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NLP Research Group 9

"Face/Off", production draft, by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary FACE/OFF Written by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary Revised 9/10/96 FADE INTO: SEPIA-TONE FOOTAGE of a pig chasing a lion chasing a dinosaur chasing an elephant. Noah's Ark going round... and round... and round... EXT. GRIFFITH PARK CAROUSEL - DAY Disjointed CALLIOPE MUSIC as the wheel of fate and fortune goes around until we PULL BACK to reveal: JON ARCHER (30) rising winged Pegasus. On the adjacent unicorn is his son MATTHEW (5). Clutching a balloon, Matty waves at his dad. A happy moment, like so many certain to follow -- until we realize we are watching them THROUGH... SNIPER'S RIFLE SCOPE - SNIPER'S EYES wait until the child clears his aim -- Archer is the target. They round the bend and disappear... MATTHEW Loses his grip on the unicorn. Archer reaches over and pulls him into his lap. They happily ride together... As the horses sweep back INTO VIEW... exposing Archer... Now we see the sniper. CASTOR TROY is cool, efficient, aggressive, sexual. His finger closes around the trigger. BOOM! A BULLET RIPS into Archer's back. Bleeding... he drops off his horse... and sinks to the deck of the carousel. His eyes desperately searching... searching... searching... until he sees -- Matthew lies on his back -- still. Slowly, Archer reaches out and takes Matthew's hand... and now we see COLOR for the first time... Blood red... as bleeding father touches bleeding son... TILT UP TO the winged Pegasus flying by -- now in full color and UP UP UP TO Matthew's red balloon... floating away. HANDEL'S MESSIAH OVER a SERIES OF SHOTS: FBI BRIEFING ROOM Gazing out the window as dawn breaks over the city below is Jon Archer... older... unshaven... fatigued... his eyes reveal a man in the grip of obsession. CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by, as if marking time itself... HOLY PLACE Smoky, spiritual... dominated by a gleaming, golden cross. A priest kneels before it -- deep in prayer. The glimmering cross comes INTO FOCUS... but it's just a light-reflection... off the casing of a large bomb. This is no chapel... but an atrium. Somewhere. And as the "priest" rubs out his cigarette we see it's Castor Troy -- carefully installing this complex device. ANOTHER CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by... ARCHER pockets his FBI badge, then holsters his gun... CASTOR sets the bomb timer -- then replaces a wall panel in front of it. Totally hidden. BRIEFING ROOM - CASTOR'S MUGSHOT is on a computer screen. His criminal dossier scrolls by endlessly: bombings, assassinations, mercenary kidnappings, terrorism-for-hire... Rookie agent LOOMIS studies the details carefully. Other agents -- including BUZZ and WANDA scan computer grid- maps, man phones, etc. amid the take-out cartons and coffee cups. These people are on high alert. ARCHER Any follow-up from L.A.P.D. Intelligence? BUZZ No, sir, nothing yet. ARCHER Get them on the phone -- now. What about S.I.S. and our airport teams? WANDA We've had everything from psychics to satellites on this. Even if Castor was here... he must have slipped the net by now... ARCHER He's here! And we're going to keep looking until we find him! A silence descends on the chastised team. As they go back to work, veteran agent TITO BIONDI takes Archer aside. TITO Jon, these people have been working round the clock -- you gotta cut them some slack... Archer considers his best friend's advice -- then... ARCHER I'll cut them some slack when I cut myself some slack. Archer marches out -- slamming the door behind him. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY (MORNING) Castor quietly shuts the security door behind him. An Hispanic voice startles him. JANITOR What are you doing? CASTOR (in perfect Spanish) Thank goodness, I feel like Icarus in the labyrinth -- where's the men's room? JANITOR (in Spanish) This area is off limits, Padre. (re: security door) How did you get in that room? Realizing the JANITOR is already too suspicious, Castor puts a priestly arm around him -- and leads him down the hall. CASTOR Okay... I have a confession to make, but you aren't gonna like it. I was planting a bomb. JANITOR Bomb? CASTOR You know -- boom -- (patting his neck) Oh, never mind... The Janitor suddenly twitches, his eyes rolls up in his head. As he gasps his last -- Castor heaves him down a stairwell. Now we see the needle-thin custom stiletto in Castor's hand. Castor kicks the Janitor's mop and bucket down the stairs -- making everything look like an accident. INT. SAME BUILDING - MAIN FLOOR - DAY (MORNING) The children's church choir -- 200 strong -- sing "Behold the Lamb of God." Clergy and lay persons listen reverently. "Father" Castor strolls by the singers -- casually heading for the exit. As he passes the risers, a teenage girl drops her sheet music at his feet. Returning it -- he whispers in her ear -- so close he's practically licking it. CASTOR I've never enjoyed 'The Messiah.' But your voice makes even a hack like Handel seem like a genius. He pats her behind and leaves. Although a little shaken, she's also drawn by Castor's sexual magnetism. EXT. LA CONVENTION CENTER - DAY (MORNING) The marquee proclaims: INTERNATIONAL CHURCH CHOIRS 18th- 21st: AMERICAN BAR ASSOCIATION. Castor exits -- politely holding the door for a beat cop. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY (MORNING) The office is a monument to obsession: photographs, clues, newsclips, totems of Castor Troy surround a pacing Archer. ARCHER (on phone) ... I don't have time to get a warrant from some hung-over judge. Just give me the go-ahead, Victor, and I promise -- as soon as this is over -- you can brand my butt with the Fourth Amendment. The instant Archer hangs up -- the INTERCOM BUZZES. KIM (V.O.) Sir, your wife's on line one... S.I.S. on two... ARCHER Tell her to hang on -- As Archer punches up line two -- Tito bursts in. TITO A jet was chartered at Anderson Airfield. Guess who just showed up to pay for it? Pollux Troy. ARCHER Scramble the Reaction Team -- we're moving out. And get one of our people on that plane. TITO But there's still no sign of Castor... ARCHER Where one brother goes, the other's sure to follow... They rush our... the hold button on line 1 still blinking. EXT. PRIVATE AIRPORT - ESTABLISHING - DAY A sleek Cadillac pulls in... stopping next to a Land Rover. LARS MUELLER -- a muscular, crystal-eyed jar-head -- gets out of the Caddy. An instant later -- LUNT MUELLER -- emerges from the Rover. They are identical twins. The men scan the airport carefully, then open the rear doors of their respective vehicles. Castor emerges from the Caddy -- Armani clad. Exiting the Rover is Castor's younger brother POLLUX TROY -- skittish, brilliant, paranoid -- a human hummingbird. POLLUX You're 26 minutes late. The casing didn't fit -- right? I knew that cheap-shit Dietrich would rip us off... CASTOR Oh, God -- ! POLLUX What!? CASTOR I forgot to turn the damn thing on! POLLUX You're kidding, right? (to the twins) He's kidding... (grabs Castor by throat) ... are you fucking kidding!? Castor hugs Pollux lovingly. Pollux squirms like a kid. CASTOR Bro -- everything went fine. POLLUX I hate when you call me bro. Pollux heads for the jet. Castor hands Lunt a wad of cash. CASTOR Thanks for babysitting. LUNT Anything else? CASTOR I'll contact you when we get the rest of the money. (turns to leave) Oh, and stat away from downtown. The inversion layer's going to be pretty thick around the 18th. The twins nod... then take off. Castor heads for the jet. INT. JET - DAY Castor hustles in -- exhorting the PILOT. CASTOR Let's go, let's go! As the JET TURBINES start to WHINE, Castor sinks into his seat. A very sexy FLIGHT ATTENDANT appears and hands him a Scotch. He downs it, looking her over salaciously. FLIGHT ATTENDANT Would you like anything else? CASTOR Hell, yes... (pulls her into lap) It's the only way to fly. She smiles, not minding, until the jet suddenly slows its taxi down the runway. COCKPIT Castor yanks open the door. CASTOR What's wrong? AT END OF RUNWAY A squat car creeps INTO VIEW -- blocking the runway. EXT./INT. HUMVEE - MOVING - DAY Behind the wheel is Jon Archer. Beside him is Tito. BACK TO ARCHER CASTOR It's Archer. (gun to Pilot's head) Go, dammit! Suddenly the gun is BLASTED from Castor's hand. he turns around to see... the Flight Attendant behind them -- holding a smoking pistol. This is Agent WINTERS. WINTERS F.B.I.! Throttle down, captain! But Castor elbows the throttle up. The jet lurches forward, throwing Winters off balance. Pollux tackles her as the jet picks up speed. INT. HUMVEE - DAY Archer slams the vehicle into gear. ARCHER Get out. TITO You're not playing chicken with two tons of aluminum... ARCHER Get out! Tito obeys as Archer peels out. The HUMMER ROARS at the jet. The jet picks up speed, trying to get aloft. The humvee is aimed right at it... Archer's eyes narrow. COLLISION COURSE as two hunks of metal bear down. The machines are seconds apart when -- Archer looks up to see... Winters' face pressed up against the cockpit window, Castor holding a gun to her head. Archer cuts the wheel -- just avoiding the jet. The Hummer skids to a stop as Federal back-up arrives -- but too late. Archer watches an FBI chopper -- landing in a swirl of dust. As the jet picks up speed... the hatch opens. Castor blasts Winters in the side and tosses her onto the tarmac. INSIDE Castor smiles at Pollux, sensing freedom, until... KA-CHUNK: Something POUNDS the jet -- from above. Castor leans out the hatch and sees... The chopper on top of them -- Archer at the controls. Eye-contact -- years of hatred pass between these men. Castor BLASTS at him from the open hatch. The chopper's left windscreen spiderwebs. Archer jerks and weaves -- dodging the BULLETS. The chopper pulls away. The jet finally lifts off... when... The chopper settles on the jet -- slamming at its tail. TARMAC Tito reacts to this madness -- as the chopper plays a deadly game of leap-frog with the jet. The end of the runway is coming up fast. Archer crushes the jet's horizontal elevator flap. JET PILOT can't budge the jet's jammed yoke. Thwarted, he powers back the throttle. Thrust reverse. CASTOR What are you doing? PILOT The horizontal elevator's smashed! We can't lift off! CASTOR SHOOTS the Pilot -- then takes the controls. He struggles to maneuver the jet. Suddenly... A biplane descends right at them -- about to land. ARCHER pulls up just as the JET swerves radically to avoid the biplane and SLAMS into the hangar. JET plows through the GLASS DOOR, the NOSE-WHEEL SNAPS off. The PLANE SKIDS right into the hangar -- finally stopping at the wings. FBI CHOPPER lands. Archer steps out calmly -- like a cop about to write a traffic ticket. He hurries to join more FBI agents rushing into the hangar ahead of him. INT. HANGAR - DAY The jet hatch pops open -- Castor leaps from it, FIRING. Two FBI agents drop -- riddled. Pollux appears at the hatch -- an FBI sharpshooter FIRES, grazing Pollux's shoulder. Staggered, Pollux falls -- Castor catches him before he hits the floor -- simultaneously BLASTING the sharpshooter. Castor drags Pollux back into the smoke-filled hangar. Archer arrives and quickly checks the dead agents, his anger building. He signals Tito and the others to spread out. DEEP IN HANGAR A maze of airplane debris and heavy machinery. Led by Archer, the FBI agents pick their way through it. ROOKIE LOOMIS snaps alert -- did he see something? Advancing carefully, he comes up on... Castor -- staunching Pollux's shoulder wound. Pollux sees the agent -- and FIRES. Loomis hits the floor -- his bleeding ear is shredded. Suddenly a forklift charges down on Castor and Pollux. Tito is at the wheel. Castor FIRES -- forcing Tito to dive off. The forklift careens on -- driving apart the brothers. The forklift upends a stack of heavy crates -- pinning Pollux. Castor tries to free his trapped brother. POLLUX Forget it -- Go! Go! He slaps his Glock into Pollux's hand. CASTOR Wherever they put you, I'll find a way to get you out... Pollux starts FIRING -- covering Castor as he runs through a tunnel which leads to an adjoining hangar. Suddenly Wanda presses her machine-pistol into Pollux's head. As Pollux raises his gun -- Tito grabs his hand. TITO -- not unless you want that 200 I.Q. splattered all over the floor. (as Archer approaches) We got him now, Jon. ARCHER That's what you always say. Seal it off. I'm going in. Archer moves away from the group and enters the tunnel. MUSIC as Archer and Castor begin their cat-and-mouse dance. Sensing Archer, Castor pauses by an old landing gear. He draws a fresh pistol from his ankle holster and moves on. Archer pauses at the landing gear... his own stealthy movements mirroring Castor's. Castor waits behind a stack of steel drums... his gaze trying to penetrate the darkness... He SNAPS his fingers. The sound ECHOES as he tries to draw Archer in. Archer reacts to the sound and SNAPS back -- answering the challenge. As the deadly beat between them continues -- BLAM BLAM BLAM! Archer spins away just as Castor OPENS FIRE from the gloom... one step ahead. INTERCUT as necessary: CASTOR Jon, I'm getting a little annoyed by your obsessive need to spoil my fun. ARCHER And how much will your 'fun' net you this time? BOOM BOOM BOOM! Half-blind SHOTS send Castor spinning. A moment later, Archer pursues... SNAP! He fits a new CLIP into his pistol. CASTOR What's it to you? I declare it. Here I am, back in the States for less than a week -- ARCHER You're under arrest. Incredibly, you still have the right to remain silent -- CASTOR I've got something going down on the eighteenth... it's gonna be worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaoh. I'll give it up -- but my brother and I have to walk. ARCHER No discussion -- no deals. CASTOR What're you gonna do with me locked up? You'll drive your wife and kid nuts! I bet your daughter is just about ripe by now. What's her name, Janie? Enraged, Archer steps boldly forward -- trying to draw his enemy out. Silence -- then Archer senses... Castor is behind him. He FIRES -- Archer dives away. The BARRAGE CONTINUES -- driving Archer back between two huge turbine engines. As Archer reloads, he stares at the control panel switches. Castor moves in for the kill when he hears a final SNAP- SNAP. Except it isn't a finger snap... it's two switches. VRRRROOOM! The TWIN ENGINES ROAR on! Unable to fight the churning tornado-force wind... Castor's blasted across the hangar... slamming hard into the far wall. The ENGINES STOP and Archer emerges -- joined by Tito. TITO Tell me he didn't get away again... Then Tito follows Archer's gaze to Castor's lifeless body. Still as death -- somehow his mocking smile survives. EXT. AIRPORT TARMAC - SUNSET Heavily-manacled, an extremely agitated Pollux is herded into a SWAT van by Buzz and Wanda. POLLUX Where's my brother?! I want to see my brother! The van takes off -- passing an imposing older man, flanked by two bodyguards. Bullying through the media, Assistant FBI Director VICTOR LAZARRO scans the devastation. Approaching Archer, he watches as Castor's body is loaded on the ambulance. A sheet covers Castor's lifeless face. LAZARRO The oversight committee would've roasted us for this one -- thank God it paid off. Damn fine work. ARCHER Real fine, Victor. Especially the casualties. Archer contemplates the slain agents -- their three bodies laid out in a row -- waiting to be zip-locked. Lazarro reacts grimly as a reporter snaps a photo of the bodies. Instinctively, the two men close ranks. Archer grabs the Nikon, ejects the film, then shoves the camera back. LAZARRO Classified information. No photographs. Lazarro puts a caring arm around Archer's shoulder and leads him away from the media... and the carnage. LAZARRO You okay, Jon? (off Archer's nod) Then go home. Tell Eve. EXT. ARCHER'S HOME (SANTA MONICA) - SUNSET A renovated Craftsman. Sipping a carton of milk, Archer pulls into the driveway. He sits, gathering his thoughts. INT. ARCHER'S HOME - NIGHT Archer enters and sees his wife EVE. Handsome, intelligent. ARCHER Hi... (no response) ... What's wrong? She nods toward the KITCHEN. JAMIE is there -- a sullen and hard fifteen-year-old. There are cigarette cartons on the table. EVE She complimented for her 'F' in history with an 'A' in shoplifting... Archer marches into the kitchen -- noting the crate of Marlboros. Jamie matter-of-factly pours herself coffee. ARCHER Nice stunt, Jamie. You break the law and I'm expected to ignore it? JAMIE That's right -- it's all about you. Don't even ask me what happened. Archer looks to Eve for help. Eve shakes her head -- nope. ARCHER Okay. What happened? JAMIE Like you'd ever fucking believe me! She bolts. In anticipation, Eve calmly opens the door as Jamie rushes out, then closes it behind her. EVE Well, you tried. You failed miserably, but you tried. ARCHER Why won't she even talk to me? EVE Maybe because you taught her never to speak to strangers. (immediately regrets it) I'm sorry... that wasn't fair. Eve kisses his cheek -- then gathers up her doctor gear. EVE I've got patients waiting. Try again, Jon. She hates you -- but she needs you. ARCHER Eve... Something in Archer's expression makes her stop. EVE Jon -- what is it? But he's too overcome. He starts to speak -- but can't. EVE Is it -- him? It's... it's over? Emotions avalanche across his face until he finally looks up. Eve pulls him close -- a sheltering embrace for them both. ARCHER I'm going to make everything up to you and Jamie. I'll put in for a desk job. We'll go away, get counseling -- anything you want. This time, I mean it. INT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Freshly dressed, Archer heads down the hall. He pauses at the door to Jamie's room when he sees -- Jamie. Fully clothed, she's fast asleep on her bed cluttered with clothes and assorted girl-stuff. Her face peaceful. Archer looks around her room... sees the stuffed animals collecting dust... replaced by makeup, jewelry, beefcake Calvin Klein ads and band posters, etc. Archer's startled to see a lacey bustier... his little girl is growing up fast. And he's missing it. He pulls the blanket up over her and quietly slips out. The instant he leaves, Jamie kicks the blankets off. INT. FBI BUILDING - DAY Dominated by the FBI seal. Archer steps to the check point. SECURITY GUARD Print, please. Archer presses his thumb to a scan-pad -- and is cleared. INT. BULL PEN - DAY Efficient as a beehive -- agents, cryptologists, support staff buzz at their routines. Archer strides through -- drawing congratulatory nods and "thumbs up" signs... OUTSIDE HIS OFFICE Archer's team is there. Applauding. Proud. Uneasy with plaudits, he disperses the disappointed agents. ARCHER Much appreciated. Now let's get back to work, okay? WANDA (to Buzz) Is that stick ever gonna fall out of his ass? Archer's well-built secretary -- KIM BREWSTER -- hands him his messages. She's holding a bottle of Dom Perignon. KIMBERLY The C.I.A. sent this over. What should I do with it? ARCHER Send it back and tell them to stop wasting the taxpayers' money. Anything else, Miss Brewster? KIMBERLY No, sir. He enters his office. Kimberly sighs and turns to Wanda. KIMBERLY Four years -- and he still calls me 'Miss Brewster.' INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Sitting at his computer -- Archer scrolls through Castor's file. He grimly contemplates face-after-face of Troy's victims -- finally pausing on a photo of his son Matthew. Burying his feeling, he types "CASE CLOSED" over Castor's image. Archer starts to press "enter" when Tito comes in. ARCHER How's Loomis? TITO He needs some surgery, but he's going to be okay. That's the good news... ARCHER Go on. TITO ... Brodie and Miller from Special Ops need to see you. ARCHER I don't have time for those cloak and dagger guys. Big NED BRODIE and athletic female HOLLIS MILLER stroll in. BRODIE You better make time, Jon. (hefts a disc) We found this in the jet wreckage -- among Pollux Troy's effects... Archer accedes as Miller pops in the disk. The computer screen displays a CAD schematic of the bomb. Archer studies it carefully -- unease growing. ARCHER Porcelain casing... Thermal cloak... Undetectable payload. MILLER Powerful enough to flatten ten city blocks. ARCHER 'Worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaohs.' (to Tito) Get Pollux Troy. Now. DISSOLVE TO: INTERROGATION FOOTAGE Wired to a complex machine -- Pollux seems to have his frustrated interrogators on the run. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Archer, Lazarro, Tito, Brodie, Miller and other FBI officials watch the monitor. Pollux remains implacable POLLUX (V.O.) (on screen) That bomb was just a crossword puzzle to me... a mental exercise. I never built it... Lazarro shuts down the monitor... turns to Archer. ARCHER He's lying. LAZARRO He's hooked up to a full-spectrum polygraph. ARCHER Pollux is a manipulative psychopath. He can control his heartbeat, his sweat glands, his blood pressure... LAZARRO Jon, I trust your instincts, I always have. But D.C. wants more evidence. And frankly, so do I. ARCHER You'll get all the evidence you need when ten thousand people die. LAZARRO We'll get a team right on it. But we can't evacuate the city on what amounts to a hunch. Archer looks at the gathered brass. He knows it's hopeless. ARCHER That bomb has been built, it's out there somewhere and it's going to detonate... EXT. FBI BUILDING - INTELLIGENCE MEMORIAL - DAY Words etched in the granite wall read: IN HONOR OF THOSE MEMBERS OF THE FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION WHO SACRIFICED THEIR LIVES IN THE LINE OF DUTY Archer watches as a workman engraves the last of the three new stars among so many others -- each one honoring the dead. BRODIE Didn't Castor give any clue where the bomb might be? ARCHER Only one person knows -- his brother Pollux. And he'll keep his mouth shut until it blows. BRODIE We could plant an agent in his cell -- get him to spill the location. ARCHER Pollux is way too paranoid. The only person he'd talk to about that bomb is Castor himself. And dead men can't talk. Brodie and Miller exchange a knowing look. BRODIE There might be a way around that... FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S BODY Tubes and hoses are plugged into every orifice. INT. ICU ROOM - DAY Archer stares at the body... he can't believe it. ARCHER Why are you keeping him alive? (gets no answer) As long as he's breathing, he's dangerous. MILLER Relax, he's a turnip. Miller grinds out her cigarette on Castor's leg. Of course, Castor just lies there like a vegetable. BRODIE We can arrange for you to enter Erewhon Prison -- as Castor Troy. ARCHER What are you talking about? Archer turns as DR. MALCOLM HOAG (50s) enters the room. HOAG I think I'd better answer that question. (offers hand) Malcolm Hoag. I run the Physiological Camouflage Unit for Special Ops. ARCHER I know who you are. MILLER But you don't know what he can do. Physical augmentation; enhancement surgery... BRODIE ... He can disguise a compromised agent or alter the likeness -- even the voice -- of a government witness. HOAG Let me show you how it's done. (leading him out) I think you'll recognize our patient... INT. HOAG'S SURGICAL BAY - DAY Loomis lies still as a surgeon carefully scrapes away charred flesh around his burned ear. The doctor turns to a -- STEREO-LITHOGRAPHIC MACHINE Laser-beams attack an organic soup with incredible precision. The light forces a chemical reaction -- and out of the soup -- an ear begins to form. It rises from the liquid, now fully-formed. The surgeon takes the ear and fits it in place on Loomis's head. He starts suturing. OBSERVATION BOOTH - ABOVE Archer, Hoag, Brodie and Miller watch the operation -- video-enhanced by the two huge screens on the far walls. HOAG With our new generation of anti- inflammatories, healing is accelerated from weeks to days. By his next paycheck, he won't even remember which ear he lost. (a beat) Your situation, however, would be a little less permanent... BRODIE -- and a lot more classified. Hoag holds up a face-sized organic shell made up of yellow cartilage pieces and tendons, etc. Archer pulls it over his face -- like a gauze mask. A "tendon" falls off. ARCHER This'll fool Pollux. HOAG That is a state-of-the-art morpho- genetic template. The inside can be built to match the exact shape of your skull; the outside -- exactly like Castor's. Then we fit his face right on top -- MILLER -- and you become him. ARCHER You're talking about removing the guy's face? BRODIE Borrowing, Jon. The procedure's completely reversible. MILLER One way or the other -- the mission ends on the eighteenth. Archer turns the shell over and over and over in his hands. BRODIE You know Castor better than anyone. You've lived and breathed him for years -- hell, you even look a little like him. Archer shoves the template back at Hoag. ARCHER Find yourself another lab-rat. MILLER If you don't do this -- Castor will beat us again. He'll beat you again... Archer pushes his way past them -- and marches out. HOAG I don't think that went very well. BRODIE Trust us, Doc... MILLER ... he'll jerk around. Then he'll be back. INT. INTERROGATION BOOTHS - DAY Archer enters... sizes up DIETRICH HASSLER. His stylish garb doesn't completely hide his criminal roots. Archer sits down calmly. He looks at his watch. ARCHER I'm in a hurry, Dietrich. So you've only got ten seconds to go through your usual litany of lies, empty threats, and moronic denials. Then I'm coming over there -- DIETRICH If you're in such a fucking hurry -- why are you wasting your time with me? I'm just an art dealer. ARCHER You're a dealer, all right: technical secrets, munitions... explosives. DIETRICH You've never proven any of that. And when my bitchy, never-been- laid femi-nazi lawyer gets here, she's going to... ARCHER Time's up. Archer topples the wooden table and tears a leg from the top. Brandishing it -- he stalks the startled thug. HALLWAY JUST OUTSIDE - CONTINUOUS ACTION Lazarro blanches as an obsessed Archer repeatedly slams the table leg against the wall -- above Dietrich's head. LAZARRO The only ticking bomb I see is inside his head. He's getting worse, Tito. TITO Don't worry, sir. It's all an act... But as Lazarro leaves -- we see Tito's worried, too. BACK INSIDE BOOTH Archer has a terrified Dietrich backed into the corner. DIETRICH ... Okay! Castor called me but I blew him off... I swear I never saw him. And I don't know anything about any bomb! INT. CORRIDOR - OUTSIDE INTERROGATION BOOTHS - SAME TIME Archer emerges... eyes blazing. ARCHER Let him go, but I want him watched... Who's next? TITO Just Dietrich's sister... In another booth, a careworn but striking woman sits with a little boy on her lap. She gently helps him Crayola a book. This is SASHA HASSLER (30) and her son ADAM (5). INT. INTERROGATION BOOTH - DAY Archer hovers over Sasha -- her maternal warmth replaced by an icy hatred. Tito and the child are gone. ARCHER When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? SASHA Who cares? He's dead. ARCHER Answer the question. SASHA Look, I'm clean. I teach kids now -- ARCHER Sasha -- you are a felon, on probation for harboring Castor Troy. So it's in your best interest to cooperate. (as she's silent) Would you like your son put in a foster home? Sasha's eyes flash, her body coils -- but she keeps control. SASHA No, but I'm sure you'd love it -- you sick bastard. ARCHER (unmoved) When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? She stares at him with equal amounts of pity and hatred. SASHA I haven't seen him for years. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY Archer watches as Adam leaves Dietrich and jumps into Sasha's arms. She hugs him protectively. Adam sees Archer watching them -- and smiles. Archer doesn't smile back. FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S REAL FACE PULL BACK TO: INT. I.C.U. - NIGHT Archer slowly circles Castor's muscular, hairy, tattooed body. Although on life support -- his signature smirk remains. ARCHER What about Lazarro? BRODIE No way -- the red tape alone would take a month. This is a black-bag operation -- completely off the books. MILLER If you need him, Tito can help you prepare. But you know the drill: You can't tell anyone -- not the Director, not your wife... nobody. Archer's face shows he doesn't like it -- then he nods. ARCHER I'm in. EXT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Archer slowly gets out of his car. Trudging toward the front door, he picks up a basketball and takes a shot. His form is terrible -- he misses by a mile. INT. HALLWAY - NIGHT Archer passes Jamie's room. Loud MUSIC POUNDS from within. He pauses to knock, thinks again, then heads down the hall. INT. MASTER BEDROOM - NIGHT Eve is in bed. Archer comes in quietly and sits beside her -- studying her peaceful, sleeping face. She stirs. EVE I was dreaming... ARCHER Something good? EVE I'm not sure... you were flying this

