I as am concerned. He can take the London lady if he likes. You may tell him so from me. But, Trichy, what else I have told you, I have told you only." "Oh, yes!" said Beatrice, sadly; "I shall say nothing of it to anybody. It is very sad, very, very; I was so happy when I came here, and now I am so wretched." This was the end of that delicious talk to which she had looked forward with so much eagerness. "Don't be wretched about me, dearest; I shall get through it. I sometimes think I was born to be unhappy, and that unhappiness agrees with me best. Kiss me now, Trichy, and don't be wretched any more. You owe it to Mr Oriel to be as happy as the day is long." And then they parted. Beatrice, as she went out, saw Dr Thorne in his little shop on the right-hand side of the passage, deeply engaged in some derogatory branch of an apothecary's mechanical trade; mixing a dose, perhaps, for a little child. She would have passed him without speaking if she could have been sure of doing so without notice, for her heart was full, and her eyes were red with tears; but it was so long since she had been in his house that she was more than ordinarily anxious not to appear uncourteous or unkind to him. "Good morning, doctor," she said, changing her countenance as best she might, and attempting a smile. "Ah, my fairy!" said he, leaving his villainous compounds, and coming out to her; "and you, too, are about to become a steady old lady." "Indeed, I am not, doctor; I don't mean to be either steady or old for the next ten years. But who has told you? I suppose Mary has been a traitor." "Well, I will confess, Mary was the traitor. But hadn't I a right to be told, seeing how often I have brought you sugar-plums in my pocket? But I wish you joy with all my heart,--with all my heart. Oriel is an excellent, good fellow." "Is he not, doctor?" "An excellent, good fellow. I never heard but of one fault that he had." "What was that one fault, Doctor Thorne?" "He thought that clergymen should not marry. But you have cured that, and now he's perfect." "Thank you, doctor. I declare that you say the prettiest things of all my friends." "And none of your friends wish prettier things for you. I do congratulate you, Beatrice, and hope you may be happy with the man you have chosen;" and taking both her hands in his, he pressed them warmly, and bade God bless her. "Oh, doctor! I do so hope the time will come when we shall all be friends again." "I hope it as well, my dear. But let it come, or let it not come, my regard for you will be the same:" and then she parted from him also, and went her way. Nothing was spoken of that evening between Dr Thorne and his niece excepting Beatrice's future happiness; nothing, at least, having reference to what had passed that morning. But on the following morning circumstances led to Frank Gresham's name being mentioned. At the usual breakfast-hour the doctor entered the parlour with a harassed face. He had an open letter in his hand, and it was at once clear to Mary that he was going to speak on some subject that vexed him. "That unfortunate fellow is again in trouble. Here is a letter from Greyson." Greyson was a London apothecary, who had been appointed as medical attendant to Sir Louis Scatcherd, and whose real business consisted in keeping a watch on the baronet, and reporting to Dr Thorne when anything was very much amiss. "Here is a letter from Greyson; he has been drunk for the last three days, and is now laid up in a terribly nervous state." "You won't go up to town again; will you, uncle?" "I hardly know what to do. No, I think not. He talks of coming down here to Greshamsbury." "Who, Sir Louis?" "Yes, Sir Louis. Greyson says that he will be down as soon as he can get out of his room." "What! to this house?" "What other house can he come to?" "Oh, uncle! I hope not. Pray, pray do not let him come here." "I cannot prevent it, my dear. I cannot shut my door on him." They sat down to breakfast, and Mary gave him his tea in silence. "I am going over to Boxall Hill before dinner," said he. "Have you any message to send to Lady Scatcherd?" "Message! no, I have no message; not especially: give her my love, of course," she said listlessly. And then, as though a thought had suddenly struck her, she spoke with more energy. "But, couldn't I go to Boxall Hill again? I should be so delighted." "What! to run away from Sir Louis? No, dearest, we will have no more running away. He will probably also go to Boxall Hill, and he could annoy you much more there than he can here." "But, uncle, Mr Gresham will be home on the 12th," she said, blushing. "What! Frank?" "Yes. Beatrice said he was to be here on the 12th." "And would you run away from him too, Mary?" "I do not know: I do not know what to do." "No; we will have no more running away: I am sorry that you ever did so. It was my fault, altogether my fault; but it was foolish." "Uncle, I am not happy here." As she said this, she put down the cup which she had held, and, leaning her elbows on the table, rested her forehead on her hands. "And would you be happier at Boxall Hill? It is not the place makes the happiness." "No, I know that; it is not the place. I do not look to be happy in any place; but I should be quieter, more tranquil elsewhere than here." "I also sometimes think that it will be better for us to take up our staves and walk away out of Greshamsbury;--leave it altogether, and settle elsewhere; miles, miles, miles away from here. Should you like that, dearest?" Miles, miles, miles away from Greshamsbury! There was something in the sound that fell very cold on Mary's ears, unhappy as she was. Greshamsbury had been so dear to her; in spite of all that had passed, was still so dear to her! Was she prepared to take up her staff, as her uncle said, and walk forth from the place with the full understanding that she was to return to it no more; with a mind resolved that there should be an inseparable gulf between her and its inhabitants? Such she knew was the proposed nature of the walking away of which her uncle spoke. So she sat there, resting on her arms, and gave no answer to the question that had been asked her. "No, we will stay a while yet," said her uncle. "It may come to that, but this is not the time. For one season longer let us face--I will not say our enemies; I cannot call anybody my enemy who bears the name of Gresham." And then he went on for a moment with his breakfast. "So Frank will be here on the 12th?" "Yes, uncle." "Well, dearest, I have no questions to ask you: no directions to give. I know how good you are, and how prudent; I am anxious only for your happiness; not at all--" "Happiness, uncle, is out of the question." "I hope not. It is never out of the question, never can be out of the question. But, as I was saying, I am quite satisfied your conduct will be good, and, therefore, I have no questions to ask. We will remain here; and, whether good or evil come, we will not be ashamed to show our faces." She sat for a while again silent, collecting her courage on the subject that was nearest her heart. She would have given the world that he should ask her questions; but she could not bid him to do so; and she found it impossible to talk openly to him about Frank unless he did so. "Will he come here?" at last she said, in a low-toned voice. "Who? He, Louis? Yes, I think that in all probability he will." "No; but Frank," she said, in a still lower voice. "Ah! my darling, that I cannot tell; but will it be well that he should come here?" "I do not know," she said. "No, I suppose not. But, uncle, I don't think he will come." She was now sitting on a sofa away from the table, and he got up, sat down beside her, and took her hands in his. "Mary," said he, "you must be strong now; strong to endure, not to attack. I think you have that strength; but, if not, perhaps it will be better that we should go away." "I will be strong," said she, rising up and going towards the door. "Never mind me, uncle; don't follow me; I will be strong. It will be base, cowardly, mean, to run away; very base in me to make you do so." "No, dearest, not so; it will be the same to me." "No," said she, "I will not run away from Lady Arabella. And, as for him--if he loves this other one, he shall hear no reproach from me. Uncle, I will be strong;" and running back to him, she threw her arms round him and kissed him. And, still restraining her tears, she got safely to her bedroom. In what way she may there have shown her strength, it would not be well for us to inquire. CHAPTER XXXIV A Barouche and Four Arrives at Greshamsbury During the last twelve months Sir Louis Scatcherd had been very efficacious in bringing trouble, turmoil, and vexation upon Greshamsbury. Now that it was too late to take steps to save himself, Dr Thorne found that the will left by Sir Roger was so made as to entail upon him duties that he would find it almost impossible to perform. Sir Louis, though his father had wished to make him still a child in the eye of the law, was no child. He knew his own rights and was determined to exact them; and before Sir Roger had been dead three months, the doctor found himself in continual litigation with a low Barchester attorney, who was acting on behalf of his, the doctor's, own ward. And if the doctor suffered so did the squire, and so did those who had hitherto had the management of the squire's affairs. Dr Thorne soon perceived that he was to be driven into litigation, not only with Mr Finnie, the Barchester attorney, but with the squire himself. While Finnie harassed him, he was compelled to harass Mr Gresham. He was no lawyer himself; and though he had been able to manage very well between the squire and Sir Roger, and had perhaps given himself some credit for his lawyer-like ability in so doing, he was utterly unable to manage between Sir Louis and Mr Gresham. He had, therefore, to employ a lawyer on his own account, and it seemed probable that the whole amount of Sir Roger's legacy to himself would by degrees be expended in this manner. And then, the squire's lawyers had to take up the matter; and they did so greatly to the detriment of poor Mr Yates Umbleby, who was found to have made a mess of the affairs entrusted to him. Mr Umbleby's accounts were incorrect; his mind was anything but clear, and he confessed, when put to it by the very sharp gentleman that came down from London, that he was "bothered;" and so, after a while, he was suspended from his duties, and Mr Gazebee, the sharp gentleman from London, reigned over the diminished rent-roll of the Greshamsbury estate. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury--with the one exception of Mr Oriel and his love-suit. Miss Gushing attributed the deposition of Mr Umbleby to the narrowness of the victory which Beatrice had won in carrying off Mr Oriel. For Miss Gushing was a relation of the Umblebys, and had been for many years one of their family. "If she had only chosen to exert herself as Miss Gresham had done, she could have had Mr Oriel, easily; oh, too easily! but she had despised such work," so she said. "But though she had despised it, the Greshams had not been less irritated, and, therefore, Mr Umbleby had been driven out of his house." We can hardly believe this, as victory generally makes men generous. Miss Gushing, however, stated it as a fact so often that it is probable she was induced to believe it herself. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury, and the squire himself was especially a sufferer. Umbleby had at any rate been his own man, and he could do what he liked with him. He could see him when he liked, and where he liked, and how he liked; could scold him if in an ill-humour, and laugh at him when in a good humour. All this Mr Umbleby knew, and bore. But Mr Gazebee was a very different sort of gentleman; he was the junior partner in the firm of Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, of Mount Street, a house that never defiled itself with any other business than the agency business, and that in the very highest line. They drew out leases, and managed property both for the Duke of Omnium and Lord de Courcy; and ever since her marriage, it had been one of the objects dearest to Lady Arabella's heart, that the Greshamsbury acres should be superintended by the polite skill and polished legal ability of that all but elegant firm in Mount Street. The squire had long stood firm, and had delighted in having everything done under his own eye by poor Mr Yates Umbleby. But now, alas! he could stand it no longer. He had put off the evil day as long as he could; he had deferred the odious work of investigation till things had seemed resolved on investigating themselves; and then, when it was absolutely necessary that Mr Umbleby should go, there was nothing for him left but to fall into the ready hands of Messrs Gumption, Gazebee and Gazebee. It must not be supposed that Messrs Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee were in the least like the ordinary run of attorneys. They wrote no letters for six-and-eightpence each: they collected no debts, filed no bills, made no charge per folio for "whereases" and "as aforesaids;" they did no dirty work, and probably were as ignorant of the interior of a court of law as any young lady living in their Mayfair vicinity. No; their business was to manage the property of great people, draw up leases, make legal assignments, get the family marriage settlements made, and look after wills. Occasionally, also, they had to raise money; but it was generally understood that this was done by proxy. The firm had been going on for a hundred and fifty years, and the designation had often been altered; but it always consisted of Gumptions and Gazebees differently arranged, and no less hallowed names had ever been permitted to appear. It had been Gazebee, Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee, Gumption & Gumption; then Gumption, Gumption & Gazebee; and now it was Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee. Mr Gazebee, the junior member of this firm, was a very elegant young man. While looking at him riding in Rotten Row, you would hardly have taken him for an attorney; and had he heard that you had so taken him, he would have been very much surprised indeed. He was rather bald; not being, as people say, quite so young as he was once. His exact age was thirty-eight. But he had a really remarkable pair of jet-black whiskers, which fully made up for any deficiency as to his head; he had also dark eyes, and a beaked nose, what may be called a distinguished mouth, and was always dressed in fashionable attire. The fact was, that Mr Mortimer Gazebee, junior partner in the firm Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, by no means considered himself to be made of that very disagreeable material which mortals call small beer. When this great firm was applied to, to get Mr Gresham through his difficulties, and when the state of his affairs was made known to them, they at first expressed rather a disinclination for the work. But at last, moved doubtless by their respect for the de Courcy interest, they assented; and Mr Gazebee, junior, went down to Greshamsbury. The poor squire passed many a sad day after that before he again felt himself to be master even of his own domain. Nevertheless, when Mr Mortimer Gazebee visited Greshamsbury, which he did on more than one or two occasions, he was always received _en grand seigneur_. To Lady Arabella he was by no means an unwelcome guest, for she found herself able, for the first time in her life, to speak confidentially on her husband's pecuniary affairs with the man who had the management of her husband's property. Mr Gazebee also was a pet with Lady de Courcy; and being known to be a fashionable man in London, and quite a different sort of person from poor Mr Umbleby, he was always received with smiles. He had a hundred little ways of making himself agreeable, and Augusta declared to her cousin, the Lady Amelia, after having been acquainted with him for a few months, that he would be a perfect gentleman, only, that his family had never been anything but attorneys. The Lady Amelia smiled in her own peculiarly aristocratic way, shrugged her shoulders slightly, and said, "that Mr Mortimer Gazebee was a very good sort of a person, very." Poor Augusta felt herself snubbed, thinking perhaps of the tailor's son; but as there was never any appeal against the Lady Amelia, she said nothing more at that moment in favour of Mr Mortimer Gazebee. All these evils--Mr Mortimer Gazebee being the worst of them--had Sir Louis Scatcherd brought down on the poor squire's head. There may be those who will say that the squire had brought them on himself, by running into debt; and so, doubtless, he had; but it was not the less true that the baronet's interference was unnecessary, vexatious, and one might almost say, malicious. His interest would have been quite safe in the doctor's hands, and he had, in fact, no legal right to meddle; but neither the doctor nor the squire could prevent him. Mr Finnie knew very well what he was about, if Sir Louis did not; and so the three went on, each with his own lawyer, and each of them distrustful, unhappy, and ill at ease. This was hard upon the doctor, for he was not in debt, and had borrowed no money. There was not much reason to suppose that the visit of Sir Louis to Greshamsbury would much improve matters. It must be presumed that he was not coming with any amicable views, but with the object rather of looking after his own; a phrase which was now constantly in his mouth. He might probably find it necessary while looking after his own at Greshamsbury, to say some very disagreeable things to the squire; and the doctor, therefore, hardly expected that the visit would go off pleasantly. When last we saw Sir Louis, now nearly twelve months since, he was intent on making a proposal of marriage to Miss Thorne. This intention he carried out about two days after Frank Gresham had done the same thing. He had delayed doing so till he had succeeded in purchasing his friend Jenkins's Arab pony, imagining that such a present could not but go far in weaning Mary's heart from her other lover. Poor Mary was put to the trouble of refusing both the baronet and the pony, and a very bad time she had of it while doing so. Sir Louis was a man easily angered, and not very easily pacified, and Mary had to endure a good deal of annoyance; from any other person, indeed, she would have called it impertinence. Sir Louis, however, had to bear his rejection as best he could, and, after a perseverance of three days, returned to London in disgust; and Mary had not seen him since. Mr Greyson's first letter was followed by a second; and the second was followed by the baronet in person. He also required to be received _en grand seigneur_, perhaps more imperatively than Mr Mortimer Gazebee himself. He came with four posters from the Barchester Station, and had himself rattled up to the doctor's door in a way that took the breath away from all Greshamsbury. Why! the squire himself for a many long year had been contented to come home with a pair of horses; and four were never seen in the place, except when the de Courcys came to Greshamsbury, or Lady Arabella with all her daughters returned from her hard-fought metropolitan campaigns. Sir Louis, however, came with four, and very arrogant he looked, leaning back in the barouche belonging to the George and Dragon, and wrapped up in fur, although it was now midsummer. And up in the dicky behind was a servant, more arrogant, if possible, than his master--the baronet's own man, who was the object of Dr Thorne's special detestation and disgust. He was a little fellow, chosen originally on account of his light weight on horseback; but if that may be considered a merit, it was the only one he had. His out-door show dress was a little tight frock-coat, round which a polished strap was always buckled tightly, a stiff white choker, leather breeches, top-boots, and a hat, with a cockade, stuck on one side of his head. His name was Jonah, which his master and his master's friends shortened into Joe; none, however, but those who were very intimate with his master were allowed to do so with impunity. This Joe was Dr Thorne's special aversion. In his anxiety to take every possible step to keep Sir Louis from poisoning himself, he had at first attempted to enlist the baronet's "own man" in the cause. Joe had promised fairly, but had betrayed the doctor at once, and had become the worst

yourself

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

you know--I thought you always said so--I have always told mamma so as if it came from yourself." "Beatrice, do not tell anything to Lady Arabella as though it came from me; I do not want anything to be told to her, either of me or from me. Say what you like to me yourself; whatever you say will not anger me. Indeed, I know what you would say--and yet I love you. Oh, I love you, Trichy--Trichy, I do love you so much! Don't turn away from me!" There was such a mixture in Mary's manner of tenderness and almost ferocity, that poor Beatrice could hardly follow her. "Turn away from you, Mary! no never; but this does make me unhappy." "It is better that you should know it all, and then you will not be led into fighting my battles again. You cannot fight them so that I should win; I do love your brother; love him truly, fondly, tenderly. I would wish to have him for my husband as you wish to have Mr Oriel." "But, Mary, you cannot marry him!" "Why not?" said she, in a loud voice. "Why can I not marry him? If the priest says a blessing over us, shall we not be married as well as you and your husband?" "But you know he cannot marry unless his wife shall have money." "Money--money; and he is to sell himself for money? Oh, Trichy! do not you talk about money. It is horrible. But, Trichy, I will grant it--I cannot marry him; but still, I love him. He has a name, a place in the world, and fortune, family, high blood, position, everything. He has all this, and I have nothing. Of course I cannot marry him. But yet I do love him." "Are you engaged to him, Mary?" "He is not engaged to me; but I am to him." "Oh, Mary, that is impossible!" "It is not impossible: it is the case--I am pledged to him; but he is not pledged to me." "But, Mary, don't look at me in that way. I do not quite understand you. What is the good of your being engaged if you cannot marry him?" "Good! there is no good. But can I help it, if I love him? Can I make myself not love him by just wishing it? Oh, I would do it if I could. But now you will understand why I shake my head when you talk of my coming to your house. Your ways and my ways must be different." Beatrice was startled, and, for a time, silenced. What Mary said of the difference of their ways was quite true. Beatrice had dearly loved her friend, and had thought of her with affection through all this long period in which they had been separated; but she had given her love and her thoughts on the understanding, as it were, that they were in unison as to the impropriety of Frank's conduct. She had always spoken, with a grave face, of Frank and his love as of a great misfortune, even to Mary herself; and her pity for Mary had been founded on the conviction of her innocence. Now all those ideas had to be altered. Mary owned her fault, confessed herself to be guilty of all that Lady Arabella so frequently laid to her charge, and confessed herself anxious to commit every crime as to which Beatrice had been ever so ready to defend her. Had Beatrice up to this dreamed that Mary was in love with Frank, she would doubtless have sympathised with her more or less, sooner or later. As it was, it was beyond all doubt that she would soon sympathise with her. But, at the moment, the suddenness of the declaration seemed to harden her heart, and she forgot, as it were, to speak tenderly to her friend. She was silent, therefore, and dismayed; and looked as though she thought that her ways and Mary's ways must be different. Mary saw all that was passing in the other's mind: no, not all; all the hostility, the disappointment, the disapproval, the unhappiness, she did see; but not the under-current of love, which was strong enough to well up and drown all these, if only time could be allowed for it to do so. "I am glad I have told you," said Mary, curbing herself, "for deceit and hypocrisy are detestable." "It was a misunderstanding, not deceit," said Beatrice. "Well, now we understand each other; now you know that I have a heart within me, which like those of some others has not always been under my own control. Lady Arabella believes that I am intriguing to be the mistress of Greshamsbury. You, at any rate, will not think that of me. If it could be discovered to-morrow that Frank were not the heir, I might have some chance of happiness." "But, Mary--" "Well?" "You say you love him." "Yes; I do say so." "But if he does not love you, will you cease to do so?" "If I have a fever, I will get rid of it if I can; in such case I must do so, or die." "I fear," continued Beatrice, "you hardly know, perhaps do not think, what is Frank's real character. He is not made to settle down early in life; even now, I believe he is attached to some lady in London, whom, of course, he cannot marry." Beatrice said this in perfect trueness of heart. She had heard of Frank's new love-affair, and believing what she had heard, thought it best to tell the truth. But the information was not of a kind to quiet Mary's spirit. "Very well," said she, "let it be so. I have nothing to say against it." "But are you not preparing wretchedness and unhappiness for yourself?" "Very likely." "Oh, Mary, do not be so cold with me! you know how delighted I should be to have you for a sister-in-law, if only it were possible." "Yes, Trichy; but it is impossible, is it not? Impossible that Francis Gresham of Greshamsbury should disgrace himself by marrying such a poor creature as I am. Of course, I know it; of course, I am prepared for unhappiness and misery. He can amuse himself as he likes with me or others--with anybody. It is his privilege. It is quite enough to say that he is not made for settling down. I know my own position;--and yet I love him." "But, Mary, has he asked you to be his wife? If so--" "You ask home-questions, Beatrice. Let me ask you one; has he ever told you that he has done so?" At this moment Beatrice was not disposed to repeat all that Frank had said. A year ago, before he went away, he had told his sister a score of times that he meant to marry Mary Thorne if she would have him; but Beatrice now looked on all that as idle, boyish vapouring. The pity was, that Mary should have looked on it differently. "We will each keep our secret," said Mary. "Only remember this: should Frank marry to-morrow, I shall have no ground for blaming him. He is free as far I as am concerned. He can take the London lady if he likes. You may tell him so from me. But, Trichy, what else I have told you, I have told you only." "Oh, yes!" said Beatrice, sadly; "I shall say nothing of it to anybody. It is very sad, very, very; I was so happy when I came here, and now I am so wretched." This was the end of that delicious talk to which she had looked forward with so much eagerness. "Don't be wretched about me, dearest; I shall get through it. I sometimes think I was born to be unhappy, and that unhappiness agrees with me best. Kiss me now, Trichy, and don't be wretched any more. You owe it to Mr Oriel to be as happy as the day is long." And then they parted. Beatrice, as she went out, saw Dr Thorne in his little shop on the right-hand side of the passage, deeply engaged in some derogatory branch of an apothecary's mechanical trade; mixing a dose, perhaps, for a little child. She would have passed him without speaking if she could have been sure of doing so without notice, for her heart was full, and her eyes were red with tears; but it was so long since she had been in his house that she was more than ordinarily anxious not to appear uncourteous or unkind to him. "Good morning, doctor," she said, changing her countenance as best she might, and attempting a smile. "Ah, my fairy!" said he, leaving his villainous compounds, and coming out to her; "and you, too, are about to become a steady old lady." "Indeed, I am not, doctor; I don't mean to be either steady or old for the next ten years. But who has told you? I suppose Mary has been a traitor." "Well, I will confess, Mary was the traitor. But hadn't I a right to be told, seeing how often I have brought you sugar-plums in my pocket? But I wish you joy with all my heart,--with all my heart. Oriel is an excellent, good fellow." "Is he not, doctor?" "An excellent, good fellow. I never heard but of one fault that he had." "What was that one fault, Doctor Thorne?" "He thought that clergymen should not marry. But you have cured that, and now he's perfect." "Thank you, doctor. I declare that you say the prettiest things of all my friends." "And none of your friends wish prettier things for you. I do congratulate you, Beatrice, and hope you may be happy with the man you have chosen;" and taking both her hands in his, he pressed them warmly, and bade God bless her. "Oh, doctor! I do so hope the time will come when we shall all be friends again." "I hope it as well, my dear. But let it come, or let it not come, my regard for you will be the same:" and then she parted from him also, and went her way. Nothing was spoken of that evening between Dr Thorne and his niece excepting Beatrice's future happiness; nothing, at least, having reference to what had passed that morning. But on the following morning circumstances led to Frank Gresham's name being mentioned. At the usual breakfast-hour the doctor entered the parlour with a harassed face. He had an open letter in his hand, and it was at once clear to Mary that he was going to speak on some subject that vexed him. "That unfortunate fellow is again in trouble. Here is a letter from Greyson." Greyson was a London apothecary, who had been appointed as medical attendant to Sir Louis Scatcherd, and whose real business consisted in keeping a watch on the baronet, and reporting to Dr Thorne when anything was very much amiss. "Here is a letter from Greyson; he has been drunk for the last three days, and is now laid up in a terribly nervous state." "You won't go up to town again; will you, uncle?" "I hardly know what to do. No, I think not. He talks of coming down here to Greshamsbury." "Who, Sir Louis?" "Yes, Sir Louis. Greyson says that he will be down as soon as he can get out of his room." "What! to this house?" "What other house can he come to?" "Oh, uncle! I hope not. Pray, pray do not let him come here." "I cannot prevent it, my dear. I cannot shut my door on him." They sat down to breakfast, and Mary gave him his tea in silence. "I am going over to Boxall Hill before dinner," said he. "Have you any message to send to Lady Scatcherd?" "Message! no, I have no message; not especially: give her my love, of course," she said listlessly. And then, as though a thought had suddenly struck her, she spoke with more energy. "But, couldn't I go to Boxall Hill again? I should be so delighted." "What! to run away from Sir Louis? No, dearest, we will have no more running away. He will probably also go to Boxall Hill, and he could annoy you much more there than he can here." "But, uncle, Mr Gresham will be home on the 12th," she said, blushing. "What! Frank?" "Yes. Beatrice said he was to be here on the 12th." "And would you run away from him too, Mary?" "I do not know: I do not know what to do." "No; we will have no more running away: I am sorry that you ever did so. It was my fault, altogether my fault; but it was foolish." "Uncle, I am not happy here." As she said this, she put down the cup which she had held, and, leaning her elbows on the table, rested her forehead on her hands. "And would you be happier at Boxall Hill? It is not the place makes the happiness." "No, I know that; it is not the place. I do not look to be happy in any place; but I should be quieter, more tranquil elsewhere than here." "I also sometimes think that it will be better for us to take up our staves and walk away out of Greshamsbury;--leave it altogether, and settle elsewhere; miles, miles, miles away from here. Should you like that, dearest?" Miles, miles, miles away from Greshamsbury! There was something in the sound that fell very cold on Mary's ears, unhappy as she was. Greshamsbury had been so dear to her; in spite of all that had passed, was still so dear to her! Was she prepared to take up her staff, as her uncle said, and walk forth from the place with the full understanding that she was to return to it no more; with a mind resolved that there should be an inseparable gulf between her and its inhabitants? Such she knew was the proposed nature of the walking away of which her uncle spoke. So she sat there, resting on her arms, and gave no answer to the question that had been asked her. "No, we will stay a while yet," said her uncle. "It may come to that, but this is not the time. For one season longer let us face--I will not say our enemies; I cannot call anybody my enemy who bears the name of Gresham." And then he went on for a moment with his breakfast. "So Frank will be here on the 12th?" "Yes, uncle." "Well, dearest, I have no questions to ask you: no directions to give. I know how good you are, and how prudent; I am anxious only for your happiness; not at all--" "Happiness, uncle, is out of the question." "I hope not. It is never out of the question, never can be out of the question. But, as I was saying, I am quite satisfied your conduct will be good, and, therefore, I have no questions to ask. We will remain here; and, whether good or evil come, we will not be ashamed to show our faces." She sat for a while again silent, collecting her courage on the subject that was nearest her heart. She would have given the world that he should ask her questions; but she could not bid him to do so; and she found it impossible to talk openly to him about Frank unless he did so. "Will he come here?" at last she said, in a low-toned voice. "Who? He, Louis? Yes, I think that in all probability he will." "No; but Frank," she said, in a still lower voice. "Ah! my darling, that I cannot tell; but will it be well that he should come here?" "I do not know," she said. "No, I suppose not. But, uncle, I don't think he will come." She was now sitting on a sofa away from the table, and he got up, sat down beside her, and took her hands in his. "Mary," said he, "you must be strong now; strong to endure, not to attack. I think you have that strength; but, if not, perhaps it will be better that we should go away." "I will be strong," said she, rising up and going towards the door. "Never mind me, uncle; don't follow me; I will be strong. It will be base, cowardly, mean, to run away; very base in me to make you do so." "No, dearest, not so; it will be the same to me." "No," said she, "I will not run away from Lady Arabella. And, as for him--if he loves this other one, he shall hear no reproach from me. Uncle, I will be strong;" and running back to him, she threw her arms round him and kissed him. And, still restraining her tears, she got safely to her bedroom. In what way she may there have shown her strength, it would not be well for us to inquire. CHAPTER XXXIV A Barouche and Four Arrives at Greshamsbury During the last twelve months Sir Louis Scatcherd had been very efficacious in bringing trouble, turmoil, and vexation upon Greshamsbury. Now that it was too late to take steps to save himself, Dr Thorne found that the will left by Sir Roger was so made as to entail upon him duties that he would find it almost impossible to perform. Sir Louis, though his father had wished to make him still a child in the eye of the law, was no child. He knew his own rights and was determined to exact them; and before Sir Roger had been dead three months, the doctor found himself in continual litigation with a low Barchester attorney, who was acting on behalf of his, the doctor's, own ward. And if the doctor suffered so did the squire, and so did those who had hitherto had the management of the squire's affairs. Dr Thorne soon perceived that he was to be driven into litigation, not only with Mr Finnie, the Barchester attorney, but with the squire himself. While Finnie harassed him, he was compelled to harass Mr Gresham. He was no lawyer himself; and though he had been able to manage very well between the squire and Sir Roger, and had perhaps given himself some credit for his lawyer-like ability in so doing, he was utterly unable to manage between Sir Louis and Mr Gresham. He had, therefore, to employ a lawyer on his own account, and it seemed probable that the whole amount of Sir Roger's legacy to himself would by degrees be expended in this manner. And then, the squire's lawyers had to take up the matter; and they did so greatly to the detriment of poor Mr Yates Umbleby, who was found to have made a mess of the affairs entrusted to him. Mr Umbleby's accounts were incorrect; his mind was anything but clear, and he confessed, when put to it by the very sharp gentleman that came down from London, that he was "bothered;" and so, after a while, he was suspended from his duties, and Mr Gazebee, the sharp gentleman from London, reigned over the diminished rent-roll of the Greshamsbury estate. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury--with the one exception of Mr Oriel and his love-suit. Miss Gushing attributed the deposition of Mr Umbleby to the narrowness of the victory which Beatrice had won in carrying off Mr Oriel. For Miss Gushing was a relation of the Umblebys, and had been for many years one of their family. "If she had only chosen to exert herself as Miss Gresham had done, she could have had Mr Oriel, easily; oh, too easily! but she had despised such work," so she said. "But though she had despised it, the Greshams had not been less irritated, and, therefore, Mr Umbleby had been driven out of his house." We can hardly believe this, as victory generally makes men generous. Miss Gushing, however, stated it as a fact so often that it is probable she was induced to believe it herself. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury, and the squire himself was especially a sufferer. Umbleby had at any rate been his own man, and he could do what he liked with him. He could see him when he liked, and where he liked, and how he liked; could scold him if in an ill-humour, and laugh at him when in a good humour. All this Mr Umbleby knew, and bore. But Mr Gazebee was a very different sort of gentleman; he was the junior partner in the firm of Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, of Mount Street, a house that never defiled itself with any other business than the agency business, and that in the very highest line. They drew out leases, and managed property both for the Duke of Omnium and Lord de Courcy; and ever since her marriage, it had been one of the objects dearest to Lady Arabella's heart, that the Greshamsbury acres should be superintended by the polite skill and polished legal ability of that all but elegant firm in Mount Street. The squire had long stood firm, and had delighted in having everything done under his own eye by poor Mr Yates Umbleby. But now, alas! he could stand it no longer. He had put off the evil day as long as he could; he had deferred the odious work of investigation till things had seemed resolved on investigating themselves; and then, when it was absolutely necessary that Mr Umbleby should go, there was nothing for him left but to fall into the ready hands of Messrs Gumption, Gazebee and Gazebee. It must not be supposed that Messrs Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee were in the least like the ordinary run of attorneys. They wrote no letters for six-and-eightpence each: they collected no debts, filed no bills, made no charge per folio for "whereases" and "as aforesaids;" they did no dirty work, and probably were as ignorant of the interior of a court of law as any young lady living in their Mayfair vicinity. No; their business was to manage the property of great people, draw up leases, make legal assignments, get the family marriage settlements made, and look after wills. Occasionally, also, they had to raise money; but it was generally understood that this was done by proxy. The firm had been going on for a hundred and fifty years, and the designation had often been altered; but it always consisted of Gumptions and Gazebees differently arranged, and no less hallowed names had ever been permitted to appear. It had been Gazebee, Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee, Gumption & Gumption; then Gumption, Gumption & Gazebee; and now it was Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee. Mr Gazebee, the junior member of this firm, was a very elegant young man. While looking at him riding in Rotten Row, you would hardly have taken him for an attorney; and had he heard that you had so taken him, he would have been very much surprised indeed. He was rather bald; not being, as people say, quite so young as he was once. His exact age was thirty-eight. But he had a really remarkable pair of jet-black whiskers, which fully made up for any deficiency as to his head; he had also dark eyes, and a beaked nose, what may be called a distinguished mouth, and was always dressed in fashionable attire. The fact was, that Mr Mortimer Gazebee, junior partner in the firm Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, by no means considered himself to be made of that very disagreeable material which mortals call small beer. When this great firm was applied to, to get Mr Gresham through his difficulties, and when the state of his affairs was made known to them, they at first expressed rather a disinclination for the work. But at last, moved doubtless by their respect for the de Courcy interest, they assented; and Mr Gazebee, junior, went down to Greshamsbury. The poor squire passed many a sad day after that before he again felt himself to be master even of his own domain. Nevertheless, when Mr Mortimer Gazebee visited Greshamsbury, which he did on more than one or two occasions, he was always received _en grand seigneur_. To Lady Arabella he was by no means an unwelcome guest, for she found herself able, for the first time in her life, to speak confidentially on her husband's pecuniary affairs with the man who had the management of her husband's property. Mr Gazebee also was a pet with Lady de Courcy; and being known to be a fashionable man in London, and quite a different sort of person from poor Mr Umbleby, he was always received with smiles. He had a hundred little ways of making himself agreeable, and Augusta declared to her cousin, the Lady Amelia, after having been acquainted with him for a few months, that he would be a perfect gentleman, only, that his family had never been anything but attorneys. The Lady Amelia smiled in her own peculiarly aristocratic way, shrugged her shoulders slightly, and said, "that Mr Mortimer Gazebee was a very good sort of a person, very." Poor Augusta felt herself snubbed, thinking perhaps of the tailor's son; but as there was never any appeal against the Lady Amelia, she said nothing more at that moment in favour of Mr Mortimer Gazebee. All these evils--Mr Mortimer Gazebee being the worst of them--had Sir Louis Scatcherd brought down on the poor squire's head. There may be those who will say that the squire had brought them on himself, by running into debt; and so, doubtless, he had; but it was not the less true that the baronet's interference was unnecessary, vexatious, and one might almost say, malicious. His interest would have been quite safe in the doctor's hands, and he had, in fact, no legal right to meddle; but neither the doctor nor the squire could prevent him. Mr Finnie knew very well what he was about, if Sir Louis did not; and so the three went on, each with his own lawyer, and each of them distrustful, unhappy, and ill at ease. This was hard upon the doctor, for he was not in debt, and had borrowed no money. There was not much reason to suppose that the visit of Sir Louis to Greshamsbury would much improve matters. It must be presumed that he was not coming with any amicable views, but with the object rather of looking after his own; a phrase which was now constantly in his mouth. He might probably find it necessary while looking after his own at Greshamsbury, to say some very disagreeable things to the squire; and the doctor, therefore, hardly expected that the visit would go off pleasantly. When last we saw Sir Louis, now nearly twelve months since, he was intent on making a proposal of marriage to Miss Thorne. This intention he carried out about two days after Frank Gresham had done the same thing. He had delayed doing so till he had succeeded in purchasing his friend Jenkins's Arab pony, imagining that such a present could not but go far in weaning Mary's heart from her other lover. Poor Mary was put to the trouble of refusing both the baronet and the pony, and a very bad time she had of it while doing so. Sir Louis was a man easily angered, and not very easily pacified, and Mary had to endure a good deal of annoyance; from any other person, indeed, she would have called it impertinence. Sir Louis, however, had to bear his rejection as best he could, and, after a perseverance of three days, returned to London in disgust; and Mary had not seen him since. Mr Greyson's first letter was followed by a second; and the second was followed by the baronet in person. He also required to be received _en grand seigneur_, perhaps more imperatively than Mr Mortimer Gazebee himself. He came with four posters from the Barchester Station, and had himself rattled up to the doctor's door in a way that took the breath away from all Greshamsbury. Why! the squire himself for a many long year had been contented to come home with a pair of horses; and four were never seen in the place, except when the de Courcys came to Greshamsbury, or Lady Arabella with all her daughters returned from her hard-fought metropolitan campaigns. Sir Louis, however, came with four, and very arrogant he looked, leaning back in the barouche belonging to the George and Dragon, and wrapped up in fur, although it was now midsummer. And up in the dicky behind was a servant, more arrogant, if possible, than his master--the baronet's own man, who was the object of Dr Thorne's special detestation and disgust. He was a little fellow, chosen originally on account of his light weight on horseback; but if that may be considered a merit, it was the only one he had. His out-door show dress was a little tight frock-coat, round which a polished strap was always buckled tightly, a stiff white choker, leather breeches, top-boots, and a hat, with a cockade, stuck on one side of his head. His name was Jonah, which his master and his master's friends shortened into Joe; none, however, but those who were very intimate with his master were allowed to do so with impunity. This Joe was Dr Thorne's special aversion. In his anxiety to take every possible step to keep Sir Louis from poisoning himself, he had at first attempted to enlist the baronet's "own man" in the cause. Joe had promised fairly, but had betrayed the doctor at once, and had become the worst

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you know--I thought you always said so--I have always told mamma so as if it came from yourself." "Beatrice, do not tell anything to Lady Arabella as though it came from me; I do not want anything to be told to her, either of me or from me. Say what you like to me yourself; whatever you say will not anger me. Indeed, I know what you would say--and yet I love you. Oh, I love you, Trichy--Trichy, I do love you so much! Don't turn away from me!" There was such a mixture in Mary's manner of tenderness and almost ferocity, that poor Beatrice could hardly follow her. "Turn away from you, Mary! no never; but this does make me unhappy." "It is better that you should know it all, and then you will not be led into fighting my battles again. You cannot fight them so that I should win; I do love your brother; love him truly, fondly, tenderly. I would wish to have him for my husband as you wish to have Mr Oriel." "But, Mary, you cannot marry him!" "Why not?" said she, in a loud voice. "Why can I not marry him? If the priest says a blessing over us, shall we not be married as well as you and your husband?" "But you know he cannot marry unless his wife shall have money." "Money--money; and he is to sell himself for money? Oh, Trichy! do not you talk about money. It is horrible. But, Trichy, I will grant it--I cannot marry him; but still, I love him. He has a name, a place in the world, and fortune, family, high blood, position, everything. He has all this, and I have nothing. Of course I cannot marry him. But yet I do love him." "Are you engaged to him, Mary?" "He is not engaged to me; but I am to him." "Oh, Mary, that is impossible!" "It is not impossible: it is the case--I am pledged to him; but he is not pledged to me." "But, Mary, don't look at me in that way. I do not quite understand you. What is the good of your being engaged if you cannot marry him?" "Good! there is no good. But can I help it, if I love him? Can I make myself not love him by just wishing it? Oh, I would do it if I could. But now you will understand why I shake my head when you talk of my coming to your house. Your ways and my ways must be different." Beatrice was startled, and, for a time, silenced. What Mary said of the difference of their ways was quite true. Beatrice had dearly loved her friend, and had thought of her with affection through all this long period in which they had been separated; but she had given her love and her thoughts on the understanding, as it were, that they were in unison as to the impropriety of Frank's conduct. She had always spoken, with a grave face, of Frank and his love as of a great misfortune, even to Mary herself; and her pity for Mary had been founded on the conviction of her innocence. Now all those ideas had to be altered. Mary owned her fault, confessed herself to be guilty of all that Lady Arabella so frequently laid to her charge, and confessed herself anxious to commit every crime as to which Beatrice had been ever so ready to defend her. Had Beatrice up to this dreamed that Mary was in love with Frank, she would doubtless have sympathised with her more or less, sooner or later. As it was, it was beyond all doubt that she would soon sympathise with her. But, at the moment, the suddenness of the declaration seemed to harden her heart, and she forgot, as it were, to speak tenderly to her friend. She was silent, therefore, and dismayed; and looked as though she thought that her ways and Mary's ways must be different. Mary saw all that was passing in the other's mind: no, not all; all the hostility, the disappointment, the disapproval, the unhappiness, she did see; but not the under-current of love, which was strong enough to well up and drown all these, if only time could be allowed for it to do so. "I am glad I have told you," said Mary, curbing herself, "for deceit and hypocrisy are detestable." "It was a misunderstanding, not deceit," said Beatrice. "Well, now we understand each other; now you know that I have a heart within me, which like those of some others has not always been under my own control. Lady Arabella believes that I am intriguing to be the mistress of Greshamsbury. You, at any rate, will not think that of me. If it could be discovered to-morrow that Frank were not the heir, I might have some chance of happiness." "But, Mary--" "Well?" "You say you love him." "Yes; I do say so." "But if he does not love you, will you cease to do so?" "If I have a fever, I will get rid of it if I can; in such case I must do so, or die." "I fear," continued Beatrice, "you hardly know, perhaps do not think, what is Frank's real character. He is not made to settle down early in life; even now, I believe he is attached to some lady in London, whom, of course, he cannot marry." Beatrice said this in perfect trueness of heart. She had heard of Frank's new love-affair, and believing what she had heard, thought it best to tell the truth. But the information was not of a kind to quiet Mary's spirit. "Very well," said she, "let it be so. I have nothing to say against it." "But are you not preparing wretchedness and unhappiness for yourself?" "Very likely." "Oh, Mary, do not be so cold with me! you know how delighted I should be to have you for a sister-in-law, if only it were possible." "Yes, Trichy; but it is impossible, is it not? Impossible that Francis Gresham of Greshamsbury should disgrace himself by marrying such a poor creature as I am. Of course, I know it; of course, I am prepared for unhappiness and misery. He can amuse himself as he likes with me or others--with anybody. It is his privilege. It is quite enough to say that he is not made for settling down. I know my own position;--and yet I love him." "But, Mary, has he asked you to be his wife? If so--" "You ask home-questions, Beatrice. Let me ask you one; has he ever told you that he has done so?" At this moment Beatrice was not disposed to repeat all that Frank had said. A year ago, before he went away, he had told his sister a score of times that he meant to marry Mary Thorne if she would have him; but Beatrice now looked on all that as idle, boyish vapouring. The pity was, that Mary should have looked on it differently. "We will each keep our secret," said Mary. "Only remember this: should Frank marry to-morrow, I shall have no ground for blaming him. He is free as far I as am concerned. He can take the London lady if he likes. You may tell him so from me. But, Trichy, what else I have told you, I have told you only." "Oh, yes!" said Beatrice, sadly; "I shall say nothing of it to anybody. It is very sad, very, very; I was so happy when I came here, and now I am so wretched." This was the end of that delicious talk to which she had looked forward with so much eagerness. "Don't be wretched about me, dearest; I shall get through it. I sometimes think I was born to be unhappy, and that unhappiness agrees with me best. Kiss me now, Trichy, and don't be wretched any more. You owe it to Mr Oriel to be as happy as the day is long." And then they parted. Beatrice, as she went out, saw Dr Thorne in his little shop on the right-hand side of the passage, deeply engaged in some derogatory branch of an apothecary's mechanical trade; mixing a dose, perhaps, for a little child. She would have passed him without speaking if she could have been sure of doing so without notice, for her heart was full, and her eyes were red with tears; but it was so long since she had been in his house that she was more than ordinarily anxious not to appear uncourteous or unkind to him. "Good morning, doctor," she said, changing her countenance as best she might, and attempting a smile. "Ah, my fairy!" said he, leaving his villainous compounds, and coming out to her; "and you, too, are about to become a steady old lady." "Indeed, I am not, doctor; I don't mean to be either steady or old for the next ten years. But who has told you? I suppose Mary has been a traitor." "Well, I will confess, Mary was the traitor. But hadn't I a right to be told, seeing how often I have brought you sugar-plums in my pocket? But I wish you joy with all my heart,--with all my heart. Oriel is an excellent, good fellow." "Is he not, doctor?" "An excellent, good fellow. I never heard but of one fault that he had." "What was that one fault, Doctor Thorne?" "He thought that clergymen should not marry. But you have cured that, and now he's perfect." "Thank you, doctor. I declare that you say the prettiest things of all my friends." "And none of your friends wish prettier things for you. I do congratulate you, Beatrice, and hope you may be happy with the man you have chosen;" and taking both her hands in his, he pressed them warmly, and bade God bless her. "Oh, doctor! I do so hope the time will come when we shall all be friends again." "I hope it as well, my dear. But let it come, or let it not come, my regard for you will be the same:" and then she parted from him also, and went her way. Nothing was spoken of that evening between Dr Thorne and his niece excepting Beatrice's future happiness; nothing, at least, having reference to what had passed that morning. But on the following morning circumstances led to Frank Gresham's name being mentioned. At the usual breakfast-hour the doctor entered the parlour with a harassed face. He had an open letter in his hand, and it was at once clear to Mary that he was going to speak on some subject that vexed him. "That unfortunate fellow is again in trouble. Here is a letter from Greyson." Greyson was a London apothecary, who had been appointed as medical attendant to Sir Louis Scatcherd, and whose real business consisted in keeping a watch on the baronet, and reporting to Dr Thorne when anything was very much amiss. "Here is a letter from Greyson; he has been drunk for the last three days, and is now laid up in a terribly nervous state." "You won't go up to town again; will you, uncle?" "I hardly know what to do. No, I think not. He talks of coming down here to Greshamsbury." "Who, Sir Louis?" "Yes, Sir Louis. Greyson says that he will be down as soon as he can get out of his room." "What! to this house?" "What other house can he come to?" "Oh, uncle! I hope not. Pray, pray do not let him come here." "I cannot prevent it, my dear. I cannot shut my door on him." They sat down to breakfast, and Mary gave him his tea in silence. "I am going over to Boxall Hill before dinner," said he. "Have you any message to send to Lady Scatcherd?" "Message! no, I have no message; not especially: give her my love, of course," she said listlessly. And then, as though a thought had suddenly struck her, she spoke with more energy. "But, couldn't I go to Boxall Hill again? I should be so delighted." "What! to run away from Sir Louis? No, dearest, we will have no more running away. He will probably also go to Boxall Hill, and he could annoy you much more there than he can here." "But, uncle, Mr Gresham will be home on the 12th," she said, blushing. "What! Frank?" "Yes. Beatrice said he was to be here on the 12th." "And would you run away from him too, Mary?" "I do not know: I do not know what to do." "No; we will have no more running away: I am sorry that you ever did so. It was my fault, altogether my fault; but it was foolish." "Uncle, I am not happy here." As she said this, she put down the cup which she had held, and, leaning her elbows on the table, rested her forehead on her hands. "And would you be happier at Boxall Hill? It is not the place makes the happiness." "No, I know that; it is not the place. I do not look to be happy in any place; but I should be quieter, more tranquil elsewhere than here." "I also sometimes think that it will be better for us to take up our staves and walk away out of Greshamsbury;--leave it altogether, and settle elsewhere; miles, miles, miles away from here. Should you like that, dearest?" Miles, miles, miles away from Greshamsbury! There was something in the sound that fell very cold on Mary's ears, unhappy as she was. Greshamsbury had been so dear to her; in spite of all that had passed, was still so dear to her! Was she prepared to take up her staff, as her uncle said, and walk forth from the place with the full understanding that she was to return to it no more; with a mind resolved that there should be an inseparable gulf between her and its inhabitants? Such she knew was the proposed nature of the walking away of which her uncle spoke. So she sat there, resting on her arms, and gave no answer to the question that had been asked her. "No, we will stay a while yet," said her uncle. "It may come to that, but this is not the time. For one season longer let us face--I will not say our enemies; I cannot call anybody my enemy who bears the name of Gresham." And then he went on for a moment with his breakfast. "So Frank will be here on the 12th?" "Yes, uncle." "Well, dearest, I have no questions to ask you: no directions to give. I know how good you are, and how prudent; I am anxious only for your happiness; not at all--" "Happiness, uncle, is out of the question." "I hope not. It is never out of the question, never can be out of the question. But, as I was saying, I am quite satisfied your conduct will be good, and, therefore, I have no questions to ask. We will remain here; and, whether good or evil come, we will not be ashamed to show our faces." She sat for a while again silent, collecting her courage on the subject that was nearest her heart. She would have given the world that he should ask her questions; but she could not bid him to do so; and she found it impossible to talk openly to him about Frank unless he did so. "Will he come here?" at last she said, in a low-toned voice. "Who? He, Louis? Yes, I think that in all probability he will." "No; but Frank," she said, in a still lower voice. "Ah! my darling, that I cannot tell; but will it be well that he should come here?" "I do not know," she said. "No, I suppose not. But, uncle, I don't think he will come." She was now sitting on a sofa away from the table, and he got up, sat down beside her, and took her hands in his. "Mary," said he, "you must be strong now; strong to endure, not to attack. I think you have that strength; but, if not, perhaps it will be better that we should go away." "I will be strong," said she, rising up and going towards the door. "Never mind me, uncle; don't follow me; I will be strong. It will be base, cowardly, mean, to run away; very base in me to make you do so." "No, dearest, not so; it will be the same to me." "No," said she, "I will not run away from Lady Arabella. And, as for him--if he loves this other one, he shall hear no reproach from me. Uncle, I will be strong;" and running back to him, she threw her arms round him and kissed him. And, still restraining her tears, she got safely to her bedroom. In what way she may there have shown her strength, it would not be well for us to inquire. CHAPTER XXXIV A Barouche and Four Arrives at Greshamsbury During the last twelve months Sir Louis Scatcherd had been very efficacious in bringing trouble, turmoil, and vexation upon Greshamsbury. Now that it was too late to take steps to save himself, Dr Thorne found that the will left by Sir Roger was so made as to entail upon him duties that he would find it almost impossible to perform. Sir Louis, though his father had wished to make him still a child in the eye of the law, was no child. He knew his own rights and was determined to exact them; and before Sir Roger had been dead three months, the doctor found himself in continual litigation with a low Barchester attorney, who was acting on behalf of his, the doctor's, own ward. And if the doctor suffered so did the squire, and so did those who had hitherto had the management of the squire's affairs. Dr Thorne soon perceived that he was to be driven into litigation, not only with Mr Finnie, the Barchester attorney, but with the squire himself. While Finnie harassed him, he was compelled to harass Mr Gresham. He was no lawyer himself; and though he had been able to manage very well between the squire and Sir Roger, and had perhaps given himself some credit for his lawyer-like ability in so doing, he was utterly unable to manage between Sir Louis and Mr Gresham. He had, therefore, to employ a lawyer on his own account, and it seemed probable that the whole amount of Sir Roger's legacy to himself would by degrees be expended in this manner. And then, the squire's lawyers had to take up the matter; and they did so greatly to the detriment of poor Mr Yates Umbleby, who was found to have made a mess of the affairs entrusted to him. Mr Umbleby's accounts were incorrect; his mind was anything but clear, and he confessed, when put to it by the very sharp gentleman that came down from London, that he was "bothered;" and so, after a while, he was suspended from his duties, and Mr Gazebee, the sharp gentleman from London, reigned over the diminished rent-roll of the Greshamsbury estate. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury--with the one exception of Mr Oriel and his love-suit. Miss Gushing attributed the deposition of Mr Umbleby to the narrowness of the victory which Beatrice had won in carrying off Mr Oriel. For Miss Gushing was a relation of the Umblebys, and had been for many years one of their family. "If she had only chosen to exert herself as Miss Gresham had done, she could have had Mr Oriel, easily; oh, too easily! but she had despised such work," so she said. "But though she had despised it, the Greshams had not been less irritated, and, therefore, Mr Umbleby had been driven out of his house." We can hardly believe this, as victory generally makes men generous. Miss Gushing, however, stated it as a fact so often that it is probable she was induced to believe it herself. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury, and the squire himself was especially a sufferer. Umbleby had at any rate been his own man, and he could do what he liked with him. He could see him when he liked, and where he liked, and how he liked; could scold him if in an ill-humour, and laugh at him when in a good humour. All this Mr Umbleby knew, and bore. But Mr Gazebee was a very different sort of gentleman; he was the junior partner in the firm of Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, of Mount Street, a house that never defiled itself with any other business than the agency business, and that in the very highest line. They drew out leases, and managed property both for the Duke of Omnium and Lord de Courcy; and ever since her marriage, it had been one of the objects dearest to Lady Arabella's heart, that the Greshamsbury acres should be superintended by the polite skill and polished legal ability of that all but elegant firm in Mount Street. The squire had long stood firm, and had delighted in having everything done under his own eye by poor Mr Yates Umbleby. But now, alas! he could stand it no longer. He had put off the evil day as long as he could; he had deferred the odious work of investigation till things had seemed resolved on investigating themselves; and then, when it was absolutely necessary that Mr Umbleby should go, there was nothing for him left but to fall into the ready hands of Messrs Gumption, Gazebee and Gazebee. It must not be supposed that Messrs Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee were in the least like the ordinary run of attorneys. They wrote no letters for six-and-eightpence each: they collected no debts, filed no bills, made no charge per folio for "whereases" and "as aforesaids;" they did no dirty work, and probably were as ignorant of the interior of a court of law as any young lady living in their Mayfair vicinity. No; their business was to manage the property of great people, draw up leases, make legal assignments, get the family marriage settlements made, and look after wills. Occasionally, also, they had to raise money; but it was generally understood that this was done by proxy. The firm had been going on for a hundred and fifty years, and the designation had often been altered; but it always consisted of Gumptions and Gazebees differently arranged, and no less hallowed names had ever been permitted to appear. It had been Gazebee, Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee, Gumption & Gumption; then Gumption, Gumption & Gazebee; and now it was Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee. Mr Gazebee, the junior member of this firm, was a very elegant young man. While looking at him riding in Rotten Row, you would hardly have taken him for an attorney; and had he heard that you had so taken him, he would have been very much surprised indeed. He was rather bald; not being, as people say, quite so young as he was once. His exact age was thirty-eight. But he had a really remarkable pair of jet-black whiskers, which fully made up for any deficiency as to his head; he had also dark eyes, and a beaked nose, what may be called a distinguished mouth, and was always dressed in fashionable attire. The fact was, that Mr Mortimer Gazebee, junior partner in the firm Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, by no means considered himself to be made of that very disagreeable material which mortals call small beer. When this great firm was applied to, to get Mr Gresham through his difficulties, and when the state of his affairs was made known to them, they at first expressed rather a disinclination for the work. But at last, moved doubtless by their respect for the de Courcy interest, they assented; and Mr Gazebee, junior, went down to Greshamsbury. The poor squire passed many a sad day after that before he again felt himself to be master even of his own domain. Nevertheless, when Mr Mortimer Gazebee visited Greshamsbury, which he did on more than one or two occasions, he was always received _en grand seigneur_. To Lady Arabella he was by no means an unwelcome guest, for she found herself able, for the first time in her life, to speak confidentially on her husband's pecuniary affairs with the man who had the management of her husband's property. Mr Gazebee also was a pet with Lady de Courcy; and being known to be a fashionable man in London, and quite a different sort of person from poor Mr Umbleby, he was always received with smiles. He had a hundred little ways of making himself agreeable, and Augusta declared to her cousin, the Lady Amelia, after having been acquainted with him for a few months, that he would be a perfect gentleman, only, that his family had never been anything but attorneys. The Lady Amelia smiled in her own peculiarly aristocratic way, shrugged her shoulders slightly, and said, "that Mr Mortimer Gazebee was a very good sort of a person, very." Poor Augusta felt herself snubbed, thinking perhaps of the tailor's son; but as there was never any appeal against the Lady Amelia, she said nothing more at that moment in favour of Mr Mortimer Gazebee. All these evils--Mr Mortimer Gazebee being the worst of them--had Sir Louis Scatcherd brought down on the poor squire's head. There may be those who will say that the squire had brought them on himself, by running into debt; and so, doubtless, he had; but it was not the less true that the baronet's interference was unnecessary, vexatious, and one might almost say, malicious. His interest would have been quite safe in the doctor's hands, and he had, in fact, no legal right to meddle; but neither the doctor nor the squire could prevent him. Mr Finnie knew very well what he was about, if Sir Louis did not; and so the three went on, each with his own lawyer, and each of them distrustful, unhappy, and ill at ease. This was hard upon the doctor, for he was not in debt, and had borrowed no money. There was not much reason to suppose that the visit of Sir Louis to Greshamsbury would much improve matters. It must be presumed that he was not coming with any amicable views, but with the object rather of looking after his own; a phrase which was now constantly in his mouth. He might probably find it necessary while looking after his own at Greshamsbury, to say some very disagreeable things to the squire; and the doctor, therefore, hardly expected that the visit would go off pleasantly. When last we saw Sir Louis, now nearly twelve months since, he was intent on making a proposal of marriage to Miss Thorne. This intention he carried out about two days after Frank Gresham had done the same thing. He had delayed doing so till he had succeeded in purchasing his friend Jenkins's Arab pony, imagining that such a present could not but go far in weaning Mary's heart from her other lover. Poor Mary was put to the trouble of refusing both the baronet and the pony, and a very bad time she had of it while doing so. Sir Louis was a man easily angered, and not very easily pacified, and Mary had to endure a good deal of annoyance; from any other person, indeed, she would have called it impertinence. Sir Louis, however, had to bear his rejection as best he could, and, after a perseverance of three days, returned to London in disgust; and Mary had not seen him since. Mr Greyson's first letter was followed by a second; and the second was followed by the baronet in person. He also required to be received _en grand seigneur_, perhaps more imperatively than Mr Mortimer Gazebee himself. He came with four posters from the Barchester Station, and had himself rattled up to the doctor's door in a way that took the breath away from all Greshamsbury. Why! the squire himself for a many long year had been contented to come home with a pair of horses; and four were never seen in the place, except when the de Courcys came to Greshamsbury, or Lady Arabella with all her daughters returned from her hard-fought metropolitan campaigns. Sir Louis, however, came with four, and very arrogant he looked, leaning back in the barouche belonging to the George and Dragon, and wrapped up in fur, although it was now midsummer. And up in the dicky behind was a servant, more arrogant, if possible, than his master--the baronet's own man, who was the object of Dr Thorne's special detestation and disgust. He was a little fellow, chosen originally on account of his light weight on horseback; but if that may be considered a merit, it was the only one he had. His out-door show dress was a little tight frock-coat, round which a polished strap was always buckled tightly, a stiff white choker, leather breeches, top-boots, and a hat, with a cockade, stuck on one side of his head. His name was Jonah, which his master and his master's friends shortened into Joe; none, however, but those who were very intimate with his master were allowed to do so with impunity. This Joe was Dr Thorne's special aversion. In his anxiety to take every possible step to keep Sir Louis from poisoning himself, he had at first attempted to enlist the baronet's "own man" in the cause. Joe had promised fairly, but had betrayed the doctor at once, and had become the worst

remember

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

you know--I thought you always said so--I have always told mamma so as if it came from yourself." "Beatrice, do not tell anything to Lady Arabella as though it came from me; I do not want anything to be told to her, either of me or from me. Say what you like to me yourself; whatever you say will not anger me. Indeed, I know what you would say--and yet I love you. Oh, I love you, Trichy--Trichy, I do love you so much! Don't turn away from me!" There was such a mixture in Mary's manner of tenderness and almost ferocity, that poor Beatrice could hardly follow her. "Turn away from you, Mary! no never; but this does make me unhappy." "It is better that you should know it all, and then you will not be led into fighting my battles again. You cannot fight them so that I should win; I do love your brother; love him truly, fondly, tenderly. I would wish to have him for my husband as you wish to have Mr Oriel." "But, Mary, you cannot marry him!" "Why not?" said she, in a loud voice. "Why can I not marry him? If the priest says a blessing over us, shall we not be married as well as you and your husband?" "But you know he cannot marry unless his wife shall have money." "Money--money; and he is to sell himself for money? Oh, Trichy! do not you talk about money. It is horrible. But, Trichy, I will grant it--I cannot marry him; but still, I love him. He has a name, a place in the world, and fortune, family, high blood, position, everything. He has all this, and I have nothing. Of course I cannot marry him. But yet I do love him." "Are you engaged to him, Mary?" "He is not engaged to me; but I am to him." "Oh, Mary, that is impossible!" "It is not impossible: it is the case--I am pledged to him; but he is not pledged to me." "But, Mary, don't look at me in that way. I do not quite understand you. What is the good of your being engaged if you cannot marry him?" "Good! there is no good. But can I help it, if I love him? Can I make myself not love him by just wishing it? Oh, I would do it if I could. But now you will understand why I shake my head when you talk of my coming to your house. Your ways and my ways must be different." Beatrice was startled, and, for a time, silenced. What Mary said of the difference of their ways was quite true. Beatrice had dearly loved her friend, and had thought of her with affection through all this long period in which they had been separated; but she had given her love and her thoughts on the understanding, as it were, that they were in unison as to the impropriety of Frank's conduct. She had always spoken, with a grave face, of Frank and his love as of a great misfortune, even to Mary herself; and her pity for Mary had been founded on the conviction of her innocence. Now all those ideas had to be altered. Mary owned her fault, confessed herself to be guilty of all that Lady Arabella so frequently laid to her charge, and confessed herself anxious to commit every crime as to which Beatrice had been ever so ready to defend her. Had Beatrice up to this dreamed that Mary was in love with Frank, she would doubtless have sympathised with her more or less, sooner or later. As it was, it was beyond all doubt that she would soon sympathise with her. But, at the moment, the suddenness of the declaration seemed to harden her heart, and she forgot, as it were, to speak tenderly to her friend. She was silent, therefore, and dismayed; and looked as though she thought that her ways and Mary's ways must be different. Mary saw all that was passing in the other's mind: no, not all; all the hostility, the disappointment, the disapproval, the unhappiness, she did see; but not the under-current of love, which was strong enough to well up and drown all these, if only time could be allowed for it to do so. "I am glad I have told you," said Mary, curbing herself, "for deceit and hypocrisy are detestable." "It was a misunderstanding, not deceit," said Beatrice. "Well, now we understand each other; now you know that I have a heart within me, which like those of some others has not always been under my own control. Lady Arabella believes that I am intriguing to be the mistress of Greshamsbury. You, at any rate, will not think that of me. If it could be discovered to-morrow that Frank were not the heir, I might have some chance of happiness." "But, Mary--" "Well?" "You say you love him." "Yes; I do say so." "But if he does not love you, will you cease to do so?" "If I have a fever, I will get rid of it if I can; in such case I must do so, or die." "I fear," continued Beatrice, "you hardly know, perhaps do not think, what is Frank's real character. He is not made to settle down early in life; even now, I believe he is attached to some lady in London, whom, of course, he cannot marry." Beatrice said this in perfect trueness of heart. She had heard of Frank's new love-affair, and believing what she had heard, thought it best to tell the truth. But the information was not of a kind to quiet Mary's spirit. "Very well," said she, "let it be so. I have nothing to say against it." "But are you not preparing wretchedness and unhappiness for yourself?" "Very likely." "Oh, Mary, do not be so cold with me! you know how delighted I should be to have you for a sister-in-law, if only it were possible." "Yes, Trichy; but it is impossible, is it not? Impossible that Francis Gresham of Greshamsbury should disgrace himself by marrying such a poor creature as I am. Of course, I know it; of course, I am prepared for unhappiness and misery. He can amuse himself as he likes with me or others--with anybody. It is his privilege. It is quite enough to say that he is not made for settling down. I know my own position;--and yet I love him." "But, Mary, has he asked you to be his wife? If so--" "You ask home-questions, Beatrice. Let me ask you one; has he ever told you that he has done so?" At this moment Beatrice was not disposed to repeat all that Frank had said. A year ago, before he went away, he had told his sister a score of times that he meant to marry Mary Thorne if she would have him; but Beatrice now looked on all that as idle, boyish vapouring. The pity was, that Mary should have looked on it differently. "We will each keep our secret," said Mary. "Only remember this: should Frank marry to-morrow, I shall have no ground for blaming him. He is free as far I as am concerned. He can take the London lady if he likes. You may tell him so from me. But, Trichy, what else I have told you, I have told you only." "Oh, yes!" said Beatrice, sadly; "I shall say nothing of it to anybody. It is very sad, very, very; I was so happy when I came here, and now I am so wretched." This was the end of that delicious talk to which she had looked forward with so much eagerness. "Don't be wretched about me, dearest; I shall get through it. I sometimes think I was born to be unhappy, and that unhappiness agrees with me best. Kiss me now, Trichy, and don't be wretched any more. You owe it to Mr Oriel to be as happy as the day is long." And then they parted. Beatrice, as she went out, saw Dr Thorne in his little shop on the right-hand side of the passage, deeply engaged in some derogatory branch of an apothecary's mechanical trade; mixing a dose, perhaps, for a little child. She would have passed him without speaking if she could have been sure of doing so without notice, for her heart was full, and her eyes were red with tears; but it was so long since she had been in his house that she was more than ordinarily anxious not to appear uncourteous or unkind to him. "Good morning, doctor," she said, changing her countenance as best she might, and attempting a smile. "Ah, my fairy!" said he, leaving his villainous compounds, and coming out to her; "and you, too, are about to become a steady old lady." "Indeed, I am not, doctor; I don't mean to be either steady or old for the next ten years. But who has told you? I suppose Mary has been a traitor." "Well, I will confess, Mary was the traitor. But hadn't I a right to be told, seeing how often I have brought you sugar-plums in my pocket? But I wish you joy with all my heart,--with all my heart. Oriel is an excellent, good fellow." "Is he not, doctor?" "An excellent, good fellow. I never heard but of one fault that he had." "What was that one fault, Doctor Thorne?" "He thought that clergymen should not marry. But you have cured that, and now he's perfect." "Thank you, doctor. I declare that you say the prettiest things of all my friends." "And none of your friends wish prettier things for you. I do congratulate you, Beatrice, and hope you may be happy with the man you have chosen;" and taking both her hands in his, he pressed them warmly, and bade God bless her. "Oh, doctor! I do so hope the time will come when we shall all be friends again." "I hope it as well, my dear. But let it come, or let it not come, my regard for you will be the same:" and then she parted from him also, and went her way. Nothing was spoken of that evening between Dr Thorne and his niece excepting Beatrice's future happiness; nothing, at least, having reference to what had passed that morning. But on the following morning circumstances led to Frank Gresham's name being mentioned. At the usual breakfast-hour the doctor entered the parlour with a harassed face. He had an open letter in his hand, and it was at once clear to Mary that he was going to speak on some subject that vexed him. "That unfortunate fellow is again in trouble. Here is a letter from Greyson." Greyson was a London apothecary, who had been appointed as medical attendant to Sir Louis Scatcherd, and whose real business consisted in keeping a watch on the baronet, and reporting to Dr Thorne when anything was very much amiss. "Here is a letter from Greyson; he has been drunk for the last three days, and is now laid up in a terribly nervous state." "You won't go up to town again; will you, uncle?" "I hardly know what to do. No, I think not. He talks of coming down here to Greshamsbury." "Who, Sir Louis?" "Yes, Sir Louis. Greyson says that he will be down as soon as he can get out of his room." "What! to this house?" "What other house can he come to?" "Oh, uncle! I hope not. Pray, pray do not let him come here." "I cannot prevent it, my dear. I cannot shut my door on him." They sat down to breakfast, and Mary gave him his tea in silence. "I am going over to Boxall Hill before dinner," said he. "Have you any message to send to Lady Scatcherd?" "Message! no, I have no message; not especially: give her my love, of course," she said listlessly. And then, as though a thought had suddenly struck her, she spoke with more energy. "But, couldn't I go to Boxall Hill again? I should be so delighted." "What! to run away from Sir Louis? No, dearest, we will have no more running away. He will probably also go to Boxall Hill, and he could annoy you much more there than he can here." "But, uncle, Mr Gresham will be home on the 12th," she said, blushing. "What! Frank?" "Yes. Beatrice said he was to be here on the 12th." "And would you run away from him too, Mary?" "I do not know: I do not know what to do." "No; we will have no more running away: I am sorry that you ever did so. It was my fault, altogether my fault; but it was foolish." "Uncle, I am not happy here." As she said this, she put down the cup which she had held, and, leaning her elbows on the table, rested her forehead on her hands. "And would you be happier at Boxall Hill? It is not the place makes the happiness." "No, I know that; it is not the place. I do not look to be happy in any place; but I should be quieter, more tranquil elsewhere than here." "I also sometimes think that it will be better for us to take up our staves and walk away out of Greshamsbury;--leave it altogether, and settle elsewhere; miles, miles, miles away from here. Should you like that, dearest?" Miles, miles, miles away from Greshamsbury! There was something in the sound that fell very cold on Mary's ears, unhappy as she was. Greshamsbury had been so dear to her; in spite of all that had passed, was still so dear to her! Was she prepared to take up her staff, as her uncle said, and walk forth from the place with the full understanding that she was to return to it no more; with a mind resolved that there should be an inseparable gulf between her and its inhabitants? Such she knew was the proposed nature of the walking away of which her uncle spoke. So she sat there, resting on her arms, and gave no answer to the question that had been asked her. "No, we will stay a while yet," said her uncle. "It may come to that, but this is not the time. For one season longer let us face--I will not say our enemies; I cannot call anybody my enemy who bears the name of Gresham." And then he went on for a moment with his breakfast. "So Frank will be here on the 12th?" "Yes, uncle." "Well, dearest, I have no questions to ask you: no directions to give. I know how good you are, and how prudent; I am anxious only for your happiness; not at all--" "Happiness, uncle, is out of the question." "I hope not. It is never out of the question, never can be out of the question. But, as I was saying, I am quite satisfied your conduct will be good, and, therefore, I have no questions to ask. We will remain here; and, whether good or evil come, we will not be ashamed to show our faces." She sat for a while again silent, collecting her courage on the subject that was nearest her heart. She would have given the world that he should ask her questions; but she could not bid him to do so; and she found it impossible to talk openly to him about Frank unless he did so. "Will he come here?" at last she said, in a low-toned voice. "Who? He, Louis? Yes, I think that in all probability he will." "No; but Frank," she said, in a still lower voice. "Ah! my darling, that I cannot tell; but will it be well that he should come here?" "I do not know," she said. "No, I suppose not. But, uncle, I don't think he will come." She was now sitting on a sofa away from the table, and he got up, sat down beside her, and took her hands in his. "Mary," said he, "you must be strong now; strong to endure, not to attack. I think you have that strength; but, if not, perhaps it will be better that we should go away." "I will be strong," said she, rising up and going towards the door. "Never mind me, uncle; don't follow me; I will be strong. It will be base, cowardly, mean, to run away; very base in me to make you do so." "No, dearest, not so; it will be the same to me." "No," said she, "I will not run away from Lady Arabella. And, as for him--if he loves this other one, he shall hear no reproach from me. Uncle, I will be strong;" and running back to him, she threw her arms round him and kissed him. And, still restraining her tears, she got safely to her bedroom. In what way she may there have shown her strength, it would not be well for us to inquire. CHAPTER XXXIV A Barouche and Four Arrives at Greshamsbury During the last twelve months Sir Louis Scatcherd had been very efficacious in bringing trouble, turmoil, and vexation upon Greshamsbury. Now that it was too late to take steps to save himself, Dr Thorne found that the will left by Sir Roger was so made as to entail upon him duties that he would find it almost impossible to perform. Sir Louis, though his father had wished to make him still a child in the eye of the law, was no child. He knew his own rights and was determined to exact them; and before Sir Roger had been dead three months, the doctor found himself in continual litigation with a low Barchester attorney, who was acting on behalf of his, the doctor's, own ward. And if the doctor suffered so did the squire, and so did those who had hitherto had the management of the squire's affairs. Dr Thorne soon perceived that he was to be driven into litigation, not only with Mr Finnie, the Barchester attorney, but with the squire himself. While Finnie harassed him, he was compelled to harass Mr Gresham. He was no lawyer himself; and though he had been able to manage very well between the squire and Sir Roger, and had perhaps given himself some credit for his lawyer-like ability in so doing, he was utterly unable to manage between Sir Louis and Mr Gresham. He had, therefore, to employ a lawyer on his own account, and it seemed probable that the whole amount of Sir Roger's legacy to himself would by degrees be expended in this manner. And then, the squire's lawyers had to take up the matter; and they did so greatly to the detriment of poor Mr Yates Umbleby, who was found to have made a mess of the affairs entrusted to him. Mr Umbleby's accounts were incorrect; his mind was anything but clear, and he confessed, when put to it by the very sharp gentleman that came down from London, that he was "bothered;" and so, after a while, he was suspended from his duties, and Mr Gazebee, the sharp gentleman from London, reigned over the diminished rent-roll of the Greshamsbury estate. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury--with the one exception of Mr Oriel and his love-suit. Miss Gushing attributed the deposition of Mr Umbleby to the narrowness of the victory which Beatrice had won in carrying off Mr Oriel. For Miss Gushing was a relation of the Umblebys, and had been for many years one of their family. "If she had only chosen to exert herself as Miss Gresham had done, she could have had Mr Oriel, easily; oh, too easily! but she had despised such work," so she said. "But though she had despised it, the Greshams had not been less irritated, and, therefore, Mr Umbleby had been driven out of his house." We can hardly believe this, as victory generally makes men generous. Miss Gushing, however, stated it as a fact so often that it is probable she was induced to believe it herself. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury, and the squire himself was especially a sufferer. Umbleby had at any rate been his own man, and he could do what he liked with him. He could see him when he liked, and where he liked, and how he liked; could scold him if in an ill-humour, and laugh at him when in a good humour. All this Mr Umbleby knew, and bore. But Mr Gazebee was a very different sort of gentleman; he was the junior partner in the firm of Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, of Mount Street, a house that never defiled itself with any other business than the agency business, and that in the very highest line. They drew out leases, and managed property both for the Duke of Omnium and Lord de Courcy; and ever since her marriage, it had been one of the objects dearest to Lady Arabella's heart, that the Greshamsbury acres should be superintended by the polite skill and polished legal ability of that all but elegant firm in Mount Street. The squire had long stood firm, and had delighted in having everything done under his own eye by poor Mr Yates Umbleby. But now, alas! he could stand it no longer. He had put off the evil day as long as he could; he had deferred the odious work of investigation till things had seemed resolved on investigating themselves; and then, when it was absolutely necessary that Mr Umbleby should go, there was nothing for him left but to fall into the ready hands of Messrs Gumption, Gazebee and Gazebee. It must not be supposed that Messrs Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee were in the least like the ordinary run of attorneys. They wrote no letters for six-and-eightpence each: they collected no debts, filed no bills, made no charge per folio for "whereases" and "as aforesaids;" they did no dirty work, and probably were as ignorant of the interior of a court of law as any young lady living in their Mayfair vicinity. No; their business was to manage the property of great people, draw up leases, make legal assignments, get the family marriage settlements made, and look after wills. Occasionally, also, they had to raise money; but it was generally understood that this was done by proxy. The firm had been going on for a hundred and fifty years, and the designation had often been altered; but it always consisted of Gumptions and Gazebees differently arranged, and no less hallowed names had ever been permitted to appear. It had been Gazebee, Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee, Gumption & Gumption; then Gumption, Gumption & Gazebee; and now it was Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee. Mr Gazebee, the junior member of this firm, was a very elegant young man. While looking at him riding in Rotten Row, you would hardly have taken him for an attorney; and had he heard that you had so taken him, he would have been very much surprised indeed. He was rather bald; not being, as people say, quite so young as he was once. His exact age was thirty-eight. But he had a really remarkable pair of jet-black whiskers, which fully made up for any deficiency as to his head; he had also dark eyes, and a beaked nose, what may be called a distinguished mouth, and was always dressed in fashionable attire. The fact was, that Mr Mortimer Gazebee, junior partner in the firm Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, by no means considered himself to be made of that very disagreeable material which mortals call small beer. When this great firm was applied to, to get Mr Gresham through his difficulties, and when the state of his affairs was made known to them, they at first expressed rather a disinclination for the work. But at last, moved doubtless by their respect for the de Courcy interest, they assented; and Mr Gazebee, junior, went down to Greshamsbury. The poor squire passed many a sad day after that before he again felt himself to be master even of his own domain. Nevertheless, when Mr Mortimer Gazebee visited Greshamsbury, which he did on more than one or two occasions, he was always received _en grand seigneur_. To Lady Arabella he was by no means an unwelcome guest, for she found herself able, for the first time in her life, to speak confidentially on her husband's pecuniary affairs with the man who had the management of her husband's property. Mr Gazebee also was a pet with Lady de Courcy; and being known to be a fashionable man in London, and quite a different sort of person from poor Mr Umbleby, he was always received with smiles. He had a hundred little ways of making himself agreeable, and Augusta declared to her cousin, the Lady Amelia, after having been acquainted with him for a few months, that he would be a perfect gentleman, only, that his family had never been anything but attorneys. The Lady Amelia smiled in her own peculiarly aristocratic way, shrugged her shoulders slightly, and said, "that Mr Mortimer Gazebee was a very good sort of a person, very." Poor Augusta felt herself snubbed, thinking perhaps of the tailor's son; but as there was never any appeal against the Lady Amelia, she said nothing more at that moment in favour of Mr Mortimer Gazebee. All these evils--Mr Mortimer Gazebee being the worst of them--had Sir Louis Scatcherd brought down on the poor squire's head. There may be those who will say that the squire had brought them on himself, by running into debt; and so, doubtless, he had; but it was not the less true that the baronet's interference was unnecessary, vexatious, and one might almost say, malicious. His interest would have been quite safe in the doctor's hands, and he had, in fact, no legal right to meddle; but neither the doctor nor the squire could prevent him. Mr Finnie knew very well what he was about, if Sir Louis did not; and so the three went on, each with his own lawyer, and each of them distrustful, unhappy, and ill at ease. This was hard upon the doctor, for he was not in debt, and had borrowed no money. There was not much reason to suppose that the visit of Sir Louis to Greshamsbury would much improve matters. It must be presumed that he was not coming with any amicable views, but with the object rather of looking after his own; a phrase which was now constantly in his mouth. He might probably find it necessary while looking after his own at Greshamsbury, to say some very disagreeable things to the squire; and the doctor, therefore, hardly expected that the visit would go off pleasantly. When last we saw Sir Louis, now nearly twelve months since, he was intent on making a proposal of marriage to Miss Thorne. This intention he carried out about two days after Frank Gresham had done the same thing. He had delayed doing so till he had succeeded in purchasing his friend Jenkins's Arab pony, imagining that such a present could not but go far in weaning Mary's heart from her other lover. Poor Mary was put to the trouble of refusing both the baronet and the pony, and a very bad time she had of it while doing so. Sir Louis was a man easily angered, and not very easily pacified, and Mary had to endure a good deal of annoyance; from any other person, indeed, she would have called it impertinence. Sir Louis, however, had to bear his rejection as best he could, and, after a perseverance of three days, returned to London in disgust; and Mary had not seen him since. Mr Greyson's first letter was followed by a second; and the second was followed by the baronet in person. He also required to be received _en grand seigneur_, perhaps more imperatively than Mr Mortimer Gazebee himself. He came with four posters from the Barchester Station, and had himself rattled up to the doctor's door in a way that took the breath away from all Greshamsbury. Why! the squire himself for a many long year had been contented to come home with a pair of horses; and four were never seen in the place, except when the de Courcys came to Greshamsbury, or Lady Arabella with all her daughters returned from her hard-fought metropolitan campaigns. Sir Louis, however, came with four, and very arrogant he looked, leaning back in the barouche belonging to the George and Dragon, and wrapped up in fur, although it was now midsummer. And up in the dicky behind was a servant, more arrogant, if possible, than his master--the baronet's own man, who was the object of Dr Thorne's special detestation and disgust. He was a little fellow, chosen originally on account of his light weight on horseback; but if that may be considered a merit, it was the only one he had. His out-door show dress was a little tight frock-coat, round which a polished strap was always buckled tightly, a stiff white choker, leather breeches, top-boots, and a hat, with a cockade, stuck on one side of his head. His name was Jonah, which his master and his master's friends shortened into Joe; none, however, but those who were very intimate with his master were allowed to do so with impunity. This Joe was Dr Thorne's special aversion. In his anxiety to take every possible step to keep Sir Louis from poisoning himself, he had at first attempted to enlist the baronet's "own man" in the cause. Joe had promised fairly, but had betrayed the doctor at once, and had become the worst

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you know--I thought you always said so--I have always told mamma so as if it came from yourself." "Beatrice, do not tell anything to Lady Arabella as though it came from me; I do not want anything to be told to her, either of me or from me. Say what you like to me yourself; whatever you say will not anger me. Indeed, I know what you would say--and yet I love you. Oh, I love you, Trichy--Trichy, I do love you so much! Don't turn away from me!" There was such a mixture in Mary's manner of tenderness and almost ferocity, that poor Beatrice could hardly follow her. "Turn away from you, Mary! no never; but this does make me unhappy." "It is better that you should know it all, and then you will not be led into fighting my battles again. You cannot fight them so that I should win; I do love your brother; love him truly, fondly, tenderly. I would wish to have him for my husband as you wish to have Mr Oriel." "But, Mary, you cannot marry him!" "Why not?" said she, in a loud voice. "Why can I not marry him? If the priest says a blessing over us, shall we not be married as well as you and your husband?" "But you know he cannot marry unless his wife shall have money." "Money--money; and he is to sell himself for money? Oh, Trichy! do not you talk about money. It is horrible. But, Trichy, I will grant it--I cannot marry him; but still, I love him. He has a name, a place in the world, and fortune, family, high blood, position, everything. He has all this, and I have nothing. Of course I cannot marry him. But yet I do love him." "Are you engaged to him, Mary?" "He is not engaged to me; but I am to him." "Oh, Mary, that is impossible!" "It is not impossible: it is the case--I am pledged to him; but he is not pledged to me." "But, Mary, don't look at me in that way. I do not quite understand you. What is the good of your being engaged if you cannot marry him?" "Good! there is no good. But can I help it, if I love him? Can I make myself not love him by just wishing it? Oh, I would do it if I could. But now you will understand why I shake my head when you talk of my coming to your house. Your ways and my ways must be different." Beatrice was startled, and, for a time, silenced. What Mary said of the difference of their ways was quite true. Beatrice had dearly loved her friend, and had thought of her with affection through all this long period in which they had been separated; but she had given her love and her thoughts on the understanding, as it were, that they were in unison as to the impropriety of Frank's conduct. She had always spoken, with a grave face, of Frank and his love as of a great misfortune, even to Mary herself; and her pity for Mary had been founded on the conviction of her innocence. Now all those ideas had to be altered. Mary owned her fault, confessed herself to be guilty of all that Lady Arabella so frequently laid to her charge, and confessed herself anxious to commit every crime as to which Beatrice had been ever so ready to defend her. Had Beatrice up to this dreamed that Mary was in love with Frank, she would doubtless have sympathised with her more or less, sooner or later. As it was, it was beyond all doubt that she would soon sympathise with her. But, at the moment, the suddenness of the declaration seemed to harden her heart, and she forgot, as it were, to speak tenderly to her friend. She was silent, therefore, and dismayed; and looked as though she thought that her ways and Mary's ways must be different. Mary saw all that was passing in the other's mind: no, not all; all the hostility, the disappointment, the disapproval, the unhappiness, she did see; but not the under-current of love, which was strong enough to well up and drown all these, if only time could be allowed for it to do so. "I am glad I have told you," said Mary, curbing herself, "for deceit and hypocrisy are detestable." "It was a misunderstanding, not deceit," said Beatrice. "Well, now we understand each other; now you know that I have a heart within me, which like those of some others has not always been under my own control. Lady Arabella believes that I am intriguing to be the mistress of Greshamsbury. You, at any rate, will not think that of me. If it could be discovered to-morrow that Frank were not the heir, I might have some chance of happiness." "But, Mary--" "Well?" "You say you love him." "Yes; I do say so." "But if he does not love you, will you cease to do so?" "If I have a fever, I will get rid of it if I can; in such case I must do so, or die." "I fear," continued Beatrice, "you hardly know, perhaps do not think, what is Frank's real character. He is not made to settle down early in life; even now, I believe he is attached to some lady in London, whom, of course, he cannot marry." Beatrice said this in perfect trueness of heart. She had heard of Frank's new love-affair, and believing what she had heard, thought it best to tell the truth. But the information was not of a kind to quiet Mary's spirit. "Very well," said she, "let it be so. I have nothing to say against it." "But are you not preparing wretchedness and unhappiness for yourself?" "Very likely." "Oh, Mary, do not be so cold with me! you know how delighted I should be to have you for a sister-in-law, if only it were possible." "Yes, Trichy; but it is impossible, is it not? Impossible that Francis Gresham of Greshamsbury should disgrace himself by marrying such a poor creature as I am. Of course, I know it; of course, I am prepared for unhappiness and misery. He can amuse himself as he likes with me or others--with anybody. It is his privilege. It is quite enough to say that he is not made for settling down. I know my own position;--and yet I love him." "But, Mary, has he asked you to be his wife? If so--" "You ask home-questions, Beatrice. Let me ask you one; has he ever told you that he has done so?" At this moment Beatrice was not disposed to repeat all that Frank had said. A year ago, before he went away, he had told his sister a score of times that he meant to marry Mary Thorne if she would have him; but Beatrice now looked on all that as idle, boyish vapouring. The pity was, that Mary should have looked on it differently. "We will each keep our secret," said Mary. "Only remember this: should Frank marry to-morrow, I shall have no ground for blaming him. He is free as far I as am concerned. He can take the London lady if he likes. You may tell him so from me. But, Trichy, what else I have told you, I have told you only." "Oh, yes!" said Beatrice, sadly; "I shall say nothing of it to anybody. It is very sad, very, very; I was so happy when I came here, and now I am so wretched." This was the end of that delicious talk to which she had looked forward with so much eagerness. "Don't be wretched about me, dearest; I shall get through it. I sometimes think I was born to be unhappy, and that unhappiness agrees with me best. Kiss me now, Trichy, and don't be wretched any more. You owe it to Mr Oriel to be as happy as the day is long." And then they parted. Beatrice, as she went out, saw Dr Thorne in his little shop on the right-hand side of the passage, deeply engaged in some derogatory branch of an apothecary's mechanical trade; mixing a dose, perhaps, for a little child. She would have passed him without speaking if she could have been sure of doing so without notice, for her heart was full, and her eyes were red with tears; but it was so long since she had been in his house that she was more than ordinarily anxious not to appear uncourteous or unkind to him. "Good morning, doctor," she said, changing her countenance as best she might, and attempting a smile. "Ah, my fairy!" said he, leaving his villainous compounds, and coming out to her; "and you, too, are about to become a steady old lady." "Indeed, I am not, doctor; I don't mean to be either steady or old for the next ten years. But who has told you? I suppose Mary has been a traitor." "Well, I will confess, Mary was the traitor. But hadn't I a right to be told, seeing how often I have brought you sugar-plums in my pocket? But I wish you joy with all my heart,--with all my heart. Oriel is an excellent, good fellow." "Is he not, doctor?" "An excellent, good fellow. I never heard but of one fault that he had." "What was that one fault, Doctor Thorne?" "He thought that clergymen should not marry. But you have cured that, and now he's perfect." "Thank you, doctor. I declare that you say the prettiest things of all my friends." "And none of your friends wish prettier things for you. I do congratulate you, Beatrice, and hope you may be happy with the man you have chosen;" and taking both her hands in his, he pressed them warmly, and bade God bless her. "Oh, doctor! I do so hope the time will come when we shall all be friends again." "I hope it as well, my dear. But let it come, or let it not come, my regard for you will be the same:" and then she parted from him also, and went her way. Nothing was spoken of that evening between Dr Thorne and his niece excepting Beatrice's future happiness; nothing, at least, having reference to what had passed that morning. But on the following morning circumstances led to Frank Gresham's name being mentioned. At the usual breakfast-hour the doctor entered the parlour with a harassed face. He had an open letter in his hand, and it was at once clear to Mary that he was going to speak on some subject that vexed him. "That unfortunate fellow is again in trouble. Here is a letter from Greyson." Greyson was a London apothecary, who had been appointed as medical attendant to Sir Louis Scatcherd, and whose real business consisted in keeping a watch on the baronet, and reporting to Dr Thorne when anything was very much amiss. "Here is a letter from Greyson; he has been drunk for the last three days, and is now laid up in a terribly nervous state." "You won't go up to town again; will you, uncle?" "I hardly know what to do. No, I think not. He talks of coming down here to Greshamsbury." "Who, Sir Louis?" "Yes, Sir Louis. Greyson says that he will be down as soon as he can get out of his room." "What! to this house?" "What other house can he come to?" "Oh, uncle! I hope not. Pray, pray do not let him come here." "I cannot prevent it, my dear. I cannot shut my door on him." They sat down to breakfast, and Mary gave him his tea in silence. "I am going over to Boxall Hill before dinner," said he. "Have you any message to send to Lady Scatcherd?" "Message! no, I have no message; not especially: give her my love, of course," she said listlessly. And then, as though a thought had suddenly struck her, she spoke with more energy. "But, couldn't I go to Boxall Hill again? I should be so delighted." "What! to run away from Sir Louis? No, dearest, we will have no more running away. He will probably also go to Boxall Hill, and he could annoy you much more there than he can here." "But, uncle, Mr Gresham will be home on the 12th," she said, blushing. "What! Frank?" "Yes. Beatrice said he was to be here on the 12th." "And would you run away from him too, Mary?" "I do not know: I do not know what to do." "No; we will have no more running away: I am sorry that you ever did so. It was my fault, altogether my fault; but it was foolish." "Uncle, I am not happy here." As she said this, she put down the cup which she had held, and, leaning her elbows on the table, rested her forehead on her hands. "And would you be happier at Boxall Hill? It is not the place makes the happiness." "No, I know that; it is not the place. I do not look to be happy in any place; but I should be quieter, more tranquil elsewhere than here." "I also sometimes think that it will be better for us to take up our staves and walk away out of Greshamsbury;--leave it altogether, and settle elsewhere; miles, miles, miles away from here. Should you like that, dearest?" Miles, miles, miles away from Greshamsbury! There was something in the sound that fell very cold on Mary's ears, unhappy as she was. Greshamsbury had been so dear to her; in spite of all that had passed, was still so dear to her! Was she prepared to take up her staff, as her uncle said, and walk forth from the place with the full understanding that she was to return to it no more; with a mind resolved that there should be an inseparable gulf between her and its inhabitants? Such she knew was the proposed nature of the walking away of which her uncle spoke. So she sat there, resting on her arms, and gave no answer to the question that had been asked her. "No, we will stay a while yet," said her uncle. "It may come to that, but this is not the time. For one season longer let us face--I will not say our enemies; I cannot call anybody my enemy who bears the name of Gresham." And then he went on for a moment with his breakfast. "So Frank will be here on the 12th?" "Yes, uncle." "Well, dearest, I have no questions to ask you: no directions to give. I know how good you are, and how prudent; I am anxious only for your happiness; not at all--" "Happiness, uncle, is out of the question." "I hope not. It is never out of the question, never can be out of the question. But, as I was saying, I am quite satisfied your conduct will be good, and, therefore, I have no questions to ask. We will remain here; and, whether good or evil come, we will not be ashamed to show our faces." She sat for a while again silent, collecting her courage on the subject that was nearest her heart. She would have given the world that he should ask her questions; but she could not bid him to do so; and she found it impossible to talk openly to him about Frank unless he did so. "Will he come here?" at last she said, in a low-toned voice. "Who? He, Louis? Yes, I think that in all probability he will." "No; but Frank," she said, in a still lower voice. "Ah! my darling, that I cannot tell; but will it be well that he should come here?" "I do not know," she said. "No, I suppose not. But, uncle, I don't think he will come." She was now sitting on a sofa away from the table, and he got up, sat down beside her, and took her hands in his. "Mary," said he, "you must be strong now; strong to endure, not to attack. I think you have that strength; but, if not, perhaps it will be better that we should go away." "I will be strong," said she, rising up and going towards the door. "Never mind me, uncle; don't follow me; I will be strong. It will be base, cowardly, mean, to run away; very base in me to make you do so." "No, dearest, not so; it will be the same to me." "No," said she, "I will not run away from Lady Arabella. And, as for him--if he loves this other one, he shall hear no reproach from me. Uncle, I will be strong;" and running back to him, she threw her arms round him and kissed him. And, still restraining her tears, she got safely to her bedroom. In what way she may there have shown her strength, it would not be well for us to inquire. CHAPTER XXXIV A Barouche and Four Arrives at Greshamsbury During the last twelve months Sir Louis Scatcherd had been very efficacious in bringing trouble, turmoil, and vexation upon Greshamsbury. Now that it was too late to take steps to save himself, Dr Thorne found that the will left by Sir Roger was so made as to entail upon him duties that he would find it almost impossible to perform. Sir Louis, though his father had wished to make him still a child in the eye of the law, was no child. He knew his own rights and was determined to exact them; and before Sir Roger had been dead three months, the doctor found himself in continual litigation with a low Barchester attorney, who was acting on behalf of his, the doctor's, own ward. And if the doctor suffered so did the squire, and so did those who had hitherto had the management of the squire's affairs. Dr Thorne soon perceived that he was to be driven into litigation, not only with Mr Finnie, the Barchester attorney, but with the squire himself. While Finnie harassed him, he was compelled to harass Mr Gresham. He was no lawyer himself; and though he had been able to manage very well between the squire and Sir Roger, and had perhaps given himself some credit for his lawyer-like ability in so doing, he was utterly unable to manage between Sir Louis and Mr Gresham. He had, therefore, to employ a lawyer on his own account, and it seemed probable that the whole amount of Sir Roger's legacy to himself would by degrees be expended in this manner. And then, the squire's lawyers had to take up the matter; and they did so greatly to the detriment of poor Mr Yates Umbleby, who was found to have made a mess of the affairs entrusted to him. Mr Umbleby's accounts were incorrect; his mind was anything but clear, and he confessed, when put to it by the very sharp gentleman that came down from London, that he was "bothered;" and so, after a while, he was suspended from his duties, and Mr Gazebee, the sharp gentleman from London, reigned over the diminished rent-roll of the Greshamsbury estate. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury--with the one exception of Mr Oriel and his love-suit. Miss Gushing attributed the deposition of Mr Umbleby to the narrowness of the victory which Beatrice had won in carrying off Mr Oriel. For Miss Gushing was a relation of the Umblebys, and had been for many years one of their family. "If she had only chosen to exert herself as Miss Gresham had done, she could have had Mr Oriel, easily; oh, too easily! but she had despised such work," so she said. "But though she had despised it, the Greshams had not been less irritated, and, therefore, Mr Umbleby had been driven out of his house." We can hardly believe this, as victory generally makes men generous. Miss Gushing, however, stated it as a fact so often that it is probable she was induced to believe it herself. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury, and the squire himself was especially a sufferer. Umbleby had at any rate been his own man, and he could do what he liked with him. He could see him when he liked, and where he liked, and how he liked; could scold him if in an ill-humour, and laugh at him when in a good humour. All this Mr Umbleby knew, and bore. But Mr Gazebee was a very different sort of gentleman; he was the junior partner in the firm of Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, of Mount Street, a house that never defiled itself with any other business than the agency business, and that in the very highest line. They drew out leases, and managed property both for the Duke of Omnium and Lord de Courcy; and ever since her marriage, it had been one of the objects dearest to Lady Arabella's heart, that the Greshamsbury acres should be superintended by the polite skill and polished legal ability of that all but elegant firm in Mount Street. The squire had long stood firm, and had delighted in having everything done under his own eye by poor Mr Yates Umbleby. But now, alas! he could stand it no longer. He had put off the evil day as long as he could; he had deferred the odious work of investigation till things had seemed resolved on investigating themselves; and then, when it was absolutely necessary that Mr Umbleby should go, there was nothing for him left but to fall into the ready hands of Messrs Gumption, Gazebee and Gazebee. It must not be supposed that Messrs Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee were in the least like the ordinary run of attorneys. They wrote no letters for six-and-eightpence each: they collected no debts, filed no bills, made no charge per folio for "whereases" and "as aforesaids;" they did no dirty work, and probably were as ignorant of the interior of a court of law as any young lady living in their Mayfair vicinity. No; their business was to manage the property of great people, draw up leases, make legal assignments, get the family marriage settlements made, and look after wills. Occasionally, also, they had to raise money; but it was generally understood that this was done by proxy. The firm had been going on for a hundred and fifty years, and the designation had often been altered; but it always consisted of Gumptions and Gazebees differently arranged, and no less hallowed names had ever been permitted to appear. It had been Gazebee, Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee, Gumption & Gumption; then Gumption, Gumption & Gazebee; and now it was Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee. Mr Gazebee, the junior member of this firm, was a very elegant young man. While looking at him riding in Rotten Row, you would hardly have taken him for an attorney; and had he heard that you had so taken him, he would have been very much surprised indeed. He was rather bald; not being, as people say, quite so young as he was once. His exact age was thirty-eight. But he had a really remarkable pair of jet-black whiskers, which fully made up for any deficiency as to his head; he had also dark eyes, and a beaked nose, what may be called a distinguished mouth, and was always dressed in fashionable attire. The fact was, that Mr Mortimer Gazebee, junior partner in the firm Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, by no means considered himself to be made of that very disagreeable material which mortals call small beer. When this great firm was applied to, to get Mr Gresham through his difficulties, and when the state of his affairs was made known to them, they at first expressed rather a disinclination for the work. But at last, moved doubtless by their respect for the de Courcy interest, they assented; and Mr Gazebee, junior, went down to Greshamsbury. The poor squire passed many a sad day after that before he again felt himself to be master even of his own domain. Nevertheless, when Mr Mortimer Gazebee visited Greshamsbury, which he did on more than one or two occasions, he was always received _en grand seigneur_. To Lady Arabella he was by no means an unwelcome guest, for she found herself able, for the first time in her life, to speak confidentially on her husband's pecuniary affairs with the man who had the management of her husband's property. Mr Gazebee also was a pet with Lady de Courcy; and being known to be a fashionable man in London, and quite a different sort of person from poor Mr Umbleby, he was always received with smiles. He had a hundred little ways of making himself agreeable, and Augusta declared to her cousin, the Lady Amelia, after having been acquainted with him for a few months, that he would be a perfect gentleman, only, that his family had never been anything but attorneys. The Lady Amelia smiled in her own peculiarly aristocratic way, shrugged her shoulders slightly, and said, "that Mr Mortimer Gazebee was a very good sort of a person, very." Poor Augusta felt herself snubbed, thinking perhaps of the tailor's son; but as there was never any appeal against the Lady Amelia, she said nothing more at that moment in favour of Mr Mortimer Gazebee. All these evils--Mr Mortimer Gazebee being the worst of them--had Sir Louis Scatcherd brought down on the poor squire's head. There may be those who will say that the squire had brought them on himself, by running into debt; and so, doubtless, he had; but it was not the less true that the baronet's interference was unnecessary, vexatious, and one might almost say, malicious. His interest would have been quite safe in the doctor's hands, and he had, in fact, no legal right to meddle; but neither the doctor nor the squire could prevent him. Mr Finnie knew very well what he was about, if Sir Louis did not; and so the three went on, each with his own lawyer, and each of them distrustful, unhappy, and ill at ease. This was hard upon the doctor, for he was not in debt, and had borrowed no money. There was not much reason to suppose that the visit of Sir Louis to Greshamsbury would much improve matters. It must be presumed that he was not coming with any amicable views, but with the object rather of looking after his own; a phrase which was now constantly in his mouth. He might probably find it necessary while looking after his own at Greshamsbury, to say some very disagreeable things to the squire; and the doctor, therefore, hardly expected that the visit would go off pleasantly. When last we saw Sir Louis, now nearly twelve months since, he was intent on making a proposal of marriage to Miss Thorne. This intention he carried out about two days after Frank Gresham had done the same thing. He had delayed doing so till he had succeeded in purchasing his friend Jenkins's Arab pony, imagining that such a present could not but go far in weaning Mary's heart from her other lover. Poor Mary was put to the trouble of refusing both the baronet and the pony, and a very bad time she had of it while doing so. Sir Louis was a man easily angered, and not very easily pacified, and Mary had to endure a good deal of annoyance; from any other person, indeed, she would have called it impertinence. Sir Louis, however, had to bear his rejection as best he could, and, after a perseverance of three days, returned to London in disgust; and Mary had not seen him since. Mr Greyson's first letter was followed by a second; and the second was followed by the baronet in person. He also required to be received _en grand seigneur_, perhaps more imperatively than Mr Mortimer Gazebee himself. He came with four posters from the Barchester Station, and had himself rattled up to the doctor's door in a way that took the breath away from all Greshamsbury. Why! the squire himself for a many long year had been contented to come home with a pair of horses; and four were never seen in the place, except when the de Courcys came to Greshamsbury, or Lady Arabella with all her daughters returned from her hard-fought metropolitan campaigns. Sir Louis, however, came with four, and very arrogant he looked, leaning back in the barouche belonging to the George and Dragon, and wrapped up in fur, although it was now midsummer. And up in the dicky behind was a servant, more arrogant, if possible, than his master--the baronet's own man, who was the object of Dr Thorne's special detestation and disgust. He was a little fellow, chosen originally on account of his light weight on horseback; but if that may be considered a merit, it was the only one he had. His out-door show dress was a little tight frock-coat, round which a polished strap was always buckled tightly, a stiff white choker, leather breeches, top-boots, and a hat, with a cockade, stuck on one side of his head. His name was Jonah, which his master and his master's friends shortened into Joe; none, however, but those who were very intimate with his master were allowed to do so with impunity. This Joe was Dr Thorne's special aversion. In his anxiety to take every possible step to keep Sir Louis from poisoning himself, he had at first attempted to enlist the baronet's "own man" in the cause. Joe had promised fairly, but had betrayed the doctor at once, and had become the worst

best

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

you know--I thought you always said so--I have always told mamma so as if it came from yourself." "Beatrice, do not tell anything to Lady Arabella as though it came from me; I do not want anything to be told to her, either of me or from me. Say what you like to me yourself; whatever you say will not anger me. Indeed, I know what you would say--and yet I love you. Oh, I love you, Trichy--Trichy, I do love you so much! Don't turn away from me!" There was such a mixture in Mary's manner of tenderness and almost ferocity, that poor Beatrice could hardly follow her. "Turn away from you, Mary! no never; but this does make me unhappy." "It is better that you should know it all, and then you will not be led into fighting my battles again. You cannot fight them so that I should win; I do love your brother; love him truly, fondly, tenderly. I would wish to have him for my husband as you wish to have Mr Oriel." "But, Mary, you cannot marry him!" "Why not?" said she, in a loud voice. "Why can I not marry him? If the priest says a blessing over us, shall we not be married as well as you and your husband?" "But you know he cannot marry unless his wife shall have money." "Money--money; and he is to sell himself for money? Oh, Trichy! do not you talk about money. It is horrible. But, Trichy, I will grant it--I cannot marry him; but still, I love him. He has a name, a place in the world, and fortune, family, high blood, position, everything. He has all this, and I have nothing. Of course I cannot marry him. But yet I do love him." "Are you engaged to him, Mary?" "He is not engaged to me; but I am to him." "Oh, Mary, that is impossible!" "It is not impossible: it is the case--I am pledged to him; but he is not pledged to me." "But, Mary, don't look at me in that way. I do not quite understand you. What is the good of your being engaged if you cannot marry him?" "Good! there is no good. But can I help it, if I love him? Can I make myself not love him by just wishing it? Oh, I would do it if I could. But now you will understand why I shake my head when you talk of my coming to your house. Your ways and my ways must be different." Beatrice was startled, and, for a time, silenced. What Mary said of the difference of their ways was quite true. Beatrice had dearly loved her friend, and had thought of her with affection through all this long period in which they had been separated; but she had given her love and her thoughts on the understanding, as it were, that they were in unison as to the impropriety of Frank's conduct. She had always spoken, with a grave face, of Frank and his love as of a great misfortune, even to Mary herself; and her pity for Mary had been founded on the conviction of her innocence. Now all those ideas had to be altered. Mary owned her fault, confessed herself to be guilty of all that Lady Arabella so frequently laid to her charge, and confessed herself anxious to commit every crime as to which Beatrice had been ever so ready to defend her. Had Beatrice up to this dreamed that Mary was in love with Frank, she would doubtless have sympathised with her more or less, sooner or later. As it was, it was beyond all doubt that she would soon sympathise with her. But, at the moment, the suddenness of the declaration seemed to harden her heart, and she forgot, as it were, to speak tenderly to her friend. She was silent, therefore, and dismayed; and looked as though she thought that her ways and Mary's ways must be different. Mary saw all that was passing in the other's mind: no, not all; all the hostility, the disappointment, the disapproval, the unhappiness, she did see; but not the under-current of love, which was strong enough to well up and drown all these, if only time could be allowed for it to do so. "I am glad I have told you," said Mary, curbing herself, "for deceit and hypocrisy are detestable." "It was a misunderstanding, not deceit," said Beatrice. "Well, now we understand each other; now you know that I have a heart within me, which like those of some others has not always been under my own control. Lady Arabella believes that I am intriguing to be the mistress of Greshamsbury. You, at any rate, will not think that of me. If it could be discovered to-morrow that Frank were not the heir, I might have some chance of happiness." "But, Mary--" "Well?" "You say you love him." "Yes; I do say so." "But if he does not love you, will you cease to do so?" "If I have a fever, I will get rid of it if I can; in such case I must do so, or die." "I fear," continued Beatrice, "you hardly know, perhaps do not think, what is Frank's real character. He is not made to settle down early in life; even now, I believe he is attached to some lady in London, whom, of course, he cannot marry." Beatrice said this in perfect trueness of heart. She had heard of Frank's new love-affair, and believing what she had heard, thought it best to tell the truth. But the information was not of a kind to quiet Mary's spirit. "Very well," said she, "let it be so. I have nothing to say against it." "But are you not preparing wretchedness and unhappiness for yourself?" "Very likely." "Oh, Mary, do not be so cold with me! you know how delighted I should be to have you for a sister-in-law, if only it were possible." "Yes, Trichy; but it is impossible, is it not? Impossible that Francis Gresham of Greshamsbury should disgrace himself by marrying such a poor creature as I am. Of course, I know it; of course, I am prepared for unhappiness and misery. He can amuse himself as he likes with me or others--with anybody. It is his privilege. It is quite enough to say that he is not made for settling down. I know my own position;--and yet I love him." "But, Mary, has he asked you to be his wife? If so--" "You ask home-questions, Beatrice. Let me ask you one; has he ever told you that he has done so?" At this moment Beatrice was not disposed to repeat all that Frank had said. A year ago, before he went away, he had told his sister a score of times that he meant to marry Mary Thorne if she would have him; but Beatrice now looked on all that as idle, boyish vapouring. The pity was, that Mary should have looked on it differently. "We will each keep our secret," said Mary. "Only remember this: should Frank marry to-morrow, I shall have no ground for blaming him. He is free as far I as am concerned. He can take the London lady if he likes. You may tell him so from me. But, Trichy, what else I have told you, I have told you only." "Oh, yes!" said Beatrice, sadly; "I shall say nothing of it to anybody. It is very sad, very, very; I was so happy when I came here, and now I am so wretched." This was the end of that delicious talk to which she had looked forward with so much eagerness. "Don't be wretched about me, dearest; I shall get through it. I sometimes think I was born to be unhappy, and that unhappiness agrees with me best. Kiss me now, Trichy, and don't be wretched any more. You owe it to Mr Oriel to be as happy as the day is long." And then they parted. Beatrice, as she went out, saw Dr Thorne in his little shop on the right-hand side of the passage, deeply engaged in some derogatory branch of an apothecary's mechanical trade; mixing a dose, perhaps, for a little child. She would have passed him without speaking if she could have been sure of doing so without notice, for her heart was full, and her eyes were red with tears; but it was so long since she had been in his house that she was more than ordinarily anxious not to appear uncourteous or unkind to him. "Good morning, doctor," she said, changing her countenance as best she might, and attempting a smile. "Ah, my fairy!" said he, leaving his villainous compounds, and coming out to her; "and you, too, are about to become a steady old lady." "Indeed, I am not, doctor; I don't mean to be either steady or old for the next ten years. But who has told you? I suppose Mary has been a traitor." "Well, I will confess, Mary was the traitor. But hadn't I a right to be told, seeing how often I have brought you sugar-plums in my pocket? But I wish you joy with all my heart,--with all my heart. Oriel is an excellent, good fellow." "Is he not, doctor?" "An excellent, good fellow. I never heard but of one fault that he had." "What was that one fault, Doctor Thorne?" "He thought that clergymen should not marry. But you have cured that, and now he's perfect." "Thank you, doctor. I declare that you say the prettiest things of all my friends." "And none of your friends wish prettier things for you. I do congratulate you, Beatrice, and hope you may be happy with the man you have chosen;" and taking both her hands in his, he pressed them warmly, and bade God bless her. "Oh, doctor! I do so hope the time will come when we shall all be friends again." "I hope it as well, my dear. But let it come, or let it not come, my regard for you will be the same:" and then she parted from him also, and went her way. Nothing was spoken of that evening between Dr Thorne and his niece excepting Beatrice's future happiness; nothing, at least, having reference to what had passed that morning. But on the following morning circumstances led to Frank Gresham's name being mentioned. At the usual breakfast-hour the doctor entered the parlour with a harassed face. He had an open letter in his hand, and it was at once clear to Mary that he was going to speak on some subject that vexed him. "That unfortunate fellow is again in trouble. Here is a letter from Greyson." Greyson was a London apothecary, who had been appointed as medical attendant to Sir Louis Scatcherd, and whose real business consisted in keeping a watch on the baronet, and reporting to Dr Thorne when anything was very much amiss. "Here is a letter from Greyson; he has been drunk for the last three days, and is now laid up in a terribly nervous state." "You won't go up to town again; will you, uncle?" "I hardly know what to do. No, I think not. He talks of coming down here to Greshamsbury." "Who, Sir Louis?" "Yes, Sir Louis. Greyson says that he will be down as soon as he can get out of his room." "What! to this house?" "What other house can he come to?" "Oh, uncle! I hope not. Pray, pray do not let him come here." "I cannot prevent it, my dear. I cannot shut my door on him." They sat down to breakfast, and Mary gave him his tea in silence. "I am going over to Boxall Hill before dinner," said he. "Have you any message to send to Lady Scatcherd?" "Message! no, I have no message; not especially: give her my love, of course," she said listlessly. And then, as though a thought had suddenly struck her, she spoke with more energy. "But, couldn't I go to Boxall Hill again? I should be so delighted." "What! to run away from Sir Louis? No, dearest, we will have no more running away. He will probably also go to Boxall Hill, and he could annoy you much more there than he can here." "But, uncle, Mr Gresham will be home on the 12th," she said, blushing. "What! Frank?" "Yes. Beatrice said he was to be here on the 12th." "And would you run away from him too, Mary?" "I do not know: I do not know what to do." "No; we will have no more running away: I am sorry that you ever did so. It was my fault, altogether my fault; but it was foolish." "Uncle, I am not happy here." As she said this, she put down the cup which she had held, and, leaning her elbows on the table, rested her forehead on her hands. "And would you be happier at Boxall Hill? It is not the place makes the happiness." "No, I know that; it is not the place. I do not look to be happy in any place; but I should be quieter, more tranquil elsewhere than here." "I also sometimes think that it will be better for us to take up our staves and walk away out of Greshamsbury;--leave it altogether, and settle elsewhere; miles, miles, miles away from here. Should you like that, dearest?" Miles, miles, miles away from Greshamsbury! There was something in the sound that fell very cold on Mary's ears, unhappy as she was. Greshamsbury had been so dear to her; in spite of all that had passed, was still so dear to her! Was she prepared to take up her staff, as her uncle said, and walk forth from the place with the full understanding that she was to return to it no more; with a mind resolved that there should be an inseparable gulf between her and its inhabitants? Such she knew was the proposed nature of the walking away of which her uncle spoke. So she sat there, resting on her arms, and gave no answer to the question that had been asked her. "No, we will stay a while yet," said her uncle. "It may come to that, but this is not the time. For one season longer let us face--I will not say our enemies; I cannot call anybody my enemy who bears the name of Gresham." And then he went on for a moment with his breakfast. "So Frank will be here on the 12th?" "Yes, uncle." "Well, dearest, I have no questions to ask you: no directions to give. I know how good you are, and how prudent; I am anxious only for your happiness; not at all--" "Happiness, uncle, is out of the question." "I hope not. It is never out of the question, never can be out of the question. But, as I was saying, I am quite satisfied your conduct will be good, and, therefore, I have no questions to ask. We will remain here; and, whether good or evil come, we will not be ashamed to show our faces." She sat for a while again silent, collecting her courage on the subject that was nearest her heart. She would have given the world that he should ask her questions; but she could not bid him to do so; and she found it impossible to talk openly to him about Frank unless he did so. "Will he come here?" at last she said, in a low-toned voice. "Who? He, Louis? Yes, I think that in all probability he will." "No; but Frank," she said, in a still lower voice. "Ah! my darling, that I cannot tell; but will it be well that he should come here?" "I do not know," she said. "No, I suppose not. But, uncle, I don't think he will come." She was now sitting on a sofa away from the table, and he got up, sat down beside her, and took her hands in his. "Mary," said he, "you must be strong now; strong to endure, not to attack. I think you have that strength; but, if not, perhaps it will be better that we should go away." "I will be strong," said she, rising up and going towards the door. "Never mind me, uncle; don't follow me; I will be strong. It will be base, cowardly, mean, to run away; very base in me to make you do so." "No, dearest, not so; it will be the same to me." "No," said she, "I will not run away from Lady Arabella. And, as for him--if he loves this other one, he shall hear no reproach from me. Uncle, I will be strong;" and running back to him, she threw her arms round him and kissed him. And, still restraining her tears, she got safely to her bedroom. In what way she may there have shown her strength, it would not be well for us to inquire. CHAPTER XXXIV A Barouche and Four Arrives at Greshamsbury During the last twelve months Sir Louis Scatcherd had been very efficacious in bringing trouble, turmoil, and vexation upon Greshamsbury. Now that it was too late to take steps to save himself, Dr Thorne found that the will left by Sir Roger was so made as to entail upon him duties that he would find it almost impossible to perform. Sir Louis, though his father had wished to make him still a child in the eye of the law, was no child. He knew his own rights and was determined to exact them; and before Sir Roger had been dead three months, the doctor found himself in continual litigation with a low Barchester attorney, who was acting on behalf of his, the doctor's, own ward. And if the doctor suffered so did the squire, and so did those who had hitherto had the management of the squire's affairs. Dr Thorne soon perceived that he was to be driven into litigation, not only with Mr Finnie, the Barchester attorney, but with the squire himself. While Finnie harassed him, he was compelled to harass Mr Gresham. He was no lawyer himself; and though he had been able to manage very well between the squire and Sir Roger, and had perhaps given himself some credit for his lawyer-like ability in so doing, he was utterly unable to manage between Sir Louis and Mr Gresham. He had, therefore, to employ a lawyer on his own account, and it seemed probable that the whole amount of Sir Roger's legacy to himself would by degrees be expended in this manner. And then, the squire's lawyers had to take up the matter; and they did so greatly to the detriment of poor Mr Yates Umbleby, who was found to have made a mess of the affairs entrusted to him. Mr Umbleby's accounts were incorrect; his mind was anything but clear, and he confessed, when put to it by the very sharp gentleman that came down from London, that he was "bothered;" and so, after a while, he was suspended from his duties, and Mr Gazebee, the sharp gentleman from London, reigned over the diminished rent-roll of the Greshamsbury estate. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury--with the one exception of Mr Oriel and his love-suit. Miss Gushing attributed the deposition of Mr Umbleby to the narrowness of the victory which Beatrice had won in carrying off Mr Oriel. For Miss Gushing was a relation of the Umblebys, and had been for many years one of their family. "If she had only chosen to exert herself as Miss Gresham had done, she could have had Mr Oriel, easily; oh, too easily! but she had despised such work," so she said. "But though she had despised it, the Greshams had not been less irritated, and, therefore, Mr Umbleby had been driven out of his house." We can hardly believe this, as victory generally makes men generous. Miss Gushing, however, stated it as a fact so often that it is probable she was induced to believe it herself. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury, and the squire himself was especially a sufferer. Umbleby had at any rate been his own man, and he could do what he liked with him. He could see him when he liked, and where he liked, and how he liked; could scold him if in an ill-humour, and laugh at him when in a good humour. All this Mr Umbleby knew, and bore. But Mr Gazebee was a very different sort of gentleman; he was the junior partner in the firm of Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, of Mount Street, a house that never defiled itself with any other business than the agency business, and that in the very highest line. They drew out leases, and managed property both for the Duke of Omnium and Lord de Courcy; and ever since her marriage, it had been one of the objects dearest to Lady Arabella's heart, that the Greshamsbury acres should be superintended by the polite skill and polished legal ability of that all but elegant firm in Mount Street. The squire had long stood firm, and had delighted in having everything done under his own eye by poor Mr Yates Umbleby. But now, alas! he could stand it no longer. He had put off the evil day as long as he could; he had deferred the odious work of investigation till things had seemed resolved on investigating themselves; and then, when it was absolutely necessary that Mr Umbleby should go, there was nothing for him left but to fall into the ready hands of Messrs Gumption, Gazebee and Gazebee. It must not be supposed that Messrs Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee were in the least like the ordinary run of attorneys. They wrote no letters for six-and-eightpence each: they collected no debts, filed no bills, made no charge per folio for "whereases" and "as aforesaids;" they did no dirty work, and probably were as ignorant of the interior of a court of law as any young lady living in their Mayfair vicinity. No; their business was to manage the property of great people, draw up leases, make legal assignments, get the family marriage settlements made, and look after wills. Occasionally, also, they had to raise money; but it was generally understood that this was done by proxy. The firm had been going on for a hundred and fifty years, and the designation had often been altered; but it always consisted of Gumptions and Gazebees differently arranged, and no less hallowed names had ever been permitted to appear. It had been Gazebee, Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee, Gumption & Gumption; then Gumption, Gumption & Gazebee; and now it was Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee. Mr Gazebee, the junior member of this firm, was a very elegant young man. While looking at him riding in Rotten Row, you would hardly have taken him for an attorney; and had he heard that you had so taken him, he would have been very much surprised indeed. He was rather bald; not being, as people say, quite so young as he was once. His exact age was thirty-eight. But he had a really remarkable pair of jet-black whiskers, which fully made up for any deficiency as to his head; he had also dark eyes, and a beaked nose, what may be called a distinguished mouth, and was always dressed in fashionable attire. The fact was, that Mr Mortimer Gazebee, junior partner in the firm Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, by no means considered himself to be made of that very disagreeable material which mortals call small beer. When this great firm was applied to, to get Mr Gresham through his difficulties, and when the state of his affairs was made known to them, they at first expressed rather a disinclination for the work. But at last, moved doubtless by their respect for the de Courcy interest, they assented; and Mr Gazebee, junior, went down to Greshamsbury. The poor squire passed many a sad day after that before he again felt himself to be master even of his own domain. Nevertheless, when Mr Mortimer Gazebee visited Greshamsbury, which he did on more than one or two occasions, he was always received _en grand seigneur_. To Lady Arabella he was by no means an unwelcome guest, for she found herself able, for the first time in her life, to speak confidentially on her husband's pecuniary affairs with the man who had the management of her husband's property. Mr Gazebee also was a pet with Lady de Courcy; and being known to be a fashionable man in London, and quite a different sort of person from poor Mr Umbleby, he was always received with smiles. He had a hundred little ways of making himself agreeable, and Augusta declared to her cousin, the Lady Amelia, after having been acquainted with him for a few months, that he would be a perfect gentleman, only, that his family had never been anything but attorneys. The Lady Amelia smiled in her own peculiarly aristocratic way, shrugged her shoulders slightly, and said, "that Mr Mortimer Gazebee was a very good sort of a person, very." Poor Augusta felt herself snubbed, thinking perhaps of the tailor's son; but as there was never any appeal against the Lady Amelia, she said nothing more at that moment in favour of Mr Mortimer Gazebee. All these evils--Mr Mortimer Gazebee being the worst of them--had Sir Louis Scatcherd brought down on the poor squire's head. There may be those who will say that the squire had brought them on himself, by running into debt; and so, doubtless, he had; but it was not the less true that the baronet's interference was unnecessary, vexatious, and one might almost say, malicious. His interest would have been quite safe in the doctor's hands, and he had, in fact, no legal right to meddle; but neither the doctor nor the squire could prevent him. Mr Finnie knew very well what he was about, if Sir Louis did not; and so the three went on, each with his own lawyer, and each of them distrustful, unhappy, and ill at ease. This was hard upon the doctor, for he was not in debt, and had borrowed no money. There was not much reason to suppose that the visit of Sir Louis to Greshamsbury would much improve matters. It must be presumed that he was not coming with any amicable views, but with the object rather of looking after his own; a phrase which was now constantly in his mouth. He might probably find it necessary while looking after his own at Greshamsbury, to say some very disagreeable things to the squire; and the doctor, therefore, hardly expected that the visit would go off pleasantly. When last we saw Sir Louis, now nearly twelve months since, he was intent on making a proposal of marriage to Miss Thorne. This intention he carried out about two days after Frank Gresham had done the same thing. He had delayed doing so till he had succeeded in purchasing his friend Jenkins's Arab pony, imagining that such a present could not but go far in weaning Mary's heart from her other lover. Poor Mary was put to the trouble of refusing both the baronet and the pony, and a very bad time she had of it while doing so. Sir Louis was a man easily angered, and not very easily pacified, and Mary had to endure a good deal of annoyance; from any other person, indeed, she would have called it impertinence. Sir Louis, however, had to bear his rejection as best he could, and, after a perseverance of three days, returned to London in disgust; and Mary had not seen him since. Mr Greyson's first letter was followed by a second; and the second was followed by the baronet in person. He also required to be received _en grand seigneur_, perhaps more imperatively than Mr Mortimer Gazebee himself. He came with four posters from the Barchester Station, and had himself rattled up to the doctor's door in a way that took the breath away from all Greshamsbury. Why! the squire himself for a many long year had been contented to come home with a pair of horses; and four were never seen in the place, except when the de Courcys came to Greshamsbury, or Lady Arabella with all her daughters returned from her hard-fought metropolitan campaigns. Sir Louis, however, came with four, and very arrogant he looked, leaning back in the barouche belonging to the George and Dragon, and wrapped up in fur, although it was now midsummer. And up in the dicky behind was a servant, more arrogant, if possible, than his master--the baronet's own man, who was the object of Dr Thorne's special detestation and disgust. He was a little fellow, chosen originally on account of his light weight on horseback; but if that may be considered a merit, it was the only one he had. His out-door show dress was a little tight frock-coat, round which a polished strap was always buckled tightly, a stiff white choker, leather breeches, top-boots, and a hat, with a cockade, stuck on one side of his head. His name was Jonah, which his master and his master's friends shortened into Joe; none, however, but those who were very intimate with his master were allowed to do so with impunity. This Joe was Dr Thorne's special aversion. In his anxiety to take every possible step to keep Sir Louis from poisoning himself, he had at first attempted to enlist the baronet's "own man" in the cause. Joe had promised fairly, but had betrayed the doctor at once, and had become the worst

cyrus

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you know--I thought you always said so--I have always told mamma so as if it came from yourself." "Beatrice, do not tell anything to Lady Arabella as though it came from me; I do not want anything to be told to her, either of me or from me. Say what you like to me yourself; whatever you say will not anger me. Indeed, I know what you would say--and yet I love you. Oh, I love you, Trichy--Trichy, I do love you so much! Don't turn away from me!" There was such a mixture in Mary's manner of tenderness and almost ferocity, that poor Beatrice could hardly follow her. "Turn away from you, Mary! no never; but this does make me unhappy." "It is better that you should know it all, and then you will not be led into fighting my battles again. You cannot fight them so that I should win; I do love your brother; love him truly, fondly, tenderly. I would wish to have him for my husband as you wish to have Mr Oriel." "But, Mary, you cannot marry him!" "Why not?" said she, in a loud voice. "Why can I not marry him? If the priest says a blessing over us, shall we not be married as well as you and your husband?" "But you know he cannot marry unless his wife shall have money." "Money--money; and he is to sell himself for money? Oh, Trichy! do not you talk about money. It is horrible. But, Trichy, I will grant it--I cannot marry him; but still, I love him. He has a name, a place in the world, and fortune, family, high blood, position, everything. He has all this, and I have nothing. Of course I cannot marry him. But yet I do love him." "Are you engaged to him, Mary?" "He is not engaged to me; but I am to him." "Oh, Mary, that is impossible!" "It is not impossible: it is the case--I am pledged to him; but he is not pledged to me." "But, Mary, don't look at me in that way. I do not quite understand you. What is the good of your being engaged if you cannot marry him?" "Good! there is no good. But can I help it, if I love him? Can I make myself not love him by just wishing it? Oh, I would do it if I could. But now you will understand why I shake my head when you talk of my coming to your house. Your ways and my ways must be different." Beatrice was startled, and, for a time, silenced. What Mary said of the difference of their ways was quite true. Beatrice had dearly loved her friend, and had thought of her with affection through all this long period in which they had been separated; but she had given her love and her thoughts on the understanding, as it were, that they were in unison as to the impropriety of Frank's conduct. She had always spoken, with a grave face, of Frank and his love as of a great misfortune, even to Mary herself; and her pity for Mary had been founded on the conviction of her innocence. Now all those ideas had to be altered. Mary owned her fault, confessed herself to be guilty of all that Lady Arabella so frequently laid to her charge, and confessed herself anxious to commit every crime as to which Beatrice had been ever so ready to defend her. Had Beatrice up to this dreamed that Mary was in love with Frank, she would doubtless have sympathised with her more or less, sooner or later. As it was, it was beyond all doubt that she would soon sympathise with her. But, at the moment, the suddenness of the declaration seemed to harden her heart, and she forgot, as it were, to speak tenderly to her friend. She was silent, therefore, and dismayed; and looked as though she thought that her ways and Mary's ways must be different. Mary saw all that was passing in the other's mind: no, not all; all the hostility, the disappointment, the disapproval, the unhappiness, she did see; but not the under-current of love, which was strong enough to well up and drown all these, if only time could be allowed for it to do so. "I am glad I have told you," said Mary, curbing herself, "for deceit and hypocrisy are detestable." "It was a misunderstanding, not deceit," said Beatrice. "Well, now we understand each other; now you know that I have a heart within me, which like those of some others has not always been under my own control. Lady Arabella believes that I am intriguing to be the mistress of Greshamsbury. You, at any rate, will not think that of me. If it could be discovered to-morrow that Frank were not the heir, I might have some chance of happiness." "But, Mary--" "Well?" "You say you love him." "Yes; I do say so." "But if he does not love you, will you cease to do so?" "If I have a fever, I will get rid of it if I can; in such case I must do so, or die." "I fear," continued Beatrice, "you hardly know, perhaps do not think, what is Frank's real character. He is not made to settle down early in life; even now, I believe he is attached to some lady in London, whom, of course, he cannot marry." Beatrice said this in perfect trueness of heart. She had heard of Frank's new love-affair, and believing what she had heard, thought it best to tell the truth. But the information was not of a kind to quiet Mary's spirit. "Very well," said she, "let it be so. I have nothing to say against it." "But are you not preparing wretchedness and unhappiness for yourself?" "Very likely." "Oh, Mary, do not be so cold with me! you know how delighted I should be to have you for a sister-in-law, if only it were possible." "Yes, Trichy; but it is impossible, is it not? Impossible that Francis Gresham of Greshamsbury should disgrace himself by marrying such a poor creature as I am. Of course, I know it; of course, I am prepared for unhappiness and misery. He can amuse himself as he likes with me or others--with anybody. It is his privilege. It is quite enough to say that he is not made for settling down. I know my own position;--and yet I love him." "But, Mary, has he asked you to be his wife? If so--" "You ask home-questions, Beatrice. Let me ask you one; has he ever told you that he has done so?" At this moment Beatrice was not disposed to repeat all that Frank had said. A year ago, before he went away, he had told his sister a score of times that he meant to marry Mary Thorne if she would have him; but Beatrice now looked on all that as idle, boyish vapouring. The pity was, that Mary should have looked on it differently. "We will each keep our secret," said Mary. "Only remember this: should Frank marry to-morrow, I shall have no ground for blaming him. He is free as far I as am concerned. He can take the London lady if he likes. You may tell him so from me. But, Trichy, what else I have told you, I have told you only." "Oh, yes!" said Beatrice, sadly; "I shall say nothing of it to anybody. It is very sad, very, very; I was so happy when I came here, and now I am so wretched." This was the end of that delicious talk to which she had looked forward with so much eagerness. "Don't be wretched about me, dearest; I shall get through it. I sometimes think I was born to be unhappy, and that unhappiness agrees with me best. Kiss me now, Trichy, and don't be wretched any more. You owe it to Mr Oriel to be as happy as the day is long." And then they parted. Beatrice, as she went out, saw Dr Thorne in his little shop on the right-hand side of the passage, deeply engaged in some derogatory branch of an apothecary's mechanical trade; mixing a dose, perhaps, for a little child. She would have passed him without speaking if she could have been sure of doing so without notice, for her heart was full, and her eyes were red with tears; but it was so long since she had been in his house that she was more than ordinarily anxious not to appear uncourteous or unkind to him. "Good morning, doctor," she said, changing her countenance as best she might, and attempting a smile. "Ah, my fairy!" said he, leaving his villainous compounds, and coming out to her; "and you, too, are about to become a steady old lady." "Indeed, I am not, doctor; I don't mean to be either steady or old for the next ten years. But who has told you? I suppose Mary has been a traitor." "Well, I will confess, Mary was the traitor. But hadn't I a right to be told, seeing how often I have brought you sugar-plums in my pocket? But I wish you joy with all my heart,--with all my heart. Oriel is an excellent, good fellow." "Is he not, doctor?" "An excellent, good fellow. I never heard but of one fault that he had." "What was that one fault, Doctor Thorne?" "He thought that clergymen should not marry. But you have cured that, and now he's perfect." "Thank you, doctor. I declare that you say the prettiest things of all my friends." "And none of your friends wish prettier things for you. I do congratulate you, Beatrice, and hope you may be happy with the man you have chosen;" and taking both her hands in his, he pressed them warmly, and bade God bless her. "Oh, doctor! I do so hope the time will come when we shall all be friends again." "I hope it as well, my dear. But let it come, or let it not come, my regard for you will be the same:" and then she parted from him also, and went her way. Nothing was spoken of that evening between Dr Thorne and his niece excepting Beatrice's future happiness; nothing, at least, having reference to what had passed that morning. But on the following morning circumstances led to Frank Gresham's name being mentioned. At the usual breakfast-hour the doctor entered the parlour with a harassed face. He had an open letter in his hand, and it was at once clear to Mary that he was going to speak on some subject that vexed him. "That unfortunate fellow is again in trouble. Here is a letter from Greyson." Greyson was a London apothecary, who had been appointed as medical attendant to Sir Louis Scatcherd, and whose real business consisted in keeping a watch on the baronet, and reporting to Dr Thorne when anything was very much amiss. "Here is a letter from Greyson; he has been drunk for the last three days, and is now laid up in a terribly nervous state." "You won't go up to town again; will you, uncle?" "I hardly know what to do. No, I think not. He talks of coming down here to Greshamsbury." "Who, Sir Louis?" "Yes, Sir Louis. Greyson says that he will be down as soon as he can get out of his room." "What! to this house?" "What other house can he come to?" "Oh, uncle! I hope not. Pray, pray do not let him come here." "I cannot prevent it, my dear. I cannot shut my door on him." They sat down to breakfast, and Mary gave him his tea in silence. "I am going over to Boxall Hill before dinner," said he. "Have you any message to send to Lady Scatcherd?" "Message! no, I have no message; not especially: give her my love, of course," she said listlessly. And then, as though a thought had suddenly struck her, she spoke with more energy. "But, couldn't I go to Boxall Hill again? I should be so delighted." "What! to run away from Sir Louis? No, dearest, we will have no more running away. He will probably also go to Boxall Hill, and he could annoy you much more there than he can here." "But, uncle, Mr Gresham will be home on the 12th," she said, blushing. "What! Frank?" "Yes. Beatrice said he was to be here on the 12th." "And would you run away from him too, Mary?" "I do not know: I do not know what to do." "No; we will have no more running away: I am sorry that you ever did so. It was my fault, altogether my fault; but it was foolish." "Uncle, I am not happy here." As she said this, she put down the cup which she had held, and, leaning her elbows on the table, rested her forehead on her hands. "And would you be happier at Boxall Hill? It is not the place makes the happiness." "No, I know that; it is not the place. I do not look to be happy in any place; but I should be quieter, more tranquil elsewhere than here." "I also sometimes think that it will be better for us to take up our staves and walk away out of Greshamsbury;--leave it altogether, and settle elsewhere; miles, miles, miles away from here. Should you like that, dearest?" Miles, miles, miles away from Greshamsbury! There was something in the sound that fell very cold on Mary's ears, unhappy as she was. Greshamsbury had been so dear to her; in spite of all that had passed, was still so dear to her! Was she prepared to take up her staff, as her uncle said, and walk forth from the place with the full understanding that she was to return to it no more; with a mind resolved that there should be an inseparable gulf between her and its inhabitants? Such she knew was the proposed nature of the walking away of which her uncle spoke. So she sat there, resting on her arms, and gave no answer to the question that had been asked her. "No, we will stay a while yet," said her uncle. "It may come to that, but this is not the time. For one season longer let us face--I will not say our enemies; I cannot call anybody my enemy who bears the name of Gresham." And then he went on for a moment with his breakfast. "So Frank will be here on the 12th?" "Yes, uncle." "Well, dearest, I have no questions to ask you: no directions to give. I know how good you are, and how prudent; I am anxious only for your happiness; not at all--" "Happiness, uncle, is out of the question." "I hope not. It is never out of the question, never can be out of the question. But, as I was saying, I am quite satisfied your conduct will be good, and, therefore, I have no questions to ask. We will remain here; and, whether good or evil come, we will not be ashamed to show our faces." She sat for a while again silent, collecting her courage on the subject that was nearest her heart. She would have given the world that he should ask her questions; but she could not bid him to do so; and she found it impossible to talk openly to him about Frank unless he did so. "Will he come here?" at last she said, in a low-toned voice. "Who? He, Louis? Yes, I think that in all probability he will." "No; but Frank," she said, in a still lower voice. "Ah! my darling, that I cannot tell; but will it be well that he should come here?" "I do not know," she said. "No, I suppose not. But, uncle, I don't think he will come." She was now sitting on a sofa away from the table, and he got up, sat down beside her, and took her hands in his. "Mary," said he, "you must be strong now; strong to endure, not to attack. I think you have that strength; but, if not, perhaps it will be better that we should go away." "I will be strong," said she, rising up and going towards the door. "Never mind me, uncle; don't follow me; I will be strong. It will be base, cowardly, mean, to run away; very base in me to make you do so." "No, dearest, not so; it will be the same to me." "No," said she, "I will not run away from Lady Arabella. And, as for him--if he loves this other one, he shall hear no reproach from me. Uncle, I will be strong;" and running back to him, she threw her arms round him and kissed him. And, still restraining her tears, she got safely to her bedroom. In what way she may there have shown her strength, it would not be well for us to inquire. CHAPTER XXXIV A Barouche and Four Arrives at Greshamsbury During the last twelve months Sir Louis Scatcherd had been very efficacious in bringing trouble, turmoil, and vexation upon Greshamsbury. Now that it was too late to take steps to save himself, Dr Thorne found that the will left by Sir Roger was so made as to entail upon him duties that he would find it almost impossible to perform. Sir Louis, though his father had wished to make him still a child in the eye of the law, was no child. He knew his own rights and was determined to exact them; and before Sir Roger had been dead three months, the doctor found himself in continual litigation with a low Barchester attorney, who was acting on behalf of his, the doctor's, own ward. And if the doctor suffered so did the squire, and so did those who had hitherto had the management of the squire's affairs. Dr Thorne soon perceived that he was to be driven into litigation, not only with Mr Finnie, the Barchester attorney, but with the squire himself. While Finnie harassed him, he was compelled to harass Mr Gresham. He was no lawyer himself; and though he had been able to manage very well between the squire and Sir Roger, and had perhaps given himself some credit for his lawyer-like ability in so doing, he was utterly unable to manage between Sir Louis and Mr Gresham. He had, therefore, to employ a lawyer on his own account, and it seemed probable that the whole amount of Sir Roger's legacy to himself would by degrees be expended in this manner. And then, the squire's lawyers had to take up the matter; and they did so greatly to the detriment of poor Mr Yates Umbleby, who was found to have made a mess of the affairs entrusted to him. Mr Umbleby's accounts were incorrect; his mind was anything but clear, and he confessed, when put to it by the very sharp gentleman that came down from London, that he was "bothered;" and so, after a while, he was suspended from his duties, and Mr Gazebee, the sharp gentleman from London, reigned over the diminished rent-roll of the Greshamsbury estate. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury--with the one exception of Mr Oriel and his love-suit. Miss Gushing attributed the deposition of Mr Umbleby to the narrowness of the victory which Beatrice had won in carrying off Mr Oriel. For Miss Gushing was a relation of the Umblebys, and had been for many years one of their family. "If she had only chosen to exert herself as Miss Gresham had done, she could have had Mr Oriel, easily; oh, too easily! but she had despised such work," so she said. "But though she had despised it, the Greshams had not been less irritated, and, therefore, Mr Umbleby had been driven out of his house." We can hardly believe this, as victory generally makes men generous. Miss Gushing, however, stated it as a fact so often that it is probable she was induced to believe it herself. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury, and the squire himself was especially a sufferer. Umbleby had at any rate been his own man, and he could do what he liked with him. He could see him when he liked, and where he liked, and how he liked; could scold him if in an ill-humour, and laugh at him when in a good humour. All this Mr Umbleby knew, and bore. But Mr Gazebee was a very different sort of gentleman; he was the junior partner in the firm of Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, of Mount Street, a house that never defiled itself with any other business than the agency business, and that in the very highest line. They drew out leases, and managed property both for the Duke of Omnium and Lord de Courcy; and ever since her marriage, it had been one of the objects dearest to Lady Arabella's heart, that the Greshamsbury acres should be superintended by the polite skill and polished legal ability of that all but elegant firm in Mount Street. The squire had long stood firm, and had delighted in having everything done under his own eye by poor Mr Yates Umbleby. But now, alas! he could stand it no longer. He had put off the evil day as long as he could; he had deferred the odious work of investigation till things had seemed resolved on investigating themselves; and then, when it was absolutely necessary that Mr Umbleby should go, there was nothing for him left but to fall into the ready hands of Messrs Gumption, Gazebee and Gazebee. It must not be supposed that Messrs Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee were in the least like the ordinary run of attorneys. They wrote no letters for six-and-eightpence each: they collected no debts, filed no bills, made no charge per folio for "whereases" and "as aforesaids;" they did no dirty work, and probably were as ignorant of the interior of a court of law as any young lady living in their Mayfair vicinity. No; their business was to manage the property of great people, draw up leases, make legal assignments, get the family marriage settlements made, and look after wills. Occasionally, also, they had to raise money; but it was generally understood that this was done by proxy. The firm had been going on for a hundred and fifty years, and the designation had often been altered; but it always consisted of Gumptions and Gazebees differently arranged, and no less hallowed names had ever been permitted to appear. It had been Gazebee, Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee, Gumption & Gumption; then Gumption, Gumption & Gazebee; and now it was Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee. Mr Gazebee, the junior member of this firm, was a very elegant young man. While looking at him riding in Rotten Row, you would hardly have taken him for an attorney; and had he heard that you had so taken him, he would have been very much surprised indeed. He was rather bald; not being, as people say, quite so young as he was once. His exact age was thirty-eight. But he had a really remarkable pair of jet-black whiskers, which fully made up for any deficiency as to his head; he had also dark eyes, and a beaked nose, what may be called a distinguished mouth, and was always dressed in fashionable attire. The fact was, that Mr Mortimer Gazebee, junior partner in the firm Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, by no means considered himself to be made of that very disagreeable material which mortals call small beer. When this great firm was applied to, to get Mr Gresham through his difficulties, and when the state of his affairs was made known to them, they at first expressed rather a disinclination for the work. But at last, moved doubtless by their respect for the de Courcy interest, they assented; and Mr Gazebee, junior, went down to Greshamsbury. The poor squire passed many a sad day after that before he again felt himself to be master even of his own domain. Nevertheless, when Mr Mortimer Gazebee visited Greshamsbury, which he did on more than one or two occasions, he was always received _en grand seigneur_. To Lady Arabella he was by no means an unwelcome guest, for she found herself able, for the first time in her life, to speak confidentially on her husband's pecuniary affairs with the man who had the management of her husband's property. Mr Gazebee also was a pet with Lady de Courcy; and being known to be a fashionable man in London, and quite a different sort of person from poor Mr Umbleby, he was always received with smiles. He had a hundred little ways of making himself agreeable, and Augusta declared to her cousin, the Lady Amelia, after having been acquainted with him for a few months, that he would be a perfect gentleman, only, that his family had never been anything but attorneys. The Lady Amelia smiled in her own peculiarly aristocratic way, shrugged her shoulders slightly, and said, "that Mr Mortimer Gazebee was a very good sort of a person, very." Poor Augusta felt herself snubbed, thinking perhaps of the tailor's son; but as there was never any appeal against the Lady Amelia, she said nothing more at that moment in favour of Mr Mortimer Gazebee. All these evils--Mr Mortimer Gazebee being the worst of them--had Sir Louis Scatcherd brought down on the poor squire's head. There may be those who will say that the squire had brought them on himself, by running into debt; and so, doubtless, he had; but it was not the less true that the baronet's interference was unnecessary, vexatious, and one might almost say, malicious. His interest would have been quite safe in the doctor's hands, and he had, in fact, no legal right to meddle; but neither the doctor nor the squire could prevent him. Mr Finnie knew very well what he was about, if Sir Louis did not; and so the three went on, each with his own lawyer, and each of them distrustful, unhappy, and ill at ease. This was hard upon the doctor, for he was not in debt, and had borrowed no money. There was not much reason to suppose that the visit of Sir Louis to Greshamsbury would much improve matters. It must be presumed that he was not coming with any amicable views, but with the object rather of looking after his own; a phrase which was now constantly in his mouth. He might probably find it necessary while looking after his own at Greshamsbury, to say some very disagreeable things to the squire; and the doctor, therefore, hardly expected that the visit would go off pleasantly. When last we saw Sir Louis, now nearly twelve months since, he was intent on making a proposal of marriage to Miss Thorne. This intention he carried out about two days after Frank Gresham had done the same thing. He had delayed doing so till he had succeeded in purchasing his friend Jenkins's Arab pony, imagining that such a present could not but go far in weaning Mary's heart from her other lover. Poor Mary was put to the trouble of refusing both the baronet and the pony, and a very bad time she had of it while doing so. Sir Louis was a man easily angered, and not very easily pacified, and Mary had to endure a good deal of annoyance; from any other person, indeed, she would have called it impertinence. Sir Louis, however, had to bear his rejection as best he could, and, after a perseverance of three days, returned to London in disgust; and Mary had not seen him since. Mr Greyson's first letter was followed by a second; and the second was followed by the baronet in person. He also required to be received _en grand seigneur_, perhaps more imperatively than Mr Mortimer Gazebee himself. He came with four posters from the Barchester Station, and had himself rattled up to the doctor's door in a way that took the breath away from all Greshamsbury. Why! the squire himself for a many long year had been contented to come home with a pair of horses; and four were never seen in the place, except when the de Courcys came to Greshamsbury, or Lady Arabella with all her daughters returned from her hard-fought metropolitan campaigns. Sir Louis, however, came with four, and very arrogant he looked, leaning back in the barouche belonging to the George and Dragon, and wrapped up in fur, although it was now midsummer. And up in the dicky behind was a servant, more arrogant, if possible, than his master--the baronet's own man, who was the object of Dr Thorne's special detestation and disgust. He was a little fellow, chosen originally on account of his light weight on horseback; but if that may be considered a merit, it was the only one he had. His out-door show dress was a little tight frock-coat, round which a polished strap was always buckled tightly, a stiff white choker, leather breeches, top-boots, and a hat, with a cockade, stuck on one side of his head. His name was Jonah, which his master and his master's friends shortened into Joe; none, however, but those who were very intimate with his master were allowed to do so with impunity. This Joe was Dr Thorne's special aversion. In his anxiety to take every possible step to keep Sir Louis from poisoning himself, he had at first attempted to enlist the baronet's "own man" in the cause. Joe had promised fairly, but had betrayed the doctor at once, and had become the worst

quarter

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you know--I thought you always said so--I have always told mamma so as if it came from yourself." "Beatrice, do not tell anything to Lady Arabella as though it came from me; I do not want anything to be told to her, either of me or from me. Say what you like to me yourself; whatever you say will not anger me. Indeed, I know what you would say--and yet I love you. Oh, I love you, Trichy--Trichy, I do love you so much! Don't turn away from me!" There was such a mixture in Mary's manner of tenderness and almost ferocity, that poor Beatrice could hardly follow her. "Turn away from you, Mary! no never; but this does make me unhappy." "It is better that you should know it all, and then you will not be led into fighting my battles again. You cannot fight them so that I should win; I do love your brother; love him truly, fondly, tenderly. I would wish to have him for my husband as you wish to have Mr Oriel." "But, Mary, you cannot marry him!" "Why not?" said she, in a loud voice. "Why can I not marry him? If the priest says a blessing over us, shall we not be married as well as you and your husband?" "But you know he cannot marry unless his wife shall have money." "Money--money; and he is to sell himself for money? Oh, Trichy! do not you talk about money. It is horrible. But, Trichy, I will grant it--I cannot marry him; but still, I love him. He has a name, a place in the world, and fortune, family, high blood, position, everything. He has all this, and I have nothing. Of course I cannot marry him. But yet I do love him." "Are you engaged to him, Mary?" "He is not engaged to me; but I am to him." "Oh, Mary, that is impossible!" "It is not impossible: it is the case--I am pledged to him; but he is not pledged to me." "But, Mary, don't look at me in that way. I do not quite understand you. What is the good of your being engaged if you cannot marry him?" "Good! there is no good. But can I help it, if I love him? Can I make myself not love him by just wishing it? Oh, I would do it if I could. But now you will understand why I shake my head when you talk of my coming to your house. Your ways and my ways must be different." Beatrice was startled, and, for a time, silenced. What Mary said of the difference of their ways was quite true. Beatrice had dearly loved her friend, and had thought of her with affection through all this long period in which they had been separated; but she had given her love and her thoughts on the understanding, as it were, that they were in unison as to the impropriety of Frank's conduct. She had always spoken, with a grave face, of Frank and his love as of a great misfortune, even to Mary herself; and her pity for Mary had been founded on the conviction of her innocence. Now all those ideas had to be altered. Mary owned her fault, confessed herself to be guilty of all that Lady Arabella so frequently laid to her charge, and confessed herself anxious to commit every crime as to which Beatrice had been ever so ready to defend her. Had Beatrice up to this dreamed that Mary was in love with Frank, she would doubtless have sympathised with her more or less, sooner or later. As it was, it was beyond all doubt that she would soon sympathise with her. But, at the moment, the suddenness of the declaration seemed to harden her heart, and she forgot, as it were, to speak tenderly to her friend. She was silent, therefore, and dismayed; and looked as though she thought that her ways and Mary's ways must be different. Mary saw all that was passing in the other's mind: no, not all; all the hostility, the disappointment, the disapproval, the unhappiness, she did see; but not the under-current of love, which was strong enough to well up and drown all these, if only time could be allowed for it to do so. "I am glad I have told you," said Mary, curbing herself, "for deceit and hypocrisy are detestable." "It was a misunderstanding, not deceit," said Beatrice. "Well, now we understand each other; now you know that I have a heart within me, which like those of some others has not always been under my own control. Lady Arabella believes that I am intriguing to be the mistress of Greshamsbury. You, at any rate, will not think that of me. If it could be discovered to-morrow that Frank were not the heir, I might have some chance of happiness." "But, Mary--" "Well?" "You say you love him." "Yes; I do say so." "But if he does not love you, will you cease to do so?" "If I have a fever, I will get rid of it if I can; in such case I must do so, or die." "I fear," continued Beatrice, "you hardly know, perhaps do not think, what is Frank's real character. He is not made to settle down early in life; even now, I believe he is attached to some lady in London, whom, of course, he cannot marry." Beatrice said this in perfect trueness of heart. She had heard of Frank's new love-affair, and believing what she had heard, thought it best to tell the truth. But the information was not of a kind to quiet Mary's spirit. "Very well," said she, "let it be so. I have nothing to say against it." "But are you not preparing wretchedness and unhappiness for yourself?" "Very likely." "Oh, Mary, do not be so cold with me! you know how delighted I should be to have you for a sister-in-law, if only it were possible." "Yes, Trichy; but it is impossible, is it not? Impossible that Francis Gresham of Greshamsbury should disgrace himself by marrying such a poor creature as I am. Of course, I know it; of course, I am prepared for unhappiness and misery. He can amuse himself as he likes with me or others--with anybody. It is his privilege. It is quite enough to say that he is not made for settling down. I know my own position;--and yet I love him." "But, Mary, has he asked you to be his wife? If so--" "You ask home-questions, Beatrice. Let me ask you one; has he ever told you that he has done so?" At this moment Beatrice was not disposed to repeat all that Frank had said. A year ago, before he went away, he had told his sister a score of times that he meant to marry Mary Thorne if she would have him; but Beatrice now looked on all that as idle, boyish vapouring. The pity was, that Mary should have looked on it differently. "We will each keep our secret," said Mary. "Only remember this: should Frank marry to-morrow, I shall have no ground for blaming him. He is free as far I as am concerned. He can take the London lady if he likes. You may tell him so from me. But, Trichy, what else I have told you, I have told you only." "Oh, yes!" said Beatrice, sadly; "I shall say nothing of it to anybody. It is very sad, very, very; I was so happy when I came here, and now I am so wretched." This was the end of that delicious talk to which she had looked forward with so much eagerness. "Don't be wretched about me, dearest; I shall get through it. I sometimes think I was born to be unhappy, and that unhappiness agrees with me best. Kiss me now, Trichy, and don't be wretched any more. You owe it to Mr Oriel to be as happy as the day is long." And then they parted. Beatrice, as she went out, saw Dr Thorne in his little shop on the right-hand side of the passage, deeply engaged in some derogatory branch of an apothecary's mechanical trade; mixing a dose, perhaps, for a little child. She would have passed him without speaking if she could have been sure of doing so without notice, for her heart was full, and her eyes were red with tears; but it was so long since she had been in his house that she was more than ordinarily anxious not to appear uncourteous or unkind to him. "Good morning, doctor," she said, changing her countenance as best she might, and attempting a smile. "Ah, my fairy!" said he, leaving his villainous compounds, and coming out to her; "and you, too, are about to become a steady old lady." "Indeed, I am not, doctor; I don't mean to be either steady or old for the next ten years. But who has told you? I suppose Mary has been a traitor." "Well, I will confess, Mary was the traitor. But hadn't I a right to be told, seeing how often I have brought you sugar-plums in my pocket? But I wish you joy with all my heart,--with all my heart. Oriel is an excellent, good fellow." "Is he not, doctor?" "An excellent, good fellow. I never heard but of one fault that he had." "What was that one fault, Doctor Thorne?" "He thought that clergymen should not marry. But you have cured that, and now he's perfect." "Thank you, doctor. I declare that you say the prettiest things of all my friends." "And none of your friends wish prettier things for you. I do congratulate you, Beatrice, and hope you may be happy with the man you have chosen;" and taking both her hands in his, he pressed them warmly, and bade God bless her. "Oh, doctor! I do so hope the time will come when we shall all be friends again." "I hope it as well, my dear. But let it come, or let it not come, my regard for you will be the same:" and then she parted from him also, and went her way. Nothing was spoken of that evening between Dr Thorne and his niece excepting Beatrice's future happiness; nothing, at least, having reference to what had passed that morning. But on the following morning circumstances led to Frank Gresham's name being mentioned. At the usual breakfast-hour the doctor entered the parlour with a harassed face. He had an open letter in his hand, and it was at once clear to Mary that he was going to speak on some subject that vexed him. "That unfortunate fellow is again in trouble. Here is a letter from Greyson." Greyson was a London apothecary, who had been appointed as medical attendant to Sir Louis Scatcherd, and whose real business consisted in keeping a watch on the baronet, and reporting to Dr Thorne when anything was very much amiss. "Here is a letter from Greyson; he has been drunk for the last three days, and is now laid up in a terribly nervous state." "You won't go up to town again; will you, uncle?" "I hardly know what to do. No, I think not. He talks of coming down here to Greshamsbury." "Who, Sir Louis?" "Yes, Sir Louis. Greyson says that he will be down as soon as he can get out of his room." "What! to this house?" "What other house can he come to?" "Oh, uncle! I hope not. Pray, pray do not let him come here." "I cannot prevent it, my dear. I cannot shut my door on him." They sat down to breakfast, and Mary gave him his tea in silence. "I am going over to Boxall Hill before dinner," said he. "Have you any message to send to Lady Scatcherd?" "Message! no, I have no message; not especially: give her my love, of course," she said listlessly. And then, as though a thought had suddenly struck her, she spoke with more energy. "But, couldn't I go to Boxall Hill again? I should be so delighted." "What! to run away from Sir Louis? No, dearest, we will have no more running away. He will probably also go to Boxall Hill, and he could annoy you much more there than he can here." "But, uncle, Mr Gresham will be home on the 12th," she said, blushing. "What! Frank?" "Yes. Beatrice said he was to be here on the 12th." "And would you run away from him too, Mary?" "I do not know: I do not know what to do." "No; we will have no more running away: I am sorry that you ever did so. It was my fault, altogether my fault; but it was foolish." "Uncle, I am not happy here." As she said this, she put down the cup which she had held, and, leaning her elbows on the table, rested her forehead on her hands. "And would you be happier at Boxall Hill? It is not the place makes the happiness." "No, I know that; it is not the place. I do not look to be happy in any place; but I should be quieter, more tranquil elsewhere than here." "I also sometimes think that it will be better for us to take up our staves and walk away out of Greshamsbury;--leave it altogether, and settle elsewhere; miles, miles, miles away from here. Should you like that, dearest?" Miles, miles, miles away from Greshamsbury! There was something in the sound that fell very cold on Mary's ears, unhappy as she was. Greshamsbury had been so dear to her; in spite of all that had passed, was still so dear to her! Was she prepared to take up her staff, as her uncle said, and walk forth from the place with the full understanding that she was to return to it no more; with a mind resolved that there should be an inseparable gulf between her and its inhabitants? Such she knew was the proposed nature of the walking away of which her uncle spoke. So she sat there, resting on her arms, and gave no answer to the question that had been asked her. "No, we will stay a while yet," said her uncle. "It may come to that, but this is not the time. For one season longer let us face--I will not say our enemies; I cannot call anybody my enemy who bears the name of Gresham." And then he went on for a moment with his breakfast. "So Frank will be here on the 12th?" "Yes, uncle." "Well, dearest, I have no questions to ask you: no directions to give. I know how good you are, and how prudent; I am anxious only for your happiness; not at all--" "Happiness, uncle, is out of the question." "I hope not. It is never out of the question, never can be out of the question. But, as I was saying, I am quite satisfied your conduct will be good, and, therefore, I have no questions to ask. We will remain here; and, whether good or evil come, we will not be ashamed to show our faces." She sat for a while again silent, collecting her courage on the subject that was nearest her heart. She would have given the world that he should ask her questions; but she could not bid him to do so; and she found it impossible to talk openly to him about Frank unless he did so. "Will he come here?" at last she said, in a low-toned voice. "Who? He, Louis? Yes, I think that in all probability he will." "No; but Frank," she said, in a still lower voice. "Ah! my darling, that I cannot tell; but will it be well that he should come here?" "I do not know," she said. "No, I suppose not. But, uncle, I don't think he will come." She was now sitting on a sofa away from the table, and he got up, sat down beside her, and took her hands in his. "Mary," said he, "you must be strong now; strong to endure, not to attack. I think you have that strength; but, if not, perhaps it will be better that we should go away." "I will be strong," said she, rising up and going towards the door. "Never mind me, uncle; don't follow me; I will be strong. It will be base, cowardly, mean, to run away; very base in me to make you do so." "No, dearest, not so; it will be the same to me." "No," said she, "I will not run away from Lady Arabella. And, as for him--if he loves this other one, he shall hear no reproach from me. Uncle, I will be strong;" and running back to him, she threw her arms round him and kissed him. And, still restraining her tears, she got safely to her bedroom. In what way she may there have shown her strength, it would not be well for us to inquire. CHAPTER XXXIV A Barouche and Four Arrives at Greshamsbury During the last twelve months Sir Louis Scatcherd had been very efficacious in bringing trouble, turmoil, and vexation upon Greshamsbury. Now that it was too late to take steps to save himself, Dr Thorne found that the will left by Sir Roger was so made as to entail upon him duties that he would find it almost impossible to perform. Sir Louis, though his father had wished to make him still a child in the eye of the law, was no child. He knew his own rights and was determined to exact them; and before Sir Roger had been dead three months, the doctor found himself in continual litigation with a low Barchester attorney, who was acting on behalf of his, the doctor's, own ward. And if the doctor suffered so did the squire, and so did those who had hitherto had the management of the squire's affairs. Dr Thorne soon perceived that he was to be driven into litigation, not only with Mr Finnie, the Barchester attorney, but with the squire himself. While Finnie harassed him, he was compelled to harass Mr Gresham. He was no lawyer himself; and though he had been able to manage very well between the squire and Sir Roger, and had perhaps given himself some credit for his lawyer-like ability in so doing, he was utterly unable to manage between Sir Louis and Mr Gresham. He had, therefore, to employ a lawyer on his own account, and it seemed probable that the whole amount of Sir Roger's legacy to himself would by degrees be expended in this manner. And then, the squire's lawyers had to take up the matter; and they did so greatly to the detriment of poor Mr Yates Umbleby, who was found to have made a mess of the affairs entrusted to him. Mr Umbleby's accounts were incorrect; his mind was anything but clear, and he confessed, when put to it by the very sharp gentleman that came down from London, that he was "bothered;" and so, after a while, he was suspended from his duties, and Mr Gazebee, the sharp gentleman from London, reigned over the diminished rent-roll of the Greshamsbury estate. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury--with the one exception of Mr Oriel and his love-suit. Miss Gushing attributed the deposition of Mr Umbleby to the narrowness of the victory which Beatrice had won in carrying off Mr Oriel. For Miss Gushing was a relation of the Umblebys, and had been for many years one of their family. "If she had only chosen to exert herself as Miss Gresham had done, she could have had Mr Oriel, easily; oh, too easily! but she had despised such work," so she said. "But though she had despised it, the Greshams had not been less irritated, and, therefore, Mr Umbleby had been driven out of his house." We can hardly believe this, as victory generally makes men generous. Miss Gushing, however, stated it as a fact so often that it is probable she was induced to believe it herself. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury, and the squire himself was especially a sufferer. Umbleby had at any rate been his own man, and he could do what he liked with him. He could see him when he liked, and where he liked, and how he liked; could scold him if in an ill-humour, and laugh at him when in a good humour. All this Mr Umbleby knew, and bore. But Mr Gazebee was a very different sort of gentleman; he was the junior partner in the firm of Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, of Mount Street, a house that never defiled itself with any other business than the agency business, and that in the very highest line. They drew out leases, and managed property both for the Duke of Omnium and Lord de Courcy; and ever since her marriage, it had been one of the objects dearest to Lady Arabella's heart, that the Greshamsbury acres should be superintended by the polite skill and polished legal ability of that all but elegant firm in Mount Street. The squire had long stood firm, and had delighted in having everything done under his own eye by poor Mr Yates Umbleby. But now, alas! he could stand it no longer. He had put off the evil day as long as he could; he had deferred the odious work of investigation till things had seemed resolved on investigating themselves; and then, when it was absolutely necessary that Mr Umbleby should go, there was nothing for him left but to fall into the ready hands of Messrs Gumption, Gazebee and Gazebee. It must not be supposed that Messrs Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee were in the least like the ordinary run of attorneys. They wrote no letters for six-and-eightpence each: they collected no debts, filed no bills, made no charge per folio for "whereases" and "as aforesaids;" they did no dirty work, and probably were as ignorant of the interior of a court of law as any young lady living in their Mayfair vicinity. No; their business was to manage the property of great people, draw up leases, make legal assignments, get the family marriage settlements made, and look after wills. Occasionally, also, they had to raise money; but it was generally understood that this was done by proxy. The firm had been going on for a hundred and fifty years, and the designation had often been altered; but it always consisted of Gumptions and Gazebees differently arranged, and no less hallowed names had ever been permitted to appear. It had been Gazebee, Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee, Gumption & Gumption; then Gumption, Gumption & Gazebee; and now it was Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee. Mr Gazebee, the junior member of this firm, was a very elegant young man. While looking at him riding in Rotten Row, you would hardly have taken him for an attorney; and had he heard that you had so taken him, he would have been very much surprised indeed. He was rather bald; not being, as people say, quite so young as he was once. His exact age was thirty-eight. But he had a really remarkable pair of jet-black whiskers, which fully made up for any deficiency as to his head; he had also dark eyes, and a beaked nose, what may be called a distinguished mouth, and was always dressed in fashionable attire. The fact was, that Mr Mortimer Gazebee, junior partner in the firm Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, by no means considered himself to be made of that very disagreeable material which mortals call small beer. When this great firm was applied to, to get Mr Gresham through his difficulties, and when the state of his affairs was made known to them, they at first expressed rather a disinclination for the work. But at last, moved doubtless by their respect for the de Courcy interest, they assented; and Mr Gazebee, junior, went down to Greshamsbury. The poor squire passed many a sad day after that before he again felt himself to be master even of his own domain. Nevertheless, when Mr Mortimer Gazebee visited Greshamsbury, which he did on more than one or two occasions, he was always received _en grand seigneur_. To Lady Arabella he was by no means an unwelcome guest, for she found herself able, for the first time in her life, to speak confidentially on her husband's pecuniary affairs with the man who had the management of her husband's property. Mr Gazebee also was a pet with Lady de Courcy; and being known to be a fashionable man in London, and quite a different sort of person from poor Mr Umbleby, he was always received with smiles. He had a hundred little ways of making himself agreeable, and Augusta declared to her cousin, the Lady Amelia, after having been acquainted with him for a few months, that he would be a perfect gentleman, only, that his family had never been anything but attorneys. The Lady Amelia smiled in her own peculiarly aristocratic way, shrugged her shoulders slightly, and said, "that Mr Mortimer Gazebee was a very good sort of a person, very." Poor Augusta felt herself snubbed, thinking perhaps of the tailor's son; but as there was never any appeal against the Lady Amelia, she said nothing more at that moment in favour of Mr Mortimer Gazebee. All these evils--Mr Mortimer Gazebee being the worst of them--had Sir Louis Scatcherd brought down on the poor squire's head. There may be those who will say that the squire had brought them on himself, by running into debt; and so, doubtless, he had; but it was not the less true that the baronet's interference was unnecessary, vexatious, and one might almost say, malicious. His interest would have been quite safe in the doctor's hands, and he had, in fact, no legal right to meddle; but neither the doctor nor the squire could prevent him. Mr Finnie knew very well what he was about, if Sir Louis did not; and so the three went on, each with his own lawyer, and each of them distrustful, unhappy, and ill at ease. This was hard upon the doctor, for he was not in debt, and had borrowed no money. There was not much reason to suppose that the visit of Sir Louis to Greshamsbury would much improve matters. It must be presumed that he was not coming with any amicable views, but with the object rather of looking after his own; a phrase which was now constantly in his mouth. He might probably find it necessary while looking after his own at Greshamsbury, to say some very disagreeable things to the squire; and the doctor, therefore, hardly expected that the visit would go off pleasantly. When last we saw Sir Louis, now nearly twelve months since, he was intent on making a proposal of marriage to Miss Thorne. This intention he carried out about two days after Frank Gresham had done the same thing. He had delayed doing so till he had succeeded in purchasing his friend Jenkins's Arab pony, imagining that such a present could not but go far in weaning Mary's heart from her other lover. Poor Mary was put to the trouble of refusing both the baronet and the pony, and a very bad time she had of it while doing so. Sir Louis was a man easily angered, and not very easily pacified, and Mary had to endure a good deal of annoyance; from any other person, indeed, she would have called it impertinence. Sir Louis, however, had to bear his rejection as best he could, and, after a perseverance of three days, returned to London in disgust; and Mary had not seen him since. Mr Greyson's first letter was followed by a second; and the second was followed by the baronet in person. He also required to be received _en grand seigneur_, perhaps more imperatively than Mr Mortimer Gazebee himself. He came with four posters from the Barchester Station, and had himself rattled up to the doctor's door in a way that took the breath away from all Greshamsbury. Why! the squire himself for a many long year had been contented to come home with a pair of horses; and four were never seen in the place, except when the de Courcys came to Greshamsbury, or Lady Arabella with all her daughters returned from her hard-fought metropolitan campaigns. Sir Louis, however, came with four, and very arrogant he looked, leaning back in the barouche belonging to the George and Dragon, and wrapped up in fur, although it was now midsummer. And up in the dicky behind was a servant, more arrogant, if possible, than his master--the baronet's own man, who was the object of Dr Thorne's special detestation and disgust. He was a little fellow, chosen originally on account of his light weight on horseback; but if that may be considered a merit, it was the only one he had. His out-door show dress was a little tight frock-coat, round which a polished strap was always buckled tightly, a stiff white choker, leather breeches, top-boots, and a hat, with a cockade, stuck on one side of his head. His name was Jonah, which his master and his master's friends shortened into Joe; none, however, but those who were very intimate with his master were allowed to do so with impunity. This Joe was Dr Thorne's special aversion. In his anxiety to take every possible step to keep Sir Louis from poisoning himself, he had at first attempted to enlist the baronet's "own man" in the cause. Joe had promised fairly, but had betrayed the doctor at once, and had become the worst

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you know--I thought you always said so--I have always told mamma so as if it came from yourself." "Beatrice, do not tell anything to Lady Arabella as though it came from me; I do not want anything to be told to her, either of me or from me. Say what you like to me yourself; whatever you say will not anger me. Indeed, I know what you would say--and yet I love you. Oh, I love you, Trichy--Trichy, I do love you so much! Don't turn away from me!" There was such a mixture in Mary's manner of tenderness and almost ferocity, that poor Beatrice could hardly follow her. "Turn away from you, Mary! no never; but this does make me unhappy." "It is better that you should know it all, and then you will not be led into fighting my battles again. You cannot fight them so that I should win; I do love your brother; love him truly, fondly, tenderly. I would wish to have him for my husband as you wish to have Mr Oriel." "But, Mary, you cannot marry him!" "Why not?" said she, in a loud voice. "Why can I not marry him? If the priest says a blessing over us, shall we not be married as well as you and your husband?" "But you know he cannot marry unless his wife shall have money." "Money--money; and he is to sell himself for money? Oh, Trichy! do not you talk about money. It is horrible. But, Trichy, I will grant it--I cannot marry him; but still, I love him. He has a name, a place in the world, and fortune, family, high blood, position, everything. He has all this, and I have nothing. Of course I cannot marry him. But yet I do love him." "Are you engaged to him, Mary?" "He is not engaged to me; but I am to him." "Oh, Mary, that is impossible!" "It is not impossible: it is the case--I am pledged to him; but he is not pledged to me." "But, Mary, don't look at me in that way. I do not quite understand you. What is the good of your being engaged if you cannot marry him?" "Good! there is no good. But can I help it, if I love him? Can I make myself not love him by just wishing it? Oh, I would do it if I could. But now you will understand why I shake my head when you talk of my coming to your house. Your ways and my ways must be different." Beatrice was startled, and, for a time, silenced. What Mary said of the difference of their ways was quite true. Beatrice had dearly loved her friend, and had thought of her with affection through all this long period in which they had been separated; but she had given her love and her thoughts on the understanding, as it were, that they were in unison as to the impropriety of Frank's conduct. She had always spoken, with a grave face, of Frank and his love as of a great misfortune, even to Mary herself; and her pity for Mary had been founded on the conviction of her innocence. Now all those ideas had to be altered. Mary owned her fault, confessed herself to be guilty of all that Lady Arabella so frequently laid to her charge, and confessed herself anxious to commit every crime as to which Beatrice had been ever so ready to defend her. Had Beatrice up to this dreamed that Mary was in love with Frank, she would doubtless have sympathised with her more or less, sooner or later. As it was, it was beyond all doubt that she would soon sympathise with her. But, at the moment, the suddenness of the declaration seemed to harden her heart, and she forgot, as it were, to speak tenderly to her friend. She was silent, therefore, and dismayed; and looked as though she thought that her ways and Mary's ways must be different. Mary saw all that was passing in the other's mind: no, not all; all the hostility, the disappointment, the disapproval, the unhappiness, she did see; but not the under-current of love, which was strong enough to well up and drown all these, if only time could be allowed for it to do so. "I am glad I have told you," said Mary, curbing herself, "for deceit and hypocrisy are detestable." "It was a misunderstanding, not deceit," said Beatrice. "Well, now we understand each other; now you know that I have a heart within me, which like those of some others has not always been under my own control. Lady Arabella believes that I am intriguing to be the mistress of Greshamsbury. You, at any rate, will not think that of me. If it could be discovered to-morrow that Frank were not the heir, I might have some chance of happiness." "But, Mary--" "Well?" "You say you love him." "Yes; I do say so." "But if he does not love you, will you cease to do so?" "If I have a fever, I will get rid of it if I can; in such case I must do so, or die." "I fear," continued Beatrice, "you hardly know, perhaps do not think, what is Frank's real character. He is not made to settle down early in life; even now, I believe he is attached to some lady in London, whom, of course, he cannot marry." Beatrice said this in perfect trueness of heart. She had heard of Frank's new love-affair, and believing what she had heard, thought it best to tell the truth. But the information was not of a kind to quiet Mary's spirit. "Very well," said she, "let it be so. I have nothing to say against it." "But are you not preparing wretchedness and unhappiness for yourself?" "Very likely." "Oh, Mary, do not be so cold with me! you know how delighted I should be to have you for a sister-in-law, if only it were possible." "Yes, Trichy; but it is impossible, is it not? Impossible that Francis Gresham of Greshamsbury should disgrace himself by marrying such a poor creature as I am. Of course, I know it; of course, I am prepared for unhappiness and misery. He can amuse himself as he likes with me or others--with anybody. It is his privilege. It is quite enough to say that he is not made for settling down. I know my own position;--and yet I love him." "But, Mary, has he asked you to be his wife? If so--" "You ask home-questions, Beatrice. Let me ask you one; has he ever told you that he has done so?" At this moment Beatrice was not disposed to repeat all that Frank had said. A year ago, before he went away, he had told his sister a score of times that he meant to marry Mary Thorne if she would have him; but Beatrice now looked on all that as idle, boyish vapouring. The pity was, that Mary should have looked on it differently. "We will each keep our secret," said Mary. "Only remember this: should Frank marry to-morrow, I shall have no ground for blaming him. He is free as far I as am concerned. He can take the London lady if he likes. You may tell him so from me. But, Trichy, what else I have told you, I have told you only." "Oh, yes!" said Beatrice, sadly; "I shall say nothing of it to anybody. It is very sad, very, very; I was so happy when I came here, and now I am so wretched." This was the end of that delicious talk to which she had looked forward with so much eagerness. "Don't be wretched about me, dearest; I shall get through it. I sometimes think I was born to be unhappy, and that unhappiness agrees with me best. Kiss me now, Trichy, and don't be wretched any more. You owe it to Mr Oriel to be as happy as the day is long." And then they parted. Beatrice, as she went out, saw Dr Thorne in his little shop on the right-hand side of the passage, deeply engaged in some derogatory branch of an apothecary's mechanical trade; mixing a dose, perhaps, for a little child. She would have passed him without speaking if she could have been sure of doing so without notice, for her heart was full, and her eyes were red with tears; but it was so long since she had been in his house that she was more than ordinarily anxious not to appear uncourteous or unkind to him. "Good morning, doctor," she said, changing her countenance as best she might, and attempting a smile. "Ah, my fairy!" said he, leaving his villainous compounds, and coming out to her; "and you, too, are about to become a steady old lady." "Indeed, I am not, doctor; I don't mean to be either steady or old for the next ten years. But who has told you? I suppose Mary has been a traitor." "Well, I will confess, Mary was the traitor. But hadn't I a right to be told, seeing how often I have brought you sugar-plums in my pocket? But I wish you joy with all my heart,--with all my heart. Oriel is an excellent, good fellow." "Is he not, doctor?" "An excellent, good fellow. I never heard but of one fault that he had." "What was that one fault, Doctor Thorne?" "He thought that clergymen should not marry. But you have cured that, and now he's perfect." "Thank you, doctor. I declare that you say the prettiest things of all my friends." "And none of your friends wish prettier things for you. I do congratulate you, Beatrice, and hope you may be happy with the man you have chosen;" and taking both her hands in his, he pressed them warmly, and bade God bless her. "Oh, doctor! I do so hope the time will come when we shall all be friends again." "I hope it as well, my dear. But let it come, or let it not come, my regard for you will be the same:" and then she parted from him also, and went her way. Nothing was spoken of that evening between Dr Thorne and his niece excepting Beatrice's future happiness; nothing, at least, having reference to what had passed that morning. But on the following morning circumstances led to Frank Gresham's name being mentioned. At the usual breakfast-hour the doctor entered the parlour with a harassed face. He had an open letter in his hand, and it was at once clear to Mary that he was going to speak on some subject that vexed him. "That unfortunate fellow is again in trouble. Here is a letter from Greyson." Greyson was a London apothecary, who had been appointed as medical attendant to Sir Louis Scatcherd, and whose real business consisted in keeping a watch on the baronet, and reporting to Dr Thorne when anything was very much amiss. "Here is a letter from Greyson; he has been drunk for the last three days, and is now laid up in a terribly nervous state." "You won't go up to town again; will you, uncle?" "I hardly know what to do. No, I think not. He talks of coming down here to Greshamsbury." "Who, Sir Louis?" "Yes, Sir Louis. Greyson says that he will be down as soon as he can get out of his room." "What! to this house?" "What other house can he come to?" "Oh, uncle! I hope not. Pray, pray do not let him come here." "I cannot prevent it, my dear. I cannot shut my door on him." They sat down to breakfast, and Mary gave him his tea in silence. "I am going over to Boxall Hill before dinner," said he. "Have you any message to send to Lady Scatcherd?" "Message! no, I have no message; not especially: give her my love, of course," she said listlessly. And then, as though a thought had suddenly struck her, she spoke with more energy. "But, couldn't I go to Boxall Hill again? I should be so delighted." "What! to run away from Sir Louis? No, dearest, we will have no more running away. He will probably also go to Boxall Hill, and he could annoy you much more there than he can here." "But, uncle, Mr Gresham will be home on the 12th," she said, blushing. "What! Frank?" "Yes. Beatrice said he was to be here on the 12th." "And would you run away from him too, Mary?" "I do not know: I do not know what to do." "No; we will have no more running away: I am sorry that you ever did so. It was my fault, altogether my fault; but it was foolish." "Uncle, I am not happy here." As she said this, she put down the cup which she had held, and, leaning her elbows on the table, rested her forehead on her hands. "And would you be happier at Boxall Hill? It is not the place makes the happiness." "No, I know that; it is not the place. I do not look to be happy in any place; but I should be quieter, more tranquil elsewhere than here." "I also sometimes think that it will be better for us to take up our staves and walk away out of Greshamsbury;--leave it altogether, and settle elsewhere; miles, miles, miles away from here. Should you like that, dearest?" Miles, miles, miles away from Greshamsbury! There was something in the sound that fell very cold on Mary's ears, unhappy as she was. Greshamsbury had been so dear to her; in spite of all that had passed, was still so dear to her! Was she prepared to take up her staff, as her uncle said, and walk forth from the place with the full understanding that she was to return to it no more; with a mind resolved that there should be an inseparable gulf between her and its inhabitants? Such she knew was the proposed nature of the walking away of which her uncle spoke. So she sat there, resting on her arms, and gave no answer to the question that had been asked her. "No, we will stay a while yet," said her uncle. "It may come to that, but this is not the time. For one season longer let us face--I will not say our enemies; I cannot call anybody my enemy who bears the name of Gresham." And then he went on for a moment with his breakfast. "So Frank will be here on the 12th?" "Yes, uncle." "Well, dearest, I have no questions to ask you: no directions to give. I know how good you are, and how prudent; I am anxious only for your happiness; not at all--" "Happiness, uncle, is out of the question." "I hope not. It is never out of the question, never can be out of the question. But, as I was saying, I am quite satisfied your conduct will be good, and, therefore, I have no questions to ask. We will remain here; and, whether good or evil come, we will not be ashamed to show our faces." She sat for a while again silent, collecting her courage on the subject that was nearest her heart. She would have given the world that he should ask her questions; but she could not bid him to do so; and she found it impossible to talk openly to him about Frank unless he did so. "Will he come here?" at last she said, in a low-toned voice. "Who? He, Louis? Yes, I think that in all probability he will." "No; but Frank," she said, in a still lower voice. "Ah! my darling, that I cannot tell; but will it be well that he should come here?" "I do not know," she said. "No, I suppose not. But, uncle, I don't think he will come." She was now sitting on a sofa away from the table, and he got up, sat down beside her, and took her hands in his. "Mary," said he, "you must be strong now; strong to endure, not to attack. I think you have that strength; but, if not, perhaps it will be better that we should go away." "I will be strong," said she, rising up and going towards the door. "Never mind me, uncle; don't follow me; I will be strong. It will be base, cowardly, mean, to run away; very base in me to make you do so." "No, dearest, not so; it will be the same to me." "No," said she, "I will not run away from Lady Arabella. And, as for him--if he loves this other one, he shall hear no reproach from me. Uncle, I will be strong;" and running back to him, she threw her arms round him and kissed him. And, still restraining her tears, she got safely to her bedroom. In what way she may there have shown her strength, it would not be well for us to inquire. CHAPTER XXXIV A Barouche and Four Arrives at Greshamsbury During the last twelve months Sir Louis Scatcherd had been very efficacious in bringing trouble, turmoil, and vexation upon Greshamsbury. Now that it was too late to take steps to save himself, Dr Thorne found that the will left by Sir Roger was so made as to entail upon him duties that he would find it almost impossible to perform. Sir Louis, though his father had wished to make him still a child in the eye of the law, was no child. He knew his own rights and was determined to exact them; and before Sir Roger had been dead three months, the doctor found himself in continual litigation with a low Barchester attorney, who was acting on behalf of his, the doctor's, own ward. And if the doctor suffered so did the squire, and so did those who had hitherto had the management of the squire's affairs. Dr Thorne soon perceived that he was to be driven into litigation, not only with Mr Finnie, the Barchester attorney, but with the squire himself. While Finnie harassed him, he was compelled to harass Mr Gresham. He was no lawyer himself; and though he had been able to manage very well between the squire and Sir Roger, and had perhaps given himself some credit for his lawyer-like ability in so doing, he was utterly unable to manage between Sir Louis and Mr Gresham. He had, therefore, to employ a lawyer on his own account, and it seemed probable that the whole amount of Sir Roger's legacy to himself would by degrees be expended in this manner. And then, the squire's lawyers had to take up the matter; and they did so greatly to the detriment of poor Mr Yates Umbleby, who was found to have made a mess of the affairs entrusted to him. Mr Umbleby's accounts were incorrect; his mind was anything but clear, and he confessed, when put to it by the very sharp gentleman that came down from London, that he was "bothered;" and so, after a while, he was suspended from his duties, and Mr Gazebee, the sharp gentleman from London, reigned over the diminished rent-roll of the Greshamsbury estate. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury--with the one exception of Mr Oriel and his love-suit. Miss Gushing attributed the deposition of Mr Umbleby to the narrowness of the victory which Beatrice had won in carrying off Mr Oriel. For Miss Gushing was a relation of the Umblebys, and had been for many years one of their family. "If she had only chosen to exert herself as Miss Gresham had done, she could have had Mr Oriel, easily; oh, too easily! but she had despised such work," so she said. "But though she had despised it, the Greshams had not been less irritated, and, therefore, Mr Umbleby had been driven out of his house." We can hardly believe this, as victory generally makes men generous. Miss Gushing, however, stated it as a fact so often that it is probable she was induced to believe it herself. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury, and the squire himself was especially a sufferer. Umbleby had at any rate been his own man, and he could do what he liked with him. He could see him when he liked, and where he liked, and how he liked; could scold him if in an ill-humour, and laugh at him when in a good humour. All this Mr Umbleby knew, and bore. But Mr Gazebee was a very different sort of gentleman; he was the junior partner in the firm of Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, of Mount Street, a house that never defiled itself with any other business than the agency business, and that in the very highest line. They drew out leases, and managed property both for the Duke of Omnium and Lord de Courcy; and ever since her marriage, it had been one of the objects dearest to Lady Arabella's heart, that the Greshamsbury acres should be superintended by the polite skill and polished legal ability of that all but elegant firm in Mount Street. The squire had long stood firm, and had delighted in having everything done under his own eye by poor Mr Yates Umbleby. But now, alas! he could stand it no longer. He had put off the evil day as long as he could; he had deferred the odious work of investigation till things had seemed resolved on investigating themselves; and then, when it was absolutely necessary that Mr Umbleby should go, there was nothing for him left but to fall into the ready hands of Messrs Gumption, Gazebee and Gazebee. It must not be supposed that Messrs Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee were in the least like the ordinary run of attorneys. They wrote no letters for six-and-eightpence each: they collected no debts, filed no bills, made no charge per folio for "whereases" and "as aforesaids;" they did no dirty work, and probably were as ignorant of the interior of a court of law as any young lady living in their Mayfair vicinity. No; their business was to manage the property of great people, draw up leases, make legal assignments, get the family marriage settlements made, and look after wills. Occasionally, also, they had to raise money; but it was generally understood that this was done by proxy. The firm had been going on for a hundred and fifty years, and the designation had often been altered; but it always consisted of Gumptions and Gazebees differently arranged, and no less hallowed names had ever been permitted to appear. It had been Gazebee, Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee, Gumption & Gumption; then Gumption, Gumption & Gazebee; and now it was Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee. Mr Gazebee, the junior member of this firm, was a very elegant young man. While looking at him riding in Rotten Row, you would hardly have taken him for an attorney; and had he heard that you had so taken him, he would have been very much surprised indeed. He was rather bald; not being, as people say, quite so young as he was once. His exact age was thirty-eight. But he had a really remarkable pair of jet-black whiskers, which fully made up for any deficiency as to his head; he had also dark eyes, and a beaked nose, what may be called a distinguished mouth, and was always dressed in fashionable attire. The fact was, that Mr Mortimer Gazebee, junior partner in the firm Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, by no means considered himself to be made of that very disagreeable material which mortals call small beer. When this great firm was applied to, to get Mr Gresham through his difficulties, and when the state of his affairs was made known to them, they at first expressed rather a disinclination for the work. But at last, moved doubtless by their respect for the de Courcy interest, they assented; and Mr Gazebee, junior, went down to Greshamsbury. The poor squire passed many a sad day after that before he again felt himself to be master even of his own domain. Nevertheless, when Mr Mortimer Gazebee visited Greshamsbury, which he did on more than one or two occasions, he was always received _en grand seigneur_. To Lady Arabella he was by no means an unwelcome guest, for she found herself able, for the first time in her life, to speak confidentially on her husband's pecuniary affairs with the man who had the management of her husband's property. Mr Gazebee also was a pet with Lady de Courcy; and being known to be a fashionable man in London, and quite a different sort of person from poor Mr Umbleby, he was always received with smiles. He had a hundred little ways of making himself agreeable, and Augusta declared to her cousin, the Lady Amelia, after having been acquainted with him for a few months, that he would be a perfect gentleman, only, that his family had never been anything but attorneys. The Lady Amelia smiled in her own peculiarly aristocratic way, shrugged her shoulders slightly, and said, "that Mr Mortimer Gazebee was a very good sort of a person, very." Poor Augusta felt herself snubbed, thinking perhaps of the tailor's son; but as there was never any appeal against the Lady Amelia, she said nothing more at that moment in favour of Mr Mortimer Gazebee. All these evils--Mr Mortimer Gazebee being the worst of them--had Sir Louis Scatcherd brought down on the poor squire's head. There may be those who will say that the squire had brought them on himself, by running into debt; and so, doubtless, he had; but it was not the less true that the baronet's interference was unnecessary, vexatious, and one might almost say, malicious. His interest would have been quite safe in the doctor's hands, and he had, in fact, no legal right to meddle; but neither the doctor nor the squire could prevent him. Mr Finnie knew very well what he was about, if Sir Louis did not; and so the three went on, each with his own lawyer, and each of them distrustful, unhappy, and ill at ease. This was hard upon the doctor, for he was not in debt, and had borrowed no money. There was not much reason to suppose that the visit of Sir Louis to Greshamsbury would much improve matters. It must be presumed that he was not coming with any amicable views, but with the object rather of looking after his own; a phrase which was now constantly in his mouth. He might probably find it necessary while looking after his own at Greshamsbury, to say some very disagreeable things to the squire; and the doctor, therefore, hardly expected that the visit would go off pleasantly. When last we saw Sir Louis, now nearly twelve months since, he was intent on making a proposal of marriage to Miss Thorne. This intention he carried out about two days after Frank Gresham had done the same thing. He had delayed doing so till he had succeeded in purchasing his friend Jenkins's Arab pony, imagining that such a present could not but go far in weaning Mary's heart from her other lover. Poor Mary was put to the trouble of refusing both the baronet and the pony, and a very bad time she had of it while doing so. Sir Louis was a man easily angered, and not very easily pacified, and Mary had to endure a good deal of annoyance; from any other person, indeed, she would have called it impertinence. Sir Louis, however, had to bear his rejection as best he could, and, after a perseverance of three days, returned to London in disgust; and Mary had not seen him since. Mr Greyson's first letter was followed by a second; and the second was followed by the baronet in person. He also required to be received _en grand seigneur_, perhaps more imperatively than Mr Mortimer Gazebee himself. He came with four posters from the Barchester Station, and had himself rattled up to the doctor's door in a way that took the breath away from all Greshamsbury. Why! the squire himself for a many long year had been contented to come home with a pair of horses; and four were never seen in the place, except when the de Courcys came to Greshamsbury, or Lady Arabella with all her daughters returned from her hard-fought metropolitan campaigns. Sir Louis, however, came with four, and very arrogant he looked, leaning back in the barouche belonging to the George and Dragon, and wrapped up in fur, although it was now midsummer. And up in the dicky behind was a servant, more arrogant, if possible, than his master--the baronet's own man, who was the object of Dr Thorne's special detestation and disgust. He was a little fellow, chosen originally on account of his light weight on horseback; but if that may be considered a merit, it was the only one he had. His out-door show dress was a little tight frock-coat, round which a polished strap was always buckled tightly, a stiff white choker, leather breeches, top-boots, and a hat, with a cockade, stuck on one side of his head. His name was Jonah, which his master and his master's friends shortened into Joe; none, however, but those who were very intimate with his master were allowed to do so with impunity. This Joe was Dr Thorne's special aversion. In his anxiety to take every possible step to keep Sir Louis from poisoning himself, he had at first attempted to enlist the baronet's "own man" in the cause. Joe had promised fairly, but had betrayed the doctor at once, and had become the worst

fight

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

you know--I thought you always said so--I have always told mamma so as if it came from yourself." "Beatrice, do not tell anything to Lady Arabella as though it came from me; I do not want anything to be told to her, either of me or from me. Say what you like to me yourself; whatever you say will not anger me. Indeed, I know what you would say--and yet I love you. Oh, I love you, Trichy--Trichy, I do love you so much! Don't turn away from me!" There was such a mixture in Mary's manner of tenderness and almost ferocity, that poor Beatrice could hardly follow her. "Turn away from you, Mary! no never; but this does make me unhappy." "It is better that you should know it all, and then you will not be led into fighting my battles again. You cannot fight them so that I should win; I do love your brother; love him truly, fondly, tenderly. I would wish to have him for my husband as you wish to have Mr Oriel." "But, Mary, you cannot marry him!" "Why not?" said she, in a loud voice. "Why can I not marry him? If the priest says a blessing over us, shall we not be married as well as you and your husband?" "But you know he cannot marry unless his wife shall have money." "Money--money; and he is to sell himself for money? Oh, Trichy! do not you talk about money. It is horrible. But, Trichy, I will grant it--I cannot marry him; but still, I love him. He has a name, a place in the world, and fortune, family, high blood, position, everything. He has all this, and I have nothing. Of course I cannot marry him. But yet I do love him." "Are you engaged to him, Mary?" "He is not engaged to me; but I am to him." "Oh, Mary, that is impossible!" "It is not impossible: it is the case--I am pledged to him; but he is not pledged to me." "But, Mary, don't look at me in that way. I do not quite understand you. What is the good of your being engaged if you cannot marry him?" "Good! there is no good. But can I help it, if I love him? Can I make myself not love him by just wishing it? Oh, I would do it if I could. But now you will understand why I shake my head when you talk of my coming to your house. Your ways and my ways must be different." Beatrice was startled, and, for a time, silenced. What Mary said of the difference of their ways was quite true. Beatrice had dearly loved her friend, and had thought of her with affection through all this long period in which they had been separated; but she had given her love and her thoughts on the understanding, as it were, that they were in unison as to the impropriety of Frank's conduct. She had always spoken, with a grave face, of Frank and his love as of a great misfortune, even to Mary herself; and her pity for Mary had been founded on the conviction of her innocence. Now all those ideas had to be altered. Mary owned her fault, confessed herself to be guilty of all that Lady Arabella so frequently laid to her charge, and confessed herself anxious to commit every crime as to which Beatrice had been ever so ready to defend her. Had Beatrice up to this dreamed that Mary was in love with Frank, she would doubtless have sympathised with her more or less, sooner or later. As it was, it was beyond all doubt that she would soon sympathise with her. But, at the moment, the suddenness of the declaration seemed to harden her heart, and she forgot, as it were, to speak tenderly to her friend. She was silent, therefore, and dismayed; and looked as though she thought that her ways and Mary's ways must be different. Mary saw all that was passing in the other's mind: no, not all; all the hostility, the disappointment, the disapproval, the unhappiness, she did see; but not the under-current of love, which was strong enough to well up and drown all these, if only time could be allowed for it to do so. "I am glad I have told you," said Mary, curbing herself, "for deceit and hypocrisy are detestable." "It was a misunderstanding, not deceit," said Beatrice. "Well, now we understand each other; now you know that I have a heart within me, which like those of some others has not always been under my own control. Lady Arabella believes that I am intriguing to be the mistress of Greshamsbury. You, at any rate, will not think that of me. If it could be discovered to-morrow that Frank were not the heir, I might have some chance of happiness." "But, Mary--" "Well?" "You say you love him." "Yes; I do say so." "But if he does not love you, will you cease to do so?" "If I have a fever, I will get rid of it if I can; in such case I must do so, or die." "I fear," continued Beatrice, "you hardly know, perhaps do not think, what is Frank's real character. He is not made to settle down early in life; even now, I believe he is attached to some lady in London, whom, of course, he cannot marry." Beatrice said this in perfect trueness of heart. She had heard of Frank's new love-affair, and believing what she had heard, thought it best to tell the truth. But the information was not of a kind to quiet Mary's spirit. "Very well," said she, "let it be so. I have nothing to say against it." "But are you not preparing wretchedness and unhappiness for yourself?" "Very likely." "Oh, Mary, do not be so cold with me! you know how delighted I should be to have you for a sister-in-law, if only it were possible." "Yes, Trichy; but it is impossible, is it not? Impossible that Francis Gresham of Greshamsbury should disgrace himself by marrying such a poor creature as I am. Of course, I know it; of course, I am prepared for unhappiness and misery. He can amuse himself as he likes with me or others--with anybody. It is his privilege. It is quite enough to say that he is not made for settling down. I know my own position;--and yet I love him." "But, Mary, has he asked you to be his wife? If so--" "You ask home-questions, Beatrice. Let me ask you one; has he ever told you that he has done so?" At this moment Beatrice was not disposed to repeat all that Frank had said. A year ago, before he went away, he had told his sister a score of times that he meant to marry Mary Thorne if she would have him; but Beatrice now looked on all that as idle, boyish vapouring. The pity was, that Mary should have looked on it differently. "We will each keep our secret," said Mary. "Only remember this: should Frank marry to-morrow, I shall have no ground for blaming him. He is free as far I as am concerned. He can take the London lady if he likes. You may tell him so from me. But, Trichy, what else I have told you, I have told you only." "Oh, yes!" said Beatrice, sadly; "I shall say nothing of it to anybody. It is very sad, very, very; I was so happy when I came here, and now I am so wretched." This was the end of that delicious talk to which she had looked forward with so much eagerness. "Don't be wretched about me, dearest; I shall get through it. I sometimes think I was born to be unhappy, and that unhappiness agrees with me best. Kiss me now, Trichy, and don't be wretched any more. You owe it to Mr Oriel to be as happy as the day is long." And then they parted. Beatrice, as she went out, saw Dr Thorne in his little shop on the right-hand side of the passage, deeply engaged in some derogatory branch of an apothecary's mechanical trade; mixing a dose, perhaps, for a little child. She would have passed him without speaking if she could have been sure of doing so without notice, for her heart was full, and her eyes were red with tears; but it was so long since she had been in his house that she was more than ordinarily anxious not to appear uncourteous or unkind to him. "Good morning, doctor," she said, changing her countenance as best she might, and attempting a smile. "Ah, my fairy!" said he, leaving his villainous compounds, and coming out to her; "and you, too, are about to become a steady old lady." "Indeed, I am not, doctor; I don't mean to be either steady or old for the next ten years. But who has told you? I suppose Mary has been a traitor." "Well, I will confess, Mary was the traitor. But hadn't I a right to be told, seeing how often I have brought you sugar-plums in my pocket? But I wish you joy with all my heart,--with all my heart. Oriel is an excellent, good fellow." "Is he not, doctor?" "An excellent, good fellow. I never heard but of one fault that he had." "What was that one fault, Doctor Thorne?" "He thought that clergymen should not marry. But you have cured that, and now he's perfect." "Thank you, doctor. I declare that you say the prettiest things of all my friends." "And none of your friends wish prettier things for you. I do congratulate you, Beatrice, and hope you may be happy with the man you have chosen;" and taking both her hands in his, he pressed them warmly, and bade God bless her. "Oh, doctor! I do so hope the time will come when we shall all be friends again." "I hope it as well, my dear. But let it come, or let it not come, my regard for you will be the same:" and then she parted from him also, and went her way. Nothing was spoken of that evening between Dr Thorne and his niece excepting Beatrice's future happiness; nothing, at least, having reference to what had passed that morning. But on the following morning circumstances led to Frank Gresham's name being mentioned. At the usual breakfast-hour the doctor entered the parlour with a harassed face. He had an open letter in his hand, and it was at once clear to Mary that he was going to speak on some subject that vexed him. "That unfortunate fellow is again in trouble. Here is a letter from Greyson." Greyson was a London apothecary, who had been appointed as medical attendant to Sir Louis Scatcherd, and whose real business consisted in keeping a watch on the baronet, and reporting to Dr Thorne when anything was very much amiss. "Here is a letter from Greyson; he has been drunk for the last three days, and is now laid up in a terribly nervous state." "You won't go up to town again; will you, uncle?" "I hardly know what to do. No, I think not. He talks of coming down here to Greshamsbury." "Who, Sir Louis?" "Yes, Sir Louis. Greyson says that he will be down as soon as he can get out of his room." "What! to this house?" "What other house can he come to?" "Oh, uncle! I hope not. Pray, pray do not let him come here." "I cannot prevent it, my dear. I cannot shut my door on him." They sat down to breakfast, and Mary gave him his tea in silence. "I am going over to Boxall Hill before dinner," said he. "Have you any message to send to Lady Scatcherd?" "Message! no, I have no message; not especially: give her my love, of course," she said listlessly. And then, as though a thought had suddenly struck her, she spoke with more energy. "But, couldn't I go to Boxall Hill again? I should be so delighted." "What! to run away from Sir Louis? No, dearest, we will have no more running away. He will probably also go to Boxall Hill, and he could annoy you much more there than he can here." "But, uncle, Mr Gresham will be home on the 12th," she said, blushing. "What! Frank?" "Yes. Beatrice said he was to be here on the 12th." "And would you run away from him too, Mary?" "I do not know: I do not know what to do." "No; we will have no more running away: I am sorry that you ever did so. It was my fault, altogether my fault; but it was foolish." "Uncle, I am not happy here." As she said this, she put down the cup which she had held, and, leaning her elbows on the table, rested her forehead on her hands. "And would you be happier at Boxall Hill? It is not the place makes the happiness." "No, I know that; it is not the place. I do not look to be happy in any place; but I should be quieter, more tranquil elsewhere than here." "I also sometimes think that it will be better for us to take up our staves and walk away out of Greshamsbury;--leave it altogether, and settle elsewhere; miles, miles, miles away from here. Should you like that, dearest?" Miles, miles, miles away from Greshamsbury! There was something in the sound that fell very cold on Mary's ears, unhappy as she was. Greshamsbury had been so dear to her; in spite of all that had passed, was still so dear to her! Was she prepared to take up her staff, as her uncle said, and walk forth from the place with the full understanding that she was to return to it no more; with a mind resolved that there should be an inseparable gulf between her and its inhabitants? Such she knew was the proposed nature of the walking away of which her uncle spoke. So she sat there, resting on her arms, and gave no answer to the question that had been asked her. "No, we will stay a while yet," said her uncle. "It may come to that, but this is not the time. For one season longer let us face--I will not say our enemies; I cannot call anybody my enemy who bears the name of Gresham." And then he went on for a moment with his breakfast. "So Frank will be here on the 12th?" "Yes, uncle." "Well, dearest, I have no questions to ask you: no directions to give. I know how good you are, and how prudent; I am anxious only for your happiness; not at all--" "Happiness, uncle, is out of the question." "I hope not. It is never out of the question, never can be out of the question. But, as I was saying, I am quite satisfied your conduct will be good, and, therefore, I have no questions to ask. We will remain here; and, whether good or evil come, we will not be ashamed to show our faces." She sat for a while again silent, collecting her courage on the subject that was nearest her heart. She would have given the world that he should ask her questions; but she could not bid him to do so; and she found it impossible to talk openly to him about Frank unless he did so. "Will he come here?" at last she said, in a low-toned voice. "Who? He, Louis? Yes, I think that in all probability he will." "No; but Frank," she said, in a still lower voice. "Ah! my darling, that I cannot tell; but will it be well that he should come here?" "I do not know," she said. "No, I suppose not. But, uncle, I don't think he will come." She was now sitting on a sofa away from the table, and he got up, sat down beside her, and took her hands in his. "Mary," said he, "you must be strong now; strong to endure, not to attack. I think you have that strength; but, if not, perhaps it will be better that we should go away." "I will be strong," said she, rising up and going towards the door. "Never mind me, uncle; don't follow me; I will be strong. It will be base, cowardly, mean, to run away; very base in me to make you do so." "No, dearest, not so; it will be the same to me." "No," said she, "I will not run away from Lady Arabella. And, as for him--if he loves this other one, he shall hear no reproach from me. Uncle, I will be strong;" and running back to him, she threw her arms round him and kissed him. And, still restraining her tears, she got safely to her bedroom. In what way she may there have shown her strength, it would not be well for us to inquire. CHAPTER XXXIV A Barouche and Four Arrives at Greshamsbury During the last twelve months Sir Louis Scatcherd had been very efficacious in bringing trouble, turmoil, and vexation upon Greshamsbury. Now that it was too late to take steps to save himself, Dr Thorne found that the will left by Sir Roger was so made as to entail upon him duties that he would find it almost impossible to perform. Sir Louis, though his father had wished to make him still a child in the eye of the law, was no child. He knew his own rights and was determined to exact them; and before Sir Roger had been dead three months, the doctor found himself in continual litigation with a low Barchester attorney, who was acting on behalf of his, the doctor's, own ward. And if the doctor suffered so did the squire, and so did those who had hitherto had the management of the squire's affairs. Dr Thorne soon perceived that he was to be driven into litigation, not only with Mr Finnie, the Barchester attorney, but with the squire himself. While Finnie harassed him, he was compelled to harass Mr Gresham. He was no lawyer himself; and though he had been able to manage very well between the squire and Sir Roger, and had perhaps given himself some credit for his lawyer-like ability in so doing, he was utterly unable to manage between Sir Louis and Mr Gresham. He had, therefore, to employ a lawyer on his own account, and it seemed probable that the whole amount of Sir Roger's legacy to himself would by degrees be expended in this manner. And then, the squire's lawyers had to take up the matter; and they did so greatly to the detriment of poor Mr Yates Umbleby, who was found to have made a mess of the affairs entrusted to him. Mr Umbleby's accounts were incorrect; his mind was anything but clear, and he confessed, when put to it by the very sharp gentleman that came down from London, that he was "bothered;" and so, after a while, he was suspended from his duties, and Mr Gazebee, the sharp gentleman from London, reigned over the diminished rent-roll of the Greshamsbury estate. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury--with the one exception of Mr Oriel and his love-suit. Miss Gushing attributed the deposition of Mr Umbleby to the narrowness of the victory which Beatrice had won in carrying off Mr Oriel. For Miss Gushing was a relation of the Umblebys, and had been for many years one of their family. "If she had only chosen to exert herself as Miss Gresham had done, she could have had Mr Oriel, easily; oh, too easily! but she had despised such work," so she said. "But though she had despised it, the Greshams had not been less irritated, and, therefore, Mr Umbleby had been driven out of his house." We can hardly believe this, as victory generally makes men generous. Miss Gushing, however, stated it as a fact so often that it is probable she was induced to believe it herself. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury, and the squire himself was especially a sufferer. Umbleby had at any rate been his own man, and he could do what he liked with him. He could see him when he liked, and where he liked, and how he liked; could scold him if in an ill-humour, and laugh at him when in a good humour. All this Mr Umbleby knew, and bore. But Mr Gazebee was a very different sort of gentleman; he was the junior partner in the firm of Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, of Mount Street, a house that never defiled itself with any other business than the agency business, and that in the very highest line. They drew out leases, and managed property both for the Duke of Omnium and Lord de Courcy; and ever since her marriage, it had been one of the objects dearest to Lady Arabella's heart, that the Greshamsbury acres should be superintended by the polite skill and polished legal ability of that all but elegant firm in Mount Street. The squire had long stood firm, and had delighted in having everything done under his own eye by poor Mr Yates Umbleby. But now, alas! he could stand it no longer. He had put off the evil day as long as he could; he had deferred the odious work of investigation till things had seemed resolved on investigating themselves; and then, when it was absolutely necessary that Mr Umbleby should go, there was nothing for him left but to fall into the ready hands of Messrs Gumption, Gazebee and Gazebee. It must not be supposed that Messrs Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee were in the least like the ordinary run of attorneys. They wrote no letters for six-and-eightpence each: they collected no debts, filed no bills, made no charge per folio for "whereases" and "as aforesaids;" they did no dirty work, and probably were as ignorant of the interior of a court of law as any young lady living in their Mayfair vicinity. No; their business was to manage the property of great people, draw up leases, make legal assignments, get the family marriage settlements made, and look after wills. Occasionally, also, they had to raise money; but it was generally understood that this was done by proxy. The firm had been going on for a hundred and fifty years, and the designation had often been altered; but it always consisted of Gumptions and Gazebees differently arranged, and no less hallowed names had ever been permitted to appear. It had been Gazebee, Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee, Gumption & Gumption; then Gumption, Gumption & Gazebee; and now it was Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee. Mr Gazebee, the junior member of this firm, was a very elegant young man. While looking at him riding in Rotten Row, you would hardly have taken him for an attorney; and had he heard that you had so taken him, he would have been very much surprised indeed. He was rather bald; not being, as people say, quite so young as he was once. His exact age was thirty-eight. But he had a really remarkable pair of jet-black whiskers, which fully made up for any deficiency as to his head; he had also dark eyes, and a beaked nose, what may be called a distinguished mouth, and was always dressed in fashionable attire. The fact was, that Mr Mortimer Gazebee, junior partner in the firm Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, by no means considered himself to be made of that very disagreeable material which mortals call small beer. When this great firm was applied to, to get Mr Gresham through his difficulties, and when the state of his affairs was made known to them, they at first expressed rather a disinclination for the work. But at last, moved doubtless by their respect for the de Courcy interest, they assented; and Mr Gazebee, junior, went down to Greshamsbury. The poor squire passed many a sad day after that before he again felt himself to be master even of his own domain. Nevertheless, when Mr Mortimer Gazebee visited Greshamsbury, which he did on more than one or two occasions, he was always received _en grand seigneur_. To Lady Arabella he was by no means an unwelcome guest, for she found herself able, for the first time in her life, to speak confidentially on her husband's pecuniary affairs with the man who had the management of her husband's property. Mr Gazebee also was a pet with Lady de Courcy; and being known to be a fashionable man in London, and quite a different sort of person from poor Mr Umbleby, he was always received with smiles. He had a hundred little ways of making himself agreeable, and Augusta declared to her cousin, the Lady Amelia, after having been acquainted with him for a few months, that he would be a perfect gentleman, only, that his family had never been anything but attorneys. The Lady Amelia smiled in her own peculiarly aristocratic way, shrugged her shoulders slightly, and said, "that Mr Mortimer Gazebee was a very good sort of a person, very." Poor Augusta felt herself snubbed, thinking perhaps of the tailor's son; but as there was never any appeal against the Lady Amelia, she said nothing more at that moment in favour of Mr Mortimer Gazebee. All these evils--Mr Mortimer Gazebee being the worst of them--had Sir Louis Scatcherd brought down on the poor squire's head. There may be those who will say that the squire had brought them on himself, by running into debt; and so, doubtless, he had; but it was not the less true that the baronet's interference was unnecessary, vexatious, and one might almost say, malicious. His interest would have been quite safe in the doctor's hands, and he had, in fact, no legal right to meddle; but neither the doctor nor the squire could prevent him. Mr Finnie knew very well what he was about, if Sir Louis did not; and so the three went on, each with his own lawyer, and each of them distrustful, unhappy, and ill at ease. This was hard upon the doctor, for he was not in debt, and had borrowed no money. There was not much reason to suppose that the visit of Sir Louis to Greshamsbury would much improve matters. It must be presumed that he was not coming with any amicable views, but with the object rather of looking after his own; a phrase which was now constantly in his mouth. He might probably find it necessary while looking after his own at Greshamsbury, to say some very disagreeable things to the squire; and the doctor, therefore, hardly expected that the visit would go off pleasantly. When last we saw Sir Louis, now nearly twelve months since, he was intent on making a proposal of marriage to Miss Thorne. This intention he carried out about two days after Frank Gresham had done the same thing. He had delayed doing so till he had succeeded in purchasing his friend Jenkins's Arab pony, imagining that such a present could not but go far in weaning Mary's heart from her other lover. Poor Mary was put to the trouble of refusing both the baronet and the pony, and a very bad time she had of it while doing so. Sir Louis was a man easily angered, and not very easily pacified, and Mary had to endure a good deal of annoyance; from any other person, indeed, she would have called it impertinence. Sir Louis, however, had to bear his rejection as best he could, and, after a perseverance of three days, returned to London in disgust; and Mary had not seen him since. Mr Greyson's first letter was followed by a second; and the second was followed by the baronet in person. He also required to be received _en grand seigneur_, perhaps more imperatively than Mr Mortimer Gazebee himself. He came with four posters from the Barchester Station, and had himself rattled up to the doctor's door in a way that took the breath away from all Greshamsbury. Why! the squire himself for a many long year had been contented to come home with a pair of horses; and four were never seen in the place, except when the de Courcys came to Greshamsbury, or Lady Arabella with all her daughters returned from her hard-fought metropolitan campaigns. Sir Louis, however, came with four, and very arrogant he looked, leaning back in the barouche belonging to the George and Dragon, and wrapped up in fur, although it was now midsummer. And up in the dicky behind was a servant, more arrogant, if possible, than his master--the baronet's own man, who was the object of Dr Thorne's special detestation and disgust. He was a little fellow, chosen originally on account of his light weight on horseback; but if that may be considered a merit, it was the only one he had. His out-door show dress was a little tight frock-coat, round which a polished strap was always buckled tightly, a stiff white choker, leather breeches, top-boots, and a hat, with a cockade, stuck on one side of his head. His name was Jonah, which his master and his master's friends shortened into Joe; none, however, but those who were very intimate with his master were allowed to do so with impunity. This Joe was Dr Thorne's special aversion. In his anxiety to take every possible step to keep Sir Louis from poisoning himself, he had at first attempted to enlist the baronet's "own man" in the cause. Joe had promised fairly, but had betrayed the doctor at once, and had become the worst

soon

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

you know--I thought you always said so--I have always told mamma so as if it came from yourself." "Beatrice, do not tell anything to Lady Arabella as though it came from me; I do not want anything to be told to her, either of me or from me. Say what you like to me yourself; whatever you say will not anger me. Indeed, I know what you would say--and yet I love you. Oh, I love you, Trichy--Trichy, I do love you so much! Don't turn away from me!" There was such a mixture in Mary's manner of tenderness and almost ferocity, that poor Beatrice could hardly follow her. "Turn away from you, Mary! no never; but this does make me unhappy." "It is better that you should know it all, and then you will not be led into fighting my battles again. You cannot fight them so that I should win; I do love your brother; love him truly, fondly, tenderly. I would wish to have him for my husband as you wish to have Mr Oriel." "But, Mary, you cannot marry him!" "Why not?" said she, in a loud voice. "Why can I not marry him? If the priest says a blessing over us, shall we not be married as well as you and your husband?" "But you know he cannot marry unless his wife shall have money." "Money--money; and he is to sell himself for money? Oh, Trichy! do not you talk about money. It is horrible. But, Trichy, I will grant it--I cannot marry him; but still, I love him. He has a name, a place in the world, and fortune, family, high blood, position, everything. He has all this, and I have nothing. Of course I cannot marry him. But yet I do love him." "Are you engaged to him, Mary?" "He is not engaged to me; but I am to him." "Oh, Mary, that is impossible!" "It is not impossible: it is the case--I am pledged to him; but he is not pledged to me." "But, Mary, don't look at me in that way. I do not quite understand you. What is the good of your being engaged if you cannot marry him?" "Good! there is no good. But can I help it, if I love him? Can I make myself not love him by just wishing it? Oh, I would do it if I could. But now you will understand why I shake my head when you talk of my coming to your house. Your ways and my ways must be different." Beatrice was startled, and, for a time, silenced. What Mary said of the difference of their ways was quite true. Beatrice had dearly loved her friend, and had thought of her with affection through all this long period in which they had been separated; but she had given her love and her thoughts on the understanding, as it were, that they were in unison as to the impropriety of Frank's conduct. She had always spoken, with a grave face, of Frank and his love as of a great misfortune, even to Mary herself; and her pity for Mary had been founded on the conviction of her innocence. Now all those ideas had to be altered. Mary owned her fault, confessed herself to be guilty of all that Lady Arabella so frequently laid to her charge, and confessed herself anxious to commit every crime as to which Beatrice had been ever so ready to defend her. Had Beatrice up to this dreamed that Mary was in love with Frank, she would doubtless have sympathised with her more or less, sooner or later. As it was, it was beyond all doubt that she would soon sympathise with her. But, at the moment, the suddenness of the declaration seemed to harden her heart, and she forgot, as it were, to speak tenderly to her friend. She was silent, therefore, and dismayed; and looked as though she thought that her ways and Mary's ways must be different. Mary saw all that was passing in the other's mind: no, not all; all the hostility, the disappointment, the disapproval, the unhappiness, she did see; but not the under-current of love, which was strong enough to well up and drown all these, if only time could be allowed for it to do so. "I am glad I have told you," said Mary, curbing herself, "for deceit and hypocrisy are detestable." "It was a misunderstanding, not deceit," said Beatrice. "Well, now we understand each other; now you know that I have a heart within me, which like those of some others has not always been under my own control. Lady Arabella believes that I am intriguing to be the mistress of Greshamsbury. You, at any rate, will not think that of me. If it could be discovered to-morrow that Frank were not the heir, I might have some chance of happiness." "But, Mary--" "Well?" "You say you love him." "Yes; I do say so." "But if he does not love you, will you cease to do so?" "If I have a fever, I will get rid of it if I can; in such case I must do so, or die." "I fear," continued Beatrice, "you hardly know, perhaps do not think, what is Frank's real character. He is not made to settle down early in life; even now, I believe he is attached to some lady in London, whom, of course, he cannot marry." Beatrice said this in perfect trueness of heart. She had heard of Frank's new love-affair, and believing what she had heard, thought it best to tell the truth. But the information was not of a kind to quiet Mary's spirit. "Very well," said she, "let it be so. I have nothing to say against it." "But are you not preparing wretchedness and unhappiness for yourself?" "Very likely." "Oh, Mary, do not be so cold with me! you know how delighted I should be to have you for a sister-in-law, if only it were possible." "Yes, Trichy; but it is impossible, is it not? Impossible that Francis Gresham of Greshamsbury should disgrace himself by marrying such a poor creature as I am. Of course, I know it; of course, I am prepared for unhappiness and misery. He can amuse himself as he likes with me or others--with anybody. It is his privilege. It is quite enough to say that he is not made for settling down. I know my own position;--and yet I love him." "But, Mary, has he asked you to be his wife? If so--" "You ask home-questions, Beatrice. Let me ask you one; has he ever told you that he has done so?" At this moment Beatrice was not disposed to repeat all that Frank had said. A year ago, before he went away, he had told his sister a score of times that he meant to marry Mary Thorne if she would have him; but Beatrice now looked on all that as idle, boyish vapouring. The pity was, that Mary should have looked on it differently. "We will each keep our secret," said Mary. "Only remember this: should Frank marry to-morrow, I shall have no ground for blaming him. He is free as far I as am concerned. He can take the London lady if he likes. You may tell him so from me. But, Trichy, what else I have told you, I have told you only." "Oh, yes!" said Beatrice, sadly; "I shall say nothing of it to anybody. It is very sad, very, very; I was so happy when I came here, and now I am so wretched." This was the end of that delicious talk to which she had looked forward with so much eagerness. "Don't be wretched about me, dearest; I shall get through it. I sometimes think I was born to be unhappy, and that unhappiness agrees with me best. Kiss me now, Trichy, and don't be wretched any more. You owe it to Mr Oriel to be as happy as the day is long." And then they parted. Beatrice, as she went out, saw Dr Thorne in his little shop on the right-hand side of the passage, deeply engaged in some derogatory branch of an apothecary's mechanical trade; mixing a dose, perhaps, for a little child. She would have passed him without speaking if she could have been sure of doing so without notice, for her heart was full, and her eyes were red with tears; but it was so long since she had been in his house that she was more than ordinarily anxious not to appear uncourteous or unkind to him. "Good morning, doctor," she said, changing her countenance as best she might, and attempting a smile. "Ah, my fairy!" said he, leaving his villainous compounds, and coming out to her; "and you, too, are about to become a steady old lady." "Indeed, I am not, doctor; I don't mean to be either steady or old for the next ten years. But who has told you? I suppose Mary has been a traitor." "Well, I will confess, Mary was the traitor. But hadn't I a right to be told, seeing how often I have brought you sugar-plums in my pocket? But I wish you joy with all my heart,--with all my heart. Oriel is an excellent, good fellow." "Is he not, doctor?" "An excellent, good fellow. I never heard but of one fault that he had." "What was that one fault, Doctor Thorne?" "He thought that clergymen should not marry. But you have cured that, and now he's perfect." "Thank you, doctor. I declare that you say the prettiest things of all my friends." "And none of your friends wish prettier things for you. I do congratulate you, Beatrice, and hope you may be happy with the man you have chosen;" and taking both her hands in his, he pressed them warmly, and bade God bless her. "Oh, doctor! I do so hope the time will come when we shall all be friends again." "I hope it as well, my dear. But let it come, or let it not come, my regard for you will be the same:" and then she parted from him also, and went her way. Nothing was spoken of that evening between Dr Thorne and his niece excepting Beatrice's future happiness; nothing, at least, having reference to what had passed that morning. But on the following morning circumstances led to Frank Gresham's name being mentioned. At the usual breakfast-hour the doctor entered the parlour with a harassed face. He had an open letter in his hand, and it was at once clear to Mary that he was going to speak on some subject that vexed him. "That unfortunate fellow is again in trouble. Here is a letter from Greyson." Greyson was a London apothecary, who had been appointed as medical attendant to Sir Louis Scatcherd, and whose real business consisted in keeping a watch on the baronet, and reporting to Dr Thorne when anything was very much amiss. "Here is a letter from Greyson; he has been drunk for the last three days, and is now laid up in a terribly nervous state." "You won't go up to town again; will you, uncle?" "I hardly know what to do. No, I think not. He talks of coming down here to Greshamsbury." "Who, Sir Louis?" "Yes, Sir Louis. Greyson says that he will be down as soon as he can get out of his room." "What! to this house?" "What other house can he come to?" "Oh, uncle! I hope not. Pray, pray do not let him come here." "I cannot prevent it, my dear. I cannot shut my door on him." They sat down to breakfast, and Mary gave him his tea in silence. "I am going over to Boxall Hill before dinner," said he. "Have you any message to send to Lady Scatcherd?" "Message! no, I have no message; not especially: give her my love, of course," she said listlessly. And then, as though a thought had suddenly struck her, she spoke with more energy. "But, couldn't I go to Boxall Hill again? I should be so delighted." "What! to run away from Sir Louis? No, dearest, we will have no more running away. He will probably also go to Boxall Hill, and he could annoy you much more there than he can here." "But, uncle, Mr Gresham will be home on the 12th," she said, blushing. "What! Frank?" "Yes. Beatrice said he was to be here on the 12th." "And would you run away from him too, Mary?" "I do not know: I do not know what to do." "No; we will have no more running away: I am sorry that you ever did so. It was my fault, altogether my fault; but it was foolish." "Uncle, I am not happy here." As she said this, she put down the cup which she had held, and, leaning her elbows on the table, rested her forehead on her hands. "And would you be happier at Boxall Hill? It is not the place makes the happiness." "No, I know that; it is not the place. I do not look to be happy in any place; but I should be quieter, more tranquil elsewhere than here." "I also sometimes think that it will be better for us to take up our staves and walk away out of Greshamsbury;--leave it altogether, and settle elsewhere; miles, miles, miles away from here. Should you like that, dearest?" Miles, miles, miles away from Greshamsbury! There was something in the sound that fell very cold on Mary's ears, unhappy as she was. Greshamsbury had been so dear to her; in spite of all that had passed, was still so dear to her! Was she prepared to take up her staff, as her uncle said, and walk forth from the place with the full understanding that she was to return to it no more; with a mind resolved that there should be an inseparable gulf between her and its inhabitants? Such she knew was the proposed nature of the walking away of which her uncle spoke. So she sat there, resting on her arms, and gave no answer to the question that had been asked her. "No, we will stay a while yet," said her uncle. "It may come to that, but this is not the time. For one season longer let us face--I will not say our enemies; I cannot call anybody my enemy who bears the name of Gresham." And then he went on for a moment with his breakfast. "So Frank will be here on the 12th?" "Yes, uncle." "Well, dearest, I have no questions to ask you: no directions to give. I know how good you are, and how prudent; I am anxious only for your happiness; not at all--" "Happiness, uncle, is out of the question." "I hope not. It is never out of the question, never can be out of the question. But, as I was saying, I am quite satisfied your conduct will be good, and, therefore, I have no questions to ask. We will remain here; and, whether good or evil come, we will not be ashamed to show our faces." She sat for a while again silent, collecting her courage on the subject that was nearest her heart. She would have given the world that he should ask her questions; but she could not bid him to do so; and she found it impossible to talk openly to him about Frank unless he did so. "Will he come here?" at last she said, in a low-toned voice. "Who? He, Louis? Yes, I think that in all probability he will." "No; but Frank," she said, in a still lower voice. "Ah! my darling, that I cannot tell; but will it be well that he should come here?" "I do not know," she said. "No, I suppose not. But, uncle, I don't think he will come." She was now sitting on a sofa away from the table, and he got up, sat down beside her, and took her hands in his. "Mary," said he, "you must be strong now; strong to endure, not to attack. I think you have that strength; but, if not, perhaps it will be better that we should go away." "I will be strong," said she, rising up and going towards the door. "Never mind me, uncle; don't follow me; I will be strong. It will be base, cowardly, mean, to run away; very base in me to make you do so." "No, dearest, not so; it will be the same to me." "No," said she, "I will not run away from Lady Arabella. And, as for him--if he loves this other one, he shall hear no reproach from me. Uncle, I will be strong;" and running back to him, she threw her arms round him and kissed him. And, still restraining her tears, she got safely to her bedroom. In what way she may there have shown her strength, it would not be well for us to inquire. CHAPTER XXXIV A Barouche and Four Arrives at Greshamsbury During the last twelve months Sir Louis Scatcherd had been very efficacious in bringing trouble, turmoil, and vexation upon Greshamsbury. Now that it was too late to take steps to save himself, Dr Thorne found that the will left by Sir Roger was so made as to entail upon him duties that he would find it almost impossible to perform. Sir Louis, though his father had wished to make him still a child in the eye of the law, was no child. He knew his own rights and was determined to exact them; and before Sir Roger had been dead three months, the doctor found himself in continual litigation with a low Barchester attorney, who was acting on behalf of his, the doctor's, own ward. And if the doctor suffered so did the squire, and so did those who had hitherto had the management of the squire's affairs. Dr Thorne soon perceived that he was to be driven into litigation, not only with Mr Finnie, the Barchester attorney, but with the squire himself. While Finnie harassed him, he was compelled to harass Mr Gresham. He was no lawyer himself; and though he had been able to manage very well between the squire and Sir Roger, and had perhaps given himself some credit for his lawyer-like ability in so doing, he was utterly unable to manage between Sir Louis and Mr Gresham. He had, therefore, to employ a lawyer on his own account, and it seemed probable that the whole amount of Sir Roger's legacy to himself would by degrees be expended in this manner. And then, the squire's lawyers had to take up the matter; and they did so greatly to the detriment of poor Mr Yates Umbleby, who was found to have made a mess of the affairs entrusted to him. Mr Umbleby's accounts were incorrect; his mind was anything but clear, and he confessed, when put to it by the very sharp gentleman that came down from London, that he was "bothered;" and so, after a while, he was suspended from his duties, and Mr Gazebee, the sharp gentleman from London, reigned over the diminished rent-roll of the Greshamsbury estate. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury--with the one exception of Mr Oriel and his love-suit. Miss Gushing attributed the deposition of Mr Umbleby to the narrowness of the victory which Beatrice had won in carrying off Mr Oriel. For Miss Gushing was a relation of the Umblebys, and had been for many years one of their family. "If she had only chosen to exert herself as Miss Gresham had done, she could have had Mr Oriel, easily; oh, too easily! but she had despised such work," so she said. "But though she had despised it, the Greshams had not been less irritated, and, therefore, Mr Umbleby had been driven out of his house." We can hardly believe this, as victory generally makes men generous. Miss Gushing, however, stated it as a fact so often that it is probable she was induced to believe it herself. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury, and the squire himself was especially a sufferer. Umbleby had at any rate been his own man, and he could do what he liked with him. He could see him when he liked, and where he liked, and how he liked; could scold him if in an ill-humour, and laugh at him when in a good humour. All this Mr Umbleby knew, and bore. But Mr Gazebee was a very different sort of gentleman; he was the junior partner in the firm of Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, of Mount Street, a house that never defiled itself with any other business than the agency business, and that in the very highest line. They drew out leases, and managed property both for the Duke of Omnium and Lord de Courcy; and ever since her marriage, it had been one of the objects dearest to Lady Arabella's heart, that the Greshamsbury acres should be superintended by the polite skill and polished legal ability of that all but elegant firm in Mount Street. The squire had long stood firm, and had delighted in having everything done under his own eye by poor Mr Yates Umbleby. But now, alas! he could stand it no longer. He had put off the evil day as long as he could; he had deferred the odious work of investigation till things had seemed resolved on investigating themselves; and then, when it was absolutely necessary that Mr Umbleby should go, there was nothing for him left but to fall into the ready hands of Messrs Gumption, Gazebee and Gazebee. It must not be supposed that Messrs Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee were in the least like the ordinary run of attorneys. They wrote no letters for six-and-eightpence each: they collected no debts, filed no bills, made no charge per folio for "whereases" and "as aforesaids;" they did no dirty work, and probably were as ignorant of the interior of a court of law as any young lady living in their Mayfair vicinity. No; their business was to manage the property of great people, draw up leases, make legal assignments, get the family marriage settlements made, and look after wills. Occasionally, also, they had to raise money; but it was generally understood that this was done by proxy. The firm had been going on for a hundred and fifty years, and the designation had often been altered; but it always consisted of Gumptions and Gazebees differently arranged, and no less hallowed names had ever been permitted to appear. It had been Gazebee, Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee, Gumption & Gumption; then Gumption, Gumption & Gazebee; and now it was Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee. Mr Gazebee, the junior member of this firm, was a very elegant young man. While looking at him riding in Rotten Row, you would hardly have taken him for an attorney; and had he heard that you had so taken him, he would have been very much surprised indeed. He was rather bald; not being, as people say, quite so young as he was once. His exact age was thirty-eight. But he had a really remarkable pair of jet-black whiskers, which fully made up for any deficiency as to his head; he had also dark eyes, and a beaked nose, what may be called a distinguished mouth, and was always dressed in fashionable attire. The fact was, that Mr Mortimer Gazebee, junior partner in the firm Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, by no means considered himself to be made of that very disagreeable material which mortals call small beer. When this great firm was applied to, to get Mr Gresham through his difficulties, and when the state of his affairs was made known to them, they at first expressed rather a disinclination for the work. But at last, moved doubtless by their respect for the de Courcy interest, they assented; and Mr Gazebee, junior, went down to Greshamsbury. The poor squire passed many a sad day after that before he again felt himself to be master even of his own domain. Nevertheless, when Mr Mortimer Gazebee visited Greshamsbury, which he did on more than one or two occasions, he was always received _en grand seigneur_. To Lady Arabella he was by no means an unwelcome guest, for she found herself able, for the first time in her life, to speak confidentially on her husband's pecuniary affairs with the man who had the management of her husband's property. Mr Gazebee also was a pet with Lady de Courcy; and being known to be a fashionable man in London, and quite a different sort of person from poor Mr Umbleby, he was always received with smiles. He had a hundred little ways of making himself agreeable, and Augusta declared to her cousin, the Lady Amelia, after having been acquainted with him for a few months, that he would be a perfect gentleman, only, that his family had never been anything but attorneys. The Lady Amelia smiled in her own peculiarly aristocratic way, shrugged her shoulders slightly, and said, "that Mr Mortimer Gazebee was a very good sort of a person, very." Poor Augusta felt herself snubbed, thinking perhaps of the tailor's son; but as there was never any appeal against the Lady Amelia, she said nothing more at that moment in favour of Mr Mortimer Gazebee. All these evils--Mr Mortimer Gazebee being the worst of them--had Sir Louis Scatcherd brought down on the poor squire's head. There may be those who will say that the squire had brought them on himself, by running into debt; and so, doubtless, he had; but it was not the less true that the baronet's interference was unnecessary, vexatious, and one might almost say, malicious. His interest would have been quite safe in the doctor's hands, and he had, in fact, no legal right to meddle; but neither the doctor nor the squire could prevent him. Mr Finnie knew very well what he was about, if Sir Louis did not; and so the three went on, each with his own lawyer, and each of them distrustful, unhappy, and ill at ease. This was hard upon the doctor, for he was not in debt, and had borrowed no money. There was not much reason to suppose that the visit of Sir Louis to Greshamsbury would much improve matters. It must be presumed that he was not coming with any amicable views, but with the object rather of looking after his own; a phrase which was now constantly in his mouth. He might probably find it necessary while looking after his own at Greshamsbury, to say some very disagreeable things to the squire; and the doctor, therefore, hardly expected that the visit would go off pleasantly. When last we saw Sir Louis, now nearly twelve months since, he was intent on making a proposal of marriage to Miss Thorne. This intention he carried out about two days after Frank Gresham had done the same thing. He had delayed doing so till he had succeeded in purchasing his friend Jenkins's Arab pony, imagining that such a present could not but go far in weaning Mary's heart from her other lover. Poor Mary was put to the trouble of refusing both the baronet and the pony, and a very bad time she had of it while doing so. Sir Louis was a man easily angered, and not very easily pacified, and Mary had to endure a good deal of annoyance; from any other person, indeed, she would have called it impertinence. Sir Louis, however, had to bear his rejection as best he could, and, after a perseverance of three days, returned to London in disgust; and Mary had not seen him since. Mr Greyson's first letter was followed by a second; and the second was followed by the baronet in person. He also required to be received _en grand seigneur_, perhaps more imperatively than Mr Mortimer Gazebee himself. He came with four posters from the Barchester Station, and had himself rattled up to the doctor's door in a way that took the breath away from all Greshamsbury. Why! the squire himself for a many long year had been contented to come home with a pair of horses; and four were never seen in the place, except when the de Courcys came to Greshamsbury, or Lady Arabella with all her daughters returned from her hard-fought metropolitan campaigns. Sir Louis, however, came with four, and very arrogant he looked, leaning back in the barouche belonging to the George and Dragon, and wrapped up in fur, although it was now midsummer. And up in the dicky behind was a servant, more arrogant, if possible, than his master--the baronet's own man, who was the object of Dr Thorne's special detestation and disgust. He was a little fellow, chosen originally on account of his light weight on horseback; but if that may be considered a merit, it was the only one he had. His out-door show dress was a little tight frock-coat, round which a polished strap was always buckled tightly, a stiff white choker, leather breeches, top-boots, and a hat, with a cockade, stuck on one side of his head. His name was Jonah, which his master and his master's friends shortened into Joe; none, however, but those who were very intimate with his master were allowed to do so with impunity. This Joe was Dr Thorne's special aversion. In his anxiety to take every possible step to keep Sir Louis from poisoning himself, he had at first attempted to enlist the baronet's "own man" in the cause. Joe had promised fairly, but had betrayed the doctor at once, and had become the worst

coldness

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

you know--I thought you always said so--I have always told mamma so as if it came from yourself." "Beatrice, do not tell anything to Lady Arabella as though it came from me; I do not want anything to be told to her, either of me or from me. Say what you like to me yourself; whatever you say will not anger me. Indeed, I know what you would say--and yet I love you. Oh, I love you, Trichy--Trichy, I do love you so much! Don't turn away from me!" There was such a mixture in Mary's manner of tenderness and almost ferocity, that poor Beatrice could hardly follow her. "Turn away from you, Mary! no never; but this does make me unhappy." "It is better that you should know it all, and then you will not be led into fighting my battles again. You cannot fight them so that I should win; I do love your brother; love him truly, fondly, tenderly. I would wish to have him for my husband as you wish to have Mr Oriel." "But, Mary, you cannot marry him!" "Why not?" said she, in a loud voice. "Why can I not marry him? If the priest says a blessing over us, shall we not be married as well as you and your husband?" "But you know he cannot marry unless his wife shall have money." "Money--money; and he is to sell himself for money? Oh, Trichy! do not you talk about money. It is horrible. But, Trichy, I will grant it--I cannot marry him; but still, I love him. He has a name, a place in the world, and fortune, family, high blood, position, everything. He has all this, and I have nothing. Of course I cannot marry him. But yet I do love him." "Are you engaged to him, Mary?" "He is not engaged to me; but I am to him." "Oh, Mary, that is impossible!" "It is not impossible: it is the case--I am pledged to him; but he is not pledged to me." "But, Mary, don't look at me in that way. I do not quite understand you. What is the good of your being engaged if you cannot marry him?" "Good! there is no good. But can I help it, if I love him? Can I make myself not love him by just wishing it? Oh, I would do it if I could. But now you will understand why I shake my head when you talk of my coming to your house. Your ways and my ways must be different." Beatrice was startled, and, for a time, silenced. What Mary said of the difference of their ways was quite true. Beatrice had dearly loved her friend, and had thought of her with affection through all this long period in which they had been separated; but she had given her love and her thoughts on the understanding, as it were, that they were in unison as to the impropriety of Frank's conduct. She had always spoken, with a grave face, of Frank and his love as of a great misfortune, even to Mary herself; and her pity for Mary had been founded on the conviction of her innocence. Now all those ideas had to be altered. Mary owned her fault, confessed herself to be guilty of all that Lady Arabella so frequently laid to her charge, and confessed herself anxious to commit every crime as to which Beatrice had been ever so ready to defend her. Had Beatrice up to this dreamed that Mary was in love with Frank, she would doubtless have sympathised with her more or less, sooner or later. As it was, it was beyond all doubt that she would soon sympathise with her. But, at the moment, the suddenness of the declaration seemed to harden her heart, and she forgot, as it were, to speak tenderly to her friend. She was silent, therefore, and dismayed; and looked as though she thought that her ways and Mary's ways must be different. Mary saw all that was passing in the other's mind: no, not all; all the hostility, the disappointment, the disapproval, the unhappiness, she did see; but not the under-current of love, which was strong enough to well up and drown all these, if only time could be allowed for it to do so. "I am glad I have told you," said Mary, curbing herself, "for deceit and hypocrisy are detestable." "It was a misunderstanding, not deceit," said Beatrice. "Well, now we understand each other; now you know that I have a heart within me, which like those of some others has not always been under my own control. Lady Arabella believes that I am intriguing to be the mistress of Greshamsbury. You, at any rate, will not think that of me. If it could be discovered to-morrow that Frank were not the heir, I might have some chance of happiness." "But, Mary--" "Well?" "You say you love him." "Yes; I do say so." "But if he does not love you, will you cease to do so?" "If I have a fever, I will get rid of it if I can; in such case I must do so, or die." "I fear," continued Beatrice, "you hardly know, perhaps do not think, what is Frank's real character. He is not made to settle down early in life; even now, I believe he is attached to some lady in London, whom, of course, he cannot marry." Beatrice said this in perfect trueness of heart. She had heard of Frank's new love-affair, and believing what she had heard, thought it best to tell the truth. But the information was not of a kind to quiet Mary's spirit. "Very well," said she, "let it be so. I have nothing to say against it." "But are you not preparing wretchedness and unhappiness for yourself?" "Very likely." "Oh, Mary, do not be so cold with me! you know how delighted I should be to have you for a sister-in-law, if only it were possible." "Yes, Trichy; but it is impossible, is it not? Impossible that Francis Gresham of Greshamsbury should disgrace himself by marrying such a poor creature as I am. Of course, I know it; of course, I am prepared for unhappiness and misery. He can amuse himself as he likes with me or others--with anybody. It is his privilege. It is quite enough to say that he is not made for settling down. I know my own position;--and yet I love him." "But, Mary, has he asked you to be his wife? If so--" "You ask home-questions, Beatrice. Let me ask you one; has he ever told you that he has done so?" At this moment Beatrice was not disposed to repeat all that Frank had said. A year ago, before he went away, he had told his sister a score of times that he meant to marry Mary Thorne if she would have him; but Beatrice now looked on all that as idle, boyish vapouring. The pity was, that Mary should have looked on it differently. "We will each keep our secret," said Mary. "Only remember this: should Frank marry to-morrow, I shall have no ground for blaming him. He is free as far I as am concerned. He can take the London lady if he likes. You may tell him so from me. But, Trichy, what else I have told you, I have told you only." "Oh, yes!" said Beatrice, sadly; "I shall say nothing of it to anybody. It is very sad, very, very; I was so happy when I came here, and now I am so wretched." This was the end of that delicious talk to which she had looked forward with so much eagerness. "Don't be wretched about me, dearest; I shall get through it. I sometimes think I was born to be unhappy, and that unhappiness agrees with me best. Kiss me now, Trichy, and don't be wretched any more. You owe it to Mr Oriel to be as happy as the day is long." And then they parted. Beatrice, as she went out, saw Dr Thorne in his little shop on the right-hand side of the passage, deeply engaged in some derogatory branch of an apothecary's mechanical trade; mixing a dose, perhaps, for a little child. She would have passed him without speaking if she could have been sure of doing so without notice, for her heart was full, and her eyes were red with tears; but it was so long since she had been in his house that she was more than ordinarily anxious not to appear uncourteous or unkind to him. "Good morning, doctor," she said, changing her countenance as best she might, and attempting a smile. "Ah, my fairy!" said he, leaving his villainous compounds, and coming out to her; "and you, too, are about to become a steady old lady." "Indeed, I am not, doctor; I don't mean to be either steady or old for the next ten years. But who has told you? I suppose Mary has been a traitor." "Well, I will confess, Mary was the traitor. But hadn't I a right to be told, seeing how often I have brought you sugar-plums in my pocket? But I wish you joy with all my heart,--with all my heart. Oriel is an excellent, good fellow." "Is he not, doctor?" "An excellent, good fellow. I never heard but of one fault that he had." "What was that one fault, Doctor Thorne?" "He thought that clergymen should not marry. But you have cured that, and now he's perfect." "Thank you, doctor. I declare that you say the prettiest things of all my friends." "And none of your friends wish prettier things for you. I do congratulate you, Beatrice, and hope you may be happy with the man you have chosen;" and taking both her hands in his, he pressed them warmly, and bade God bless her. "Oh, doctor! I do so hope the time will come when we shall all be friends again." "I hope it as well, my dear. But let it come, or let it not come, my regard for you will be the same:" and then she parted from him also, and went her way. Nothing was spoken of that evening between Dr Thorne and his niece excepting Beatrice's future happiness; nothing, at least, having reference to what had passed that morning. But on the following morning circumstances led to Frank Gresham's name being mentioned. At the usual breakfast-hour the doctor entered the parlour with a harassed face. He had an open letter in his hand, and it was at once clear to Mary that he was going to speak on some subject that vexed him. "That unfortunate fellow is again in trouble. Here is a letter from Greyson." Greyson was a London apothecary, who had been appointed as medical attendant to Sir Louis Scatcherd, and whose real business consisted in keeping a watch on the baronet, and reporting to Dr Thorne when anything was very much amiss. "Here is a letter from Greyson; he has been drunk for the last three days, and is now laid up in a terribly nervous state." "You won't go up to town again; will you, uncle?" "I hardly know what to do. No, I think not. He talks of coming down here to Greshamsbury." "Who, Sir Louis?" "Yes, Sir Louis. Greyson says that he will be down as soon as he can get out of his room." "What! to this house?" "What other house can he come to?" "Oh, uncle! I hope not. Pray, pray do not let him come here." "I cannot prevent it, my dear. I cannot shut my door on him." They sat down to breakfast, and Mary gave him his tea in silence. "I am going over to Boxall Hill before dinner," said he. "Have you any message to send to Lady Scatcherd?" "Message! no, I have no message; not especially: give her my love, of course," she said listlessly. And then, as though a thought had suddenly struck her, she spoke with more energy. "But, couldn't I go to Boxall Hill again? I should be so delighted." "What! to run away from Sir Louis? No, dearest, we will have no more running away. He will probably also go to Boxall Hill, and he could annoy you much more there than he can here." "But, uncle, Mr Gresham will be home on the 12th," she said, blushing. "What! Frank?" "Yes. Beatrice said he was to be here on the 12th." "And would you run away from him too, Mary?" "I do not know: I do not know what to do." "No; we will have no more running away: I am sorry that you ever did so. It was my fault, altogether my fault; but it was foolish." "Uncle, I am not happy here." As she said this, she put down the cup which she had held, and, leaning her elbows on the table, rested her forehead on her hands. "And would you be happier at Boxall Hill? It is not the place makes the happiness." "No, I know that; it is not the place. I do not look to be happy in any place; but I should be quieter, more tranquil elsewhere than here." "I also sometimes think that it will be better for us to take up our staves and walk away out of Greshamsbury;--leave it altogether, and settle elsewhere; miles, miles, miles away from here. Should you like that, dearest?" Miles, miles, miles away from Greshamsbury! There was something in the sound that fell very cold on Mary's ears, unhappy as she was. Greshamsbury had been so dear to her; in spite of all that had passed, was still so dear to her! Was she prepared to take up her staff, as her uncle said, and walk forth from the place with the full understanding that she was to return to it no more; with a mind resolved that there should be an inseparable gulf between her and its inhabitants? Such she knew was the proposed nature of the walking away of which her uncle spoke. So she sat there, resting on her arms, and gave no answer to the question that had been asked her. "No, we will stay a while yet," said her uncle. "It may come to that, but this is not the time. For one season longer let us face--I will not say our enemies; I cannot call anybody my enemy who bears the name of Gresham." And then he went on for a moment with his breakfast. "So Frank will be here on the 12th?" "Yes, uncle." "Well, dearest, I have no questions to ask you: no directions to give. I know how good you are, and how prudent; I am anxious only for your happiness; not at all--" "Happiness, uncle, is out of the question." "I hope not. It is never out of the question, never can be out of the question. But, as I was saying, I am quite satisfied your conduct will be good, and, therefore, I have no questions to ask. We will remain here; and, whether good or evil come, we will not be ashamed to show our faces." She sat for a while again silent, collecting her courage on the subject that was nearest her heart. She would have given the world that he should ask her questions; but she could not bid him to do so; and she found it impossible to talk openly to him about Frank unless he did so. "Will he come here?" at last she said, in a low-toned voice. "Who? He, Louis? Yes, I think that in all probability he will." "No; but Frank," she said, in a still lower voice. "Ah! my darling, that I cannot tell; but will it be well that he should come here?" "I do not know," she said. "No, I suppose not. But, uncle, I don't think he will come." She was now sitting on a sofa away from the table, and he got up, sat down beside her, and took her hands in his. "Mary," said he, "you must be strong now; strong to endure, not to attack. I think you have that strength; but, if not, perhaps it will be better that we should go away." "I will be strong," said she, rising up and going towards the door. "Never mind me, uncle; don't follow me; I will be strong. It will be base, cowardly, mean, to run away; very base in me to make you do so." "No, dearest, not so; it will be the same to me." "No," said she, "I will not run away from Lady Arabella. And, as for him--if he loves this other one, he shall hear no reproach from me. Uncle, I will be strong;" and running back to him, she threw her arms round him and kissed him. And, still restraining her tears, she got safely to her bedroom. In what way she may there have shown her strength, it would not be well for us to inquire. CHAPTER XXXIV A Barouche and Four Arrives at Greshamsbury During the last twelve months Sir Louis Scatcherd had been very efficacious in bringing trouble, turmoil, and vexation upon Greshamsbury. Now that it was too late to take steps to save himself, Dr Thorne found that the will left by Sir Roger was so made as to entail upon him duties that he would find it almost impossible to perform. Sir Louis, though his father had wished to make him still a child in the eye of the law, was no child. He knew his own rights and was determined to exact them; and before Sir Roger had been dead three months, the doctor found himself in continual litigation with a low Barchester attorney, who was acting on behalf of his, the doctor's, own ward. And if the doctor suffered so did the squire, and so did those who had hitherto had the management of the squire's affairs. Dr Thorne soon perceived that he was to be driven into litigation, not only with Mr Finnie, the Barchester attorney, but with the squire himself. While Finnie harassed him, he was compelled to harass Mr Gresham. He was no lawyer himself; and though he had been able to manage very well between the squire and Sir Roger, and had perhaps given himself some credit for his lawyer-like ability in so doing, he was utterly unable to manage between Sir Louis and Mr Gresham. He had, therefore, to employ a lawyer on his own account, and it seemed probable that the whole amount of Sir Roger's legacy to himself would by degrees be expended in this manner. And then, the squire's lawyers had to take up the matter; and they did so greatly to the detriment of poor Mr Yates Umbleby, who was found to have made a mess of the affairs entrusted to him. Mr Umbleby's accounts were incorrect; his mind was anything but clear, and he confessed, when put to it by the very sharp gentleman that came down from London, that he was "bothered;" and so, after a while, he was suspended from his duties, and Mr Gazebee, the sharp gentleman from London, reigned over the diminished rent-roll of the Greshamsbury estate. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury--with the one exception of Mr Oriel and his love-suit. Miss Gushing attributed the deposition of Mr Umbleby to the narrowness of the victory which Beatrice had won in carrying off Mr Oriel. For Miss Gushing was a relation of the Umblebys, and had been for many years one of their family. "If she had only chosen to exert herself as Miss Gresham had done, she could have had Mr Oriel, easily; oh, too easily! but she had despised such work," so she said. "But though she had despised it, the Greshams had not been less irritated, and, therefore, Mr Umbleby had been driven out of his house." We can hardly believe this, as victory generally makes men generous. Miss Gushing, however, stated it as a fact so often that it is probable she was induced to believe it herself. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury, and the squire himself was especially a sufferer. Umbleby had at any rate been his own man, and he could do what he liked with him. He could see him when he liked, and where he liked, and how he liked; could scold him if in an ill-humour, and laugh at him when in a good humour. All this Mr Umbleby knew, and bore. But Mr Gazebee was a very different sort of gentleman; he was the junior partner in the firm of Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, of Mount Street, a house that never defiled itself with any other business than the agency business, and that in the very highest line. They drew out leases, and managed property both for the Duke of Omnium and Lord de Courcy; and ever since her marriage, it had been one of the objects dearest to Lady Arabella's heart, that the Greshamsbury acres should be superintended by the polite skill and polished legal ability of that all but elegant firm in Mount Street. The squire had long stood firm, and had delighted in having everything done under his own eye by poor Mr Yates Umbleby. But now, alas! he could stand it no longer. He had put off the evil day as long as he could; he had deferred the odious work of investigation till things had seemed resolved on investigating themselves; and then, when it was absolutely necessary that Mr Umbleby should go, there was nothing for him left but to fall into the ready hands of Messrs Gumption, Gazebee and Gazebee. It must not be supposed that Messrs Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee were in the least like the ordinary run of attorneys. They wrote no letters for six-and-eightpence each: they collected no debts, filed no bills, made no charge per folio for "whereases" and "as aforesaids;" they did no dirty work, and probably were as ignorant of the interior of a court of law as any young lady living in their Mayfair vicinity. No; their business was to manage the property of great people, draw up leases, make legal assignments, get the family marriage settlements made, and look after wills. Occasionally, also, they had to raise money; but it was generally understood that this was done by proxy. The firm had been going on for a hundred and fifty years, and the designation had often been altered; but it always consisted of Gumptions and Gazebees differently arranged, and no less hallowed names had ever been permitted to appear. It had been Gazebee, Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee, Gumption & Gumption; then Gumption, Gumption & Gazebee; and now it was Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee. Mr Gazebee, the junior member of this firm, was a very elegant young man. While looking at him riding in Rotten Row, you would hardly have taken him for an attorney; and had he heard that you had so taken him, he would have been very much surprised indeed. He was rather bald; not being, as people say, quite so young as he was once. His exact age was thirty-eight. But he had a really remarkable pair of jet-black whiskers, which fully made up for any deficiency as to his head; he had also dark eyes, and a beaked nose, what may be called a distinguished mouth, and was always dressed in fashionable attire. The fact was, that Mr Mortimer Gazebee, junior partner in the firm Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, by no means considered himself to be made of that very disagreeable material which mortals call small beer. When this great firm was applied to, to get Mr Gresham through his difficulties, and when the state of his affairs was made known to them, they at first expressed rather a disinclination for the work. But at last, moved doubtless by their respect for the de Courcy interest, they assented; and Mr Gazebee, junior, went down to Greshamsbury. The poor squire passed many a sad day after that before he again felt himself to be master even of his own domain. Nevertheless, when Mr Mortimer Gazebee visited Greshamsbury, which he did on more than one or two occasions, he was always received _en grand seigneur_. To Lady Arabella he was by no means an unwelcome guest, for she found herself able, for the first time in her life, to speak confidentially on her husband's pecuniary affairs with the man who had the management of her husband's property. Mr Gazebee also was a pet with Lady de Courcy; and being known to be a fashionable man in London, and quite a different sort of person from poor Mr Umbleby, he was always received with smiles. He had a hundred little ways of making himself agreeable, and Augusta declared to her cousin, the Lady Amelia, after having been acquainted with him for a few months, that he would be a perfect gentleman, only, that his family had never been anything but attorneys. The Lady Amelia smiled in her own peculiarly aristocratic way, shrugged her shoulders slightly, and said, "that Mr Mortimer Gazebee was a very good sort of a person, very." Poor Augusta felt herself snubbed, thinking perhaps of the tailor's son; but as there was never any appeal against the Lady Amelia, she said nothing more at that moment in favour of Mr Mortimer Gazebee. All these evils--Mr Mortimer Gazebee being the worst of them--had Sir Louis Scatcherd brought down on the poor squire's head. There may be those who will say that the squire had brought them on himself, by running into debt; and so, doubtless, he had; but it was not the less true that the baronet's interference was unnecessary, vexatious, and one might almost say, malicious. His interest would have been quite safe in the doctor's hands, and he had, in fact, no legal right to meddle; but neither the doctor nor the squire could prevent him. Mr Finnie knew very well what he was about, if Sir Louis did not; and so the three went on, each with his own lawyer, and each of them distrustful, unhappy, and ill at ease. This was hard upon the doctor, for he was not in debt, and had borrowed no money. There was not much reason to suppose that the visit of Sir Louis to Greshamsbury would much improve matters. It must be presumed that he was not coming with any amicable views, but with the object rather of looking after his own; a phrase which was now constantly in his mouth. He might probably find it necessary while looking after his own at Greshamsbury, to say some very disagreeable things to the squire; and the doctor, therefore, hardly expected that the visit would go off pleasantly. When last we saw Sir Louis, now nearly twelve months since, he was intent on making a proposal of marriage to Miss Thorne. This intention he carried out about two days after Frank Gresham had done the same thing. He had delayed doing so till he had succeeded in purchasing his friend Jenkins's Arab pony, imagining that such a present could not but go far in weaning Mary's heart from her other lover. Poor Mary was put to the trouble of refusing both the baronet and the pony, and a very bad time she had of it while doing so. Sir Louis was a man easily angered, and not very easily pacified, and Mary had to endure a good deal of annoyance; from any other person, indeed, she would have called it impertinence. Sir Louis, however, had to bear his rejection as best he could, and, after a perseverance of three days, returned to London in disgust; and Mary had not seen him since. Mr Greyson's first letter was followed by a second; and the second was followed by the baronet in person. He also required to be received _en grand seigneur_, perhaps more imperatively than Mr Mortimer Gazebee himself. He came with four posters from the Barchester Station, and had himself rattled up to the doctor's door in a way that took the breath away from all Greshamsbury. Why! the squire himself for a many long year had been contented to come home with a pair of horses; and four were never seen in the place, except when the de Courcys came to Greshamsbury, or Lady Arabella with all her daughters returned from her hard-fought metropolitan campaigns. Sir Louis, however, came with four, and very arrogant he looked, leaning back in the barouche belonging to the George and Dragon, and wrapped up in fur, although it was now midsummer. And up in the dicky behind was a servant, more arrogant, if possible, than his master--the baronet's own man, who was the object of Dr Thorne's special detestation and disgust. He was a little fellow, chosen originally on account of his light weight on horseback; but if that may be considered a merit, it was the only one he had. His out-door show dress was a little tight frock-coat, round which a polished strap was always buckled tightly, a stiff white choker, leather breeches, top-boots, and a hat, with a cockade, stuck on one side of his head. His name was Jonah, which his master and his master's friends shortened into Joe; none, however, but those who were very intimate with his master were allowed to do so with impunity. This Joe was Dr Thorne's special aversion. In his anxiety to take every possible step to keep Sir Louis from poisoning himself, he had at first attempted to enlist the baronet's "own man" in the cause. Joe had promised fairly, but had betrayed the doctor at once, and had become the worst

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

you know--I thought you always said so--I have always told mamma so as if it came from yourself." "Beatrice, do not tell anything to Lady Arabella as though it came from me; I do not want anything to be told to her, either of me or from me. Say what you like to me yourself; whatever you say will not anger me. Indeed, I know what you would say--and yet I love you. Oh, I love you, Trichy--Trichy, I do love you so much! Don't turn away from me!" There was such a mixture in Mary's manner of tenderness and almost ferocity, that poor Beatrice could hardly follow her. "Turn away from you, Mary! no never; but this does make me unhappy." "It is better that you should know it all, and then you will not be led into fighting my battles again. You cannot fight them so that I should win; I do love your brother; love him truly, fondly, tenderly. I would wish to have him for my husband as you wish to have Mr Oriel." "But, Mary, you cannot marry him!" "Why not?" said she, in a loud voice. "Why can I not marry him? If the priest says a blessing over us, shall we not be married as well as you and your husband?" "But you know he cannot marry unless his wife shall have money." "Money--money; and he is to sell himself for money? Oh, Trichy! do not you talk about money. It is horrible. But, Trichy, I will grant it--I cannot marry him; but still, I love him. He has a name, a place in the world, and fortune, family, high blood, position, everything. He has all this, and I have nothing. Of course I cannot marry him. But yet I do love him." "Are you engaged to him, Mary?" "He is not engaged to me; but I am to him." "Oh, Mary, that is impossible!" "It is not impossible: it is the case--I am pledged to him; but he is not pledged to me." "But, Mary, don't look at me in that way. I do not quite understand you. What is the good of your being engaged if you cannot marry him?" "Good! there is no good. But can I help it, if I love him? Can I make myself not love him by just wishing it? Oh, I would do it if I could. But now you will understand why I shake my head when you talk of my coming to your house. Your ways and my ways must be different." Beatrice was startled, and, for a time, silenced. What Mary said of the difference of their ways was quite true. Beatrice had dearly loved her friend, and had thought of her with affection through all this long period in which they had been separated; but she had given her love and her thoughts on the understanding, as it were, that they were in unison as to the impropriety of Frank's conduct. She had always spoken, with a grave face, of Frank and his love as of a great misfortune, even to Mary herself; and her pity for Mary had been founded on the conviction of her innocence. Now all those ideas had to be altered. Mary owned her fault, confessed herself to be guilty of all that Lady Arabella so frequently laid to her charge, and confessed herself anxious to commit every crime as to which Beatrice had been ever so ready to defend her. Had Beatrice up to this dreamed that Mary was in love with Frank, she would doubtless have sympathised with her more or less, sooner or later. As it was, it was beyond all doubt that she would soon sympathise with her. But, at the moment, the suddenness of the declaration seemed to harden her heart, and she forgot, as it were, to speak tenderly to her friend. She was silent, therefore, and dismayed; and looked as though she thought that her ways and Mary's ways must be different. Mary saw all that was passing in the other's mind: no, not all; all the hostility, the disappointment, the disapproval, the unhappiness, she did see; but not the under-current of love, which was strong enough to well up and drown all these, if only time could be allowed for it to do so. "I am glad I have told you," said Mary, curbing herself, "for deceit and hypocrisy are detestable." "It was a misunderstanding, not deceit," said Beatrice. "Well, now we understand each other; now you know that I have a heart within me, which like those of some others has not always been under my own control. Lady Arabella believes that I am intriguing to be the mistress of Greshamsbury. You, at any rate, will not think that of me. If it could be discovered to-morrow that Frank were not the heir, I might have some chance of happiness." "But, Mary--" "Well?" "You say you love him." "Yes; I do say so." "But if he does not love you, will you cease to do so?" "If I have a fever, I will get rid of it if I can; in such case I must do so, or die." "I fear," continued Beatrice, "you hardly know, perhaps do not think, what is Frank's real character. He is not made to settle down early in life; even now, I believe he is attached to some lady in London, whom, of course, he cannot marry." Beatrice said this in perfect trueness of heart. She had heard of Frank's new love-affair, and believing what she had heard, thought it best to tell the truth. But the information was not of a kind to quiet Mary's spirit. "Very well," said she, "let it be so. I have nothing to say against it." "But are you not preparing wretchedness and unhappiness for yourself?" "Very likely." "Oh, Mary, do not be so cold with me! you know how delighted I should be to have you for a sister-in-law, if only it were possible." "Yes, Trichy; but it is impossible, is it not? Impossible that Francis Gresham of Greshamsbury should disgrace himself by marrying such a poor creature as I am. Of course, I know it; of course, I am prepared for unhappiness and misery. He can amuse himself as he likes with me or others--with anybody. It is his privilege. It is quite enough to say that he is not made for settling down. I know my own position;--and yet I love him." "But, Mary, has he asked you to be his wife? If so--" "You ask home-questions, Beatrice. Let me ask you one; has he ever told you that he has done so?" At this moment Beatrice was not disposed to repeat all that Frank had said. A year ago, before he went away, he had told his sister a score of times that he meant to marry Mary Thorne if she would have him; but Beatrice now looked on all that as idle, boyish vapouring. The pity was, that Mary should have looked on it differently. "We will each keep our secret," said Mary. "Only remember this: should Frank marry to-morrow, I shall have no ground for blaming him. He is free as far I as am concerned. He can take the London lady if he likes. You may tell him so from me. But, Trichy, what else I have told you, I have told you only." "Oh, yes!" said Beatrice, sadly; "I shall say nothing of it to anybody. It is very sad, very, very; I was so happy when I came here, and now I am so wretched." This was the end of that delicious talk to which she had looked forward with so much eagerness. "Don't be wretched about me, dearest; I shall get through it. I sometimes think I was born to be unhappy, and that unhappiness agrees with me best. Kiss me now, Trichy, and don't be wretched any more. You owe it to Mr Oriel to be as happy as the day is long." And then they parted. Beatrice, as she went out, saw Dr Thorne in his little shop on the right-hand side of the passage, deeply engaged in some derogatory branch of an apothecary's mechanical trade; mixing a dose, perhaps, for a little child. She would have passed him without speaking if she could have been sure of doing so without notice, for her heart was full, and her eyes were red with tears; but it was so long since she had been in his house that she was more than ordinarily anxious not to appear uncourteous or unkind to him. "Good morning, doctor," she said, changing her countenance as best she might, and attempting a smile. "Ah, my fairy!" said he, leaving his villainous compounds, and coming out to her; "and you, too, are about to become a steady old lady." "Indeed, I am not, doctor; I don't mean to be either steady or old for the next ten years. But who has told you? I suppose Mary has been a traitor." "Well, I will confess, Mary was the traitor. But hadn't I a right to be told, seeing how often I have brought you sugar-plums in my pocket? But I wish you joy with all my heart,--with all my heart. Oriel is an excellent, good fellow." "Is he not, doctor?" "An excellent, good fellow. I never heard but of one fault that he had." "What was that one fault, Doctor Thorne?" "He thought that clergymen should not marry. But you have cured that, and now he's perfect." "Thank you, doctor. I declare that you say the prettiest things of all my friends." "And none of your friends wish prettier things for you. I do congratulate you, Beatrice, and hope you may be happy with the man you have chosen;" and taking both her hands in his, he pressed them warmly, and bade God bless her. "Oh, doctor! I do so hope the time will come when we shall all be friends again." "I hope it as well, my dear. But let it come, or let it not come, my regard for you will be the same:" and then she parted from him also, and went her way. Nothing was spoken of that evening between Dr Thorne and his niece excepting Beatrice's future happiness; nothing, at least, having reference to what had passed that morning. But on the following morning circumstances led to Frank Gresham's name being mentioned. At the usual breakfast-hour the doctor entered the parlour with a harassed face. He had an open letter in his hand, and it was at once clear to Mary that he was going to speak on some subject that vexed him. "That unfortunate fellow is again in trouble. Here is a letter from Greyson." Greyson was a London apothecary, who had been appointed as medical attendant to Sir Louis Scatcherd, and whose real business consisted in keeping a watch on the baronet, and reporting to Dr Thorne when anything was very much amiss. "Here is a letter from Greyson; he has been drunk for the last three days, and is now laid up in a terribly nervous state." "You won't go up to town again; will you, uncle?" "I hardly know what to do. No, I think not. He talks of coming down here to Greshamsbury." "Who, Sir Louis?" "Yes, Sir Louis. Greyson says that he will be down as soon as he can get out of his room." "What! to this house?" "What other house can he come to?" "Oh, uncle! I hope not. Pray, pray do not let him come here." "I cannot prevent it, my dear. I cannot shut my door on him." They sat down to breakfast, and Mary gave him his tea in silence. "I am going over to Boxall Hill before dinner," said he. "Have you any message to send to Lady Scatcherd?" "Message! no, I have no message; not especially: give her my love, of course," she said listlessly. And then, as though a thought had suddenly struck her, she spoke with more energy. "But, couldn't I go to Boxall Hill again? I should be so delighted." "What! to run away from Sir Louis? No, dearest, we will have no more running away. He will probably also go to Boxall Hill, and he could annoy you much more there than he can here." "But, uncle, Mr Gresham will be home on the 12th," she said, blushing. "What! Frank?" "Yes. Beatrice said he was to be here on the 12th." "And would you run away from him too, Mary?" "I do not know: I do not know what to do." "No; we will have no more running away: I am sorry that you ever did so. It was my fault, altogether my fault; but it was foolish." "Uncle, I am not happy here." As she said this, she put down the cup which she had held, and, leaning her elbows on the table, rested her forehead on her hands. "And would you be happier at Boxall Hill? It is not the place makes the happiness." "No, I know that; it is not the place. I do not look to be happy in any place; but I should be quieter, more tranquil elsewhere than here." "I also sometimes think that it will be better for us to take up our staves and walk away out of Greshamsbury;--leave it altogether, and settle elsewhere; miles, miles, miles away from here. Should you like that, dearest?" Miles, miles, miles away from Greshamsbury! There was something in the sound that fell very cold on Mary's ears, unhappy as she was. Greshamsbury had been so dear to her; in spite of all that had passed, was still so dear to her! Was she prepared to take up her staff, as her uncle said, and walk forth from the place with the full understanding that she was to return to it no more; with a mind resolved that there should be an inseparable gulf between her and its inhabitants? Such she knew was the proposed nature of the walking away of which her uncle spoke. So she sat there, resting on her arms, and gave no answer to the question that had been asked her. "No, we will stay a while yet," said her uncle. "It may come to that, but this is not the time. For one season longer let us face--I will not say our enemies; I cannot call anybody my enemy who bears the name of Gresham." And then he went on for a moment with his breakfast. "So Frank will be here on the 12th?" "Yes, uncle." "Well, dearest, I have no questions to ask you: no directions to give. I know how good you are, and how prudent; I am anxious only for your happiness; not at all--" "Happiness, uncle, is out of the question." "I hope not. It is never out of the question, never can be out of the question. But, as I was saying, I am quite satisfied your conduct will be good, and, therefore, I have no questions to ask. We will remain here; and, whether good or evil come, we will not be ashamed to show our faces." She sat for a while again silent, collecting her courage on the subject that was nearest her heart. She would have given the world that he should ask her questions; but she could not bid him to do so; and she found it impossible to talk openly to him about Frank unless he did so. "Will he come here?" at last she said, in a low-toned voice. "Who? He, Louis? Yes, I think that in all probability he will." "No; but Frank," she said, in a still lower voice. "Ah! my darling, that I cannot tell; but will it be well that he should come here?" "I do not know," she said. "No, I suppose not. But, uncle, I don't think he will come." She was now sitting on a sofa away from the table, and he got up, sat down beside her, and took her hands in his. "Mary," said he, "you must be strong now; strong to endure, not to attack. I think you have that strength; but, if not, perhaps it will be better that we should go away." "I will be strong," said she, rising up and going towards the door. "Never mind me, uncle; don't follow me; I will be strong. It will be base, cowardly, mean, to run away; very base in me to make you do so." "No, dearest, not so; it will be the same to me." "No," said she, "I will not run away from Lady Arabella. And, as for him--if he loves this other one, he shall hear no reproach from me. Uncle, I will be strong;" and running back to him, she threw her arms round him and kissed him. And, still restraining her tears, she got safely to her bedroom. In what way she may there have shown her strength, it would not be well for us to inquire. CHAPTER XXXIV A Barouche and Four Arrives at Greshamsbury During the last twelve months Sir Louis Scatcherd had been very efficacious in bringing trouble, turmoil, and vexation upon Greshamsbury. Now that it was too late to take steps to save himself, Dr Thorne found that the will left by Sir Roger was so made as to entail upon him duties that he would find it almost impossible to perform. Sir Louis, though his father had wished to make him still a child in the eye of the law, was no child. He knew his own rights and was determined to exact them; and before Sir Roger had been dead three months, the doctor found himself in continual litigation with a low Barchester attorney, who was acting on behalf of his, the doctor's, own ward. And if the doctor suffered so did the squire, and so did those who had hitherto had the management of the squire's affairs. Dr Thorne soon perceived that he was to be driven into litigation, not only with Mr Finnie, the Barchester attorney, but with the squire himself. While Finnie harassed him, he was compelled to harass Mr Gresham. He was no lawyer himself; and though he had been able to manage very well between the squire and Sir Roger, and had perhaps given himself some credit for his lawyer-like ability in so doing, he was utterly unable to manage between Sir Louis and Mr Gresham. He had, therefore, to employ a lawyer on his own account, and it seemed probable that the whole amount of Sir Roger's legacy to himself would by degrees be expended in this manner. And then, the squire's lawyers had to take up the matter; and they did so greatly to the detriment of poor Mr Yates Umbleby, who was found to have made a mess of the affairs entrusted to him. Mr Umbleby's accounts were incorrect; his mind was anything but clear, and he confessed, when put to it by the very sharp gentleman that came down from London, that he was "bothered;" and so, after a while, he was suspended from his duties, and Mr Gazebee, the sharp gentleman from London, reigned over the diminished rent-roll of the Greshamsbury estate. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury--with the one exception of Mr Oriel and his love-suit. Miss Gushing attributed the deposition of Mr Umbleby to the narrowness of the victory which Beatrice had won in carrying off Mr Oriel. For Miss Gushing was a relation of the Umblebys, and had been for many years one of their family. "If she had only chosen to exert herself as Miss Gresham had done, she could have had Mr Oriel, easily; oh, too easily! but she had despised such work," so she said. "But though she had despised it, the Greshams had not been less irritated, and, therefore, Mr Umbleby had been driven out of his house." We can hardly believe this, as victory generally makes men generous. Miss Gushing, however, stated it as a fact so often that it is probable she was induced to believe it herself. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury, and the squire himself was especially a sufferer. Umbleby had at any rate been his own man, and he could do what he liked with him. He could see him when he liked, and where he liked, and how he liked; could scold him if in an ill-humour, and laugh at him when in a good humour. All this Mr Umbleby knew, and bore. But Mr Gazebee was a very different sort of gentleman; he was the junior partner in the firm of Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, of Mount Street, a house that never defiled itself with any other business than the agency business, and that in the very highest line. They drew out leases, and managed property both for the Duke of Omnium and Lord de Courcy; and ever since her marriage, it had been one of the objects dearest to Lady Arabella's heart, that the Greshamsbury acres should be superintended by the polite skill and polished legal ability of that all but elegant firm in Mount Street. The squire had long stood firm, and had delighted in having everything done under his own eye by poor Mr Yates Umbleby. But now, alas! he could stand it no longer. He had put off the evil day as long as he could; he had deferred the odious work of investigation till things had seemed resolved on investigating themselves; and then, when it was absolutely necessary that Mr Umbleby should go, there was nothing for him left but to fall into the ready hands of Messrs Gumption, Gazebee and Gazebee. It must not be supposed that Messrs Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee were in the least like the ordinary run of attorneys. They wrote no letters for six-and-eightpence each: they collected no debts, filed no bills, made no charge per folio for "whereases" and "as aforesaids;" they did no dirty work, and probably were as ignorant of the interior of a court of law as any young lady living in their Mayfair vicinity. No; their business was to manage the property of great people, draw up leases, make legal assignments, get the family marriage settlements made, and look after wills. Occasionally, also, they had to raise money; but it was generally understood that this was done by proxy. The firm had been going on for a hundred and fifty years, and the designation had often been altered; but it always consisted of Gumptions and Gazebees differently arranged, and no less hallowed names had ever been permitted to appear. It had been Gazebee, Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee, Gumption & Gumption; then Gumption, Gumption & Gazebee; and now it was Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee. Mr Gazebee, the junior member of this firm, was a very elegant young man. While looking at him riding in Rotten Row, you would hardly have taken him for an attorney; and had he heard that you had so taken him, he would have been very much surprised indeed. He was rather bald; not being, as people say, quite so young as he was once. His exact age was thirty-eight. But he had a really remarkable pair of jet-black whiskers, which fully made up for any deficiency as to his head; he had also dark eyes, and a beaked nose, what may be called a distinguished mouth, and was always dressed in fashionable attire. The fact was, that Mr Mortimer Gazebee, junior partner in the firm Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, by no means considered himself to be made of that very disagreeable material which mortals call small beer. When this great firm was applied to, to get Mr Gresham through his difficulties, and when the state of his affairs was made known to them, they at first expressed rather a disinclination for the work. But at last, moved doubtless by their respect for the de Courcy interest, they assented; and Mr Gazebee, junior, went down to Greshamsbury. The poor squire passed many a sad day after that before he again felt himself to be master even of his own domain. Nevertheless, when Mr Mortimer Gazebee visited Greshamsbury, which he did on more than one or two occasions, he was always received _en grand seigneur_. To Lady Arabella he was by no means an unwelcome guest, for she found herself able, for the first time in her life, to speak confidentially on her husband's pecuniary affairs with the man who had the management of her husband's property. Mr Gazebee also was a pet with Lady de Courcy; and being known to be a fashionable man in London, and quite a different sort of person from poor Mr Umbleby, he was always received with smiles. He had a hundred little ways of making himself agreeable, and Augusta declared to her cousin, the Lady Amelia, after having been acquainted with him for a few months, that he would be a perfect gentleman, only, that his family had never been anything but attorneys. The Lady Amelia smiled in her own peculiarly aristocratic way, shrugged her shoulders slightly, and said, "that Mr Mortimer Gazebee was a very good sort of a person, very." Poor Augusta felt herself snubbed, thinking perhaps of the tailor's son; but as there was never any appeal against the Lady Amelia, she said nothing more at that moment in favour of Mr Mortimer Gazebee. All these evils--Mr Mortimer Gazebee being the worst of them--had Sir Louis Scatcherd brought down on the poor squire's head. There may be those who will say that the squire had brought them on himself, by running into debt; and so, doubtless, he had; but it was not the less true that the baronet's interference was unnecessary, vexatious, and one might almost say, malicious. His interest would have been quite safe in the doctor's hands, and he had, in fact, no legal right to meddle; but neither the doctor nor the squire could prevent him. Mr Finnie knew very well what he was about, if Sir Louis did not; and so the three went on, each with his own lawyer, and each of them distrustful, unhappy, and ill at ease. This was hard upon the doctor, for he was not in debt, and had borrowed no money. There was not much reason to suppose that the visit of Sir Louis to Greshamsbury would much improve matters. It must be presumed that he was not coming with any amicable views, but with the object rather of looking after his own; a phrase which was now constantly in his mouth. He might probably find it necessary while looking after his own at Greshamsbury, to say some very disagreeable things to the squire; and the doctor, therefore, hardly expected that the visit would go off pleasantly. When last we saw Sir Louis, now nearly twelve months since, he was intent on making a proposal of marriage to Miss Thorne. This intention he carried out about two days after Frank Gresham had done the same thing. He had delayed doing so till he had succeeded in purchasing his friend Jenkins's Arab pony, imagining that such a present could not but go far in weaning Mary's heart from her other lover. Poor Mary was put to the trouble of refusing both the baronet and the pony, and a very bad time she had of it while doing so. Sir Louis was a man easily angered, and not very easily pacified, and Mary had to endure a good deal of annoyance; from any other person, indeed, she would have called it impertinence. Sir Louis, however, had to bear his rejection as best he could, and, after a perseverance of three days, returned to London in disgust; and Mary had not seen him since. Mr Greyson's first letter was followed by a second; and the second was followed by the baronet in person. He also required to be received _en grand seigneur_, perhaps more imperatively than Mr Mortimer Gazebee himself. He came with four posters from the Barchester Station, and had himself rattled up to the doctor's door in a way that took the breath away from all Greshamsbury. Why! the squire himself for a many long year had been contented to come home with a pair of horses; and four were never seen in the place, except when the de Courcys came to Greshamsbury, or Lady Arabella with all her daughters returned from her hard-fought metropolitan campaigns. Sir Louis, however, came with four, and very arrogant he looked, leaning back in the barouche belonging to the George and Dragon, and wrapped up in fur, although it was now midsummer. And up in the dicky behind was a servant, more arrogant, if possible, than his master--the baronet's own man, who was the object of Dr Thorne's special detestation and disgust. He was a little fellow, chosen originally on account of his light weight on horseback; but if that may be considered a merit, it was the only one he had. His out-door show dress was a little tight frock-coat, round which a polished strap was always buckled tightly, a stiff white choker, leather breeches, top-boots, and a hat, with a cockade, stuck on one side of his head. His name was Jonah, which his master and his master's friends shortened into Joe; none, however, but those who were very intimate with his master were allowed to do so with impunity. This Joe was Dr Thorne's special aversion. In his anxiety to take every possible step to keep Sir Louis from poisoning himself, he had at first attempted to enlist the baronet's "own man" in the cause. Joe had promised fairly, but had betrayed the doctor at once, and had become the worst

too

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

you know--I thought you always said so--I have always told mamma so as if it came from yourself." "Beatrice, do not tell anything to Lady Arabella as though it came from me; I do not want anything to be told to her, either of me or from me. Say what you like to me yourself; whatever you say will not anger me. Indeed, I know what you would say--and yet I love you. Oh, I love you, Trichy--Trichy, I do love you so much! Don't turn away from me!" There was such a mixture in Mary's manner of tenderness and almost ferocity, that poor Beatrice could hardly follow her. "Turn away from you, Mary! no never; but this does make me unhappy." "It is better that you should know it all, and then you will not be led into fighting my battles again. You cannot fight them so that I should win; I do love your brother; love him truly, fondly, tenderly. I would wish to have him for my husband as you wish to have Mr Oriel." "But, Mary, you cannot marry him!" "Why not?" said she, in a loud voice. "Why can I not marry him? If the priest says a blessing over us, shall we not be married as well as you and your husband?" "But you know he cannot marry unless his wife shall have money." "Money--money; and he is to sell himself for money? Oh, Trichy! do not you talk about money. It is horrible. But, Trichy, I will grant it--I cannot marry him; but still, I love him. He has a name, a place in the world, and fortune, family, high blood, position, everything. He has all this, and I have nothing. Of course I cannot marry him. But yet I do love him." "Are you engaged to him, Mary?" "He is not engaged to me; but I am to him." "Oh, Mary, that is impossible!" "It is not impossible: it is the case--I am pledged to him; but he is not pledged to me." "But, Mary, don't look at me in that way. I do not quite understand you. What is the good of your being engaged if you cannot marry him?" "Good! there is no good. But can I help it, if I love him? Can I make myself not love him by just wishing it? Oh, I would do it if I could. But now you will understand why I shake my head when you talk of my coming to your house. Your ways and my ways must be different." Beatrice was startled, and, for a time, silenced. What Mary said of the difference of their ways was quite true. Beatrice had dearly loved her friend, and had thought of her with affection through all this long period in which they had been separated; but she had given her love and her thoughts on the understanding, as it were, that they were in unison as to the impropriety of Frank's conduct. She had always spoken, with a grave face, of Frank and his love as of a great misfortune, even to Mary herself; and her pity for Mary had been founded on the conviction of her innocence. Now all those ideas had to be altered. Mary owned her fault, confessed herself to be guilty of all that Lady Arabella so frequently laid to her charge, and confessed herself anxious to commit every crime as to which Beatrice had been ever so ready to defend her. Had Beatrice up to this dreamed that Mary was in love with Frank, she would doubtless have sympathised with her more or less, sooner or later. As it was, it was beyond all doubt that she would soon sympathise with her. But, at the moment, the suddenness of the declaration seemed to harden her heart, and she forgot, as it were, to speak tenderly to her friend. She was silent, therefore, and dismayed; and looked as though she thought that her ways and Mary's ways must be different. Mary saw all that was passing in the other's mind: no, not all; all the hostility, the disappointment, the disapproval, the unhappiness, she did see; but not the under-current of love, which was strong enough to well up and drown all these, if only time could be allowed for it to do so. "I am glad I have told you," said Mary, curbing herself, "for deceit and hypocrisy are detestable." "It was a misunderstanding, not deceit," said Beatrice. "Well, now we understand each other; now you know that I have a heart within me, which like those of some others has not always been under my own control. Lady Arabella believes that I am intriguing to be the mistress of Greshamsbury. You, at any rate, will not think that of me. If it could be discovered to-morrow that Frank were not the heir, I might have some chance of happiness." "But, Mary--" "Well?" "You say you love him." "Yes; I do say so." "But if he does not love you, will you cease to do so?" "If I have a fever, I will get rid of it if I can; in such case I must do so, or die." "I fear," continued Beatrice, "you hardly know, perhaps do not think, what is Frank's real character. He is not made to settle down early in life; even now, I believe he is attached to some lady in London, whom, of course, he cannot marry." Beatrice said this in perfect trueness of heart. She had heard of Frank's new love-affair, and believing what she had heard, thought it best to tell the truth. But the information was not of a kind to quiet Mary's spirit. "Very well," said she, "let it be so. I have nothing to say against it." "But are you not preparing wretchedness and unhappiness for yourself?" "Very likely." "Oh, Mary, do not be so cold with me! you know how delighted I should be to have you for a sister-in-law, if only it were possible." "Yes, Trichy; but it is impossible, is it not? Impossible that Francis Gresham of Greshamsbury should disgrace himself by marrying such a poor creature as I am. Of course, I know it; of course, I am prepared for unhappiness and misery. He can amuse himself as he likes with me or others--with anybody. It is his privilege. It is quite enough to say that he is not made for settling down. I know my own position;--and yet I love him." "But, Mary, has he asked you to be his wife? If so--" "You ask home-questions, Beatrice. Let me ask you one; has he ever told you that he has done so?" At this moment Beatrice was not disposed to repeat all that Frank had said. A year ago, before he went away, he had told his sister a score of times that he meant to marry Mary Thorne if she would have him; but Beatrice now looked on all that as idle, boyish vapouring. The pity was, that Mary should have looked on it differently. "We will each keep our secret," said Mary. "Only remember this: should Frank marry to-morrow, I shall have no ground for blaming him. He is free as far I as am concerned. He can take the London lady if he likes. You may tell him so from me. But, Trichy, what else I have told you, I have told you only." "Oh, yes!" said Beatrice, sadly; "I shall say nothing of it to anybody. It is very sad, very, very; I was so happy when I came here, and now I am so wretched." This was the end of that delicious talk to which she had looked forward with so much eagerness. "Don't be wretched about me, dearest; I shall get through it. I sometimes think I was born to be unhappy, and that unhappiness agrees with me best. Kiss me now, Trichy, and don't be wretched any more. You owe it to Mr Oriel to be as happy as the day is long." And then they parted. Beatrice, as she went out, saw Dr Thorne in his little shop on the right-hand side of the passage, deeply engaged in some derogatory branch of an apothecary's mechanical trade; mixing a dose, perhaps, for a little child. She would have passed him without speaking if she could have been sure of doing so without notice, for her heart was full, and her eyes were red with tears; but it was so long since she had been in his house that she was more than ordinarily anxious not to appear uncourteous or unkind to him. "Good morning, doctor," she said, changing her countenance as best she might, and attempting a smile. "Ah, my fairy!" said he, leaving his villainous compounds, and coming out to her; "and you, too, are about to become a steady old lady." "Indeed, I am not, doctor; I don't mean to be either steady or old for the next ten years. But who has told you? I suppose Mary has been a traitor." "Well, I will confess, Mary was the traitor. But hadn't I a right to be told, seeing how often I have brought you sugar-plums in my pocket? But I wish you joy with all my heart,--with all my heart. Oriel is an excellent, good fellow." "Is he not, doctor?" "An excellent, good fellow. I never heard but of one fault that he had." "What was that one fault, Doctor Thorne?" "He thought that clergymen should not marry. But you have cured that, and now he's perfect." "Thank you, doctor. I declare that you say the prettiest things of all my friends." "And none of your friends wish prettier things for you. I do congratulate you, Beatrice, and hope you may be happy with the man you have chosen;" and taking both her hands in his, he pressed them warmly, and bade God bless her. "Oh, doctor! I do so hope the time will come when we shall all be friends again." "I hope it as well, my dear. But let it come, or let it not come, my regard for you will be the same:" and then she parted from him also, and went her way. Nothing was spoken of that evening between Dr Thorne and his niece excepting Beatrice's future happiness; nothing, at least, having reference to what had passed that morning. But on the following morning circumstances led to Frank Gresham's name being mentioned. At the usual breakfast-hour the doctor entered the parlour with a harassed face. He had an open letter in his hand, and it was at once clear to Mary that he was going to speak on some subject that vexed him. "That unfortunate fellow is again in trouble. Here is a letter from Greyson." Greyson was a London apothecary, who had been appointed as medical attendant to Sir Louis Scatcherd, and whose real business consisted in keeping a watch on the baronet, and reporting to Dr Thorne when anything was very much amiss. "Here is a letter from Greyson; he has been drunk for the last three days, and is now laid up in a terribly nervous state." "You won't go up to town again; will you, uncle?" "I hardly know what to do. No, I think not. He talks of coming down here to Greshamsbury." "Who, Sir Louis?" "Yes, Sir Louis. Greyson says that he will be down as soon as he can get out of his room." "What! to this house?" "What other house can he come to?" "Oh, uncle! I hope not. Pray, pray do not let him come here." "I cannot prevent it, my dear. I cannot shut my door on him." They sat down to breakfast, and Mary gave him his tea in silence. "I am going over to Boxall Hill before dinner," said he. "Have you any message to send to Lady Scatcherd?" "Message! no, I have no message; not especially: give her my love, of course," she said listlessly. And then, as though a thought had suddenly struck her, she spoke with more energy. "But, couldn't I go to Boxall Hill again? I should be so delighted." "What! to run away from Sir Louis? No, dearest, we will have no more running away. He will probably also go to Boxall Hill, and he could annoy you much more there than he can here." "But, uncle, Mr Gresham will be home on the 12th," she said, blushing. "What! Frank?" "Yes. Beatrice said he was to be here on the 12th." "And would you run away from him too, Mary?" "I do not know: I do not know what to do." "No; we will have no more running away: I am sorry that you ever did so. It was my fault, altogether my fault; but it was foolish." "Uncle, I am not happy here." As she said this, she put down the cup which she had held, and, leaning her elbows on the table, rested her forehead on her hands. "And would you be happier at Boxall Hill? It is not the place makes the happiness." "No, I know that; it is not the place. I do not look to be happy in any place; but I should be quieter, more tranquil elsewhere than here." "I also sometimes think that it will be better for us to take up our staves and walk away out of Greshamsbury;--leave it altogether, and settle elsewhere; miles, miles, miles away from here. Should you like that, dearest?" Miles, miles, miles away from Greshamsbury! There was something in the sound that fell very cold on Mary's ears, unhappy as she was. Greshamsbury had been so dear to her; in spite of all that had passed, was still so dear to her! Was she prepared to take up her staff, as her uncle said, and walk forth from the place with the full understanding that she was to return to it no more; with a mind resolved that there should be an inseparable gulf between her and its inhabitants? Such she knew was the proposed nature of the walking away of which her uncle spoke. So she sat there, resting on her arms, and gave no answer to the question that had been asked her. "No, we will stay a while yet," said her uncle. "It may come to that, but this is not the time. For one season longer let us face--I will not say our enemies; I cannot call anybody my enemy who bears the name of Gresham." And then he went on for a moment with his breakfast. "So Frank will be here on the 12th?" "Yes, uncle." "Well, dearest, I have no questions to ask you: no directions to give. I know how good you are, and how prudent; I am anxious only for your happiness; not at all--" "Happiness, uncle, is out of the question." "I hope not. It is never out of the question, never can be out of the question. But, as I was saying, I am quite satisfied your conduct will be good, and, therefore, I have no questions to ask. We will remain here; and, whether good or evil come, we will not be ashamed to show our faces." She sat for a while again silent, collecting her courage on the subject that was nearest her heart. She would have given the world that he should ask her questions; but she could not bid him to do so; and she found it impossible to talk openly to him about Frank unless he did so. "Will he come here?" at last she said, in a low-toned voice. "Who? He, Louis? Yes, I think that in all probability he will." "No; but Frank," she said, in a still lower voice. "Ah! my darling, that I cannot tell; but will it be well that he should come here?" "I do not know," she said. "No, I suppose not. But, uncle, I don't think he will come." She was now sitting on a sofa away from the table, and he got up, sat down beside her, and took her hands in his. "Mary," said he, "you must be strong now; strong to endure, not to attack. I think you have that strength; but, if not, perhaps it will be better that we should go away." "I will be strong," said she, rising up and going towards the door. "Never mind me, uncle; don't follow me; I will be strong. It will be base, cowardly, mean, to run away; very base in me to make you do so." "No, dearest, not so; it will be the same to me." "No," said she, "I will not run away from Lady Arabella. And, as for him--if he loves this other one, he shall hear no reproach from me. Uncle, I will be strong;" and running back to him, she threw her arms round him and kissed him. And, still restraining her tears, she got safely to her bedroom. In what way she may there have shown her strength, it would not be well for us to inquire. CHAPTER XXXIV A Barouche and Four Arrives at Greshamsbury During the last twelve months Sir Louis Scatcherd had been very efficacious in bringing trouble, turmoil, and vexation upon Greshamsbury. Now that it was too late to take steps to save himself, Dr Thorne found that the will left by Sir Roger was so made as to entail upon him duties that he would find it almost impossible to perform. Sir Louis, though his father had wished to make him still a child in the eye of the law, was no child. He knew his own rights and was determined to exact them; and before Sir Roger had been dead three months, the doctor found himself in continual litigation with a low Barchester attorney, who was acting on behalf of his, the doctor's, own ward. And if the doctor suffered so did the squire, and so did those who had hitherto had the management of the squire's affairs. Dr Thorne soon perceived that he was to be driven into litigation, not only with Mr Finnie, the Barchester attorney, but with the squire himself. While Finnie harassed him, he was compelled to harass Mr Gresham. He was no lawyer himself; and though he had been able to manage very well between the squire and Sir Roger, and had perhaps given himself some credit for his lawyer-like ability in so doing, he was utterly unable to manage between Sir Louis and Mr Gresham. He had, therefore, to employ a lawyer on his own account, and it seemed probable that the whole amount of Sir Roger's legacy to himself would by degrees be expended in this manner. And then, the squire's lawyers had to take up the matter; and they did so greatly to the detriment of poor Mr Yates Umbleby, who was found to have made a mess of the affairs entrusted to him. Mr Umbleby's accounts were incorrect; his mind was anything but clear, and he confessed, when put to it by the very sharp gentleman that came down from London, that he was "bothered;" and so, after a while, he was suspended from his duties, and Mr Gazebee, the sharp gentleman from London, reigned over the diminished rent-roll of the Greshamsbury estate. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury--with the one exception of Mr Oriel and his love-suit. Miss Gushing attributed the deposition of Mr Umbleby to the narrowness of the victory which Beatrice had won in carrying off Mr Oriel. For Miss Gushing was a relation of the Umblebys, and had been for many years one of their family. "If she had only chosen to exert herself as Miss Gresham had done, she could have had Mr Oriel, easily; oh, too easily! but she had despised such work," so she said. "But though she had despised it, the Greshams had not been less irritated, and, therefore, Mr Umbleby had been driven out of his house." We can hardly believe this, as victory generally makes men generous. Miss Gushing, however, stated it as a fact so often that it is probable she was induced to believe it herself. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury, and the squire himself was especially a sufferer. Umbleby had at any rate been his own man, and he could do what he liked with him. He could see him when he liked, and where he liked, and how he liked; could scold him if in an ill-humour, and laugh at him when in a good humour. All this Mr Umbleby knew, and bore. But Mr Gazebee was a very different sort of gentleman; he was the junior partner in the firm of Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, of Mount Street, a house that never defiled itself with any other business than the agency business, and that in the very highest line. They drew out leases, and managed property both for the Duke of Omnium and Lord de Courcy; and ever since her marriage, it had been one of the objects dearest to Lady Arabella's heart, that the Greshamsbury acres should be superintended by the polite skill and polished legal ability of that all but elegant firm in Mount Street. The squire had long stood firm, and had delighted in having everything done under his own eye by poor Mr Yates Umbleby. But now, alas! he could stand it no longer. He had put off the evil day as long as he could; he had deferred the odious work of investigation till things had seemed resolved on investigating themselves; and then, when it was absolutely necessary that Mr Umbleby should go, there was nothing for him left but to fall into the ready hands of Messrs Gumption, Gazebee and Gazebee. It must not be supposed that Messrs Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee were in the least like the ordinary run of attorneys. They wrote no letters for six-and-eightpence each: they collected no debts, filed no bills, made no charge per folio for "whereases" and "as aforesaids;" they did no dirty work, and probably were as ignorant of the interior of a court of law as any young lady living in their Mayfair vicinity. No; their business was to manage the property of great people, draw up leases, make legal assignments, get the family marriage settlements made, and look after wills. Occasionally, also, they had to raise money; but it was generally understood that this was done by proxy. The firm had been going on for a hundred and fifty years, and the designation had often been altered; but it always consisted of Gumptions and Gazebees differently arranged, and no less hallowed names had ever been permitted to appear. It had been Gazebee, Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee, Gumption & Gumption; then Gumption, Gumption & Gazebee; and now it was Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee. Mr Gazebee, the junior member of this firm, was a very elegant young man. While looking at him riding in Rotten Row, you would hardly have taken him for an attorney; and had he heard that you had so taken him, he would have been very much surprised indeed. He was rather bald; not being, as people say, quite so young as he was once. His exact age was thirty-eight. But he had a really remarkable pair of jet-black whiskers, which fully made up for any deficiency as to his head; he had also dark eyes, and a beaked nose, what may be called a distinguished mouth, and was always dressed in fashionable attire. The fact was, that Mr Mortimer Gazebee, junior partner in the firm Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, by no means considered himself to be made of that very disagreeable material which mortals call small beer. When this great firm was applied to, to get Mr Gresham through his difficulties, and when the state of his affairs was made known to them, they at first expressed rather a disinclination for the work. But at last, moved doubtless by their respect for the de Courcy interest, they assented; and Mr Gazebee, junior, went down to Greshamsbury. The poor squire passed many a sad day after that before he again felt himself to be master even of his own domain. Nevertheless, when Mr Mortimer Gazebee visited Greshamsbury, which he did on more than one or two occasions, he was always received _en grand seigneur_. To Lady Arabella he was by no means an unwelcome guest, for she found herself able, for the first time in her life, to speak confidentially on her husband's pecuniary affairs with the man who had the management of her husband's property. Mr Gazebee also was a pet with Lady de Courcy; and being known to be a fashionable man in London, and quite a different sort of person from poor Mr Umbleby, he was always received with smiles. He had a hundred little ways of making himself agreeable, and Augusta declared to her cousin, the Lady Amelia, after having been acquainted with him for a few months, that he would be a perfect gentleman, only, that his family had never been anything but attorneys. The Lady Amelia smiled in her own peculiarly aristocratic way, shrugged her shoulders slightly, and said, "that Mr Mortimer Gazebee was a very good sort of a person, very." Poor Augusta felt herself snubbed, thinking perhaps of the tailor's son; but as there was never any appeal against the Lady Amelia, she said nothing more at that moment in favour of Mr Mortimer Gazebee. All these evils--Mr Mortimer Gazebee being the worst of them--had Sir Louis Scatcherd brought down on the poor squire's head. There may be those who will say that the squire had brought them on himself, by running into debt; and so, doubtless, he had; but it was not the less true that the baronet's interference was unnecessary, vexatious, and one might almost say, malicious. His interest would have been quite safe in the doctor's hands, and he had, in fact, no legal right to meddle; but neither the doctor nor the squire could prevent him. Mr Finnie knew very well what he was about, if Sir Louis did not; and so the three went on, each with his own lawyer, and each of them distrustful, unhappy, and ill at ease. This was hard upon the doctor, for he was not in debt, and had borrowed no money. There was not much reason to suppose that the visit of Sir Louis to Greshamsbury would much improve matters. It must be presumed that he was not coming with any amicable views, but with the object rather of looking after his own; a phrase which was now constantly in his mouth. He might probably find it necessary while looking after his own at Greshamsbury, to say some very disagreeable things to the squire; and the doctor, therefore, hardly expected that the visit would go off pleasantly. When last we saw Sir Louis, now nearly twelve months since, he was intent on making a proposal of marriage to Miss Thorne. This intention he carried out about two days after Frank Gresham had done the same thing. He had delayed doing so till he had succeeded in purchasing his friend Jenkins's Arab pony, imagining that such a present could not but go far in weaning Mary's heart from her other lover. Poor Mary was put to the trouble of refusing both the baronet and the pony, and a very bad time she had of it while doing so. Sir Louis was a man easily angered, and not very easily pacified, and Mary had to endure a good deal of annoyance; from any other person, indeed, she would have called it impertinence. Sir Louis, however, had to bear his rejection as best he could, and, after a perseverance of three days, returned to London in disgust; and Mary had not seen him since. Mr Greyson's first letter was followed by a second; and the second was followed by the baronet in person. He also required to be received _en grand seigneur_, perhaps more imperatively than Mr Mortimer Gazebee himself. He came with four posters from the Barchester Station, and had himself rattled up to the doctor's door in a way that took the breath away from all Greshamsbury. Why! the squire himself for a many long year had been contented to come home with a pair of horses; and four were never seen in the place, except when the de Courcys came to Greshamsbury, or Lady Arabella with all her daughters returned from her hard-fought metropolitan campaigns. Sir Louis, however, came with four, and very arrogant he looked, leaning back in the barouche belonging to the George and Dragon, and wrapped up in fur, although it was now midsummer. And up in the dicky behind was a servant, more arrogant, if possible, than his master--the baronet's own man, who was the object of Dr Thorne's special detestation and disgust. He was a little fellow, chosen originally on account of his light weight on horseback; but if that may be considered a merit, it was the only one he had. His out-door show dress was a little tight frock-coat, round which a polished strap was always buckled tightly, a stiff white choker, leather breeches, top-boots, and a hat, with a cockade, stuck on one side of his head. His name was Jonah, which his master and his master's friends shortened into Joe; none, however, but those who were very intimate with his master were allowed to do so with impunity. This Joe was Dr Thorne's special aversion. In his anxiety to take every possible step to keep Sir Louis from poisoning himself, he had at first attempted to enlist the baronet's "own man" in the cause. Joe had promised fairly, but had betrayed the doctor at once, and had become the worst