rear

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

"Face/Off", production draft, by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary FACE/OFF Written by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary Revised 9/10/96 FADE INTO: SEPIA-TONE FOOTAGE of a pig chasing a lion chasing a dinosaur chasing an elephant. Noah's Ark going round... and round... and round... EXT. GRIFFITH PARK CAROUSEL - DAY Disjointed CALLIOPE MUSIC as the wheel of fate and fortune goes around until we PULL BACK to reveal: JON ARCHER (30) rising winged Pegasus. On the adjacent unicorn is his son MATTHEW (5). Clutching a balloon, Matty waves at his dad. A happy moment, like so many certain to follow -- until we realize we are watching them THROUGH... SNIPER'S RIFLE SCOPE - SNIPER'S EYES wait until the child clears his aim -- Archer is the target. They round the bend and disappear... MATTHEW Loses his grip on the unicorn. Archer reaches over and pulls him into his lap. They happily ride together... As the horses sweep back INTO VIEW... exposing Archer... Now we see the sniper. CASTOR TROY is cool, efficient, aggressive, sexual. His finger closes around the trigger. BOOM! A BULLET RIPS into Archer's back. Bleeding... he drops off his horse... and sinks to the deck of the carousel. His eyes desperately searching... searching... searching... until he sees -- Matthew lies on his back -- still. Slowly, Archer reaches out and takes Matthew's hand... and now we see COLOR for the first time... Blood red... as bleeding father touches bleeding son... TILT UP TO the winged Pegasus flying by -- now in full color and UP UP UP TO Matthew's red balloon... floating away. HANDEL'S MESSIAH OVER a SERIES OF SHOTS: FBI BRIEFING ROOM Gazing out the window as dawn breaks over the city below is Jon Archer... older... unshaven... fatigued... his eyes reveal a man in the grip of obsession. CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by, as if marking time itself... HOLY PLACE Smoky, spiritual... dominated by a gleaming, golden cross. A priest kneels before it -- deep in prayer. The glimmering cross comes INTO FOCUS... but it's just a light-reflection... off the casing of a large bomb. This is no chapel... but an atrium. Somewhere. And as the "priest" rubs out his cigarette we see it's Castor Troy -- carefully installing this complex device. ANOTHER CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by... ARCHER pockets his FBI badge, then holsters his gun... CASTOR sets the bomb timer -- then replaces a wall panel in front of it. Totally hidden. BRIEFING ROOM - CASTOR'S MUGSHOT is on a computer screen. His criminal dossier scrolls by endlessly: bombings, assassinations, mercenary kidnappings, terrorism-for-hire... Rookie agent LOOMIS studies the details carefully. Other agents -- including BUZZ and WANDA scan computer grid- maps, man phones, etc. amid the take-out cartons and coffee cups. These people are on high alert. ARCHER Any follow-up from L.A.P.D. Intelligence? BUZZ No, sir, nothing yet. ARCHER Get them on the phone -- now. What about S.I.S. and our airport teams? WANDA We've had everything from psychics to satellites on this. Even if Castor was here... he must have slipped the net by now... ARCHER He's here! And we're going to keep looking until we find him! A silence descends on the chastised team. As they go back to work, veteran agent TITO BIONDI takes Archer aside. TITO Jon, these people have been working round the clock -- you gotta cut them some slack... Archer considers his best friend's advice -- then... ARCHER I'll cut them some slack when I cut myself some slack. Archer marches out -- slamming the door behind him. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY (MORNING) Castor quietly shuts the security door behind him. An Hispanic voice startles him. JANITOR What are you doing? CASTOR (in perfect Spanish) Thank goodness, I feel like Icarus in the labyrinth -- where's the men's room? JANITOR (in Spanish) This area is off limits, Padre. (re: security door) How did you get in that room? Realizing the JANITOR is already too suspicious, Castor puts a priestly arm around him -- and leads him down the hall. CASTOR Okay... I have a confession to make, but you aren't gonna like it. I was planting a bomb. JANITOR Bomb? CASTOR You know -- boom -- (patting his neck) Oh, never mind... The Janitor suddenly twitches, his eyes rolls up in his head. As he gasps his last -- Castor heaves him down a stairwell. Now we see the needle-thin custom stiletto in Castor's hand. Castor kicks the Janitor's mop and bucket down the stairs -- making everything look like an accident. INT. SAME BUILDING - MAIN FLOOR - DAY (MORNING) The children's church choir -- 200 strong -- sing "Behold the Lamb of God." Clergy and lay persons listen reverently. "Father" Castor strolls by the singers -- casually heading for the exit. As he passes the risers, a teenage girl drops her sheet music at his feet. Returning it -- he whispers in her ear -- so close he's practically licking it. CASTOR I've never enjoyed 'The Messiah.' But your voice makes even a hack like Handel seem like a genius. He pats her behind and leaves. Although a little shaken, she's also drawn by Castor's sexual magnetism. EXT. LA CONVENTION CENTER - DAY (MORNING) The marquee proclaims: INTERNATIONAL CHURCH CHOIRS 18th- 21st: AMERICAN BAR ASSOCIATION. Castor exits -- politely holding the door for a beat cop. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY (MORNING) The office is a monument to obsession: photographs, clues, newsclips, totems of Castor Troy surround a pacing Archer. ARCHER (on phone) ... I don't have time to get a warrant from some hung-over judge. Just give me the go-ahead, Victor, and I promise -- as soon as this is over -- you can brand my butt with the Fourth Amendment. The instant Archer hangs up -- the INTERCOM BUZZES. KIM (V.O.) Sir, your wife's on line one... S.I.S. on two... ARCHER Tell her to hang on -- As Archer punches up line two -- Tito bursts in. TITO A jet was chartered at Anderson Airfield. Guess who just showed up to pay for it? Pollux Troy. ARCHER Scramble the Reaction Team -- we're moving out. And get one of our people on that plane. TITO But there's still no sign of Castor... ARCHER Where one brother goes, the other's sure to follow... They rush our... the hold button on line 1 still blinking. EXT. PRIVATE AIRPORT - ESTABLISHING - DAY A sleek Cadillac pulls in... stopping next to a Land Rover. LARS MUELLER -- a muscular, crystal-eyed jar-head -- gets out of the Caddy. An instant later -- LUNT MUELLER -- emerges from the Rover. They are identical twins. The men scan the airport carefully, then open the rear doors of their respective vehicles. Castor emerges from the Caddy -- Armani clad. Exiting the Rover is Castor's younger brother POLLUX TROY -- skittish, brilliant, paranoid -- a human hummingbird. POLLUX You're 26 minutes late. The casing didn't fit -- right? I knew that cheap-shit Dietrich would rip us off... CASTOR Oh, God -- ! POLLUX What!? CASTOR I forgot to turn the damn thing on! POLLUX You're kidding, right? (to the twins) He's kidding... (grabs Castor by throat) ... are you fucking kidding!? Castor hugs Pollux lovingly. Pollux squirms like a kid. CASTOR Bro -- everything went fine. POLLUX I hate when you call me bro. Pollux heads for the jet. Castor hands Lunt a wad of cash. CASTOR Thanks for babysitting. LUNT Anything else? CASTOR I'll contact you when we get the rest of the money. (turns to leave) Oh, and stat away from downtown. The inversion layer's going to be pretty thick around the 18th. The twins nod... then take off. Castor heads for the jet. INT. JET - DAY Castor hustles in -- exhorting the PILOT. CASTOR Let's go, let's go! As the JET TURBINES start to WHINE, Castor sinks into his seat. A very sexy FLIGHT ATTENDANT appears and hands him a Scotch. He downs it, looking her over salaciously. FLIGHT ATTENDANT Would you like anything else? CASTOR Hell, yes... (pulls her into lap) It's the only way to fly. She smiles, not minding, until the jet suddenly slows its taxi down the runway. COCKPIT Castor yanks open the door. CASTOR What's wrong? AT END OF RUNWAY A squat car creeps INTO VIEW -- blocking the runway. EXT./INT. HUMVEE - MOVING - DAY Behind the wheel is Jon Archer. Beside him is Tito. BACK TO ARCHER CASTOR It's Archer. (gun to Pilot's head) Go, dammit! Suddenly the gun is BLASTED from Castor's hand. he turns around to see... the Flight Attendant behind them -- holding a smoking pistol. This is Agent WINTERS. WINTERS F.B.I.! Throttle down, captain! But Castor elbows the throttle up. The jet lurches forward, throwing Winters off balance. Pollux tackles her as the jet picks up speed. INT. HUMVEE - DAY Archer slams the vehicle into gear. ARCHER Get out. TITO You're not playing chicken with two tons of aluminum... ARCHER Get out! Tito obeys as Archer peels out. The HUMMER ROARS at the jet. The jet picks up speed, trying to get aloft. The humvee is aimed right at it... Archer's eyes narrow. COLLISION COURSE as two hunks of metal bear down. The machines are seconds apart when -- Archer looks up to see... Winters' face pressed up against the cockpit window, Castor holding a gun to her head. Archer cuts the wheel -- just avoiding the jet. The Hummer skids to a stop as Federal back-up arrives -- but too late. Archer watches an FBI chopper -- landing in a swirl of dust. As the jet picks up speed... the hatch opens. Castor blasts Winters in the side and tosses her onto the tarmac. INSIDE Castor smiles at Pollux, sensing freedom, until... KA-CHUNK: Something POUNDS the jet -- from above. Castor leans out the hatch and sees... The chopper on top of them -- Archer at the controls. Eye-contact -- years of hatred pass between these men. Castor BLASTS at him from the open hatch. The chopper's left windscreen spiderwebs. Archer jerks and weaves -- dodging the BULLETS. The chopper pulls away. The jet finally lifts off... when... The chopper settles on the jet -- slamming at its tail. TARMAC Tito reacts to this madness -- as the chopper plays a deadly game of leap-frog with the jet. The end of the runway is coming up fast. Archer crushes the jet's horizontal elevator flap. JET PILOT can't budge the jet's jammed yoke. Thwarted, he powers back the throttle. Thrust reverse. CASTOR What are you doing? PILOT The horizontal elevator's smashed! We can't lift off! CASTOR SHOOTS the Pilot -- then takes the controls. He struggles to maneuver the jet. Suddenly... A biplane descends right at them -- about to land. ARCHER pulls up just as the JET swerves radically to avoid the biplane and SLAMS into the hangar. JET plows through the GLASS DOOR, the NOSE-WHEEL SNAPS off. The PLANE SKIDS right into the hangar -- finally stopping at the wings. FBI CHOPPER lands. Archer steps out calmly -- like a cop about to write a traffic ticket. He hurries to join more FBI agents rushing into the hangar ahead of him. INT. HANGAR - DAY The jet hatch pops open -- Castor leaps from it, FIRING. Two FBI agents drop -- riddled. Pollux appears at the hatch -- an FBI sharpshooter FIRES, grazing Pollux's shoulder. Staggered, Pollux falls -- Castor catches him before he hits the floor -- simultaneously BLASTING the sharpshooter. Castor drags Pollux back into the smoke-filled hangar. Archer arrives and quickly checks the dead agents, his anger building. He signals Tito and the others to spread out. DEEP IN HANGAR A maze of airplane debris and heavy machinery. Led by Archer, the FBI agents pick their way through it. ROOKIE LOOMIS snaps alert -- did he see something? Advancing carefully, he comes up on... Castor -- staunching Pollux's shoulder wound. Pollux sees the agent -- and FIRES. Loomis hits the floor -- his bleeding ear is shredded. Suddenly a forklift charges down on Castor and Pollux. Tito is at the wheel. Castor FIRES -- forcing Tito to dive off. The forklift careens on -- driving apart the brothers. The forklift upends a stack of heavy crates -- pinning Pollux. Castor tries to free his trapped brother. POLLUX Forget it -- Go! Go! He slaps his Glock into Pollux's hand. CASTOR Wherever they put you, I'll find a way to get you out... Pollux starts FIRING -- covering Castor as he runs through a tunnel which leads to an adjoining hangar. Suddenly Wanda presses her machine-pistol into Pollux's head. As Pollux raises his gun -- Tito grabs his hand. TITO -- not unless you want that 200 I.Q. splattered all over the floor. (as Archer approaches) We got him now, Jon. ARCHER That's what you always say. Seal it off. I'm going in. Archer moves away from the group and enters the tunnel. MUSIC as Archer and Castor begin their cat-and-mouse dance. Sensing Archer, Castor pauses by an old landing gear. He draws a fresh pistol from his ankle holster and moves on. Archer pauses at the landing gear... his own stealthy movements mirroring Castor's. Castor waits behind a stack of steel drums... his gaze trying to penetrate the darkness... He SNAPS his fingers. The sound ECHOES as he tries to draw Archer in. Archer reacts to the sound and SNAPS back -- answering the challenge. As the deadly beat between them continues -- BLAM BLAM BLAM! Archer spins away just as Castor OPENS FIRE from the gloom... one step ahead. INTERCUT as necessary: CASTOR Jon, I'm getting a little annoyed by your obsessive need to spoil my fun. ARCHER And how much will your 'fun' net you this time? BOOM BOOM BOOM! Half-blind SHOTS send Castor spinning. A moment later, Archer pursues... SNAP! He fits a new CLIP into his pistol. CASTOR What's it to you? I declare it. Here I am, back in the States for less than a week -- ARCHER You're under arrest. Incredibly, you still have the right to remain silent -- CASTOR I've got something going down on the eighteenth... it's gonna be worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaoh. I'll give it up -- but my brother and I have to walk. ARCHER No discussion -- no deals. CASTOR What're you gonna do with me locked up? You'll drive your wife and kid nuts! I bet your daughter is just about ripe by now. What's her name, Janie? Enraged, Archer steps boldly forward -- trying to draw his enemy out. Silence -- then Archer senses... Castor is behind him. He FIRES -- Archer dives away. The BARRAGE CONTINUES -- driving Archer back between two huge turbine engines. As Archer reloads, he stares at the control panel switches. Castor moves in for the kill when he hears a final SNAP- SNAP. Except it isn't a finger snap... it's two switches. VRRRROOOM! The TWIN ENGINES ROAR on! Unable to fight the churning tornado-force wind... Castor's blasted across the hangar... slamming hard into the far wall. The ENGINES STOP and Archer emerges -- joined by Tito. TITO Tell me he didn't get away again... Then Tito follows Archer's gaze to Castor's lifeless body. Still as death -- somehow his mocking smile survives. EXT. AIRPORT TARMAC - SUNSET Heavily-manacled, an extremely agitated Pollux is herded into a SWAT van by Buzz and Wanda. POLLUX Where's my brother?! I want to see my brother! The van takes off -- passing an imposing older man, flanked by two bodyguards. Bullying through the media, Assistant FBI Director VICTOR LAZARRO scans the devastation. Approaching Archer, he watches as Castor's body is loaded on the ambulance. A sheet covers Castor's lifeless face. LAZARRO The oversight committee would've roasted us for this one -- thank God it paid off. Damn fine work. ARCHER Real fine, Victor. Especially the casualties. Archer contemplates the slain agents -- their three bodies laid out in a row -- waiting to be zip-locked. Lazarro reacts grimly as a reporter snaps a photo of the bodies. Instinctively, the two men close ranks. Archer grabs the Nikon, ejects the film, then shoves the camera back. LAZARRO Classified information. No photographs. Lazarro puts a caring arm around Archer's shoulder and leads him away from the media... and the carnage. LAZARRO You okay, Jon? (off Archer's nod) Then go home. Tell Eve. EXT. ARCHER'S HOME (SANTA MONICA) - SUNSET A renovated Craftsman. Sipping a carton of milk, Archer pulls into the driveway. He sits, gathering his thoughts. INT. ARCHER'S HOME - NIGHT Archer enters and sees his wife EVE. Handsome, intelligent. ARCHER Hi... (no response) ... What's wrong? She nods toward the KITCHEN. JAMIE is there -- a sullen and hard fifteen-year-old. There are cigarette cartons on the table. EVE She complimented for her 'F' in history with an 'A' in shoplifting... Archer marches into the kitchen -- noting the crate of Marlboros. Jamie matter-of-factly pours herself coffee. ARCHER Nice stunt, Jamie. You break the law and I'm expected to ignore it? JAMIE That's right -- it's all about you. Don't even ask me what happened. Archer looks to Eve for help. Eve shakes her head -- nope. ARCHER Okay. What happened? JAMIE Like you'd ever fucking believe me! She bolts. In anticipation, Eve calmly opens the door as Jamie rushes out, then closes it behind her. EVE Well, you tried. You failed miserably, but you tried. ARCHER Why won't she even talk to me? EVE Maybe because you taught her never to speak to strangers. (immediately regrets it) I'm sorry... that wasn't fair. Eve kisses his cheek -- then gathers up her doctor gear. EVE I've got patients waiting. Try again, Jon. She hates you -- but she needs you. ARCHER Eve... Something in Archer's expression makes her stop. EVE Jon -- what is it? But he's too overcome. He starts to speak -- but can't. EVE Is it -- him? It's... it's over? Emotions avalanche across his face until he finally looks up. Eve pulls him close -- a sheltering embrace for them both. ARCHER I'm going to make everything up to you and Jamie. I'll put in for a desk job. We'll go away, get counseling -- anything you want. This time, I mean it. INT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Freshly dressed, Archer heads down the hall. He pauses at the door to Jamie's room when he sees -- Jamie. Fully clothed, she's fast asleep on her bed cluttered with clothes and assorted girl-stuff. Her face peaceful. Archer looks around her room... sees the stuffed animals collecting dust... replaced by makeup, jewelry, beefcake Calvin Klein ads and band posters, etc. Archer's startled to see a lacey bustier... his little girl is growing up fast. And he's missing it. He pulls the blanket up over her and quietly slips out. The instant he leaves, Jamie kicks the blankets off. INT. FBI BUILDING - DAY Dominated by the FBI seal. Archer steps to the check point. SECURITY GUARD Print, please. Archer presses his thumb to a scan-pad -- and is cleared. INT. BULL PEN - DAY Efficient as a beehive -- agents, cryptologists, support staff buzz at their routines. Archer strides through -- drawing congratulatory nods and "thumbs up" signs... OUTSIDE HIS OFFICE Archer's team is there. Applauding. Proud. Uneasy with plaudits, he disperses the disappointed agents. ARCHER Much appreciated. Now let's get back to work, okay? WANDA (to Buzz) Is that stick ever gonna fall out of his ass? Archer's well-built secretary -- KIM BREWSTER -- hands him his messages. She's holding a bottle of Dom Perignon. KIMBERLY The C.I.A. sent this over. What should I do with it? ARCHER Send it back and tell them to stop wasting the taxpayers' money. Anything else, Miss Brewster? KIMBERLY No, sir. He enters his office. Kimberly sighs and turns to Wanda. KIMBERLY Four years -- and he still calls me 'Miss Brewster.' INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Sitting at his computer -- Archer scrolls through Castor's file. He grimly contemplates face-after-face of Troy's victims -- finally pausing on a photo of his son Matthew. Burying his feeling, he types "CASE CLOSED" over Castor's image. Archer starts to press "enter" when Tito comes in. ARCHER How's Loomis? TITO He needs some surgery, but he's going to be okay. That's the good news... ARCHER Go on. TITO ... Brodie and Miller from Special Ops need to see you. ARCHER I don't have time for those cloak and dagger guys. Big NED BRODIE and athletic female HOLLIS MILLER stroll in. BRODIE You better make time, Jon. (hefts a disc) We found this in the jet wreckage -- among Pollux Troy's effects... Archer accedes as Miller pops in the disk. The computer screen displays a CAD schematic of the bomb. Archer studies it carefully -- unease growing. ARCHER Porcelain casing... Thermal cloak... Undetectable payload. MILLER Powerful enough to flatten ten city blocks. ARCHER 'Worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaohs.' (to Tito) Get Pollux Troy. Now. DISSOLVE TO: INTERROGATION FOOTAGE Wired to a complex machine -- Pollux seems to have his frustrated interrogators on the run. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Archer, Lazarro, Tito, Brodie, Miller and other FBI officials watch the monitor. Pollux remains implacable POLLUX (V.O.) (on screen) That bomb was just a crossword puzzle to me... a mental exercise. I never built it... Lazarro shuts down the monitor... turns to Archer. ARCHER He's lying. LAZARRO He's hooked up to a full-spectrum polygraph. ARCHER Pollux is a manipulative psychopath. He can control his heartbeat, his sweat glands, his blood pressure... LAZARRO Jon, I trust your instincts, I always have. But D.C. wants more evidence. And frankly, so do I. ARCHER You'll get all the evidence you need when ten thousand people die. LAZARRO We'll get a team right on it. But we can't evacuate the city on what amounts to a hunch. Archer looks at the gathered brass. He knows it's hopeless. ARCHER That bomb has been built, it's out there somewhere and it's going to detonate... EXT. FBI BUILDING - INTELLIGENCE MEMORIAL - DAY Words etched in the granite wall read: IN HONOR OF THOSE MEMBERS OF THE FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION WHO SACRIFICED THEIR LIVES IN THE LINE OF DUTY Archer watches as a workman engraves the last of the three new stars among so many others -- each one honoring the dead. BRODIE Didn't Castor give any clue where the bomb might be? ARCHER Only one person knows -- his brother Pollux. And he'll keep his mouth shut until it blows. BRODIE We could plant an agent in his cell -- get him to spill the location. ARCHER Pollux is way too paranoid. The only person he'd talk to about that bomb is Castor himself. And dead men can't talk. Brodie and Miller exchange a knowing look. BRODIE There might be a way around that... FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S BODY Tubes and hoses are plugged into every orifice. INT. ICU ROOM - DAY Archer stares at the body... he can't believe it. ARCHER Why are you keeping him alive? (gets no answer) As long as he's breathing, he's dangerous. MILLER Relax, he's a turnip. Miller grinds out her cigarette on Castor's leg. Of course, Castor just lies there like a vegetable. BRODIE We can arrange for you to enter Erewhon Prison -- as Castor Troy. ARCHER What are you talking about? Archer turns as DR. MALCOLM HOAG (50s) enters the room. HOAG I think I'd better answer that question. (offers hand) Malcolm Hoag. I run the Physiological Camouflage Unit for Special Ops. ARCHER I know who you are. MILLER But you don't know what he can do. Physical augmentation; enhancement surgery... BRODIE ... He can disguise a compromised agent or alter the likeness -- even the voice -- of a government witness. HOAG Let me show you how it's done. (leading him out) I think you'll recognize our patient... INT. HOAG'S SURGICAL BAY - DAY Loomis lies still as a surgeon carefully scrapes away charred flesh around his burned ear. The doctor turns to a -- STEREO-LITHOGRAPHIC MACHINE Laser-beams attack an organic soup with incredible precision. The light forces a chemical reaction -- and out of the soup -- an ear begins to form. It rises from the liquid, now fully-formed. The surgeon takes the ear and fits it in place on Loomis's head. He starts suturing. OBSERVATION BOOTH - ABOVE Archer, Hoag, Brodie and Miller watch the operation -- video-enhanced by the two huge screens on the far walls. HOAG With our new generation of anti- inflammatories, healing is accelerated from weeks to days. By his next paycheck, he won't even remember which ear he lost. (a beat) Your situation, however, would be a little less permanent... BRODIE -- and a lot more classified. Hoag holds up a face-sized organic shell made up of yellow cartilage pieces and tendons, etc. Archer pulls it over his face -- like a gauze mask. A "tendon" falls off. ARCHER This'll fool Pollux. HOAG That is a state-of-the-art morpho- genetic template. The inside can be built to match the exact shape of your skull; the outside -- exactly like Castor's. Then we fit his face right on top -- MILLER -- and you become him. ARCHER You're talking about removing the guy's face? BRODIE Borrowing, Jon. The procedure's completely reversible. MILLER One way or the other -- the mission ends on the eighteenth. Archer turns the shell over and over and over in his hands. BRODIE You know Castor better than anyone. You've lived and breathed him for years -- hell, you even look a little like him. Archer shoves the template back at Hoag. ARCHER Find yourself another lab-rat. MILLER If you don't do this -- Castor will beat us again. He'll beat you again... Archer pushes his way past them -- and marches out. HOAG I don't think that went very well. BRODIE Trust us, Doc... MILLER ... he'll jerk around. Then he'll be back. INT. INTERROGATION BOOTHS - DAY Archer enters... sizes up DIETRICH HASSLER. His stylish garb doesn't completely hide his criminal roots. Archer sits down calmly. He looks at his watch. ARCHER I'm in a hurry, Dietrich. So you've only got ten seconds to go through your usual litany of lies, empty threats, and moronic denials. Then I'm coming over there -- DIETRICH If you're in such a fucking hurry -- why are you wasting your time with me? I'm just an art dealer. ARCHER You're a dealer, all right: technical secrets, munitions... explosives. DIETRICH You've never proven any of that. And when my bitchy, never-been- laid femi-nazi lawyer gets here, she's going to... ARCHER Time's up. Archer topples the wooden table and tears a leg from the top. Brandishing it -- he stalks the startled thug. HALLWAY JUST OUTSIDE - CONTINUOUS ACTION Lazarro blanches as an obsessed Archer repeatedly slams the table leg against the wall -- above Dietrich's head. LAZARRO The only ticking bomb I see is inside his head. He's getting worse, Tito. TITO Don't worry, sir. It's all an act... But as Lazarro leaves -- we see Tito's worried, too. BACK INSIDE BOOTH Archer has a terrified Dietrich backed into the corner. DIETRICH ... Okay! Castor called me but I blew him off... I swear I never saw him. And I don't know anything about any bomb! INT. CORRIDOR - OUTSIDE INTERROGATION BOOTHS - SAME TIME Archer emerges... eyes blazing. ARCHER Let him go, but I want him watched... Who's next? TITO Just Dietrich's sister... In another booth, a careworn but striking woman sits with a little boy on her lap. She gently helps him Crayola a book. This is SASHA HASSLER (30) and her son ADAM (5). INT. INTERROGATION BOOTH - DAY Archer hovers over Sasha -- her maternal warmth replaced by an icy hatred. Tito and the child are gone. ARCHER When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? SASHA Who cares? He's dead. ARCHER Answer the question. SASHA Look, I'm clean. I teach kids now -- ARCHER Sasha -- you are a felon, on probation for harboring Castor Troy. So it's in your best interest to cooperate. (as she's silent) Would you like your son put in a foster home? Sasha's eyes flash, her body coils -- but she keeps control. SASHA No, but I'm sure you'd love it -- you sick bastard. ARCHER (unmoved) When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? She stares at him with equal amounts of pity and hatred. SASHA I haven't seen him for years. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY Archer watches as Adam leaves Dietrich and jumps into Sasha's arms. She hugs him protectively. Adam sees Archer watching them -- and smiles. Archer doesn't smile back. FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S REAL FACE PULL BACK TO: INT. I.C.U. - NIGHT Archer slowly circles Castor's muscular, hairy, tattooed body. Although on life support -- his signature smirk remains. ARCHER What about Lazarro? BRODIE No way -- the red tape alone would take a month. This is a black-bag operation -- completely off the books. MILLER If you need him, Tito can help you prepare. But you know the drill: You can't tell anyone -- not the Director, not your wife... nobody. Archer's face shows he doesn't like it -- then he nods. ARCHER I'm in. EXT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Archer slowly gets out of his car. Trudging toward the front door, he picks up a basketball and takes a shot. His form is terrible -- he misses by a mile. INT. HALLWAY - NIGHT Archer passes Jamie's room. Loud MUSIC POUNDS from within. He pauses to knock, thinks again, then heads down the hall. INT. MASTER BEDROOM - NIGHT Eve is in bed. Archer comes in quietly and sits beside her -- studying her peaceful, sleeping face. She stirs. EVE I was dreaming... ARCHER Something good? EVE I'm not sure... you were flying this