there

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you know--I thought you always said so--I have always told mamma so as if it came from yourself." "Beatrice, do not tell anything to Lady Arabella as though it came from me; I do not want anything to be told to her, either of me or from me. Say what you like to me yourself; whatever you say will not anger me. Indeed, I know what you would say--and yet I love you. Oh, I love you, Trichy--Trichy, I do love you so much! Don't turn away from me!" There was such a mixture in Mary's manner of tenderness and almost ferocity, that poor Beatrice could hardly follow her. "Turn away from you, Mary! no never; but this does make me unhappy." "It is better that you should know it all, and then you will not be led into fighting my battles again. You cannot fight them so that I should win; I do love your brother; love him truly, fondly, tenderly. I would wish to have him for my husband as you wish to have Mr Oriel." "But, Mary, you cannot marry him!" "Why not?" said she, in a loud voice. "Why can I not marry him? If the priest says a blessing over us, shall we not be married as well as you and your husband?" "But you know he cannot marry unless his wife shall have money." "Money--money; and he is to sell himself for money? Oh, Trichy! do not you talk about money. It is horrible. But, Trichy, I will grant it--I cannot marry him; but still, I love him. He has a name, a place in the world, and fortune, family, high blood, position, everything. He has all this, and I have nothing. Of course I cannot marry him. But yet I do love him." "Are you engaged to him, Mary?" "He is not engaged to me; but I am to him." "Oh, Mary, that is impossible!" "It is not impossible: it is the case--I am pledged to him; but he is not pledged to me." "But, Mary, don't look at me in that way. I do not quite understand you. What is the good of your being engaged if you cannot marry him?" "Good! there is no good. But can I help it, if I love him? Can I make myself not love him by just wishing it? Oh, I would do it if I could. But now you will understand why I shake my head when you talk of my coming to your house. Your ways and my ways must be different." Beatrice was startled, and, for a time, silenced. What Mary said of the difference of their ways was quite true. Beatrice had dearly loved her friend, and had thought of her with affection through all this long period in which they had been separated; but she had given her love and her thoughts on the understanding, as it were, that they were in unison as to the impropriety of Frank's conduct. She had always spoken, with a grave face, of Frank and his love as of a great misfortune, even to Mary herself; and her pity for Mary had been founded on the conviction of her innocence. Now all those ideas had to be altered. Mary owned her fault, confessed herself to be guilty of all that Lady Arabella so frequently laid to her charge, and confessed herself anxious to commit every crime as to which Beatrice had been ever so ready to defend her. Had Beatrice up to this dreamed that Mary was in love with Frank, she would doubtless have sympathised with her more or less, sooner or later. As it was, it was beyond all doubt that she would soon sympathise with her. But, at the moment, the suddenness of the declaration seemed to harden her heart, and she forgot, as it were, to speak tenderly to her friend. She was silent, therefore, and dismayed; and looked as though she thought that her ways and Mary's ways must be different. Mary saw all that was passing in the other's mind: no, not all; all the hostility, the disappointment, the disapproval, the unhappiness, she did see; but not the under-current of love, which was strong enough to well up and drown all these, if only time could be allowed for it to do so. "I am glad I have told you," said Mary, curbing herself, "for deceit and hypocrisy are detestable." "It was a misunderstanding, not deceit," said Beatrice. "Well, now we understand each other; now you know that I have a heart within me, which like those of some others has not always been under my own control. Lady Arabella believes that I am intriguing to be the mistress of Greshamsbury. You, at any rate, will not think that of me. If it could be discovered to-morrow that Frank were not the heir, I might have some chance of happiness." "But, Mary--" "Well?" "You say you love him." "Yes; I do say so." "But if he does not love you, will you cease to do so?" "If I have a fever, I will get rid of it if I can; in such case I must do so, or die." "I fear," continued Beatrice, "you hardly know, perhaps do not think, what is Frank's real character. He is not made to settle down early in life; even now, I believe he is attached to some lady in London, whom, of course, he cannot marry." Beatrice said this in perfect trueness of heart. She had heard of Frank's new love-affair, and believing what she had heard, thought it best to tell the truth. But the information was not of a kind to quiet Mary's spirit. "Very well," said she, "let it be so. I have nothing to say against it." "But are you not preparing wretchedness and unhappiness for yourself?" "Very likely." "Oh, Mary, do not be so cold with me! you know how delighted I should be to have you for a sister-in-law, if only it were possible." "Yes, Trichy; but it is impossible, is it not? Impossible that Francis Gresham of Greshamsbury should disgrace himself by marrying such a poor creature as I am. Of course, I know it; of course, I am prepared for unhappiness and misery. He can amuse himself as he likes with me or others--with anybody. It is his privilege. It is quite enough to say that he is not made for settling down. I know my own position;--and yet I love him." "But, Mary, has he asked you to be his wife? If so--" "You ask home-questions, Beatrice. Let me ask you one; has he ever told you that he has done so?" At this moment Beatrice was not disposed to repeat all that Frank had said. A year ago, before he went away, he had told his sister a score of times that he meant to marry Mary Thorne if she would have him; but Beatrice now looked on all that as idle, boyish vapouring. The pity was, that Mary should have looked on it differently. "We will each keep our secret," said Mary. "Only remember this: should Frank marry to-morrow, I shall have no ground for blaming him. He is free as far I as am concerned. He can take the London lady if he likes. You may tell him so from me. But, Trichy, what else I have told you, I have told you only." "Oh, yes!" said Beatrice, sadly; "I shall say nothing of it to anybody. It is very sad, very, very; I was so happy when I came here, and now I am so wretched." This was the end of that delicious talk to which she had looked forward with so much eagerness. "Don't be wretched about me, dearest; I shall get through it. I sometimes think I was born to be unhappy, and that unhappiness agrees with me best. Kiss me now, Trichy, and don't be wretched any more. You owe it to Mr Oriel to be as happy as the day is long." And then they parted. Beatrice, as she went out, saw Dr Thorne in his little shop on the right-hand side of the passage, deeply engaged in some derogatory branch of an apothecary's mechanical trade; mixing a dose, perhaps, for a little child. She would have passed him without speaking if she could have been sure of doing so without notice, for her heart was full, and her eyes were red with tears; but it was so long since she had been in his house that she was more than ordinarily anxious not to appear uncourteous or unkind to him. "Good morning, doctor," she said, changing her countenance as best she might, and attempting a smile. "Ah, my fairy!" said he, leaving his villainous compounds, and coming out to her; "and you, too, are about to become a steady old lady." "Indeed, I am not, doctor; I don't mean to be either steady or old for the next ten years. But who has told you? I suppose Mary has been a traitor." "Well, I will confess, Mary was the traitor. But hadn't I a right to be told, seeing how often I have brought you sugar-plums in my pocket? But I wish you joy with all my heart,--with all my heart. Oriel is an excellent, good fellow." "Is he not, doctor?" "An excellent, good fellow. I never heard but of one fault that he had." "What was that one fault, Doctor Thorne?" "He thought that clergymen should not marry. But you have cured that, and now he's perfect." "Thank you, doctor. I declare that you say the prettiest things of all my friends." "And none of your friends wish prettier things for you. I do congratulate you, Beatrice, and hope you may be happy with the man you have chosen;" and taking both her hands in his, he pressed them warmly, and bade God bless her. "Oh, doctor! I do so hope the time will come when we shall all be friends again." "I hope it as well, my dear. But let it come, or let it not come, my regard for you will be the same:" and then she parted from him also, and went her way. Nothing was spoken of that evening between Dr Thorne and his niece excepting Beatrice's future happiness; nothing, at least, having reference to what had passed that morning. But on the following morning circumstances led to Frank Gresham's name being mentioned. At the usual breakfast-hour the doctor entered the parlour with a harassed face. He had an open letter in his hand, and it was at once clear to Mary that he was going to speak on some subject that vexed him. "That unfortunate fellow is again in trouble. Here is a letter from Greyson." Greyson was a London apothecary, who had been appointed as medical attendant to Sir Louis Scatcherd, and whose real business consisted in keeping a watch on the baronet, and reporting to Dr Thorne when anything was very much amiss. "Here is a letter from Greyson; he has been drunk for the last three days, and is now laid up in a terribly nervous state." "You won't go up to town again; will you, uncle?" "I hardly know what to do. No, I think not. He talks of coming down here to Greshamsbury." "Who, Sir Louis?" "Yes, Sir Louis. Greyson says that he will be down as soon as he can get out of his room." "What! to this house?" "What other house can he come to?" "Oh, uncle! I hope not. Pray, pray do not let him come here." "I cannot prevent it, my dear. I cannot shut my door on him." They sat down to breakfast, and Mary gave him his tea in silence. "I am going over to Boxall Hill before dinner," said he. "Have you any message to send to Lady Scatcherd?" "Message! no, I have no message; not especially: give her my love, of course," she said listlessly. And then, as though a thought had suddenly struck her, she spoke with more energy. "But, couldn't I go to Boxall Hill again? I should be so delighted." "What! to run away from Sir Louis? No, dearest, we will have no more running away. He will probably also go to Boxall Hill, and he could annoy you much more there than he can here." "But, uncle, Mr Gresham will be home on the 12th," she said, blushing. "What! Frank?" "Yes. Beatrice said he was to be here on the 12th." "And would you run away from him too, Mary?" "I do not know: I do not know what to do." "No; we will have no more running away: I am sorry that you ever did so. It was my fault, altogether my fault; but it was foolish." "Uncle, I am not happy here." As she said this, she put down the cup which she had held, and, leaning her elbows on the table, rested her forehead on her hands. "And would you be happier at Boxall Hill? It is not the place makes the happiness." "No, I know that; it is not the place. I do not look to be happy in any place; but I should be quieter, more tranquil elsewhere than here." "I also sometimes think that it will be better for us to take up our staves and walk away out of Greshamsbury;--leave it altogether, and settle elsewhere; miles, miles, miles away from here. Should you like that, dearest?" Miles, miles, miles away from Greshamsbury! There was something in the sound that fell very cold on Mary's ears, unhappy as she was. Greshamsbury had been so dear to her; in spite of all that had passed, was still so dear to her! Was she prepared to take up her staff, as her uncle said, and walk forth from the place with the full understanding that she was to return to it no more; with a mind resolved that there should be an inseparable gulf between her and its inhabitants? Such she knew was the proposed nature of the walking away of which her uncle spoke. So she sat there, resting on her arms, and gave no answer to the question that had been asked her. "No, we will stay a while yet," said her uncle. "It may come to that, but this is not the time. For one season longer let us face--I will not say our enemies; I cannot call anybody my enemy who bears the name of Gresham." And then he went on for a moment with his breakfast. "So Frank will be here on the 12th?" "Yes, uncle." "Well, dearest, I have no questions to ask you: no directions to give. I know how good you are, and how prudent; I am anxious only for your happiness; not at all--" "Happiness, uncle, is out of the question." "I hope not. It is never out of the question, never can be out of the question. But, as I was saying, I am quite satisfied your conduct will be good, and, therefore, I have no questions to ask. We will remain here; and, whether good or evil come, we will not be ashamed to show our faces." She sat for a while again silent, collecting her courage on the subject that was nearest her heart. She would have given the world that he should ask her questions; but she could not bid him to do so; and she found it impossible to talk openly to him about Frank unless he did so. "Will he come here?" at last she said, in a low-toned voice. "Who? He, Louis? Yes, I think that in all probability he will." "No; but Frank," she said, in a still lower voice. "Ah! my darling, that I cannot tell; but will it be well that he should come here?" "I do not know," she said. "No, I suppose not. But, uncle, I don't think he will come." She was now sitting on a sofa away from the table, and he got up, sat down beside her, and took her hands in his. "Mary," said he, "you must be strong now; strong to endure, not to attack. I think you have that strength; but, if not, perhaps it will be better that we should go away." "I will be strong," said she, rising up and going towards the door. "Never mind me, uncle; don't follow me; I will be strong. It will be base, cowardly, mean, to run away; very base in me to make you do so." "No, dearest, not so; it will be the same to me." "No," said she, "I will not run away from Lady Arabella. And, as for him--if he loves this other one, he shall hear no reproach from me. Uncle, I will be strong;" and running back to him, she threw her arms round him and kissed him. And, still restraining her tears, she got safely to her bedroom. In what way she may there have shown her strength, it would not be well for us to inquire. CHAPTER XXXIV A Barouche and Four Arrives at Greshamsbury During the last twelve months Sir Louis Scatcherd had been very efficacious in bringing trouble, turmoil, and vexation upon Greshamsbury. Now that it was too late to take steps to save himself, Dr Thorne found that the will left by Sir Roger was so made as to entail upon him duties that he would find it almost impossible to perform. Sir Louis, though his father had wished to make him still a child in the eye of the law, was no child. He knew his own rights and was determined to exact them; and before Sir Roger had been dead three months, the doctor found himself in continual litigation with a low Barchester attorney, who was acting on behalf of his, the doctor's, own ward. And if the doctor suffered so did the squire, and so did those who had hitherto had the management of the squire's affairs. Dr Thorne soon perceived that he was to be driven into litigation, not only with Mr Finnie, the Barchester attorney, but with the squire himself. While Finnie harassed him, he was compelled to harass Mr Gresham. He was no lawyer himself; and though he had been able to manage very well between the squire and Sir Roger, and had perhaps given himself some credit for his lawyer-like ability in so doing, he was utterly unable to manage between Sir Louis and Mr Gresham. He had, therefore, to employ a lawyer on his own account, and it seemed probable that the whole amount of Sir Roger's legacy to himself would by degrees be expended in this manner. And then, the squire's lawyers had to take up the matter; and they did so greatly to the detriment of poor Mr Yates Umbleby, who was found to have made a mess of the affairs entrusted to him. Mr Umbleby's accounts were incorrect; his mind was anything but clear, and he confessed, when put to it by the very sharp gentleman that came down from London, that he was "bothered;" and so, after a while, he was suspended from his duties, and Mr Gazebee, the sharp gentleman from London, reigned over the diminished rent-roll of the Greshamsbury estate. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury--with the one exception of Mr Oriel and his love-suit. Miss Gushing attributed the deposition of Mr Umbleby to the narrowness of the victory which Beatrice had won in carrying off Mr Oriel. For Miss Gushing was a relation of the Umblebys, and had been for many years one of their family. "If she had only chosen to exert herself as Miss Gresham had done, she could have had Mr Oriel, easily; oh, too easily! but she had despised such work," so she said. "But though she had despised it, the Greshams had not been less irritated, and, therefore, Mr Umbleby had been driven out of his house." We can hardly believe this, as victory generally makes men generous. Miss Gushing, however, stated it as a fact so often that it is probable she was induced to believe it herself. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury, and the squire himself was especially a sufferer. Umbleby had at any rate been his own man, and he could do what he liked with him. He could see him when he liked, and where he liked, and how he liked; could scold him if in an ill-humour, and laugh at him when in a good humour. All this Mr Umbleby knew, and bore. But Mr Gazebee was a very different sort of gentleman; he was the junior partner in the firm of Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, of Mount Street, a house that never defiled itself with any other business than the agency business, and that in the very highest line. They drew out leases, and managed property both for the Duke of Omnium and Lord de Courcy; and ever since her marriage, it had been one of the objects dearest to Lady Arabella's heart, that the Greshamsbury acres should be superintended by the polite skill and polished legal ability of that all but elegant firm in Mount Street. The squire had long stood firm, and had delighted in having everything done under his own eye by poor Mr Yates Umbleby. But now, alas! he could stand it no longer. He had put off the evil day as long as he could; he had deferred the odious work of investigation till things had seemed resolved on investigating themselves; and then, when it was absolutely necessary that Mr Umbleby should go, there was nothing for him left but to fall into the ready hands of Messrs Gumption, Gazebee and Gazebee. It must not be supposed that Messrs Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee were in the least like the ordinary run of attorneys. They wrote no letters for six-and-eightpence each: they collected no debts, filed no bills, made no charge per folio for "whereases" and "as aforesaids;" they did no dirty work, and probably were as ignorant of the interior of a court of law as any young lady living in their Mayfair vicinity. No; their business was to manage the property of great people, draw up leases, make legal assignments, get the family marriage settlements made, and look after wills. Occasionally, also, they had to raise money; but it was generally understood that this was done by proxy. The firm had been going on for a hundred and fifty years, and the designation had often been altered; but it always consisted of Gumptions and Gazebees differently arranged, and no less hallowed names had ever been permitted to appear. It had been Gazebee, Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee, Gumption & Gumption; then Gumption, Gumption & Gazebee; and now it was Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee. Mr Gazebee, the junior member of this firm, was a very elegant young man. While looking at him riding in Rotten Row, you would hardly have taken him for an attorney; and had he heard that you had so taken him, he would have been very much surprised indeed. He was rather bald; not being, as people say, quite so young as he was once. His exact age was thirty-eight. But he had a really remarkable pair of jet-black whiskers, which fully made up for any deficiency as to his head; he had also dark eyes, and a beaked nose, what may be called a distinguished mouth, and was always dressed in fashionable attire. The fact was, that Mr Mortimer Gazebee, junior partner in the firm Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, by no means considered himself to be made of that very disagreeable material which mortals call small beer. When this great firm was applied to, to get Mr Gresham through his difficulties, and when the state of his affairs was made known to them, they at first expressed rather a disinclination for the work. But at last, moved doubtless by their respect for the de Courcy interest, they assented; and Mr Gazebee, junior, went down to Greshamsbury. The poor squire passed many a sad day after that before he again felt himself to be master even of his own domain. Nevertheless, when Mr Mortimer Gazebee visited Greshamsbury, which he did on more than one or two occasions, he was always received _en grand seigneur_. To Lady Arabella he was by no means an unwelcome guest, for she found herself able, for the first time in her life, to speak confidentially on her husband's pecuniary affairs with the man who had the management of her husband's property. Mr Gazebee also was a pet with Lady de Courcy; and being known to be a fashionable man in London, and quite a different sort of person from poor Mr Umbleby, he was always received with smiles. He had a hundred little ways of making himself agreeable, and Augusta declared to her cousin, the Lady Amelia, after having been acquainted with him for a few months, that he would be a perfect gentleman, only, that his family had never been anything but attorneys. The Lady Amelia smiled in her own peculiarly aristocratic way, shrugged her shoulders slightly, and said, "that Mr Mortimer Gazebee was a very good sort of a person, very." Poor Augusta felt herself snubbed, thinking perhaps of the tailor's son; but as there was never any appeal against the Lady Amelia, she said nothing more at that moment in favour of Mr Mortimer Gazebee. All these evils--Mr Mortimer Gazebee being the worst of them--had Sir Louis Scatcherd brought down on the poor squire's head. There may be those who will say that the squire had brought them on himself, by running into debt; and so, doubtless, he had; but it was not the less true that the baronet's interference was unnecessary, vexatious, and one might almost say, malicious. His interest would have been quite safe in the doctor's hands, and he had, in fact, no legal right to meddle; but neither the doctor nor the squire could prevent him. Mr Finnie knew very well what he was about, if Sir Louis did not; and so the three went on, each with his own lawyer, and each of them distrustful, unhappy, and ill at ease. This was hard upon the doctor, for he was not in debt, and had borrowed no money. There was not much reason to suppose that the visit of Sir Louis to Greshamsbury would much improve matters. It must be presumed that he was not coming with any amicable views, but with the object rather of looking after his own; a phrase which was now constantly in his mouth. He might probably find it necessary while looking after his own at Greshamsbury, to say some very disagreeable things to the squire; and the doctor, therefore, hardly expected that the visit would go off pleasantly. When last we saw Sir Louis, now nearly twelve months since, he was intent on making a proposal of marriage to Miss Thorne. This intention he carried out about two days after Frank Gresham had done the same thing. He had delayed doing so till he had succeeded in purchasing his friend Jenkins's Arab pony, imagining that such a present could not but go far in weaning Mary's heart from her other lover. Poor Mary was put to the trouble of refusing both the baronet and the pony, and a very bad time she had of it while doing so. Sir Louis was a man easily angered, and not very easily pacified, and Mary had to endure a good deal of annoyance; from any other person, indeed, she would have called it impertinence. Sir Louis, however, had to bear his rejection as best he could, and, after a perseverance of three days, returned to London in disgust; and Mary had not seen him since. Mr Greyson's first letter was followed by a second; and the second was followed by the baronet in person. He also required to be received _en grand seigneur_, perhaps more imperatively than Mr Mortimer Gazebee himself. He came with four posters from the Barchester Station, and had himself rattled up to the doctor's door in a way that took the breath away from all Greshamsbury. Why! the squire himself for a many long year had been contented to come home with a pair of horses; and four were never seen in the place, except when the de Courcys came to Greshamsbury, or Lady Arabella with all her daughters returned from her hard-fought metropolitan campaigns. Sir Louis, however, came with four, and very arrogant he looked, leaning back in the barouche belonging to the George and Dragon, and wrapped up in fur, although it was now midsummer. And up in the dicky behind was a servant, more arrogant, if possible, than his master--the baronet's own man, who was the object of Dr Thorne's special detestation and disgust. He was a little fellow, chosen originally on account of his light weight on horseback; but if that may be considered a merit, it was the only one he had. His out-door show dress was a little tight frock-coat, round which a polished strap was always buckled tightly, a stiff white choker, leather breeches, top-boots, and a hat, with a cockade, stuck on one side of his head. His name was Jonah, which his master and his master's friends shortened into Joe; none, however, but those who were very intimate with his master were allowed to do so with impunity. This Joe was Dr Thorne's special aversion. In his anxiety to take every possible step to keep Sir Louis from poisoning himself, he had at first attempted to enlist the baronet's "own man" in the cause. Joe had promised fairly, but had betrayed the doctor at once, and had become the worst

alarmed

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

you know--I thought you always said so--I have always told mamma so as if it came from yourself." "Beatrice, do not tell anything to Lady Arabella as though it came from me; I do not want anything to be told to her, either of me or from me. Say what you like to me yourself; whatever you say will not anger me. Indeed, I know what you would say--and yet I love you. Oh, I love you, Trichy--Trichy, I do love you so much! Don't turn away from me!" There was such a mixture in Mary's manner of tenderness and almost ferocity, that poor Beatrice could hardly follow her. "Turn away from you, Mary! no never; but this does make me unhappy." "It is better that you should know it all, and then you will not be led into fighting my battles again. You cannot fight them so that I should win; I do love your brother; love him truly, fondly, tenderly. I would wish to have him for my husband as you wish to have Mr Oriel." "But, Mary, you cannot marry him!" "Why not?" said she, in a loud voice. "Why can I not marry him? If the priest says a blessing over us, shall we not be married as well as you and your husband?" "But you know he cannot marry unless his wife shall have money." "Money--money; and he is to sell himself for money? Oh, Trichy! do not you talk about money. It is horrible. But, Trichy, I will grant it--I cannot marry him; but still, I love him. He has a name, a place in the world, and fortune, family, high blood, position, everything. He has all this, and I have nothing. Of course I cannot marry him. But yet I do love him." "Are you engaged to him, Mary?" "He is not engaged to me; but I am to him." "Oh, Mary, that is impossible!" "It is not impossible: it is the case--I am pledged to him; but he is not pledged to me." "But, Mary, don't look at me in that way. I do not quite understand you. What is the good of your being engaged if you cannot marry him?" "Good! there is no good. But can I help it, if I love him? Can I make myself not love him by just wishing it? Oh, I would do it if I could. But now you will understand why I shake my head when you talk of my coming to your house. Your ways and my ways must be different." Beatrice was startled, and, for a time, silenced. What Mary said of the difference of their ways was quite true. Beatrice had dearly loved her friend, and had thought of her with affection through all this long period in which they had been separated; but she had given her love and her thoughts on the understanding, as it were, that they were in unison as to the impropriety of Frank's conduct. She had always spoken, with a grave face, of Frank and his love as of a great misfortune, even to Mary herself; and her pity for Mary had been founded on the conviction of her innocence. Now all those ideas had to be altered. Mary owned her fault, confessed herself to be guilty of all that Lady Arabella so frequently laid to her charge, and confessed herself anxious to commit every crime as to which Beatrice had been ever so ready to defend her. Had Beatrice up to this dreamed that Mary was in love with Frank, she would doubtless have sympathised with her more or less, sooner or later. As it was, it was beyond all doubt that she would soon sympathise with her. But, at the moment, the suddenness of the declaration seemed to harden her heart, and she forgot, as it were, to speak tenderly to her friend. She was silent, therefore, and dismayed; and looked as though she thought that her ways and Mary's ways must be different. Mary saw all that was passing in the other's mind: no, not all; all the hostility, the disappointment, the disapproval, the unhappiness, she did see; but not the under-current of love, which was strong enough to well up and drown all these, if only time could be allowed for it to do so. "I am glad I have told you," said Mary, curbing herself, "for deceit and hypocrisy are detestable." "It was a misunderstanding, not deceit," said Beatrice. "Well, now we understand each other; now you know that I have a heart within me, which like those of some others has not always been under my own control. Lady Arabella believes that I am intriguing to be the mistress of Greshamsbury. You, at any rate, will not think that of me. If it could be discovered to-morrow that Frank were not the heir, I might have some chance of happiness." "But, Mary--" "Well?" "You say you love him." "Yes; I do say so." "But if he does not love you, will you cease to do so?" "If I have a fever, I will get rid of it if I can; in such case I must do so, or die." "I fear," continued Beatrice, "you hardly know, perhaps do not think, what is Frank's real character. He is not made to settle down early in life; even now, I believe he is attached to some lady in London, whom, of course, he cannot marry." Beatrice said this in perfect trueness of heart. She had heard of Frank's new love-affair, and believing what she had heard, thought it best to tell the truth. But the information was not of a kind to quiet Mary's spirit. "Very well," said she, "let it be so. I have nothing to say against it." "But are you not preparing wretchedness and unhappiness for yourself?" "Very likely." "Oh, Mary, do not be so cold with me! you know how delighted I should be to have you for a sister-in-law, if only it were possible." "Yes, Trichy; but it is impossible, is it not? Impossible that Francis Gresham of Greshamsbury should disgrace himself by marrying such a poor creature as I am. Of course, I know it; of course, I am prepared for unhappiness and misery. He can amuse himself as he likes with me or others--with anybody. It is his privilege. It is quite enough to say that he is not made for settling down. I know my own position;--and yet I love him." "But, Mary, has he asked you to be his wife? If so--" "You ask home-questions, Beatrice. Let me ask you one; has he ever told you that he has done so?" At this moment Beatrice was not disposed to repeat all that Frank had said. A year ago, before he went away, he had told his sister a score of times that he meant to marry Mary Thorne if she would have him; but Beatrice now looked on all that as idle, boyish vapouring. The pity was, that Mary should have looked on it differently. "We will each keep our secret," said Mary. "Only remember this: should Frank marry to-morrow, I shall have no ground for blaming him. He is free as far I as am concerned. He can take the London lady if he likes. You may tell him so from me. But, Trichy, what else I have told you, I have told you only." "Oh, yes!" said Beatrice, sadly; "I shall say nothing of it to anybody. It is very sad, very, very; I was so happy when I came here, and now I am so wretched." This was the end of that delicious talk to which she had looked forward with so much eagerness. "Don't be wretched about me, dearest; I shall get through it. I sometimes think I was born to be unhappy, and that unhappiness agrees with me best. Kiss me now, Trichy, and don't be wretched any more. You owe it to Mr Oriel to be as happy as the day is long." And then they parted. Beatrice, as she went out, saw Dr Thorne in his little shop on the right-hand side of the passage, deeply engaged in some derogatory branch of an apothecary's mechanical trade; mixing a dose, perhaps, for a little child. She would have passed him without speaking if she could have been sure of doing so without notice, for her heart was full, and her eyes were red with tears; but it was so long since she had been in his house that she was more than ordinarily anxious not to appear uncourteous or unkind to him. "Good morning, doctor," she said, changing her countenance as best she might, and attempting a smile. "Ah, my fairy!" said he, leaving his villainous compounds, and coming out to her; "and you, too, are about to become a steady old lady." "Indeed, I am not, doctor; I don't mean to be either steady or old for the next ten years. But who has told you? I suppose Mary has been a traitor." "Well, I will confess, Mary was the traitor. But hadn't I a right to be told, seeing how often I have brought you sugar-plums in my pocket? But I wish you joy with all my heart,--with all my heart. Oriel is an excellent, good fellow." "Is he not, doctor?" "An excellent, good fellow. I never heard but of one fault that he had." "What was that one fault, Doctor Thorne?" "He thought that clergymen should not marry. But you have cured that, and now he's perfect." "Thank you, doctor. I declare that you say the prettiest things of all my friends." "And none of your friends wish prettier things for you. I do congratulate you, Beatrice, and hope you may be happy with the man you have chosen;" and taking both her hands in his, he pressed them warmly, and bade God bless her. "Oh, doctor! I do so hope the time will come when we shall all be friends again." "I hope it as well, my dear. But let it come, or let it not come, my regard for you will be the same:" and then she parted from him also, and went her way. Nothing was spoken of that evening between Dr Thorne and his niece excepting Beatrice's future happiness; nothing, at least, having reference to what had passed that morning. But on the following morning circumstances led to Frank Gresham's name being mentioned. At the usual breakfast-hour the doctor entered the parlour with a harassed face. He had an open letter in his hand, and it was at once clear to Mary that he was going to speak on some subject that vexed him. "That unfortunate fellow is again in trouble. Here is a letter from Greyson." Greyson was a London apothecary, who had been appointed as medical attendant to Sir Louis Scatcherd, and whose real business consisted in keeping a watch on the baronet, and reporting to Dr Thorne when anything was very much amiss. "Here is a letter from Greyson; he has been drunk for the last three days, and is now laid up in a terribly nervous state." "You won't go up to town again; will you, uncle?" "I hardly know what to do. No, I think not. He talks of coming down here to Greshamsbury." "Who, Sir Louis?" "Yes, Sir Louis. Greyson says that he will be down as soon as he can get out of his room." "What! to this house?" "What other house can he come to?" "Oh, uncle! I hope not. Pray, pray do not let him come here." "I cannot prevent it, my dear. I cannot shut my door on him." They sat down to breakfast, and Mary gave him his tea in silence. "I am going over to Boxall Hill before dinner," said he. "Have you any message to send to Lady Scatcherd?" "Message! no, I have no message; not especially: give her my love, of course," she said listlessly. And then, as though a thought had suddenly struck her, she spoke with more energy. "But, couldn't I go to Boxall Hill again? I should be so delighted." "What! to run away from Sir Louis? No, dearest, we will have no more running away. He will probably also go to Boxall Hill, and he could annoy you much more there than he can here." "But, uncle, Mr Gresham will be home on the 12th," she said, blushing. "What! Frank?" "Yes. Beatrice said he was to be here on the 12th." "And would you run away from him too, Mary?" "I do not know: I do not know what to do." "No; we will have no more running away: I am sorry that you ever did so. It was my fault, altogether my fault; but it was foolish." "Uncle, I am not happy here." As she said this, she put down the cup which she had held, and, leaning her elbows on the table, rested her forehead on her hands. "And would you be happier at Boxall Hill? It is not the place makes the happiness." "No, I know that; it is not the place. I do not look to be happy in any place; but I should be quieter, more tranquil elsewhere than here." "I also sometimes think that it will be better for us to take up our staves and walk away out of Greshamsbury;--leave it altogether, and settle elsewhere; miles, miles, miles away from here. Should you like that, dearest?" Miles, miles, miles away from Greshamsbury! There was something in the sound that fell very cold on Mary's ears, unhappy as she was. Greshamsbury had been so dear to her; in spite of all that had passed, was still so dear to her! Was she prepared to take up her staff, as her uncle said, and walk forth from the place with the full understanding that she was to return to it no more; with a mind resolved that there should be an inseparable gulf between her and its inhabitants? Such she knew was the proposed nature of the walking away of which her uncle spoke. So she sat there, resting on her arms, and gave no answer to the question that had been asked her. "No, we will stay a while yet," said her uncle. "It may come to that, but this is not the time. For one season longer let us face--I will not say our enemies; I cannot call anybody my enemy who bears the name of Gresham." And then he went on for a moment with his breakfast. "So Frank will be here on the 12th?" "Yes, uncle." "Well, dearest, I have no questions to ask you: no directions to give. I know how good you are, and how prudent; I am anxious only for your happiness; not at all--" "Happiness, uncle, is out of the question." "I hope not. It is never out of the question, never can be out of the question. But, as I was saying, I am quite satisfied your conduct will be good, and, therefore, I have no questions to ask. We will remain here; and, whether good or evil come, we will not be ashamed to show our faces." She sat for a while again silent, collecting her courage on the subject that was nearest her heart. She would have given the world that he should ask her questions; but she could not bid him to do so; and she found it impossible to talk openly to him about Frank unless he did so. "Will he come here?" at last she said, in a low-toned voice. "Who? He, Louis? Yes, I think that in all probability he will." "No; but Frank," she said, in a still lower voice. "Ah! my darling, that I cannot tell; but will it be well that he should come here?" "I do not know," she said. "No, I suppose not. But, uncle, I don't think he will come." She was now sitting on a sofa away from the table, and he got up, sat down beside her, and took her hands in his. "Mary," said he, "you must be strong now; strong to endure, not to attack. I think you have that strength; but, if not, perhaps it will be better that we should go away." "I will be strong," said she, rising up and going towards the door. "Never mind me, uncle; don't follow me; I will be strong. It will be base, cowardly, mean, to run away; very base in me to make you do so." "No, dearest, not so; it will be the same to me." "No," said she, "I will not run away from Lady Arabella. And, as for him--if he loves this other one, he shall hear no reproach from me. Uncle, I will be strong;" and running back to him, she threw her arms round him and kissed him. And, still restraining her tears, she got safely to her bedroom. In what way she may there have shown her strength, it would not be well for us to inquire. CHAPTER XXXIV A Barouche and Four Arrives at Greshamsbury During the last twelve months Sir Louis Scatcherd had been very efficacious in bringing trouble, turmoil, and vexation upon Greshamsbury. Now that it was too late to take steps to save himself, Dr Thorne found that the will left by Sir Roger was so made as to entail upon him duties that he would find it almost impossible to perform. Sir Louis, though his father had wished to make him still a child in the eye of the law, was no child. He knew his own rights and was determined to exact them; and before Sir Roger had been dead three months, the doctor found himself in continual litigation with a low Barchester attorney, who was acting on behalf of his, the doctor's, own ward. And if the doctor suffered so did the squire, and so did those who had hitherto had the management of the squire's affairs. Dr Thorne soon perceived that he was to be driven into litigation, not only with Mr Finnie, the Barchester attorney, but with the squire himself. While Finnie harassed him, he was compelled to harass Mr Gresham. He was no lawyer himself; and though he had been able to manage very well between the squire and Sir Roger, and had perhaps given himself some credit for his lawyer-like ability in so doing, he was utterly unable to manage between Sir Louis and Mr Gresham. He had, therefore, to employ a lawyer on his own account, and it seemed probable that the whole amount of Sir Roger's legacy to himself would by degrees be expended in this manner. And then, the squire's lawyers had to take up the matter; and they did so greatly to the detriment of poor Mr Yates Umbleby, who was found to have made a mess of the affairs entrusted to him. Mr Umbleby's accounts were incorrect; his mind was anything but clear, and he confessed, when put to it by the very sharp gentleman that came down from London, that he was "bothered;" and so, after a while, he was suspended from his duties, and Mr Gazebee, the sharp gentleman from London, reigned over the diminished rent-roll of the Greshamsbury estate. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury--with the one exception of Mr Oriel and his love-suit. Miss Gushing attributed the deposition of Mr Umbleby to the narrowness of the victory which Beatrice had won in carrying off Mr Oriel. For Miss Gushing was a relation of the Umblebys, and had been for many years one of their family. "If she had only chosen to exert herself as Miss Gresham had done, she could have had Mr Oriel, easily; oh, too easily! but she had despised such work," so she said. "But though she had despised it, the Greshams had not been less irritated, and, therefore, Mr Umbleby had been driven out of his house." We can hardly believe this, as victory generally makes men generous. Miss Gushing, however, stated it as a fact so often that it is probable she was induced to believe it herself. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury, and the squire himself was especially a sufferer. Umbleby had at any rate been his own man, and he could do what he liked with him. He could see him when he liked, and where he liked, and how he liked; could scold him if in an ill-humour, and laugh at him when in a good humour. All this Mr Umbleby knew, and bore. But Mr Gazebee was a very different sort of gentleman; he was the junior partner in the firm of Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, of Mount Street, a house that never defiled itself with any other business than the agency business, and that in the very highest line. They drew out leases, and managed property both for the Duke of Omnium and Lord de Courcy; and ever since her marriage, it had been one of the objects dearest to Lady Arabella's heart, that the Greshamsbury acres should be superintended by the polite skill and polished legal ability of that all but elegant firm in Mount Street. The squire had long stood firm, and had delighted in having everything done under his own eye by poor Mr Yates Umbleby. But now, alas! he could stand it no longer. He had put off the evil day as long as he could; he had deferred the odious work of investigation till things had seemed resolved on investigating themselves; and then, when it was absolutely necessary that Mr Umbleby should go, there was nothing for him left but to fall into the ready hands of Messrs Gumption, Gazebee and Gazebee. It must not be supposed that Messrs Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee were in the least like the ordinary run of attorneys. They wrote no letters for six-and-eightpence each: they collected no debts, filed no bills, made no charge per folio for "whereases" and "as aforesaids;" they did no dirty work, and probably were as ignorant of the interior of a court of law as any young lady living in their Mayfair vicinity. No; their business was to manage the property of great people, draw up leases, make legal assignments, get the family marriage settlements made, and look after wills. Occasionally, also, they had to raise money; but it was generally understood that this was done by proxy. The firm had been going on for a hundred and fifty years, and the designation had often been altered; but it always consisted of Gumptions and Gazebees differently arranged, and no less hallowed names had ever been permitted to appear. It had been Gazebee, Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee, Gumption & Gumption; then Gumption, Gumption & Gazebee; and now it was Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee. Mr Gazebee, the junior member of this firm, was a very elegant young man. While looking at him riding in Rotten Row, you would hardly have taken him for an attorney; and had he heard that you had so taken him, he would have been very much surprised indeed. He was rather bald; not being, as people say, quite so young as he was once. His exact age was thirty-eight. But he had a really remarkable pair of jet-black whiskers, which fully made up for any deficiency as to his head; he had also dark eyes, and a beaked nose, what may be called a distinguished mouth, and was always dressed in fashionable attire. The fact was, that Mr Mortimer Gazebee, junior partner in the firm Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, by no means considered himself to be made of that very disagreeable material which mortals call small beer. When this great firm was applied to, to get Mr Gresham through his difficulties, and when the state of his affairs was made known to them, they at first expressed rather a disinclination for the work. But at last, moved doubtless by their respect for the de Courcy interest, they assented; and Mr Gazebee, junior, went down to Greshamsbury. The poor squire passed many a sad day after that before he again felt himself to be master even of his own domain. Nevertheless, when Mr Mortimer Gazebee visited Greshamsbury, which he did on more than one or two occasions, he was always received _en grand seigneur_. To Lady Arabella he was by no means an unwelcome guest, for she found herself able, for the first time in her life, to speak confidentially on her husband's pecuniary affairs with the man who had the management of her husband's property. Mr Gazebee also was a pet with Lady de Courcy; and being known to be a fashionable man in London, and quite a different sort of person from poor Mr Umbleby, he was always received with smiles. He had a hundred little ways of making himself agreeable, and Augusta declared to her cousin, the Lady Amelia, after having been acquainted with him for a few months, that he would be a perfect gentleman, only, that his family had never been anything but attorneys. The Lady Amelia smiled in her own peculiarly aristocratic way, shrugged her shoulders slightly, and said, "that Mr Mortimer Gazebee was a very good sort of a person, very." Poor Augusta felt herself snubbed, thinking perhaps of the tailor's son; but as there was never any appeal against the Lady Amelia, she said nothing more at that moment in favour of Mr Mortimer Gazebee. All these evils--Mr Mortimer Gazebee being the worst of them--had Sir Louis Scatcherd brought down on the poor squire's head. There may be those who will say that the squire had brought them on himself, by running into debt; and so, doubtless, he had; but it was not the less true that the baronet's interference was unnecessary, vexatious, and one might almost say, malicious. His interest would have been quite safe in the doctor's hands, and he had, in fact, no legal right to meddle; but neither the doctor nor the squire could prevent him. Mr Finnie knew very well what he was about, if Sir Louis did not; and so the three went on, each with his own lawyer, and each of them distrustful, unhappy, and ill at ease. This was hard upon the doctor, for he was not in debt, and had borrowed no money. There was not much reason to suppose that the visit of Sir Louis to Greshamsbury would much improve matters. It must be presumed that he was not coming with any amicable views, but with the object rather of looking after his own; a phrase which was now constantly in his mouth. He might probably find it necessary while looking after his own at Greshamsbury, to say some very disagreeable things to the squire; and the doctor, therefore, hardly expected that the visit would go off pleasantly. When last we saw Sir Louis, now nearly twelve months since, he was intent on making a proposal of marriage to Miss Thorne. This intention he carried out about two days after Frank Gresham had done the same thing. He had delayed doing so till he had succeeded in purchasing his friend Jenkins's Arab pony, imagining that such a present could not but go far in weaning Mary's heart from her other lover. Poor Mary was put to the trouble of refusing both the baronet and the pony, and a very bad time she had of it while doing so. Sir Louis was a man easily angered, and not very easily pacified, and Mary had to endure a good deal of annoyance; from any other person, indeed, she would have called it impertinence. Sir Louis, however, had to bear his rejection as best he could, and, after a perseverance of three days, returned to London in disgust; and Mary had not seen him since. Mr Greyson's first letter was followed by a second; and the second was followed by the baronet in person. He also required to be received _en grand seigneur_, perhaps more imperatively than Mr Mortimer Gazebee himself. He came with four posters from the Barchester Station, and had himself rattled up to the doctor's door in a way that took the breath away from all Greshamsbury. Why! the squire himself for a many long year had been contented to come home with a pair of horses; and four were never seen in the place, except when the de Courcys came to Greshamsbury, or Lady Arabella with all her daughters returned from her hard-fought metropolitan campaigns. Sir Louis, however, came with four, and very arrogant he looked, leaning back in the barouche belonging to the George and Dragon, and wrapped up in fur, although it was now midsummer. And up in the dicky behind was a servant, more arrogant, if possible, than his master--the baronet's own man, who was the object of Dr Thorne's special detestation and disgust. He was a little fellow, chosen originally on account of his light weight on horseback; but if that may be considered a merit, it was the only one he had. His out-door show dress was a little tight frock-coat, round which a polished strap was always buckled tightly, a stiff white choker, leather breeches, top-boots, and a hat, with a cockade, stuck on one side of his head. His name was Jonah, which his master and his master's friends shortened into Joe; none, however, but those who were very intimate with his master were allowed to do so with impunity. This Joe was Dr Thorne's special aversion. In his anxiety to take every possible step to keep Sir Louis from poisoning himself, he had at first attempted to enlist the baronet's "own man" in the cause. Joe had promised fairly, but had betrayed the doctor at once, and had become the worst

sir

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

you know--I thought you always said so--I have always told mamma so as if it came from yourself." "Beatrice, do not tell anything to Lady Arabella as though it came from me; I do not want anything to be told to her, either of me or from me. Say what you like to me yourself; whatever you say will not anger me. Indeed, I know what you would say--and yet I love you. Oh, I love you, Trichy--Trichy, I do love you so much! Don't turn away from me!" There was such a mixture in Mary's manner of tenderness and almost ferocity, that poor Beatrice could hardly follow her. "Turn away from you, Mary! no never; but this does make me unhappy." "It is better that you should know it all, and then you will not be led into fighting my battles again. You cannot fight them so that I should win; I do love your brother; love him truly, fondly, tenderly. I would wish to have him for my husband as you wish to have Mr Oriel." "But, Mary, you cannot marry him!" "Why not?" said she, in a loud voice. "Why can I not marry him? If the priest says a blessing over us, shall we not be married as well as you and your husband?" "But you know he cannot marry unless his wife shall have money." "Money--money; and he is to sell himself for money? Oh, Trichy! do not you talk about money. It is horrible. But, Trichy, I will grant it--I cannot marry him; but still, I love him. He has a name, a place in the world, and fortune, family, high blood, position, everything. He has all this, and I have nothing. Of course I cannot marry him. But yet I do love him." "Are you engaged to him, Mary?" "He is not engaged to me; but I am to him." "Oh, Mary, that is impossible!" "It is not impossible: it is the case--I am pledged to him; but he is not pledged to me." "But, Mary, don't look at me in that way. I do not quite understand you. What is the good of your being engaged if you cannot marry him?" "Good! there is no good. But can I help it, if I love him? Can I make myself not love him by just wishing it? Oh, I would do it if I could. But now you will understand why I shake my head when you talk of my coming to your house. Your ways and my ways must be different." Beatrice was startled, and, for a time, silenced. What Mary said of the difference of their ways was quite true. Beatrice had dearly loved her friend, and had thought of her with affection through all this long period in which they had been separated; but she had given her love and her thoughts on the understanding, as it were, that they were in unison as to the impropriety of Frank's conduct. She had always spoken, with a grave face, of Frank and his love as of a great misfortune, even to Mary herself; and her pity for Mary had been founded on the conviction of her innocence. Now all those ideas had to be altered. Mary owned her fault, confessed herself to be guilty of all that Lady Arabella so frequently laid to her charge, and confessed herself anxious to commit every crime as to which Beatrice had been ever so ready to defend her. Had Beatrice up to this dreamed that Mary was in love with Frank, she would doubtless have sympathised with her more or less, sooner or later. As it was, it was beyond all doubt that she would soon sympathise with her. But, at the moment, the suddenness of the declaration seemed to harden her heart, and she forgot, as it were, to speak tenderly to her friend. She was silent, therefore, and dismayed; and looked as though she thought that her ways and Mary's ways must be different. Mary saw all that was passing in the other's mind: no, not all; all the hostility, the disappointment, the disapproval, the unhappiness, she did see; but not the under-current of love, which was strong enough to well up and drown all these, if only time could be allowed for it to do so. "I am glad I have told you," said Mary, curbing herself, "for deceit and hypocrisy are detestable." "It was a misunderstanding, not deceit," said Beatrice. "Well, now we understand each other; now you know that I have a heart within me, which like those of some others has not always been under my own control. Lady Arabella believes that I am intriguing to be the mistress of Greshamsbury. You, at any rate, will not think that of me. If it could be discovered to-morrow that Frank were not the heir, I might have some chance of happiness." "But, Mary--" "Well?" "You say you love him." "Yes; I do say so." "But if he does not love you, will you cease to do so?" "If I have a fever, I will get rid of it if I can; in such case I must do so, or die." "I fear," continued Beatrice, "you hardly know, perhaps do not think, what is Frank's real character. He is not made to settle down early in life; even now, I believe he is attached to some lady in London, whom, of course, he cannot marry." Beatrice said this in perfect trueness of heart. She had heard of Frank's new love-affair, and believing what she had heard, thought it best to tell the truth. But the information was not of a kind to quiet Mary's spirit. "Very well," said she, "let it be so. I have nothing to say against it." "But are you not preparing wretchedness and unhappiness for yourself?" "Very likely." "Oh, Mary, do not be so cold with me! you know how delighted I should be to have you for a sister-in-law, if only it were possible." "Yes, Trichy; but it is impossible, is it not? Impossible that Francis Gresham of Greshamsbury should disgrace himself by marrying such a poor creature as I am. Of course, I know it; of course, I am prepared for unhappiness and misery. He can amuse himself as he likes with me or others--with anybody. It is his privilege. It is quite enough to say that he is not made for settling down. I know my own position;--and yet I love him." "But, Mary, has he asked you to be his wife? If so--" "You ask home-questions, Beatrice. Let me ask you one; has he ever told you that he has done so?" At this moment Beatrice was not disposed to repeat all that Frank had said. A year ago, before he went away, he had told his sister a score of times that he meant to marry Mary Thorne if she would have him; but Beatrice now looked on all that as idle, boyish vapouring. The pity was, that Mary should have looked on it differently. "We will each keep our secret," said Mary. "Only remember this: should Frank marry to-morrow, I shall have no ground for blaming him. He is free as far I as am concerned. He can take the London lady if he likes. You may tell him so from me. But, Trichy, what else I have told you, I have told you only." "Oh, yes!" said Beatrice, sadly; "I shall say nothing of it to anybody. It is very sad, very, very; I was so happy when I came here, and now I am so wretched." This was the end of that delicious talk to which she had looked forward with so much eagerness. "Don't be wretched about me, dearest; I shall get through it. I sometimes think I was born to be unhappy, and that unhappiness agrees with me best. Kiss me now, Trichy, and don't be wretched any more. You owe it to Mr Oriel to be as happy as the day is long." And then they parted. Beatrice, as she went out, saw Dr Thorne in his little shop on the right-hand side of the passage, deeply engaged in some derogatory branch of an apothecary's mechanical trade; mixing a dose, perhaps, for a little child. She would have passed him without speaking if she could have been sure of doing so without notice, for her heart was full, and her eyes were red with tears; but it was so long since she had been in his house that she was more than ordinarily anxious not to appear uncourteous or unkind to him. "Good morning, doctor," she said, changing her countenance as best she might, and attempting a smile. "Ah, my fairy!" said he, leaving his villainous compounds, and coming out to her; "and you, too, are about to become a steady old lady." "Indeed, I am not, doctor; I don't mean to be either steady or old for the next ten years. But who has told you? I suppose Mary has been a traitor." "Well, I will confess, Mary was the traitor. But hadn't I a right to be told, seeing how often I have brought you sugar-plums in my pocket? But I wish you joy with all my heart,--with all my heart. Oriel is an excellent, good fellow." "Is he not, doctor?" "An excellent, good fellow. I never heard but of one fault that he had." "What was that one fault, Doctor Thorne?" "He thought that clergymen should not marry. But you have cured that, and now he's perfect." "Thank you, doctor. I declare that you say the prettiest things of all my friends." "And none of your friends wish prettier things for you. I do congratulate you, Beatrice, and hope you may be happy with the man you have chosen;" and taking both her hands in his, he pressed them warmly, and bade God bless her. "Oh, doctor! I do so hope the time will come when we shall all be friends again." "I hope it as well, my dear. But let it come, or let it not come, my regard for you will be the same:" and then she parted from him also, and went her way. Nothing was spoken of that evening between Dr Thorne and his niece excepting Beatrice's future happiness; nothing, at least, having reference to what had passed that morning. But on the following morning circumstances led to Frank Gresham's name being mentioned. At the usual breakfast-hour the doctor entered the parlour with a harassed face. He had an open letter in his hand, and it was at once clear to Mary that he was going to speak on some subject that vexed him. "That unfortunate fellow is again in trouble. Here is a letter from Greyson." Greyson was a London apothecary, who had been appointed as medical attendant to Sir Louis Scatcherd, and whose real business consisted in keeping a watch on the baronet, and reporting to Dr Thorne when anything was very much amiss. "Here is a letter from Greyson; he has been drunk for the last three days, and is now laid up in a terribly nervous state." "You won't go up to town again; will you, uncle?" "I hardly know what to do. No, I think not. He talks of coming down here to Greshamsbury." "Who, Sir Louis?" "Yes, Sir Louis. Greyson says that he will be down as soon as he can get out of his room." "What! to this house?" "What other house can he come to?" "Oh, uncle! I hope not. Pray, pray do not let him come here." "I cannot prevent it, my dear. I cannot shut my door on him." They sat down to breakfast, and Mary gave him his tea in silence. "I am going over to Boxall Hill before dinner," said he. "Have you any message to send to Lady Scatcherd?" "Message! no, I have no message; not especially: give her my love, of course," she said listlessly. And then, as though a thought had suddenly struck her, she spoke with more energy. "But, couldn't I go to Boxall Hill again? I should be so delighted." "What! to run away from Sir Louis? No, dearest, we will have no more running away. He will probably also go to Boxall Hill, and he could annoy you much more there than he can here." "But, uncle, Mr Gresham will be home on the 12th," she said, blushing. "What! Frank?" "Yes. Beatrice said he was to be here on the 12th." "And would you run away from him too, Mary?" "I do not know: I do not know what to do." "No; we will have no more running away: I am sorry that you ever did so. It was my fault, altogether my fault; but it was foolish." "Uncle, I am not happy here." As she said this, she put down the cup which she had held, and, leaning her elbows on the table, rested her forehead on her hands. "And would you be happier at Boxall Hill? It is not the place makes the happiness." "No, I know that; it is not the place. I do not look to be happy in any place; but I should be quieter, more tranquil elsewhere than here." "I also sometimes think that it will be better for us to take up our staves and walk away out of Greshamsbury;--leave it altogether, and settle elsewhere; miles, miles, miles away from here. Should you like that, dearest?" Miles, miles, miles away from Greshamsbury! There was something in the sound that fell very cold on Mary's ears, unhappy as she was. Greshamsbury had been so dear to her; in spite of all that had passed, was still so dear to her! Was she prepared to take up her staff, as her uncle said, and walk forth from the place with the full understanding that she was to return to it no more; with a mind resolved that there should be an inseparable gulf between her and its inhabitants? Such she knew was the proposed nature of the walking away of which her uncle spoke. So she sat there, resting on her arms, and gave no answer to the question that had been asked her. "No, we will stay a while yet," said her uncle. "It may come to that, but this is not the time. For one season longer let us face--I will not say our enemies; I cannot call anybody my enemy who bears the name of Gresham." And then he went on for a moment with his breakfast. "So Frank will be here on the 12th?" "Yes, uncle." "Well, dearest, I have no questions to ask you: no directions to give. I know how good you are, and how prudent; I am anxious only for your happiness; not at all--" "Happiness, uncle, is out of the question." "I hope not. It is never out of the question, never can be out of the question. But, as I was saying, I am quite satisfied your conduct will be good, and, therefore, I have no questions to ask. We will remain here; and, whether good or evil come, we will not be ashamed to show our faces." She sat for a while again silent, collecting her courage on the subject that was nearest her heart. She would have given the world that he should ask her questions; but she could not bid him to do so; and she found it impossible to talk openly to him about Frank unless he did so. "Will he come here?" at last she said, in a low-toned voice. "Who? He, Louis? Yes, I think that in all probability he will." "No; but Frank," she said, in a still lower voice. "Ah! my darling, that I cannot tell; but will it be well that he should come here?" "I do not know," she said. "No, I suppose not. But, uncle, I don't think he will come." She was now sitting on a sofa away from the table, and he got up, sat down beside her, and took her hands in his. "Mary," said he, "you must be strong now; strong to endure, not to attack. I think you have that strength; but, if not, perhaps it will be better that we should go away." "I will be strong," said she, rising up and going towards the door. "Never mind me, uncle; don't follow me; I will be strong. It will be base, cowardly, mean, to run away; very base in me to make you do so." "No, dearest, not so; it will be the same to me." "No," said she, "I will not run away from Lady Arabella. And, as for him--if he loves this other one, he shall hear no reproach from me. Uncle, I will be strong;" and running back to him, she threw her arms round him and kissed him. And, still restraining her tears, she got safely to her bedroom. In what way she may there have shown her strength, it would not be well for us to inquire. CHAPTER XXXIV A Barouche and Four Arrives at Greshamsbury During the last twelve months Sir Louis Scatcherd had been very efficacious in bringing trouble, turmoil, and vexation upon Greshamsbury. Now that it was too late to take steps to save himself, Dr Thorne found that the will left by Sir Roger was so made as to entail upon him duties that he would find it almost impossible to perform. Sir Louis, though his father had wished to make him still a child in the eye of the law, was no child. He knew his own rights and was determined to exact them; and before Sir Roger had been dead three months, the doctor found himself in continual litigation with a low Barchester attorney, who was acting on behalf of his, the doctor's, own ward. And if the doctor suffered so did the squire, and so did those who had hitherto had the management of the squire's affairs. Dr Thorne soon perceived that he was to be driven into litigation, not only with Mr Finnie, the Barchester attorney, but with the squire himself. While Finnie harassed him, he was compelled to harass Mr Gresham. He was no lawyer himself; and though he had been able to manage very well between the squire and Sir Roger, and had perhaps given himself some credit for his lawyer-like ability in so doing, he was utterly unable to manage between Sir Louis and Mr Gresham. He had, therefore, to employ a lawyer on his own account, and it seemed probable that the whole amount of Sir Roger's legacy to himself would by degrees be expended in this manner. And then, the squire's lawyers had to take up the matter; and they did so greatly to the detriment of poor Mr Yates Umbleby, who was found to have made a mess of the affairs entrusted to him. Mr Umbleby's accounts were incorrect; his mind was anything but clear, and he confessed, when put to it by the very sharp gentleman that came down from London, that he was "bothered;" and so, after a while, he was suspended from his duties, and Mr Gazebee, the sharp gentleman from London, reigned over the diminished rent-roll of the Greshamsbury estate. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury--with the one exception of Mr Oriel and his love-suit. Miss Gushing attributed the deposition of Mr Umbleby to the narrowness of the victory which Beatrice had won in carrying off Mr Oriel. For Miss Gushing was a relation of the Umblebys, and had been for many years one of their family. "If she had only chosen to exert herself as Miss Gresham had done, she could have had Mr Oriel, easily; oh, too easily! but she had despised such work," so she said. "But though she had despised it, the Greshams had not been less irritated, and, therefore, Mr Umbleby had been driven out of his house." We can hardly believe this, as victory generally makes men generous. Miss Gushing, however, stated it as a fact so often that it is probable she was induced to believe it herself. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury, and the squire himself was especially a sufferer. Umbleby had at any rate been his own man, and he could do what he liked with him. He could see him when he liked, and where he liked, and how he liked; could scold him if in an ill-humour, and laugh at him when in a good humour. All this Mr Umbleby knew, and bore. But Mr Gazebee was a very different sort of gentleman; he was the junior partner in the firm of Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, of Mount Street, a house that never defiled itself with any other business than the agency business, and that in the very highest line. They drew out leases, and managed property both for the Duke of Omnium and Lord de Courcy; and ever since her marriage, it had been one of the objects dearest to Lady Arabella's heart, that the Greshamsbury acres should be superintended by the polite skill and polished legal ability of that all but elegant firm in Mount Street. The squire had long stood firm, and had delighted in having everything done under his own eye by poor Mr Yates Umbleby. But now, alas! he could stand it no longer. He had put off the evil day as long as he could; he had deferred the odious work of investigation till things had seemed resolved on investigating themselves; and then, when it was absolutely necessary that Mr Umbleby should go, there was nothing for him left but to fall into the ready hands of Messrs Gumption, Gazebee and Gazebee. It must not be supposed that Messrs Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee were in the least like the ordinary run of attorneys. They wrote no letters for six-and-eightpence each: they collected no debts, filed no bills, made no charge per folio for "whereases" and "as aforesaids;" they did no dirty work, and probably were as ignorant of the interior of a court of law as any young lady living in their Mayfair vicinity. No; their business was to manage the property of great people, draw up leases, make legal assignments, get the family marriage settlements made, and look after wills. Occasionally, also, they had to raise money; but it was generally understood that this was done by proxy. The firm had been going on for a hundred and fifty years, and the designation had often been altered; but it always consisted of Gumptions and Gazebees differently arranged, and no less hallowed names had ever been permitted to appear. It had been Gazebee, Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee, Gumption & Gumption; then Gumption, Gumption & Gazebee; and now it was Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee. Mr Gazebee, the junior member of this firm, was a very elegant young man. While looking at him riding in Rotten Row, you would hardly have taken him for an attorney; and had he heard that you had so taken him, he would have been very much surprised indeed. He was rather bald; not being, as people say, quite so young as he was once. His exact age was thirty-eight. But he had a really remarkable pair of jet-black whiskers, which fully made up for any deficiency as to his head; he had also dark eyes, and a beaked nose, what may be called a distinguished mouth, and was always dressed in fashionable attire. The fact was, that Mr Mortimer Gazebee, junior partner in the firm Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, by no means considered himself to be made of that very disagreeable material which mortals call small beer. When this great firm was applied to, to get Mr Gresham through his difficulties, and when the state of his affairs was made known to them, they at first expressed rather a disinclination for the work. But at last, moved doubtless by their respect for the de Courcy interest, they assented; and Mr Gazebee, junior, went down to Greshamsbury. The poor squire passed many a sad day after that before he again felt himself to be master even of his own domain. Nevertheless, when Mr Mortimer Gazebee visited Greshamsbury, which he did on more than one or two occasions, he was always received _en grand seigneur_. To Lady Arabella he was by no means an unwelcome guest, for she found herself able, for the first time in her life, to speak confidentially on her husband's pecuniary affairs with the man who had the management of her husband's property. Mr Gazebee also was a pet with Lady de Courcy; and being known to be a fashionable man in London, and quite a different sort of person from poor Mr Umbleby, he was always received with smiles. He had a hundred little ways of making himself agreeable, and Augusta declared to her cousin, the Lady Amelia, after having been acquainted with him for a few months, that he would be a perfect gentleman, only, that his family had never been anything but attorneys. The Lady Amelia smiled in her own peculiarly aristocratic way, shrugged her shoulders slightly, and said, "that Mr Mortimer Gazebee was a very good sort of a person, very." Poor Augusta felt herself snubbed, thinking perhaps of the tailor's son; but as there was never any appeal against the Lady Amelia, she said nothing more at that moment in favour of Mr Mortimer Gazebee. All these evils--Mr Mortimer Gazebee being the worst of them--had Sir Louis Scatcherd brought down on the poor squire's head. There may be those who will say that the squire had brought them on himself, by running into debt; and so, doubtless, he had; but it was not the less true that the baronet's interference was unnecessary, vexatious, and one might almost say, malicious. His interest would have been quite safe in the doctor's hands, and he had, in fact, no legal right to meddle; but neither the doctor nor the squire could prevent him. Mr Finnie knew very well what he was about, if Sir Louis did not; and so the three went on, each with his own lawyer, and each of them distrustful, unhappy, and ill at ease. This was hard upon the doctor, for he was not in debt, and had borrowed no money. There was not much reason to suppose that the visit of Sir Louis to Greshamsbury would much improve matters. It must be presumed that he was not coming with any amicable views, but with the object rather of looking after his own; a phrase which was now constantly in his mouth. He might probably find it necessary while looking after his own at Greshamsbury, to say some very disagreeable things to the squire; and the doctor, therefore, hardly expected that the visit would go off pleasantly. When last we saw Sir Louis, now nearly twelve months since, he was intent on making a proposal of marriage to Miss Thorne. This intention he carried out about two days after Frank Gresham had done the same thing. He had delayed doing so till he had succeeded in purchasing his friend Jenkins's Arab pony, imagining that such a present could not but go far in weaning Mary's heart from her other lover. Poor Mary was put to the trouble of refusing both the baronet and the pony, and a very bad time she had of it while doing so. Sir Louis was a man easily angered, and not very easily pacified, and Mary had to endure a good deal of annoyance; from any other person, indeed, she would have called it impertinence. Sir Louis, however, had to bear his rejection as best he could, and, after a perseverance of three days, returned to London in disgust; and Mary had not seen him since. Mr Greyson's first letter was followed by a second; and the second was followed by the baronet in person. He also required to be received _en grand seigneur_, perhaps more imperatively than Mr Mortimer Gazebee himself. He came with four posters from the Barchester Station, and had himself rattled up to the doctor's door in a way that took the breath away from all Greshamsbury. Why! the squire himself for a many long year had been contented to come home with a pair of horses; and four were never seen in the place, except when the de Courcys came to Greshamsbury, or Lady Arabella with all her daughters returned from her hard-fought metropolitan campaigns. Sir Louis, however, came with four, and very arrogant he looked, leaning back in the barouche belonging to the George and Dragon, and wrapped up in fur, although it was now midsummer. And up in the dicky behind was a servant, more arrogant, if possible, than his master--the baronet's own man, who was the object of Dr Thorne's special detestation and disgust. He was a little fellow, chosen originally on account of his light weight on horseback; but if that may be considered a merit, it was the only one he had. His out-door show dress was a little tight frock-coat, round which a polished strap was always buckled tightly, a stiff white choker, leather breeches, top-boots, and a hat, with a cockade, stuck on one side of his head. His name was Jonah, which his master and his master's friends shortened into Joe; none, however, but those who were very intimate with his master were allowed to do so with impunity. This Joe was Dr Thorne's special aversion. In his anxiety to take every possible step to keep Sir Louis from poisoning himself, he had at first attempted to enlist the baronet's "own man" in the cause. Joe had promised fairly, but had betrayed the doctor at once, and had become the worst

cold

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

you mean to say that the morals of your party will be offended?" said Madame Goesler, almost laughing. "Lord Fawn, you know, is very particular. In sober earnest one cannot tell how these things operate; but they do operate gradually. One's friends are sometimes very glad of an excuse for not befriending one." "Lady Laura is coming home?" "Yes." "That will put an end to it." "There is nothing to put an end to except the foul-mouthed malice of a lying newspaper. Nobody believes anything against Lady Laura." "I'm not so sure of that. I believe nothing against her." "I'm sure you do not, Madame Goesler. Nor do I think that anybody does. It is too absurd for belief from beginning to end. Good-bye. Perhaps I shall see you when the debate is over." "Of course you will. Good-bye, and success to your oratory." Then Madame Goesler resolved that she would say a few judicious words to her friend, the Duchess, respecting Phineas Finn. CHAPTER XXXIII. THE TWO GLADIATORS. The great debate was commenced with all the solemnities which are customary on such occasions, and which make men think for the day that no moment of greater excitement has ever blessed or cursed the country. Upon the present occasion London was full of clergymen. The specially clerical clubs,--the Oxford and Cambridge, the Old University, and the Athenaeum,--were black with them. The bishops and deans, as usual, were pleasant in their manner and happy-looking, in spite of adverse circumstances. When one sees a bishop in the hours of the distress of the Church, one always thinks of the just and firm man who will stand fearless while the ruins of the world are falling about his ears. But the parsons from the country were a sorry sight to see. They were in earnest with all their hearts, and did believe,--not that the crack of doom was coming, which they could have borne with equanimity if convinced that their influence would last to the end,--but that the Evil One was to be made welcome upon the earth by Act of Parliament. It is out of nature that any man should think it good that his own order should be repressed, curtailed, and deprived of its power. If we go among cab-drivers or letter-carriers, among butlers or gamekeepers, among tailors or butchers, among farmers or graziers, among doctors or attorneys, we shall find in each set of men a conviction that the welfare of the community depends upon the firmness with which they,--especially they,--hold their own. This is so manifestly true with the Bar that no barrister in practice scruples to avow that barristers in practice are the salt of the earth. The personal confidence of a judge in his own position is beautiful, being salutary to the country, though not unfrequently damaging to the character of the man. But if this be so with men who are conscious of no higher influence than that exercised over the bodies and minds of their fellow creatures, how much stronger must be the feeling when the influence affects the soul! To the outsider, or layman, who simply uses a cab, or receives a letter, or goes to law, or has to be tried, these pretensions are ridiculous or annoying, according to the ascendancy of the pretender at the moment. But as the clerical pretensions are more exacting than all others, being put forward with an assertion that no answer is possible without breach of duty and sin, so are they more galling. The fight has been going on since the idea of a mitre first entered the heart of a priest,--since dominion in this world has found itself capable of sustentation by the exercise of fear as to the world to come. We do believe,--the majority among us does so,--that if we live and die in sin we shall after some fashion come to great punishment, and we believe also that by having pastors among us who shall be men of God, we may best aid ourselves and our children in avoiding this bitter end. But then the pastors and men of God can only be human,--cannot be altogether men of God; and so they have oppressed us, and burned us, and tortured us, and hence come to love palaces, and fine linen, and purple, and, alas, sometimes, mere luxury and idleness. The torturing and the burning, as also to speak truth the luxury and the idleness, have, among us, been already conquered, but the idea of ascendancy remains. What is a thoughtful man to do who acknowledges the danger of his soul, but cannot swallow his parson whole simply because he has been sent to him from some source in which he has no special confidence, perhaps by some distant lord, perhaps by a Lord Chancellor whose political friend has had a son with a tutor? What is he to do when, in spite of some fine linen and purple left among us, the provision for the man of God in his parish or district is so poor that no man of God fitted to teach him will come and take it? In no spirit of animosity to religion he begins to tell himself that Church and State together was a monkish combination, fit perhaps for monkish days, but no longer having fitness, and not much longer capable of existence in this country. But to the parson himself,--to the honest, hardworking, conscientious priest who does in his heart of hearts believe that no diminution in the general influence of his order can be made without ruin to the souls of men,--this opinion, when it becomes dominant, is as though the world were in truth breaking to pieces over his head. The world has been broken to pieces in the same way often;--but extreme Chaos does not come. The cabman and the letter-carrier always expect that Chaos will very nearly come when they are disturbed. The barristers are sure of Chaos when the sanctity of Benchers is in question. What utter Chaos would be promised to us could any one with impunity contemn the majesty of the House of Commons! But of all these Chaoses there can be no Chaos equal to that which in the mind of a zealous Oxford-bred constitutional country parson must attend that annihilation of his special condition which will be produced by the disestablishment of the Church. Of all good fellows he is the best good fellow. He is genial, hospitable, well-educated, and always has either a pretty wife or pretty daughters. But he has so extreme a belief in himself that he cannot endure to be told that absolute Chaos will not come at once if he be disturbed. And now disturbances,--ay, and utter dislocation and ruin were to come from the hands of a friend! Was it wonderful that parsons should be seen about Westminster in flocks with _"Et tu, Brute"_ written on their faces as plainly as the law on the brows of a Pharisee? The Speaker had been harassed for orders. The powers and prowess of every individual member had been put to the test. The galleries were crowded. Ladies' places had been ballotted for with desperate enthusiasm, in spite of the sarcasm against the House which Madame Goesler had expressed. Two royal princes and a royal duke were accommodated within the House in an irregular manner. Peers swarmed in the passages, and were too happy to find standing room. Bishops jostled against lay barons with no other preference than that afforded to them by their broader shoulders. Men, and especially clergymen, came to the galleries loaded with sandwiches and flasks, prepared to hear all there was to be heard should the debate last from 4 P.M. to the same hour on the following morning. At two in the afternoon the entrances to the House were barred, and men of all ranks,--deans, prebends, peers' sons, and baronets,--stood there patiently waiting till some powerful nobleman should let them through. The very ventilating chambers under the House were filled with courteous listeners, who had all pledged themselves that under no possible provocation would they even cough during the debate. A few minutes after four, in a House from which hardly more than a dozen members were absent, Mr. Daubeny took his seat with that air of affected indifference to things around him which is peculiar to him. He entered slowly, amidst cheers from his side of the House, which no doubt were loud in proportion to the dismay of the cheerers as to the matter in hand. Gentlemen lacking substantial sympathy with their leader found it to be comfortable to deceive themselves, and raise their hearts at the same time by the easy enthusiasm of noise. Mr. Daubeny having sat down and covered his head just raised his hat from his brows, and then tried to look as though he were no more than any other gentleman present. But the peculiar consciousness of the man displayed itself even in his constrained absence of motion. You could see that he felt himself to be the beheld of all beholders, and that he enjoyed the position,--with some slight inward trepidation lest the effort to be made should not equal the greatness of the occasion. Immediately after him Mr. Gresham bustled up the centre of the House amidst a roar of good-humoured welcome. We have had many Ministers who have been personally dearer to their individual adherents in the House than the present leader of the Opposition and late Premier, but none, perhaps, who has been more generally respected by his party for earnestness and sincerity. On the present occasion there was a fierceness, almost a ferocity, in his very countenance, to the fire of which friends and enemies were equally anxious to add fuel,--the friends in order that so might these recreant Tories be more thoroughly annihilated, and the enemies, that their enemy's indiscretion might act back upon himself to his confusion. For, indeed, it never could be denied that as a Prime Minister Mr. Gresham could be very indiscreet. A certain small amount of ordinary business was done, to the disgust of expectant strangers, which was as trivial as possible in its nature,--so arranged, apparently, that the importance of what was to follow might be enhanced by the force of contrast. And, to make the dismay of the novice stranger more thorough, questions were asked and answers were given in so low a voice, and Mr. Speaker uttered a word or two in so quick and shambling a fashion, that he, the novice stranger, began to fear that no word of the debate would reach him up there in his crowded back seat. All this, however, occupied but a few minutes, and at twenty minutes past four Mr. Daubeny was on his legs. Then the novice stranger found that, though he could not see Mr. Daubeny without the aid of an opera glass, he could hear every word that fell from his lips. Mr. Daubeny began by regretting the hardness of his position, in that he must, with what thoroughness he might be able to achieve, apply himself to two great subjects, whereas the right honourable gentleman opposite had already declared, with all the formality which could be made to attach itself to a combined meeting of peers and commoners, that he would confine himself strictly to one. The subject selected by the right honourable gentleman opposite on the present occasion was not the question of Church Reform. The right honourable gentleman had pledged himself with an almost sacred enthusiasm to ignore that subject altogether. No doubt it was the question before the House, and he, himself,--the present speaker,--must unfortunately discuss it at some length. The right honourable gentleman opposite would not, on this great occasion, trouble himself with anything of so little moment. And it might be presumed that the political followers of the right honourable gentleman would be equally reticent, as they were understood to have accepted his tactics without a dissentient voice. He, Mr. Daubeny, was the last man in England to deny the importance of the question which the right honourable gentleman would select for discussions in preference to that of the condition of the Church. That question was a very simple one, and might be put to the House in a very few words. Coming from the mouth of the right honourable gentleman, the proposition would probably be made in this form:--"That this House does think that I ought to be Prime Minister now, and as long as I may possess a seat in this House." It was impossible to deny the importance of that question; but perhaps he, Mr. Daubeny, might be justified in demurring to the preference given to it over every other matter, let that matter be of what importance it might be to the material welfare of the country. He made his point well; but he made it too often. And an attack of that kind, personal and savage in its nature, loses its effect when it is evident that the words have been prepared. A good deal may be done in dispute by calling a man an ass or a knave,--but the resolve to use the words should have been made only at the moment, and they should come hot from the heart. There was much neatness and some acuteness in Mr. Daubeny's satire, but there was no heat, and it was prolix. It had, however, the effect of irritating Mr. Gresham,--as was evident from the manner in which he moved his hat and shuffled his feet. A man destined to sit conspicuously on our Treasury Bench, or on the seat opposite to it, should ask the gods for a thick skin as a first gift. The need of this in our national assembly is greater than elsewhere, because the differences between the men opposed to each other are smaller. When two foes meet together in the same Chamber, one of whom advocates the personal government of an individual ruler, and the other that form of State, which has come to be called a Red Republic, they deal, no doubt, weighty blows of oratory at each other, but blows which never hurt at the moment. They may cut each other's throats if they can find an opportunity; but they do not bite each other like dogs over a bone. But when opponents are almost in accord, as is always the case with our parliamentary gladiators, they are ever striving to give maddening little wounds through the joints of the harness. What is there with us to create the divergence necessary for debate but the pride of personal skill in the encounter? Who desires among us to put down the Queen, or to repudiate the National Debt, or to destroy religious worship, or even to disturb the ranks of society? When some small measure of reform has thoroughly recommended itself to the country,--so thoroughly that all men know that the country will have it,--then the question arises whether its details shall be arranged by the political party which calls itself Liberal,--or by that which is termed Conservative. The men are so near to each other in all their convictions and theories of life that nothing is left to them but personal competition for the doing of the thing that is to be done. It is the same in religion. The apostle of Christianity and the infidel can meet without a chance of a quarrel; but it is never safe to bring together two men who differ about a saint or a surplice. Mr. Daubeny, having thus attacked and wounded his enemy, rushed boldly into the question of Church Reform, taking no little pride to himself and to his party that so great a blessing should be bestowed upon the country from so unexpected a source. "See what we Conservatives can do. In fact we will conserve nothing when we find that you do not desire to have it conserved any longer. 'Quod minime reris Grai pandetur ab urbe.'" It was exactly the reverse of the complaint which Mr. Gresham was about to make. On the subject of the Church itself he was rather misty but very profound. He went into the question of very early Churches indeed, and spoke of the misappropriation of endowments in the time of Eli. The establishment of the Levites had been no doubt complete; but changes had been effected as circumstances required. He was presumed to have alluded to the order of Melchisedek, but he abstained from any mention of the name. He roamed very wide, and gave many of his hearers an idea that his erudition had carried him into regions in which it was impossible to follow him. The gist of his argument was to show that audacity in Reform was the very backbone of Conservatism. By a clearly pronounced disunion of Church and State the theocracy of Thomas Becket would be restored, and the people of England would soon again become the faithful flocks of faithful shepherds. By taking away the endowments from the parishes, and giving them back in some complicated way to the country, the parishes would be better able than ever to support their clergymen. Bishops would be bishops indeed, when they were no longer the creatures of a Minister's breath. As to the deans, not seeing a clear way to satisfy aspirants for future vacancies in the deaneries, he became more than usually vague, but seemed to imply that the Bill which was now with the leave of the House to be read a second time, contained no clause forbidding the appointment of deans, though the special stipend of the office must be matter of consideration with the new Church Synod. The details of this part of his speech were felt to be dull by the strangers. As long as he would abuse Mr. Gresham, men could listen with pleasure; and could keep their attention fixed while he referred to the general Conservatism of the party which he had the honour of leading. There was a raciness in the promise of so much Church destruction from the chosen leader of the Church party, which was assisted by a conviction in the minds of most men that it was impossible for unfortunate Conservatives to refuse to follow this leader, let him lead where he might. There was a gratification in feeling that the country party was bound to follow, even should he take them into the very bowels of a mountain, as the pied piper did the children of Hamelin;--and this made listening pleasant. But when Mr. Daubeny stated the effect of his different clauses, explaining what was to be taken and what left,--with a fervent assurance that what was to be left would, under the altered circumstances, go much further than the whole had gone before,--then the audience became weary, and began to think that it was time that some other gentleman should be upon his legs. But at the end of the Minister's speech there was another touch of invective which went far to redeem him. He returned to that personal question to which his adversary had undertaken to confine himself, and expressed a holy horror at the political doctrine which was implied. He, during a prolonged Parliamentary experience, had encountered much factious opposition. He would even acknowledge that he had seen it exercised on both sides of the House, though he had always striven to keep himself free from its baneful influence. But never till now had he known a statesman proclaim his intention of depending upon faction, and upon faction alone, for the result which he desired to achieve. Let the right honourable gentleman raise a contest on either the principles or the details of the measure, and he would be quite content to abide the decision of the House; but he should regard such a raid as that threatened against him and his friends by the right honourable gentleman as unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. He felt sure that an opposition so based, and so maintained, even if it be enabled by the heated feelings of the moment to obtain an unfortunate success in the House, would not be encouraged by the sympathy and support of the country at large. By these last words he was understood to signify that should he be beaten on the second reading, not in reference to the merits of the Bill, but simply on the issue as proposed by Mr. Gresham, he would again dissolve the House before he would resign. Now it was very well understood that there were Liberal members in the House who would prefer even the success of Mr. Daubeny to a speedy reappearance before their constituents. Mr. Daubeny spoke till nearly eight, and it was surmised at the time that he had craftily arranged his oratory so as to embarrass his opponent. The House had met at four, and was to sit continuously till it was adjourned for the night. When this is the case, gentlemen who speak about eight o'clock are too frequently obliged to address themselves to empty benches. On the present occasion it was Mr. Gresham's intention to follow his opponent at once, instead of waiting, as is usual with a leader of his party, to the close of the debate. It was understood that Mr. Gresham would follow Mr. Daubeny, with the object of making a distinct charge against Ministers, so that the vote on this second reading of the Church Bill might in truth be a vote of want of confidence. But to commence his speech at eight o'clock when the House was hungry and uneasy, would be a trial. Had Mr. Daubeny closed an hour sooner there would, with a little stretching of the favoured hours, have been time enough. Members would not have objected to postpone their dinner till half-past eight, or perhaps nine, when their favourite orator was on his legs. But with Mr. Gresham beginning a great speech at eight, dinner would altogether become doubtful, and the disaster might be serious. It was not probable that Mr. Daubeny had even among his friends proclaimed any such strategy; but it was thought by the political speculators of the day that such an idea had been present to his mind. But Mr. Gresham was not to be turned from his purpose. He waited for a few moments, and then rose and addressed the Speaker. A few members left the House;--gentlemen, doubtless, whose constitutions, weakened by previous service, could not endure prolonged fasting. Some who had nearly reached the door returned to their seats, mindful of Messrs. Roby and Ratler. But for the bulk of those assembled the interest of the moment was greater even than the love of dinner. Some of the peers departed, and it was observed that a bishop or two left the House; but among the strangers in the gallery, hardly a foot of space was gained. He who gave up his seat then, gave it up for the night. Mr. Gresham began with a calmness of tone which seemed almost to be affected, but which arose from a struggle on his own part to repress that superabundant energy of which he was only too conscious. But the calmness soon gave place to warmth, which heated itself into violence before he had been a quarter of an hour upon his legs. He soon became even ferocious in his invective, and said things so bitter that he had himself no conception of their bitterness. There was this difference between the two men,--that whereas Mr. Daubeny hit always as hard as he knew how to hit, having premeditated each blow, and weighed its results beforehand, having calculated his power even to the effect of a blow repeated on a wound already given, Mr. Gresham struck right and left and straightforward with a readiness engendered by practice, and in his fury might have murdered his antagonist before he was aware that he had drawn blood. He began by refusing absolutely to discuss the merits of the bill. The right honourable gentleman had prided himself on his generosity as a Greek. He would remind the right honourable gentleman that presents from Greeks had ever been considered dangerous. "It is their gifts, and only their gifts, that we fear," he said. The political gifts of the right honourable gentleman, extracted by him from his unwilling colleagues and followers, had always been more bitter to the taste than Dead Sea apples. That such gifts should not be bestowed on the country by unwilling hands, that reform should not come from those who themselves felt the necessity of no reform, he believed to be the wish not only of that House, but of the country at large. Would any gentleman on that bench, excepting the right honourable gentleman himself,--and he pointed to the crowded phalanx of the Government,--get up and declare that this measure of Church Reform, this severance of Church and State, was brought forward in consonance with his own long-cherished political conviction? He accused that party of being so bound to the chariot wheels of the right honourable gentleman, as to be unable to abide by their own convictions. And as to the right honourable gentleman himself, he would appeal to his followers opposite to say whether the right honourable gentleman was possessed of any one strong political conviction. He had been accused of being unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. If the House would allow him he would very shortly explain his idea of constitutional government as carried on in this country. It was based and built on majorities in that House, and supported solely by that power. There could be no constitutional government in this country that was not so maintained. Any other government must be both revolutionary and tyrannical. Any other government was a usurpation; and he would make bold to tell the right honourable gentleman that a Minister in this country who should recommend Her Majesty to trust herself to advisers not supported by a majority of the House of Commons, would plainly be guilty of usurping the powers of the State. He threw from him with disdain the charge which had been brought against himself of hankering after the sweets of office. He indulged and gloried in indulging the highest ambition of an English subject. But he gloried much more in the privileges and power of that House, within the walls of which was centred all that was salutary, all that was efficacious, all that was stable in the political constitution of his country. It had been his pride to have acted during nearly all his political life with that party which had commanded a majority, but he would defy his most bitter adversary, he would defy the right honourable gentleman himself, to point to any period of his career in which he had been unwilling to succumb to a majority when he himself had belonged to the minority. He himself would regard the vote on this occasion as a vote of want of confidence. He took the line he was now taking because he desired to bring the House to a decision on that question. He himself had not that confidence in the right honourable gentleman which would justify him in accepting a measure on so important a subject as the union or severance of Church and State from his hands. Should the majority of the House differ from him and support the second reading of the Bill, he would at once so far succumb as to give his best attention to the clauses of the bill, and endeavour with the assistance of those gentlemen who acted with him to make it suitable to the wants of the country by omissions and additions as the clauses should pass through Committee. But before doing that he would ask the House to decide with all its solemnity and all its weight whether it was willing to accept from the hands of the right honourable gentleman any measure of reform on a matter so important as this now before them. It was nearly ten when he sat down; and then the stomach of the House could stand it no longer, and an adjournment at once took place. On the next morning it was generally considered that Mr. Daubeny had been too long and Mr. Gresham too passionate. There were some who declared that Mr. Gresham had never been finer than when he described the privileges of the House of Commons; and others who thought that Mr. Daubeny's lucidity had been marvellous; but in this case, as in most others, the speeches of the day were generally thought to have been very inferior to the great efforts of the past. CHAPTER XXXIV. THE UNIVERSE. Before the House met again the quidnuncs about the clubs, on both sides of the question, had determined that Mr. Gresham's speech, whether good or not as an effort of oratory, would serve its intended purpose. He would be backed by a majority of votes, and it might have been very doubtful whether such would have been the case had he attempted to throw out the Bill on its merits. Mr. Ratler, by the time that prayers had been read, had become almost certain of success. There were very few Liberals in the House who were not anxious to declare by their votes that they had no confidence in Mr. Daubeny. Mr. Turnbull, the great Radical, and, perhaps, some two dozen with him, would support the second reading, declaring that they could not reconcile it with their consciences to record a vote in favour of a union of Church and State. On all such occasions as the present Mr. Turnbull was sure to make himself disagreeable to those who sat near to him in the House. He was a man who thought that so much was demanded of him in order that his independence might

select

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

you mean to say that the morals of your party will be offended?" said Madame Goesler, almost laughing. "Lord Fawn, you know, is very particular. In sober earnest one cannot tell how these things operate; but they do operate gradually. One's friends are sometimes very glad of an excuse for not befriending one." "Lady Laura is coming home?" "Yes." "That will put an end to it." "There is nothing to put an end to except the foul-mouthed malice of a lying newspaper. Nobody believes anything against Lady Laura." "I'm not so sure of that. I believe nothing against her." "I'm sure you do not, Madame Goesler. Nor do I think that anybody does. It is too absurd for belief from beginning to end. Good-bye. Perhaps I shall see you when the debate is over." "Of course you will. Good-bye, and success to your oratory." Then Madame Goesler resolved that she would say a few judicious words to her friend, the Duchess, respecting Phineas Finn. CHAPTER XXXIII. THE TWO GLADIATORS. The great debate was commenced with all the solemnities which are customary on such occasions, and which make men think for the day that no moment of greater excitement has ever blessed or cursed the country. Upon the present occasion London was full of clergymen. The specially clerical clubs,--the Oxford and Cambridge, the Old University, and the Athenaeum,--were black with them. The bishops and deans, as usual, were pleasant in their manner and happy-looking, in spite of adverse circumstances. When one sees a bishop in the hours of the distress of the Church, one always thinks of the just and firm man who will stand fearless while the ruins of the world are falling about his ears. But the parsons from the country were a sorry sight to see. They were in earnest with all their hearts, and did believe,--not that the crack of doom was coming, which they could have borne with equanimity if convinced that their influence would last to the end,--but that the Evil One was to be made welcome upon the earth by Act of Parliament. It is out of nature that any man should think it good that his own order should be repressed, curtailed, and deprived of its power. If we go among cab-drivers or letter-carriers, among butlers or gamekeepers, among tailors or butchers, among farmers or graziers, among doctors or attorneys, we shall find in each set of men a conviction that the welfare of the community depends upon the firmness with which they,--especially they,--hold their own. This is so manifestly true with the Bar that no barrister in practice scruples to avow that barristers in practice are the salt of the earth. The personal confidence of a judge in his own position is beautiful, being salutary to the country, though not unfrequently damaging to the character of the man. But if this be so with men who are conscious of no higher influence than that exercised over the bodies and minds of their fellow creatures, how much stronger must be the feeling when the influence affects the soul! To the outsider, or layman, who simply uses a cab, or receives a letter, or goes to law, or has to be tried, these pretensions are ridiculous or annoying, according to the ascendancy of the pretender at the moment. But as the clerical pretensions are more exacting than all others, being put forward with an assertion that no answer is possible without breach of duty and sin, so are they more galling. The fight has been going on since the idea of a mitre first entered the heart of a priest,--since dominion in this world has found itself capable of sustentation by the exercise of fear as to the world to come. We do believe,--the majority among us does so,--that if we live and die in sin we shall after some fashion come to great punishment, and we believe also that by having pastors among us who shall be men of God, we may best aid ourselves and our children in avoiding this bitter end. But then the pastors and men of God can only be human,--cannot be altogether men of God; and so they have oppressed us, and burned us, and tortured us, and hence come to love palaces, and fine linen, and purple, and, alas, sometimes, mere luxury and idleness. The torturing and the burning, as also to speak truth the luxury and the idleness, have, among us, been already conquered, but the idea of ascendancy remains. What is a thoughtful man to do who acknowledges the danger of his soul, but cannot swallow his parson whole simply because he has been sent to him from some source in which he has no special confidence, perhaps by some distant lord, perhaps by a Lord Chancellor whose political friend has had a son with a tutor? What is he to do when, in spite of some fine linen and purple left among us, the provision for the man of God in his parish or district is so poor that no man of God fitted to teach him will come and take it? In no spirit of animosity to religion he begins to tell himself that Church and State together was a monkish combination, fit perhaps for monkish days, but no longer having fitness, and not much longer capable of existence in this country. But to the parson himself,--to the honest, hardworking, conscientious priest who does in his heart of hearts believe that no diminution in the general influence of his order can be made without ruin to the souls of men,--this opinion, when it becomes dominant, is as though the world were in truth breaking to pieces over his head. The world has been broken to pieces in the same way often;--but extreme Chaos does not come. The cabman and the letter-carrier always expect that Chaos will very nearly come when they are disturbed. The barristers are sure of Chaos when the sanctity of Benchers is in question. What utter Chaos would be promised to us could any one with impunity contemn the majesty of the House of Commons! But of all these Chaoses there can be no Chaos equal to that which in the mind of a zealous Oxford-bred constitutional country parson must attend that annihilation of his special condition which will be produced by the disestablishment of the Church. Of all good fellows he is the best good fellow. He is genial, hospitable, well-educated, and always has either a pretty wife or pretty daughters. But he has so extreme a belief in himself that he cannot endure to be told that absolute Chaos will not come at once if he be disturbed. And now disturbances,--ay, and utter dislocation and ruin were to come from the hands of a friend! Was it wonderful that parsons should be seen about Westminster in flocks with _"Et tu, Brute"_ written on their faces as plainly as the law on the brows of a Pharisee? The Speaker had been harassed for orders. The powers and prowess of every individual member had been put to the test. The galleries were crowded. Ladies' places had been ballotted for with desperate enthusiasm, in spite of the sarcasm against the House which Madame Goesler had expressed. Two royal princes and a royal duke were accommodated within the House in an irregular manner. Peers swarmed in the passages, and were too happy to find standing room. Bishops jostled against lay barons with no other preference than that afforded to them by their broader shoulders. Men, and especially clergymen, came to the galleries loaded with sandwiches and flasks, prepared to hear all there was to be heard should the debate last from 4 P.M. to the same hour on the following morning. At two in the afternoon the entrances to the House were barred, and men of all ranks,--deans, prebends, peers' sons, and baronets,--stood there patiently waiting till some powerful nobleman should let them through. The very ventilating chambers under the House were filled with courteous listeners, who had all pledged themselves that under no possible provocation would they even cough during the debate. A few minutes after four, in a House from which hardly more than a dozen members were absent, Mr. Daubeny took his seat with that air of affected indifference to things around him which is peculiar to him. He entered slowly, amidst cheers from his side of the House, which no doubt were loud in proportion to the dismay of the cheerers as to the matter in hand. Gentlemen lacking substantial sympathy with their leader found it to be comfortable to deceive themselves, and raise their hearts at the same time by the easy enthusiasm of noise. Mr. Daubeny having sat down and covered his head just raised his hat from his brows, and then tried to look as though he were no more than any other gentleman present. But the peculiar consciousness of the man displayed itself even in his constrained absence of motion. You could see that he felt himself to be the beheld of all beholders, and that he enjoyed the position,--with some slight inward trepidation lest the effort to be made should not equal the greatness of the occasion. Immediately after him Mr. Gresham bustled up the centre of the House amidst a roar of good-humoured welcome. We have had many Ministers who have been personally dearer to their individual adherents in the House than the present leader of the Opposition and late Premier, but none, perhaps, who has been more generally respected by his party for earnestness and sincerity. On the present occasion there was a fierceness, almost a ferocity, in his very countenance, to the fire of which friends and enemies were equally anxious to add fuel,--the friends in order that so might these recreant Tories be more thoroughly annihilated, and the enemies, that their enemy's indiscretion might act back upon himself to his confusion. For, indeed, it never could be denied that as a Prime Minister Mr. Gresham could be very indiscreet. A certain small amount of ordinary business was done, to the disgust of expectant strangers, which was as trivial as possible in its nature,--so arranged, apparently, that the importance of what was to follow might be enhanced by the force of contrast. And, to make the dismay of the novice stranger more thorough, questions were asked and answers were given in so low a voice, and Mr. Speaker uttered a word or two in so quick and shambling a fashion, that he, the novice stranger, began to fear that no word of the debate would reach him up there in his crowded back seat. All this, however, occupied but a few minutes, and at twenty minutes past four Mr. Daubeny was on his legs. Then the novice stranger found that, though he could not see Mr. Daubeny without the aid of an opera glass, he could hear every word that fell from his lips. Mr. Daubeny began by regretting the hardness of his position, in that he must, with what thoroughness he might be able to achieve, apply himself to two great subjects, whereas the right honourable gentleman opposite had already declared, with all the formality which could be made to attach itself to a combined meeting of peers and commoners, that he would confine himself strictly to one. The subject selected by the right honourable gentleman opposite on the present occasion was not the question of Church Reform. The right honourable gentleman had pledged himself with an almost sacred enthusiasm to ignore that subject altogether. No doubt it was the question before the House, and he, himself,--the present speaker,--must unfortunately discuss it at some length. The right honourable gentleman opposite would not, on this great occasion, trouble himself with anything of so little moment. And it might be presumed that the political followers of the right honourable gentleman would be equally reticent, as they were understood to have accepted his tactics without a dissentient voice. He, Mr. Daubeny, was the last man in England to deny the importance of the question which the right honourable gentleman would select for discussions in preference to that of the condition of the Church. That question was a very simple one, and might be put to the House in a very few words. Coming from the mouth of the right honourable gentleman, the proposition would probably be made in this form:--"That this House does think that I ought to be Prime Minister now, and as long as I may possess a seat in this House." It was impossible to deny the importance of that question; but perhaps he, Mr. Daubeny, might be justified in demurring to the preference given to it over every other matter, let that matter be of what importance it might be to the material welfare of the country. He made his point well; but he made it too often. And an attack of that kind, personal and savage in its nature, loses its effect when it is evident that the words have been prepared. A good deal may be done in dispute by calling a man an ass or a knave,--but the resolve to use the words should have been made only at the moment, and they should come hot from the heart. There was much neatness and some acuteness in Mr. Daubeny's satire, but there was no heat, and it was prolix. It had, however, the effect of irritating Mr. Gresham,--as was evident from the manner in which he moved his hat and shuffled his feet. A man destined to sit conspicuously on our Treasury Bench, or on the seat opposite to it, should ask the gods for a thick skin as a first gift. The need of this in our national assembly is greater than elsewhere, because the differences between the men opposed to each other are smaller. When two foes meet together in the same Chamber, one of whom advocates the personal government of an individual ruler, and the other that form of State, which has come to be called a Red Republic, they deal, no doubt, weighty blows of oratory at each other, but blows which never hurt at the moment. They may cut each other's throats if they can find an opportunity; but they do not bite each other like dogs over a bone. But when opponents are almost in accord, as is always the case with our parliamentary gladiators, they are ever striving to give maddening little wounds through the joints of the harness. What is there with us to create the divergence necessary for debate but the pride of personal skill in the encounter? Who desires among us to put down the Queen, or to repudiate the National Debt, or to destroy religious worship, or even to disturb the ranks of society? When some small measure of reform has thoroughly recommended itself to the country,--so thoroughly that all men know that the country will have it,--then the question arises whether its details shall be arranged by the political party which calls itself Liberal,--or by that which is termed Conservative. The men are so near to each other in all their convictions and theories of life that nothing is left to them but personal competition for the doing of the thing that is to be done. It is the same in religion. The apostle of Christianity and the infidel can meet without a chance of a quarrel; but it is never safe to bring together two men who differ about a saint or a surplice. Mr. Daubeny, having thus attacked and wounded his enemy, rushed boldly into the question of Church Reform, taking no little pride to himself and to his party that so great a blessing should be bestowed upon the country from so unexpected a source. "See what we Conservatives can do. In fact we will conserve nothing when we find that you do not desire to have it conserved any longer. 'Quod minime reris Grai pandetur ab urbe.'" It was exactly the reverse of the complaint which Mr. Gresham was about to make. On the subject of the Church itself he was rather misty but very profound. He went into the question of very early Churches indeed, and spoke of the misappropriation of endowments in the time of Eli. The establishment of the Levites had been no doubt complete; but changes had been effected as circumstances required. He was presumed to have alluded to the order of Melchisedek, but he abstained from any mention of the name. He roamed very wide, and gave many of his hearers an idea that his erudition had carried him into regions in which it was impossible to follow him. The gist of his argument was to show that audacity in Reform was the very backbone of Conservatism. By a clearly pronounced disunion of Church and State the theocracy of Thomas Becket would be restored, and the people of England would soon again become the faithful flocks of faithful shepherds. By taking away the endowments from the parishes, and giving them back in some complicated way to the country, the parishes would be better able than ever to support their clergymen. Bishops would be bishops indeed, when they were no longer the creatures of a Minister's breath. As to the deans, not seeing a clear way to satisfy aspirants for future vacancies in the deaneries, he became more than usually vague, but seemed to imply that the Bill which was now with the leave of the House to be read a second time, contained no clause forbidding the appointment of deans, though the special stipend of the office must be matter of consideration with the new Church Synod. The details of this part of his speech were felt to be dull by the strangers. As long as he would abuse Mr. Gresham, men could listen with pleasure; and could keep their attention fixed while he referred to the general Conservatism of the party which he had the honour of leading. There was a raciness in the promise of so much Church destruction from the chosen leader of the Church party, which was assisted by a conviction in the minds of most men that it was impossible for unfortunate Conservatives to refuse to follow this leader, let him lead where he might. There was a gratification in feeling that the country party was bound to follow, even should he take them into the very bowels of a mountain, as the pied piper did the children of Hamelin;--and this made listening pleasant. But when Mr. Daubeny stated the effect of his different clauses, explaining what was to be taken and what left,--with a fervent assurance that what was to be left would, under the altered circumstances, go much further than the whole had gone before,--then the audience became weary, and began to think that it was time that some other gentleman should be upon his legs. But at the end of the Minister's speech there was another touch of invective which went far to redeem him. He returned to that personal question to which his adversary had undertaken to confine himself, and expressed a holy horror at the political doctrine which was implied. He, during a prolonged Parliamentary experience, had encountered much factious opposition. He would even acknowledge that he had seen it exercised on both sides of the House, though he had always striven to keep himself free from its baneful influence. But never till now had he known a statesman proclaim his intention of depending upon faction, and upon faction alone, for the result which he desired to achieve. Let the right honourable gentleman raise a contest on either the principles or the details of the measure, and he would be quite content to abide the decision of the House; but he should regard such a raid as that threatened against him and his friends by the right honourable gentleman as unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. He felt sure that an opposition so based, and so maintained, even if it be enabled by the heated feelings of the moment to obtain an unfortunate success in the House, would not be encouraged by the sympathy and support of the country at large. By these last words he was understood to signify that should he be beaten on the second reading, not in reference to the merits of the Bill, but simply on the issue as proposed by Mr. Gresham, he would again dissolve the House before he would resign. Now it was very well understood that there were Liberal members in the House who would prefer even the success of Mr. Daubeny to a speedy reappearance before their constituents. Mr. Daubeny spoke till nearly eight, and it was surmised at the time that he had craftily arranged his oratory so as to embarrass his opponent. The House had met at four, and was to sit continuously till it was adjourned for the night. When this is the case, gentlemen who speak about eight o'clock are too frequently obliged to address themselves to empty benches. On the present occasion it was Mr. Gresham's intention to follow his opponent at once, instead of waiting, as is usual with a leader of his party, to the close of the debate. It was understood that Mr. Gresham would follow Mr. Daubeny, with the object of making a distinct charge against Ministers, so that the vote on this second reading of the Church Bill might in truth be a vote of want of confidence. But to commence his speech at eight o'clock when the House was hungry and uneasy, would be a trial. Had Mr. Daubeny closed an hour sooner there would, with a little stretching of the favoured hours, have been time enough. Members would not have objected to postpone their dinner till half-past eight, or perhaps nine, when their favourite orator was on his legs. But with Mr. Gresham beginning a great speech at eight, dinner would altogether become doubtful, and the disaster might be serious. It was not probable that Mr. Daubeny had even among his friends proclaimed any such strategy; but it was thought by the political speculators of the day that such an idea had been present to his mind. But Mr. Gresham was not to be turned from his purpose. He waited for a few moments, and then rose and addressed the Speaker. A few members left the House;--gentlemen, doubtless, whose constitutions, weakened by previous service, could not endure prolonged fasting. Some who had nearly reached the door returned to their seats, mindful of Messrs. Roby and Ratler. But for the bulk of those assembled the interest of the moment was greater even than the love of dinner. Some of the peers departed, and it was observed that a bishop or two left the House; but among the strangers in the gallery, hardly a foot of space was gained. He who gave up his seat then, gave it up for the night. Mr. Gresham began with a calmness of tone which seemed almost to be affected, but which arose from a struggle on his own part to repress that superabundant energy of which he was only too conscious. But the calmness soon gave place to warmth, which heated itself into violence before he had been a quarter of an hour upon his legs. He soon became even ferocious in his invective, and said things so bitter that he had himself no conception of their bitterness. There was this difference between the two men,--that whereas Mr. Daubeny hit always as hard as he knew how to hit, having premeditated each blow, and weighed its results beforehand, having calculated his power even to the effect of a blow repeated on a wound already given, Mr. Gresham struck right and left and straightforward with a readiness engendered by practice, and in his fury might have murdered his antagonist before he was aware that he had drawn blood. He began by refusing absolutely to discuss the merits of the bill. The right honourable gentleman had prided himself on his generosity as a Greek. He would remind the right honourable gentleman that presents from Greeks had ever been considered dangerous. "It is their gifts, and only their gifts, that we fear," he said. The political gifts of the right honourable gentleman, extracted by him from his unwilling colleagues and followers, had always been more bitter to the taste than Dead Sea apples. That such gifts should not be bestowed on the country by unwilling hands, that reform should not come from those who themselves felt the necessity of no reform, he believed to be the wish not only of that House, but of the country at large. Would any gentleman on that bench, excepting the right honourable gentleman himself,--and he pointed to the crowded phalanx of the Government,--get up and declare that this measure of Church Reform, this severance of Church and State, was brought forward in consonance with his own long-cherished political conviction? He accused that party of being so bound to the chariot wheels of the right honourable gentleman, as to be unable to abide by their own convictions. And as to the right honourable gentleman himself, he would appeal to his followers opposite to say whether the right honourable gentleman was possessed of any one strong political conviction. He had been accused of being unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. If the House would allow him he would very shortly explain his idea of constitutional government as carried on in this country. It was based and built on majorities in that House, and supported solely by that power. There could be no constitutional government in this country that was not so maintained. Any other government must be both revolutionary and tyrannical. Any other government was a usurpation; and he would make bold to tell the right honourable gentleman that a Minister in this country who should recommend Her Majesty to trust herself to advisers not supported by a majority of the House of Commons, would plainly be guilty of usurping the powers of the State. He threw from him with disdain the charge which had been brought against himself of hankering after the sweets of office. He indulged and gloried in indulging the highest ambition of an English subject. But he gloried much more in the privileges and power of that House, within the walls of which was centred all that was salutary, all that was efficacious, all that was stable in the political constitution of his country. It had been his pride to have acted during nearly all his political life with that party which had commanded a majority, but he would defy his most bitter adversary, he would defy the right honourable gentleman himself, to point to any period of his career in which he had been unwilling to succumb to a majority when he himself had belonged to the minority. He himself would regard the vote on this occasion as a vote of want of confidence. He took the line he was now taking because he desired to bring the House to a decision on that question. He himself had not that confidence in the right honourable gentleman which would justify him in accepting a measure on so important a subject as the union or severance of Church and State from his hands. Should the majority of the House differ from him and support the second reading of the Bill, he would at once so far succumb as to give his best attention to the clauses of the bill, and endeavour with the assistance of those gentlemen who acted with him to make it suitable to the wants of the country by omissions and additions as the clauses should pass through Committee. But before doing that he would ask the House to decide with all its solemnity and all its weight whether it was willing to accept from the hands of the right honourable gentleman any measure of reform on a matter so important as this now before them. It was nearly ten when he sat down; and then the stomach of the House could stand it no longer, and an adjournment at once took place. On the next morning it was generally considered that Mr. Daubeny had been too long and Mr. Gresham too passionate. There were some who declared that Mr. Gresham had never been finer than when he described the privileges of the House of Commons; and others who thought that Mr. Daubeny's lucidity had been marvellous; but in this case, as in most others, the speeches of the day were generally thought to have been very inferior to the great efforts of the past. CHAPTER XXXIV. THE UNIVERSE. Before the House met again the quidnuncs about the clubs, on both sides of the question, had determined that Mr. Gresham's speech, whether good or not as an effort of oratory, would serve its intended purpose. He would be backed by a majority of votes, and it might have been very doubtful whether such would have been the case had he attempted to throw out the Bill on its merits. Mr. Ratler, by the time that prayers had been read, had become almost certain of success. There were very few Liberals in the House who were not anxious to declare by their votes that they had no confidence in Mr. Daubeny. Mr. Turnbull, the great Radical, and, perhaps, some two dozen with him, would support the second reading, declaring that they could not reconcile it with their consciences to record a vote in favour of a union of Church and State. On all such occasions as the present Mr. Turnbull was sure to make himself disagreeable to those who sat near to him in the House. He was a man who thought that so much was demanded of him in order that his independence might

creatures

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

you mean to say that the morals of your party will be offended?" said Madame Goesler, almost laughing. "Lord Fawn, you know, is very particular. In sober earnest one cannot tell how these things operate; but they do operate gradually. One's friends are sometimes very glad of an excuse for not befriending one." "Lady Laura is coming home?" "Yes." "That will put an end to it." "There is nothing to put an end to except the foul-mouthed malice of a lying newspaper. Nobody believes anything against Lady Laura." "I'm not so sure of that. I believe nothing against her." "I'm sure you do not, Madame Goesler. Nor do I think that anybody does. It is too absurd for belief from beginning to end. Good-bye. Perhaps I shall see you when the debate is over." "Of course you will. Good-bye, and success to your oratory." Then Madame Goesler resolved that she would say a few judicious words to her friend, the Duchess, respecting Phineas Finn. CHAPTER XXXIII. THE TWO GLADIATORS. The great debate was commenced with all the solemnities which are customary on such occasions, and which make men think for the day that no moment of greater excitement has ever blessed or cursed the country. Upon the present occasion London was full of clergymen. The specially clerical clubs,--the Oxford and Cambridge, the Old University, and the Athenaeum,--were black with them. The bishops and deans, as usual, were pleasant in their manner and happy-looking, in spite of adverse circumstances. When one sees a bishop in the hours of the distress of the Church, one always thinks of the just and firm man who will stand fearless while the ruins of the world are falling about his ears. But the parsons from the country were a sorry sight to see. They were in earnest with all their hearts, and did believe,--not that the crack of doom was coming, which they could have borne with equanimity if convinced that their influence would last to the end,--but that the Evil One was to be made welcome upon the earth by Act of Parliament. It is out of nature that any man should think it good that his own order should be repressed, curtailed, and deprived of its power. If we go among cab-drivers or letter-carriers, among butlers or gamekeepers, among tailors or butchers, among farmers or graziers, among doctors or attorneys, we shall find in each set of men a conviction that the welfare of the community depends upon the firmness with which they,--especially they,--hold their own. This is so manifestly true with the Bar that no barrister in practice scruples to avow that barristers in practice are the salt of the earth. The personal confidence of a judge in his own position is beautiful, being salutary to the country, though not unfrequently damaging to the character of the man. But if this be so with men who are conscious of no higher influence than that exercised over the bodies and minds of their fellow creatures, how much stronger must be the feeling when the influence affects the soul! To the outsider, or layman, who simply uses a cab, or receives a letter, or goes to law, or has to be tried, these pretensions are ridiculous or annoying, according to the ascendancy of the pretender at the moment. But as the clerical pretensions are more exacting than all others, being put forward with an assertion that no answer is possible without breach of duty and sin, so are they more galling. The fight has been going on since the idea of a mitre first entered the heart of a priest,--since dominion in this world has found itself capable of sustentation by the exercise of fear as to the world to come. We do believe,--the majority among us does so,--that if we live and die in sin we shall after some fashion come to great punishment, and we believe also that by having pastors among us who shall be men of God, we may best aid ourselves and our children in avoiding this bitter end. But then the pastors and men of God can only be human,--cannot be altogether men of God; and so they have oppressed us, and burned us, and tortured us, and hence come to love palaces, and fine linen, and purple, and, alas, sometimes, mere luxury and idleness. The torturing and the burning, as also to speak truth the luxury and the idleness, have, among us, been already conquered, but the idea of ascendancy remains. What is a thoughtful man to do who acknowledges the danger of his soul, but cannot swallow his parson whole simply because he has been sent to him from some source in which he has no special confidence, perhaps by some distant lord, perhaps by a Lord Chancellor whose political friend has had a son with a tutor? What is he to do when, in spite of some fine linen and purple left among us, the provision for the man of God in his parish or district is so poor that no man of God fitted to teach him will come and take it? In no spirit of animosity to religion he begins to tell himself that Church and State together was a monkish combination, fit perhaps for monkish days, but no longer having fitness, and not much longer capable of existence in this country. But to the parson himself,--to the honest, hardworking, conscientious priest who does in his heart of hearts believe that no diminution in the general influence of his order can be made without ruin to the souls of men,--this opinion, when it becomes dominant, is as though the world were in truth breaking to pieces over his head. The world has been broken to pieces in the same way often;--but extreme Chaos does not come. The cabman and the letter-carrier always expect that Chaos will very nearly come when they are disturbed. The barristers are sure of Chaos when the sanctity of Benchers is in question. What utter Chaos would be promised to us could any one with impunity contemn the majesty of the House of Commons! But of all these Chaoses there can be no Chaos equal to that which in the mind of a zealous Oxford-bred constitutional country parson must attend that annihilation of his special condition which will be produced by the disestablishment of the Church. Of all good fellows he is the best good fellow. He is genial, hospitable, well-educated, and always has either a pretty wife or pretty daughters. But he has so extreme a belief in himself that he cannot endure to be told that absolute Chaos will not come at once if he be disturbed. And now disturbances,--ay, and utter dislocation and ruin were to come from the hands of a friend! Was it wonderful that parsons should be seen about Westminster in flocks with _"Et tu, Brute"_ written on their faces as plainly as the law on the brows of a Pharisee? The Speaker had been harassed for orders. The powers and prowess of every individual member had been put to the test. The galleries were crowded. Ladies' places had been ballotted for with desperate enthusiasm, in spite of the sarcasm against the House which Madame Goesler had expressed. Two royal princes and a royal duke were accommodated within the House in an irregular manner. Peers swarmed in the passages, and were too happy to find standing room. Bishops jostled against lay barons with no other preference than that afforded to them by their broader shoulders. Men, and especially clergymen, came to the galleries loaded with sandwiches and flasks, prepared to hear all there was to be heard should the debate last from 4 P.M. to the same hour on the following morning. At two in the afternoon the entrances to the House were barred, and men of all ranks,--deans, prebends, peers' sons, and baronets,--stood there patiently waiting till some powerful nobleman should let them through. The very ventilating chambers under the House were filled with courteous listeners, who had all pledged themselves that under no possible provocation would they even cough during the debate. A few minutes after four, in a House from which hardly more than a dozen members were absent, Mr. Daubeny took his seat with that air of affected indifference to things around him which is peculiar to him. He entered slowly, amidst cheers from his side of the House, which no doubt were loud in proportion to the dismay of the cheerers as to the matter in hand. Gentlemen lacking substantial sympathy with their leader found it to be comfortable to deceive themselves, and raise their hearts at the same time by the easy enthusiasm of noise. Mr. Daubeny having sat down and covered his head just raised his hat from his brows, and then tried to look as though he were no more than any other gentleman present. But the peculiar consciousness of the man displayed itself even in his constrained absence of motion. You could see that he felt himself to be the beheld of all beholders, and that he enjoyed the position,--with some slight inward trepidation lest the effort to be made should not equal the greatness of the occasion. Immediately after him Mr. Gresham bustled up the centre of the House amidst a roar of good-humoured welcome. We have had many Ministers who have been personally dearer to their individual adherents in the House than the present leader of the Opposition and late Premier, but none, perhaps, who has been more generally respected by his party for earnestness and sincerity. On the present occasion there was a fierceness, almost a ferocity, in his very countenance, to the fire of which friends and enemies were equally anxious to add fuel,--the friends in order that so might these recreant Tories be more thoroughly annihilated, and the enemies, that their enemy's indiscretion might act back upon himself to his confusion. For, indeed, it never could be denied that as a Prime Minister Mr. Gresham could be very indiscreet. A certain small amount of ordinary business was done, to the disgust of expectant strangers, which was as trivial as possible in its nature,--so arranged, apparently, that the importance of what was to follow might be enhanced by the force of contrast. And, to make the dismay of the novice stranger more thorough, questions were asked and answers were given in so low a voice, and Mr. Speaker uttered a word or two in so quick and shambling a fashion, that he, the novice stranger, began to fear that no word of the debate would reach him up there in his crowded back seat. All this, however, occupied but a few minutes, and at twenty minutes past four Mr. Daubeny was on his legs. Then the novice stranger found that, though he could not see Mr. Daubeny without the aid of an opera glass, he could hear every word that fell from his lips. Mr. Daubeny began by regretting the hardness of his position, in that he must, with what thoroughness he might be able to achieve, apply himself to two great subjects, whereas the right honourable gentleman opposite had already declared, with all the formality which could be made to attach itself to a combined meeting of peers and commoners, that he would confine himself strictly to one. The subject selected by the right honourable gentleman opposite on the present occasion was not the question of Church Reform. The right honourable gentleman had pledged himself with an almost sacred enthusiasm to ignore that subject altogether. No doubt it was the question before the House, and he, himself,--the present speaker,--must unfortunately discuss it at some length. The right honourable gentleman opposite would not, on this great occasion, trouble himself with anything of so little moment. And it might be presumed that the political followers of the right honourable gentleman would be equally reticent, as they were understood to have accepted his tactics without a dissentient voice. He, Mr. Daubeny, was the last man in England to deny the importance of the question which the right honourable gentleman would select for discussions in preference to that of the condition of the Church. That question was a very simple one, and might be put to the House in a very few words. Coming from the mouth of the right honourable gentleman, the proposition would probably be made in this form:--"That this House does think that I ought to be Prime Minister now, and as long as I may possess a seat in this House." It was impossible to deny the importance of that question; but perhaps he, Mr. Daubeny, might be justified in demurring to the preference given to it over every other matter, let that matter be of what importance it might be to the material welfare of the country. He made his point well; but he made it too often. And an attack of that kind, personal and savage in its nature, loses its effect when it is evident that the words have been prepared. A good deal may be done in dispute by calling a man an ass or a knave,--but the resolve to use the words should have been made only at the moment, and they should come hot from the heart. There was much neatness and some acuteness in Mr. Daubeny's satire, but there was no heat, and it was prolix. It had, however, the effect of irritating Mr. Gresham,--as was evident from the manner in which he moved his hat and shuffled his feet. A man destined to sit conspicuously on our Treasury Bench, or on the seat opposite to it, should ask the gods for a thick skin as a first gift. The need of this in our national assembly is greater than elsewhere, because the differences between the men opposed to each other are smaller. When two foes meet together in the same Chamber, one of whom advocates the personal government of an individual ruler, and the other that form of State, which has come to be called a Red Republic, they deal, no doubt, weighty blows of oratory at each other, but blows which never hurt at the moment. They may cut each other's throats if they can find an opportunity; but they do not bite each other like dogs over a bone. But when opponents are almost in accord, as is always the case with our parliamentary gladiators, they are ever striving to give maddening little wounds through the joints of the harness. What is there with us to create the divergence necessary for debate but the pride of personal skill in the encounter? Who desires among us to put down the Queen, or to repudiate the National Debt, or to destroy religious worship, or even to disturb the ranks of society? When some small measure of reform has thoroughly recommended itself to the country,--so thoroughly that all men know that the country will have it,--then the question arises whether its details shall be arranged by the political party which calls itself Liberal,--or by that which is termed Conservative. The men are so near to each other in all their convictions and theories of life that nothing is left to them but personal competition for the doing of the thing that is to be done. It is the same in religion. The apostle of Christianity and the infidel can meet without a chance of a quarrel; but it is never safe to bring together two men who differ about a saint or a surplice. Mr. Daubeny, having thus attacked and wounded his enemy, rushed boldly into the question of Church Reform, taking no little pride to himself and to his party that so great a blessing should be bestowed upon the country from so unexpected a source. "See what we Conservatives can do. In fact we will conserve nothing when we find that you do not desire to have it conserved any longer. 'Quod minime reris Grai pandetur ab urbe.'" It was exactly the reverse of the complaint which Mr. Gresham was about to make. On the subject of the Church itself he was rather misty but very profound. He went into the question of very early Churches indeed, and spoke of the misappropriation of endowments in the time of Eli. The establishment of the Levites had been no doubt complete; but changes had been effected as circumstances required. He was presumed to have alluded to the order of Melchisedek, but he abstained from any mention of the name. He roamed very wide, and gave many of his hearers an idea that his erudition had carried him into regions in which it was impossible to follow him. The gist of his argument was to show that audacity in Reform was the very backbone of Conservatism. By a clearly pronounced disunion of Church and State the theocracy of Thomas Becket would be restored, and the people of England would soon again become the faithful flocks of faithful shepherds. By taking away the endowments from the parishes, and giving them back in some complicated way to the country, the parishes would be better able than ever to support their clergymen. Bishops would be bishops indeed, when they were no longer the creatures of a Minister's breath. As to the deans, not seeing a clear way to satisfy aspirants for future vacancies in the deaneries, he became more than usually vague, but seemed to imply that the Bill which was now with the leave of the House to be read a second time, contained no clause forbidding the appointment of deans, though the special stipend of the office must be matter of consideration with the new Church Synod. The details of this part of his speech were felt to be dull by the strangers. As long as he would abuse Mr. Gresham, men could listen with pleasure; and could keep their attention fixed while he referred to the general Conservatism of the party which he had the honour of leading. There was a raciness in the promise of so much Church destruction from the chosen leader of the Church party, which was assisted by a conviction in the minds of most men that it was impossible for unfortunate Conservatives to refuse to follow this leader, let him lead where he might. There was a gratification in feeling that the country party was bound to follow, even should he take them into the very bowels of a mountain, as the pied piper did the children of Hamelin;--and this made listening pleasant. But when Mr. Daubeny stated the effect of his different clauses, explaining what was to be taken and what left,--with a fervent assurance that what was to be left would, under the altered circumstances, go much further than the whole had gone before,--then the audience became weary, and began to think that it was time that some other gentleman should be upon his legs. But at the end of the Minister's speech there was another touch of invective which went far to redeem him. He returned to that personal question to which his adversary had undertaken to confine himself, and expressed a holy horror at the political doctrine which was implied. He, during a prolonged Parliamentary experience, had encountered much factious opposition. He would even acknowledge that he had seen it exercised on both sides of the House, though he had always striven to keep himself free from its baneful influence. But never till now had he known a statesman proclaim his intention of depending upon faction, and upon faction alone, for the result which he desired to achieve. Let the right honourable gentleman raise a contest on either the principles or the details of the measure, and he would be quite content to abide the decision of the House; but he should regard such a raid as that threatened against him and his friends by the right honourable gentleman as unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. He felt sure that an opposition so based, and so maintained, even if it be enabled by the heated feelings of the moment to obtain an unfortunate success in the House, would not be encouraged by the sympathy and support of the country at large. By these last words he was understood to signify that should he be beaten on the second reading, not in reference to the merits of the Bill, but simply on the issue as proposed by Mr. Gresham, he would again dissolve the House before he would resign. Now it was very well understood that there were Liberal members in the House who would prefer even the success of Mr. Daubeny to a speedy reappearance before their constituents. Mr. Daubeny spoke till nearly eight, and it was surmised at the time that he had craftily arranged his oratory so as to embarrass his opponent. The House had met at four, and was to sit continuously till it was adjourned for the night. When this is the case, gentlemen who speak about eight o'clock are too frequently obliged to address themselves to empty benches. On the present occasion it was Mr. Gresham's intention to follow his opponent at once, instead of waiting, as is usual with a leader of his party, to the close of the debate. It was understood that Mr. Gresham would follow Mr. Daubeny, with the object of making a distinct charge against Ministers, so that the vote on this second reading of the Church Bill might in truth be a vote of want of confidence. But to commence his speech at eight o'clock when the House was hungry and uneasy, would be a trial. Had Mr. Daubeny closed an hour sooner there would, with a little stretching of the favoured hours, have been time enough. Members would not have objected to postpone their dinner till half-past eight, or perhaps nine, when their favourite orator was on his legs. But with Mr. Gresham beginning a great speech at eight, dinner would altogether become doubtful, and the disaster might be serious. It was not probable that Mr. Daubeny had even among his friends proclaimed any such strategy; but it was thought by the political speculators of the day that such an idea had been present to his mind. But Mr. Gresham was not to be turned from his purpose. He waited for a few moments, and then rose and addressed the Speaker. A few members left the House;--gentlemen, doubtless, whose constitutions, weakened by previous service, could not endure prolonged fasting. Some who had nearly reached the door returned to their seats, mindful of Messrs. Roby and Ratler. But for the bulk of those assembled the interest of the moment was greater even than the love of dinner. Some of the peers departed, and it was observed that a bishop or two left the House; but among the strangers in the gallery, hardly a foot of space was gained. He who gave up his seat then, gave it up for the night. Mr. Gresham began with a calmness of tone which seemed almost to be affected, but which arose from a struggle on his own part to repress that superabundant energy of which he was only too conscious. But the calmness soon gave place to warmth, which heated itself into violence before he had been a quarter of an hour upon his legs. He soon became even ferocious in his invective, and said things so bitter that he had himself no conception of their bitterness. There was this difference between the two men,--that whereas Mr. Daubeny hit always as hard as he knew how to hit, having premeditated each blow, and weighed its results beforehand, having calculated his power even to the effect of a blow repeated on a wound already given, Mr. Gresham struck right and left and straightforward with a readiness engendered by practice, and in his fury might have murdered his antagonist before he was aware that he had drawn blood. He began by refusing absolutely to discuss the merits of the bill. The right honourable gentleman had prided himself on his generosity as a Greek. He would remind the right honourable gentleman that presents from Greeks had ever been considered dangerous. "It is their gifts, and only their gifts, that we fear," he said. The political gifts of the right honourable gentleman, extracted by him from his unwilling colleagues and followers, had always been more bitter to the taste than Dead Sea apples. That such gifts should not be bestowed on the country by unwilling hands, that reform should not come from those who themselves felt the necessity of no reform, he believed to be the wish not only of that House, but of the country at large. Would any gentleman on that bench, excepting the right honourable gentleman himself,--and he pointed to the crowded phalanx of the Government,--get up and declare that this measure of Church Reform, this severance of Church and State, was brought forward in consonance with his own long-cherished political conviction? He accused that party of being so bound to the chariot wheels of the right honourable gentleman, as to be unable to abide by their own convictions. And as to the right honourable gentleman himself, he would appeal to his followers opposite to say whether the right honourable gentleman was possessed of any one strong political conviction. He had been accused of being unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. If the House would allow him he would very shortly explain his idea of constitutional government as carried on in this country. It was based and built on majorities in that House, and supported solely by that power. There could be no constitutional government in this country that was not so maintained. Any other government must be both revolutionary and tyrannical. Any other government was a usurpation; and he would make bold to tell the right honourable gentleman that a Minister in this country who should recommend Her Majesty to trust herself to advisers not supported by a majority of the House of Commons, would plainly be guilty of usurping the powers of the State. He threw from him with disdain the charge which had been brought against himself of hankering after the sweets of office. He indulged and gloried in indulging the highest ambition of an English subject. But he gloried much more in the privileges and power of that House, within the walls of which was centred all that was salutary, all that was efficacious, all that was stable in the political constitution of his country. It had been his pride to have acted during nearly all his political life with that party which had commanded a majority, but he would defy his most bitter adversary, he would defy the right honourable gentleman himself, to point to any period of his career in which he had been unwilling to succumb to a majority when he himself had belonged to the minority. He himself would regard the vote on this occasion as a vote of want of confidence. He took the line he was now taking because he desired to bring the House to a decision on that question. He himself had not that confidence in the right honourable gentleman which would justify him in accepting a measure on so important a subject as the union or severance of Church and State from his hands. Should the majority of the House differ from him and support the second reading of the Bill, he would at once so far succumb as to give his best attention to the clauses of the bill, and endeavour with the assistance of those gentlemen who acted with him to make it suitable to the wants of the country by omissions and additions as the clauses should pass through Committee. But before doing that he would ask the House to decide with all its solemnity and all its weight whether it was willing to accept from the hands of the right honourable gentleman any measure of reform on a matter so important as this now before them. It was nearly ten when he sat down; and then the stomach of the House could stand it no longer, and an adjournment at once took place. On the next morning it was generally considered that Mr. Daubeny had been too long and Mr. Gresham too passionate. There were some who declared that Mr. Gresham had never been finer than when he described the privileges of the House of Commons; and others who thought that Mr. Daubeny's lucidity had been marvellous; but in this case, as in most others, the speeches of the day were generally thought to have been very inferior to the great efforts of the past. CHAPTER XXXIV. THE UNIVERSE. Before the House met again the quidnuncs about the clubs, on both sides of the question, had determined that Mr. Gresham's speech, whether good or not as an effort of oratory, would serve its intended purpose. He would be backed by a majority of votes, and it might have been very doubtful whether such would have been the case had he attempted to throw out the Bill on its merits. Mr. Ratler, by the time that prayers had been read, had become almost certain of success. There were very few Liberals in the House who were not anxious to declare by their votes that they had no confidence in Mr. Daubeny. Mr. Turnbull, the great Radical, and, perhaps, some two dozen with him, would support the second reading, declaring that they could not reconcile it with their consciences to record a vote in favour of a union of Church and State. On all such occasions as the present Mr. Turnbull was sure to make himself disagreeable to those who sat near to him in the House. He was a man who thought that so much was demanded of him in order that his independence might

words

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

you mean to say that the morals of your party will be offended?" said Madame Goesler, almost laughing. "Lord Fawn, you know, is very particular. In sober earnest one cannot tell how these things operate; but they do operate gradually. One's friends are sometimes very glad of an excuse for not befriending one." "Lady Laura is coming home?" "Yes." "That will put an end to it." "There is nothing to put an end to except the foul-mouthed malice of a lying newspaper. Nobody believes anything against Lady Laura." "I'm not so sure of that. I believe nothing against her." "I'm sure you do not, Madame Goesler. Nor do I think that anybody does. It is too absurd for belief from beginning to end. Good-bye. Perhaps I shall see you when the debate is over." "Of course you will. Good-bye, and success to your oratory." Then Madame Goesler resolved that she would say a few judicious words to her friend, the Duchess, respecting Phineas Finn. CHAPTER XXXIII. THE TWO GLADIATORS. The great debate was commenced with all the solemnities which are customary on such occasions, and which make men think for the day that no moment of greater excitement has ever blessed or cursed the country. Upon the present occasion London was full of clergymen. The specially clerical clubs,--the Oxford and Cambridge, the Old University, and the Athenaeum,--were black with them. The bishops and deans, as usual, were pleasant in their manner and happy-looking, in spite of adverse circumstances. When one sees a bishop in the hours of the distress of the Church, one always thinks of the just and firm man who will stand fearless while the ruins of the world are falling about his ears. But the parsons from the country were a sorry sight to see. They were in earnest with all their hearts, and did believe,--not that the crack of doom was coming, which they could have borne with equanimity if convinced that their influence would last to the end,--but that the Evil One was to be made welcome upon the earth by Act of Parliament. It is out of nature that any man should think it good that his own order should be repressed, curtailed, and deprived of its power. If we go among cab-drivers or letter-carriers, among butlers or gamekeepers, among tailors or butchers, among farmers or graziers, among doctors or attorneys, we shall find in each set of men a conviction that the welfare of the community depends upon the firmness with which they,--especially they,--hold their own. This is so manifestly true with the Bar that no barrister in practice scruples to avow that barristers in practice are the salt of the earth. The personal confidence of a judge in his own position is beautiful, being salutary to the country, though not unfrequently damaging to the character of the man. But if this be so with men who are conscious of no higher influence than that exercised over the bodies and minds of their fellow creatures, how much stronger must be the feeling when the influence affects the soul! To the outsider, or layman, who simply uses a cab, or receives a letter, or goes to law, or has to be tried, these pretensions are ridiculous or annoying, according to the ascendancy of the pretender at the moment. But as the clerical pretensions are more exacting than all others, being put forward with an assertion that no answer is possible without breach of duty and sin, so are they more galling. The fight has been going on since the idea of a mitre first entered the heart of a priest,--since dominion in this world has found itself capable of sustentation by the exercise of fear as to the world to come. We do believe,--the majority among us does so,--that if we live and die in sin we shall after some fashion come to great punishment, and we believe also that by having pastors among us who shall be men of God, we may best aid ourselves and our children in avoiding this bitter end. But then the pastors and men of God can only be human,--cannot be altogether men of God; and so they have oppressed us, and burned us, and tortured us, and hence come to love palaces, and fine linen, and purple, and, alas, sometimes, mere luxury and idleness. The torturing and the burning, as also to speak truth the luxury and the idleness, have, among us, been already conquered, but the idea of ascendancy remains. What is a thoughtful man to do who acknowledges the danger of his soul, but cannot swallow his parson whole simply because he has been sent to him from some source in which he has no special confidence, perhaps by some distant lord, perhaps by a Lord Chancellor whose political friend has had a son with a tutor? What is he to do when, in spite of some fine linen and purple left among us, the provision for the man of God in his parish or district is so poor that no man of God fitted to teach him will come and take it? In no spirit of animosity to religion he begins to tell himself that Church and State together was a monkish combination, fit perhaps for monkish days, but no longer having fitness, and not much longer capable of existence in this country. But to the parson himself,--to the honest, hardworking, conscientious priest who does in his heart of hearts believe that no diminution in the general influence of his order can be made without ruin to the souls of men,--this opinion, when it becomes dominant, is as though the world were in truth breaking to pieces over his head. The world has been broken to pieces in the same way often;--but extreme Chaos does not come. The cabman and the letter-carrier always expect that Chaos will very nearly come when they are disturbed. The barristers are sure of Chaos when the sanctity of Benchers is in question. What utter Chaos would be promised to us could any one with impunity contemn the majesty of the House of Commons! But of all these Chaoses there can be no Chaos equal to that which in the mind of a zealous Oxford-bred constitutional country parson must attend that annihilation of his special condition which will be produced by the disestablishment of the Church. Of all good fellows he is the best good fellow. He is genial, hospitable, well-educated, and always has either a pretty wife or pretty daughters. But he has so extreme a belief in himself that he cannot endure to be told that absolute Chaos will not come at once if he be disturbed. And now disturbances,--ay, and utter dislocation and ruin were to come from the hands of a friend! Was it wonderful that parsons should be seen about Westminster in flocks with _"Et tu, Brute"_ written on their faces as plainly as the law on the brows of a Pharisee? The Speaker had been harassed for orders. The powers and prowess of every individual member had been put to the test. The galleries were crowded. Ladies' places had been ballotted for with desperate enthusiasm, in spite of the sarcasm against the House which Madame Goesler had expressed. Two royal princes and a royal duke were accommodated within the House in an irregular manner. Peers swarmed in the passages, and were too happy to find standing room. Bishops jostled against lay barons with no other preference than that afforded to them by their broader shoulders. Men, and especially clergymen, came to the galleries loaded with sandwiches and flasks, prepared to hear all there was to be heard should the debate last from 4 P.M. to the same hour on the following morning. At two in the afternoon the entrances to the House were barred, and men of all ranks,--deans, prebends, peers' sons, and baronets,--stood there patiently waiting till some powerful nobleman should let them through. The very ventilating chambers under the House were filled with courteous listeners, who had all pledged themselves that under no possible provocation would they even cough during the debate. A few minutes after four, in a House from which hardly more than a dozen members were absent, Mr. Daubeny took his seat with that air of affected indifference to things around him which is peculiar to him. He entered slowly, amidst cheers from his side of the House, which no doubt were loud in proportion to the dismay of the cheerers as to the matter in hand. Gentlemen lacking substantial sympathy with their leader found it to be comfortable to deceive themselves, and raise their hearts at the same time by the easy enthusiasm of noise. Mr. Daubeny having sat down and covered his head just raised his hat from his brows, and then tried to look as though he were no more than any other gentleman present. But the peculiar consciousness of the man displayed itself even in his constrained absence of motion. You could see that he felt himself to be the beheld of all beholders, and that he enjoyed the position,--with some slight inward trepidation lest the effort to be made should not equal the greatness of the occasion. Immediately after him Mr. Gresham bustled up the centre of the House amidst a roar of good-humoured welcome. We have had many Ministers who have been personally dearer to their individual adherents in the House than the present leader of the Opposition and late Premier, but none, perhaps, who has been more generally respected by his party for earnestness and sincerity. On the present occasion there was a fierceness, almost a ferocity, in his very countenance, to the fire of which friends and enemies were equally anxious to add fuel,--the friends in order that so might these recreant Tories be more thoroughly annihilated, and the enemies, that their enemy's indiscretion might act back upon himself to his confusion. For, indeed, it never could be denied that as a Prime Minister Mr. Gresham could be very indiscreet. A certain small amount of ordinary business was done, to the disgust of expectant strangers, which was as trivial as possible in its nature,--so arranged, apparently, that the importance of what was to follow might be enhanced by the force of contrast. And, to make the dismay of the novice stranger more thorough, questions were asked and answers were given in so low a voice, and Mr. Speaker uttered a word or two in so quick and shambling a fashion, that he, the novice stranger, began to fear that no word of the debate would reach him up there in his crowded back seat. All this, however, occupied but a few minutes, and at twenty minutes past four Mr. Daubeny was on his legs. Then the novice stranger found that, though he could not see Mr. Daubeny without the aid of an opera glass, he could hear every word that fell from his lips. Mr. Daubeny began by regretting the hardness of his position, in that he must, with what thoroughness he might be able to achieve, apply himself to two great subjects, whereas the right honourable gentleman opposite had already declared, with all the formality which could be made to attach itself to a combined meeting of peers and commoners, that he would confine himself strictly to one. The subject selected by the right honourable gentleman opposite on the present occasion was not the question of Church Reform. The right honourable gentleman had pledged himself with an almost sacred enthusiasm to ignore that subject altogether. No doubt it was the question before the House, and he, himself,--the present speaker,--must unfortunately discuss it at some length. The right honourable gentleman opposite would not, on this great occasion, trouble himself with anything of so little moment. And it might be presumed that the political followers of the right honourable gentleman would be equally reticent, as they were understood to have accepted his tactics without a dissentient voice. He, Mr. Daubeny, was the last man in England to deny the importance of the question which the right honourable gentleman would select for discussions in preference to that of the condition of the Church. That question was a very simple one, and might be put to the House in a very few words. Coming from the mouth of the right honourable gentleman, the proposition would probably be made in this form:--"That this House does think that I ought to be Prime Minister now, and as long as I may possess a seat in this House." It was impossible to deny the importance of that question; but perhaps he, Mr. Daubeny, might be justified in demurring to the preference given to it over every other matter, let that matter be of what importance it might be to the material welfare of the country. He made his point well; but he made it too often. And an attack of that kind, personal and savage in its nature, loses its effect when it is evident that the words have been prepared. A good deal may be done in dispute by calling a man an ass or a knave,--but the resolve to use the words should have been made only at the moment, and they should come hot from the heart. There was much neatness and some acuteness in Mr. Daubeny's satire, but there was no heat, and it was prolix. It had, however, the effect of irritating Mr. Gresham,--as was evident from the manner in which he moved his hat and shuffled his feet. A man destined to sit conspicuously on our Treasury Bench, or on the seat opposite to it, should ask the gods for a thick skin as a first gift. The need of this in our national assembly is greater than elsewhere, because the differences between the men opposed to each other are smaller. When two foes meet together in the same Chamber, one of whom advocates the personal government of an individual ruler, and the other that form of State, which has come to be called a Red Republic, they deal, no doubt, weighty blows of oratory at each other, but blows which never hurt at the moment. They may cut each other's throats if they can find an opportunity; but they do not bite each other like dogs over a bone. But when opponents are almost in accord, as is always the case with our parliamentary gladiators, they are ever striving to give maddening little wounds through the joints of the harness. What is there with us to create the divergence necessary for debate but the pride of personal skill in the encounter? Who desires among us to put down the Queen, or to repudiate the National Debt, or to destroy religious worship, or even to disturb the ranks of society? When some small measure of reform has thoroughly recommended itself to the country,--so thoroughly that all men know that the country will have it,--then the question arises whether its details shall be arranged by the political party which calls itself Liberal,--or by that which is termed Conservative. The men are so near to each other in all their convictions and theories of life that nothing is left to them but personal competition for the doing of the thing that is to be done. It is the same in religion. The apostle of Christianity and the infidel can meet without a chance of a quarrel; but it is never safe to bring together two men who differ about a saint or a surplice. Mr. Daubeny, having thus attacked and wounded his enemy, rushed boldly into the question of Church Reform, taking no little pride to himself and to his party that so great a blessing should be bestowed upon the country from so unexpected a source. "See what we Conservatives can do. In fact we will conserve nothing when we find that you do not desire to have it conserved any longer. 'Quod minime reris Grai pandetur ab urbe.'" It was exactly the reverse of the complaint which Mr. Gresham was about to make. On the subject of the Church itself he was rather misty but very profound. He went into the question of very early Churches indeed, and spoke of the misappropriation of endowments in the time of Eli. The establishment of the Levites had been no doubt complete; but changes had been effected as circumstances required. He was presumed to have alluded to the order of Melchisedek, but he abstained from any mention of the name. He roamed very wide, and gave many of his hearers an idea that his erudition had carried him into regions in which it was impossible to follow him. The gist of his argument was to show that audacity in Reform was the very backbone of Conservatism. By a clearly pronounced disunion of Church and State the theocracy of Thomas Becket would be restored, and the people of England would soon again become the faithful flocks of faithful shepherds. By taking away the endowments from the parishes, and giving them back in some complicated way to the country, the parishes would be better able than ever to support their clergymen. Bishops would be bishops indeed, when they were no longer the creatures of a Minister's breath. As to the deans, not seeing a clear way to satisfy aspirants for future vacancies in the deaneries, he became more than usually vague, but seemed to imply that the Bill which was now with the leave of the House to be read a second time, contained no clause forbidding the appointment of deans, though the special stipend of the office must be matter of consideration with the new Church Synod. The details of this part of his speech were felt to be dull by the strangers. As long as he would abuse Mr. Gresham, men could listen with pleasure; and could keep their attention fixed while he referred to the general Conservatism of the party which he had the honour of leading. There was a raciness in the promise of so much Church destruction from the chosen leader of the Church party, which was assisted by a conviction in the minds of most men that it was impossible for unfortunate Conservatives to refuse to follow this leader, let him lead where he might. There was a gratification in feeling that the country party was bound to follow, even should he take them into the very bowels of a mountain, as the pied piper did the children of Hamelin;--and this made listening pleasant. But when Mr. Daubeny stated the effect of his different clauses, explaining what was to be taken and what left,--with a fervent assurance that what was to be left would, under the altered circumstances, go much further than the whole had gone before,--then the audience became weary, and began to think that it was time that some other gentleman should be upon his legs. But at the end of the Minister's speech there was another touch of invective which went far to redeem him. He returned to that personal question to which his adversary had undertaken to confine himself, and expressed a holy horror at the political doctrine which was implied. He, during a prolonged Parliamentary experience, had encountered much factious opposition. He would even acknowledge that he had seen it exercised on both sides of the House, though he had always striven to keep himself free from its baneful influence. But never till now had he known a statesman proclaim his intention of depending upon faction, and upon faction alone, for the result which he desired to achieve. Let the right honourable gentleman raise a contest on either the principles or the details of the measure, and he would be quite content to abide the decision of the House; but he should regard such a raid as that threatened against him and his friends by the right honourable gentleman as unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. He felt sure that an opposition so based, and so maintained, even if it be enabled by the heated feelings of the moment to obtain an unfortunate success in the House, would not be encouraged by the sympathy and support of the country at large. By these last words he was understood to signify that should he be beaten on the second reading, not in reference to the merits of the Bill, but simply on the issue as proposed by Mr. Gresham, he would again dissolve the House before he would resign. Now it was very well understood that there were Liberal members in the House who would prefer even the success of Mr. Daubeny to a speedy reappearance before their constituents. Mr. Daubeny spoke till nearly eight, and it was surmised at the time that he had craftily arranged his oratory so as to embarrass his opponent. The House had met at four, and was to sit continuously till it was adjourned for the night. When this is the case, gentlemen who speak about eight o'clock are too frequently obliged to address themselves to empty benches. On the present occasion it was Mr. Gresham's intention to follow his opponent at once, instead of waiting, as is usual with a leader of his party, to the close of the debate. It was understood that Mr. Gresham would follow Mr. Daubeny, with the object of making a distinct charge against Ministers, so that the vote on this second reading of the Church Bill might in truth be a vote of want of confidence. But to commence his speech at eight o'clock when the House was hungry and uneasy, would be a trial. Had Mr. Daubeny closed an hour sooner there would, with a little stretching of the favoured hours, have been time enough. Members would not have objected to postpone their dinner till half-past eight, or perhaps nine, when their favourite orator was on his legs. But with Mr. Gresham beginning a great speech at eight, dinner would altogether become doubtful, and the disaster might be serious. It was not probable that Mr. Daubeny had even among his friends proclaimed any such strategy; but it was thought by the political speculators of the day that such an idea had been present to his mind. But Mr. Gresham was not to be turned from his purpose. He waited for a few moments, and then rose and addressed the Speaker. A few members left the House;--gentlemen, doubtless, whose constitutions, weakened by previous service, could not endure prolonged fasting. Some who had nearly reached the door returned to their seats, mindful of Messrs. Roby and Ratler. But for the bulk of those assembled the interest of the moment was greater even than the love of dinner. Some of the peers departed, and it was observed that a bishop or two left the House; but among the strangers in the gallery, hardly a foot of space was gained. He who gave up his seat then, gave it up for the night. Mr. Gresham began with a calmness of tone which seemed almost to be affected, but which arose from a struggle on his own part to repress that superabundant energy of which he was only too conscious. But the calmness soon gave place to warmth, which heated itself into violence before he had been a quarter of an hour upon his legs. He soon became even ferocious in his invective, and said things so bitter that he had himself no conception of their bitterness. There was this difference between the two men,--that whereas Mr. Daubeny hit always as hard as he knew how to hit, having premeditated each blow, and weighed its results beforehand, having calculated his power even to the effect of a blow repeated on a wound already given, Mr. Gresham struck right and left and straightforward with a readiness engendered by practice, and in his fury might have murdered his antagonist before he was aware that he had drawn blood. He began by refusing absolutely to discuss the merits of the bill. The right honourable gentleman had prided himself on his generosity as a Greek. He would remind the right honourable gentleman that presents from Greeks had ever been considered dangerous. "It is their gifts, and only their gifts, that we fear," he said. The political gifts of the right honourable gentleman, extracted by him from his unwilling colleagues and followers, had always been more bitter to the taste than Dead Sea apples. That such gifts should not be bestowed on the country by unwilling hands, that reform should not come from those who themselves felt the necessity of no reform, he believed to be the wish not only of that House, but of the country at large. Would any gentleman on that bench, excepting the right honourable gentleman himself,--and he pointed to the crowded phalanx of the Government,--get up and declare that this measure of Church Reform, this severance of Church and State, was brought forward in consonance with his own long-cherished political conviction? He accused that party of being so bound to the chariot wheels of the right honourable gentleman, as to be unable to abide by their own convictions. And as to the right honourable gentleman himself, he would appeal to his followers opposite to say whether the right honourable gentleman was possessed of any one strong political conviction. He had been accused of being unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. If the House would allow him he would very shortly explain his idea of constitutional government as carried on in this country. It was based and built on majorities in that House, and supported solely by that power. There could be no constitutional government in this country that was not so maintained. Any other government must be both revolutionary and tyrannical. Any other government was a usurpation; and he would make bold to tell the right honourable gentleman that a Minister in this country who should recommend Her Majesty to trust herself to advisers not supported by a majority of the House of Commons, would plainly be guilty of usurping the powers of the State. He threw from him with disdain the charge which had been brought against himself of hankering after the sweets of office. He indulged and gloried in indulging the highest ambition of an English subject. But he gloried much more in the privileges and power of that House, within the walls of which was centred all that was salutary, all that was efficacious, all that was stable in the political constitution of his country. It had been his pride to have acted during nearly all his political life with that party which had commanded a majority, but he would defy his most bitter adversary, he would defy the right honourable gentleman himself, to point to any period of his career in which he had been unwilling to succumb to a majority when he himself had belonged to the minority. He himself would regard the vote on this occasion as a vote of want of confidence. He took the line he was now taking because he desired to bring the House to a decision on that question. He himself had not that confidence in the right honourable gentleman which would justify him in accepting a measure on so important a subject as the union or severance of Church and State from his hands. Should the majority of the House differ from him and support the second reading of the Bill, he would at once so far succumb as to give his best attention to the clauses of the bill, and endeavour with the assistance of those gentlemen who acted with him to make it suitable to the wants of the country by omissions and additions as the clauses should pass through Committee. But before doing that he would ask the House to decide with all its solemnity and all its weight whether it was willing to accept from the hands of the right honourable gentleman any measure of reform on a matter so important as this now before them. It was nearly ten when he sat down; and then the stomach of the House could stand it no longer, and an adjournment at once took place. On the next morning it was generally considered that Mr. Daubeny had been too long and Mr. Gresham too passionate. There were some who declared that Mr. Gresham had never been finer than when he described the privileges of the House of Commons; and others who thought that Mr. Daubeny's lucidity had been marvellous; but in this case, as in most others, the speeches of the day were generally thought to have been very inferior to the great efforts of the past. CHAPTER XXXIV. THE UNIVERSE. Before the House met again the quidnuncs about the clubs, on both sides of the question, had determined that Mr. Gresham's speech, whether good or not as an effort of oratory, would serve its intended purpose. He would be backed by a majority of votes, and it might have been very doubtful whether such would have been the case had he attempted to throw out the Bill on its merits. Mr. Ratler, by the time that prayers had been read, had become almost certain of success. There were very few Liberals in the House who were not anxious to declare by their votes that they had no confidence in Mr. Daubeny. Mr. Turnbull, the great Radical, and, perhaps, some two dozen with him, would support the second reading, declaring that they could not reconcile it with their consciences to record a vote in favour of a union of Church and State. On all such occasions as the present Mr. Turnbull was sure to make himself disagreeable to those who sat near to him in the House. He was a man who thought that so much was demanded of him in order that his independence might