concern

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

"Face/Off", production draft, by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary FACE/OFF Written by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary Revised 9/10/96 FADE INTO: SEPIA-TONE FOOTAGE of a pig chasing a lion chasing a dinosaur chasing an elephant. Noah's Ark going round... and round... and round... EXT. GRIFFITH PARK CAROUSEL - DAY Disjointed CALLIOPE MUSIC as the wheel of fate and fortune goes around until we PULL BACK to reveal: JON ARCHER (30) rising winged Pegasus. On the adjacent unicorn is his son MATTHEW (5). Clutching a balloon, Matty waves at his dad. A happy moment, like so many certain to follow -- until we realize we are watching them THROUGH... SNIPER'S RIFLE SCOPE - SNIPER'S EYES wait until the child clears his aim -- Archer is the target. They round the bend and disappear... MATTHEW Loses his grip on the unicorn. Archer reaches over and pulls him into his lap. They happily ride together... As the horses sweep back INTO VIEW... exposing Archer... Now we see the sniper. CASTOR TROY is cool, efficient, aggressive, sexual. His finger closes around the trigger. BOOM! A BULLET RIPS into Archer's back. Bleeding... he drops off his horse... and sinks to the deck of the carousel. His eyes desperately searching... searching... searching... until he sees -- Matthew lies on his back -- still. Slowly, Archer reaches out and takes Matthew's hand... and now we see COLOR for the first time... Blood red... as bleeding father touches bleeding son... TILT UP TO the winged Pegasus flying by -- now in full color and UP UP UP TO Matthew's red balloon... floating away. HANDEL'S MESSIAH OVER a SERIES OF SHOTS: FBI BRIEFING ROOM Gazing out the window as dawn breaks over the city below is Jon Archer... older... unshaven... fatigued... his eyes reveal a man in the grip of obsession. CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by, as if marking time itself... HOLY PLACE Smoky, spiritual... dominated by a gleaming, golden cross. A priest kneels before it -- deep in prayer. The glimmering cross comes INTO FOCUS... but it's just a light-reflection... off the casing of a large bomb. This is no chapel... but an atrium. Somewhere. And as the "priest" rubs out his cigarette we see it's Castor Troy -- carefully installing this complex device. ANOTHER CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by... ARCHER pockets his FBI badge, then holsters his gun... CASTOR sets the bomb timer -- then replaces a wall panel in front of it. Totally hidden. BRIEFING ROOM - CASTOR'S MUGSHOT is on a computer screen. His criminal dossier scrolls by endlessly: bombings, assassinations, mercenary kidnappings, terrorism-for-hire... Rookie agent LOOMIS studies the details carefully. Other agents -- including BUZZ and WANDA scan computer grid- maps, man phones, etc. amid the take-out cartons and coffee cups. These people are on high alert. ARCHER Any follow-up from L.A.P.D. Intelligence? BUZZ No, sir, nothing yet. ARCHER Get them on the phone -- now. What about S.I.S. and our airport teams? WANDA We've had everything from psychics to satellites on this. Even if Castor was here... he must have slipped the net by now... ARCHER He's here! And we're going to keep looking until we find him! A silence descends on the chastised team. As they go back to work, veteran agent TITO BIONDI takes Archer aside. TITO Jon, these people have been working round the clock -- you gotta cut them some slack... Archer considers his best friend's advice -- then... ARCHER I'll cut them some slack when I cut myself some slack. Archer marches out -- slamming the door behind him. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY (MORNING) Castor quietly shuts the security door behind him. An Hispanic voice startles him. JANITOR What are you doing? CASTOR (in perfect Spanish) Thank goodness, I feel like Icarus in the labyrinth -- where's the men's room? JANITOR (in Spanish) This area is off limits, Padre. (re: security door) How did you get in that room? Realizing the JANITOR is already too suspicious, Castor puts a priestly arm around him -- and leads him down the hall. CASTOR Okay... I have a confession to make, but you aren't gonna like it. I was planting a bomb. JANITOR Bomb? CASTOR You know -- boom -- (patting his neck) Oh, never mind... The Janitor suddenly twitches, his eyes rolls up in his head. As he gasps his last -- Castor heaves him down a stairwell. Now we see the needle-thin custom stiletto in Castor's hand. Castor kicks the Janitor's mop and bucket down the stairs -- making everything look like an accident. INT. SAME BUILDING - MAIN FLOOR - DAY (MORNING) The children's church choir -- 200 strong -- sing "Behold the Lamb of God." Clergy and lay persons listen reverently. "Father" Castor strolls by the singers -- casually heading for the exit. As he passes the risers, a teenage girl drops her sheet music at his feet. Returning it -- he whispers in her ear -- so close he's practically licking it. CASTOR I've never enjoyed 'The Messiah.' But your voice makes even a hack like Handel seem like a genius. He pats her behind and leaves. Although a little shaken, she's also drawn by Castor's sexual magnetism. EXT. LA CONVENTION CENTER - DAY (MORNING) The marquee proclaims: INTERNATIONAL CHURCH CHOIRS 18th- 21st: AMERICAN BAR ASSOCIATION. Castor exits -- politely holding the door for a beat cop. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY (MORNING) The office is a monument to obsession: photographs, clues, newsclips, totems of Castor Troy surround a pacing Archer. ARCHER (on phone) ... I don't have time to get a warrant from some hung-over judge. Just give me the go-ahead, Victor, and I promise -- as soon as this is over -- you can brand my butt with the Fourth Amendment. The instant Archer hangs up -- the INTERCOM BUZZES. KIM (V.O.) Sir, your wife's on line one... S.I.S. on two... ARCHER Tell her to hang on -- As Archer punches up line two -- Tito bursts in. TITO A jet was chartered at Anderson Airfield. Guess who just showed up to pay for it? Pollux Troy. ARCHER Scramble the Reaction Team -- we're moving out. And get one of our people on that plane. TITO But there's still no sign of Castor... ARCHER Where one brother goes, the other's sure to follow... They rush our... the hold button on line 1 still blinking. EXT. PRIVATE AIRPORT - ESTABLISHING - DAY A sleek Cadillac pulls in... stopping next to a Land Rover. LARS MUELLER -- a muscular, crystal-eyed jar-head -- gets out of the Caddy. An instant later -- LUNT MUELLER -- emerges from the Rover. They are identical twins. The men scan the airport carefully, then open the rear doors of their respective vehicles. Castor emerges from the Caddy -- Armani clad. Exiting the Rover is Castor's younger brother POLLUX TROY -- skittish, brilliant, paranoid -- a human hummingbird. POLLUX You're 26 minutes late. The casing didn't fit -- right? I knew that cheap-shit Dietrich would rip us off... CASTOR Oh, God -- ! POLLUX What!? CASTOR I forgot to turn the damn thing on! POLLUX You're kidding, right? (to the twins) He's kidding... (grabs Castor by throat) ... are you fucking kidding!? Castor hugs Pollux lovingly. Pollux squirms like a kid. CASTOR Bro -- everything went fine. POLLUX I hate when you call me bro. Pollux heads for the jet. Castor hands Lunt a wad of cash. CASTOR Thanks for babysitting. LUNT Anything else? CASTOR I'll contact you when we get the rest of the money. (turns to leave) Oh, and stat away from downtown. The inversion layer's going to be pretty thick around the 18th. The twins nod... then take off. Castor heads for the jet. INT. JET - DAY Castor hustles in -- exhorting the PILOT. CASTOR Let's go, let's go! As the JET TURBINES start to WHINE, Castor sinks into his seat. A very sexy FLIGHT ATTENDANT appears and hands him a Scotch. He downs it, looking her over salaciously. FLIGHT ATTENDANT Would you like anything else? CASTOR Hell, yes... (pulls her into lap) It's the only way to fly. She smiles, not minding, until the jet suddenly slows its taxi down the runway. COCKPIT Castor yanks open the door. CASTOR What's wrong? AT END OF RUNWAY A squat car creeps INTO VIEW -- blocking the runway. EXT./INT. HUMVEE - MOVING - DAY Behind the wheel is Jon Archer. Beside him is Tito. BACK TO ARCHER CASTOR It's Archer. (gun to Pilot's head) Go, dammit! Suddenly the gun is BLASTED from Castor's hand. he turns around to see... the Flight Attendant behind them -- holding a smoking pistol. This is Agent WINTERS. WINTERS F.B.I.! Throttle down, captain! But Castor elbows the throttle up. The jet lurches forward, throwing Winters off balance. Pollux tackles her as the jet picks up speed. INT. HUMVEE - DAY Archer slams the vehicle into gear. ARCHER Get out. TITO You're not playing chicken with two tons of aluminum... ARCHER Get out! Tito obeys as Archer peels out. The HUMMER ROARS at the jet. The jet picks up speed, trying to get aloft. The humvee is aimed right at it... Archer's eyes narrow. COLLISION COURSE as two hunks of metal bear down. The machines are seconds apart when -- Archer looks up to see... Winters' face pressed up against the cockpit window, Castor holding a gun to her head. Archer cuts the wheel -- just avoiding the jet. The Hummer skids to a stop as Federal back-up arrives -- but too late. Archer watches an FBI chopper -- landing in a swirl of dust. As the jet picks up speed... the hatch opens. Castor blasts Winters in the side and tosses her onto the tarmac. INSIDE Castor smiles at Pollux, sensing freedom, until... KA-CHUNK: Something POUNDS the jet -- from above. Castor leans out the hatch and sees... The chopper on top of them -- Archer at the controls. Eye-contact -- years of hatred pass between these men. Castor BLASTS at him from the open hatch. The chopper's left windscreen spiderwebs. Archer jerks and weaves -- dodging the BULLETS. The chopper pulls away. The jet finally lifts off... when... The chopper settles on the jet -- slamming at its tail. TARMAC Tito reacts to this madness -- as the chopper plays a deadly game of leap-frog with the jet. The end of the runway is coming up fast. Archer crushes the jet's horizontal elevator flap. JET PILOT can't budge the jet's jammed yoke. Thwarted, he powers back the throttle. Thrust reverse. CASTOR What are you doing? PILOT The horizontal elevator's smashed! We can't lift off! CASTOR SHOOTS the Pilot -- then takes the controls. He struggles to maneuver the jet. Suddenly... A biplane descends right at them -- about to land. ARCHER pulls up just as the JET swerves radically to avoid the biplane and SLAMS into the hangar. JET plows through the GLASS DOOR, the NOSE-WHEEL SNAPS off. The PLANE SKIDS right into the hangar -- finally stopping at the wings. FBI CHOPPER lands. Archer steps out calmly -- like a cop about to write a traffic ticket. He hurries to join more FBI agents rushing into the hangar ahead of him. INT. HANGAR - DAY The jet hatch pops open -- Castor leaps from it, FIRING. Two FBI agents drop -- riddled. Pollux appears at the hatch -- an FBI sharpshooter FIRES, grazing Pollux's shoulder. Staggered, Pollux falls -- Castor catches him before he hits the floor -- simultaneously BLASTING the sharpshooter. Castor drags Pollux back into the smoke-filled hangar. Archer arrives and quickly checks the dead agents, his anger building. He signals Tito and the others to spread out. DEEP IN HANGAR A maze of airplane debris and heavy machinery. Led by Archer, the FBI agents pick their way through it. ROOKIE LOOMIS snaps alert -- did he see something? Advancing carefully, he comes up on... Castor -- staunching Pollux's shoulder wound. Pollux sees the agent -- and FIRES. Loomis hits the floor -- his bleeding ear is shredded. Suddenly a forklift charges down on Castor and Pollux. Tito is at the wheel. Castor FIRES -- forcing Tito to dive off. The forklift careens on -- driving apart the brothers. The forklift upends a stack of heavy crates -- pinning Pollux. Castor tries to free his trapped brother. POLLUX Forget it -- Go! Go! He slaps his Glock into Pollux's hand. CASTOR Wherever they put you, I'll find a way to get you out... Pollux starts FIRING -- covering Castor as he runs through a tunnel which leads to an adjoining hangar. Suddenly Wanda presses her machine-pistol into Pollux's head. As Pollux raises his gun -- Tito grabs his hand. TITO -- not unless you want that 200 I.Q. splattered all over the floor. (as Archer approaches) We got him now, Jon. ARCHER That's what you always say. Seal it off. I'm going in. Archer moves away from the group and enters the tunnel. MUSIC as Archer and Castor begin their cat-and-mouse dance. Sensing Archer, Castor pauses by an old landing gear. He draws a fresh pistol from his ankle holster and moves on. Archer pauses at the landing gear... his own stealthy movements mirroring Castor's. Castor waits behind a stack of steel drums... his gaze trying to penetrate the darkness... He SNAPS his fingers. The sound ECHOES as he tries to draw Archer in. Archer reacts to the sound and SNAPS back -- answering the challenge. As the deadly beat between them continues -- BLAM BLAM BLAM! Archer spins away just as Castor OPENS FIRE from the gloom... one step ahead. INTERCUT as necessary: CASTOR Jon, I'm getting a little annoyed by your obsessive need to spoil my fun. ARCHER And how much will your 'fun' net you this time? BOOM BOOM BOOM! Half-blind SHOTS send Castor spinning. A moment later, Archer pursues... SNAP! He fits a new CLIP into his pistol. CASTOR What's it to you? I declare it. Here I am, back in the States for less than a week -- ARCHER You're under arrest. Incredibly, you still have the right to remain silent -- CASTOR I've got something going down on the eighteenth... it's gonna be worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaoh. I'll give it up -- but my brother and I have to walk. ARCHER No discussion -- no deals. CASTOR What're you gonna do with me locked up? You'll drive your wife and kid nuts! I bet your daughter is just about ripe by now. What's her name, Janie? Enraged, Archer steps boldly forward -- trying to draw his enemy out. Silence -- then Archer senses... Castor is behind him. He FIRES -- Archer dives away. The BARRAGE CONTINUES -- driving Archer back between two huge turbine engines. As Archer reloads, he stares at the control panel switches. Castor moves in for the kill when he hears a final SNAP- SNAP. Except it isn't a finger snap... it's two switches. VRRRROOOM! The TWIN ENGINES ROAR on! Unable to fight the churning tornado-force wind... Castor's blasted across the hangar... slamming hard into the far wall. The ENGINES STOP and Archer emerges -- joined by Tito. TITO Tell me he didn't get away again... Then Tito follows Archer's gaze to Castor's lifeless body. Still as death -- somehow his mocking smile survives. EXT. AIRPORT TARMAC - SUNSET Heavily-manacled, an extremely agitated Pollux is herded into a SWAT van by Buzz and Wanda. POLLUX Where's my brother?! I want to see my brother! The van takes off -- passing an imposing older man, flanked by two bodyguards. Bullying through the media, Assistant FBI Director VICTOR LAZARRO scans the devastation. Approaching Archer, he watches as Castor's body is loaded on the ambulance. A sheet covers Castor's lifeless face. LAZARRO The oversight committee would've roasted us for this one -- thank God it paid off. Damn fine work. ARCHER Real fine, Victor. Especially the casualties. Archer contemplates the slain agents -- their three bodies laid out in a row -- waiting to be zip-locked. Lazarro reacts grimly as a reporter snaps a photo of the bodies. Instinctively, the two men close ranks. Archer grabs the Nikon, ejects the film, then shoves the camera back. LAZARRO Classified information. No photographs. Lazarro puts a caring arm around Archer's shoulder and leads him away from the media... and the carnage. LAZARRO You okay, Jon? (off Archer's nod) Then go home. Tell Eve. EXT. ARCHER'S HOME (SANTA MONICA) - SUNSET A renovated Craftsman. Sipping a carton of milk, Archer pulls into the driveway. He sits, gathering his thoughts. INT. ARCHER'S HOME - NIGHT Archer enters and sees his wife EVE. Handsome, intelligent. ARCHER Hi... (no response) ... What's wrong? She nods toward the KITCHEN. JAMIE is there -- a sullen and hard fifteen-year-old. There are cigarette cartons on the table. EVE She complimented for her 'F' in history with an 'A' in shoplifting... Archer marches into the kitchen -- noting the crate of Marlboros. Jamie matter-of-factly pours herself coffee. ARCHER Nice stunt, Jamie. You break the law and I'm expected to ignore it? JAMIE That's right -- it's all about you. Don't even ask me what happened. Archer looks to Eve for help. Eve shakes her head -- nope. ARCHER Okay. What happened? JAMIE Like you'd ever fucking believe me! She bolts. In anticipation, Eve calmly opens the door as Jamie rushes out, then closes it behind her. EVE Well, you tried. You failed miserably, but you tried. ARCHER Why won't she even talk to me? EVE Maybe because you taught her never to speak to strangers. (immediately regrets it) I'm sorry... that wasn't fair. Eve kisses his cheek -- then gathers up her doctor gear. EVE I've got patients waiting. Try again, Jon. She hates you -- but she needs you. ARCHER Eve... Something in Archer's expression makes her stop. EVE Jon -- what is it? But he's too overcome. He starts to speak -- but can't. EVE Is it -- him? It's... it's over? Emotions avalanche across his face until he finally looks up. Eve pulls him close -- a sheltering embrace for them both. ARCHER I'm going to make everything up to you and Jamie. I'll put in for a desk job. We'll go away, get counseling -- anything you want. This time, I mean it. INT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Freshly dressed, Archer heads down the hall. He pauses at the door to Jamie's room when he sees -- Jamie. Fully clothed, she's fast asleep on her bed cluttered with clothes and assorted girl-stuff. Her face peaceful. Archer looks around her room... sees the stuffed animals collecting dust... replaced by makeup, jewelry, beefcake Calvin Klein ads and band posters, etc. Archer's startled to see a lacey bustier... his little girl is growing up fast. And he's missing it. He pulls the blanket up over her and quietly slips out. The instant he leaves, Jamie kicks the blankets off. INT. FBI BUILDING - DAY Dominated by the FBI seal. Archer steps to the check point. SECURITY GUARD Print, please. Archer presses his thumb to a scan-pad -- and is cleared. INT. BULL PEN - DAY Efficient as a beehive -- agents, cryptologists, support staff buzz at their routines. Archer strides through -- drawing congratulatory nods and "thumbs up" signs... OUTSIDE HIS OFFICE Archer's team is there. Applauding. Proud. Uneasy with plaudits, he disperses the disappointed agents. ARCHER Much appreciated. Now let's get back to work, okay? WANDA (to Buzz) Is that stick ever gonna fall out of his ass? Archer's well-built secretary -- KIM BREWSTER -- hands him his messages. She's holding a bottle of Dom Perignon. KIMBERLY The C.I.A. sent this over. What should I do with it? ARCHER Send it back and tell them to stop wasting the taxpayers' money. Anything else, Miss Brewster? KIMBERLY No, sir. He enters his office. Kimberly sighs and turns to Wanda. KIMBERLY Four years -- and he still calls me 'Miss Brewster.' INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Sitting at his computer -- Archer scrolls through Castor's file. He grimly contemplates face-after-face of Troy's victims -- finally pausing on a photo of his son Matthew. Burying his feeling, he types "CASE CLOSED" over Castor's image. Archer starts to press "enter" when Tito comes in. ARCHER How's Loomis? TITO He needs some surgery, but he's going to be okay. That's the good news... ARCHER Go on. TITO ... Brodie and Miller from Special Ops need to see you. ARCHER I don't have time for those cloak and dagger guys. Big NED BRODIE and athletic female HOLLIS MILLER stroll in. BRODIE You better make time, Jon. (hefts a disc) We found this in the jet wreckage -- among Pollux Troy's effects... Archer accedes as Miller pops in the disk. The computer screen displays a CAD schematic of the bomb. Archer studies it carefully -- unease growing. ARCHER Porcelain casing... Thermal cloak... Undetectable payload. MILLER Powerful enough to flatten ten city blocks. ARCHER 'Worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaohs.' (to Tito) Get Pollux Troy. Now. DISSOLVE TO: INTERROGATION FOOTAGE Wired to a complex machine -- Pollux seems to have his frustrated interrogators on the run. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Archer, Lazarro, Tito, Brodie, Miller and other FBI officials watch the monitor. Pollux remains implacable POLLUX (V.O.) (on screen) That bomb was just a crossword puzzle to me... a mental exercise. I never built it... Lazarro shuts down the monitor... turns to Archer. ARCHER He's lying. LAZARRO He's hooked up to a full-spectrum polygraph. ARCHER Pollux is a manipulative psychopath. He can control his heartbeat, his sweat glands, his blood pressure... LAZARRO Jon, I trust your instincts, I always have. But D.C. wants more evidence. And frankly, so do I. ARCHER You'll get all the evidence you need when ten thousand people die. LAZARRO We'll get a team right on it. But we can't evacuate the city on what amounts to a hunch. Archer looks at the gathered brass. He knows it's hopeless. ARCHER That bomb has been built, it's out there somewhere and it's going to detonate... EXT. FBI BUILDING - INTELLIGENCE MEMORIAL - DAY Words etched in the granite wall read: IN HONOR OF THOSE MEMBERS OF THE FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION WHO SACRIFICED THEIR LIVES IN THE LINE OF DUTY Archer watches as a workman engraves the last of the three new stars among so many others -- each one honoring the dead. BRODIE Didn't Castor give any clue where the bomb might be? ARCHER Only one person knows -- his brother Pollux. And he'll keep his mouth shut until it blows. BRODIE We could plant an agent in his cell -- get him to spill the location. ARCHER Pollux is way too paranoid. The only person he'd talk to about that bomb is Castor himself. And dead men can't talk. Brodie and Miller exchange a knowing look. BRODIE There might be a way around that... FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S BODY Tubes and hoses are plugged into every orifice. INT. ICU ROOM - DAY Archer stares at the body... he can't believe it. ARCHER Why are you keeping him alive? (gets no answer) As long as he's breathing, he's dangerous. MILLER Relax, he's a turnip. Miller grinds out her cigarette on Castor's leg. Of course, Castor just lies there like a vegetable. BRODIE We can arrange for you to enter Erewhon Prison -- as Castor Troy. ARCHER What are you talking about? Archer turns as DR. MALCOLM HOAG (50s) enters the room. HOAG I think I'd better answer that question. (offers hand) Malcolm Hoag. I run the Physiological Camouflage Unit for Special Ops. ARCHER I know who you are. MILLER But you don't know what he can do. Physical augmentation; enhancement surgery... BRODIE ... He can disguise a compromised agent or alter the likeness -- even the voice -- of a government witness. HOAG Let me show you how it's done. (leading him out) I think you'll recognize our patient... INT. HOAG'S SURGICAL BAY - DAY Loomis lies still as a surgeon carefully scrapes away charred flesh around his burned ear. The doctor turns to a -- STEREO-LITHOGRAPHIC MACHINE Laser-beams attack an organic soup with incredible precision. The light forces a chemical reaction -- and out of the soup -- an ear begins to form. It rises from the liquid, now fully-formed. The surgeon takes the ear and fits it in place on Loomis's head. He starts suturing. OBSERVATION BOOTH - ABOVE Archer, Hoag, Brodie and Miller watch the operation -- video-enhanced by the two huge screens on the far walls. HOAG With our new generation of anti- inflammatories, healing is accelerated from weeks to days. By his next paycheck, he won't even remember which ear he lost. (a beat) Your situation, however, would be a little less permanent... BRODIE -- and a lot more classified. Hoag holds up a face-sized organic shell made up of yellow cartilage pieces and tendons, etc. Archer pulls it over his face -- like a gauze mask. A "tendon" falls off. ARCHER This'll fool Pollux. HOAG That is a state-of-the-art morpho- genetic template. The inside can be built to match the exact shape of your skull; the outside -- exactly like Castor's. Then we fit his face right on top -- MILLER -- and you become him. ARCHER You're talking about removing the guy's face? BRODIE Borrowing, Jon. The procedure's completely reversible. MILLER One way or the other -- the mission ends on the eighteenth. Archer turns the shell over and over and over in his hands. BRODIE You know Castor better than anyone. You've lived and breathed him for years -- hell, you even look a little like him. Archer shoves the template back at Hoag. ARCHER Find yourself another lab-rat. MILLER If you don't do this -- Castor will beat us again. He'll beat you again... Archer pushes his way past them -- and marches out. HOAG I don't think that went very well. BRODIE Trust us, Doc... MILLER ... he'll jerk around. Then he'll be back. INT. INTERROGATION BOOTHS - DAY Archer enters... sizes up DIETRICH HASSLER. His stylish garb doesn't completely hide his criminal roots. Archer sits down calmly. He looks at his watch. ARCHER I'm in a hurry, Dietrich. So you've only got ten seconds to go through your usual litany of lies, empty threats, and moronic denials. Then I'm coming over there -- DIETRICH If you're in such a fucking hurry -- why are you wasting your time with me? I'm just an art dealer. ARCHER You're a dealer, all right: technical secrets, munitions... explosives. DIETRICH You've never proven any of that. And when my bitchy, never-been- laid femi-nazi lawyer gets here, she's going to... ARCHER Time's up. Archer topples the wooden table and tears a leg from the top. Brandishing it -- he stalks the startled thug. HALLWAY JUST OUTSIDE - CONTINUOUS ACTION Lazarro blanches as an obsessed Archer repeatedly slams the table leg against the wall -- above Dietrich's head. LAZARRO The only ticking bomb I see is inside his head. He's getting worse, Tito. TITO Don't worry, sir. It's all an act... But as Lazarro leaves -- we see Tito's worried, too. BACK INSIDE BOOTH Archer has a terrified Dietrich backed into the corner. DIETRICH ... Okay! Castor called me but I blew him off... I swear I never saw him. And I don't know anything about any bomb! INT. CORRIDOR - OUTSIDE INTERROGATION BOOTHS - SAME TIME Archer emerges... eyes blazing. ARCHER Let him go, but I want him watched... Who's next? TITO Just Dietrich's sister... In another booth, a careworn but striking woman sits with a little boy on her lap. She gently helps him Crayola a book. This is SASHA HASSLER (30) and her son ADAM (5). INT. INTERROGATION BOOTH - DAY Archer hovers over Sasha -- her maternal warmth replaced by an icy hatred. Tito and the child are gone. ARCHER When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? SASHA Who cares? He's dead. ARCHER Answer the question. SASHA Look, I'm clean. I teach kids now -- ARCHER Sasha -- you are a felon, on probation for harboring Castor Troy. So it's in your best interest to cooperate. (as she's silent) Would you like your son put in a foster home? Sasha's eyes flash, her body coils -- but she keeps control. SASHA No, but I'm sure you'd love it -- you sick bastard. ARCHER (unmoved) When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? She stares at him with equal amounts of pity and hatred. SASHA I haven't seen him for years. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY Archer watches as Adam leaves Dietrich and jumps into Sasha's arms. She hugs him protectively. Adam sees Archer watching them -- and smiles. Archer doesn't smile back. FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S REAL FACE PULL BACK TO: INT. I.C.U. - NIGHT Archer slowly circles Castor's muscular, hairy, tattooed body. Although on life support -- his signature smirk remains. ARCHER What about Lazarro? BRODIE No way -- the red tape alone would take a month. This is a black-bag operation -- completely off the books. MILLER If you need him, Tito can help you prepare. But you know the drill: You can't tell anyone -- not the Director, not your wife... nobody. Archer's face shows he doesn't like it -- then he nods. ARCHER I'm in. EXT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Archer slowly gets out of his car. Trudging toward the front door, he picks up a basketball and takes a shot. His form is terrible -- he misses by a mile. INT. HALLWAY - NIGHT Archer passes Jamie's room. Loud MUSIC POUNDS from within. He pauses to knock, thinks again, then heads down the hall. INT. MASTER BEDROOM - NIGHT Eve is in bed. Archer comes in quietly and sits beside her -- studying her peaceful, sleeping face. She stirs. EVE I was dreaming... ARCHER Something good? EVE I'm not sure... you were flying this

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"Face/Off", production draft, by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary FACE/OFF Written by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary Revised 9/10/96 FADE INTO: SEPIA-TONE FOOTAGE of a pig chasing a lion chasing a dinosaur chasing an elephant. Noah's Ark going round... and round... and round... EXT. GRIFFITH PARK CAROUSEL - DAY Disjointed CALLIOPE MUSIC as the wheel of fate and fortune goes around until we PULL BACK to reveal: JON ARCHER (30) rising winged Pegasus. On the adjacent unicorn is his son MATTHEW (5). Clutching a balloon, Matty waves at his dad. A happy moment, like so many certain to follow -- until we realize we are watching them THROUGH... SNIPER'S RIFLE SCOPE - SNIPER'S EYES wait until the child clears his aim -- Archer is the target. They round the bend and disappear... MATTHEW Loses his grip on the unicorn. Archer reaches over and pulls him into his lap. They happily ride together... As the horses sweep back INTO VIEW... exposing Archer... Now we see the sniper. CASTOR TROY is cool, efficient, aggressive, sexual. His finger closes around the trigger. BOOM! A BULLET RIPS into Archer's back. Bleeding... he drops off his horse... and sinks to the deck of the carousel. His eyes desperately searching... searching... searching... until he sees -- Matthew lies on his back -- still. Slowly, Archer reaches out and takes Matthew's hand... and now we see COLOR for the first time... Blood red... as bleeding father touches bleeding son... TILT UP TO the winged Pegasus flying by -- now in full color and UP UP UP TO Matthew's red balloon... floating away. HANDEL'S MESSIAH OVER a SERIES OF SHOTS: FBI BRIEFING ROOM Gazing out the window as dawn breaks over the city below is Jon Archer... older... unshaven... fatigued... his eyes reveal a man in the grip of obsession. CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by, as if marking time itself... HOLY PLACE Smoky, spiritual... dominated by a gleaming, golden cross. A priest kneels before it -- deep in prayer. The glimmering cross comes INTO FOCUS... but it's just a light-reflection... off the casing of a large bomb. This is no chapel... but an atrium. Somewhere. And as the "priest" rubs out his cigarette we see it's Castor Troy -- carefully installing this complex device. ANOTHER CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by... ARCHER pockets his FBI badge, then holsters his gun... CASTOR sets the bomb timer -- then replaces a wall panel in front of it. Totally hidden. BRIEFING ROOM - CASTOR'S MUGSHOT is on a computer screen. His criminal dossier scrolls by endlessly: bombings, assassinations, mercenary kidnappings, terrorism-for-hire... Rookie agent LOOMIS studies the details carefully. Other agents -- including BUZZ and WANDA scan computer grid- maps, man phones, etc. amid the take-out cartons and coffee cups. These people are on high alert. ARCHER Any follow-up from L.A.P.D. Intelligence? BUZZ No, sir, nothing yet. ARCHER Get them on the phone -- now. What about S.I.S. and our airport teams? WANDA We've had everything from psychics to satellites on this. Even if Castor was here... he must have slipped the net by now... ARCHER He's here! And we're going to keep looking until we find him! A silence descends on the chastised team. As they go back to work, veteran agent TITO BIONDI takes Archer aside. TITO Jon, these people have been working round the clock -- you gotta cut them some slack... Archer considers his best friend's advice -- then... ARCHER I'll cut them some slack when I cut myself some slack. Archer marches out -- slamming the door behind him. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY (MORNING) Castor quietly shuts the security door behind him. An Hispanic voice startles him. JANITOR What are you doing? CASTOR (in perfect Spanish) Thank goodness, I feel like Icarus in the labyrinth -- where's the men's room? JANITOR (in Spanish) This area is off limits, Padre. (re: security door) How did you get in that room? Realizing the JANITOR is already too suspicious, Castor puts a priestly arm around him -- and leads him down the hall. CASTOR Okay... I have a confession to make, but you aren't gonna like it. I was planting a bomb. JANITOR Bomb? CASTOR You know -- boom -- (patting his neck) Oh, never mind... The Janitor suddenly twitches, his eyes rolls up in his head. As he gasps his last -- Castor heaves him down a stairwell. Now we see the needle-thin custom stiletto in Castor's hand. Castor kicks the Janitor's mop and bucket down the stairs -- making everything look like an accident. INT. SAME BUILDING - MAIN FLOOR - DAY (MORNING) The children's church choir -- 200 strong -- sing "Behold the Lamb of God." Clergy and lay persons listen reverently. "Father" Castor strolls by the singers -- casually heading for the exit. As he passes the risers, a teenage girl drops her sheet music at his feet. Returning it -- he whispers in her ear -- so close he's practically licking it. CASTOR I've never enjoyed 'The Messiah.' But your voice makes even a hack like Handel seem like a genius. He pats her behind and leaves. Although a little shaken, she's also drawn by Castor's sexual magnetism. EXT. LA CONVENTION CENTER - DAY (MORNING) The marquee proclaims: INTERNATIONAL CHURCH CHOIRS 18th- 21st: AMERICAN BAR ASSOCIATION. Castor exits -- politely holding the door for a beat cop. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY (MORNING) The office is a monument to obsession: photographs, clues, newsclips, totems of Castor Troy surround a pacing Archer. ARCHER (on phone) ... I don't have time to get a warrant from some hung-over judge. Just give me the go-ahead, Victor, and I promise -- as soon as this is over -- you can brand my butt with the Fourth Amendment. The instant Archer hangs up -- the INTERCOM BUZZES. KIM (V.O.) Sir, your wife's on line one... S.I.S. on two... ARCHER Tell her to hang on -- As Archer punches up line two -- Tito bursts in. TITO A jet was chartered at Anderson Airfield. Guess who just showed up to pay for it? Pollux Troy. ARCHER Scramble the Reaction Team -- we're moving out. And get one of our people on that plane. TITO But there's still no sign of Castor... ARCHER Where one brother goes, the other's sure to follow... They rush our... the hold button on line 1 still blinking. EXT. PRIVATE AIRPORT - ESTABLISHING - DAY A sleek Cadillac pulls in... stopping next to a Land Rover. LARS MUELLER -- a muscular, crystal-eyed jar-head -- gets out of the Caddy. An instant later -- LUNT MUELLER -- emerges from the Rover. They are identical twins. The men scan the airport carefully, then open the rear doors of their respective vehicles. Castor emerges from the Caddy -- Armani clad. Exiting the Rover is Castor's younger brother POLLUX TROY -- skittish, brilliant, paranoid -- a human hummingbird. POLLUX You're 26 minutes late. The casing didn't fit -- right? I knew that cheap-shit Dietrich would rip us off... CASTOR Oh, God -- ! POLLUX What!? CASTOR I forgot to turn the damn thing on! POLLUX You're kidding, right? (to the twins) He's kidding... (grabs Castor by throat) ... are you fucking kidding!? Castor hugs Pollux lovingly. Pollux squirms like a kid. CASTOR Bro -- everything went fine. POLLUX I hate when you call me bro. Pollux heads for the jet. Castor hands Lunt a wad of cash. CASTOR Thanks for babysitting. LUNT Anything else? CASTOR I'll contact you when we get the rest of the money. (turns to leave) Oh, and stat away from downtown. The inversion layer's going to be pretty thick around the 18th. The twins nod... then take off. Castor heads for the jet. INT. JET - DAY Castor hustles in -- exhorting the PILOT. CASTOR Let's go, let's go! As the JET TURBINES start to WHINE, Castor sinks into his seat. A very sexy FLIGHT ATTENDANT appears and hands him a Scotch. He downs it, looking her over salaciously. FLIGHT ATTENDANT Would you like anything else? CASTOR Hell, yes... (pulls her into lap) It's the only way to fly. She smiles, not minding, until the jet suddenly slows its taxi down the runway. COCKPIT Castor yanks open the door. CASTOR What's wrong? AT END OF RUNWAY A squat car creeps INTO VIEW -- blocking the runway. EXT./INT. HUMVEE - MOVING - DAY Behind the wheel is Jon Archer. Beside him is Tito. BACK TO ARCHER CASTOR It's Archer. (gun to Pilot's head) Go, dammit! Suddenly the gun is BLASTED from Castor's hand. he turns around to see... the Flight Attendant behind them -- holding a smoking pistol. This is Agent WINTERS. WINTERS F.B.I.! Throttle down, captain! But Castor elbows the throttle up. The jet lurches forward, throwing Winters off balance. Pollux tackles her as the jet picks up speed. INT. HUMVEE - DAY Archer slams the vehicle into gear. ARCHER Get out. TITO You're not playing chicken with two tons of aluminum... ARCHER Get out! Tito obeys as Archer peels out. The HUMMER ROARS at the jet. The jet picks up speed, trying to get aloft. The humvee is aimed right at it... Archer's eyes narrow. COLLISION COURSE as two hunks of metal bear down. The machines are seconds apart when -- Archer looks up to see... Winters' face pressed up against the cockpit window, Castor holding a gun to her head. Archer cuts the wheel -- just avoiding the jet. The Hummer skids to a stop as Federal back-up arrives -- but too late. Archer watches an FBI chopper -- landing in a swirl of dust. As the jet picks up speed... the hatch opens. Castor blasts Winters in the side and tosses her onto the tarmac. INSIDE Castor smiles at Pollux, sensing freedom, until... KA-CHUNK: Something POUNDS the jet -- from above. Castor leans out the hatch and sees... The chopper on top of them -- Archer at the controls. Eye-contact -- years of hatred pass between these men. Castor BLASTS at him from the open hatch. The chopper's left windscreen spiderwebs. Archer jerks and weaves -- dodging the BULLETS. The chopper pulls away. The jet finally lifts off... when... The chopper settles on the jet -- slamming at its tail. TARMAC Tito reacts to this madness -- as the chopper plays a deadly game of leap-frog with the jet. The end of the runway is coming up fast. Archer crushes the jet's horizontal elevator flap. JET PILOT can't budge the jet's jammed yoke. Thwarted, he powers back the throttle. Thrust reverse. CASTOR What are you doing? PILOT The horizontal elevator's smashed! We can't lift off! CASTOR SHOOTS the Pilot -- then takes the controls. He struggles to maneuver the jet. Suddenly... A biplane descends right at them -- about to land. ARCHER pulls up just as the JET swerves radically to avoid the biplane and SLAMS into the hangar. JET plows through the GLASS DOOR, the NOSE-WHEEL SNAPS off. The PLANE SKIDS right into the hangar -- finally stopping at the wings. FBI CHOPPER lands. Archer steps out calmly -- like a cop about to write a traffic ticket. He hurries to join more FBI agents rushing into the hangar ahead of him. INT. HANGAR - DAY The jet hatch pops open -- Castor leaps from it, FIRING. Two FBI agents drop -- riddled. Pollux appears at the hatch -- an FBI sharpshooter FIRES, grazing Pollux's shoulder. Staggered, Pollux falls -- Castor catches him before he hits the floor -- simultaneously BLASTING the sharpshooter. Castor drags Pollux back into the smoke-filled hangar. Archer arrives and quickly checks the dead agents, his anger building. He signals Tito and the others to spread out. DEEP IN HANGAR A maze of airplane debris and heavy machinery. Led by Archer, the FBI agents pick their way through it. ROOKIE LOOMIS snaps alert -- did he see something? Advancing carefully, he comes up on... Castor -- staunching Pollux's shoulder wound. Pollux sees the agent -- and FIRES. Loomis hits the floor -- his bleeding ear is shredded. Suddenly a forklift charges down on Castor and Pollux. Tito is at the wheel. Castor FIRES -- forcing Tito to dive off. The forklift careens on -- driving apart the brothers. The forklift upends a stack of heavy crates -- pinning Pollux. Castor tries to free his trapped brother. POLLUX Forget it -- Go! Go! He slaps his Glock into Pollux's hand. CASTOR Wherever they put you, I'll find a way to get you out... Pollux starts FIRING -- covering Castor as he runs through a tunnel which leads to an adjoining hangar. Suddenly Wanda presses her machine-pistol into Pollux's head. As Pollux raises his gun -- Tito grabs his hand. TITO -- not unless you want that 200 I.Q. splattered all over the floor. (as Archer approaches) We got him now, Jon. ARCHER That's what you always say. Seal it off. I'm going in. Archer moves away from the group and enters the tunnel. MUSIC as Archer and Castor begin their cat-and-mouse dance. Sensing Archer, Castor pauses by an old landing gear. He draws a fresh pistol from his ankle holster and moves on. Archer pauses at the landing gear... his own stealthy movements mirroring Castor's. Castor waits behind a stack of steel drums... his gaze trying to penetrate the darkness... He SNAPS his fingers. The sound ECHOES as he tries to draw Archer in. Archer reacts to the sound and SNAPS back -- answering the challenge. As the deadly beat between them continues -- BLAM BLAM BLAM! Archer spins away just as Castor OPENS FIRE from the gloom... one step ahead. INTERCUT as necessary: CASTOR Jon, I'm getting a little annoyed by your obsessive need to spoil my fun. ARCHER And how much will your 'fun' net you this time? BOOM BOOM BOOM! Half-blind SHOTS send Castor spinning. A moment later, Archer pursues... SNAP! He fits a new CLIP into his pistol. CASTOR What's it to you? I declare it. Here I am, back in the States for less than a week -- ARCHER You're under arrest. Incredibly, you still have the right to remain silent -- CASTOR I've got something going down on the eighteenth... it's gonna be worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaoh. I'll give it up -- but my brother and I have to walk. ARCHER No discussion -- no deals. CASTOR What're you gonna do with me locked up? You'll drive your wife and kid nuts! I bet your daughter is just about ripe by now. What's her name, Janie? Enraged, Archer steps boldly forward -- trying to draw his enemy out. Silence -- then Archer senses... Castor is behind him. He FIRES -- Archer dives away. The BARRAGE CONTINUES -- driving Archer back between two huge turbine engines. As Archer reloads, he stares at the control panel switches. Castor moves in for the kill when he hears a final SNAP- SNAP. Except it isn't a finger snap... it's two switches. VRRRROOOM! The TWIN ENGINES ROAR on! Unable to fight the churning tornado-force wind... Castor's blasted across the hangar... slamming hard into the far wall. The ENGINES STOP and Archer emerges -- joined by Tito. TITO Tell me he didn't get away again... Then Tito follows Archer's gaze to Castor's lifeless body. Still as death -- somehow his mocking smile survives. EXT. AIRPORT TARMAC - SUNSET Heavily-manacled, an extremely agitated Pollux is herded into a SWAT van by Buzz and Wanda. POLLUX Where's my brother?! I want to see my brother! The van takes off -- passing an imposing older man, flanked by two bodyguards. Bullying through the media, Assistant FBI Director VICTOR LAZARRO scans the devastation. Approaching Archer, he watches as Castor's body is loaded on the ambulance. A sheet covers Castor's lifeless face. LAZARRO The oversight committee would've roasted us for this one -- thank God it paid off. Damn fine work. ARCHER Real fine, Victor. Especially the casualties. Archer contemplates the slain agents -- their three bodies laid out in a row -- waiting to be zip-locked. Lazarro reacts grimly as a reporter snaps a photo of the bodies. Instinctively, the two men close ranks. Archer grabs the Nikon, ejects the film, then shoves the camera back. LAZARRO Classified information. No photographs. Lazarro puts a caring arm around Archer's shoulder and leads him away from the media... and the carnage. LAZARRO You okay, Jon? (off Archer's nod) Then go home. Tell Eve. EXT. ARCHER'S HOME (SANTA MONICA) - SUNSET A renovated Craftsman. Sipping a carton of milk, Archer pulls into the driveway. He sits, gathering his thoughts. INT. ARCHER'S HOME - NIGHT Archer enters and sees his wife EVE. Handsome, intelligent. ARCHER Hi... (no response) ... What's wrong? She nods toward the KITCHEN. JAMIE is there -- a sullen and hard fifteen-year-old. There are cigarette cartons on the table. EVE She complimented for her 'F' in history with an 'A' in shoplifting... Archer marches into the kitchen -- noting the crate of Marlboros. Jamie matter-of-factly pours herself coffee. ARCHER Nice stunt, Jamie. You break the law and I'm expected to ignore it? JAMIE That's right -- it's all about you. Don't even ask me what happened. Archer looks to Eve for help. Eve shakes her head -- nope. ARCHER Okay. What happened? JAMIE Like you'd ever fucking believe me! She bolts. In anticipation, Eve calmly opens the door as Jamie rushes out, then closes it behind her. EVE Well, you tried. You failed miserably, but you tried. ARCHER Why won't she even talk to me? EVE Maybe because you taught her never to speak to strangers. (immediately regrets it) I'm sorry... that wasn't fair. Eve kisses his cheek -- then gathers up her doctor gear. EVE I've got patients waiting. Try again, Jon. She hates you -- but she needs you. ARCHER Eve... Something in Archer's expression makes her stop. EVE Jon -- what is it? But he's too overcome. He starts to speak -- but can't. EVE Is it -- him? It's... it's over? Emotions avalanche across his face until he finally looks up. Eve pulls him close -- a sheltering embrace for them both. ARCHER I'm going to make everything up to you and Jamie. I'll put in for a desk job. We'll go away, get counseling -- anything you want. This time, I mean it. INT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Freshly dressed, Archer heads down the hall. He pauses at the door to Jamie's room when he sees -- Jamie. Fully clothed, she's fast asleep on her bed cluttered with clothes and assorted girl-stuff. Her face peaceful. Archer looks around her room... sees the stuffed animals collecting dust... replaced by makeup, jewelry, beefcake Calvin Klein ads and band posters, etc. Archer's startled to see a lacey bustier... his little girl is growing up fast. And he's missing it. He pulls the blanket up over her and quietly slips out. The instant he leaves, Jamie kicks the blankets off. INT. FBI BUILDING - DAY Dominated by the FBI seal. Archer steps to the check point. SECURITY GUARD Print, please. Archer presses his thumb to a scan-pad -- and is cleared. INT. BULL PEN - DAY Efficient as a beehive -- agents, cryptologists, support staff buzz at their routines. Archer strides through -- drawing congratulatory nods and "thumbs up" signs... OUTSIDE HIS OFFICE Archer's team is there. Applauding. Proud. Uneasy with plaudits, he disperses the disappointed agents. ARCHER Much appreciated. Now let's get back to work, okay? WANDA (to Buzz) Is that stick ever gonna fall out of his ass? Archer's well-built secretary -- KIM BREWSTER -- hands him his messages. She's holding a bottle of Dom Perignon. KIMBERLY The C.I.A. sent this over. What should I do with it? ARCHER Send it back and tell them to stop wasting the taxpayers' money. Anything else, Miss Brewster? KIMBERLY No, sir. He enters his office. Kimberly sighs and turns to Wanda. KIMBERLY Four years -- and he still calls me 'Miss Brewster.' INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Sitting at his computer -- Archer scrolls through Castor's file. He grimly contemplates face-after-face of Troy's victims -- finally pausing on a photo of his son Matthew. Burying his feeling, he types "CASE CLOSED" over Castor's image. Archer starts to press "enter" when Tito comes in. ARCHER How's Loomis? TITO He needs some surgery, but he's going to be okay. That's the good news... ARCHER Go on. TITO ... Brodie and Miller from Special Ops need to see you. ARCHER I don't have time for those cloak and dagger guys. Big NED BRODIE and athletic female HOLLIS MILLER stroll in. BRODIE You better make time, Jon. (hefts a disc) We found this in the jet wreckage -- among Pollux Troy's effects... Archer accedes as Miller pops in the disk. The computer screen displays a CAD schematic of the bomb. Archer studies it carefully -- unease growing. ARCHER Porcelain casing... Thermal cloak... Undetectable payload. MILLER Powerful enough to flatten ten city blocks. ARCHER 'Worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaohs.' (to Tito) Get Pollux Troy. Now. DISSOLVE TO: INTERROGATION FOOTAGE Wired to a complex machine -- Pollux seems to have his frustrated interrogators on the run. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Archer, Lazarro, Tito, Brodie, Miller and other FBI officials watch the monitor. Pollux remains implacable POLLUX (V.O.) (on screen) That bomb was just a crossword puzzle to me... a mental exercise. I never built it... Lazarro shuts down the monitor... turns to Archer. ARCHER He's lying. LAZARRO He's hooked up to a full-spectrum polygraph. ARCHER Pollux is a manipulative psychopath. He can control his heartbeat, his sweat glands, his blood pressure... LAZARRO Jon, I trust your instincts, I always have. But D.C. wants more evidence. And frankly, so do I. ARCHER You'll get all the evidence you need when ten thousand people die. LAZARRO We'll get a team right on it. But we can't evacuate the city on what amounts to a hunch. Archer looks at the gathered brass. He knows it's hopeless. ARCHER That bomb has been built, it's out there somewhere and it's going to detonate... EXT. FBI BUILDING - INTELLIGENCE MEMORIAL - DAY Words etched in the granite wall read: IN HONOR OF THOSE MEMBERS OF THE FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION WHO SACRIFICED THEIR LIVES IN THE LINE OF DUTY Archer watches as a workman engraves the last of the three new stars among so many others -- each one honoring the dead. BRODIE Didn't Castor give any clue where the bomb might be? ARCHER Only one person knows -- his brother Pollux. And he'll keep his mouth shut until it blows. BRODIE We could plant an agent in his cell -- get him to spill the location. ARCHER Pollux is way too paranoid. The only person he'd talk to about that bomb is Castor himself. And dead men can't talk. Brodie and Miller exchange a knowing look. BRODIE There might be a way around that... FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S BODY Tubes and hoses are plugged into every orifice. INT. ICU ROOM - DAY Archer stares at the body... he can't believe it. ARCHER Why are you keeping him alive? (gets no answer) As long as he's breathing, he's dangerous. MILLER Relax, he's a turnip. Miller grinds out her cigarette on Castor's leg. Of course, Castor just lies there like a vegetable. BRODIE We can arrange for you to enter Erewhon Prison -- as Castor Troy. ARCHER What are you talking about? Archer turns as DR. MALCOLM HOAG (50s) enters the room. HOAG I think I'd better answer that question. (offers hand) Malcolm Hoag. I run the Physiological Camouflage Unit for Special Ops. ARCHER I know who you are. MILLER But you don't know what he can do. Physical augmentation; enhancement surgery... BRODIE ... He can disguise a compromised agent or alter the likeness -- even the voice -- of a government witness. HOAG Let me show you how it's done. (leading him out) I think you'll recognize our patient... INT. HOAG'S SURGICAL BAY - DAY Loomis lies still as a surgeon carefully scrapes away charred flesh around his burned ear. The doctor turns to a -- STEREO-LITHOGRAPHIC MACHINE Laser-beams attack an organic soup with incredible precision. The light forces a chemical reaction -- and out of the soup -- an ear begins to form. It rises from the liquid, now fully-formed. The surgeon takes the ear and fits it in place on Loomis's head. He starts suturing. OBSERVATION BOOTH - ABOVE Archer, Hoag, Brodie and Miller watch the operation -- video-enhanced by the two huge screens on the far walls. HOAG With our new generation of anti- inflammatories, healing is accelerated from weeks to days. By his next paycheck, he won't even remember which ear he lost. (a beat) Your situation, however, would be a little less permanent... BRODIE -- and a lot more classified. Hoag holds up a face-sized organic shell made up of yellow cartilage pieces and tendons, etc. Archer pulls it over his face -- like a gauze mask. A "tendon" falls off. ARCHER This'll fool Pollux. HOAG That is a state-of-the-art morpho- genetic template. The inside can be built to match the exact shape of your skull; the outside -- exactly like Castor's. Then we fit his face right on top -- MILLER -- and you become him. ARCHER You're talking about removing the guy's face? BRODIE Borrowing, Jon. The procedure's completely reversible. MILLER One way or the other -- the mission ends on the eighteenth. Archer turns the shell over and over and over in his hands. BRODIE You know Castor better than anyone. You've lived and breathed him for years -- hell, you even look a little like him. Archer shoves the template back at Hoag. ARCHER Find yourself another lab-rat. MILLER If you don't do this -- Castor will beat us again. He'll beat you again... Archer pushes his way past them -- and marches out. HOAG I don't think that went very well. BRODIE Trust us, Doc... MILLER ... he'll jerk around. Then he'll be back. INT. INTERROGATION BOOTHS - DAY Archer enters... sizes up DIETRICH HASSLER. His stylish garb doesn't completely hide his criminal roots. Archer sits down calmly. He looks at his watch. ARCHER I'm in a hurry, Dietrich. So you've only got ten seconds to go through your usual litany of lies, empty threats, and moronic denials. Then I'm coming over there -- DIETRICH If you're in such a fucking hurry -- why are you wasting your time with me? I'm just an art dealer. ARCHER You're a dealer, all right: technical secrets, munitions... explosives. DIETRICH You've never proven any of that. And when my bitchy, never-been- laid femi-nazi lawyer gets here, she's going to... ARCHER Time's up. Archer topples the wooden table and tears a leg from the top. Brandishing it -- he stalks the startled thug. HALLWAY JUST OUTSIDE - CONTINUOUS ACTION Lazarro blanches as an obsessed Archer repeatedly slams the table leg against the wall -- above Dietrich's head. LAZARRO The only ticking bomb I see is inside his head. He's getting worse, Tito. TITO Don't worry, sir. It's all an act... But as Lazarro leaves -- we see Tito's worried, too. BACK INSIDE BOOTH Archer has a terrified Dietrich backed into the corner. DIETRICH ... Okay! Castor called me but I blew him off... I swear I never saw him. And I don't know anything about any bomb! INT. CORRIDOR - OUTSIDE INTERROGATION BOOTHS - SAME TIME Archer emerges... eyes blazing. ARCHER Let him go, but I want him watched... Who's next? TITO Just Dietrich's sister... In another booth, a careworn but striking woman sits with a little boy on her lap. She gently helps him Crayola a book. This is SASHA HASSLER (30) and her son ADAM (5). INT. INTERROGATION BOOTH - DAY Archer hovers over Sasha -- her maternal warmth replaced by an icy hatred. Tito and the child are gone. ARCHER When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? SASHA Who cares? He's dead. ARCHER Answer the question. SASHA Look, I'm clean. I teach kids now -- ARCHER Sasha -- you are a felon, on probation for harboring Castor Troy. So it's in your best interest to cooperate. (as she's silent) Would you like your son put in a foster home? Sasha's eyes flash, her body coils -- but she keeps control. SASHA No, but I'm sure you'd love it -- you sick bastard. ARCHER (unmoved) When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? She stares at him with equal amounts of pity and hatred. SASHA I haven't seen him for years. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY Archer watches as Adam leaves Dietrich and jumps into Sasha's arms. She hugs him protectively. Adam sees Archer watching them -- and smiles. Archer doesn't smile back. FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S REAL FACE PULL BACK TO: INT. I.C.U. - NIGHT Archer slowly circles Castor's muscular, hairy, tattooed body. Although on life support -- his signature smirk remains. ARCHER What about Lazarro? BRODIE No way -- the red tape alone would take a month. This is a black-bag operation -- completely off the books. MILLER If you need him, Tito can help you prepare. But you know the drill: You can't tell anyone -- not the Director, not your wife... nobody. Archer's face shows he doesn't like it -- then he nods. ARCHER I'm in. EXT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Archer slowly gets out of his car. Trudging toward the front door, he picks up a basketball and takes a shot. His form is terrible -- he misses by a mile. INT. HALLWAY - NIGHT Archer passes Jamie's room. Loud MUSIC POUNDS from within. He pauses to knock, thinks again, then heads down the hall. INT. MASTER BEDROOM - NIGHT Eve is in bed. Archer comes in quietly and sits beside her -- studying her peaceful, sleeping face. She stirs. EVE I was dreaming... ARCHER Something good? EVE I'm not sure... you were flying this

actually

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

"Face/Off", production draft, by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary FACE/OFF Written by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary Revised 9/10/96 FADE INTO: SEPIA-TONE FOOTAGE of a pig chasing a lion chasing a dinosaur chasing an elephant. Noah's Ark going round... and round... and round... EXT. GRIFFITH PARK CAROUSEL - DAY Disjointed CALLIOPE MUSIC as the wheel of fate and fortune goes around until we PULL BACK to reveal: JON ARCHER (30) rising winged Pegasus. On the adjacent unicorn is his son MATTHEW (5). Clutching a balloon, Matty waves at his dad. A happy moment, like so many certain to follow -- until we realize we are watching them THROUGH... SNIPER'S RIFLE SCOPE - SNIPER'S EYES wait until the child clears his aim -- Archer is the target. They round the bend and disappear... MATTHEW Loses his grip on the unicorn. Archer reaches over and pulls him into his lap. They happily ride together... As the horses sweep back INTO VIEW... exposing Archer... Now we see the sniper. CASTOR TROY is cool, efficient, aggressive, sexual. His finger closes around the trigger. BOOM! A BULLET RIPS into Archer's back. Bleeding... he drops off his horse... and sinks to the deck of the carousel. His eyes desperately searching... searching... searching... until he sees -- Matthew lies on his back -- still. Slowly, Archer reaches out and takes Matthew's hand... and now we see COLOR for the first time... Blood red... as bleeding father touches bleeding son... TILT UP TO the winged Pegasus flying by -- now in full color and UP UP UP TO Matthew's red balloon... floating away. HANDEL'S MESSIAH OVER a SERIES OF SHOTS: FBI BRIEFING ROOM Gazing out the window as dawn breaks over the city below is Jon Archer... older... unshaven... fatigued... his eyes reveal a man in the grip of obsession. CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by, as if marking time itself... HOLY PLACE Smoky, spiritual... dominated by a gleaming, golden cross. A priest kneels before it -- deep in prayer. The glimmering cross comes INTO FOCUS... but it's just a light-reflection... off the casing of a large bomb. This is no chapel... but an atrium. Somewhere. And as the "priest" rubs out his cigarette we see it's Castor Troy -- carefully installing this complex device. ANOTHER CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by... ARCHER pockets his FBI badge, then holsters his gun... CASTOR sets the bomb timer -- then replaces a wall panel in front of it. Totally hidden. BRIEFING ROOM - CASTOR'S MUGSHOT is on a computer screen. His criminal dossier scrolls by endlessly: bombings, assassinations, mercenary kidnappings, terrorism-for-hire... Rookie agent LOOMIS studies the details carefully. Other agents -- including BUZZ and WANDA scan computer grid- maps, man phones, etc. amid the take-out cartons and coffee cups. These people are on high alert. ARCHER Any follow-up from L.A.P.D. Intelligence? BUZZ No, sir, nothing yet. ARCHER Get them on the phone -- now. What about S.I.S. and our airport teams? WANDA We've had everything from psychics to satellites on this. Even if Castor was here... he must have slipped the net by now... ARCHER He's here! And we're going to keep looking until we find him! A silence descends on the chastised team. As they go back to work, veteran agent TITO BIONDI takes Archer aside. TITO Jon, these people have been working round the clock -- you gotta cut them some slack... Archer considers his best friend's advice -- then... ARCHER I'll cut them some slack when I cut myself some slack. Archer marches out -- slamming the door behind him. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY (MORNING) Castor quietly shuts the security door behind him. An Hispanic voice startles him. JANITOR What are you doing? CASTOR (in perfect Spanish) Thank goodness, I feel like Icarus in the labyrinth -- where's the men's room? JANITOR (in Spanish) This area is off limits, Padre. (re: security door) How did you get in that room? Realizing the JANITOR is already too suspicious, Castor puts a priestly arm around him -- and leads him down the hall. CASTOR Okay... I have a confession to make, but you aren't gonna like it. I was planting a bomb. JANITOR Bomb? CASTOR You know -- boom -- (patting his neck) Oh, never mind... The Janitor suddenly twitches, his eyes rolls up in his head. As he gasps his last -- Castor heaves him down a stairwell. Now we see the needle-thin custom stiletto in Castor's hand. Castor kicks the Janitor's mop and bucket down the stairs -- making everything look like an accident. INT. SAME BUILDING - MAIN FLOOR - DAY (MORNING) The children's church choir -- 200 strong -- sing "Behold the Lamb of God." Clergy and lay persons listen reverently. "Father" Castor strolls by the singers -- casually heading for the exit. As he passes the risers, a teenage girl drops her sheet music at his feet. Returning it -- he whispers in her ear -- so close he's practically licking it. CASTOR I've never enjoyed 'The Messiah.' But your voice makes even a hack like Handel seem like a genius. He pats her behind and leaves. Although a little shaken, she's also drawn by Castor's sexual magnetism. EXT. LA CONVENTION CENTER - DAY (MORNING) The marquee proclaims: INTERNATIONAL CHURCH CHOIRS 18th- 21st: AMERICAN BAR ASSOCIATION. Castor exits -- politely holding the door for a beat cop. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY (MORNING) The office is a monument to obsession: photographs, clues, newsclips, totems of Castor Troy surround a pacing Archer. ARCHER (on phone) ... I don't have time to get a warrant from some hung-over judge. Just give me the go-ahead, Victor, and I promise -- as soon as this is over -- you can brand my butt with the Fourth Amendment. The instant Archer hangs up -- the INTERCOM BUZZES. KIM (V.O.) Sir, your wife's on line one... S.I.S. on two... ARCHER Tell her to hang on -- As Archer punches up line two -- Tito bursts in. TITO A jet was chartered at Anderson Airfield. Guess who just showed up to pay for it? Pollux Troy. ARCHER Scramble the Reaction Team -- we're moving out. And get one of our people on that plane. TITO But there's still no sign of Castor... ARCHER Where one brother goes, the other's sure to follow... They rush our... the hold button on line 1 still blinking. EXT. PRIVATE AIRPORT - ESTABLISHING - DAY A sleek Cadillac pulls in... stopping next to a Land Rover. LARS MUELLER -- a muscular, crystal-eyed jar-head -- gets out of the Caddy. An instant later -- LUNT MUELLER -- emerges from the Rover. They are identical twins. The men scan the airport carefully, then open the rear doors of their respective vehicles. Castor emerges from the Caddy -- Armani clad. Exiting the Rover is Castor's younger brother POLLUX TROY -- skittish, brilliant, paranoid -- a human hummingbird. POLLUX You're 26 minutes late. The casing didn't fit -- right? I knew that cheap-shit Dietrich would rip us off... CASTOR Oh, God -- ! POLLUX What!? CASTOR I forgot to turn the damn thing on! POLLUX You're kidding, right? (to the twins) He's kidding... (grabs Castor by throat) ... are you fucking kidding!? Castor hugs Pollux lovingly. Pollux squirms like a kid. CASTOR Bro -- everything went fine. POLLUX I hate when you call me bro. Pollux heads for the jet. Castor hands Lunt a wad of cash. CASTOR Thanks for babysitting. LUNT Anything else? CASTOR I'll contact you when we get the rest of the money. (turns to leave) Oh, and stat away from downtown. The inversion layer's going to be pretty thick around the 18th. The twins nod... then take off. Castor heads for the jet. INT. JET - DAY Castor hustles in -- exhorting the PILOT. CASTOR Let's go, let's go! As the JET TURBINES start to WHINE, Castor sinks into his seat. A very sexy FLIGHT ATTENDANT appears and hands him a Scotch. He downs it, looking her over salaciously. FLIGHT ATTENDANT Would you like anything else? CASTOR Hell, yes... (pulls her into lap) It's the only way to fly. She smiles, not minding, until the jet suddenly slows its taxi down the runway. COCKPIT Castor yanks open the door. CASTOR What's wrong? AT END OF RUNWAY A squat car creeps INTO VIEW -- blocking the runway. EXT./INT. HUMVEE - MOVING - DAY Behind the wheel is Jon Archer. Beside him is Tito. BACK TO ARCHER CASTOR It's Archer. (gun to Pilot's head) Go, dammit! Suddenly the gun is BLASTED from Castor's hand. he turns around to see... the Flight Attendant behind them -- holding a smoking pistol. This is Agent WINTERS. WINTERS F.B.I.! Throttle down, captain! But Castor elbows the throttle up. The jet lurches forward, throwing Winters off balance. Pollux tackles her as the jet picks up speed. INT. HUMVEE - DAY Archer slams the vehicle into gear. ARCHER Get out. TITO You're not playing chicken with two tons of aluminum... ARCHER Get out! Tito obeys as Archer peels out. The HUMMER ROARS at the jet. The jet picks up speed, trying to get aloft. The humvee is aimed right at it... Archer's eyes narrow. COLLISION COURSE as two hunks of metal bear down. The machines are seconds apart when -- Archer looks up to see... Winters' face pressed up against the cockpit window, Castor holding a gun to her head. Archer cuts the wheel -- just avoiding the jet. The Hummer skids to a stop as Federal back-up arrives -- but too late. Archer watches an FBI chopper -- landing in a swirl of dust. As the jet picks up speed... the hatch opens. Castor blasts Winters in the side and tosses her onto the tarmac. INSIDE Castor smiles at Pollux, sensing freedom, until... KA-CHUNK: Something POUNDS the jet -- from above. Castor leans out the hatch and sees... The chopper on top of them -- Archer at the controls. Eye-contact -- years of hatred pass between these men. Castor BLASTS at him from the open hatch. The chopper's left windscreen spiderwebs. Archer jerks and weaves -- dodging the BULLETS. The chopper pulls away. The jet finally lifts off... when... The chopper settles on the jet -- slamming at its tail. TARMAC Tito reacts to this madness -- as the chopper plays a deadly game of leap-frog with the jet. The end of the runway is coming up fast. Archer crushes the jet's horizontal elevator flap. JET PILOT can't budge the jet's jammed yoke. Thwarted, he powers back the throttle. Thrust reverse. CASTOR What are you doing? PILOT The horizontal elevator's smashed! We can't lift off! CASTOR SHOOTS the Pilot -- then takes the controls. He struggles to maneuver the jet. Suddenly... A biplane descends right at them -- about to land. ARCHER pulls up just as the JET swerves radically to avoid the biplane and SLAMS into the hangar. JET plows through the GLASS DOOR, the NOSE-WHEEL SNAPS off. The PLANE SKIDS right into the hangar -- finally stopping at the wings. FBI CHOPPER lands. Archer steps out calmly -- like a cop about to write a traffic ticket. He hurries to join more FBI agents rushing into the hangar ahead of him. INT. HANGAR - DAY The jet hatch pops open -- Castor leaps from it, FIRING. Two FBI agents drop -- riddled. Pollux appears at the hatch -- an FBI sharpshooter FIRES, grazing Pollux's shoulder. Staggered, Pollux falls -- Castor catches him before he hits the floor -- simultaneously BLASTING the sharpshooter. Castor drags Pollux back into the smoke-filled hangar. Archer arrives and quickly checks the dead agents, his anger building. He signals Tito and the others to spread out. DEEP IN HANGAR A maze of airplane debris and heavy machinery. Led by Archer, the FBI agents pick their way through it. ROOKIE LOOMIS snaps alert -- did he see something? Advancing carefully, he comes up on... Castor -- staunching Pollux's shoulder wound. Pollux sees the agent -- and FIRES. Loomis hits the floor -- his bleeding ear is shredded. Suddenly a forklift charges down on Castor and Pollux. Tito is at the wheel. Castor FIRES -- forcing Tito to dive off. The forklift careens on -- driving apart the brothers. The forklift upends a stack of heavy crates -- pinning Pollux. Castor tries to free his trapped brother. POLLUX Forget it -- Go! Go! He slaps his Glock into Pollux's hand. CASTOR Wherever they put you, I'll find a way to get you out... Pollux starts FIRING -- covering Castor as he runs through a tunnel which leads to an adjoining hangar. Suddenly Wanda presses her machine-pistol into Pollux's head. As Pollux raises his gun -- Tito grabs his hand. TITO -- not unless you want that 200 I.Q. splattered all over the floor. (as Archer approaches) We got him now, Jon. ARCHER That's what you always say. Seal it off. I'm going in. Archer moves away from the group and enters the tunnel. MUSIC as Archer and Castor begin their cat-and-mouse dance. Sensing Archer, Castor pauses by an old landing gear. He draws a fresh pistol from his ankle holster and moves on. Archer pauses at the landing gear... his own stealthy movements mirroring Castor's. Castor waits behind a stack of steel drums... his gaze trying to penetrate the darkness... He SNAPS his fingers. The sound ECHOES as he tries to draw Archer in. Archer reacts to the sound and SNAPS back -- answering the challenge. As the deadly beat between them continues -- BLAM BLAM BLAM! Archer spins away just as Castor OPENS FIRE from the gloom... one step ahead. INTERCUT as necessary: CASTOR Jon, I'm getting a little annoyed by your obsessive need to spoil my fun. ARCHER And how much will your 'fun' net you this time? BOOM BOOM BOOM! Half-blind SHOTS send Castor spinning. A moment later, Archer pursues... SNAP! He fits a new CLIP into his pistol. CASTOR What's it to you? I declare it. Here I am, back in the States for less than a week -- ARCHER You're under arrest. Incredibly, you still have the right to remain silent -- CASTOR I've got something going down on the eighteenth... it's gonna be worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaoh. I'll give it up -- but my brother and I have to walk. ARCHER No discussion -- no deals. CASTOR What're you gonna do with me locked up? You'll drive your wife and kid nuts! I bet your daughter is just about ripe by now. What's her name, Janie? Enraged, Archer steps boldly forward -- trying to draw his enemy out. Silence -- then Archer senses... Castor is behind him. He FIRES -- Archer dives away. The BARRAGE CONTINUES -- driving Archer back between two huge turbine engines. As Archer reloads, he stares at the control panel switches. Castor moves in for the kill when he hears a final SNAP- SNAP. Except it isn't a finger snap... it's two switches. VRRRROOOM! The TWIN ENGINES ROAR on! Unable to fight the churning tornado-force wind... Castor's blasted across the hangar... slamming hard into the far wall. The ENGINES STOP and Archer emerges -- joined by Tito. TITO Tell me he didn't get away again... Then Tito follows Archer's gaze to Castor's lifeless body. Still as death -- somehow his mocking smile survives. EXT. AIRPORT TARMAC - SUNSET Heavily-manacled, an extremely agitated Pollux is herded into a SWAT van by Buzz and Wanda. POLLUX Where's my brother?! I want to see my brother! The van takes off -- passing an imposing older man, flanked by two bodyguards. Bullying through the media, Assistant FBI Director VICTOR LAZARRO scans the devastation. Approaching Archer, he watches as Castor's body is loaded on the ambulance. A sheet covers Castor's lifeless face. LAZARRO The oversight committee would've roasted us for this one -- thank God it paid off. Damn fine work. ARCHER Real fine, Victor. Especially the casualties. Archer contemplates the slain agents -- their three bodies laid out in a row -- waiting to be zip-locked. Lazarro reacts grimly as a reporter snaps a photo of the bodies. Instinctively, the two men close ranks. Archer grabs the Nikon, ejects the film, then shoves the camera back. LAZARRO Classified information. No photographs. Lazarro puts a caring arm around Archer's shoulder and leads him away from the media... and the carnage. LAZARRO You okay, Jon? (off Archer's nod) Then go home. Tell Eve. EXT. ARCHER'S HOME (SANTA MONICA) - SUNSET A renovated Craftsman. Sipping a carton of milk, Archer pulls into the driveway. He sits, gathering his thoughts. INT. ARCHER'S HOME - NIGHT Archer enters and sees his wife EVE. Handsome, intelligent. ARCHER Hi... (no response) ... What's wrong? She nods toward the KITCHEN. JAMIE is there -- a sullen and hard fifteen-year-old. There are cigarette cartons on the table. EVE She complimented for her 'F' in history with an 'A' in shoplifting... Archer marches into the kitchen -- noting the crate of Marlboros. Jamie matter-of-factly pours herself coffee. ARCHER Nice stunt, Jamie. You break the law and I'm expected to ignore it? JAMIE That's right -- it's all about you. Don't even ask me what happened. Archer looks to Eve for help. Eve shakes her head -- nope. ARCHER Okay. What happened? JAMIE Like you'd ever fucking believe me! She bolts. In anticipation, Eve calmly opens the door as Jamie rushes out, then closes it behind her. EVE Well, you tried. You failed miserably, but you tried. ARCHER Why won't she even talk to me? EVE Maybe because you taught her never to speak to strangers. (immediately regrets it) I'm sorry... that wasn't fair. Eve kisses his cheek -- then gathers up her doctor gear. EVE I've got patients waiting. Try again, Jon. She hates you -- but she needs you. ARCHER Eve... Something in Archer's expression makes her stop. EVE Jon -- what is it? But he's too overcome. He starts to speak -- but can't. EVE Is it -- him? It's... it's over? Emotions avalanche across his face until he finally looks up. Eve pulls him close -- a sheltering embrace for them both. ARCHER I'm going to make everything up to you and Jamie. I'll put in for a desk job. We'll go away, get counseling -- anything you want. This time, I mean it. INT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Freshly dressed, Archer heads down the hall. He pauses at the door to Jamie's room when he sees -- Jamie. Fully clothed, she's fast asleep on her bed cluttered with clothes and assorted girl-stuff. Her face peaceful. Archer looks around her room... sees the stuffed animals collecting dust... replaced by makeup, jewelry, beefcake Calvin Klein ads and band posters, etc. Archer's startled to see a lacey bustier... his little girl is growing up fast. And he's missing it. He pulls the blanket up over her and quietly slips out. The instant he leaves, Jamie kicks the blankets off. INT. FBI BUILDING - DAY Dominated by the FBI seal. Archer steps to the check point. SECURITY GUARD Print, please. Archer presses his thumb to a scan-pad -- and is cleared. INT. BULL PEN - DAY Efficient as a beehive -- agents, cryptologists, support staff buzz at their routines. Archer strides through -- drawing congratulatory nods and "thumbs up" signs... OUTSIDE HIS OFFICE Archer's team is there. Applauding. Proud. Uneasy with plaudits, he disperses the disappointed agents. ARCHER Much appreciated. Now let's get back to work, okay? WANDA (to Buzz) Is that stick ever gonna fall out of his ass? Archer's well-built secretary -- KIM BREWSTER -- hands him his messages. She's holding a bottle of Dom Perignon. KIMBERLY The C.I.A. sent this over. What should I do with it? ARCHER Send it back and tell them to stop wasting the taxpayers' money. Anything else, Miss Brewster? KIMBERLY No, sir. He enters his office. Kimberly sighs and turns to Wanda. KIMBERLY Four years -- and he still calls me 'Miss Brewster.' INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Sitting at his computer -- Archer scrolls through Castor's file. He grimly contemplates face-after-face of Troy's victims -- finally pausing on a photo of his son Matthew. Burying his feeling, he types "CASE CLOSED" over Castor's image. Archer starts to press "enter" when Tito comes in. ARCHER How's Loomis? TITO He needs some surgery, but he's going to be okay. That's the good news... ARCHER Go on. TITO ... Brodie and Miller from Special Ops need to see you. ARCHER I don't have time for those cloak and dagger guys. Big NED BRODIE and athletic female HOLLIS MILLER stroll in. BRODIE You better make time, Jon. (hefts a disc) We found this in the jet wreckage -- among Pollux Troy's effects... Archer accedes as Miller pops in the disk. The computer screen displays a CAD schematic of the bomb. Archer studies it carefully -- unease growing. ARCHER Porcelain casing... Thermal cloak... Undetectable payload. MILLER Powerful enough to flatten ten city blocks. ARCHER 'Worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaohs.' (to Tito) Get Pollux Troy. Now. DISSOLVE TO: INTERROGATION FOOTAGE Wired to a complex machine -- Pollux seems to have his frustrated interrogators on the run. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Archer, Lazarro, Tito, Brodie, Miller and other FBI officials watch the monitor. Pollux remains implacable POLLUX (V.O.) (on screen) That bomb was just a crossword puzzle to me... a mental exercise. I never built it... Lazarro shuts down the monitor... turns to Archer. ARCHER He's lying. LAZARRO He's hooked up to a full-spectrum polygraph. ARCHER Pollux is a manipulative psychopath. He can control his heartbeat, his sweat glands, his blood pressure... LAZARRO Jon, I trust your instincts, I always have. But D.C. wants more evidence. And frankly, so do I. ARCHER You'll get all the evidence you need when ten thousand people die. LAZARRO We'll get a team right on it. But we can't evacuate the city on what amounts to a hunch. Archer looks at the gathered brass. He knows it's hopeless. ARCHER That bomb has been built, it's out there somewhere and it's going to detonate... EXT. FBI BUILDING - INTELLIGENCE MEMORIAL - DAY Words etched in the granite wall read: IN HONOR OF THOSE MEMBERS OF THE FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION WHO SACRIFICED THEIR LIVES IN THE LINE OF DUTY Archer watches as a workman engraves the last of the three new stars among so many others -- each one honoring the dead. BRODIE Didn't Castor give any clue where the bomb might be? ARCHER Only one person knows -- his brother Pollux. And he'll keep his mouth shut until it blows. BRODIE We could plant an agent in his cell -- get him to spill the location. ARCHER Pollux is way too paranoid. The only person he'd talk to about that bomb is Castor himself. And dead men can't talk. Brodie and Miller exchange a knowing look. BRODIE There might be a way around that... FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S BODY Tubes and hoses are plugged into every orifice. INT. ICU ROOM - DAY Archer stares at the body... he can't believe it. ARCHER Why are you keeping him alive? (gets no answer) As long as he's breathing, he's dangerous. MILLER Relax, he's a turnip. Miller grinds out her cigarette on Castor's leg. Of course, Castor just lies there like a vegetable. BRODIE We can arrange for you to enter Erewhon Prison -- as Castor Troy. ARCHER What are you talking about? Archer turns as DR. MALCOLM HOAG (50s) enters the room. HOAG I think I'd better answer that question. (offers hand) Malcolm Hoag. I run the Physiological Camouflage Unit for Special Ops. ARCHER I know who you are. MILLER But you don't know what he can do. Physical augmentation; enhancement surgery... BRODIE ... He can disguise a compromised agent or alter the likeness -- even the voice -- of a government witness. HOAG Let me show you how it's done. (leading him out) I think you'll recognize our patient... INT. HOAG'S SURGICAL BAY - DAY Loomis lies still as a surgeon carefully scrapes away charred flesh around his burned ear. The doctor turns to a -- STEREO-LITHOGRAPHIC MACHINE Laser-beams attack an organic soup with incredible precision. The light forces a chemical reaction -- and out of the soup -- an ear begins to form. It rises from the liquid, now fully-formed. The surgeon takes the ear and fits it in place on Loomis's head. He starts suturing. OBSERVATION BOOTH - ABOVE Archer, Hoag, Brodie and Miller watch the operation -- video-enhanced by the two huge screens on the far walls. HOAG With our new generation of anti- inflammatories, healing is accelerated from weeks to days. By his next paycheck, he won't even remember which ear he lost. (a beat) Your situation, however, would be a little less permanent... BRODIE -- and a lot more classified. Hoag holds up a face-sized organic shell made up of yellow cartilage pieces and tendons, etc. Archer pulls it over his face -- like a gauze mask. A "tendon" falls off. ARCHER This'll fool Pollux. HOAG That is a state-of-the-art morpho- genetic template. The inside can be built to match the exact shape of your skull; the outside -- exactly like Castor's. Then we fit his face right on top -- MILLER -- and you become him. ARCHER You're talking about removing the guy's face? BRODIE Borrowing, Jon. The procedure's completely reversible. MILLER One way or the other -- the mission ends on the eighteenth. Archer turns the shell over and over and over in his hands. BRODIE You know Castor better than anyone. You've lived and breathed him for years -- hell, you even look a little like him. Archer shoves the template back at Hoag. ARCHER Find yourself another lab-rat. MILLER If you don't do this -- Castor will beat us again. He'll beat you again... Archer pushes his way past them -- and marches out. HOAG I don't think that went very well. BRODIE Trust us, Doc... MILLER ... he'll jerk around. Then he'll be back. INT. INTERROGATION BOOTHS - DAY Archer enters... sizes up DIETRICH HASSLER. His stylish garb doesn't completely hide his criminal roots. Archer sits down calmly. He looks at his watch. ARCHER I'm in a hurry, Dietrich. So you've only got ten seconds to go through your usual litany of lies, empty threats, and moronic denials. Then I'm coming over there -- DIETRICH If you're in such a fucking hurry -- why are you wasting your time with me? I'm just an art dealer. ARCHER You're a dealer, all right: technical secrets, munitions... explosives. DIETRICH You've never proven any of that. And when my bitchy, never-been- laid femi-nazi lawyer gets here, she's going to... ARCHER Time's up. Archer topples the wooden table and tears a leg from the top. Brandishing it -- he stalks the startled thug. HALLWAY JUST OUTSIDE - CONTINUOUS ACTION Lazarro blanches as an obsessed Archer repeatedly slams the table leg against the wall -- above Dietrich's head. LAZARRO The only ticking bomb I see is inside his head. He's getting worse, Tito. TITO Don't worry, sir. It's all an act... But as Lazarro leaves -- we see Tito's worried, too. BACK INSIDE BOOTH Archer has a terrified Dietrich backed into the corner. DIETRICH ... Okay! Castor called me but I blew him off... I swear I never saw him. And I don't know anything about any bomb! INT. CORRIDOR - OUTSIDE INTERROGATION BOOTHS - SAME TIME Archer emerges... eyes blazing. ARCHER Let him go, but I want him watched... Who's next? TITO Just Dietrich's sister... In another booth, a careworn but striking woman sits with a little boy on her lap. She gently helps him Crayola a book. This is SASHA HASSLER (30) and her son ADAM (5). INT. INTERROGATION BOOTH - DAY Archer hovers over Sasha -- her maternal warmth replaced by an icy hatred. Tito and the child are gone. ARCHER When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? SASHA Who cares? He's dead. ARCHER Answer the question. SASHA Look, I'm clean. I teach kids now -- ARCHER Sasha -- you are a felon, on probation for harboring Castor Troy. So it's in your best interest to cooperate. (as she's silent) Would you like your son put in a foster home? Sasha's eyes flash, her body coils -- but she keeps control. SASHA No, but I'm sure you'd love it -- you sick bastard. ARCHER (unmoved) When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? She stares at him with equal amounts of pity and hatred. SASHA I haven't seen him for years. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY Archer watches as Adam leaves Dietrich and jumps into Sasha's arms. She hugs him protectively. Adam sees Archer watching them -- and smiles. Archer doesn't smile back. FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S REAL FACE PULL BACK TO: INT. I.C.U. - NIGHT Archer slowly circles Castor's muscular, hairy, tattooed body. Although on life support -- his signature smirk remains. ARCHER What about Lazarro? BRODIE No way -- the red tape alone would take a month. This is a black-bag operation -- completely off the books. MILLER If you need him, Tito can help you prepare. But you know the drill: You can't tell anyone -- not the Director, not your wife... nobody. Archer's face shows he doesn't like it -- then he nods. ARCHER I'm in. EXT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Archer slowly gets out of his car. Trudging toward the front door, he picks up a basketball and takes a shot. His form is terrible -- he misses by a mile. INT. HALLWAY - NIGHT Archer passes Jamie's room. Loud MUSIC POUNDS from within. He pauses to knock, thinks again, then heads down the hall. INT. MASTER BEDROOM - NIGHT Eve is in bed. Archer comes in quietly and sits beside her -- studying her peaceful, sleeping face. She stirs. EVE I was dreaming... ARCHER Something good? EVE I'm not sure... you were flying this