never

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

you mean to say that the morals of your party will be offended?" said Madame Goesler, almost laughing. "Lord Fawn, you know, is very particular. In sober earnest one cannot tell how these things operate; but they do operate gradually. One's friends are sometimes very glad of an excuse for not befriending one." "Lady Laura is coming home?" "Yes." "That will put an end to it." "There is nothing to put an end to except the foul-mouthed malice of a lying newspaper. Nobody believes anything against Lady Laura." "I'm not so sure of that. I believe nothing against her." "I'm sure you do not, Madame Goesler. Nor do I think that anybody does. It is too absurd for belief from beginning to end. Good-bye. Perhaps I shall see you when the debate is over." "Of course you will. Good-bye, and success to your oratory." Then Madame Goesler resolved that she would say a few judicious words to her friend, the Duchess, respecting Phineas Finn. CHAPTER XXXIII. THE TWO GLADIATORS. The great debate was commenced with all the solemnities which are customary on such occasions, and which make men think for the day that no moment of greater excitement has ever blessed or cursed the country. Upon the present occasion London was full of clergymen. The specially clerical clubs,--the Oxford and Cambridge, the Old University, and the Athenaeum,--were black with them. The bishops and deans, as usual, were pleasant in their manner and happy-looking, in spite of adverse circumstances. When one sees a bishop in the hours of the distress of the Church, one always thinks of the just and firm man who will stand fearless while the ruins of the world are falling about his ears. But the parsons from the country were a sorry sight to see. They were in earnest with all their hearts, and did believe,--not that the crack of doom was coming, which they could have borne with equanimity if convinced that their influence would last to the end,--but that the Evil One was to be made welcome upon the earth by Act of Parliament. It is out of nature that any man should think it good that his own order should be repressed, curtailed, and deprived of its power. If we go among cab-drivers or letter-carriers, among butlers or gamekeepers, among tailors or butchers, among farmers or graziers, among doctors or attorneys, we shall find in each set of men a conviction that the welfare of the community depends upon the firmness with which they,--especially they,--hold their own. This is so manifestly true with the Bar that no barrister in practice scruples to avow that barristers in practice are the salt of the earth. The personal confidence of a judge in his own position is beautiful, being salutary to the country, though not unfrequently damaging to the character of the man. But if this be so with men who are conscious of no higher influence than that exercised over the bodies and minds of their fellow creatures, how much stronger must be the feeling when the influence affects the soul! To the outsider, or layman, who simply uses a cab, or receives a letter, or goes to law, or has to be tried, these pretensions are ridiculous or annoying, according to the ascendancy of the pretender at the moment. But as the clerical pretensions are more exacting than all others, being put forward with an assertion that no answer is possible without breach of duty and sin, so are they more galling. The fight has been going on since the idea of a mitre first entered the heart of a priest,--since dominion in this world has found itself capable of sustentation by the exercise of fear as to the world to come. We do believe,--the majority among us does so,--that if we live and die in sin we shall after some fashion come to great punishment, and we believe also that by having pastors among us who shall be men of God, we may best aid ourselves and our children in avoiding this bitter end. But then the pastors and men of God can only be human,--cannot be altogether men of God; and so they have oppressed us, and burned us, and tortured us, and hence come to love palaces, and fine linen, and purple, and, alas, sometimes, mere luxury and idleness. The torturing and the burning, as also to speak truth the luxury and the idleness, have, among us, been already conquered, but the idea of ascendancy remains. What is a thoughtful man to do who acknowledges the danger of his soul, but cannot swallow his parson whole simply because he has been sent to him from some source in which he has no special confidence, perhaps by some distant lord, perhaps by a Lord Chancellor whose political friend has had a son with a tutor? What is he to do when, in spite of some fine linen and purple left among us, the provision for the man of God in his parish or district is so poor that no man of God fitted to teach him will come and take it? In no spirit of animosity to religion he begins to tell himself that Church and State together was a monkish combination, fit perhaps for monkish days, but no longer having fitness, and not much longer capable of existence in this country. But to the parson himself,--to the honest, hardworking, conscientious priest who does in his heart of hearts believe that no diminution in the general influence of his order can be made without ruin to the souls of men,--this opinion, when it becomes dominant, is as though the world were in truth breaking to pieces over his head. The world has been broken to pieces in the same way often;--but extreme Chaos does not come. The cabman and the letter-carrier always expect that Chaos will very nearly come when they are disturbed. The barristers are sure of Chaos when the sanctity of Benchers is in question. What utter Chaos would be promised to us could any one with impunity contemn the majesty of the House of Commons! But of all these Chaoses there can be no Chaos equal to that which in the mind of a zealous Oxford-bred constitutional country parson must attend that annihilation of his special condition which will be produced by the disestablishment of the Church. Of all good fellows he is the best good fellow. He is genial, hospitable, well-educated, and always has either a pretty wife or pretty daughters. But he has so extreme a belief in himself that he cannot endure to be told that absolute Chaos will not come at once if he be disturbed. And now disturbances,--ay, and utter dislocation and ruin were to come from the hands of a friend! Was it wonderful that parsons should be seen about Westminster in flocks with _"Et tu, Brute"_ written on their faces as plainly as the law on the brows of a Pharisee? The Speaker had been harassed for orders. The powers and prowess of every individual member had been put to the test. The galleries were crowded. Ladies' places had been ballotted for with desperate enthusiasm, in spite of the sarcasm against the House which Madame Goesler had expressed. Two royal princes and a royal duke were accommodated within the House in an irregular manner. Peers swarmed in the passages, and were too happy to find standing room. Bishops jostled against lay barons with no other preference than that afforded to them by their broader shoulders. Men, and especially clergymen, came to the galleries loaded with sandwiches and flasks, prepared to hear all there was to be heard should the debate last from 4 P.M. to the same hour on the following morning. At two in the afternoon the entrances to the House were barred, and men of all ranks,--deans, prebends, peers' sons, and baronets,--stood there patiently waiting till some powerful nobleman should let them through. The very ventilating chambers under the House were filled with courteous listeners, who had all pledged themselves that under no possible provocation would they even cough during the debate. A few minutes after four, in a House from which hardly more than a dozen members were absent, Mr. Daubeny took his seat with that air of affected indifference to things around him which is peculiar to him. He entered slowly, amidst cheers from his side of the House, which no doubt were loud in proportion to the dismay of the cheerers as to the matter in hand. Gentlemen lacking substantial sympathy with their leader found it to be comfortable to deceive themselves, and raise their hearts at the same time by the easy enthusiasm of noise. Mr. Daubeny having sat down and covered his head just raised his hat from his brows, and then tried to look as though he were no more than any other gentleman present. But the peculiar consciousness of the man displayed itself even in his constrained absence of motion. You could see that he felt himself to be the beheld of all beholders, and that he enjoyed the position,--with some slight inward trepidation lest the effort to be made should not equal the greatness of the occasion. Immediately after him Mr. Gresham bustled up the centre of the House amidst a roar of good-humoured welcome. We have had many Ministers who have been personally dearer to their individual adherents in the House than the present leader of the Opposition and late Premier, but none, perhaps, who has been more generally respected by his party for earnestness and sincerity. On the present occasion there was a fierceness, almost a ferocity, in his very countenance, to the fire of which friends and enemies were equally anxious to add fuel,--the friends in order that so might these recreant Tories be more thoroughly annihilated, and the enemies, that their enemy's indiscretion might act back upon himself to his confusion. For, indeed, it never could be denied that as a Prime Minister Mr. Gresham could be very indiscreet. A certain small amount of ordinary business was done, to the disgust of expectant strangers, which was as trivial as possible in its nature,--so arranged, apparently, that the importance of what was to follow might be enhanced by the force of contrast. And, to make the dismay of the novice stranger more thorough, questions were asked and answers were given in so low a voice, and Mr. Speaker uttered a word or two in so quick and shambling a fashion, that he, the novice stranger, began to fear that no word of the debate would reach him up there in his crowded back seat. All this, however, occupied but a few minutes, and at twenty minutes past four Mr. Daubeny was on his legs. Then the novice stranger found that, though he could not see Mr. Daubeny without the aid of an opera glass, he could hear every word that fell from his lips. Mr. Daubeny began by regretting the hardness of his position, in that he must, with what thoroughness he might be able to achieve, apply himself to two great subjects, whereas the right honourable gentleman opposite had already declared, with all the formality which could be made to attach itself to a combined meeting of peers and commoners, that he would confine himself strictly to one. The subject selected by the right honourable gentleman opposite on the present occasion was not the question of Church Reform. The right honourable gentleman had pledged himself with an almost sacred enthusiasm to ignore that subject altogether. No doubt it was the question before the House, and he, himself,--the present speaker,--must unfortunately discuss it at some length. The right honourable gentleman opposite would not, on this great occasion, trouble himself with anything of so little moment. And it might be presumed that the political followers of the right honourable gentleman would be equally reticent, as they were understood to have accepted his tactics without a dissentient voice. He, Mr. Daubeny, was the last man in England to deny the importance of the question which the right honourable gentleman would select for discussions in preference to that of the condition of the Church. That question was a very simple one, and might be put to the House in a very few words. Coming from the mouth of the right honourable gentleman, the proposition would probably be made in this form:--"That this House does think that I ought to be Prime Minister now, and as long as I may possess a seat in this House." It was impossible to deny the importance of that question; but perhaps he, Mr. Daubeny, might be justified in demurring to the preference given to it over every other matter, let that matter be of what importance it might be to the material welfare of the country. He made his point well; but he made it too often. And an attack of that kind, personal and savage in its nature, loses its effect when it is evident that the words have been prepared. A good deal may be done in dispute by calling a man an ass or a knave,--but the resolve to use the words should have been made only at the moment, and they should come hot from the heart. There was much neatness and some acuteness in Mr. Daubeny's satire, but there was no heat, and it was prolix. It had, however, the effect of irritating Mr. Gresham,--as was evident from the manner in which he moved his hat and shuffled his feet. A man destined to sit conspicuously on our Treasury Bench, or on the seat opposite to it, should ask the gods for a thick skin as a first gift. The need of this in our national assembly is greater than elsewhere, because the differences between the men opposed to each other are smaller. When two foes meet together in the same Chamber, one of whom advocates the personal government of an individual ruler, and the other that form of State, which has come to be called a Red Republic, they deal, no doubt, weighty blows of oratory at each other, but blows which never hurt at the moment. They may cut each other's throats if they can find an opportunity; but they do not bite each other like dogs over a bone. But when opponents are almost in accord, as is always the case with our parliamentary gladiators, they are ever striving to give maddening little wounds through the joints of the harness. What is there with us to create the divergence necessary for debate but the pride of personal skill in the encounter? Who desires among us to put down the Queen, or to repudiate the National Debt, or to destroy religious worship, or even to disturb the ranks of society? When some small measure of reform has thoroughly recommended itself to the country,--so thoroughly that all men know that the country will have it,--then the question arises whether its details shall be arranged by the political party which calls itself Liberal,--or by that which is termed Conservative. The men are so near to each other in all their convictions and theories of life that nothing is left to them but personal competition for the doing of the thing that is to be done. It is the same in religion. The apostle of Christianity and the infidel can meet without a chance of a quarrel; but it is never safe to bring together two men who differ about a saint or a surplice. Mr. Daubeny, having thus attacked and wounded his enemy, rushed boldly into the question of Church Reform, taking no little pride to himself and to his party that so great a blessing should be bestowed upon the country from so unexpected a source. "See what we Conservatives can do. In fact we will conserve nothing when we find that you do not desire to have it conserved any longer. 'Quod minime reris Grai pandetur ab urbe.'" It was exactly the reverse of the complaint which Mr. Gresham was about to make. On the subject of the Church itself he was rather misty but very profound. He went into the question of very early Churches indeed, and spoke of the misappropriation of endowments in the time of Eli. The establishment of the Levites had been no doubt complete; but changes had been effected as circumstances required. He was presumed to have alluded to the order of Melchisedek, but he abstained from any mention of the name. He roamed very wide, and gave many of his hearers an idea that his erudition had carried him into regions in which it was impossible to follow him. The gist of his argument was to show that audacity in Reform was the very backbone of Conservatism. By a clearly pronounced disunion of Church and State the theocracy of Thomas Becket would be restored, and the people of England would soon again become the faithful flocks of faithful shepherds. By taking away the endowments from the parishes, and giving them back in some complicated way to the country, the parishes would be better able than ever to support their clergymen. Bishops would be bishops indeed, when they were no longer the creatures of a Minister's breath. As to the deans, not seeing a clear way to satisfy aspirants for future vacancies in the deaneries, he became more than usually vague, but seemed to imply that the Bill which was now with the leave of the House to be read a second time, contained no clause forbidding the appointment of deans, though the special stipend of the office must be matter of consideration with the new Church Synod. The details of this part of his speech were felt to be dull by the strangers. As long as he would abuse Mr. Gresham, men could listen with pleasure; and could keep their attention fixed while he referred to the general Conservatism of the party which he had the honour of leading. There was a raciness in the promise of so much Church destruction from the chosen leader of the Church party, which was assisted by a conviction in the minds of most men that it was impossible for unfortunate Conservatives to refuse to follow this leader, let him lead where he might. There was a gratification in feeling that the country party was bound to follow, even should he take them into the very bowels of a mountain, as the pied piper did the children of Hamelin;--and this made listening pleasant. But when Mr. Daubeny stated the effect of his different clauses, explaining what was to be taken and what left,--with a fervent assurance that what was to be left would, under the altered circumstances, go much further than the whole had gone before,--then the audience became weary, and began to think that it was time that some other gentleman should be upon his legs. But at the end of the Minister's speech there was another touch of invective which went far to redeem him. He returned to that personal question to which his adversary had undertaken to confine himself, and expressed a holy horror at the political doctrine which was implied. He, during a prolonged Parliamentary experience, had encountered much factious opposition. He would even acknowledge that he had seen it exercised on both sides of the House, though he had always striven to keep himself free from its baneful influence. But never till now had he known a statesman proclaim his intention of depending upon faction, and upon faction alone, for the result which he desired to achieve. Let the right honourable gentleman raise a contest on either the principles or the details of the measure, and he would be quite content to abide the decision of the House; but he should regard such a raid as that threatened against him and his friends by the right honourable gentleman as unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. He felt sure that an opposition so based, and so maintained, even if it be enabled by the heated feelings of the moment to obtain an unfortunate success in the House, would not be encouraged by the sympathy and support of the country at large. By these last words he was understood to signify that should he be beaten on the second reading, not in reference to the merits of the Bill, but simply on the issue as proposed by Mr. Gresham, he would again dissolve the House before he would resign. Now it was very well understood that there were Liberal members in the House who would prefer even the success of Mr. Daubeny to a speedy reappearance before their constituents. Mr. Daubeny spoke till nearly eight, and it was surmised at the time that he had craftily arranged his oratory so as to embarrass his opponent. The House had met at four, and was to sit continuously till it was adjourned for the night. When this is the case, gentlemen who speak about eight o'clock are too frequently obliged to address themselves to empty benches. On the present occasion it was Mr. Gresham's intention to follow his opponent at once, instead of waiting, as is usual with a leader of his party, to the close of the debate. It was understood that Mr. Gresham would follow Mr. Daubeny, with the object of making a distinct charge against Ministers, so that the vote on this second reading of the Church Bill might in truth be a vote of want of confidence. But to commence his speech at eight o'clock when the House was hungry and uneasy, would be a trial. Had Mr. Daubeny closed an hour sooner there would, with a little stretching of the favoured hours, have been time enough. Members would not have objected to postpone their dinner till half-past eight, or perhaps nine, when their favourite orator was on his legs. But with Mr. Gresham beginning a great speech at eight, dinner would altogether become doubtful, and the disaster might be serious. It was not probable that Mr. Daubeny had even among his friends proclaimed any such strategy; but it was thought by the political speculators of the day that such an idea had been present to his mind. But Mr. Gresham was not to be turned from his purpose. He waited for a few moments, and then rose and addressed the Speaker. A few members left the House;--gentlemen, doubtless, whose constitutions, weakened by previous service, could not endure prolonged fasting. Some who had nearly reached the door returned to their seats, mindful of Messrs. Roby and Ratler. But for the bulk of those assembled the interest of the moment was greater even than the love of dinner. Some of the peers departed, and it was observed that a bishop or two left the House; but among the strangers in the gallery, hardly a foot of space was gained. He who gave up his seat then, gave it up for the night. Mr. Gresham began with a calmness of tone which seemed almost to be affected, but which arose from a struggle on his own part to repress that superabundant energy of which he was only too conscious. But the calmness soon gave place to warmth, which heated itself into violence before he had been a quarter of an hour upon his legs. He soon became even ferocious in his invective, and said things so bitter that he had himself no conception of their bitterness. There was this difference between the two men,--that whereas Mr. Daubeny hit always as hard as he knew how to hit, having premeditated each blow, and weighed its results beforehand, having calculated his power even to the effect of a blow repeated on a wound already given, Mr. Gresham struck right and left and straightforward with a readiness engendered by practice, and in his fury might have murdered his antagonist before he was aware that he had drawn blood. He began by refusing absolutely to discuss the merits of the bill. The right honourable gentleman had prided himself on his generosity as a Greek. He would remind the right honourable gentleman that presents from Greeks had ever been considered dangerous. "It is their gifts, and only their gifts, that we fear," he said. The political gifts of the right honourable gentleman, extracted by him from his unwilling colleagues and followers, had always been more bitter to the taste than Dead Sea apples. That such gifts should not be bestowed on the country by unwilling hands, that reform should not come from those who themselves felt the necessity of no reform, he believed to be the wish not only of that House, but of the country at large. Would any gentleman on that bench, excepting the right honourable gentleman himself,--and he pointed to the crowded phalanx of the Government,--get up and declare that this measure of Church Reform, this severance of Church and State, was brought forward in consonance with his own long-cherished political conviction? He accused that party of being so bound to the chariot wheels of the right honourable gentleman, as to be unable to abide by their own convictions. And as to the right honourable gentleman himself, he would appeal to his followers opposite to say whether the right honourable gentleman was possessed of any one strong political conviction. He had been accused of being unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. If the House would allow him he would very shortly explain his idea of constitutional government as carried on in this country. It was based and built on majorities in that House, and supported solely by that power. There could be no constitutional government in this country that was not so maintained. Any other government must be both revolutionary and tyrannical. Any other government was a usurpation; and he would make bold to tell the right honourable gentleman that a Minister in this country who should recommend Her Majesty to trust herself to advisers not supported by a majority of the House of Commons, would plainly be guilty of usurping the powers of the State. He threw from him with disdain the charge which had been brought against himself of hankering after the sweets of office. He indulged and gloried in indulging the highest ambition of an English subject. But he gloried much more in the privileges and power of that House, within the walls of which was centred all that was salutary, all that was efficacious, all that was stable in the political constitution of his country. It had been his pride to have acted during nearly all his political life with that party which had commanded a majority, but he would defy his most bitter adversary, he would defy the right honourable gentleman himself, to point to any period of his career in which he had been unwilling to succumb to a majority when he himself had belonged to the minority. He himself would regard the vote on this occasion as a vote of want of confidence. He took the line he was now taking because he desired to bring the House to a decision on that question. He himself had not that confidence in the right honourable gentleman which would justify him in accepting a measure on so important a subject as the union or severance of Church and State from his hands. Should the majority of the House differ from him and support the second reading of the Bill, he would at once so far succumb as to give his best attention to the clauses of the bill, and endeavour with the assistance of those gentlemen who acted with him to make it suitable to the wants of the country by omissions and additions as the clauses should pass through Committee. But before doing that he would ask the House to decide with all its solemnity and all its weight whether it was willing to accept from the hands of the right honourable gentleman any measure of reform on a matter so important as this now before them. It was nearly ten when he sat down; and then the stomach of the House could stand it no longer, and an adjournment at once took place. On the next morning it was generally considered that Mr. Daubeny had been too long and Mr. Gresham too passionate. There were some who declared that Mr. Gresham had never been finer than when he described the privileges of the House of Commons; and others who thought that Mr. Daubeny's lucidity had been marvellous; but in this case, as in most others, the speeches of the day were generally thought to have been very inferior to the great efforts of the past. CHAPTER XXXIV. THE UNIVERSE. Before the House met again the quidnuncs about the clubs, on both sides of the question, had determined that Mr. Gresham's speech, whether good or not as an effort of oratory, would serve its intended purpose. He would be backed by a majority of votes, and it might have been very doubtful whether such would have been the case had he attempted to throw out the Bill on its merits. Mr. Ratler, by the time that prayers had been read, had become almost certain of success. There were very few Liberals in the House who were not anxious to declare by their votes that they had no confidence in Mr. Daubeny. Mr. Turnbull, the great Radical, and, perhaps, some two dozen with him, would support the second reading, declaring that they could not reconcile it with their consciences to record a vote in favour of a union of Church and State. On all such occasions as the present Mr. Turnbull was sure to make himself disagreeable to those who sat near to him in the House. He was a man who thought that so much was demanded of him in order that his independence might

beckley

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

you mean to say that the morals of your party will be offended?" said Madame Goesler, almost laughing. "Lord Fawn, you know, is very particular. In sober earnest one cannot tell how these things operate; but they do operate gradually. One's friends are sometimes very glad of an excuse for not befriending one." "Lady Laura is coming home?" "Yes." "That will put an end to it." "There is nothing to put an end to except the foul-mouthed malice of a lying newspaper. Nobody believes anything against Lady Laura." "I'm not so sure of that. I believe nothing against her." "I'm sure you do not, Madame Goesler. Nor do I think that anybody does. It is too absurd for belief from beginning to end. Good-bye. Perhaps I shall see you when the debate is over." "Of course you will. Good-bye, and success to your oratory." Then Madame Goesler resolved that she would say a few judicious words to her friend, the Duchess, respecting Phineas Finn. CHAPTER XXXIII. THE TWO GLADIATORS. The great debate was commenced with all the solemnities which are customary on such occasions, and which make men think for the day that no moment of greater excitement has ever blessed or cursed the country. Upon the present occasion London was full of clergymen. The specially clerical clubs,--the Oxford and Cambridge, the Old University, and the Athenaeum,--were black with them. The bishops and deans, as usual, were pleasant in their manner and happy-looking, in spite of adverse circumstances. When one sees a bishop in the hours of the distress of the Church, one always thinks of the just and firm man who will stand fearless while the ruins of the world are falling about his ears. But the parsons from the country were a sorry sight to see. They were in earnest with all their hearts, and did believe,--not that the crack of doom was coming, which they could have borne with equanimity if convinced that their influence would last to the end,--but that the Evil One was to be made welcome upon the earth by Act of Parliament. It is out of nature that any man should think it good that his own order should be repressed, curtailed, and deprived of its power. If we go among cab-drivers or letter-carriers, among butlers or gamekeepers, among tailors or butchers, among farmers or graziers, among doctors or attorneys, we shall find in each set of men a conviction that the welfare of the community depends upon the firmness with which they,--especially they,--hold their own. This is so manifestly true with the Bar that no barrister in practice scruples to avow that barristers in practice are the salt of the earth. The personal confidence of a judge in his own position is beautiful, being salutary to the country, though not unfrequently damaging to the character of the man. But if this be so with men who are conscious of no higher influence than that exercised over the bodies and minds of their fellow creatures, how much stronger must be the feeling when the influence affects the soul! To the outsider, or layman, who simply uses a cab, or receives a letter, or goes to law, or has to be tried, these pretensions are ridiculous or annoying, according to the ascendancy of the pretender at the moment. But as the clerical pretensions are more exacting than all others, being put forward with an assertion that no answer is possible without breach of duty and sin, so are they more galling. The fight has been going on since the idea of a mitre first entered the heart of a priest,--since dominion in this world has found itself capable of sustentation by the exercise of fear as to the world to come. We do believe,--the majority among us does so,--that if we live and die in sin we shall after some fashion come to great punishment, and we believe also that by having pastors among us who shall be men of God, we may best aid ourselves and our children in avoiding this bitter end. But then the pastors and men of God can only be human,--cannot be altogether men of God; and so they have oppressed us, and burned us, and tortured us, and hence come to love palaces, and fine linen, and purple, and, alas, sometimes, mere luxury and idleness. The torturing and the burning, as also to speak truth the luxury and the idleness, have, among us, been already conquered, but the idea of ascendancy remains. What is a thoughtful man to do who acknowledges the danger of his soul, but cannot swallow his parson whole simply because he has been sent to him from some source in which he has no special confidence, perhaps by some distant lord, perhaps by a Lord Chancellor whose political friend has had a son with a tutor? What is he to do when, in spite of some fine linen and purple left among us, the provision for the man of God in his parish or district is so poor that no man of God fitted to teach him will come and take it? In no spirit of animosity to religion he begins to tell himself that Church and State together was a monkish combination, fit perhaps for monkish days, but no longer having fitness, and not much longer capable of existence in this country. But to the parson himself,--to the honest, hardworking, conscientious priest who does in his heart of hearts believe that no diminution in the general influence of his order can be made without ruin to the souls of men,--this opinion, when it becomes dominant, is as though the world were in truth breaking to pieces over his head. The world has been broken to pieces in the same way often;--but extreme Chaos does not come. The cabman and the letter-carrier always expect that Chaos will very nearly come when they are disturbed. The barristers are sure of Chaos when the sanctity of Benchers is in question. What utter Chaos would be promised to us could any one with impunity contemn the majesty of the House of Commons! But of all these Chaoses there can be no Chaos equal to that which in the mind of a zealous Oxford-bred constitutional country parson must attend that annihilation of his special condition which will be produced by the disestablishment of the Church. Of all good fellows he is the best good fellow. He is genial, hospitable, well-educated, and always has either a pretty wife or pretty daughters. But he has so extreme a belief in himself that he cannot endure to be told that absolute Chaos will not come at once if he be disturbed. And now disturbances,--ay, and utter dislocation and ruin were to come from the hands of a friend! Was it wonderful that parsons should be seen about Westminster in flocks with _"Et tu, Brute"_ written on their faces as plainly as the law on the brows of a Pharisee? The Speaker had been harassed for orders. The powers and prowess of every individual member had been put to the test. The galleries were crowded. Ladies' places had been ballotted for with desperate enthusiasm, in spite of the sarcasm against the House which Madame Goesler had expressed. Two royal princes and a royal duke were accommodated within the House in an irregular manner. Peers swarmed in the passages, and were too happy to find standing room. Bishops jostled against lay barons with no other preference than that afforded to them by their broader shoulders. Men, and especially clergymen, came to the galleries loaded with sandwiches and flasks, prepared to hear all there was to be heard should the debate last from 4 P.M. to the same hour on the following morning. At two in the afternoon the entrances to the House were barred, and men of all ranks,--deans, prebends, peers' sons, and baronets,--stood there patiently waiting till some powerful nobleman should let them through. The very ventilating chambers under the House were filled with courteous listeners, who had all pledged themselves that under no possible provocation would they even cough during the debate. A few minutes after four, in a House from which hardly more than a dozen members were absent, Mr. Daubeny took his seat with that air of affected indifference to things around him which is peculiar to him. He entered slowly, amidst cheers from his side of the House, which no doubt were loud in proportion to the dismay of the cheerers as to the matter in hand. Gentlemen lacking substantial sympathy with their leader found it to be comfortable to deceive themselves, and raise their hearts at the same time by the easy enthusiasm of noise. Mr. Daubeny having sat down and covered his head just raised his hat from his brows, and then tried to look as though he were no more than any other gentleman present. But the peculiar consciousness of the man displayed itself even in his constrained absence of motion. You could see that he felt himself to be the beheld of all beholders, and that he enjoyed the position,--with some slight inward trepidation lest the effort to be made should not equal the greatness of the occasion. Immediately after him Mr. Gresham bustled up the centre of the House amidst a roar of good-humoured welcome. We have had many Ministers who have been personally dearer to their individual adherents in the House than the present leader of the Opposition and late Premier, but none, perhaps, who has been more generally respected by his party for earnestness and sincerity. On the present occasion there was a fierceness, almost a ferocity, in his very countenance, to the fire of which friends and enemies were equally anxious to add fuel,--the friends in order that so might these recreant Tories be more thoroughly annihilated, and the enemies, that their enemy's indiscretion might act back upon himself to his confusion. For, indeed, it never could be denied that as a Prime Minister Mr. Gresham could be very indiscreet. A certain small amount of ordinary business was done, to the disgust of expectant strangers, which was as trivial as possible in its nature,--so arranged, apparently, that the importance of what was to follow might be enhanced by the force of contrast. And, to make the dismay of the novice stranger more thorough, questions were asked and answers were given in so low a voice, and Mr. Speaker uttered a word or two in so quick and shambling a fashion, that he, the novice stranger, began to fear that no word of the debate would reach him up there in his crowded back seat. All this, however, occupied but a few minutes, and at twenty minutes past four Mr. Daubeny was on his legs. Then the novice stranger found that, though he could not see Mr. Daubeny without the aid of an opera glass, he could hear every word that fell from his lips. Mr. Daubeny began by regretting the hardness of his position, in that he must, with what thoroughness he might be able to achieve, apply himself to two great subjects, whereas the right honourable gentleman opposite had already declared, with all the formality which could be made to attach itself to a combined meeting of peers and commoners, that he would confine himself strictly to one. The subject selected by the right honourable gentleman opposite on the present occasion was not the question of Church Reform. The right honourable gentleman had pledged himself with an almost sacred enthusiasm to ignore that subject altogether. No doubt it was the question before the House, and he, himself,--the present speaker,--must unfortunately discuss it at some length. The right honourable gentleman opposite would not, on this great occasion, trouble himself with anything of so little moment. And it might be presumed that the political followers of the right honourable gentleman would be equally reticent, as they were understood to have accepted his tactics without a dissentient voice. He, Mr. Daubeny, was the last man in England to deny the importance of the question which the right honourable gentleman would select for discussions in preference to that of the condition of the Church. That question was a very simple one, and might be put to the House in a very few words. Coming from the mouth of the right honourable gentleman, the proposition would probably be made in this form:--"That this House does think that I ought to be Prime Minister now, and as long as I may possess a seat in this House." It was impossible to deny the importance of that question; but perhaps he, Mr. Daubeny, might be justified in demurring to the preference given to it over every other matter, let that matter be of what importance it might be to the material welfare of the country. He made his point well; but he made it too often. And an attack of that kind, personal and savage in its nature, loses its effect when it is evident that the words have been prepared. A good deal may be done in dispute by calling a man an ass or a knave,--but the resolve to use the words should have been made only at the moment, and they should come hot from the heart. There was much neatness and some acuteness in Mr. Daubeny's satire, but there was no heat, and it was prolix. It had, however, the effect of irritating Mr. Gresham,--as was evident from the manner in which he moved his hat and shuffled his feet. A man destined to sit conspicuously on our Treasury Bench, or on the seat opposite to it, should ask the gods for a thick skin as a first gift. The need of this in our national assembly is greater than elsewhere, because the differences between the men opposed to each other are smaller. When two foes meet together in the same Chamber, one of whom advocates the personal government of an individual ruler, and the other that form of State, which has come to be called a Red Republic, they deal, no doubt, weighty blows of oratory at each other, but blows which never hurt at the moment. They may cut each other's throats if they can find an opportunity; but they do not bite each other like dogs over a bone. But when opponents are almost in accord, as is always the case with our parliamentary gladiators, they are ever striving to give maddening little wounds through the joints of the harness. What is there with us to create the divergence necessary for debate but the pride of personal skill in the encounter? Who desires among us to put down the Queen, or to repudiate the National Debt, or to destroy religious worship, or even to disturb the ranks of society? When some small measure of reform has thoroughly recommended itself to the country,--so thoroughly that all men know that the country will have it,--then the question arises whether its details shall be arranged by the political party which calls itself Liberal,--or by that which is termed Conservative. The men are so near to each other in all their convictions and theories of life that nothing is left to them but personal competition for the doing of the thing that is to be done. It is the same in religion. The apostle of Christianity and the infidel can meet without a chance of a quarrel; but it is never safe to bring together two men who differ about a saint or a surplice. Mr. Daubeny, having thus attacked and wounded his enemy, rushed boldly into the question of Church Reform, taking no little pride to himself and to his party that so great a blessing should be bestowed upon the country from so unexpected a source. "See what we Conservatives can do. In fact we will conserve nothing when we find that you do not desire to have it conserved any longer. 'Quod minime reris Grai pandetur ab urbe.'" It was exactly the reverse of the complaint which Mr. Gresham was about to make. On the subject of the Church itself he was rather misty but very profound. He went into the question of very early Churches indeed, and spoke of the misappropriation of endowments in the time of Eli. The establishment of the Levites had been no doubt complete; but changes had been effected as circumstances required. He was presumed to have alluded to the order of Melchisedek, but he abstained from any mention of the name. He roamed very wide, and gave many of his hearers an idea that his erudition had carried him into regions in which it was impossible to follow him. The gist of his argument was to show that audacity in Reform was the very backbone of Conservatism. By a clearly pronounced disunion of Church and State the theocracy of Thomas Becket would be restored, and the people of England would soon again become the faithful flocks of faithful shepherds. By taking away the endowments from the parishes, and giving them back in some complicated way to the country, the parishes would be better able than ever to support their clergymen. Bishops would be bishops indeed, when they were no longer the creatures of a Minister's breath. As to the deans, not seeing a clear way to satisfy aspirants for future vacancies in the deaneries, he became more than usually vague, but seemed to imply that the Bill which was now with the leave of the House to be read a second time, contained no clause forbidding the appointment of deans, though the special stipend of the office must be matter of consideration with the new Church Synod. The details of this part of his speech were felt to be dull by the strangers. As long as he would abuse Mr. Gresham, men could listen with pleasure; and could keep their attention fixed while he referred to the general Conservatism of the party which he had the honour of leading. There was a raciness in the promise of so much Church destruction from the chosen leader of the Church party, which was assisted by a conviction in the minds of most men that it was impossible for unfortunate Conservatives to refuse to follow this leader, let him lead where he might. There was a gratification in feeling that the country party was bound to follow, even should he take them into the very bowels of a mountain, as the pied piper did the children of Hamelin;--and this made listening pleasant. But when Mr. Daubeny stated the effect of his different clauses, explaining what was to be taken and what left,--with a fervent assurance that what was to be left would, under the altered circumstances, go much further than the whole had gone before,--then the audience became weary, and began to think that it was time that some other gentleman should be upon his legs. But at the end of the Minister's speech there was another touch of invective which went far to redeem him. He returned to that personal question to which his adversary had undertaken to confine himself, and expressed a holy horror at the political doctrine which was implied. He, during a prolonged Parliamentary experience, had encountered much factious opposition. He would even acknowledge that he had seen it exercised on both sides of the House, though he had always striven to keep himself free from its baneful influence. But never till now had he known a statesman proclaim his intention of depending upon faction, and upon faction alone, for the result which he desired to achieve. Let the right honourable gentleman raise a contest on either the principles or the details of the measure, and he would be quite content to abide the decision of the House; but he should regard such a raid as that threatened against him and his friends by the right honourable gentleman as unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. He felt sure that an opposition so based, and so maintained, even if it be enabled by the heated feelings of the moment to obtain an unfortunate success in the House, would not be encouraged by the sympathy and support of the country at large. By these last words he was understood to signify that should he be beaten on the second reading, not in reference to the merits of the Bill, but simply on the issue as proposed by Mr. Gresham, he would again dissolve the House before he would resign. Now it was very well understood that there were Liberal members in the House who would prefer even the success of Mr. Daubeny to a speedy reappearance before their constituents. Mr. Daubeny spoke till nearly eight, and it was surmised at the time that he had craftily arranged his oratory so as to embarrass his opponent. The House had met at four, and was to sit continuously till it was adjourned for the night. When this is the case, gentlemen who speak about eight o'clock are too frequently obliged to address themselves to empty benches. On the present occasion it was Mr. Gresham's intention to follow his opponent at once, instead of waiting, as is usual with a leader of his party, to the close of the debate. It was understood that Mr. Gresham would follow Mr. Daubeny, with the object of making a distinct charge against Ministers, so that the vote on this second reading of the Church Bill might in truth be a vote of want of confidence. But to commence his speech at eight o'clock when the House was hungry and uneasy, would be a trial. Had Mr. Daubeny closed an hour sooner there would, with a little stretching of the favoured hours, have been time enough. Members would not have objected to postpone their dinner till half-past eight, or perhaps nine, when their favourite orator was on his legs. But with Mr. Gresham beginning a great speech at eight, dinner would altogether become doubtful, and the disaster might be serious. It was not probable that Mr. Daubeny had even among his friends proclaimed any such strategy; but it was thought by the political speculators of the day that such an idea had been present to his mind. But Mr. Gresham was not to be turned from his purpose. He waited for a few moments, and then rose and addressed the Speaker. A few members left the House;--gentlemen, doubtless, whose constitutions, weakened by previous service, could not endure prolonged fasting. Some who had nearly reached the door returned to their seats, mindful of Messrs. Roby and Ratler. But for the bulk of those assembled the interest of the moment was greater even than the love of dinner. Some of the peers departed, and it was observed that a bishop or two left the House; but among the strangers in the gallery, hardly a foot of space was gained. He who gave up his seat then, gave it up for the night. Mr. Gresham began with a calmness of tone which seemed almost to be affected, but which arose from a struggle on his own part to repress that superabundant energy of which he was only too conscious. But the calmness soon gave place to warmth, which heated itself into violence before he had been a quarter of an hour upon his legs. He soon became even ferocious in his invective, and said things so bitter that he had himself no conception of their bitterness. There was this difference between the two men,--that whereas Mr. Daubeny hit always as hard as he knew how to hit, having premeditated each blow, and weighed its results beforehand, having calculated his power even to the effect of a blow repeated on a wound already given, Mr. Gresham struck right and left and straightforward with a readiness engendered by practice, and in his fury might have murdered his antagonist before he was aware that he had drawn blood. He began by refusing absolutely to discuss the merits of the bill. The right honourable gentleman had prided himself on his generosity as a Greek. He would remind the right honourable gentleman that presents from Greeks had ever been considered dangerous. "It is their gifts, and only their gifts, that we fear," he said. The political gifts of the right honourable gentleman, extracted by him from his unwilling colleagues and followers, had always been more bitter to the taste than Dead Sea apples. That such gifts should not be bestowed on the country by unwilling hands, that reform should not come from those who themselves felt the necessity of no reform, he believed to be the wish not only of that House, but of the country at large. Would any gentleman on that bench, excepting the right honourable gentleman himself,--and he pointed to the crowded phalanx of the Government,--get up and declare that this measure of Church Reform, this severance of Church and State, was brought forward in consonance with his own long-cherished political conviction? He accused that party of being so bound to the chariot wheels of the right honourable gentleman, as to be unable to abide by their own convictions. And as to the right honourable gentleman himself, he would appeal to his followers opposite to say whether the right honourable gentleman was possessed of any one strong political conviction. He had been accused of being unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. If the House would allow him he would very shortly explain his idea of constitutional government as carried on in this country. It was based and built on majorities in that House, and supported solely by that power. There could be no constitutional government in this country that was not so maintained. Any other government must be both revolutionary and tyrannical. Any other government was a usurpation; and he would make bold to tell the right honourable gentleman that a Minister in this country who should recommend Her Majesty to trust herself to advisers not supported by a majority of the House of Commons, would plainly be guilty of usurping the powers of the State. He threw from him with disdain the charge which had been brought against himself of hankering after the sweets of office. He indulged and gloried in indulging the highest ambition of an English subject. But he gloried much more in the privileges and power of that House, within the walls of which was centred all that was salutary, all that was efficacious, all that was stable in the political constitution of his country. It had been his pride to have acted during nearly all his political life with that party which had commanded a majority, but he would defy his most bitter adversary, he would defy the right honourable gentleman himself, to point to any period of his career in which he had been unwilling to succumb to a majority when he himself had belonged to the minority. He himself would regard the vote on this occasion as a vote of want of confidence. He took the line he was now taking because he desired to bring the House to a decision on that question. He himself had not that confidence in the right honourable gentleman which would justify him in accepting a measure on so important a subject as the union or severance of Church and State from his hands. Should the majority of the House differ from him and support the second reading of the Bill, he would at once so far succumb as to give his best attention to the clauses of the bill, and endeavour with the assistance of those gentlemen who acted with him to make it suitable to the wants of the country by omissions and additions as the clauses should pass through Committee. But before doing that he would ask the House to decide with all its solemnity and all its weight whether it was willing to accept from the hands of the right honourable gentleman any measure of reform on a matter so important as this now before them. It was nearly ten when he sat down; and then the stomach of the House could stand it no longer, and an adjournment at once took place. On the next morning it was generally considered that Mr. Daubeny had been too long and Mr. Gresham too passionate. There were some who declared that Mr. Gresham had never been finer than when he described the privileges of the House of Commons; and others who thought that Mr. Daubeny's lucidity had been marvellous; but in this case, as in most others, the speeches of the day were generally thought to have been very inferior to the great efforts of the past. CHAPTER XXXIV. THE UNIVERSE. Before the House met again the quidnuncs about the clubs, on both sides of the question, had determined that Mr. Gresham's speech, whether good or not as an effort of oratory, would serve its intended purpose. He would be backed by a majority of votes, and it might have been very doubtful whether such would have been the case had he attempted to throw out the Bill on its merits. Mr. Ratler, by the time that prayers had been read, had become almost certain of success. There were very few Liberals in the House who were not anxious to declare by their votes that they had no confidence in Mr. Daubeny. Mr. Turnbull, the great Radical, and, perhaps, some two dozen with him, would support the second reading, declaring that they could not reconcile it with their consciences to record a vote in favour of a union of Church and State. On all such occasions as the present Mr. Turnbull was sure to make himself disagreeable to those who sat near to him in the House. He was a man who thought that so much was demanded of him in order that his independence might

possible

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

you mean to say that the morals of your party will be offended?" said Madame Goesler, almost laughing. "Lord Fawn, you know, is very particular. In sober earnest one cannot tell how these things operate; but they do operate gradually. One's friends are sometimes very glad of an excuse for not befriending one." "Lady Laura is coming home?" "Yes." "That will put an end to it." "There is nothing to put an end to except the foul-mouthed malice of a lying newspaper. Nobody believes anything against Lady Laura." "I'm not so sure of that. I believe nothing against her." "I'm sure you do not, Madame Goesler. Nor do I think that anybody does. It is too absurd for belief from beginning to end. Good-bye. Perhaps I shall see you when the debate is over." "Of course you will. Good-bye, and success to your oratory." Then Madame Goesler resolved that she would say a few judicious words to her friend, the Duchess, respecting Phineas Finn. CHAPTER XXXIII. THE TWO GLADIATORS. The great debate was commenced with all the solemnities which are customary on such occasions, and which make men think for the day that no moment of greater excitement has ever blessed or cursed the country. Upon the present occasion London was full of clergymen. The specially clerical clubs,--the Oxford and Cambridge, the Old University, and the Athenaeum,--were black with them. The bishops and deans, as usual, were pleasant in their manner and happy-looking, in spite of adverse circumstances. When one sees a bishop in the hours of the distress of the Church, one always thinks of the just and firm man who will stand fearless while the ruins of the world are falling about his ears. But the parsons from the country were a sorry sight to see. They were in earnest with all their hearts, and did believe,--not that the crack of doom was coming, which they could have borne with equanimity if convinced that their influence would last to the end,--but that the Evil One was to be made welcome upon the earth by Act of Parliament. It is out of nature that any man should think it good that his own order should be repressed, curtailed, and deprived of its power. If we go among cab-drivers or letter-carriers, among butlers or gamekeepers, among tailors or butchers, among farmers or graziers, among doctors or attorneys, we shall find in each set of men a conviction that the welfare of the community depends upon the firmness with which they,--especially they,--hold their own. This is so manifestly true with the Bar that no barrister in practice scruples to avow that barristers in practice are the salt of the earth. The personal confidence of a judge in his own position is beautiful, being salutary to the country, though not unfrequently damaging to the character of the man. But if this be so with men who are conscious of no higher influence than that exercised over the bodies and minds of their fellow creatures, how much stronger must be the feeling when the influence affects the soul! To the outsider, or layman, who simply uses a cab, or receives a letter, or goes to law, or has to be tried, these pretensions are ridiculous or annoying, according to the ascendancy of the pretender at the moment. But as the clerical pretensions are more exacting than all others, being put forward with an assertion that no answer is possible without breach of duty and sin, so are they more galling. The fight has been going on since the idea of a mitre first entered the heart of a priest,--since dominion in this world has found itself capable of sustentation by the exercise of fear as to the world to come. We do believe,--the majority among us does so,--that if we live and die in sin we shall after some fashion come to great punishment, and we believe also that by having pastors among us who shall be men of God, we may best aid ourselves and our children in avoiding this bitter end. But then the pastors and men of God can only be human,--cannot be altogether men of God; and so they have oppressed us, and burned us, and tortured us, and hence come to love palaces, and fine linen, and purple, and, alas, sometimes, mere luxury and idleness. The torturing and the burning, as also to speak truth the luxury and the idleness, have, among us, been already conquered, but the idea of ascendancy remains. What is a thoughtful man to do who acknowledges the danger of his soul, but cannot swallow his parson whole simply because he has been sent to him from some source in which he has no special confidence, perhaps by some distant lord, perhaps by a Lord Chancellor whose political friend has had a son with a tutor? What is he to do when, in spite of some fine linen and purple left among us, the provision for the man of God in his parish or district is so poor that no man of God fitted to teach him will come and take it? In no spirit of animosity to religion he begins to tell himself that Church and State together was a monkish combination, fit perhaps for monkish days, but no longer having fitness, and not much longer capable of existence in this country. But to the parson himself,--to the honest, hardworking, conscientious priest who does in his heart of hearts believe that no diminution in the general influence of his order can be made without ruin to the souls of men,--this opinion, when it becomes dominant, is as though the world were in truth breaking to pieces over his head. The world has been broken to pieces in the same way often;--but extreme Chaos does not come. The cabman and the letter-carrier always expect that Chaos will very nearly come when they are disturbed. The barristers are sure of Chaos when the sanctity of Benchers is in question. What utter Chaos would be promised to us could any one with impunity contemn the majesty of the House of Commons! But of all these Chaoses there can be no Chaos equal to that which in the mind of a zealous Oxford-bred constitutional country parson must attend that annihilation of his special condition which will be produced by the disestablishment of the Church. Of all good fellows he is the best good fellow. He is genial, hospitable, well-educated, and always has either a pretty wife or pretty daughters. But he has so extreme a belief in himself that he cannot endure to be told that absolute Chaos will not come at once if he be disturbed. And now disturbances,--ay, and utter dislocation and ruin were to come from the hands of a friend! Was it wonderful that parsons should be seen about Westminster in flocks with _"Et tu, Brute"_ written on their faces as plainly as the law on the brows of a Pharisee? The Speaker had been harassed for orders. The powers and prowess of every individual member had been put to the test. The galleries were crowded. Ladies' places had been ballotted for with desperate enthusiasm, in spite of the sarcasm against the House which Madame Goesler had expressed. Two royal princes and a royal duke were accommodated within the House in an irregular manner. Peers swarmed in the passages, and were too happy to find standing room. Bishops jostled against lay barons with no other preference than that afforded to them by their broader shoulders. Men, and especially clergymen, came to the galleries loaded with sandwiches and flasks, prepared to hear all there was to be heard should the debate last from 4 P.M. to the same hour on the following morning. At two in the afternoon the entrances to the House were barred, and men of all ranks,--deans, prebends, peers' sons, and baronets,--stood there patiently waiting till some powerful nobleman should let them through. The very ventilating chambers under the House were filled with courteous listeners, who had all pledged themselves that under no possible provocation would they even cough during the debate. A few minutes after four, in a House from which hardly more than a dozen members were absent, Mr. Daubeny took his seat with that air of affected indifference to things around him which is peculiar to him. He entered slowly, amidst cheers from his side of the House, which no doubt were loud in proportion to the dismay of the cheerers as to the matter in hand. Gentlemen lacking substantial sympathy with their leader found it to be comfortable to deceive themselves, and raise their hearts at the same time by the easy enthusiasm of noise. Mr. Daubeny having sat down and covered his head just raised his hat from his brows, and then tried to look as though he were no more than any other gentleman present. But the peculiar consciousness of the man displayed itself even in his constrained absence of motion. You could see that he felt himself to be the beheld of all beholders, and that he enjoyed the position,--with some slight inward trepidation lest the effort to be made should not equal the greatness of the occasion. Immediately after him Mr. Gresham bustled up the centre of the House amidst a roar of good-humoured welcome. We have had many Ministers who have been personally dearer to their individual adherents in the House than the present leader of the Opposition and late Premier, but none, perhaps, who has been more generally respected by his party for earnestness and sincerity. On the present occasion there was a fierceness, almost a ferocity, in his very countenance, to the fire of which friends and enemies were equally anxious to add fuel,--the friends in order that so might these recreant Tories be more thoroughly annihilated, and the enemies, that their enemy's indiscretion might act back upon himself to his confusion. For, indeed, it never could be denied that as a Prime Minister Mr. Gresham could be very indiscreet. A certain small amount of ordinary business was done, to the disgust of expectant strangers, which was as trivial as possible in its nature,--so arranged, apparently, that the importance of what was to follow might be enhanced by the force of contrast. And, to make the dismay of the novice stranger more thorough, questions were asked and answers were given in so low a voice, and Mr. Speaker uttered a word or two in so quick and shambling a fashion, that he, the novice stranger, began to fear that no word of the debate would reach him up there in his crowded back seat. All this, however, occupied but a few minutes, and at twenty minutes past four Mr. Daubeny was on his legs. Then the novice stranger found that, though he could not see Mr. Daubeny without the aid of an opera glass, he could hear every word that fell from his lips. Mr. Daubeny began by regretting the hardness of his position, in that he must, with what thoroughness he might be able to achieve, apply himself to two great subjects, whereas the right honourable gentleman opposite had already declared, with all the formality which could be made to attach itself to a combined meeting of peers and commoners, that he would confine himself strictly to one. The subject selected by the right honourable gentleman opposite on the present occasion was not the question of Church Reform. The right honourable gentleman had pledged himself with an almost sacred enthusiasm to ignore that subject altogether. No doubt it was the question before the House, and he, himself,--the present speaker,--must unfortunately discuss it at some length. The right honourable gentleman opposite would not, on this great occasion, trouble himself with anything of so little moment. And it might be presumed that the political followers of the right honourable gentleman would be equally reticent, as they were understood to have accepted his tactics without a dissentient voice. He, Mr. Daubeny, was the last man in England to deny the importance of the question which the right honourable gentleman would select for discussions in preference to that of the condition of the Church. That question was a very simple one, and might be put to the House in a very few words. Coming from the mouth of the right honourable gentleman, the proposition would probably be made in this form:--"That this House does think that I ought to be Prime Minister now, and as long as I may possess a seat in this House." It was impossible to deny the importance of that question; but perhaps he, Mr. Daubeny, might be justified in demurring to the preference given to it over every other matter, let that matter be of what importance it might be to the material welfare of the country. He made his point well; but he made it too often. And an attack of that kind, personal and savage in its nature, loses its effect when it is evident that the words have been prepared. A good deal may be done in dispute by calling a man an ass or a knave,--but the resolve to use the words should have been made only at the moment, and they should come hot from the heart. There was much neatness and some acuteness in Mr. Daubeny's satire, but there was no heat, and it was prolix. It had, however, the effect of irritating Mr. Gresham,--as was evident from the manner in which he moved his hat and shuffled his feet. A man destined to sit conspicuously on our Treasury Bench, or on the seat opposite to it, should ask the gods for a thick skin as a first gift. The need of this in our national assembly is greater than elsewhere, because the differences between the men opposed to each other are smaller. When two foes meet together in the same Chamber, one of whom advocates the personal government of an individual ruler, and the other that form of State, which has come to be called a Red Republic, they deal, no doubt, weighty blows of oratory at each other, but blows which never hurt at the moment. They may cut each other's throats if they can find an opportunity; but they do not bite each other like dogs over a bone. But when opponents are almost in accord, as is always the case with our parliamentary gladiators, they are ever striving to give maddening little wounds through the joints of the harness. What is there with us to create the divergence necessary for debate but the pride of personal skill in the encounter? Who desires among us to put down the Queen, or to repudiate the National Debt, or to destroy religious worship, or even to disturb the ranks of society? When some small measure of reform has thoroughly recommended itself to the country,--so thoroughly that all men know that the country will have it,--then the question arises whether its details shall be arranged by the political party which calls itself Liberal,--or by that which is termed Conservative. The men are so near to each other in all their convictions and theories of life that nothing is left to them but personal competition for the doing of the thing that is to be done. It is the same in religion. The apostle of Christianity and the infidel can meet without a chance of a quarrel; but it is never safe to bring together two men who differ about a saint or a surplice. Mr. Daubeny, having thus attacked and wounded his enemy, rushed boldly into the question of Church Reform, taking no little pride to himself and to his party that so great a blessing should be bestowed upon the country from so unexpected a source. "See what we Conservatives can do. In fact we will conserve nothing when we find that you do not desire to have it conserved any longer. 'Quod minime reris Grai pandetur ab urbe.'" It was exactly the reverse of the complaint which Mr. Gresham was about to make. On the subject of the Church itself he was rather misty but very profound. He went into the question of very early Churches indeed, and spoke of the misappropriation of endowments in the time of Eli. The establishment of the Levites had been no doubt complete; but changes had been effected as circumstances required. He was presumed to have alluded to the order of Melchisedek, but he abstained from any mention of the name. He roamed very wide, and gave many of his hearers an idea that his erudition had carried him into regions in which it was impossible to follow him. The gist of his argument was to show that audacity in Reform was the very backbone of Conservatism. By a clearly pronounced disunion of Church and State the theocracy of Thomas Becket would be restored, and the people of England would soon again become the faithful flocks of faithful shepherds. By taking away the endowments from the parishes, and giving them back in some complicated way to the country, the parishes would be better able than ever to support their clergymen. Bishops would be bishops indeed, when they were no longer the creatures of a Minister's breath. As to the deans, not seeing a clear way to satisfy aspirants for future vacancies in the deaneries, he became more than usually vague, but seemed to imply that the Bill which was now with the leave of the House to be read a second time, contained no clause forbidding the appointment of deans, though the special stipend of the office must be matter of consideration with the new Church Synod. The details of this part of his speech were felt to be dull by the strangers. As long as he would abuse Mr. Gresham, men could listen with pleasure; and could keep their attention fixed while he referred to the general Conservatism of the party which he had the honour of leading. There was a raciness in the promise of so much Church destruction from the chosen leader of the Church party, which was assisted by a conviction in the minds of most men that it was impossible for unfortunate Conservatives to refuse to follow this leader, let him lead where he might. There was a gratification in feeling that the country party was bound to follow, even should he take them into the very bowels of a mountain, as the pied piper did the children of Hamelin;--and this made listening pleasant. But when Mr. Daubeny stated the effect of his different clauses, explaining what was to be taken and what left,--with a fervent assurance that what was to be left would, under the altered circumstances, go much further than the whole had gone before,--then the audience became weary, and began to think that it was time that some other gentleman should be upon his legs. But at the end of the Minister's speech there was another touch of invective which went far to redeem him. He returned to that personal question to which his adversary had undertaken to confine himself, and expressed a holy horror at the political doctrine which was implied. He, during a prolonged Parliamentary experience, had encountered much factious opposition. He would even acknowledge that he had seen it exercised on both sides of the House, though he had always striven to keep himself free from its baneful influence. But never till now had he known a statesman proclaim his intention of depending upon faction, and upon faction alone, for the result which he desired to achieve. Let the right honourable gentleman raise a contest on either the principles or the details of the measure, and he would be quite content to abide the decision of the House; but he should regard such a raid as that threatened against him and his friends by the right honourable gentleman as unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. He felt sure that an opposition so based, and so maintained, even if it be enabled by the heated feelings of the moment to obtain an unfortunate success in the House, would not be encouraged by the sympathy and support of the country at large. By these last words he was understood to signify that should he be beaten on the second reading, not in reference to the merits of the Bill, but simply on the issue as proposed by Mr. Gresham, he would again dissolve the House before he would resign. Now it was very well understood that there were Liberal members in the House who would prefer even the success of Mr. Daubeny to a speedy reappearance before their constituents. Mr. Daubeny spoke till nearly eight, and it was surmised at the time that he had craftily arranged his oratory so as to embarrass his opponent. The House had met at four, and was to sit continuously till it was adjourned for the night. When this is the case, gentlemen who speak about eight o'clock are too frequently obliged to address themselves to empty benches. On the present occasion it was Mr. Gresham's intention to follow his opponent at once, instead of waiting, as is usual with a leader of his party, to the close of the debate. It was understood that Mr. Gresham would follow Mr. Daubeny, with the object of making a distinct charge against Ministers, so that the vote on this second reading of the Church Bill might in truth be a vote of want of confidence. But to commence his speech at eight o'clock when the House was hungry and uneasy, would be a trial. Had Mr. Daubeny closed an hour sooner there would, with a little stretching of the favoured hours, have been time enough. Members would not have objected to postpone their dinner till half-past eight, or perhaps nine, when their favourite orator was on his legs. But with Mr. Gresham beginning a great speech at eight, dinner would altogether become doubtful, and the disaster might be serious. It was not probable that Mr. Daubeny had even among his friends proclaimed any such strategy; but it was thought by the political speculators of the day that such an idea had been present to his mind. But Mr. Gresham was not to be turned from his purpose. He waited for a few moments, and then rose and addressed the Speaker. A few members left the House;--gentlemen, doubtless, whose constitutions, weakened by previous service, could not endure prolonged fasting. Some who had nearly reached the door returned to their seats, mindful of Messrs. Roby and Ratler. But for the bulk of those assembled the interest of the moment was greater even than the love of dinner. Some of the peers departed, and it was observed that a bishop or two left the House; but among the strangers in the gallery, hardly a foot of space was gained. He who gave up his seat then, gave it up for the night. Mr. Gresham began with a calmness of tone which seemed almost to be affected, but which arose from a struggle on his own part to repress that superabundant energy of which he was only too conscious. But the calmness soon gave place to warmth, which heated itself into violence before he had been a quarter of an hour upon his legs. He soon became even ferocious in his invective, and said things so bitter that he had himself no conception of their bitterness. There was this difference between the two men,--that whereas Mr. Daubeny hit always as hard as he knew how to hit, having premeditated each blow, and weighed its results beforehand, having calculated his power even to the effect of a blow repeated on a wound already given, Mr. Gresham struck right and left and straightforward with a readiness engendered by practice, and in his fury might have murdered his antagonist before he was aware that he had drawn blood. He began by refusing absolutely to discuss the merits of the bill. The right honourable gentleman had prided himself on his generosity as a Greek. He would remind the right honourable gentleman that presents from Greeks had ever been considered dangerous. "It is their gifts, and only their gifts, that we fear," he said. The political gifts of the right honourable gentleman, extracted by him from his unwilling colleagues and followers, had always been more bitter to the taste than Dead Sea apples. That such gifts should not be bestowed on the country by unwilling hands, that reform should not come from those who themselves felt the necessity of no reform, he believed to be the wish not only of that House, but of the country at large. Would any gentleman on that bench, excepting the right honourable gentleman himself,--and he pointed to the crowded phalanx of the Government,--get up and declare that this measure of Church Reform, this severance of Church and State, was brought forward in consonance with his own long-cherished political conviction? He accused that party of being so bound to the chariot wheels of the right honourable gentleman, as to be unable to abide by their own convictions. And as to the right honourable gentleman himself, he would appeal to his followers opposite to say whether the right honourable gentleman was possessed of any one strong political conviction. He had been accused of being unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. If the House would allow him he would very shortly explain his idea of constitutional government as carried on in this country. It was based and built on majorities in that House, and supported solely by that power. There could be no constitutional government in this country that was not so maintained. Any other government must be both revolutionary and tyrannical. Any other government was a usurpation; and he would make bold to tell the right honourable gentleman that a Minister in this country who should recommend Her Majesty to trust herself to advisers not supported by a majority of the House of Commons, would plainly be guilty of usurping the powers of the State. He threw from him with disdain the charge which had been brought against himself of hankering after the sweets of office. He indulged and gloried in indulging the highest ambition of an English subject. But he gloried much more in the privileges and power of that House, within the walls of which was centred all that was salutary, all that was efficacious, all that was stable in the political constitution of his country. It had been his pride to have acted during nearly all his political life with that party which had commanded a majority, but he would defy his most bitter adversary, he would defy the right honourable gentleman himself, to point to any period of his career in which he had been unwilling to succumb to a majority when he himself had belonged to the minority. He himself would regard the vote on this occasion as a vote of want of confidence. He took the line he was now taking because he desired to bring the House to a decision on that question. He himself had not that confidence in the right honourable gentleman which would justify him in accepting a measure on so important a subject as the union or severance of Church and State from his hands. Should the majority of the House differ from him and support the second reading of the Bill, he would at once so far succumb as to give his best attention to the clauses of the bill, and endeavour with the assistance of those gentlemen who acted with him to make it suitable to the wants of the country by omissions and additions as the clauses should pass through Committee. But before doing that he would ask the House to decide with all its solemnity and all its weight whether it was willing to accept from the hands of the right honourable gentleman any measure of reform on a matter so important as this now before them. It was nearly ten when he sat down; and then the stomach of the House could stand it no longer, and an adjournment at once took place. On the next morning it was generally considered that Mr. Daubeny had been too long and Mr. Gresham too passionate. There were some who declared that Mr. Gresham had never been finer than when he described the privileges of the House of Commons; and others who thought that Mr. Daubeny's lucidity had been marvellous; but in this case, as in most others, the speeches of the day were generally thought to have been very inferior to the great efforts of the past. CHAPTER XXXIV. THE UNIVERSE. Before the House met again the quidnuncs about the clubs, on both sides of the question, had determined that Mr. Gresham's speech, whether good or not as an effort of oratory, would serve its intended purpose. He would be backed by a majority of votes, and it might have been very doubtful whether such would have been the case had he attempted to throw out the Bill on its merits. Mr. Ratler, by the time that prayers had been read, had become almost certain of success. There were very few Liberals in the House who were not anxious to declare by their votes that they had no confidence in Mr. Daubeny. Mr. Turnbull, the great Radical, and, perhaps, some two dozen with him, would support the second reading, declaring that they could not reconcile it with their consciences to record a vote in favour of a union of Church and State. On all such occasions as the present Mr. Turnbull was sure to make himself disagreeable to those who sat near to him in the House. He was a man who thought that so much was demanded of him in order that his independence might

soul

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

you mean to say that the morals of your party will be offended?" said Madame Goesler, almost laughing. "Lord Fawn, you know, is very particular. In sober earnest one cannot tell how these things operate; but they do operate gradually. One's friends are sometimes very glad of an excuse for not befriending one." "Lady Laura is coming home?" "Yes." "That will put an end to it." "There is nothing to put an end to except the foul-mouthed malice of a lying newspaper. Nobody believes anything against Lady Laura." "I'm not so sure of that. I believe nothing against her." "I'm sure you do not, Madame Goesler. Nor do I think that anybody does. It is too absurd for belief from beginning to end. Good-bye. Perhaps I shall see you when the debate is over." "Of course you will. Good-bye, and success to your oratory." Then Madame Goesler resolved that she would say a few judicious words to her friend, the Duchess, respecting Phineas Finn. CHAPTER XXXIII. THE TWO GLADIATORS. The great debate was commenced with all the solemnities which are customary on such occasions, and which make men think for the day that no moment of greater excitement has ever blessed or cursed the country. Upon the present occasion London was full of clergymen. The specially clerical clubs,--the Oxford and Cambridge, the Old University, and the Athenaeum,--were black with them. The bishops and deans, as usual, were pleasant in their manner and happy-looking, in spite of adverse circumstances. When one sees a bishop in the hours of the distress of the Church, one always thinks of the just and firm man who will stand fearless while the ruins of the world are falling about his ears. But the parsons from the country were a sorry sight to see. They were in earnest with all their hearts, and did believe,--not that the crack of doom was coming, which they could have borne with equanimity if convinced that their influence would last to the end,--but that the Evil One was to be made welcome upon the earth by Act of Parliament. It is out of nature that any man should think it good that his own order should be repressed, curtailed, and deprived of its power. If we go among cab-drivers or letter-carriers, among butlers or gamekeepers, among tailors or butchers, among farmers or graziers, among doctors or attorneys, we shall find in each set of men a conviction that the welfare of the community depends upon the firmness with which they,--especially they,--hold their own. This is so manifestly true with the Bar that no barrister in practice scruples to avow that barristers in practice are the salt of the earth. The personal confidence of a judge in his own position is beautiful, being salutary to the country, though not unfrequently damaging to the character of the man. But if this be so with men who are conscious of no higher influence than that exercised over the bodies and minds of their fellow creatures, how much stronger must be the feeling when the influence affects the soul! To the outsider, or layman, who simply uses a cab, or receives a letter, or goes to law, or has to be tried, these pretensions are ridiculous or annoying, according to the ascendancy of the pretender at the moment. But as the clerical pretensions are more exacting than all others, being put forward with an assertion that no answer is possible without breach of duty and sin, so are they more galling. The fight has been going on since the idea of a mitre first entered the heart of a priest,--since dominion in this world has found itself capable of sustentation by the exercise of fear as to the world to come. We do believe,--the majority among us does so,--that if we live and die in sin we shall after some fashion come to great punishment, and we believe also that by having pastors among us who shall be men of God, we may best aid ourselves and our children in avoiding this bitter end. But then the pastors and men of God can only be human,--cannot be altogether men of God; and so they have oppressed us, and burned us, and tortured us, and hence come to love palaces, and fine linen, and purple, and, alas, sometimes, mere luxury and idleness. The torturing and the burning, as also to speak truth the luxury and the idleness, have, among us, been already conquered, but the idea of ascendancy remains. What is a thoughtful man to do who acknowledges the danger of his soul, but cannot swallow his parson whole simply because he has been sent to him from some source in which he has no special confidence, perhaps by some distant lord, perhaps by a Lord Chancellor whose political friend has had a son with a tutor? What is he to do when, in spite of some fine linen and purple left among us, the provision for the man of God in his parish or district is so poor that no man of God fitted to teach him will come and take it? In no spirit of animosity to religion he begins to tell himself that Church and State together was a monkish combination, fit perhaps for monkish days, but no longer having fitness, and not much longer capable of existence in this country. But to the parson himself,--to the honest, hardworking, conscientious priest who does in his heart of hearts believe that no diminution in the general influence of his order can be made without ruin to the souls of men,--this opinion, when it becomes dominant, is as though the world were in truth breaking to pieces over his head. The world has been broken to pieces in the same way often;--but extreme Chaos does not come. The cabman and the letter-carrier always expect that Chaos will very nearly come when they are disturbed. The barristers are sure of Chaos when the sanctity of Benchers is in question. What utter Chaos would be promised to us could any one with impunity contemn the majesty of the House of Commons! But of all these Chaoses there can be no Chaos equal to that which in the mind of a zealous Oxford-bred constitutional country parson must attend that annihilation of his special condition which will be produced by the disestablishment of the Church. Of all good fellows he is the best good fellow. He is genial, hospitable, well-educated, and always has either a pretty wife or pretty daughters. But he has so extreme a belief in himself that he cannot endure to be told that absolute Chaos will not come at once if he be disturbed. And now disturbances,--ay, and utter dislocation and ruin were to come from the hands of a friend! Was it wonderful that parsons should be seen about Westminster in flocks with _"Et tu, Brute"_ written on their faces as plainly as the law on the brows of a Pharisee? The Speaker had been harassed for orders. The powers and prowess of every individual member had been put to the test. The galleries were crowded. Ladies' places had been ballotted for with desperate enthusiasm, in spite of the sarcasm against the House which Madame Goesler had expressed. Two royal princes and a royal duke were accommodated within the House in an irregular manner. Peers swarmed in the passages, and were too happy to find standing room. Bishops jostled against lay barons with no other preference than that afforded to them by their broader shoulders. Men, and especially clergymen, came to the galleries loaded with sandwiches and flasks, prepared to hear all there was to be heard should the debate last from 4 P.M. to the same hour on the following morning. At two in the afternoon the entrances to the House were barred, and men of all ranks,--deans, prebends, peers' sons, and baronets,--stood there patiently waiting till some powerful nobleman should let them through. The very ventilating chambers under the House were filled with courteous listeners, who had all pledged themselves that under no possible provocation would they even cough during the debate. A few minutes after four, in a House from which hardly more than a dozen members were absent, Mr. Daubeny took his seat with that air of affected indifference to things around him which is peculiar to him. He entered slowly, amidst cheers from his side of the House, which no doubt were loud in proportion to the dismay of the cheerers as to the matter in hand. Gentlemen lacking substantial sympathy with their leader found it to be comfortable to deceive themselves, and raise their hearts at the same time by the easy enthusiasm of noise. Mr. Daubeny having sat down and covered his head just raised his hat from his brows, and then tried to look as though he were no more than any other gentleman present. But the peculiar consciousness of the man displayed itself even in his constrained absence of motion. You could see that he felt himself to be the beheld of all beholders, and that he enjoyed the position,--with some slight inward trepidation lest the effort to be made should not equal the greatness of the occasion. Immediately after him Mr. Gresham bustled up the centre of the House amidst a roar of good-humoured welcome. We have had many Ministers who have been personally dearer to their individual adherents in the House than the present leader of the Opposition and late Premier, but none, perhaps, who has been more generally respected by his party for earnestness and sincerity. On the present occasion there was a fierceness, almost a ferocity, in his very countenance, to the fire of which friends and enemies were equally anxious to add fuel,--the friends in order that so might these recreant Tories be more thoroughly annihilated, and the enemies, that their enemy's indiscretion might act back upon himself to his confusion. For, indeed, it never could be denied that as a Prime Minister Mr. Gresham could be very indiscreet. A certain small amount of ordinary business was done, to the disgust of expectant strangers, which was as trivial as possible in its nature,--so arranged, apparently, that the importance of what was to follow might be enhanced by the force of contrast. And, to make the dismay of the novice stranger more thorough, questions were asked and answers were given in so low a voice, and Mr. Speaker uttered a word or two in so quick and shambling a fashion, that he, the novice stranger, began to fear that no word of the debate would reach him up there in his crowded back seat. All this, however, occupied but a few minutes, and at twenty minutes past four Mr. Daubeny was on his legs. Then the novice stranger found that, though he could not see Mr. Daubeny without the aid of an opera glass, he could hear every word that fell from his lips. Mr. Daubeny began by regretting the hardness of his position, in that he must, with what thoroughness he might be able to achieve, apply himself to two great subjects, whereas the right honourable gentleman opposite had already declared, with all the formality which could be made to attach itself to a combined meeting of peers and commoners, that he would confine himself strictly to one. The subject selected by the right honourable gentleman opposite on the present occasion was not the question of Church Reform. The right honourable gentleman had pledged himself with an almost sacred enthusiasm to ignore that subject altogether. No doubt it was the question before the House, and he, himself,--the present speaker,--must unfortunately discuss it at some length. The right honourable gentleman opposite would not, on this great occasion, trouble himself with anything of so little moment. And it might be presumed that the political followers of the right honourable gentleman would be equally reticent, as they were understood to have accepted his tactics without a dissentient voice. He, Mr. Daubeny, was the last man in England to deny the importance of the question which the right honourable gentleman would select for discussions in preference to that of the condition of the Church. That question was a very simple one, and might be put to the House in a very few words. Coming from the mouth of the right honourable gentleman, the proposition would probably be made in this form:--"That this House does think that I ought to be Prime Minister now, and as long as I may possess a seat in this House." It was impossible to deny the importance of that question; but perhaps he, Mr. Daubeny, might be justified in demurring to the preference given to it over every other matter, let that matter be of what importance it might be to the material welfare of the country. He made his point well; but he made it too often. And an attack of that kind, personal and savage in its nature, loses its effect when it is evident that the words have been prepared. A good deal may be done in dispute by calling a man an ass or a knave,--but the resolve to use the words should have been made only at the moment, and they should come hot from the heart. There was much neatness and some acuteness in Mr. Daubeny's satire, but there was no heat, and it was prolix. It had, however, the effect of irritating Mr. Gresham,--as was evident from the manner in which he moved his hat and shuffled his feet. A man destined to sit conspicuously on our Treasury Bench, or on the seat opposite to it, should ask the gods for a thick skin as a first gift. The need of this in our national assembly is greater than elsewhere, because the differences between the men opposed to each other are smaller. When two foes meet together in the same Chamber, one of whom advocates the personal government of an individual ruler, and the other that form of State, which has come to be called a Red Republic, they deal, no doubt, weighty blows of oratory at each other, but blows which never hurt at the moment. They may cut each other's throats if they can find an opportunity; but they do not bite each other like dogs over a bone. But when opponents are almost in accord, as is always the case with our parliamentary gladiators, they are ever striving to give maddening little wounds through the joints of the harness. What is there with us to create the divergence necessary for debate but the pride of personal skill in the encounter? Who desires among us to put down the Queen, or to repudiate the National Debt, or to destroy religious worship, or even to disturb the ranks of society? When some small measure of reform has thoroughly recommended itself to the country,--so thoroughly that all men know that the country will have it,--then the question arises whether its details shall be arranged by the political party which calls itself Liberal,--or by that which is termed Conservative. The men are so near to each other in all their convictions and theories of life that nothing is left to them but personal competition for the doing of the thing that is to be done. It is the same in religion. The apostle of Christianity and the infidel can meet without a chance of a quarrel; but it is never safe to bring together two men who differ about a saint or a surplice. Mr. Daubeny, having thus attacked and wounded his enemy, rushed boldly into the question of Church Reform, taking no little pride to himself and to his party that so great a blessing should be bestowed upon the country from so unexpected a source. "See what we Conservatives can do. In fact we will conserve nothing when we find that you do not desire to have it conserved any longer. 'Quod minime reris Grai pandetur ab urbe.'" It was exactly the reverse of the complaint which Mr. Gresham was about to make. On the subject of the Church itself he was rather misty but very profound. He went into the question of very early Churches indeed, and spoke of the misappropriation of endowments in the time of Eli. The establishment of the Levites had been no doubt complete; but changes had been effected as circumstances required. He was presumed to have alluded to the order of Melchisedek, but he abstained from any mention of the name. He roamed very wide, and gave many of his hearers an idea that his erudition had carried him into regions in which it was impossible to follow him. The gist of his argument was to show that audacity in Reform was the very backbone of Conservatism. By a clearly pronounced disunion of Church and State the theocracy of Thomas Becket would be restored, and the people of England would soon again become the faithful flocks of faithful shepherds. By taking away the endowments from the parishes, and giving them back in some complicated way to the country, the parishes would be better able than ever to support their clergymen. Bishops would be bishops indeed, when they were no longer the creatures of a Minister's breath. As to the deans, not seeing a clear way to satisfy aspirants for future vacancies in the deaneries, he became more than usually vague, but seemed to imply that the Bill which was now with the leave of the House to be read a second time, contained no clause forbidding the appointment of deans, though the special stipend of the office must be matter of consideration with the new Church Synod. The details of this part of his speech were felt to be dull by the strangers. As long as he would abuse Mr. Gresham, men could listen with pleasure; and could keep their attention fixed while he referred to the general Conservatism of the party which he had the honour of leading. There was a raciness in the promise of so much Church destruction from the chosen leader of the Church party, which was assisted by a conviction in the minds of most men that it was impossible for unfortunate Conservatives to refuse to follow this leader, let him lead where he might. There was a gratification in feeling that the country party was bound to follow, even should he take them into the very bowels of a mountain, as the pied piper did the children of Hamelin;--and this made listening pleasant. But when Mr. Daubeny stated the effect of his different clauses, explaining what was to be taken and what left,--with a fervent assurance that what was to be left would, under the altered circumstances, go much further than the whole had gone before,--then the audience became weary, and began to think that it was time that some other gentleman should be upon his legs. But at the end of the Minister's speech there was another touch of invective which went far to redeem him. He returned to that personal question to which his adversary had undertaken to confine himself, and expressed a holy horror at the political doctrine which was implied. He, during a prolonged Parliamentary experience, had encountered much factious opposition. He would even acknowledge that he had seen it exercised on both sides of the House, though he had always striven to keep himself free from its baneful influence. But never till now had he known a statesman proclaim his intention of depending upon faction, and upon faction alone, for the result which he desired to achieve. Let the right honourable gentleman raise a contest on either the principles or the details of the measure, and he would be quite content to abide the decision of the House; but he should regard such a raid as that threatened against him and his friends by the right honourable gentleman as unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. He felt sure that an opposition so based, and so maintained, even if it be enabled by the heated feelings of the moment to obtain an unfortunate success in the House, would not be encouraged by the sympathy and support of the country at large. By these last words he was understood to signify that should he be beaten on the second reading, not in reference to the merits of the Bill, but simply on the issue as proposed by Mr. Gresham, he would again dissolve the House before he would resign. Now it was very well understood that there were Liberal members in the House who would prefer even the success of Mr. Daubeny to a speedy reappearance before their constituents. Mr. Daubeny spoke till nearly eight, and it was surmised at the time that he had craftily arranged his oratory so as to embarrass his opponent. The House had met at four, and was to sit continuously till it was adjourned for the night. When this is the case, gentlemen who speak about eight o'clock are too frequently obliged to address themselves to empty benches. On the present occasion it was Mr. Gresham's intention to follow his opponent at once, instead of waiting, as is usual with a leader of his party, to the close of the debate. It was understood that Mr. Gresham would follow Mr. Daubeny, with the object of making a distinct charge against Ministers, so that the vote on this second reading of the Church Bill might in truth be a vote of want of confidence. But to commence his speech at eight o'clock when the House was hungry and uneasy, would be a trial. Had Mr. Daubeny closed an hour sooner there would, with a little stretching of the favoured hours, have been time enough. Members would not have objected to postpone their dinner till half-past eight, or perhaps nine, when their favourite orator was on his legs. But with Mr. Gresham beginning a great speech at eight, dinner would altogether become doubtful, and the disaster might be serious. It was not probable that Mr. Daubeny had even among his friends proclaimed any such strategy; but it was thought by the political speculators of the day that such an idea had been present to his mind. But Mr. Gresham was not to be turned from his purpose. He waited for a few moments, and then rose and addressed the Speaker. A few members left the House;--gentlemen, doubtless, whose constitutions, weakened by previous service, could not endure prolonged fasting. Some who had nearly reached the door returned to their seats, mindful of Messrs. Roby and Ratler. But for the bulk of those assembled the interest of the moment was greater even than the love of dinner. Some of the peers departed, and it was observed that a bishop or two left the House; but among the strangers in the gallery, hardly a foot of space was gained. He who gave up his seat then, gave it up for the night. Mr. Gresham began with a calmness of tone which seemed almost to be affected, but which arose from a struggle on his own part to repress that superabundant energy of which he was only too conscious. But the calmness soon gave place to warmth, which heated itself into violence before he had been a quarter of an hour upon his legs. He soon became even ferocious in his invective, and said things so bitter that he had himself no conception of their bitterness. There was this difference between the two men,--that whereas Mr. Daubeny hit always as hard as he knew how to hit, having premeditated each blow, and weighed its results beforehand, having calculated his power even to the effect of a blow repeated on a wound already given, Mr. Gresham struck right and left and straightforward with a readiness engendered by practice, and in his fury might have murdered his antagonist before he was aware that he had drawn blood. He began by refusing absolutely to discuss the merits of the bill. The right honourable gentleman had prided himself on his generosity as a Greek. He would remind the right honourable gentleman that presents from Greeks had ever been considered dangerous. "It is their gifts, and only their gifts, that we fear," he said. The political gifts of the right honourable gentleman, extracted by him from his unwilling colleagues and followers, had always been more bitter to the taste than Dead Sea apples. That such gifts should not be bestowed on the country by unwilling hands, that reform should not come from those who themselves felt the necessity of no reform, he believed to be the wish not only of that House, but of the country at large. Would any gentleman on that bench, excepting the right honourable gentleman himself,--and he pointed to the crowded phalanx of the Government,--get up and declare that this measure of Church Reform, this severance of Church and State, was brought forward in consonance with his own long-cherished political conviction? He accused that party of being so bound to the chariot wheels of the right honourable gentleman, as to be unable to abide by their own convictions. And as to the right honourable gentleman himself, he would appeal to his followers opposite to say whether the right honourable gentleman was possessed of any one strong political conviction. He had been accused of being unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. If the House would allow him he would very shortly explain his idea of constitutional government as carried on in this country. It was based and built on majorities in that House, and supported solely by that power. There could be no constitutional government in this country that was not so maintained. Any other government must be both revolutionary and tyrannical. Any other government was a usurpation; and he would make bold to tell the right honourable gentleman that a Minister in this country who should recommend Her Majesty to trust herself to advisers not supported by a majority of the House of Commons, would plainly be guilty of usurping the powers of the State. He threw from him with disdain the charge which had been brought against himself of hankering after the sweets of office. He indulged and gloried in indulging the highest ambition of an English subject. But he gloried much more in the privileges and power of that House, within the walls of which was centred all that was salutary, all that was efficacious, all that was stable in the political constitution of his country. It had been his pride to have acted during nearly all his political life with that party which had commanded a majority, but he would defy his most bitter adversary, he would defy the right honourable gentleman himself, to point to any period of his career in which he had been unwilling to succumb to a majority when he himself had belonged to the minority. He himself would regard the vote on this occasion as a vote of want of confidence. He took the line he was now taking because he desired to bring the House to a decision on that question. He himself had not that confidence in the right honourable gentleman which would justify him in accepting a measure on so important a subject as the union or severance of Church and State from his hands. Should the majority of the House differ from him and support the second reading of the Bill, he would at once so far succumb as to give his best attention to the clauses of the bill, and endeavour with the assistance of those gentlemen who acted with him to make it suitable to the wants of the country by omissions and additions as the clauses should pass through Committee. But before doing that he would ask the House to decide with all its solemnity and all its weight whether it was willing to accept from the hands of the right honourable gentleman any measure of reform on a matter so important as this now before them. It was nearly ten when he sat down; and then the stomach of the House could stand it no longer, and an adjournment at once took place. On the next morning it was generally considered that Mr. Daubeny had been too long and Mr. Gresham too passionate. There were some who declared that Mr. Gresham had never been finer than when he described the privileges of the House of Commons; and others who thought that Mr. Daubeny's lucidity had been marvellous; but in this case, as in most others, the speeches of the day were generally thought to have been very inferior to the great efforts of the past. CHAPTER XXXIV. THE UNIVERSE. Before the House met again the quidnuncs about the clubs, on both sides of the question, had determined that Mr. Gresham's speech, whether good or not as an effort of oratory, would serve its intended purpose. He would be backed by a majority of votes, and it might have been very doubtful whether such would have been the case had he attempted to throw out the Bill on its merits. Mr. Ratler, by the time that prayers had been read, had become almost certain of success. There were very few Liberals in the House who were not anxious to declare by their votes that they had no confidence in Mr. Daubeny. Mr. Turnbull, the great Radical, and, perhaps, some two dozen with him, would support the second reading, declaring that they could not reconcile it with their consciences to record a vote in favour of a union of Church and State. On all such occasions as the present Mr. Turnbull was sure to make himself disagreeable to those who sat near to him in the House. He was a man who thought that so much was demanded of him in order that his independence might

faction

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

you mean to say that the morals of your party will be offended?" said Madame Goesler, almost laughing. "Lord Fawn, you know, is very particular. In sober earnest one cannot tell how these things operate; but they do operate gradually. One's friends are sometimes very glad of an excuse for not befriending one." "Lady Laura is coming home?" "Yes." "That will put an end to it." "There is nothing to put an end to except the foul-mouthed malice of a lying newspaper. Nobody believes anything against Lady Laura." "I'm not so sure of that. I believe nothing against her." "I'm sure you do not, Madame Goesler. Nor do I think that anybody does. It is too absurd for belief from beginning to end. Good-bye. Perhaps I shall see you when the debate is over." "Of course you will. Good-bye, and success to your oratory." Then Madame Goesler resolved that she would say a few judicious words to her friend, the Duchess, respecting Phineas Finn. CHAPTER XXXIII. THE TWO GLADIATORS. The great debate was commenced with all the solemnities which are customary on such occasions, and which make men think for the day that no moment of greater excitement has ever blessed or cursed the country. Upon the present occasion London was full of clergymen. The specially clerical clubs,--the Oxford and Cambridge, the Old University, and the Athenaeum,--were black with them. The bishops and deans, as usual, were pleasant in their manner and happy-looking, in spite of adverse circumstances. When one sees a bishop in the hours of the distress of the Church, one always thinks of the just and firm man who will stand fearless while the ruins of the world are falling about his ears. But the parsons from the country were a sorry sight to see. They were in earnest with all their hearts, and did believe,--not that the crack of doom was coming, which they could have borne with equanimity if convinced that their influence would last to the end,--but that the Evil One was to be made welcome upon the earth by Act of Parliament. It is out of nature that any man should think it good that his own order should be repressed, curtailed, and deprived of its power. If we go among cab-drivers or letter-carriers, among butlers or gamekeepers, among tailors or butchers, among farmers or graziers, among doctors or attorneys, we shall find in each set of men a conviction that the welfare of the community depends upon the firmness with which they,--especially they,--hold their own. This is so manifestly true with the Bar that no barrister in practice scruples to avow that barristers in practice are the salt of the earth. The personal confidence of a judge in his own position is beautiful, being salutary to the country, though not unfrequently damaging to the character of the man. But if this be so with men who are conscious of no higher influence than that exercised over the bodies and minds of their fellow creatures, how much stronger must be the feeling when the influence affects the soul! To the outsider, or layman, who simply uses a cab, or receives a letter, or goes to law, or has to be tried, these pretensions are ridiculous or annoying, according to the ascendancy of the pretender at the moment. But as the clerical pretensions are more exacting than all others, being put forward with an assertion that no answer is possible without breach of duty and sin, so are they more galling. The fight has been going on since the idea of a mitre first entered the heart of a priest,--since dominion in this world has found itself capable of sustentation by the exercise of fear as to the world to come. We do believe,--the majority among us does so,--that if we live and die in sin we shall after some fashion come to great punishment, and we believe also that by having pastors among us who shall be men of God, we may best aid ourselves and our children in avoiding this bitter end. But then the pastors and men of God can only be human,--cannot be altogether men of God; and so they have oppressed us, and burned us, and tortured us, and hence come to love palaces, and fine linen, and purple, and, alas, sometimes, mere luxury and idleness. The torturing and the burning, as also to speak truth the luxury and the idleness, have, among us, been already conquered, but the idea of ascendancy remains. What is a thoughtful man to do who acknowledges the danger of his soul, but cannot swallow his parson whole simply because he has been sent to him from some source in which he has no special confidence, perhaps by some distant lord, perhaps by a Lord Chancellor whose political friend has had a son with a tutor? What is he to do when, in spite of some fine linen and purple left among us, the provision for the man of God in his parish or district is so poor that no man of God fitted to teach him will come and take it? In no spirit of animosity to religion he begins to tell himself that Church and State together was a monkish combination, fit perhaps for monkish days, but no longer having fitness, and not much longer capable of existence in this country. But to the parson himself,--to the honest, hardworking, conscientious priest who does in his heart of hearts believe that no diminution in the general influence of his order can be made without ruin to the souls of men,--this opinion, when it becomes dominant, is as though the world were in truth breaking to pieces over his head. The world has been broken to pieces in the same way often;--but extreme Chaos does not come. The cabman and the letter-carrier always expect that Chaos will very nearly come when they are disturbed. The barristers are sure of Chaos when the sanctity of Benchers is in question. What utter Chaos would be promised to us could any one with impunity contemn the majesty of the House of Commons! But of all these Chaoses there can be no Chaos equal to that which in the mind of a zealous Oxford-bred constitutional country parson must attend that annihilation of his special condition which will be produced by the disestablishment of the Church. Of all good fellows he is the best good fellow. He is genial, hospitable, well-educated, and always has either a pretty wife or pretty daughters. But he has so extreme a belief in himself that he cannot endure to be told that absolute Chaos will not come at once if he be disturbed. And now disturbances,--ay, and utter dislocation and ruin were to come from the hands of a friend! Was it wonderful that parsons should be seen about Westminster in flocks with _"Et tu, Brute"_ written on their faces as plainly as the law on the brows of a Pharisee? The Speaker had been harassed for orders. The powers and prowess of every individual member had been put to the test. The galleries were crowded. Ladies' places had been ballotted for with desperate enthusiasm, in spite of the sarcasm against the House which Madame Goesler had expressed. Two royal princes and a royal duke were accommodated within the House in an irregular manner. Peers swarmed in the passages, and were too happy to find standing room. Bishops jostled against lay barons with no other preference than that afforded to them by their broader shoulders. Men, and especially clergymen, came to the galleries loaded with sandwiches and flasks, prepared to hear all there was to be heard should the debate last from 4 P.M. to the same hour on the following morning. At two in the afternoon the entrances to the House were barred, and men of all ranks,--deans, prebends, peers' sons, and baronets,--stood there patiently waiting till some powerful nobleman should let them through. The very ventilating chambers under the House were filled with courteous listeners, who had all pledged themselves that under no possible provocation would they even cough during the debate. A few minutes after four, in a House from which hardly more than a dozen members were absent, Mr. Daubeny took his seat with that air of affected indifference to things around him which is peculiar to him. He entered slowly, amidst cheers from his side of the House, which no doubt were loud in proportion to the dismay of the cheerers as to the matter in hand. Gentlemen lacking substantial sympathy with their leader found it to be comfortable to deceive themselves, and raise their hearts at the same time by the easy enthusiasm of noise. Mr. Daubeny having sat down and covered his head just raised his hat from his brows, and then tried to look as though he were no more than any other gentleman present. But the peculiar consciousness of the man displayed itself even in his constrained absence of motion. You could see that he felt himself to be the beheld of all beholders, and that he enjoyed the position,--with some slight inward trepidation lest the effort to be made should not equal the greatness of the occasion. Immediately after him Mr. Gresham bustled up the centre of the House amidst a roar of good-humoured welcome. We have had many Ministers who have been personally dearer to their individual adherents in the House than the present leader of the Opposition and late Premier, but none, perhaps, who has been more generally respected by his party for earnestness and sincerity. On the present occasion there was a fierceness, almost a ferocity, in his very countenance, to the fire of which friends and enemies were equally anxious to add fuel,--the friends in order that so might these recreant Tories be more thoroughly annihilated, and the enemies, that their enemy's indiscretion might act back upon himself to his confusion. For, indeed, it never could be denied that as a Prime Minister Mr. Gresham could be very indiscreet. A certain small amount of ordinary business was done, to the disgust of expectant strangers, which was as trivial as possible in its nature,--so arranged, apparently, that the importance of what was to follow might be enhanced by the force of contrast. And, to make the dismay of the novice stranger more thorough, questions were asked and answers were given in so low a voice, and Mr. Speaker uttered a word or two in so quick and shambling a fashion, that he, the novice stranger, began to fear that no word of the debate would reach him up there in his crowded back seat. All this, however, occupied but a few minutes, and at twenty minutes past four Mr. Daubeny was on his legs. Then the novice stranger found that, though he could not see Mr. Daubeny without the aid of an opera glass, he could hear every word that fell from his lips. Mr. Daubeny began by regretting the hardness of his position, in that he must, with what thoroughness he might be able to achieve, apply himself to two great subjects, whereas the right honourable gentleman opposite had already declared, with all the formality which could be made to attach itself to a combined meeting of peers and commoners, that he would confine himself strictly to one. The subject selected by the right honourable gentleman opposite on the present occasion was not the question of Church Reform. The right honourable gentleman had pledged himself with an almost sacred enthusiasm to ignore that subject altogether. No doubt it was the question before the House, and he, himself,--the present speaker,--must unfortunately discuss it at some length. The right honourable gentleman opposite would not, on this great occasion, trouble himself with anything of so little moment. And it might be presumed that the political followers of the right honourable gentleman would be equally reticent, as they were understood to have accepted his tactics without a dissentient voice. He, Mr. Daubeny, was the last man in England to deny the importance of the question which the right honourable gentleman would select for discussions in preference to that of the condition of the Church. That question was a very simple one, and might be put to the House in a very few words. Coming from the mouth of the right honourable gentleman, the proposition would probably be made in this form:--"That this House does think that I ought to be Prime Minister now, and as long as I may possess a seat in this House." It was impossible to deny the importance of that question; but perhaps he, Mr. Daubeny, might be justified in demurring to the preference given to it over every other matter, let that matter be of what importance it might be to the material welfare of the country. He made his point well; but he made it too often. And an attack of that kind, personal and savage in its nature, loses its effect when it is evident that the words have been prepared. A good deal may be done in dispute by calling a man an ass or a knave,--but the resolve to use the words should have been made only at the moment, and they should come hot from the heart. There was much neatness and some acuteness in Mr. Daubeny's satire, but there was no heat, and it was prolix. It had, however, the effect of irritating Mr. Gresham,--as was evident from the manner in which he moved his hat and shuffled his feet. A man destined to sit conspicuously on our Treasury Bench, or on the seat opposite to it, should ask the gods for a thick skin as a first gift. The need of this in our national assembly is greater than elsewhere, because the differences between the men opposed to each other are smaller. When two foes meet together in the same Chamber, one of whom advocates the personal government of an individual ruler, and the other that form of State, which has come to be called a Red Republic, they deal, no doubt, weighty blows of oratory at each other, but blows which never hurt at the moment. They may cut each other's throats if they can find an opportunity; but they do not bite each other like dogs over a bone. But when opponents are almost in accord, as is always the case with our parliamentary gladiators, they are ever striving to give maddening little wounds through the joints of the harness. What is there with us to create the divergence necessary for debate but the pride of personal skill in the encounter? Who desires among us to put down the Queen, or to repudiate the National Debt, or to destroy religious worship, or even to disturb the ranks of society? When some small measure of reform has thoroughly recommended itself to the country,--so thoroughly that all men know that the country will have it,--then the question arises whether its details shall be arranged by the political party which calls itself Liberal,--or by that which is termed Conservative. The men are so near to each other in all their convictions and theories of life that nothing is left to them but personal competition for the doing of the thing that is to be done. It is the same in religion. The apostle of Christianity and the infidel can meet without a chance of a quarrel; but it is never safe to bring together two men who differ about a saint or a surplice. Mr. Daubeny, having thus attacked and wounded his enemy, rushed boldly into the question of Church Reform, taking no little pride to himself and to his party that so great a blessing should be bestowed upon the country from so unexpected a source. "See what we Conservatives can do. In fact we will conserve nothing when we find that you do not desire to have it conserved any longer. 'Quod minime reris Grai pandetur ab urbe.'" It was exactly the reverse of the complaint which Mr. Gresham was about to make. On the subject of the Church itself he was rather misty but very profound. He went into the question of very early Churches indeed, and spoke of the misappropriation of endowments in the time of Eli. The establishment of the Levites had been no doubt complete; but changes had been effected as circumstances required. He was presumed to have alluded to the order of Melchisedek, but he abstained from any mention of the name. He roamed very wide, and gave many of his hearers an idea that his erudition had carried him into regions in which it was impossible to follow him. The gist of his argument was to show that audacity in Reform was the very backbone of Conservatism. By a clearly pronounced disunion of Church and State the theocracy of Thomas Becket would be restored, and the people of England would soon again become the faithful flocks of faithful shepherds. By taking away the endowments from the parishes, and giving them back in some complicated way to the country, the parishes would be better able than ever to support their clergymen. Bishops would be bishops indeed, when they were no longer the creatures of a Minister's breath. As to the deans, not seeing a clear way to satisfy aspirants for future vacancies in the deaneries, he became more than usually vague, but seemed to imply that the Bill which was now with the leave of the House to be read a second time, contained no clause forbidding the appointment of deans, though the special stipend of the office must be matter of consideration with the new Church Synod. The details of this part of his speech were felt to be dull by the strangers. As long as he would abuse Mr. Gresham, men could listen with pleasure; and could keep their attention fixed while he referred to the general Conservatism of the party which he had the honour of leading. There was a raciness in the promise of so much Church destruction from the chosen leader of the Church party, which was assisted by a conviction in the minds of most men that it was impossible for unfortunate Conservatives to refuse to follow this leader, let him lead where he might. There was a gratification in feeling that the country party was bound to follow, even should he take them into the very bowels of a mountain, as the pied piper did the children of Hamelin;--and this made listening pleasant. But when Mr. Daubeny stated the effect of his different clauses, explaining what was to be taken and what left,--with a fervent assurance that what was to be left would, under the altered circumstances, go much further than the whole had gone before,--then the audience became weary, and began to think that it was time that some other gentleman should be upon his legs. But at the end of the Minister's speech there was another touch of invective which went far to redeem him. He returned to that personal question to which his adversary had undertaken to confine himself, and expressed a holy horror at the political doctrine which was implied. He, during a prolonged Parliamentary experience, had encountered much factious opposition. He would even acknowledge that he had seen it exercised on both sides of the House, though he had always striven to keep himself free from its baneful influence. But never till now had he known a statesman proclaim his intention of depending upon faction, and upon faction alone, for the result which he desired to achieve. Let the right honourable gentleman raise a contest on either the principles or the details of the measure, and he would be quite content to abide the decision of the House; but he should regard such a raid as that threatened against him and his friends by the right honourable gentleman as unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. He felt sure that an opposition so based, and so maintained, even if it be enabled by the heated feelings of the moment to obtain an unfortunate success in the House, would not be encouraged by the sympathy and support of the country at large. By these last words he was understood to signify that should he be beaten on the second reading, not in reference to the merits of the Bill, but simply on the issue as proposed by Mr. Gresham, he would again dissolve the House before he would resign. Now it was very well understood that there were Liberal members in the House who would prefer even the success of Mr. Daubeny to a speedy reappearance before their constituents. Mr. Daubeny spoke till nearly eight, and it was surmised at the time that he had craftily arranged his oratory so as to embarrass his opponent. The House had met at four, and was to sit continuously till it was adjourned for the night. When this is the case, gentlemen who speak about eight o'clock are too frequently obliged to address themselves to empty benches. On the present occasion it was Mr. Gresham's intention to follow his opponent at once, instead of waiting, as is usual with a leader of his party, to the close of the debate. It was understood that Mr. Gresham would follow Mr. Daubeny, with the object of making a distinct charge against Ministers, so that the vote on this second reading of the Church Bill might in truth be a vote of want of confidence. But to commence his speech at eight o'clock when the House was hungry and uneasy, would be a trial. Had Mr. Daubeny closed an hour sooner there would, with a little stretching of the favoured hours, have been time enough. Members would not have objected to postpone their dinner till half-past eight, or perhaps nine, when their favourite orator was on his legs. But with Mr. Gresham beginning a great speech at eight, dinner would altogether become doubtful, and the disaster might be serious. It was not probable that Mr. Daubeny had even among his friends proclaimed any such strategy; but it was thought by the political speculators of the day that such an idea had been present to his mind. But Mr. Gresham was not to be turned from his purpose. He waited for a few moments, and then rose and addressed the Speaker. A few members left the House;--gentlemen, doubtless, whose constitutions, weakened by previous service, could not endure prolonged fasting. Some who had nearly reached the door returned to their seats, mindful of Messrs. Roby and Ratler. But for the bulk of those assembled the interest of the moment was greater even than the love of dinner. Some of the peers departed, and it was observed that a bishop or two left the House; but among the strangers in the gallery, hardly a foot of space was gained. He who gave up his seat then, gave it up for the night. Mr. Gresham began with a calmness of tone which seemed almost to be affected, but which arose from a struggle on his own part to repress that superabundant energy of which he was only too conscious. But the calmness soon gave place to warmth, which heated itself into violence before he had been a quarter of an hour upon his legs. He soon became even ferocious in his invective, and said things so bitter that he had himself no conception of their bitterness. There was this difference between the two men,--that whereas Mr. Daubeny hit always as hard as he knew how to hit, having premeditated each blow, and weighed its results beforehand, having calculated his power even to the effect of a blow repeated on a wound already given, Mr. Gresham struck right and left and straightforward with a readiness engendered by practice, and in his fury might have murdered his antagonist before he was aware that he had drawn blood. He began by refusing absolutely to discuss the merits of the bill. The right honourable gentleman had prided himself on his generosity as a Greek. He would remind the right honourable gentleman that presents from Greeks had ever been considered dangerous. "It is their gifts, and only their gifts, that we fear," he said. The political gifts of the right honourable gentleman, extracted by him from his unwilling colleagues and followers, had always been more bitter to the taste than Dead Sea apples. That such gifts should not be bestowed on the country by unwilling hands, that reform should not come from those who themselves felt the necessity of no reform, he believed to be the wish not only of that House, but of the country at large. Would any gentleman on that bench, excepting the right honourable gentleman himself,--and he pointed to the crowded phalanx of the Government,--get up and declare that this measure of Church Reform, this severance of Church and State, was brought forward in consonance with his own long-cherished political conviction? He accused that party of being so bound to the chariot wheels of the right honourable gentleman, as to be unable to abide by their own convictions. And as to the right honourable gentleman himself, he would appeal to his followers opposite to say whether the right honourable gentleman was possessed of any one strong political conviction. He had been accused of being unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. If the House would allow him he would very shortly explain his idea of constitutional government as carried on in this country. It was based and built on majorities in that House, and supported solely by that power. There could be no constitutional government in this country that was not so maintained. Any other government must be both revolutionary and tyrannical. Any other government was a usurpation; and he would make bold to tell the right honourable gentleman that a Minister in this country who should recommend Her Majesty to trust herself to advisers not supported by a majority of the House of Commons, would plainly be guilty of usurping the powers of the State. He threw from him with disdain the charge which had been brought against himself of hankering after the sweets of office. He indulged and gloried in indulging the highest ambition of an English subject. But he gloried much more in the privileges and power of that House, within the walls of which was centred all that was salutary, all that was efficacious, all that was stable in the political constitution of his country. It had been his pride to have acted during nearly all his political life with that party which had commanded a majority, but he would defy his most bitter adversary, he would defy the right honourable gentleman himself, to point to any period of his career in which he had been unwilling to succumb to a majority when he himself had belonged to the minority. He himself would regard the vote on this occasion as a vote of want of confidence. He took the line he was now taking because he desired to bring the House to a decision on that question. He himself had not that confidence in the right honourable gentleman which would justify him in accepting a measure on so important a subject as the union or severance of Church and State from his hands. Should the majority of the House differ from him and support the second reading of the Bill, he would at once so far succumb as to give his best attention to the clauses of the bill, and endeavour with the assistance of those gentlemen who acted with him to make it suitable to the wants of the country by omissions and additions as the clauses should pass through Committee. But before doing that he would ask the House to decide with all its solemnity and all its weight whether it was willing to accept from the hands of the right honourable gentleman any measure of reform on a matter so important as this now before them. It was nearly ten when he sat down; and then the stomach of the House could stand it no longer, and an adjournment at once took place. On the next morning it was generally considered that Mr. Daubeny had been too long and Mr. Gresham too passionate. There were some who declared that Mr. Gresham had never been finer than when he described the privileges of the House of Commons; and others who thought that Mr. Daubeny's lucidity had been marvellous; but in this case, as in most others, the speeches of the day were generally thought to have been very inferior to the great efforts of the past. CHAPTER XXXIV. THE UNIVERSE. Before the House met again the quidnuncs about the clubs, on both sides of the question, had determined that Mr. Gresham's speech, whether good or not as an effort of oratory, would serve its intended purpose. He would be backed by a majority of votes, and it might have been very doubtful whether such would have been the case had he attempted to throw out the Bill on its merits. Mr. Ratler, by the time that prayers had been read, had become almost certain of success. There were very few Liberals in the House who were not anxious to declare by their votes that they had no confidence in Mr. Daubeny. Mr. Turnbull, the great Radical, and, perhaps, some two dozen with him, would support the second reading, declaring that they could not reconcile it with their consciences to record a vote in favour of a union of Church and State. On all such occasions as the present Mr. Turnbull was sure to make himself disagreeable to those who sat near to him in the House. He was a man who thought that so much was demanded of him in order that his independence might

disturb

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

you mean to say that the morals of your party will be offended?" said Madame Goesler, almost laughing. "Lord Fawn, you know, is very particular. In sober earnest one cannot tell how these things operate; but they do operate gradually. One's friends are sometimes very glad of an excuse for not befriending one." "Lady Laura is coming home?" "Yes." "That will put an end to it." "There is nothing to put an end to except the foul-mouthed malice of a lying newspaper. Nobody believes anything against Lady Laura." "I'm not so sure of that. I believe nothing against her." "I'm sure you do not, Madame Goesler. Nor do I think that anybody does. It is too absurd for belief from beginning to end. Good-bye. Perhaps I shall see you when the debate is over." "Of course you will. Good-bye, and success to your oratory." Then Madame Goesler resolved that she would say a few judicious words to her friend, the Duchess, respecting Phineas Finn. CHAPTER XXXIII. THE TWO GLADIATORS. The great debate was commenced with all the solemnities which are customary on such occasions, and which make men think for the day that no moment of greater excitement has ever blessed or cursed the country. Upon the present occasion London was full of clergymen. The specially clerical clubs,--the Oxford and Cambridge, the Old University, and the Athenaeum,--were black with them. The bishops and deans, as usual, were pleasant in their manner and happy-looking, in spite of adverse circumstances. When one sees a bishop in the hours of the distress of the Church, one always thinks of the just and firm man who will stand fearless while the ruins of the world are falling about his ears. But the parsons from the country were a sorry sight to see. They were in earnest with all their hearts, and did believe,--not that the crack of doom was coming, which they could have borne with equanimity if convinced that their influence would last to the end,--but that the Evil One was to be made welcome upon the earth by Act of Parliament. It is out of nature that any man should think it good that his own order should be repressed, curtailed, and deprived of its power. If we go among cab-drivers or letter-carriers, among butlers or gamekeepers, among tailors or butchers, among farmers or graziers, among doctors or attorneys, we shall find in each set of men a conviction that the welfare of the community depends upon the firmness with which they,--especially they,--hold their own. This is so manifestly true with the Bar that no barrister in practice scruples to avow that barristers in practice are the salt of the earth. The personal confidence of a judge in his own position is beautiful, being salutary to the country, though not unfrequently damaging to the character of the man. But if this be so with men who are conscious of no higher influence than that exercised over the bodies and minds of their fellow creatures, how much stronger must be the feeling when the influence affects the soul! To the outsider, or layman, who simply uses a cab, or receives a letter, or goes to law, or has to be tried, these pretensions are ridiculous or annoying, according to the ascendancy of the pretender at the moment. But as the clerical pretensions are more exacting than all others, being put forward with an assertion that no answer is possible without breach of duty and sin, so are they more galling. The fight has been going on since the idea of a mitre first entered the heart of a priest,--since dominion in this world has found itself capable of sustentation by the exercise of fear as to the world to come. We do believe,--the majority among us does so,--that if we live and die in sin we shall after some fashion come to great punishment, and we believe also that by having pastors among us who shall be men of God, we may best aid ourselves and our children in avoiding this bitter end. But then the pastors and men of God can only be human,--cannot be altogether men of God; and so they have oppressed us, and burned us, and tortured us, and hence come to love palaces, and fine linen, and purple, and, alas, sometimes, mere luxury and idleness. The torturing and the burning, as also to speak truth the luxury and the idleness, have, among us, been already conquered, but the idea of ascendancy remains. What is a thoughtful man to do who acknowledges the danger of his soul, but cannot swallow his parson whole simply because he has been sent to him from some source in which he has no special confidence, perhaps by some distant lord, perhaps by a Lord Chancellor whose political friend has had a son with a tutor? What is he to do when, in spite of some fine linen and purple left among us, the provision for the man of God in his parish or district is so poor that no man of God fitted to teach him will come and take it? In no spirit of animosity to religion he begins to tell himself that Church and State together was a monkish combination, fit perhaps for monkish days, but no longer having fitness, and not much longer capable of existence in this country. But to the parson himself,--to the honest, hardworking, conscientious priest who does in his heart of hearts believe that no diminution in the general influence of his order can be made without ruin to the souls of men,--this opinion, when it becomes dominant, is as though the world were in truth breaking to pieces over his head. The world has been broken to pieces in the same way often;--but extreme Chaos does not come. The cabman and the letter-carrier always expect that Chaos will very nearly come when they are disturbed. The barristers are sure of Chaos when the sanctity of Benchers is in question. What utter Chaos would be promised to us could any one with impunity contemn the majesty of the House of Commons! But of all these Chaoses there can be no Chaos equal to that which in the mind of a zealous Oxford-bred constitutional country parson must attend that annihilation of his special condition which will be produced by the disestablishment of the Church. Of all good fellows he is the best good fellow. He is genial, hospitable, well-educated, and always has either a pretty wife or pretty daughters. But he has so extreme a belief in himself that he cannot endure to be told that absolute Chaos will not come at once if he be disturbed. And now disturbances,--ay, and utter dislocation and ruin were to come from the hands of a friend! Was it wonderful that parsons should be seen about Westminster in flocks with _"Et tu, Brute"_ written on their faces as plainly as the law on the brows of a Pharisee? The Speaker had been harassed for orders. The powers and prowess of every individual member had been put to the test. The galleries were crowded. Ladies' places had been ballotted for with desperate enthusiasm, in spite of the sarcasm against the House which Madame Goesler had expressed. Two royal princes and a royal duke were accommodated within the House in an irregular manner. Peers swarmed in the passages, and were too happy to find standing room. Bishops jostled against lay barons with no other preference than that afforded to them by their broader shoulders. Men, and especially clergymen, came to the galleries loaded with sandwiches and flasks, prepared to hear all there was to be heard should the debate last from 4 P.M. to the same hour on the following morning. At two in the afternoon the entrances to the House were barred, and men of all ranks,--deans, prebends, peers' sons, and baronets,--stood there patiently waiting till some powerful nobleman should let them through. The very ventilating chambers under the House were filled with courteous listeners, who had all pledged themselves that under no possible provocation would they even cough during the debate. A few minutes after four, in a House from which hardly more than a dozen members were absent, Mr. Daubeny took his seat with that air of affected indifference to things around him which is peculiar to him. He entered slowly, amidst cheers from his side of the House, which no doubt were loud in proportion to the dismay of the cheerers as to the matter in hand. Gentlemen lacking substantial sympathy with their leader found it to be comfortable to deceive themselves, and raise their hearts at the same time by the easy enthusiasm of noise. Mr. Daubeny having sat down and covered his head just raised his hat from his brows, and then tried to look as though he were no more than any other gentleman present. But the peculiar consciousness of the man displayed itself even in his constrained absence of motion. You could see that he felt himself to be the beheld of all beholders, and that he enjoyed the position,--with some slight inward trepidation lest the effort to be made should not equal the greatness of the occasion. Immediately after him Mr. Gresham bustled up the centre of the House amidst a roar of good-humoured welcome. We have had many Ministers who have been personally dearer to their individual adherents in the House than the present leader of the Opposition and late Premier, but none, perhaps, who has been more generally respected by his party for earnestness and sincerity. On the present occasion there was a fierceness, almost a ferocity, in his very countenance, to the fire of which friends and enemies were equally anxious to add fuel,--the friends in order that so might these recreant Tories be more thoroughly annihilated, and the enemies, that their enemy's indiscretion might act back upon himself to his confusion. For, indeed, it never could be denied that as a Prime Minister Mr. Gresham could be very indiscreet. A certain small amount of ordinary business was done, to the disgust of expectant strangers, which was as trivial as possible in its nature,--so arranged, apparently, that the importance of what was to follow might be enhanced by the force of contrast. And, to make the dismay of the novice stranger more thorough, questions were asked and answers were given in so low a voice, and Mr. Speaker uttered a word or two in so quick and shambling a fashion, that he, the novice stranger, began to fear that no word of the debate would reach him up there in his crowded back seat. All this, however, occupied but a few minutes, and at twenty minutes past four Mr. Daubeny was on his legs. Then the novice stranger found that, though he could not see Mr. Daubeny without the aid of an opera glass, he could hear every word that fell from his lips. Mr. Daubeny began by regretting the hardness of his position, in that he must, with what thoroughness he might be able to achieve, apply himself to two great subjects, whereas the right honourable gentleman opposite had already declared, with all the formality which could be made to attach itself to a combined meeting of peers and commoners, that he would confine himself strictly to one. The subject selected by the right honourable gentleman opposite on the present occasion was not the question of Church Reform. The right honourable gentleman had pledged himself with an almost sacred enthusiasm to ignore that subject altogether. No doubt it was the question before the House, and he, himself,--the present speaker,--must unfortunately discuss it at some length. The right honourable gentleman opposite would not, on this great occasion, trouble himself with anything of so little moment. And it might be presumed that the political followers of the right honourable gentleman would be equally reticent, as they were understood to have accepted his tactics without a dissentient voice. He, Mr. Daubeny, was the last man in England to deny the importance of the question which the right honourable gentleman would select for discussions in preference to that of the condition of the Church. That question was a very simple one, and might be put to the House in a very few words. Coming from the mouth of the right honourable gentleman, the proposition would probably be made in this form:--"That this House does think that I ought to be Prime Minister now, and as long as I may possess a seat in this House." It was impossible to deny the importance of that question; but perhaps he, Mr. Daubeny, might be justified in demurring to the preference given to it over every other matter, let that matter be of what importance it might be to the material welfare of the country. He made his point well; but he made it too often. And an attack of that kind, personal and savage in its nature, loses its effect when it is evident that the words have been prepared. A good deal may be done in dispute by calling a man an ass or a knave,--but the resolve to use the words should have been made only at the moment, and they should come hot from the heart. There was much neatness and some acuteness in Mr. Daubeny's satire, but there was no heat, and it was prolix. It had, however, the effect of irritating Mr. Gresham,--as was evident from the manner in which he moved his hat and shuffled his feet. A man destined to sit conspicuously on our Treasury Bench, or on the seat opposite to it, should ask the gods for a thick skin as a first gift. The need of this in our national assembly is greater than elsewhere, because the differences between the men opposed to each other are smaller. When two foes meet together in the same Chamber, one of whom advocates the personal government of an individual ruler, and the other that form of State, which has come to be called a Red Republic, they deal, no doubt, weighty blows of oratory at each other, but blows which never hurt at the moment. They may cut each other's throats if they can find an opportunity; but they do not bite each other like dogs over a bone. But when opponents are almost in accord, as is always the case with our parliamentary gladiators, they are ever striving to give maddening little wounds through the joints of the harness. What is there with us to create the divergence necessary for debate but the pride of personal skill in the encounter? Who desires among us to put down the Queen, or to repudiate the National Debt, or to destroy religious worship, or even to disturb the ranks of society? When some small measure of reform has thoroughly recommended itself to the country,--so thoroughly that all men know that the country will have it,--then the question arises whether its details shall be arranged by the political party which calls itself Liberal,--or by that which is termed Conservative. The men are so near to each other in all their convictions and theories of life that nothing is left to them but personal competition for the doing of the thing that is to be done. It is the same in religion. The apostle of Christianity and the infidel can meet without a chance of a quarrel; but it is never safe to bring together two men who differ about a saint or a surplice. Mr. Daubeny, having thus attacked and wounded his enemy, rushed boldly into the question of Church Reform, taking no little pride to himself and to his party that so great a blessing should be bestowed upon the country from so unexpected a source. "See what we Conservatives can do. In fact we will conserve nothing when we find that you do not desire to have it conserved any longer. 'Quod minime reris Grai pandetur ab urbe.'" It was exactly the reverse of the complaint which Mr. Gresham was about to make. On the subject of the Church itself he was rather misty but very profound. He went into the question of very early Churches indeed, and spoke of the misappropriation of endowments in the time of Eli. The establishment of the Levites had been no doubt complete; but changes had been effected as circumstances required. He was presumed to have alluded to the order of Melchisedek, but he abstained from any mention of the name. He roamed very wide, and gave many of his hearers an idea that his erudition had carried him into regions in which it was impossible to follow him. The gist of his argument was to show that audacity in Reform was the very backbone of Conservatism. By a clearly pronounced disunion of Church and State the theocracy of Thomas Becket would be restored, and the people of England would soon again become the faithful flocks of faithful shepherds. By taking away the endowments from the parishes, and giving them back in some complicated way to the country, the parishes would be better able than ever to support their clergymen. Bishops would be bishops indeed, when they were no longer the creatures of a Minister's breath. As to the deans, not seeing a clear way to satisfy aspirants for future vacancies in the deaneries, he became more than usually vague, but seemed to imply that the Bill which was now with the leave of the House to be read a second time, contained no clause forbidding the appointment of deans, though the special stipend of the office must be matter of consideration with the new Church Synod. The details of this part of his speech were felt to be dull by the strangers. As long as he would abuse Mr. Gresham, men could listen with pleasure; and could keep their attention fixed while he referred to the general Conservatism of the party which he had the honour of leading. There was a raciness in the promise of so much Church destruction from the chosen leader of the Church party, which was assisted by a conviction in the minds of most men that it was impossible for unfortunate Conservatives to refuse to follow this leader, let him lead where he might. There was a gratification in feeling that the country party was bound to follow, even should he take them into the very bowels of a mountain, as the pied piper did the children of Hamelin;--and this made listening pleasant. But when Mr. Daubeny stated the effect of his different clauses, explaining what was to be taken and what left,--with a fervent assurance that what was to be left would, under the altered circumstances, go much further than the whole had gone before,--then the audience became weary, and began to think that it was time that some other gentleman should be upon his legs. But at the end of the Minister's speech there was another touch of invective which went far to redeem him. He returned to that personal question to which his adversary had undertaken to confine himself, and expressed a holy horror at the political doctrine which was implied. He, during a prolonged Parliamentary experience, had encountered much factious opposition. He would even acknowledge that he had seen it exercised on both sides of the House, though he had always striven to keep himself free from its baneful influence. But never till now had he known a statesman proclaim his intention of depending upon faction, and upon faction alone, for the result which he desired to achieve. Let the right honourable gentleman raise a contest on either the principles or the details of the measure, and he would be quite content to abide the decision of the House; but he should regard such a raid as that threatened against him and his friends by the right honourable gentleman as unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. He felt sure that an opposition so based, and so maintained, even if it be enabled by the heated feelings of the moment to obtain an unfortunate success in the House, would not be encouraged by the sympathy and support of the country at large. By these last words he was understood to signify that should he be beaten on the second reading, not in reference to the merits of the Bill, but simply on the issue as proposed by Mr. Gresham, he would again dissolve the House before he would resign. Now it was very well understood that there were Liberal members in the House who would prefer even the success of Mr. Daubeny to a speedy reappearance before their constituents. Mr. Daubeny spoke till nearly eight, and it was surmised at the time that he had craftily arranged his oratory so as to embarrass his opponent. The House had met at four, and was to sit continuously till it was adjourned for the night. When this is the case, gentlemen who speak about eight o'clock are too frequently obliged to address themselves to empty benches. On the present occasion it was Mr. Gresham's intention to follow his opponent at once, instead of waiting, as is usual with a leader of his party, to the close of the debate. It was understood that Mr. Gresham would follow Mr. Daubeny, with the object of making a distinct charge against Ministers, so that the vote on this second reading of the Church Bill might in truth be a vote of want of confidence. But to commence his speech at eight o'clock when the House was hungry and uneasy, would be a trial. Had Mr. Daubeny closed an hour sooner there would, with a little stretching of the favoured hours, have been time enough. Members would not have objected to postpone their dinner till half-past eight, or perhaps nine, when their favourite orator was on his legs. But with Mr. Gresham beginning a great speech at eight, dinner would altogether become doubtful, and the disaster might be serious. It was not probable that Mr. Daubeny had even among his friends proclaimed any such strategy; but it was thought by the political speculators of the day that such an idea had been present to his mind. But Mr. Gresham was not to be turned from his purpose. He waited for a few moments, and then rose and addressed the Speaker. A few members left the House;--gentlemen, doubtless, whose constitutions, weakened by previous service, could not endure prolonged fasting. Some who had nearly reached the door returned to their seats, mindful of Messrs. Roby and Ratler. But for the bulk of those assembled the interest of the moment was greater even than the love of dinner. Some of the peers departed, and it was observed that a bishop or two left the House; but among the strangers in the gallery, hardly a foot of space was gained. He who gave up his seat then, gave it up for the night. Mr. Gresham began with a calmness of tone which seemed almost to be affected, but which arose from a struggle on his own part to repress that superabundant energy of which he was only too conscious. But the calmness soon gave place to warmth, which heated itself into violence before he had been a quarter of an hour upon his legs. He soon became even ferocious in his invective, and said things so bitter that he had himself no conception of their bitterness. There was this difference between the two men,--that whereas Mr. Daubeny hit always as hard as he knew how to hit, having premeditated each blow, and weighed its results beforehand, having calculated his power even to the effect of a blow repeated on a wound already given, Mr. Gresham struck right and left and straightforward with a readiness engendered by practice, and in his fury might have murdered his antagonist before he was aware that he had drawn blood. He began by refusing absolutely to discuss the merits of the bill. The right honourable gentleman had prided himself on his generosity as a Greek. He would remind the right honourable gentleman that presents from Greeks had ever been considered dangerous. "It is their gifts, and only their gifts, that we fear," he said. The political gifts of the right honourable gentleman, extracted by him from his unwilling colleagues and followers, had always been more bitter to the taste than Dead Sea apples. That such gifts should not be bestowed on the country by unwilling hands, that reform should not come from those who themselves felt the necessity of no reform, he believed to be the wish not only of that House, but of the country at large. Would any gentleman on that bench, excepting the right honourable gentleman himself,--and he pointed to the crowded phalanx of the Government,--get up and declare that this measure of Church Reform, this severance of Church and State, was brought forward in consonance with his own long-cherished political conviction? He accused that party of being so bound to the chariot wheels of the right honourable gentleman, as to be unable to abide by their own convictions. And as to the right honourable gentleman himself, he would appeal to his followers opposite to say whether the right honourable gentleman was possessed of any one strong political conviction. He had been accused of being unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. If the House would allow him he would very shortly explain his idea of constitutional government as carried on in this country. It was based and built on majorities in that House, and supported solely by that power. There could be no constitutional government in this country that was not so maintained. Any other government must be both revolutionary and tyrannical. Any other government was a usurpation; and he would make bold to tell the right honourable gentleman that a Minister in this country who should recommend Her Majesty to trust herself to advisers not supported by a majority of the House of Commons, would plainly be guilty of usurping the powers of the State. He threw from him with disdain the charge which had been brought against himself of hankering after the sweets of office. He indulged and gloried in indulging the highest ambition of an English subject. But he gloried much more in the privileges and power of that House, within the walls of which was centred all that was salutary, all that was efficacious, all that was stable in the political constitution of his country. It had been his pride to have acted during nearly all his political life with that party which had commanded a majority, but he would defy his most bitter adversary, he would defy the right honourable gentleman himself, to point to any period of his career in which he had been unwilling to succumb to a majority when he himself had belonged to the minority. He himself would regard the vote on this occasion as a vote of want of confidence. He took the line he was now taking because he desired to bring the House to a decision on that question. He himself had not that confidence in the right honourable gentleman which would justify him in accepting a measure on so important a subject as the union or severance of Church and State from his hands. Should the majority of the House differ from him and support the second reading of the Bill, he would at once so far succumb as to give his best attention to the clauses of the bill, and endeavour with the assistance of those gentlemen who acted with him to make it suitable to the wants of the country by omissions and additions as the clauses should pass through Committee. But before doing that he would ask the House to decide with all its solemnity and all its weight whether it was willing to accept from the hands of the right honourable gentleman any measure of reform on a matter so important as this now before them. It was nearly ten when he sat down; and then the stomach of the House could stand it no longer, and an adjournment at once took place. On the next morning it was generally considered that Mr. Daubeny had been too long and Mr. Gresham too passionate. There were some who declared that Mr. Gresham had never been finer than when he described the privileges of the House of Commons; and others who thought that Mr. Daubeny's lucidity had been marvellous; but in this case, as in most others, the speeches of the day were generally thought to have been very inferior to the great efforts of the past. CHAPTER XXXIV. THE UNIVERSE. Before the House met again the quidnuncs about the clubs, on both sides of the question, had determined that Mr. Gresham's speech, whether good or not as an effort of oratory, would serve its intended purpose. He would be backed by a majority of votes, and it might have been very doubtful whether such would have been the case had he attempted to throw out the Bill on its merits. Mr. Ratler, by the time that prayers had been read, had become almost certain of success. There were very few Liberals in the House who were not anxious to declare by their votes that they had no confidence in Mr. Daubeny. Mr. Turnbull, the great Radical, and, perhaps, some two dozen with him, would support the second reading, declaring that they could not reconcile it with their consciences to record a vote in favour of a union of Church and State. On all such occasions as the present Mr. Turnbull was sure to make himself disagreeable to those who sat near to him in the House. He was a man who thought that so much was demanded of him in order that his independence might

striven

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

you mean to say that the morals of your party will be offended?" said Madame Goesler, almost laughing. "Lord Fawn, you know, is very particular. In sober earnest one cannot tell how these things operate; but they do operate gradually. One's friends are sometimes very glad of an excuse for not befriending one." "Lady Laura is coming home?" "Yes." "That will put an end to it." "There is nothing to put an end to except the foul-mouthed malice of a lying newspaper. Nobody believes anything against Lady Laura." "I'm not so sure of that. I believe nothing against her." "I'm sure you do not, Madame Goesler. Nor do I think that anybody does. It is too absurd for belief from beginning to end. Good-bye. Perhaps I shall see you when the debate is over." "Of course you will. Good-bye, and success to your oratory." Then Madame Goesler resolved that she would say a few judicious words to her friend, the Duchess, respecting Phineas Finn. CHAPTER XXXIII. THE TWO GLADIATORS. The great debate was commenced with all the solemnities which are customary on such occasions, and which make men think for the day that no moment of greater excitement has ever blessed or cursed the country. Upon the present occasion London was full of clergymen. The specially clerical clubs,--the Oxford and Cambridge, the Old University, and the Athenaeum,--were black with them. The bishops and deans, as usual, were pleasant in their manner and happy-looking, in spite of adverse circumstances. When one sees a bishop in the hours of the distress of the Church, one always thinks of the just and firm man who will stand fearless while the ruins of the world are falling about his ears. But the parsons from the country were a sorry sight to see. They were in earnest with all their hearts, and did believe,--not that the crack of doom was coming, which they could have borne with equanimity if convinced that their influence would last to the end,--but that the Evil One was to be made welcome upon the earth by Act of Parliament. It is out of nature that any man should think it good that his own order should be repressed, curtailed, and deprived of its power. If we go among cab-drivers or letter-carriers, among butlers or gamekeepers, among tailors or butchers, among farmers or graziers, among doctors or attorneys, we shall find in each set of men a conviction that the welfare of the community depends upon the firmness with which they,--especially they,--hold their own. This is so manifestly true with the Bar that no barrister in practice scruples to avow that barristers in practice are the salt of the earth. The personal confidence of a judge in his own position is beautiful, being salutary to the country, though not unfrequently damaging to the character of the man. But if this be so with men who are conscious of no higher influence than that exercised over the bodies and minds of their fellow creatures, how much stronger must be the feeling when the influence affects the soul! To the outsider, or layman, who simply uses a cab, or receives a letter, or goes to law, or has to be tried, these pretensions are ridiculous or annoying, according to the ascendancy of the pretender at the moment. But as the clerical pretensions are more exacting than all others, being put forward with an assertion that no answer is possible without breach of duty and sin, so are they more galling. The fight has been going on since the idea of a mitre first entered the heart of a priest,--since dominion in this world has found itself capable of sustentation by the exercise of fear as to the world to come. We do believe,--the majority among us does so,--that if we live and die in sin we shall after some fashion come to great punishment, and we believe also that by having pastors among us who shall be men of God, we may best aid ourselves and our children in avoiding this bitter end. But then the pastors and men of God can only be human,--cannot be altogether men of God; and so they have oppressed us, and burned us, and tortured us, and hence come to love palaces, and fine linen, and purple, and, alas, sometimes, mere luxury and idleness. The torturing and the burning, as also to speak truth the luxury and the idleness, have, among us, been already conquered, but the idea of ascendancy remains. What is a thoughtful man to do who acknowledges the danger of his soul, but cannot swallow his parson whole simply because he has been sent to him from some source in which he has no special confidence, perhaps by some distant lord, perhaps by a Lord Chancellor whose political friend has had a son with a tutor? What is he to do when, in spite of some fine linen and purple left among us, the provision for the man of God in his parish or district is so poor that no man of God fitted to teach him will come and take it? In no spirit of animosity to religion he begins to tell himself that Church and State together was a monkish combination, fit perhaps for monkish days, but no longer having fitness, and not much longer capable of existence in this country. But to the parson himself,--to the honest, hardworking, conscientious priest who does in his heart of hearts believe that no diminution in the general influence of his order can be made without ruin to the souls of men,--this opinion, when it becomes dominant, is as though the world were in truth breaking to pieces over his head. The world has been broken to pieces in the same way often;--but extreme Chaos does not come. The cabman and the letter-carrier always expect that Chaos will very nearly come when they are disturbed. The barristers are sure of Chaos when the sanctity of Benchers is in question. What utter Chaos would be promised to us could any one with impunity contemn the majesty of the House of Commons! But of all these Chaoses there can be no Chaos equal to that which in the mind of a zealous Oxford-bred constitutional country parson must attend that annihilation of his special condition which will be produced by the disestablishment of the Church. Of all good fellows he is the best good fellow. He is genial, hospitable, well-educated, and always has either a pretty wife or pretty daughters. But he has so extreme a belief in himself that he cannot endure to be told that absolute Chaos will not come at once if he be disturbed. And now disturbances,--ay, and utter dislocation and ruin were to come from the hands of a friend! Was it wonderful that parsons should be seen about Westminster in flocks with _"Et tu, Brute"_ written on their faces as plainly as the law on the brows of a Pharisee? The Speaker had been harassed for orders. The powers and prowess of every individual member had been put to the test. The galleries were crowded. Ladies' places had been ballotted for with desperate enthusiasm, in spite of the sarcasm against the House which Madame Goesler had expressed. Two royal princes and a royal duke were accommodated within the House in an irregular manner. Peers swarmed in the passages, and were too happy to find standing room. Bishops jostled against lay barons with no other preference than that afforded to them by their broader shoulders. Men, and especially clergymen, came to the galleries loaded with sandwiches and flasks, prepared to hear all there was to be heard should the debate last from 4 P.M. to the same hour on the following morning. At two in the afternoon the entrances to the House were barred, and men of all ranks,--deans, prebends, peers' sons, and baronets,--stood there patiently waiting till some powerful nobleman should let them through. The very ventilating chambers under the House were filled with courteous listeners, who had all pledged themselves that under no possible provocation would they even cough during the debate. A few minutes after four, in a House from which hardly more than a dozen members were absent, Mr. Daubeny took his seat with that air of affected indifference to things around him which is peculiar to him. He entered slowly, amidst cheers from his side of the House, which no doubt were loud in proportion to the dismay of the cheerers as to the matter in hand. Gentlemen lacking substantial sympathy with their leader found it to be comfortable to deceive themselves, and raise their hearts at the same time by the easy enthusiasm of noise. Mr. Daubeny having sat down and covered his head just raised his hat from his brows, and then tried to look as though he were no more than any other gentleman present. But the peculiar consciousness of the man displayed itself even in his constrained absence of motion. You could see that he felt himself to be the beheld of all beholders, and that he enjoyed the position,--with some slight inward trepidation lest the effort to be made should not equal the greatness of the occasion. Immediately after him Mr. Gresham bustled up the centre of the House amidst a roar of good-humoured welcome. We have had many Ministers who have been personally dearer to their individual adherents in the House than the present leader of the Opposition and late Premier, but none, perhaps, who has been more generally respected by his party for earnestness and sincerity. On the present occasion there was a fierceness, almost a ferocity, in his very countenance, to the fire of which friends and enemies were equally anxious to add fuel,--the friends in order that so might these recreant Tories be more thoroughly annihilated, and the enemies, that their enemy's indiscretion might act back upon himself to his confusion. For, indeed, it never could be denied that as a Prime Minister Mr. Gresham could be very indiscreet. A certain small amount of ordinary business was done, to the disgust of expectant strangers, which was as trivial as possible in its nature,--so arranged, apparently, that the importance of what was to follow might be enhanced by the force of contrast. And, to make the dismay of the novice stranger more thorough, questions were asked and answers were given in so low a voice, and Mr. Speaker uttered a word or two in so quick and shambling a fashion, that he, the novice stranger, began to fear that no word of the debate would reach him up there in his crowded back seat. All this, however, occupied but a few minutes, and at twenty minutes past four Mr. Daubeny was on his legs. Then the novice stranger found that, though he could not see Mr. Daubeny without the aid of an opera glass, he could hear every word that fell from his lips. Mr. Daubeny began by regretting the hardness of his position, in that he must, with what thoroughness he might be able to achieve, apply himself to two great subjects, whereas the right honourable gentleman opposite had already declared, with all the formality which could be made to attach itself to a combined meeting of peers and commoners, that he would confine himself strictly to one. The subject selected by the right honourable gentleman opposite on the present occasion was not the question of Church Reform. The right honourable gentleman had pledged himself with an almost sacred enthusiasm to ignore that subject altogether. No doubt it was the question before the House, and he, himself,--the present speaker,--must unfortunately discuss it at some length. The right honourable gentleman opposite would not, on this great occasion, trouble himself with anything of so little moment. And it might be presumed that the political followers of the right honourable gentleman would be equally reticent, as they were understood to have accepted his tactics without a dissentient voice. He, Mr. Daubeny, was the last man in England to deny the importance of the question which the right honourable gentleman would select for discussions in preference to that of the condition of the Church. That question was a very simple one, and might be put to the House in a very few words. Coming from the mouth of the right honourable gentleman, the proposition would probably be made in this form:--"That this House does think that I ought to be Prime Minister now, and as long as I may possess a seat in this House." It was impossible to deny the importance of that question; but perhaps he, Mr. Daubeny, might be justified in demurring to the preference given to it over every other matter, let that matter be of what importance it might be to the material welfare of the country. He made his point well; but he made it too often. And an attack of that kind, personal and savage in its nature, loses its effect when it is evident that the words have been prepared. A good deal may be done in dispute by calling a man an ass or a knave,--but the resolve to use the words should have been made only at the moment, and they should come hot from the heart. There was much neatness and some acuteness in Mr. Daubeny's satire, but there was no heat, and it was prolix. It had, however, the effect of irritating Mr. Gresham,--as was evident from the manner in which he moved his hat and shuffled his feet. A man destined to sit conspicuously on our Treasury Bench, or on the seat opposite to it, should ask the gods for a thick skin as a first gift. The need of this in our national assembly is greater than elsewhere, because the differences between the men opposed to each other are smaller. When two foes meet together in the same Chamber, one of whom advocates the personal government of an individual ruler, and the other that form of State, which has come to be called a Red Republic, they deal, no doubt, weighty blows of oratory at each other, but blows which never hurt at the moment. They may cut each other's throats if they can find an opportunity; but they do not bite each other like dogs over a bone. But when opponents are almost in accord, as is always the case with our parliamentary gladiators, they are ever striving to give maddening little wounds through the joints of the harness. What is there with us to create the divergence necessary for debate but the pride of personal skill in the encounter? Who desires among us to put down the Queen, or to repudiate the National Debt, or to destroy religious worship, or even to disturb the ranks of society? When some small measure of reform has thoroughly recommended itself to the country,--so thoroughly that all men know that the country will have it,--then the question arises whether its details shall be arranged by the political party which calls itself Liberal,--or by that which is termed Conservative. The men are so near to each other in all their convictions and theories of life that nothing is left to them but personal competition for the doing of the thing that is to be done. It is the same in religion. The apostle of Christianity and the infidel can meet without a chance of a quarrel; but it is never safe to bring together two men who differ about a saint or a surplice. Mr. Daubeny, having thus attacked and wounded his enemy, rushed boldly into the question of Church Reform, taking no little pride to himself and to his party that so great a blessing should be bestowed upon the country from so unexpected a source. "See what we Conservatives can do. In fact we will conserve nothing when we find that you do not desire to have it conserved any longer. 'Quod minime reris Grai pandetur ab urbe.'" It was exactly the reverse of the complaint which Mr. Gresham was about to make. On the subject of the Church itself he was rather misty but very profound. He went into the question of very early Churches indeed, and spoke of the misappropriation of endowments in the time of Eli. The establishment of the Levites had been no doubt complete; but changes had been effected as circumstances required. He was presumed to have alluded to the order of Melchisedek, but he abstained from any mention of the name. He roamed very wide, and gave many of his hearers an idea that his erudition had carried him into regions in which it was impossible to follow him. The gist of his argument was to show that audacity in Reform was the very backbone of Conservatism. By a clearly pronounced disunion of Church and State the theocracy of Thomas Becket would be restored, and the people of England would soon again become the faithful flocks of faithful shepherds. By taking away the endowments from the parishes, and giving them back in some complicated way to the country, the parishes would be better able than ever to support their clergymen. Bishops would be bishops indeed, when they were no longer the creatures of a Minister's breath. As to the deans, not seeing a clear way to satisfy aspirants for future vacancies in the deaneries, he became more than usually vague, but seemed to imply that the Bill which was now with the leave of the House to be read a second time, contained no clause forbidding the appointment of deans, though the special stipend of the office must be matter of consideration with the new Church Synod. The details of this part of his speech were felt to be dull by the strangers. As long as he would abuse Mr. Gresham, men could listen with pleasure; and could keep their attention fixed while he referred to the general Conservatism of the party which he had the honour of leading. There was a raciness in the promise of so much Church destruction from the chosen leader of the Church party, which was assisted by a conviction in the minds of most men that it was impossible for unfortunate Conservatives to refuse to follow this leader, let him lead where he might. There was a gratification in feeling that the country party was bound to follow, even should he take them into the very bowels of a mountain, as the pied piper did the children of Hamelin;--and this made listening pleasant. But when Mr. Daubeny stated the effect of his different clauses, explaining what was to be taken and what left,--with a fervent assurance that what was to be left would, under the altered circumstances, go much further than the whole had gone before,--then the audience became weary, and began to think that it was time that some other gentleman should be upon his legs. But at the end of the Minister's speech there was another touch of invective which went far to redeem him. He returned to that personal question to which his adversary had undertaken to confine himself, and expressed a holy horror at the political doctrine which was implied. He, during a prolonged Parliamentary experience, had encountered much factious opposition. He would even acknowledge that he had seen it exercised on both sides of the House, though he had always striven to keep himself free from its baneful influence. But never till now had he known a statesman proclaim his intention of depending upon faction, and upon faction alone, for the result which he desired to achieve. Let the right honourable gentleman raise a contest on either the principles or the details of the measure, and he would be quite content to abide the decision of the House; but he should regard such a raid as that threatened against him and his friends by the right honourable gentleman as unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. He felt sure that an opposition so based, and so maintained, even if it be enabled by the heated feelings of the moment to obtain an unfortunate success in the House, would not be encouraged by the sympathy and support of the country at large. By these last words he was understood to signify that should he be beaten on the second reading, not in reference to the merits of the Bill, but simply on the issue as proposed by Mr. Gresham, he would again dissolve the House before he would resign. Now it was very well understood that there were Liberal members in the House who would prefer even the success of Mr. Daubeny to a speedy reappearance before their constituents. Mr. Daubeny spoke till nearly eight, and it was surmised at the time that he had craftily arranged his oratory so as to embarrass his opponent. The House had met at four, and was to sit continuously till it was adjourned for the night. When this is the case, gentlemen who speak about eight o'clock are too frequently obliged to address themselves to empty benches. On the present occasion it was Mr. Gresham's intention to follow his opponent at once, instead of waiting, as is usual with a leader of his party, to the close of the debate. It was understood that Mr. Gresham would follow Mr. Daubeny, with the object of making a distinct charge against Ministers, so that the vote on this second reading of the Church Bill might in truth be a vote of want of confidence. But to commence his speech at eight o'clock when the House was hungry and uneasy, would be a trial. Had Mr. Daubeny closed an hour sooner there would, with a little stretching of the favoured hours, have been time enough. Members would not have objected to postpone their dinner till half-past eight, or perhaps nine, when their favourite orator was on his legs. But with Mr. Gresham beginning a great speech at eight, dinner would altogether become doubtful, and the disaster might be serious. It was not probable that Mr. Daubeny had even among his friends proclaimed any such strategy; but it was thought by the political speculators of the day that such an idea had been present to his mind. But Mr. Gresham was not to be turned from his purpose. He waited for a few moments, and then rose and addressed the Speaker. A few members left the House;--gentlemen, doubtless, whose constitutions, weakened by previous service, could not endure prolonged fasting. Some who had nearly reached the door returned to their seats, mindful of Messrs. Roby and Ratler. But for the bulk of those assembled the interest of the moment was greater even than the love of dinner. Some of the peers departed, and it was observed that a bishop or two left the House; but among the strangers in the gallery, hardly a foot of space was gained. He who gave up his seat then, gave it up for the night. Mr. Gresham began with a calmness of tone which seemed almost to be affected, but which arose from a struggle on his own part to repress that superabundant energy of which he was only too conscious. But the calmness soon gave place to warmth, which heated itself into violence before he had been a quarter of an hour upon his legs. He soon became even ferocious in his invective, and said things so bitter that he had himself no conception of their bitterness. There was this difference between the two men,--that whereas Mr. Daubeny hit always as hard as he knew how to hit, having premeditated each blow, and weighed its results beforehand, having calculated his power even to the effect of a blow repeated on a wound already given, Mr. Gresham struck right and left and straightforward with a readiness engendered by practice, and in his fury might have murdered his antagonist before he was aware that he had drawn blood. He began by refusing absolutely to discuss the merits of the bill. The right honourable gentleman had prided himself on his generosity as a Greek. He would remind the right honourable gentleman that presents from Greeks had ever been considered dangerous. "It is their gifts, and only their gifts, that we fear," he said. The political gifts of the right honourable gentleman, extracted by him from his unwilling colleagues and followers, had always been more bitter to the taste than Dead Sea apples. That such gifts should not be bestowed on the country by unwilling hands, that reform should not come from those who themselves felt the necessity of no reform, he believed to be the wish not only of that House, but of the country at large. Would any gentleman on that bench, excepting the right honourable gentleman himself,--and he pointed to the crowded phalanx of the Government,--get up and declare that this measure of Church Reform, this severance of Church and State, was brought forward in consonance with his own long-cherished political conviction? He accused that party of being so bound to the chariot wheels of the right honourable gentleman, as to be unable to abide by their own convictions. And as to the right honourable gentleman himself, he would appeal to his followers opposite to say whether the right honourable gentleman was possessed of any one strong political conviction. He had been accused of being unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. If the House would allow him he would very shortly explain his idea of constitutional government as carried on in this country. It was based and built on majorities in that House, and supported solely by that power. There could be no constitutional government in this country that was not so maintained. Any other government must be both revolutionary and tyrannical. Any other government was a usurpation; and he would make bold to tell the right honourable gentleman that a Minister in this country who should recommend Her Majesty to trust herself to advisers not supported by a majority of the House of Commons, would plainly be guilty of usurping the powers of the State. He threw from him with disdain the charge which had been brought against himself of hankering after the sweets of office. He indulged and gloried in indulging the highest ambition of an English subject. But he gloried much more in the privileges and power of that House, within the walls of which was centred all that was salutary, all that was efficacious, all that was stable in the political constitution of his country. It had been his pride to have acted during nearly all his political life with that party which had commanded a majority, but he would defy his most bitter adversary, he would defy the right honourable gentleman himself, to point to any period of his career in which he had been unwilling to succumb to a majority when he himself had belonged to the minority. He himself would regard the vote on this occasion as a vote of want of confidence. He took the line he was now taking because he desired to bring the House to a decision on that question. He himself had not that confidence in the right honourable gentleman which would justify him in accepting a measure on so important a subject as the union or severance of Church and State from his hands. Should the majority of the House differ from him and support the second reading of the Bill, he would at once so far succumb as to give his best attention to the clauses of the bill, and endeavour with the assistance of those gentlemen who acted with him to make it suitable to the wants of the country by omissions and additions as the clauses should pass through Committee. But before doing that he would ask the House to decide with all its solemnity and all its weight whether it was willing to accept from the hands of the right honourable gentleman any measure of reform on a matter so important as this now before them. It was nearly ten when he sat down; and then the stomach of the House could stand it no longer, and an adjournment at once took place. On the next morning it was generally considered that Mr. Daubeny had been too long and Mr. Gresham too passionate. There were some who declared that Mr. Gresham had never been finer than when he described the privileges of the House of Commons; and others who thought that Mr. Daubeny's lucidity had been marvellous; but in this case, as in most others, the speeches of the day were generally thought to have been very inferior to the great efforts of the past. CHAPTER XXXIV. THE UNIVERSE. Before the House met again the quidnuncs about the clubs, on both sides of the question, had determined that Mr. Gresham's speech, whether good or not as an effort of oratory, would serve its intended purpose. He would be backed by a majority of votes, and it might have been very doubtful whether such would have been the case had he attempted to throw out the Bill on its merits. Mr. Ratler, by the time that prayers had been read, had become almost certain of success. There were very few Liberals in the House who were not anxious to declare by their votes that they had no confidence in Mr. Daubeny. Mr. Turnbull, the great Radical, and, perhaps, some two dozen with him, would support the second reading, declaring that they could not reconcile it with their consciences to record a vote in favour of a union of Church and State. On all such occasions as the present Mr. Turnbull was sure to make himself disagreeable to those who sat near to him in the House. He was a man who thought that so much was demanded of him in order that his independence might

lakes

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

you mean to say that the morals of your party will be offended?" said Madame Goesler, almost laughing. "Lord Fawn, you know, is very particular. In sober earnest one cannot tell how these things operate; but they do operate gradually. One's friends are sometimes very glad of an excuse for not befriending one." "Lady Laura is coming home?" "Yes." "That will put an end to it." "There is nothing to put an end to except the foul-mouthed malice of a lying newspaper. Nobody believes anything against Lady Laura." "I'm not so sure of that. I believe nothing against her." "I'm sure you do not, Madame Goesler. Nor do I think that anybody does. It is too absurd for belief from beginning to end. Good-bye. Perhaps I shall see you when the debate is over." "Of course you will. Good-bye, and success to your oratory." Then Madame Goesler resolved that she would say a few judicious words to her friend, the Duchess, respecting Phineas Finn. CHAPTER XXXIII. THE TWO GLADIATORS. The great debate was commenced with all the solemnities which are customary on such occasions, and which make men think for the day that no moment of greater excitement has ever blessed or cursed the country. Upon the present occasion London was full of clergymen. The specially clerical clubs,--the Oxford and Cambridge, the Old University, and the Athenaeum,--were black with them. The bishops and deans, as usual, were pleasant in their manner and happy-looking, in spite of adverse circumstances. When one sees a bishop in the hours of the distress of the Church, one always thinks of the just and firm man who will stand fearless while the ruins of the world are falling about his ears. But the parsons from the country were a sorry sight to see. They were in earnest with all their hearts, and did believe,--not that the crack of doom was coming, which they could have borne with equanimity if convinced that their influence would last to the end,--but that the Evil One was to be made welcome upon the earth by Act of Parliament. It is out of nature that any man should think it good that his own order should be repressed, curtailed, and deprived of its power. If we go among cab-drivers or letter-carriers, among butlers or gamekeepers, among tailors or butchers, among farmers or graziers, among doctors or attorneys, we shall find in each set of men a conviction that the welfare of the community depends upon the firmness with which they,--especially they,--hold their own. This is so manifestly true with the Bar that no barrister in practice scruples to avow that barristers in practice are the salt of the earth. The personal confidence of a judge in his own position is beautiful, being salutary to the country, though not unfrequently damaging to the character of the man. But if this be so with men who are conscious of no higher influence than that exercised over the bodies and minds of their fellow creatures, how much stronger must be the feeling when the influence affects the soul! To the outsider, or layman, who simply uses a cab, or receives a letter, or goes to law, or has to be tried, these pretensions are ridiculous or annoying, according to the ascendancy of the pretender at the moment. But as the clerical pretensions are more exacting than all others, being put forward with an assertion that no answer is possible without breach of duty and sin, so are they more galling. The fight has been going on since the idea of a mitre first entered the heart of a priest,--since dominion in this world has found itself capable of sustentation by the exercise of fear as to the world to come. We do believe,--the majority among us does so,--that if we live and die in sin we shall after some fashion come to great punishment, and we believe also that by having pastors among us who shall be men of God, we may best aid ourselves and our children in avoiding this bitter end. But then the pastors and men of God can only be human,--cannot be altogether men of God; and so they have oppressed us, and burned us, and tortured us, and hence come to love palaces, and fine linen, and purple, and, alas, sometimes, mere luxury and idleness. The torturing and the burning, as also to speak truth the luxury and the idleness, have, among us, been already conquered, but the idea of ascendancy remains. What is a thoughtful man to do who acknowledges the danger of his soul, but cannot swallow his parson whole simply because he has been sent to him from some source in which he has no special confidence, perhaps by some distant lord, perhaps by a Lord Chancellor whose political friend has had a son with a tutor? What is he to do when, in spite of some fine linen and purple left among us, the provision for the man of God in his parish or district is so poor that no man of God fitted to teach him will come and take it? In no spirit of animosity to religion he begins to tell himself that Church and State together was a monkish combination, fit perhaps for monkish days, but no longer having fitness, and not much longer capable of existence in this country. But to the parson himself,--to the honest, hardworking, conscientious priest who does in his heart of hearts believe that no diminution in the general influence of his order can be made without ruin to the souls of men,--this opinion, when it becomes dominant, is as though the world were in truth breaking to pieces over his head. The world has been broken to pieces in the same way often;--but extreme Chaos does not come. The cabman and the letter-carrier always expect that Chaos will very nearly come when they are disturbed. The barristers are sure of Chaos when the sanctity of Benchers is in question. What utter Chaos would be promised to us could any one with impunity contemn the majesty of the House of Commons! But of all these Chaoses there can be no Chaos equal to that which in the mind of a zealous Oxford-bred constitutional country parson must attend that annihilation of his special condition which will be produced by the disestablishment of the Church. Of all good fellows he is the best good fellow. He is genial, hospitable, well-educated, and always has either a pretty wife or pretty daughters. But he has so extreme a belief in himself that he cannot endure to be told that absolute Chaos will not come at once if he be disturbed. And now disturbances,--ay, and utter dislocation and ruin were to come from the hands of a friend! Was it wonderful that parsons should be seen about Westminster in flocks with _"Et tu, Brute"_ written on their faces as plainly as the law on the brows of a Pharisee? The Speaker had been harassed for orders. The powers and prowess of every individual member had been put to the test. The galleries were crowded. Ladies' places had been ballotted for with desperate enthusiasm, in spite of the sarcasm against the House which Madame Goesler had expressed. Two royal princes and a royal duke were accommodated within the House in an irregular manner. Peers swarmed in the passages, and were too happy to find standing room. Bishops jostled against lay barons with no other preference than that afforded to them by their broader shoulders. Men, and especially clergymen, came to the galleries loaded with sandwiches and flasks, prepared to hear all there was to be heard should the debate last from 4 P.M. to the same hour on the following morning. At two in the afternoon the entrances to the House were barred, and men of all ranks,--deans, prebends, peers' sons, and baronets,--stood there patiently waiting till some powerful nobleman should let them through. The very ventilating chambers under the House were filled with courteous listeners, who had all pledged themselves that under no possible provocation would they even cough during the debate. A few minutes after four, in a House from which hardly more than a dozen members were absent, Mr. Daubeny took his seat with that air of affected indifference to things around him which is peculiar to him. He entered slowly, amidst cheers from his side of the House, which no doubt were loud in proportion to the dismay of the cheerers as to the matter in hand. Gentlemen lacking substantial sympathy with their leader found it to be comfortable to deceive themselves, and raise their hearts at the same time by the easy enthusiasm of noise. Mr. Daubeny having sat down and covered his head just raised his hat from his brows, and then tried to look as though he were no more than any other gentleman present. But the peculiar consciousness of the man displayed itself even in his constrained absence of motion. You could see that he felt himself to be the beheld of all beholders, and that he enjoyed the position,--with some slight inward trepidation lest the effort to be made should not equal the greatness of the occasion. Immediately after him Mr. Gresham bustled up the centre of the House amidst a roar of good-humoured welcome. We have had many Ministers who have been personally dearer to their individual adherents in the House than the present leader of the Opposition and late Premier, but none, perhaps, who has been more generally respected by his party for earnestness and sincerity. On the present occasion there was a fierceness, almost a ferocity, in his very countenance, to the fire of which friends and enemies were equally anxious to add fuel,--the friends in order that so might these recreant Tories be more thoroughly annihilated, and the enemies, that their enemy's indiscretion might act back upon himself to his confusion. For, indeed, it never could be denied that as a Prime Minister Mr. Gresham could be very indiscreet. A certain small amount of ordinary business was done, to the disgust of expectant strangers, which was as trivial as possible in its nature,--so arranged, apparently, that the importance of what was to follow might be enhanced by the force of contrast. And, to make the dismay of the novice stranger more thorough, questions were asked and answers were given in so low a voice, and Mr. Speaker uttered a word or two in so quick and shambling a fashion, that he, the novice stranger, began to fear that no word of the debate would reach him up there in his crowded back seat. All this, however, occupied but a few minutes, and at twenty minutes past four Mr. Daubeny was on his legs. Then the novice stranger found that, though he could not see Mr. Daubeny without the aid of an opera glass, he could hear every word that fell from his lips. Mr. Daubeny began by regretting the hardness of his position, in that he must, with what thoroughness he might be able to achieve, apply himself to two great subjects, whereas the right honourable gentleman opposite had already declared, with all the formality which could be made to attach itself to a combined meeting of peers and commoners, that he would confine himself strictly to one. The subject selected by the right honourable gentleman opposite on the present occasion was not the question of Church Reform. The right honourable gentleman had pledged himself with an almost sacred enthusiasm to ignore that subject altogether. No doubt it was the question before the House, and he, himself,--the present speaker,--must unfortunately discuss it at some length. The right honourable gentleman opposite would not, on this great occasion, trouble himself with anything of so little moment. And it might be presumed that the political followers of the right honourable gentleman would be equally reticent, as they were understood to have accepted his tactics without a dissentient voice. He, Mr. Daubeny, was the last man in England to deny the importance of the question which the right honourable gentleman would select for discussions in preference to that of the condition of the Church. That question was a very simple one, and might be put to the House in a very few words. Coming from the mouth of the right honourable gentleman, the proposition would probably be made in this form:--"That this House does think that I ought to be Prime Minister now, and as long as I may possess a seat in this House." It was impossible to deny the importance of that question; but perhaps he, Mr. Daubeny, might be justified in demurring to the preference given to it over every other matter, let that matter be of what importance it might be to the material welfare of the country. He made his point well; but he made it too often. And an attack of that kind, personal and savage in its nature, loses its effect when it is evident that the words have been prepared. A good deal may be done in dispute by calling a man an ass or a knave,--but the resolve to use the words should have been made only at the moment, and they should come hot from the heart. There was much neatness and some acuteness in Mr. Daubeny's satire, but there was no heat, and it was prolix. It had, however, the effect of irritating Mr. Gresham,--as was evident from the manner in which he moved his hat and shuffled his feet. A man destined to sit conspicuously on our Treasury Bench, or on the seat opposite to it, should ask the gods for a thick skin as a first gift. The need of this in our national assembly is greater than elsewhere, because the differences between the men opposed to each other are smaller. When two foes meet together in the same Chamber, one of whom advocates the personal government of an individual ruler, and the other that form of State, which has come to be called a Red Republic, they deal, no doubt, weighty blows of oratory at each other, but blows which never hurt at the moment. They may cut each other's throats if they can find an opportunity; but they do not bite each other like dogs over a bone. But when opponents are almost in accord, as is always the case with our parliamentary gladiators, they are ever striving to give maddening little wounds through the joints of the harness. What is there with us to create the divergence necessary for debate but the pride of personal skill in the encounter? Who desires among us to put down the Queen, or to repudiate the National Debt, or to destroy religious worship, or even to disturb the ranks of society? When some small measure of reform has thoroughly recommended itself to the country,--so thoroughly that all men know that the country will have it,--then the question arises whether its details shall be arranged by the political party which calls itself Liberal,--or by that which is termed Conservative. The men are so near to each other in all their convictions and theories of life that nothing is left to them but personal competition for the doing of the thing that is to be done. It is the same in religion. The apostle of Christianity and the infidel can meet without a chance of a quarrel; but it is never safe to bring together two men who differ about a saint or a surplice. Mr. Daubeny, having thus attacked and wounded his enemy, rushed boldly into the question of Church Reform, taking no little pride to himself and to his party that so great a blessing should be bestowed upon the country from so unexpected a source. "See what we Conservatives can do. In fact we will conserve nothing when we find that you do not desire to have it conserved any longer. 'Quod minime reris Grai pandetur ab urbe.'" It was exactly the reverse of the complaint which Mr. Gresham was about to make. On the subject of the Church itself he was rather misty but very profound. He went into the question of very early Churches indeed, and spoke of the misappropriation of endowments in the time of Eli. The establishment of the Levites had been no doubt complete; but changes had been effected as circumstances required. He was presumed to have alluded to the order of Melchisedek, but he abstained from any mention of the name. He roamed very wide, and gave many of his hearers an idea that his erudition had carried him into regions in which it was impossible to follow him. The gist of his argument was to show that audacity in Reform was the very backbone of Conservatism. By a clearly pronounced disunion of Church and State the theocracy of Thomas Becket would be restored, and the people of England would soon again become the faithful flocks of faithful shepherds. By taking away the endowments from the parishes, and giving them back in some complicated way to the country, the parishes would be better able than ever to support their clergymen. Bishops would be bishops indeed, when they were no longer the creatures of a Minister's breath. As to the deans, not seeing a clear way to satisfy aspirants for future vacancies in the deaneries, he became more than usually vague, but seemed to imply that the Bill which was now with the leave of the House to be read a second time, contained no clause forbidding the appointment of deans, though the special stipend of the office must be matter of consideration with the new Church Synod. The details of this part of his speech were felt to be dull by the strangers. As long as he would abuse Mr. Gresham, men could listen with pleasure; and could keep their attention fixed while he referred to the general Conservatism of the party which he had the honour of leading. There was a raciness in the promise of so much Church destruction from the chosen leader of the Church party, which was assisted by a conviction in the minds of most men that it was impossible for unfortunate Conservatives to refuse to follow this leader, let him lead where he might. There was a gratification in feeling that the country party was bound to follow, even should he take them into the very bowels of a mountain, as the pied piper did the children of Hamelin;--and this made listening pleasant. But when Mr. Daubeny stated the effect of his different clauses, explaining what was to be taken and what left,--with a fervent assurance that what was to be left would, under the altered circumstances, go much further than the whole had gone before,--then the audience became weary, and began to think that it was time that some other gentleman should be upon his legs. But at the end of the Minister's speech there was another touch of invective which went far to redeem him. He returned to that personal question to which his adversary had undertaken to confine himself, and expressed a holy horror at the political doctrine which was implied. He, during a prolonged Parliamentary experience, had encountered much factious opposition. He would even acknowledge that he had seen it exercised on both sides of the House, though he had always striven to keep himself free from its baneful influence. But never till now had he known a statesman proclaim his intention of depending upon faction, and upon faction alone, for the result which he desired to achieve. Let the right honourable gentleman raise a contest on either the principles or the details of the measure, and he would be quite content to abide the decision of the House; but he should regard such a raid as that threatened against him and his friends by the right honourable gentleman as unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. He felt sure that an opposition so based, and so maintained, even if it be enabled by the heated feelings of the moment to obtain an unfortunate success in the House, would not be encouraged by the sympathy and support of the country at large. By these last words he was understood to signify that should he be beaten on the second reading, not in reference to the merits of the Bill, but simply on the issue as proposed by Mr. Gresham, he would again dissolve the House before he would resign. Now it was very well understood that there were Liberal members in the House who would prefer even the success of Mr. Daubeny to a speedy reappearance before their constituents. Mr. Daubeny spoke till nearly eight, and it was surmised at the time that he had craftily arranged his oratory so as to embarrass his opponent. The House had met at four, and was to sit continuously till it was adjourned for the night. When this is the case, gentlemen who speak about eight o'clock are too frequently obliged to address themselves to empty benches. On the present occasion it was Mr. Gresham's intention to follow his opponent at once, instead of waiting, as is usual with a leader of his party, to the close of the debate. It was understood that Mr. Gresham would follow Mr. Daubeny, with the object of making a distinct charge against Ministers, so that the vote on this second reading of the Church Bill might in truth be a vote of want of confidence. But to commence his speech at eight o'clock when the House was hungry and uneasy, would be a trial. Had Mr. Daubeny closed an hour sooner there would, with a little stretching of the favoured hours, have been time enough. Members would not have objected to postpone their dinner till half-past eight, or perhaps nine, when their favourite orator was on his legs. But with Mr. Gresham beginning a great speech at eight, dinner would altogether become doubtful, and the disaster might be serious. It was not probable that Mr. Daubeny had even among his friends proclaimed any such strategy; but it was thought by the political speculators of the day that such an idea had been present to his mind. But Mr. Gresham was not to be turned from his purpose. He waited for a few moments, and then rose and addressed the Speaker. A few members left the House;--gentlemen, doubtless, whose constitutions, weakened by previous service, could not endure prolonged fasting. Some who had nearly reached the door returned to their seats, mindful of Messrs. Roby and Ratler. But for the bulk of those assembled the interest of the moment was greater even than the love of dinner. Some of the peers departed, and it was observed that a bishop or two left the House; but among the strangers in the gallery, hardly a foot of space was gained. He who gave up his seat then, gave it up for the night. Mr. Gresham began with a calmness of tone which seemed almost to be affected, but which arose from a struggle on his own part to repress that superabundant energy of which he was only too conscious. But the calmness soon gave place to warmth, which heated itself into violence before he had been a quarter of an hour upon his legs. He soon became even ferocious in his invective, and said things so bitter that he had himself no conception of their bitterness. There was this difference between the two men,--that whereas Mr. Daubeny hit always as hard as he knew how to hit, having premeditated each blow, and weighed its results beforehand, having calculated his power even to the effect of a blow repeated on a wound already given, Mr. Gresham struck right and left and straightforward with a readiness engendered by practice, and in his fury might have murdered his antagonist before he was aware that he had drawn blood. He began by refusing absolutely to discuss the merits of the bill. The right honourable gentleman had prided himself on his generosity as a Greek. He would remind the right honourable gentleman that presents from Greeks had ever been considered dangerous. "It is their gifts, and only their gifts, that we fear," he said. The political gifts of the right honourable gentleman, extracted by him from his unwilling colleagues and followers, had always been more bitter to the taste than Dead Sea apples. That such gifts should not be bestowed on the country by unwilling hands, that reform should not come from those who themselves felt the necessity of no reform, he believed to be the wish not only of that House, but of the country at large. Would any gentleman on that bench, excepting the right honourable gentleman himself,--and he pointed to the crowded phalanx of the Government,--get up and declare that this measure of Church Reform, this severance of Church and State, was brought forward in consonance with his own long-cherished political conviction? He accused that party of being so bound to the chariot wheels of the right honourable gentleman, as to be unable to abide by their own convictions. And as to the right honourable gentleman himself, he would appeal to his followers opposite to say whether the right honourable gentleman was possessed of any one strong political conviction. He had been accused of being unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. If the House would allow him he would very shortly explain his idea of constitutional government as carried on in this country. It was based and built on majorities in that House, and supported solely by that power. There could be no constitutional government in this country that was not so maintained. Any other government must be both revolutionary and tyrannical. Any other government was a usurpation; and he would make bold to tell the right honourable gentleman that a Minister in this country who should recommend Her Majesty to trust herself to advisers not supported by a majority of the House of Commons, would plainly be guilty of usurping the powers of the State. He threw from him with disdain the charge which had been brought against himself of hankering after the sweets of office. He indulged and gloried in indulging the highest ambition of an English subject. But he gloried much more in the privileges and power of that House, within the walls of which was centred all that was salutary, all that was efficacious, all that was stable in the political constitution of his country. It had been his pride to have acted during nearly all his political life with that party which had commanded a majority, but he would defy his most bitter adversary, he would defy the right honourable gentleman himself, to point to any period of his career in which he had been unwilling to succumb to a majority when he himself had belonged to the minority. He himself would regard the vote on this occasion as a vote of want of confidence. He took the line he was now taking because he desired to bring the House to a decision on that question. He himself had not that confidence in the right honourable gentleman which would justify him in accepting a measure on so important a subject as the union or severance of Church and State from his hands. Should the majority of the House differ from him and support the second reading of the Bill, he would at once so far succumb as to give his best attention to the clauses of the bill, and endeavour with the assistance of those gentlemen who acted with him to make it suitable to the wants of the country by omissions and additions as the clauses should pass through Committee. But before doing that he would ask the House to decide with all its solemnity and all its weight whether it was willing to accept from the hands of the right honourable gentleman any measure of reform on a matter so important as this now before them. It was nearly ten when he sat down; and then the stomach of the House could stand it no longer, and an adjournment at once took place. On the next morning it was generally considered that Mr. Daubeny had been too long and Mr. Gresham too passionate. There were some who declared that Mr. Gresham had never been finer than when he described the privileges of the House of Commons; and others who thought that Mr. Daubeny's lucidity had been marvellous; but in this case, as in most others, the speeches of the day were generally thought to have been very inferior to the great efforts of the past. CHAPTER XXXIV. THE UNIVERSE. Before the House met again the quidnuncs about the clubs, on both sides of the question, had determined that Mr. Gresham's speech, whether good or not as an effort of oratory, would serve its intended purpose. He would be backed by a majority of votes, and it might have been very doubtful whether such would have been the case had he attempted to throw out the Bill on its merits. Mr. Ratler, by the time that prayers had been read, had become almost certain of success. There were very few Liberals in the House who were not anxious to declare by their votes that they had no confidence in Mr. Daubeny. Mr. Turnbull, the great Radical, and, perhaps, some two dozen with him, would support the second reading, declaring that they could not reconcile it with their consciences to record a vote in favour of a union of Church and State. On all such occasions as the present Mr. Turnbull was sure to make himself disagreeable to those who sat near to him in the House. He was a man who thought that so much was demanded of him in order that his independence might

crack

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

you mean to say that the morals of your party will be offended?" said Madame Goesler, almost laughing. "Lord Fawn, you know, is very particular. In sober earnest one cannot tell how these things operate; but they do operate gradually. One's friends are sometimes very glad of an excuse for not befriending one." "Lady Laura is coming home?" "Yes." "That will put an end to it." "There is nothing to put an end to except the foul-mouthed malice of a lying newspaper. Nobody believes anything against Lady Laura." "I'm not so sure of that. I believe nothing against her." "I'm sure you do not, Madame Goesler. Nor do I think that anybody does. It is too absurd for belief from beginning to end. Good-bye. Perhaps I shall see you when the debate is over." "Of course you will. Good-bye, and success to your oratory." Then Madame Goesler resolved that she would say a few judicious words to her friend, the Duchess, respecting Phineas Finn. CHAPTER XXXIII. THE TWO GLADIATORS. The great debate was commenced with all the solemnities which are customary on such occasions, and which make men think for the day that no moment of greater excitement has ever blessed or cursed the country. Upon the present occasion London was full of clergymen. The specially clerical clubs,--the Oxford and Cambridge, the Old University, and the Athenaeum,--were black with them. The bishops and deans, as usual, were pleasant in their manner and happy-looking, in spite of adverse circumstances. When one sees a bishop in the hours of the distress of the Church, one always thinks of the just and firm man who will stand fearless while the ruins of the world are falling about his ears. But the parsons from the country were a sorry sight to see. They were in earnest with all their hearts, and did believe,--not that the crack of doom was coming, which they could have borne with equanimity if convinced that their influence would last to the end,--but that the Evil One was to be made welcome upon the earth by Act of Parliament. It is out of nature that any man should think it good that his own order should be repressed, curtailed, and deprived of its power. If we go among cab-drivers or letter-carriers, among butlers or gamekeepers, among tailors or butchers, among farmers or graziers, among doctors or attorneys, we shall find in each set of men a conviction that the welfare of the community depends upon the firmness with which they,--especially they,--hold their own. This is so manifestly true with the Bar that no barrister in practice scruples to avow that barristers in practice are the salt of the earth. The personal confidence of a judge in his own position is beautiful, being salutary to the country, though not unfrequently damaging to the character of the man. But if this be so with men who are conscious of no higher influence than that exercised over the bodies and minds of their fellow creatures, how much stronger must be the feeling when the influence affects the soul! To the outsider, or layman, who simply uses a cab, or receives a letter, or goes to law, or has to be tried, these pretensions are ridiculous or annoying, according to the ascendancy of the pretender at the moment. But as the clerical pretensions are more exacting than all others, being put forward with an assertion that no answer is possible without breach of duty and sin, so are they more galling. The fight has been going on since the idea of a mitre first entered the heart of a priest,--since dominion in this world has found itself capable of sustentation by the exercise of fear as to the world to come. We do believe,--the majority among us does so,--that if we live and die in sin we shall after some fashion come to great punishment, and we believe also that by having pastors among us who shall be men of God, we may best aid ourselves and our children in avoiding this bitter end. But then the pastors and men of God can only be human,--cannot be altogether men of God; and so they have oppressed us, and burned us, and tortured us, and hence come to love palaces, and fine linen, and purple, and, alas, sometimes, mere luxury and idleness. The torturing and the burning, as also to speak truth the luxury and the idleness, have, among us, been already conquered, but the idea of ascendancy remains. What is a thoughtful man to do who acknowledges the danger of his soul, but cannot swallow his parson whole simply because he has been sent to him from some source in which he has no special confidence, perhaps by some distant lord, perhaps by a Lord Chancellor whose political friend has had a son with a tutor? What is he to do when, in spite of some fine linen and purple left among us, the provision for the man of God in his parish or district is so poor that no man of God fitted to teach him will come and take it? In no spirit of animosity to religion he begins to tell himself that Church and State together was a monkish combination, fit perhaps for monkish days, but no longer having fitness, and not much longer capable of existence in this country. But to the parson himself,--to the honest, hardworking, conscientious priest who does in his heart of hearts believe that no diminution in the general influence of his order can be made without ruin to the souls of men,--this opinion, when it becomes dominant, is as though the world were in truth breaking to pieces over his head. The world has been broken to pieces in the same way often;--but extreme Chaos does not come. The cabman and the letter-carrier always expect that Chaos will very nearly come when they are disturbed. The barristers are sure of Chaos when the sanctity of Benchers is in question. What utter Chaos would be promised to us could any one with impunity contemn the majesty of the House of Commons! But of all these Chaoses there can be no Chaos equal to that which in the mind of a zealous Oxford-bred constitutional country parson must attend that annihilation of his special condition which will be produced by the disestablishment of the Church. Of all good fellows he is the best good fellow. He is genial, hospitable, well-educated, and always has either a pretty wife or pretty daughters. But he has so extreme a belief in himself that he cannot endure to be told that absolute Chaos will not come at once if he be disturbed. And now disturbances,--ay, and utter dislocation and ruin were to come from the hands of a friend! Was it wonderful that parsons should be seen about Westminster in flocks with _"Et tu, Brute"_ written on their faces as plainly as the law on the brows of a Pharisee? The Speaker had been harassed for orders. The powers and prowess of every individual member had been put to the test. The galleries were crowded. Ladies' places had been ballotted for with desperate enthusiasm, in spite of the sarcasm against the House which Madame Goesler had expressed. Two royal princes and a royal duke were accommodated within the House in an irregular manner. Peers swarmed in the passages, and were too happy to find standing room. Bishops jostled against lay barons with no other preference than that afforded to them by their broader shoulders. Men, and especially clergymen, came to the galleries loaded with sandwiches and flasks, prepared to hear all there was to be heard should the debate last from 4 P.M. to the same hour on the following morning. At two in the afternoon the entrances to the House were barred, and men of all ranks,--deans, prebends, peers' sons, and baronets,--stood there patiently waiting till some powerful nobleman should let them through. The very ventilating chambers under the House were filled with courteous listeners, who had all pledged themselves that under no possible provocation would they even cough during the debate. A few minutes after four, in a House from which hardly more than a dozen members were absent, Mr. Daubeny took his seat with that air of affected indifference to things around him which is peculiar to him. He entered slowly, amidst cheers from his side of the House, which no doubt were loud in proportion to the dismay of the cheerers as to the matter in hand. Gentlemen lacking substantial sympathy with their leader found it to be comfortable to deceive themselves, and raise their hearts at the same time by the easy enthusiasm of noise. Mr. Daubeny having sat down and covered his head just raised his hat from his brows, and then tried to look as though he were no more than any other gentleman present. But the peculiar consciousness of the man displayed itself even in his constrained absence of motion. You could see that he felt himself to be the beheld of all beholders, and that he enjoyed the position,--with some slight inward trepidation lest the effort to be made should not equal the greatness of the occasion. Immediately after him Mr. Gresham bustled up the centre of the House amidst a roar of good-humoured welcome. We have had many Ministers who have been personally dearer to their individual adherents in the House than the present leader of the Opposition and late Premier, but none, perhaps, who has been more generally respected by his party for earnestness and sincerity. On the present occasion there was a fierceness, almost a ferocity, in his very countenance, to the fire of which friends and enemies were equally anxious to add fuel,--the friends in order that so might these recreant Tories be more thoroughly annihilated, and the enemies, that their enemy's indiscretion might act back upon himself to his confusion. For, indeed, it never could be denied that as a Prime Minister Mr. Gresham could be very indiscreet. A certain small amount of ordinary business was done, to the disgust of expectant strangers, which was as trivial as possible in its nature,--so arranged, apparently, that the importance of what was to follow might be enhanced by the force of contrast. And, to make the dismay of the novice stranger more thorough, questions were asked and answers were given in so low a voice, and Mr. Speaker uttered a word or two in so quick and shambling a fashion, that he, the novice stranger, began to fear that no word of the debate would reach him up there in his crowded back seat. All this, however, occupied but a few minutes, and at twenty minutes past four Mr. Daubeny was on his legs. Then the novice stranger found that, though he could not see Mr. Daubeny without the aid of an opera glass, he could hear every word that fell from his lips. Mr. Daubeny began by regretting the hardness of his position, in that he must, with what thoroughness he might be able to achieve, apply himself to two great subjects, whereas the right honourable gentleman opposite had already declared, with all the formality which could be made to attach itself to a combined meeting of peers and commoners, that he would confine himself strictly to one. The subject selected by the right honourable gentleman opposite on the present occasion was not the question of Church Reform. The right honourable gentleman had pledged himself with an almost sacred enthusiasm to ignore that subject altogether. No doubt it was the question before the House, and he, himself,--the present speaker,--must unfortunately discuss it at some length. The right honourable gentleman opposite would not, on this great occasion, trouble himself with anything of so little moment. And it might be presumed that the political followers of the right honourable gentleman would be equally reticent, as they were understood to have accepted his tactics without a dissentient voice. He, Mr. Daubeny, was the last man in England to deny the importance of the question which the right honourable gentleman would select for discussions in preference to that of the condition of the Church. That question was a very simple one, and might be put to the House in a very few words. Coming from the mouth of the right honourable gentleman, the proposition would probably be made in this form:--"That this House does think that I ought to be Prime Minister now, and as long as I may possess a seat in this House." It was impossible to deny the importance of that question; but perhaps he, Mr. Daubeny, might be justified in demurring to the preference given to it over every other matter, let that matter be of what importance it might be to the material welfare of the country. He made his point well; but he made it too often. And an attack of that kind, personal and savage in its nature, loses its effect when it is evident that the words have been prepared. A good deal may be done in dispute by calling a man an ass or a knave,--but the resolve to use the words should have been made only at the moment, and they should come hot from the heart. There was much neatness and some acuteness in Mr. Daubeny's satire, but there was no heat, and it was prolix. It had, however, the effect of irritating Mr. Gresham,--as was evident from the manner in which he moved his hat and shuffled his feet. A man destined to sit conspicuously on our Treasury Bench, or on the seat opposite to it, should ask the gods for a thick skin as a first gift. The need of this in our national assembly is greater than elsewhere, because the differences between the men opposed to each other are smaller. When two foes meet together in the same Chamber, one of whom advocates the personal government of an individual ruler, and the other that form of State, which has come to be called a Red Republic, they deal, no doubt, weighty blows of oratory at each other, but blows which never hurt at the moment. They may cut each other's throats if they can find an opportunity; but they do not bite each other like dogs over a bone. But when opponents are almost in accord, as is always the case with our parliamentary gladiators, they are ever striving to give maddening little wounds through the joints of the harness. What is there with us to create the divergence necessary for debate but the pride of personal skill in the encounter? Who desires among us to put down the Queen, or to repudiate the National Debt, or to destroy religious worship, or even to disturb the ranks of society? When some small measure of reform has thoroughly recommended itself to the country,--so thoroughly that all men know that the country will have it,--then the question arises whether its details shall be arranged by the political party which calls itself Liberal,--or by that which is termed Conservative. The men are so near to each other in all their convictions and theories of life that nothing is left to them but personal competition for the doing of the thing that is to be done. It is the same in religion. The apostle of Christianity and the infidel can meet without a chance of a quarrel; but it is never safe to bring together two men who differ about a saint or a surplice. Mr. Daubeny, having thus attacked and wounded his enemy, rushed boldly into the question of Church Reform, taking no little pride to himself and to his party that so great a blessing should be bestowed upon the country from so unexpected a source. "See what we Conservatives can do. In fact we will conserve nothing when we find that you do not desire to have it conserved any longer. 'Quod minime reris Grai pandetur ab urbe.'" It was exactly the reverse of the complaint which Mr. Gresham was about to make. On the subject of the Church itself he was rather misty but very profound. He went into the question of very early Churches indeed, and spoke of the misappropriation of endowments in the time of Eli. The establishment of the Levites had been no doubt complete; but changes had been effected as circumstances required. He was presumed to have alluded to the order of Melchisedek, but he abstained from any mention of the name. He roamed very wide, and gave many of his hearers an idea that his erudition had carried him into regions in which it was impossible to follow him. The gist of his argument was to show that audacity in Reform was the very backbone of Conservatism. By a clearly pronounced disunion of Church and State the theocracy of Thomas Becket would be restored, and the people of England would soon again become the faithful flocks of faithful shepherds. By taking away the endowments from the parishes, and giving them back in some complicated way to the country, the parishes would be better able than ever to support their clergymen. Bishops would be bishops indeed, when they were no longer the creatures of a Minister's breath. As to the deans, not seeing a clear way to satisfy aspirants for future vacancies in the deaneries, he became more than usually vague, but seemed to imply that the Bill which was now with the leave of the House to be read a second time, contained no clause forbidding the appointment of deans, though the special stipend of the office must be matter of consideration with the new Church Synod. The details of this part of his speech were felt to be dull by the strangers. As long as he would abuse Mr. Gresham, men could listen with pleasure; and could keep their attention fixed while he referred to the general Conservatism of the party which he had the honour of leading. There was a raciness in the promise of so much Church destruction from the chosen leader of the Church party, which was assisted by a conviction in the minds of most men that it was impossible for unfortunate Conservatives to refuse to follow this leader, let him lead where he might. There was a gratification in feeling that the country party was bound to follow, even should he take them into the very bowels of a mountain, as the pied piper did the children of Hamelin;--and this made listening pleasant. But when Mr. Daubeny stated the effect of his different clauses, explaining what was to be taken and what left,--with a fervent assurance that what was to be left would, under the altered circumstances, go much further than the whole had gone before,--then the audience became weary, and began to think that it was time that some other gentleman should be upon his legs. But at the end of the Minister's speech there was another touch of invective which went far to redeem him. He returned to that personal question to which his adversary had undertaken to confine himself, and expressed a holy horror at the political doctrine which was implied. He, during a prolonged Parliamentary experience, had encountered much factious opposition. He would even acknowledge that he had seen it exercised on both sides of the House, though he had always striven to keep himself free from its baneful influence. But never till now had he known a statesman proclaim his intention of depending upon faction, and upon faction alone, for the result which he desired to achieve. Let the right honourable gentleman raise a contest on either the principles or the details of the measure, and he would be quite content to abide the decision of the House; but he should regard such a raid as that threatened against him and his friends by the right honourable gentleman as unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. He felt sure that an opposition so based, and so maintained, even if it be enabled by the heated feelings of the moment to obtain an unfortunate success in the House, would not be encouraged by the sympathy and support of the country at large. By these last words he was understood to signify that should he be beaten on the second reading, not in reference to the merits of the Bill, but simply on the issue as proposed by Mr. Gresham, he would again dissolve the House before he would resign. Now it was very well understood that there were Liberal members in the House who would prefer even the success of Mr. Daubeny to a speedy reappearance before their constituents. Mr. Daubeny spoke till nearly eight, and it was surmised at the time that he had craftily arranged his oratory so as to embarrass his opponent. The House had met at four, and was to sit continuously till it was adjourned for the night. When this is the case, gentlemen who speak about eight o'clock are too frequently obliged to address themselves to empty benches. On the present occasion it was Mr. Gresham's intention to follow his opponent at once, instead of waiting, as is usual with a leader of his party, to the close of the debate. It was understood that Mr. Gresham would follow Mr. Daubeny, with the object of making a distinct charge against Ministers, so that the vote on this second reading of the Church Bill might in truth be a vote of want of confidence. But to commence his speech at eight o'clock when the House was hungry and uneasy, would be a trial. Had Mr. Daubeny closed an hour sooner there would, with a little stretching of the favoured hours, have been time enough. Members would not have objected to postpone their dinner till half-past eight, or perhaps nine, when their favourite orator was on his legs. But with Mr. Gresham beginning a great speech at eight, dinner would altogether become doubtful, and the disaster might be serious. It was not probable that Mr. Daubeny had even among his friends proclaimed any such strategy; but it was thought by the political speculators of the day that such an idea had been present to his mind. But Mr. Gresham was not to be turned from his purpose. He waited for a few moments, and then rose and addressed the Speaker. A few members left the House;--gentlemen, doubtless, whose constitutions, weakened by previous service, could not endure prolonged fasting. Some who had nearly reached the door returned to their seats, mindful of Messrs. Roby and Ratler. But for the bulk of those assembled the interest of the moment was greater even than the love of dinner. Some of the peers departed, and it was observed that a bishop or two left the House; but among the strangers in the gallery, hardly a foot of space was gained. He who gave up his seat then, gave it up for the night. Mr. Gresham began with a calmness of tone which seemed almost to be affected, but which arose from a struggle on his own part to repress that superabundant energy of which he was only too conscious. But the calmness soon gave place to warmth, which heated itself into violence before he had been a quarter of an hour upon his legs. He soon became even ferocious in his invective, and said things so bitter that he had himself no conception of their bitterness. There was this difference between the two men,--that whereas Mr. Daubeny hit always as hard as he knew how to hit, having premeditated each blow, and weighed its results beforehand, having calculated his power even to the effect of a blow repeated on a wound already given, Mr. Gresham struck right and left and straightforward with a readiness engendered by practice, and in his fury might have murdered his antagonist before he was aware that he had drawn blood. He began by refusing absolutely to discuss the merits of the bill. The right honourable gentleman had prided himself on his generosity as a Greek. He would remind the right honourable gentleman that presents from Greeks had ever been considered dangerous. "It is their gifts, and only their gifts, that we fear," he said. The political gifts of the right honourable gentleman, extracted by him from his unwilling colleagues and followers, had always been more bitter to the taste than Dead Sea apples. That such gifts should not be bestowed on the country by unwilling hands, that reform should not come from those who themselves felt the necessity of no reform, he believed to be the wish not only of that House, but of the country at large. Would any gentleman on that bench, excepting the right honourable gentleman himself,--and he pointed to the crowded phalanx of the Government,--get up and declare that this measure of Church Reform, this severance of Church and State, was brought forward in consonance with his own long-cherished political conviction? He accused that party of being so bound to the chariot wheels of the right honourable gentleman, as to be unable to abide by their own convictions. And as to the right honourable gentleman himself, he would appeal to his followers opposite to say whether the right honourable gentleman was possessed of any one strong political conviction. He had been accused of being unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. If the House would allow him he would very shortly explain his idea of constitutional government as carried on in this country. It was based and built on majorities in that House, and supported solely by that power. There could be no constitutional government in this country that was not so maintained. Any other government must be both revolutionary and tyrannical. Any other government was a usurpation; and he would make bold to tell the right honourable gentleman that a Minister in this country who should recommend Her Majesty to trust herself to advisers not supported by a majority of the House of Commons, would plainly be guilty of usurping the powers of the State. He threw from him with disdain the charge which had been brought against himself of hankering after the sweets of office. He indulged and gloried in indulging the highest ambition of an English subject. But he gloried much more in the privileges and power of that House, within the walls of which was centred all that was salutary, all that was efficacious, all that was stable in the political constitution of his country. It had been his pride to have acted during nearly all his political life with that party which had commanded a majority, but he would defy his most bitter adversary, he would defy the right honourable gentleman himself, to point to any period of his career in which he had been unwilling to succumb to a majority when he himself had belonged to the minority. He himself would regard the vote on this occasion as a vote of want of confidence. He took the line he was now taking because he desired to bring the House to a decision on that question. He himself had not that confidence in the right honourable gentleman which would justify him in accepting a measure on so important a subject as the union or severance of Church and State from his hands. Should the majority of the House differ from him and support the second reading of the Bill, he would at once so far succumb as to give his best attention to the clauses of the bill, and endeavour with the assistance of those gentlemen who acted with him to make it suitable to the wants of the country by omissions and additions as the clauses should pass through Committee. But before doing that he would ask the House to decide with all its solemnity and all its weight whether it was willing to accept from the hands of the right honourable gentleman any measure of reform on a matter so important as this now before them. It was nearly ten when he sat down; and then the stomach of the House could stand it no longer, and an adjournment at once took place. On the next morning it was generally considered that Mr. Daubeny had been too long and Mr. Gresham too passionate. There were some who declared that Mr. Gresham had never been finer than when he described the privileges of the House of Commons; and others who thought that Mr. Daubeny's lucidity had been marvellous; but in this case, as in most others, the speeches of the day were generally thought to have been very inferior to the great efforts of the past. CHAPTER XXXIV. THE UNIVERSE. Before the House met again the quidnuncs about the clubs, on both sides of the question, had determined that Mr. Gresham's speech, whether good or not as an effort of oratory, would serve its intended purpose. He would be backed by a majority of votes, and it might have been very doubtful whether such would have been the case had he attempted to throw out the Bill on its merits. Mr. Ratler, by the time that prayers had been read, had become almost certain of success. There were very few Liberals in the House who were not anxious to declare by their votes that they had no confidence in Mr. Daubeny. Mr. Turnbull, the great Radical, and, perhaps, some two dozen with him, would support the second reading, declaring that they could not reconcile it with their consciences to record a vote in favour of a union of Church and State. On all such occasions as the present Mr. Turnbull was sure to make himself disagreeable to those who sat near to him in the House. He was a man who thought that so much was demanded of him in order that his independence might

leader

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

you mean to say that the morals of your party will be offended?" said Madame Goesler, almost laughing. "Lord Fawn, you know, is very particular. In sober earnest one cannot tell how these things operate; but they do operate gradually. One's friends are sometimes very glad of an excuse for not befriending one." "Lady Laura is coming home?" "Yes." "That will put an end to it." "There is nothing to put an end to except the foul-mouthed malice of a lying newspaper. Nobody believes anything against Lady Laura." "I'm not so sure of that. I believe nothing against her." "I'm sure you do not, Madame Goesler. Nor do I think that anybody does. It is too absurd for belief from beginning to end. Good-bye. Perhaps I shall see you when the debate is over." "Of course you will. Good-bye, and success to your oratory." Then Madame Goesler resolved that she would say a few judicious words to her friend, the Duchess, respecting Phineas Finn. CHAPTER XXXIII. THE TWO GLADIATORS. The great debate was commenced with all the solemnities which are customary on such occasions, and which make men think for the day that no moment of greater excitement has ever blessed or cursed the country. Upon the present occasion London was full of clergymen. The specially clerical clubs,--the Oxford and Cambridge, the Old University, and the Athenaeum,--were black with them. The bishops and deans, as usual, were pleasant in their manner and happy-looking, in spite of adverse circumstances. When one sees a bishop in the hours of the distress of the Church, one always thinks of the just and firm man who will stand fearless while the ruins of the world are falling about his ears. But the parsons from the country were a sorry sight to see. They were in earnest with all their hearts, and did believe,--not that the crack of doom was coming, which they could have borne with equanimity if convinced that their influence would last to the end,--but that the Evil One was to be made welcome upon the earth by Act of Parliament. It is out of nature that any man should think it good that his own order should be repressed, curtailed, and deprived of its power. If we go among cab-drivers or letter-carriers, among butlers or gamekeepers, among tailors or butchers, among farmers or graziers, among doctors or attorneys, we shall find in each set of men a conviction that the welfare of the community depends upon the firmness with which they,--especially they,--hold their own. This is so manifestly true with the Bar that no barrister in practice scruples to avow that barristers in practice are the salt of the earth. The personal confidence of a judge in his own position is beautiful, being salutary to the country, though not unfrequently damaging to the character of the man. But if this be so with men who are conscious of no higher influence than that exercised over the bodies and minds of their fellow creatures, how much stronger must be the feeling when the influence affects the soul! To the outsider, or layman, who simply uses a cab, or receives a letter, or goes to law, or has to be tried, these pretensions are ridiculous or annoying, according to the ascendancy of the pretender at the moment. But as the clerical pretensions are more exacting than all others, being put forward with an assertion that no answer is possible without breach of duty and sin, so are they more galling. The fight has been going on since the idea of a mitre first entered the heart of a priest,--since dominion in this world has found itself capable of sustentation by the exercise of fear as to the world to come. We do believe,--the majority among us does so,--that if we live and die in sin we shall after some fashion come to great punishment, and we believe also that by having pastors among us who shall be men of God, we may best aid ourselves and our children in avoiding this bitter end. But then the pastors and men of God can only be human,--cannot be altogether men of God; and so they have oppressed us, and burned us, and tortured us, and hence come to love palaces, and fine linen, and purple, and, alas, sometimes, mere luxury and idleness. The torturing and the burning, as also to speak truth the luxury and the idleness, have, among us, been already conquered, but the idea of ascendancy remains. What is a thoughtful man to do who acknowledges the danger of his soul, but cannot swallow his parson whole simply because he has been sent to him from some source in which he has no special confidence, perhaps by some distant lord, perhaps by a Lord Chancellor whose political friend has had a son with a tutor? What is he to do when, in spite of some fine linen and purple left among us, the provision for the man of God in his parish or district is so poor that no man of God fitted to teach him will come and take it? In no spirit of animosity to religion he begins to tell himself that Church and State together was a monkish combination, fit perhaps for monkish days, but no longer having fitness, and not much longer capable of existence in this country. But to the parson himself,--to the honest, hardworking, conscientious priest who does in his heart of hearts believe that no diminution in the general influence of his order can be made without ruin to the souls of men,--this opinion, when it becomes dominant, is as though the world were in truth breaking to pieces over his head. The world has been broken to pieces in the same way often;--but extreme Chaos does not come. The cabman and the letter-carrier always expect that Chaos will very nearly come when they are disturbed. The barristers are sure of Chaos when the sanctity of Benchers is in question. What utter Chaos would be promised to us could any one with impunity contemn the majesty of the House of Commons! But of all these Chaoses there can be no Chaos equal to that which in the mind of a zealous Oxford-bred constitutional country parson must attend that annihilation of his special condition which will be produced by the disestablishment of the Church. Of all good fellows he is the best good fellow. He is genial, hospitable, well-educated, and always has either a pretty wife or pretty daughters. But he has so extreme a belief in himself that he cannot endure to be told that absolute Chaos will not come at once if he be disturbed. And now disturbances,--ay, and utter dislocation and ruin were to come from the hands of a friend! Was it wonderful that parsons should be seen about Westminster in flocks with _"Et tu, Brute"_ written on their faces as plainly as the law on the brows of a Pharisee? The Speaker had been harassed for orders. The powers and prowess of every individual member had been put to the test. The galleries were crowded. Ladies' places had been ballotted for with desperate enthusiasm, in spite of the sarcasm against the House which Madame Goesler had expressed. Two royal princes and a royal duke were accommodated within the House in an irregular manner. Peers swarmed in the passages, and were too happy to find standing room. Bishops jostled against lay barons with no other preference than that afforded to them by their broader shoulders. Men, and especially clergymen, came to the galleries loaded with sandwiches and flasks, prepared to hear all there was to be heard should the debate last from 4 P.M. to the same hour on the following morning. At two in the afternoon the entrances to the House were barred, and men of all ranks,--deans, prebends, peers' sons, and baronets,--stood there patiently waiting till some powerful nobleman should let them through. The very ventilating chambers under the House were filled with courteous listeners, who had all pledged themselves that under no possible provocation would they even cough during the debate. A few minutes after four, in a House from which hardly more than a dozen members were absent, Mr. Daubeny took his seat with that air of affected indifference to things around him which is peculiar to him. He entered slowly, amidst cheers from his side of the House, which no doubt were loud in proportion to the dismay of the cheerers as to the matter in hand. Gentlemen lacking substantial sympathy with their leader found it to be comfortable to deceive themselves, and raise their hearts at the same time by the easy enthusiasm of noise. Mr. Daubeny having sat down and covered his head just raised his hat from his brows, and then tried to look as though he were no more than any other gentleman present. But the peculiar consciousness of the man displayed itself even in his constrained absence of motion. You could see that he felt himself to be the beheld of all beholders, and that he enjoyed the position,--with some slight inward trepidation lest the effort to be made should not equal the greatness of the occasion. Immediately after him Mr. Gresham bustled up the centre of the House amidst a roar of good-humoured welcome. We have had many Ministers who have been personally dearer to their individual adherents in the House than the present leader of the Opposition and late Premier, but none, perhaps, who has been more generally respected by his party for earnestness and sincerity. On the present occasion there was a fierceness, almost a ferocity, in his very countenance, to the fire of which friends and enemies were equally anxious to add fuel,--the friends in order that so might these recreant Tories be more thoroughly annihilated, and the enemies, that their enemy's indiscretion might act back upon himself to his confusion. For, indeed, it never could be denied that as a Prime Minister Mr. Gresham could be very indiscreet. A certain small amount of ordinary business was done, to the disgust of expectant strangers, which was as trivial as possible in its nature,--so arranged, apparently, that the importance of what was to follow might be enhanced by the force of contrast. And, to make the dismay of the novice stranger more thorough, questions were asked and answers were given in so low a voice, and Mr. Speaker uttered a word or two in so quick and shambling a fashion, that he, the novice stranger, began to fear that no word of the debate would reach him up there in his crowded back seat. All this, however, occupied but a few minutes, and at twenty minutes past four Mr. Daubeny was on his legs. Then the novice stranger found that, though he could not see Mr. Daubeny without the aid of an opera glass, he could hear every word that fell from his lips. Mr. Daubeny began by regretting the hardness of his position, in that he must, with what thoroughness he might be able to achieve, apply himself to two great subjects, whereas the right honourable gentleman opposite had already declared, with all the formality which could be made to attach itself to a combined meeting of peers and commoners, that he would confine himself strictly to one. The subject selected by the right honourable gentleman opposite on the present occasion was not the question of Church Reform. The right honourable gentleman had pledged himself with an almost sacred enthusiasm to ignore that subject altogether. No doubt it was the question before the House, and he, himself,--the present speaker,--must unfortunately discuss it at some length. The right honourable gentleman opposite would not, on this great occasion, trouble himself with anything of so little moment. And it might be presumed that the political followers of the right honourable gentleman would be equally reticent, as they were understood to have accepted his tactics without a dissentient voice. He, Mr. Daubeny, was the last man in England to deny the importance of the question which the right honourable gentleman would select for discussions in preference to that of the condition of the Church. That question was a very simple one, and might be put to the House in a very few words. Coming from the mouth of the right honourable gentleman, the proposition would probably be made in this form:--"That this House does think that I ought to be Prime Minister now, and as long as I may possess a seat in this House." It was impossible to deny the importance of that question; but perhaps he, Mr. Daubeny, might be justified in demurring to the preference given to it over every other matter, let that matter be of what importance it might be to the material welfare of the country. He made his point well; but he made it too often. And an attack of that kind, personal and savage in its nature, loses its effect when it is evident that the words have been prepared. A good deal may be done in dispute by calling a man an ass or a knave,--but the resolve to use the words should have been made only at the moment, and they should come hot from the heart. There was much neatness and some acuteness in Mr. Daubeny's satire, but there was no heat, and it was prolix. It had, however, the effect of irritating Mr. Gresham,--as was evident from the manner in which he moved his hat and shuffled his feet. A man destined to sit conspicuously on our Treasury Bench, or on the seat opposite to it, should ask the gods for a thick skin as a first gift. The need of this in our national assembly is greater than elsewhere, because the differences between the men opposed to each other are smaller. When two foes meet together in the same Chamber, one of whom advocates the personal government of an individual ruler, and the other that form of State, which has come to be called a Red Republic, they deal, no doubt, weighty blows of oratory at each other, but blows which never hurt at the moment. They may cut each other's throats if they can find an opportunity; but they do not bite each other like dogs over a bone. But when opponents are almost in accord, as is always the case with our parliamentary gladiators, they are ever striving to give maddening little wounds through the joints of the harness. What is there with us to create the divergence necessary for debate but the pride of personal skill in the encounter? Who desires among us to put down the Queen, or to repudiate the National Debt, or to destroy religious worship, or even to disturb the ranks of society? When some small measure of reform has thoroughly recommended itself to the country,--so thoroughly that all men know that the country will have it,--then the question arises whether its details shall be arranged by the political party which calls itself Liberal,--or by that which is termed Conservative. The men are so near to each other in all their convictions and theories of life that nothing is left to them but personal competition for the doing of the thing that is to be done. It is the same in religion. The apostle of Christianity and the infidel can meet without a chance of a quarrel; but it is never safe to bring together two men who differ about a saint or a surplice. Mr. Daubeny, having thus attacked and wounded his enemy, rushed boldly into the question of Church Reform, taking no little pride to himself and to his party that so great a blessing should be bestowed upon the country from so unexpected a source. "See what we Conservatives can do. In fact we will conserve nothing when we find that you do not desire to have it conserved any longer. 'Quod minime reris Grai pandetur ab urbe.'" It was exactly the reverse of the complaint which Mr. Gresham was about to make. On the subject of the Church itself he was rather misty but very profound. He went into the question of very early Churches indeed, and spoke of the misappropriation of endowments in the time of Eli. The establishment of the Levites had been no doubt complete; but changes had been effected as circumstances required. He was presumed to have alluded to the order of Melchisedek, but he abstained from any mention of the name. He roamed very wide, and gave many of his hearers an idea that his erudition had carried him into regions in which it was impossible to follow him. The gist of his argument was to show that audacity in Reform was the very backbone of Conservatism. By a clearly pronounced disunion of Church and State the theocracy of Thomas Becket would be restored, and the people of England would soon again become the faithful flocks of faithful shepherds. By taking away the endowments from the parishes, and giving them back in some complicated way to the country, the parishes would be better able than ever to support their clergymen. Bishops would be bishops indeed, when they were no longer the creatures of a Minister's breath. As to the deans, not seeing a clear way to satisfy aspirants for future vacancies in the deaneries, he became more than usually vague, but seemed to imply that the Bill which was now with the leave of the House to be read a second time, contained no clause forbidding the appointment of deans, though the special stipend of the office must be matter of consideration with the new Church Synod. The details of this part of his speech were felt to be dull by the strangers. As long as he would abuse Mr. Gresham, men could listen with pleasure; and could keep their attention fixed while he referred to the general Conservatism of the party which he had the honour of leading. There was a raciness in the promise of so much Church destruction from the chosen leader of the Church party, which was assisted by a conviction in the minds of most men that it was impossible for unfortunate Conservatives to refuse to follow this leader, let him lead where he might. There was a gratification in feeling that the country party was bound to follow, even should he take them into the very bowels of a mountain, as the pied piper did the children of Hamelin;--and this made listening pleasant. But when Mr. Daubeny stated the effect of his different clauses, explaining what was to be taken and what left,--with a fervent assurance that what was to be left would, under the altered circumstances, go much further than the whole had gone before,--then the audience became weary, and began to think that it was time that some other gentleman should be upon his legs. But at the end of the Minister's speech there was another touch of invective which went far to redeem him. He returned to that personal question to which his adversary had undertaken to confine himself, and expressed a holy horror at the political doctrine which was implied. He, during a prolonged Parliamentary experience, had encountered much factious opposition. He would even acknowledge that he had seen it exercised on both sides of the House, though he had always striven to keep himself free from its baneful influence. But never till now had he known a statesman proclaim his intention of depending upon faction, and upon faction alone, for the result which he desired to achieve. Let the right honourable gentleman raise a contest on either the principles or the details of the measure, and he would be quite content to abide the decision of the House; but he should regard such a raid as that threatened against him and his friends by the right honourable gentleman as unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. He felt sure that an opposition so based, and so maintained, even if it be enabled by the heated feelings of the moment to obtain an unfortunate success in the House, would not be encouraged by the sympathy and support of the country at large. By these last words he was understood to signify that should he be beaten on the second reading, not in reference to the merits of the Bill, but simply on the issue as proposed by Mr. Gresham, he would again dissolve the House before he would resign. Now it was very well understood that there were Liberal members in the House who would prefer even the success of Mr. Daubeny to a speedy reappearance before their constituents. Mr. Daubeny spoke till nearly eight, and it was surmised at the time that he had craftily arranged his oratory so as to embarrass his opponent. The House had met at four, and was to sit continuously till it was adjourned for the night. When this is the case, gentlemen who speak about eight o'clock are too frequently obliged to address themselves to empty benches. On the present occasion it was Mr. Gresham's intention to follow his opponent at once, instead of waiting, as is usual with a leader of his party, to the close of the debate. It was understood that Mr. Gresham would follow Mr. Daubeny, with the object of making a distinct charge against Ministers, so that the vote on this second reading of the Church Bill might in truth be a vote of want of confidence. But to commence his speech at eight o'clock when the House was hungry and uneasy, would be a trial. Had Mr. Daubeny closed an hour sooner there would, with a little stretching of the favoured hours, have been time enough. Members would not have objected to postpone their dinner till half-past eight, or perhaps nine, when their favourite orator was on his legs. But with Mr. Gresham beginning a great speech at eight, dinner would altogether become doubtful, and the disaster might be serious. It was not probable that Mr. Daubeny had even among his friends proclaimed any such strategy; but it was thought by the political speculators of the day that such an idea had been present to his mind. But Mr. Gresham was not to be turned from his purpose. He waited for a few moments, and then rose and addressed the Speaker. A few members left the House;--gentlemen, doubtless, whose constitutions, weakened by previous service, could not endure prolonged fasting. Some who had nearly reached the door returned to their seats, mindful of Messrs. Roby and Ratler. But for the bulk of those assembled the interest of the moment was greater even than the love of dinner. Some of the peers departed, and it was observed that a bishop or two left the House; but among the strangers in the gallery, hardly a foot of space was gained. He who gave up his seat then, gave it up for the night. Mr. Gresham began with a calmness of tone which seemed almost to be affected, but which arose from a struggle on his own part to repress that superabundant energy of which he was only too conscious. But the calmness soon gave place to warmth, which heated itself into violence before he had been a quarter of an hour upon his legs. He soon became even ferocious in his invective, and said things so bitter that he had himself no conception of their bitterness. There was this difference between the two men,--that whereas Mr. Daubeny hit always as hard as he knew how to hit, having premeditated each blow, and weighed its results beforehand, having calculated his power even to the effect of a blow repeated on a wound already given, Mr. Gresham struck right and left and straightforward with a readiness engendered by practice, and in his fury might have murdered his antagonist before he was aware that he had drawn blood. He began by refusing absolutely to discuss the merits of the bill. The right honourable gentleman had prided himself on his generosity as a Greek. He would remind the right honourable gentleman that presents from Greeks had ever been considered dangerous. "It is their gifts, and only their gifts, that we fear," he said. The political gifts of the right honourable gentleman, extracted by him from his unwilling colleagues and followers, had always been more bitter to the taste than Dead Sea apples. That such gifts should not be bestowed on the country by unwilling hands, that reform should not come from those who themselves felt the necessity of no reform, he believed to be the wish not only of that House, but of the country at large. Would any gentleman on that bench, excepting the right honourable gentleman himself,--and he pointed to the crowded phalanx of the Government,--get up and declare that this measure of Church Reform, this severance of Church and State, was brought forward in consonance with his own long-cherished political conviction? He accused that party of being so bound to the chariot wheels of the right honourable gentleman, as to be unable to abide by their own convictions. And as to the right honourable gentleman himself, he would appeal to his followers opposite to say whether the right honourable gentleman was possessed of any one strong political conviction. He had been accused of being unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. If the House would allow him he would very shortly explain his idea of constitutional government as carried on in this country. It was based and built on majorities in that House, and supported solely by that power. There could be no constitutional government in this country that was not so maintained. Any other government must be both revolutionary and tyrannical. Any other government was a usurpation; and he would make bold to tell the right honourable gentleman that a Minister in this country who should recommend Her Majesty to trust herself to advisers not supported by a majority of the House of Commons, would plainly be guilty of usurping the powers of the State. He threw from him with disdain the charge which had been brought against himself of hankering after the sweets of office. He indulged and gloried in indulging the highest ambition of an English subject. But he gloried much more in the privileges and power of that House, within the walls of which was centred all that was salutary, all that was efficacious, all that was stable in the political constitution of his country. It had been his pride to have acted during nearly all his political life with that party which had commanded a majority, but he would defy his most bitter adversary, he would defy the right honourable gentleman himself, to point to any period of his career in which he had been unwilling to succumb to a majority when he himself had belonged to the minority. He himself would regard the vote on this occasion as a vote of want of confidence. He took the line he was now taking because he desired to bring the House to a decision on that question. He himself had not that confidence in the right honourable gentleman which would justify him in accepting a measure on so important a subject as the union or severance of Church and State from his hands. Should the majority of the House differ from him and support the second reading of the Bill, he would at once so far succumb as to give his best attention to the clauses of the bill, and endeavour with the assistance of those gentlemen who acted with him to make it suitable to the wants of the country by omissions and additions as the clauses should pass through Committee. But before doing that he would ask the House to decide with all its solemnity and all its weight whether it was willing to accept from the hands of the right honourable gentleman any measure of reform on a matter so important as this now before them. It was nearly ten when he sat down; and then the stomach of the House could stand it no longer, and an adjournment at once took place. On the next morning it was generally considered that Mr. Daubeny had been too long and Mr. Gresham too passionate. There were some who declared that Mr. Gresham had never been finer than when he described the privileges of the House of Commons; and others who thought that Mr. Daubeny's lucidity had been marvellous; but in this case, as in most others, the speeches of the day were generally thought to have been very inferior to the great efforts of the past. CHAPTER XXXIV. THE UNIVERSE. Before the House met again the quidnuncs about the clubs, on both sides of the question, had determined that Mr. Gresham's speech, whether good or not as an effort of oratory, would serve its intended purpose. He would be backed by a majority of votes, and it might have been very doubtful whether such would have been the case had he attempted to throw out the Bill on its merits. Mr. Ratler, by the time that prayers had been read, had become almost certain of success. There were very few Liberals in the House who were not anxious to declare by their votes that they had no confidence in Mr. Daubeny. Mr. Turnbull, the great Radical, and, perhaps, some two dozen with him, would support the second reading, declaring that they could not reconcile it with their consciences to record a vote in favour of a union of Church and State. On all such occasions as the present Mr. Turnbull was sure to make himself disagreeable to those who sat near to him in the House. He was a man who thought that so much was demanded of him in order that his independence might

according

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

you mean to say that the morals of your party will be offended?" said Madame Goesler, almost laughing. "Lord Fawn, you know, is very particular. In sober earnest one cannot tell how these things operate; but they do operate gradually. One's friends are sometimes very glad of an excuse for not befriending one." "Lady Laura is coming home?" "Yes." "That will put an end to it." "There is nothing to put an end to except the foul-mouthed malice of a lying newspaper. Nobody believes anything against Lady Laura." "I'm not so sure of that. I believe nothing against her." "I'm sure you do not, Madame Goesler. Nor do I think that anybody does. It is too absurd for belief from beginning to end. Good-bye. Perhaps I shall see you when the debate is over." "Of course you will. Good-bye, and success to your oratory." Then Madame Goesler resolved that she would say a few judicious words to her friend, the Duchess, respecting Phineas Finn. CHAPTER XXXIII. THE TWO GLADIATORS. The great debate was commenced with all the solemnities which are customary on such occasions, and which make men think for the day that no moment of greater excitement has ever blessed or cursed the country. Upon the present occasion London was full of clergymen. The specially clerical clubs,--the Oxford and Cambridge, the Old University, and the Athenaeum,--were black with them. The bishops and deans, as usual, were pleasant in their manner and happy-looking, in spite of adverse circumstances. When one sees a bishop in the hours of the distress of the Church, one always thinks of the just and firm man who will stand fearless while the ruins of the world are falling about his ears. But the parsons from the country were a sorry sight to see. They were in earnest with all their hearts, and did believe,--not that the crack of doom was coming, which they could have borne with equanimity if convinced that their influence would last to the end,--but that the Evil One was to be made welcome upon the earth by Act of Parliament. It is out of nature that any man should think it good that his own order should be repressed, curtailed, and deprived of its power. If we go among cab-drivers or letter-carriers, among butlers or gamekeepers, among tailors or butchers, among farmers or graziers, among doctors or attorneys, we shall find in each set of men a conviction that the welfare of the community depends upon the firmness with which they,--especially they,--hold their own. This is so manifestly true with the Bar that no barrister in practice scruples to avow that barristers in practice are the salt of the earth. The personal confidence of a judge in his own position is beautiful, being salutary to the country, though not unfrequently damaging to the character of the man. But if this be so with men who are conscious of no higher influence than that exercised over the bodies and minds of their fellow creatures, how much stronger must be the feeling when the influence affects the soul! To the outsider, or layman, who simply uses a cab, or receives a letter, or goes to law, or has to be tried, these pretensions are ridiculous or annoying, according to the ascendancy of the pretender at the moment. But as the clerical pretensions are more exacting than all others, being put forward with an assertion that no answer is possible without breach of duty and sin, so are they more galling. The fight has been going on since the idea of a mitre first entered the heart of a priest,--since dominion in this world has found itself capable of sustentation by the exercise of fear as to the world to come. We do believe,--the majority among us does so,--that if we live and die in sin we shall after some fashion come to great punishment, and we believe also that by having pastors among us who shall be men of God, we may best aid ourselves and our children in avoiding this bitter end. But then the pastors and men of God can only be human,--cannot be altogether men of God; and so they have oppressed us, and burned us, and tortured us, and hence come to love palaces, and fine linen, and purple, and, alas, sometimes, mere luxury and idleness. The torturing and the burning, as also to speak truth the luxury and the idleness, have, among us, been already conquered, but the idea of ascendancy remains. What is a thoughtful man to do who acknowledges the danger of his soul, but cannot swallow his parson whole simply because he has been sent to him from some source in which he has no special confidence, perhaps by some distant lord, perhaps by a Lord Chancellor whose political friend has had a son with a tutor? What is he to do when, in spite of some fine linen and purple left among us, the provision for the man of God in his parish or district is so poor that no man of God fitted to teach him will come and take it? In no spirit of animosity to religion he begins to tell himself that Church and State together was a monkish combination, fit perhaps for monkish days, but no longer having fitness, and not much longer capable of existence in this country. But to the parson himself,--to the honest, hardworking, conscientious priest who does in his heart of hearts believe that no diminution in the general influence of his order can be made without ruin to the souls of men,--this opinion, when it becomes dominant, is as though the world were in truth breaking to pieces over his head. The world has been broken to pieces in the same way often;--but extreme Chaos does not come. The cabman and the letter-carrier always expect that Chaos will very nearly come when they are disturbed. The barristers are sure of Chaos when the sanctity of Benchers is in question. What utter Chaos would be promised to us could any one with impunity contemn the majesty of the House of Commons! But of all these Chaoses there can be no Chaos equal to that which in the mind of a zealous Oxford-bred constitutional country parson must attend that annihilation of his special condition which will be produced by the disestablishment of the Church. Of all good fellows he is the best good fellow. He is genial, hospitable, well-educated, and always has either a pretty wife or pretty daughters. But he has so extreme a belief in himself that he cannot endure to be told that absolute Chaos will not come at once if he be disturbed. And now disturbances,--ay, and utter dislocation and ruin were to come from the hands of a friend! Was it wonderful that parsons should be seen about Westminster in flocks with _"Et tu, Brute"_ written on their faces as plainly as the law on the brows of a Pharisee? The Speaker had been harassed for orders. The powers and prowess of every individual member had been put to the test. The galleries were crowded. Ladies' places had been ballotted for with desperate enthusiasm, in spite of the sarcasm against the House which Madame Goesler had expressed. Two royal princes and a royal duke were accommodated within the House in an irregular manner. Peers swarmed in the passages, and were too happy to find standing room. Bishops jostled against lay barons with no other preference than that afforded to them by their broader shoulders. Men, and especially clergymen, came to the galleries loaded with sandwiches and flasks, prepared to hear all there was to be heard should the debate last from 4 P.M. to the same hour on the following morning. At two in the afternoon the entrances to the House were barred, and men of all ranks,--deans, prebends, peers' sons, and baronets,--stood there patiently waiting till some powerful nobleman should let them through. The very ventilating chambers under the House were filled with courteous listeners, who had all pledged themselves that under no possible provocation would they even cough during the debate. A few minutes after four, in a House from which hardly more than a dozen members were absent, Mr. Daubeny took his seat with that air of affected indifference to things around him which is peculiar to him. He entered slowly, amidst cheers from his side of the House, which no doubt were loud in proportion to the dismay of the cheerers as to the matter in hand. Gentlemen lacking substantial sympathy with their leader found it to be comfortable to deceive themselves, and raise their hearts at the same time by the easy enthusiasm of noise. Mr. Daubeny having sat down and covered his head just raised his hat from his brows, and then tried to look as though he were no more than any other gentleman present. But the peculiar consciousness of the man displayed itself even in his constrained absence of motion. You could see that he felt himself to be the beheld of all beholders, and that he enjoyed the position,--with some slight inward trepidation lest the effort to be made should not equal the greatness of the occasion. Immediately after him Mr. Gresham bustled up the centre of the House amidst a roar of good-humoured welcome. We have had many Ministers who have been personally dearer to their individual adherents in the House than the present leader of the Opposition and late Premier, but none, perhaps, who has been more generally respected by his party for earnestness and sincerity. On the present occasion there was a fierceness, almost a ferocity, in his very countenance, to the fire of which friends and enemies were equally anxious to add fuel,--the friends in order that so might these recreant Tories be more thoroughly annihilated, and the enemies, that their enemy's indiscretion might act back upon himself to his confusion. For, indeed, it never could be denied that as a Prime Minister Mr. Gresham could be very indiscreet. A certain small amount of ordinary business was done, to the disgust of expectant strangers, which was as trivial as possible in its nature,--so arranged, apparently, that the importance of what was to follow might be enhanced by the force of contrast. And, to make the dismay of the novice stranger more thorough, questions were asked and answers were given in so low a voice, and Mr. Speaker uttered a word or two in so quick and shambling a fashion, that he, the novice stranger, began to fear that no word of the debate would reach him up there in his crowded back seat. All this, however, occupied but a few minutes, and at twenty minutes past four Mr. Daubeny was on his legs. Then the novice stranger found that, though he could not see Mr. Daubeny without the aid of an opera glass, he could hear every word that fell from his lips. Mr. Daubeny began by regretting the hardness of his position, in that he must, with what thoroughness he might be able to achieve, apply himself to two great subjects, whereas the right honourable gentleman opposite had already declared, with all the formality which could be made to attach itself to a combined meeting of peers and commoners, that he would confine himself strictly to one. The subject selected by the right honourable gentleman opposite on the present occasion was not the question of Church Reform. The right honourable gentleman had pledged himself with an almost sacred enthusiasm to ignore that subject altogether. No doubt it was the question before the House, and he, himself,--the present speaker,--must unfortunately discuss it at some length. The right honourable gentleman opposite would not, on this great occasion, trouble himself with anything of so little moment. And it might be presumed that the political followers of the right honourable gentleman would be equally reticent, as they were understood to have accepted his tactics without a dissentient voice. He, Mr. Daubeny, was the last man in England to deny the importance of the question which the right honourable gentleman would select for discussions in preference to that of the condition of the Church. That question was a very simple one, and might be put to the House in a very few words. Coming from the mouth of the right honourable gentleman, the proposition would probably be made in this form:--"That this House does think that I ought to be Prime Minister now, and as long as I may possess a seat in this House." It was impossible to deny the importance of that question; but perhaps he, Mr. Daubeny, might be justified in demurring to the preference given to it over every other matter, let that matter be of what importance it might be to the material welfare of the country. He made his point well; but he made it too often. And an attack of that kind, personal and savage in its nature, loses its effect when it is evident that the words have been prepared. A good deal may be done in dispute by calling a man an ass or a knave,--but the resolve to use the words should have been made only at the moment, and they should come hot from the heart. There was much neatness and some acuteness in Mr. Daubeny's satire, but there was no heat, and it was prolix. It had, however, the effect of irritating Mr. Gresham,--as was evident from the manner in which he moved his hat and shuffled his feet. A man destined to sit conspicuously on our Treasury Bench, or on the seat opposite to it, should ask the gods for a thick skin as a first gift. The need of this in our national assembly is greater than elsewhere, because the differences between the men opposed to each other are smaller. When two foes meet together in the same Chamber, one of whom advocates the personal government of an individual ruler, and the other that form of State, which has come to be called a Red Republic, they deal, no doubt, weighty blows of oratory at each other, but blows which never hurt at the moment. They may cut each other's throats if they can find an opportunity; but they do not bite each other like dogs over a bone. But when opponents are almost in accord, as is always the case with our parliamentary gladiators, they are ever striving to give maddening little wounds through the joints of the harness. What is there with us to create the divergence necessary for debate but the pride of personal skill in the encounter? Who desires among us to put down the Queen, or to repudiate the National Debt, or to destroy religious worship, or even to disturb the ranks of society? When some small measure of reform has thoroughly recommended itself to the country,--so thoroughly that all men know that the country will have it,--then the question arises whether its details shall be arranged by the political party which calls itself Liberal,--or by that which is termed Conservative. The men are so near to each other in all their convictions and theories of life that nothing is left to them but personal competition for the doing of the thing that is to be done. It is the same in religion. The apostle of Christianity and the infidel can meet without a chance of a quarrel; but it is never safe to bring together two men who differ about a saint or a surplice. Mr. Daubeny, having thus attacked and wounded his enemy, rushed boldly into the question of Church Reform, taking no little pride to himself and to his party that so great a blessing should be bestowed upon the country from so unexpected a source. "See what we Conservatives can do. In fact we will conserve nothing when we find that you do not desire to have it conserved any longer. 'Quod minime reris Grai pandetur ab urbe.'" It was exactly the reverse of the complaint which Mr. Gresham was about to make. On the subject of the Church itself he was rather misty but very profound. He went into the question of very early Churches indeed, and spoke of the misappropriation of endowments in the time of Eli. The establishment of the Levites had been no doubt complete; but changes had been effected as circumstances required. He was presumed to have alluded to the order of Melchisedek, but he abstained from any mention of the name. He roamed very wide, and gave many of his hearers an idea that his erudition had carried him into regions in which it was impossible to follow him. The gist of his argument was to show that audacity in Reform was the very backbone of Conservatism. By a clearly pronounced disunion of Church and State the theocracy of Thomas Becket would be restored, and the people of England would soon again become the faithful flocks of faithful shepherds. By taking away the endowments from the parishes, and giving them back in some complicated way to the country, the parishes would be better able than ever to support their clergymen. Bishops would be bishops indeed, when they were no longer the creatures of a Minister's breath. As to the deans, not seeing a clear way to satisfy aspirants for future vacancies in the deaneries, he became more than usually vague, but seemed to imply that the Bill which was now with the leave of the House to be read a second time, contained no clause forbidding the appointment of deans, though the special stipend of the office must be matter of consideration with the new Church Synod. The details of this part of his speech were felt to be dull by the strangers. As long as he would abuse Mr. Gresham, men could listen with pleasure; and could keep their attention fixed while he referred to the general Conservatism of the party which he had the honour of leading. There was a raciness in the promise of so much Church destruction from the chosen leader of the Church party, which was assisted by a conviction in the minds of most men that it was impossible for unfortunate Conservatives to refuse to follow this leader, let him lead where he might. There was a gratification in feeling that the country party was bound to follow, even should he take them into the very bowels of a mountain, as the pied piper did the children of Hamelin;--and this made listening pleasant. But when Mr. Daubeny stated the effect of his different clauses, explaining what was to be taken and what left,--with a fervent assurance that what was to be left would, under the altered circumstances, go much further than the whole had gone before,--then the audience became weary, and began to think that it was time that some other gentleman should be upon his legs. But at the end of the Minister's speech there was another touch of invective which went far to redeem him. He returned to that personal question to which his adversary had undertaken to confine himself, and expressed a holy horror at the political doctrine which was implied. He, during a prolonged Parliamentary experience, had encountered much factious opposition. He would even acknowledge that he had seen it exercised on both sides of the House, though he had always striven to keep himself free from its baneful influence. But never till now had he known a statesman proclaim his intention of depending upon faction, and upon faction alone, for the result which he desired to achieve. Let the right honourable gentleman raise a contest on either the principles or the details of the measure, and he would be quite content to abide the decision of the House; but he should regard such a raid as that threatened against him and his friends by the right honourable gentleman as unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. He felt sure that an opposition so based, and so maintained, even if it be enabled by the heated feelings of the moment to obtain an unfortunate success in the House, would not be encouraged by the sympathy and support of the country at large. By these last words he was understood to signify that should he be beaten on the second reading, not in reference to the merits of the Bill, but simply on the issue as proposed by Mr. Gresham, he would again dissolve the House before he would resign. Now it was very well understood that there were Liberal members in the House who would prefer even the success of Mr. Daubeny to a speedy reappearance before their constituents. Mr. Daubeny spoke till nearly eight, and it was surmised at the time that he had craftily arranged his oratory so as to embarrass his opponent. The House had met at four, and was to sit continuously till it was adjourned for the night. When this is the case, gentlemen who speak about eight o'clock are too frequently obliged to address themselves to empty benches. On the present occasion it was Mr. Gresham's intention to follow his opponent at once, instead of waiting, as is usual with a leader of his party, to the close of the debate. It was understood that Mr. Gresham would follow Mr. Daubeny, with the object of making a distinct charge against Ministers, so that the vote on this second reading of the Church Bill might in truth be a vote of want of confidence. But to commence his speech at eight o'clock when the House was hungry and uneasy, would be a trial. Had Mr. Daubeny closed an hour sooner there would, with a little stretching of the favoured hours, have been time enough. Members would not have objected to postpone their dinner till half-past eight, or perhaps nine, when their favourite orator was on his legs. But with Mr. Gresham beginning a great speech at eight, dinner would altogether become doubtful, and the disaster might be serious. It was not probable that Mr. Daubeny had even among his friends proclaimed any such strategy; but it was thought by the political speculators of the day that such an idea had been present to his mind. But Mr. Gresham was not to be turned from his purpose. He waited for a few moments, and then rose and addressed the Speaker. A few members left the House;--gentlemen, doubtless, whose constitutions, weakened by previous service, could not endure prolonged fasting. Some who had nearly reached the door returned to their seats, mindful of Messrs. Roby and Ratler. But for the bulk of those assembled the interest of the moment was greater even than the love of dinner. Some of the peers departed, and it was observed that a bishop or two left the House; but among the strangers in the gallery, hardly a foot of space was gained. He who gave up his seat then, gave it up for the night. Mr. Gresham began with a calmness of tone which seemed almost to be affected, but which arose from a struggle on his own part to repress that superabundant energy of which he was only too conscious. But the calmness soon gave place to warmth, which heated itself into violence before he had been a quarter of an hour upon his legs. He soon became even ferocious in his invective, and said things so bitter that he had himself no conception of their bitterness. There was this difference between the two men,--that whereas Mr. Daubeny hit always as hard as he knew how to hit, having premeditated each blow, and weighed its results beforehand, having calculated his power even to the effect of a blow repeated on a wound already given, Mr. Gresham struck right and left and straightforward with a readiness engendered by practice, and in his fury might have murdered his antagonist before he was aware that he had drawn blood. He began by refusing absolutely to discuss the merits of the bill. The right honourable gentleman had prided himself on his generosity as a Greek. He would remind the right honourable gentleman that presents from Greeks had ever been considered dangerous. "It is their gifts, and only their gifts, that we fear," he said. The political gifts of the right honourable gentleman, extracted by him from his unwilling colleagues and followers, had always been more bitter to the taste than Dead Sea apples. That such gifts should not be bestowed on the country by unwilling hands, that reform should not come from those who themselves felt the necessity of no reform, he believed to be the wish not only of that House, but of the country at large. Would any gentleman on that bench, excepting the right honourable gentleman himself,--and he pointed to the crowded phalanx of the Government,--get up and declare that this measure of Church Reform, this severance of Church and State, was brought forward in consonance with his own long-cherished political conviction? He accused that party of being so bound to the chariot wheels of the right honourable gentleman, as to be unable to abide by their own convictions. And as to the right honourable gentleman himself, he would appeal to his followers opposite to say whether the right honourable gentleman was possessed of any one strong political conviction. He had been accused of being unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. If the House would allow him he would very shortly explain his idea of constitutional government as carried on in this country. It was based and built on majorities in that House, and supported solely by that power. There could be no constitutional government in this country that was not so maintained. Any other government must be both revolutionary and tyrannical. Any other government was a usurpation; and he would make bold to tell the right honourable gentleman that a Minister in this country who should recommend Her Majesty to trust herself to advisers not supported by a majority of the House of Commons, would plainly be guilty of usurping the powers of the State. He threw from him with disdain the charge which had been brought against himself of hankering after the sweets of office. He indulged and gloried in indulging the highest ambition of an English subject. But he gloried much more in the privileges and power of that House, within the walls of which was centred all that was salutary, all that was efficacious, all that was stable in the political constitution of his country. It had been his pride to have acted during nearly all his political life with that party which had commanded a majority, but he would defy his most bitter adversary, he would defy the right honourable gentleman himself, to point to any period of his career in which he had been unwilling to succumb to a majority when he himself had belonged to the minority. He himself would regard the vote on this occasion as a vote of want of confidence. He took the line he was now taking because he desired to bring the House to a decision on that question. He himself had not that confidence in the right honourable gentleman which would justify him in accepting a measure on so important a subject as the union or severance of Church and State from his hands. Should the majority of the House differ from him and support the second reading of the Bill, he would at once so far succumb as to give his best attention to the clauses of the bill, and endeavour with the assistance of those gentlemen who acted with him to make it suitable to the wants of the country by omissions and additions as the clauses should pass through Committee. But before doing that he would ask the House to decide with all its solemnity and all its weight whether it was willing to accept from the hands of the right honourable gentleman any measure of reform on a matter so important as this now before them. It was nearly ten when he sat down; and then the stomach of the House could stand it no longer, and an adjournment at once took place. On the next morning it was generally considered that Mr. Daubeny had been too long and Mr. Gresham too passionate. There were some who declared that Mr. Gresham had never been finer than when he described the privileges of the House of Commons; and others who thought that Mr. Daubeny's lucidity had been marvellous; but in this case, as in most others, the speeches of the day were generally thought to have been very inferior to the great efforts of the past. CHAPTER XXXIV. THE UNIVERSE. Before the House met again the quidnuncs about the clubs, on both sides of the question, had determined that Mr. Gresham's speech, whether good or not as an effort of oratory, would serve its intended purpose. He would be backed by a majority of votes, and it might have been very doubtful whether such would have been the case had he attempted to throw out the Bill on its merits. Mr. Ratler, by the time that prayers had been read, had become almost certain of success. There were very few Liberals in the House who were not anxious to declare by their votes that they had no confidence in Mr. Daubeny. Mr. Turnbull, the great Radical, and, perhaps, some two dozen with him, would support the second reading, declaring that they could not reconcile it with their consciences to record a vote in favour of a union of Church and State. On all such occasions as the present Mr. Turnbull was sure to make himself disagreeable to those who sat near to him in the House. He was a man who thought that so much was demanded of him in order that his independence might

true

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

you mean to say that the morals of your party will be offended?" said Madame Goesler, almost laughing. "Lord Fawn, you know, is very particular. In sober earnest one cannot tell how these things operate; but they do operate gradually. One's friends are sometimes very glad of an excuse for not befriending one." "Lady Laura is coming home?" "Yes." "That will put an end to it." "There is nothing to put an end to except the foul-mouthed malice of a lying newspaper. Nobody believes anything against Lady Laura." "I'm not so sure of that. I believe nothing against her." "I'm sure you do not, Madame Goesler. Nor do I think that anybody does. It is too absurd for belief from beginning to end. Good-bye. Perhaps I shall see you when the debate is over." "Of course you will. Good-bye, and success to your oratory." Then Madame Goesler resolved that she would say a few judicious words to her friend, the Duchess, respecting Phineas Finn. CHAPTER XXXIII. THE TWO GLADIATORS. The great debate was commenced with all the solemnities which are customary on such occasions, and which make men think for the day that no moment of greater excitement has ever blessed or cursed the country. Upon the present occasion London was full of clergymen. The specially clerical clubs,--the Oxford and Cambridge, the Old University, and the Athenaeum,--were black with them. The bishops and deans, as usual, were pleasant in their manner and happy-looking, in spite of adverse circumstances. When one sees a bishop in the hours of the distress of the Church, one always thinks of the just and firm man who will stand fearless while the ruins of the world are falling about his ears. But the parsons from the country were a sorry sight to see. They were in earnest with all their hearts, and did believe,--not that the crack of doom was coming, which they could have borne with equanimity if convinced that their influence would last to the end,--but that the Evil One was to be made welcome upon the earth by Act of Parliament. It is out of nature that any man should think it good that his own order should be repressed, curtailed, and deprived of its power. If we go among cab-drivers or letter-carriers, among butlers or gamekeepers, among tailors or butchers, among farmers or graziers, among doctors or attorneys, we shall find in each set of men a conviction that the welfare of the community depends upon the firmness with which they,--especially they,--hold their own. This is so manifestly true with the Bar that no barrister in practice scruples to avow that barristers in practice are the salt of the earth. The personal confidence of a judge in his own position is beautiful, being salutary to the country, though not unfrequently damaging to the character of the man. But if this be so with men who are conscious of no higher influence than that exercised over the bodies and minds of their fellow creatures, how much stronger must be the feeling when the influence affects the soul! To the outsider, or layman, who simply uses a cab, or receives a letter, or goes to law, or has to be tried, these pretensions are ridiculous or annoying, according to the ascendancy of the pretender at the moment. But as the clerical pretensions are more exacting than all others, being put forward with an assertion that no answer is possible without breach of duty and sin, so are they more galling. The fight has been going on since the idea of a mitre first entered the heart of a priest,--since dominion in this world has found itself capable of sustentation by the exercise of fear as to the world to come. We do believe,--the majority among us does so,--that if we live and die in sin we shall after some fashion come to great punishment, and we believe also that by having pastors among us who shall be men of God, we may best aid ourselves and our children in avoiding this bitter end. But then the pastors and men of God can only be human,--cannot be altogether men of God; and so they have oppressed us, and burned us, and tortured us, and hence come to love palaces, and fine linen, and purple, and, alas, sometimes, mere luxury and idleness. The torturing and the burning, as also to speak truth the luxury and the idleness, have, among us, been already conquered, but the idea of ascendancy remains. What is a thoughtful man to do who acknowledges the danger of his soul, but cannot swallow his parson whole simply because he has been sent to him from some source in which he has no special confidence, perhaps by some distant lord, perhaps by a Lord Chancellor whose political friend has had a son with a tutor? What is he to do when, in spite of some fine linen and purple left among us, the provision for the man of God in his parish or district is so poor that no man of God fitted to teach him will come and take it? In no spirit of animosity to religion he begins to tell himself that Church and State together was a monkish combination, fit perhaps for monkish days, but no longer having fitness, and not much longer capable of existence in this country. But to the parson himself,--to the honest, hardworking, conscientious priest who does in his heart of hearts believe that no diminution in the general influence of his order can be made without ruin to the souls of men,--this opinion, when it becomes dominant, is as though the world were in truth breaking to pieces over his head. The world has been broken to pieces in the same way often;--but extreme Chaos does not come. The cabman and the letter-carrier always expect that Chaos will very nearly come when they are disturbed. The barristers are sure of Chaos when the sanctity of Benchers is in question. What utter Chaos would be promised to us could any one with impunity contemn the majesty of the House of Commons! But of all these Chaoses there can be no Chaos equal to that which in the mind of a zealous Oxford-bred constitutional country parson must attend that annihilation of his special condition which will be produced by the disestablishment of the Church. Of all good fellows he is the best good fellow. He is genial, hospitable, well-educated, and always has either a pretty wife or pretty daughters. But he has so extreme a belief in himself that he cannot endure to be told that absolute Chaos will not come at once if he be disturbed. And now disturbances,--ay, and utter dislocation and ruin were to come from the hands of a friend! Was it wonderful that parsons should be seen about Westminster in flocks with _"Et tu, Brute"_ written on their faces as plainly as the law on the brows of a Pharisee? The Speaker had been harassed for orders. The powers and prowess of every individual member had been put to the test. The galleries were crowded. Ladies' places had been ballotted for with desperate enthusiasm, in spite of the sarcasm against the House which Madame Goesler had expressed. Two royal princes and a royal duke were accommodated within the House in an irregular manner. Peers swarmed in the passages, and were too happy to find standing room. Bishops jostled against lay barons with no other preference than that afforded to them by their broader shoulders. Men, and especially clergymen, came to the galleries loaded with sandwiches and flasks, prepared to hear all there was to be heard should the debate last from 4 P.M. to the same hour on the following morning. At two in the afternoon the entrances to the House were barred, and men of all ranks,--deans, prebends, peers' sons, and baronets,--stood there patiently waiting till some powerful nobleman should let them through. The very ventilating chambers under the House were filled with courteous listeners, who had all pledged themselves that under no possible provocation would they even cough during the debate. A few minutes after four, in a House from which hardly more than a dozen members were absent, Mr. Daubeny took his seat with that air of affected indifference to things around him which is peculiar to him. He entered slowly, amidst cheers from his side of the House, which no doubt were loud in proportion to the dismay of the cheerers as to the matter in hand. Gentlemen lacking substantial sympathy with their leader found it to be comfortable to deceive themselves, and raise their hearts at the same time by the easy enthusiasm of noise. Mr. Daubeny having sat down and covered his head just raised his hat from his brows, and then tried to look as though he were no more than any other gentleman present. But the peculiar consciousness of the man displayed itself even in his constrained absence of motion. You could see that he felt himself to be the beheld of all beholders, and that he enjoyed the position,--with some slight inward trepidation lest the effort to be made should not equal the greatness of the occasion. Immediately after him Mr. Gresham bustled up the centre of the House amidst a roar of good-humoured welcome. We have had many Ministers who have been personally dearer to their individual adherents in the House than the present leader of the Opposition and late Premier, but none, perhaps, who has been more generally respected by his party for earnestness and sincerity. On the present occasion there was a fierceness, almost a ferocity, in his very countenance, to the fire of which friends and enemies were equally anxious to add fuel,--the friends in order that so might these recreant Tories be more thoroughly annihilated, and the enemies, that their enemy's indiscretion might act back upon himself to his confusion. For, indeed, it never could be denied that as a Prime Minister Mr. Gresham could be very indiscreet. A certain small amount of ordinary business was done, to the disgust of expectant strangers, which was as trivial as possible in its nature,--so arranged, apparently, that the importance of what was to follow might be enhanced by the force of contrast. And, to make the dismay of the novice stranger more thorough, questions were asked and answers were given in so low a voice, and Mr. Speaker uttered a word or two in so quick and shambling a fashion, that he, the novice stranger, began to fear that no word of the debate would reach him up there in his crowded back seat. All this, however, occupied but a few minutes, and at twenty minutes past four Mr. Daubeny was on his legs. Then the novice stranger found that, though he could not see Mr. Daubeny without the aid of an opera glass, he could hear every word that fell from his lips. Mr. Daubeny began by regretting the hardness of his position, in that he must, with what thoroughness he might be able to achieve, apply himself to two great subjects, whereas the right honourable gentleman opposite had already declared, with all the formality which could be made to attach itself to a combined meeting of peers and commoners, that he would confine himself strictly to one. The subject selected by the right honourable gentleman opposite on the present occasion was not the question of Church Reform. The right honourable gentleman had pledged himself with an almost sacred enthusiasm to ignore that subject altogether. No doubt it was the question before the House, and he, himself,--the present speaker,--must unfortunately discuss it at some length. The right honourable gentleman opposite would not, on this great occasion, trouble himself with anything of so little moment. And it might be presumed that the political followers of the right honourable gentleman would be equally reticent, as they were understood to have accepted his tactics without a dissentient voice. He, Mr. Daubeny, was the last man in England to deny the importance of the question which the right honourable gentleman would select for discussions in preference to that of the condition of the Church. That question was a very simple one, and might be put to the House in a very few words. Coming from the mouth of the right honourable gentleman, the proposition would probably be made in this form:--"That this House does think that I ought to be Prime Minister now, and as long as I may possess a seat in this House." It was impossible to deny the importance of that question; but perhaps he, Mr. Daubeny, might be justified in demurring to the preference given to it over every other matter, let that matter be of what importance it might be to the material welfare of the country. He made his point well; but he made it too often. And an attack of that kind, personal and savage in its nature, loses its effect when it is evident that the words have been prepared. A good deal may be done in dispute by calling a man an ass or a knave,--but the resolve to use the words should have been made only at the moment, and they should come hot from the heart. There was much neatness and some acuteness in Mr. Daubeny's satire, but there was no heat, and it was prolix. It had, however, the effect of irritating Mr. Gresham,--as was evident from the manner in which he moved his hat and shuffled his feet. A man destined to sit conspicuously on our Treasury Bench, or on the seat opposite to it, should ask the gods for a thick skin as a first gift. The need of this in our national assembly is greater than elsewhere, because the differences between the men opposed to each other are smaller. When two foes meet together in the same Chamber, one of whom advocates the personal government of an individual ruler, and the other that form of State, which has come to be called a Red Republic, they deal, no doubt, weighty blows of oratory at each other, but blows which never hurt at the moment. They may cut each other's throats if they can find an opportunity; but they do not bite each other like dogs over a bone. But when opponents are almost in accord, as is always the case with our parliamentary gladiators, they are ever striving to give maddening little wounds through the joints of the harness. What is there with us to create the divergence necessary for debate but the pride of personal skill in the encounter? Who desires among us to put down the Queen, or to repudiate the National Debt, or to destroy religious worship, or even to disturb the ranks of society? When some small measure of reform has thoroughly recommended itself to the country,--so thoroughly that all men know that the country will have it,--then the question arises whether its details shall be arranged by the political party which calls itself Liberal,--or by that which is termed Conservative. The men are so near to each other in all their convictions and theories of life that nothing is left to them but personal competition for the doing of the thing that is to be done. It is the same in religion. The apostle of Christianity and the infidel can meet without a chance of a quarrel; but it is never safe to bring together two men who differ about a saint or a surplice. Mr. Daubeny, having thus attacked and wounded his enemy, rushed boldly into the question of Church Reform, taking no little pride to himself and to his party that so great a blessing should be bestowed upon the country from so unexpected a source. "See what we Conservatives can do. In fact we will conserve nothing when we find that you do not desire to have it conserved any longer. 'Quod minime reris Grai pandetur ab urbe.'" It was exactly the reverse of the complaint which Mr. Gresham was about to make. On the subject of the Church itself he was rather misty but very profound. He went into the question of very early Churches indeed, and spoke of the misappropriation of endowments in the time of Eli. The establishment of the Levites had been no doubt complete; but changes had been effected as circumstances required. He was presumed to have alluded to the order of Melchisedek, but he abstained from any mention of the name. He roamed very wide, and gave many of his hearers an idea that his erudition had carried him into regions in which it was impossible to follow him. The gist of his argument was to show that audacity in Reform was the very backbone of Conservatism. By a clearly pronounced disunion of Church and State the theocracy of Thomas Becket would be restored, and the people of England would soon again become the faithful flocks of faithful shepherds. By taking away the endowments from the parishes, and giving them back in some complicated way to the country, the parishes would be better able than ever to support their clergymen. Bishops would be bishops indeed, when they were no longer the creatures of a Minister's breath. As to the deans, not seeing a clear way to satisfy aspirants for future vacancies in the deaneries, he became more than usually vague, but seemed to imply that the Bill which was now with the leave of the House to be read a second time, contained no clause forbidding the appointment of deans, though the special stipend of the office must be matter of consideration with the new Church Synod. The details of this part of his speech were felt to be dull by the strangers. As long as he would abuse Mr. Gresham, men could listen with pleasure; and could keep their attention fixed while he referred to the general Conservatism of the party which he had the honour of leading. There was a raciness in the promise of so much Church destruction from the chosen leader of the Church party, which was assisted by a conviction in the minds of most men that it was impossible for unfortunate Conservatives to refuse to follow this leader, let him lead where he might. There was a gratification in feeling that the country party was bound to follow, even should he take them into the very bowels of a mountain, as the pied piper did the children of Hamelin;--and this made listening pleasant. But when Mr. Daubeny stated the effect of his different clauses, explaining what was to be taken and what left,--with a fervent assurance that what was to be left would, under the altered circumstances, go much further than the whole had gone before,--then the audience became weary, and began to think that it was time that some other gentleman should be upon his legs. But at the end of the Minister's speech there was another touch of invective which went far to redeem him. He returned to that personal question to which his adversary had undertaken to confine himself, and expressed a holy horror at the political doctrine which was implied. He, during a prolonged Parliamentary experience, had encountered much factious opposition. He would even acknowledge that he had seen it exercised on both sides of the House, though he had always striven to keep himself free from its baneful influence. But never till now had he known a statesman proclaim his intention of depending upon faction, and upon faction alone, for the result which he desired to achieve. Let the right honourable gentleman raise a contest on either the principles or the details of the measure, and he would be quite content to abide the decision of the House; but he should regard such a raid as that threatened against him and his friends by the right honourable gentleman as unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. He felt sure that an opposition so based, and so maintained, even if it be enabled by the heated feelings of the moment to obtain an unfortunate success in the House, would not be encouraged by the sympathy and support of the country at large. By these last words he was understood to signify that should he be beaten on the second reading, not in reference to the merits of the Bill, but simply on the issue as proposed by Mr. Gresham, he would again dissolve the House before he would resign. Now it was very well understood that there were Liberal members in the House who would prefer even the success of Mr. Daubeny to a speedy reappearance before their constituents. Mr. Daubeny spoke till nearly eight, and it was surmised at the time that he had craftily arranged his oratory so as to embarrass his opponent. The House had met at four, and was to sit continuously till it was adjourned for the night. When this is the case, gentlemen who speak about eight o'clock are too frequently obliged to address themselves to empty benches. On the present occasion it was Mr. Gresham's intention to follow his opponent at once, instead of waiting, as is usual with a leader of his party, to the close of the debate. It was understood that Mr. Gresham would follow Mr. Daubeny, with the object of making a distinct charge against Ministers, so that the vote on this second reading of the Church Bill might in truth be a vote of want of confidence. But to commence his speech at eight o'clock when the House was hungry and uneasy, would be a trial. Had Mr. Daubeny closed an hour sooner there would, with a little stretching of the favoured hours, have been time enough. Members would not have objected to postpone their dinner till half-past eight, or perhaps nine, when their favourite orator was on his legs. But with Mr. Gresham beginning a great speech at eight, dinner would altogether become doubtful, and the disaster might be serious. It was not probable that Mr. Daubeny had even among his friends proclaimed any such strategy; but it was thought by the political speculators of the day that such an idea had been present to his mind. But Mr. Gresham was not to be turned from his purpose. He waited for a few moments, and then rose and addressed the Speaker. A few members left the House;--gentlemen, doubtless, whose constitutions, weakened by previous service, could not endure prolonged fasting. Some who had nearly reached the door returned to their seats, mindful of Messrs. Roby and Ratler. But for the bulk of those assembled the interest of the moment was greater even than the love of dinner. Some of the peers departed, and it was observed that a bishop or two left the House; but among the strangers in the gallery, hardly a foot of space was gained. He who gave up his seat then, gave it up for the night. Mr. Gresham began with a calmness of tone which seemed almost to be affected, but which arose from a struggle on his own part to repress that superabundant energy of which he was only too conscious. But the calmness soon gave place to warmth, which heated itself into violence before he had been a quarter of an hour upon his legs. He soon became even ferocious in his invective, and said things so bitter that he had himself no conception of their bitterness. There was this difference between the two men,--that whereas Mr. Daubeny hit always as hard as he knew how to hit, having premeditated each blow, and weighed its results beforehand, having calculated his power even to the effect of a blow repeated on a wound already given, Mr. Gresham struck right and left and straightforward with a readiness engendered by practice, and in his fury might have murdered his antagonist before he was aware that he had drawn blood. He began by refusing absolutely to discuss the merits of the bill. The right honourable gentleman had prided himself on his generosity as a Greek. He would remind the right honourable gentleman that presents from Greeks had ever been considered dangerous. "It is their gifts, and only their gifts, that we fear," he said. The political gifts of the right honourable gentleman, extracted by him from his unwilling colleagues and followers, had always been more bitter to the taste than Dead Sea apples. That such gifts should not be bestowed on the country by unwilling hands, that reform should not come from those who themselves felt the necessity of no reform, he believed to be the wish not only of that House, but of the country at large. Would any gentleman on that bench, excepting the right honourable gentleman himself,--and he pointed to the crowded phalanx of the Government,--get up and declare that this measure of Church Reform, this severance of Church and State, was brought forward in consonance with his own long-cherished political conviction? He accused that party of being so bound to the chariot wheels of the right honourable gentleman, as to be unable to abide by their own convictions. And as to the right honourable gentleman himself, he would appeal to his followers opposite to say whether the right honourable gentleman was possessed of any one strong political conviction. He had been accused of being unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. If the House would allow him he would very shortly explain his idea of constitutional government as carried on in this country. It was based and built on majorities in that House, and supported solely by that power. There could be no constitutional government in this country that was not so maintained. Any other government must be both revolutionary and tyrannical. Any other government was a usurpation; and he would make bold to tell the right honourable gentleman that a Minister in this country who should recommend Her Majesty to trust herself to advisers not supported by a majority of the House of Commons, would plainly be guilty of usurping the powers of the State. He threw from him with disdain the charge which had been brought against himself of hankering after the sweets of office. He indulged and gloried in indulging the highest ambition of an English subject. But he gloried much more in the privileges and power of that House, within the walls of which was centred all that was salutary, all that was efficacious, all that was stable in the political constitution of his country. It had been his pride to have acted during nearly all his political life with that party which had commanded a majority, but he would defy his most bitter adversary, he would defy the right honourable gentleman himself, to point to any period of his career in which he had been unwilling to succumb to a majority when he himself had belonged to the minority. He himself would regard the vote on this occasion as a vote of want of confidence. He took the line he was now taking because he desired to bring the House to a decision on that question. He himself had not that confidence in the right honourable gentleman which would justify him in accepting a measure on so important a subject as the union or severance of Church and State from his hands. Should the majority of the House differ from him and support the second reading of the Bill, he would at once so far succumb as to give his best attention to the clauses of the bill, and endeavour with the assistance of those gentlemen who acted with him to make it suitable to the wants of the country by omissions and additions as the clauses should pass through Committee. But before doing that he would ask the House to decide with all its solemnity and all its weight whether it was willing to accept from the hands of the right honourable gentleman any measure of reform on a matter so important as this now before them. It was nearly ten when he sat down; and then the stomach of the House could stand it no longer, and an adjournment at once took place. On the next morning it was generally considered that Mr. Daubeny had been too long and Mr. Gresham too passionate. There were some who declared that Mr. Gresham had never been finer than when he described the privileges of the House of Commons; and others who thought that Mr. Daubeny's lucidity had been marvellous; but in this case, as in most others, the speeches of the day were generally thought to have been very inferior to the great efforts of the past. CHAPTER XXXIV. THE UNIVERSE. Before the House met again the quidnuncs about the clubs, on both sides of the question, had determined that Mr. Gresham's speech, whether good or not as an effort of oratory, would serve its intended purpose. He would be backed by a majority of votes, and it might have been very doubtful whether such would have been the case had he attempted to throw out the Bill on its merits. Mr. Ratler, by the time that prayers had been read, had become almost certain of success. There were very few Liberals in the House who were not anxious to declare by their votes that they had no confidence in Mr. Daubeny. Mr. Turnbull, the great Radical, and, perhaps, some two dozen with him, would support the second reading, declaring that they could not reconcile it with their consciences to record a vote in favour of a union of Church and State. On all such occasions as the present Mr. Turnbull was sure to make himself disagreeable to those who sat near to him in the House. He was a man who thought that so much was demanded of him in order that his independence might

way

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

you mean to say that the morals of your party will be offended?" said Madame Goesler, almost laughing. "Lord Fawn, you know, is very particular. In sober earnest one cannot tell how these things operate; but they do operate gradually. One's friends are sometimes very glad of an excuse for not befriending one." "Lady Laura is coming home?" "Yes." "That will put an end to it." "There is nothing to put an end to except the foul-mouthed malice of a lying newspaper. Nobody believes anything against Lady Laura." "I'm not so sure of that. I believe nothing against her." "I'm sure you do not, Madame Goesler. Nor do I think that anybody does. It is too absurd for belief from beginning to end. Good-bye. Perhaps I shall see you when the debate is over." "Of course you will. Good-bye, and success to your oratory." Then Madame Goesler resolved that she would say a few judicious words to her friend, the Duchess, respecting Phineas Finn. CHAPTER XXXIII. THE TWO GLADIATORS. The great debate was commenced with all the solemnities which are customary on such occasions, and which make men think for the day that no moment of greater excitement has ever blessed or cursed the country. Upon the present occasion London was full of clergymen. The specially clerical clubs,--the Oxford and Cambridge, the Old University, and the Athenaeum,--were black with them. The bishops and deans, as usual, were pleasant in their manner and happy-looking, in spite of adverse circumstances. When one sees a bishop in the hours of the distress of the Church, one always thinks of the just and firm man who will stand fearless while the ruins of the world are falling about his ears. But the parsons from the country were a sorry sight to see. They were in earnest with all their hearts, and did believe,--not that the crack of doom was coming, which they could have borne with equanimity if convinced that their influence would last to the end,--but that the Evil One was to be made welcome upon the earth by Act of Parliament. It is out of nature that any man should think it good that his own order should be repressed, curtailed, and deprived of its power. If we go among cab-drivers or letter-carriers, among butlers or gamekeepers, among tailors or butchers, among farmers or graziers, among doctors or attorneys, we shall find in each set of men a conviction that the welfare of the community depends upon the firmness with which they,--especially they,--hold their own. This is so manifestly true with the Bar that no barrister in practice scruples to avow that barristers in practice are the salt of the earth. The personal confidence of a judge in his own position is beautiful, being salutary to the country, though not unfrequently damaging to the character of the man. But if this be so with men who are conscious of no higher influence than that exercised over the bodies and minds of their fellow creatures, how much stronger must be the feeling when the influence affects the soul! To the outsider, or layman, who simply uses a cab, or receives a letter, or goes to law, or has to be tried, these pretensions are ridiculous or annoying, according to the ascendancy of the pretender at the moment. But as the clerical pretensions are more exacting than all others, being put forward with an assertion that no answer is possible without breach of duty and sin, so are they more galling. The fight has been going on since the idea of a mitre first entered the heart of a priest,--since dominion in this world has found itself capable of sustentation by the exercise of fear as to the world to come. We do believe,--the majority among us does so,--that if we live and die in sin we shall after some fashion come to great punishment, and we believe also that by having pastors among us who shall be men of God, we may best aid ourselves and our children in avoiding this bitter end. But then the pastors and men of God can only be human,--cannot be altogether men of God; and so they have oppressed us, and burned us, and tortured us, and hence come to love palaces, and fine linen, and purple, and, alas, sometimes, mere luxury and idleness. The torturing and the burning, as also to speak truth the luxury and the idleness, have, among us, been already conquered, but the idea of ascendancy remains. What is a thoughtful man to do who acknowledges the danger of his soul, but cannot swallow his parson whole simply because he has been sent to him from some source in which he has no special confidence, perhaps by some distant lord, perhaps by a Lord Chancellor whose political friend has had a son with a tutor? What is he to do when, in spite of some fine linen and purple left among us, the provision for the man of God in his parish or district is so poor that no man of God fitted to teach him will come and take it? In no spirit of animosity to religion he begins to tell himself that Church and State together was a monkish combination, fit perhaps for monkish days, but no longer having fitness, and not much longer capable of existence in this country. But to the parson himself,--to the honest, hardworking, conscientious priest who does in his heart of hearts believe that no diminution in the general influence of his order can be made without ruin to the souls of men,--this opinion, when it becomes dominant, is as though the world were in truth breaking to pieces over his head. The world has been broken to pieces in the same way often;--but extreme Chaos does not come. The cabman and the letter-carrier always expect that Chaos will very nearly come when they are disturbed. The barristers are sure of Chaos when the sanctity of Benchers is in question. What utter Chaos would be promised to us could any one with impunity contemn the majesty of the House of Commons! But of all these Chaoses there can be no Chaos equal to that which in the mind of a zealous Oxford-bred constitutional country parson must attend that annihilation of his special condition which will be produced by the disestablishment of the Church. Of all good fellows he is the best good fellow. He is genial, hospitable, well-educated, and always has either a pretty wife or pretty daughters. But he has so extreme a belief in himself that he cannot endure to be told that absolute Chaos will not come at once if he be disturbed. And now disturbances,--ay, and utter dislocation and ruin were to come from the hands of a friend! Was it wonderful that parsons should be seen about Westminster in flocks with _"Et tu, Brute"_ written on their faces as plainly as the law on the brows of a Pharisee? The Speaker had been harassed for orders. The powers and prowess of every individual member had been put to the test. The galleries were crowded. Ladies' places had been ballotted for with desperate enthusiasm, in spite of the sarcasm against the House which Madame Goesler had expressed. Two royal princes and a royal duke were accommodated within the House in an irregular manner. Peers swarmed in the passages, and were too happy to find standing room. Bishops jostled against lay barons with no other preference than that afforded to them by their broader shoulders. Men, and especially clergymen, came to the galleries loaded with sandwiches and flasks, prepared to hear all there was to be heard should the debate last from 4 P.M. to the same hour on the following morning. At two in the afternoon the entrances to the House were barred, and men of all ranks,--deans, prebends, peers' sons, and baronets,--stood there patiently waiting till some powerful nobleman should let them through. The very ventilating chambers under the House were filled with courteous listeners, who had all pledged themselves that under no possible provocation would they even cough during the debate. A few minutes after four, in a House from which hardly more than a dozen members were absent, Mr. Daubeny took his seat with that air of affected indifference to things around him which is peculiar to him. He entered slowly, amidst cheers from his side of the House, which no doubt were loud in proportion to the dismay of the cheerers as to the matter in hand. Gentlemen lacking substantial sympathy with their leader found it to be comfortable to deceive themselves, and raise their hearts at the same time by the easy enthusiasm of noise. Mr. Daubeny having sat down and covered his head just raised his hat from his brows, and then tried to look as though he were no more than any other gentleman present. But the peculiar consciousness of the man displayed itself even in his constrained absence of motion. You could see that he felt himself to be the beheld of all beholders, and that he enjoyed the position,--with some slight inward trepidation lest the effort to be made should not equal the greatness of the occasion. Immediately after him Mr. Gresham bustled up the centre of the House amidst a roar of good-humoured welcome. We have had many Ministers who have been personally dearer to their individual adherents in the House than the present leader of the Opposition and late Premier, but none, perhaps, who has been more generally respected by his party for earnestness and sincerity. On the present occasion there was a fierceness, almost a ferocity, in his very countenance, to the fire of which friends and enemies were equally anxious to add fuel,--the friends in order that so might these recreant Tories be more thoroughly annihilated, and the enemies, that their enemy's indiscretion might act back upon himself to his confusion. For, indeed, it never could be denied that as a Prime Minister Mr. Gresham could be very indiscreet. A certain small amount of ordinary business was done, to the disgust of expectant strangers, which was as trivial as possible in its nature,--so arranged, apparently, that the importance of what was to follow might be enhanced by the force of contrast. And, to make the dismay of the novice stranger more thorough, questions were asked and answers were given in so low a voice, and Mr. Speaker uttered a word or two in so quick and shambling a fashion, that he, the novice stranger, began to fear that no word of the debate would reach him up there in his crowded back seat. All this, however, occupied but a few minutes, and at twenty minutes past four Mr. Daubeny was on his legs. Then the novice stranger found that, though he could not see Mr. Daubeny without the aid of an opera glass, he could hear every word that fell from his lips. Mr. Daubeny began by regretting the hardness of his position, in that he must, with what thoroughness he might be able to achieve, apply himself to two great subjects, whereas the right honourable gentleman opposite had already declared, with all the formality which could be made to attach itself to a combined meeting of peers and commoners, that he would confine himself strictly to one. The subject selected by the right honourable gentleman opposite on the present occasion was not the question of Church Reform. The right honourable gentleman had pledged himself with an almost sacred enthusiasm to ignore that subject altogether. No doubt it was the question before the House, and he, himself,--the present speaker,--must unfortunately discuss it at some length. The right honourable gentleman opposite would not, on this great occasion, trouble himself with anything of so little moment. And it might be presumed that the political followers of the right honourable gentleman would be equally reticent, as they were understood to have accepted his tactics without a dissentient voice. He, Mr. Daubeny, was the last man in England to deny the importance of the question which the right honourable gentleman would select for discussions in preference to that of the condition of the Church. That question was a very simple one, and might be put to the House in a very few words. Coming from the mouth of the right honourable gentleman, the proposition would probably be made in this form:--"That this House does think that I ought to be Prime Minister now, and as long as I may possess a seat in this House." It was impossible to deny the importance of that question; but perhaps he, Mr. Daubeny, might be justified in demurring to the preference given to it over every other matter, let that matter be of what importance it might be to the material welfare of the country. He made his point well; but he made it too often. And an attack of that kind, personal and savage in its nature, loses its effect when it is evident that the words have been prepared. A good deal may be done in dispute by calling a man an ass or a knave,--but the resolve to use the words should have been made only at the moment, and they should come hot from the heart. There was much neatness and some acuteness in Mr. Daubeny's satire, but there was no heat, and it was prolix. It had, however, the effect of irritating Mr. Gresham,--as was evident from the manner in which he moved his hat and shuffled his feet. A man destined to sit conspicuously on our Treasury Bench, or on the seat opposite to it, should ask the gods for a thick skin as a first gift. The need of this in our national assembly is greater than elsewhere, because the differences between the men opposed to each other are smaller. When two foes meet together in the same Chamber, one of whom advocates the personal government of an individual ruler, and the other that form of State, which has come to be called a Red Republic, they deal, no doubt, weighty blows of oratory at each other, but blows which never hurt at the moment. They may cut each other's throats if they can find an opportunity; but they do not bite each other like dogs over a bone. But when opponents are almost in accord, as is always the case with our parliamentary gladiators, they are ever striving to give maddening little wounds through the joints of the harness. What is there with us to create the divergence necessary for debate but the pride of personal skill in the encounter? Who desires among us to put down the Queen, or to repudiate the National Debt, or to destroy religious worship, or even to disturb the ranks of society? When some small measure of reform has thoroughly recommended itself to the country,--so thoroughly that all men know that the country will have it,--then the question arises whether its details shall be arranged by the political party which calls itself Liberal,--or by that which is termed Conservative. The men are so near to each other in all their convictions and theories of life that nothing is left to them but personal competition for the doing of the thing that is to be done. It is the same in religion. The apostle of Christianity and the infidel can meet without a chance of a quarrel; but it is never safe to bring together two men who differ about a saint or a surplice. Mr. Daubeny, having thus attacked and wounded his enemy, rushed boldly into the question of Church Reform, taking no little pride to himself and to his party that so great a blessing should be bestowed upon the country from so unexpected a source. "See what we Conservatives can do. In fact we will conserve nothing when we find that you do not desire to have it conserved any longer. 'Quod minime reris Grai pandetur ab urbe.'" It was exactly the reverse of the complaint which Mr. Gresham was about to make. On the subject of the Church itself he was rather misty but very profound. He went into the question of very early Churches indeed, and spoke of the misappropriation of endowments in the time of Eli. The establishment of the Levites had been no doubt complete; but changes had been effected as circumstances required. He was presumed to have alluded to the order of Melchisedek, but he abstained from any mention of the name. He roamed very wide, and gave many of his hearers an idea that his erudition had carried him into regions in which it was impossible to follow him. The gist of his argument was to show that audacity in Reform was the very backbone of Conservatism. By a clearly pronounced disunion of Church and State the theocracy of Thomas Becket would be restored, and the people of England would soon again become the faithful flocks of faithful shepherds. By taking away the endowments from the parishes, and giving them back in some complicated way to the country, the parishes would be better able than ever to support their clergymen. Bishops would be bishops indeed, when they were no longer the creatures of a Minister's breath. As to the deans, not seeing a clear way to satisfy aspirants for future vacancies in the deaneries, he became more than usually vague, but seemed to imply that the Bill which was now with the leave of the House to be read a second time, contained no clause forbidding the appointment of deans, though the special stipend of the office must be matter of consideration with the new Church Synod. The details of this part of his speech were felt to be dull by the strangers. As long as he would abuse Mr. Gresham, men could listen with pleasure; and could keep their attention fixed while he referred to the general Conservatism of the party which he had the honour of leading. There was a raciness in the promise of so much Church destruction from the chosen leader of the Church party, which was assisted by a conviction in the minds of most men that it was impossible for unfortunate Conservatives to refuse to follow this leader, let him lead where he might. There was a gratification in feeling that the country party was bound to follow, even should he take them into the very bowels of a mountain, as the pied piper did the children of Hamelin;--and this made listening pleasant. But when Mr. Daubeny stated the effect of his different clauses, explaining what was to be taken and what left,--with a fervent assurance that what was to be left would, under the altered circumstances, go much further than the whole had gone before,--then the audience became weary, and began to think that it was time that some other gentleman should be upon his legs. But at the end of the Minister's speech there was another touch of invective which went far to redeem him. He returned to that personal question to which his adversary had undertaken to confine himself, and expressed a holy horror at the political doctrine which was implied. He, during a prolonged Parliamentary experience, had encountered much factious opposition. He would even acknowledge that he had seen it exercised on both sides of the House, though he had always striven to keep himself free from its baneful influence. But never till now had he known a statesman proclaim his intention of depending upon faction, and upon faction alone, for the result which he desired to achieve. Let the right honourable gentleman raise a contest on either the principles or the details of the measure, and he would be quite content to abide the decision of the House; but he should regard such a raid as that threatened against him and his friends by the right honourable gentleman as unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. He felt sure that an opposition so based, and so maintained, even if it be enabled by the heated feelings of the moment to obtain an unfortunate success in the House, would not be encouraged by the sympathy and support of the country at large. By these last words he was understood to signify that should he be beaten on the second reading, not in reference to the merits of the Bill, but simply on the issue as proposed by Mr. Gresham, he would again dissolve the House before he would resign. Now it was very well understood that there were Liberal members in the House who would prefer even the success of Mr. Daubeny to a speedy reappearance before their constituents. Mr. Daubeny spoke till nearly eight, and it was surmised at the time that he had craftily arranged his oratory so as to embarrass his opponent. The House had met at four, and was to sit continuously till it was adjourned for the night. When this is the case, gentlemen who speak about eight o'clock are too frequently obliged to address themselves to empty benches. On the present occasion it was Mr. Gresham's intention to follow his opponent at once, instead of waiting, as is usual with a leader of his party, to the close of the debate. It was understood that Mr. Gresham would follow Mr. Daubeny, with the object of making a distinct charge against Ministers, so that the vote on this second reading of the Church Bill might in truth be a vote of want of confidence. But to commence his speech at eight o'clock when the House was hungry and uneasy, would be a trial. Had Mr. Daubeny closed an hour sooner there would, with a little stretching of the favoured hours, have been time enough. Members would not have objected to postpone their dinner till half-past eight, or perhaps nine, when their favourite orator was on his legs. But with Mr. Gresham beginning a great speech at eight, dinner would altogether become doubtful, and the disaster might be serious. It was not probable that Mr. Daubeny had even among his friends proclaimed any such strategy; but it was thought by the political speculators of the day that such an idea had been present to his mind. But Mr. Gresham was not to be turned from his purpose. He waited for a few moments, and then rose and addressed the Speaker. A few members left the House;--gentlemen, doubtless, whose constitutions, weakened by previous service, could not endure prolonged fasting. Some who had nearly reached the door returned to their seats, mindful of Messrs. Roby and Ratler. But for the bulk of those assembled the interest of the moment was greater even than the love of dinner. Some of the peers departed, and it was observed that a bishop or two left the House; but among the strangers in the gallery, hardly a foot of space was gained. He who gave up his seat then, gave it up for the night. Mr. Gresham began with a calmness of tone which seemed almost to be affected, but which arose from a struggle on his own part to repress that superabundant energy of which he was only too conscious. But the calmness soon gave place to warmth, which heated itself into violence before he had been a quarter of an hour upon his legs. He soon became even ferocious in his invective, and said things so bitter that he had himself no conception of their bitterness. There was this difference between the two men,--that whereas Mr. Daubeny hit always as hard as he knew how to hit, having premeditated each blow, and weighed its results beforehand, having calculated his power even to the effect of a blow repeated on a wound already given, Mr. Gresham struck right and left and straightforward with a readiness engendered by practice, and in his fury might have murdered his antagonist before he was aware that he had drawn blood. He began by refusing absolutely to discuss the merits of the bill. The right honourable gentleman had prided himself on his generosity as a Greek. He would remind the right honourable gentleman that presents from Greeks had ever been considered dangerous. "It is their gifts, and only their gifts, that we fear," he said. The political gifts of the right honourable gentleman, extracted by him from his unwilling colleagues and followers, had always been more bitter to the taste than Dead Sea apples. That such gifts should not be bestowed on the country by unwilling hands, that reform should not come from those who themselves felt the necessity of no reform, he believed to be the wish not only of that House, but of the country at large. Would any gentleman on that bench, excepting the right honourable gentleman himself,--and he pointed to the crowded phalanx of the Government,--get up and declare that this measure of Church Reform, this severance of Church and State, was brought forward in consonance with his own long-cherished political conviction? He accused that party of being so bound to the chariot wheels of the right honourable gentleman, as to be unable to abide by their own convictions. And as to the right honourable gentleman himself, he would appeal to his followers opposite to say whether the right honourable gentleman was possessed of any one strong political conviction. He had been accused of being unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. If the House would allow him he would very shortly explain his idea of constitutional government as carried on in this country. It was based and built on majorities in that House, and supported solely by that power. There could be no constitutional government in this country that was not so maintained. Any other government must be both revolutionary and tyrannical. Any other government was a usurpation; and he would make bold to tell the right honourable gentleman that a Minister in this country who should recommend Her Majesty to trust herself to advisers not supported by a majority of the House of Commons, would plainly be guilty of usurping the powers of the State. He threw from him with disdain the charge which had been brought against himself of hankering after the sweets of office. He indulged and gloried in indulging the highest ambition of an English subject. But he gloried much more in the privileges and power of that House, within the walls of which was centred all that was salutary, all that was efficacious, all that was stable in the political constitution of his country. It had been his pride to have acted during nearly all his political life with that party which had commanded a majority, but he would defy his most bitter adversary, he would defy the right honourable gentleman himself, to point to any period of his career in which he had been unwilling to succumb to a majority when he himself had belonged to the minority. He himself would regard the vote on this occasion as a vote of want of confidence. He took the line he was now taking because he desired to bring the House to a decision on that question. He himself had not that confidence in the right honourable gentleman which would justify him in accepting a measure on so important a subject as the union or severance of Church and State from his hands. Should the majority of the House differ from him and support the second reading of the Bill, he would at once so far succumb as to give his best attention to the clauses of the bill, and endeavour with the assistance of those gentlemen who acted with him to make it suitable to the wants of the country by omissions and additions as the clauses should pass through Committee. But before doing that he would ask the House to decide with all its solemnity and all its weight whether it was willing to accept from the hands of the right honourable gentleman any measure of reform on a matter so important as this now before them. It was nearly ten when he sat down; and then the stomach of the House could stand it no longer, and an adjournment at once took place. On the next morning it was generally considered that Mr. Daubeny had been too long and Mr. Gresham too passionate. There were some who declared that Mr. Gresham had never been finer than when he described the privileges of the House of Commons; and others who thought that Mr. Daubeny's lucidity had been marvellous; but in this case, as in most others, the speeches of the day were generally thought to have been very inferior to the great efforts of the past. CHAPTER XXXIV. THE UNIVERSE. Before the House met again the quidnuncs about the clubs, on both sides of the question, had determined that Mr. Gresham's speech, whether good or not as an effort of oratory, would serve its intended purpose. He would be backed by a majority of votes, and it might have been very doubtful whether such would have been the case had he attempted to throw out the Bill on its merits. Mr. Ratler, by the time that prayers had been read, had become almost certain of success. There were very few Liberals in the House who were not anxious to declare by their votes that they had no confidence in Mr. Daubeny. Mr. Turnbull, the great Radical, and, perhaps, some two dozen with him, would support the second reading, declaring that they could not reconcile it with their consciences to record a vote in favour of a union of Church and State. On all such occasions as the present Mr. Turnbull was sure to make himself disagreeable to those who sat near to him in the House. He was a man who thought that so much was demanded of him in order that his independence might

preference

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

you mean to say that the morals of your party will be offended?" said Madame Goesler, almost laughing. "Lord Fawn, you know, is very particular. In sober earnest one cannot tell how these things operate; but they do operate gradually. One's friends are sometimes very glad of an excuse for not befriending one." "Lady Laura is coming home?" "Yes." "That will put an end to it." "There is nothing to put an end to except the foul-mouthed malice of a lying newspaper. Nobody believes anything against Lady Laura." "I'm not so sure of that. I believe nothing against her." "I'm sure you do not, Madame Goesler. Nor do I think that anybody does. It is too absurd for belief from beginning to end. Good-bye. Perhaps I shall see you when the debate is over." "Of course you will. Good-bye, and success to your oratory." Then Madame Goesler resolved that she would say a few judicious words to her friend, the Duchess, respecting Phineas Finn. CHAPTER XXXIII. THE TWO GLADIATORS. The great debate was commenced with all the solemnities which are customary on such occasions, and which make men think for the day that no moment of greater excitement has ever blessed or cursed the country. Upon the present occasion London was full of clergymen. The specially clerical clubs,--the Oxford and Cambridge, the Old University, and the Athenaeum,--were black with them. The bishops and deans, as usual, were pleasant in their manner and happy-looking, in spite of adverse circumstances. When one sees a bishop in the hours of the distress of the Church, one always thinks of the just and firm man who will stand fearless while the ruins of the world are falling about his ears. But the parsons from the country were a sorry sight to see. They were in earnest with all their hearts, and did believe,--not that the crack of doom was coming, which they could have borne with equanimity if convinced that their influence would last to the end,--but that the Evil One was to be made welcome upon the earth by Act of Parliament. It is out of nature that any man should think it good that his own order should be repressed, curtailed, and deprived of its power. If we go among cab-drivers or letter-carriers, among butlers or gamekeepers, among tailors or butchers, among farmers or graziers, among doctors or attorneys, we shall find in each set of men a conviction that the welfare of the community depends upon the firmness with which they,--especially they,--hold their own. This is so manifestly true with the Bar that no barrister in practice scruples to avow that barristers in practice are the salt of the earth. The personal confidence of a judge in his own position is beautiful, being salutary to the country, though not unfrequently damaging to the character of the man. But if this be so with men who are conscious of no higher influence than that exercised over the bodies and minds of their fellow creatures, how much stronger must be the feeling when the influence affects the soul! To the outsider, or layman, who simply uses a cab, or receives a letter, or goes to law, or has to be tried, these pretensions are ridiculous or annoying, according to the ascendancy of the pretender at the moment. But as the clerical pretensions are more exacting than all others, being put forward with an assertion that no answer is possible without breach of duty and sin, so are they more galling. The fight has been going on since the idea of a mitre first entered the heart of a priest,--since dominion in this world has found itself capable of sustentation by the exercise of fear as to the world to come. We do believe,--the majority among us does so,--that if we live and die in sin we shall after some fashion come to great punishment, and we believe also that by having pastors among us who shall be men of God, we may best aid ourselves and our children in avoiding this bitter end. But then the pastors and men of God can only be human,--cannot be altogether men of God; and so they have oppressed us, and burned us, and tortured us, and hence come to love palaces, and fine linen, and purple, and, alas, sometimes, mere luxury and idleness. The torturing and the burning, as also to speak truth the luxury and the idleness, have, among us, been already conquered, but the idea of ascendancy remains. What is a thoughtful man to do who acknowledges the danger of his soul, but cannot swallow his parson whole simply because he has been sent to him from some source in which he has no special confidence, perhaps by some distant lord, perhaps by a Lord Chancellor whose political friend has had a son with a tutor? What is he to do when, in spite of some fine linen and purple left among us, the provision for the man of God in his parish or district is so poor that no man of God fitted to teach him will come and take it? In no spirit of animosity to religion he begins to tell himself that Church and State together was a monkish combination, fit perhaps for monkish days, but no longer having fitness, and not much longer capable of existence in this country. But to the parson himself,--to the honest, hardworking, conscientious priest who does in his heart of hearts believe that no diminution in the general influence of his order can be made without ruin to the souls of men,--this opinion, when it becomes dominant, is as though the world were in truth breaking to pieces over his head. The world has been broken to pieces in the same way often;--but extreme Chaos does not come. The cabman and the letter-carrier always expect that Chaos will very nearly come when they are disturbed. The barristers are sure of Chaos when the sanctity of Benchers is in question. What utter Chaos would be promised to us could any one with impunity contemn the majesty of the House of Commons! But of all these Chaoses there can be no Chaos equal to that which in the mind of a zealous Oxford-bred constitutional country parson must attend that annihilation of his special condition which will be produced by the disestablishment of the Church. Of all good fellows he is the best good fellow. He is genial, hospitable, well-educated, and always has either a pretty wife or pretty daughters. But he has so extreme a belief in himself that he cannot endure to be told that absolute Chaos will not come at once if he be disturbed. And now disturbances,--ay, and utter dislocation and ruin were to come from the hands of a friend! Was it wonderful that parsons should be seen about Westminster in flocks with _"Et tu, Brute"_ written on their faces as plainly as the law on the brows of a Pharisee? The Speaker had been harassed for orders. The powers and prowess of every individual member had been put to the test. The galleries were crowded. Ladies' places had been ballotted for with desperate enthusiasm, in spite of the sarcasm against the House which Madame Goesler had expressed. Two royal princes and a royal duke were accommodated within the House in an irregular manner. Peers swarmed in the passages, and were too happy to find standing room. Bishops jostled against lay barons with no other preference than that afforded to them by their broader shoulders. Men, and especially clergymen, came to the galleries loaded with sandwiches and flasks, prepared to hear all there was to be heard should the debate last from 4 P.M. to the same hour on the following morning. At two in the afternoon the entrances to the House were barred, and men of all ranks,--deans, prebends, peers' sons, and baronets,--stood there patiently waiting till some powerful nobleman should let them through. The very ventilating chambers under the House were filled with courteous listeners, who had all pledged themselves that under no possible provocation would they even cough during the debate. A few minutes after four, in a House from which hardly more than a dozen members were absent, Mr. Daubeny took his seat with that air of affected indifference to things around him which is peculiar to him. He entered slowly, amidst cheers from his side of the House, which no doubt were loud in proportion to the dismay of the cheerers as to the matter in hand. Gentlemen lacking substantial sympathy with their leader found it to be comfortable to deceive themselves, and raise their hearts at the same time by the easy enthusiasm of noise. Mr. Daubeny having sat down and covered his head just raised his hat from his brows, and then tried to look as though he were no more than any other gentleman present. But the peculiar consciousness of the man displayed itself even in his constrained absence of motion. You could see that he felt himself to be the beheld of all beholders, and that he enjoyed the position,--with some slight inward trepidation lest the effort to be made should not equal the greatness of the occasion. Immediately after him Mr. Gresham bustled up the centre of the House amidst a roar of good-humoured welcome. We have had many Ministers who have been personally dearer to their individual adherents in the House than the present leader of the Opposition and late Premier, but none, perhaps, who has been more generally respected by his party for earnestness and sincerity. On the present occasion there was a fierceness, almost a ferocity, in his very countenance, to the fire of which friends and enemies were equally anxious to add fuel,--the friends in order that so might these recreant Tories be more thoroughly annihilated, and the enemies, that their enemy's indiscretion might act back upon himself to his confusion. For, indeed, it never could be denied that as a Prime Minister Mr. Gresham could be very indiscreet. A certain small amount of ordinary business was done, to the disgust of expectant strangers, which was as trivial as possible in its nature,--so arranged, apparently, that the importance of what was to follow might be enhanced by the force of contrast. And, to make the dismay of the novice stranger more thorough, questions were asked and answers were given in so low a voice, and Mr. Speaker uttered a word or two in so quick and shambling a fashion, that he, the novice stranger, began to fear that no word of the debate would reach him up there in his crowded back seat. All this, however, occupied but a few minutes, and at twenty minutes past four Mr. Daubeny was on his legs. Then the novice stranger found that, though he could not see Mr. Daubeny without the aid of an opera glass, he could hear every word that fell from his lips. Mr. Daubeny began by regretting the hardness of his position, in that he must, with what thoroughness he might be able to achieve, apply himself to two great subjects, whereas the right honourable gentleman opposite had already declared, with all the formality which could be made to attach itself to a combined meeting of peers and commoners, that he would confine himself strictly to one. The subject selected by the right honourable gentleman opposite on the present occasion was not the question of Church Reform. The right honourable gentleman had pledged himself with an almost sacred enthusiasm to ignore that subject altogether. No doubt it was the question before the House, and he, himself,--the present speaker,--must unfortunately discuss it at some length. The right honourable gentleman opposite would not, on this great occasion, trouble himself with anything of so little moment. And it might be presumed that the political followers of the right honourable gentleman would be equally reticent, as they were understood to have accepted his tactics without a dissentient voice. He, Mr. Daubeny, was the last man in England to deny the importance of the question which the right honourable gentleman would select for discussions in preference to that of the condition of the Church. That question was a very simple one, and might be put to the House in a very few words. Coming from the mouth of the right honourable gentleman, the proposition would probably be made in this form:--"That this House does think that I ought to be Prime Minister now, and as long as I may possess a seat in this House." It was impossible to deny the importance of that question; but perhaps he, Mr. Daubeny, might be justified in demurring to the preference given to it over every other matter, let that matter be of what importance it might be to the material welfare of the country. He made his point well; but he made it too often. And an attack of that kind, personal and savage in its nature, loses its effect when it is evident that the words have been prepared. A good deal may be done in dispute by calling a man an ass or a knave,--but the resolve to use the words should have been made only at the moment, and they should come hot from the heart. There was much neatness and some acuteness in Mr. Daubeny's satire, but there was no heat, and it was prolix. It had, however, the effect of irritating Mr. Gresham,--as was evident from the manner in which he moved his hat and shuffled his feet. A man destined to sit conspicuously on our Treasury Bench, or on the seat opposite to it, should ask the gods for a thick skin as a first gift. The need of this in our national assembly is greater than elsewhere, because the differences between the men opposed to each other are smaller. When two foes meet together in the same Chamber, one of whom advocates the personal government of an individual ruler, and the other that form of State, which has come to be called a Red Republic, they deal, no doubt, weighty blows of oratory at each other, but blows which never hurt at the moment. They may cut each other's throats if they can find an opportunity; but they do not bite each other like dogs over a bone. But when opponents are almost in accord, as is always the case with our parliamentary gladiators, they are ever striving to give maddening little wounds through the joints of the harness. What is there with us to create the divergence necessary for debate but the pride of personal skill in the encounter? Who desires among us to put down the Queen, or to repudiate the National Debt, or to destroy religious worship, or even to disturb the ranks of society? When some small measure of reform has thoroughly recommended itself to the country,--so thoroughly that all men know that the country will have it,--then the question arises whether its details shall be arranged by the political party which calls itself Liberal,--or by that which is termed Conservative. The men are so near to each other in all their convictions and theories of life that nothing is left to them but personal competition for the doing of the thing that is to be done. It is the same in religion. The apostle of Christianity and the infidel can meet without a chance of a quarrel; but it is never safe to bring together two men who differ about a saint or a surplice. Mr. Daubeny, having thus attacked and wounded his enemy, rushed boldly into the question of Church Reform, taking no little pride to himself and to his party that so great a blessing should be bestowed upon the country from so unexpected a source. "See what we Conservatives can do. In fact we will conserve nothing when we find that you do not desire to have it conserved any longer. 'Quod minime reris Grai pandetur ab urbe.'" It was exactly the reverse of the complaint which Mr. Gresham was about to make. On the subject of the Church itself he was rather misty but very profound. He went into the question of very early Churches indeed, and spoke of the misappropriation of endowments in the time of Eli. The establishment of the Levites had been no doubt complete; but changes had been effected as circumstances required. He was presumed to have alluded to the order of Melchisedek, but he abstained from any mention of the name. He roamed very wide, and gave many of his hearers an idea that his erudition had carried him into regions in which it was impossible to follow him. The gist of his argument was to show that audacity in Reform was the very backbone of Conservatism. By a clearly pronounced disunion of Church and State the theocracy of Thomas Becket would be restored, and the people of England would soon again become the faithful flocks of faithful shepherds. By taking away the endowments from the parishes, and giving them back in some complicated way to the country, the parishes would be better able than ever to support their clergymen. Bishops would be bishops indeed, when they were no longer the creatures of a Minister's breath. As to the deans, not seeing a clear way to satisfy aspirants for future vacancies in the deaneries, he became more than usually vague, but seemed to imply that the Bill which was now with the leave of the House to be read a second time, contained no clause forbidding the appointment of deans, though the special stipend of the office must be matter of consideration with the new Church Synod. The details of this part of his speech were felt to be dull by the strangers. As long as he would abuse Mr. Gresham, men could listen with pleasure; and could keep their attention fixed while he referred to the general Conservatism of the party which he had the honour of leading. There was a raciness in the promise of so much Church destruction from the chosen leader of the Church party, which was assisted by a conviction in the minds of most men that it was impossible for unfortunate Conservatives to refuse to follow this leader, let him lead where he might. There was a gratification in feeling that the country party was bound to follow, even should he take them into the very bowels of a mountain, as the pied piper did the children of Hamelin;--and this made listening pleasant. But when Mr. Daubeny stated the effect of his different clauses, explaining what was to be taken and what left,--with a fervent assurance that what was to be left would, under the altered circumstances, go much further than the whole had gone before,--then the audience became weary, and began to think that it was time that some other gentleman should be upon his legs. But at the end of the Minister's speech there was another touch of invective which went far to redeem him. He returned to that personal question to which his adversary had undertaken to confine himself, and expressed a holy horror at the political doctrine which was implied. He, during a prolonged Parliamentary experience, had encountered much factious opposition. He would even acknowledge that he had seen it exercised on both sides of the House, though he had always striven to keep himself free from its baneful influence. But never till now had he known a statesman proclaim his intention of depending upon faction, and upon faction alone, for the result which he desired to achieve. Let the right honourable gentleman raise a contest on either the principles or the details of the measure, and he would be quite content to abide the decision of the House; but he should regard such a raid as that threatened against him and his friends by the right honourable gentleman as unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. He felt sure that an opposition so based, and so maintained, even if it be enabled by the heated feelings of the moment to obtain an unfortunate success in the House, would not be encouraged by the sympathy and support of the country at large. By these last words he was understood to signify that should he be beaten on the second reading, not in reference to the merits of the Bill, but simply on the issue as proposed by Mr. Gresham, he would again dissolve the House before he would resign. Now it was very well understood that there were Liberal members in the House who would prefer even the success of Mr. Daubeny to a speedy reappearance before their constituents. Mr. Daubeny spoke till nearly eight, and it was surmised at the time that he had craftily arranged his oratory so as to embarrass his opponent. The House had met at four, and was to sit continuously till it was adjourned for the night. When this is the case, gentlemen who speak about eight o'clock are too frequently obliged to address themselves to empty benches. On the present occasion it was Mr. Gresham's intention to follow his opponent at once, instead of waiting, as is usual with a leader of his party, to the close of the debate. It was understood that Mr. Gresham would follow Mr. Daubeny, with the object of making a distinct charge against Ministers, so that the vote on this second reading of the Church Bill might in truth be a vote of want of confidence. But to commence his speech at eight o'clock when the House was hungry and uneasy, would be a trial. Had Mr. Daubeny closed an hour sooner there would, with a little stretching of the favoured hours, have been time enough. Members would not have objected to postpone their dinner till half-past eight, or perhaps nine, when their favourite orator was on his legs. But with Mr. Gresham beginning a great speech at eight, dinner would altogether become doubtful, and the disaster might be serious. It was not probable that Mr. Daubeny had even among his friends proclaimed any such strategy; but it was thought by the political speculators of the day that such an idea had been present to his mind. But Mr. Gresham was not to be turned from his purpose. He waited for a few moments, and then rose and addressed the Speaker. A few members left the House;--gentlemen, doubtless, whose constitutions, weakened by previous service, could not endure prolonged fasting. Some who had nearly reached the door returned to their seats, mindful of Messrs. Roby and Ratler. But for the bulk of those assembled the interest of the moment was greater even than the love of dinner. Some of the peers departed, and it was observed that a bishop or two left the House; but among the strangers in the gallery, hardly a foot of space was gained. He who gave up his seat then, gave it up for the night. Mr. Gresham began with a calmness of tone which seemed almost to be affected, but which arose from a struggle on his own part to repress that superabundant energy of which he was only too conscious. But the calmness soon gave place to warmth, which heated itself into violence before he had been a quarter of an hour upon his legs. He soon became even ferocious in his invective, and said things so bitter that he had himself no conception of their bitterness. There was this difference between the two men,--that whereas Mr. Daubeny hit always as hard as he knew how to hit, having premeditated each blow, and weighed its results beforehand, having calculated his power even to the effect of a blow repeated on a wound already given, Mr. Gresham struck right and left and straightforward with a readiness engendered by practice, and in his fury might have murdered his antagonist before he was aware that he had drawn blood. He began by refusing absolutely to discuss the merits of the bill. The right honourable gentleman had prided himself on his generosity as a Greek. He would remind the right honourable gentleman that presents from Greeks had ever been considered dangerous. "It is their gifts, and only their gifts, that we fear," he said. The political gifts of the right honourable gentleman, extracted by him from his unwilling colleagues and followers, had always been more bitter to the taste than Dead Sea apples. That such gifts should not be bestowed on the country by unwilling hands, that reform should not come from those who themselves felt the necessity of no reform, he believed to be the wish not only of that House, but of the country at large. Would any gentleman on that bench, excepting the right honourable gentleman himself,--and he pointed to the crowded phalanx of the Government,--get up and declare that this measure of Church Reform, this severance of Church and State, was brought forward in consonance with his own long-cherished political conviction? He accused that party of being so bound to the chariot wheels of the right honourable gentleman, as to be unable to abide by their own convictions. And as to the right honourable gentleman himself, he would appeal to his followers opposite to say whether the right honourable gentleman was possessed of any one strong political conviction. He had been accused of being unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. If the House would allow him he would very shortly explain his idea of constitutional government as carried on in this country. It was based and built on majorities in that House, and supported solely by that power. There could be no constitutional government in this country that was not so maintained. Any other government must be both revolutionary and tyrannical. Any other government was a usurpation; and he would make bold to tell the right honourable gentleman that a Minister in this country who should recommend Her Majesty to trust herself to advisers not supported by a majority of the House of Commons, would plainly be guilty of usurping the powers of the State. He threw from him with disdain the charge which had been brought against himself of hankering after the sweets of office. He indulged and gloried in indulging the highest ambition of an English subject. But he gloried much more in the privileges and power of that House, within the walls of which was centred all that was salutary, all that was efficacious, all that was stable in the political constitution of his country. It had been his pride to have acted during nearly all his political life with that party which had commanded a majority, but he would defy his most bitter adversary, he would defy the right honourable gentleman himself, to point to any period of his career in which he had been unwilling to succumb to a majority when he himself had belonged to the minority. He himself would regard the vote on this occasion as a vote of want of confidence. He took the line he was now taking because he desired to bring the House to a decision on that question. He himself had not that confidence in the right honourable gentleman which would justify him in accepting a measure on so important a subject as the union or severance of Church and State from his hands. Should the majority of the House differ from him and support the second reading of the Bill, he would at once so far succumb as to give his best attention to the clauses of the bill, and endeavour with the assistance of those gentlemen who acted with him to make it suitable to the wants of the country by omissions and additions as the clauses should pass through Committee. But before doing that he would ask the House to decide with all its solemnity and all its weight whether it was willing to accept from the hands of the right honourable gentleman any measure of reform on a matter so important as this now before them. It was nearly ten when he sat down; and then the stomach of the House could stand it no longer, and an adjournment at once took place. On the next morning it was generally considered that Mr. Daubeny had been too long and Mr. Gresham too passionate. There were some who declared that Mr. Gresham had never been finer than when he described the privileges of the House of Commons; and others who thought that Mr. Daubeny's lucidity had been marvellous; but in this case, as in most others, the speeches of the day were generally thought to have been very inferior to the great efforts of the past. CHAPTER XXXIV. THE UNIVERSE. Before the House met again the quidnuncs about the clubs, on both sides of the question, had determined that Mr. Gresham's speech, whether good or not as an effort of oratory, would serve its intended purpose. He would be backed by a majority of votes, and it might have been very doubtful whether such would have been the case had he attempted to throw out the Bill on its merits. Mr. Ratler, by the time that prayers had been read, had become almost certain of success. There were very few Liberals in the House who were not anxious to declare by their votes that they had no confidence in Mr. Daubeny. Mr. Turnbull, the great Radical, and, perhaps, some two dozen with him, would support the second reading, declaring that they could not reconcile it with their consciences to record a vote in favour of a union of Church and State. On all such occasions as the present Mr. Turnbull was sure to make himself disagreeable to those who sat near to him in the House. He was a man who thought that so much was demanded of him in order that his independence might