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

"Face/Off", production draft, by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary FACE/OFF Written by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary Revised 9/10/96 FADE INTO: SEPIA-TONE FOOTAGE of a pig chasing a lion chasing a dinosaur chasing an elephant. Noah's Ark going round... and round... and round... EXT. GRIFFITH PARK CAROUSEL - DAY Disjointed CALLIOPE MUSIC as the wheel of fate and fortune goes around until we PULL BACK to reveal: JON ARCHER (30) rising winged Pegasus. On the adjacent unicorn is his son MATTHEW (5). Clutching a balloon, Matty waves at his dad. A happy moment, like so many certain to follow -- until we realize we are watching them THROUGH... SNIPER'S RIFLE SCOPE - SNIPER'S EYES wait until the child clears his aim -- Archer is the target. They round the bend and disappear... MATTHEW Loses his grip on the unicorn. Archer reaches over and pulls him into his lap. They happily ride together... As the horses sweep back INTO VIEW... exposing Archer... Now we see the sniper. CASTOR TROY is cool, efficient, aggressive, sexual. His finger closes around the trigger. BOOM! A BULLET RIPS into Archer's back. Bleeding... he drops off his horse... and sinks to the deck of the carousel. His eyes desperately searching... searching... searching... until he sees -- Matthew lies on his back -- still. Slowly, Archer reaches out and takes Matthew's hand... and now we see COLOR for the first time... Blood red... as bleeding father touches bleeding son... TILT UP TO the winged Pegasus flying by -- now in full color and UP UP UP TO Matthew's red balloon... floating away. HANDEL'S MESSIAH OVER a SERIES OF SHOTS: FBI BRIEFING ROOM Gazing out the window as dawn breaks over the city below is Jon Archer... older... unshaven... fatigued... his eyes reveal a man in the grip of obsession. CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by, as if marking time itself... HOLY PLACE Smoky, spiritual... dominated by a gleaming, golden cross. A priest kneels before it -- deep in prayer. The glimmering cross comes INTO FOCUS... but it's just a light-reflection... off the casing of a large bomb. This is no chapel... but an atrium. Somewhere. And as the "priest" rubs out his cigarette we see it's Castor Troy -- carefully installing this complex device. ANOTHER CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by... ARCHER pockets his FBI badge, then holsters his gun... CASTOR sets the bomb timer -- then replaces a wall panel in front of it. Totally hidden. BRIEFING ROOM - CASTOR'S MUGSHOT is on a computer screen. His criminal dossier scrolls by endlessly: bombings, assassinations, mercenary kidnappings, terrorism-for-hire... Rookie agent LOOMIS studies the details carefully. Other agents -- including BUZZ and WANDA scan computer grid- maps, man phones, etc. amid the take-out cartons and coffee cups. These people are on high alert. ARCHER Any follow-up from L.A.P.D. Intelligence? BUZZ No, sir, nothing yet. ARCHER Get them on the phone -- now. What about S.I.S. and our airport teams? WANDA We've had everything from psychics to satellites on this. Even if Castor was here... he must have slipped the net by now... ARCHER He's here! And we're going to keep looking until we find him! A silence descends on the chastised team. As they go back to work, veteran agent TITO BIONDI takes Archer aside. TITO Jon, these people have been working round the clock -- you gotta cut them some slack... Archer considers his best friend's advice -- then... ARCHER I'll cut them some slack when I cut myself some slack. Archer marches out -- slamming the door behind him. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY (MORNING) Castor quietly shuts the security door behind him. An Hispanic voice startles him. JANITOR What are you doing? CASTOR (in perfect Spanish) Thank goodness, I feel like Icarus in the labyrinth -- where's the men's room? JANITOR (in Spanish) This area is off limits, Padre. (re: security door) How did you get in that room? Realizing the JANITOR is already too suspicious, Castor puts a priestly arm around him -- and leads him down the hall. CASTOR Okay... I have a confession to make, but you aren't gonna like it. I was planting a bomb. JANITOR Bomb? CASTOR You know -- boom -- (patting his neck) Oh, never mind... The Janitor suddenly twitches, his eyes rolls up in his head. As he gasps his last -- Castor heaves him down a stairwell. Now we see the needle-thin custom stiletto in Castor's hand. Castor kicks the Janitor's mop and bucket down the stairs -- making everything look like an accident. INT. SAME BUILDING - MAIN FLOOR - DAY (MORNING) The children's church choir -- 200 strong -- sing "Behold the Lamb of God." Clergy and lay persons listen reverently. "Father" Castor strolls by the singers -- casually heading for the exit. As he passes the risers, a teenage girl drops her sheet music at his feet. Returning it -- he whispers in her ear -- so close he's practically licking it. CASTOR I've never enjoyed 'The Messiah.' But your voice makes even a hack like Handel seem like a genius. He pats her behind and leaves. Although a little shaken, she's also drawn by Castor's sexual magnetism. EXT. LA CONVENTION CENTER - DAY (MORNING) The marquee proclaims: INTERNATIONAL CHURCH CHOIRS 18th- 21st: AMERICAN BAR ASSOCIATION. Castor exits -- politely holding the door for a beat cop. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY (MORNING) The office is a monument to obsession: photographs, clues, newsclips, totems of Castor Troy surround a pacing Archer. ARCHER (on phone) ... I don't have time to get a warrant from some hung-over judge. Just give me the go-ahead, Victor, and I promise -- as soon as this is over -- you can brand my butt with the Fourth Amendment. The instant Archer hangs up -- the INTERCOM BUZZES. KIM (V.O.) Sir, your wife's on line one... S.I.S. on two... ARCHER Tell her to hang on -- As Archer punches up line two -- Tito bursts in. TITO A jet was chartered at Anderson Airfield. Guess who just showed up to pay for it? Pollux Troy. ARCHER Scramble the Reaction Team -- we're moving out. And get one of our people on that plane. TITO But there's still no sign of Castor... ARCHER Where one brother goes, the other's sure to follow... They rush our... the hold button on line 1 still blinking. EXT. PRIVATE AIRPORT - ESTABLISHING - DAY A sleek Cadillac pulls in... stopping next to a Land Rover. LARS MUELLER -- a muscular, crystal-eyed jar-head -- gets out of the Caddy. An instant later -- LUNT MUELLER -- emerges from the Rover. They are identical twins. The men scan the airport carefully, then open the rear doors of their respective vehicles. Castor emerges from the Caddy -- Armani clad. Exiting the Rover is Castor's younger brother POLLUX TROY -- skittish, brilliant, paranoid -- a human hummingbird. POLLUX You're 26 minutes late. The casing didn't fit -- right? I knew that cheap-shit Dietrich would rip us off... CASTOR Oh, God -- ! POLLUX What!? CASTOR I forgot to turn the damn thing on! POLLUX You're kidding, right? (to the twins) He's kidding... (grabs Castor by throat) ... are you fucking kidding!? Castor hugs Pollux lovingly. Pollux squirms like a kid. CASTOR Bro -- everything went fine. POLLUX I hate when you call me bro. Pollux heads for the jet. Castor hands Lunt a wad of cash. CASTOR Thanks for babysitting. LUNT Anything else? CASTOR I'll contact you when we get the rest of the money. (turns to leave) Oh, and stat away from downtown. The inversion layer's going to be pretty thick around the 18th. The twins nod... then take off. Castor heads for the jet. INT. JET - DAY Castor hustles in -- exhorting the PILOT. CASTOR Let's go, let's go! As the JET TURBINES start to WHINE, Castor sinks into his seat. A very sexy FLIGHT ATTENDANT appears and hands him a Scotch. He downs it, looking her over salaciously. FLIGHT ATTENDANT Would you like anything else? CASTOR Hell, yes... (pulls her into lap) It's the only way to fly. She smiles, not minding, until the jet suddenly slows its taxi down the runway. COCKPIT Castor yanks open the door. CASTOR What's wrong? AT END OF RUNWAY A squat car creeps INTO VIEW -- blocking the runway. EXT./INT. HUMVEE - MOVING - DAY Behind the wheel is Jon Archer. Beside him is Tito. BACK TO ARCHER CASTOR It's Archer. (gun to Pilot's head) Go, dammit! Suddenly the gun is BLASTED from Castor's hand. he turns around to see... the Flight Attendant behind them -- holding a smoking pistol. This is Agent WINTERS. WINTERS F.B.I.! Throttle down, captain! But Castor elbows the throttle up. The jet lurches forward, throwing Winters off balance. Pollux tackles her as the jet picks up speed. INT. HUMVEE - DAY Archer slams the vehicle into gear. ARCHER Get out. TITO You're not playing chicken with two tons of aluminum... ARCHER Get out! Tito obeys as Archer peels out. The HUMMER ROARS at the jet. The jet picks up speed, trying to get aloft. The humvee is aimed right at it... Archer's eyes narrow. COLLISION COURSE as two hunks of metal bear down. The machines are seconds apart when -- Archer looks up to see... Winters' face pressed up against the cockpit window, Castor holding a gun to her head. Archer cuts the wheel -- just avoiding the jet. The Hummer skids to a stop as Federal back-up arrives -- but too late. Archer watches an FBI chopper -- landing in a swirl of dust. As the jet picks up speed... the hatch opens. Castor blasts Winters in the side and tosses her onto the tarmac. INSIDE Castor smiles at Pollux, sensing freedom, until... KA-CHUNK: Something POUNDS the jet -- from above. Castor leans out the hatch and sees... The chopper on top of them -- Archer at the controls. Eye-contact -- years of hatred pass between these men. Castor BLASTS at him from the open hatch. The chopper's left windscreen spiderwebs. Archer jerks and weaves -- dodging the BULLETS. The chopper pulls away. The jet finally lifts off... when... The chopper settles on the jet -- slamming at its tail. TARMAC Tito reacts to this madness -- as the chopper plays a deadly game of leap-frog with the jet. The end of the runway is coming up fast. Archer crushes the jet's horizontal elevator flap. JET PILOT can't budge the jet's jammed yoke. Thwarted, he powers back the throttle. Thrust reverse. CASTOR What are you doing? PILOT The horizontal elevator's smashed! We can't lift off! CASTOR SHOOTS the Pilot -- then takes the controls. He struggles to maneuver the jet. Suddenly... A biplane descends right at them -- about to land. ARCHER pulls up just as the JET swerves radically to avoid the biplane and SLAMS into the hangar. JET plows through the GLASS DOOR, the NOSE-WHEEL SNAPS off. The PLANE SKIDS right into the hangar -- finally stopping at the wings. FBI CHOPPER lands. Archer steps out calmly -- like a cop about to write a traffic ticket. He hurries to join more FBI agents rushing into the hangar ahead of him. INT. HANGAR - DAY The jet hatch pops open -- Castor leaps from it, FIRING. Two FBI agents drop -- riddled. Pollux appears at the hatch -- an FBI sharpshooter FIRES, grazing Pollux's shoulder. Staggered, Pollux falls -- Castor catches him before he hits the floor -- simultaneously BLASTING the sharpshooter. Castor drags Pollux back into the smoke-filled hangar. Archer arrives and quickly checks the dead agents, his anger building. He signals Tito and the others to spread out. DEEP IN HANGAR A maze of airplane debris and heavy machinery. Led by Archer, the FBI agents pick their way through it. ROOKIE LOOMIS snaps alert -- did he see something? Advancing carefully, he comes up on... Castor -- staunching Pollux's shoulder wound. Pollux sees the agent -- and FIRES. Loomis hits the floor -- his bleeding ear is shredded. Suddenly a forklift charges down on Castor and Pollux. Tito is at the wheel. Castor FIRES -- forcing Tito to dive off. The forklift careens on -- driving apart the brothers. The forklift upends a stack of heavy crates -- pinning Pollux. Castor tries to free his trapped brother. POLLUX Forget it -- Go! Go! He slaps his Glock into Pollux's hand. CASTOR Wherever they put you, I'll find a way to get you out... Pollux starts FIRING -- covering Castor as he runs through a tunnel which leads to an adjoining hangar. Suddenly Wanda presses her machine-pistol into Pollux's head. As Pollux raises his gun -- Tito grabs his hand. TITO -- not unless you want that 200 I.Q. splattered all over the floor. (as Archer approaches) We got him now, Jon. ARCHER That's what you always say. Seal it off. I'm going in. Archer moves away from the group and enters the tunnel. MUSIC as Archer and Castor begin their cat-and-mouse dance. Sensing Archer, Castor pauses by an old landing gear. He draws a fresh pistol from his ankle holster and moves on. Archer pauses at the landing gear... his own stealthy movements mirroring Castor's. Castor waits behind a stack of steel drums... his gaze trying to penetrate the darkness... He SNAPS his fingers. The sound ECHOES as he tries to draw Archer in. Archer reacts to the sound and SNAPS back -- answering the challenge. As the deadly beat between them continues -- BLAM BLAM BLAM! Archer spins away just as Castor OPENS FIRE from the gloom... one step ahead. INTERCUT as necessary: CASTOR Jon, I'm getting a little annoyed by your obsessive need to spoil my fun. ARCHER And how much will your 'fun' net you this time? BOOM BOOM BOOM! Half-blind SHOTS send Castor spinning. A moment later, Archer pursues... SNAP! He fits a new CLIP into his pistol. CASTOR What's it to you? I declare it. Here I am, back in the States for less than a week -- ARCHER You're under arrest. Incredibly, you still have the right to remain silent -- CASTOR I've got something going down on the eighteenth... it's gonna be worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaoh. I'll give it up -- but my brother and I have to walk. ARCHER No discussion -- no deals. CASTOR What're you gonna do with me locked up? You'll drive your wife and kid nuts! I bet your daughter is just about ripe by now. What's her name, Janie? Enraged, Archer steps boldly forward -- trying to draw his enemy out. Silence -- then Archer senses... Castor is behind him. He FIRES -- Archer dives away. The BARRAGE CONTINUES -- driving Archer back between two huge turbine engines. As Archer reloads, he stares at the control panel switches. Castor moves in for the kill when he hears a final SNAP- SNAP. Except it isn't a finger snap... it's two switches. VRRRROOOM! The TWIN ENGINES ROAR on! Unable to fight the churning tornado-force wind... Castor's blasted across the hangar... slamming hard into the far wall. The ENGINES STOP and Archer emerges -- joined by Tito. TITO Tell me he didn't get away again... Then Tito follows Archer's gaze to Castor's lifeless body. Still as death -- somehow his mocking smile survives. EXT. AIRPORT TARMAC - SUNSET Heavily-manacled, an extremely agitated Pollux is herded into a SWAT van by Buzz and Wanda. POLLUX Where's my brother?! I want to see my brother! The van takes off -- passing an imposing older man, flanked by two bodyguards. Bullying through the media, Assistant FBI Director VICTOR LAZARRO scans the devastation. Approaching Archer, he watches as Castor's body is loaded on the ambulance. A sheet covers Castor's lifeless face. LAZARRO The oversight committee would've roasted us for this one -- thank God it paid off. Damn fine work. ARCHER Real fine, Victor. Especially the casualties. Archer contemplates the slain agents -- their three bodies laid out in a row -- waiting to be zip-locked. Lazarro reacts grimly as a reporter snaps a photo of the bodies. Instinctively, the two men close ranks. Archer grabs the Nikon, ejects the film, then shoves the camera back. LAZARRO Classified information. No photographs. Lazarro puts a caring arm around Archer's shoulder and leads him away from the media... and the carnage. LAZARRO You okay, Jon? (off Archer's nod) Then go home. Tell Eve. EXT. ARCHER'S HOME (SANTA MONICA) - SUNSET A renovated Craftsman. Sipping a carton of milk, Archer pulls into the driveway. He sits, gathering his thoughts. INT. ARCHER'S HOME - NIGHT Archer enters and sees his wife EVE. Handsome, intelligent. ARCHER Hi... (no response) ... What's wrong? She nods toward the KITCHEN. JAMIE is there -- a sullen and hard fifteen-year-old. There are cigarette cartons on the table. EVE She complimented for her 'F' in history with an 'A' in shoplifting... Archer marches into the kitchen -- noting the crate of Marlboros. Jamie matter-of-factly pours herself coffee. ARCHER Nice stunt, Jamie. You break the law and I'm expected to ignore it? JAMIE That's right -- it's all about you. Don't even ask me what happened. Archer looks to Eve for help. Eve shakes her head -- nope. ARCHER Okay. What happened? JAMIE Like you'd ever fucking believe me! She bolts. In anticipation, Eve calmly opens the door as Jamie rushes out, then closes it behind her. EVE Well, you tried. You failed miserably, but you tried. ARCHER Why won't she even talk to me? EVE Maybe because you taught her never to speak to strangers. (immediately regrets it) I'm sorry... that wasn't fair. Eve kisses his cheek -- then gathers up her doctor gear. EVE I've got patients waiting. Try again, Jon. She hates you -- but she needs you. ARCHER Eve... Something in Archer's expression makes her stop. EVE Jon -- what is it? But he's too overcome. He starts to speak -- but can't. EVE Is it -- him? It's... it's over? Emotions avalanche across his face until he finally looks up. Eve pulls him close -- a sheltering embrace for them both. ARCHER I'm going to make everything up to you and Jamie. I'll put in for a desk job. We'll go away, get counseling -- anything you want. This time, I mean it. INT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Freshly dressed, Archer heads down the hall. He pauses at the door to Jamie's room when he sees -- Jamie. Fully clothed, she's fast asleep on her bed cluttered with clothes and assorted girl-stuff. Her face peaceful. Archer looks around her room... sees the stuffed animals collecting dust... replaced by makeup, jewelry, beefcake Calvin Klein ads and band posters, etc. Archer's startled to see a lacey bustier... his little girl is growing up fast. And he's missing it. He pulls the blanket up over her and quietly slips out. The instant he leaves, Jamie kicks the blankets off. INT. FBI BUILDING - DAY Dominated by the FBI seal. Archer steps to the check point. SECURITY GUARD Print, please. Archer presses his thumb to a scan-pad -- and is cleared. INT. BULL PEN - DAY Efficient as a beehive -- agents, cryptologists, support staff buzz at their routines. Archer strides through -- drawing congratulatory nods and "thumbs up" signs... OUTSIDE HIS OFFICE Archer's team is there. Applauding. Proud. Uneasy with plaudits, he disperses the disappointed agents. ARCHER Much appreciated. Now let's get back to work, okay? WANDA (to Buzz) Is that stick ever gonna fall out of his ass? Archer's well-built secretary -- KIM BREWSTER -- hands him his messages. She's holding a bottle of Dom Perignon. KIMBERLY The C.I.A. sent this over. What should I do with it? ARCHER Send it back and tell them to stop wasting the taxpayers' money. Anything else, Miss Brewster? KIMBERLY No, sir. He enters his office. Kimberly sighs and turns to Wanda. KIMBERLY Four years -- and he still calls me 'Miss Brewster.' INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Sitting at his computer -- Archer scrolls through Castor's file. He grimly contemplates face-after-face of Troy's victims -- finally pausing on a photo of his son Matthew. Burying his feeling, he types "CASE CLOSED" over Castor's image. Archer starts to press "enter" when Tito comes in. ARCHER How's Loomis? TITO He needs some surgery, but he's going to be okay. That's the good news... ARCHER Go on. TITO ... Brodie and Miller from Special Ops need to see you. ARCHER I don't have time for those cloak and dagger guys. Big NED BRODIE and athletic female HOLLIS MILLER stroll in. BRODIE You better make time, Jon. (hefts a disc) We found this in the jet wreckage -- among Pollux Troy's effects... Archer accedes as Miller pops in the disk. The computer screen displays a CAD schematic of the bomb. Archer studies it carefully -- unease growing. ARCHER Porcelain casing... Thermal cloak... Undetectable payload. MILLER Powerful enough to flatten ten city blocks. ARCHER 'Worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaohs.' (to Tito) Get Pollux Troy. Now. DISSOLVE TO: INTERROGATION FOOTAGE Wired to a complex machine -- Pollux seems to have his frustrated interrogators on the run. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Archer, Lazarro, Tito, Brodie, Miller and other FBI officials watch the monitor. Pollux remains implacable POLLUX (V.O.) (on screen) That bomb was just a crossword puzzle to me... a mental exercise. I never built it... Lazarro shuts down the monitor... turns to Archer. ARCHER He's lying. LAZARRO He's hooked up to a full-spectrum polygraph. ARCHER Pollux is a manipulative psychopath. He can control his heartbeat, his sweat glands, his blood pressure... LAZARRO Jon, I trust your instincts, I always have. But D.C. wants more evidence. And frankly, so do I. ARCHER You'll get all the evidence you need when ten thousand people die. LAZARRO We'll get a team right on it. But we can't evacuate the city on what amounts to a hunch. Archer looks at the gathered brass. He knows it's hopeless. ARCHER That bomb has been built, it's out there somewhere and it's going to detonate... EXT. FBI BUILDING - INTELLIGENCE MEMORIAL - DAY Words etched in the granite wall read: IN HONOR OF THOSE MEMBERS OF THE FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION WHO SACRIFICED THEIR LIVES IN THE LINE OF DUTY Archer watches as a workman engraves the last of the three new stars among so many others -- each one honoring the dead. BRODIE Didn't Castor give any clue where the bomb might be? ARCHER Only one person knows -- his brother Pollux. And he'll keep his mouth shut until it blows. BRODIE We could plant an agent in his cell -- get him to spill the location. ARCHER Pollux is way too paranoid. The only person he'd talk to about that bomb is Castor himself. And dead men can't talk. Brodie and Miller exchange a knowing look. BRODIE There might be a way around that... FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S BODY Tubes and hoses are plugged into every orifice. INT. ICU ROOM - DAY Archer stares at the body... he can't believe it. ARCHER Why are you keeping him alive? (gets no answer) As long as he's breathing, he's dangerous. MILLER Relax, he's a turnip. Miller grinds out her cigarette on Castor's leg. Of course, Castor just lies there like a vegetable. BRODIE We can arrange for you to enter Erewhon Prison -- as Castor Troy. ARCHER What are you talking about? Archer turns as DR. MALCOLM HOAG (50s) enters the room. HOAG I think I'd better answer that question. (offers hand) Malcolm Hoag. I run the Physiological Camouflage Unit for Special Ops. ARCHER I know who you are. MILLER But you don't know what he can do. Physical augmentation; enhancement surgery... BRODIE ... He can disguise a compromised agent or alter the likeness -- even the voice -- of a government witness. HOAG Let me show you how it's done. (leading him out) I think you'll recognize our patient... INT. HOAG'S SURGICAL BAY - DAY Loomis lies still as a surgeon carefully scrapes away charred flesh around his burned ear. The doctor turns to a -- STEREO-LITHOGRAPHIC MACHINE Laser-beams attack an organic soup with incredible precision. The light forces a chemical reaction -- and out of the soup -- an ear begins to form. It rises from the liquid, now fully-formed. The surgeon takes the ear and fits it in place on Loomis's head. He starts suturing. OBSERVATION BOOTH - ABOVE Archer, Hoag, Brodie and Miller watch the operation -- video-enhanced by the two huge screens on the far walls. HOAG With our new generation of anti- inflammatories, healing is accelerated from weeks to days. By his next paycheck, he won't even remember which ear he lost. (a beat) Your situation, however, would be a little less permanent... BRODIE -- and a lot more classified. Hoag holds up a face-sized organic shell made up of yellow cartilage pieces and tendons, etc. Archer pulls it over his face -- like a gauze mask. A "tendon" falls off. ARCHER This'll fool Pollux. HOAG That is a state-of-the-art morpho- genetic template. The inside can be built to match the exact shape of your skull; the outside -- exactly like Castor's. Then we fit his face right on top -- MILLER -- and you become him. ARCHER You're talking about removing the guy's face? BRODIE Borrowing, Jon. The procedure's completely reversible. MILLER One way or the other -- the mission ends on the eighteenth. Archer turns the shell over and over and over in his hands. BRODIE You know Castor better than anyone. You've lived and breathed him for years -- hell, you even look a little like him. Archer shoves the template back at Hoag. ARCHER Find yourself another lab-rat. MILLER If you don't do this -- Castor will beat us again. He'll beat you again... Archer pushes his way past them -- and marches out. HOAG I don't think that went very well. BRODIE Trust us, Doc... MILLER ... he'll jerk around. Then he'll be back. INT. INTERROGATION BOOTHS - DAY Archer enters... sizes up DIETRICH HASSLER. His stylish garb doesn't completely hide his criminal roots. Archer sits down calmly. He looks at his watch. ARCHER I'm in a hurry, Dietrich. So you've only got ten seconds to go through your usual litany of lies, empty threats, and moronic denials. Then I'm coming over there -- DIETRICH If you're in such a fucking hurry -- why are you wasting your time with me? I'm just an art dealer. ARCHER You're a dealer, all right: technical secrets, munitions... explosives. DIETRICH You've never proven any of that. And when my bitchy, never-been- laid femi-nazi lawyer gets here, she's going to... ARCHER Time's up. Archer topples the wooden table and tears a leg from the top. Brandishing it -- he stalks the startled thug. HALLWAY JUST OUTSIDE - CONTINUOUS ACTION Lazarro blanches as an obsessed Archer repeatedly slams the table leg against the wall -- above Dietrich's head. LAZARRO The only ticking bomb I see is inside his head. He's getting worse, Tito. TITO Don't worry, sir. It's all an act... But as Lazarro leaves -- we see Tito's worried, too. BACK INSIDE BOOTH Archer has a terrified Dietrich backed into the corner. DIETRICH ... Okay! Castor called me but I blew him off... I swear I never saw him. And I don't know anything about any bomb! INT. CORRIDOR - OUTSIDE INTERROGATION BOOTHS - SAME TIME Archer emerges... eyes blazing. ARCHER Let him go, but I want him watched... Who's next? TITO Just Dietrich's sister... In another booth, a careworn but striking woman sits with a little boy on her lap. She gently helps him Crayola a book. This is SASHA HASSLER (30) and her son ADAM (5). INT. INTERROGATION BOOTH - DAY Archer hovers over Sasha -- her maternal warmth replaced by an icy hatred. Tito and the child are gone. ARCHER When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? SASHA Who cares? He's dead. ARCHER Answer the question. SASHA Look, I'm clean. I teach kids now -- ARCHER Sasha -- you are a felon, on probation for harboring Castor Troy. So it's in your best interest to cooperate. (as she's silent) Would you like your son put in a foster home? Sasha's eyes flash, her body coils -- but she keeps control. SASHA No, but I'm sure you'd love it -- you sick bastard. ARCHER (unmoved) When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? She stares at him with equal amounts of pity and hatred. SASHA I haven't seen him for years. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY Archer watches as Adam leaves Dietrich and jumps into Sasha's arms. She hugs him protectively. Adam sees Archer watching them -- and smiles. Archer doesn't smile back. FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S REAL FACE PULL BACK TO: INT. I.C.U. - NIGHT Archer slowly circles Castor's muscular, hairy, tattooed body. Although on life support -- his signature smirk remains. ARCHER What about Lazarro? BRODIE No way -- the red tape alone would take a month. This is a black-bag operation -- completely off the books. MILLER If you need him, Tito can help you prepare. But you know the drill: You can't tell anyone -- not the Director, not your wife... nobody. Archer's face shows he doesn't like it -- then he nods. ARCHER I'm in. EXT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Archer slowly gets out of his car. Trudging toward the front door, he picks up a basketball and takes a shot. His form is terrible -- he misses by a mile. INT. HALLWAY - NIGHT Archer passes Jamie's room. Loud MUSIC POUNDS from within. He pauses to knock, thinks again, then heads down the hall. INT. MASTER BEDROOM - NIGHT Eve is in bed. Archer comes in quietly and sits beside her -- studying her peaceful, sleeping face. She stirs. EVE I was dreaming... ARCHER Something good? EVE I'm not sure... you were flying this

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"Face/Off", production draft, by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary FACE/OFF Written by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary Revised 9/10/96 FADE INTO: SEPIA-TONE FOOTAGE of a pig chasing a lion chasing a dinosaur chasing an elephant. Noah's Ark going round... and round... and round... EXT. GRIFFITH PARK CAROUSEL - DAY Disjointed CALLIOPE MUSIC as the wheel of fate and fortune goes around until we PULL BACK to reveal: JON ARCHER (30) rising winged Pegasus. On the adjacent unicorn is his son MATTHEW (5). Clutching a balloon, Matty waves at his dad. A happy moment, like so many certain to follow -- until we realize we are watching them THROUGH... SNIPER'S RIFLE SCOPE - SNIPER'S EYES wait until the child clears his aim -- Archer is the target. They round the bend and disappear... MATTHEW Loses his grip on the unicorn. Archer reaches over and pulls him into his lap. They happily ride together... As the horses sweep back INTO VIEW... exposing Archer... Now we see the sniper. CASTOR TROY is cool, efficient, aggressive, sexual. His finger closes around the trigger. BOOM! A BULLET RIPS into Archer's back. Bleeding... he drops off his horse... and sinks to the deck of the carousel. His eyes desperately searching... searching... searching... until he sees -- Matthew lies on his back -- still. Slowly, Archer reaches out and takes Matthew's hand... and now we see COLOR for the first time... Blood red... as bleeding father touches bleeding son... TILT UP TO the winged Pegasus flying by -- now in full color and UP UP UP TO Matthew's red balloon... floating away. HANDEL'S MESSIAH OVER a SERIES OF SHOTS: FBI BRIEFING ROOM Gazing out the window as dawn breaks over the city below is Jon Archer... older... unshaven... fatigued... his eyes reveal a man in the grip of obsession. CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by, as if marking time itself... HOLY PLACE Smoky, spiritual... dominated by a gleaming, golden cross. A priest kneels before it -- deep in prayer. The glimmering cross comes INTO FOCUS... but it's just a light-reflection... off the casing of a large bomb. This is no chapel... but an atrium. Somewhere. And as the "priest" rubs out his cigarette we see it's Castor Troy -- carefully installing this complex device. ANOTHER CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by... ARCHER pockets his FBI badge, then holsters his gun... CASTOR sets the bomb timer -- then replaces a wall panel in front of it. Totally hidden. BRIEFING ROOM - CASTOR'S MUGSHOT is on a computer screen. His criminal dossier scrolls by endlessly: bombings, assassinations, mercenary kidnappings, terrorism-for-hire... Rookie agent LOOMIS studies the details carefully. Other agents -- including BUZZ and WANDA scan computer grid- maps, man phones, etc. amid the take-out cartons and coffee cups. These people are on high alert. ARCHER Any follow-up from L.A.P.D. Intelligence? BUZZ No, sir, nothing yet. ARCHER Get them on the phone -- now. What about S.I.S. and our airport teams? WANDA We've had everything from psychics to satellites on this. Even if Castor was here... he must have slipped the net by now... ARCHER He's here! And we're going to keep looking until we find him! A silence descends on the chastised team. As they go back to work, veteran agent TITO BIONDI takes Archer aside. TITO Jon, these people have been working round the clock -- you gotta cut them some slack... Archer considers his best friend's advice -- then... ARCHER I'll cut them some slack when I cut myself some slack. Archer marches out -- slamming the door behind him. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY (MORNING) Castor quietly shuts the security door behind him. An Hispanic voice startles him. JANITOR What are you doing? CASTOR (in perfect Spanish) Thank goodness, I feel like Icarus in the labyrinth -- where's the men's room? JANITOR (in Spanish) This area is off limits, Padre. (re: security door) How did you get in that room? Realizing the JANITOR is already too suspicious, Castor puts a priestly arm around him -- and leads him down the hall. CASTOR Okay... I have a confession to make, but you aren't gonna like it. I was planting a bomb. JANITOR Bomb? CASTOR You know -- boom -- (patting his neck) Oh, never mind... The Janitor suddenly twitches, his eyes rolls up in his head. As he gasps his last -- Castor heaves him down a stairwell. Now we see the needle-thin custom stiletto in Castor's hand. Castor kicks the Janitor's mop and bucket down the stairs -- making everything look like an accident. INT. SAME BUILDING - MAIN FLOOR - DAY (MORNING) The children's church choir -- 200 strong -- sing "Behold the Lamb of God." Clergy and lay persons listen reverently. "Father" Castor strolls by the singers -- casually heading for the exit. As he passes the risers, a teenage girl drops her sheet music at his feet. Returning it -- he whispers in her ear -- so close he's practically licking it. CASTOR I've never enjoyed 'The Messiah.' But your voice makes even a hack like Handel seem like a genius. He pats her behind and leaves. Although a little shaken, she's also drawn by Castor's sexual magnetism. EXT. LA CONVENTION CENTER - DAY (MORNING) The marquee proclaims: INTERNATIONAL CHURCH CHOIRS 18th- 21st: AMERICAN BAR ASSOCIATION. Castor exits -- politely holding the door for a beat cop. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY (MORNING) The office is a monument to obsession: photographs, clues, newsclips, totems of Castor Troy surround a pacing Archer. ARCHER (on phone) ... I don't have time to get a warrant from some hung-over judge. Just give me the go-ahead, Victor, and I promise -- as soon as this is over -- you can brand my butt with the Fourth Amendment. The instant Archer hangs up -- the INTERCOM BUZZES. KIM (V.O.) Sir, your wife's on line one... S.I.S. on two... ARCHER Tell her to hang on -- As Archer punches up line two -- Tito bursts in. TITO A jet was chartered at Anderson Airfield. Guess who just showed up to pay for it? Pollux Troy. ARCHER Scramble the Reaction Team -- we're moving out. And get one of our people on that plane. TITO But there's still no sign of Castor... ARCHER Where one brother goes, the other's sure to follow... They rush our... the hold button on line 1 still blinking. EXT. PRIVATE AIRPORT - ESTABLISHING - DAY A sleek Cadillac pulls in... stopping next to a Land Rover. LARS MUELLER -- a muscular, crystal-eyed jar-head -- gets out of the Caddy. An instant later -- LUNT MUELLER -- emerges from the Rover. They are identical twins. The men scan the airport carefully, then open the rear doors of their respective vehicles. Castor emerges from the Caddy -- Armani clad. Exiting the Rover is Castor's younger brother POLLUX TROY -- skittish, brilliant, paranoid -- a human hummingbird. POLLUX You're 26 minutes late. The casing didn't fit -- right? I knew that cheap-shit Dietrich would rip us off... CASTOR Oh, God -- ! POLLUX What!? CASTOR I forgot to turn the damn thing on! POLLUX You're kidding, right? (to the twins) He's kidding... (grabs Castor by throat) ... are you fucking kidding!? Castor hugs Pollux lovingly. Pollux squirms like a kid. CASTOR Bro -- everything went fine. POLLUX I hate when you call me bro. Pollux heads for the jet. Castor hands Lunt a wad of cash. CASTOR Thanks for babysitting. LUNT Anything else? CASTOR I'll contact you when we get the rest of the money. (turns to leave) Oh, and stat away from downtown. The inversion layer's going to be pretty thick around the 18th. The twins nod... then take off. Castor heads for the jet. INT. JET - DAY Castor hustles in -- exhorting the PILOT. CASTOR Let's go, let's go! As the JET TURBINES start to WHINE, Castor sinks into his seat. A very sexy FLIGHT ATTENDANT appears and hands him a Scotch. He downs it, looking her over salaciously. FLIGHT ATTENDANT Would you like anything else? CASTOR Hell, yes... (pulls her into lap) It's the only way to fly. She smiles, not minding, until the jet suddenly slows its taxi down the runway. COCKPIT Castor yanks open the door. CASTOR What's wrong? AT END OF RUNWAY A squat car creeps INTO VIEW -- blocking the runway. EXT./INT. HUMVEE - MOVING - DAY Behind the wheel is Jon Archer. Beside him is Tito. BACK TO ARCHER CASTOR It's Archer. (gun to Pilot's head) Go, dammit! Suddenly the gun is BLASTED from Castor's hand. he turns around to see... the Flight Attendant behind them -- holding a smoking pistol. This is Agent WINTERS. WINTERS F.B.I.! Throttle down, captain! But Castor elbows the throttle up. The jet lurches forward, throwing Winters off balance. Pollux tackles her as the jet picks up speed. INT. HUMVEE - DAY Archer slams the vehicle into gear. ARCHER Get out. TITO You're not playing chicken with two tons of aluminum... ARCHER Get out! Tito obeys as Archer peels out. The HUMMER ROARS at the jet. The jet picks up speed, trying to get aloft. The humvee is aimed right at it... Archer's eyes narrow. COLLISION COURSE as two hunks of metal bear down. The machines are seconds apart when -- Archer looks up to see... Winters' face pressed up against the cockpit window, Castor holding a gun to her head. Archer cuts the wheel -- just avoiding the jet. The Hummer skids to a stop as Federal back-up arrives -- but too late. Archer watches an FBI chopper -- landing in a swirl of dust. As the jet picks up speed... the hatch opens. Castor blasts Winters in the side and tosses her onto the tarmac. INSIDE Castor smiles at Pollux, sensing freedom, until... KA-CHUNK: Something POUNDS the jet -- from above. Castor leans out the hatch and sees... The chopper on top of them -- Archer at the controls. Eye-contact -- years of hatred pass between these men. Castor BLASTS at him from the open hatch. The chopper's left windscreen spiderwebs. Archer jerks and weaves -- dodging the BULLETS. The chopper pulls away. The jet finally lifts off... when... The chopper settles on the jet -- slamming at its tail. TARMAC Tito reacts to this madness -- as the chopper plays a deadly game of leap-frog with the jet. The end of the runway is coming up fast. Archer crushes the jet's horizontal elevator flap. JET PILOT can't budge the jet's jammed yoke. Thwarted, he powers back the throttle. Thrust reverse. CASTOR What are you doing? PILOT The horizontal elevator's smashed! We can't lift off! CASTOR SHOOTS the Pilot -- then takes the controls. He struggles to maneuver the jet. Suddenly... A biplane descends right at them -- about to land. ARCHER pulls up just as the JET swerves radically to avoid the biplane and SLAMS into the hangar. JET plows through the GLASS DOOR, the NOSE-WHEEL SNAPS off. The PLANE SKIDS right into the hangar -- finally stopping at the wings. FBI CHOPPER lands. Archer steps out calmly -- like a cop about to write a traffic ticket. He hurries to join more FBI agents rushing into the hangar ahead of him. INT. HANGAR - DAY The jet hatch pops open -- Castor leaps from it, FIRING. Two FBI agents drop -- riddled. Pollux appears at the hatch -- an FBI sharpshooter FIRES, grazing Pollux's shoulder. Staggered, Pollux falls -- Castor catches him before he hits the floor -- simultaneously BLASTING the sharpshooter. Castor drags Pollux back into the smoke-filled hangar. Archer arrives and quickly checks the dead agents, his anger building. He signals Tito and the others to spread out. DEEP IN HANGAR A maze of airplane debris and heavy machinery. Led by Archer, the FBI agents pick their way through it. ROOKIE LOOMIS snaps alert -- did he see something? Advancing carefully, he comes up on... Castor -- staunching Pollux's shoulder wound. Pollux sees the agent -- and FIRES. Loomis hits the floor -- his bleeding ear is shredded. Suddenly a forklift charges down on Castor and Pollux. Tito is at the wheel. Castor FIRES -- forcing Tito to dive off. The forklift careens on -- driving apart the brothers. The forklift upends a stack of heavy crates -- pinning Pollux. Castor tries to free his trapped brother. POLLUX Forget it -- Go! Go! He slaps his Glock into Pollux's hand. CASTOR Wherever they put you, I'll find a way to get you out... Pollux starts FIRING -- covering Castor as he runs through a tunnel which leads to an adjoining hangar. Suddenly Wanda presses her machine-pistol into Pollux's head. As Pollux raises his gun -- Tito grabs his hand. TITO -- not unless you want that 200 I.Q. splattered all over the floor. (as Archer approaches) We got him now, Jon. ARCHER That's what you always say. Seal it off. I'm going in. Archer moves away from the group and enters the tunnel. MUSIC as Archer and Castor begin their cat-and-mouse dance. Sensing Archer, Castor pauses by an old landing gear. He draws a fresh pistol from his ankle holster and moves on. Archer pauses at the landing gear... his own stealthy movements mirroring Castor's. Castor waits behind a stack of steel drums... his gaze trying to penetrate the darkness... He SNAPS his fingers. The sound ECHOES as he tries to draw Archer in. Archer reacts to the sound and SNAPS back -- answering the challenge. As the deadly beat between them continues -- BLAM BLAM BLAM! Archer spins away just as Castor OPENS FIRE from the gloom... one step ahead. INTERCUT as necessary: CASTOR Jon, I'm getting a little annoyed by your obsessive need to spoil my fun. ARCHER And how much will your 'fun' net you this time? BOOM BOOM BOOM! Half-blind SHOTS send Castor spinning. A moment later, Archer pursues... SNAP! He fits a new CLIP into his pistol. CASTOR What's it to you? I declare it. Here I am, back in the States for less than a week -- ARCHER You're under arrest. Incredibly, you still have the right to remain silent -- CASTOR I've got something going down on the eighteenth... it's gonna be worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaoh. I'll give it up -- but my brother and I have to walk. ARCHER No discussion -- no deals. CASTOR What're you gonna do with me locked up? You'll drive your wife and kid nuts! I bet your daughter is just about ripe by now. What's her name, Janie? Enraged, Archer steps boldly forward -- trying to draw his enemy out. Silence -- then Archer senses... Castor is behind him. He FIRES -- Archer dives away. The BARRAGE CONTINUES -- driving Archer back between two huge turbine engines. As Archer reloads, he stares at the control panel switches. Castor moves in for the kill when he hears a final SNAP- SNAP. Except it isn't a finger snap... it's two switches. VRRRROOOM! The TWIN ENGINES ROAR on! Unable to fight the churning tornado-force wind... Castor's blasted across the hangar... slamming hard into the far wall. The ENGINES STOP and Archer emerges -- joined by Tito. TITO Tell me he didn't get away again... Then Tito follows Archer's gaze to Castor's lifeless body. Still as death -- somehow his mocking smile survives. EXT. AIRPORT TARMAC - SUNSET Heavily-manacled, an extremely agitated Pollux is herded into a SWAT van by Buzz and Wanda. POLLUX Where's my brother?! I want to see my brother! The van takes off -- passing an imposing older man, flanked by two bodyguards. Bullying through the media, Assistant FBI Director VICTOR LAZARRO scans the devastation. Approaching Archer, he watches as Castor's body is loaded on the ambulance. A sheet covers Castor's lifeless face. LAZARRO The oversight committee would've roasted us for this one -- thank God it paid off. Damn fine work. ARCHER Real fine, Victor. Especially the casualties. Archer contemplates the slain agents -- their three bodies laid out in a row -- waiting to be zip-locked. Lazarro reacts grimly as a reporter snaps a photo of the bodies. Instinctively, the two men close ranks. Archer grabs the Nikon, ejects the film, then shoves the camera back. LAZARRO Classified information. No photographs. Lazarro puts a caring arm around Archer's shoulder and leads him away from the media... and the carnage. LAZARRO You okay, Jon? (off Archer's nod) Then go home. Tell Eve. EXT. ARCHER'S HOME (SANTA MONICA) - SUNSET A renovated Craftsman. Sipping a carton of milk, Archer pulls into the driveway. He sits, gathering his thoughts. INT. ARCHER'S HOME - NIGHT Archer enters and sees his wife EVE. Handsome, intelligent. ARCHER Hi... (no response) ... What's wrong? She nods toward the KITCHEN. JAMIE is there -- a sullen and hard fifteen-year-old. There are cigarette cartons on the table. EVE She complimented for her 'F' in history with an 'A' in shoplifting... Archer marches into the kitchen -- noting the crate of Marlboros. Jamie matter-of-factly pours herself coffee. ARCHER Nice stunt, Jamie. You break the law and I'm expected to ignore it? JAMIE That's right -- it's all about you. Don't even ask me what happened. Archer looks to Eve for help. Eve shakes her head -- nope. ARCHER Okay. What happened? JAMIE Like you'd ever fucking believe me! She bolts. In anticipation, Eve calmly opens the door as Jamie rushes out, then closes it behind her. EVE Well, you tried. You failed miserably, but you tried. ARCHER Why won't she even talk to me? EVE Maybe because you taught her never to speak to strangers. (immediately regrets it) I'm sorry... that wasn't fair. Eve kisses his cheek -- then gathers up her doctor gear. EVE I've got patients waiting. Try again, Jon. She hates you -- but she needs you. ARCHER Eve... Something in Archer's expression makes her stop. EVE Jon -- what is it? But he's too overcome. He starts to speak -- but can't. EVE Is it -- him? It's... it's over? Emotions avalanche across his face until he finally looks up. Eve pulls him close -- a sheltering embrace for them both. ARCHER I'm going to make everything up to you and Jamie. I'll put in for a desk job. We'll go away, get counseling -- anything you want. This time, I mean it. INT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Freshly dressed, Archer heads down the hall. He pauses at the door to Jamie's room when he sees -- Jamie. Fully clothed, she's fast asleep on her bed cluttered with clothes and assorted girl-stuff. Her face peaceful. Archer looks around her room... sees the stuffed animals collecting dust... replaced by makeup, jewelry, beefcake Calvin Klein ads and band posters, etc. Archer's startled to see a lacey bustier... his little girl is growing up fast. And he's missing it. He pulls the blanket up over her and quietly slips out. The instant he leaves, Jamie kicks the blankets off. INT. FBI BUILDING - DAY Dominated by the FBI seal. Archer steps to the check point. SECURITY GUARD Print, please. Archer presses his thumb to a scan-pad -- and is cleared. INT. BULL PEN - DAY Efficient as a beehive -- agents, cryptologists, support staff buzz at their routines. Archer strides through -- drawing congratulatory nods and "thumbs up" signs... OUTSIDE HIS OFFICE Archer's team is there. Applauding. Proud. Uneasy with plaudits, he disperses the disappointed agents. ARCHER Much appreciated. Now let's get back to work, okay? WANDA (to Buzz) Is that stick ever gonna fall out of his ass? Archer's well-built secretary -- KIM BREWSTER -- hands him his messages. She's holding a bottle of Dom Perignon. KIMBERLY The C.I.A. sent this over. What should I do with it? ARCHER Send it back and tell them to stop wasting the taxpayers' money. Anything else, Miss Brewster? KIMBERLY No, sir. He enters his office. Kimberly sighs and turns to Wanda. KIMBERLY Four years -- and he still calls me 'Miss Brewster.' INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Sitting at his computer -- Archer scrolls through Castor's file. He grimly contemplates face-after-face of Troy's victims -- finally pausing on a photo of his son Matthew. Burying his feeling, he types "CASE CLOSED" over Castor's image. Archer starts to press "enter" when Tito comes in. ARCHER How's Loomis? TITO He needs some surgery, but he's going to be okay. That's the good news... ARCHER Go on. TITO ... Brodie and Miller from Special Ops need to see you. ARCHER I don't have time for those cloak and dagger guys. Big NED BRODIE and athletic female HOLLIS MILLER stroll in. BRODIE You better make time, Jon. (hefts a disc) We found this in the jet wreckage -- among Pollux Troy's effects... Archer accedes as Miller pops in the disk. The computer screen displays a CAD schematic of the bomb. Archer studies it carefully -- unease growing. ARCHER Porcelain casing... Thermal cloak... Undetectable payload. MILLER Powerful enough to flatten ten city blocks. ARCHER 'Worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaohs.' (to Tito) Get Pollux Troy. Now. DISSOLVE TO: INTERROGATION FOOTAGE Wired to a complex machine -- Pollux seems to have his frustrated interrogators on the run. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Archer, Lazarro, Tito, Brodie, Miller and other FBI officials watch the monitor. Pollux remains implacable POLLUX (V.O.) (on screen) That bomb was just a crossword puzzle to me... a mental exercise. I never built it... Lazarro shuts down the monitor... turns to Archer. ARCHER He's lying. LAZARRO He's hooked up to a full-spectrum polygraph. ARCHER Pollux is a manipulative psychopath. He can control his heartbeat, his sweat glands, his blood pressure... LAZARRO Jon, I trust your instincts, I always have. But D.C. wants more evidence. And frankly, so do I. ARCHER You'll get all the evidence you need when ten thousand people die. LAZARRO We'll get a team right on it. But we can't evacuate the city on what amounts to a hunch. Archer looks at the gathered brass. He knows it's hopeless. ARCHER That bomb has been built, it's out there somewhere and it's going to detonate... EXT. FBI BUILDING - INTELLIGENCE MEMORIAL - DAY Words etched in the granite wall read: IN HONOR OF THOSE MEMBERS OF THE FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION WHO SACRIFICED THEIR LIVES IN THE LINE OF DUTY Archer watches as a workman engraves the last of the three new stars among so many others -- each one honoring the dead. BRODIE Didn't Castor give any clue where the bomb might be? ARCHER Only one person knows -- his brother Pollux. And he'll keep his mouth shut until it blows. BRODIE We could plant an agent in his cell -- get him to spill the location. ARCHER Pollux is way too paranoid. The only person he'd talk to about that bomb is Castor himself. And dead men can't talk. Brodie and Miller exchange a knowing look. BRODIE There might be a way around that... FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S BODY Tubes and hoses are plugged into every orifice. INT. ICU ROOM - DAY Archer stares at the body... he can't believe it. ARCHER Why are you keeping him alive? (gets no answer) As long as he's breathing, he's dangerous. MILLER Relax, he's a turnip. Miller grinds out her cigarette on Castor's leg. Of course, Castor just lies there like a vegetable. BRODIE We can arrange for you to enter Erewhon Prison -- as Castor Troy. ARCHER What are you talking about? Archer turns as DR. MALCOLM HOAG (50s) enters the room. HOAG I think I'd better answer that question. (offers hand) Malcolm Hoag. I run the Physiological Camouflage Unit for Special Ops. ARCHER I know who you are. MILLER But you don't know what he can do. Physical augmentation; enhancement surgery... BRODIE ... He can disguise a compromised agent or alter the likeness -- even the voice -- of a government witness. HOAG Let me show you how it's done. (leading him out) I think you'll recognize our patient... INT. HOAG'S SURGICAL BAY - DAY Loomis lies still as a surgeon carefully scrapes away charred flesh around his burned ear. The doctor turns to a -- STEREO-LITHOGRAPHIC MACHINE Laser-beams attack an organic soup with incredible precision. The light forces a chemical reaction -- and out of the soup -- an ear begins to form. It rises from the liquid, now fully-formed. The surgeon takes the ear and fits it in place on Loomis's head. He starts suturing. OBSERVATION BOOTH - ABOVE Archer, Hoag, Brodie and Miller watch the operation -- video-enhanced by the two huge screens on the far walls. HOAG With our new generation of anti- inflammatories, healing is accelerated from weeks to days. By his next paycheck, he won't even remember which ear he lost. (a beat) Your situation, however, would be a little less permanent... BRODIE -- and a lot more classified. Hoag holds up a face-sized organic shell made up of yellow cartilage pieces and tendons, etc. Archer pulls it over his face -- like a gauze mask. A "tendon" falls off. ARCHER This'll fool Pollux. HOAG That is a state-of-the-art morpho- genetic template. The inside can be built to match the exact shape of your skull; the outside -- exactly like Castor's. Then we fit his face right on top -- MILLER -- and you become him. ARCHER You're talking about removing the guy's face? BRODIE Borrowing, Jon. The procedure's completely reversible. MILLER One way or the other -- the mission ends on the eighteenth. Archer turns the shell over and over and over in his hands. BRODIE You know Castor better than anyone. You've lived and breathed him for years -- hell, you even look a little like him. Archer shoves the template back at Hoag. ARCHER Find yourself another lab-rat. MILLER If you don't do this -- Castor will beat us again. He'll beat you again... Archer pushes his way past them -- and marches out. HOAG I don't think that went very well. BRODIE Trust us, Doc... MILLER ... he'll jerk around. Then he'll be back. INT. INTERROGATION BOOTHS - DAY Archer enters... sizes up DIETRICH HASSLER. His stylish garb doesn't completely hide his criminal roots. Archer sits down calmly. He looks at his watch. ARCHER I'm in a hurry, Dietrich. So you've only got ten seconds to go through your usual litany of lies, empty threats, and moronic denials. Then I'm coming over there -- DIETRICH If you're in such a fucking hurry -- why are you wasting your time with me? I'm just an art dealer. ARCHER You're a dealer, all right: technical secrets, munitions... explosives. DIETRICH You've never proven any of that. And when my bitchy, never-been- laid femi-nazi lawyer gets here, she's going to... ARCHER Time's up. Archer topples the wooden table and tears a leg from the top. Brandishing it -- he stalks the startled thug. HALLWAY JUST OUTSIDE - CONTINUOUS ACTION Lazarro blanches as an obsessed Archer repeatedly slams the table leg against the wall -- above Dietrich's head. LAZARRO The only ticking bomb I see is inside his head. He's getting worse, Tito. TITO Don't worry, sir. It's all an act... But as Lazarro leaves -- we see Tito's worried, too. BACK INSIDE BOOTH Archer has a terrified Dietrich backed into the corner. DIETRICH ... Okay! Castor called me but I blew him off... I swear I never saw him. And I don't know anything about any bomb! INT. CORRIDOR - OUTSIDE INTERROGATION BOOTHS - SAME TIME Archer emerges... eyes blazing. ARCHER Let him go, but I want him watched... Who's next? TITO Just Dietrich's sister... In another booth, a careworn but striking woman sits with a little boy on her lap. She gently helps him Crayola a book. This is SASHA HASSLER (30) and her son ADAM (5). INT. INTERROGATION BOOTH - DAY Archer hovers over Sasha -- her maternal warmth replaced by an icy hatred. Tito and the child are gone. ARCHER When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? SASHA Who cares? He's dead. ARCHER Answer the question. SASHA Look, I'm clean. I teach kids now -- ARCHER Sasha -- you are a felon, on probation for harboring Castor Troy. So it's in your best interest to cooperate. (as she's silent) Would you like your son put in a foster home? Sasha's eyes flash, her body coils -- but she keeps control. SASHA No, but I'm sure you'd love it -- you sick bastard. ARCHER (unmoved) When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? She stares at him with equal amounts of pity and hatred. SASHA I haven't seen him for years. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY Archer watches as Adam leaves Dietrich and jumps into Sasha's arms. She hugs him protectively. Adam sees Archer watching them -- and smiles. Archer doesn't smile back. FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S REAL FACE PULL BACK TO: INT. I.C.U. - NIGHT Archer slowly circles Castor's muscular, hairy, tattooed body. Although on life support -- his signature smirk remains. ARCHER What about Lazarro? BRODIE No way -- the red tape alone would take a month. This is a black-bag operation -- completely off the books. MILLER If you need him, Tito can help you prepare. But you know the drill: You can't tell anyone -- not the Director, not your wife... nobody. Archer's face shows he doesn't like it -- then he nods. ARCHER I'm in. EXT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Archer slowly gets out of his car. Trudging toward the front door, he picks up a basketball and takes a shot. His form is terrible -- he misses by a mile. INT. HALLWAY - NIGHT Archer passes Jamie's room. Loud MUSIC POUNDS from within. He pauses to knock, thinks again, then heads down the hall. INT. MASTER BEDROOM - NIGHT Eve is in bed. Archer comes in quietly and sits beside her -- studying her peaceful, sleeping face. She stirs. EVE I was dreaming... ARCHER Something good? EVE I'm not sure... you were flying this