evident

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

you mean to say that the morals of your party will be offended?" said Madame Goesler, almost laughing. "Lord Fawn, you know, is very particular. In sober earnest one cannot tell how these things operate; but they do operate gradually. One's friends are sometimes very glad of an excuse for not befriending one." "Lady Laura is coming home?" "Yes." "That will put an end to it." "There is nothing to put an end to except the foul-mouthed malice of a lying newspaper. Nobody believes anything against Lady Laura." "I'm not so sure of that. I believe nothing against her." "I'm sure you do not, Madame Goesler. Nor do I think that anybody does. It is too absurd for belief from beginning to end. Good-bye. Perhaps I shall see you when the debate is over." "Of course you will. Good-bye, and success to your oratory." Then Madame Goesler resolved that she would say a few judicious words to her friend, the Duchess, respecting Phineas Finn. CHAPTER XXXIII. THE TWO GLADIATORS. The great debate was commenced with all the solemnities which are customary on such occasions, and which make men think for the day that no moment of greater excitement has ever blessed or cursed the country. Upon the present occasion London was full of clergymen. The specially clerical clubs,--the Oxford and Cambridge, the Old University, and the Athenaeum,--were black with them. The bishops and deans, as usual, were pleasant in their manner and happy-looking, in spite of adverse circumstances. When one sees a bishop in the hours of the distress of the Church, one always thinks of the just and firm man who will stand fearless while the ruins of the world are falling about his ears. But the parsons from the country were a sorry sight to see. They were in earnest with all their hearts, and did believe,--not that the crack of doom was coming, which they could have borne with equanimity if convinced that their influence would last to the end,--but that the Evil One was to be made welcome upon the earth by Act of Parliament. It is out of nature that any man should think it good that his own order should be repressed, curtailed, and deprived of its power. If we go among cab-drivers or letter-carriers, among butlers or gamekeepers, among tailors or butchers, among farmers or graziers, among doctors or attorneys, we shall find in each set of men a conviction that the welfare of the community depends upon the firmness with which they,--especially they,--hold their own. This is so manifestly true with the Bar that no barrister in practice scruples to avow that barristers in practice are the salt of the earth. The personal confidence of a judge in his own position is beautiful, being salutary to the country, though not unfrequently damaging to the character of the man. But if this be so with men who are conscious of no higher influence than that exercised over the bodies and minds of their fellow creatures, how much stronger must be the feeling when the influence affects the soul! To the outsider, or layman, who simply uses a cab, or receives a letter, or goes to law, or has to be tried, these pretensions are ridiculous or annoying, according to the ascendancy of the pretender at the moment. But as the clerical pretensions are more exacting than all others, being put forward with an assertion that no answer is possible without breach of duty and sin, so are they more galling. The fight has been going on since the idea of a mitre first entered the heart of a priest,--since dominion in this world has found itself capable of sustentation by the exercise of fear as to the world to come. We do believe,--the majority among us does so,--that if we live and die in sin we shall after some fashion come to great punishment, and we believe also that by having pastors among us who shall be men of God, we may best aid ourselves and our children in avoiding this bitter end. But then the pastors and men of God can only be human,--cannot be altogether men of God; and so they have oppressed us, and burned us, and tortured us, and hence come to love palaces, and fine linen, and purple, and, alas, sometimes, mere luxury and idleness. The torturing and the burning, as also to speak truth the luxury and the idleness, have, among us, been already conquered, but the idea of ascendancy remains. What is a thoughtful man to do who acknowledges the danger of his soul, but cannot swallow his parson whole simply because he has been sent to him from some source in which he has no special confidence, perhaps by some distant lord, perhaps by a Lord Chancellor whose political friend has had a son with a tutor? What is he to do when, in spite of some fine linen and purple left among us, the provision for the man of God in his parish or district is so poor that no man of God fitted to teach him will come and take it? In no spirit of animosity to religion he begins to tell himself that Church and State together was a monkish combination, fit perhaps for monkish days, but no longer having fitness, and not much longer capable of existence in this country. But to the parson himself,--to the honest, hardworking, conscientious priest who does in his heart of hearts believe that no diminution in the general influence of his order can be made without ruin to the souls of men,--this opinion, when it becomes dominant, is as though the world were in truth breaking to pieces over his head. The world has been broken to pieces in the same way often;--but extreme Chaos does not come. The cabman and the letter-carrier always expect that Chaos will very nearly come when they are disturbed. The barristers are sure of Chaos when the sanctity of Benchers is in question. What utter Chaos would be promised to us could any one with impunity contemn the majesty of the House of Commons! But of all these Chaoses there can be no Chaos equal to that which in the mind of a zealous Oxford-bred constitutional country parson must attend that annihilation of his special condition which will be produced by the disestablishment of the Church. Of all good fellows he is the best good fellow. He is genial, hospitable, well-educated, and always has either a pretty wife or pretty daughters. But he has so extreme a belief in himself that he cannot endure to be told that absolute Chaos will not come at once if he be disturbed. And now disturbances,--ay, and utter dislocation and ruin were to come from the hands of a friend! Was it wonderful that parsons should be seen about Westminster in flocks with _"Et tu, Brute"_ written on their faces as plainly as the law on the brows of a Pharisee? The Speaker had been harassed for orders. The powers and prowess of every individual member had been put to the test. The galleries were crowded. Ladies' places had been ballotted for with desperate enthusiasm, in spite of the sarcasm against the House which Madame Goesler had expressed. Two royal princes and a royal duke were accommodated within the House in an irregular manner. Peers swarmed in the passages, and were too happy to find standing room. Bishops jostled against lay barons with no other preference than that afforded to them by their broader shoulders. Men, and especially clergymen, came to the galleries loaded with sandwiches and flasks, prepared to hear all there was to be heard should the debate last from 4 P.M. to the same hour on the following morning. At two in the afternoon the entrances to the House were barred, and men of all ranks,--deans, prebends, peers' sons, and baronets,--stood there patiently waiting till some powerful nobleman should let them through. The very ventilating chambers under the House were filled with courteous listeners, who had all pledged themselves that under no possible provocation would they even cough during the debate. A few minutes after four, in a House from which hardly more than a dozen members were absent, Mr. Daubeny took his seat with that air of affected indifference to things around him which is peculiar to him. He entered slowly, amidst cheers from his side of the House, which no doubt were loud in proportion to the dismay of the cheerers as to the matter in hand. Gentlemen lacking substantial sympathy with their leader found it to be comfortable to deceive themselves, and raise their hearts at the same time by the easy enthusiasm of noise. Mr. Daubeny having sat down and covered his head just raised his hat from his brows, and then tried to look as though he were no more than any other gentleman present. But the peculiar consciousness of the man displayed itself even in his constrained absence of motion. You could see that he felt himself to be the beheld of all beholders, and that he enjoyed the position,--with some slight inward trepidation lest the effort to be made should not equal the greatness of the occasion. Immediately after him Mr. Gresham bustled up the centre of the House amidst a roar of good-humoured welcome. We have had many Ministers who have been personally dearer to their individual adherents in the House than the present leader of the Opposition and late Premier, but none, perhaps, who has been more generally respected by his party for earnestness and sincerity. On the present occasion there was a fierceness, almost a ferocity, in his very countenance, to the fire of which friends and enemies were equally anxious to add fuel,--the friends in order that so might these recreant Tories be more thoroughly annihilated, and the enemies, that their enemy's indiscretion might act back upon himself to his confusion. For, indeed, it never could be denied that as a Prime Minister Mr. Gresham could be very indiscreet. A certain small amount of ordinary business was done, to the disgust of expectant strangers, which was as trivial as possible in its nature,--so arranged, apparently, that the importance of what was to follow might be enhanced by the force of contrast. And, to make the dismay of the novice stranger more thorough, questions were asked and answers were given in so low a voice, and Mr. Speaker uttered a word or two in so quick and shambling a fashion, that he, the novice stranger, began to fear that no word of the debate would reach him up there in his crowded back seat. All this, however, occupied but a few minutes, and at twenty minutes past four Mr. Daubeny was on his legs. Then the novice stranger found that, though he could not see Mr. Daubeny without the aid of an opera glass, he could hear every word that fell from his lips. Mr. Daubeny began by regretting the hardness of his position, in that he must, with what thoroughness he might be able to achieve, apply himself to two great subjects, whereas the right honourable gentleman opposite had already declared, with all the formality which could be made to attach itself to a combined meeting of peers and commoners, that he would confine himself strictly to one. The subject selected by the right honourable gentleman opposite on the present occasion was not the question of Church Reform. The right honourable gentleman had pledged himself with an almost sacred enthusiasm to ignore that subject altogether. No doubt it was the question before the House, and he, himself,--the present speaker,--must unfortunately discuss it at some length. The right honourable gentleman opposite would not, on this great occasion, trouble himself with anything of so little moment. And it might be presumed that the political followers of the right honourable gentleman would be equally reticent, as they were understood to have accepted his tactics without a dissentient voice. He, Mr. Daubeny, was the last man in England to deny the importance of the question which the right honourable gentleman would select for discussions in preference to that of the condition of the Church. That question was a very simple one, and might be put to the House in a very few words. Coming from the mouth of the right honourable gentleman, the proposition would probably be made in this form:--"That this House does think that I ought to be Prime Minister now, and as long as I may possess a seat in this House." It was impossible to deny the importance of that question; but perhaps he, Mr. Daubeny, might be justified in demurring to the preference given to it over every other matter, let that matter be of what importance it might be to the material welfare of the country. He made his point well; but he made it too often. And an attack of that kind, personal and savage in its nature, loses its effect when it is evident that the words have been prepared. A good deal may be done in dispute by calling a man an ass or a knave,--but the resolve to use the words should have been made only at the moment, and they should come hot from the heart. There was much neatness and some acuteness in Mr. Daubeny's satire, but there was no heat, and it was prolix. It had, however, the effect of irritating Mr. Gresham,--as was evident from the manner in which he moved his hat and shuffled his feet. A man destined to sit conspicuously on our Treasury Bench, or on the seat opposite to it, should ask the gods for a thick skin as a first gift. The need of this in our national assembly is greater than elsewhere, because the differences between the men opposed to each other are smaller. When two foes meet together in the same Chamber, one of whom advocates the personal government of an individual ruler, and the other that form of State, which has come to be called a Red Republic, they deal, no doubt, weighty blows of oratory at each other, but blows which never hurt at the moment. They may cut each other's throats if they can find an opportunity; but they do not bite each other like dogs over a bone. But when opponents are almost in accord, as is always the case with our parliamentary gladiators, they are ever striving to give maddening little wounds through the joints of the harness. What is there with us to create the divergence necessary for debate but the pride of personal skill in the encounter? Who desires among us to put down the Queen, or to repudiate the National Debt, or to destroy religious worship, or even to disturb the ranks of society? When some small measure of reform has thoroughly recommended itself to the country,--so thoroughly that all men know that the country will have it,--then the question arises whether its details shall be arranged by the political party which calls itself Liberal,--or by that which is termed Conservative. The men are so near to each other in all their convictions and theories of life that nothing is left to them but personal competition for the doing of the thing that is to be done. It is the same in religion. The apostle of Christianity and the infidel can meet without a chance of a quarrel; but it is never safe to bring together two men who differ about a saint or a surplice. Mr. Daubeny, having thus attacked and wounded his enemy, rushed boldly into the question of Church Reform, taking no little pride to himself and to his party that so great a blessing should be bestowed upon the country from so unexpected a source. "See what we Conservatives can do. In fact we will conserve nothing when we find that you do not desire to have it conserved any longer. 'Quod minime reris Grai pandetur ab urbe.'" It was exactly the reverse of the complaint which Mr. Gresham was about to make. On the subject of the Church itself he was rather misty but very profound. He went into the question of very early Churches indeed, and spoke of the misappropriation of endowments in the time of Eli. The establishment of the Levites had been no doubt complete; but changes had been effected as circumstances required. He was presumed to have alluded to the order of Melchisedek, but he abstained from any mention of the name. He roamed very wide, and gave many of his hearers an idea that his erudition had carried him into regions in which it was impossible to follow him. The gist of his argument was to show that audacity in Reform was the very backbone of Conservatism. By a clearly pronounced disunion of Church and State the theocracy of Thomas Becket would be restored, and the people of England would soon again become the faithful flocks of faithful shepherds. By taking away the endowments from the parishes, and giving them back in some complicated way to the country, the parishes would be better able than ever to support their clergymen. Bishops would be bishops indeed, when they were no longer the creatures of a Minister's breath. As to the deans, not seeing a clear way to satisfy aspirants for future vacancies in the deaneries, he became more than usually vague, but seemed to imply that the Bill which was now with the leave of the House to be read a second time, contained no clause forbidding the appointment of deans, though the special stipend of the office must be matter of consideration with the new Church Synod. The details of this part of his speech were felt to be dull by the strangers. As long as he would abuse Mr. Gresham, men could listen with pleasure; and could keep their attention fixed while he referred to the general Conservatism of the party which he had the honour of leading. There was a raciness in the promise of so much Church destruction from the chosen leader of the Church party, which was assisted by a conviction in the minds of most men that it was impossible for unfortunate Conservatives to refuse to follow this leader, let him lead where he might. There was a gratification in feeling that the country party was bound to follow, even should he take them into the very bowels of a mountain, as the pied piper did the children of Hamelin;--and this made listening pleasant. But when Mr. Daubeny stated the effect of his different clauses, explaining what was to be taken and what left,--with a fervent assurance that what was to be left would, under the altered circumstances, go much further than the whole had gone before,--then the audience became weary, and began to think that it was time that some other gentleman should be upon his legs. But at the end of the Minister's speech there was another touch of invective which went far to redeem him. He returned to that personal question to which his adversary had undertaken to confine himself, and expressed a holy horror at the political doctrine which was implied. He, during a prolonged Parliamentary experience, had encountered much factious opposition. He would even acknowledge that he had seen it exercised on both sides of the House, though he had always striven to keep himself free from its baneful influence. But never till now had he known a statesman proclaim his intention of depending upon faction, and upon faction alone, for the result which he desired to achieve. Let the right honourable gentleman raise a contest on either the principles or the details of the measure, and he would be quite content to abide the decision of the House; but he should regard such a raid as that threatened against him and his friends by the right honourable gentleman as unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. He felt sure that an opposition so based, and so maintained, even if it be enabled by the heated feelings of the moment to obtain an unfortunate success in the House, would not be encouraged by the sympathy and support of the country at large. By these last words he was understood to signify that should he be beaten on the second reading, not in reference to the merits of the Bill, but simply on the issue as proposed by Mr. Gresham, he would again dissolve the House before he would resign. Now it was very well understood that there were Liberal members in the House who would prefer even the success of Mr. Daubeny to a speedy reappearance before their constituents. Mr. Daubeny spoke till nearly eight, and it was surmised at the time that he had craftily arranged his oratory so as to embarrass his opponent. The House had met at four, and was to sit continuously till it was adjourned for the night. When this is the case, gentlemen who speak about eight o'clock are too frequently obliged to address themselves to empty benches. On the present occasion it was Mr. Gresham's intention to follow his opponent at once, instead of waiting, as is usual with a leader of his party, to the close of the debate. It was understood that Mr. Gresham would follow Mr. Daubeny, with the object of making a distinct charge against Ministers, so that the vote on this second reading of the Church Bill might in truth be a vote of want of confidence. But to commence his speech at eight o'clock when the House was hungry and uneasy, would be a trial. Had Mr. Daubeny closed an hour sooner there would, with a little stretching of the favoured hours, have been time enough. Members would not have objected to postpone their dinner till half-past eight, or perhaps nine, when their favourite orator was on his legs. But with Mr. Gresham beginning a great speech at eight, dinner would altogether become doubtful, and the disaster might be serious. It was not probable that Mr. Daubeny had even among his friends proclaimed any such strategy; but it was thought by the political speculators of the day that such an idea had been present to his mind. But Mr. Gresham was not to be turned from his purpose. He waited for a few moments, and then rose and addressed the Speaker. A few members left the House;--gentlemen, doubtless, whose constitutions, weakened by previous service, could not endure prolonged fasting. Some who had nearly reached the door returned to their seats, mindful of Messrs. Roby and Ratler. But for the bulk of those assembled the interest of the moment was greater even than the love of dinner. Some of the peers departed, and it was observed that a bishop or two left the House; but among the strangers in the gallery, hardly a foot of space was gained. He who gave up his seat then, gave it up for the night. Mr. Gresham began with a calmness of tone which seemed almost to be affected, but which arose from a struggle on his own part to repress that superabundant energy of which he was only too conscious. But the calmness soon gave place to warmth, which heated itself into violence before he had been a quarter of an hour upon his legs. He soon became even ferocious in his invective, and said things so bitter that he had himself no conception of their bitterness. There was this difference between the two men,--that whereas Mr. Daubeny hit always as hard as he knew how to hit, having premeditated each blow, and weighed its results beforehand, having calculated his power even to the effect of a blow repeated on a wound already given, Mr. Gresham struck right and left and straightforward with a readiness engendered by practice, and in his fury might have murdered his antagonist before he was aware that he had drawn blood. He began by refusing absolutely to discuss the merits of the bill. The right honourable gentleman had prided himself on his generosity as a Greek. He would remind the right honourable gentleman that presents from Greeks had ever been considered dangerous. "It is their gifts, and only their gifts, that we fear," he said. The political gifts of the right honourable gentleman, extracted by him from his unwilling colleagues and followers, had always been more bitter to the taste than Dead Sea apples. That such gifts should not be bestowed on the country by unwilling hands, that reform should not come from those who themselves felt the necessity of no reform, he believed to be the wish not only of that House, but of the country at large. Would any gentleman on that bench, excepting the right honourable gentleman himself,--and he pointed to the crowded phalanx of the Government,--get up and declare that this measure of Church Reform, this severance of Church and State, was brought forward in consonance with his own long-cherished political conviction? He accused that party of being so bound to the chariot wheels of the right honourable gentleman, as to be unable to abide by their own convictions. And as to the right honourable gentleman himself, he would appeal to his followers opposite to say whether the right honourable gentleman was possessed of any one strong political conviction. He had been accused of being unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. If the House would allow him he would very shortly explain his idea of constitutional government as carried on in this country. It was based and built on majorities in that House, and supported solely by that power. There could be no constitutional government in this country that was not so maintained. Any other government must be both revolutionary and tyrannical. Any other government was a usurpation; and he would make bold to tell the right honourable gentleman that a Minister in this country who should recommend Her Majesty to trust herself to advisers not supported by a majority of the House of Commons, would plainly be guilty of usurping the powers of the State. He threw from him with disdain the charge which had been brought against himself of hankering after the sweets of office. He indulged and gloried in indulging the highest ambition of an English subject. But he gloried much more in the privileges and power of that House, within the walls of which was centred all that was salutary, all that was efficacious, all that was stable in the political constitution of his country. It had been his pride to have acted during nearly all his political life with that party which had commanded a majority, but he would defy his most bitter adversary, he would defy the right honourable gentleman himself, to point to any period of his career in which he had been unwilling to succumb to a majority when he himself had belonged to the minority. He himself would regard the vote on this occasion as a vote of want of confidence. He took the line he was now taking because he desired to bring the House to a decision on that question. He himself had not that confidence in the right honourable gentleman which would justify him in accepting a measure on so important a subject as the union or severance of Church and State from his hands. Should the majority of the House differ from him and support the second reading of the Bill, he would at once so far succumb as to give his best attention to the clauses of the bill, and endeavour with the assistance of those gentlemen who acted with him to make it suitable to the wants of the country by omissions and additions as the clauses should pass through Committee. But before doing that he would ask the House to decide with all its solemnity and all its weight whether it was willing to accept from the hands of the right honourable gentleman any measure of reform on a matter so important as this now before them. It was nearly ten when he sat down; and then the stomach of the House could stand it no longer, and an adjournment at once took place. On the next morning it was generally considered that Mr. Daubeny had been too long and Mr. Gresham too passionate. There were some who declared that Mr. Gresham had never been finer than when he described the privileges of the House of Commons; and others who thought that Mr. Daubeny's lucidity had been marvellous; but in this case, as in most others, the speeches of the day were generally thought to have been very inferior to the great efforts of the past. CHAPTER XXXIV. THE UNIVERSE. Before the House met again the quidnuncs about the clubs, on both sides of the question, had determined that Mr. Gresham's speech, whether good or not as an effort of oratory, would serve its intended purpose. He would be backed by a majority of votes, and it might have been very doubtful whether such would have been the case had he attempted to throw out the Bill on its merits. Mr. Ratler, by the time that prayers had been read, had become almost certain of success. There were very few Liberals in the House who were not anxious to declare by their votes that they had no confidence in Mr. Daubeny. Mr. Turnbull, the great Radical, and, perhaps, some two dozen with him, would support the second reading, declaring that they could not reconcile it with their consciences to record a vote in favour of a union of Church and State. On all such occasions as the present Mr. Turnbull was sure to make himself disagreeable to those who sat near to him in the House. He was a man who thought that so much was demanded of him in order that his independence might

bye

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

you mean to say that the morals of your party will be offended?" said Madame Goesler, almost laughing. "Lord Fawn, you know, is very particular. In sober earnest one cannot tell how these things operate; but they do operate gradually. One's friends are sometimes very glad of an excuse for not befriending one." "Lady Laura is coming home?" "Yes." "That will put an end to it." "There is nothing to put an end to except the foul-mouthed malice of a lying newspaper. Nobody believes anything against Lady Laura." "I'm not so sure of that. I believe nothing against her." "I'm sure you do not, Madame Goesler. Nor do I think that anybody does. It is too absurd for belief from beginning to end. Good-bye. Perhaps I shall see you when the debate is over." "Of course you will. Good-bye, and success to your oratory." Then Madame Goesler resolved that she would say a few judicious words to her friend, the Duchess, respecting Phineas Finn. CHAPTER XXXIII. THE TWO GLADIATORS. The great debate was commenced with all the solemnities which are customary on such occasions, and which make men think for the day that no moment of greater excitement has ever blessed or cursed the country. Upon the present occasion London was full of clergymen. The specially clerical clubs,--the Oxford and Cambridge, the Old University, and the Athenaeum,--were black with them. The bishops and deans, as usual, were pleasant in their manner and happy-looking, in spite of adverse circumstances. When one sees a bishop in the hours of the distress of the Church, one always thinks of the just and firm man who will stand fearless while the ruins of the world are falling about his ears. But the parsons from the country were a sorry sight to see. They were in earnest with all their hearts, and did believe,--not that the crack of doom was coming, which they could have borne with equanimity if convinced that their influence would last to the end,--but that the Evil One was to be made welcome upon the earth by Act of Parliament. It is out of nature that any man should think it good that his own order should be repressed, curtailed, and deprived of its power. If we go among cab-drivers or letter-carriers, among butlers or gamekeepers, among tailors or butchers, among farmers or graziers, among doctors or attorneys, we shall find in each set of men a conviction that the welfare of the community depends upon the firmness with which they,--especially they,--hold their own. This is so manifestly true with the Bar that no barrister in practice scruples to avow that barristers in practice are the salt of the earth. The personal confidence of a judge in his own position is beautiful, being salutary to the country, though not unfrequently damaging to the character of the man. But if this be so with men who are conscious of no higher influence than that exercised over the bodies and minds of their fellow creatures, how much stronger must be the feeling when the influence affects the soul! To the outsider, or layman, who simply uses a cab, or receives a letter, or goes to law, or has to be tried, these pretensions are ridiculous or annoying, according to the ascendancy of the pretender at the moment. But as the clerical pretensions are more exacting than all others, being put forward with an assertion that no answer is possible without breach of duty and sin, so are they more galling. The fight has been going on since the idea of a mitre first entered the heart of a priest,--since dominion in this world has found itself capable of sustentation by the exercise of fear as to the world to come. We do believe,--the majority among us does so,--that if we live and die in sin we shall after some fashion come to great punishment, and we believe also that by having pastors among us who shall be men of God, we may best aid ourselves and our children in avoiding this bitter end. But then the pastors and men of God can only be human,--cannot be altogether men of God; and so they have oppressed us, and burned us, and tortured us, and hence come to love palaces, and fine linen, and purple, and, alas, sometimes, mere luxury and idleness. The torturing and the burning, as also to speak truth the luxury and the idleness, have, among us, been already conquered, but the idea of ascendancy remains. What is a thoughtful man to do who acknowledges the danger of his soul, but cannot swallow his parson whole simply because he has been sent to him from some source in which he has no special confidence, perhaps by some distant lord, perhaps by a Lord Chancellor whose political friend has had a son with a tutor? What is he to do when, in spite of some fine linen and purple left among us, the provision for the man of God in his parish or district is so poor that no man of God fitted to teach him will come and take it? In no spirit of animosity to religion he begins to tell himself that Church and State together was a monkish combination, fit perhaps for monkish days, but no longer having fitness, and not much longer capable of existence in this country. But to the parson himself,--to the honest, hardworking, conscientious priest who does in his heart of hearts believe that no diminution in the general influence of his order can be made without ruin to the souls of men,--this opinion, when it becomes dominant, is as though the world were in truth breaking to pieces over his head. The world has been broken to pieces in the same way often;--but extreme Chaos does not come. The cabman and the letter-carrier always expect that Chaos will very nearly come when they are disturbed. The barristers are sure of Chaos when the sanctity of Benchers is in question. What utter Chaos would be promised to us could any one with impunity contemn the majesty of the House of Commons! But of all these Chaoses there can be no Chaos equal to that which in the mind of a zealous Oxford-bred constitutional country parson must attend that annihilation of his special condition which will be produced by the disestablishment of the Church. Of all good fellows he is the best good fellow. He is genial, hospitable, well-educated, and always has either a pretty wife or pretty daughters. But he has so extreme a belief in himself that he cannot endure to be told that absolute Chaos will not come at once if he be disturbed. And now disturbances,--ay, and utter dislocation and ruin were to come from the hands of a friend! Was it wonderful that parsons should be seen about Westminster in flocks with _"Et tu, Brute"_ written on their faces as plainly as the law on the brows of a Pharisee? The Speaker had been harassed for orders. The powers and prowess of every individual member had been put to the test. The galleries were crowded. Ladies' places had been ballotted for with desperate enthusiasm, in spite of the sarcasm against the House which Madame Goesler had expressed. Two royal princes and a royal duke were accommodated within the House in an irregular manner. Peers swarmed in the passages, and were too happy to find standing room. Bishops jostled against lay barons with no other preference than that afforded to them by their broader shoulders. Men, and especially clergymen, came to the galleries loaded with sandwiches and flasks, prepared to hear all there was to be heard should the debate last from 4 P.M. to the same hour on the following morning. At two in the afternoon the entrances to the House were barred, and men of all ranks,--deans, prebends, peers' sons, and baronets,--stood there patiently waiting till some powerful nobleman should let them through. The very ventilating chambers under the House were filled with courteous listeners, who had all pledged themselves that under no possible provocation would they even cough during the debate. A few minutes after four, in a House from which hardly more than a dozen members were absent, Mr. Daubeny took his seat with that air of affected indifference to things around him which is peculiar to him. He entered slowly, amidst cheers from his side of the House, which no doubt were loud in proportion to the dismay of the cheerers as to the matter in hand. Gentlemen lacking substantial sympathy with their leader found it to be comfortable to deceive themselves, and raise their hearts at the same time by the easy enthusiasm of noise. Mr. Daubeny having sat down and covered his head just raised his hat from his brows, and then tried to look as though he were no more than any other gentleman present. But the peculiar consciousness of the man displayed itself even in his constrained absence of motion. You could see that he felt himself to be the beheld of all beholders, and that he enjoyed the position,--with some slight inward trepidation lest the effort to be made should not equal the greatness of the occasion. Immediately after him Mr. Gresham bustled up the centre of the House amidst a roar of good-humoured welcome. We have had many Ministers who have been personally dearer to their individual adherents in the House than the present leader of the Opposition and late Premier, but none, perhaps, who has been more generally respected by his party for earnestness and sincerity. On the present occasion there was a fierceness, almost a ferocity, in his very countenance, to the fire of which friends and enemies were equally anxious to add fuel,--the friends in order that so might these recreant Tories be more thoroughly annihilated, and the enemies, that their enemy's indiscretion might act back upon himself to his confusion. For, indeed, it never could be denied that as a Prime Minister Mr. Gresham could be very indiscreet. A certain small amount of ordinary business was done, to the disgust of expectant strangers, which was as trivial as possible in its nature,--so arranged, apparently, that the importance of what was to follow might be enhanced by the force of contrast. And, to make the dismay of the novice stranger more thorough, questions were asked and answers were given in so low a voice, and Mr. Speaker uttered a word or two in so quick and shambling a fashion, that he, the novice stranger, began to fear that no word of the debate would reach him up there in his crowded back seat. All this, however, occupied but a few minutes, and at twenty minutes past four Mr. Daubeny was on his legs. Then the novice stranger found that, though he could not see Mr. Daubeny without the aid of an opera glass, he could hear every word that fell from his lips. Mr. Daubeny began by regretting the hardness of his position, in that he must, with what thoroughness he might be able to achieve, apply himself to two great subjects, whereas the right honourable gentleman opposite had already declared, with all the formality which could be made to attach itself to a combined meeting of peers and commoners, that he would confine himself strictly to one. The subject selected by the right honourable gentleman opposite on the present occasion was not the question of Church Reform. The right honourable gentleman had pledged himself with an almost sacred enthusiasm to ignore that subject altogether. No doubt it was the question before the House, and he, himself,--the present speaker,--must unfortunately discuss it at some length. The right honourable gentleman opposite would not, on this great occasion, trouble himself with anything of so little moment. And it might be presumed that the political followers of the right honourable gentleman would be equally reticent, as they were understood to have accepted his tactics without a dissentient voice. He, Mr. Daubeny, was the last man in England to deny the importance of the question which the right honourable gentleman would select for discussions in preference to that of the condition of the Church. That question was a very simple one, and might be put to the House in a very few words. Coming from the mouth of the right honourable gentleman, the proposition would probably be made in this form:--"That this House does think that I ought to be Prime Minister now, and as long as I may possess a seat in this House." It was impossible to deny the importance of that question; but perhaps he, Mr. Daubeny, might be justified in demurring to the preference given to it over every other matter, let that matter be of what importance it might be to the material welfare of the country. He made his point well; but he made it too often. And an attack of that kind, personal and savage in its nature, loses its effect when it is evident that the words have been prepared. A good deal may be done in dispute by calling a man an ass or a knave,--but the resolve to use the words should have been made only at the moment, and they should come hot from the heart. There was much neatness and some acuteness in Mr. Daubeny's satire, but there was no heat, and it was prolix. It had, however, the effect of irritating Mr. Gresham,--as was evident from the manner in which he moved his hat and shuffled his feet. A man destined to sit conspicuously on our Treasury Bench, or on the seat opposite to it, should ask the gods for a thick skin as a first gift. The need of this in our national assembly is greater than elsewhere, because the differences between the men opposed to each other are smaller. When two foes meet together in the same Chamber, one of whom advocates the personal government of an individual ruler, and the other that form of State, which has come to be called a Red Republic, they deal, no doubt, weighty blows of oratory at each other, but blows which never hurt at the moment. They may cut each other's throats if they can find an opportunity; but they do not bite each other like dogs over a bone. But when opponents are almost in accord, as is always the case with our parliamentary gladiators, they are ever striving to give maddening little wounds through the joints of the harness. What is there with us to create the divergence necessary for debate but the pride of personal skill in the encounter? Who desires among us to put down the Queen, or to repudiate the National Debt, or to destroy religious worship, or even to disturb the ranks of society? When some small measure of reform has thoroughly recommended itself to the country,--so thoroughly that all men know that the country will have it,--then the question arises whether its details shall be arranged by the political party which calls itself Liberal,--or by that which is termed Conservative. The men are so near to each other in all their convictions and theories of life that nothing is left to them but personal competition for the doing of the thing that is to be done. It is the same in religion. The apostle of Christianity and the infidel can meet without a chance of a quarrel; but it is never safe to bring together two men who differ about a saint or a surplice. Mr. Daubeny, having thus attacked and wounded his enemy, rushed boldly into the question of Church Reform, taking no little pride to himself and to his party that so great a blessing should be bestowed upon the country from so unexpected a source. "See what we Conservatives can do. In fact we will conserve nothing when we find that you do not desire to have it conserved any longer. 'Quod minime reris Grai pandetur ab urbe.'" It was exactly the reverse of the complaint which Mr. Gresham was about to make. On the subject of the Church itself he was rather misty but very profound. He went into the question of very early Churches indeed, and spoke of the misappropriation of endowments in the time of Eli. The establishment of the Levites had been no doubt complete; but changes had been effected as circumstances required. He was presumed to have alluded to the order of Melchisedek, but he abstained from any mention of the name. He roamed very wide, and gave many of his hearers an idea that his erudition had carried him into regions in which it was impossible to follow him. The gist of his argument was to show that audacity in Reform was the very backbone of Conservatism. By a clearly pronounced disunion of Church and State the theocracy of Thomas Becket would be restored, and the people of England would soon again become the faithful flocks of faithful shepherds. By taking away the endowments from the parishes, and giving them back in some complicated way to the country, the parishes would be better able than ever to support their clergymen. Bishops would be bishops indeed, when they were no longer the creatures of a Minister's breath. As to the deans, not seeing a clear way to satisfy aspirants for future vacancies in the deaneries, he became more than usually vague, but seemed to imply that the Bill which was now with the leave of the House to be read a second time, contained no clause forbidding the appointment of deans, though the special stipend of the office must be matter of consideration with the new Church Synod. The details of this part of his speech were felt to be dull by the strangers. As long as he would abuse Mr. Gresham, men could listen with pleasure; and could keep their attention fixed while he referred to the general Conservatism of the party which he had the honour of leading. There was a raciness in the promise of so much Church destruction from the chosen leader of the Church party, which was assisted by a conviction in the minds of most men that it was impossible for unfortunate Conservatives to refuse to follow this leader, let him lead where he might. There was a gratification in feeling that the country party was bound to follow, even should he take them into the very bowels of a mountain, as the pied piper did the children of Hamelin;--and this made listening pleasant. But when Mr. Daubeny stated the effect of his different clauses, explaining what was to be taken and what left,--with a fervent assurance that what was to be left would, under the altered circumstances, go much further than the whole had gone before,--then the audience became weary, and began to think that it was time that some other gentleman should be upon his legs. But at the end of the Minister's speech there was another touch of invective which went far to redeem him. He returned to that personal question to which his adversary had undertaken to confine himself, and expressed a holy horror at the political doctrine which was implied. He, during a prolonged Parliamentary experience, had encountered much factious opposition. He would even acknowledge that he had seen it exercised on both sides of the House, though he had always striven to keep himself free from its baneful influence. But never till now had he known a statesman proclaim his intention of depending upon faction, and upon faction alone, for the result which he desired to achieve. Let the right honourable gentleman raise a contest on either the principles or the details of the measure, and he would be quite content to abide the decision of the House; but he should regard such a raid as that threatened against him and his friends by the right honourable gentleman as unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. He felt sure that an opposition so based, and so maintained, even if it be enabled by the heated feelings of the moment to obtain an unfortunate success in the House, would not be encouraged by the sympathy and support of the country at large. By these last words he was understood to signify that should he be beaten on the second reading, not in reference to the merits of the Bill, but simply on the issue as proposed by Mr. Gresham, he would again dissolve the House before he would resign. Now it was very well understood that there were Liberal members in the House who would prefer even the success of Mr. Daubeny to a speedy reappearance before their constituents. Mr. Daubeny spoke till nearly eight, and it was surmised at the time that he had craftily arranged his oratory so as to embarrass his opponent. The House had met at four, and was to sit continuously till it was adjourned for the night. When this is the case, gentlemen who speak about eight o'clock are too frequently obliged to address themselves to empty benches. On the present occasion it was Mr. Gresham's intention to follow his opponent at once, instead of waiting, as is usual with a leader of his party, to the close of the debate. It was understood that Mr. Gresham would follow Mr. Daubeny, with the object of making a distinct charge against Ministers, so that the vote on this second reading of the Church Bill might in truth be a vote of want of confidence. But to commence his speech at eight o'clock when the House was hungry and uneasy, would be a trial. Had Mr. Daubeny closed an hour sooner there would, with a little stretching of the favoured hours, have been time enough. Members would not have objected to postpone their dinner till half-past eight, or perhaps nine, when their favourite orator was on his legs. But with Mr. Gresham beginning a great speech at eight, dinner would altogether become doubtful, and the disaster might be serious. It was not probable that Mr. Daubeny had even among his friends proclaimed any such strategy; but it was thought by the political speculators of the day that such an idea had been present to his mind. But Mr. Gresham was not to be turned from his purpose. He waited for a few moments, and then rose and addressed the Speaker. A few members left the House;--gentlemen, doubtless, whose constitutions, weakened by previous service, could not endure prolonged fasting. Some who had nearly reached the door returned to their seats, mindful of Messrs. Roby and Ratler. But for the bulk of those assembled the interest of the moment was greater even than the love of dinner. Some of the peers departed, and it was observed that a bishop or two left the House; but among the strangers in the gallery, hardly a foot of space was gained. He who gave up his seat then, gave it up for the night. Mr. Gresham began with a calmness of tone which seemed almost to be affected, but which arose from a struggle on his own part to repress that superabundant energy of which he was only too conscious. But the calmness soon gave place to warmth, which heated itself into violence before he had been a quarter of an hour upon his legs. He soon became even ferocious in his invective, and said things so bitter that he had himself no conception of their bitterness. There was this difference between the two men,--that whereas Mr. Daubeny hit always as hard as he knew how to hit, having premeditated each blow, and weighed its results beforehand, having calculated his power even to the effect of a blow repeated on a wound already given, Mr. Gresham struck right and left and straightforward with a readiness engendered by practice, and in his fury might have murdered his antagonist before he was aware that he had drawn blood. He began by refusing absolutely to discuss the merits of the bill. The right honourable gentleman had prided himself on his generosity as a Greek. He would remind the right honourable gentleman that presents from Greeks had ever been considered dangerous. "It is their gifts, and only their gifts, that we fear," he said. The political gifts of the right honourable gentleman, extracted by him from his unwilling colleagues and followers, had always been more bitter to the taste than Dead Sea apples. That such gifts should not be bestowed on the country by unwilling hands, that reform should not come from those who themselves felt the necessity of no reform, he believed to be the wish not only of that House, but of the country at large. Would any gentleman on that bench, excepting the right honourable gentleman himself,--and he pointed to the crowded phalanx of the Government,--get up and declare that this measure of Church Reform, this severance of Church and State, was brought forward in consonance with his own long-cherished political conviction? He accused that party of being so bound to the chariot wheels of the right honourable gentleman, as to be unable to abide by their own convictions. And as to the right honourable gentleman himself, he would appeal to his followers opposite to say whether the right honourable gentleman was possessed of any one strong political conviction. He had been accused of being unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. If the House would allow him he would very shortly explain his idea of constitutional government as carried on in this country. It was based and built on majorities in that House, and supported solely by that power. There could be no constitutional government in this country that was not so maintained. Any other government must be both revolutionary and tyrannical. Any other government was a usurpation; and he would make bold to tell the right honourable gentleman that a Minister in this country who should recommend Her Majesty to trust herself to advisers not supported by a majority of the House of Commons, would plainly be guilty of usurping the powers of the State. He threw from him with disdain the charge which had been brought against himself of hankering after the sweets of office. He indulged and gloried in indulging the highest ambition of an English subject. But he gloried much more in the privileges and power of that House, within the walls of which was centred all that was salutary, all that was efficacious, all that was stable in the political constitution of his country. It had been his pride to have acted during nearly all his political life with that party which had commanded a majority, but he would defy his most bitter adversary, he would defy the right honourable gentleman himself, to point to any period of his career in which he had been unwilling to succumb to a majority when he himself had belonged to the minority. He himself would regard the vote on this occasion as a vote of want of confidence. He took the line he was now taking because he desired to bring the House to a decision on that question. He himself had not that confidence in the right honourable gentleman which would justify him in accepting a measure on so important a subject as the union or severance of Church and State from his hands. Should the majority of the House differ from him and support the second reading of the Bill, he would at once so far succumb as to give his best attention to the clauses of the bill, and endeavour with the assistance of those gentlemen who acted with him to make it suitable to the wants of the country by omissions and additions as the clauses should pass through Committee. But before doing that he would ask the House to decide with all its solemnity and all its weight whether it was willing to accept from the hands of the right honourable gentleman any measure of reform on a matter so important as this now before them. It was nearly ten when he sat down; and then the stomach of the House could stand it no longer, and an adjournment at once took place. On the next morning it was generally considered that Mr. Daubeny had been too long and Mr. Gresham too passionate. There were some who declared that Mr. Gresham had never been finer than when he described the privileges of the House of Commons; and others who thought that Mr. Daubeny's lucidity had been marvellous; but in this case, as in most others, the speeches of the day were generally thought to have been very inferior to the great efforts of the past. CHAPTER XXXIV. THE UNIVERSE. Before the House met again the quidnuncs about the clubs, on both sides of the question, had determined that Mr. Gresham's speech, whether good or not as an effort of oratory, would serve its intended purpose. He would be backed by a majority of votes, and it might have been very doubtful whether such would have been the case had he attempted to throw out the Bill on its merits. Mr. Ratler, by the time that prayers had been read, had become almost certain of success. There were very few Liberals in the House who were not anxious to declare by their votes that they had no confidence in Mr. Daubeny. Mr. Turnbull, the great Radical, and, perhaps, some two dozen with him, would support the second reading, declaring that they could not reconcile it with their consciences to record a vote in favour of a union of Church and State. On all such occasions as the present Mr. Turnbull was sure to make himself disagreeable to those who sat near to him in the House. He was a man who thought that so much was demanded of him in order that his independence might

ever

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

you refuse to let your own mother know it! Excuse me, but I do not remember saying anything about importance. I am not superstitious enough to suppose that the thing can have any importance. Then why should you make such a fuss about it? Really, Roland, you are sometimes very hard to understand. I was not aware that I had made a fuss, Sir Roland answered, gravely; but if I have, I will make no more. Now, my dear mother, what did you think of that extraordinary bill of Bottler s? Bottler, the pigman, is a rogue, said her ladyship, peremptorily: his father was a rogue before him; and those things run in families. But surely you cannot suppose that this is the proper way to treat the subject. To my mind a most improper way--to condemn a man s bill on the ground that his father transmitted the right to overcharge! Now, my dear son, said Lady Valeria, who never called him her son at all, unless she was put out with him, and her dear son only when she was at the extremity of endurance-- my dear son, these are sad attempts to disguise the real truth from me. The truth I am entitled to know, and the truth I am resolved to know. And I think that you might have paid me the compliment of coming for my advice before. Finding her in this state of mind, and being unable to deny the justice of her claim, Sir Roland was fain at last to make a virtue of necessity, while he marvelled (as so many have done) at the craft of people in spying things, and espying them always wrongly. Is that all? said Lady Valeria, after listening carefully; I thought there must have been something a little better than that, to justify you in making it such a mystery. Nothing but a dusty old document, and a strange-looking package, or case like a cone! However, I do not blame you, my dear Roland, for making so small a discovery. The old astrologer appears to me to have grown a little childish. Now, as I keep to the old-fashioned hours, I will ask you to ring the bell for my tea; and while it is being prepared, you can fetch me the case itself, and the document to examine. To be sure, my dear mother, if you will only promise to obey the commands of the document. Roland, I have lived too long ever to promise anything. You shall read me these orders, and then I can judge. I will make no fuss about such a trifle, he answered, with a pleasant smile; of course you will do what is honourable. Surely men, although they deny so ferociously this impeachment, are open at times to at least a little side-eddy of curiosity; Sir Roland, no doubt, was desirous to know what were the contents of that old case, which Alice had taken for a dirty cushion, as it lay at the back of the cupboard in the wall; while his honour would not allow him comfortably to disobey the testator s wish. At the same time he felt, every now and then, that to treat such a matter in a serious light, was a proof of superstition, or even childishness, on his part. And now, if his mother should so regard it, he was not at all sure that he ought to take the unpleasant course of opposing her. CHAPTER XXII. A MALIGNANT CASE. Sir Roland smiled at his mother s position, and air of stern attention, as he came back from his book-room with a small but heavy oaken box. This he placed on a chair, and without any mystery, unlocked it. But no sooner had he flung back the lid and shown the case above described, than he was quite astonished at the expression of Lady Valeria s face. Something more than fear, a sudden terror, as if at the sight of something fatal, had taken the pale tint out of her cheeks, and made her fine forehead quiver. Dear mother, how foolish I am, he said, to worry you with these trifles! I wish I had kept to my own opinion---- It is no trifle; you would have been wrong to treat it as a trifle. I have lived a long life, and seen many strange things; it takes more than a trifle to frighten me. For a minute or two she lay back, and was not fit to speak or be spoken to; only she managed to stop her son from ringing for her maid or the housekeeper. He had never beheld her so scared before, and could scarcely make out her signs to him that she needed no attendance. Like most men who are at all good and just, Sir Roland was prone to think softly and calmly, instead of acting rapidly; and now his mother, so advanced in years, showed less hesitation than he did. Recovering, ere long, from that sudden shock, she managed to smile at herself and at his anxiety about her. Now, Roland, I will not meddle with this formidable and clumsy thing. It seems to be closed most jealously. It has kept for two centuries, and may keep for two more, so far as I am concerned. But if it will not be too troublesome to you, I should like to hear what is said about it. In this old document, madam? Do you see how strangely it has been folded? Whoever did that knew a great deal more than now we know about folding. The writing to me seems more strange than the folding. What a cramped hand! In what language is it written? In Greek, the old Greek character, and the Doric dialect. He seems to have been proud of his classic descent, and perhaps Dorian lineage. But he placed a great deal too much faith in the attainments of his descendants. Poor Sedley would have read it straight off, I daresay; but the contractions, and even some of the characters, puzzled me dreadfully. I have kept up, as you know, dear mother, whatever little Greek I was taught, and perhaps have added to it; but my old Hedericus was needed a great many times, I assure you, before I got through this queer document; and even now I am not quite certain of the meaning of one or two passages. You see at the head a number of what I took at first to be hieroglyphics of some kind or other; but I find that they are astral or sidereal signs, for which I am none the wiser, though perhaps an astronomer would be. This, for instance, appears to mean the conjunction of some two planets, and this---- Never mind them, Roland. Read me what you have made out of the writing. Very well, mother. But if I am at fault, you must have patience with me, for I am not perfect in my lesson yet. Thus it begins:-- Behold, ye men, who shall be hereafter, and pay heed to this matter. A certain Carian, noble by birth and of noble character, to whom is the not inglorious name, Agasicles Syennesis, hath lived not in the pursuit of wealth, or power, or reputation, but in the unbroken study of the most excellent arts and philosophies. Especially in the heavenly stars, and signs of the everlasting kosmos, hath he disciplined his mind, and surpassed all that went before him. There is nothing like self-praise, is there, now, dear mother? I have no doubt that he speaks the truth, answered the Lady Valeria: I did not marry into a family accustomed to exaggerate. Then what do you think of this? Not only in intellect and forethought, but also in goodwill and philanthropy, modesty, and self-forgetfulness, did this man win the prize of excellence; and he it is who now speaks to you. Having lived much time in a barbarous island, cold, and blown over with vaporous air, he is no longer of such a sort as he was in the land of the fair afternoons. And there is when it is to his mind a manifest and established thing, that the gates of Hades are open for him, and the time of being no longer. But he holds this to be of the smallest difference, if only the gods produce his time to the perfect end of all the things lying now before him. How good, and how truly pious of him, Roland? Such a man s daughter never could have had any right to run away from him. My dear mother, I disagree with you, if he always praised himself in that style. But let him speak for himself again, as he seems to know very well how to do: These things have not been said, indeed, for the sake of any boasting, but rather to bring out thoroughly forward the truth in these things lying under, as if it were a pavement of adamant. Now, therefore, know ye, that Agasicles, carefully pondering everything, has found (so to say the word) an end to accomplish, and to abide in. And this is no other thing, than to save the generations descended from him, from great evil fortunes about to fall, by the ill-will of some divinity, at a destined time, upon them. For a man, of birth so renowned and lofty, has not been made to resemble a hand-worker, or a runaway slave; but has many stars regarding him, from many generations. And now he perceives, that his skill and wisdom were not given to him to be a mere personal adornment; but that he might protect his descendants, to the remote futurity. To him, then--it having been revealed, that in the seventh generation hence, as has often come to pass with our house, or haply in the tenth (for the time is misty), a great calamity is bound to happen to those born afar off from Syennesis--the sage has laboured many labours, though he cannot avert, at least to make it milder, and to lessen it. He has not, indeed, been made to know, at least up to the present time, what this bane will be; or whether after the second, or after the third century from this period. But knowing the swiftness of evil chance, he expects it at the earlier time; and whatever its manner or kind may be, Agasicles in all his discoveries has discovered no cure for human evils, save that which he now has shut up in a box. This box has been so constructed, that nothing but dust will meet the greedy eyes of any who force it open, in the manner of the tomb of Nitocris. But if be opened with the proper key, and after the proper interval, when the due need has arisen--there will be a fairer sight than ever broke upon mortal eyes before. There mother, now, what do you think of all that? I am quite out of breath with my long translation, and I am not quite sure of all of it. For instance, where he says---- Roland, his mother answered quickly, I am now much older than the prince, according to tradition, can have been. But I make no pretence to his wisdom; and I have reasons of my own for wondering. What have you done with the key of that case? I have never seen it. It was not in the closet. And I meant to have searched, throughout his room, until I found out the meaning of this very crabbed postscript-- That fool, Memel, hath lost the key. It will cost me months to make another. My hands now tremble, and my eyes are weak. If there be no key found herewith, let it be read that Nature, whom I have vanquished, hath avenged herself. Whether, or no, have I laboured in vain? Be blest now, and bless me, my dear descendants. That appears to me, said the Lady Valeria, being left in good manners by her son, to express the first opinion, to be of the whole of this strange affair the part that is least satisfactory. My dear mother, you have hit the mark. What satisfaction can one find in having a case without a key, and knowing that if we force it open there will be nothing but dust inside? Not a quarter so good as a snuff-box. I must have a pinch, my dear mother, excuse me, while you meditate on this subject. You are far more indulgent in that respect than little Alice ever is. All gentlemen take snuff, said the lady; who is Alice, to lay down the law? Your father took a boxful three times a week. Roland, you let that young girl take great liberties with you. It is not so much that I let her take them. I have no voice in the matter now. She takes them without asking me. Possibly that is the great calamity foretold by the astrologer. If not, what other can it be, do you think? Not so, she answered, with a serious air, for all her experience of the witty world had left her old age quite dry of humour; the trouble, if any is coming, will not be through Alice, but through Hilary. Alice is certainly a flighty girl, romantic, and full of nonsense, and not at all such as she might have been, if left more in my society. However, she never has thought it worth while to associate much with her grandmother; the result of which is that her manners are unformed, and her mind is full of nonsense. But she has plenty, and (if it were possible) too much of that great preservative--pride of birth. Alice may come to affliction herself; but she never will involve her family. Any affliction of hers, said Sir Roland, will involve at least her father. Yes, yes, of course. But what I mean is the honour and rank of the family. It is my favourite Hilary, my dear, brave, handsome Hilary, who is likely to bring care on our heads, or rather upon your head, Roland; my time, of course, will be over then, unless he is very quick about it. He will not be so quick as that, I hope, Sir Roland answered, with some little confusion of proper sentiments; although in that hotbed of mischief, London, nobody knows when he may begin. However, he is not in London at present, according to your friend Lady de Lampnor. I think you said you had heard so from her. To be sure, Mr. Malahide told her himself. The dear boy has overworked himself so, that he has gone to some healthy and quiet place, to recruit his exhausted energies. Dear me, said Sir Roland, I could never believe it, unless I knew from experience, what a very little work is enough to upset him. To write a letter to his father, for instance, is so severe an exertion, that he requires a holiday the next day. Now, Roland, don t be so hard upon him. You would apprentice him to that vile law, which is quite unfit for a gentleman. I am not surprised at his being overcome by such odious labour; you would not take my advice, remember, and put him into the only profession fit for one of his birth--the army. Whatever happens, the fault is your own. It is clear, however, that he cannot get into much mischief where he is just now--a rural and quiet part of Kent, she says. It shows the innocence of his heart to go there. Very likely. But if he wanted change, he might have asked leave to come home, I think. However, we shall have him here soon enough. How you speak, Roland! Quite as if you cared not a farthing for your only son! It must be dreadfully galling to him, to see how you prefer that Alice. If he is galled, he never winces, answered Sir Roland with a quiet smile; he is the most careless fellow in the world. And the most good-natured, and the most affectionate, said Lady Valeria, warmly; nothing else could keep him from being jealous, as nine out of ten would be. However, I am tired of talking now, and on that subject I might talk for ever. Take away that case, if you please, and the writing. On no account would I have them left here. Of course you will lock them away securely, and not think of meddling with them. What is that case made of? I can scarcely make out. Something strong and heavy. A mixture, I think, of shagreen and some metal. But the oddest thing of all is the keyhole. It is at the top of the cone, you see, and of the strangest shape, an irregular heptagon, with some rare complications of points inside. It would be next to impossible to open this case, without shattering it altogether. I do not wish to examine the case, I wish to have it taken away, my son. There, there, I am very glad not to see it; although I am sure I am not superstitious. We shall do very well, I trust, without it. I think it is a most extraordinary thing that your father never consulted me about the writing handed down to you. He must have been bound by some pledge not to do so. There, Roland, I am tired of the subject. With these words the ancient lady waved her delicate hand, and dismissed her son, who kissed her white forehead, according to usage, and then departed with case and parchment locked in the oaken box again. But the more he thought over her behaviour, the more he was puzzled about it. He had fully expected a command to open the case, at whatever hazard; and perhaps he had been disappointed at receiving no such order. But above all, he wanted to know why his mother should have been taken aback, as she was, by the sight of these little things. For few people, even in the prime of life, possessed more self-command and courage than Lady Valeria, now advancing into her eighty-second year. CHAPTER XXIII. THE BAITER BAITED. At the top of the hill, these lofty themes were being handled worthily; while, at the bottom, little cares had equal glance of the democrat sun, but no stars allotted to regard them. In plain English,--Bonny and Jack were as busy as their betters. They had taken their usual round that morning, seeking the staff of life--if that staff be applicable to a donkey--in village, hamlet, and farm-house, or among the lanes and hedges. The sympathy and goodwill between them daily grew more intimate, and their tastes more similar; so that it scarcely seemed impossible that Bonny in the end might learn to eat clover, and Jack to rejoice in money. Open air, and roving life, the ups and downs of want and weal, the freedom of having nothing to lose, and the joyful luck of finding things--these, and perhaps a little spice of unknown sweetness in living at large on their fellow-creatures labours, combined to make them as happy a pair, as the day was long, or the weather good. In the winter--ah! why should we think of such trouble? Perhaps there will never be winter again. At any rate, Bonny was sitting in front of the door of his castle (or rather in front of the doorway, because he was happy enough not to have a door), as proud and contented as if there could never be any more winter of discontent. He had picked up a hat in a ditch that day, lost by some man going home from his inn; and knowing from his patron, the pigman Bottler, that the surest token of a blameless life is to be found in the hat of a man, the boy, stirred by the first heave of ambition, had put on this hat, and was practising hat-craft (having gone with his head as it was born hitherto), to the utter surprise, and with the puzzled protest, of his beloved donkey. It was a most steady church-going hat of the chimney-pot order (then newly imported into benighted regions, but now of the essence of a godly life all over this free country), neither was it such a shocking bad hat as a man would cast away, if his wife were near. For Bonny s young head it was a world too wide, but he had padded it with a blackbird s nest; and though it seemed scarcely in harmony with his rakish waistcoat, and bare red shanks (spread on the grass for exhibition, and starred with myriad furze and bramble), still he was conscious of a distinguished air, and nodded to the donkey to look at him. While these were gazing at one another, with free interchange of opinion, the rector of the parish, on his little pony, turned the corner bluntly. He was on his way home, at the bottom of the coombe, not in the very best temper perhaps, in spite of the sport in prospect; because Sir Roland had met so unkindly his kind desire to know things. What have you got on your lap, boy? Mr. Hales so strongly shouted, that sulky Echo pricked her ears; and on your lap, boy, went all up the lonely coombe melodiously. Bonny knew well what was on his lap--a cleverly-plaited hare-wire. Bottler had shown him how to do it, and now he was practising diligently, under the auspices of his first hat. Mr. Hales was a beak, of course; and the aquiline beak of the neighbourhood. Bonny had the honour of his acquaintance, in that fierce aspect, and in no other. The little boy knew that there was a church, and that great people went there once a-week, for still greater people to blow them up. But this only made him the more uneasy, to clap his bright eyes on the parson. Hold there! whoa! called the Rev. Struan, as Bonny for his life began to cut away; boy, I want to talk to you. Bonny was by no means touched with this very fine benevolence. Taking, perhaps, a low view of duty, he made the ground hot, to escape what we now call the sacerdotal office. But Struan Hales (unlike our parsons) knew how to manage the laity. He clapped himself and his pony, in no time, between Master Bonny and his hole, and then in calm dignity called a halt, with his riding-whip ready at his button-hole. It is--it is--it is! cried Bonny, coming back with his head on his chest, and meaning (in the idiom of the land) that now he was beaten, and would hold parley. To be sure, it is! the rector answered, keeping a good balance on his pony, and well pleased with his own tactics. He might have chased Bonny for an hour in vain, through the furze, and heather, and blackberries; but here he had him at his mercy quite, through his knowledge of human nature. To put it coarsely--as the rector did in his mental process haply--the bigger thief anybody is, the more sacred to him is his property. Not that Bonny was a thief at all; still, that was how Mr. Hales looked at it. In the flurry of conscience, the boy forgot that a camel might go through the eye of a needle with less exertion than the parish incumbent must use to get into the Bonny-castle. Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! howled Bonny, having no faith in clerical honour, and foreseeing the sack of his palace, and home. Give me that wire, said Mr. Hales, in a voice from the depth of his waistcoat. Now, my boy, would you like to be a good boy? No, sir; no, sir; oh no, plaize, sir! Jack nor me couldn t bear it, sir. Why not, my boy? It is such a fine thing. Your face shows that you are a sharp boy. Why do you go on living in a hole, and poaching, and picking, and stealing? Plaize, sir, I never steals nothin , without it is somethin as don t belong to me. That may be. But why should you steal even that? Shall I go in, and steal your things now? Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! Plaize, sir, I ha n t got nothin for e to steal. I am not at all sure of that, said the rector, looking at the hermit s hole longingly; a thief s den is often as good as the bank. Now, who taught you how to make this snare? I thought I knew them all pretty well; but this wire has a dodge quite new to me. Who taught you, you young scamp, this moment? Plaize, sir, I can t tell e, sir. Nobody taught me, as I knows on. You young liar, you couldn t teach yourself. What you mean is, that you don t choose to tell me. Know, I must, and know I will, if I have to thrash it out of you. He had seized him now by his gorgeous waistcoat, and held the strong horsewhip over his back. Now, will you tell, or will you not? I ont, I ont. If e kills me, I ont, the boy cried, wriggling vainly, and with great tears of anticipation rolling down his sun-burnt cheeks. The parson admired the pluck of the boy, knowing his own great strength of course, and feeling that if he began to smite, the swing of his arm would increase his own wrath, and carry him perhaps beyond reason. Therefore he offered him one chance more. Will you tell, sir, or will you not? I ont tell; that I ont, screamed Bonny; and at the word the lash descended. But only once, for the smiter in a moment was made aware of a dusty rush, a sharp roar of wrath, and great teeth flashing under mighty jaws. And perhaps he would never have walked again if he had not most suddenly wheeled his pony, and just escaped a tremendous snap, well aimed at his comely and gaitered calf. Ods bods! cried the parson, as he saw the jackass (with a stretched-out neck, and crest erect, eyes flashing fire, and a lashing tail, and, worst of all terrors, those cavernous jaws) gathering legs for a second charge, like an Attic trireme, Phormio s own, backing water for the diecplus. May I be dashed, the rector shouted, if I deal any more with such animals! If I had only got my hunting-crop; but, kuk, kuk, kuk, pony! Quick, for God s sake! Off with you! With a whack of full power on the pony s flanks, away went he at full gallop; while Jack tossed his white nose with high disdain, and then started at a round trot in pursuit, to scatter them more disgracefully, and after them sent a fine flourish of trumpets, to the grand old national air of hee-haw. While the Rev. Struan Hales was thus in sore discomfiture fleeing away as hard as his pony could be made to go, and casting uneasy glances over one shoulder at his pursuer, behold, he almost rode over a traveller footing it lightly round a corner of the lane! Why, Uncle Struan! exclaimed the latter; is the dragon of St. Leonard s flying after you? Or is this the usual style of riding of the beneficed clergy? Hilary, my dear boy, answered the rector; who would have thought of seeing you? You are just come in time to defend your uncle from a ravenous beast of prey. I was going home to bait a badger, but I have had a pretty good bait myself. Ah, you pagan, you may well be ashamed of yourself, to attack your clergyman! For Jack, perceiving the reinforcement, and eyeing the stout stick which Hilary bore, prudently turned on his tail and departed, well satisfied with his exploit. Why, Hilary, what has brought you home? asked his uncle, when a few words had passed concerning Jack s behaviour. Nobody expects you, that I know of. Your father is a mysterious man; but Alice would have been sure to tell me. Moreover, you must have walked all the way from the stage, by the look of your buckles; or perhaps from Brighton even. No; I took the short cut over the hills, and across by way of Beeding. Nobody expects me, as you say. I am come on important business. And, of course, I am not to know what it is. For mystery, and for keeping secrets, there never was such a family. As if you did not belong to it, uncle! Hilary answered, good-naturedly. I never heard of any secrets that I can remember. And good reason too, replied the rector; they would not long have been secrets, my boy, after they came to your ears, I doubt. Then let me establish my reputation by keeping my own, at any rate. But, after all, it is no secret, uncle. Only, my father ought to know it first. Alas, you rogue, you rogue! Something about money, no doubt. You used to condescend to come to me when you were at school and college. But now, you are too grand for the purse of any poor Sussex rector. I could put off our badger for half-an-hour, if you think you could run down the hill again. I should like you particularly to see young Fox; it will be something grand, my boy. He is the best pup I ever had in all my life. I know him, uncle; I know what he is. I chose him first out of the litter, you know. But you must not think of waiting

learn

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

you refuse to let your own mother know it! Excuse me, but I do not remember saying anything about importance. I am not superstitious enough to suppose that the thing can have any importance. Then why should you make such a fuss about it? Really, Roland, you are sometimes very hard to understand. I was not aware that I had made a fuss, Sir Roland answered, gravely; but if I have, I will make no more. Now, my dear mother, what did you think of that extraordinary bill of Bottler s? Bottler, the pigman, is a rogue, said her ladyship, peremptorily: his father was a rogue before him; and those things run in families. But surely you cannot suppose that this is the proper way to treat the subject. To my mind a most improper way--to condemn a man s bill on the ground that his father transmitted the right to overcharge! Now, my dear son, said Lady Valeria, who never called him her son at all, unless she was put out with him, and her dear son only when she was at the extremity of endurance-- my dear son, these are sad attempts to disguise the real truth from me. The truth I am entitled to know, and the truth I am resolved to know. And I think that you might have paid me the compliment of coming for my advice before. Finding her in this state of mind, and being unable to deny the justice of her claim, Sir Roland was fain at last to make a virtue of necessity, while he marvelled (as so many have done) at the craft of people in spying things, and espying them always wrongly. Is that all? said Lady Valeria, after listening carefully; I thought there must have been something a little better than that, to justify you in making it such a mystery. Nothing but a dusty old document, and a strange-looking package, or case like a cone! However, I do not blame you, my dear Roland, for making so small a discovery. The old astrologer appears to me to have grown a little childish. Now, as I keep to the old-fashioned hours, I will ask you to ring the bell for my tea; and while it is being prepared, you can fetch me the case itself, and the document to examine. To be sure, my dear mother, if you will only promise to obey the commands of the document. Roland, I have lived too long ever to promise anything. You shall read me these orders, and then I can judge. I will make no fuss about such a trifle, he answered, with a pleasant smile; of course you will do what is honourable. Surely men, although they deny so ferociously this impeachment, are open at times to at least a little side-eddy of curiosity; Sir Roland, no doubt, was desirous to know what were the contents of that old case, which Alice had taken for a dirty cushion, as it lay at the back of the cupboard in the wall; while his honour would not allow him comfortably to disobey the testator s wish. At the same time he felt, every now and then, that to treat such a matter in a serious light, was a proof of superstition, or even childishness, on his part. And now, if his mother should so regard it, he was not at all sure that he ought to take the unpleasant course of opposing her. CHAPTER XXII. A MALIGNANT CASE. Sir Roland smiled at his mother s position, and air of stern attention, as he came back from his book-room with a small but heavy oaken box. This he placed on a chair, and without any mystery, unlocked it. But no sooner had he flung back the lid and shown the case above described, than he was quite astonished at the expression of Lady Valeria s face. Something more than fear, a sudden terror, as if at the sight of something fatal, had taken the pale tint out of her cheeks, and made her fine forehead quiver. Dear mother, how foolish I am, he said, to worry you with these trifles! I wish I had kept to my own opinion---- It is no trifle; you would have been wrong to treat it as a trifle. I have lived a long life, and seen many strange things; it takes more than a trifle to frighten me. For a minute or two she lay back, and was not fit to speak or be spoken to; only she managed to stop her son from ringing for her maid or the housekeeper. He had never beheld her so scared before, and could scarcely make out her signs to him that she needed no attendance. Like most men who are at all good and just, Sir Roland was prone to think softly and calmly, instead of acting rapidly; and now his mother, so advanced in years, showed less hesitation than he did. Recovering, ere long, from that sudden shock, she managed to smile at herself and at his anxiety about her. Now, Roland, I will not meddle with this formidable and clumsy thing. It seems to be closed most jealously. It has kept for two centuries, and may keep for two more, so far as I am concerned. But if it will not be too troublesome to you, I should like to hear what is said about it. In this old document, madam? Do you see how strangely it has been folded? Whoever did that knew a great deal more than now we know about folding. The writing to me seems more strange than the folding. What a cramped hand! In what language is it written? In Greek, the old Greek character, and the Doric dialect. He seems to have been proud of his classic descent, and perhaps Dorian lineage. But he placed a great deal too much faith in the attainments of his descendants. Poor Sedley would have read it straight off, I daresay; but the contractions, and even some of the characters, puzzled me dreadfully. I have kept up, as you know, dear mother, whatever little Greek I was taught, and perhaps have added to it; but my old Hedericus was needed a great many times, I assure you, before I got through this queer document; and even now I am not quite certain of the meaning of one or two passages. You see at the head a number of what I took at first to be hieroglyphics of some kind or other; but I find that they are astral or sidereal signs, for which I am none the wiser, though perhaps an astronomer would be. This, for instance, appears to mean the conjunction of some two planets, and this---- Never mind them, Roland. Read me what you have made out of the writing. Very well, mother. But if I am at fault, you must have patience with me, for I am not perfect in my lesson yet. Thus it begins:-- Behold, ye men, who shall be hereafter, and pay heed to this matter. A certain Carian, noble by birth and of noble character, to whom is the not inglorious name, Agasicles Syennesis, hath lived not in the pursuit of wealth, or power, or reputation, but in the unbroken study of the most excellent arts and philosophies. Especially in the heavenly stars, and signs of the everlasting kosmos, hath he disciplined his mind, and surpassed all that went before him. There is nothing like self-praise, is there, now, dear mother? I have no doubt that he speaks the truth, answered the Lady Valeria: I did not marry into a family accustomed to exaggerate. Then what do you think of this? Not only in intellect and forethought, but also in goodwill and philanthropy, modesty, and self-forgetfulness, did this man win the prize of excellence; and he it is who now speaks to you. Having lived much time in a barbarous island, cold, and blown over with vaporous air, he is no longer of such a sort as he was in the land of the fair afternoons. And there is when it is to his mind a manifest and established thing, that the gates of Hades are open for him, and the time of being no longer. But he holds this to be of the smallest difference, if only the gods produce his time to the perfect end of all the things lying now before him. How good, and how truly pious of him, Roland? Such a man s daughter never could have had any right to run away from him. My dear mother, I disagree with you, if he always praised himself in that style. But let him speak for himself again, as he seems to know very well how to do: These things have not been said, indeed, for the sake of any boasting, but rather to bring out thoroughly forward the truth in these things lying under, as if it were a pavement of adamant. Now, therefore, know ye, that Agasicles, carefully pondering everything, has found (so to say the word) an end to accomplish, and to abide in. And this is no other thing, than to save the generations descended from him, from great evil fortunes about to fall, by the ill-will of some divinity, at a destined time, upon them. For a man, of birth so renowned and lofty, has not been made to resemble a hand-worker, or a runaway slave; but has many stars regarding him, from many generations. And now he perceives, that his skill and wisdom were not given to him to be a mere personal adornment; but that he might protect his descendants, to the remote futurity. To him, then--it having been revealed, that in the seventh generation hence, as has often come to pass with our house, or haply in the tenth (for the time is misty), a great calamity is bound to happen to those born afar off from Syennesis--the sage has laboured many labours, though he cannot avert, at least to make it milder, and to lessen it. He has not, indeed, been made to know, at least up to the present time, what this bane will be; or whether after the second, or after the third century from this period. But knowing the swiftness of evil chance, he expects it at the earlier time; and whatever its manner or kind may be, Agasicles in all his discoveries has discovered no cure for human evils, save that which he now has shut up in a box. This box has been so constructed, that nothing but dust will meet the greedy eyes of any who force it open, in the manner of the tomb of Nitocris. But if be opened with the proper key, and after the proper interval, when the due need has arisen--there will be a fairer sight than ever broke upon mortal eyes before. There mother, now, what do you think of all that? I am quite out of breath with my long translation, and I am not quite sure of all of it. For instance, where he says---- Roland, his mother answered quickly, I am now much older than the prince, according to tradition, can have been. But I make no pretence to his wisdom; and I have reasons of my own for wondering. What have you done with the key of that case? I have never seen it. It was not in the closet. And I meant to have searched, throughout his room, until I found out the meaning of this very crabbed postscript-- That fool, Memel, hath lost the key. It will cost me months to make another. My hands now tremble, and my eyes are weak. If there be no key found herewith, let it be read that Nature, whom I have vanquished, hath avenged herself. Whether, or no, have I laboured in vain? Be blest now, and bless me, my dear descendants. That appears to me, said the Lady Valeria, being left in good manners by her son, to express the first opinion, to be of the whole of this strange affair the part that is least satisfactory. My dear mother, you have hit the mark. What satisfaction can one find in having a case without a key, and knowing that if we force it open there will be nothing but dust inside? Not a quarter so good as a snuff-box. I must have a pinch, my dear mother, excuse me, while you meditate on this subject. You are far more indulgent in that respect than little Alice ever is. All gentlemen take snuff, said the lady; who is Alice, to lay down the law? Your father took a boxful three times a week. Roland, you let that young girl take great liberties with you. It is not so much that I let her take them. I have no voice in the matter now. She takes them without asking me. Possibly that is the great calamity foretold by the astrologer. If not, what other can it be, do you think? Not so, she answered, with a serious air, for all her experience of the witty world had left her old age quite dry of humour; the trouble, if any is coming, will not be through Alice, but through Hilary. Alice is certainly a flighty girl, romantic, and full of nonsense, and not at all such as she might have been, if left more in my society. However, she never has thought it worth while to associate much with her grandmother; the result of which is that her manners are unformed, and her mind is full of nonsense. But she has plenty, and (if it were possible) too much of that great preservative--pride of birth. Alice may come to affliction herself; but she never will involve her family. Any affliction of hers, said Sir Roland, will involve at least her father. Yes, yes, of course. But what I mean is the honour and rank of the family. It is my favourite Hilary, my dear, brave, handsome Hilary, who is likely to bring care on our heads, or rather upon your head, Roland; my time, of course, will be over then, unless he is very quick about it. He will not be so quick as that, I hope, Sir Roland answered, with some little confusion of proper sentiments; although in that hotbed of mischief, London, nobody knows when he may begin. However, he is not in London at present, according to your friend Lady de Lampnor. I think you said you had heard so from her. To be sure, Mr. Malahide told her himself. The dear boy has overworked himself so, that he has gone to some healthy and quiet place, to recruit his exhausted energies. Dear me, said Sir Roland, I could never believe it, unless I knew from experience, what a very little work is enough to upset him. To write a letter to his father, for instance, is so severe an exertion, that he requires a holiday the next day. Now, Roland, don t be so hard upon him. You would apprentice him to that vile law, which is quite unfit for a gentleman. I am not surprised at his being overcome by such odious labour; you would not take my advice, remember, and put him into the only profession fit for one of his birth--the army. Whatever happens, the fault is your own. It is clear, however, that he cannot get into much mischief where he is just now--a rural and quiet part of Kent, she says. It shows the innocence of his heart to go there. Very likely. But if he wanted change, he might have asked leave to come home, I think. However, we shall have him here soon enough. How you speak, Roland! Quite as if you cared not a farthing for your only son! It must be dreadfully galling to him, to see how you prefer that Alice. If he is galled, he never winces, answered Sir Roland with a quiet smile; he is the most careless fellow in the world. And the most good-natured, and the most affectionate, said Lady Valeria, warmly; nothing else could keep him from being jealous, as nine out of ten would be. However, I am tired of talking now, and on that subject I might talk for ever. Take away that case, if you please, and the writing. On no account would I have them left here. Of course you will lock them away securely, and not think of meddling with them. What is that case made of? I can scarcely make out. Something strong and heavy. A mixture, I think, of shagreen and some metal. But the oddest thing of all is the keyhole. It is at the top of the cone, you see, and of the strangest shape, an irregular heptagon, with some rare complications of points inside. It would be next to impossible to open this case, without shattering it altogether. I do not wish to examine the case, I wish to have it taken away, my son. There, there, I am very glad not to see it; although I am sure I am not superstitious. We shall do very well, I trust, without it. I think it is a most extraordinary thing that your father never consulted me about the writing handed down to you. He must have been bound by some pledge not to do so. There, Roland, I am tired of the subject. With these words the ancient lady waved her delicate hand, and dismissed her son, who kissed her white forehead, according to usage, and then departed with case and parchment locked in the oaken box again. But the more he thought over her behaviour, the more he was puzzled about it. He had fully expected a command to open the case, at whatever hazard; and perhaps he had been disappointed at receiving no such order. But above all, he wanted to know why his mother should have been taken aback, as she was, by the sight of these little things. For few people, even in the prime of life, possessed more self-command and courage than Lady Valeria, now advancing into her eighty-second year. CHAPTER XXIII. THE BAITER BAITED. At the top of the hill, these lofty themes were being handled worthily; while, at the bottom, little cares had equal glance of the democrat sun, but no stars allotted to regard them. In plain English,--Bonny and Jack were as busy as their betters. They had taken their usual round that morning, seeking the staff of life--if that staff be applicable to a donkey--in village, hamlet, and farm-house, or among the lanes and hedges. The sympathy and goodwill between them daily grew more intimate, and their tastes more similar; so that it scarcely seemed impossible that Bonny in the end might learn to eat clover, and Jack to rejoice in money. Open air, and roving life, the ups and downs of want and weal, the freedom of having nothing to lose, and the joyful luck of finding things--these, and perhaps a little spice of unknown sweetness in living at large on their fellow-creatures labours, combined to make them as happy a pair, as the day was long, or the weather good. In the winter--ah! why should we think of such trouble? Perhaps there will never be winter again. At any rate, Bonny was sitting in front of the door of his castle (or rather in front of the doorway, because he was happy enough not to have a door), as proud and contented as if there could never be any more winter of discontent. He had picked up a hat in a ditch that day, lost by some man going home from his inn; and knowing from his patron, the pigman Bottler, that the surest token of a blameless life is to be found in the hat of a man, the boy, stirred by the first heave of ambition, had put on this hat, and was practising hat-craft (having gone with his head as it was born hitherto), to the utter surprise, and with the puzzled protest, of his beloved donkey. It was a most steady church-going hat of the chimney-pot order (then newly imported into benighted regions, but now of the essence of a godly life all over this free country), neither was it such a shocking bad hat as a man would cast away, if his wife were near. For Bonny s young head it was a world too wide, but he had padded it with a blackbird s nest; and though it seemed scarcely in harmony with his rakish waistcoat, and bare red shanks (spread on the grass for exhibition, and starred with myriad furze and bramble), still he was conscious of a distinguished air, and nodded to the donkey to look at him. While these were gazing at one another, with free interchange of opinion, the rector of the parish, on his little pony, turned the corner bluntly. He was on his way home, at the bottom of the coombe, not in the very best temper perhaps, in spite of the sport in prospect; because Sir Roland had met so unkindly his kind desire to know things. What have you got on your lap, boy? Mr. Hales so strongly shouted, that sulky Echo pricked her ears; and on your lap, boy, went all up the lonely coombe melodiously. Bonny knew well what was on his lap--a cleverly-plaited hare-wire. Bottler had shown him how to do it, and now he was practising diligently, under the auspices of his first hat. Mr. Hales was a beak, of course; and the aquiline beak of the neighbourhood. Bonny had the honour of his acquaintance, in that fierce aspect, and in no other. The little boy knew that there was a church, and that great people went there once a-week, for still greater people to blow them up. But this only made him the more uneasy, to clap his bright eyes on the parson. Hold there! whoa! called the Rev. Struan, as Bonny for his life began to cut away; boy, I want to talk to you. Bonny was by no means touched with this very fine benevolence. Taking, perhaps, a low view of duty, he made the ground hot, to escape what we now call the sacerdotal office. But Struan Hales (unlike our parsons) knew how to manage the laity. He clapped himself and his pony, in no time, between Master Bonny and his hole, and then in calm dignity called a halt, with his riding-whip ready at his button-hole. It is--it is--it is! cried Bonny, coming back with his head on his chest, and meaning (in the idiom of the land) that now he was beaten, and would hold parley. To be sure, it is! the rector answered, keeping a good balance on his pony, and well pleased with his own tactics. He might have chased Bonny for an hour in vain, through the furze, and heather, and blackberries; but here he had him at his mercy quite, through his knowledge of human nature. To put it coarsely--as the rector did in his mental process haply--the bigger thief anybody is, the more sacred to him is his property. Not that Bonny was a thief at all; still, that was how Mr. Hales looked at it. In the flurry of conscience, the boy forgot that a camel might go through the eye of a needle with less exertion than the parish incumbent must use to get into the Bonny-castle. Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! howled Bonny, having no faith in clerical honour, and foreseeing the sack of his palace, and home. Give me that wire, said Mr. Hales, in a voice from the depth of his waistcoat. Now, my boy, would you like to be a good boy? No, sir; no, sir; oh no, plaize, sir! Jack nor me couldn t bear it, sir. Why not, my boy? It is such a fine thing. Your face shows that you are a sharp boy. Why do you go on living in a hole, and poaching, and picking, and stealing? Plaize, sir, I never steals nothin , without it is somethin as don t belong to me. That may be. But why should you steal even that? Shall I go in, and steal your things now? Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! Plaize, sir, I ha n t got nothin for e to steal. I am not at all sure of that, said the rector, looking at the hermit s hole longingly; a thief s den is often as good as the bank. Now, who taught you how to make this snare? I thought I knew them all pretty well; but this wire has a dodge quite new to me. Who taught you, you young scamp, this moment? Plaize, sir, I can t tell e, sir. Nobody taught me, as I knows on. You young liar, you couldn t teach yourself. What you mean is, that you don t choose to tell me. Know, I must, and know I will, if I have to thrash it out of you. He had seized him now by his gorgeous waistcoat, and held the strong horsewhip over his back. Now, will you tell, or will you not? I ont, I ont. If e kills me, I ont, the boy cried, wriggling vainly, and with great tears of anticipation rolling down his sun-burnt cheeks. The parson admired the pluck of the boy, knowing his own great strength of course, and feeling that if he began to smite, the swing of his arm would increase his own wrath, and carry him perhaps beyond reason. Therefore he offered him one chance more. Will you tell, sir, or will you not? I ont tell; that I ont, screamed Bonny; and at the word the lash descended. But only once, for the smiter in a moment was made aware of a dusty rush, a sharp roar of wrath, and great teeth flashing under mighty jaws. And perhaps he would never have walked again if he had not most suddenly wheeled his pony, and just escaped a tremendous snap, well aimed at his comely and gaitered calf. Ods bods! cried the parson, as he saw the jackass (with a stretched-out neck, and crest erect, eyes flashing fire, and a lashing tail, and, worst of all terrors, those cavernous jaws) gathering legs for a second charge, like an Attic trireme, Phormio s own, backing water for the diecplus. May I be dashed, the rector shouted, if I deal any more with such animals! If I had only got my hunting-crop; but, kuk, kuk, kuk, pony! Quick, for God s sake! Off with you! With a whack of full power on the pony s flanks, away went he at full gallop; while Jack tossed his white nose with high disdain, and then started at a round trot in pursuit, to scatter them more disgracefully, and after them sent a fine flourish of trumpets, to the grand old national air of hee-haw. While the Rev. Struan Hales was thus in sore discomfiture fleeing away as hard as his pony could be made to go, and casting uneasy glances over one shoulder at his pursuer, behold, he almost rode over a traveller footing it lightly round a corner of the lane! Why, Uncle Struan! exclaimed the latter; is the dragon of St. Leonard s flying after you? Or is this the usual style of riding of the beneficed clergy? Hilary, my dear boy, answered the rector; who would have thought of seeing you? You are just come in time to defend your uncle from a ravenous beast of prey. I was going home to bait a badger, but I have had a pretty good bait myself. Ah, you pagan, you may well be ashamed of yourself, to attack your clergyman! For Jack, perceiving the reinforcement, and eyeing the stout stick which Hilary bore, prudently turned on his tail and departed, well satisfied with his exploit. Why, Hilary, what has brought you home? asked his uncle, when a few words had passed concerning Jack s behaviour. Nobody expects you, that I know of. Your father is a mysterious man; but Alice would have been sure to tell me. Moreover, you must have walked all the way from the stage, by the look of your buckles; or perhaps from Brighton even. No; I took the short cut over the hills, and across by way of Beeding. Nobody expects me, as you say. I am come on important business. And, of course, I am not to know what it is. For mystery, and for keeping secrets, there never was such a family. As if you did not belong to it, uncle! Hilary answered, good-naturedly. I never heard of any secrets that I can remember. And good reason too, replied the rector; they would not long have been secrets, my boy, after they came to your ears, I doubt. Then let me establish my reputation by keeping my own, at any rate. But, after all, it is no secret, uncle. Only, my father ought to know it first. Alas, you rogue, you rogue! Something about money, no doubt. You used to condescend to come to me when you were at school and college. But now, you are too grand for the purse of any poor Sussex rector. I could put off our badger for half-an-hour, if you think you could run down the hill again. I should like you particularly to see young Fox; it will be something grand, my boy. He is the best pup I ever had in all my life. I know him, uncle; I know what he is. I chose him first out of the litter, you know. But you must not think of waiting

evil

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

you refuse to let your own mother know it! Excuse me, but I do not remember saying anything about importance. I am not superstitious enough to suppose that the thing can have any importance. Then why should you make such a fuss about it? Really, Roland, you are sometimes very hard to understand. I was not aware that I had made a fuss, Sir Roland answered, gravely; but if I have, I will make no more. Now, my dear mother, what did you think of that extraordinary bill of Bottler s? Bottler, the pigman, is a rogue, said her ladyship, peremptorily: his father was a rogue before him; and those things run in families. But surely you cannot suppose that this is the proper way to treat the subject. To my mind a most improper way--to condemn a man s bill on the ground that his father transmitted the right to overcharge! Now, my dear son, said Lady Valeria, who never called him her son at all, unless she was put out with him, and her dear son only when she was at the extremity of endurance-- my dear son, these are sad attempts to disguise the real truth from me. The truth I am entitled to know, and the truth I am resolved to know. And I think that you might have paid me the compliment of coming for my advice before. Finding her in this state of mind, and being unable to deny the justice of her claim, Sir Roland was fain at last to make a virtue of necessity, while he marvelled (as so many have done) at the craft of people in spying things, and espying them always wrongly. Is that all? said Lady Valeria, after listening carefully; I thought there must have been something a little better than that, to justify you in making it such a mystery. Nothing but a dusty old document, and a strange-looking package, or case like a cone! However, I do not blame you, my dear Roland, for making so small a discovery. The old astrologer appears to me to have grown a little childish. Now, as I keep to the old-fashioned hours, I will ask you to ring the bell for my tea; and while it is being prepared, you can fetch me the case itself, and the document to examine. To be sure, my dear mother, if you will only promise to obey the commands of the document. Roland, I have lived too long ever to promise anything. You shall read me these orders, and then I can judge. I will make no fuss about such a trifle, he answered, with a pleasant smile; of course you will do what is honourable. Surely men, although they deny so ferociously this impeachment, are open at times to at least a little side-eddy of curiosity; Sir Roland, no doubt, was desirous to know what were the contents of that old case, which Alice had taken for a dirty cushion, as it lay at the back of the cupboard in the wall; while his honour would not allow him comfortably to disobey the testator s wish. At the same time he felt, every now and then, that to treat such a matter in a serious light, was a proof of superstition, or even childishness, on his part. And now, if his mother should so regard it, he was not at all sure that he ought to take the unpleasant course of opposing her. CHAPTER XXII. A MALIGNANT CASE. Sir Roland smiled at his mother s position, and air of stern attention, as he came back from his book-room with a small but heavy oaken box. This he placed on a chair, and without any mystery, unlocked it. But no sooner had he flung back the lid and shown the case above described, than he was quite astonished at the expression of Lady Valeria s face. Something more than fear, a sudden terror, as if at the sight of something fatal, had taken the pale tint out of her cheeks, and made her fine forehead quiver. Dear mother, how foolish I am, he said, to worry you with these trifles! I wish I had kept to my own opinion---- It is no trifle; you would have been wrong to treat it as a trifle. I have lived a long life, and seen many strange things; it takes more than a trifle to frighten me. For a minute or two she lay back, and was not fit to speak or be spoken to; only she managed to stop her son from ringing for her maid or the housekeeper. He had never beheld her so scared before, and could scarcely make out her signs to him that she needed no attendance. Like most men who are at all good and just, Sir Roland was prone to think softly and calmly, instead of acting rapidly; and now his mother, so advanced in years, showed less hesitation than he did. Recovering, ere long, from that sudden shock, she managed to smile at herself and at his anxiety about her. Now, Roland, I will not meddle with this formidable and clumsy thing. It seems to be closed most jealously. It has kept for two centuries, and may keep for two more, so far as I am concerned. But if it will not be too troublesome to you, I should like to hear what is said about it. In this old document, madam? Do you see how strangely it has been folded? Whoever did that knew a great deal more than now we know about folding. The writing to me seems more strange than the folding. What a cramped hand! In what language is it written? In Greek, the old Greek character, and the Doric dialect. He seems to have been proud of his classic descent, and perhaps Dorian lineage. But he placed a great deal too much faith in the attainments of his descendants. Poor Sedley would have read it straight off, I daresay; but the contractions, and even some of the characters, puzzled me dreadfully. I have kept up, as you know, dear mother, whatever little Greek I was taught, and perhaps have added to it; but my old Hedericus was needed a great many times, I assure you, before I got through this queer document; and even now I am not quite certain of the meaning of one or two passages. You see at the head a number of what I took at first to be hieroglyphics of some kind or other; but I find that they are astral or sidereal signs, for which I am none the wiser, though perhaps an astronomer would be. This, for instance, appears to mean the conjunction of some two planets, and this---- Never mind them, Roland. Read me what you have made out of the writing. Very well, mother. But if I am at fault, you must have patience with me, for I am not perfect in my lesson yet. Thus it begins:-- Behold, ye men, who shall be hereafter, and pay heed to this matter. A certain Carian, noble by birth and of noble character, to whom is the not inglorious name, Agasicles Syennesis, hath lived not in the pursuit of wealth, or power, or reputation, but in the unbroken study of the most excellent arts and philosophies. Especially in the heavenly stars, and signs of the everlasting kosmos, hath he disciplined his mind, and surpassed all that went before him. There is nothing like self-praise, is there, now, dear mother? I have no doubt that he speaks the truth, answered the Lady Valeria: I did not marry into a family accustomed to exaggerate. Then what do you think of this? Not only in intellect and forethought, but also in goodwill and philanthropy, modesty, and self-forgetfulness, did this man win the prize of excellence; and he it is who now speaks to you. Having lived much time in a barbarous island, cold, and blown over with vaporous air, he is no longer of such a sort as he was in the land of the fair afternoons. And there is when it is to his mind a manifest and established thing, that the gates of Hades are open for him, and the time of being no longer. But he holds this to be of the smallest difference, if only the gods produce his time to the perfect end of all the things lying now before him. How good, and how truly pious of him, Roland? Such a man s daughter never could have had any right to run away from him. My dear mother, I disagree with you, if he always praised himself in that style. But let him speak for himself again, as he seems to know very well how to do: These things have not been said, indeed, for the sake of any boasting, but rather to bring out thoroughly forward the truth in these things lying under, as if it were a pavement of adamant. Now, therefore, know ye, that Agasicles, carefully pondering everything, has found (so to say the word) an end to accomplish, and to abide in. And this is no other thing, than to save the generations descended from him, from great evil fortunes about to fall, by the ill-will of some divinity, at a destined time, upon them. For a man, of birth so renowned and lofty, has not been made to resemble a hand-worker, or a runaway slave; but has many stars regarding him, from many generations. And now he perceives, that his skill and wisdom were not given to him to be a mere personal adornment; but that he might protect his descendants, to the remote futurity. To him, then--it having been revealed, that in the seventh generation hence, as has often come to pass with our house, or haply in the tenth (for the time is misty), a great calamity is bound to happen to those born afar off from Syennesis--the sage has laboured many labours, though he cannot avert, at least to make it milder, and to lessen it. He has not, indeed, been made to know, at least up to the present time, what this bane will be; or whether after the second, or after the third century from this period. But knowing the swiftness of evil chance, he expects it at the earlier time; and whatever its manner or kind may be, Agasicles in all his discoveries has discovered no cure for human evils, save that which he now has shut up in a box. This box has been so constructed, that nothing but dust will meet the greedy eyes of any who force it open, in the manner of the tomb of Nitocris. But if be opened with the proper key, and after the proper interval, when the due need has arisen--there will be a fairer sight than ever broke upon mortal eyes before. There mother, now, what do you think of all that? I am quite out of breath with my long translation, and I am not quite sure of all of it. For instance, where he says---- Roland, his mother answered quickly, I am now much older than the prince, according to tradition, can have been. But I make no pretence to his wisdom; and I have reasons of my own for wondering. What have you done with the key of that case? I have never seen it. It was not in the closet. And I meant to have searched, throughout his room, until I found out the meaning of this very crabbed postscript-- That fool, Memel, hath lost the key. It will cost me months to make another. My hands now tremble, and my eyes are weak. If there be no key found herewith, let it be read that Nature, whom I have vanquished, hath avenged herself. Whether, or no, have I laboured in vain? Be blest now, and bless me, my dear descendants. That appears to me, said the Lady Valeria, being left in good manners by her son, to express the first opinion, to be of the whole of this strange affair the part that is least satisfactory. My dear mother, you have hit the mark. What satisfaction can one find in having a case without a key, and knowing that if we force it open there will be nothing but dust inside? Not a quarter so good as a snuff-box. I must have a pinch, my dear mother, excuse me, while you meditate on this subject. You are far more indulgent in that respect than little Alice ever is. All gentlemen take snuff, said the lady; who is Alice, to lay down the law? Your father took a boxful three times a week. Roland, you let that young girl take great liberties with you. It is not so much that I let her take them. I have no voice in the matter now. She takes them without asking me. Possibly that is the great calamity foretold by the astrologer. If not, what other can it be, do you think? Not so, she answered, with a serious air, for all her experience of the witty world had left her old age quite dry of humour; the trouble, if any is coming, will not be through Alice, but through Hilary. Alice is certainly a flighty girl, romantic, and full of nonsense, and not at all such as she might have been, if left more in my society. However, she never has thought it worth while to associate much with her grandmother; the result of which is that her manners are unformed, and her mind is full of nonsense. But she has plenty, and (if it were possible) too much of that great preservative--pride of birth. Alice may come to affliction herself; but she never will involve her family. Any affliction of hers, said Sir Roland, will involve at least her father. Yes, yes, of course. But what I mean is the honour and rank of the family. It is my favourite Hilary, my dear, brave, handsome Hilary, who is likely to bring care on our heads, or rather upon your head, Roland; my time, of course, will be over then, unless he is very quick about it. He will not be so quick as that, I hope, Sir Roland answered, with some little confusion of proper sentiments; although in that hotbed of mischief, London, nobody knows when he may begin. However, he is not in London at present, according to your friend Lady de Lampnor. I think you said you had heard so from her. To be sure, Mr. Malahide told her himself. The dear boy has overworked himself so, that he has gone to some healthy and quiet place, to recruit his exhausted energies. Dear me, said Sir Roland, I could never believe it, unless I knew from experience, what a very little work is enough to upset him. To write a letter to his father, for instance, is so severe an exertion, that he requires a holiday the next day. Now, Roland, don t be so hard upon him. You would apprentice him to that vile law, which is quite unfit for a gentleman. I am not surprised at his being overcome by such odious labour; you would not take my advice, remember, and put him into the only profession fit for one of his birth--the army. Whatever happens, the fault is your own. It is clear, however, that he cannot get into much mischief where he is just now--a rural and quiet part of Kent, she says. It shows the innocence of his heart to go there. Very likely. But if he wanted change, he might have asked leave to come home, I think. However, we shall have him here soon enough. How you speak, Roland! Quite as if you cared not a farthing for your only son! It must be dreadfully galling to him, to see how you prefer that Alice. If he is galled, he never winces, answered Sir Roland with a quiet smile; he is the most careless fellow in the world. And the most good-natured, and the most affectionate, said Lady Valeria, warmly; nothing else could keep him from being jealous, as nine out of ten would be. However, I am tired of talking now, and on that subject I might talk for ever. Take away that case, if you please, and the writing. On no account would I have them left here. Of course you will lock them away securely, and not think of meddling with them. What is that case made of? I can scarcely make out. Something strong and heavy. A mixture, I think, of shagreen and some metal. But the oddest thing of all is the keyhole. It is at the top of the cone, you see, and of the strangest shape, an irregular heptagon, with some rare complications of points inside. It would be next to impossible to open this case, without shattering it altogether. I do not wish to examine the case, I wish to have it taken away, my son. There, there, I am very glad not to see it; although I am sure I am not superstitious. We shall do very well, I trust, without it. I think it is a most extraordinary thing that your father never consulted me about the writing handed down to you. He must have been bound by some pledge not to do so. There, Roland, I am tired of the subject. With these words the ancient lady waved her delicate hand, and dismissed her son, who kissed her white forehead, according to usage, and then departed with case and parchment locked in the oaken box again. But the more he thought over her behaviour, the more he was puzzled about it. He had fully expected a command to open the case, at whatever hazard; and perhaps he had been disappointed at receiving no such order. But above all, he wanted to know why his mother should have been taken aback, as she was, by the sight of these little things. For few people, even in the prime of life, possessed more self-command and courage than Lady Valeria, now advancing into her eighty-second year. CHAPTER XXIII. THE BAITER BAITED. At the top of the hill, these lofty themes were being handled worthily; while, at the bottom, little cares had equal glance of the democrat sun, but no stars allotted to regard them. In plain English,--Bonny and Jack were as busy as their betters. They had taken their usual round that morning, seeking the staff of life--if that staff be applicable to a donkey--in village, hamlet, and farm-house, or among the lanes and hedges. The sympathy and goodwill between them daily grew more intimate, and their tastes more similar; so that it scarcely seemed impossible that Bonny in the end might learn to eat clover, and Jack to rejoice in money. Open air, and roving life, the ups and downs of want and weal, the freedom of having nothing to lose, and the joyful luck of finding things--these, and perhaps a little spice of unknown sweetness in living at large on their fellow-creatures labours, combined to make them as happy a pair, as the day was long, or the weather good. In the winter--ah! why should we think of such trouble? Perhaps there will never be winter again. At any rate, Bonny was sitting in front of the door of his castle (or rather in front of the doorway, because he was happy enough not to have a door), as proud and contented as if there could never be any more winter of discontent. He had picked up a hat in a ditch that day, lost by some man going home from his inn; and knowing from his patron, the pigman Bottler, that the surest token of a blameless life is to be found in the hat of a man, the boy, stirred by the first heave of ambition, had put on this hat, and was practising hat-craft (having gone with his head as it was born hitherto), to the utter surprise, and with the puzzled protest, of his beloved donkey. It was a most steady church-going hat of the chimney-pot order (then newly imported into benighted regions, but now of the essence of a godly life all over this free country), neither was it such a shocking bad hat as a man would cast away, if his wife were near. For Bonny s young head it was a world too wide, but he had padded it with a blackbird s nest; and though it seemed scarcely in harmony with his rakish waistcoat, and bare red shanks (spread on the grass for exhibition, and starred with myriad furze and bramble), still he was conscious of a distinguished air, and nodded to the donkey to look at him. While these were gazing at one another, with free interchange of opinion, the rector of the parish, on his little pony, turned the corner bluntly. He was on his way home, at the bottom of the coombe, not in the very best temper perhaps, in spite of the sport in prospect; because Sir Roland had met so unkindly his kind desire to know things. What have you got on your lap, boy? Mr. Hales so strongly shouted, that sulky Echo pricked her ears; and on your lap, boy, went all up the lonely coombe melodiously. Bonny knew well what was on his lap--a cleverly-plaited hare-wire. Bottler had shown him how to do it, and now he was practising diligently, under the auspices of his first hat. Mr. Hales was a beak, of course; and the aquiline beak of the neighbourhood. Bonny had the honour of his acquaintance, in that fierce aspect, and in no other. The little boy knew that there was a church, and that great people went there once a-week, for still greater people to blow them up. But this only made him the more uneasy, to clap his bright eyes on the parson. Hold there! whoa! called the Rev. Struan, as Bonny for his life began to cut away; boy, I want to talk to you. Bonny was by no means touched with this very fine benevolence. Taking, perhaps, a low view of duty, he made the ground hot, to escape what we now call the sacerdotal office. But Struan Hales (unlike our parsons) knew how to manage the laity. He clapped himself and his pony, in no time, between Master Bonny and his hole, and then in calm dignity called a halt, with his riding-whip ready at his button-hole. It is--it is--it is! cried Bonny, coming back with his head on his chest, and meaning (in the idiom of the land) that now he was beaten, and would hold parley. To be sure, it is! the rector answered, keeping a good balance on his pony, and well pleased with his own tactics. He might have chased Bonny for an hour in vain, through the furze, and heather, and blackberries; but here he had him at his mercy quite, through his knowledge of human nature. To put it coarsely--as the rector did in his mental process haply--the bigger thief anybody is, the more sacred to him is his property. Not that Bonny was a thief at all; still, that was how Mr. Hales looked at it. In the flurry of conscience, the boy forgot that a camel might go through the eye of a needle with less exertion than the parish incumbent must use to get into the Bonny-castle. Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! howled Bonny, having no faith in clerical honour, and foreseeing the sack of his palace, and home. Give me that wire, said Mr. Hales, in a voice from the depth of his waistcoat. Now, my boy, would you like to be a good boy? No, sir; no, sir; oh no, plaize, sir! Jack nor me couldn t bear it, sir. Why not, my boy? It is such a fine thing. Your face shows that you are a sharp boy. Why do you go on living in a hole, and poaching, and picking, and stealing? Plaize, sir, I never steals nothin , without it is somethin as don t belong to me. That may be. But why should you steal even that? Shall I go in, and steal your things now? Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! Plaize, sir, I ha n t got nothin for e to steal. I am not at all sure of that, said the rector, looking at the hermit s hole longingly; a thief s den is often as good as the bank. Now, who taught you how to make this snare? I thought I knew them all pretty well; but this wire has a dodge quite new to me. Who taught you, you young scamp, this moment? Plaize, sir, I can t tell e, sir. Nobody taught me, as I knows on. You young liar, you couldn t teach yourself. What you mean is, that you don t choose to tell me. Know, I must, and know I will, if I have to thrash it out of you. He had seized him now by his gorgeous waistcoat, and held the strong horsewhip over his back. Now, will you tell, or will you not? I ont, I ont. If e kills me, I ont, the boy cried, wriggling vainly, and with great tears of anticipation rolling down his sun-burnt cheeks. The parson admired the pluck of the boy, knowing his own great strength of course, and feeling that if he began to smite, the swing of his arm would increase his own wrath, and carry him perhaps beyond reason. Therefore he offered him one chance more. Will you tell, sir, or will you not? I ont tell; that I ont, screamed Bonny; and at the word the lash descended. But only once, for the smiter in a moment was made aware of a dusty rush, a sharp roar of wrath, and great teeth flashing under mighty jaws. And perhaps he would never have walked again if he had not most suddenly wheeled his pony, and just escaped a tremendous snap, well aimed at his comely and gaitered calf. Ods bods! cried the parson, as he saw the jackass (with a stretched-out neck, and crest erect, eyes flashing fire, and a lashing tail, and, worst of all terrors, those cavernous jaws) gathering legs for a second charge, like an Attic trireme, Phormio s own, backing water for the diecplus. May I be dashed, the rector shouted, if I deal any more with such animals! If I had only got my hunting-crop; but, kuk, kuk, kuk, pony! Quick, for God s sake! Off with you! With a whack of full power on the pony s flanks, away went he at full gallop; while Jack tossed his white nose with high disdain, and then started at a round trot in pursuit, to scatter them more disgracefully, and after them sent a fine flourish of trumpets, to the grand old national air of hee-haw. While the Rev. Struan Hales was thus in sore discomfiture fleeing away as hard as his pony could be made to go, and casting uneasy glances over one shoulder at his pursuer, behold, he almost rode over a traveller footing it lightly round a corner of the lane! Why, Uncle Struan! exclaimed the latter; is the dragon of St. Leonard s flying after you? Or is this the usual style of riding of the beneficed clergy? Hilary, my dear boy, answered the rector; who would have thought of seeing you? You are just come in time to defend your uncle from a ravenous beast of prey. I was going home to bait a badger, but I have had a pretty good bait myself. Ah, you pagan, you may well be ashamed of yourself, to attack your clergyman! For Jack, perceiving the reinforcement, and eyeing the stout stick which Hilary bore, prudently turned on his tail and departed, well satisfied with his exploit. Why, Hilary, what has brought you home? asked his uncle, when a few words had passed concerning Jack s behaviour. Nobody expects you, that I know of. Your father is a mysterious man; but Alice would have been sure to tell me. Moreover, you must have walked all the way from the stage, by the look of your buckles; or perhaps from Brighton even. No; I took the short cut over the hills, and across by way of Beeding. Nobody expects me, as you say. I am come on important business. And, of course, I am not to know what it is. For mystery, and for keeping secrets, there never was such a family. As if you did not belong to it, uncle! Hilary answered, good-naturedly. I never heard of any secrets that I can remember. And good reason too, replied the rector; they would not long have been secrets, my boy, after they came to your ears, I doubt. Then let me establish my reputation by keeping my own, at any rate. But, after all, it is no secret, uncle. Only, my father ought to know it first. Alas, you rogue, you rogue! Something about money, no doubt. You used to condescend to come to me when you were at school and college. But now, you are too grand for the purse of any poor Sussex rector. I could put off our badger for half-an-hour, if you think you could run down the hill again. I should like you particularly to see young Fox; it will be something grand, my boy. He is the best pup I ever had in all my life. I know him, uncle; I know what he is. I chose him first out of the litter, you know. But you must not think of waiting

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you refuse to let your own mother know it! Excuse me, but I do not remember saying anything about importance. I am not superstitious enough to suppose that the thing can have any importance. Then why should you make such a fuss about it? Really, Roland, you are sometimes very hard to understand. I was not aware that I had made a fuss, Sir Roland answered, gravely; but if I have, I will make no more. Now, my dear mother, what did you think of that extraordinary bill of Bottler s? Bottler, the pigman, is a rogue, said her ladyship, peremptorily: his father was a rogue before him; and those things run in families. But surely you cannot suppose that this is the proper way to treat the subject. To my mind a most improper way--to condemn a man s bill on the ground that his father transmitted the right to overcharge! Now, my dear son, said Lady Valeria, who never called him her son at all, unless she was put out with him, and her dear son only when she was at the extremity of endurance-- my dear son, these are sad attempts to disguise the real truth from me. The truth I am entitled to know, and the truth I am resolved to know. And I think that you might have paid me the compliment of coming for my advice before. Finding her in this state of mind, and being unable to deny the justice of her claim, Sir Roland was fain at last to make a virtue of necessity, while he marvelled (as so many have done) at the craft of people in spying things, and espying them always wrongly. Is that all? said Lady Valeria, after listening carefully; I thought there must have been something a little better than that, to justify you in making it such a mystery. Nothing but a dusty old document, and a strange-looking package, or case like a cone! However, I do not blame you, my dear Roland, for making so small a discovery. The old astrologer appears to me to have grown a little childish. Now, as I keep to the old-fashioned hours, I will ask you to ring the bell for my tea; and while it is being prepared, you can fetch me the case itself, and the document to examine. To be sure, my dear mother, if you will only promise to obey the commands of the document. Roland, I have lived too long ever to promise anything. You shall read me these orders, and then I can judge. I will make no fuss about such a trifle, he answered, with a pleasant smile; of course you will do what is honourable. Surely men, although they deny so ferociously this impeachment, are open at times to at least a little side-eddy of curiosity; Sir Roland, no doubt, was desirous to know what were the contents of that old case, which Alice had taken for a dirty cushion, as it lay at the back of the cupboard in the wall; while his honour would not allow him comfortably to disobey the testator s wish. At the same time he felt, every now and then, that to treat such a matter in a serious light, was a proof of superstition, or even childishness, on his part. And now, if his mother should so regard it, he was not at all sure that he ought to take the unpleasant course of opposing her. CHAPTER XXII. A MALIGNANT CASE. Sir Roland smiled at his mother s position, and air of stern attention, as he came back from his book-room with a small but heavy oaken box. This he placed on a chair, and without any mystery, unlocked it. But no sooner had he flung back the lid and shown the case above described, than he was quite astonished at the expression of Lady Valeria s face. Something more than fear, a sudden terror, as if at the sight of something fatal, had taken the pale tint out of her cheeks, and made her fine forehead quiver. Dear mother, how foolish I am, he said, to worry you with these trifles! I wish I had kept to my own opinion---- It is no trifle; you would have been wrong to treat it as a trifle. I have lived a long life, and seen many strange things; it takes more than a trifle to frighten me. For a minute or two she lay back, and was not fit to speak or be spoken to; only she managed to stop her son from ringing for her maid or the housekeeper. He had never beheld her so scared before, and could scarcely make out her signs to him that she needed no attendance. Like most men who are at all good and just, Sir Roland was prone to think softly and calmly, instead of acting rapidly; and now his mother, so advanced in years, showed less hesitation than he did. Recovering, ere long, from that sudden shock, she managed to smile at herself and at his anxiety about her. Now, Roland, I will not meddle with this formidable and clumsy thing. It seems to be closed most jealously. It has kept for two centuries, and may keep for two more, so far as I am concerned. But if it will not be too troublesome to you, I should like to hear what is said about it. In this old document, madam? Do you see how strangely it has been folded? Whoever did that knew a great deal more than now we know about folding. The writing to me seems more strange than the folding. What a cramped hand! In what language is it written? In Greek, the old Greek character, and the Doric dialect. He seems to have been proud of his classic descent, and perhaps Dorian lineage. But he placed a great deal too much faith in the attainments of his descendants. Poor Sedley would have read it straight off, I daresay; but the contractions, and even some of the characters, puzzled me dreadfully. I have kept up, as you know, dear mother, whatever little Greek I was taught, and perhaps have added to it; but my old Hedericus was needed a great many times, I assure you, before I got through this queer document; and even now I am not quite certain of the meaning of one or two passages. You see at the head a number of what I took at first to be hieroglyphics of some kind or other; but I find that they are astral or sidereal signs, for which I am none the wiser, though perhaps an astronomer would be. This, for instance, appears to mean the conjunction of some two planets, and this---- Never mind them, Roland. Read me what you have made out of the writing. Very well, mother. But if I am at fault, you must have patience with me, for I am not perfect in my lesson yet. Thus it begins:-- Behold, ye men, who shall be hereafter, and pay heed to this matter. A certain Carian, noble by birth and of noble character, to whom is the not inglorious name, Agasicles Syennesis, hath lived not in the pursuit of wealth, or power, or reputation, but in the unbroken study of the most excellent arts and philosophies. Especially in the heavenly stars, and signs of the everlasting kosmos, hath he disciplined his mind, and surpassed all that went before him. There is nothing like self-praise, is there, now, dear mother? I have no doubt that he speaks the truth, answered the Lady Valeria: I did not marry into a family accustomed to exaggerate. Then what do you think of this? Not only in intellect and forethought, but also in goodwill and philanthropy, modesty, and self-forgetfulness, did this man win the prize of excellence; and he it is who now speaks to you. Having lived much time in a barbarous island, cold, and blown over with vaporous air, he is no longer of such a sort as he was in the land of the fair afternoons. And there is when it is to his mind a manifest and established thing, that the gates of Hades are open for him, and the time of being no longer. But he holds this to be of the smallest difference, if only the gods produce his time to the perfect end of all the things lying now before him. How good, and how truly pious of him, Roland? Such a man s daughter never could have had any right to run away from him. My dear mother, I disagree with you, if he always praised himself in that style. But let him speak for himself again, as he seems to know very well how to do: These things have not been said, indeed, for the sake of any boasting, but rather to bring out thoroughly forward the truth in these things lying under, as if it were a pavement of adamant. Now, therefore, know ye, that Agasicles, carefully pondering everything, has found (so to say the word) an end to accomplish, and to abide in. And this is no other thing, than to save the generations descended from him, from great evil fortunes about to fall, by the ill-will of some divinity, at a destined time, upon them. For a man, of birth so renowned and lofty, has not been made to resemble a hand-worker, or a runaway slave; but has many stars regarding him, from many generations. And now he perceives, that his skill and wisdom were not given to him to be a mere personal adornment; but that he might protect his descendants, to the remote futurity. To him, then--it having been revealed, that in the seventh generation hence, as has often come to pass with our house, or haply in the tenth (for the time is misty), a great calamity is bound to happen to those born afar off from Syennesis--the sage has laboured many labours, though he cannot avert, at least to make it milder, and to lessen it. He has not, indeed, been made to know, at least up to the present time, what this bane will be; or whether after the second, or after the third century from this period. But knowing the swiftness of evil chance, he expects it at the earlier time; and whatever its manner or kind may be, Agasicles in all his discoveries has discovered no cure for human evils, save that which he now has shut up in a box. This box has been so constructed, that nothing but dust will meet the greedy eyes of any who force it open, in the manner of the tomb of Nitocris. But if be opened with the proper key, and after the proper interval, when the due need has arisen--there will be a fairer sight than ever broke upon mortal eyes before. There mother, now, what do you think of all that? I am quite out of breath with my long translation, and I am not quite sure of all of it. For instance, where he says---- Roland, his mother answered quickly, I am now much older than the prince, according to tradition, can have been. But I make no pretence to his wisdom; and I have reasons of my own for wondering. What have you done with the key of that case? I have never seen it. It was not in the closet. And I meant to have searched, throughout his room, until I found out the meaning of this very crabbed postscript-- That fool, Memel, hath lost the key. It will cost me months to make another. My hands now tremble, and my eyes are weak. If there be no key found herewith, let it be read that Nature, whom I have vanquished, hath avenged herself. Whether, or no, have I laboured in vain? Be blest now, and bless me, my dear descendants. That appears to me, said the Lady Valeria, being left in good manners by her son, to express the first opinion, to be of the whole of this strange affair the part that is least satisfactory. My dear mother, you have hit the mark. What satisfaction can one find in having a case without a key, and knowing that if we force it open there will be nothing but dust inside? Not a quarter so good as a snuff-box. I must have a pinch, my dear mother, excuse me, while you meditate on this subject. You are far more indulgent in that respect than little Alice ever is. All gentlemen take snuff, said the lady; who is Alice, to lay down the law? Your father took a boxful three times a week. Roland, you let that young girl take great liberties with you. It is not so much that I let her take them. I have no voice in the matter now. She takes them without asking me. Possibly that is the great calamity foretold by the astrologer. If not, what other can it be, do you think? Not so, she answered, with a serious air, for all her experience of the witty world had left her old age quite dry of humour; the trouble, if any is coming, will not be through Alice, but through Hilary. Alice is certainly a flighty girl, romantic, and full of nonsense, and not at all such as she might have been, if left more in my society. However, she never has thought it worth while to associate much with her grandmother; the result of which is that her manners are unformed, and her mind is full of nonsense. But she has plenty, and (if it were possible) too much of that great preservative--pride of birth. Alice may come to affliction herself; but she never will involve her family. Any affliction of hers, said Sir Roland, will involve at least her father. Yes, yes, of course. But what I mean is the honour and rank of the family. It is my favourite Hilary, my dear, brave, handsome Hilary, who is likely to bring care on our heads, or rather upon your head, Roland; my time, of course, will be over then, unless he is very quick about it. He will not be so quick as that, I hope, Sir Roland answered, with some little confusion of proper sentiments; although in that hotbed of mischief, London, nobody knows when he may begin. However, he is not in London at present, according to your friend Lady de Lampnor. I think you said you had heard so from her. To be sure, Mr. Malahide told her himself. The dear boy has overworked himself so, that he has gone to some healthy and quiet place, to recruit his exhausted energies. Dear me, said Sir Roland, I could never believe it, unless I knew from experience, what a very little work is enough to upset him. To write a letter to his father, for instance, is so severe an exertion, that he requires a holiday the next day. Now, Roland, don t be so hard upon him. You would apprentice him to that vile law, which is quite unfit for a gentleman. I am not surprised at his being overcome by such odious labour; you would not take my advice, remember, and put him into the only profession fit for one of his birth--the army. Whatever happens, the fault is your own. It is clear, however, that he cannot get into much mischief where he is just now--a rural and quiet part of Kent, she says. It shows the innocence of his heart to go there. Very likely. But if he wanted change, he might have asked leave to come home, I think. However, we shall have him here soon enough. How you speak, Roland! Quite as if you cared not a farthing for your only son! It must be dreadfully galling to him, to see how you prefer that Alice. If he is galled, he never winces, answered Sir Roland with a quiet smile; he is the most careless fellow in the world. And the most good-natured, and the most affectionate, said Lady Valeria, warmly; nothing else could keep him from being jealous, as nine out of ten would be. However, I am tired of talking now, and on that subject I might talk for ever. Take away that case, if you please, and the writing. On no account would I have them left here. Of course you will lock them away securely, and not think of meddling with them. What is that case made of? I can scarcely make out. Something strong and heavy. A mixture, I think, of shagreen and some metal. But the oddest thing of all is the keyhole. It is at the top of the cone, you see, and of the strangest shape, an irregular heptagon, with some rare complications of points inside. It would be next to impossible to open this case, without shattering it altogether. I do not wish to examine the case, I wish to have it taken away, my son. There, there, I am very glad not to see it; although I am sure I am not superstitious. We shall do very well, I trust, without it. I think it is a most extraordinary thing that your father never consulted me about the writing handed down to you. He must have been bound by some pledge not to do so. There, Roland, I am tired of the subject. With these words the ancient lady waved her delicate hand, and dismissed her son, who kissed her white forehead, according to usage, and then departed with case and parchment locked in the oaken box again. But the more he thought over her behaviour, the more he was puzzled about it. He had fully expected a command to open the case, at whatever hazard; and perhaps he had been disappointed at receiving no such order. But above all, he wanted to know why his mother should have been taken aback, as she was, by the sight of these little things. For few people, even in the prime of life, possessed more self-command and courage than Lady Valeria, now advancing into her eighty-second year. CHAPTER XXIII. THE BAITER BAITED. At the top of the hill, these lofty themes were being handled worthily; while, at the bottom, little cares had equal glance of the democrat sun, but no stars allotted to regard them. In plain English,--Bonny and Jack were as busy as their betters. They had taken their usual round that morning, seeking the staff of life--if that staff be applicable to a donkey--in village, hamlet, and farm-house, or among the lanes and hedges. The sympathy and goodwill between them daily grew more intimate, and their tastes more similar; so that it scarcely seemed impossible that Bonny in the end might learn to eat clover, and Jack to rejoice in money. Open air, and roving life, the ups and downs of want and weal, the freedom of having nothing to lose, and the joyful luck of finding things--these, and perhaps a little spice of unknown sweetness in living at large on their fellow-creatures labours, combined to make them as happy a pair, as the day was long, or the weather good. In the winter--ah! why should we think of such trouble? Perhaps there will never be winter again. At any rate, Bonny was sitting in front of the door of his castle (or rather in front of the doorway, because he was happy enough not to have a door), as proud and contented as if there could never be any more winter of discontent. He had picked up a hat in a ditch that day, lost by some man going home from his inn; and knowing from his patron, the pigman Bottler, that the surest token of a blameless life is to be found in the hat of a man, the boy, stirred by the first heave of ambition, had put on this hat, and was practising hat-craft (having gone with his head as it was born hitherto), to the utter surprise, and with the puzzled protest, of his beloved donkey. It was a most steady church-going hat of the chimney-pot order (then newly imported into benighted regions, but now of the essence of a godly life all over this free country), neither was it such a shocking bad hat as a man would cast away, if his wife were near. For Bonny s young head it was a world too wide, but he had padded it with a blackbird s nest; and though it seemed scarcely in harmony with his rakish waistcoat, and bare red shanks (spread on the grass for exhibition, and starred with myriad furze and bramble), still he was conscious of a distinguished air, and nodded to the donkey to look at him. While these were gazing at one another, with free interchange of opinion, the rector of the parish, on his little pony, turned the corner bluntly. He was on his way home, at the bottom of the coombe, not in the very best temper perhaps, in spite of the sport in prospect; because Sir Roland had met so unkindly his kind desire to know things. What have you got on your lap, boy? Mr. Hales so strongly shouted, that sulky Echo pricked her ears; and on your lap, boy, went all up the lonely coombe melodiously. Bonny knew well what was on his lap--a cleverly-plaited hare-wire. Bottler had shown him how to do it, and now he was practising diligently, under the auspices of his first hat. Mr. Hales was a beak, of course; and the aquiline beak of the neighbourhood. Bonny had the honour of his acquaintance, in that fierce aspect, and in no other. The little boy knew that there was a church, and that great people went there once a-week, for still greater people to blow them up. But this only made him the more uneasy, to clap his bright eyes on the parson. Hold there! whoa! called the Rev. Struan, as Bonny for his life began to cut away; boy, I want to talk to you. Bonny was by no means touched with this very fine benevolence. Taking, perhaps, a low view of duty, he made the ground hot, to escape what we now call the sacerdotal office. But Struan Hales (unlike our parsons) knew how to manage the laity. He clapped himself and his pony, in no time, between Master Bonny and his hole, and then in calm dignity called a halt, with his riding-whip ready at his button-hole. It is--it is--it is! cried Bonny, coming back with his head on his chest, and meaning (in the idiom of the land) that now he was beaten, and would hold parley. To be sure, it is! the rector answered, keeping a good balance on his pony, and well pleased with his own tactics. He might have chased Bonny for an hour in vain, through the furze, and heather, and blackberries; but here he had him at his mercy quite, through his knowledge of human nature. To put it coarsely--as the rector did in his mental process haply--the bigger thief anybody is, the more sacred to him is his property. Not that Bonny was a thief at all; still, that was how Mr. Hales looked at it. In the flurry of conscience, the boy forgot that a camel might go through the eye of a needle with less exertion than the parish incumbent must use to get into the Bonny-castle. Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! howled Bonny, having no faith in clerical honour, and foreseeing the sack of his palace, and home. Give me that wire, said Mr. Hales, in a voice from the depth of his waistcoat. Now, my boy, would you like to be a good boy? No, sir; no, sir; oh no, plaize, sir! Jack nor me couldn t bear it, sir. Why not, my boy? It is such a fine thing. Your face shows that you are a sharp boy. Why do you go on living in a hole, and poaching, and picking, and stealing? Plaize, sir, I never steals nothin , without it is somethin as don t belong to me. That may be. But why should you steal even that? Shall I go in, and steal your things now? Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! Plaize, sir, I ha n t got nothin for e to steal. I am not at all sure of that, said the rector, looking at the hermit s hole longingly; a thief s den is often as good as the bank. Now, who taught you how to make this snare? I thought I knew them all pretty well; but this wire has a dodge quite new to me. Who taught you, you young scamp, this moment? Plaize, sir, I can t tell e, sir. Nobody taught me, as I knows on. You young liar, you couldn t teach yourself. What you mean is, that you don t choose to tell me. Know, I must, and know I will, if I have to thrash it out of you. He had seized him now by his gorgeous waistcoat, and held the strong horsewhip over his back. Now, will you tell, or will you not? I ont, I ont. If e kills me, I ont, the boy cried, wriggling vainly, and with great tears of anticipation rolling down his sun-burnt cheeks. The parson admired the pluck of the boy, knowing his own great strength of course, and feeling that if he began to smite, the swing of his arm would increase his own wrath, and carry him perhaps beyond reason. Therefore he offered him one chance more. Will you tell, sir, or will you not? I ont tell; that I ont, screamed Bonny; and at the word the lash descended. But only once, for the smiter in a moment was made aware of a dusty rush, a sharp roar of wrath, and great teeth flashing under mighty jaws. And perhaps he would never have walked again if he had not most suddenly wheeled his pony, and just escaped a tremendous snap, well aimed at his comely and gaitered calf. Ods bods! cried the parson, as he saw the jackass (with a stretched-out neck, and crest erect, eyes flashing fire, and a lashing tail, and, worst of all terrors, those cavernous jaws) gathering legs for a second charge, like an Attic trireme, Phormio s own, backing water for the diecplus. May I be dashed, the rector shouted, if I deal any more with such animals! If I had only got my hunting-crop; but, kuk, kuk, kuk, pony! Quick, for God s sake! Off with you! With a whack of full power on the pony s flanks, away went he at full gallop; while Jack tossed his white nose with high disdain, and then started at a round trot in pursuit, to scatter them more disgracefully, and after them sent a fine flourish of trumpets, to the grand old national air of hee-haw. While the Rev. Struan Hales was thus in sore discomfiture fleeing away as hard as his pony could be made to go, and casting uneasy glances over one shoulder at his pursuer, behold, he almost rode over a traveller footing it lightly round a corner of the lane! Why, Uncle Struan! exclaimed the latter; is the dragon of St. Leonard s flying after you? Or is this the usual style of riding of the beneficed clergy? Hilary, my dear boy, answered the rector; who would have thought of seeing you? You are just come in time to defend your uncle from a ravenous beast of prey. I was going home to bait a badger, but I have had a pretty good bait myself. Ah, you pagan, you may well be ashamed of yourself, to attack your clergyman! For Jack, perceiving the reinforcement, and eyeing the stout stick which Hilary bore, prudently turned on his tail and departed, well satisfied with his exploit. Why, Hilary, what has brought you home? asked his uncle, when a few words had passed concerning Jack s behaviour. Nobody expects you, that I know of. Your father is a mysterious man; but Alice would have been sure to tell me. Moreover, you must have walked all the way from the stage, by the look of your buckles; or perhaps from Brighton even. No; I took the short cut over the hills, and across by way of Beeding. Nobody expects me, as you say. I am come on important business. And, of course, I am not to know what it is. For mystery, and for keeping secrets, there never was such a family. As if you did not belong to it, uncle! Hilary answered, good-naturedly. I never heard of any secrets that I can remember. And good reason too, replied the rector; they would not long have been secrets, my boy, after they came to your ears, I doubt. Then let me establish my reputation by keeping my own, at any rate. But, after all, it is no secret, uncle. Only, my father ought to know it first. Alas, you rogue, you rogue! Something about money, no doubt. You used to condescend to come to me when you were at school and college. But now, you are too grand for the purse of any poor Sussex rector. I could put off our badger for half-an-hour, if you think you could run down the hill again. I should like you particularly to see young Fox; it will be something grand, my boy. He is the best pup I ever had in all my life. I know him, uncle; I know what he is. I chose him first out of the litter, you know. But you must not think of waiting

cure

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

you refuse to let your own mother know it! Excuse me, but I do not remember saying anything about importance. I am not superstitious enough to suppose that the thing can have any importance. Then why should you make such a fuss about it? Really, Roland, you are sometimes very hard to understand. I was not aware that I had made a fuss, Sir Roland answered, gravely; but if I have, I will make no more. Now, my dear mother, what did you think of that extraordinary bill of Bottler s? Bottler, the pigman, is a rogue, said her ladyship, peremptorily: his father was a rogue before him; and those things run in families. But surely you cannot suppose that this is the proper way to treat the subject. To my mind a most improper way--to condemn a man s bill on the ground that his father transmitted the right to overcharge! Now, my dear son, said Lady Valeria, who never called him her son at all, unless she was put out with him, and her dear son only when she was at the extremity of endurance-- my dear son, these are sad attempts to disguise the real truth from me. The truth I am entitled to know, and the truth I am resolved to know. And I think that you might have paid me the compliment of coming for my advice before. Finding her in this state of mind, and being unable to deny the justice of her claim, Sir Roland was fain at last to make a virtue of necessity, while he marvelled (as so many have done) at the craft of people in spying things, and espying them always wrongly. Is that all? said Lady Valeria, after listening carefully; I thought there must have been something a little better than that, to justify you in making it such a mystery. Nothing but a dusty old document, and a strange-looking package, or case like a cone! However, I do not blame you, my dear Roland, for making so small a discovery. The old astrologer appears to me to have grown a little childish. Now, as I keep to the old-fashioned hours, I will ask you to ring the bell for my tea; and while it is being prepared, you can fetch me the case itself, and the document to examine. To be sure, my dear mother, if you will only promise to obey the commands of the document. Roland, I have lived too long ever to promise anything. You shall read me these orders, and then I can judge. I will make no fuss about such a trifle, he answered, with a pleasant smile; of course you will do what is honourable. Surely men, although they deny so ferociously this impeachment, are open at times to at least a little side-eddy of curiosity; Sir Roland, no doubt, was desirous to know what were the contents of that old case, which Alice had taken for a dirty cushion, as it lay at the back of the cupboard in the wall; while his honour would not allow him comfortably to disobey the testator s wish. At the same time he felt, every now and then, that to treat such a matter in a serious light, was a proof of superstition, or even childishness, on his part. And now, if his mother should so regard it, he was not at all sure that he ought to take the unpleasant course of opposing her. CHAPTER XXII. A MALIGNANT CASE. Sir Roland smiled at his mother s position, and air of stern attention, as he came back from his book-room with a small but heavy oaken box. This he placed on a chair, and without any mystery, unlocked it. But no sooner had he flung back the lid and shown the case above described, than he was quite astonished at the expression of Lady Valeria s face. Something more than fear, a sudden terror, as if at the sight of something fatal, had taken the pale tint out of her cheeks, and made her fine forehead quiver. Dear mother, how foolish I am, he said, to worry you with these trifles! I wish I had kept to my own opinion---- It is no trifle; you would have been wrong to treat it as a trifle. I have lived a long life, and seen many strange things; it takes more than a trifle to frighten me. For a minute or two she lay back, and was not fit to speak or be spoken to; only she managed to stop her son from ringing for her maid or the housekeeper. He had never beheld her so scared before, and could scarcely make out her signs to him that she needed no attendance. Like most men who are at all good and just, Sir Roland was prone to think softly and calmly, instead of acting rapidly; and now his mother, so advanced in years, showed less hesitation than he did. Recovering, ere long, from that sudden shock, she managed to smile at herself and at his anxiety about her. Now, Roland, I will not meddle with this formidable and clumsy thing. It seems to be closed most jealously. It has kept for two centuries, and may keep for two more, so far as I am concerned. But if it will not be too troublesome to you, I should like to hear what is said about it. In this old document, madam? Do you see how strangely it has been folded? Whoever did that knew a great deal more than now we know about folding. The writing to me seems more strange than the folding. What a cramped hand! In what language is it written? In Greek, the old Greek character, and the Doric dialect. He seems to have been proud of his classic descent, and perhaps Dorian lineage. But he placed a great deal too much faith in the attainments of his descendants. Poor Sedley would have read it straight off, I daresay; but the contractions, and even some of the characters, puzzled me dreadfully. I have kept up, as you know, dear mother, whatever little Greek I was taught, and perhaps have added to it; but my old Hedericus was needed a great many times, I assure you, before I got through this queer document; and even now I am not quite certain of the meaning of one or two passages. You see at the head a number of what I took at first to be hieroglyphics of some kind or other; but I find that they are astral or sidereal signs, for which I am none the wiser, though perhaps an astronomer would be. This, for instance, appears to mean the conjunction of some two planets, and this---- Never mind them, Roland. Read me what you have made out of the writing. Very well, mother. But if I am at fault, you must have patience with me, for I am not perfect in my lesson yet. Thus it begins:-- Behold, ye men, who shall be hereafter, and pay heed to this matter. A certain Carian, noble by birth and of noble character, to whom is the not inglorious name, Agasicles Syennesis, hath lived not in the pursuit of wealth, or power, or reputation, but in the unbroken study of the most excellent arts and philosophies. Especially in the heavenly stars, and signs of the everlasting kosmos, hath he disciplined his mind, and surpassed all that went before him. There is nothing like self-praise, is there, now, dear mother? I have no doubt that he speaks the truth, answered the Lady Valeria: I did not marry into a family accustomed to exaggerate. Then what do you think of this? Not only in intellect and forethought, but also in goodwill and philanthropy, modesty, and self-forgetfulness, did this man win the prize of excellence; and he it is who now speaks to you. Having lived much time in a barbarous island, cold, and blown over with vaporous air, he is no longer of such a sort as he was in the land of the fair afternoons. And there is when it is to his mind a manifest and established thing, that the gates of Hades are open for him, and the time of being no longer. But he holds this to be of the smallest difference, if only the gods produce his time to the perfect end of all the things lying now before him. How good, and how truly pious of him, Roland? Such a man s daughter never could have had any right to run away from him. My dear mother, I disagree with you, if he always praised himself in that style. But let him speak for himself again, as he seems to know very well how to do: These things have not been said, indeed, for the sake of any boasting, but rather to bring out thoroughly forward the truth in these things lying under, as if it were a pavement of adamant. Now, therefore, know ye, that Agasicles, carefully pondering everything, has found (so to say the word) an end to accomplish, and to abide in. And this is no other thing, than to save the generations descended from him, from great evil fortunes about to fall, by the ill-will of some divinity, at a destined time, upon them. For a man, of birth so renowned and lofty, has not been made to resemble a hand-worker, or a runaway slave; but has many stars regarding him, from many generations. And now he perceives, that his skill and wisdom were not given to him to be a mere personal adornment; but that he might protect his descendants, to the remote futurity. To him, then--it having been revealed, that in the seventh generation hence, as has often come to pass with our house, or haply in the tenth (for the time is misty), a great calamity is bound to happen to those born afar off from Syennesis--the sage has laboured many labours, though he cannot avert, at least to make it milder, and to lessen it. He has not, indeed, been made to know, at least up to the present time, what this bane will be; or whether after the second, or after the third century from this period. But knowing the swiftness of evil chance, he expects it at the earlier time; and whatever its manner or kind may be, Agasicles in all his discoveries has discovered no cure for human evils, save that which he now has shut up in a box. This box has been so constructed, that nothing but dust will meet the greedy eyes of any who force it open, in the manner of the tomb of Nitocris. But if be opened with the proper key, and after the proper interval, when the due need has arisen--there will be a fairer sight than ever broke upon mortal eyes before. There mother, now, what do you think of all that? I am quite out of breath with my long translation, and I am not quite sure of all of it. For instance, where he says---- Roland, his mother answered quickly, I am now much older than the prince, according to tradition, can have been. But I make no pretence to his wisdom; and I have reasons of my own for wondering. What have you done with the key of that case? I have never seen it. It was not in the closet. And I meant to have searched, throughout his room, until I found out the meaning of this very crabbed postscript-- That fool, Memel, hath lost the key. It will cost me months to make another. My hands now tremble, and my eyes are weak. If there be no key found herewith, let it be read that Nature, whom I have vanquished, hath avenged herself. Whether, or no, have I laboured in vain? Be blest now, and bless me, my dear descendants. That appears to me, said the Lady Valeria, being left in good manners by her son, to express the first opinion, to be of the whole of this strange affair the part that is least satisfactory. My dear mother, you have hit the mark. What satisfaction can one find in having a case without a key, and knowing that if we force it open there will be nothing but dust inside? Not a quarter so good as a snuff-box. I must have a pinch, my dear mother, excuse me, while you meditate on this subject. You are far more indulgent in that respect than little Alice ever is. All gentlemen take snuff, said the lady; who is Alice, to lay down the law? Your father took a boxful three times a week. Roland, you let that young girl take great liberties with you. It is not so much that I let her take them. I have no voice in the matter now. She takes them without asking me. Possibly that is the great calamity foretold by the astrologer. If not, what other can it be, do you think? Not so, she answered, with a serious air, for all her experience of the witty world had left her old age quite dry of humour; the trouble, if any is coming, will not be through Alice, but through Hilary. Alice is certainly a flighty girl, romantic, and full of nonsense, and not at all such as she might have been, if left more in my society. However, she never has thought it worth while to associate much with her grandmother; the result of which is that her manners are unformed, and her mind is full of nonsense. But she has plenty, and (if it were possible) too much of that great preservative--pride of birth. Alice may come to affliction herself; but she never will involve her family. Any affliction of hers, said Sir Roland, will involve at least her father. Yes, yes, of course. But what I mean is the honour and rank of the family. It is my favourite Hilary, my dear, brave, handsome Hilary, who is likely to bring care on our heads, or rather upon your head, Roland; my time, of course, will be over then, unless he is very quick about it. He will not be so quick as that, I hope, Sir Roland answered, with some little confusion of proper sentiments; although in that hotbed of mischief, London, nobody knows when he may begin. However, he is not in London at present, according to your friend Lady de Lampnor. I think you said you had heard so from her. To be sure, Mr. Malahide told her himself. The dear boy has overworked himself so, that he has gone to some healthy and quiet place, to recruit his exhausted energies. Dear me, said Sir Roland, I could never believe it, unless I knew from experience, what a very little work is enough to upset him. To write a letter to his father, for instance, is so severe an exertion, that he requires a holiday the next day. Now, Roland, don t be so hard upon him. You would apprentice him to that vile law, which is quite unfit for a gentleman. I am not surprised at his being overcome by such odious labour; you would not take my advice, remember, and put him into the only profession fit for one of his birth--the army. Whatever happens, the fault is your own. It is clear, however, that he cannot get into much mischief where he is just now--a rural and quiet part of Kent, she says. It shows the innocence of his heart to go there. Very likely. But if he wanted change, he might have asked leave to come home, I think. However, we shall have him here soon enough. How you speak, Roland! Quite as if you cared not a farthing for your only son! It must be dreadfully galling to him, to see how you prefer that Alice. If he is galled, he never winces, answered Sir Roland with a quiet smile; he is the most careless fellow in the world. And the most good-natured, and the most affectionate, said Lady Valeria, warmly; nothing else could keep him from being jealous, as nine out of ten would be. However, I am tired of talking now, and on that subject I might talk for ever. Take away that case, if you please, and the writing. On no account would I have them left here. Of course you will lock them away securely, and not think of meddling with them. What is that case made of? I can scarcely make out. Something strong and heavy. A mixture, I think, of shagreen and some metal. But the oddest thing of all is the keyhole. It is at the top of the cone, you see, and of the strangest shape, an irregular heptagon, with some rare complications of points inside. It would be next to impossible to open this case, without shattering it altogether. I do not wish to examine the case, I wish to have it taken away, my son. There, there, I am very glad not to see it; although I am sure I am not superstitious. We shall do very well, I trust, without it. I think it is a most extraordinary thing that your father never consulted me about the writing handed down to you. He must have been bound by some pledge not to do so. There, Roland, I am tired of the subject. With these words the ancient lady waved her delicate hand, and dismissed her son, who kissed her white forehead, according to usage, and then departed with case and parchment locked in the oaken box again. But the more he thought over her behaviour, the more he was puzzled about it. He had fully expected a command to open the case, at whatever hazard; and perhaps he had been disappointed at receiving no such order. But above all, he wanted to know why his mother should have been taken aback, as she was, by the sight of these little things. For few people, even in the prime of life, possessed more self-command and courage than Lady Valeria, now advancing into her eighty-second year. CHAPTER XXIII. THE BAITER BAITED. At the top of the hill, these lofty themes were being handled worthily; while, at the bottom, little cares had equal glance of the democrat sun, but no stars allotted to regard them. In plain English,--Bonny and Jack were as busy as their betters. They had taken their usual round that morning, seeking the staff of life--if that staff be applicable to a donkey--in village, hamlet, and farm-house, or among the lanes and hedges. The sympathy and goodwill between them daily grew more intimate, and their tastes more similar; so that it scarcely seemed impossible that Bonny in the end might learn to eat clover, and Jack to rejoice in money. Open air, and roving life, the ups and downs of want and weal, the freedom of having nothing to lose, and the joyful luck of finding things--these, and perhaps a little spice of unknown sweetness in living at large on their fellow-creatures labours, combined to make them as happy a pair, as the day was long, or the weather good. In the winter--ah! why should we think of such trouble? Perhaps there will never be winter again. At any rate, Bonny was sitting in front of the door of his castle (or rather in front of the doorway, because he was happy enough not to have a door), as proud and contented as if there could never be any more winter of discontent. He had picked up a hat in a ditch that day, lost by some man going home from his inn; and knowing from his patron, the pigman Bottler, that the surest token of a blameless life is to be found in the hat of a man, the boy, stirred by the first heave of ambition, had put on this hat, and was practising hat-craft (having gone with his head as it was born hitherto), to the utter surprise, and with the puzzled protest, of his beloved donkey. It was a most steady church-going hat of the chimney-pot order (then newly imported into benighted regions, but now of the essence of a godly life all over this free country), neither was it such a shocking bad hat as a man would cast away, if his wife were near. For Bonny s young head it was a world too wide, but he had padded it with a blackbird s nest; and though it seemed scarcely in harmony with his rakish waistcoat, and bare red shanks (spread on the grass for exhibition, and starred with myriad furze and bramble), still he was conscious of a distinguished air, and nodded to the donkey to look at him. While these were gazing at one another, with free interchange of opinion, the rector of the parish, on his little pony, turned the corner bluntly. He was on his way home, at the bottom of the coombe, not in the very best temper perhaps, in spite of the sport in prospect; because Sir Roland had met so unkindly his kind desire to know things. What have you got on your lap, boy? Mr. Hales so strongly shouted, that sulky Echo pricked her ears; and on your lap, boy, went all up the lonely coombe melodiously. Bonny knew well what was on his lap--a cleverly-plaited hare-wire. Bottler had shown him how to do it, and now he was practising diligently, under the auspices of his first hat. Mr. Hales was a beak, of course; and the aquiline beak of the neighbourhood. Bonny had the honour of his acquaintance, in that fierce aspect, and in no other. The little boy knew that there was a church, and that great people went there once a-week, for still greater people to blow them up. But this only made him the more uneasy, to clap his bright eyes on the parson. Hold there! whoa! called the Rev. Struan, as Bonny for his life began to cut away; boy, I want to talk to you. Bonny was by no means touched with this very fine benevolence. Taking, perhaps, a low view of duty, he made the ground hot, to escape what we now call the sacerdotal office. But Struan Hales (unlike our parsons) knew how to manage the laity. He clapped himself and his pony, in no time, between Master Bonny and his hole, and then in calm dignity called a halt, with his riding-whip ready at his button-hole. It is--it is--it is! cried Bonny, coming back with his head on his chest, and meaning (in the idiom of the land) that now he was beaten, and would hold parley. To be sure, it is! the rector answered, keeping a good balance on his pony, and well pleased with his own tactics. He might have chased Bonny for an hour in vain, through the furze, and heather, and blackberries; but here he had him at his mercy quite, through his knowledge of human nature. To put it coarsely--as the rector did in his mental process haply--the bigger thief anybody is, the more sacred to him is his property. Not that Bonny was a thief at all; still, that was how Mr. Hales looked at it. In the flurry of conscience, the boy forgot that a camel might go through the eye of a needle with less exertion than the parish incumbent must use to get into the Bonny-castle. Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! howled Bonny, having no faith in clerical honour, and foreseeing the sack of his palace, and home. Give me that wire, said Mr. Hales, in a voice from the depth of his waistcoat. Now, my boy, would you like to be a good boy? No, sir; no, sir; oh no, plaize, sir! Jack nor me couldn t bear it, sir. Why not, my boy? It is such a fine thing. Your face shows that you are a sharp boy. Why do you go on living in a hole, and poaching, and picking, and stealing? Plaize, sir, I never steals nothin , without it is somethin as don t belong to me. That may be. But why should you steal even that? Shall I go in, and steal your things now? Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! Plaize, sir, I ha n t got nothin for e to steal. I am not at all sure of that, said the rector, looking at the hermit s hole longingly; a thief s den is often as good as the bank. Now, who taught you how to make this snare? I thought I knew them all pretty well; but this wire has a dodge quite new to me. Who taught you, you young scamp, this moment? Plaize, sir, I can t tell e, sir. Nobody taught me, as I knows on. You young liar, you couldn t teach yourself. What you mean is, that you don t choose to tell me. Know, I must, and know I will, if I have to thrash it out of you. He had seized him now by his gorgeous waistcoat, and held the strong horsewhip over his back. Now, will you tell, or will you not? I ont, I ont. If e kills me, I ont, the boy cried, wriggling vainly, and with great tears of anticipation rolling down his sun-burnt cheeks. The parson admired the pluck of the boy, knowing his own great strength of course, and feeling that if he began to smite, the swing of his arm would increase his own wrath, and carry him perhaps beyond reason. Therefore he offered him one chance more. Will you tell, sir, or will you not? I ont tell; that I ont, screamed Bonny; and at the word the lash descended. But only once, for the smiter in a moment was made aware of a dusty rush, a sharp roar of wrath, and great teeth flashing under mighty jaws. And perhaps he would never have walked again if he had not most suddenly wheeled his pony, and just escaped a tremendous snap, well aimed at his comely and gaitered calf. Ods bods! cried the parson, as he saw the jackass (with a stretched-out neck, and crest erect, eyes flashing fire, and a lashing tail, and, worst of all terrors, those cavernous jaws) gathering legs for a second charge, like an Attic trireme, Phormio s own, backing water for the diecplus. May I be dashed, the rector shouted, if I deal any more with such animals! If I had only got my hunting-crop; but, kuk, kuk, kuk, pony! Quick, for God s sake! Off with you! With a whack of full power on the pony s flanks, away went he at full gallop; while Jack tossed his white nose with high disdain, and then started at a round trot in pursuit, to scatter them more disgracefully, and after them sent a fine flourish of trumpets, to the grand old national air of hee-haw. While the Rev. Struan Hales was thus in sore discomfiture fleeing away as hard as his pony could be made to go, and casting uneasy glances over one shoulder at his pursuer, behold, he almost rode over a traveller footing it lightly round a corner of the lane! Why, Uncle Struan! exclaimed the latter; is the dragon of St. Leonard s flying after you? Or is this the usual style of riding of the beneficed clergy? Hilary, my dear boy, answered the rector; who would have thought of seeing you? You are just come in time to defend your uncle from a ravenous beast of prey. I was going home to bait a badger, but I have had a pretty good bait myself. Ah, you pagan, you may well be ashamed of yourself, to attack your clergyman! For Jack, perceiving the reinforcement, and eyeing the stout stick which Hilary bore, prudently turned on his tail and departed, well satisfied with his exploit. Why, Hilary, what has brought you home? asked his uncle, when a few words had passed concerning Jack s behaviour. Nobody expects you, that I know of. Your father is a mysterious man; but Alice would have been sure to tell me. Moreover, you must have walked all the way from the stage, by the look of your buckles; or perhaps from Brighton even. No; I took the short cut over the hills, and across by way of Beeding. Nobody expects me, as you say. I am come on important business. And, of course, I am not to know what it is. For mystery, and for keeping secrets, there never was such a family. As if you did not belong to it, uncle! Hilary answered, good-naturedly. I never heard of any secrets that I can remember. And good reason too, replied the rector; they would not long have been secrets, my boy, after they came to your ears, I doubt. Then let me establish my reputation by keeping my own, at any rate. But, after all, it is no secret, uncle. Only, my father ought to know it first. Alas, you rogue, you rogue! Something about money, no doubt. You used to condescend to come to me when you were at school and college. But now, you are too grand for the purse of any poor Sussex rector. I could put off our badger for half-an-hour, if you think you could run down the hill again. I should like you particularly to see young Fox; it will be something grand, my boy. He is the best pup I ever had in all my life. I know him, uncle; I know what he is. I chose him first out of the litter, you know. But you must not think of waiting

elegant

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you refuse to let your own mother know it! Excuse me, but I do not remember saying anything about importance. I am not superstitious enough to suppose that the thing can have any importance. Then why should you make such a fuss about it? Really, Roland, you are sometimes very hard to understand. I was not aware that I had made a fuss, Sir Roland answered, gravely; but if I have, I will make no more. Now, my dear mother, what did you think of that extraordinary bill of Bottler s? Bottler, the pigman, is a rogue, said her ladyship, peremptorily: his father was a rogue before him; and those things run in families. But surely you cannot suppose that this is the proper way to treat the subject. To my mind a most improper way--to condemn a man s bill on the ground that his father transmitted the right to overcharge! Now, my dear son, said Lady Valeria, who never called him her son at all, unless she was put out with him, and her dear son only when she was at the extremity of endurance-- my dear son, these are sad attempts to disguise the real truth from me. The truth I am entitled to know, and the truth I am resolved to know. And I think that you might have paid me the compliment of coming for my advice before. Finding her in this state of mind, and being unable to deny the justice of her claim, Sir Roland was fain at last to make a virtue of necessity, while he marvelled (as so many have done) at the craft of people in spying things, and espying them always wrongly. Is that all? said Lady Valeria, after listening carefully; I thought there must have been something a little better than that, to justify you in making it such a mystery. Nothing but a dusty old document, and a strange-looking package, or case like a cone! However, I do not blame you, my dear Roland, for making so small a discovery. The old astrologer appears to me to have grown a little childish. Now, as I keep to the old-fashioned hours, I will ask you to ring the bell for my tea; and while it is being prepared, you can fetch me the case itself, and the document to examine. To be sure, my dear mother, if you will only promise to obey the commands of the document. Roland, I have lived too long ever to promise anything. You shall read me these orders, and then I can judge. I will make no fuss about such a trifle, he answered, with a pleasant smile; of course you will do what is honourable. Surely men, although they deny so ferociously this impeachment, are open at times to at least a little side-eddy of curiosity; Sir Roland, no doubt, was desirous to know what were the contents of that old case, which Alice had taken for a dirty cushion, as it lay at the back of the cupboard in the wall; while his honour would not allow him comfortably to disobey the testator s wish. At the same time he felt, every now and then, that to treat such a matter in a serious light, was a proof of superstition, or even childishness, on his part. And now, if his mother should so regard it, he was not at all sure that he ought to take the unpleasant course of opposing her. CHAPTER XXII. A MALIGNANT CASE. Sir Roland smiled at his mother s position, and air of stern attention, as he came back from his book-room with a small but heavy oaken box. This he placed on a chair, and without any mystery, unlocked it. But no sooner had he flung back the lid and shown the case above described, than he was quite astonished at the expression of Lady Valeria s face. Something more than fear, a sudden terror, as if at the sight of something fatal, had taken the pale tint out of her cheeks, and made her fine forehead quiver. Dear mother, how foolish I am, he said, to worry you with these trifles! I wish I had kept to my own opinion---- It is no trifle; you would have been wrong to treat it as a trifle. I have lived a long life, and seen many strange things; it takes more than a trifle to frighten me. For a minute or two she lay back, and was not fit to speak or be spoken to; only she managed to stop her son from ringing for her maid or the housekeeper. He had never beheld her so scared before, and could scarcely make out her signs to him that she needed no attendance. Like most men who are at all good and just, Sir Roland was prone to think softly and calmly, instead of acting rapidly; and now his mother, so advanced in years, showed less hesitation than he did. Recovering, ere long, from that sudden shock, she managed to smile at herself and at his anxiety about her. Now, Roland, I will not meddle with this formidable and clumsy thing. It seems to be closed most jealously. It has kept for two centuries, and may keep for two more, so far as I am concerned. But if it will not be too troublesome to you, I should like to hear what is said about it. In this old document, madam? Do you see how strangely it has been folded? Whoever did that knew a great deal more than now we know about folding. The writing to me seems more strange than the folding. What a cramped hand! In what language is it written? In Greek, the old Greek character, and the Doric dialect. He seems to have been proud of his classic descent, and perhaps Dorian lineage. But he placed a great deal too much faith in the attainments of his descendants. Poor Sedley would have read it straight off, I daresay; but the contractions, and even some of the characters, puzzled me dreadfully. I have kept up, as you know, dear mother, whatever little Greek I was taught, and perhaps have added to it; but my old Hedericus was needed a great many times, I assure you, before I got through this queer document; and even now I am not quite certain of the meaning of one or two passages. You see at the head a number of what I took at first to be hieroglyphics of some kind or other; but I find that they are astral or sidereal signs, for which I am none the wiser, though perhaps an astronomer would be. This, for instance, appears to mean the conjunction of some two planets, and this---- Never mind them, Roland. Read me what you have made out of the writing. Very well, mother. But if I am at fault, you must have patience with me, for I am not perfect in my lesson yet. Thus it begins:-- Behold, ye men, who shall be hereafter, and pay heed to this matter. A certain Carian, noble by birth and of noble character, to whom is the not inglorious name, Agasicles Syennesis, hath lived not in the pursuit of wealth, or power, or reputation, but in the unbroken study of the most excellent arts and philosophies. Especially in the heavenly stars, and signs of the everlasting kosmos, hath he disciplined his mind, and surpassed all that went before him. There is nothing like self-praise, is there, now, dear mother? I have no doubt that he speaks the truth, answered the Lady Valeria: I did not marry into a family accustomed to exaggerate. Then what do you think of this? Not only in intellect and forethought, but also in goodwill and philanthropy, modesty, and self-forgetfulness, did this man win the prize of excellence; and he it is who now speaks to you. Having lived much time in a barbarous island, cold, and blown over with vaporous air, he is no longer of such a sort as he was in the land of the fair afternoons. And there is when it is to his mind a manifest and established thing, that the gates of Hades are open for him, and the time of being no longer. But he holds this to be of the smallest difference, if only the gods produce his time to the perfect end of all the things lying now before him. How good, and how truly pious of him, Roland? Such a man s daughter never could have had any right to run away from him. My dear mother, I disagree with you, if he always praised himself in that style. But let him speak for himself again, as he seems to know very well how to do: These things have not been said, indeed, for the sake of any boasting, but rather to bring out thoroughly forward the truth in these things lying under, as if it were a pavement of adamant. Now, therefore, know ye, that Agasicles, carefully pondering everything, has found (so to say the word) an end to accomplish, and to abide in. And this is no other thing, than to save the generations descended from him, from great evil fortunes about to fall, by the ill-will of some divinity, at a destined time, upon them. For a man, of birth so renowned and lofty, has not been made to resemble a hand-worker, or a runaway slave; but has many stars regarding him, from many generations. And now he perceives, that his skill and wisdom were not given to him to be a mere personal adornment; but that he might protect his descendants, to the remote futurity. To him, then--it having been revealed, that in the seventh generation hence, as has often come to pass with our house, or haply in the tenth (for the time is misty), a great calamity is bound to happen to those born afar off from Syennesis--the sage has laboured many labours, though he cannot avert, at least to make it milder, and to lessen it. He has not, indeed, been made to know, at least up to the present time, what this bane will be; or whether after the second, or after the third century from this period. But knowing the swiftness of evil chance, he expects it at the earlier time; and whatever its manner or kind may be, Agasicles in all his discoveries has discovered no cure for human evils, save that which he now has shut up in a box. This box has been so constructed, that nothing but dust will meet the greedy eyes of any who force it open, in the manner of the tomb of Nitocris. But if be opened with the proper key, and after the proper interval, when the due need has arisen--there will be a fairer sight than ever broke upon mortal eyes before. There mother, now, what do you think of all that? I am quite out of breath with my long translation, and I am not quite sure of all of it. For instance, where he says---- Roland, his mother answered quickly, I am now much older than the prince, according to tradition, can have been. But I make no pretence to his wisdom; and I have reasons of my own for wondering. What have you done with the key of that case? I have never seen it. It was not in the closet. And I meant to have searched, throughout his room, until I found out the meaning of this very crabbed postscript-- That fool, Memel, hath lost the key. It will cost me months to make another. My hands now tremble, and my eyes are weak. If there be no key found herewith, let it be read that Nature, whom I have vanquished, hath avenged herself. Whether, or no, have I laboured in vain? Be blest now, and bless me, my dear descendants. That appears to me, said the Lady Valeria, being left in good manners by her son, to express the first opinion, to be of the whole of this strange affair the part that is least satisfactory. My dear mother, you have hit the mark. What satisfaction can one find in having a case without a key, and knowing that if we force it open there will be nothing but dust inside? Not a quarter so good as a snuff-box. I must have a pinch, my dear mother, excuse me, while you meditate on this subject. You are far more indulgent in that respect than little Alice ever is. All gentlemen take snuff, said the lady; who is Alice, to lay down the law? Your father took a boxful three times a week. Roland, you let that young girl take great liberties with you. It is not so much that I let her take them. I have no voice in the matter now. She takes them without asking me. Possibly that is the great calamity foretold by the astrologer. If not, what other can it be, do you think? Not so, she answered, with a serious air, for all her experience of the witty world had left her old age quite dry of humour; the trouble, if any is coming, will not be through Alice, but through Hilary. Alice is certainly a flighty girl, romantic, and full of nonsense, and not at all such as she might have been, if left more in my society. However, she never has thought it worth while to associate much with her grandmother; the result of which is that her manners are unformed, and her mind is full of nonsense. But she has plenty, and (if it were possible) too much of that great preservative--pride of birth. Alice may come to affliction herself; but she never will involve her family. Any affliction of hers, said Sir Roland, will involve at least her father. Yes, yes, of course. But what I mean is the honour and rank of the family. It is my favourite Hilary, my dear, brave, handsome Hilary, who is likely to bring care on our heads, or rather upon your head, Roland; my time, of course, will be over then, unless he is very quick about it. He will not be so quick as that, I hope, Sir Roland answered, with some little confusion of proper sentiments; although in that hotbed of mischief, London, nobody knows when he may begin. However, he is not in London at present, according to your friend Lady de Lampnor. I think you said you had heard so from her. To be sure, Mr. Malahide told her himself. The dear boy has overworked himself so, that he has gone to some healthy and quiet place, to recruit his exhausted energies. Dear me, said Sir Roland, I could never believe it, unless I knew from experience, what a very little work is enough to upset him. To write a letter to his father, for instance, is so severe an exertion, that he requires a holiday the next day. Now, Roland, don t be so hard upon him. You would apprentice him to that vile law, which is quite unfit for a gentleman. I am not surprised at his being overcome by such odious labour; you would not take my advice, remember, and put him into the only profession fit for one of his birth--the army. Whatever happens, the fault is your own. It is clear, however, that he cannot get into much mischief where he is just now--a rural and quiet part of Kent, she says. It shows the innocence of his heart to go there. Very likely. But if he wanted change, he might have asked leave to come home, I think. However, we shall have him here soon enough. How you speak, Roland! Quite as if you cared not a farthing for your only son! It must be dreadfully galling to him, to see how you prefer that Alice. If he is galled, he never winces, answered Sir Roland with a quiet smile; he is the most careless fellow in the world. And the most good-natured, and the most affectionate, said Lady Valeria, warmly; nothing else could keep him from being jealous, as nine out of ten would be. However, I am tired of talking now, and on that subject I might talk for ever. Take away that case, if you please, and the writing. On no account would I have them left here. Of course you will lock them away securely, and not think of meddling with them. What is that case made of? I can scarcely make out. Something strong and heavy. A mixture, I think, of shagreen and some metal. But the oddest thing of all is the keyhole. It is at the top of the cone, you see, and of the strangest shape, an irregular heptagon, with some rare complications of points inside. It would be next to impossible to open this case, without shattering it altogether. I do not wish to examine the case, I wish to have it taken away, my son. There, there, I am very glad not to see it; although I am sure I am not superstitious. We shall do very well, I trust, without it. I think it is a most extraordinary thing that your father never consulted me about the writing handed down to you. He must have been bound by some pledge not to do so. There, Roland, I am tired of the subject. With these words the ancient lady waved her delicate hand, and dismissed her son, who kissed her white forehead, according to usage, and then departed with case and parchment locked in the oaken box again. But the more he thought over her behaviour, the more he was puzzled about it. He had fully expected a command to open the case, at whatever hazard; and perhaps he had been disappointed at receiving no such order. But above all, he wanted to know why his mother should have been taken aback, as she was, by the sight of these little things. For few people, even in the prime of life, possessed more self-command and courage than Lady Valeria, now advancing into her eighty-second year. CHAPTER XXIII. THE BAITER BAITED. At the top of the hill, these lofty themes were being handled worthily; while, at the bottom, little cares had equal glance of the democrat sun, but no stars allotted to regard them. In plain English,--Bonny and Jack were as busy as their betters. They had taken their usual round that morning, seeking the staff of life--if that staff be applicable to a donkey--in village, hamlet, and farm-house, or among the lanes and hedges. The sympathy and goodwill between them daily grew more intimate, and their tastes more similar; so that it scarcely seemed impossible that Bonny in the end might learn to eat clover, and Jack to rejoice in money. Open air, and roving life, the ups and downs of want and weal, the freedom of having nothing to lose, and the joyful luck of finding things--these, and perhaps a little spice of unknown sweetness in living at large on their fellow-creatures labours, combined to make them as happy a pair, as the day was long, or the weather good. In the winter--ah! why should we think of such trouble? Perhaps there will never be winter again. At any rate, Bonny was sitting in front of the door of his castle (or rather in front of the doorway, because he was happy enough not to have a door), as proud and contented as if there could never be any more winter of discontent. He had picked up a hat in a ditch that day, lost by some man going home from his inn; and knowing from his patron, the pigman Bottler, that the surest token of a blameless life is to be found in the hat of a man, the boy, stirred by the first heave of ambition, had put on this hat, and was practising hat-craft (having gone with his head as it was born hitherto), to the utter surprise, and with the puzzled protest, of his beloved donkey. It was a most steady church-going hat of the chimney-pot order (then newly imported into benighted regions, but now of the essence of a godly life all over this free country), neither was it such a shocking bad hat as a man would cast away, if his wife were near. For Bonny s young head it was a world too wide, but he had padded it with a blackbird s nest; and though it seemed scarcely in harmony with his rakish waistcoat, and bare red shanks (spread on the grass for exhibition, and starred with myriad furze and bramble), still he was conscious of a distinguished air, and nodded to the donkey to look at him. While these were gazing at one another, with free interchange of opinion, the rector of the parish, on his little pony, turned the corner bluntly. He was on his way home, at the bottom of the coombe, not in the very best temper perhaps, in spite of the sport in prospect; because Sir Roland had met so unkindly his kind desire to know things. What have you got on your lap, boy? Mr. Hales so strongly shouted, that sulky Echo pricked her ears; and on your lap, boy, went all up the lonely coombe melodiously. Bonny knew well what was on his lap--a cleverly-plaited hare-wire. Bottler had shown him how to do it, and now he was practising diligently, under the auspices of his first hat. Mr. Hales was a beak, of course; and the aquiline beak of the neighbourhood. Bonny had the honour of his acquaintance, in that fierce aspect, and in no other. The little boy knew that there was a church, and that great people went there once a-week, for still greater people to blow them up. But this only made him the more uneasy, to clap his bright eyes on the parson. Hold there! whoa! called the Rev. Struan, as Bonny for his life began to cut away; boy, I want to talk to you. Bonny was by no means touched with this very fine benevolence. Taking, perhaps, a low view of duty, he made the ground hot, to escape what we now call the sacerdotal office. But Struan Hales (unlike our parsons) knew how to manage the laity. He clapped himself and his pony, in no time, between Master Bonny and his hole, and then in calm dignity called a halt, with his riding-whip ready at his button-hole. It is--it is--it is! cried Bonny, coming back with his head on his chest, and meaning (in the idiom of the land) that now he was beaten, and would hold parley. To be sure, it is! the rector answered, keeping a good balance on his pony, and well pleased with his own tactics. He might have chased Bonny for an hour in vain, through the furze, and heather, and blackberries; but here he had him at his mercy quite, through his knowledge of human nature. To put it coarsely--as the rector did in his mental process haply--the bigger thief anybody is, the more sacred to him is his property. Not that Bonny was a thief at all; still, that was how Mr. Hales looked at it. In the flurry of conscience, the boy forgot that a camel might go through the eye of a needle with less exertion than the parish incumbent must use to get into the Bonny-castle. Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! howled Bonny, having no faith in clerical honour, and foreseeing the sack of his palace, and home. Give me that wire, said Mr. Hales, in a voice from the depth of his waistcoat. Now, my boy, would you like to be a good boy? No, sir; no, sir; oh no, plaize, sir! Jack nor me couldn t bear it, sir. Why not, my boy? It is such a fine thing. Your face shows that you are a sharp boy. Why do you go on living in a hole, and poaching, and picking, and stealing? Plaize, sir, I never steals nothin , without it is somethin as don t belong to me. That may be. But why should you steal even that? Shall I go in, and steal your things now? Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! Plaize, sir, I ha n t got nothin for e to steal. I am not at all sure of that, said the rector, looking at the hermit s hole longingly; a thief s den is often as good as the bank. Now, who taught you how to make this snare? I thought I knew them all pretty well; but this wire has a dodge quite new to me. Who taught you, you young scamp, this moment? Plaize, sir, I can t tell e, sir. Nobody taught me, as I knows on. You young liar, you couldn t teach yourself. What you mean is, that you don t choose to tell me. Know, I must, and know I will, if I have to thrash it out of you. He had seized him now by his gorgeous waistcoat, and held the strong horsewhip over his back. Now, will you tell, or will you not? I ont, I ont. If e kills me, I ont, the boy cried, wriggling vainly, and with great tears of anticipation rolling down his sun-burnt cheeks. The parson admired the pluck of the boy, knowing his own great strength of course, and feeling that if he began to smite, the swing of his arm would increase his own wrath, and carry him perhaps beyond reason. Therefore he offered him one chance more. Will you tell, sir, or will you not? I ont tell; that I ont, screamed Bonny; and at the word the lash descended. But only once, for the smiter in a moment was made aware of a dusty rush, a sharp roar of wrath, and great teeth flashing under mighty jaws. And perhaps he would never have walked again if he had not most suddenly wheeled his pony, and just escaped a tremendous snap, well aimed at his comely and gaitered calf. Ods bods! cried the parson, as he saw the jackass (with a stretched-out neck, and crest erect, eyes flashing fire, and a lashing tail, and, worst of all terrors, those cavernous jaws) gathering legs for a second charge, like an Attic trireme, Phormio s own, backing water for the diecplus. May I be dashed, the rector shouted, if I deal any more with such animals! If I had only got my hunting-crop; but, kuk, kuk, kuk, pony! Quick, for God s sake! Off with you! With a whack of full power on the pony s flanks, away went he at full gallop; while Jack tossed his white nose with high disdain, and then started at a round trot in pursuit, to scatter them more disgracefully, and after them sent a fine flourish of trumpets, to the grand old national air of hee-haw. While the Rev. Struan Hales was thus in sore discomfiture fleeing away as hard as his pony could be made to go, and casting uneasy glances over one shoulder at his pursuer, behold, he almost rode over a traveller footing it lightly round a corner of the lane! Why, Uncle Struan! exclaimed the latter; is the dragon of St. Leonard s flying after you? Or is this the usual style of riding of the beneficed clergy? Hilary, my dear boy, answered the rector; who would have thought of seeing you? You are just come in time to defend your uncle from a ravenous beast of prey. I was going home to bait a badger, but I have had a pretty good bait myself. Ah, you pagan, you may well be ashamed of yourself, to attack your clergyman! For Jack, perceiving the reinforcement, and eyeing the stout stick which Hilary bore, prudently turned on his tail and departed, well satisfied with his exploit. Why, Hilary, what has brought you home? asked his uncle, when a few words had passed concerning Jack s behaviour. Nobody expects you, that I know of. Your father is a mysterious man; but Alice would have been sure to tell me. Moreover, you must have walked all the way from the stage, by the look of your buckles; or perhaps from Brighton even. No; I took the short cut over the hills, and across by way of Beeding. Nobody expects me, as you say. I am come on important business. And, of course, I am not to know what it is. For mystery, and for keeping secrets, there never was such a family. As if you did not belong to it, uncle! Hilary answered, good-naturedly. I never heard of any secrets that I can remember. And good reason too, replied the rector; they would not long have been secrets, my boy, after they came to your ears, I doubt. Then let me establish my reputation by keeping my own, at any rate. But, after all, it is no secret, uncle. Only, my father ought to know it first. Alas, you rogue, you rogue! Something about money, no doubt. You used to condescend to come to me when you were at school and college. But now, you are too grand for the purse of any poor Sussex rector. I could put off our badger for half-an-hour, if you think you could run down the hill again. I should like you particularly to see young Fox; it will be something grand, my boy. He is the best pup I ever had in all my life. I know him, uncle; I know what he is. I chose him first out of the litter, you know. But you must not think of waiting

natal

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

you refuse to let your own mother know it! Excuse me, but I do not remember saying anything about importance. I am not superstitious enough to suppose that the thing can have any importance. Then why should you make such a fuss about it? Really, Roland, you are sometimes very hard to understand. I was not aware that I had made a fuss, Sir Roland answered, gravely; but if I have, I will make no more. Now, my dear mother, what did you think of that extraordinary bill of Bottler s? Bottler, the pigman, is a rogue, said her ladyship, peremptorily: his father was a rogue before him; and those things run in families. But surely you cannot suppose that this is the proper way to treat the subject. To my mind a most improper way--to condemn a man s bill on the ground that his father transmitted the right to overcharge! Now, my dear son, said Lady Valeria, who never called him her son at all, unless she was put out with him, and her dear son only when she was at the extremity of endurance-- my dear son, these are sad attempts to disguise the real truth from me. The truth I am entitled to know, and the truth I am resolved to know. And I think that you might have paid me the compliment of coming for my advice before. Finding her in this state of mind, and being unable to deny the justice of her claim, Sir Roland was fain at last to make a virtue of necessity, while he marvelled (as so many have done) at the craft of people in spying things, and espying them always wrongly. Is that all? said Lady Valeria, after listening carefully; I thought there must have been something a little better than that, to justify you in making it such a mystery. Nothing but a dusty old document, and a strange-looking package, or case like a cone! However, I do not blame you, my dear Roland, for making so small a discovery. The old astrologer appears to me to have grown a little childish. Now, as I keep to the old-fashioned hours, I will ask you to ring the bell for my tea; and while it is being prepared, you can fetch me the case itself, and the document to examine. To be sure, my dear mother, if you will only promise to obey the commands of the document. Roland, I have lived too long ever to promise anything. You shall read me these orders, and then I can judge. I will make no fuss about such a trifle, he answered, with a pleasant smile; of course you will do what is honourable. Surely men, although they deny so ferociously this impeachment, are open at times to at least a little side-eddy of curiosity; Sir Roland, no doubt, was desirous to know what were the contents of that old case, which Alice had taken for a dirty cushion, as it lay at the back of the cupboard in the wall; while his honour would not allow him comfortably to disobey the testator s wish. At the same time he felt, every now and then, that to treat such a matter in a serious light, was a proof of superstition, or even childishness, on his part. And now, if his mother should so regard it, he was not at all sure that he ought to take the unpleasant course of opposing her. CHAPTER XXII. A MALIGNANT CASE. Sir Roland smiled at his mother s position, and air of stern attention, as he came back from his book-room with a small but heavy oaken box. This he placed on a chair, and without any mystery, unlocked it. But no sooner had he flung back the lid and shown the case above described, than he was quite astonished at the expression of Lady Valeria s face. Something more than fear, a sudden terror, as if at the sight of something fatal, had taken the pale tint out of her cheeks, and made her fine forehead quiver. Dear mother, how foolish I am, he said, to worry you with these trifles! I wish I had kept to my own opinion---- It is no trifle; you would have been wrong to treat it as a trifle. I have lived a long life, and seen many strange things; it takes more than a trifle to frighten me. For a minute or two she lay back, and was not fit to speak or be spoken to; only she managed to stop her son from ringing for her maid or the housekeeper. He had never beheld her so scared before, and could scarcely make out her signs to him that she needed no attendance. Like most men who are at all good and just, Sir Roland was prone to think softly and calmly, instead of acting rapidly; and now his mother, so advanced in years, showed less hesitation than he did. Recovering, ere long, from that sudden shock, she managed to smile at herself and at his anxiety about her. Now, Roland, I will not meddle with this formidable and clumsy thing. It seems to be closed most jealously. It has kept for two centuries, and may keep for two more, so far as I am concerned. But if it will not be too troublesome to you, I should like to hear what is said about it. In this old document, madam? Do you see how strangely it has been folded? Whoever did that knew a great deal more than now we know about folding. The writing to me seems more strange than the folding. What a cramped hand! In what language is it written? In Greek, the old Greek character, and the Doric dialect. He seems to have been proud of his classic descent, and perhaps Dorian lineage. But he placed a great deal too much faith in the attainments of his descendants. Poor Sedley would have read it straight off, I daresay; but the contractions, and even some of the characters, puzzled me dreadfully. I have kept up, as you know, dear mother, whatever little Greek I was taught, and perhaps have added to it; but my old Hedericus was needed a great many times, I assure you, before I got through this queer document; and even now I am not quite certain of the meaning of one or two passages. You see at the head a number of what I took at first to be hieroglyphics of some kind or other; but I find that they are astral or sidereal signs, for which I am none the wiser, though perhaps an astronomer would be. This, for instance, appears to mean the conjunction of some two planets, and this---- Never mind them, Roland. Read me what you have made out of the writing. Very well, mother. But if I am at fault, you must have patience with me, for I am not perfect in my lesson yet. Thus it begins:-- Behold, ye men, who shall be hereafter, and pay heed to this matter. A certain Carian, noble by birth and of noble character, to whom is the not inglorious name, Agasicles Syennesis, hath lived not in the pursuit of wealth, or power, or reputation, but in the unbroken study of the most excellent arts and philosophies. Especially in the heavenly stars, and signs of the everlasting kosmos, hath he disciplined his mind, and surpassed all that went before him. There is nothing like self-praise, is there, now, dear mother? I have no doubt that he speaks the truth, answered the Lady Valeria: I did not marry into a family accustomed to exaggerate. Then what do you think of this? Not only in intellect and forethought, but also in goodwill and philanthropy, modesty, and self-forgetfulness, did this man win the prize of excellence; and he it is who now speaks to you. Having lived much time in a barbarous island, cold, and blown over with vaporous air, he is no longer of such a sort as he was in the land of the fair afternoons. And there is when it is to his mind a manifest and established thing, that the gates of Hades are open for him, and the time of being no longer. But he holds this to be of the smallest difference, if only the gods produce his time to the perfect end of all the things lying now before him. How good, and how truly pious of him, Roland? Such a man s daughter never could have had any right to run away from him. My dear mother, I disagree with you, if he always praised himself in that style. But let him speak for himself again, as he seems to know very well how to do: These things have not been said, indeed, for the sake of any boasting, but rather to bring out thoroughly forward the truth in these things lying under, as if it were a pavement of adamant. Now, therefore, know ye, that Agasicles, carefully pondering everything, has found (so to say the word) an end to accomplish, and to abide in. And this is no other thing, than to save the generations descended from him, from great evil fortunes about to fall, by the ill-will of some divinity, at a destined time, upon them. For a man, of birth so renowned and lofty, has not been made to resemble a hand-worker, or a runaway slave; but has many stars regarding him, from many generations. And now he perceives, that his skill and wisdom were not given to him to be a mere personal adornment; but that he might protect his descendants, to the remote futurity. To him, then--it having been revealed, that in the seventh generation hence, as has often come to pass with our house, or haply in the tenth (for the time is misty), a great calamity is bound to happen to those born afar off from Syennesis--the sage has laboured many labours, though he cannot avert, at least to make it milder, and to lessen it. He has not, indeed, been made to know, at least up to the present time, what this bane will be; or whether after the second, or after the third century from this period. But knowing the swiftness of evil chance, he expects it at the earlier time; and whatever its manner or kind may be, Agasicles in all his discoveries has discovered no cure for human evils, save that which he now has shut up in a box. This box has been so constructed, that nothing but dust will meet the greedy eyes of any who force it open, in the manner of the tomb of Nitocris. But if be opened with the proper key, and after the proper interval, when the due need has arisen--there will be a fairer sight than ever broke upon mortal eyes before. There mother, now, what do you think of all that? I am quite out of breath with my long translation, and I am not quite sure of all of it. For instance, where he says---- Roland, his mother answered quickly, I am now much older than the prince, according to tradition, can have been. But I make no pretence to his wisdom; and I have reasons of my own for wondering. What have you done with the key of that case? I have never seen it. It was not in the closet. And I meant to have searched, throughout his room, until I found out the meaning of this very crabbed postscript-- That fool, Memel, hath lost the key. It will cost me months to make another. My hands now tremble, and my eyes are weak. If there be no key found herewith, let it be read that Nature, whom I have vanquished, hath avenged herself. Whether, or no, have I laboured in vain? Be blest now, and bless me, my dear descendants. That appears to me, said the Lady Valeria, being left in good manners by her son, to express the first opinion, to be of the whole of this strange affair the part that is least satisfactory. My dear mother, you have hit the mark. What satisfaction can one find in having a case without a key, and knowing that if we force it open there will be nothing but dust inside? Not a quarter so good as a snuff-box. I must have a pinch, my dear mother, excuse me, while you meditate on this subject. You are far more indulgent in that respect than little Alice ever is. All gentlemen take snuff, said the lady; who is Alice, to lay down the law? Your father took a boxful three times a week. Roland, you let that young girl take great liberties with you. It is not so much that I let her take them. I have no voice in the matter now. She takes them without asking me. Possibly that is the great calamity foretold by the astrologer. If not, what other can it be, do you think? Not so, she answered, with a serious air, for all her experience of the witty world had left her old age quite dry of humour; the trouble, if any is coming, will not be through Alice, but through Hilary. Alice is certainly a flighty girl, romantic, and full of nonsense, and not at all such as she might have been, if left more in my society. However, she never has thought it worth while to associate much with her grandmother; the result of which is that her manners are unformed, and her mind is full of nonsense. But she has plenty, and (if it were possible) too much of that great preservative--pride of birth. Alice may come to affliction herself; but she never will involve her family. Any affliction of hers, said Sir Roland, will involve at least her father. Yes, yes, of course. But what I mean is the honour and rank of the family. It is my favourite Hilary, my dear, brave, handsome Hilary, who is likely to bring care on our heads, or rather upon your head, Roland; my time, of course, will be over then, unless he is very quick about it. He will not be so quick as that, I hope, Sir Roland answered, with some little confusion of proper sentiments; although in that hotbed of mischief, London, nobody knows when he may begin. However, he is not in London at present, according to your friend Lady de Lampnor. I think you said you had heard so from her. To be sure, Mr. Malahide told her himself. The dear boy has overworked himself so, that he has gone to some healthy and quiet place, to recruit his exhausted energies. Dear me, said Sir Roland, I could never believe it, unless I knew from experience, what a very little work is enough to upset him. To write a letter to his father, for instance, is so severe an exertion, that he requires a holiday the next day. Now, Roland, don t be so hard upon him. You would apprentice him to that vile law, which is quite unfit for a gentleman. I am not surprised at his being overcome by such odious labour; you would not take my advice, remember, and put him into the only profession fit for one of his birth--the army. Whatever happens, the fault is your own. It is clear, however, that he cannot get into much mischief where he is just now--a rural and quiet part of Kent, she says. It shows the innocence of his heart to go there. Very likely. But if he wanted change, he might have asked leave to come home, I think. However, we shall have him here soon enough. How you speak, Roland! Quite as if you cared not a farthing for your only son! It must be dreadfully galling to him, to see how you prefer that Alice. If he is galled, he never winces, answered Sir Roland with a quiet smile; he is the most careless fellow in the world. And the most good-natured, and the most affectionate, said Lady Valeria, warmly; nothing else could keep him from being jealous, as nine out of ten would be. However, I am tired of talking now, and on that subject I might talk for ever. Take away that case, if you please, and the writing. On no account would I have them left here. Of course you will lock them away securely, and not think of meddling with them. What is that case made of? I can scarcely make out. Something strong and heavy. A mixture, I think, of shagreen and some metal. But the oddest thing of all is the keyhole. It is at the top of the cone, you see, and of the strangest shape, an irregular heptagon, with some rare complications of points inside. It would be next to impossible to open this case, without shattering it altogether. I do not wish to examine the case, I wish to have it taken away, my son. There, there, I am very glad not to see it; although I am sure I am not superstitious. We shall do very well, I trust, without it. I think it is a most extraordinary thing that your father never consulted me about the writing handed down to you. He must have been bound by some pledge not to do so. There, Roland, I am tired of the subject. With these words the ancient lady waved her delicate hand, and dismissed her son, who kissed her white forehead, according to usage, and then departed with case and parchment locked in the oaken box again. But the more he thought over her behaviour, the more he was puzzled about it. He had fully expected a command to open the case, at whatever hazard; and perhaps he had been disappointed at receiving no such order. But above all, he wanted to know why his mother should have been taken aback, as she was, by the sight of these little things. For few people, even in the prime of life, possessed more self-command and courage than Lady Valeria, now advancing into her eighty-second year. CHAPTER XXIII. THE BAITER BAITED. At the top of the hill, these lofty themes were being handled worthily; while, at the bottom, little cares had equal glance of the democrat sun, but no stars allotted to regard them. In plain English,--Bonny and Jack were as busy as their betters. They had taken their usual round that morning, seeking the staff of life--if that staff be applicable to a donkey--in village, hamlet, and farm-house, or among the lanes and hedges. The sympathy and goodwill between them daily grew more intimate, and their tastes more similar; so that it scarcely seemed impossible that Bonny in the end might learn to eat clover, and Jack to rejoice in money. Open air, and roving life, the ups and downs of want and weal, the freedom of having nothing to lose, and the joyful luck of finding things--these, and perhaps a little spice of unknown sweetness in living at large on their fellow-creatures labours, combined to make them as happy a pair, as the day was long, or the weather good. In the winter--ah! why should we think of such trouble? Perhaps there will never be winter again. At any rate, Bonny was sitting in front of the door of his castle (or rather in front of the doorway, because he was happy enough not to have a door), as proud and contented as if there could never be any more winter of discontent. He had picked up a hat in a ditch that day, lost by some man going home from his inn; and knowing from his patron, the pigman Bottler, that the surest token of a blameless life is to be found in the hat of a man, the boy, stirred by the first heave of ambition, had put on this hat, and was practising hat-craft (having gone with his head as it was born hitherto), to the utter surprise, and with the puzzled protest, of his beloved donkey. It was a most steady church-going hat of the chimney-pot order (then newly imported into benighted regions, but now of the essence of a godly life all over this free country), neither was it such a shocking bad hat as a man would cast away, if his wife were near. For Bonny s young head it was a world too wide, but he had padded it with a blackbird s nest; and though it seemed scarcely in harmony with his rakish waistcoat, and bare red shanks (spread on the grass for exhibition, and starred with myriad furze and bramble), still he was conscious of a distinguished air, and nodded to the donkey to look at him. While these were gazing at one another, with free interchange of opinion, the rector of the parish, on his little pony, turned the corner bluntly. He was on his way home, at the bottom of the coombe, not in the very best temper perhaps, in spite of the sport in prospect; because Sir Roland had met so unkindly his kind desire to know things. What have you got on your lap, boy? Mr. Hales so strongly shouted, that sulky Echo pricked her ears; and on your lap, boy, went all up the lonely coombe melodiously. Bonny knew well what was on his lap--a cleverly-plaited hare-wire. Bottler had shown him how to do it, and now he was practising diligently, under the auspices of his first hat. Mr. Hales was a beak, of course; and the aquiline beak of the neighbourhood. Bonny had the honour of his acquaintance, in that fierce aspect, and in no other. The little boy knew that there was a church, and that great people went there once a-week, for still greater people to blow them up. But this only made him the more uneasy, to clap his bright eyes on the parson. Hold there! whoa! called the Rev. Struan, as Bonny for his life began to cut away; boy, I want to talk to you. Bonny was by no means touched with this very fine benevolence. Taking, perhaps, a low view of duty, he made the ground hot, to escape what we now call the sacerdotal office. But Struan Hales (unlike our parsons) knew how to manage the laity. He clapped himself and his pony, in no time, between Master Bonny and his hole, and then in calm dignity called a halt, with his riding-whip ready at his button-hole. It is--it is--it is! cried Bonny, coming back with his head on his chest, and meaning (in the idiom of the land) that now he was beaten, and would hold parley. To be sure, it is! the rector answered, keeping a good balance on his pony, and well pleased with his own tactics. He might have chased Bonny for an hour in vain, through the furze, and heather, and blackberries; but here he had him at his mercy quite, through his knowledge of human nature. To put it coarsely--as the rector did in his mental process haply--the bigger thief anybody is, the more sacred to him is his property. Not that Bonny was a thief at all; still, that was how Mr. Hales looked at it. In the flurry of conscience, the boy forgot that a camel might go through the eye of a needle with less exertion than the parish incumbent must use to get into the Bonny-castle. Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! howled Bonny, having no faith in clerical honour, and foreseeing the sack of his palace, and home. Give me that wire, said Mr. Hales, in a voice from the depth of his waistcoat. Now, my boy, would you like to be a good boy? No, sir; no, sir; oh no, plaize, sir! Jack nor me couldn t bear it, sir. Why not, my boy? It is such a fine thing. Your face shows that you are a sharp boy. Why do you go on living in a hole, and poaching, and picking, and stealing? Plaize, sir, I never steals nothin , without it is somethin as don t belong to me. That may be. But why should you steal even that? Shall I go in, and steal your things now? Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! Plaize, sir, I ha n t got nothin for e to steal. I am not at all sure of that, said the rector, looking at the hermit s hole longingly; a thief s den is often as good as the bank. Now, who taught you how to make this snare? I thought I knew them all pretty well; but this wire has a dodge quite new to me. Who taught you, you young scamp, this moment? Plaize, sir, I can t tell e, sir. Nobody taught me, as I knows on. You young liar, you couldn t teach yourself. What you mean is, that you don t choose to tell me. Know, I must, and know I will, if I have to thrash it out of you. He had seized him now by his gorgeous waistcoat, and held the strong horsewhip over his back. Now, will you tell, or will you not? I ont, I ont. If e kills me, I ont, the boy cried, wriggling vainly, and with great tears of anticipation rolling down his sun-burnt cheeks. The parson admired the pluck of the boy, knowing his own great strength of course, and feeling that if he began to smite, the swing of his arm would increase his own wrath, and carry him perhaps beyond reason. Therefore he offered him one chance more. Will you tell, sir, or will you not? I ont tell; that I ont, screamed Bonny; and at the word the lash descended. But only once, for the smiter in a moment was made aware of a dusty rush, a sharp roar of wrath, and great teeth flashing under mighty jaws. And perhaps he would never have walked again if he had not most suddenly wheeled his pony, and just escaped a tremendous snap, well aimed at his comely and gaitered calf. Ods bods! cried the parson, as he saw the jackass (with a stretched-out neck, and crest erect, eyes flashing fire, and a lashing tail, and, worst of all terrors, those cavernous jaws) gathering legs for a second charge, like an Attic trireme, Phormio s own, backing water for the diecplus. May I be dashed, the rector shouted, if I deal any more with such animals! If I had only got my hunting-crop; but, kuk, kuk, kuk, pony! Quick, for God s sake! Off with you! With a whack of full power on the pony s flanks, away went he at full gallop; while Jack tossed his white nose with high disdain, and then started at a round trot in pursuit, to scatter them more disgracefully, and after them sent a fine flourish of trumpets, to the grand old national air of hee-haw. While the Rev. Struan Hales was thus in sore discomfiture fleeing away as hard as his pony could be made to go, and casting uneasy glances over one shoulder at his pursuer, behold, he almost rode over a traveller footing it lightly round a corner of the lane! Why, Uncle Struan! exclaimed the latter; is the dragon of St. Leonard s flying after you? Or is this the usual style of riding of the beneficed clergy? Hilary, my dear boy, answered the rector; who would have thought of seeing you? You are just come in time to defend your uncle from a ravenous beast of prey. I was going home to bait a badger, but I have had a pretty good bait myself. Ah, you pagan, you may well be ashamed of yourself, to attack your clergyman! For Jack, perceiving the reinforcement, and eyeing the stout stick which Hilary bore, prudently turned on his tail and departed, well satisfied with his exploit. Why, Hilary, what has brought you home? asked his uncle, when a few words had passed concerning Jack s behaviour. Nobody expects you, that I know of. Your father is a mysterious man; but Alice would have been sure to tell me. Moreover, you must have walked all the way from the stage, by the look of your buckles; or perhaps from Brighton even. No; I took the short cut over the hills, and across by way of Beeding. Nobody expects me, as you say. I am come on important business. And, of course, I am not to know what it is. For mystery, and for keeping secrets, there never was such a family. As if you did not belong to it, uncle! Hilary answered, good-naturedly. I never heard of any secrets that I can remember. And good reason too, replied the rector; they would not long have been secrets, my boy, after they came to your ears, I doubt. Then let me establish my reputation by keeping my own, at any rate. But, after all, it is no secret, uncle. Only, my father ought to know it first. Alas, you rogue, you rogue! Something about money, no doubt. You used to condescend to come to me when you were at school and college. But now, you are too grand for the purse of any poor Sussex rector. I could put off our badger for half-an-hour, if you think you could run down the hill again. I should like you particularly to see young Fox; it will be something grand, my boy. He is the best pup I ever had in all my life. I know him, uncle; I know what he is. I chose him first out of the litter, you know. But you must not think of waiting

descendants

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

you refuse to let your own mother know it! Excuse me, but I do not remember saying anything about importance. I am not superstitious enough to suppose that the thing can have any importance. Then why should you make such a fuss about it? Really, Roland, you are sometimes very hard to understand. I was not aware that I had made a fuss, Sir Roland answered, gravely; but if I have, I will make no more. Now, my dear mother, what did you think of that extraordinary bill of Bottler s? Bottler, the pigman, is a rogue, said her ladyship, peremptorily: his father was a rogue before him; and those things run in families. But surely you cannot suppose that this is the proper way to treat the subject. To my mind a most improper way--to condemn a man s bill on the ground that his father transmitted the right to overcharge! Now, my dear son, said Lady Valeria, who never called him her son at all, unless she was put out with him, and her dear son only when she was at the extremity of endurance-- my dear son, these are sad attempts to disguise the real truth from me. The truth I am entitled to know, and the truth I am resolved to know. And I think that you might have paid me the compliment of coming for my advice before. Finding her in this state of mind, and being unable to deny the justice of her claim, Sir Roland was fain at last to make a virtue of necessity, while he marvelled (as so many have done) at the craft of people in spying things, and espying them always wrongly. Is that all? said Lady Valeria, after listening carefully; I thought there must have been something a little better than that, to justify you in making it such a mystery. Nothing but a dusty old document, and a strange-looking package, or case like a cone! However, I do not blame you, my dear Roland, for making so small a discovery. The old astrologer appears to me to have grown a little childish. Now, as I keep to the old-fashioned hours, I will ask you to ring the bell for my tea; and while it is being prepared, you can fetch me the case itself, and the document to examine. To be sure, my dear mother, if you will only promise to obey the commands of the document. Roland, I have lived too long ever to promise anything. You shall read me these orders, and then I can judge. I will make no fuss about such a trifle, he answered, with a pleasant smile; of course you will do what is honourable. Surely men, although they deny so ferociously this impeachment, are open at times to at least a little side-eddy of curiosity; Sir Roland, no doubt, was desirous to know what were the contents of that old case, which Alice had taken for a dirty cushion, as it lay at the back of the cupboard in the wall; while his honour would not allow him comfortably to disobey the testator s wish. At the same time he felt, every now and then, that to treat such a matter in a serious light, was a proof of superstition, or even childishness, on his part. And now, if his mother should so regard it, he was not at all sure that he ought to take the unpleasant course of opposing her. CHAPTER XXII. A MALIGNANT CASE. Sir Roland smiled at his mother s position, and air of stern attention, as he came back from his book-room with a small but heavy oaken box. This he placed on a chair, and without any mystery, unlocked it. But no sooner had he flung back the lid and shown the case above described, than he was quite astonished at the expression of Lady Valeria s face. Something more than fear, a sudden terror, as if at the sight of something fatal, had taken the pale tint out of her cheeks, and made her fine forehead quiver. Dear mother, how foolish I am, he said, to worry you with these trifles! I wish I had kept to my own opinion---- It is no trifle; you would have been wrong to treat it as a trifle. I have lived a long life, and seen many strange things; it takes more than a trifle to frighten me. For a minute or two she lay back, and was not fit to speak or be spoken to; only she managed to stop her son from ringing for her maid or the housekeeper. He had never beheld her so scared before, and could scarcely make out her signs to him that she needed no attendance. Like most men who are at all good and just, Sir Roland was prone to think softly and calmly, instead of acting rapidly; and now his mother, so advanced in years, showed less hesitation than he did. Recovering, ere long, from that sudden shock, she managed to smile at herself and at his anxiety about her. Now, Roland, I will not meddle with this formidable and clumsy thing. It seems to be closed most jealously. It has kept for two centuries, and may keep for two more, so far as I am concerned. But if it will not be too troublesome to you, I should like to hear what is said about it. In this old document, madam? Do you see how strangely it has been folded? Whoever did that knew a great deal more than now we know about folding. The writing to me seems more strange than the folding. What a cramped hand! In what language is it written? In Greek, the old Greek character, and the Doric dialect. He seems to have been proud of his classic descent, and perhaps Dorian lineage. But he placed a great deal too much faith in the attainments of his descendants. Poor Sedley would have read it straight off, I daresay; but the contractions, and even some of the characters, puzzled me dreadfully. I have kept up, as you know, dear mother, whatever little Greek I was taught, and perhaps have added to it; but my old Hedericus was needed a great many times, I assure you, before I got through this queer document; and even now I am not quite certain of the meaning of one or two passages. You see at the head a number of what I took at first to be hieroglyphics of some kind or other; but I find that they are astral or sidereal signs, for which I am none the wiser, though perhaps an astronomer would be. This, for instance, appears to mean the conjunction of some two planets, and this---- Never mind them, Roland. Read me what you have made out of the writing. Very well, mother. But if I am at fault, you must have patience with me, for I am not perfect in my lesson yet. Thus it begins:-- Behold, ye men, who shall be hereafter, and pay heed to this matter. A certain Carian, noble by birth and of noble character, to whom is the not inglorious name, Agasicles Syennesis, hath lived not in the pursuit of wealth, or power, or reputation, but in the unbroken study of the most excellent arts and philosophies. Especially in the heavenly stars, and signs of the everlasting kosmos, hath he disciplined his mind, and surpassed all that went before him. There is nothing like self-praise, is there, now, dear mother? I have no doubt that he speaks the truth, answered the Lady Valeria: I did not marry into a family accustomed to exaggerate. Then what do you think of this? Not only in intellect and forethought, but also in goodwill and philanthropy, modesty, and self-forgetfulness, did this man win the prize of excellence; and he it is who now speaks to you. Having lived much time in a barbarous island, cold, and blown over with vaporous air, he is no longer of such a sort as he was in the land of the fair afternoons. And there is when it is to his mind a manifest and established thing, that the gates of Hades are open for him, and the time of being no longer. But he holds this to be of the smallest difference, if only the gods produce his time to the perfect end of all the things lying now before him. How good, and how truly pious of him, Roland? Such a man s daughter never could have had any right to run away from him. My dear mother, I disagree with you, if he always praised himself in that style. But let him speak for himself again, as he seems to know very well how to do: These things have not been said, indeed, for the sake of any boasting, but rather to bring out thoroughly forward the truth in these things lying under, as if it were a pavement of adamant. Now, therefore, know ye, that Agasicles, carefully pondering everything, has found (so to say the word) an end to accomplish, and to abide in. And this is no other thing, than to save the generations descended from him, from great evil fortunes about to fall, by the ill-will of some divinity, at a destined time, upon them. For a man, of birth so renowned and lofty, has not been made to resemble a hand-worker, or a runaway slave; but has many stars regarding him, from many generations. And now he perceives, that his skill and wisdom were not given to him to be a mere personal adornment; but that he might protect his descendants, to the remote futurity. To him, then--it having been revealed, that in the seventh generation hence, as has often come to pass with our house, or haply in the tenth (for the time is misty), a great calamity is bound to happen to those born afar off from Syennesis--the sage has laboured many labours, though he cannot avert, at least to make it milder, and to lessen it. He has not, indeed, been made to know, at least up to the present time, what this bane will be; or whether after the second, or after the third century from this period. But knowing the swiftness of evil chance, he expects it at the earlier time; and whatever its manner or kind may be, Agasicles in all his discoveries has discovered no cure for human evils, save that which he now has shut up in a box. This box has been so constructed, that nothing but dust will meet the greedy eyes of any who force it open, in the manner of the tomb of Nitocris. But if be opened with the proper key, and after the proper interval, when the due need has arisen--there will be a fairer sight than ever broke upon mortal eyes before. There mother, now, what do you think of all that? I am quite out of breath with my long translation, and I am not quite sure of all of it. For instance, where he says---- Roland, his mother answered quickly, I am now much older than the prince, according to tradition, can have been. But I make no pretence to his wisdom; and I have reasons of my own for wondering. What have you done with the key of that case? I have never seen it. It was not in the closet. And I meant to have searched, throughout his room, until I found out the meaning of this very crabbed postscript-- That fool, Memel, hath lost the key. It will cost me months to make another. My hands now tremble, and my eyes are weak. If there be no key found herewith, let it be read that Nature, whom I have vanquished, hath avenged herself. Whether, or no, have I laboured in vain? Be blest now, and bless me, my dear descendants. That appears to me, said the Lady Valeria, being left in good manners by her son, to express the first opinion, to be of the whole of this strange affair the part that is least satisfactory. My dear mother, you have hit the mark. What satisfaction can one find in having a case without a key, and knowing that if we force it open there will be nothing but dust inside? Not a quarter so good as a snuff-box. I must have a pinch, my dear mother, excuse me, while you meditate on this subject. You are far more indulgent in that respect than little Alice ever is. All gentlemen take snuff, said the lady; who is Alice, to lay down the law? Your father took a boxful three times a week. Roland, you let that young girl take great liberties with you. It is not so much that I let her take them. I have no voice in the matter now. She takes them without asking me. Possibly that is the great calamity foretold by the astrologer. If not, what other can it be, do you think? Not so, she answered, with a serious air, for all her experience of the witty world had left her old age quite dry of humour; the trouble, if any is coming, will not be through Alice, but through Hilary. Alice is certainly a flighty girl, romantic, and full of nonsense, and not at all such as she might have been, if left more in my society. However, she never has thought it worth while to associate much with her grandmother; the result of which is that her manners are unformed, and her mind is full of nonsense. But she has plenty, and (if it were possible) too much of that great preservative--pride of birth. Alice may come to affliction herself; but she never will involve her family. Any affliction of hers, said Sir Roland, will involve at least her father. Yes, yes, of course. But what I mean is the honour and rank of the family. It is my favourite Hilary, my dear, brave, handsome Hilary, who is likely to bring care on our heads, or rather upon your head, Roland; my time, of course, will be over then, unless he is very quick about it. He will not be so quick as that, I hope, Sir Roland answered, with some little confusion of proper sentiments; although in that hotbed of mischief, London, nobody knows when he may begin. However, he is not in London at present, according to your friend Lady de Lampnor. I think you said you had heard so from her. To be sure, Mr. Malahide told her himself. The dear boy has overworked himself so, that he has gone to some healthy and quiet place, to recruit his exhausted energies. Dear me, said Sir Roland, I could never believe it, unless I knew from experience, what a very little work is enough to upset him. To write a letter to his father, for instance, is so severe an exertion, that he requires a holiday the next day. Now, Roland, don t be so hard upon him. You would apprentice him to that vile law, which is quite unfit for a gentleman. I am not surprised at his being overcome by such odious labour; you would not take my advice, remember, and put him into the only profession fit for one of his birth--the army. Whatever happens, the fault is your own. It is clear, however, that he cannot get into much mischief where he is just now--a rural and quiet part of Kent, she says. It shows the innocence of his heart to go there. Very likely. But if he wanted change, he might have asked leave to come home, I think. However, we shall have him here soon enough. How you speak, Roland! Quite as if you cared not a farthing for your only son! It must be dreadfully galling to him, to see how you prefer that Alice. If he is galled, he never winces, answered Sir Roland with a quiet smile; he is the most careless fellow in the world. And the most good-natured, and the most affectionate, said Lady Valeria, warmly; nothing else could keep him from being jealous, as nine out of ten would be. However, I am tired of talking now, and on that subject I might talk for ever. Take away that case, if you please, and the writing. On no account would I have them left here. Of course you will lock them away securely, and not think of meddling with them. What is that case made of? I can scarcely make out. Something strong and heavy. A mixture, I think, of shagreen and some metal. But the oddest thing of all is the keyhole. It is at the top of the cone, you see, and of the strangest shape, an irregular heptagon, with some rare complications of points inside. It would be next to impossible to open this case, without shattering it altogether. I do not wish to examine the case, I wish to have it taken away, my son. There, there, I am very glad not to see it; although I am sure I am not superstitious. We shall do very well, I trust, without it. I think it is a most extraordinary thing that your father never consulted me about the writing handed down to you. He must have been bound by some pledge not to do so. There, Roland, I am tired of the subject. With these words the ancient lady waved her delicate hand, and dismissed her son, who kissed her white forehead, according to usage, and then departed with case and parchment locked in the oaken box again. But the more he thought over her behaviour, the more he was puzzled about it. He had fully expected a command to open the case, at whatever hazard; and perhaps he had been disappointed at receiving no such order. But above all, he wanted to know why his mother should have been taken aback, as she was, by the sight of these little things. For few people, even in the prime of life, possessed more self-command and courage than Lady Valeria, now advancing into her eighty-second year. CHAPTER XXIII. THE BAITER BAITED. At the top of the hill, these lofty themes were being handled worthily; while, at the bottom, little cares had equal glance of the democrat sun, but no stars allotted to regard them. In plain English,--Bonny and Jack were as busy as their betters. They had taken their usual round that morning, seeking the staff of life--if that staff be applicable to a donkey--in village, hamlet, and farm-house, or among the lanes and hedges. The sympathy and goodwill between them daily grew more intimate, and their tastes more similar; so that it scarcely seemed impossible that Bonny in the end might learn to eat clover, and Jack to rejoice in money. Open air, and roving life, the ups and downs of want and weal, the freedom of having nothing to lose, and the joyful luck of finding things--these, and perhaps a little spice of unknown sweetness in living at large on their fellow-creatures labours, combined to make them as happy a pair, as the day was long, or the weather good. In the winter--ah! why should we think of such trouble? Perhaps there will never be winter again. At any rate, Bonny was sitting in front of the door of his castle (or rather in front of the doorway, because he was happy enough not to have a door), as proud and contented as if there could never be any more winter of discontent. He had picked up a hat in a ditch that day, lost by some man going home from his inn; and knowing from his patron, the pigman Bottler, that the surest token of a blameless life is to be found in the hat of a man, the boy, stirred by the first heave of ambition, had put on this hat, and was practising hat-craft (having gone with his head as it was born hitherto), to the utter surprise, and with the puzzled protest, of his beloved donkey. It was a most steady church-going hat of the chimney-pot order (then newly imported into benighted regions, but now of the essence of a godly life all over this free country), neither was it such a shocking bad hat as a man would cast away, if his wife were near. For Bonny s young head it was a world too wide, but he had padded it with a blackbird s nest; and though it seemed scarcely in harmony with his rakish waistcoat, and bare red shanks (spread on the grass for exhibition, and starred with myriad furze and bramble), still he was conscious of a distinguished air, and nodded to the donkey to look at him. While these were gazing at one another, with free interchange of opinion, the rector of the parish, on his little pony, turned the corner bluntly. He was on his way home, at the bottom of the coombe, not in the very best temper perhaps, in spite of the sport in prospect; because Sir Roland had met so unkindly his kind desire to know things. What have you got on your lap, boy? Mr. Hales so strongly shouted, that sulky Echo pricked her ears; and on your lap, boy, went all up the lonely coombe melodiously. Bonny knew well what was on his lap--a cleverly-plaited hare-wire. Bottler had shown him how to do it, and now he was practising diligently, under the auspices of his first hat. Mr. Hales was a beak, of course; and the aquiline beak of the neighbourhood. Bonny had the honour of his acquaintance, in that fierce aspect, and in no other. The little boy knew that there was a church, and that great people went there once a-week, for still greater people to blow them up. But this only made him the more uneasy, to clap his bright eyes on the parson. Hold there! whoa! called the Rev. Struan, as Bonny for his life began to cut away; boy, I want to talk to you. Bonny was by no means touched with this very fine benevolence. Taking, perhaps, a low view of duty, he made the ground hot, to escape what we now call the sacerdotal office. But Struan Hales (unlike our parsons) knew how to manage the laity. He clapped himself and his pony, in no time, between Master Bonny and his hole, and then in calm dignity called a halt, with his riding-whip ready at his button-hole. It is--it is--it is! cried Bonny, coming back with his head on his chest, and meaning (in the idiom of the land) that now he was beaten, and would hold parley. To be sure, it is! the rector answered, keeping a good balance on his pony, and well pleased with his own tactics. He might have chased Bonny for an hour in vain, through the furze, and heather, and blackberries; but here he had him at his mercy quite, through his knowledge of human nature. To put it coarsely--as the rector did in his mental process haply--the bigger thief anybody is, the more sacred to him is his property. Not that Bonny was a thief at all; still, that was how Mr. Hales looked at it. In the flurry of conscience, the boy forgot that a camel might go through the eye of a needle with less exertion than the parish incumbent must use to get into the Bonny-castle. Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! howled Bonny, having no faith in clerical honour, and foreseeing the sack of his palace, and home. Give me that wire, said Mr. Hales, in a voice from the depth of his waistcoat. Now, my boy, would you like to be a good boy? No, sir; no, sir; oh no, plaize, sir! Jack nor me couldn t bear it, sir. Why not, my boy? It is such a fine thing. Your face shows that you are a sharp boy. Why do you go on living in a hole, and poaching, and picking, and stealing? Plaize, sir, I never steals nothin , without it is somethin as don t belong to me. That may be. But why should you steal even that? Shall I go in, and steal your things now? Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! Plaize, sir, I ha n t got nothin for e to steal. I am not at all sure of that, said the rector, looking at the hermit s hole longingly; a thief s den is often as good as the bank. Now, who taught you how to make this snare? I thought I knew them all pretty well; but this wire has a dodge quite new to me. Who taught you, you young scamp, this moment? Plaize, sir, I can t tell e, sir. Nobody taught me, as I knows on. You young liar, you couldn t teach yourself. What you mean is, that you don t choose to tell me. Know, I must, and know I will, if I have to thrash it out of you. He had seized him now by his gorgeous waistcoat, and held the strong horsewhip over his back. Now, will you tell, or will you not? I ont, I ont. If e kills me, I ont, the boy cried, wriggling vainly, and with great tears of anticipation rolling down his sun-burnt cheeks. The parson admired the pluck of the boy, knowing his own great strength of course, and feeling that if he began to smite, the swing of his arm would increase his own wrath, and carry him perhaps beyond reason. Therefore he offered him one chance more. Will you tell, sir, or will you not? I ont tell; that I ont, screamed Bonny; and at the word the lash descended. But only once, for the smiter in a moment was made aware of a dusty rush, a sharp roar of wrath, and great teeth flashing under mighty jaws. And perhaps he would never have walked again if he had not most suddenly wheeled his pony, and just escaped a tremendous snap, well aimed at his comely and gaitered calf. Ods bods! cried the parson, as he saw the jackass (with a stretched-out neck, and crest erect, eyes flashing fire, and a lashing tail, and, worst of all terrors, those cavernous jaws) gathering legs for a second charge, like an Attic trireme, Phormio s own, backing water for the diecplus. May I be dashed, the rector shouted, if I deal any more with such animals! If I had only got my hunting-crop; but, kuk, kuk, kuk, pony! Quick, for God s sake! Off with you! With a whack of full power on the pony s flanks, away went he at full gallop; while Jack tossed his white nose with high disdain, and then started at a round trot in pursuit, to scatter them more disgracefully, and after them sent a fine flourish of trumpets, to the grand old national air of hee-haw. While the Rev. Struan Hales was thus in sore discomfiture fleeing away as hard as his pony could be made to go, and casting uneasy glances over one shoulder at his pursuer, behold, he almost rode over a traveller footing it lightly round a corner of the lane! Why, Uncle Struan! exclaimed the latter; is the dragon of St. Leonard s flying after you? Or is this the usual style of riding of the beneficed clergy? Hilary, my dear boy, answered the rector; who would have thought of seeing you? You are just come in time to defend your uncle from a ravenous beast of prey. I was going home to bait a badger, but I have had a pretty good bait myself. Ah, you pagan, you may well be ashamed of yourself, to attack your clergyman! For Jack, perceiving the reinforcement, and eyeing the stout stick which Hilary bore, prudently turned on his tail and departed, well satisfied with his exploit. Why, Hilary, what has brought you home? asked his uncle, when a few words had passed concerning Jack s behaviour. Nobody expects you, that I know of. Your father is a mysterious man; but Alice would have been sure to tell me. Moreover, you must have walked all the way from the stage, by the look of your buckles; or perhaps from Brighton even. No; I took the short cut over the hills, and across by way of Beeding. Nobody expects me, as you say. I am come on important business. And, of course, I am not to know what it is. For mystery, and for keeping secrets, there never was such a family. As if you did not belong to it, uncle! Hilary answered, good-naturedly. I never heard of any secrets that I can remember. And good reason too, replied the rector; they would not long have been secrets, my boy, after they came to your ears, I doubt. Then let me establish my reputation by keeping my own, at any rate. But, after all, it is no secret, uncle. Only, my father ought to know it first. Alas, you rogue, you rogue! Something about money, no doubt. You used to condescend to come to me when you were at school and college. But now, you are too grand for the purse of any poor Sussex rector. I could put off our badger for half-an-hour, if you think you could run down the hill again. I should like you particularly to see young Fox; it will be something grand, my boy. He is the best pup I ever had in all my life. I know him, uncle; I know what he is. I chose him first out of the litter, you know. But you must not think of waiting

blackest

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

you refuse to let your own mother know it! Excuse me, but I do not remember saying anything about importance. I am not superstitious enough to suppose that the thing can have any importance. Then why should you make such a fuss about it? Really, Roland, you are sometimes very hard to understand. I was not aware that I had made a fuss, Sir Roland answered, gravely; but if I have, I will make no more. Now, my dear mother, what did you think of that extraordinary bill of Bottler s? Bottler, the pigman, is a rogue, said her ladyship, peremptorily: his father was a rogue before him; and those things run in families. But surely you cannot suppose that this is the proper way to treat the subject. To my mind a most improper way--to condemn a man s bill on the ground that his father transmitted the right to overcharge! Now, my dear son, said Lady Valeria, who never called him her son at all, unless she was put out with him, and her dear son only when she was at the extremity of endurance-- my dear son, these are sad attempts to disguise the real truth from me. The truth I am entitled to know, and the truth I am resolved to know. And I think that you might have paid me the compliment of coming for my advice before. Finding her in this state of mind, and being unable to deny the justice of her claim, Sir Roland was fain at last to make a virtue of necessity, while he marvelled (as so many have done) at the craft of people in spying things, and espying them always wrongly. Is that all? said Lady Valeria, after listening carefully; I thought there must have been something a little better than that, to justify you in making it such a mystery. Nothing but a dusty old document, and a strange-looking package, or case like a cone! However, I do not blame you, my dear Roland, for making so small a discovery. The old astrologer appears to me to have grown a little childish. Now, as I keep to the old-fashioned hours, I will ask you to ring the bell for my tea; and while it is being prepared, you can fetch me the case itself, and the document to examine. To be sure, my dear mother, if you will only promise to obey the commands of the document. Roland, I have lived too long ever to promise anything. You shall read me these orders, and then I can judge. I will make no fuss about such a trifle, he answered, with a pleasant smile; of course you will do what is honourable. Surely men, although they deny so ferociously this impeachment, are open at times to at least a little side-eddy of curiosity; Sir Roland, no doubt, was desirous to know what were the contents of that old case, which Alice had taken for a dirty cushion, as it lay at the back of the cupboard in the wall; while his honour would not allow him comfortably to disobey the testator s wish. At the same time he felt, every now and then, that to treat such a matter in a serious light, was a proof of superstition, or even childishness, on his part. And now, if his mother should so regard it, he was not at all sure that he ought to take the unpleasant course of opposing her. CHAPTER XXII. A MALIGNANT CASE. Sir Roland smiled at his mother s position, and air of stern attention, as he came back from his book-room with a small but heavy oaken box. This he placed on a chair, and without any mystery, unlocked it. But no sooner had he flung back the lid and shown the case above described, than he was quite astonished at the expression of Lady Valeria s face. Something more than fear, a sudden terror, as if at the sight of something fatal, had taken the pale tint out of her cheeks, and made her fine forehead quiver. Dear mother, how foolish I am, he said, to worry you with these trifles! I wish I had kept to my own opinion---- It is no trifle; you would have been wrong to treat it as a trifle. I have lived a long life, and seen many strange things; it takes more than a trifle to frighten me. For a minute or two she lay back, and was not fit to speak or be spoken to; only she managed to stop her son from ringing for her maid or the housekeeper. He had never beheld her so scared before, and could scarcely make out her signs to him that she needed no attendance. Like most men who are at all good and just, Sir Roland was prone to think softly and calmly, instead of acting rapidly; and now his mother, so advanced in years, showed less hesitation than he did. Recovering, ere long, from that sudden shock, she managed to smile at herself and at his anxiety about her. Now, Roland, I will not meddle with this formidable and clumsy thing. It seems to be closed most jealously. It has kept for two centuries, and may keep for two more, so far as I am concerned. But if it will not be too troublesome to you, I should like to hear what is said about it. In this old document, madam? Do you see how strangely it has been folded? Whoever did that knew a great deal more than now we know about folding. The writing to me seems more strange than the folding. What a cramped hand! In what language is it written? In Greek, the old Greek character, and the Doric dialect. He seems to have been proud of his classic descent, and perhaps Dorian lineage. But he placed a great deal too much faith in the attainments of his descendants. Poor Sedley would have read it straight off, I daresay; but the contractions, and even some of the characters, puzzled me dreadfully. I have kept up, as you know, dear mother, whatever little Greek I was taught, and perhaps have added to it; but my old Hedericus was needed a great many times, I assure you, before I got through this queer document; and even now I am not quite certain of the meaning of one or two passages. You see at the head a number of what I took at first to be hieroglyphics of some kind or other; but I find that they are astral or sidereal signs, for which I am none the wiser, though perhaps an astronomer would be. This, for instance, appears to mean the conjunction of some two planets, and this---- Never mind them, Roland. Read me what you have made out of the writing. Very well, mother. But if I am at fault, you must have patience with me, for I am not perfect in my lesson yet. Thus it begins:-- Behold, ye men, who shall be hereafter, and pay heed to this matter. A certain Carian, noble by birth and of noble character, to whom is the not inglorious name, Agasicles Syennesis, hath lived not in the pursuit of wealth, or power, or reputation, but in the unbroken study of the most excellent arts and philosophies. Especially in the heavenly stars, and signs of the everlasting kosmos, hath he disciplined his mind, and surpassed all that went before him. There is nothing like self-praise, is there, now, dear mother? I have no doubt that he speaks the truth, answered the Lady Valeria: I did not marry into a family accustomed to exaggerate. Then what do you think of this? Not only in intellect and forethought, but also in goodwill and philanthropy, modesty, and self-forgetfulness, did this man win the prize of excellence; and he it is who now speaks to you. Having lived much time in a barbarous island, cold, and blown over with vaporous air, he is no longer of such a sort as he was in the land of the fair afternoons. And there is when it is to his mind a manifest and established thing, that the gates of Hades are open for him, and the time of being no longer. But he holds this to be of the smallest difference, if only the gods produce his time to the perfect end of all the things lying now before him. How good, and how truly pious of him, Roland? Such a man s daughter never could have had any right to run away from him. My dear mother, I disagree with you, if he always praised himself in that style. But let him speak for himself again, as he seems to know very well how to do: These things have not been said, indeed, for the sake of any boasting, but rather to bring out thoroughly forward the truth in these things lying under, as if it were a pavement of adamant. Now, therefore, know ye, that Agasicles, carefully pondering everything, has found (so to say the word) an end to accomplish, and to abide in. And this is no other thing, than to save the generations descended from him, from great evil fortunes about to fall, by the ill-will of some divinity, at a destined time, upon them. For a man, of birth so renowned and lofty, has not been made to resemble a hand-worker, or a runaway slave; but has many stars regarding him, from many generations. And now he perceives, that his skill and wisdom were not given to him to be a mere personal adornment; but that he might protect his descendants, to the remote futurity. To him, then--it having been revealed, that in the seventh generation hence, as has often come to pass with our house, or haply in the tenth (for the time is misty), a great calamity is bound to happen to those born afar off from Syennesis--the sage has laboured many labours, though he cannot avert, at least to make it milder, and to lessen it. He has not, indeed, been made to know, at least up to the present time, what this bane will be; or whether after the second, or after the third century from this period. But knowing the swiftness of evil chance, he expects it at the earlier time; and whatever its manner or kind may be, Agasicles in all his discoveries has discovered no cure for human evils, save that which he now has shut up in a box. This box has been so constructed, that nothing but dust will meet the greedy eyes of any who force it open, in the manner of the tomb of Nitocris. But if be opened with the proper key, and after the proper interval, when the due need has arisen--there will be a fairer sight than ever broke upon mortal eyes before. There mother, now, what do you think of all that? I am quite out of breath with my long translation, and I am not quite sure of all of it. For instance, where he says---- Roland, his mother answered quickly, I am now much older than the prince, according to tradition, can have been. But I make no pretence to his wisdom; and I have reasons of my own for wondering. What have you done with the key of that case? I have never seen it. It was not in the closet. And I meant to have searched, throughout his room, until I found out the meaning of this very crabbed postscript-- That fool, Memel, hath lost the key. It will cost me months to make another. My hands now tremble, and my eyes are weak. If there be no key found herewith, let it be read that Nature, whom I have vanquished, hath avenged herself. Whether, or no, have I laboured in vain? Be blest now, and bless me, my dear descendants. That appears to me, said the Lady Valeria, being left in good manners by her son, to express the first opinion, to be of the whole of this strange affair the part that is least satisfactory. My dear mother, you have hit the mark. What satisfaction can one find in having a case without a key, and knowing that if we force it open there will be nothing but dust inside? Not a quarter so good as a snuff-box. I must have a pinch, my dear mother, excuse me, while you meditate on this subject. You are far more indulgent in that respect than little Alice ever is. All gentlemen take snuff, said the lady; who is Alice, to lay down the law? Your father took a boxful three times a week. Roland, you let that young girl take great liberties with you. It is not so much that I let her take them. I have no voice in the matter now. She takes them without asking me. Possibly that is the great calamity foretold by the astrologer. If not, what other can it be, do you think? Not so, she answered, with a serious air, for all her experience of the witty world had left her old age quite dry of humour; the trouble, if any is coming, will not be through Alice, but through Hilary. Alice is certainly a flighty girl, romantic, and full of nonsense, and not at all such as she might have been, if left more in my society. However, she never has thought it worth while to associate much with her grandmother; the result of which is that her manners are unformed, and her mind is full of nonsense. But she has plenty, and (if it were possible) too much of that great preservative--pride of birth. Alice may come to affliction herself; but she never will involve her family. Any affliction of hers, said Sir Roland, will involve at least her father. Yes, yes, of course. But what I mean is the honour and rank of the family. It is my favourite Hilary, my dear, brave, handsome Hilary, who is likely to bring care on our heads, or rather upon your head, Roland; my time, of course, will be over then, unless he is very quick about it. He will not be so quick as that, I hope, Sir Roland answered, with some little confusion of proper sentiments; although in that hotbed of mischief, London, nobody knows when he may begin. However, he is not in London at present, according to your friend Lady de Lampnor. I think you said you had heard so from her. To be sure, Mr. Malahide told her himself. The dear boy has overworked himself so, that he has gone to some healthy and quiet place, to recruit his exhausted energies. Dear me, said Sir Roland, I could never believe it, unless I knew from experience, what a very little work is enough to upset him. To write a letter to his father, for instance, is so severe an exertion, that he requires a holiday the next day. Now, Roland, don t be so hard upon him. You would apprentice him to that vile law, which is quite unfit for a gentleman. I am not surprised at his being overcome by such odious labour; you would not take my advice, remember, and put him into the only profession fit for one of his birth--the army. Whatever happens, the fault is your own. It is clear, however, that he cannot get into much mischief where he is just now--a rural and quiet part of Kent, she says. It shows the innocence of his heart to go there. Very likely. But if he wanted change, he might have asked leave to come home, I think. However, we shall have him here soon enough. How you speak, Roland! Quite as if you cared not a farthing for your only son! It must be dreadfully galling to him, to see how you prefer that Alice. If he is galled, he never winces, answered Sir Roland with a quiet smile; he is the most careless fellow in the world. And the most good-natured, and the most affectionate, said Lady Valeria, warmly; nothing else could keep him from being jealous, as nine out of ten would be. However, I am tired of talking now, and on that subject I might talk for ever. Take away that case, if you please, and the writing. On no account would I have them left here. Of course you will lock them away securely, and not think of meddling with them. What is that case made of? I can scarcely make out. Something strong and heavy. A mixture, I think, of shagreen and some metal. But the oddest thing of all is the keyhole. It is at the top of the cone, you see, and of the strangest shape, an irregular heptagon, with some rare complications of points inside. It would be next to impossible to open this case, without shattering it altogether. I do not wish to examine the case, I wish to have it taken away, my son. There, there, I am very glad not to see it; although I am sure I am not superstitious. We shall do very well, I trust, without it. I think it is a most extraordinary thing that your father never consulted me about the writing handed down to you. He must have been bound by some pledge not to do so. There, Roland, I am tired of the subject. With these words the ancient lady waved her delicate hand, and dismissed her son, who kissed her white forehead, according to usage, and then departed with case and parchment locked in the oaken box again. But the more he thought over her behaviour, the more he was puzzled about it. He had fully expected a command to open the case, at whatever hazard; and perhaps he had been disappointed at receiving no such order. But above all, he wanted to know why his mother should have been taken aback, as she was, by the sight of these little things. For few people, even in the prime of life, possessed more self-command and courage than Lady Valeria, now advancing into her eighty-second year. CHAPTER XXIII. THE BAITER BAITED. At the top of the hill, these lofty themes were being handled worthily; while, at the bottom, little cares had equal glance of the democrat sun, but no stars allotted to regard them. In plain English,--Bonny and Jack were as busy as their betters. They had taken their usual round that morning, seeking the staff of life--if that staff be applicable to a donkey--in village, hamlet, and farm-house, or among the lanes and hedges. The sympathy and goodwill between them daily grew more intimate, and their tastes more similar; so that it scarcely seemed impossible that Bonny in the end might learn to eat clover, and Jack to rejoice in money. Open air, and roving life, the ups and downs of want and weal, the freedom of having nothing to lose, and the joyful luck of finding things--these, and perhaps a little spice of unknown sweetness in living at large on their fellow-creatures labours, combined to make them as happy a pair, as the day was long, or the weather good. In the winter--ah! why should we think of such trouble? Perhaps there will never be winter again. At any rate, Bonny was sitting in front of the door of his castle (or rather in front of the doorway, because he was happy enough not to have a door), as proud and contented as if there could never be any more winter of discontent. He had picked up a hat in a ditch that day, lost by some man going home from his inn; and knowing from his patron, the pigman Bottler, that the surest token of a blameless life is to be found in the hat of a man, the boy, stirred by the first heave of ambition, had put on this hat, and was practising hat-craft (having gone with his head as it was born hitherto), to the utter surprise, and with the puzzled protest, of his beloved donkey. It was a most steady church-going hat of the chimney-pot order (then newly imported into benighted regions, but now of the essence of a godly life all over this free country), neither was it such a shocking bad hat as a man would cast away, if his wife were near. For Bonny s young head it was a world too wide, but he had padded it with a blackbird s nest; and though it seemed scarcely in harmony with his rakish waistcoat, and bare red shanks (spread on the grass for exhibition, and starred with myriad furze and bramble), still he was conscious of a distinguished air, and nodded to the donkey to look at him. While these were gazing at one another, with free interchange of opinion, the rector of the parish, on his little pony, turned the corner bluntly. He was on his way home, at the bottom of the coombe, not in the very best temper perhaps, in spite of the sport in prospect; because Sir Roland had met so unkindly his kind desire to know things. What have you got on your lap, boy? Mr. Hales so strongly shouted, that sulky Echo pricked her ears; and on your lap, boy, went all up the lonely coombe melodiously. Bonny knew well what was on his lap--a cleverly-plaited hare-wire. Bottler had shown him how to do it, and now he was practising diligently, under the auspices of his first hat. Mr. Hales was a beak, of course; and the aquiline beak of the neighbourhood. Bonny had the honour of his acquaintance, in that fierce aspect, and in no other. The little boy knew that there was a church, and that great people went there once a-week, for still greater people to blow them up. But this only made him the more uneasy, to clap his bright eyes on the parson. Hold there! whoa! called the Rev. Struan, as Bonny for his life began to cut away; boy, I want to talk to you. Bonny was by no means touched with this very fine benevolence. Taking, perhaps, a low view of duty, he made the ground hot, to escape what we now call the sacerdotal office. But Struan Hales (unlike our parsons) knew how to manage the laity. He clapped himself and his pony, in no time, between Master Bonny and his hole, and then in calm dignity called a halt, with his riding-whip ready at his button-hole. It is--it is--it is! cried Bonny, coming back with his head on his chest, and meaning (in the idiom of the land) that now he was beaten, and would hold parley. To be sure, it is! the rector answered, keeping a good balance on his pony, and well pleased with his own tactics. He might have chased Bonny for an hour in vain, through the furze, and heather, and blackberries; but here he had him at his mercy quite, through his knowledge of human nature. To put it coarsely--as the rector did in his mental process haply--the bigger thief anybody is, the more sacred to him is his property. Not that Bonny was a thief at all; still, that was how Mr. Hales looked at it. In the flurry of conscience, the boy forgot that a camel might go through the eye of a needle with less exertion than the parish incumbent must use to get into the Bonny-castle. Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! howled Bonny, having no faith in clerical honour, and foreseeing the sack of his palace, and home. Give me that wire, said Mr. Hales, in a voice from the depth of his waistcoat. Now, my boy, would you like to be a good boy? No, sir; no, sir; oh no, plaize, sir! Jack nor me couldn t bear it, sir. Why not, my boy? It is such a fine thing. Your face shows that you are a sharp boy. Why do you go on living in a hole, and poaching, and picking, and stealing? Plaize, sir, I never steals nothin , without it is somethin as don t belong to me. That may be. But why should you steal even that? Shall I go in, and steal your things now? Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! Plaize, sir, I ha n t got nothin for e to steal. I am not at all sure of that, said the rector, looking at the hermit s hole longingly; a thief s den is often as good as the bank. Now, who taught you how to make this snare? I thought I knew them all pretty well; but this wire has a dodge quite new to me. Who taught you, you young scamp, this moment? Plaize, sir, I can t tell e, sir. Nobody taught me, as I knows on. You young liar, you couldn t teach yourself. What you mean is, that you don t choose to tell me. Know, I must, and know I will, if I have to thrash it out of you. He had seized him now by his gorgeous waistcoat, and held the strong horsewhip over his back. Now, will you tell, or will you not? I ont, I ont. If e kills me, I ont, the boy cried, wriggling vainly, and with great tears of anticipation rolling down his sun-burnt cheeks. The parson admired the pluck of the boy, knowing his own great strength of course, and feeling that if he began to smite, the swing of his arm would increase his own wrath, and carry him perhaps beyond reason. Therefore he offered him one chance more. Will you tell, sir, or will you not? I ont tell; that I ont, screamed Bonny; and at the word the lash descended. But only once, for the smiter in a moment was made aware of a dusty rush, a sharp roar of wrath, and great teeth flashing under mighty jaws. And perhaps he would never have walked again if he had not most suddenly wheeled his pony, and just escaped a tremendous snap, well aimed at his comely and gaitered calf. Ods bods! cried the parson, as he saw the jackass (with a stretched-out neck, and crest erect, eyes flashing fire, and a lashing tail, and, worst of all terrors, those cavernous jaws) gathering legs for a second charge, like an Attic trireme, Phormio s own, backing water for the diecplus. May I be dashed, the rector shouted, if I deal any more with such animals! If I had only got my hunting-crop; but, kuk, kuk, kuk, pony! Quick, for God s sake! Off with you! With a whack of full power on the pony s flanks, away went he at full gallop; while Jack tossed his white nose with high disdain, and then started at a round trot in pursuit, to scatter them more disgracefully, and after them sent a fine flourish of trumpets, to the grand old national air of hee-haw. While the Rev. Struan Hales was thus in sore discomfiture fleeing away as hard as his pony could be made to go, and casting uneasy glances over one shoulder at his pursuer, behold, he almost rode over a traveller footing it lightly round a corner of the lane! Why, Uncle Struan! exclaimed the latter; is the dragon of St. Leonard s flying after you? Or is this the usual style of riding of the beneficed clergy? Hilary, my dear boy, answered the rector; who would have thought of seeing you? You are just come in time to defend your uncle from a ravenous beast of prey. I was going home to bait a badger, but I have had a pretty good bait myself. Ah, you pagan, you may well be ashamed of yourself, to attack your clergyman! For Jack, perceiving the reinforcement, and eyeing the stout stick which Hilary bore, prudently turned on his tail and departed, well satisfied with his exploit. Why, Hilary, what has brought you home? asked his uncle, when a few words had passed concerning Jack s behaviour. Nobody expects you, that I know of. Your father is a mysterious man; but Alice would have been sure to tell me. Moreover, you must have walked all the way from the stage, by the look of your buckles; or perhaps from Brighton even. No; I took the short cut over the hills, and across by way of Beeding. Nobody expects me, as you say. I am come on important business. And, of course, I am not to know what it is. For mystery, and for keeping secrets, there never was such a family. As if you did not belong to it, uncle! Hilary answered, good-naturedly. I never heard of any secrets that I can remember. And good reason too, replied the rector; they would not long have been secrets, my boy, after they came to your ears, I doubt. Then let me establish my reputation by keeping my own, at any rate. But, after all, it is no secret, uncle. Only, my father ought to know it first. Alas, you rogue, you rogue! Something about money, no doubt. You used to condescend to come to me when you were at school and college. But now, you are too grand for the purse of any poor Sussex rector. I could put off our badger for half-an-hour, if you think you could run down the hill again. I should like you particularly to see young Fox; it will be something grand, my boy. He is the best pup I ever had in all my life. I know him, uncle; I know what he is. I chose him first out of the litter, you know. But you must not think of waiting

daniels

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

you refuse to let your own mother know it! Excuse me, but I do not remember saying anything about importance. I am not superstitious enough to suppose that the thing can have any importance. Then why should you make such a fuss about it? Really, Roland, you are sometimes very hard to understand. I was not aware that I had made a fuss, Sir Roland answered, gravely; but if I have, I will make no more. Now, my dear mother, what did you think of that extraordinary bill of Bottler s? Bottler, the pigman, is a rogue, said her ladyship, peremptorily: his father was a rogue before him; and those things run in families. But surely you cannot suppose that this is the proper way to treat the subject. To my mind a most improper way--to condemn a man s bill on the ground that his father transmitted the right to overcharge! Now, my dear son, said Lady Valeria, who never called him her son at all, unless she was put out with him, and her dear son only when she was at the extremity of endurance-- my dear son, these are sad attempts to disguise the real truth from me. The truth I am entitled to know, and the truth I am resolved to know. And I think that you might have paid me the compliment of coming for my advice before. Finding her in this state of mind, and being unable to deny the justice of her claim, Sir Roland was fain at last to make a virtue of necessity, while he marvelled (as so many have done) at the craft of people in spying things, and espying them always wrongly. Is that all? said Lady Valeria, after listening carefully; I thought there must have been something a little better than that, to justify you in making it such a mystery. Nothing but a dusty old document, and a strange-looking package, or case like a cone! However, I do not blame you, my dear Roland, for making so small a discovery. The old astrologer appears to me to have grown a little childish. Now, as I keep to the old-fashioned hours, I will ask you to ring the bell for my tea; and while it is being prepared, you can fetch me the case itself, and the document to examine. To be sure, my dear mother, if you will only promise to obey the commands of the document. Roland, I have lived too long ever to promise anything. You shall read me these orders, and then I can judge. I will make no fuss about such a trifle, he answered, with a pleasant smile; of course you will do what is honourable. Surely men, although they deny so ferociously this impeachment, are open at times to at least a little side-eddy of curiosity; Sir Roland, no doubt, was desirous to know what were the contents of that old case, which Alice had taken for a dirty cushion, as it lay at the back of the cupboard in the wall; while his honour would not allow him comfortably to disobey the testator s wish. At the same time he felt, every now and then, that to treat such a matter in a serious light, was a proof of superstition, or even childishness, on his part. And now, if his mother should so regard it, he was not at all sure that he ought to take the unpleasant course of opposing her. CHAPTER XXII. A MALIGNANT CASE. Sir Roland smiled at his mother s position, and air of stern attention, as he came back from his book-room with a small but heavy oaken box. This he placed on a chair, and without any mystery, unlocked it. But no sooner had he flung back the lid and shown the case above described, than he was quite astonished at the expression of Lady Valeria s face. Something more than fear, a sudden terror, as if at the sight of something fatal, had taken the pale tint out of her cheeks, and made her fine forehead quiver. Dear mother, how foolish I am, he said, to worry you with these trifles! I wish I had kept to my own opinion---- It is no trifle; you would have been wrong to treat it as a trifle. I have lived a long life, and seen many strange things; it takes more than a trifle to frighten me. For a minute or two she lay back, and was not fit to speak or be spoken to; only she managed to stop her son from ringing for her maid or the housekeeper. He had never beheld her so scared before, and could scarcely make out her signs to him that she needed no attendance. Like most men who are at all good and just, Sir Roland was prone to think softly and calmly, instead of acting rapidly; and now his mother, so advanced in years, showed less hesitation than he did. Recovering, ere long, from that sudden shock, she managed to smile at herself and at his anxiety about her. Now, Roland, I will not meddle with this formidable and clumsy thing. It seems to be closed most jealously. It has kept for two centuries, and may keep for two more, so far as I am concerned. But if it will not be too troublesome to you, I should like to hear what is said about it. In this old document, madam? Do you see how strangely it has been folded? Whoever did that knew a great deal more than now we know about folding. The writing to me seems more strange than the folding. What a cramped hand! In what language is it written? In Greek, the old Greek character, and the Doric dialect. He seems to have been proud of his classic descent, and perhaps Dorian lineage. But he placed a great deal too much faith in the attainments of his descendants. Poor Sedley would have read it straight off, I daresay; but the contractions, and even some of the characters, puzzled me dreadfully. I have kept up, as you know, dear mother, whatever little Greek I was taught, and perhaps have added to it; but my old Hedericus was needed a great many times, I assure you, before I got through this queer document; and even now I am not quite certain of the meaning of one or two passages. You see at the head a number of what I took at first to be hieroglyphics of some kind or other; but I find that they are astral or sidereal signs, for which I am none the wiser, though perhaps an astronomer would be. This, for instance, appears to mean the conjunction of some two planets, and this---- Never mind them, Roland. Read me what you have made out of the writing. Very well, mother. But if I am at fault, you must have patience with me, for I am not perfect in my lesson yet. Thus it begins:-- Behold, ye men, who shall be hereafter, and pay heed to this matter. A certain Carian, noble by birth and of noble character, to whom is the not inglorious name, Agasicles Syennesis, hath lived not in the pursuit of wealth, or power, or reputation, but in the unbroken study of the most excellent arts and philosophies. Especially in the heavenly stars, and signs of the everlasting kosmos, hath he disciplined his mind, and surpassed all that went before him. There is nothing like self-praise, is there, now, dear mother? I have no doubt that he speaks the truth, answered the Lady Valeria: I did not marry into a family accustomed to exaggerate. Then what do you think of this? Not only in intellect and forethought, but also in goodwill and philanthropy, modesty, and self-forgetfulness, did this man win the prize of excellence; and he it is who now speaks to you. Having lived much time in a barbarous island, cold, and blown over with vaporous air, he is no longer of such a sort as he was in the land of the fair afternoons. And there is when it is to his mind a manifest and established thing, that the gates of Hades are open for him, and the time of being no longer. But he holds this to be of the smallest difference, if only the gods produce his time to the perfect end of all the things lying now before him. How good, and how truly pious of him, Roland? Such a man s daughter never could have had any right to run away from him. My dear mother, I disagree with you, if he always praised himself in that style. But let him speak for himself again, as he seems to know very well how to do: These things have not been said, indeed, for the sake of any boasting, but rather to bring out thoroughly forward the truth in these things lying under, as if it were a pavement of adamant. Now, therefore, know ye, that Agasicles, carefully pondering everything, has found (so to say the word) an end to accomplish, and to abide in. And this is no other thing, than to save the generations descended from him, from great evil fortunes about to fall, by the ill-will of some divinity, at a destined time, upon them. For a man, of birth so renowned and lofty, has not been made to resemble a hand-worker, or a runaway slave; but has many stars regarding him, from many generations. And now he perceives, that his skill and wisdom were not given to him to be a mere personal adornment; but that he might protect his descendants, to the remote futurity. To him, then--it having been revealed, that in the seventh generation hence, as has often come to pass with our house, or haply in the tenth (for the time is misty), a great calamity is bound to happen to those born afar off from Syennesis--the sage has laboured many labours, though he cannot avert, at least to make it milder, and to lessen it. He has not, indeed, been made to know, at least up to the present time, what this bane will be; or whether after the second, or after the third century from this period. But knowing the swiftness of evil chance, he expects it at the earlier time; and whatever its manner or kind may be, Agasicles in all his discoveries has discovered no cure for human evils, save that which he now has shut up in a box. This box has been so constructed, that nothing but dust will meet the greedy eyes of any who force it open, in the manner of the tomb of Nitocris. But if be opened with the proper key, and after the proper interval, when the due need has arisen--there will be a fairer sight than ever broke upon mortal eyes before. There mother, now, what do you think of all that? I am quite out of breath with my long translation, and I am not quite sure of all of it. For instance, where he says---- Roland, his mother answered quickly, I am now much older than the prince, according to tradition, can have been. But I make no pretence to his wisdom; and I have reasons of my own for wondering. What have you done with the key of that case? I have never seen it. It was not in the closet. And I meant to have searched, throughout his room, until I found out the meaning of this very crabbed postscript-- That fool, Memel, hath lost the key. It will cost me months to make another. My hands now tremble, and my eyes are weak. If there be no key found herewith, let it be read that Nature, whom I have vanquished, hath avenged herself. Whether, or no, have I laboured in vain? Be blest now, and bless me, my dear descendants. That appears to me, said the Lady Valeria, being left in good manners by her son, to express the first opinion, to be of the whole of this strange affair the part that is least satisfactory. My dear mother, you have hit the mark. What satisfaction can one find in having a case without a key, and knowing that if we force it open there will be nothing but dust inside? Not a quarter so good as a snuff-box. I must have a pinch, my dear mother, excuse me, while you meditate on this subject. You are far more indulgent in that respect than little Alice ever is. All gentlemen take snuff, said the lady; who is Alice, to lay down the law? Your father took a boxful three times a week. Roland, you let that young girl take great liberties with you. It is not so much that I let her take them. I have no voice in the matter now. She takes them without asking me. Possibly that is the great calamity foretold by the astrologer. If not, what other can it be, do you think? Not so, she answered, with a serious air, for all her experience of the witty world had left her old age quite dry of humour; the trouble, if any is coming, will not be through Alice, but through Hilary. Alice is certainly a flighty girl, romantic, and full of nonsense, and not at all such as she might have been, if left more in my society. However, she never has thought it worth while to associate much with her grandmother; the result of which is that her manners are unformed, and her mind is full of nonsense. But she has plenty, and (if it were possible) too much of that great preservative--pride of birth. Alice may come to affliction herself; but she never will involve her family. Any affliction of hers, said Sir Roland, will involve at least her father. Yes, yes, of course. But what I mean is the honour and rank of the family. It is my favourite Hilary, my dear, brave, handsome Hilary, who is likely to bring care on our heads, or rather upon your head, Roland; my time, of course, will be over then, unless he is very quick about it. He will not be so quick as that, I hope, Sir Roland answered, with some little confusion of proper sentiments; although in that hotbed of mischief, London, nobody knows when he may begin. However, he is not in London at present, according to your friend Lady de Lampnor. I think you said you had heard so from her. To be sure, Mr. Malahide told her himself. The dear boy has overworked himself so, that he has gone to some healthy and quiet place, to recruit his exhausted energies. Dear me, said Sir Roland, I could never believe it, unless I knew from experience, what a very little work is enough to upset him. To write a letter to his father, for instance, is so severe an exertion, that he requires a holiday the next day. Now, Roland, don t be so hard upon him. You would apprentice him to that vile law, which is quite unfit for a gentleman. I am not surprised at his being overcome by such odious labour; you would not take my advice, remember, and put him into the only profession fit for one of his birth--the army. Whatever happens, the fault is your own. It is clear, however, that he cannot get into much mischief where he is just now--a rural and quiet part of Kent, she says. It shows the innocence of his heart to go there. Very likely. But if he wanted change, he might have asked leave to come home, I think. However, we shall have him here soon enough. How you speak, Roland! Quite as if you cared not a farthing for your only son! It must be dreadfully galling to him, to see how you prefer that Alice. If he is galled, he never winces, answered Sir Roland with a quiet smile; he is the most careless fellow in the world. And the most good-natured, and the most affectionate, said Lady Valeria, warmly; nothing else could keep him from being jealous, as nine out of ten would be. However, I am tired of talking now, and on that subject I might talk for ever. Take away that case, if you please, and the writing. On no account would I have them left here. Of course you will lock them away securely, and not think of meddling with them. What is that case made of? I can scarcely make out. Something strong and heavy. A mixture, I think, of shagreen and some metal. But the oddest thing of all is the keyhole. It is at the top of the cone, you see, and of the strangest shape, an irregular heptagon, with some rare complications of points inside. It would be next to impossible to open this case, without shattering it altogether. I do not wish to examine the case, I wish to have it taken away, my son. There, there, I am very glad not to see it; although I am sure I am not superstitious. We shall do very well, I trust, without it. I think it is a most extraordinary thing that your father never consulted me about the writing handed down to you. He must have been bound by some pledge not to do so. There, Roland, I am tired of the subject. With these words the ancient lady waved her delicate hand, and dismissed her son, who kissed her white forehead, according to usage, and then departed with case and parchment locked in the oaken box again. But the more he thought over her behaviour, the more he was puzzled about it. He had fully expected a command to open the case, at whatever hazard; and perhaps he had been disappointed at receiving no such order. But above all, he wanted to know why his mother should have been taken aback, as she was, by the sight of these little things. For few people, even in the prime of life, possessed more self-command and courage than Lady Valeria, now advancing into her eighty-second year. CHAPTER XXIII. THE BAITER BAITED. At the top of the hill, these lofty themes were being handled worthily; while, at the bottom, little cares had equal glance of the democrat sun, but no stars allotted to regard them. In plain English,--Bonny and Jack were as busy as their betters. They had taken their usual round that morning, seeking the staff of life--if that staff be applicable to a donkey--in village, hamlet, and farm-house, or among the lanes and hedges. The sympathy and goodwill between them daily grew more intimate, and their tastes more similar; so that it scarcely seemed impossible that Bonny in the end might learn to eat clover, and Jack to rejoice in money. Open air, and roving life, the ups and downs of want and weal, the freedom of having nothing to lose, and the joyful luck of finding things--these, and perhaps a little spice of unknown sweetness in living at large on their fellow-creatures labours, combined to make them as happy a pair, as the day was long, or the weather good. In the winter--ah! why should we think of such trouble? Perhaps there will never be winter again. At any rate, Bonny was sitting in front of the door of his castle (or rather in front of the doorway, because he was happy enough not to have a door), as proud and contented as if there could never be any more winter of discontent. He had picked up a hat in a ditch that day, lost by some man going home from his inn; and knowing from his patron, the pigman Bottler, that the surest token of a blameless life is to be found in the hat of a man, the boy, stirred by the first heave of ambition, had put on this hat, and was practising hat-craft (having gone with his head as it was born hitherto), to the utter surprise, and with the puzzled protest, of his beloved donkey. It was a most steady church-going hat of the chimney-pot order (then newly imported into benighted regions, but now of the essence of a godly life all over this free country), neither was it such a shocking bad hat as a man would cast away, if his wife were near. For Bonny s young head it was a world too wide, but he had padded it with a blackbird s nest; and though it seemed scarcely in harmony with his rakish waistcoat, and bare red shanks (spread on the grass for exhibition, and starred with myriad furze and bramble), still he was conscious of a distinguished air, and nodded to the donkey to look at him. While these were gazing at one another, with free interchange of opinion, the rector of the parish, on his little pony, turned the corner bluntly. He was on his way home, at the bottom of the coombe, not in the very best temper perhaps, in spite of the sport in prospect; because Sir Roland had met so unkindly his kind desire to know things. What have you got on your lap, boy? Mr. Hales so strongly shouted, that sulky Echo pricked her ears; and on your lap, boy, went all up the lonely coombe melodiously. Bonny knew well what was on his lap--a cleverly-plaited hare-wire. Bottler had shown him how to do it, and now he was practising diligently, under the auspices of his first hat. Mr. Hales was a beak, of course; and the aquiline beak of the neighbourhood. Bonny had the honour of his acquaintance, in that fierce aspect, and in no other. The little boy knew that there was a church, and that great people went there once a-week, for still greater people to blow them up. But this only made him the more uneasy, to clap his bright eyes on the parson. Hold there! whoa! called the Rev. Struan, as Bonny for his life began to cut away; boy, I want to talk to you. Bonny was by no means touched with this very fine benevolence. Taking, perhaps, a low view of duty, he made the ground hot, to escape what we now call the sacerdotal office. But Struan Hales (unlike our parsons) knew how to manage the laity. He clapped himself and his pony, in no time, between Master Bonny and his hole, and then in calm dignity called a halt, with his riding-whip ready at his button-hole. It is--it is--it is! cried Bonny, coming back with his head on his chest, and meaning (in the idiom of the land) that now he was beaten, and would hold parley. To be sure, it is! the rector answered, keeping a good balance on his pony, and well pleased with his own tactics. He might have chased Bonny for an hour in vain, through the furze, and heather, and blackberries; but here he had him at his mercy quite, through his knowledge of human nature. To put it coarsely--as the rector did in his mental process haply--the bigger thief anybody is, the more sacred to him is his property. Not that Bonny was a thief at all; still, that was how Mr. Hales looked at it. In the flurry of conscience, the boy forgot that a camel might go through the eye of a needle with less exertion than the parish incumbent must use to get into the Bonny-castle. Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! howled Bonny, having no faith in clerical honour, and foreseeing the sack of his palace, and home. Give me that wire, said Mr. Hales, in a voice from the depth of his waistcoat. Now, my boy, would you like to be a good boy? No, sir; no, sir; oh no, plaize, sir! Jack nor me couldn t bear it, sir. Why not, my boy? It is such a fine thing. Your face shows that you are a sharp boy. Why do you go on living in a hole, and poaching, and picking, and stealing? Plaize, sir, I never steals nothin , without it is somethin as don t belong to me. That may be. But why should you steal even that? Shall I go in, and steal your things now? Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! Plaize, sir, I ha n t got nothin for e to steal. I am not at all sure of that, said the rector, looking at the hermit s hole longingly; a thief s den is often as good as the bank. Now, who taught you how to make this snare? I thought I knew them all pretty well; but this wire has a dodge quite new to me. Who taught you, you young scamp, this moment? Plaize, sir, I can t tell e, sir. Nobody taught me, as I knows on. You young liar, you couldn t teach yourself. What you mean is, that you don t choose to tell me. Know, I must, and know I will, if I have to thrash it out of you. He had seized him now by his gorgeous waistcoat, and held the strong horsewhip over his back. Now, will you tell, or will you not? I ont, I ont. If e kills me, I ont, the boy cried, wriggling vainly, and with great tears of anticipation rolling down his sun-burnt cheeks. The parson admired the pluck of the boy, knowing his own great strength of course, and feeling that if he began to smite, the swing of his arm would increase his own wrath, and carry him perhaps beyond reason. Therefore he offered him one chance more. Will you tell, sir, or will you not? I ont tell; that I ont, screamed Bonny; and at the word the lash descended. But only once, for the smiter in a moment was made aware of a dusty rush, a sharp roar of wrath, and great teeth flashing under mighty jaws. And perhaps he would never have walked again if he had not most suddenly wheeled his pony, and just escaped a tremendous snap, well aimed at his comely and gaitered calf. Ods bods! cried the parson, as he saw the jackass (with a stretched-out neck, and crest erect, eyes flashing fire, and a lashing tail, and, worst of all terrors, those cavernous jaws) gathering legs for a second charge, like an Attic trireme, Phormio s own, backing water for the diecplus. May I be dashed, the rector shouted, if I deal any more with such animals! If I had only got my hunting-crop; but, kuk, kuk, kuk, pony! Quick, for God s sake! Off with you! With a whack of full power on the pony s flanks, away went he at full gallop; while Jack tossed his white nose with high disdain, and then started at a round trot in pursuit, to scatter them more disgracefully, and after them sent a fine flourish of trumpets, to the grand old national air of hee-haw. While the Rev. Struan Hales was thus in sore discomfiture fleeing away as hard as his pony could be made to go, and casting uneasy glances over one shoulder at his pursuer, behold, he almost rode over a traveller footing it lightly round a corner of the lane! Why, Uncle Struan! exclaimed the latter; is the dragon of St. Leonard s flying after you? Or is this the usual style of riding of the beneficed clergy? Hilary, my dear boy, answered the rector; who would have thought of seeing you? You are just come in time to defend your uncle from a ravenous beast of prey. I was going home to bait a badger, but I have had a pretty good bait myself. Ah, you pagan, you may well be ashamed of yourself, to attack your clergyman! For Jack, perceiving the reinforcement, and eyeing the stout stick which Hilary bore, prudently turned on his tail and departed, well satisfied with his exploit. Why, Hilary, what has brought you home? asked his uncle, when a few words had passed concerning Jack s behaviour. Nobody expects you, that I know of. Your father is a mysterious man; but Alice would have been sure to tell me. Moreover, you must have walked all the way from the stage, by the look of your buckles; or perhaps from Brighton even. No; I took the short cut over the hills, and across by way of Beeding. Nobody expects me, as you say. I am come on important business. And, of course, I am not to know what it is. For mystery, and for keeping secrets, there never was such a family. As if you did not belong to it, uncle! Hilary answered, good-naturedly. I never heard of any secrets that I can remember. And good reason too, replied the rector; they would not long have been secrets, my boy, after they came to your ears, I doubt. Then let me establish my reputation by keeping my own, at any rate. But, after all, it is no secret, uncle. Only, my father ought to know it first. Alas, you rogue, you rogue! Something about money, no doubt. You used to condescend to come to me when you were at school and college. But now, you are too grand for the purse of any poor Sussex rector. I could put off our badger for half-an-hour, if you think you could run down the hill again. I should like you particularly to see young Fox; it will be something grand, my boy. He is the best pup I ever had in all my life. I know him, uncle; I know what he is. I chose him first out of the litter, you know. But you must not think of waiting

ever

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you refuse to let your own mother know it! Excuse me, but I do not remember saying anything about importance. I am not superstitious enough to suppose that the thing can have any importance. Then why should you make such a fuss about it? Really, Roland, you are sometimes very hard to understand. I was not aware that I had made a fuss, Sir Roland answered, gravely; but if I have, I will make no more. Now, my dear mother, what did you think of that extraordinary bill of Bottler s? Bottler, the pigman, is a rogue, said her ladyship, peremptorily: his father was a rogue before him; and those things run in families. But surely you cannot suppose that this is the proper way to treat the subject. To my mind a most improper way--to condemn a man s bill on the ground that his father transmitted the right to overcharge! Now, my dear son, said Lady Valeria, who never called him her son at all, unless she was put out with him, and her dear son only when she was at the extremity of endurance-- my dear son, these are sad attempts to disguise the real truth from me. The truth I am entitled to know, and the truth I am resolved to know. And I think that you might have paid me the compliment of coming for my advice before. Finding her in this state of mind, and being unable to deny the justice of her claim, Sir Roland was fain at last to make a virtue of necessity, while he marvelled (as so many have done) at the craft of people in spying things, and espying them always wrongly. Is that all? said Lady Valeria, after listening carefully; I thought there must have been something a little better than that, to justify you in making it such a mystery. Nothing but a dusty old document, and a strange-looking package, or case like a cone! However, I do not blame you, my dear Roland, for making so small a discovery. The old astrologer appears to me to have grown a little childish. Now, as I keep to the old-fashioned hours, I will ask you to ring the bell for my tea; and while it is being prepared, you can fetch me the case itself, and the document to examine. To be sure, my dear mother, if you will only promise to obey the commands of the document. Roland, I have lived too long ever to promise anything. You shall read me these orders, and then I can judge. I will make no fuss about such a trifle, he answered, with a pleasant smile; of course you will do what is honourable. Surely men, although they deny so ferociously this impeachment, are open at times to at least a little side-eddy of curiosity; Sir Roland, no doubt, was desirous to know what were the contents of that old case, which Alice had taken for a dirty cushion, as it lay at the back of the cupboard in the wall; while his honour would not allow him comfortably to disobey the testator s wish. At the same time he felt, every now and then, that to treat such a matter in a serious light, was a proof of superstition, or even childishness, on his part. And now, if his mother should so regard it, he was not at all sure that he ought to take the unpleasant course of opposing her. CHAPTER XXII. A MALIGNANT CASE. Sir Roland smiled at his mother s position, and air of stern attention, as he came back from his book-room with a small but heavy oaken box. This he placed on a chair, and without any mystery, unlocked it. But no sooner had he flung back the lid and shown the case above described, than he was quite astonished at the expression of Lady Valeria s face. Something more than fear, a sudden terror, as if at the sight of something fatal, had taken the pale tint out of her cheeks, and made her fine forehead quiver. Dear mother, how foolish I am, he said, to worry you with these trifles! I wish I had kept to my own opinion---- It is no trifle; you would have been wrong to treat it as a trifle. I have lived a long life, and seen many strange things; it takes more than a trifle to frighten me. For a minute or two she lay back, and was not fit to speak or be spoken to; only she managed to stop her son from ringing for her maid or the housekeeper. He had never beheld her so scared before, and could scarcely make out her signs to him that she needed no attendance. Like most men who are at all good and just, Sir Roland was prone to think softly and calmly, instead of acting rapidly; and now his mother, so advanced in years, showed less hesitation than he did. Recovering, ere long, from that sudden shock, she managed to smile at herself and at his anxiety about her. Now, Roland, I will not meddle with this formidable and clumsy thing. It seems to be closed most jealously. It has kept for two centuries, and may keep for two more, so far as I am concerned. But if it will not be too troublesome to you, I should like to hear what is said about it. In this old document, madam? Do you see how strangely it has been folded? Whoever did that knew a great deal more than now we know about folding. The writing to me seems more strange than the folding. What a cramped hand! In what language is it written? In Greek, the old Greek character, and the Doric dialect. He seems to have been proud of his classic descent, and perhaps Dorian lineage. But he placed a great deal too much faith in the attainments of his descendants. Poor Sedley would have read it straight off, I daresay; but the contractions, and even some of the characters, puzzled me dreadfully. I have kept up, as you know, dear mother, whatever little Greek I was taught, and perhaps have added to it; but my old Hedericus was needed a great many times, I assure you, before I got through this queer document; and even now I am not quite certain of the meaning of one or two passages. You see at the head a number of what I took at first to be hieroglyphics of some kind or other; but I find that they are astral or sidereal signs, for which I am none the wiser, though perhaps an astronomer would be. This, for instance, appears to mean the conjunction of some two planets, and this---- Never mind them, Roland. Read me what you have made out of the writing. Very well, mother. But if I am at fault, you must have patience with me, for I am not perfect in my lesson yet. Thus it begins:-- Behold, ye men, who shall be hereafter, and pay heed to this matter. A certain Carian, noble by birth and of noble character, to whom is the not inglorious name, Agasicles Syennesis, hath lived not in the pursuit of wealth, or power, or reputation, but in the unbroken study of the most excellent arts and philosophies. Especially in the heavenly stars, and signs of the everlasting kosmos, hath he disciplined his mind, and surpassed all that went before him. There is nothing like self-praise, is there, now, dear mother? I have no doubt that he speaks the truth, answered the Lady Valeria: I did not marry into a family accustomed to exaggerate. Then what do you think of this? Not only in intellect and forethought, but also in goodwill and philanthropy, modesty, and self-forgetfulness, did this man win the prize of excellence; and he it is who now speaks to you. Having lived much time in a barbarous island, cold, and blown over with vaporous air, he is no longer of such a sort as he was in the land of the fair afternoons. And there is when it is to his mind a manifest and established thing, that the gates of Hades are open for him, and the time of being no longer. But he holds this to be of the smallest difference, if only the gods produce his time to the perfect end of all the things lying now before him. How good, and how truly pious of him, Roland? Such a man s daughter never could have had any right to run away from him. My dear mother, I disagree with you, if he always praised himself in that style. But let him speak for himself again, as he seems to know very well how to do: These things have not been said, indeed, for the sake of any boasting, but rather to bring out thoroughly forward the truth in these things lying under, as if it were a pavement of adamant. Now, therefore, know ye, that Agasicles, carefully pondering everything, has found (so to say the word) an end to accomplish, and to abide in. And this is no other thing, than to save the generations descended from him, from great evil fortunes about to fall, by the ill-will of some divinity, at a destined time, upon them. For a man, of birth so renowned and lofty, has not been made to resemble a hand-worker, or a runaway slave; but has many stars regarding him, from many generations. And now he perceives, that his skill and wisdom were not given to him to be a mere personal adornment; but that he might protect his descendants, to the remote futurity. To him, then--it having been revealed, that in the seventh generation hence, as has often come to pass with our house, or haply in the tenth (for the time is misty), a great calamity is bound to happen to those born afar off from Syennesis--the sage has laboured many labours, though he cannot avert, at least to make it milder, and to lessen it. He has not, indeed, been made to know, at least up to the present time, what this bane will be; or whether after the second, or after the third century from this period. But knowing the swiftness of evil chance, he expects it at the earlier time; and whatever its manner or kind may be, Agasicles in all his discoveries has discovered no cure for human evils, save that which he now has shut up in a box. This box has been so constructed, that nothing but dust will meet the greedy eyes of any who force it open, in the manner of the tomb of Nitocris. But if be opened with the proper key, and after the proper interval, when the due need has arisen--there will be a fairer sight than ever broke upon mortal eyes before. There mother, now, what do you think of all that? I am quite out of breath with my long translation, and I am not quite sure of all of it. For instance, where he says---- Roland, his mother answered quickly, I am now much older than the prince, according to tradition, can have been. But I make no pretence to his wisdom; and I have reasons of my own for wondering. What have you done with the key of that case? I have never seen it. It was not in the closet. And I meant to have searched, throughout his room, until I found out the meaning of this very crabbed postscript-- That fool, Memel, hath lost the key. It will cost me months to make another. My hands now tremble, and my eyes are weak. If there be no key found herewith, let it be read that Nature, whom I have vanquished, hath avenged herself. Whether, or no, have I laboured in vain? Be blest now, and bless me, my dear descendants. That appears to me, said the Lady Valeria, being left in good manners by her son, to express the first opinion, to be of the whole of this strange affair the part that is least satisfactory. My dear mother, you have hit the mark. What satisfaction can one find in having a case without a key, and knowing that if we force it open there will be nothing but dust inside? Not a quarter so good as a snuff-box. I must have a pinch, my dear mother, excuse me, while you meditate on this subject. You are far more indulgent in that respect than little Alice ever is. All gentlemen take snuff, said the lady; who is Alice, to lay down the law? Your father took a boxful three times a week. Roland, you let that young girl take great liberties with you. It is not so much that I let her take them. I have no voice in the matter now. She takes them without asking me. Possibly that is the great calamity foretold by the astrologer. If not, what other can it be, do you think? Not so, she answered, with a serious air, for all her experience of the witty world had left her old age quite dry of humour; the trouble, if any is coming, will not be through Alice, but through Hilary. Alice is certainly a flighty girl, romantic, and full of nonsense, and not at all such as she might have been, if left more in my society. However, she never has thought it worth while to associate much with her grandmother; the result of which is that her manners are unformed, and her mind is full of nonsense. But she has plenty, and (if it were possible) too much of that great preservative--pride of birth. Alice may come to affliction herself; but she never will involve her family. Any affliction of hers, said Sir Roland, will involve at least her father. Yes, yes, of course. But what I mean is the honour and rank of the family. It is my favourite Hilary, my dear, brave, handsome Hilary, who is likely to bring care on our heads, or rather upon your head, Roland; my time, of course, will be over then, unless he is very quick about it. He will not be so quick as that, I hope, Sir Roland answered, with some little confusion of proper sentiments; although in that hotbed of mischief, London, nobody knows when he may begin. However, he is not in London at present, according to your friend Lady de Lampnor. I think you said you had heard so from her. To be sure, Mr. Malahide told her himself. The dear boy has overworked himself so, that he has gone to some healthy and quiet place, to recruit his exhausted energies. Dear me, said Sir Roland, I could never believe it, unless I knew from experience, what a very little work is enough to upset him. To write a letter to his father, for instance, is so severe an exertion, that he requires a holiday the next day. Now, Roland, don t be so hard upon him. You would apprentice him to that vile law, which is quite unfit for a gentleman. I am not surprised at his being overcome by such odious labour; you would not take my advice, remember, and put him into the only profession fit for one of his birth--the army. Whatever happens, the fault is your own. It is clear, however, that he cannot get into much mischief where he is just now--a rural and quiet part of Kent, she says. It shows the innocence of his heart to go there. Very likely. But if he wanted change, he might have asked leave to come home, I think. However, we shall have him here soon enough. How you speak, Roland! Quite as if you cared not a farthing for your only son! It must be dreadfully galling to him, to see how you prefer that Alice. If he is galled, he never winces, answered Sir Roland with a quiet smile; he is the most careless fellow in the world. And the most good-natured, and the most affectionate, said Lady Valeria, warmly; nothing else could keep him from being jealous, as nine out of ten would be. However, I am tired of talking now, and on that subject I might talk for ever. Take away that case, if you please, and the writing. On no account would I have them left here. Of course you will lock them away securely, and not think of meddling with them. What is that case made of? I can scarcely make out. Something strong and heavy. A mixture, I think, of shagreen and some metal. But the oddest thing of all is the keyhole. It is at the top of the cone, you see, and of the strangest shape, an irregular heptagon, with some rare complications of points inside. It would be next to impossible to open this case, without shattering it altogether. I do not wish to examine the case, I wish to have it taken away, my son. There, there, I am very glad not to see it; although I am sure I am not superstitious. We shall do very well, I trust, without it. I think it is a most extraordinary thing that your father never consulted me about the writing handed down to you. He must have been bound by some pledge not to do so. There, Roland, I am tired of the subject. With these words the ancient lady waved her delicate hand, and dismissed her son, who kissed her white forehead, according to usage, and then departed with case and parchment locked in the oaken box again. But the more he thought over her behaviour, the more he was puzzled about it. He had fully expected a command to open the case, at whatever hazard; and perhaps he had been disappointed at receiving no such order. But above all, he wanted to know why his mother should have been taken aback, as she was, by the sight of these little things. For few people, even in the prime of life, possessed more self-command and courage than Lady Valeria, now advancing into her eighty-second year. CHAPTER XXIII. THE BAITER BAITED. At the top of the hill, these lofty themes were being handled worthily; while, at the bottom, little cares had equal glance of the democrat sun, but no stars allotted to regard them. In plain English,--Bonny and Jack were as busy as their betters. They had taken their usual round that morning, seeking the staff of life--if that staff be applicable to a donkey--in village, hamlet, and farm-house, or among the lanes and hedges. The sympathy and goodwill between them daily grew more intimate, and their tastes more similar; so that it scarcely seemed impossible that Bonny in the end might learn to eat clover, and Jack to rejoice in money. Open air, and roving life, the ups and downs of want and weal, the freedom of having nothing to lose, and the joyful luck of finding things--these, and perhaps a little spice of unknown sweetness in living at large on their fellow-creatures labours, combined to make them as happy a pair, as the day was long, or the weather good. In the winter--ah! why should we think of such trouble? Perhaps there will never be winter again. At any rate, Bonny was sitting in front of the door of his castle (or rather in front of the doorway, because he was happy enough not to have a door), as proud and contented as if there could never be any more winter of discontent. He had picked up a hat in a ditch that day, lost by some man going home from his inn; and knowing from his patron, the pigman Bottler, that the surest token of a blameless life is to be found in the hat of a man, the boy, stirred by the first heave of ambition, had put on this hat, and was practising hat-craft (having gone with his head as it was born hitherto), to the utter surprise, and with the puzzled protest, of his beloved donkey. It was a most steady church-going hat of the chimney-pot order (then newly imported into benighted regions, but now of the essence of a godly life all over this free country), neither was it such a shocking bad hat as a man would cast away, if his wife were near. For Bonny s young head it was a world too wide, but he had padded it with a blackbird s nest; and though it seemed scarcely in harmony with his rakish waistcoat, and bare red shanks (spread on the grass for exhibition, and starred with myriad furze and bramble), still he was conscious of a distinguished air, and nodded to the donkey to look at him. While these were gazing at one another, with free interchange of opinion, the rector of the parish, on his little pony, turned the corner bluntly. He was on his way home, at the bottom of the coombe, not in the very best temper perhaps, in spite of the sport in prospect; because Sir Roland had met so unkindly his kind desire to know things. What have you got on your lap, boy? Mr. Hales so strongly shouted, that sulky Echo pricked her ears; and on your lap, boy, went all up the lonely coombe melodiously. Bonny knew well what was on his lap--a cleverly-plaited hare-wire. Bottler had shown him how to do it, and now he was practising diligently, under the auspices of his first hat. Mr. Hales was a beak, of course; and the aquiline beak of the neighbourhood. Bonny had the honour of his acquaintance, in that fierce aspect, and in no other. The little boy knew that there was a church, and that great people went there once a-week, for still greater people to blow them up. But this only made him the more uneasy, to clap his bright eyes on the parson. Hold there! whoa! called the Rev. Struan, as Bonny for his life began to cut away; boy, I want to talk to you. Bonny was by no means touched with this very fine benevolence. Taking, perhaps, a low view of duty, he made the ground hot, to escape what we now call the sacerdotal office. But Struan Hales (unlike our parsons) knew how to manage the laity. He clapped himself and his pony, in no time, between Master Bonny and his hole, and then in calm dignity called a halt, with his riding-whip ready at his button-hole. It is--it is--it is! cried Bonny, coming back with his head on his chest, and meaning (in the idiom of the land) that now he was beaten, and would hold parley. To be sure, it is! the rector answered, keeping a good balance on his pony, and well pleased with his own tactics. He might have chased Bonny for an hour in vain, through the furze, and heather, and blackberries; but here he had him at his mercy quite, through his knowledge of human nature. To put it coarsely--as the rector did in his mental process haply--the bigger thief anybody is, the more sacred to him is his property. Not that Bonny was a thief at all; still, that was how Mr. Hales looked at it. In the flurry of conscience, the boy forgot that a camel might go through the eye of a needle with less exertion than the parish incumbent must use to get into the Bonny-castle. Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! howled Bonny, having no faith in clerical honour, and foreseeing the sack of his palace, and home. Give me that wire, said Mr. Hales, in a voice from the depth of his waistcoat. Now, my boy, would you like to be a good boy? No, sir; no, sir; oh no, plaize, sir! Jack nor me couldn t bear it, sir. Why not, my boy? It is such a fine thing. Your face shows that you are a sharp boy. Why do you go on living in a hole, and poaching, and picking, and stealing? Plaize, sir, I never steals nothin , without it is somethin as don t belong to me. That may be. But why should you steal even that? Shall I go in, and steal your things now? Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! Plaize, sir, I ha n t got nothin for e to steal. I am not at all sure of that, said the rector, looking at the hermit s hole longingly; a thief s den is often as good as the bank. Now, who taught you how to make this snare? I thought I knew them all pretty well; but this wire has a dodge quite new to me. Who taught you, you young scamp, this moment? Plaize, sir, I can t tell e, sir. Nobody taught me, as I knows on. You young liar, you couldn t teach yourself. What you mean is, that you don t choose to tell me. Know, I must, and know I will, if I have to thrash it out of you. He had seized him now by his gorgeous waistcoat, and held the strong horsewhip over his back. Now, will you tell, or will you not? I ont, I ont. If e kills me, I ont, the boy cried, wriggling vainly, and with great tears of anticipation rolling down his sun-burnt cheeks. The parson admired the pluck of the boy, knowing his own great strength of course, and feeling that if he began to smite, the swing of his arm would increase his own wrath, and carry him perhaps beyond reason. Therefore he offered him one chance more. Will you tell, sir, or will you not? I ont tell; that I ont, screamed Bonny; and at the word the lash descended. But only once, for the smiter in a moment was made aware of a dusty rush, a sharp roar of wrath, and great teeth flashing under mighty jaws. And perhaps he would never have walked again if he had not most suddenly wheeled his pony, and just escaped a tremendous snap, well aimed at his comely and gaitered calf. Ods bods! cried the parson, as he saw the jackass (with a stretched-out neck, and crest erect, eyes flashing fire, and a lashing tail, and, worst of all terrors, those cavernous jaws) gathering legs for a second charge, like an Attic trireme, Phormio s own, backing water for the diecplus. May I be dashed, the rector shouted, if I deal any more with such animals! If I had only got my hunting-crop; but, kuk, kuk, kuk, pony! Quick, for God s sake! Off with you! With a whack of full power on the pony s flanks, away went he at full gallop; while Jack tossed his white nose with high disdain, and then started at a round trot in pursuit, to scatter them more disgracefully, and after them sent a fine flourish of trumpets, to the grand old national air of hee-haw. While the Rev. Struan Hales was thus in sore discomfiture fleeing away as hard as his pony could be made to go, and casting uneasy glances over one shoulder at his pursuer, behold, he almost rode over a traveller footing it lightly round a corner of the lane! Why, Uncle Struan! exclaimed the latter; is the dragon of St. Leonard s flying after you? Or is this the usual style of riding of the beneficed clergy? Hilary, my dear boy, answered the rector; who would have thought of seeing you? You are just come in time to defend your uncle from a ravenous beast of prey. I was going home to bait a badger, but I have had a pretty good bait myself. Ah, you pagan, you may well be ashamed of yourself, to attack your clergyman! For Jack, perceiving the reinforcement, and eyeing the stout stick which Hilary bore, prudently turned on his tail and departed, well satisfied with his exploit. Why, Hilary, what has brought you home? asked his uncle, when a few words had passed concerning Jack s behaviour. Nobody expects you, that I know of. Your father is a mysterious man; but Alice would have been sure to tell me. Moreover, you must have walked all the way from the stage, by the look of your buckles; or perhaps from Brighton even. No; I took the short cut over the hills, and across by way of Beeding. Nobody expects me, as you say. I am come on important business. And, of course, I am not to know what it is. For mystery, and for keeping secrets, there never was such a family. As if you did not belong to it, uncle! Hilary answered, good-naturedly. I never heard of any secrets that I can remember. And good reason too, replied the rector; they would not long have been secrets, my boy, after they came to your ears, I doubt. Then let me establish my reputation by keeping my own, at any rate. But, after all, it is no secret, uncle. Only, my father ought to know it first. Alas, you rogue, you rogue! Something about money, no doubt. You used to condescend to come to me when you were at school and college. But now, you are too grand for the purse of any poor Sussex rector. I could put off our badger for half-an-hour, if you think you could run down the hill again. I should like you particularly to see young Fox; it will be something grand, my boy. He is the best pup I ever had in all my life. I know him, uncle; I know what he is. I chose him first out of the litter, you know. But you must not think of waiting

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you refuse to let your own mother know it! Excuse me, but I do not remember saying anything about importance. I am not superstitious enough to suppose that the thing can have any importance. Then why should you make such a fuss about it? Really, Roland, you are sometimes very hard to understand. I was not aware that I had made a fuss, Sir Roland answered, gravely; but if I have, I will make no more. Now, my dear mother, what did you think of that extraordinary bill of Bottler s? Bottler, the pigman, is a rogue, said her ladyship, peremptorily: his father was a rogue before him; and those things run in families. But surely you cannot suppose that this is the proper way to treat the subject. To my mind a most improper way--to condemn a man s bill on the ground that his father transmitted the right to overcharge! Now, my dear son, said Lady Valeria, who never called him her son at all, unless she was put out with him, and her dear son only when she was at the extremity of endurance-- my dear son, these are sad attempts to disguise the real truth from me. The truth I am entitled to know, and the truth I am resolved to know. And I think that you might have paid me the compliment of coming for my advice before. Finding her in this state of mind, and being unable to deny the justice of her claim, Sir Roland was fain at last to make a virtue of necessity, while he marvelled (as so many have done) at the craft of people in spying things, and espying them always wrongly. Is that all? said Lady Valeria, after listening carefully; I thought there must have been something a little better than that, to justify you in making it such a mystery. Nothing but a dusty old document, and a strange-looking package, or case like a cone! However, I do not blame you, my dear Roland, for making so small a discovery. The old astrologer appears to me to have grown a little childish. Now, as I keep to the old-fashioned hours, I will ask you to ring the bell for my tea; and while it is being prepared, you can fetch me the case itself, and the document to examine. To be sure, my dear mother, if you will only promise to obey the commands of the document. Roland, I have lived too long ever to promise anything. You shall read me these orders, and then I can judge. I will make no fuss about such a trifle, he answered, with a pleasant smile; of course you will do what is honourable. Surely men, although they deny so ferociously this impeachment, are open at times to at least a little side-eddy of curiosity; Sir Roland, no doubt, was desirous to know what were the contents of that old case, which Alice had taken for a dirty cushion, as it lay at the back of the cupboard in the wall; while his honour would not allow him comfortably to disobey the testator s wish. At the same time he felt, every now and then, that to treat such a matter in a serious light, was a proof of superstition, or even childishness, on his part. And now, if his mother should so regard it, he was not at all sure that he ought to take the unpleasant course of opposing her. CHAPTER XXII. A MALIGNANT CASE. Sir Roland smiled at his mother s position, and air of stern attention, as he came back from his book-room with a small but heavy oaken box. This he placed on a chair, and without any mystery, unlocked it. But no sooner had he flung back the lid and shown the case above described, than he was quite astonished at the expression of Lady Valeria s face. Something more than fear, a sudden terror, as if at the sight of something fatal, had taken the pale tint out of her cheeks, and made her fine forehead quiver. Dear mother, how foolish I am, he said, to worry you with these trifles! I wish I had kept to my own opinion---- It is no trifle; you would have been wrong to treat it as a trifle. I have lived a long life, and seen many strange things; it takes more than a trifle to frighten me. For a minute or two she lay back, and was not fit to speak or be spoken to; only she managed to stop her son from ringing for her maid or the housekeeper. He had never beheld her so scared before, and could scarcely make out her signs to him that she needed no attendance. Like most men who are at all good and just, Sir Roland was prone to think softly and calmly, instead of acting rapidly; and now his mother, so advanced in years, showed less hesitation than he did. Recovering, ere long, from that sudden shock, she managed to smile at herself and at his anxiety about her. Now, Roland, I will not meddle with this formidable and clumsy thing. It seems to be closed most jealously. It has kept for two centuries, and may keep for two more, so far as I am concerned. But if it will not be too troublesome to you, I should like to hear what is said about it. In this old document, madam? Do you see how strangely it has been folded? Whoever did that knew a great deal more than now we know about folding. The writing to me seems more strange than the folding. What a cramped hand! In what language is it written? In Greek, the old Greek character, and the Doric dialect. He seems to have been proud of his classic descent, and perhaps Dorian lineage. But he placed a great deal too much faith in the attainments of his descendants. Poor Sedley would have read it straight off, I daresay; but the contractions, and even some of the characters, puzzled me dreadfully. I have kept up, as you know, dear mother, whatever little Greek I was taught, and perhaps have added to it; but my old Hedericus was needed a great many times, I assure you, before I got through this queer document; and even now I am not quite certain of the meaning of one or two passages. You see at the head a number of what I took at first to be hieroglyphics of some kind or other; but I find that they are astral or sidereal signs, for which I am none the wiser, though perhaps an astronomer would be. This, for instance, appears to mean the conjunction of some two planets, and this---- Never mind them, Roland. Read me what you have made out of the writing. Very well, mother. But if I am at fault, you must have patience with me, for I am not perfect in my lesson yet. Thus it begins:-- Behold, ye men, who shall be hereafter, and pay heed to this matter. A certain Carian, noble by birth and of noble character, to whom is the not inglorious name, Agasicles Syennesis, hath lived not in the pursuit of wealth, or power, or reputation, but in the unbroken study of the most excellent arts and philosophies. Especially in the heavenly stars, and signs of the everlasting kosmos, hath he disciplined his mind, and surpassed all that went before him. There is nothing like self-praise, is there, now, dear mother? I have no doubt that he speaks the truth, answered the Lady Valeria: I did not marry into a family accustomed to exaggerate. Then what do you think of this? Not only in intellect and forethought, but also in goodwill and philanthropy, modesty, and self-forgetfulness, did this man win the prize of excellence; and he it is who now speaks to you. Having lived much time in a barbarous island, cold, and blown over with vaporous air, he is no longer of such a sort as he was in the land of the fair afternoons. And there is when it is to his mind a manifest and established thing, that the gates of Hades are open for him, and the time of being no longer. But he holds this to be of the smallest difference, if only the gods produce his time to the perfect end of all the things lying now before him. How good, and how truly pious of him, Roland? Such a man s daughter never could have had any right to run away from him. My dear mother, I disagree with you, if he always praised himself in that style. But let him speak for himself again, as he seems to know very well how to do: These things have not been said, indeed, for the sake of any boasting, but rather to bring out thoroughly forward the truth in these things lying under, as if it were a pavement of adamant. Now, therefore, know ye, that Agasicles, carefully pondering everything, has found (so to say the word) an end to accomplish, and to abide in. And this is no other thing, than to save the generations descended from him, from great evil fortunes about to fall, by the ill-will of some divinity, at a destined time, upon them. For a man, of birth so renowned and lofty, has not been made to resemble a hand-worker, or a runaway slave; but has many stars regarding him, from many generations. And now he perceives, that his skill and wisdom were not given to him to be a mere personal adornment; but that he might protect his descendants, to the remote futurity. To him, then--it having been revealed, that in the seventh generation hence, as has often come to pass with our house, or haply in the tenth (for the time is misty), a great calamity is bound to happen to those born afar off from Syennesis--the sage has laboured many labours, though he cannot avert, at least to make it milder, and to lessen it. He has not, indeed, been made to know, at least up to the present time, what this bane will be; or whether after the second, or after the third century from this period. But knowing the swiftness of evil chance, he expects it at the earlier time; and whatever its manner or kind may be, Agasicles in all his discoveries has discovered no cure for human evils, save that which he now has shut up in a box. This box has been so constructed, that nothing but dust will meet the greedy eyes of any who force it open, in the manner of the tomb of Nitocris. But if be opened with the proper key, and after the proper interval, when the due need has arisen--there will be a fairer sight than ever broke upon mortal eyes before. There mother, now, what do you think of all that? I am quite out of breath with my long translation, and I am not quite sure of all of it. For instance, where he says---- Roland, his mother answered quickly, I am now much older than the prince, according to tradition, can have been. But I make no pretence to his wisdom; and I have reasons of my own for wondering. What have you done with the key of that case? I have never seen it. It was not in the closet. And I meant to have searched, throughout his room, until I found out the meaning of this very crabbed postscript-- That fool, Memel, hath lost the key. It will cost me months to make another. My hands now tremble, and my eyes are weak. If there be no key found herewith, let it be read that Nature, whom I have vanquished, hath avenged herself. Whether, or no, have I laboured in vain? Be blest now, and bless me, my dear descendants. That appears to me, said the Lady Valeria, being left in good manners by her son, to express the first opinion, to be of the whole of this strange affair the part that is least satisfactory. My dear mother, you have hit the mark. What satisfaction can one find in having a case without a key, and knowing that if we force it open there will be nothing but dust inside? Not a quarter so good as a snuff-box. I must have a pinch, my dear mother, excuse me, while you meditate on this subject. You are far more indulgent in that respect than little Alice ever is. All gentlemen take snuff, said the lady; who is Alice, to lay down the law? Your father took a boxful three times a week. Roland, you let that young girl take great liberties with you. It is not so much that I let her take them. I have no voice in the matter now. She takes them without asking me. Possibly that is the great calamity foretold by the astrologer. If not, what other can it be, do you think? Not so, she answered, with a serious air, for all her experience of the witty world had left her old age quite dry of humour; the trouble, if any is coming, will not be through Alice, but through Hilary. Alice is certainly a flighty girl, romantic, and full of nonsense, and not at all such as she might have been, if left more in my society. However, she never has thought it worth while to associate much with her grandmother; the result of which is that her manners are unformed, and her mind is full of nonsense. But she has plenty, and (if it were possible) too much of that great preservative--pride of birth. Alice may come to affliction herself; but she never will involve her family. Any affliction of hers, said Sir Roland, will involve at least her father. Yes, yes, of course. But what I mean is the honour and rank of the family. It is my favourite Hilary, my dear, brave, handsome Hilary, who is likely to bring care on our heads, or rather upon your head, Roland; my time, of course, will be over then, unless he is very quick about it. He will not be so quick as that, I hope, Sir Roland answered, with some little confusion of proper sentiments; although in that hotbed of mischief, London, nobody knows when he may begin. However, he is not in London at present, according to your friend Lady de Lampnor. I think you said you had heard so from her. To be sure, Mr. Malahide told her himself. The dear boy has overworked himself so, that he has gone to some healthy and quiet place, to recruit his exhausted energies. Dear me, said Sir Roland, I could never believe it, unless I knew from experience, what a very little work is enough to upset him. To write a letter to his father, for instance, is so severe an exertion, that he requires a holiday the next day. Now, Roland, don t be so hard upon him. You would apprentice him to that vile law, which is quite unfit for a gentleman. I am not surprised at his being overcome by such odious labour; you would not take my advice, remember, and put him into the only profession fit for one of his birth--the army. Whatever happens, the fault is your own. It is clear, however, that he cannot get into much mischief where he is just now--a rural and quiet part of Kent, she says. It shows the innocence of his heart to go there. Very likely. But if he wanted change, he might have asked leave to come home, I think. However, we shall have him here soon enough. How you speak, Roland! Quite as if you cared not a farthing for your only son! It must be dreadfully galling to him, to see how you prefer that Alice. If he is galled, he never winces, answered Sir Roland with a quiet smile; he is the most careless fellow in the world. And the most good-natured, and the most affectionate, said Lady Valeria, warmly; nothing else could keep him from being jealous, as nine out of ten would be. However, I am tired of talking now, and on that subject I might talk for ever. Take away that case, if you please, and the writing. On no account would I have them left here. Of course you will lock them away securely, and not think of meddling with them. What is that case made of? I can scarcely make out. Something strong and heavy. A mixture, I think, of shagreen and some metal. But the oddest thing of all is the keyhole. It is at the top of the cone, you see, and of the strangest shape, an irregular heptagon, with some rare complications of points inside. It would be next to impossible to open this case, without shattering it altogether. I do not wish to examine the case, I wish to have it taken away, my son. There, there, I am very glad not to see it; although I am sure I am not superstitious. We shall do very well, I trust, without it. I think it is a most extraordinary thing that your father never consulted me about the writing handed down to you. He must have been bound by some pledge not to do so. There, Roland, I am tired of the subject. With these words the ancient lady waved her delicate hand, and dismissed her son, who kissed her white forehead, according to usage, and then departed with case and parchment locked in the oaken box again. But the more he thought over her behaviour, the more he was puzzled about it. He had fully expected a command to open the case, at whatever hazard; and perhaps he had been disappointed at receiving no such order. But above all, he wanted to know why his mother should have been taken aback, as she was, by the sight of these little things. For few people, even in the prime of life, possessed more self-command and courage than Lady Valeria, now advancing into her eighty-second year. CHAPTER XXIII. THE BAITER BAITED. At the top of the hill, these lofty themes were being handled worthily; while, at the bottom, little cares had equal glance of the democrat sun, but no stars allotted to regard them. In plain English,--Bonny and Jack were as busy as their betters. They had taken their usual round that morning, seeking the staff of life--if that staff be applicable to a donkey--in village, hamlet, and farm-house, or among the lanes and hedges. The sympathy and goodwill between them daily grew more intimate, and their tastes more similar; so that it scarcely seemed impossible that Bonny in the end might learn to eat clover, and Jack to rejoice in money. Open air, and roving life, the ups and downs of want and weal, the freedom of having nothing to lose, and the joyful luck of finding things--these, and perhaps a little spice of unknown sweetness in living at large on their fellow-creatures labours, combined to make them as happy a pair, as the day was long, or the weather good. In the winter--ah! why should we think of such trouble? Perhaps there will never be winter again. At any rate, Bonny was sitting in front of the door of his castle (or rather in front of the doorway, because he was happy enough not to have a door), as proud and contented as if there could never be any more winter of discontent. He had picked up a hat in a ditch that day, lost by some man going home from his inn; and knowing from his patron, the pigman Bottler, that the surest token of a blameless life is to be found in the hat of a man, the boy, stirred by the first heave of ambition, had put on this hat, and was practising hat-craft (having gone with his head as it was born hitherto), to the utter surprise, and with the puzzled protest, of his beloved donkey. It was a most steady church-going hat of the chimney-pot order (then newly imported into benighted regions, but now of the essence of a godly life all over this free country), neither was it such a shocking bad hat as a man would cast away, if his wife were near. For Bonny s young head it was a world too wide, but he had padded it with a blackbird s nest; and though it seemed scarcely in harmony with his rakish waistcoat, and bare red shanks (spread on the grass for exhibition, and starred with myriad furze and bramble), still he was conscious of a distinguished air, and nodded to the donkey to look at him. While these were gazing at one another, with free interchange of opinion, the rector of the parish, on his little pony, turned the corner bluntly. He was on his way home, at the bottom of the coombe, not in the very best temper perhaps, in spite of the sport in prospect; because Sir Roland had met so unkindly his kind desire to know things. What have you got on your lap, boy? Mr. Hales so strongly shouted, that sulky Echo pricked her ears; and on your lap, boy, went all up the lonely coombe melodiously. Bonny knew well what was on his lap--a cleverly-plaited hare-wire. Bottler had shown him how to do it, and now he was practising diligently, under the auspices of his first hat. Mr. Hales was a beak, of course; and the aquiline beak of the neighbourhood. Bonny had the honour of his acquaintance, in that fierce aspect, and in no other. The little boy knew that there was a church, and that great people went there once a-week, for still greater people to blow them up. But this only made him the more uneasy, to clap his bright eyes on the parson. Hold there! whoa! called the Rev. Struan, as Bonny for his life began to cut away; boy, I want to talk to you. Bonny was by no means touched with this very fine benevolence. Taking, perhaps, a low view of duty, he made the ground hot, to escape what we now call the sacerdotal office. But Struan Hales (unlike our parsons) knew how to manage the laity. He clapped himself and his pony, in no time, between Master Bonny and his hole, and then in calm dignity called a halt, with his riding-whip ready at his button-hole. It is--it is--it is! cried Bonny, coming back with his head on his chest, and meaning (in the idiom of the land) that now he was beaten, and would hold parley. To be sure, it is! the rector answered, keeping a good balance on his pony, and well pleased with his own tactics. He might have chased Bonny for an hour in vain, through the furze, and heather, and blackberries; but here he had him at his mercy quite, through his knowledge of human nature. To put it coarsely--as the rector did in his mental process haply--the bigger thief anybody is, the more sacred to him is his property. Not that Bonny was a thief at all; still, that was how Mr. Hales looked at it. In the flurry of conscience, the boy forgot that a camel might go through the eye of a needle with less exertion than the parish incumbent must use to get into the Bonny-castle. Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! howled Bonny, having no faith in clerical honour, and foreseeing the sack of his palace, and home. Give me that wire, said Mr. Hales, in a voice from the depth of his waistcoat. Now, my boy, would you like to be a good boy? No, sir; no, sir; oh no, plaize, sir! Jack nor me couldn t bear it, sir. Why not, my boy? It is such a fine thing. Your face shows that you are a sharp boy. Why do you go on living in a hole, and poaching, and picking, and stealing? Plaize, sir, I never steals nothin , without it is somethin as don t belong to me. That may be. But why should you steal even that? Shall I go in, and steal your things now? Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! Plaize, sir, I ha n t got nothin for e to steal. I am not at all sure of that, said the rector, looking at the hermit s hole longingly; a thief s den is often as good as the bank. Now, who taught you how to make this snare? I thought I knew them all pretty well; but this wire has a dodge quite new to me. Who taught you, you young scamp, this moment? Plaize, sir, I can t tell e, sir. Nobody taught me, as I knows on. You young liar, you couldn t teach yourself. What you mean is, that you don t choose to tell me. Know, I must, and know I will, if I have to thrash it out of you. He had seized him now by his gorgeous waistcoat, and held the strong horsewhip over his back. Now, will you tell, or will you not? I ont, I ont. If e kills me, I ont, the boy cried, wriggling vainly, and with great tears of anticipation rolling down his sun-burnt cheeks. The parson admired the pluck of the boy, knowing his own great strength of course, and feeling that if he began to smite, the swing of his arm would increase his own wrath, and carry him perhaps beyond reason. Therefore he offered him one chance more. Will you tell, sir, or will you not? I ont tell; that I ont, screamed Bonny; and at the word the lash descended. But only once, for the smiter in a moment was made aware of a dusty rush, a sharp roar of wrath, and great teeth flashing under mighty jaws. And perhaps he would never have walked again if he had not most suddenly wheeled his pony, and just escaped a tremendous snap, well aimed at his comely and gaitered calf. Ods bods! cried the parson, as he saw the jackass (with a stretched-out neck, and crest erect, eyes flashing fire, and a lashing tail, and, worst of all terrors, those cavernous jaws) gathering legs for a second charge, like an Attic trireme, Phormio s own, backing water for the diecplus. May I be dashed, the rector shouted, if I deal any more with such animals! If I had only got my hunting-crop; but, kuk, kuk, kuk, pony! Quick, for God s sake! Off with you! With a whack of full power on the pony s flanks, away went he at full gallop; while Jack tossed his white nose with high disdain, and then started at a round trot in pursuit, to scatter them more disgracefully, and after them sent a fine flourish of trumpets, to the grand old national air of hee-haw. While the Rev. Struan Hales was thus in sore discomfiture fleeing away as hard as his pony could be made to go, and casting uneasy glances over one shoulder at his pursuer, behold, he almost rode over a traveller footing it lightly round a corner of the lane! Why, Uncle Struan! exclaimed the latter; is the dragon of St. Leonard s flying after you? Or is this the usual style of riding of the beneficed clergy? Hilary, my dear boy, answered the rector; who would have thought of seeing you? You are just come in time to defend your uncle from a ravenous beast of prey. I was going home to bait a badger, but I have had a pretty good bait myself. Ah, you pagan, you may well be ashamed of yourself, to attack your clergyman! For Jack, perceiving the reinforcement, and eyeing the stout stick which Hilary bore, prudently turned on his tail and departed, well satisfied with his exploit. Why, Hilary, what has brought you home? asked his uncle, when a few words had passed concerning Jack s behaviour. Nobody expects you, that I know of. Your father is a mysterious man; but Alice would have been sure to tell me. Moreover, you must have walked all the way from the stage, by the look of your buckles; or perhaps from Brighton even. No; I took the short cut over the hills, and across by way of Beeding. Nobody expects me, as you say. I am come on important business. And, of course, I am not to know what it is. For mystery, and for keeping secrets, there never was such a family. As if you did not belong to it, uncle! Hilary answered, good-naturedly. I never heard of any secrets that I can remember. And good reason too, replied the rector; they would not long have been secrets, my boy, after they came to your ears, I doubt. Then let me establish my reputation by keeping my own, at any rate. But, after all, it is no secret, uncle. Only, my father ought to know it first. Alas, you rogue, you rogue! Something about money, no doubt. You used to condescend to come to me when you were at school and college. But now, you are too grand for the purse of any poor Sussex rector. I could put off our badger for half-an-hour, if you think you could run down the hill again. I should like you particularly to see young Fox; it will be something grand, my boy. He is the best pup I ever had in all my life. I know him, uncle; I know what he is. I chose him first out of the litter, you know. But you must not think of waiting

sight

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

you refuse to let your own mother know it! Excuse me, but I do not remember saying anything about importance. I am not superstitious enough to suppose that the thing can have any importance. Then why should you make such a fuss about it? Really, Roland, you are sometimes very hard to understand. I was not aware that I had made a fuss, Sir Roland answered, gravely; but if I have, I will make no more. Now, my dear mother, what did you think of that extraordinary bill of Bottler s? Bottler, the pigman, is a rogue, said her ladyship, peremptorily: his father was a rogue before him; and those things run in families. But surely you cannot suppose that this is the proper way to treat the subject. To my mind a most improper way--to condemn a man s bill on the ground that his father transmitted the right to overcharge! Now, my dear son, said Lady Valeria, who never called him her son at all, unless she was put out with him, and her dear son only when she was at the extremity of endurance-- my dear son, these are sad attempts to disguise the real truth from me. The truth I am entitled to know, and the truth I am resolved to know. And I think that you might have paid me the compliment of coming for my advice before. Finding her in this state of mind, and being unable to deny the justice of her claim, Sir Roland was fain at last to make a virtue of necessity, while he marvelled (as so many have done) at the craft of people in spying things, and espying them always wrongly. Is that all? said Lady Valeria, after listening carefully; I thought there must have been something a little better than that, to justify you in making it such a mystery. Nothing but a dusty old document, and a strange-looking package, or case like a cone! However, I do not blame you, my dear Roland, for making so small a discovery. The old astrologer appears to me to have grown a little childish. Now, as I keep to the old-fashioned hours, I will ask you to ring the bell for my tea; and while it is being prepared, you can fetch me the case itself, and the document to examine. To be sure, my dear mother, if you will only promise to obey the commands of the document. Roland, I have lived too long ever to promise anything. You shall read me these orders, and then I can judge. I will make no fuss about such a trifle, he answered, with a pleasant smile; of course you will do what is honourable. Surely men, although they deny so ferociously this impeachment, are open at times to at least a little side-eddy of curiosity; Sir Roland, no doubt, was desirous to know what were the contents of that old case, which Alice had taken for a dirty cushion, as it lay at the back of the cupboard in the wall; while his honour would not allow him comfortably to disobey the testator s wish. At the same time he felt, every now and then, that to treat such a matter in a serious light, was a proof of superstition, or even childishness, on his part. And now, if his mother should so regard it, he was not at all sure that he ought to take the unpleasant course of opposing her. CHAPTER XXII. A MALIGNANT CASE. Sir Roland smiled at his mother s position, and air of stern attention, as he came back from his book-room with a small but heavy oaken box. This he placed on a chair, and without any mystery, unlocked it. But no sooner had he flung back the lid and shown the case above described, than he was quite astonished at the expression of Lady Valeria s face. Something more than fear, a sudden terror, as if at the sight of something fatal, had taken the pale tint out of her cheeks, and made her fine forehead quiver. Dear mother, how foolish I am, he said, to worry you with these trifles! I wish I had kept to my own opinion---- It is no trifle; you would have been wrong to treat it as a trifle. I have lived a long life, and seen many strange things; it takes more than a trifle to frighten me. For a minute or two she lay back, and was not fit to speak or be spoken to; only she managed to stop her son from ringing for her maid or the housekeeper. He had never beheld her so scared before, and could scarcely make out her signs to him that she needed no attendance. Like most men who are at all good and just, Sir Roland was prone to think softly and calmly, instead of acting rapidly; and now his mother, so advanced in years, showed less hesitation than he did. Recovering, ere long, from that sudden shock, she managed to smile at herself and at his anxiety about her. Now, Roland, I will not meddle with this formidable and clumsy thing. It seems to be closed most jealously. It has kept for two centuries, and may keep for two more, so far as I am concerned. But if it will not be too troublesome to you, I should like to hear what is said about it. In this old document, madam? Do you see how strangely it has been folded? Whoever did that knew a great deal more than now we know about folding. The writing to me seems more strange than the folding. What a cramped hand! In what language is it written? In Greek, the old Greek character, and the Doric dialect. He seems to have been proud of his classic descent, and perhaps Dorian lineage. But he placed a great deal too much faith in the attainments of his descendants. Poor Sedley would have read it straight off, I daresay; but the contractions, and even some of the characters, puzzled me dreadfully. I have kept up, as you know, dear mother, whatever little Greek I was taught, and perhaps have added to it; but my old Hedericus was needed a great many times, I assure you, before I got through this queer document; and even now I am not quite certain of the meaning of one or two passages. You see at the head a number of what I took at first to be hieroglyphics of some kind or other; but I find that they are astral or sidereal signs, for which I am none the wiser, though perhaps an astronomer would be. This, for instance, appears to mean the conjunction of some two planets, and this---- Never mind them, Roland. Read me what you have made out of the writing. Very well, mother. But if I am at fault, you must have patience with me, for I am not perfect in my lesson yet. Thus it begins:-- Behold, ye men, who shall be hereafter, and pay heed to this matter. A certain Carian, noble by birth and of noble character, to whom is the not inglorious name, Agasicles Syennesis, hath lived not in the pursuit of wealth, or power, or reputation, but in the unbroken study of the most excellent arts and philosophies. Especially in the heavenly stars, and signs of the everlasting kosmos, hath he disciplined his mind, and surpassed all that went before him. There is nothing like self-praise, is there, now, dear mother? I have no doubt that he speaks the truth, answered the Lady Valeria: I did not marry into a family accustomed to exaggerate. Then what do you think of this? Not only in intellect and forethought, but also in goodwill and philanthropy, modesty, and self-forgetfulness, did this man win the prize of excellence; and he it is who now speaks to you. Having lived much time in a barbarous island, cold, and blown over with vaporous air, he is no longer of such a sort as he was in the land of the fair afternoons. And there is when it is to his mind a manifest and established thing, that the gates of Hades are open for him, and the time of being no longer. But he holds this to be of the smallest difference, if only the gods produce his time to the perfect end of all the things lying now before him. How good, and how truly pious of him, Roland? Such a man s daughter never could have had any right to run away from him. My dear mother, I disagree with you, if he always praised himself in that style. But let him speak for himself again, as he seems to know very well how to do: These things have not been said, indeed, for the sake of any boasting, but rather to bring out thoroughly forward the truth in these things lying under, as if it were a pavement of adamant. Now, therefore, know ye, that Agasicles, carefully pondering everything, has found (so to say the word) an end to accomplish, and to abide in. And this is no other thing, than to save the generations descended from him, from great evil fortunes about to fall, by the ill-will of some divinity, at a destined time, upon them. For a man, of birth so renowned and lofty, has not been made to resemble a hand-worker, or a runaway slave; but has many stars regarding him, from many generations. And now he perceives, that his skill and wisdom were not given to him to be a mere personal adornment; but that he might protect his descendants, to the remote futurity. To him, then--it having been revealed, that in the seventh generation hence, as has often come to pass with our house, or haply in the tenth (for the time is misty), a great calamity is bound to happen to those born afar off from Syennesis--the sage has laboured many labours, though he cannot avert, at least to make it milder, and to lessen it. He has not, indeed, been made to know, at least up to the present time, what this bane will be; or whether after the second, or after the third century from this period. But knowing the swiftness of evil chance, he expects it at the earlier time; and whatever its manner or kind may be, Agasicles in all his discoveries has discovered no cure for human evils, save that which he now has shut up in a box. This box has been so constructed, that nothing but dust will meet the greedy eyes of any who force it open, in the manner of the tomb of Nitocris. But if be opened with the proper key, and after the proper interval, when the due need has arisen--there will be a fairer sight than ever broke upon mortal eyes before. There mother, now, what do you think of all that? I am quite out of breath with my long translation, and I am not quite sure of all of it. For instance, where he says---- Roland, his mother answered quickly, I am now much older than the prince, according to tradition, can have been. But I make no pretence to his wisdom; and I have reasons of my own for wondering. What have you done with the key of that case? I have never seen it. It was not in the closet. And I meant to have searched, throughout his room, until I found out the meaning of this very crabbed postscript-- That fool, Memel, hath lost the key. It will cost me months to make another. My hands now tremble, and my eyes are weak. If there be no key found herewith, let it be read that Nature, whom I have vanquished, hath avenged herself. Whether, or no, have I laboured in vain? Be blest now, and bless me, my dear descendants. That appears to me, said the Lady Valeria, being left in good manners by her son, to express the first opinion, to be of the whole of this strange affair the part that is least satisfactory. My dear mother, you have hit the mark. What satisfaction can one find in having a case without a key, and knowing that if we force it open there will be nothing but dust inside? Not a quarter so good as a snuff-box. I must have a pinch, my dear mother, excuse me, while you meditate on this subject. You are far more indulgent in that respect than little Alice ever is. All gentlemen take snuff, said the lady; who is Alice, to lay down the law? Your father took a boxful three times a week. Roland, you let that young girl take great liberties with you. It is not so much that I let her take them. I have no voice in the matter now. She takes them without asking me. Possibly that is the great calamity foretold by the astrologer. If not, what other can it be, do you think? Not so, she answered, with a serious air, for all her experience of the witty world had left her old age quite dry of humour; the trouble, if any is coming, will not be through Alice, but through Hilary. Alice is certainly a flighty girl, romantic, and full of nonsense, and not at all such as she might have been, if left more in my society. However, she never has thought it worth while to associate much with her grandmother; the result of which is that her manners are unformed, and her mind is full of nonsense. But she has plenty, and (if it were possible) too much of that great preservative--pride of birth. Alice may come to affliction herself; but she never will involve her family. Any affliction of hers, said Sir Roland, will involve at least her father. Yes, yes, of course. But what I mean is the honour and rank of the family. It is my favourite Hilary, my dear, brave, handsome Hilary, who is likely to bring care on our heads, or rather upon your head, Roland; my time, of course, will be over then, unless he is very quick about it. He will not be so quick as that, I hope, Sir Roland answered, with some little confusion of proper sentiments; although in that hotbed of mischief, London, nobody knows when he may begin. However, he is not in London at present, according to your friend Lady de Lampnor. I think you said you had heard so from her. To be sure, Mr. Malahide told her himself. The dear boy has overworked himself so, that he has gone to some healthy and quiet place, to recruit his exhausted energies. Dear me, said Sir Roland, I could never believe it, unless I knew from experience, what a very little work is enough to upset him. To write a letter to his father, for instance, is so severe an exertion, that he requires a holiday the next day. Now, Roland, don t be so hard upon him. You would apprentice him to that vile law, which is quite unfit for a gentleman. I am not surprised at his being overcome by such odious labour; you would not take my advice, remember, and put him into the only profession fit for one of his birth--the army. Whatever happens, the fault is your own. It is clear, however, that he cannot get into much mischief where he is just now--a rural and quiet part of Kent, she says. It shows the innocence of his heart to go there. Very likely. But if he wanted change, he might have asked leave to come home, I think. However, we shall have him here soon enough. How you speak, Roland! Quite as if you cared not a farthing for your only son! It must be dreadfully galling to him, to see how you prefer that Alice. If he is galled, he never winces, answered Sir Roland with a quiet smile; he is the most careless fellow in the world. And the most good-natured, and the most affectionate, said Lady Valeria, warmly; nothing else could keep him from being jealous, as nine out of ten would be. However, I am tired of talking now, and on that subject I might talk for ever. Take away that case, if you please, and the writing. On no account would I have them left here. Of course you will lock them away securely, and not think of meddling with them. What is that case made of? I can scarcely make out. Something strong and heavy. A mixture, I think, of shagreen and some metal. But the oddest thing of all is the keyhole. It is at the top of the cone, you see, and of the strangest shape, an irregular heptagon, with some rare complications of points inside. It would be next to impossible to open this case, without shattering it altogether. I do not wish to examine the case, I wish to have it taken away, my son. There, there, I am very glad not to see it; although I am sure I am not superstitious. We shall do very well, I trust, without it. I think it is a most extraordinary thing that your father never consulted me about the writing handed down to you. He must have been bound by some pledge not to do so. There, Roland, I am tired of the subject. With these words the ancient lady waved her delicate hand, and dismissed her son, who kissed her white forehead, according to usage, and then departed with case and parchment locked in the oaken box again. But the more he thought over her behaviour, the more he was puzzled about it. He had fully expected a command to open the case, at whatever hazard; and perhaps he had been disappointed at receiving no such order. But above all, he wanted to know why his mother should have been taken aback, as she was, by the sight of these little things. For few people, even in the prime of life, possessed more self-command and courage than Lady Valeria, now advancing into her eighty-second year. CHAPTER XXIII. THE BAITER BAITED. At the top of the hill, these lofty themes were being handled worthily; while, at the bottom, little cares had equal glance of the democrat sun, but no stars allotted to regard them. In plain English,--Bonny and Jack were as busy as their betters. They had taken their usual round that morning, seeking the staff of life--if that staff be applicable to a donkey--in village, hamlet, and farm-house, or among the lanes and hedges. The sympathy and goodwill between them daily grew more intimate, and their tastes more similar; so that it scarcely seemed impossible that Bonny in the end might learn to eat clover, and Jack to rejoice in money. Open air, and roving life, the ups and downs of want and weal, the freedom of having nothing to lose, and the joyful luck of finding things--these, and perhaps a little spice of unknown sweetness in living at large on their fellow-creatures labours, combined to make them as happy a pair, as the day was long, or the weather good. In the winter--ah! why should we think of such trouble? Perhaps there will never be winter again. At any rate, Bonny was sitting in front of the door of his castle (or rather in front of the doorway, because he was happy enough not to have a door), as proud and contented as if there could never be any more winter of discontent. He had picked up a hat in a ditch that day, lost by some man going home from his inn; and knowing from his patron, the pigman Bottler, that the surest token of a blameless life is to be found in the hat of a man, the boy, stirred by the first heave of ambition, had put on this hat, and was practising hat-craft (having gone with his head as it was born hitherto), to the utter surprise, and with the puzzled protest, of his beloved donkey. It was a most steady church-going hat of the chimney-pot order (then newly imported into benighted regions, but now of the essence of a godly life all over this free country), neither was it such a shocking bad hat as a man would cast away, if his wife were near. For Bonny s young head it was a world too wide, but he had padded it with a blackbird s nest; and though it seemed scarcely in harmony with his rakish waistcoat, and bare red shanks (spread on the grass for exhibition, and starred with myriad furze and bramble), still he was conscious of a distinguished air, and nodded to the donkey to look at him. While these were gazing at one another, with free interchange of opinion, the rector of the parish, on his little pony, turned the corner bluntly. He was on his way home, at the bottom of the coombe, not in the very best temper perhaps, in spite of the sport in prospect; because Sir Roland had met so unkindly his kind desire to know things. What have you got on your lap, boy? Mr. Hales so strongly shouted, that sulky Echo pricked her ears; and on your lap, boy, went all up the lonely coombe melodiously. Bonny knew well what was on his lap--a cleverly-plaited hare-wire. Bottler had shown him how to do it, and now he was practising diligently, under the auspices of his first hat. Mr. Hales was a beak, of course; and the aquiline beak of the neighbourhood. Bonny had the honour of his acquaintance, in that fierce aspect, and in no other. The little boy knew that there was a church, and that great people went there once a-week, for still greater people to blow them up. But this only made him the more uneasy, to clap his bright eyes on the parson. Hold there! whoa! called the Rev. Struan, as Bonny for his life began to cut away; boy, I want to talk to you. Bonny was by no means touched with this very fine benevolence. Taking, perhaps, a low view of duty, he made the ground hot, to escape what we now call the sacerdotal office. But Struan Hales (unlike our parsons) knew how to manage the laity. He clapped himself and his pony, in no time, between Master Bonny and his hole, and then in calm dignity called a halt, with his riding-whip ready at his button-hole. It is--it is--it is! cried Bonny, coming back with his head on his chest, and meaning (in the idiom of the land) that now he was beaten, and would hold parley. To be sure, it is! the rector answered, keeping a good balance on his pony, and well pleased with his own tactics. He might have chased Bonny for an hour in vain, through the furze, and heather, and blackberries; but here he had him at his mercy quite, through his knowledge of human nature. To put it coarsely--as the rector did in his mental process haply--the bigger thief anybody is, the more sacred to him is his property. Not that Bonny was a thief at all; still, that was how Mr. Hales looked at it. In the flurry of conscience, the boy forgot that a camel might go through the eye of a needle with less exertion than the parish incumbent must use to get into the Bonny-castle. Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! howled Bonny, having no faith in clerical honour, and foreseeing the sack of his palace, and home. Give me that wire, said Mr. Hales, in a voice from the depth of his waistcoat. Now, my boy, would you like to be a good boy? No, sir; no, sir; oh no, plaize, sir! Jack nor me couldn t bear it, sir. Why not, my boy? It is such a fine thing. Your face shows that you are a sharp boy. Why do you go on living in a hole, and poaching, and picking, and stealing? Plaize, sir, I never steals nothin , without it is somethin as don t belong to me. That may be. But why should you steal even that? Shall I go in, and steal your things now? Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! Plaize, sir, I ha n t got nothin for e to steal. I am not at all sure of that, said the rector, looking at the hermit s hole longingly; a thief s den is often as good as the bank. Now, who taught you how to make this snare? I thought I knew them all pretty well; but this wire has a dodge quite new to me. Who taught you, you young scamp, this moment? Plaize, sir, I can t tell e, sir. Nobody taught me, as I knows on. You young liar, you couldn t teach yourself. What you mean is, that you don t choose to tell me. Know, I must, and know I will, if I have to thrash it out of you. He had seized him now by his gorgeous waistcoat, and held the strong horsewhip over his back. Now, will you tell, or will you not? I ont, I ont. If e kills me, I ont, the boy cried, wriggling vainly, and with great tears of anticipation rolling down his sun-burnt cheeks. The parson admired the pluck of the boy, knowing his own great strength of course, and feeling that if he began to smite, the swing of his arm would increase his own wrath, and carry him perhaps beyond reason. Therefore he offered him one chance more. Will you tell, sir, or will you not? I ont tell; that I ont, screamed Bonny; and at the word the lash descended. But only once, for the smiter in a moment was made aware of a dusty rush, a sharp roar of wrath, and great teeth flashing under mighty jaws. And perhaps he would never have walked again if he had not most suddenly wheeled his pony, and just escaped a tremendous snap, well aimed at his comely and gaitered calf. Ods bods! cried the parson, as he saw the jackass (with a stretched-out neck, and crest erect, eyes flashing fire, and a lashing tail, and, worst of all terrors, those cavernous jaws) gathering legs for a second charge, like an Attic trireme, Phormio s own, backing water for the diecplus. May I be dashed, the rector shouted, if I deal any more with such animals! If I had only got my hunting-crop; but, kuk, kuk, kuk, pony! Quick, for God s sake! Off with you! With a whack of full power on the pony s flanks, away went he at full gallop; while Jack tossed his white nose with high disdain, and then started at a round trot in pursuit, to scatter them more disgracefully, and after them sent a fine flourish of trumpets, to the grand old national air of hee-haw. While the Rev. Struan Hales was thus in sore discomfiture fleeing away as hard as his pony could be made to go, and casting uneasy glances over one shoulder at his pursuer, behold, he almost rode over a traveller footing it lightly round a corner of the lane! Why, Uncle Struan! exclaimed the latter; is the dragon of St. Leonard s flying after you? Or is this the usual style of riding of the beneficed clergy? Hilary, my dear boy, answered the rector; who would have thought of seeing you? You are just come in time to defend your uncle from a ravenous beast of prey. I was going home to bait a badger, but I have had a pretty good bait myself. Ah, you pagan, you may well be ashamed of yourself, to attack your clergyman! For Jack, perceiving the reinforcement, and eyeing the stout stick which Hilary bore, prudently turned on his tail and departed, well satisfied with his exploit. Why, Hilary, what has brought you home? asked his uncle, when a few words had passed concerning Jack s behaviour. Nobody expects you, that I know of. Your father is a mysterious man; but Alice would have been sure to tell me. Moreover, you must have walked all the way from the stage, by the look of your buckles; or perhaps from Brighton even. No; I took the short cut over the hills, and across by way of Beeding. Nobody expects me, as you say. I am come on important business. And, of course, I am not to know what it is. For mystery, and for keeping secrets, there never was such a family. As if you did not belong to it, uncle! Hilary answered, good-naturedly. I never heard of any secrets that I can remember. And good reason too, replied the rector; they would not long have been secrets, my boy, after they came to your ears, I doubt. Then let me establish my reputation by keeping my own, at any rate. But, after all, it is no secret, uncle. Only, my father ought to know it first. Alas, you rogue, you rogue! Something about money, no doubt. You used to condescend to come to me when you were at school and college. But now, you are too grand for the purse of any poor Sussex rector. I could put off our badger for half-an-hour, if you think you could run down the hill again. I should like you particularly to see young Fox; it will be something grand, my boy. He is the best pup I ever had in all my life. I know him, uncle; I know what he is. I chose him first out of the litter, you know. But you must not think of waiting