tarmac

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

"Face/Off", production draft, by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary FACE/OFF Written by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary Revised 9/10/96 FADE INTO: SEPIA-TONE FOOTAGE of a pig chasing a lion chasing a dinosaur chasing an elephant. Noah's Ark going round... and round... and round... EXT. GRIFFITH PARK CAROUSEL - DAY Disjointed CALLIOPE MUSIC as the wheel of fate and fortune goes around until we PULL BACK to reveal: JON ARCHER (30) rising winged Pegasus. On the adjacent unicorn is his son MATTHEW (5). Clutching a balloon, Matty waves at his dad. A happy moment, like so many certain to follow -- until we realize we are watching them THROUGH... SNIPER'S RIFLE SCOPE - SNIPER'S EYES wait until the child clears his aim -- Archer is the target. They round the bend and disappear... MATTHEW Loses his grip on the unicorn. Archer reaches over and pulls him into his lap. They happily ride together... As the horses sweep back INTO VIEW... exposing Archer... Now we see the sniper. CASTOR TROY is cool, efficient, aggressive, sexual. His finger closes around the trigger. BOOM! A BULLET RIPS into Archer's back. Bleeding... he drops off his horse... and sinks to the deck of the carousel. His eyes desperately searching... searching... searching... until he sees -- Matthew lies on his back -- still. Slowly, Archer reaches out and takes Matthew's hand... and now we see COLOR for the first time... Blood red... as bleeding father touches bleeding son... TILT UP TO the winged Pegasus flying by -- now in full color and UP UP UP TO Matthew's red balloon... floating away. HANDEL'S MESSIAH OVER a SERIES OF SHOTS: FBI BRIEFING ROOM Gazing out the window as dawn breaks over the city below is Jon Archer... older... unshaven... fatigued... his eyes reveal a man in the grip of obsession. CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by, as if marking time itself... HOLY PLACE Smoky, spiritual... dominated by a gleaming, golden cross. A priest kneels before it -- deep in prayer. The glimmering cross comes INTO FOCUS... but it's just a light-reflection... off the casing of a large bomb. This is no chapel... but an atrium. Somewhere. And as the "priest" rubs out his cigarette we see it's Castor Troy -- carefully installing this complex device. ANOTHER CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by... ARCHER pockets his FBI badge, then holsters his gun... CASTOR sets the bomb timer -- then replaces a wall panel in front of it. Totally hidden. BRIEFING ROOM - CASTOR'S MUGSHOT is on a computer screen. His criminal dossier scrolls by endlessly: bombings, assassinations, mercenary kidnappings, terrorism-for-hire... Rookie agent LOOMIS studies the details carefully. Other agents -- including BUZZ and WANDA scan computer grid- maps, man phones, etc. amid the take-out cartons and coffee cups. These people are on high alert. ARCHER Any follow-up from L.A.P.D. Intelligence? BUZZ No, sir, nothing yet. ARCHER Get them on the phone -- now. What about S.I.S. and our airport teams? WANDA We've had everything from psychics to satellites on this. Even if Castor was here... he must have slipped the net by now... ARCHER He's here! And we're going to keep looking until we find him! A silence descends on the chastised team. As they go back to work, veteran agent TITO BIONDI takes Archer aside. TITO Jon, these people have been working round the clock -- you gotta cut them some slack... Archer considers his best friend's advice -- then... ARCHER I'll cut them some slack when I cut myself some slack. Archer marches out -- slamming the door behind him. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY (MORNING) Castor quietly shuts the security door behind him. An Hispanic voice startles him. JANITOR What are you doing? CASTOR (in perfect Spanish) Thank goodness, I feel like Icarus in the labyrinth -- where's the men's room? JANITOR (in Spanish) This area is off limits, Padre. (re: security door) How did you get in that room? Realizing the JANITOR is already too suspicious, Castor puts a priestly arm around him -- and leads him down the hall. CASTOR Okay... I have a confession to make, but you aren't gonna like it. I was planting a bomb. JANITOR Bomb? CASTOR You know -- boom -- (patting his neck) Oh, never mind... The Janitor suddenly twitches, his eyes rolls up in his head. As he gasps his last -- Castor heaves him down a stairwell. Now we see the needle-thin custom stiletto in Castor's hand. Castor kicks the Janitor's mop and bucket down the stairs -- making everything look like an accident. INT. SAME BUILDING - MAIN FLOOR - DAY (MORNING) The children's church choir -- 200 strong -- sing "Behold the Lamb of God." Clergy and lay persons listen reverently. "Father" Castor strolls by the singers -- casually heading for the exit. As he passes the risers, a teenage girl drops her sheet music at his feet. Returning it -- he whispers in her ear -- so close he's practically licking it. CASTOR I've never enjoyed 'The Messiah.' But your voice makes even a hack like Handel seem like a genius. He pats her behind and leaves. Although a little shaken, she's also drawn by Castor's sexual magnetism. EXT. LA CONVENTION CENTER - DAY (MORNING) The marquee proclaims: INTERNATIONAL CHURCH CHOIRS 18th- 21st: AMERICAN BAR ASSOCIATION. Castor exits -- politely holding the door for a beat cop. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY (MORNING) The office is a monument to obsession: photographs, clues, newsclips, totems of Castor Troy surround a pacing Archer. ARCHER (on phone) ... I don't have time to get a warrant from some hung-over judge. Just give me the go-ahead, Victor, and I promise -- as soon as this is over -- you can brand my butt with the Fourth Amendment. The instant Archer hangs up -- the INTERCOM BUZZES. KIM (V.O.) Sir, your wife's on line one... S.I.S. on two... ARCHER Tell her to hang on -- As Archer punches up line two -- Tito bursts in. TITO A jet was chartered at Anderson Airfield. Guess who just showed up to pay for it? Pollux Troy. ARCHER Scramble the Reaction Team -- we're moving out. And get one of our people on that plane. TITO But there's still no sign of Castor... ARCHER Where one brother goes, the other's sure to follow... They rush our... the hold button on line 1 still blinking. EXT. PRIVATE AIRPORT - ESTABLISHING - DAY A sleek Cadillac pulls in... stopping next to a Land Rover. LARS MUELLER -- a muscular, crystal-eyed jar-head -- gets out of the Caddy. An instant later -- LUNT MUELLER -- emerges from the Rover. They are identical twins. The men scan the airport carefully, then open the rear doors of their respective vehicles. Castor emerges from the Caddy -- Armani clad. Exiting the Rover is Castor's younger brother POLLUX TROY -- skittish, brilliant, paranoid -- a human hummingbird. POLLUX You're 26 minutes late. The casing didn't fit -- right? I knew that cheap-shit Dietrich would rip us off... CASTOR Oh, God -- ! POLLUX What!? CASTOR I forgot to turn the damn thing on! POLLUX You're kidding, right? (to the twins) He's kidding... (grabs Castor by throat) ... are you fucking kidding!? Castor hugs Pollux lovingly. Pollux squirms like a kid. CASTOR Bro -- everything went fine. POLLUX I hate when you call me bro. Pollux heads for the jet. Castor hands Lunt a wad of cash. CASTOR Thanks for babysitting. LUNT Anything else? CASTOR I'll contact you when we get the rest of the money. (turns to leave) Oh, and stat away from downtown. The inversion layer's going to be pretty thick around the 18th. The twins nod... then take off. Castor heads for the jet. INT. JET - DAY Castor hustles in -- exhorting the PILOT. CASTOR Let's go, let's go! As the JET TURBINES start to WHINE, Castor sinks into his seat. A very sexy FLIGHT ATTENDANT appears and hands him a Scotch. He downs it, looking her over salaciously. FLIGHT ATTENDANT Would you like anything else? CASTOR Hell, yes... (pulls her into lap) It's the only way to fly. She smiles, not minding, until the jet suddenly slows its taxi down the runway. COCKPIT Castor yanks open the door. CASTOR What's wrong? AT END OF RUNWAY A squat car creeps INTO VIEW -- blocking the runway. EXT./INT. HUMVEE - MOVING - DAY Behind the wheel is Jon Archer. Beside him is Tito. BACK TO ARCHER CASTOR It's Archer. (gun to Pilot's head) Go, dammit! Suddenly the gun is BLASTED from Castor's hand. he turns around to see... the Flight Attendant behind them -- holding a smoking pistol. This is Agent WINTERS. WINTERS F.B.I.! Throttle down, captain! But Castor elbows the throttle up. The jet lurches forward, throwing Winters off balance. Pollux tackles her as the jet picks up speed. INT. HUMVEE - DAY Archer slams the vehicle into gear. ARCHER Get out. TITO You're not playing chicken with two tons of aluminum... ARCHER Get out! Tito obeys as Archer peels out. The HUMMER ROARS at the jet. The jet picks up speed, trying to get aloft. The humvee is aimed right at it... Archer's eyes narrow. COLLISION COURSE as two hunks of metal bear down. The machines are seconds apart when -- Archer looks up to see... Winters' face pressed up against the cockpit window, Castor holding a gun to her head. Archer cuts the wheel -- just avoiding the jet. The Hummer skids to a stop as Federal back-up arrives -- but too late. Archer watches an FBI chopper -- landing in a swirl of dust. As the jet picks up speed... the hatch opens. Castor blasts Winters in the side and tosses her onto the tarmac. INSIDE Castor smiles at Pollux, sensing freedom, until... KA-CHUNK: Something POUNDS the jet -- from above. Castor leans out the hatch and sees... The chopper on top of them -- Archer at the controls. Eye-contact -- years of hatred pass between these men. Castor BLASTS at him from the open hatch. The chopper's left windscreen spiderwebs. Archer jerks and weaves -- dodging the BULLETS. The chopper pulls away. The jet finally lifts off... when... The chopper settles on the jet -- slamming at its tail. TARMAC Tito reacts to this madness -- as the chopper plays a deadly game of leap-frog with the jet. The end of the runway is coming up fast. Archer crushes the jet's horizontal elevator flap. JET PILOT can't budge the jet's jammed yoke. Thwarted, he powers back the throttle. Thrust reverse. CASTOR What are you doing? PILOT The horizontal elevator's smashed! We can't lift off! CASTOR SHOOTS the Pilot -- then takes the controls. He struggles to maneuver the jet. Suddenly... A biplane descends right at them -- about to land. ARCHER pulls up just as the JET swerves radically to avoid the biplane and SLAMS into the hangar. JET plows through the GLASS DOOR, the NOSE-WHEEL SNAPS off. The PLANE SKIDS right into the hangar -- finally stopping at the wings. FBI CHOPPER lands. Archer steps out calmly -- like a cop about to write a traffic ticket. He hurries to join more FBI agents rushing into the hangar ahead of him. INT. HANGAR - DAY The jet hatch pops open -- Castor leaps from it, FIRING. Two FBI agents drop -- riddled. Pollux appears at the hatch -- an FBI sharpshooter FIRES, grazing Pollux's shoulder. Staggered, Pollux falls -- Castor catches him before he hits the floor -- simultaneously BLASTING the sharpshooter. Castor drags Pollux back into the smoke-filled hangar. Archer arrives and quickly checks the dead agents, his anger building. He signals Tito and the others to spread out. DEEP IN HANGAR A maze of airplane debris and heavy machinery. Led by Archer, the FBI agents pick their way through it. ROOKIE LOOMIS snaps alert -- did he see something? Advancing carefully, he comes up on... Castor -- staunching Pollux's shoulder wound. Pollux sees the agent -- and FIRES. Loomis hits the floor -- his bleeding ear is shredded. Suddenly a forklift charges down on Castor and Pollux. Tito is at the wheel. Castor FIRES -- forcing Tito to dive off. The forklift careens on -- driving apart the brothers. The forklift upends a stack of heavy crates -- pinning Pollux. Castor tries to free his trapped brother. POLLUX Forget it -- Go! Go! He slaps his Glock into Pollux's hand. CASTOR Wherever they put you, I'll find a way to get you out... Pollux starts FIRING -- covering Castor as he runs through a tunnel which leads to an adjoining hangar. Suddenly Wanda presses her machine-pistol into Pollux's head. As Pollux raises his gun -- Tito grabs his hand. TITO -- not unless you want that 200 I.Q. splattered all over the floor. (as Archer approaches) We got him now, Jon. ARCHER That's what you always say. Seal it off. I'm going in. Archer moves away from the group and enters the tunnel. MUSIC as Archer and Castor begin their cat-and-mouse dance. Sensing Archer, Castor pauses by an old landing gear. He draws a fresh pistol from his ankle holster and moves on. Archer pauses at the landing gear... his own stealthy movements mirroring Castor's. Castor waits behind a stack of steel drums... his gaze trying to penetrate the darkness... He SNAPS his fingers. The sound ECHOES as he tries to draw Archer in. Archer reacts to the sound and SNAPS back -- answering the challenge. As the deadly beat between them continues -- BLAM BLAM BLAM! Archer spins away just as Castor OPENS FIRE from the gloom... one step ahead. INTERCUT as necessary: CASTOR Jon, I'm getting a little annoyed by your obsessive need to spoil my fun. ARCHER And how much will your 'fun' net you this time? BOOM BOOM BOOM! Half-blind SHOTS send Castor spinning. A moment later, Archer pursues... SNAP! He fits a new CLIP into his pistol. CASTOR What's it to you? I declare it. Here I am, back in the States for less than a week -- ARCHER You're under arrest. Incredibly, you still have the right to remain silent -- CASTOR I've got something going down on the eighteenth... it's gonna be worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaoh. I'll give it up -- but my brother and I have to walk. ARCHER No discussion -- no deals. CASTOR What're you gonna do with me locked up? You'll drive your wife and kid nuts! I bet your daughter is just about ripe by now. What's her name, Janie? Enraged, Archer steps boldly forward -- trying to draw his enemy out. Silence -- then Archer senses... Castor is behind him. He FIRES -- Archer dives away. The BARRAGE CONTINUES -- driving Archer back between two huge turbine engines. As Archer reloads, he stares at the control panel switches. Castor moves in for the kill when he hears a final SNAP- SNAP. Except it isn't a finger snap... it's two switches. VRRRROOOM! The TWIN ENGINES ROAR on! Unable to fight the churning tornado-force wind... Castor's blasted across the hangar... slamming hard into the far wall. The ENGINES STOP and Archer emerges -- joined by Tito. TITO Tell me he didn't get away again... Then Tito follows Archer's gaze to Castor's lifeless body. Still as death -- somehow his mocking smile survives. EXT. AIRPORT TARMAC - SUNSET Heavily-manacled, an extremely agitated Pollux is herded into a SWAT van by Buzz and Wanda. POLLUX Where's my brother?! I want to see my brother! The van takes off -- passing an imposing older man, flanked by two bodyguards. Bullying through the media, Assistant FBI Director VICTOR LAZARRO scans the devastation. Approaching Archer, he watches as Castor's body is loaded on the ambulance. A sheet covers Castor's lifeless face. LAZARRO The oversight committee would've roasted us for this one -- thank God it paid off. Damn fine work. ARCHER Real fine, Victor. Especially the casualties. Archer contemplates the slain agents -- their three bodies laid out in a row -- waiting to be zip-locked. Lazarro reacts grimly as a reporter snaps a photo of the bodies. Instinctively, the two men close ranks. Archer grabs the Nikon, ejects the film, then shoves the camera back. LAZARRO Classified information. No photographs. Lazarro puts a caring arm around Archer's shoulder and leads him away from the media... and the carnage. LAZARRO You okay, Jon? (off Archer's nod) Then go home. Tell Eve. EXT. ARCHER'S HOME (SANTA MONICA) - SUNSET A renovated Craftsman. Sipping a carton of milk, Archer pulls into the driveway. He sits, gathering his thoughts. INT. ARCHER'S HOME - NIGHT Archer enters and sees his wife EVE. Handsome, intelligent. ARCHER Hi... (no response) ... What's wrong? She nods toward the KITCHEN. JAMIE is there -- a sullen and hard fifteen-year-old. There are cigarette cartons on the table. EVE She complimented for her 'F' in history with an 'A' in shoplifting... Archer marches into the kitchen -- noting the crate of Marlboros. Jamie matter-of-factly pours herself coffee. ARCHER Nice stunt, Jamie. You break the law and I'm expected to ignore it? JAMIE That's right -- it's all about you. Don't even ask me what happened. Archer looks to Eve for help. Eve shakes her head -- nope. ARCHER Okay. What happened? JAMIE Like you'd ever fucking believe me! She bolts. In anticipation, Eve calmly opens the door as Jamie rushes out, then closes it behind her. EVE Well, you tried. You failed miserably, but you tried. ARCHER Why won't she even talk to me? EVE Maybe because you taught her never to speak to strangers. (immediately regrets it) I'm sorry... that wasn't fair. Eve kisses his cheek -- then gathers up her doctor gear. EVE I've got patients waiting. Try again, Jon. She hates you -- but she needs you. ARCHER Eve... Something in Archer's expression makes her stop. EVE Jon -- what is it? But he's too overcome. He starts to speak -- but can't. EVE Is it -- him? It's... it's over? Emotions avalanche across his face until he finally looks up. Eve pulls him close -- a sheltering embrace for them both. ARCHER I'm going to make everything up to you and Jamie. I'll put in for a desk job. We'll go away, get counseling -- anything you want. This time, I mean it. INT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Freshly dressed, Archer heads down the hall. He pauses at the door to Jamie's room when he sees -- Jamie. Fully clothed, she's fast asleep on her bed cluttered with clothes and assorted girl-stuff. Her face peaceful. Archer looks around her room... sees the stuffed animals collecting dust... replaced by makeup, jewelry, beefcake Calvin Klein ads and band posters, etc. Archer's startled to see a lacey bustier... his little girl is growing up fast. And he's missing it. He pulls the blanket up over her and quietly slips out. The instant he leaves, Jamie kicks the blankets off. INT. FBI BUILDING - DAY Dominated by the FBI seal. Archer steps to the check point. SECURITY GUARD Print, please. Archer presses his thumb to a scan-pad -- and is cleared. INT. BULL PEN - DAY Efficient as a beehive -- agents, cryptologists, support staff buzz at their routines. Archer strides through -- drawing congratulatory nods and "thumbs up" signs... OUTSIDE HIS OFFICE Archer's team is there. Applauding. Proud. Uneasy with plaudits, he disperses the disappointed agents. ARCHER Much appreciated. Now let's get back to work, okay? WANDA (to Buzz) Is that stick ever gonna fall out of his ass? Archer's well-built secretary -- KIM BREWSTER -- hands him his messages. She's holding a bottle of Dom Perignon. KIMBERLY The C.I.A. sent this over. What should I do with it? ARCHER Send it back and tell them to stop wasting the taxpayers' money. Anything else, Miss Brewster? KIMBERLY No, sir. He enters his office. Kimberly sighs and turns to Wanda. KIMBERLY Four years -- and he still calls me 'Miss Brewster.' INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Sitting at his computer -- Archer scrolls through Castor's file. He grimly contemplates face-after-face of Troy's victims -- finally pausing on a photo of his son Matthew. Burying his feeling, he types "CASE CLOSED" over Castor's image. Archer starts to press "enter" when Tito comes in. ARCHER How's Loomis? TITO He needs some surgery, but he's going to be okay. That's the good news... ARCHER Go on. TITO ... Brodie and Miller from Special Ops need to see you. ARCHER I don't have time for those cloak and dagger guys. Big NED BRODIE and athletic female HOLLIS MILLER stroll in. BRODIE You better make time, Jon. (hefts a disc) We found this in the jet wreckage -- among Pollux Troy's effects... Archer accedes as Miller pops in the disk. The computer screen displays a CAD schematic of the bomb. Archer studies it carefully -- unease growing. ARCHER Porcelain casing... Thermal cloak... Undetectable payload. MILLER Powerful enough to flatten ten city blocks. ARCHER 'Worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaohs.' (to Tito) Get Pollux Troy. Now. DISSOLVE TO: INTERROGATION FOOTAGE Wired to a complex machine -- Pollux seems to have his frustrated interrogators on the run. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Archer, Lazarro, Tito, Brodie, Miller and other FBI officials watch the monitor. Pollux remains implacable POLLUX (V.O.) (on screen) That bomb was just a crossword puzzle to me... a mental exercise. I never built it... Lazarro shuts down the monitor... turns to Archer. ARCHER He's lying. LAZARRO He's hooked up to a full-spectrum polygraph. ARCHER Pollux is a manipulative psychopath. He can control his heartbeat, his sweat glands, his blood pressure... LAZARRO Jon, I trust your instincts, I always have. But D.C. wants more evidence. And frankly, so do I. ARCHER You'll get all the evidence you need when ten thousand people die. LAZARRO We'll get a team right on it. But we can't evacuate the city on what amounts to a hunch. Archer looks at the gathered brass. He knows it's hopeless. ARCHER That bomb has been built, it's out there somewhere and it's going to detonate... EXT. FBI BUILDING - INTELLIGENCE MEMORIAL - DAY Words etched in the granite wall read: IN HONOR OF THOSE MEMBERS OF THE FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION WHO SACRIFICED THEIR LIVES IN THE LINE OF DUTY Archer watches as a workman engraves the last of the three new stars among so many others -- each one honoring the dead. BRODIE Didn't Castor give any clue where the bomb might be? ARCHER Only one person knows -- his brother Pollux. And he'll keep his mouth shut until it blows. BRODIE We could plant an agent in his cell -- get him to spill the location. ARCHER Pollux is way too paranoid. The only person he'd talk to about that bomb is Castor himself. And dead men can't talk. Brodie and Miller exchange a knowing look. BRODIE There might be a way around that... FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S BODY Tubes and hoses are plugged into every orifice. INT. ICU ROOM - DAY Archer stares at the body... he can't believe it. ARCHER Why are you keeping him alive? (gets no answer) As long as he's breathing, he's dangerous. MILLER Relax, he's a turnip. Miller grinds out her cigarette on Castor's leg. Of course, Castor just lies there like a vegetable. BRODIE We can arrange for you to enter Erewhon Prison -- as Castor Troy. ARCHER What are you talking about? Archer turns as DR. MALCOLM HOAG (50s) enters the room. HOAG I think I'd better answer that question. (offers hand) Malcolm Hoag. I run the Physiological Camouflage Unit for Special Ops. ARCHER I know who you are. MILLER But you don't know what he can do. Physical augmentation; enhancement surgery... BRODIE ... He can disguise a compromised agent or alter the likeness -- even the voice -- of a government witness. HOAG Let me show you how it's done. (leading him out) I think you'll recognize our patient... INT. HOAG'S SURGICAL BAY - DAY Loomis lies still as a surgeon carefully scrapes away charred flesh around his burned ear. The doctor turns to a -- STEREO-LITHOGRAPHIC MACHINE Laser-beams attack an organic soup with incredible precision. The light forces a chemical reaction -- and out of the soup -- an ear begins to form. It rises from the liquid, now fully-formed. The surgeon takes the ear and fits it in place on Loomis's head. He starts suturing. OBSERVATION BOOTH - ABOVE Archer, Hoag, Brodie and Miller watch the operation -- video-enhanced by the two huge screens on the far walls. HOAG With our new generation of anti- inflammatories, healing is accelerated from weeks to days. By his next paycheck, he won't even remember which ear he lost. (a beat) Your situation, however, would be a little less permanent... BRODIE -- and a lot more classified. Hoag holds up a face-sized organic shell made up of yellow cartilage pieces and tendons, etc. Archer pulls it over his face -- like a gauze mask. A "tendon" falls off. ARCHER This'll fool Pollux. HOAG That is a state-of-the-art morpho- genetic template. The inside can be built to match the exact shape of your skull; the outside -- exactly like Castor's. Then we fit his face right on top -- MILLER -- and you become him. ARCHER You're talking about removing the guy's face? BRODIE Borrowing, Jon. The procedure's completely reversible. MILLER One way or the other -- the mission ends on the eighteenth. Archer turns the shell over and over and over in his hands. BRODIE You know Castor better than anyone. You've lived and breathed him for years -- hell, you even look a little like him. Archer shoves the template back at Hoag. ARCHER Find yourself another lab-rat. MILLER If you don't do this -- Castor will beat us again. He'll beat you again... Archer pushes his way past them -- and marches out. HOAG I don't think that went very well. BRODIE Trust us, Doc... MILLER ... he'll jerk around. Then he'll be back. INT. INTERROGATION BOOTHS - DAY Archer enters... sizes up DIETRICH HASSLER. His stylish garb doesn't completely hide his criminal roots. Archer sits down calmly. He looks at his watch. ARCHER I'm in a hurry, Dietrich. So you've only got ten seconds to go through your usual litany of lies, empty threats, and moronic denials. Then I'm coming over there -- DIETRICH If you're in such a fucking hurry -- why are you wasting your time with me? I'm just an art dealer. ARCHER You're a dealer, all right: technical secrets, munitions... explosives. DIETRICH You've never proven any of that. And when my bitchy, never-been- laid femi-nazi lawyer gets here, she's going to... ARCHER Time's up. Archer topples the wooden table and tears a leg from the top. Brandishing it -- he stalks the startled thug. HALLWAY JUST OUTSIDE - CONTINUOUS ACTION Lazarro blanches as an obsessed Archer repeatedly slams the table leg against the wall -- above Dietrich's head. LAZARRO The only ticking bomb I see is inside his head. He's getting worse, Tito. TITO Don't worry, sir. It's all an act... But as Lazarro leaves -- we see Tito's worried, too. BACK INSIDE BOOTH Archer has a terrified Dietrich backed into the corner. DIETRICH ... Okay! Castor called me but I blew him off... I swear I never saw him. And I don't know anything about any bomb! INT. CORRIDOR - OUTSIDE INTERROGATION BOOTHS - SAME TIME Archer emerges... eyes blazing. ARCHER Let him go, but I want him watched... Who's next? TITO Just Dietrich's sister... In another booth, a careworn but striking woman sits with a little boy on her lap. She gently helps him Crayola a book. This is SASHA HASSLER (30) and her son ADAM (5). INT. INTERROGATION BOOTH - DAY Archer hovers over Sasha -- her maternal warmth replaced by an icy hatred. Tito and the child are gone. ARCHER When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? SASHA Who cares? He's dead. ARCHER Answer the question. SASHA Look, I'm clean. I teach kids now -- ARCHER Sasha -- you are a felon, on probation for harboring Castor Troy. So it's in your best interest to cooperate. (as she's silent) Would you like your son put in a foster home? Sasha's eyes flash, her body coils -- but she keeps control. SASHA No, but I'm sure you'd love it -- you sick bastard. ARCHER (unmoved) When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? She stares at him with equal amounts of pity and hatred. SASHA I haven't seen him for years. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY Archer watches as Adam leaves Dietrich and jumps into Sasha's arms. She hugs him protectively. Adam sees Archer watching them -- and smiles. Archer doesn't smile back. FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S REAL FACE PULL BACK TO: INT. I.C.U. - NIGHT Archer slowly circles Castor's muscular, hairy, tattooed body. Although on life support -- his signature smirk remains. ARCHER What about Lazarro? BRODIE No way -- the red tape alone would take a month. This is a black-bag operation -- completely off the books. MILLER If you need him, Tito can help you prepare. But you know the drill: You can't tell anyone -- not the Director, not your wife... nobody. Archer's face shows he doesn't like it -- then he nods. ARCHER I'm in. EXT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Archer slowly gets out of his car. Trudging toward the front door, he picks up a basketball and takes a shot. His form is terrible -- he misses by a mile. INT. HALLWAY - NIGHT Archer passes Jamie's room. Loud MUSIC POUNDS from within. He pauses to knock, thinks again, then heads down the hall. INT. MASTER BEDROOM - NIGHT Eve is in bed. Archer comes in quietly and sits beside her -- studying her peaceful, sleeping face. She stirs. EVE I was dreaming... ARCHER Something good? EVE I'm not sure... you were flying this

glimpses

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

"Face/Off", production draft, by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary FACE/OFF Written by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary Revised 9/10/96 FADE INTO: SEPIA-TONE FOOTAGE of a pig chasing a lion chasing a dinosaur chasing an elephant. Noah's Ark going round... and round... and round... EXT. GRIFFITH PARK CAROUSEL - DAY Disjointed CALLIOPE MUSIC as the wheel of fate and fortune goes around until we PULL BACK to reveal: JON ARCHER (30) rising winged Pegasus. On the adjacent unicorn is his son MATTHEW (5). Clutching a balloon, Matty waves at his dad. A happy moment, like so many certain to follow -- until we realize we are watching them THROUGH... SNIPER'S RIFLE SCOPE - SNIPER'S EYES wait until the child clears his aim -- Archer is the target. They round the bend and disappear... MATTHEW Loses his grip on the unicorn. Archer reaches over and pulls him into his lap. They happily ride together... As the horses sweep back INTO VIEW... exposing Archer... Now we see the sniper. CASTOR TROY is cool, efficient, aggressive, sexual. His finger closes around the trigger. BOOM! A BULLET RIPS into Archer's back. Bleeding... he drops off his horse... and sinks to the deck of the carousel. His eyes desperately searching... searching... searching... until he sees -- Matthew lies on his back -- still. Slowly, Archer reaches out and takes Matthew's hand... and now we see COLOR for the first time... Blood red... as bleeding father touches bleeding son... TILT UP TO the winged Pegasus flying by -- now in full color and UP UP UP TO Matthew's red balloon... floating away. HANDEL'S MESSIAH OVER a SERIES OF SHOTS: FBI BRIEFING ROOM Gazing out the window as dawn breaks over the city below is Jon Archer... older... unshaven... fatigued... his eyes reveal a man in the grip of obsession. CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by, as if marking time itself... HOLY PLACE Smoky, spiritual... dominated by a gleaming, golden cross. A priest kneels before it -- deep in prayer. The glimmering cross comes INTO FOCUS... but it's just a light-reflection... off the casing of a large bomb. This is no chapel... but an atrium. Somewhere. And as the "priest" rubs out his cigarette we see it's Castor Troy -- carefully installing this complex device. ANOTHER CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by... ARCHER pockets his FBI badge, then holsters his gun... CASTOR sets the bomb timer -- then replaces a wall panel in front of it. Totally hidden. BRIEFING ROOM - CASTOR'S MUGSHOT is on a computer screen. His criminal dossier scrolls by endlessly: bombings, assassinations, mercenary kidnappings, terrorism-for-hire... Rookie agent LOOMIS studies the details carefully. Other agents -- including BUZZ and WANDA scan computer grid- maps, man phones, etc. amid the take-out cartons and coffee cups. These people are on high alert. ARCHER Any follow-up from L.A.P.D. Intelligence? BUZZ No, sir, nothing yet. ARCHER Get them on the phone -- now. What about S.I.S. and our airport teams? WANDA We've had everything from psychics to satellites on this. Even if Castor was here... he must have slipped the net by now... ARCHER He's here! And we're going to keep looking until we find him! A silence descends on the chastised team. As they go back to work, veteran agent TITO BIONDI takes Archer aside. TITO Jon, these people have been working round the clock -- you gotta cut them some slack... Archer considers his best friend's advice -- then... ARCHER I'll cut them some slack when I cut myself some slack. Archer marches out -- slamming the door behind him. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY (MORNING) Castor quietly shuts the security door behind him. An Hispanic voice startles him. JANITOR What are you doing? CASTOR (in perfect Spanish) Thank goodness, I feel like Icarus in the labyrinth -- where's the men's room? JANITOR (in Spanish) This area is off limits, Padre. (re: security door) How did you get in that room? Realizing the JANITOR is already too suspicious, Castor puts a priestly arm around him -- and leads him down the hall. CASTOR Okay... I have a confession to make, but you aren't gonna like it. I was planting a bomb. JANITOR Bomb? CASTOR You know -- boom -- (patting his neck) Oh, never mind... The Janitor suddenly twitches, his eyes rolls up in his head. As he gasps his last -- Castor heaves him down a stairwell. Now we see the needle-thin custom stiletto in Castor's hand. Castor kicks the Janitor's mop and bucket down the stairs -- making everything look like an accident. INT. SAME BUILDING - MAIN FLOOR - DAY (MORNING) The children's church choir -- 200 strong -- sing "Behold the Lamb of God." Clergy and lay persons listen reverently. "Father" Castor strolls by the singers -- casually heading for the exit. As he passes the risers, a teenage girl drops her sheet music at his feet. Returning it -- he whispers in her ear -- so close he's practically licking it. CASTOR I've never enjoyed 'The Messiah.' But your voice makes even a hack like Handel seem like a genius. He pats her behind and leaves. Although a little shaken, she's also drawn by Castor's sexual magnetism. EXT. LA CONVENTION CENTER - DAY (MORNING) The marquee proclaims: INTERNATIONAL CHURCH CHOIRS 18th- 21st: AMERICAN BAR ASSOCIATION. Castor exits -- politely holding the door for a beat cop. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY (MORNING) The office is a monument to obsession: photographs, clues, newsclips, totems of Castor Troy surround a pacing Archer. ARCHER (on phone) ... I don't have time to get a warrant from some hung-over judge. Just give me the go-ahead, Victor, and I promise -- as soon as this is over -- you can brand my butt with the Fourth Amendment. The instant Archer hangs up -- the INTERCOM BUZZES. KIM (V.O.) Sir, your wife's on line one... S.I.S. on two... ARCHER Tell her to hang on -- As Archer punches up line two -- Tito bursts in. TITO A jet was chartered at Anderson Airfield. Guess who just showed up to pay for it? Pollux Troy. ARCHER Scramble the Reaction Team -- we're moving out. And get one of our people on that plane. TITO But there's still no sign of Castor... ARCHER Where one brother goes, the other's sure to follow... They rush our... the hold button on line 1 still blinking. EXT. PRIVATE AIRPORT - ESTABLISHING - DAY A sleek Cadillac pulls in... stopping next to a Land Rover. LARS MUELLER -- a muscular, crystal-eyed jar-head -- gets out of the Caddy. An instant later -- LUNT MUELLER -- emerges from the Rover. They are identical twins. The men scan the airport carefully, then open the rear doors of their respective vehicles. Castor emerges from the Caddy -- Armani clad. Exiting the Rover is Castor's younger brother POLLUX TROY -- skittish, brilliant, paranoid -- a human hummingbird. POLLUX You're 26 minutes late. The casing didn't fit -- right? I knew that cheap-shit Dietrich would rip us off... CASTOR Oh, God -- ! POLLUX What!? CASTOR I forgot to turn the damn thing on! POLLUX You're kidding, right? (to the twins) He's kidding... (grabs Castor by throat) ... are you fucking kidding!? Castor hugs Pollux lovingly. Pollux squirms like a kid. CASTOR Bro -- everything went fine. POLLUX I hate when you call me bro. Pollux heads for the jet. Castor hands Lunt a wad of cash. CASTOR Thanks for babysitting. LUNT Anything else? CASTOR I'll contact you when we get the rest of the money. (turns to leave) Oh, and stat away from downtown. The inversion layer's going to be pretty thick around the 18th. The twins nod... then take off. Castor heads for the jet. INT. JET - DAY Castor hustles in -- exhorting the PILOT. CASTOR Let's go, let's go! As the JET TURBINES start to WHINE, Castor sinks into his seat. A very sexy FLIGHT ATTENDANT appears and hands him a Scotch. He downs it, looking her over salaciously. FLIGHT ATTENDANT Would you like anything else? CASTOR Hell, yes... (pulls her into lap) It's the only way to fly. She smiles, not minding, until the jet suddenly slows its taxi down the runway. COCKPIT Castor yanks open the door. CASTOR What's wrong? AT END OF RUNWAY A squat car creeps INTO VIEW -- blocking the runway. EXT./INT. HUMVEE - MOVING - DAY Behind the wheel is Jon Archer. Beside him is Tito. BACK TO ARCHER CASTOR It's Archer. (gun to Pilot's head) Go, dammit! Suddenly the gun is BLASTED from Castor's hand. he turns around to see... the Flight Attendant behind them -- holding a smoking pistol. This is Agent WINTERS. WINTERS F.B.I.! Throttle down, captain! But Castor elbows the throttle up. The jet lurches forward, throwing Winters off balance. Pollux tackles her as the jet picks up speed. INT. HUMVEE - DAY Archer slams the vehicle into gear. ARCHER Get out. TITO You're not playing chicken with two tons of aluminum... ARCHER Get out! Tito obeys as Archer peels out. The HUMMER ROARS at the jet. The jet picks up speed, trying to get aloft. The humvee is aimed right at it... Archer's eyes narrow. COLLISION COURSE as two hunks of metal bear down. The machines are seconds apart when -- Archer looks up to see... Winters' face pressed up against the cockpit window, Castor holding a gun to her head. Archer cuts the wheel -- just avoiding the jet. The Hummer skids to a stop as Federal back-up arrives -- but too late. Archer watches an FBI chopper -- landing in a swirl of dust. As the jet picks up speed... the hatch opens. Castor blasts Winters in the side and tosses her onto the tarmac. INSIDE Castor smiles at Pollux, sensing freedom, until... KA-CHUNK: Something POUNDS the jet -- from above. Castor leans out the hatch and sees... The chopper on top of them -- Archer at the controls. Eye-contact -- years of hatred pass between these men. Castor BLASTS at him from the open hatch. The chopper's left windscreen spiderwebs. Archer jerks and weaves -- dodging the BULLETS. The chopper pulls away. The jet finally lifts off... when... The chopper settles on the jet -- slamming at its tail. TARMAC Tito reacts to this madness -- as the chopper plays a deadly game of leap-frog with the jet. The end of the runway is coming up fast. Archer crushes the jet's horizontal elevator flap. JET PILOT can't budge the jet's jammed yoke. Thwarted, he powers back the throttle. Thrust reverse. CASTOR What are you doing? PILOT The horizontal elevator's smashed! We can't lift off! CASTOR SHOOTS the Pilot -- then takes the controls. He struggles to maneuver the jet. Suddenly... A biplane descends right at them -- about to land. ARCHER pulls up just as the JET swerves radically to avoid the biplane and SLAMS into the hangar. JET plows through the GLASS DOOR, the NOSE-WHEEL SNAPS off. The PLANE SKIDS right into the hangar -- finally stopping at the wings. FBI CHOPPER lands. Archer steps out calmly -- like a cop about to write a traffic ticket. He hurries to join more FBI agents rushing into the hangar ahead of him. INT. HANGAR - DAY The jet hatch pops open -- Castor leaps from it, FIRING. Two FBI agents drop -- riddled. Pollux appears at the hatch -- an FBI sharpshooter FIRES, grazing Pollux's shoulder. Staggered, Pollux falls -- Castor catches him before he hits the floor -- simultaneously BLASTING the sharpshooter. Castor drags Pollux back into the smoke-filled hangar. Archer arrives and quickly checks the dead agents, his anger building. He signals Tito and the others to spread out. DEEP IN HANGAR A maze of airplane debris and heavy machinery. Led by Archer, the FBI agents pick their way through it. ROOKIE LOOMIS snaps alert -- did he see something? Advancing carefully, he comes up on... Castor -- staunching Pollux's shoulder wound. Pollux sees the agent -- and FIRES. Loomis hits the floor -- his bleeding ear is shredded. Suddenly a forklift charges down on Castor and Pollux. Tito is at the wheel. Castor FIRES -- forcing Tito to dive off. The forklift careens on -- driving apart the brothers. The forklift upends a stack of heavy crates -- pinning Pollux. Castor tries to free his trapped brother. POLLUX Forget it -- Go! Go! He slaps his Glock into Pollux's hand. CASTOR Wherever they put you, I'll find a way to get you out... Pollux starts FIRING -- covering Castor as he runs through a tunnel which leads to an adjoining hangar. Suddenly Wanda presses her machine-pistol into Pollux's head. As Pollux raises his gun -- Tito grabs his hand. TITO -- not unless you want that 200 I.Q. splattered all over the floor. (as Archer approaches) We got him now, Jon. ARCHER That's what you always say. Seal it off. I'm going in. Archer moves away from the group and enters the tunnel. MUSIC as Archer and Castor begin their cat-and-mouse dance. Sensing Archer, Castor pauses by an old landing gear. He draws a fresh pistol from his ankle holster and moves on. Archer pauses at the landing gear... his own stealthy movements mirroring Castor's. Castor waits behind a stack of steel drums... his gaze trying to penetrate the darkness... He SNAPS his fingers. The sound ECHOES as he tries to draw Archer in. Archer reacts to the sound and SNAPS back -- answering the challenge. As the deadly beat between them continues -- BLAM BLAM BLAM! Archer spins away just as Castor OPENS FIRE from the gloom... one step ahead. INTERCUT as necessary: CASTOR Jon, I'm getting a little annoyed by your obsessive need to spoil my fun. ARCHER And how much will your 'fun' net you this time? BOOM BOOM BOOM! Half-blind SHOTS send Castor spinning. A moment later, Archer pursues... SNAP! He fits a new CLIP into his pistol. CASTOR What's it to you? I declare it. Here I am, back in the States for less than a week -- ARCHER You're under arrest. Incredibly, you still have the right to remain silent -- CASTOR I've got something going down on the eighteenth... it's gonna be worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaoh. I'll give it up -- but my brother and I have to walk. ARCHER No discussion -- no deals. CASTOR What're you gonna do with me locked up? You'll drive your wife and kid nuts! I bet your daughter is just about ripe by now. What's her name, Janie? Enraged, Archer steps boldly forward -- trying to draw his enemy out. Silence -- then Archer senses... Castor is behind him. He FIRES -- Archer dives away. The BARRAGE CONTINUES -- driving Archer back between two huge turbine engines. As Archer reloads, he stares at the control panel switches. Castor moves in for the kill when he hears a final SNAP- SNAP. Except it isn't a finger snap... it's two switches. VRRRROOOM! The TWIN ENGINES ROAR on! Unable to fight the churning tornado-force wind... Castor's blasted across the hangar... slamming hard into the far wall. The ENGINES STOP and Archer emerges -- joined by Tito. TITO Tell me he didn't get away again... Then Tito follows Archer's gaze to Castor's lifeless body. Still as death -- somehow his mocking smile survives. EXT. AIRPORT TARMAC - SUNSET Heavily-manacled, an extremely agitated Pollux is herded into a SWAT van by Buzz and Wanda. POLLUX Where's my brother?! I want to see my brother! The van takes off -- passing an imposing older man, flanked by two bodyguards. Bullying through the media, Assistant FBI Director VICTOR LAZARRO scans the devastation. Approaching Archer, he watches as Castor's body is loaded on the ambulance. A sheet covers Castor's lifeless face. LAZARRO The oversight committee would've roasted us for this one -- thank God it paid off. Damn fine work. ARCHER Real fine, Victor. Especially the casualties. Archer contemplates the slain agents -- their three bodies laid out in a row -- waiting to be zip-locked. Lazarro reacts grimly as a reporter snaps a photo of the bodies. Instinctively, the two men close ranks. Archer grabs the Nikon, ejects the film, then shoves the camera back. LAZARRO Classified information. No photographs. Lazarro puts a caring arm around Archer's shoulder and leads him away from the media... and the carnage. LAZARRO You okay, Jon? (off Archer's nod) Then go home. Tell Eve. EXT. ARCHER'S HOME (SANTA MONICA) - SUNSET A renovated Craftsman. Sipping a carton of milk, Archer pulls into the driveway. He sits, gathering his thoughts. INT. ARCHER'S HOME - NIGHT Archer enters and sees his wife EVE. Handsome, intelligent. ARCHER Hi... (no response) ... What's wrong? She nods toward the KITCHEN. JAMIE is there -- a sullen and hard fifteen-year-old. There are cigarette cartons on the table. EVE She complimented for her 'F' in history with an 'A' in shoplifting... Archer marches into the kitchen -- noting the crate of Marlboros. Jamie matter-of-factly pours herself coffee. ARCHER Nice stunt, Jamie. You break the law and I'm expected to ignore it? JAMIE That's right -- it's all about you. Don't even ask me what happened. Archer looks to Eve for help. Eve shakes her head -- nope. ARCHER Okay. What happened? JAMIE Like you'd ever fucking believe me! She bolts. In anticipation, Eve calmly opens the door as Jamie rushes out, then closes it behind her. EVE Well, you tried. You failed miserably, but you tried. ARCHER Why won't she even talk to me? EVE Maybe because you taught her never to speak to strangers. (immediately regrets it) I'm sorry... that wasn't fair. Eve kisses his cheek -- then gathers up her doctor gear. EVE I've got patients waiting. Try again, Jon. She hates you -- but she needs you. ARCHER Eve... Something in Archer's expression makes her stop. EVE Jon -- what is it? But he's too overcome. He starts to speak -- but can't. EVE Is it -- him? It's... it's over? Emotions avalanche across his face until he finally looks up. Eve pulls him close -- a sheltering embrace for them both. ARCHER I'm going to make everything up to you and Jamie. I'll put in for a desk job. We'll go away, get counseling -- anything you want. This time, I mean it. INT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Freshly dressed, Archer heads down the hall. He pauses at the door to Jamie's room when he sees -- Jamie. Fully clothed, she's fast asleep on her bed cluttered with clothes and assorted girl-stuff. Her face peaceful. Archer looks around her room... sees the stuffed animals collecting dust... replaced by makeup, jewelry, beefcake Calvin Klein ads and band posters, etc. Archer's startled to see a lacey bustier... his little girl is growing up fast. And he's missing it. He pulls the blanket up over her and quietly slips out. The instant he leaves, Jamie kicks the blankets off. INT. FBI BUILDING - DAY Dominated by the FBI seal. Archer steps to the check point. SECURITY GUARD Print, please. Archer presses his thumb to a scan-pad -- and is cleared. INT. BULL PEN - DAY Efficient as a beehive -- agents, cryptologists, support staff buzz at their routines. Archer strides through -- drawing congratulatory nods and "thumbs up" signs... OUTSIDE HIS OFFICE Archer's team is there. Applauding. Proud. Uneasy with plaudits, he disperses the disappointed agents. ARCHER Much appreciated. Now let's get back to work, okay? WANDA (to Buzz) Is that stick ever gonna fall out of his ass? Archer's well-built secretary -- KIM BREWSTER -- hands him his messages. She's holding a bottle of Dom Perignon. KIMBERLY The C.I.A. sent this over. What should I do with it? ARCHER Send it back and tell them to stop wasting the taxpayers' money. Anything else, Miss Brewster? KIMBERLY No, sir. He enters his office. Kimberly sighs and turns to Wanda. KIMBERLY Four years -- and he still calls me 'Miss Brewster.' INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Sitting at his computer -- Archer scrolls through Castor's file. He grimly contemplates face-after-face of Troy's victims -- finally pausing on a photo of his son Matthew. Burying his feeling, he types "CASE CLOSED" over Castor's image. Archer starts to press "enter" when Tito comes in. ARCHER How's Loomis? TITO He needs some surgery, but he's going to be okay. That's the good news... ARCHER Go on. TITO ... Brodie and Miller from Special Ops need to see you. ARCHER I don't have time for those cloak and dagger guys. Big NED BRODIE and athletic female HOLLIS MILLER stroll in. BRODIE You better make time, Jon. (hefts a disc) We found this in the jet wreckage -- among Pollux Troy's effects... Archer accedes as Miller pops in the disk. The computer screen displays a CAD schematic of the bomb. Archer studies it carefully -- unease growing. ARCHER Porcelain casing... Thermal cloak... Undetectable payload. MILLER Powerful enough to flatten ten city blocks. ARCHER 'Worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaohs.' (to Tito) Get Pollux Troy. Now. DISSOLVE TO: INTERROGATION FOOTAGE Wired to a complex machine -- Pollux seems to have his frustrated interrogators on the run. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Archer, Lazarro, Tito, Brodie, Miller and other FBI officials watch the monitor. Pollux remains implacable POLLUX (V.O.) (on screen) That bomb was just a crossword puzzle to me... a mental exercise. I never built it... Lazarro shuts down the monitor... turns to Archer. ARCHER He's lying. LAZARRO He's hooked up to a full-spectrum polygraph. ARCHER Pollux is a manipulative psychopath. He can control his heartbeat, his sweat glands, his blood pressure... LAZARRO Jon, I trust your instincts, I always have. But D.C. wants more evidence. And frankly, so do I. ARCHER You'll get all the evidence you need when ten thousand people die. LAZARRO We'll get a team right on it. But we can't evacuate the city on what amounts to a hunch. Archer looks at the gathered brass. He knows it's hopeless. ARCHER That bomb has been built, it's out there somewhere and it's going to detonate... EXT. FBI BUILDING - INTELLIGENCE MEMORIAL - DAY Words etched in the granite wall read: IN HONOR OF THOSE MEMBERS OF THE FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION WHO SACRIFICED THEIR LIVES IN THE LINE OF DUTY Archer watches as a workman engraves the last of the three new stars among so many others -- each one honoring the dead. BRODIE Didn't Castor give any clue where the bomb might be? ARCHER Only one person knows -- his brother Pollux. And he'll keep his mouth shut until it blows. BRODIE We could plant an agent in his cell -- get him to spill the location. ARCHER Pollux is way too paranoid. The only person he'd talk to about that bomb is Castor himself. And dead men can't talk. Brodie and Miller exchange a knowing look. BRODIE There might be a way around that... FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S BODY Tubes and hoses are plugged into every orifice. INT. ICU ROOM - DAY Archer stares at the body... he can't believe it. ARCHER Why are you keeping him alive? (gets no answer) As long as he's breathing, he's dangerous. MILLER Relax, he's a turnip. Miller grinds out her cigarette on Castor's leg. Of course, Castor just lies there like a vegetable. BRODIE We can arrange for you to enter Erewhon Prison -- as Castor Troy. ARCHER What are you talking about? Archer turns as DR. MALCOLM HOAG (50s) enters the room. HOAG I think I'd better answer that question. (offers hand) Malcolm Hoag. I run the Physiological Camouflage Unit for Special Ops. ARCHER I know who you are. MILLER But you don't know what he can do. Physical augmentation; enhancement surgery... BRODIE ... He can disguise a compromised agent or alter the likeness -- even the voice -- of a government witness. HOAG Let me show you how it's done. (leading him out) I think you'll recognize our patient... INT. HOAG'S SURGICAL BAY - DAY Loomis lies still as a surgeon carefully scrapes away charred flesh around his burned ear. The doctor turns to a -- STEREO-LITHOGRAPHIC MACHINE Laser-beams attack an organic soup with incredible precision. The light forces a chemical reaction -- and out of the soup -- an ear begins to form. It rises from the liquid, now fully-formed. The surgeon takes the ear and fits it in place on Loomis's head. He starts suturing. OBSERVATION BOOTH - ABOVE Archer, Hoag, Brodie and Miller watch the operation -- video-enhanced by the two huge screens on the far walls. HOAG With our new generation of anti- inflammatories, healing is accelerated from weeks to days. By his next paycheck, he won't even remember which ear he lost. (a beat) Your situation, however, would be a little less permanent... BRODIE -- and a lot more classified. Hoag holds up a face-sized organic shell made up of yellow cartilage pieces and tendons, etc. Archer pulls it over his face -- like a gauze mask. A "tendon" falls off. ARCHER This'll fool Pollux. HOAG That is a state-of-the-art morpho- genetic template. The inside can be built to match the exact shape of your skull; the outside -- exactly like Castor's. Then we fit his face right on top -- MILLER -- and you become him. ARCHER You're talking about removing the guy's face? BRODIE Borrowing, Jon. The procedure's completely reversible. MILLER One way or the other -- the mission ends on the eighteenth. Archer turns the shell over and over and over in his hands. BRODIE You know Castor better than anyone. You've lived and breathed him for years -- hell, you even look a little like him. Archer shoves the template back at Hoag. ARCHER Find yourself another lab-rat. MILLER If you don't do this -- Castor will beat us again. He'll beat you again... Archer pushes his way past them -- and marches out. HOAG I don't think that went very well. BRODIE Trust us, Doc... MILLER ... he'll jerk around. Then he'll be back. INT. INTERROGATION BOOTHS - DAY Archer enters... sizes up DIETRICH HASSLER. His stylish garb doesn't completely hide his criminal roots. Archer sits down calmly. He looks at his watch. ARCHER I'm in a hurry, Dietrich. So you've only got ten seconds to go through your usual litany of lies, empty threats, and moronic denials. Then I'm coming over there -- DIETRICH If you're in such a fucking hurry -- why are you wasting your time with me? I'm just an art dealer. ARCHER You're a dealer, all right: technical secrets, munitions... explosives. DIETRICH You've never proven any of that. And when my bitchy, never-been- laid femi-nazi lawyer gets here, she's going to... ARCHER Time's up. Archer topples the wooden table and tears a leg from the top. Brandishing it -- he stalks the startled thug. HALLWAY JUST OUTSIDE - CONTINUOUS ACTION Lazarro blanches as an obsessed Archer repeatedly slams the table leg against the wall -- above Dietrich's head. LAZARRO The only ticking bomb I see is inside his head. He's getting worse, Tito. TITO Don't worry, sir. It's all an act... But as Lazarro leaves -- we see Tito's worried, too. BACK INSIDE BOOTH Archer has a terrified Dietrich backed into the corner. DIETRICH ... Okay! Castor called me but I blew him off... I swear I never saw him. And I don't know anything about any bomb! INT. CORRIDOR - OUTSIDE INTERROGATION BOOTHS - SAME TIME Archer emerges... eyes blazing. ARCHER Let him go, but I want him watched... Who's next? TITO Just Dietrich's sister... In another booth, a careworn but striking woman sits with a little boy on her lap. She gently helps him Crayola a book. This is SASHA HASSLER (30) and her son ADAM (5). INT. INTERROGATION BOOTH - DAY Archer hovers over Sasha -- her maternal warmth replaced by an icy hatred. Tito and the child are gone. ARCHER When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? SASHA Who cares? He's dead. ARCHER Answer the question. SASHA Look, I'm clean. I teach kids now -- ARCHER Sasha -- you are a felon, on probation for harboring Castor Troy. So it's in your best interest to cooperate. (as she's silent) Would you like your son put in a foster home? Sasha's eyes flash, her body coils -- but she keeps control. SASHA No, but I'm sure you'd love it -- you sick bastard. ARCHER (unmoved) When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? She stares at him with equal amounts of pity and hatred. SASHA I haven't seen him for years. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY Archer watches as Adam leaves Dietrich and jumps into Sasha's arms. She hugs him protectively. Adam sees Archer watching them -- and smiles. Archer doesn't smile back. FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S REAL FACE PULL BACK TO: INT. I.C.U. - NIGHT Archer slowly circles Castor's muscular, hairy, tattooed body. Although on life support -- his signature smirk remains. ARCHER What about Lazarro? BRODIE No way -- the red tape alone would take a month. This is a black-bag operation -- completely off the books. MILLER If you need him, Tito can help you prepare. But you know the drill: You can't tell anyone -- not the Director, not your wife... nobody. Archer's face shows he doesn't like it -- then he nods. ARCHER I'm in. EXT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Archer slowly gets out of his car. Trudging toward the front door, he picks up a basketball and takes a shot. His form is terrible -- he misses by a mile. INT. HALLWAY - NIGHT Archer passes Jamie's room. Loud MUSIC POUNDS from within. He pauses to knock, thinks again, then heads down the hall. INT. MASTER BEDROOM - NIGHT Eve is in bed. Archer comes in quietly and sits beside her -- studying her peaceful, sleeping face. She stirs. EVE I was dreaming... ARCHER Something good? EVE I'm not sure... you were flying this