end

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

you refuse to let your own mother know it! Excuse me, but I do not remember saying anything about importance. I am not superstitious enough to suppose that the thing can have any importance. Then why should you make such a fuss about it? Really, Roland, you are sometimes very hard to understand. I was not aware that I had made a fuss, Sir Roland answered, gravely; but if I have, I will make no more. Now, my dear mother, what did you think of that extraordinary bill of Bottler s? Bottler, the pigman, is a rogue, said her ladyship, peremptorily: his father was a rogue before him; and those things run in families. But surely you cannot suppose that this is the proper way to treat the subject. To my mind a most improper way--to condemn a man s bill on the ground that his father transmitted the right to overcharge! Now, my dear son, said Lady Valeria, who never called him her son at all, unless she was put out with him, and her dear son only when she was at the extremity of endurance-- my dear son, these are sad attempts to disguise the real truth from me. The truth I am entitled to know, and the truth I am resolved to know. And I think that you might have paid me the compliment of coming for my advice before. Finding her in this state of mind, and being unable to deny the justice of her claim, Sir Roland was fain at last to make a virtue of necessity, while he marvelled (as so many have done) at the craft of people in spying things, and espying them always wrongly. Is that all? said Lady Valeria, after listening carefully; I thought there must have been something a little better than that, to justify you in making it such a mystery. Nothing but a dusty old document, and a strange-looking package, or case like a cone! However, I do not blame you, my dear Roland, for making so small a discovery. The old astrologer appears to me to have grown a little childish. Now, as I keep to the old-fashioned hours, I will ask you to ring the bell for my tea; and while it is being prepared, you can fetch me the case itself, and the document to examine. To be sure, my dear mother, if you will only promise to obey the commands of the document. Roland, I have lived too long ever to promise anything. You shall read me these orders, and then I can judge. I will make no fuss about such a trifle, he answered, with a pleasant smile; of course you will do what is honourable. Surely men, although they deny so ferociously this impeachment, are open at times to at least a little side-eddy of curiosity; Sir Roland, no doubt, was desirous to know what were the contents of that old case, which Alice had taken for a dirty cushion, as it lay at the back of the cupboard in the wall; while his honour would not allow him comfortably to disobey the testator s wish. At the same time he felt, every now and then, that to treat such a matter in a serious light, was a proof of superstition, or even childishness, on his part. And now, if his mother should so regard it, he was not at all sure that he ought to take the unpleasant course of opposing her. CHAPTER XXII. A MALIGNANT CASE. Sir Roland smiled at his mother s position, and air of stern attention, as he came back from his book-room with a small but heavy oaken box. This he placed on a chair, and without any mystery, unlocked it. But no sooner had he flung back the lid and shown the case above described, than he was quite astonished at the expression of Lady Valeria s face. Something more than fear, a sudden terror, as if at the sight of something fatal, had taken the pale tint out of her cheeks, and made her fine forehead quiver. Dear mother, how foolish I am, he said, to worry you with these trifles! I wish I had kept to my own opinion---- It is no trifle; you would have been wrong to treat it as a trifle. I have lived a long life, and seen many strange things; it takes more than a trifle to frighten me. For a minute or two she lay back, and was not fit to speak or be spoken to; only she managed to stop her son from ringing for her maid or the housekeeper. He had never beheld her so scared before, and could scarcely make out her signs to him that she needed no attendance. Like most men who are at all good and just, Sir Roland was prone to think softly and calmly, instead of acting rapidly; and now his mother, so advanced in years, showed less hesitation than he did. Recovering, ere long, from that sudden shock, she managed to smile at herself and at his anxiety about her. Now, Roland, I will not meddle with this formidable and clumsy thing. It seems to be closed most jealously. It has kept for two centuries, and may keep for two more, so far as I am concerned. But if it will not be too troublesome to you, I should like to hear what is said about it. In this old document, madam? Do you see how strangely it has been folded? Whoever did that knew a great deal more than now we know about folding. The writing to me seems more strange than the folding. What a cramped hand! In what language is it written? In Greek, the old Greek character, and the Doric dialect. He seems to have been proud of his classic descent, and perhaps Dorian lineage. But he placed a great deal too much faith in the attainments of his descendants. Poor Sedley would have read it straight off, I daresay; but the contractions, and even some of the characters, puzzled me dreadfully. I have kept up, as you know, dear mother, whatever little Greek I was taught, and perhaps have added to it; but my old Hedericus was needed a great many times, I assure you, before I got through this queer document; and even now I am not quite certain of the meaning of one or two passages. You see at the head a number of what I took at first to be hieroglyphics of some kind or other; but I find that they are astral or sidereal signs, for which I am none the wiser, though perhaps an astronomer would be. This, for instance, appears to mean the conjunction of some two planets, and this---- Never mind them, Roland. Read me what you have made out of the writing. Very well, mother. But if I am at fault, you must have patience with me, for I am not perfect in my lesson yet. Thus it begins:-- Behold, ye men, who shall be hereafter, and pay heed to this matter. A certain Carian, noble by birth and of noble character, to whom is the not inglorious name, Agasicles Syennesis, hath lived not in the pursuit of wealth, or power, or reputation, but in the unbroken study of the most excellent arts and philosophies. Especially in the heavenly stars, and signs of the everlasting kosmos, hath he disciplined his mind, and surpassed all that went before him. There is nothing like self-praise, is there, now, dear mother? I have no doubt that he speaks the truth, answered the Lady Valeria: I did not marry into a family accustomed to exaggerate. Then what do you think of this? Not only in intellect and forethought, but also in goodwill and philanthropy, modesty, and self-forgetfulness, did this man win the prize of excellence; and he it is who now speaks to you. Having lived much time in a barbarous island, cold, and blown over with vaporous air, he is no longer of such a sort as he was in the land of the fair afternoons. And there is when it is to his mind a manifest and established thing, that the gates of Hades are open for him, and the time of being no longer. But he holds this to be of the smallest difference, if only the gods produce his time to the perfect end of all the things lying now before him. How good, and how truly pious of him, Roland? Such a man s daughter never could have had any right to run away from him. My dear mother, I disagree with you, if he always praised himself in that style. But let him speak for himself again, as he seems to know very well how to do: These things have not been said, indeed, for the sake of any boasting, but rather to bring out thoroughly forward the truth in these things lying under, as if it were a pavement of adamant. Now, therefore, know ye, that Agasicles, carefully pondering everything, has found (so to say the word) an end to accomplish, and to abide in. And this is no other thing, than to save the generations descended from him, from great evil fortunes about to fall, by the ill-will of some divinity, at a destined time, upon them. For a man, of birth so renowned and lofty, has not been made to resemble a hand-worker, or a runaway slave; but has many stars regarding him, from many generations. And now he perceives, that his skill and wisdom were not given to him to be a mere personal adornment; but that he might protect his descendants, to the remote futurity. To him, then--it having been revealed, that in the seventh generation hence, as has often come to pass with our house, or haply in the tenth (for the time is misty), a great calamity is bound to happen to those born afar off from Syennesis--the sage has laboured many labours, though he cannot avert, at least to make it milder, and to lessen it. He has not, indeed, been made to know, at least up to the present time, what this bane will be; or whether after the second, or after the third century from this period. But knowing the swiftness of evil chance, he expects it at the earlier time; and whatever its manner or kind may be, Agasicles in all his discoveries has discovered no cure for human evils, save that which he now has shut up in a box. This box has been so constructed, that nothing but dust will meet the greedy eyes of any who force it open, in the manner of the tomb of Nitocris. But if be opened with the proper key, and after the proper interval, when the due need has arisen--there will be a fairer sight than ever broke upon mortal eyes before. There mother, now, what do you think of all that? I am quite out of breath with my long translation, and I am not quite sure of all of it. For instance, where he says---- Roland, his mother answered quickly, I am now much older than the prince, according to tradition, can have been. But I make no pretence to his wisdom; and I have reasons of my own for wondering. What have you done with the key of that case? I have never seen it. It was not in the closet. And I meant to have searched, throughout his room, until I found out the meaning of this very crabbed postscript-- That fool, Memel, hath lost the key. It will cost me months to make another. My hands now tremble, and my eyes are weak. If there be no key found herewith, let it be read that Nature, whom I have vanquished, hath avenged herself. Whether, or no, have I laboured in vain? Be blest now, and bless me, my dear descendants. That appears to me, said the Lady Valeria, being left in good manners by her son, to express the first opinion, to be of the whole of this strange affair the part that is least satisfactory. My dear mother, you have hit the mark. What satisfaction can one find in having a case without a key, and knowing that if we force it open there will be nothing but dust inside? Not a quarter so good as a snuff-box. I must have a pinch, my dear mother, excuse me, while you meditate on this subject. You are far more indulgent in that respect than little Alice ever is. All gentlemen take snuff, said the lady; who is Alice, to lay down the law? Your father took a boxful three times a week. Roland, you let that young girl take great liberties with you. It is not so much that I let her take them. I have no voice in the matter now. She takes them without asking me. Possibly that is the great calamity foretold by the astrologer. If not, what other can it be, do you think? Not so, she answered, with a serious air, for all her experience of the witty world had left her old age quite dry of humour; the trouble, if any is coming, will not be through Alice, but through Hilary. Alice is certainly a flighty girl, romantic, and full of nonsense, and not at all such as she might have been, if left more in my society. However, she never has thought it worth while to associate much with her grandmother; the result of which is that her manners are unformed, and her mind is full of nonsense. But she has plenty, and (if it were possible) too much of that great preservative--pride of birth. Alice may come to affliction herself; but she never will involve her family. Any affliction of hers, said Sir Roland, will involve at least her father. Yes, yes, of course. But what I mean is the honour and rank of the family. It is my favourite Hilary, my dear, brave, handsome Hilary, who is likely to bring care on our heads, or rather upon your head, Roland; my time, of course, will be over then, unless he is very quick about it. He will not be so quick as that, I hope, Sir Roland answered, with some little confusion of proper sentiments; although in that hotbed of mischief, London, nobody knows when he may begin. However, he is not in London at present, according to your friend Lady de Lampnor. I think you said you had heard so from her. To be sure, Mr. Malahide told her himself. The dear boy has overworked himself so, that he has gone to some healthy and quiet place, to recruit his exhausted energies. Dear me, said Sir Roland, I could never believe it, unless I knew from experience, what a very little work is enough to upset him. To write a letter to his father, for instance, is so severe an exertion, that he requires a holiday the next day. Now, Roland, don t be so hard upon him. You would apprentice him to that vile law, which is quite unfit for a gentleman. I am not surprised at his being overcome by such odious labour; you would not take my advice, remember, and put him into the only profession fit for one of his birth--the army. Whatever happens, the fault is your own. It is clear, however, that he cannot get into much mischief where he is just now--a rural and quiet part of Kent, she says. It shows the innocence of his heart to go there. Very likely. But if he wanted change, he might have asked leave to come home, I think. However, we shall have him here soon enough. How you speak, Roland! Quite as if you cared not a farthing for your only son! It must be dreadfully galling to him, to see how you prefer that Alice. If he is galled, he never winces, answered Sir Roland with a quiet smile; he is the most careless fellow in the world. And the most good-natured, and the most affectionate, said Lady Valeria, warmly; nothing else could keep him from being jealous, as nine out of ten would be. However, I am tired of talking now, and on that subject I might talk for ever. Take away that case, if you please, and the writing. On no account would I have them left here. Of course you will lock them away securely, and not think of meddling with them. What is that case made of? I can scarcely make out. Something strong and heavy. A mixture, I think, of shagreen and some metal. But the oddest thing of all is the keyhole. It is at the top of the cone, you see, and of the strangest shape, an irregular heptagon, with some rare complications of points inside. It would be next to impossible to open this case, without shattering it altogether. I do not wish to examine the case, I wish to have it taken away, my son. There, there, I am very glad not to see it; although I am sure I am not superstitious. We shall do very well, I trust, without it. I think it is a most extraordinary thing that your father never consulted me about the writing handed down to you. He must have been bound by some pledge not to do so. There, Roland, I am tired of the subject. With these words the ancient lady waved her delicate hand, and dismissed her son, who kissed her white forehead, according to usage, and then departed with case and parchment locked in the oaken box again. But the more he thought over her behaviour, the more he was puzzled about it. He had fully expected a command to open the case, at whatever hazard; and perhaps he had been disappointed at receiving no such order. But above all, he wanted to know why his mother should have been taken aback, as she was, by the sight of these little things. For few people, even in the prime of life, possessed more self-command and courage than Lady Valeria, now advancing into her eighty-second year. CHAPTER XXIII. THE BAITER BAITED. At the top of the hill, these lofty themes were being handled worthily; while, at the bottom, little cares had equal glance of the democrat sun, but no stars allotted to regard them. In plain English,--Bonny and Jack were as busy as their betters. They had taken their usual round that morning, seeking the staff of life--if that staff be applicable to a donkey--in village, hamlet, and farm-house, or among the lanes and hedges. The sympathy and goodwill between them daily grew more intimate, and their tastes more similar; so that it scarcely seemed impossible that Bonny in the end might learn to eat clover, and Jack to rejoice in money. Open air, and roving life, the ups and downs of want and weal, the freedom of having nothing to lose, and the joyful luck of finding things--these, and perhaps a little spice of unknown sweetness in living at large on their fellow-creatures labours, combined to make them as happy a pair, as the day was long, or the weather good. In the winter--ah! why should we think of such trouble? Perhaps there will never be winter again. At any rate, Bonny was sitting in front of the door of his castle (or rather in front of the doorway, because he was happy enough not to have a door), as proud and contented as if there could never be any more winter of discontent. He had picked up a hat in a ditch that day, lost by some man going home from his inn; and knowing from his patron, the pigman Bottler, that the surest token of a blameless life is to be found in the hat of a man, the boy, stirred by the first heave of ambition, had put on this hat, and was practising hat-craft (having gone with his head as it was born hitherto), to the utter surprise, and with the puzzled protest, of his beloved donkey. It was a most steady church-going hat of the chimney-pot order (then newly imported into benighted regions, but now of the essence of a godly life all over this free country), neither was it such a shocking bad hat as a man would cast away, if his wife were near. For Bonny s young head it was a world too wide, but he had padded it with a blackbird s nest; and though it seemed scarcely in harmony with his rakish waistcoat, and bare red shanks (spread on the grass for exhibition, and starred with myriad furze and bramble), still he was conscious of a distinguished air, and nodded to the donkey to look at him. While these were gazing at one another, with free interchange of opinion, the rector of the parish, on his little pony, turned the corner bluntly. He was on his way home, at the bottom of the coombe, not in the very best temper perhaps, in spite of the sport in prospect; because Sir Roland had met so unkindly his kind desire to know things. What have you got on your lap, boy? Mr. Hales so strongly shouted, that sulky Echo pricked her ears; and on your lap, boy, went all up the lonely coombe melodiously. Bonny knew well what was on his lap--a cleverly-plaited hare-wire. Bottler had shown him how to do it, and now he was practising diligently, under the auspices of his first hat. Mr. Hales was a beak, of course; and the aquiline beak of the neighbourhood. Bonny had the honour of his acquaintance, in that fierce aspect, and in no other. The little boy knew that there was a church, and that great people went there once a-week, for still greater people to blow them up. But this only made him the more uneasy, to clap his bright eyes on the parson. Hold there! whoa! called the Rev. Struan, as Bonny for his life began to cut away; boy, I want to talk to you. Bonny was by no means touched with this very fine benevolence. Taking, perhaps, a low view of duty, he made the ground hot, to escape what we now call the sacerdotal office. But Struan Hales (unlike our parsons) knew how to manage the laity. He clapped himself and his pony, in no time, between Master Bonny and his hole, and then in calm dignity called a halt, with his riding-whip ready at his button-hole. It is--it is--it is! cried Bonny, coming back with his head on his chest, and meaning (in the idiom of the land) that now he was beaten, and would hold parley. To be sure, it is! the rector answered, keeping a good balance on his pony, and well pleased with his own tactics. He might have chased Bonny for an hour in vain, through the furze, and heather, and blackberries; but here he had him at his mercy quite, through his knowledge of human nature. To put it coarsely--as the rector did in his mental process haply--the bigger thief anybody is, the more sacred to him is his property. Not that Bonny was a thief at all; still, that was how Mr. Hales looked at it. In the flurry of conscience, the boy forgot that a camel might go through the eye of a needle with less exertion than the parish incumbent must use to get into the Bonny-castle. Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! howled Bonny, having no faith in clerical honour, and foreseeing the sack of his palace, and home. Give me that wire, said Mr. Hales, in a voice from the depth of his waistcoat. Now, my boy, would you like to be a good boy? No, sir; no, sir; oh no, plaize, sir! Jack nor me couldn t bear it, sir. Why not, my boy? It is such a fine thing. Your face shows that you are a sharp boy. Why do you go on living in a hole, and poaching, and picking, and stealing? Plaize, sir, I never steals nothin , without it is somethin as don t belong to me. That may be. But why should you steal even that? Shall I go in, and steal your things now? Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! Plaize, sir, I ha n t got nothin for e to steal. I am not at all sure of that, said the rector, looking at the hermit s hole longingly; a thief s den is often as good as the bank. Now, who taught you how to make this snare? I thought I knew them all pretty well; but this wire has a dodge quite new to me. Who taught you, you young scamp, this moment? Plaize, sir, I can t tell e, sir. Nobody taught me, as I knows on. You young liar, you couldn t teach yourself. What you mean is, that you don t choose to tell me. Know, I must, and know I will, if I have to thrash it out of you. He had seized him now by his gorgeous waistcoat, and held the strong horsewhip over his back. Now, will you tell, or will you not? I ont, I ont. If e kills me, I ont, the boy cried, wriggling vainly, and with great tears of anticipation rolling down his sun-burnt cheeks. The parson admired the pluck of the boy, knowing his own great strength of course, and feeling that if he began to smite, the swing of his arm would increase his own wrath, and carry him perhaps beyond reason. Therefore he offered him one chance more. Will you tell, sir, or will you not? I ont tell; that I ont, screamed Bonny; and at the word the lash descended. But only once, for the smiter in a moment was made aware of a dusty rush, a sharp roar of wrath, and great teeth flashing under mighty jaws. And perhaps he would never have walked again if he had not most suddenly wheeled his pony, and just escaped a tremendous snap, well aimed at his comely and gaitered calf. Ods bods! cried the parson, as he saw the jackass (with a stretched-out neck, and crest erect, eyes flashing fire, and a lashing tail, and, worst of all terrors, those cavernous jaws) gathering legs for a second charge, like an Attic trireme, Phormio s own, backing water for the diecplus. May I be dashed, the rector shouted, if I deal any more with such animals! If I had only got my hunting-crop; but, kuk, kuk, kuk, pony! Quick, for God s sake! Off with you! With a whack of full power on the pony s flanks, away went he at full gallop; while Jack tossed his white nose with high disdain, and then started at a round trot in pursuit, to scatter them more disgracefully, and after them sent a fine flourish of trumpets, to the grand old national air of hee-haw. While the Rev. Struan Hales was thus in sore discomfiture fleeing away as hard as his pony could be made to go, and casting uneasy glances over one shoulder at his pursuer, behold, he almost rode over a traveller footing it lightly round a corner of the lane! Why, Uncle Struan! exclaimed the latter; is the dragon of St. Leonard s flying after you? Or is this the usual style of riding of the beneficed clergy? Hilary, my dear boy, answered the rector; who would have thought of seeing you? You are just come in time to defend your uncle from a ravenous beast of prey. I was going home to bait a badger, but I have had a pretty good bait myself. Ah, you pagan, you may well be ashamed of yourself, to attack your clergyman! For Jack, perceiving the reinforcement, and eyeing the stout stick which Hilary bore, prudently turned on his tail and departed, well satisfied with his exploit. Why, Hilary, what has brought you home? asked his uncle, when a few words had passed concerning Jack s behaviour. Nobody expects you, that I know of. Your father is a mysterious man; but Alice would have been sure to tell me. Moreover, you must have walked all the way from the stage, by the look of your buckles; or perhaps from Brighton even. No; I took the short cut over the hills, and across by way of Beeding. Nobody expects me, as you say. I am come on important business. And, of course, I am not to know what it is. For mystery, and for keeping secrets, there never was such a family. As if you did not belong to it, uncle! Hilary answered, good-naturedly. I never heard of any secrets that I can remember. And good reason too, replied the rector; they would not long have been secrets, my boy, after they came to your ears, I doubt. Then let me establish my reputation by keeping my own, at any rate. But, after all, it is no secret, uncle. Only, my father ought to know it first. Alas, you rogue, you rogue! Something about money, no doubt. You used to condescend to come to me when you were at school and college. But now, you are too grand for the purse of any poor Sussex rector. I could put off our badger for half-an-hour, if you think you could run down the hill again. I should like you particularly to see young Fox; it will be something grand, my boy. He is the best pup I ever had in all my life. I know him, uncle; I know what he is. I chose him first out of the litter, you know. But you must not think of waiting

struck

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

you refuse to let your own mother know it! Excuse me, but I do not remember saying anything about importance. I am not superstitious enough to suppose that the thing can have any importance. Then why should you make such a fuss about it? Really, Roland, you are sometimes very hard to understand. I was not aware that I had made a fuss, Sir Roland answered, gravely; but if I have, I will make no more. Now, my dear mother, what did you think of that extraordinary bill of Bottler s? Bottler, the pigman, is a rogue, said her ladyship, peremptorily: his father was a rogue before him; and those things run in families. But surely you cannot suppose that this is the proper way to treat the subject. To my mind a most improper way--to condemn a man s bill on the ground that his father transmitted the right to overcharge! Now, my dear son, said Lady Valeria, who never called him her son at all, unless she was put out with him, and her dear son only when she was at the extremity of endurance-- my dear son, these are sad attempts to disguise the real truth from me. The truth I am entitled to know, and the truth I am resolved to know. And I think that you might have paid me the compliment of coming for my advice before. Finding her in this state of mind, and being unable to deny the justice of her claim, Sir Roland was fain at last to make a virtue of necessity, while he marvelled (as so many have done) at the craft of people in spying things, and espying them always wrongly. Is that all? said Lady Valeria, after listening carefully; I thought there must have been something a little better than that, to justify you in making it such a mystery. Nothing but a dusty old document, and a strange-looking package, or case like a cone! However, I do not blame you, my dear Roland, for making so small a discovery. The old astrologer appears to me to have grown a little childish. Now, as I keep to the old-fashioned hours, I will ask you to ring the bell for my tea; and while it is being prepared, you can fetch me the case itself, and the document to examine. To be sure, my dear mother, if you will only promise to obey the commands of the document. Roland, I have lived too long ever to promise anything. You shall read me these orders, and then I can judge. I will make no fuss about such a trifle, he answered, with a pleasant smile; of course you will do what is honourable. Surely men, although they deny so ferociously this impeachment, are open at times to at least a little side-eddy of curiosity; Sir Roland, no doubt, was desirous to know what were the contents of that old case, which Alice had taken for a dirty cushion, as it lay at the back of the cupboard in the wall; while his honour would not allow him comfortably to disobey the testator s wish. At the same time he felt, every now and then, that to treat such a matter in a serious light, was a proof of superstition, or even childishness, on his part. And now, if his mother should so regard it, he was not at all sure that he ought to take the unpleasant course of opposing her. CHAPTER XXII. A MALIGNANT CASE. Sir Roland smiled at his mother s position, and air of stern attention, as he came back from his book-room with a small but heavy oaken box. This he placed on a chair, and without any mystery, unlocked it. But no sooner had he flung back the lid and shown the case above described, than he was quite astonished at the expression of Lady Valeria s face. Something more than fear, a sudden terror, as if at the sight of something fatal, had taken the pale tint out of her cheeks, and made her fine forehead quiver. Dear mother, how foolish I am, he said, to worry you with these trifles! I wish I had kept to my own opinion---- It is no trifle; you would have been wrong to treat it as a trifle. I have lived a long life, and seen many strange things; it takes more than a trifle to frighten me. For a minute or two she lay back, and was not fit to speak or be spoken to; only she managed to stop her son from ringing for her maid or the housekeeper. He had never beheld her so scared before, and could scarcely make out her signs to him that she needed no attendance. Like most men who are at all good and just, Sir Roland was prone to think softly and calmly, instead of acting rapidly; and now his mother, so advanced in years, showed less hesitation than he did. Recovering, ere long, from that sudden shock, she managed to smile at herself and at his anxiety about her. Now, Roland, I will not meddle with this formidable and clumsy thing. It seems to be closed most jealously. It has kept for two centuries, and may keep for two more, so far as I am concerned. But if it will not be too troublesome to you, I should like to hear what is said about it. In this old document, madam? Do you see how strangely it has been folded? Whoever did that knew a great deal more than now we know about folding. The writing to me seems more strange than the folding. What a cramped hand! In what language is it written? In Greek, the old Greek character, and the Doric dialect. He seems to have been proud of his classic descent, and perhaps Dorian lineage. But he placed a great deal too much faith in the attainments of his descendants. Poor Sedley would have read it straight off, I daresay; but the contractions, and even some of the characters, puzzled me dreadfully. I have kept up, as you know, dear mother, whatever little Greek I was taught, and perhaps have added to it; but my old Hedericus was needed a great many times, I assure you, before I got through this queer document; and even now I am not quite certain of the meaning of one or two passages. You see at the head a number of what I took at first to be hieroglyphics of some kind or other; but I find that they are astral or sidereal signs, for which I am none the wiser, though perhaps an astronomer would be. This, for instance, appears to mean the conjunction of some two planets, and this---- Never mind them, Roland. Read me what you have made out of the writing. Very well, mother. But if I am at fault, you must have patience with me, for I am not perfect in my lesson yet. Thus it begins:-- Behold, ye men, who shall be hereafter, and pay heed to this matter. A certain Carian, noble by birth and of noble character, to whom is the not inglorious name, Agasicles Syennesis, hath lived not in the pursuit of wealth, or power, or reputation, but in the unbroken study of the most excellent arts and philosophies. Especially in the heavenly stars, and signs of the everlasting kosmos, hath he disciplined his mind, and surpassed all that went before him. There is nothing like self-praise, is there, now, dear mother? I have no doubt that he speaks the truth, answered the Lady Valeria: I did not marry into a family accustomed to exaggerate. Then what do you think of this? Not only in intellect and forethought, but also in goodwill and philanthropy, modesty, and self-forgetfulness, did this man win the prize of excellence; and he it is who now speaks to you. Having lived much time in a barbarous island, cold, and blown over with vaporous air, he is no longer of such a sort as he was in the land of the fair afternoons. And there is when it is to his mind a manifest and established thing, that the gates of Hades are open for him, and the time of being no longer. But he holds this to be of the smallest difference, if only the gods produce his time to the perfect end of all the things lying now before him. How good, and how truly pious of him, Roland? Such a man s daughter never could have had any right to run away from him. My dear mother, I disagree with you, if he always praised himself in that style. But let him speak for himself again, as he seems to know very well how to do: These things have not been said, indeed, for the sake of any boasting, but rather to bring out thoroughly forward the truth in these things lying under, as if it were a pavement of adamant. Now, therefore, know ye, that Agasicles, carefully pondering everything, has found (so to say the word) an end to accomplish, and to abide in. And this is no other thing, than to save the generations descended from him, from great evil fortunes about to fall, by the ill-will of some divinity, at a destined time, upon them. For a man, of birth so renowned and lofty, has not been made to resemble a hand-worker, or a runaway slave; but has many stars regarding him, from many generations. And now he perceives, that his skill and wisdom were not given to him to be a mere personal adornment; but that he might protect his descendants, to the remote futurity. To him, then--it having been revealed, that in the seventh generation hence, as has often come to pass with our house, or haply in the tenth (for the time is misty), a great calamity is bound to happen to those born afar off from Syennesis--the sage has laboured many labours, though he cannot avert, at least to make it milder, and to lessen it. He has not, indeed, been made to know, at least up to the present time, what this bane will be; or whether after the second, or after the third century from this period. But knowing the swiftness of evil chance, he expects it at the earlier time; and whatever its manner or kind may be, Agasicles in all his discoveries has discovered no cure for human evils, save that which he now has shut up in a box. This box has been so constructed, that nothing but dust will meet the greedy eyes of any who force it open, in the manner of the tomb of Nitocris. But if be opened with the proper key, and after the proper interval, when the due need has arisen--there will be a fairer sight than ever broke upon mortal eyes before. There mother, now, what do you think of all that? I am quite out of breath with my long translation, and I am not quite sure of all of it. For instance, where he says---- Roland, his mother answered quickly, I am now much older than the prince, according to tradition, can have been. But I make no pretence to his wisdom; and I have reasons of my own for wondering. What have you done with the key of that case? I have never seen it. It was not in the closet. And I meant to have searched, throughout his room, until I found out the meaning of this very crabbed postscript-- That fool, Memel, hath lost the key. It will cost me months to make another. My hands now tremble, and my eyes are weak. If there be no key found herewith, let it be read that Nature, whom I have vanquished, hath avenged herself. Whether, or no, have I laboured in vain? Be blest now, and bless me, my dear descendants. That appears to me, said the Lady Valeria, being left in good manners by her son, to express the first opinion, to be of the whole of this strange affair the part that is least satisfactory. My dear mother, you have hit the mark. What satisfaction can one find in having a case without a key, and knowing that if we force it open there will be nothing but dust inside? Not a quarter so good as a snuff-box. I must have a pinch, my dear mother, excuse me, while you meditate on this subject. You are far more indulgent in that respect than little Alice ever is. All gentlemen take snuff, said the lady; who is Alice, to lay down the law? Your father took a boxful three times a week. Roland, you let that young girl take great liberties with you. It is not so much that I let her take them. I have no voice in the matter now. She takes them without asking me. Possibly that is the great calamity foretold by the astrologer. If not, what other can it be, do you think? Not so, she answered, with a serious air, for all her experience of the witty world had left her old age quite dry of humour; the trouble, if any is coming, will not be through Alice, but through Hilary. Alice is certainly a flighty girl, romantic, and full of nonsense, and not at all such as she might have been, if left more in my society. However, she never has thought it worth while to associate much with her grandmother; the result of which is that her manners are unformed, and her mind is full of nonsense. But she has plenty, and (if it were possible) too much of that great preservative--pride of birth. Alice may come to affliction herself; but she never will involve her family. Any affliction of hers, said Sir Roland, will involve at least her father. Yes, yes, of course. But what I mean is the honour and rank of the family. It is my favourite Hilary, my dear, brave, handsome Hilary, who is likely to bring care on our heads, or rather upon your head, Roland; my time, of course, will be over then, unless he is very quick about it. He will not be so quick as that, I hope, Sir Roland answered, with some little confusion of proper sentiments; although in that hotbed of mischief, London, nobody knows when he may begin. However, he is not in London at present, according to your friend Lady de Lampnor. I think you said you had heard so from her. To be sure, Mr. Malahide told her himself. The dear boy has overworked himself so, that he has gone to some healthy and quiet place, to recruit his exhausted energies. Dear me, said Sir Roland, I could never believe it, unless I knew from experience, what a very little work is enough to upset him. To write a letter to his father, for instance, is so severe an exertion, that he requires a holiday the next day. Now, Roland, don t be so hard upon him. You would apprentice him to that vile law, which is quite unfit for a gentleman. I am not surprised at his being overcome by such odious labour; you would not take my advice, remember, and put him into the only profession fit for one of his birth--the army. Whatever happens, the fault is your own. It is clear, however, that he cannot get into much mischief where he is just now--a rural and quiet part of Kent, she says. It shows the innocence of his heart to go there. Very likely. But if he wanted change, he might have asked leave to come home, I think. However, we shall have him here soon enough. How you speak, Roland! Quite as if you cared not a farthing for your only son! It must be dreadfully galling to him, to see how you prefer that Alice. If he is galled, he never winces, answered Sir Roland with a quiet smile; he is the most careless fellow in the world. And the most good-natured, and the most affectionate, said Lady Valeria, warmly; nothing else could keep him from being jealous, as nine out of ten would be. However, I am tired of talking now, and on that subject I might talk for ever. Take away that case, if you please, and the writing. On no account would I have them left here. Of course you will lock them away securely, and not think of meddling with them. What is that case made of? I can scarcely make out. Something strong and heavy. A mixture, I think, of shagreen and some metal. But the oddest thing of all is the keyhole. It is at the top of the cone, you see, and of the strangest shape, an irregular heptagon, with some rare complications of points inside. It would be next to impossible to open this case, without shattering it altogether. I do not wish to examine the case, I wish to have it taken away, my son. There, there, I am very glad not to see it; although I am sure I am not superstitious. We shall do very well, I trust, without it. I think it is a most extraordinary thing that your father never consulted me about the writing handed down to you. He must have been bound by some pledge not to do so. There, Roland, I am tired of the subject. With these words the ancient lady waved her delicate hand, and dismissed her son, who kissed her white forehead, according to usage, and then departed with case and parchment locked in the oaken box again. But the more he thought over her behaviour, the more he was puzzled about it. He had fully expected a command to open the case, at whatever hazard; and perhaps he had been disappointed at receiving no such order. But above all, he wanted to know why his mother should have been taken aback, as she was, by the sight of these little things. For few people, even in the prime of life, possessed more self-command and courage than Lady Valeria, now advancing into her eighty-second year. CHAPTER XXIII. THE BAITER BAITED. At the top of the hill, these lofty themes were being handled worthily; while, at the bottom, little cares had equal glance of the democrat sun, but no stars allotted to regard them. In plain English,--Bonny and Jack were as busy as their betters. They had taken their usual round that morning, seeking the staff of life--if that staff be applicable to a donkey--in village, hamlet, and farm-house, or among the lanes and hedges. The sympathy and goodwill between them daily grew more intimate, and their tastes more similar; so that it scarcely seemed impossible that Bonny in the end might learn to eat clover, and Jack to rejoice in money. Open air, and roving life, the ups and downs of want and weal, the freedom of having nothing to lose, and the joyful luck of finding things--these, and perhaps a little spice of unknown sweetness in living at large on their fellow-creatures labours, combined to make them as happy a pair, as the day was long, or the weather good. In the winter--ah! why should we think of such trouble? Perhaps there will never be winter again. At any rate, Bonny was sitting in front of the door of his castle (or rather in front of the doorway, because he was happy enough not to have a door), as proud and contented as if there could never be any more winter of discontent. He had picked up a hat in a ditch that day, lost by some man going home from his inn; and knowing from his patron, the pigman Bottler, that the surest token of a blameless life is to be found in the hat of a man, the boy, stirred by the first heave of ambition, had put on this hat, and was practising hat-craft (having gone with his head as it was born hitherto), to the utter surprise, and with the puzzled protest, of his beloved donkey. It was a most steady church-going hat of the chimney-pot order (then newly imported into benighted regions, but now of the essence of a godly life all over this free country), neither was it such a shocking bad hat as a man would cast away, if his wife were near. For Bonny s young head it was a world too wide, but he had padded it with a blackbird s nest; and though it seemed scarcely in harmony with his rakish waistcoat, and bare red shanks (spread on the grass for exhibition, and starred with myriad furze and bramble), still he was conscious of a distinguished air, and nodded to the donkey to look at him. While these were gazing at one another, with free interchange of opinion, the rector of the parish, on his little pony, turned the corner bluntly. He was on his way home, at the bottom of the coombe, not in the very best temper perhaps, in spite of the sport in prospect; because Sir Roland had met so unkindly his kind desire to know things. What have you got on your lap, boy? Mr. Hales so strongly shouted, that sulky Echo pricked her ears; and on your lap, boy, went all up the lonely coombe melodiously. Bonny knew well what was on his lap--a cleverly-plaited hare-wire. Bottler had shown him how to do it, and now he was practising diligently, under the auspices of his first hat. Mr. Hales was a beak, of course; and the aquiline beak of the neighbourhood. Bonny had the honour of his acquaintance, in that fierce aspect, and in no other. The little boy knew that there was a church, and that great people went there once a-week, for still greater people to blow them up. But this only made him the more uneasy, to clap his bright eyes on the parson. Hold there! whoa! called the Rev. Struan, as Bonny for his life began to cut away; boy, I want to talk to you. Bonny was by no means touched with this very fine benevolence. Taking, perhaps, a low view of duty, he made the ground hot, to escape what we now call the sacerdotal office. But Struan Hales (unlike our parsons) knew how to manage the laity. He clapped himself and his pony, in no time, between Master Bonny and his hole, and then in calm dignity called a halt, with his riding-whip ready at his button-hole. It is--it is--it is! cried Bonny, coming back with his head on his chest, and meaning (in the idiom of the land) that now he was beaten, and would hold parley. To be sure, it is! the rector answered, keeping a good balance on his pony, and well pleased with his own tactics. He might have chased Bonny for an hour in vain, through the furze, and heather, and blackberries; but here he had him at his mercy quite, through his knowledge of human nature. To put it coarsely--as the rector did in his mental process haply--the bigger thief anybody is, the more sacred to him is his property. Not that Bonny was a thief at all; still, that was how Mr. Hales looked at it. In the flurry of conscience, the boy forgot that a camel might go through the eye of a needle with less exertion than the parish incumbent must use to get into the Bonny-castle. Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! howled Bonny, having no faith in clerical honour, and foreseeing the sack of his palace, and home. Give me that wire, said Mr. Hales, in a voice from the depth of his waistcoat. Now, my boy, would you like to be a good boy? No, sir; no, sir; oh no, plaize, sir! Jack nor me couldn t bear it, sir. Why not, my boy? It is such a fine thing. Your face shows that you are a sharp boy. Why do you go on living in a hole, and poaching, and picking, and stealing? Plaize, sir, I never steals nothin , without it is somethin as don t belong to me. That may be. But why should you steal even that? Shall I go in, and steal your things now? Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! Plaize, sir, I ha n t got nothin for e to steal. I am not at all sure of that, said the rector, looking at the hermit s hole longingly; a thief s den is often as good as the bank. Now, who taught you how to make this snare? I thought I knew them all pretty well; but this wire has a dodge quite new to me. Who taught you, you young scamp, this moment? Plaize, sir, I can t tell e, sir. Nobody taught me, as I knows on. You young liar, you couldn t teach yourself. What you mean is, that you don t choose to tell me. Know, I must, and know I will, if I have to thrash it out of you. He had seized him now by his gorgeous waistcoat, and held the strong horsewhip over his back. Now, will you tell, or will you not? I ont, I ont. If e kills me, I ont, the boy cried, wriggling vainly, and with great tears of anticipation rolling down his sun-burnt cheeks. The parson admired the pluck of the boy, knowing his own great strength of course, and feeling that if he began to smite, the swing of his arm would increase his own wrath, and carry him perhaps beyond reason. Therefore he offered him one chance more. Will you tell, sir, or will you not? I ont tell; that I ont, screamed Bonny; and at the word the lash descended. But only once, for the smiter in a moment was made aware of a dusty rush, a sharp roar of wrath, and great teeth flashing under mighty jaws. And perhaps he would never have walked again if he had not most suddenly wheeled his pony, and just escaped a tremendous snap, well aimed at his comely and gaitered calf. Ods bods! cried the parson, as he saw the jackass (with a stretched-out neck, and crest erect, eyes flashing fire, and a lashing tail, and, worst of all terrors, those cavernous jaws) gathering legs for a second charge, like an Attic trireme, Phormio s own, backing water for the diecplus. May I be dashed, the rector shouted, if I deal any more with such animals! If I had only got my hunting-crop; but, kuk, kuk, kuk, pony! Quick, for God s sake! Off with you! With a whack of full power on the pony s flanks, away went he at full gallop; while Jack tossed his white nose with high disdain, and then started at a round trot in pursuit, to scatter them more disgracefully, and after them sent a fine flourish of trumpets, to the grand old national air of hee-haw. While the Rev. Struan Hales was thus in sore discomfiture fleeing away as hard as his pony could be made to go, and casting uneasy glances over one shoulder at his pursuer, behold, he almost rode over a traveller footing it lightly round a corner of the lane! Why, Uncle Struan! exclaimed the latter; is the dragon of St. Leonard s flying after you? Or is this the usual style of riding of the beneficed clergy? Hilary, my dear boy, answered the rector; who would have thought of seeing you? You are just come in time to defend your uncle from a ravenous beast of prey. I was going home to bait a badger, but I have had a pretty good bait myself. Ah, you pagan, you may well be ashamed of yourself, to attack your clergyman! For Jack, perceiving the reinforcement, and eyeing the stout stick which Hilary bore, prudently turned on his tail and departed, well satisfied with his exploit. Why, Hilary, what has brought you home? asked his uncle, when a few words had passed concerning Jack s behaviour. Nobody expects you, that I know of. Your father is a mysterious man; but Alice would have been sure to tell me. Moreover, you must have walked all the way from the stage, by the look of your buckles; or perhaps from Brighton even. No; I took the short cut over the hills, and across by way of Beeding. Nobody expects me, as you say. I am come on important business. And, of course, I am not to know what it is. For mystery, and for keeping secrets, there never was such a family. As if you did not belong to it, uncle! Hilary answered, good-naturedly. I never heard of any secrets that I can remember. And good reason too, replied the rector; they would not long have been secrets, my boy, after they came to your ears, I doubt. Then let me establish my reputation by keeping my own, at any rate. But, after all, it is no secret, uncle. Only, my father ought to know it first. Alas, you rogue, you rogue! Something about money, no doubt. You used to condescend to come to me when you were at school and college. But now, you are too grand for the purse of any poor Sussex rector. I could put off our badger for half-an-hour, if you think you could run down the hill again. I should like you particularly to see young Fox; it will be something grand, my boy. He is the best pup I ever had in all my life. I know him, uncle; I know what he is. I chose him first out of the litter, you know. But you must not think of waiting

inside

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

you refuse to let your own mother know it! Excuse me, but I do not remember saying anything about importance. I am not superstitious enough to suppose that the thing can have any importance. Then why should you make such a fuss about it? Really, Roland, you are sometimes very hard to understand. I was not aware that I had made a fuss, Sir Roland answered, gravely; but if I have, I will make no more. Now, my dear mother, what did you think of that extraordinary bill of Bottler s? Bottler, the pigman, is a rogue, said her ladyship, peremptorily: his father was a rogue before him; and those things run in families. But surely you cannot suppose that this is the proper way to treat the subject. To my mind a most improper way--to condemn a man s bill on the ground that his father transmitted the right to overcharge! Now, my dear son, said Lady Valeria, who never called him her son at all, unless she was put out with him, and her dear son only when she was at the extremity of endurance-- my dear son, these are sad attempts to disguise the real truth from me. The truth I am entitled to know, and the truth I am resolved to know. And I think that you might have paid me the compliment of coming for my advice before. Finding her in this state of mind, and being unable to deny the justice of her claim, Sir Roland was fain at last to make a virtue of necessity, while he marvelled (as so many have done) at the craft of people in spying things, and espying them always wrongly. Is that all? said Lady Valeria, after listening carefully; I thought there must have been something a little better than that, to justify you in making it such a mystery. Nothing but a dusty old document, and a strange-looking package, or case like a cone! However, I do not blame you, my dear Roland, for making so small a discovery. The old astrologer appears to me to have grown a little childish. Now, as I keep to the old-fashioned hours, I will ask you to ring the bell for my tea; and while it is being prepared, you can fetch me the case itself, and the document to examine. To be sure, my dear mother, if you will only promise to obey the commands of the document. Roland, I have lived too long ever to promise anything. You shall read me these orders, and then I can judge. I will make no fuss about such a trifle, he answered, with a pleasant smile; of course you will do what is honourable. Surely men, although they deny so ferociously this impeachment, are open at times to at least a little side-eddy of curiosity; Sir Roland, no doubt, was desirous to know what were the contents of that old case, which Alice had taken for a dirty cushion, as it lay at the back of the cupboard in the wall; while his honour would not allow him comfortably to disobey the testator s wish. At the same time he felt, every now and then, that to treat such a matter in a serious light, was a proof of superstition, or even childishness, on his part. And now, if his mother should so regard it, he was not at all sure that he ought to take the unpleasant course of opposing her. CHAPTER XXII. A MALIGNANT CASE. Sir Roland smiled at his mother s position, and air of stern attention, as he came back from his book-room with a small but heavy oaken box. This he placed on a chair, and without any mystery, unlocked it. But no sooner had he flung back the lid and shown the case above described, than he was quite astonished at the expression of Lady Valeria s face. Something more than fear, a sudden terror, as if at the sight of something fatal, had taken the pale tint out of her cheeks, and made her fine forehead quiver. Dear mother, how foolish I am, he said, to worry you with these trifles! I wish I had kept to my own opinion---- It is no trifle; you would have been wrong to treat it as a trifle. I have lived a long life, and seen many strange things; it takes more than a trifle to frighten me. For a minute or two she lay back, and was not fit to speak or be spoken to; only she managed to stop her son from ringing for her maid or the housekeeper. He had never beheld her so scared before, and could scarcely make out her signs to him that she needed no attendance. Like most men who are at all good and just, Sir Roland was prone to think softly and calmly, instead of acting rapidly; and now his mother, so advanced in years, showed less hesitation than he did. Recovering, ere long, from that sudden shock, she managed to smile at herself and at his anxiety about her. Now, Roland, I will not meddle with this formidable and clumsy thing. It seems to be closed most jealously. It has kept for two centuries, and may keep for two more, so far as I am concerned. But if it will not be too troublesome to you, I should like to hear what is said about it. In this old document, madam? Do you see how strangely it has been folded? Whoever did that knew a great deal more than now we know about folding. The writing to me seems more strange than the folding. What a cramped hand! In what language is it written? In Greek, the old Greek character, and the Doric dialect. He seems to have been proud of his classic descent, and perhaps Dorian lineage. But he placed a great deal too much faith in the attainments of his descendants. Poor Sedley would have read it straight off, I daresay; but the contractions, and even some of the characters, puzzled me dreadfully. I have kept up, as you know, dear mother, whatever little Greek I was taught, and perhaps have added to it; but my old Hedericus was needed a great many times, I assure you, before I got through this queer document; and even now I am not quite certain of the meaning of one or two passages. You see at the head a number of what I took at first to be hieroglyphics of some kind or other; but I find that they are astral or sidereal signs, for which I am none the wiser, though perhaps an astronomer would be. This, for instance, appears to mean the conjunction of some two planets, and this---- Never mind them, Roland. Read me what you have made out of the writing. Very well, mother. But if I am at fault, you must have patience with me, for I am not perfect in my lesson yet. Thus it begins:-- Behold, ye men, who shall be hereafter, and pay heed to this matter. A certain Carian, noble by birth and of noble character, to whom is the not inglorious name, Agasicles Syennesis, hath lived not in the pursuit of wealth, or power, or reputation, but in the unbroken study of the most excellent arts and philosophies. Especially in the heavenly stars, and signs of the everlasting kosmos, hath he disciplined his mind, and surpassed all that went before him. There is nothing like self-praise, is there, now, dear mother? I have no doubt that he speaks the truth, answered the Lady Valeria: I did not marry into a family accustomed to exaggerate. Then what do you think of this? Not only in intellect and forethought, but also in goodwill and philanthropy, modesty, and self-forgetfulness, did this man win the prize of excellence; and he it is who now speaks to you. Having lived much time in a barbarous island, cold, and blown over with vaporous air, he is no longer of such a sort as he was in the land of the fair afternoons. And there is when it is to his mind a manifest and established thing, that the gates of Hades are open for him, and the time of being no longer. But he holds this to be of the smallest difference, if only the gods produce his time to the perfect end of all the things lying now before him. How good, and how truly pious of him, Roland? Such a man s daughter never could have had any right to run away from him. My dear mother, I disagree with you, if he always praised himself in that style. But let him speak for himself again, as he seems to know very well how to do: These things have not been said, indeed, for the sake of any boasting, but rather to bring out thoroughly forward the truth in these things lying under, as if it were a pavement of adamant. Now, therefore, know ye, that Agasicles, carefully pondering everything, has found (so to say the word) an end to accomplish, and to abide in. And this is no other thing, than to save the generations descended from him, from great evil fortunes about to fall, by the ill-will of some divinity, at a destined time, upon them. For a man, of birth so renowned and lofty, has not been made to resemble a hand-worker, or a runaway slave; but has many stars regarding him, from many generations. And now he perceives, that his skill and wisdom were not given to him to be a mere personal adornment; but that he might protect his descendants, to the remote futurity. To him, then--it having been revealed, that in the seventh generation hence, as has often come to pass with our house, or haply in the tenth (for the time is misty), a great calamity is bound to happen to those born afar off from Syennesis--the sage has laboured many labours, though he cannot avert, at least to make it milder, and to lessen it. He has not, indeed, been made to know, at least up to the present time, what this bane will be; or whether after the second, or after the third century from this period. But knowing the swiftness of evil chance, he expects it at the earlier time; and whatever its manner or kind may be, Agasicles in all his discoveries has discovered no cure for human evils, save that which he now has shut up in a box. This box has been so constructed, that nothing but dust will meet the greedy eyes of any who force it open, in the manner of the tomb of Nitocris. But if be opened with the proper key, and after the proper interval, when the due need has arisen--there will be a fairer sight than ever broke upon mortal eyes before. There mother, now, what do you think of all that? I am quite out of breath with my long translation, and I am not quite sure of all of it. For instance, where he says---- Roland, his mother answered quickly, I am now much older than the prince, according to tradition, can have been. But I make no pretence to his wisdom; and I have reasons of my own for wondering. What have you done with the key of that case? I have never seen it. It was not in the closet. And I meant to have searched, throughout his room, until I found out the meaning of this very crabbed postscript-- That fool, Memel, hath lost the key. It will cost me months to make another. My hands now tremble, and my eyes are weak. If there be no key found herewith, let it be read that Nature, whom I have vanquished, hath avenged herself. Whether, or no, have I laboured in vain? Be blest now, and bless me, my dear descendants. That appears to me, said the Lady Valeria, being left in good manners by her son, to express the first opinion, to be of the whole of this strange affair the part that is least satisfactory. My dear mother, you have hit the mark. What satisfaction can one find in having a case without a key, and knowing that if we force it open there will be nothing but dust inside? Not a quarter so good as a snuff-box. I must have a pinch, my dear mother, excuse me, while you meditate on this subject. You are far more indulgent in that respect than little Alice ever is. All gentlemen take snuff, said the lady; who is Alice, to lay down the law? Your father took a boxful three times a week. Roland, you let that young girl take great liberties with you. It is not so much that I let her take them. I have no voice in the matter now. She takes them without asking me. Possibly that is the great calamity foretold by the astrologer. If not, what other can it be, do you think? Not so, she answered, with a serious air, for all her experience of the witty world had left her old age quite dry of humour; the trouble, if any is coming, will not be through Alice, but through Hilary. Alice is certainly a flighty girl, romantic, and full of nonsense, and not at all such as she might have been, if left more in my society. However, she never has thought it worth while to associate much with her grandmother; the result of which is that her manners are unformed, and her mind is full of nonsense. But she has plenty, and (if it were possible) too much of that great preservative--pride of birth. Alice may come to affliction herself; but she never will involve her family. Any affliction of hers, said Sir Roland, will involve at least her father. Yes, yes, of course. But what I mean is the honour and rank of the family. It is my favourite Hilary, my dear, brave, handsome Hilary, who is likely to bring care on our heads, or rather upon your head, Roland; my time, of course, will be over then, unless he is very quick about it. He will not be so quick as that, I hope, Sir Roland answered, with some little confusion of proper sentiments; although in that hotbed of mischief, London, nobody knows when he may begin. However, he is not in London at present, according to your friend Lady de Lampnor. I think you said you had heard so from her. To be sure, Mr. Malahide told her himself. The dear boy has overworked himself so, that he has gone to some healthy and quiet place, to recruit his exhausted energies. Dear me, said Sir Roland, I could never believe it, unless I knew from experience, what a very little work is enough to upset him. To write a letter to his father, for instance, is so severe an exertion, that he requires a holiday the next day. Now, Roland, don t be so hard upon him. You would apprentice him to that vile law, which is quite unfit for a gentleman. I am not surprised at his being overcome by such odious labour; you would not take my advice, remember, and put him into the only profession fit for one of his birth--the army. Whatever happens, the fault is your own. It is clear, however, that he cannot get into much mischief where he is just now--a rural and quiet part of Kent, she says. It shows the innocence of his heart to go there. Very likely. But if he wanted change, he might have asked leave to come home, I think. However, we shall have him here soon enough. How you speak, Roland! Quite as if you cared not a farthing for your only son! It must be dreadfully galling to him, to see how you prefer that Alice. If he is galled, he never winces, answered Sir Roland with a quiet smile; he is the most careless fellow in the world. And the most good-natured, and the most affectionate, said Lady Valeria, warmly; nothing else could keep him from being jealous, as nine out of ten would be. However, I am tired of talking now, and on that subject I might talk for ever. Take away that case, if you please, and the writing. On no account would I have them left here. Of course you will lock them away securely, and not think of meddling with them. What is that case made of? I can scarcely make out. Something strong and heavy. A mixture, I think, of shagreen and some metal. But the oddest thing of all is the keyhole. It is at the top of the cone, you see, and of the strangest shape, an irregular heptagon, with some rare complications of points inside. It would be next to impossible to open this case, without shattering it altogether. I do not wish to examine the case, I wish to have it taken away, my son. There, there, I am very glad not to see it; although I am sure I am not superstitious. We shall do very well, I trust, without it. I think it is a most extraordinary thing that your father never consulted me about the writing handed down to you. He must have been bound by some pledge not to do so. There, Roland, I am tired of the subject. With these words the ancient lady waved her delicate hand, and dismissed her son, who kissed her white forehead, according to usage, and then departed with case and parchment locked in the oaken box again. But the more he thought over her behaviour, the more he was puzzled about it. He had fully expected a command to open the case, at whatever hazard; and perhaps he had been disappointed at receiving no such order. But above all, he wanted to know why his mother should have been taken aback, as she was, by the sight of these little things. For few people, even in the prime of life, possessed more self-command and courage than Lady Valeria, now advancing into her eighty-second year. CHAPTER XXIII. THE BAITER BAITED. At the top of the hill, these lofty themes were being handled worthily; while, at the bottom, little cares had equal glance of the democrat sun, but no stars allotted to regard them. In plain English,--Bonny and Jack were as busy as their betters. They had taken their usual round that morning, seeking the staff of life--if that staff be applicable to a donkey--in village, hamlet, and farm-house, or among the lanes and hedges. The sympathy and goodwill between them daily grew more intimate, and their tastes more similar; so that it scarcely seemed impossible that Bonny in the end might learn to eat clover, and Jack to rejoice in money. Open air, and roving life, the ups and downs of want and weal, the freedom of having nothing to lose, and the joyful luck of finding things--these, and perhaps a little spice of unknown sweetness in living at large on their fellow-creatures labours, combined to make them as happy a pair, as the day was long, or the weather good. In the winter--ah! why should we think of such trouble? Perhaps there will never be winter again. At any rate, Bonny was sitting in front of the door of his castle (or rather in front of the doorway, because he was happy enough not to have a door), as proud and contented as if there could never be any more winter of discontent. He had picked up a hat in a ditch that day, lost by some man going home from his inn; and knowing from his patron, the pigman Bottler, that the surest token of a blameless life is to be found in the hat of a man, the boy, stirred by the first heave of ambition, had put on this hat, and was practising hat-craft (having gone with his head as it was born hitherto), to the utter surprise, and with the puzzled protest, of his beloved donkey. It was a most steady church-going hat of the chimney-pot order (then newly imported into benighted regions, but now of the essence of a godly life all over this free country), neither was it such a shocking bad hat as a man would cast away, if his wife were near. For Bonny s young head it was a world too wide, but he had padded it with a blackbird s nest; and though it seemed scarcely in harmony with his rakish waistcoat, and bare red shanks (spread on the grass for exhibition, and starred with myriad furze and bramble), still he was conscious of a distinguished air, and nodded to the donkey to look at him. While these were gazing at one another, with free interchange of opinion, the rector of the parish, on his little pony, turned the corner bluntly. He was on his way home, at the bottom of the coombe, not in the very best temper perhaps, in spite of the sport in prospect; because Sir Roland had met so unkindly his kind desire to know things. What have you got on your lap, boy? Mr. Hales so strongly shouted, that sulky Echo pricked her ears; and on your lap, boy, went all up the lonely coombe melodiously. Bonny knew well what was on his lap--a cleverly-plaited hare-wire. Bottler had shown him how to do it, and now he was practising diligently, under the auspices of his first hat. Mr. Hales was a beak, of course; and the aquiline beak of the neighbourhood. Bonny had the honour of his acquaintance, in that fierce aspect, and in no other. The little boy knew that there was a church, and that great people went there once a-week, for still greater people to blow them up. But this only made him the more uneasy, to clap his bright eyes on the parson. Hold there! whoa! called the Rev. Struan, as Bonny for his life began to cut away; boy, I want to talk to you. Bonny was by no means touched with this very fine benevolence. Taking, perhaps, a low view of duty, he made the ground hot, to escape what we now call the sacerdotal office. But Struan Hales (unlike our parsons) knew how to manage the laity. He clapped himself and his pony, in no time, between Master Bonny and his hole, and then in calm dignity called a halt, with his riding-whip ready at his button-hole. It is--it is--it is! cried Bonny, coming back with his head on his chest, and meaning (in the idiom of the land) that now he was beaten, and would hold parley. To be sure, it is! the rector answered, keeping a good balance on his pony, and well pleased with his own tactics. He might have chased Bonny for an hour in vain, through the furze, and heather, and blackberries; but here he had him at his mercy quite, through his knowledge of human nature. To put it coarsely--as the rector did in his mental process haply--the bigger thief anybody is, the more sacred to him is his property. Not that Bonny was a thief at all; still, that was how Mr. Hales looked at it. In the flurry of conscience, the boy forgot that a camel might go through the eye of a needle with less exertion than the parish incumbent must use to get into the Bonny-castle. Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! howled Bonny, having no faith in clerical honour, and foreseeing the sack of his palace, and home. Give me that wire, said Mr. Hales, in a voice from the depth of his waistcoat. Now, my boy, would you like to be a good boy? No, sir; no, sir; oh no, plaize, sir! Jack nor me couldn t bear it, sir. Why not, my boy? It is such a fine thing. Your face shows that you are a sharp boy. Why do you go on living in a hole, and poaching, and picking, and stealing? Plaize, sir, I never steals nothin , without it is somethin as don t belong to me. That may be. But why should you steal even that? Shall I go in, and steal your things now? Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! Plaize, sir, I ha n t got nothin for e to steal. I am not at all sure of that, said the rector, looking at the hermit s hole longingly; a thief s den is often as good as the bank. Now, who taught you how to make this snare? I thought I knew them all pretty well; but this wire has a dodge quite new to me. Who taught you, you young scamp, this moment? Plaize, sir, I can t tell e, sir. Nobody taught me, as I knows on. You young liar, you couldn t teach yourself. What you mean is, that you don t choose to tell me. Know, I must, and know I will, if I have to thrash it out of you. He had seized him now by his gorgeous waistcoat, and held the strong horsewhip over his back. Now, will you tell, or will you not? I ont, I ont. If e kills me, I ont, the boy cried, wriggling vainly, and with great tears of anticipation rolling down his sun-burnt cheeks. The parson admired the pluck of the boy, knowing his own great strength of course, and feeling that if he began to smite, the swing of his arm would increase his own wrath, and carry him perhaps beyond reason. Therefore he offered him one chance more. Will you tell, sir, or will you not? I ont tell; that I ont, screamed Bonny; and at the word the lash descended. But only once, for the smiter in a moment was made aware of a dusty rush, a sharp roar of wrath, and great teeth flashing under mighty jaws. And perhaps he would never have walked again if he had not most suddenly wheeled his pony, and just escaped a tremendous snap, well aimed at his comely and gaitered calf. Ods bods! cried the parson, as he saw the jackass (with a stretched-out neck, and crest erect, eyes flashing fire, and a lashing tail, and, worst of all terrors, those cavernous jaws) gathering legs for a second charge, like an Attic trireme, Phormio s own, backing water for the diecplus. May I be dashed, the rector shouted, if I deal any more with such animals! If I had only got my hunting-crop; but, kuk, kuk, kuk, pony! Quick, for God s sake! Off with you! With a whack of full power on the pony s flanks, away went he at full gallop; while Jack tossed his white nose with high disdain, and then started at a round trot in pursuit, to scatter them more disgracefully, and after them sent a fine flourish of trumpets, to the grand old national air of hee-haw. While the Rev. Struan Hales was thus in sore discomfiture fleeing away as hard as his pony could be made to go, and casting uneasy glances over one shoulder at his pursuer, behold, he almost rode over a traveller footing it lightly round a corner of the lane! Why, Uncle Struan! exclaimed the latter; is the dragon of St. Leonard s flying after you? Or is this the usual style of riding of the beneficed clergy? Hilary, my dear boy, answered the rector; who would have thought of seeing you? You are just come in time to defend your uncle from a ravenous beast of prey. I was going home to bait a badger, but I have had a pretty good bait myself. Ah, you pagan, you may well be ashamed of yourself, to attack your clergyman! For Jack, perceiving the reinforcement, and eyeing the stout stick which Hilary bore, prudently turned on his tail and departed, well satisfied with his exploit. Why, Hilary, what has brought you home? asked his uncle, when a few words had passed concerning Jack s behaviour. Nobody expects you, that I know of. Your father is a mysterious man; but Alice would have been sure to tell me. Moreover, you must have walked all the way from the stage, by the look of your buckles; or perhaps from Brighton even. No; I took the short cut over the hills, and across by way of Beeding. Nobody expects me, as you say. I am come on important business. And, of course, I am not to know what it is. For mystery, and for keeping secrets, there never was such a family. As if you did not belong to it, uncle! Hilary answered, good-naturedly. I never heard of any secrets that I can remember. And good reason too, replied the rector; they would not long have been secrets, my boy, after they came to your ears, I doubt. Then let me establish my reputation by keeping my own, at any rate. But, after all, it is no secret, uncle. Only, my father ought to know it first. Alas, you rogue, you rogue! Something about money, no doubt. You used to condescend to come to me when you were at school and college. But now, you are too grand for the purse of any poor Sussex rector. I could put off our badger for half-an-hour, if you think you could run down the hill again. I should like you particularly to see young Fox; it will be something grand, my boy. He is the best pup I ever had in all my life. I know him, uncle; I know what he is. I chose him first out of the litter, you know. But you must not think of waiting

extraordinary

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

you refuse to let your own mother know it! Excuse me, but I do not remember saying anything about importance. I am not superstitious enough to suppose that the thing can have any importance. Then why should you make such a fuss about it? Really, Roland, you are sometimes very hard to understand. I was not aware that I had made a fuss, Sir Roland answered, gravely; but if I have, I will make no more. Now, my dear mother, what did you think of that extraordinary bill of Bottler s? Bottler, the pigman, is a rogue, said her ladyship, peremptorily: his father was a rogue before him; and those things run in families. But surely you cannot suppose that this is the proper way to treat the subject. To my mind a most improper way--to condemn a man s bill on the ground that his father transmitted the right to overcharge! Now, my dear son, said Lady Valeria, who never called him her son at all, unless she was put out with him, and her dear son only when she was at the extremity of endurance-- my dear son, these are sad attempts to disguise the real truth from me. The truth I am entitled to know, and the truth I am resolved to know. And I think that you might have paid me the compliment of coming for my advice before. Finding her in this state of mind, and being unable to deny the justice of her claim, Sir Roland was fain at last to make a virtue of necessity, while he marvelled (as so many have done) at the craft of people in spying things, and espying them always wrongly. Is that all? said Lady Valeria, after listening carefully; I thought there must have been something a little better than that, to justify you in making it such a mystery. Nothing but a dusty old document, and a strange-looking package, or case like a cone! However, I do not blame you, my dear Roland, for making so small a discovery. The old astrologer appears to me to have grown a little childish. Now, as I keep to the old-fashioned hours, I will ask you to ring the bell for my tea; and while it is being prepared, you can fetch me the case itself, and the document to examine. To be sure, my dear mother, if you will only promise to obey the commands of the document. Roland, I have lived too long ever to promise anything. You shall read me these orders, and then I can judge. I will make no fuss about such a trifle, he answered, with a pleasant smile; of course you will do what is honourable. Surely men, although they deny so ferociously this impeachment, are open at times to at least a little side-eddy of curiosity; Sir Roland, no doubt, was desirous to know what were the contents of that old case, which Alice had taken for a dirty cushion, as it lay at the back of the cupboard in the wall; while his honour would not allow him comfortably to disobey the testator s wish. At the same time he felt, every now and then, that to treat such a matter in a serious light, was a proof of superstition, or even childishness, on his part. And now, if his mother should so regard it, he was not at all sure that he ought to take the unpleasant course of opposing her. CHAPTER XXII. A MALIGNANT CASE. Sir Roland smiled at his mother s position, and air of stern attention, as he came back from his book-room with a small but heavy oaken box. This he placed on a chair, and without any mystery, unlocked it. But no sooner had he flung back the lid and shown the case above described, than he was quite astonished at the expression of Lady Valeria s face. Something more than fear, a sudden terror, as if at the sight of something fatal, had taken the pale tint out of her cheeks, and made her fine forehead quiver. Dear mother, how foolish I am, he said, to worry you with these trifles! I wish I had kept to my own opinion---- It is no trifle; you would have been wrong to treat it as a trifle. I have lived a long life, and seen many strange things; it takes more than a trifle to frighten me. For a minute or two she lay back, and was not fit to speak or be spoken to; only she managed to stop her son from ringing for her maid or the housekeeper. He had never beheld her so scared before, and could scarcely make out her signs to him that she needed no attendance. Like most men who are at all good and just, Sir Roland was prone to think softly and calmly, instead of acting rapidly; and now his mother, so advanced in years, showed less hesitation than he did. Recovering, ere long, from that sudden shock, she managed to smile at herself and at his anxiety about her. Now, Roland, I will not meddle with this formidable and clumsy thing. It seems to be closed most jealously. It has kept for two centuries, and may keep for two more, so far as I am concerned. But if it will not be too troublesome to you, I should like to hear what is said about it. In this old document, madam? Do you see how strangely it has been folded? Whoever did that knew a great deal more than now we know about folding. The writing to me seems more strange than the folding. What a cramped hand! In what language is it written? In Greek, the old Greek character, and the Doric dialect. He seems to have been proud of his classic descent, and perhaps Dorian lineage. But he placed a great deal too much faith in the attainments of his descendants. Poor Sedley would have read it straight off, I daresay; but the contractions, and even some of the characters, puzzled me dreadfully. I have kept up, as you know, dear mother, whatever little Greek I was taught, and perhaps have added to it; but my old Hedericus was needed a great many times, I assure you, before I got through this queer document; and even now I am not quite certain of the meaning of one or two passages. You see at the head a number of what I took at first to be hieroglyphics of some kind or other; but I find that they are astral or sidereal signs, for which I am none the wiser, though perhaps an astronomer would be. This, for instance, appears to mean the conjunction of some two planets, and this---- Never mind them, Roland. Read me what you have made out of the writing. Very well, mother. But if I am at fault, you must have patience with me, for I am not perfect in my lesson yet. Thus it begins:-- Behold, ye men, who shall be hereafter, and pay heed to this matter. A certain Carian, noble by birth and of noble character, to whom is the not inglorious name, Agasicles Syennesis, hath lived not in the pursuit of wealth, or power, or reputation, but in the unbroken study of the most excellent arts and philosophies. Especially in the heavenly stars, and signs of the everlasting kosmos, hath he disciplined his mind, and surpassed all that went before him. There is nothing like self-praise, is there, now, dear mother? I have no doubt that he speaks the truth, answered the Lady Valeria: I did not marry into a family accustomed to exaggerate. Then what do you think of this? Not only in intellect and forethought, but also in goodwill and philanthropy, modesty, and self-forgetfulness, did this man win the prize of excellence; and he it is who now speaks to you. Having lived much time in a barbarous island, cold, and blown over with vaporous air, he is no longer of such a sort as he was in the land of the fair afternoons. And there is when it is to his mind a manifest and established thing, that the gates of Hades are open for him, and the time of being no longer. But he holds this to be of the smallest difference, if only the gods produce his time to the perfect end of all the things lying now before him. How good, and how truly pious of him, Roland? Such a man s daughter never could have had any right to run away from him. My dear mother, I disagree with you, if he always praised himself in that style. But let him speak for himself again, as he seems to know very well how to do: These things have not been said, indeed, for the sake of any boasting, but rather to bring out thoroughly forward the truth in these things lying under, as if it were a pavement of adamant. Now, therefore, know ye, that Agasicles, carefully pondering everything, has found (so to say the word) an end to accomplish, and to abide in. And this is no other thing, than to save the generations descended from him, from great evil fortunes about to fall, by the ill-will of some divinity, at a destined time, upon them. For a man, of birth so renowned and lofty, has not been made to resemble a hand-worker, or a runaway slave; but has many stars regarding him, from many generations. And now he perceives, that his skill and wisdom were not given to him to be a mere personal adornment; but that he might protect his descendants, to the remote futurity. To him, then--it having been revealed, that in the seventh generation hence, as has often come to pass with our house, or haply in the tenth (for the time is misty), a great calamity is bound to happen to those born afar off from Syennesis--the sage has laboured many labours, though he cannot avert, at least to make it milder, and to lessen it. He has not, indeed, been made to know, at least up to the present time, what this bane will be; or whether after the second, or after the third century from this period. But knowing the swiftness of evil chance, he expects it at the earlier time; and whatever its manner or kind may be, Agasicles in all his discoveries has discovered no cure for human evils, save that which he now has shut up in a box. This box has been so constructed, that nothing but dust will meet the greedy eyes of any who force it open, in the manner of the tomb of Nitocris. But if be opened with the proper key, and after the proper interval, when the due need has arisen--there will be a fairer sight than ever broke upon mortal eyes before. There mother, now, what do you think of all that? I am quite out of breath with my long translation, and I am not quite sure of all of it. For instance, where he says---- Roland, his mother answered quickly, I am now much older than the prince, according to tradition, can have been. But I make no pretence to his wisdom; and I have reasons of my own for wondering. What have you done with the key of that case? I have never seen it. It was not in the closet. And I meant to have searched, throughout his room, until I found out the meaning of this very crabbed postscript-- That fool, Memel, hath lost the key. It will cost me months to make another. My hands now tremble, and my eyes are weak. If there be no key found herewith, let it be read that Nature, whom I have vanquished, hath avenged herself. Whether, or no, have I laboured in vain? Be blest now, and bless me, my dear descendants. That appears to me, said the Lady Valeria, being left in good manners by her son, to express the first opinion, to be of the whole of this strange affair the part that is least satisfactory. My dear mother, you have hit the mark. What satisfaction can one find in having a case without a key, and knowing that if we force it open there will be nothing but dust inside? Not a quarter so good as a snuff-box. I must have a pinch, my dear mother, excuse me, while you meditate on this subject. You are far more indulgent in that respect than little Alice ever is. All gentlemen take snuff, said the lady; who is Alice, to lay down the law? Your father took a boxful three times a week. Roland, you let that young girl take great liberties with you. It is not so much that I let her take them. I have no voice in the matter now. She takes them without asking me. Possibly that is the great calamity foretold by the astrologer. If not, what other can it be, do you think? Not so, she answered, with a serious air, for all her experience of the witty world had left her old age quite dry of humour; the trouble, if any is coming, will not be through Alice, but through Hilary. Alice is certainly a flighty girl, romantic, and full of nonsense, and not at all such as she might have been, if left more in my society. However, she never has thought it worth while to associate much with her grandmother; the result of which is that her manners are unformed, and her mind is full of nonsense. But she has plenty, and (if it were possible) too much of that great preservative--pride of birth. Alice may come to affliction herself; but she never will involve her family. Any affliction of hers, said Sir Roland, will involve at least her father. Yes, yes, of course. But what I mean is the honour and rank of the family. It is my favourite Hilary, my dear, brave, handsome Hilary, who is likely to bring care on our heads, or rather upon your head, Roland; my time, of course, will be over then, unless he is very quick about it. He will not be so quick as that, I hope, Sir Roland answered, with some little confusion of proper sentiments; although in that hotbed of mischief, London, nobody knows when he may begin. However, he is not in London at present, according to your friend Lady de Lampnor. I think you said you had heard so from her. To be sure, Mr. Malahide told her himself. The dear boy has overworked himself so, that he has gone to some healthy and quiet place, to recruit his exhausted energies. Dear me, said Sir Roland, I could never believe it, unless I knew from experience, what a very little work is enough to upset him. To write a letter to his father, for instance, is so severe an exertion, that he requires a holiday the next day. Now, Roland, don t be so hard upon him. You would apprentice him to that vile law, which is quite unfit for a gentleman. I am not surprised at his being overcome by such odious labour; you would not take my advice, remember, and put him into the only profession fit for one of his birth--the army. Whatever happens, the fault is your own. It is clear, however, that he cannot get into much mischief where he is just now--a rural and quiet part of Kent, she says. It shows the innocence of his heart to go there. Very likely. But if he wanted change, he might have asked leave to come home, I think. However, we shall have him here soon enough. How you speak, Roland! Quite as if you cared not a farthing for your only son! It must be dreadfully galling to him, to see how you prefer that Alice. If he is galled, he never winces, answered Sir Roland with a quiet smile; he is the most careless fellow in the world. And the most good-natured, and the most affectionate, said Lady Valeria, warmly; nothing else could keep him from being jealous, as nine out of ten would be. However, I am tired of talking now, and on that subject I might talk for ever. Take away that case, if you please, and the writing. On no account would I have them left here. Of course you will lock them away securely, and not think of meddling with them. What is that case made of? I can scarcely make out. Something strong and heavy. A mixture, I think, of shagreen and some metal. But the oddest thing of all is the keyhole. It is at the top of the cone, you see, and of the strangest shape, an irregular heptagon, with some rare complications of points inside. It would be next to impossible to open this case, without shattering it altogether. I do not wish to examine the case, I wish to have it taken away, my son. There, there, I am very glad not to see it; although I am sure I am not superstitious. We shall do very well, I trust, without it. I think it is a most extraordinary thing that your father never consulted me about the writing handed down to you. He must have been bound by some pledge not to do so. There, Roland, I am tired of the subject. With these words the ancient lady waved her delicate hand, and dismissed her son, who kissed her white forehead, according to usage, and then departed with case and parchment locked in the oaken box again. But the more he thought over her behaviour, the more he was puzzled about it. He had fully expected a command to open the case, at whatever hazard; and perhaps he had been disappointed at receiving no such order. But above all, he wanted to know why his mother should have been taken aback, as she was, by the sight of these little things. For few people, even in the prime of life, possessed more self-command and courage than Lady Valeria, now advancing into her eighty-second year. CHAPTER XXIII. THE BAITER BAITED. At the top of the hill, these lofty themes were being handled worthily; while, at the bottom, little cares had equal glance of the democrat sun, but no stars allotted to regard them. In plain English,--Bonny and Jack were as busy as their betters. They had taken their usual round that morning, seeking the staff of life--if that staff be applicable to a donkey--in village, hamlet, and farm-house, or among the lanes and hedges. The sympathy and goodwill between them daily grew more intimate, and their tastes more similar; so that it scarcely seemed impossible that Bonny in the end might learn to eat clover, and Jack to rejoice in money. Open air, and roving life, the ups and downs of want and weal, the freedom of having nothing to lose, and the joyful luck of finding things--these, and perhaps a little spice of unknown sweetness in living at large on their fellow-creatures labours, combined to make them as happy a pair, as the day was long, or the weather good. In the winter--ah! why should we think of such trouble? Perhaps there will never be winter again. At any rate, Bonny was sitting in front of the door of his castle (or rather in front of the doorway, because he was happy enough not to have a door), as proud and contented as if there could never be any more winter of discontent. He had picked up a hat in a ditch that day, lost by some man going home from his inn; and knowing from his patron, the pigman Bottler, that the surest token of a blameless life is to be found in the hat of a man, the boy, stirred by the first heave of ambition, had put on this hat, and was practising hat-craft (having gone with his head as it was born hitherto), to the utter surprise, and with the puzzled protest, of his beloved donkey. It was a most steady church-going hat of the chimney-pot order (then newly imported into benighted regions, but now of the essence of a godly life all over this free country), neither was it such a shocking bad hat as a man would cast away, if his wife were near. For Bonny s young head it was a world too wide, but he had padded it with a blackbird s nest; and though it seemed scarcely in harmony with his rakish waistcoat, and bare red shanks (spread on the grass for exhibition, and starred with myriad furze and bramble), still he was conscious of a distinguished air, and nodded to the donkey to look at him. While these were gazing at one another, with free interchange of opinion, the rector of the parish, on his little pony, turned the corner bluntly. He was on his way home, at the bottom of the coombe, not in the very best temper perhaps, in spite of the sport in prospect; because Sir Roland had met so unkindly his kind desire to know things. What have you got on your lap, boy? Mr. Hales so strongly shouted, that sulky Echo pricked her ears; and on your lap, boy, went all up the lonely coombe melodiously. Bonny knew well what was on his lap--a cleverly-plaited hare-wire. Bottler had shown him how to do it, and now he was practising diligently, under the auspices of his first hat. Mr. Hales was a beak, of course; and the aquiline beak of the neighbourhood. Bonny had the honour of his acquaintance, in that fierce aspect, and in no other. The little boy knew that there was a church, and that great people went there once a-week, for still greater people to blow them up. But this only made him the more uneasy, to clap his bright eyes on the parson. Hold there! whoa! called the Rev. Struan, as Bonny for his life began to cut away; boy, I want to talk to you. Bonny was by no means touched with this very fine benevolence. Taking, perhaps, a low view of duty, he made the ground hot, to escape what we now call the sacerdotal office. But Struan Hales (unlike our parsons) knew how to manage the laity. He clapped himself and his pony, in no time, between Master Bonny and his hole, and then in calm dignity called a halt, with his riding-whip ready at his button-hole. It is--it is--it is! cried Bonny, coming back with his head on his chest, and meaning (in the idiom of the land) that now he was beaten, and would hold parley. To be sure, it is! the rector answered, keeping a good balance on his pony, and well pleased with his own tactics. He might have chased Bonny for an hour in vain, through the furze, and heather, and blackberries; but here he had him at his mercy quite, through his knowledge of human nature. To put it coarsely--as the rector did in his mental process haply--the bigger thief anybody is, the more sacred to him is his property. Not that Bonny was a thief at all; still, that was how Mr. Hales looked at it. In the flurry of conscience, the boy forgot that a camel might go through the eye of a needle with less exertion than the parish incumbent must use to get into the Bonny-castle. Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! howled Bonny, having no faith in clerical honour, and foreseeing the sack of his palace, and home. Give me that wire, said Mr. Hales, in a voice from the depth of his waistcoat. Now, my boy, would you like to be a good boy? No, sir; no, sir; oh no, plaize, sir! Jack nor me couldn t bear it, sir. Why not, my boy? It is such a fine thing. Your face shows that you are a sharp boy. Why do you go on living in a hole, and poaching, and picking, and stealing? Plaize, sir, I never steals nothin , without it is somethin as don t belong to me. That may be. But why should you steal even that? Shall I go in, and steal your things now? Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! Plaize, sir, I ha n t got nothin for e to steal. I am not at all sure of that, said the rector, looking at the hermit s hole longingly; a thief s den is often as good as the bank. Now, who taught you how to make this snare? I thought I knew them all pretty well; but this wire has a dodge quite new to me. Who taught you, you young scamp, this moment? Plaize, sir, I can t tell e, sir. Nobody taught me, as I knows on. You young liar, you couldn t teach yourself. What you mean is, that you don t choose to tell me. Know, I must, and know I will, if I have to thrash it out of you. He had seized him now by his gorgeous waistcoat, and held the strong horsewhip over his back. Now, will you tell, or will you not? I ont, I ont. If e kills me, I ont, the boy cried, wriggling vainly, and with great tears of anticipation rolling down his sun-burnt cheeks. The parson admired the pluck of the boy, knowing his own great strength of course, and feeling that if he began to smite, the swing of his arm would increase his own wrath, and carry him perhaps beyond reason. Therefore he offered him one chance more. Will you tell, sir, or will you not? I ont tell; that I ont, screamed Bonny; and at the word the lash descended. But only once, for the smiter in a moment was made aware of a dusty rush, a sharp roar of wrath, and great teeth flashing under mighty jaws. And perhaps he would never have walked again if he had not most suddenly wheeled his pony, and just escaped a tremendous snap, well aimed at his comely and gaitered calf. Ods bods! cried the parson, as he saw the jackass (with a stretched-out neck, and crest erect, eyes flashing fire, and a lashing tail, and, worst of all terrors, those cavernous jaws) gathering legs for a second charge, like an Attic trireme, Phormio s own, backing water for the diecplus. May I be dashed, the rector shouted, if I deal any more with such animals! If I had only got my hunting-crop; but, kuk, kuk, kuk, pony! Quick, for God s sake! Off with you! With a whack of full power on the pony s flanks, away went he at full gallop; while Jack tossed his white nose with high disdain, and then started at a round trot in pursuit, to scatter them more disgracefully, and after them sent a fine flourish of trumpets, to the grand old national air of hee-haw. While the Rev. Struan Hales was thus in sore discomfiture fleeing away as hard as his pony could be made to go, and casting uneasy glances over one shoulder at his pursuer, behold, he almost rode over a traveller footing it lightly round a corner of the lane! Why, Uncle Struan! exclaimed the latter; is the dragon of St. Leonard s flying after you? Or is this the usual style of riding of the beneficed clergy? Hilary, my dear boy, answered the rector; who would have thought of seeing you? You are just come in time to defend your uncle from a ravenous beast of prey. I was going home to bait a badger, but I have had a pretty good bait myself. Ah, you pagan, you may well be ashamed of yourself, to attack your clergyman! For Jack, perceiving the reinforcement, and eyeing the stout stick which Hilary bore, prudently turned on his tail and departed, well satisfied with his exploit. Why, Hilary, what has brought you home? asked his uncle, when a few words had passed concerning Jack s behaviour. Nobody expects you, that I know of. Your father is a mysterious man; but Alice would have been sure to tell me. Moreover, you must have walked all the way from the stage, by the look of your buckles; or perhaps from Brighton even. No; I took the short cut over the hills, and across by way of Beeding. Nobody expects me, as you say. I am come on important business. And, of course, I am not to know what it is. For mystery, and for keeping secrets, there never was such a family. As if you did not belong to it, uncle! Hilary answered, good-naturedly. I never heard of any secrets that I can remember. And good reason too, replied the rector; they would not long have been secrets, my boy, after they came to your ears, I doubt. Then let me establish my reputation by keeping my own, at any rate. But, after all, it is no secret, uncle. Only, my father ought to know it first. Alas, you rogue, you rogue! Something about money, no doubt. You used to condescend to come to me when you were at school and college. But now, you are too grand for the purse of any poor Sussex rector. I could put off our badger for half-an-hour, if you think you could run down the hill again. I should like you particularly to see young Fox; it will be something grand, my boy. He is the best pup I ever had in all my life. I know him, uncle; I know what he is. I chose him first out of the litter, you know. But you must not think of waiting

involve

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

you refuse to let your own mother know it! Excuse me, but I do not remember saying anything about importance. I am not superstitious enough to suppose that the thing can have any importance. Then why should you make such a fuss about it? Really, Roland, you are sometimes very hard to understand. I was not aware that I had made a fuss, Sir Roland answered, gravely; but if I have, I will make no more. Now, my dear mother, what did you think of that extraordinary bill of Bottler s? Bottler, the pigman, is a rogue, said her ladyship, peremptorily: his father was a rogue before him; and those things run in families. But surely you cannot suppose that this is the proper way to treat the subject. To my mind a most improper way--to condemn a man s bill on the ground that his father transmitted the right to overcharge! Now, my dear son, said Lady Valeria, who never called him her son at all, unless she was put out with him, and her dear son only when she was at the extremity of endurance-- my dear son, these are sad attempts to disguise the real truth from me. The truth I am entitled to know, and the truth I am resolved to know. And I think that you might have paid me the compliment of coming for my advice before. Finding her in this state of mind, and being unable to deny the justice of her claim, Sir Roland was fain at last to make a virtue of necessity, while he marvelled (as so many have done) at the craft of people in spying things, and espying them always wrongly. Is that all? said Lady Valeria, after listening carefully; I thought there must have been something a little better than that, to justify you in making it such a mystery. Nothing but a dusty old document, and a strange-looking package, or case like a cone! However, I do not blame you, my dear Roland, for making so small a discovery. The old astrologer appears to me to have grown a little childish. Now, as I keep to the old-fashioned hours, I will ask you to ring the bell for my tea; and while it is being prepared, you can fetch me the case itself, and the document to examine. To be sure, my dear mother, if you will only promise to obey the commands of the document. Roland, I have lived too long ever to promise anything. You shall read me these orders, and then I can judge. I will make no fuss about such a trifle, he answered, with a pleasant smile; of course you will do what is honourable. Surely men, although they deny so ferociously this impeachment, are open at times to at least a little side-eddy of curiosity; Sir Roland, no doubt, was desirous to know what were the contents of that old case, which Alice had taken for a dirty cushion, as it lay at the back of the cupboard in the wall; while his honour would not allow him comfortably to disobey the testator s wish. At the same time he felt, every now and then, that to treat such a matter in a serious light, was a proof of superstition, or even childishness, on his part. And now, if his mother should so regard it, he was not at all sure that he ought to take the unpleasant course of opposing her. CHAPTER XXII. A MALIGNANT CASE. Sir Roland smiled at his mother s position, and air of stern attention, as he came back from his book-room with a small but heavy oaken box. This he placed on a chair, and without any mystery, unlocked it. But no sooner had he flung back the lid and shown the case above described, than he was quite astonished at the expression of Lady Valeria s face. Something more than fear, a sudden terror, as if at the sight of something fatal, had taken the pale tint out of her cheeks, and made her fine forehead quiver. Dear mother, how foolish I am, he said, to worry you with these trifles! I wish I had kept to my own opinion---- It is no trifle; you would have been wrong to treat it as a trifle. I have lived a long life, and seen many strange things; it takes more than a trifle to frighten me. For a minute or two she lay back, and was not fit to speak or be spoken to; only she managed to stop her son from ringing for her maid or the housekeeper. He had never beheld her so scared before, and could scarcely make out her signs to him that she needed no attendance. Like most men who are at all good and just, Sir Roland was prone to think softly and calmly, instead of acting rapidly; and now his mother, so advanced in years, showed less hesitation than he did. Recovering, ere long, from that sudden shock, she managed to smile at herself and at his anxiety about her. Now, Roland, I will not meddle with this formidable and clumsy thing. It seems to be closed most jealously. It has kept for two centuries, and may keep for two more, so far as I am concerned. But if it will not be too troublesome to you, I should like to hear what is said about it. In this old document, madam? Do you see how strangely it has been folded? Whoever did that knew a great deal more than now we know about folding. The writing to me seems more strange than the folding. What a cramped hand! In what language is it written? In Greek, the old Greek character, and the Doric dialect. He seems to have been proud of his classic descent, and perhaps Dorian lineage. But he placed a great deal too much faith in the attainments of his descendants. Poor Sedley would have read it straight off, I daresay; but the contractions, and even some of the characters, puzzled me dreadfully. I have kept up, as you know, dear mother, whatever little Greek I was taught, and perhaps have added to it; but my old Hedericus was needed a great many times, I assure you, before I got through this queer document; and even now I am not quite certain of the meaning of one or two passages. You see at the head a number of what I took at first to be hieroglyphics of some kind or other; but I find that they are astral or sidereal signs, for which I am none the wiser, though perhaps an astronomer would be. This, for instance, appears to mean the conjunction of some two planets, and this---- Never mind them, Roland. Read me what you have made out of the writing. Very well, mother. But if I am at fault, you must have patience with me, for I am not perfect in my lesson yet. Thus it begins:-- Behold, ye men, who shall be hereafter, and pay heed to this matter. A certain Carian, noble by birth and of noble character, to whom is the not inglorious name, Agasicles Syennesis, hath lived not in the pursuit of wealth, or power, or reputation, but in the unbroken study of the most excellent arts and philosophies. Especially in the heavenly stars, and signs of the everlasting kosmos, hath he disciplined his mind, and surpassed all that went before him. There is nothing like self-praise, is there, now, dear mother? I have no doubt that he speaks the truth, answered the Lady Valeria: I did not marry into a family accustomed to exaggerate. Then what do you think of this? Not only in intellect and forethought, but also in goodwill and philanthropy, modesty, and self-forgetfulness, did this man win the prize of excellence; and he it is who now speaks to you. Having lived much time in a barbarous island, cold, and blown over with vaporous air, he is no longer of such a sort as he was in the land of the fair afternoons. And there is when it is to his mind a manifest and established thing, that the gates of Hades are open for him, and the time of being no longer. But he holds this to be of the smallest difference, if only the gods produce his time to the perfect end of all the things lying now before him. How good, and how truly pious of him, Roland? Such a man s daughter never could have had any right to run away from him. My dear mother, I disagree with you, if he always praised himself in that style. But let him speak for himself again, as he seems to know very well how to do: These things have not been said, indeed, for the sake of any boasting, but rather to bring out thoroughly forward the truth in these things lying under, as if it were a pavement of adamant. Now, therefore, know ye, that Agasicles, carefully pondering everything, has found (so to say the word) an end to accomplish, and to abide in. And this is no other thing, than to save the generations descended from him, from great evil fortunes about to fall, by the ill-will of some divinity, at a destined time, upon them. For a man, of birth so renowned and lofty, has not been made to resemble a hand-worker, or a runaway slave; but has many stars regarding him, from many generations. And now he perceives, that his skill and wisdom were not given to him to be a mere personal adornment; but that he might protect his descendants, to the remote futurity. To him, then--it having been revealed, that in the seventh generation hence, as has often come to pass with our house, or haply in the tenth (for the time is misty), a great calamity is bound to happen to those born afar off from Syennesis--the sage has laboured many labours, though he cannot avert, at least to make it milder, and to lessen it. He has not, indeed, been made to know, at least up to the present time, what this bane will be; or whether after the second, or after the third century from this period. But knowing the swiftness of evil chance, he expects it at the earlier time; and whatever its manner or kind may be, Agasicles in all his discoveries has discovered no cure for human evils, save that which he now has shut up in a box. This box has been so constructed, that nothing but dust will meet the greedy eyes of any who force it open, in the manner of the tomb of Nitocris. But if be opened with the proper key, and after the proper interval, when the due need has arisen--there will be a fairer sight than ever broke upon mortal eyes before. There mother, now, what do you think of all that? I am quite out of breath with my long translation, and I am not quite sure of all of it. For instance, where he says---- Roland, his mother answered quickly, I am now much older than the prince, according to tradition, can have been. But I make no pretence to his wisdom; and I have reasons of my own for wondering. What have you done with the key of that case? I have never seen it. It was not in the closet. And I meant to have searched, throughout his room, until I found out the meaning of this very crabbed postscript-- That fool, Memel, hath lost the key. It will cost me months to make another. My hands now tremble, and my eyes are weak. If there be no key found herewith, let it be read that Nature, whom I have vanquished, hath avenged herself. Whether, or no, have I laboured in vain? Be blest now, and bless me, my dear descendants. That appears to me, said the Lady Valeria, being left in good manners by her son, to express the first opinion, to be of the whole of this strange affair the part that is least satisfactory. My dear mother, you have hit the mark. What satisfaction can one find in having a case without a key, and knowing that if we force it open there will be nothing but dust inside? Not a quarter so good as a snuff-box. I must have a pinch, my dear mother, excuse me, while you meditate on this subject. You are far more indulgent in that respect than little Alice ever is. All gentlemen take snuff, said the lady; who is Alice, to lay down the law? Your father took a boxful three times a week. Roland, you let that young girl take great liberties with you. It is not so much that I let her take them. I have no voice in the matter now. She takes them without asking me. Possibly that is the great calamity foretold by the astrologer. If not, what other can it be, do you think? Not so, she answered, with a serious air, for all her experience of the witty world had left her old age quite dry of humour; the trouble, if any is coming, will not be through Alice, but through Hilary. Alice is certainly a flighty girl, romantic, and full of nonsense, and not at all such as she might have been, if left more in my society. However, she never has thought it worth while to associate much with her grandmother; the result of which is that her manners are unformed, and her mind is full of nonsense. But she has plenty, and (if it were possible) too much of that great preservative--pride of birth. Alice may come to affliction herself; but she never will involve her family. Any affliction of hers, said Sir Roland, will involve at least her father. Yes, yes, of course. But what I mean is the honour and rank of the family. It is my favourite Hilary, my dear, brave, handsome Hilary, who is likely to bring care on our heads, or rather upon your head, Roland; my time, of course, will be over then, unless he is very quick about it. He will not be so quick as that, I hope, Sir Roland answered, with some little confusion of proper sentiments; although in that hotbed of mischief, London, nobody knows when he may begin. However, he is not in London at present, according to your friend Lady de Lampnor. I think you said you had heard so from her. To be sure, Mr. Malahide told her himself. The dear boy has overworked himself so, that he has gone to some healthy and quiet place, to recruit his exhausted energies. Dear me, said Sir Roland, I could never believe it, unless I knew from experience, what a very little work is enough to upset him. To write a letter to his father, for instance, is so severe an exertion, that he requires a holiday the next day. Now, Roland, don t be so hard upon him. You would apprentice him to that vile law, which is quite unfit for a gentleman. I am not surprised at his being overcome by such odious labour; you would not take my advice, remember, and put him into the only profession fit for one of his birth--the army. Whatever happens, the fault is your own. It is clear, however, that he cannot get into much mischief where he is just now--a rural and quiet part of Kent, she says. It shows the innocence of his heart to go there. Very likely. But if he wanted change, he might have asked leave to come home, I think. However, we shall have him here soon enough. How you speak, Roland! Quite as if you cared not a farthing for your only son! It must be dreadfully galling to him, to see how you prefer that Alice. If he is galled, he never winces, answered Sir Roland with a quiet smile; he is the most careless fellow in the world. And the most good-natured, and the most affectionate, said Lady Valeria, warmly; nothing else could keep him from being jealous, as nine out of ten would be. However, I am tired of talking now, and on that subject I might talk for ever. Take away that case, if you please, and the writing. On no account would I have them left here. Of course you will lock them away securely, and not think of meddling with them. What is that case made of? I can scarcely make out. Something strong and heavy. A mixture, I think, of shagreen and some metal. But the oddest thing of all is the keyhole. It is at the top of the cone, you see, and of the strangest shape, an irregular heptagon, with some rare complications of points inside. It would be next to impossible to open this case, without shattering it altogether. I do not wish to examine the case, I wish to have it taken away, my son. There, there, I am very glad not to see it; although I am sure I am not superstitious. We shall do very well, I trust, without it. I think it is a most extraordinary thing that your father never consulted me about the writing handed down to you. He must have been bound by some pledge not to do so. There, Roland, I am tired of the subject. With these words the ancient lady waved her delicate hand, and dismissed her son, who kissed her white forehead, according to usage, and then departed with case and parchment locked in the oaken box again. But the more he thought over her behaviour, the more he was puzzled about it. He had fully expected a command to open the case, at whatever hazard; and perhaps he had been disappointed at receiving no such order. But above all, he wanted to know why his mother should have been taken aback, as she was, by the sight of these little things. For few people, even in the prime of life, possessed more self-command and courage than Lady Valeria, now advancing into her eighty-second year. CHAPTER XXIII. THE BAITER BAITED. At the top of the hill, these lofty themes were being handled worthily; while, at the bottom, little cares had equal glance of the democrat sun, but no stars allotted to regard them. In plain English,--Bonny and Jack were as busy as their betters. They had taken their usual round that morning, seeking the staff of life--if that staff be applicable to a donkey--in village, hamlet, and farm-house, or among the lanes and hedges. The sympathy and goodwill between them daily grew more intimate, and their tastes more similar; so that it scarcely seemed impossible that Bonny in the end might learn to eat clover, and Jack to rejoice in money. Open air, and roving life, the ups and downs of want and weal, the freedom of having nothing to lose, and the joyful luck of finding things--these, and perhaps a little spice of unknown sweetness in living at large on their fellow-creatures labours, combined to make them as happy a pair, as the day was long, or the weather good. In the winter--ah! why should we think of such trouble? Perhaps there will never be winter again. At any rate, Bonny was sitting in front of the door of his castle (or rather in front of the doorway, because he was happy enough not to have a door), as proud and contented as if there could never be any more winter of discontent. He had picked up a hat in a ditch that day, lost by some man going home from his inn; and knowing from his patron, the pigman Bottler, that the surest token of a blameless life is to be found in the hat of a man, the boy, stirred by the first heave of ambition, had put on this hat, and was practising hat-craft (having gone with his head as it was born hitherto), to the utter surprise, and with the puzzled protest, of his beloved donkey. It was a most steady church-going hat of the chimney-pot order (then newly imported into benighted regions, but now of the essence of a godly life all over this free country), neither was it such a shocking bad hat as a man would cast away, if his wife were near. For Bonny s young head it was a world too wide, but he had padded it with a blackbird s nest; and though it seemed scarcely in harmony with his rakish waistcoat, and bare red shanks (spread on the grass for exhibition, and starred with myriad furze and bramble), still he was conscious of a distinguished air, and nodded to the donkey to look at him. While these were gazing at one another, with free interchange of opinion, the rector of the parish, on his little pony, turned the corner bluntly. He was on his way home, at the bottom of the coombe, not in the very best temper perhaps, in spite of the sport in prospect; because Sir Roland had met so unkindly his kind desire to know things. What have you got on your lap, boy? Mr. Hales so strongly shouted, that sulky Echo pricked her ears; and on your lap, boy, went all up the lonely coombe melodiously. Bonny knew well what was on his lap--a cleverly-plaited hare-wire. Bottler had shown him how to do it, and now he was practising diligently, under the auspices of his first hat. Mr. Hales was a beak, of course; and the aquiline beak of the neighbourhood. Bonny had the honour of his acquaintance, in that fierce aspect, and in no other. The little boy knew that there was a church, and that great people went there once a-week, for still greater people to blow them up. But this only made him the more uneasy, to clap his bright eyes on the parson. Hold there! whoa! called the Rev. Struan, as Bonny for his life began to cut away; boy, I want to talk to you. Bonny was by no means touched with this very fine benevolence. Taking, perhaps, a low view of duty, he made the ground hot, to escape what we now call the sacerdotal office. But Struan Hales (unlike our parsons) knew how to manage the laity. He clapped himself and his pony, in no time, between Master Bonny and his hole, and then in calm dignity called a halt, with his riding-whip ready at his button-hole. It is--it is--it is! cried Bonny, coming back with his head on his chest, and meaning (in the idiom of the land) that now he was beaten, and would hold parley. To be sure, it is! the rector answered, keeping a good balance on his pony, and well pleased with his own tactics. He might have chased Bonny for an hour in vain, through the furze, and heather, and blackberries; but here he had him at his mercy quite, through his knowledge of human nature. To put it coarsely--as the rector did in his mental process haply--the bigger thief anybody is, the more sacred to him is his property. Not that Bonny was a thief at all; still, that was how Mr. Hales looked at it. In the flurry of conscience, the boy forgot that a camel might go through the eye of a needle with less exertion than the parish incumbent must use to get into the Bonny-castle. Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! howled Bonny, having no faith in clerical honour, and foreseeing the sack of his palace, and home. Give me that wire, said Mr. Hales, in a voice from the depth of his waistcoat. Now, my boy, would you like to be a good boy? No, sir; no, sir; oh no, plaize, sir! Jack nor me couldn t bear it, sir. Why not, my boy? It is such a fine thing. Your face shows that you are a sharp boy. Why do you go on living in a hole, and poaching, and picking, and stealing? Plaize, sir, I never steals nothin , without it is somethin as don t belong to me. That may be. But why should you steal even that? Shall I go in, and steal your things now? Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! Plaize, sir, I ha n t got nothin for e to steal. I am not at all sure of that, said the rector, looking at the hermit s hole longingly; a thief s den is often as good as the bank. Now, who taught you how to make this snare? I thought I knew them all pretty well; but this wire has a dodge quite new to me. Who taught you, you young scamp, this moment? Plaize, sir, I can t tell e, sir. Nobody taught me, as I knows on. You young liar, you couldn t teach yourself. What you mean is, that you don t choose to tell me. Know, I must, and know I will, if I have to thrash it out of you. He had seized him now by his gorgeous waistcoat, and held the strong horsewhip over his back. Now, will you tell, or will you not? I ont, I ont. If e kills me, I ont, the boy cried, wriggling vainly, and with great tears of anticipation rolling down his sun-burnt cheeks. The parson admired the pluck of the boy, knowing his own great strength of course, and feeling that if he began to smite, the swing of his arm would increase his own wrath, and carry him perhaps beyond reason. Therefore he offered him one chance more. Will you tell, sir, or will you not? I ont tell; that I ont, screamed Bonny; and at the word the lash descended. But only once, for the smiter in a moment was made aware of a dusty rush, a sharp roar of wrath, and great teeth flashing under mighty jaws. And perhaps he would never have walked again if he had not most suddenly wheeled his pony, and just escaped a tremendous snap, well aimed at his comely and gaitered calf. Ods bods! cried the parson, as he saw the jackass (with a stretched-out neck, and crest erect, eyes flashing fire, and a lashing tail, and, worst of all terrors, those cavernous jaws) gathering legs for a second charge, like an Attic trireme, Phormio s own, backing water for the diecplus. May I be dashed, the rector shouted, if I deal any more with such animals! If I had only got my hunting-crop; but, kuk, kuk, kuk, pony! Quick, for God s sake! Off with you! With a whack of full power on the pony s flanks, away went he at full gallop; while Jack tossed his white nose with high disdain, and then started at a round trot in pursuit, to scatter them more disgracefully, and after them sent a fine flourish of trumpets, to the grand old national air of hee-haw. While the Rev. Struan Hales was thus in sore discomfiture fleeing away as hard as his pony could be made to go, and casting uneasy glances over one shoulder at his pursuer, behold, he almost rode over a traveller footing it lightly round a corner of the lane! Why, Uncle Struan! exclaimed the latter; is the dragon of St. Leonard s flying after you? Or is this the usual style of riding of the beneficed clergy? Hilary, my dear boy, answered the rector; who would have thought of seeing you? You are just come in time to defend your uncle from a ravenous beast of prey. I was going home to bait a badger, but I have had a pretty good bait myself. Ah, you pagan, you may well be ashamed of yourself, to attack your clergyman! For Jack, perceiving the reinforcement, and eyeing the stout stick which Hilary bore, prudently turned on his tail and departed, well satisfied with his exploit. Why, Hilary, what has brought you home? asked his uncle, when a few words had passed concerning Jack s behaviour. Nobody expects you, that I know of. Your father is a mysterious man; but Alice would have been sure to tell me. Moreover, you must have walked all the way from the stage, by the look of your buckles; or perhaps from Brighton even. No; I took the short cut over the hills, and across by way of Beeding. Nobody expects me, as you say. I am come on important business. And, of course, I am not to know what it is. For mystery, and for keeping secrets, there never was such a family. As if you did not belong to it, uncle! Hilary answered, good-naturedly. I never heard of any secrets that I can remember. And good reason too, replied the rector; they would not long have been secrets, my boy, after they came to your ears, I doubt. Then let me establish my reputation by keeping my own, at any rate. But, after all, it is no secret, uncle. Only, my father ought to know it first. Alas, you rogue, you rogue! Something about money, no doubt. You used to condescend to come to me when you were at school and college. But now, you are too grand for the purse of any poor Sussex rector. I could put off our badger for half-an-hour, if you think you could run down the hill again. I should like you particularly to see young Fox; it will be something grand, my boy. He is the best pup I ever had in all my life. I know him, uncle; I know what he is. I chose him first out of the litter, you know. But you must not think of waiting

syennesis

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

you refuse to let your own mother know it! Excuse me, but I do not remember saying anything about importance. I am not superstitious enough to suppose that the thing can have any importance. Then why should you make such a fuss about it? Really, Roland, you are sometimes very hard to understand. I was not aware that I had made a fuss, Sir Roland answered, gravely; but if I have, I will make no more. Now, my dear mother, what did you think of that extraordinary bill of Bottler s? Bottler, the pigman, is a rogue, said her ladyship, peremptorily: his father was a rogue before him; and those things run in families. But surely you cannot suppose that this is the proper way to treat the subject. To my mind a most improper way--to condemn a man s bill on the ground that his father transmitted the right to overcharge! Now, my dear son, said Lady Valeria, who never called him her son at all, unless she was put out with him, and her dear son only when she was at the extremity of endurance-- my dear son, these are sad attempts to disguise the real truth from me. The truth I am entitled to know, and the truth I am resolved to know. And I think that you might have paid me the compliment of coming for my advice before. Finding her in this state of mind, and being unable to deny the justice of her claim, Sir Roland was fain at last to make a virtue of necessity, while he marvelled (as so many have done) at the craft of people in spying things, and espying them always wrongly. Is that all? said Lady Valeria, after listening carefully; I thought there must have been something a little better than that, to justify you in making it such a mystery. Nothing but a dusty old document, and a strange-looking package, or case like a cone! However, I do not blame you, my dear Roland, for making so small a discovery. The old astrologer appears to me to have grown a little childish. Now, as I keep to the old-fashioned hours, I will ask you to ring the bell for my tea; and while it is being prepared, you can fetch me the case itself, and the document to examine. To be sure, my dear mother, if you will only promise to obey the commands of the document. Roland, I have lived too long ever to promise anything. You shall read me these orders, and then I can judge. I will make no fuss about such a trifle, he answered, with a pleasant smile; of course you will do what is honourable. Surely men, although they deny so ferociously this impeachment, are open at times to at least a little side-eddy of curiosity; Sir Roland, no doubt, was desirous to know what were the contents of that old case, which Alice had taken for a dirty cushion, as it lay at the back of the cupboard in the wall; while his honour would not allow him comfortably to disobey the testator s wish. At the same time he felt, every now and then, that to treat such a matter in a serious light, was a proof of superstition, or even childishness, on his part. And now, if his mother should so regard it, he was not at all sure that he ought to take the unpleasant course of opposing her. CHAPTER XXII. A MALIGNANT CASE. Sir Roland smiled at his mother s position, and air of stern attention, as he came back from his book-room with a small but heavy oaken box. This he placed on a chair, and without any mystery, unlocked it. But no sooner had he flung back the lid and shown the case above described, than he was quite astonished at the expression of Lady Valeria s face. Something more than fear, a sudden terror, as if at the sight of something fatal, had taken the pale tint out of her cheeks, and made her fine forehead quiver. Dear mother, how foolish I am, he said, to worry you with these trifles! I wish I had kept to my own opinion---- It is no trifle; you would have been wrong to treat it as a trifle. I have lived a long life, and seen many strange things; it takes more than a trifle to frighten me. For a minute or two she lay back, and was not fit to speak or be spoken to; only she managed to stop her son from ringing for her maid or the housekeeper. He had never beheld her so scared before, and could scarcely make out her signs to him that she needed no attendance. Like most men who are at all good and just, Sir Roland was prone to think softly and calmly, instead of acting rapidly; and now his mother, so advanced in years, showed less hesitation than he did. Recovering, ere long, from that sudden shock, she managed to smile at herself and at his anxiety about her. Now, Roland, I will not meddle with this formidable and clumsy thing. It seems to be closed most jealously. It has kept for two centuries, and may keep for two more, so far as I am concerned. But if it will not be too troublesome to you, I should like to hear what is said about it. In this old document, madam? Do you see how strangely it has been folded? Whoever did that knew a great deal more than now we know about folding. The writing to me seems more strange than the folding. What a cramped hand! In what language is it written? In Greek, the old Greek character, and the Doric dialect. He seems to have been proud of his classic descent, and perhaps Dorian lineage. But he placed a great deal too much faith in the attainments of his descendants. Poor Sedley would have read it straight off, I daresay; but the contractions, and even some of the characters, puzzled me dreadfully. I have kept up, as you know, dear mother, whatever little Greek I was taught, and perhaps have added to it; but my old Hedericus was needed a great many times, I assure you, before I got through this queer document; and even now I am not quite certain of the meaning of one or two passages. You see at the head a number of what I took at first to be hieroglyphics of some kind or other; but I find that they are astral or sidereal signs, for which I am none the wiser, though perhaps an astronomer would be. This, for instance, appears to mean the conjunction of some two planets, and this---- Never mind them, Roland. Read me what you have made out of the writing. Very well, mother. But if I am at fault, you must have patience with me, for I am not perfect in my lesson yet. Thus it begins:-- Behold, ye men, who shall be hereafter, and pay heed to this matter. A certain Carian, noble by birth and of noble character, to whom is the not inglorious name, Agasicles Syennesis, hath lived not in the pursuit of wealth, or power, or reputation, but in the unbroken study of the most excellent arts and philosophies. Especially in the heavenly stars, and signs of the everlasting kosmos, hath he disciplined his mind, and surpassed all that went before him. There is nothing like self-praise, is there, now, dear mother? I have no doubt that he speaks the truth, answered the Lady Valeria: I did not marry into a family accustomed to exaggerate. Then what do you think of this? Not only in intellect and forethought, but also in goodwill and philanthropy, modesty, and self-forgetfulness, did this man win the prize of excellence; and he it is who now speaks to you. Having lived much time in a barbarous island, cold, and blown over with vaporous air, he is no longer of such a sort as he was in the land of the fair afternoons. And there is when it is to his mind a manifest and established thing, that the gates of Hades are open for him, and the time of being no longer. But he holds this to be of the smallest difference, if only the gods produce his time to the perfect end of all the things lying now before him. How good, and how truly pious of him, Roland? Such a man s daughter never could have had any right to run away from him. My dear mother, I disagree with you, if he always praised himself in that style. But let him speak for himself again, as he seems to know very well how to do: These things have not been said, indeed, for the sake of any boasting, but rather to bring out thoroughly forward the truth in these things lying under, as if it were a pavement of adamant. Now, therefore, know ye, that Agasicles, carefully pondering everything, has found (so to say the word) an end to accomplish, and to abide in. And this is no other thing, than to save the generations descended from him, from great evil fortunes about to fall, by the ill-will of some divinity, at a destined time, upon them. For a man, of birth so renowned and lofty, has not been made to resemble a hand-worker, or a runaway slave; but has many stars regarding him, from many generations. And now he perceives, that his skill and wisdom were not given to him to be a mere personal adornment; but that he might protect his descendants, to the remote futurity. To him, then--it having been revealed, that in the seventh generation hence, as has often come to pass with our house, or haply in the tenth (for the time is misty), a great calamity is bound to happen to those born afar off from Syennesis--the sage has laboured many labours, though he cannot avert, at least to make it milder, and to lessen it. He has not, indeed, been made to know, at least up to the present time, what this bane will be; or whether after the second, or after the third century from this period. But knowing the swiftness of evil chance, he expects it at the earlier time; and whatever its manner or kind may be, Agasicles in all his discoveries has discovered no cure for human evils, save that which he now has shut up in a box. This box has been so constructed, that nothing but dust will meet the greedy eyes of any who force it open, in the manner of the tomb of Nitocris. But if be opened with the proper key, and after the proper interval, when the due need has arisen--there will be a fairer sight than ever broke upon mortal eyes before. There mother, now, what do you think of all that? I am quite out of breath with my long translation, and I am not quite sure of all of it. For instance, where he says---- Roland, his mother answered quickly, I am now much older than the prince, according to tradition, can have been. But I make no pretence to his wisdom; and I have reasons of my own for wondering. What have you done with the key of that case? I have never seen it. It was not in the closet. And I meant to have searched, throughout his room, until I found out the meaning of this very crabbed postscript-- That fool, Memel, hath lost the key. It will cost me months to make another. My hands now tremble, and my eyes are weak. If there be no key found herewith, let it be read that Nature, whom I have vanquished, hath avenged herself. Whether, or no, have I laboured in vain? Be blest now, and bless me, my dear descendants. That appears to me, said the Lady Valeria, being left in good manners by her son, to express the first opinion, to be of the whole of this strange affair the part that is least satisfactory. My dear mother, you have hit the mark. What satisfaction can one find in having a case without a key, and knowing that if we force it open there will be nothing but dust inside? Not a quarter so good as a snuff-box. I must have a pinch, my dear mother, excuse me, while you meditate on this subject. You are far more indulgent in that respect than little Alice ever is. All gentlemen take snuff, said the lady; who is Alice, to lay down the law? Your father took a boxful three times a week. Roland, you let that young girl take great liberties with you. It is not so much that I let her take them. I have no voice in the matter now. She takes them without asking me. Possibly that is the great calamity foretold by the astrologer. If not, what other can it be, do you think? Not so, she answered, with a serious air, for all her experience of the witty world had left her old age quite dry of humour; the trouble, if any is coming, will not be through Alice, but through Hilary. Alice is certainly a flighty girl, romantic, and full of nonsense, and not at all such as she might have been, if left more in my society. However, she never has thought it worth while to associate much with her grandmother; the result of which is that her manners are unformed, and her mind is full of nonsense. But she has plenty, and (if it were possible) too much of that great preservative--pride of birth. Alice may come to affliction herself; but she never will involve her family. Any affliction of hers, said Sir Roland, will involve at least her father. Yes, yes, of course. But what I mean is the honour and rank of the family. It is my favourite Hilary, my dear, brave, handsome Hilary, who is likely to bring care on our heads, or rather upon your head, Roland; my time, of course, will be over then, unless he is very quick about it. He will not be so quick as that, I hope, Sir Roland answered, with some little confusion of proper sentiments; although in that hotbed of mischief, London, nobody knows when he may begin. However, he is not in London at present, according to your friend Lady de Lampnor. I think you said you had heard so from her. To be sure, Mr. Malahide told her himself. The dear boy has overworked himself so, that he has gone to some healthy and quiet place, to recruit his exhausted energies. Dear me, said Sir Roland, I could never believe it, unless I knew from experience, what a very little work is enough to upset him. To write a letter to his father, for instance, is so severe an exertion, that he requires a holiday the next day. Now, Roland, don t be so hard upon him. You would apprentice him to that vile law, which is quite unfit for a gentleman. I am not surprised at his being overcome by such odious labour; you would not take my advice, remember, and put him into the only profession fit for one of his birth--the army. Whatever happens, the fault is your own. It is clear, however, that he cannot get into much mischief where he is just now--a rural and quiet part of Kent, she says. It shows the innocence of his heart to go there. Very likely. But if he wanted change, he might have asked leave to come home, I think. However, we shall have him here soon enough. How you speak, Roland! Quite as if you cared not a farthing for your only son! It must be dreadfully galling to him, to see how you prefer that Alice. If he is galled, he never winces, answered Sir Roland with a quiet smile; he is the most careless fellow in the world. And the most good-natured, and the most affectionate, said Lady Valeria, warmly; nothing else could keep him from being jealous, as nine out of ten would be. However, I am tired of talking now, and on that subject I might talk for ever. Take away that case, if you please, and the writing. On no account would I have them left here. Of course you will lock them away securely, and not think of meddling with them. What is that case made of? I can scarcely make out. Something strong and heavy. A mixture, I think, of shagreen and some metal. But the oddest thing of all is the keyhole. It is at the top of the cone, you see, and of the strangest shape, an irregular heptagon, with some rare complications of points inside. It would be next to impossible to open this case, without shattering it altogether. I do not wish to examine the case, I wish to have it taken away, my son. There, there, I am very glad not to see it; although I am sure I am not superstitious. We shall do very well, I trust, without it. I think it is a most extraordinary thing that your father never consulted me about the writing handed down to you. He must have been bound by some pledge not to do so. There, Roland, I am tired of the subject. With these words the ancient lady waved her delicate hand, and dismissed her son, who kissed her white forehead, according to usage, and then departed with case and parchment locked in the oaken box again. But the more he thought over her behaviour, the more he was puzzled about it. He had fully expected a command to open the case, at whatever hazard; and perhaps he had been disappointed at receiving no such order. But above all, he wanted to know why his mother should have been taken aback, as she was, by the sight of these little things. For few people, even in the prime of life, possessed more self-command and courage than Lady Valeria, now advancing into her eighty-second year. CHAPTER XXIII. THE BAITER BAITED. At the top of the hill, these lofty themes were being handled worthily; while, at the bottom, little cares had equal glance of the democrat sun, but no stars allotted to regard them. In plain English,--Bonny and Jack were as busy as their betters. They had taken their usual round that morning, seeking the staff of life--if that staff be applicable to a donkey--in village, hamlet, and farm-house, or among the lanes and hedges. The sympathy and goodwill between them daily grew more intimate, and their tastes more similar; so that it scarcely seemed impossible that Bonny in the end might learn to eat clover, and Jack to rejoice in money. Open air, and roving life, the ups and downs of want and weal, the freedom of having nothing to lose, and the joyful luck of finding things--these, and perhaps a little spice of unknown sweetness in living at large on their fellow-creatures labours, combined to make them as happy a pair, as the day was long, or the weather good. In the winter--ah! why should we think of such trouble? Perhaps there will never be winter again. At any rate, Bonny was sitting in front of the door of his castle (or rather in front of the doorway, because he was happy enough not to have a door), as proud and contented as if there could never be any more winter of discontent. He had picked up a hat in a ditch that day, lost by some man going home from his inn; and knowing from his patron, the pigman Bottler, that the surest token of a blameless life is to be found in the hat of a man, the boy, stirred by the first heave of ambition, had put on this hat, and was practising hat-craft (having gone with his head as it was born hitherto), to the utter surprise, and with the puzzled protest, of his beloved donkey. It was a most steady church-going hat of the chimney-pot order (then newly imported into benighted regions, but now of the essence of a godly life all over this free country), neither was it such a shocking bad hat as a man would cast away, if his wife were near. For Bonny s young head it was a world too wide, but he had padded it with a blackbird s nest; and though it seemed scarcely in harmony with his rakish waistcoat, and bare red shanks (spread on the grass for exhibition, and starred with myriad furze and bramble), still he was conscious of a distinguished air, and nodded to the donkey to look at him. While these were gazing at one another, with free interchange of opinion, the rector of the parish, on his little pony, turned the corner bluntly. He was on his way home, at the bottom of the coombe, not in the very best temper perhaps, in spite of the sport in prospect; because Sir Roland had met so unkindly his kind desire to know things. What have you got on your lap, boy? Mr. Hales so strongly shouted, that sulky Echo pricked her ears; and on your lap, boy, went all up the lonely coombe melodiously. Bonny knew well what was on his lap--a cleverly-plaited hare-wire. Bottler had shown him how to do it, and now he was practising diligently, under the auspices of his first hat. Mr. Hales was a beak, of course; and the aquiline beak of the neighbourhood. Bonny had the honour of his acquaintance, in that fierce aspect, and in no other. The little boy knew that there was a church, and that great people went there once a-week, for still greater people to blow them up. But this only made him the more uneasy, to clap his bright eyes on the parson. Hold there! whoa! called the Rev. Struan, as Bonny for his life began to cut away; boy, I want to talk to you. Bonny was by no means touched with this very fine benevolence. Taking, perhaps, a low view of duty, he made the ground hot, to escape what we now call the sacerdotal office. But Struan Hales (unlike our parsons) knew how to manage the laity. He clapped himself and his pony, in no time, between Master Bonny and his hole, and then in calm dignity called a halt, with his riding-whip ready at his button-hole. It is--it is--it is! cried Bonny, coming back with his head on his chest, and meaning (in the idiom of the land) that now he was beaten, and would hold parley. To be sure, it is! the rector answered, keeping a good balance on his pony, and well pleased with his own tactics. He might have chased Bonny for an hour in vain, through the furze, and heather, and blackberries; but here he had him at his mercy quite, through his knowledge of human nature. To put it coarsely--as the rector did in his mental process haply--the bigger thief anybody is, the more sacred to him is his property. Not that Bonny was a thief at all; still, that was how Mr. Hales looked at it. In the flurry of conscience, the boy forgot that a camel might go through the eye of a needle with less exertion than the parish incumbent must use to get into the Bonny-castle. Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! howled Bonny, having no faith in clerical honour, and foreseeing the sack of his palace, and home. Give me that wire, said Mr. Hales, in a voice from the depth of his waistcoat. Now, my boy, would you like to be a good boy? No, sir; no, sir; oh no, plaize, sir! Jack nor me couldn t bear it, sir. Why not, my boy? It is such a fine thing. Your face shows that you are a sharp boy. Why do you go on living in a hole, and poaching, and picking, and stealing? Plaize, sir, I never steals nothin , without it is somethin as don t belong to me. That may be. But why should you steal even that? Shall I go in, and steal your things now? Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! Plaize, sir, I ha n t got nothin for e to steal. I am not at all sure of that, said the rector, looking at the hermit s hole longingly; a thief s den is often as good as the bank. Now, who taught you how to make this snare? I thought I knew them all pretty well; but this wire has a dodge quite new to me. Who taught you, you young scamp, this moment? Plaize, sir, I can t tell e, sir. Nobody taught me, as I knows on. You young liar, you couldn t teach yourself. What you mean is, that you don t choose to tell me. Know, I must, and know I will, if I have to thrash it out of you. He had seized him now by his gorgeous waistcoat, and held the strong horsewhip over his back. Now, will you tell, or will you not? I ont, I ont. If e kills me, I ont, the boy cried, wriggling vainly, and with great tears of anticipation rolling down his sun-burnt cheeks. The parson admired the pluck of the boy, knowing his own great strength of course, and feeling that if he began to smite, the swing of his arm would increase his own wrath, and carry him perhaps beyond reason. Therefore he offered him one chance more. Will you tell, sir, or will you not? I ont tell; that I ont, screamed Bonny; and at the word the lash descended. But only once, for the smiter in a moment was made aware of a dusty rush, a sharp roar of wrath, and great teeth flashing under mighty jaws. And perhaps he would never have walked again if he had not most suddenly wheeled his pony, and just escaped a tremendous snap, well aimed at his comely and gaitered calf. Ods bods! cried the parson, as he saw the jackass (with a stretched-out neck, and crest erect, eyes flashing fire, and a lashing tail, and, worst of all terrors, those cavernous jaws) gathering legs for a second charge, like an Attic trireme, Phormio s own, backing water for the diecplus. May I be dashed, the rector shouted, if I deal any more with such animals! If I had only got my hunting-crop; but, kuk, kuk, kuk, pony! Quick, for God s sake! Off with you! With a whack of full power on the pony s flanks, away went he at full gallop; while Jack tossed his white nose with high disdain, and then started at a round trot in pursuit, to scatter them more disgracefully, and after them sent a fine flourish of trumpets, to the grand old national air of hee-haw. While the Rev. Struan Hales was thus in sore discomfiture fleeing away as hard as his pony could be made to go, and casting uneasy glances over one shoulder at his pursuer, behold, he almost rode over a traveller footing it lightly round a corner of the lane! Why, Uncle Struan! exclaimed the latter; is the dragon of St. Leonard s flying after you? Or is this the usual style of riding of the beneficed clergy? Hilary, my dear boy, answered the rector; who would have thought of seeing you? You are just come in time to defend your uncle from a ravenous beast of prey. I was going home to bait a badger, but I have had a pretty good bait myself. Ah, you pagan, you may well be ashamed of yourself, to attack your clergyman! For Jack, perceiving the reinforcement, and eyeing the stout stick which Hilary bore, prudently turned on his tail and departed, well satisfied with his exploit. Why, Hilary, what has brought you home? asked his uncle, when a few words had passed concerning Jack s behaviour. Nobody expects you, that I know of. Your father is a mysterious man; but Alice would have been sure to tell me. Moreover, you must have walked all the way from the stage, by the look of your buckles; or perhaps from Brighton even. No; I took the short cut over the hills, and across by way of Beeding. Nobody expects me, as you say. I am come on important business. And, of course, I am not to know what it is. For mystery, and for keeping secrets, there never was such a family. As if you did not belong to it, uncle! Hilary answered, good-naturedly. I never heard of any secrets that I can remember. And good reason too, replied the rector; they would not long have been secrets, my boy, after they came to your ears, I doubt. Then let me establish my reputation by keeping my own, at any rate. But, after all, it is no secret, uncle. Only, my father ought to know it first. Alas, you rogue, you rogue! Something about money, no doubt. You used to condescend to come to me when you were at school and college. But now, you are too grand for the purse of any poor Sussex rector. I could put off our badger for half-an-hour, if you think you could run down the hill again. I should like you particularly to see young Fox; it will be something grand, my boy. He is the best pup I ever had in all my life. I know him, uncle; I know what he is. I chose him first out of the litter, you know. But you must not think of waiting

greek

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

you refuse to let your own mother know it! Excuse me, but I do not remember saying anything about importance. I am not superstitious enough to suppose that the thing can have any importance. Then why should you make such a fuss about it? Really, Roland, you are sometimes very hard to understand. I was not aware that I had made a fuss, Sir Roland answered, gravely; but if I have, I will make no more. Now, my dear mother, what did you think of that extraordinary bill of Bottler s? Bottler, the pigman, is a rogue, said her ladyship, peremptorily: his father was a rogue before him; and those things run in families. But surely you cannot suppose that this is the proper way to treat the subject. To my mind a most improper way--to condemn a man s bill on the ground that his father transmitted the right to overcharge! Now, my dear son, said Lady Valeria, who never called him her son at all, unless she was put out with him, and her dear son only when she was at the extremity of endurance-- my dear son, these are sad attempts to disguise the real truth from me. The truth I am entitled to know, and the truth I am resolved to know. And I think that you might have paid me the compliment of coming for my advice before. Finding her in this state of mind, and being unable to deny the justice of her claim, Sir Roland was fain at last to make a virtue of necessity, while he marvelled (as so many have done) at the craft of people in spying things, and espying them always wrongly. Is that all? said Lady Valeria, after listening carefully; I thought there must have been something a little better than that, to justify you in making it such a mystery. Nothing but a dusty old document, and a strange-looking package, or case like a cone! However, I do not blame you, my dear Roland, for making so small a discovery. The old astrologer appears to me to have grown a little childish. Now, as I keep to the old-fashioned hours, I will ask you to ring the bell for my tea; and while it is being prepared, you can fetch me the case itself, and the document to examine. To be sure, my dear mother, if you will only promise to obey the commands of the document. Roland, I have lived too long ever to promise anything. You shall read me these orders, and then I can judge. I will make no fuss about such a trifle, he answered, with a pleasant smile; of course you will do what is honourable. Surely men, although they deny so ferociously this impeachment, are open at times to at least a little side-eddy of curiosity; Sir Roland, no doubt, was desirous to know what were the contents of that old case, which Alice had taken for a dirty cushion, as it lay at the back of the cupboard in the wall; while his honour would not allow him comfortably to disobey the testator s wish. At the same time he felt, every now and then, that to treat such a matter in a serious light, was a proof of superstition, or even childishness, on his part. And now, if his mother should so regard it, he was not at all sure that he ought to take the unpleasant course of opposing her. CHAPTER XXII. A MALIGNANT CASE. Sir Roland smiled at his mother s position, and air of stern attention, as he came back from his book-room with a small but heavy oaken box. This he placed on a chair, and without any mystery, unlocked it. But no sooner had he flung back the lid and shown the case above described, than he was quite astonished at the expression of Lady Valeria s face. Something more than fear, a sudden terror, as if at the sight of something fatal, had taken the pale tint out of her cheeks, and made her fine forehead quiver. Dear mother, how foolish I am, he said, to worry you with these trifles! I wish I had kept to my own opinion---- It is no trifle; you would have been wrong to treat it as a trifle. I have lived a long life, and seen many strange things; it takes more than a trifle to frighten me. For a minute or two she lay back, and was not fit to speak or be spoken to; only she managed to stop her son from ringing for her maid or the housekeeper. He had never beheld her so scared before, and could scarcely make out her signs to him that she needed no attendance. Like most men who are at all good and just, Sir Roland was prone to think softly and calmly, instead of acting rapidly; and now his mother, so advanced in years, showed less hesitation than he did. Recovering, ere long, from that sudden shock, she managed to smile at herself and at his anxiety about her. Now, Roland, I will not meddle with this formidable and clumsy thing. It seems to be closed most jealously. It has kept for two centuries, and may keep for two more, so far as I am concerned. But if it will not be too troublesome to you, I should like to hear what is said about it. In this old document, madam? Do you see how strangely it has been folded? Whoever did that knew a great deal more than now we know about folding. The writing to me seems more strange than the folding. What a cramped hand! In what language is it written? In Greek, the old Greek character, and the Doric dialect. He seems to have been proud of his classic descent, and perhaps Dorian lineage. But he placed a great deal too much faith in the attainments of his descendants. Poor Sedley would have read it straight off, I daresay; but the contractions, and even some of the characters, puzzled me dreadfully. I have kept up, as you know, dear mother, whatever little Greek I was taught, and perhaps have added to it; but my old Hedericus was needed a great many times, I assure you, before I got through this queer document; and even now I am not quite certain of the meaning of one or two passages. You see at the head a number of what I took at first to be hieroglyphics of some kind or other; but I find that they are astral or sidereal signs, for which I am none the wiser, though perhaps an astronomer would be. This, for instance, appears to mean the conjunction of some two planets, and this---- Never mind them, Roland. Read me what you have made out of the writing. Very well, mother. But if I am at fault, you must have patience with me, for I am not perfect in my lesson yet. Thus it begins:-- Behold, ye men, who shall be hereafter, and pay heed to this matter. A certain Carian, noble by birth and of noble character, to whom is the not inglorious name, Agasicles Syennesis, hath lived not in the pursuit of wealth, or power, or reputation, but in the unbroken study of the most excellent arts and philosophies. Especially in the heavenly stars, and signs of the everlasting kosmos, hath he disciplined his mind, and surpassed all that went before him. There is nothing like self-praise, is there, now, dear mother? I have no doubt that he speaks the truth, answered the Lady Valeria: I did not marry into a family accustomed to exaggerate. Then what do you think of this? Not only in intellect and forethought, but also in goodwill and philanthropy, modesty, and self-forgetfulness, did this man win the prize of excellence; and he it is who now speaks to you. Having lived much time in a barbarous island, cold, and blown over with vaporous air, he is no longer of such a sort as he was in the land of the fair afternoons. And there is when it is to his mind a manifest and established thing, that the gates of Hades are open for him, and the time of being no longer. But he holds this to be of the smallest difference, if only the gods produce his time to the perfect end of all the things lying now before him. How good, and how truly pious of him, Roland? Such a man s daughter never could have had any right to run away from him. My dear mother, I disagree with you, if he always praised himself in that style. But let him speak for himself again, as he seems to know very well how to do: These things have not been said, indeed, for the sake of any boasting, but rather to bring out thoroughly forward the truth in these things lying under, as if it were a pavement of adamant. Now, therefore, know ye, that Agasicles, carefully pondering everything, has found (so to say the word) an end to accomplish, and to abide in. And this is no other thing, than to save the generations descended from him, from great evil fortunes about to fall, by the ill-will of some divinity, at a destined time, upon them. For a man, of birth so renowned and lofty, has not been made to resemble a hand-worker, or a runaway slave; but has many stars regarding him, from many generations. And now he perceives, that his skill and wisdom were not given to him to be a mere personal adornment; but that he might protect his descendants, to the remote futurity. To him, then--it having been revealed, that in the seventh generation hence, as has often come to pass with our house, or haply in the tenth (for the time is misty), a great calamity is bound to happen to those born afar off from Syennesis--the sage has laboured many labours, though he cannot avert, at least to make it milder, and to lessen it. He has not, indeed, been made to know, at least up to the present time, what this bane will be; or whether after the second, or after the third century from this period. But knowing the swiftness of evil chance, he expects it at the earlier time; and whatever its manner or kind may be, Agasicles in all his discoveries has discovered no cure for human evils, save that which he now has shut up in a box. This box has been so constructed, that nothing but dust will meet the greedy eyes of any who force it open, in the manner of the tomb of Nitocris. But if be opened with the proper key, and after the proper interval, when the due need has arisen--there will be a fairer sight than ever broke upon mortal eyes before. There mother, now, what do you think of all that? I am quite out of breath with my long translation, and I am not quite sure of all of it. For instance, where he says---- Roland, his mother answered quickly, I am now much older than the prince, according to tradition, can have been. But I make no pretence to his wisdom; and I have reasons of my own for wondering. What have you done with the key of that case? I have never seen it. It was not in the closet. And I meant to have searched, throughout his room, until I found out the meaning of this very crabbed postscript-- That fool, Memel, hath lost the key. It will cost me months to make another. My hands now tremble, and my eyes are weak. If there be no key found herewith, let it be read that Nature, whom I have vanquished, hath avenged herself. Whether, or no, have I laboured in vain? Be blest now, and bless me, my dear descendants. That appears to me, said the Lady Valeria, being left in good manners by her son, to express the first opinion, to be of the whole of this strange affair the part that is least satisfactory. My dear mother, you have hit the mark. What satisfaction can one find in having a case without a key, and knowing that if we force it open there will be nothing but dust inside? Not a quarter so good as a snuff-box. I must have a pinch, my dear mother, excuse me, while you meditate on this subject. You are far more indulgent in that respect than little Alice ever is. All gentlemen take snuff, said the lady; who is Alice, to lay down the law? Your father took a boxful three times a week. Roland, you let that young girl take great liberties with you. It is not so much that I let her take them. I have no voice in the matter now. She takes them without asking me. Possibly that is the great calamity foretold by the astrologer. If not, what other can it be, do you think? Not so, she answered, with a serious air, for all her experience of the witty world had left her old age quite dry of humour; the trouble, if any is coming, will not be through Alice, but through Hilary. Alice is certainly a flighty girl, romantic, and full of nonsense, and not at all such as she might have been, if left more in my society. However, she never has thought it worth while to associate much with her grandmother; the result of which is that her manners are unformed, and her mind is full of nonsense. But she has plenty, and (if it were possible) too much of that great preservative--pride of birth. Alice may come to affliction herself; but she never will involve her family. Any affliction of hers, said Sir Roland, will involve at least her father. Yes, yes, of course. But what I mean is the honour and rank of the family. It is my favourite Hilary, my dear, brave, handsome Hilary, who is likely to bring care on our heads, or rather upon your head, Roland; my time, of course, will be over then, unless he is very quick about it. He will not be so quick as that, I hope, Sir Roland answered, with some little confusion of proper sentiments; although in that hotbed of mischief, London, nobody knows when he may begin. However, he is not in London at present, according to your friend Lady de Lampnor. I think you said you had heard so from her. To be sure, Mr. Malahide told her himself. The dear boy has overworked himself so, that he has gone to some healthy and quiet place, to recruit his exhausted energies. Dear me, said Sir Roland, I could never believe it, unless I knew from experience, what a very little work is enough to upset him. To write a letter to his father, for instance, is so severe an exertion, that he requires a holiday the next day. Now, Roland, don t be so hard upon him. You would apprentice him to that vile law, which is quite unfit for a gentleman. I am not surprised at his being overcome by such odious labour; you would not take my advice, remember, and put him into the only profession fit for one of his birth--the army. Whatever happens, the fault is your own. It is clear, however, that he cannot get into much mischief where he is just now--a rural and quiet part of Kent, she says. It shows the innocence of his heart to go there. Very likely. But if he wanted change, he might have asked leave to come home, I think. However, we shall have him here soon enough. How you speak, Roland! Quite as if you cared not a farthing for your only son! It must be dreadfully galling to him, to see how you prefer that Alice. If he is galled, he never winces, answered Sir Roland with a quiet smile; he is the most careless fellow in the world. And the most good-natured, and the most affectionate, said Lady Valeria, warmly; nothing else could keep him from being jealous, as nine out of ten would be. However, I am tired of talking now, and on that subject I might talk for ever. Take away that case, if you please, and the writing. On no account would I have them left here. Of course you will lock them away securely, and not think of meddling with them. What is that case made of? I can scarcely make out. Something strong and heavy. A mixture, I think, of shagreen and some metal. But the oddest thing of all is the keyhole. It is at the top of the cone, you see, and of the strangest shape, an irregular heptagon, with some rare complications of points inside. It would be next to impossible to open this case, without shattering it altogether. I do not wish to examine the case, I wish to have it taken away, my son. There, there, I am very glad not to see it; although I am sure I am not superstitious. We shall do very well, I trust, without it. I think it is a most extraordinary thing that your father never consulted me about the writing handed down to you. He must have been bound by some pledge not to do so. There, Roland, I am tired of the subject. With these words the ancient lady waved her delicate hand, and dismissed her son, who kissed her white forehead, according to usage, and then departed with case and parchment locked in the oaken box again. But the more he thought over her behaviour, the more he was puzzled about it. He had fully expected a command to open the case, at whatever hazard; and perhaps he had been disappointed at receiving no such order. But above all, he wanted to know why his mother should have been taken aback, as she was, by the sight of these little things. For few people, even in the prime of life, possessed more self-command and courage than Lady Valeria, now advancing into her eighty-second year. CHAPTER XXIII. THE BAITER BAITED. At the top of the hill, these lofty themes were being handled worthily; while, at the bottom, little cares had equal glance of the democrat sun, but no stars allotted to regard them. In plain English,--Bonny and Jack were as busy as their betters. They had taken their usual round that morning, seeking the staff of life--if that staff be applicable to a donkey--in village, hamlet, and farm-house, or among the lanes and hedges. The sympathy and goodwill between them daily grew more intimate, and their tastes more similar; so that it scarcely seemed impossible that Bonny in the end might learn to eat clover, and Jack to rejoice in money. Open air, and roving life, the ups and downs of want and weal, the freedom of having nothing to lose, and the joyful luck of finding things--these, and perhaps a little spice of unknown sweetness in living at large on their fellow-creatures labours, combined to make them as happy a pair, as the day was long, or the weather good. In the winter--ah! why should we think of such trouble? Perhaps there will never be winter again. At any rate, Bonny was sitting in front of the door of his castle (or rather in front of the doorway, because he was happy enough not to have a door), as proud and contented as if there could never be any more winter of discontent. He had picked up a hat in a ditch that day, lost by some man going home from his inn; and knowing from his patron, the pigman Bottler, that the surest token of a blameless life is to be found in the hat of a man, the boy, stirred by the first heave of ambition, had put on this hat, and was practising hat-craft (having gone with his head as it was born hitherto), to the utter surprise, and with the puzzled protest, of his beloved donkey. It was a most steady church-going hat of the chimney-pot order (then newly imported into benighted regions, but now of the essence of a godly life all over this free country), neither was it such a shocking bad hat as a man would cast away, if his wife were near. For Bonny s young head it was a world too wide, but he had padded it with a blackbird s nest; and though it seemed scarcely in harmony with his rakish waistcoat, and bare red shanks (spread on the grass for exhibition, and starred with myriad furze and bramble), still he was conscious of a distinguished air, and nodded to the donkey to look at him. While these were gazing at one another, with free interchange of opinion, the rector of the parish, on his little pony, turned the corner bluntly. He was on his way home, at the bottom of the coombe, not in the very best temper perhaps, in spite of the sport in prospect; because Sir Roland had met so unkindly his kind desire to know things. What have you got on your lap, boy? Mr. Hales so strongly shouted, that sulky Echo pricked her ears; and on your lap, boy, went all up the lonely coombe melodiously. Bonny knew well what was on his lap--a cleverly-plaited hare-wire. Bottler had shown him how to do it, and now he was practising diligently, under the auspices of his first hat. Mr. Hales was a beak, of course; and the aquiline beak of the neighbourhood. Bonny had the honour of his acquaintance, in that fierce aspect, and in no other. The little boy knew that there was a church, and that great people went there once a-week, for still greater people to blow them up. But this only made him the more uneasy, to clap his bright eyes on the parson. Hold there! whoa! called the Rev. Struan, as Bonny for his life began to cut away; boy, I want to talk to you. Bonny was by no means touched with this very fine benevolence. Taking, perhaps, a low view of duty, he made the ground hot, to escape what we now call the sacerdotal office. But Struan Hales (unlike our parsons) knew how to manage the laity. He clapped himself and his pony, in no time, between Master Bonny and his hole, and then in calm dignity called a halt, with his riding-whip ready at his button-hole. It is--it is--it is! cried Bonny, coming back with his head on his chest, and meaning (in the idiom of the land) that now he was beaten, and would hold parley. To be sure, it is! the rector answered, keeping a good balance on his pony, and well pleased with his own tactics. He might have chased Bonny for an hour in vain, through the furze, and heather, and blackberries; but here he had him at his mercy quite, through his knowledge of human nature. To put it coarsely--as the rector did in his mental process haply--the bigger thief anybody is, the more sacred to him is his property. Not that Bonny was a thief at all; still, that was how Mr. Hales looked at it. In the flurry of conscience, the boy forgot that a camel might go through the eye of a needle with less exertion than the parish incumbent must use to get into the Bonny-castle. Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! howled Bonny, having no faith in clerical honour, and foreseeing the sack of his palace, and home. Give me that wire, said Mr. Hales, in a voice from the depth of his waistcoat. Now, my boy, would you like to be a good boy? No, sir; no, sir; oh no, plaize, sir! Jack nor me couldn t bear it, sir. Why not, my boy? It is such a fine thing. Your face shows that you are a sharp boy. Why do you go on living in a hole, and poaching, and picking, and stealing? Plaize, sir, I never steals nothin , without it is somethin as don t belong to me. That may be. But why should you steal even that? Shall I go in, and steal your things now? Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! Plaize, sir, I ha n t got nothin for e to steal. I am not at all sure of that, said the rector, looking at the hermit s hole longingly; a thief s den is often as good as the bank. Now, who taught you how to make this snare? I thought I knew them all pretty well; but this wire has a dodge quite new to me. Who taught you, you young scamp, this moment? Plaize, sir, I can t tell e, sir. Nobody taught me, as I knows on. You young liar, you couldn t teach yourself. What you mean is, that you don t choose to tell me. Know, I must, and know I will, if I have to thrash it out of you. He had seized him now by his gorgeous waistcoat, and held the strong horsewhip over his back. Now, will you tell, or will you not? I ont, I ont. If e kills me, I ont, the boy cried, wriggling vainly, and with great tears of anticipation rolling down his sun-burnt cheeks. The parson admired the pluck of the boy, knowing his own great strength of course, and feeling that if he began to smite, the swing of his arm would increase his own wrath, and carry him perhaps beyond reason. Therefore he offered him one chance more. Will you tell, sir, or will you not? I ont tell; that I ont, screamed Bonny; and at the word the lash descended. But only once, for the smiter in a moment was made aware of a dusty rush, a sharp roar of wrath, and great teeth flashing under mighty jaws. And perhaps he would never have walked again if he had not most suddenly wheeled his pony, and just escaped a tremendous snap, well aimed at his comely and gaitered calf. Ods bods! cried the parson, as he saw the jackass (with a stretched-out neck, and crest erect, eyes flashing fire, and a lashing tail, and, worst of all terrors, those cavernous jaws) gathering legs for a second charge, like an Attic trireme, Phormio s own, backing water for the diecplus. May I be dashed, the rector shouted, if I deal any more with such animals! If I had only got my hunting-crop; but, kuk, kuk, kuk, pony! Quick, for God s sake! Off with you! With a whack of full power on the pony s flanks, away went he at full gallop; while Jack tossed his white nose with high disdain, and then started at a round trot in pursuit, to scatter them more disgracefully, and after them sent a fine flourish of trumpets, to the grand old national air of hee-haw. While the Rev. Struan Hales was thus in sore discomfiture fleeing away as hard as his pony could be made to go, and casting uneasy glances over one shoulder at his pursuer, behold, he almost rode over a traveller footing it lightly round a corner of the lane! Why, Uncle Struan! exclaimed the latter; is the dragon of St. Leonard s flying after you? Or is this the usual style of riding of the beneficed clergy? Hilary, my dear boy, answered the rector; who would have thought of seeing you? You are just come in time to defend your uncle from a ravenous beast of prey. I was going home to bait a badger, but I have had a pretty good bait myself. Ah, you pagan, you may well be ashamed of yourself, to attack your clergyman! For Jack, perceiving the reinforcement, and eyeing the stout stick which Hilary bore, prudently turned on his tail and departed, well satisfied with his exploit. Why, Hilary, what has brought you home? asked his uncle, when a few words had passed concerning Jack s behaviour. Nobody expects you, that I know of. Your father is a mysterious man; but Alice would have been sure to tell me. Moreover, you must have walked all the way from the stage, by the look of your buckles; or perhaps from Brighton even. No; I took the short cut over the hills, and across by way of Beeding. Nobody expects me, as you say. I am come on important business. And, of course, I am not to know what it is. For mystery, and for keeping secrets, there never was such a family. As if you did not belong to it, uncle! Hilary answered, good-naturedly. I never heard of any secrets that I can remember. And good reason too, replied the rector; they would not long have been secrets, my boy, after they came to your ears, I doubt. Then let me establish my reputation by keeping my own, at any rate. But, after all, it is no secret, uncle. Only, my father ought to know it first. Alas, you rogue, you rogue! Something about money, no doubt. You used to condescend to come to me when you were at school and college. But now, you are too grand for the purse of any poor Sussex rector. I could put off our badger for half-an-hour, if you think you could run down the hill again. I should like you particularly to see young Fox; it will be something grand, my boy. He is the best pup I ever had in all my life. I know him, uncle; I know what he is. I chose him first out of the litter, you know. But you must not think of waiting

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