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"Face/Off", production draft, by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary FACE/OFF Written by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary Revised 9/10/96 FADE INTO: SEPIA-TONE FOOTAGE of a pig chasing a lion chasing a dinosaur chasing an elephant. Noah's Ark going round... and round... and round... EXT. GRIFFITH PARK CAROUSEL - DAY Disjointed CALLIOPE MUSIC as the wheel of fate and fortune goes around until we PULL BACK to reveal: JON ARCHER (30) rising winged Pegasus. On the adjacent unicorn is his son MATTHEW (5). Clutching a balloon, Matty waves at his dad. A happy moment, like so many certain to follow -- until we realize we are watching them THROUGH... SNIPER'S RIFLE SCOPE - SNIPER'S EYES wait until the child clears his aim -- Archer is the target. They round the bend and disappear... MATTHEW Loses his grip on the unicorn. Archer reaches over and pulls him into his lap. They happily ride together... As the horses sweep back INTO VIEW... exposing Archer... Now we see the sniper. CASTOR TROY is cool, efficient, aggressive, sexual. His finger closes around the trigger. BOOM! A BULLET RIPS into Archer's back. Bleeding... he drops off his horse... and sinks to the deck of the carousel. His eyes desperately searching... searching... searching... until he sees -- Matthew lies on his back -- still. Slowly, Archer reaches out and takes Matthew's hand... and now we see COLOR for the first time... Blood red... as bleeding father touches bleeding son... TILT UP TO the winged Pegasus flying by -- now in full color and UP UP UP TO Matthew's red balloon... floating away. HANDEL'S MESSIAH OVER a SERIES OF SHOTS: FBI BRIEFING ROOM Gazing out the window as dawn breaks over the city below is Jon Archer... older... unshaven... fatigued... his eyes reveal a man in the grip of obsession. CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by, as if marking time itself... HOLY PLACE Smoky, spiritual... dominated by a gleaming, golden cross. A priest kneels before it -- deep in prayer. The glimmering cross comes INTO FOCUS... but it's just a light-reflection... off the casing of a large bomb. This is no chapel... but an atrium. Somewhere. And as the "priest" rubs out his cigarette we see it's Castor Troy -- carefully installing this complex device. ANOTHER CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by... ARCHER pockets his FBI badge, then holsters his gun... CASTOR sets the bomb timer -- then replaces a wall panel in front of it. Totally hidden. BRIEFING ROOM - CASTOR'S MUGSHOT is on a computer screen. His criminal dossier scrolls by endlessly: bombings, assassinations, mercenary kidnappings, terrorism-for-hire... Rookie agent LOOMIS studies the details carefully. Other agents -- including BUZZ and WANDA scan computer grid- maps, man phones, etc. amid the take-out cartons and coffee cups. These people are on high alert. ARCHER Any follow-up from L.A.P.D. Intelligence? BUZZ No, sir, nothing yet. ARCHER Get them on the phone -- now. What about S.I.S. and our airport teams? WANDA We've had everything from psychics to satellites on this. Even if Castor was here... he must have slipped the net by now... ARCHER He's here! And we're going to keep looking until we find him! A silence descends on the chastised team. As they go back to work, veteran agent TITO BIONDI takes Archer aside. TITO Jon, these people have been working round the clock -- you gotta cut them some slack... Archer considers his best friend's advice -- then... ARCHER I'll cut them some slack when I cut myself some slack. Archer marches out -- slamming the door behind him. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY (MORNING) Castor quietly shuts the security door behind him. An Hispanic voice startles him. JANITOR What are you doing? CASTOR (in perfect Spanish) Thank goodness, I feel like Icarus in the labyrinth -- where's the men's room? JANITOR (in Spanish) This area is off limits, Padre. (re: security door) How did you get in that room? Realizing the JANITOR is already too suspicious, Castor puts a priestly arm around him -- and leads him down the hall. CASTOR Okay... I have a confession to make, but you aren't gonna like it. I was planting a bomb. JANITOR Bomb? CASTOR You know -- boom -- (patting his neck) Oh, never mind... The Janitor suddenly twitches, his eyes rolls up in his head. As he gasps his last -- Castor heaves him down a stairwell. Now we see the needle-thin custom stiletto in Castor's hand. Castor kicks the Janitor's mop and bucket down the stairs -- making everything look like an accident. INT. SAME BUILDING - MAIN FLOOR - DAY (MORNING) The children's church choir -- 200 strong -- sing "Behold the Lamb of God." Clergy and lay persons listen reverently. "Father" Castor strolls by the singers -- casually heading for the exit. As he passes the risers, a teenage girl drops her sheet music at his feet. Returning it -- he whispers in her ear -- so close he's practically licking it. CASTOR I've never enjoyed 'The Messiah.' But your voice makes even a hack like Handel seem like a genius. He pats her behind and leaves. Although a little shaken, she's also drawn by Castor's sexual magnetism. EXT. LA CONVENTION CENTER - DAY (MORNING) The marquee proclaims: INTERNATIONAL CHURCH CHOIRS 18th- 21st: AMERICAN BAR ASSOCIATION. Castor exits -- politely holding the door for a beat cop. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY (MORNING) The office is a monument to obsession: photographs, clues, newsclips, totems of Castor Troy surround a pacing Archer. ARCHER (on phone) ... I don't have time to get a warrant from some hung-over judge. Just give me the go-ahead, Victor, and I promise -- as soon as this is over -- you can brand my butt with the Fourth Amendment. The instant Archer hangs up -- the INTERCOM BUZZES. KIM (V.O.) Sir, your wife's on line one... S.I.S. on two... ARCHER Tell her to hang on -- As Archer punches up line two -- Tito bursts in. TITO A jet was chartered at Anderson Airfield. Guess who just showed up to pay for it? Pollux Troy. ARCHER Scramble the Reaction Team -- we're moving out. And get one of our people on that plane. TITO But there's still no sign of Castor... ARCHER Where one brother goes, the other's sure to follow... They rush our... the hold button on line 1 still blinking. EXT. PRIVATE AIRPORT - ESTABLISHING - DAY A sleek Cadillac pulls in... stopping next to a Land Rover. LARS MUELLER -- a muscular, crystal-eyed jar-head -- gets out of the Caddy. An instant later -- LUNT MUELLER -- emerges from the Rover. They are identical twins. The men scan the airport carefully, then open the rear doors of their respective vehicles. Castor emerges from the Caddy -- Armani clad. Exiting the Rover is Castor's younger brother POLLUX TROY -- skittish, brilliant, paranoid -- a human hummingbird. POLLUX You're 26 minutes late. The casing didn't fit -- right? I knew that cheap-shit Dietrich would rip us off... CASTOR Oh, God -- ! POLLUX What!? CASTOR I forgot to turn the damn thing on! POLLUX You're kidding, right? (to the twins) He's kidding... (grabs Castor by throat) ... are you fucking kidding!? Castor hugs Pollux lovingly. Pollux squirms like a kid. CASTOR Bro -- everything went fine. POLLUX I hate when you call me bro. Pollux heads for the jet. Castor hands Lunt a wad of cash. CASTOR Thanks for babysitting. LUNT Anything else? CASTOR I'll contact you when we get the rest of the money. (turns to leave) Oh, and stat away from downtown. The inversion layer's going to be pretty thick around the 18th. The twins nod... then take off. Castor heads for the jet. INT. JET - DAY Castor hustles in -- exhorting the PILOT. CASTOR Let's go, let's go! As the JET TURBINES start to WHINE, Castor sinks into his seat. A very sexy FLIGHT ATTENDANT appears and hands him a Scotch. He downs it, looking her over salaciously. FLIGHT ATTENDANT Would you like anything else? CASTOR Hell, yes... (pulls her into lap) It's the only way to fly. She smiles, not minding, until the jet suddenly slows its taxi down the runway. COCKPIT Castor yanks open the door. CASTOR What's wrong? AT END OF RUNWAY A squat car creeps INTO VIEW -- blocking the runway. EXT./INT. HUMVEE - MOVING - DAY Behind the wheel is Jon Archer. Beside him is Tito. BACK TO ARCHER CASTOR It's Archer. (gun to Pilot's head) Go, dammit! Suddenly the gun is BLASTED from Castor's hand. he turns around to see... the Flight Attendant behind them -- holding a smoking pistol. This is Agent WINTERS. WINTERS F.B.I.! Throttle down, captain! But Castor elbows the throttle up. The jet lurches forward, throwing Winters off balance. Pollux tackles her as the jet picks up speed. INT. HUMVEE - DAY Archer slams the vehicle into gear. ARCHER Get out. TITO You're not playing chicken with two tons of aluminum... ARCHER Get out! Tito obeys as Archer peels out. The HUMMER ROARS at the jet. The jet picks up speed, trying to get aloft. The humvee is aimed right at it... Archer's eyes narrow. COLLISION COURSE as two hunks of metal bear down. The machines are seconds apart when -- Archer looks up to see... Winters' face pressed up against the cockpit window, Castor holding a gun to her head. Archer cuts the wheel -- just avoiding the jet. The Hummer skids to a stop as Federal back-up arrives -- but too late. Archer watches an FBI chopper -- landing in a swirl of dust. As the jet picks up speed... the hatch opens. Castor blasts Winters in the side and tosses her onto the tarmac. INSIDE Castor smiles at Pollux, sensing freedom, until... KA-CHUNK: Something POUNDS the jet -- from above. Castor leans out the hatch and sees... The chopper on top of them -- Archer at the controls. Eye-contact -- years of hatred pass between these men. Castor BLASTS at him from the open hatch. The chopper's left windscreen spiderwebs. Archer jerks and weaves -- dodging the BULLETS. The chopper pulls away. The jet finally lifts off... when... The chopper settles on the jet -- slamming at its tail. TARMAC Tito reacts to this madness -- as the chopper plays a deadly game of leap-frog with the jet. The end of the runway is coming up fast. Archer crushes the jet's horizontal elevator flap. JET PILOT can't budge the jet's jammed yoke. Thwarted, he powers back the throttle. Thrust reverse. CASTOR What are you doing? PILOT The horizontal elevator's smashed! We can't lift off! CASTOR SHOOTS the Pilot -- then takes the controls. He struggles to maneuver the jet. Suddenly... A biplane descends right at them -- about to land. ARCHER pulls up just as the JET swerves radically to avoid the biplane and SLAMS into the hangar. JET plows through the GLASS DOOR, the NOSE-WHEEL SNAPS off. The PLANE SKIDS right into the hangar -- finally stopping at the wings. FBI CHOPPER lands. Archer steps out calmly -- like a cop about to write a traffic ticket. He hurries to join more FBI agents rushing into the hangar ahead of him. INT. HANGAR - DAY The jet hatch pops open -- Castor leaps from it, FIRING. Two FBI agents drop -- riddled. Pollux appears at the hatch -- an FBI sharpshooter FIRES, grazing Pollux's shoulder. Staggered, Pollux falls -- Castor catches him before he hits the floor -- simultaneously BLASTING the sharpshooter. Castor drags Pollux back into the smoke-filled hangar. Archer arrives and quickly checks the dead agents, his anger building. He signals Tito and the others to spread out. DEEP IN HANGAR A maze of airplane debris and heavy machinery. Led by Archer, the FBI agents pick their way through it. ROOKIE LOOMIS snaps alert -- did he see something? Advancing carefully, he comes up on... Castor -- staunching Pollux's shoulder wound. Pollux sees the agent -- and FIRES. Loomis hits the floor -- his bleeding ear is shredded. Suddenly a forklift charges down on Castor and Pollux. Tito is at the wheel. Castor FIRES -- forcing Tito to dive off. The forklift careens on -- driving apart the brothers. The forklift upends a stack of heavy crates -- pinning Pollux. Castor tries to free his trapped brother. POLLUX Forget it -- Go! Go! He slaps his Glock into Pollux's hand. CASTOR Wherever they put you, I'll find a way to get you out... Pollux starts FIRING -- covering Castor as he runs through a tunnel which leads to an adjoining hangar. Suddenly Wanda presses her machine-pistol into Pollux's head. As Pollux raises his gun -- Tito grabs his hand. TITO -- not unless you want that 200 I.Q. splattered all over the floor. (as Archer approaches) We got him now, Jon. ARCHER That's what you always say. Seal it off. I'm going in. Archer moves away from the group and enters the tunnel. MUSIC as Archer and Castor begin their cat-and-mouse dance. Sensing Archer, Castor pauses by an old landing gear. He draws a fresh pistol from his ankle holster and moves on. Archer pauses at the landing gear... his own stealthy movements mirroring Castor's. Castor waits behind a stack of steel drums... his gaze trying to penetrate the darkness... He SNAPS his fingers. The sound ECHOES as he tries to draw Archer in. Archer reacts to the sound and SNAPS back -- answering the challenge. As the deadly beat between them continues -- BLAM BLAM BLAM! Archer spins away just as Castor OPENS FIRE from the gloom... one step ahead. INTERCUT as necessary: CASTOR Jon, I'm getting a little annoyed by your obsessive need to spoil my fun. ARCHER And how much will your 'fun' net you this time? BOOM BOOM BOOM! Half-blind SHOTS send Castor spinning. A moment later, Archer pursues... SNAP! He fits a new CLIP into his pistol. CASTOR What's it to you? I declare it. Here I am, back in the States for less than a week -- ARCHER You're under arrest. Incredibly, you still have the right to remain silent -- CASTOR I've got something going down on the eighteenth... it's gonna be worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaoh. I'll give it up -- but my brother and I have to walk. ARCHER No discussion -- no deals. CASTOR What're you gonna do with me locked up? You'll drive your wife and kid nuts! I bet your daughter is just about ripe by now. What's her name, Janie? Enraged, Archer steps boldly forward -- trying to draw his enemy out. Silence -- then Archer senses... Castor is behind him. He FIRES -- Archer dives away. The BARRAGE CONTINUES -- driving Archer back between two huge turbine engines. As Archer reloads, he stares at the control panel switches. Castor moves in for the kill when he hears a final SNAP- SNAP. Except it isn't a finger snap... it's two switches. VRRRROOOM! The TWIN ENGINES ROAR on! Unable to fight the churning tornado-force wind... Castor's blasted across the hangar... slamming hard into the far wall. The ENGINES STOP and Archer emerges -- joined by Tito. TITO Tell me he didn't get away again... Then Tito follows Archer's gaze to Castor's lifeless body. Still as death -- somehow his mocking smile survives. EXT. AIRPORT TARMAC - SUNSET Heavily-manacled, an extremely agitated Pollux is herded into a SWAT van by Buzz and Wanda. POLLUX Where's my brother?! I want to see my brother! The van takes off -- passing an imposing older man, flanked by two bodyguards. Bullying through the media, Assistant FBI Director VICTOR LAZARRO scans the devastation. Approaching Archer, he watches as Castor's body is loaded on the ambulance. A sheet covers Castor's lifeless face. LAZARRO The oversight committee would've roasted us for this one -- thank God it paid off. Damn fine work. ARCHER Real fine, Victor. Especially the casualties. Archer contemplates the slain agents -- their three bodies laid out in a row -- waiting to be zip-locked. Lazarro reacts grimly as a reporter snaps a photo of the bodies. Instinctively, the two men close ranks. Archer grabs the Nikon, ejects the film, then shoves the camera back. LAZARRO Classified information. No photographs. Lazarro puts a caring arm around Archer's shoulder and leads him away from the media... and the carnage. LAZARRO You okay, Jon? (off Archer's nod) Then go home. Tell Eve. EXT. ARCHER'S HOME (SANTA MONICA) - SUNSET A renovated Craftsman. Sipping a carton of milk, Archer pulls into the driveway. He sits, gathering his thoughts. INT. ARCHER'S HOME - NIGHT Archer enters and sees his wife EVE. Handsome, intelligent. ARCHER Hi... (no response) ... What's wrong? She nods toward the KITCHEN. JAMIE is there -- a sullen and hard fifteen-year-old. There are cigarette cartons on the table. EVE She complimented for her 'F' in history with an 'A' in shoplifting... Archer marches into the kitchen -- noting the crate of Marlboros. Jamie matter-of-factly pours herself coffee. ARCHER Nice stunt, Jamie. You break the law and I'm expected to ignore it? JAMIE That's right -- it's all about you. Don't even ask me what happened. Archer looks to Eve for help. Eve shakes her head -- nope. ARCHER Okay. What happened? JAMIE Like you'd ever fucking believe me! She bolts. In anticipation, Eve calmly opens the door as Jamie rushes out, then closes it behind her. EVE Well, you tried. You failed miserably, but you tried. ARCHER Why won't she even talk to me? EVE Maybe because you taught her never to speak to strangers. (immediately regrets it) I'm sorry... that wasn't fair. Eve kisses his cheek -- then gathers up her doctor gear. EVE I've got patients waiting. Try again, Jon. She hates you -- but she needs you. ARCHER Eve... Something in Archer's expression makes her stop. EVE Jon -- what is it? But he's too overcome. He starts to speak -- but can't. EVE Is it -- him? It's... it's over? Emotions avalanche across his face until he finally looks up. Eve pulls him close -- a sheltering embrace for them both. ARCHER I'm going to make everything up to you and Jamie. I'll put in for a desk job. We'll go away, get counseling -- anything you want. This time, I mean it. INT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Freshly dressed, Archer heads down the hall. He pauses at the door to Jamie's room when he sees -- Jamie. Fully clothed, she's fast asleep on her bed cluttered with clothes and assorted girl-stuff. Her face peaceful. Archer looks around her room... sees the stuffed animals collecting dust... replaced by makeup, jewelry, beefcake Calvin Klein ads and band posters, etc. Archer's startled to see a lacey bustier... his little girl is growing up fast. And he's missing it. He pulls the blanket up over her and quietly slips out. The instant he leaves, Jamie kicks the blankets off. INT. FBI BUILDING - DAY Dominated by the FBI seal. Archer steps to the check point. SECURITY GUARD Print, please. Archer presses his thumb to a scan-pad -- and is cleared. INT. BULL PEN - DAY Efficient as a beehive -- agents, cryptologists, support staff buzz at their routines. Archer strides through -- drawing congratulatory nods and "thumbs up" signs... OUTSIDE HIS OFFICE Archer's team is there. Applauding. Proud. Uneasy with plaudits, he disperses the disappointed agents. ARCHER Much appreciated. Now let's get back to work, okay? WANDA (to Buzz) Is that stick ever gonna fall out of his ass? Archer's well-built secretary -- KIM BREWSTER -- hands him his messages. She's holding a bottle of Dom Perignon. KIMBERLY The C.I.A. sent this over. What should I do with it? ARCHER Send it back and tell them to stop wasting the taxpayers' money. Anything else, Miss Brewster? KIMBERLY No, sir. He enters his office. Kimberly sighs and turns to Wanda. KIMBERLY Four years -- and he still calls me 'Miss Brewster.' INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Sitting at his computer -- Archer scrolls through Castor's file. He grimly contemplates face-after-face of Troy's victims -- finally pausing on a photo of his son Matthew. Burying his feeling, he types "CASE CLOSED" over Castor's image. Archer starts to press "enter" when Tito comes in. ARCHER How's Loomis? TITO He needs some surgery, but he's going to be okay. That's the good news... ARCHER Go on. TITO ... Brodie and Miller from Special Ops need to see you. ARCHER I don't have time for those cloak and dagger guys. Big NED BRODIE and athletic female HOLLIS MILLER stroll in. BRODIE You better make time, Jon. (hefts a disc) We found this in the jet wreckage -- among Pollux Troy's effects... Archer accedes as Miller pops in the disk. The computer screen displays a CAD schematic of the bomb. Archer studies it carefully -- unease growing. ARCHER Porcelain casing... Thermal cloak... Undetectable payload. MILLER Powerful enough to flatten ten city blocks. ARCHER 'Worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaohs.' (to Tito) Get Pollux Troy. Now. DISSOLVE TO: INTERROGATION FOOTAGE Wired to a complex machine -- Pollux seems to have his frustrated interrogators on the run. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Archer, Lazarro, Tito, Brodie, Miller and other FBI officials watch the monitor. Pollux remains implacable POLLUX (V.O.) (on screen) That bomb was just a crossword puzzle to me... a mental exercise. I never built it... Lazarro shuts down the monitor... turns to Archer. ARCHER He's lying. LAZARRO He's hooked up to a full-spectrum polygraph. ARCHER Pollux is a manipulative psychopath. He can control his heartbeat, his sweat glands, his blood pressure... LAZARRO Jon, I trust your instincts, I always have. But D.C. wants more evidence. And frankly, so do I. ARCHER You'll get all the evidence you need when ten thousand people die. LAZARRO We'll get a team right on it. But we can't evacuate the city on what amounts to a hunch. Archer looks at the gathered brass. He knows it's hopeless. ARCHER That bomb has been built, it's out there somewhere and it's going to detonate... EXT. FBI BUILDING - INTELLIGENCE MEMORIAL - DAY Words etched in the granite wall read: IN HONOR OF THOSE MEMBERS OF THE FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION WHO SACRIFICED THEIR LIVES IN THE LINE OF DUTY Archer watches as a workman engraves the last of the three new stars among so many others -- each one honoring the dead. BRODIE Didn't Castor give any clue where the bomb might be? ARCHER Only one person knows -- his brother Pollux. And he'll keep his mouth shut until it blows. BRODIE We could plant an agent in his cell -- get him to spill the location. ARCHER Pollux is way too paranoid. The only person he'd talk to about that bomb is Castor himself. And dead men can't talk. Brodie and Miller exchange a knowing look. BRODIE There might be a way around that... FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S BODY Tubes and hoses are plugged into every orifice. INT. ICU ROOM - DAY Archer stares at the body... he can't believe it. ARCHER Why are you keeping him alive? (gets no answer) As long as he's breathing, he's dangerous. MILLER Relax, he's a turnip. Miller grinds out her cigarette on Castor's leg. Of course, Castor just lies there like a vegetable. BRODIE We can arrange for you to enter Erewhon Prison -- as Castor Troy. ARCHER What are you talking about? Archer turns as DR. MALCOLM HOAG (50s) enters the room. HOAG I think I'd better answer that question. (offers hand) Malcolm Hoag. I run the Physiological Camouflage Unit for Special Ops. ARCHER I know who you are. MILLER But you don't know what he can do. Physical augmentation; enhancement surgery... BRODIE ... He can disguise a compromised agent or alter the likeness -- even the voice -- of a government witness. HOAG Let me show you how it's done. (leading him out) I think you'll recognize our patient... INT. HOAG'S SURGICAL BAY - DAY Loomis lies still as a surgeon carefully scrapes away charred flesh around his burned ear. The doctor turns to a -- STEREO-LITHOGRAPHIC MACHINE Laser-beams attack an organic soup with incredible precision. The light forces a chemical reaction -- and out of the soup -- an ear begins to form. It rises from the liquid, now fully-formed. The surgeon takes the ear and fits it in place on Loomis's head. He starts suturing. OBSERVATION BOOTH - ABOVE Archer, Hoag, Brodie and Miller watch the operation -- video-enhanced by the two huge screens on the far walls. HOAG With our new generation of anti- inflammatories, healing is accelerated from weeks to days. By his next paycheck, he won't even remember which ear he lost. (a beat) Your situation, however, would be a little less permanent... BRODIE -- and a lot more classified. Hoag holds up a face-sized organic shell made up of yellow cartilage pieces and tendons, etc. Archer pulls it over his face -- like a gauze mask. A "tendon" falls off. ARCHER This'll fool Pollux. HOAG That is a state-of-the-art morpho- genetic template. The inside can be built to match the exact shape of your skull; the outside -- exactly like Castor's. Then we fit his face right on top -- MILLER -- and you become him. ARCHER You're talking about removing the guy's face? BRODIE Borrowing, Jon. The procedure's completely reversible. MILLER One way or the other -- the mission ends on the eighteenth. Archer turns the shell over and over and over in his hands. BRODIE You know Castor better than anyone. You've lived and breathed him for years -- hell, you even look a little like him. Archer shoves the template back at Hoag. ARCHER Find yourself another lab-rat. MILLER If you don't do this -- Castor will beat us again. He'll beat you again... Archer pushes his way past them -- and marches out. HOAG I don't think that went very well. BRODIE Trust us, Doc... MILLER ... he'll jerk around. Then he'll be back. INT. INTERROGATION BOOTHS - DAY Archer enters... sizes up DIETRICH HASSLER. His stylish garb doesn't completely hide his criminal roots. Archer sits down calmly. He looks at his watch. ARCHER I'm in a hurry, Dietrich. So you've only got ten seconds to go through your usual litany of lies, empty threats, and moronic denials. Then I'm coming over there -- DIETRICH If you're in such a fucking hurry -- why are you wasting your time with me? I'm just an art dealer. ARCHER You're a dealer, all right: technical secrets, munitions... explosives. DIETRICH You've never proven any of that. And when my bitchy, never-been- laid femi-nazi lawyer gets here, she's going to... ARCHER Time's up. Archer topples the wooden table and tears a leg from the top. Brandishing it -- he stalks the startled thug. HALLWAY JUST OUTSIDE - CONTINUOUS ACTION Lazarro blanches as an obsessed Archer repeatedly slams the table leg against the wall -- above Dietrich's head. LAZARRO The only ticking bomb I see is inside his head. He's getting worse, Tito. TITO Don't worry, sir. It's all an act... But as Lazarro leaves -- we see Tito's worried, too. BACK INSIDE BOOTH Archer has a terrified Dietrich backed into the corner. DIETRICH ... Okay! Castor called me but I blew him off... I swear I never saw him. And I don't know anything about any bomb! INT. CORRIDOR - OUTSIDE INTERROGATION BOOTHS - SAME TIME Archer emerges... eyes blazing. ARCHER Let him go, but I want him watched... Who's next? TITO Just Dietrich's sister... In another booth, a careworn but striking woman sits with a little boy on her lap. She gently helps him Crayola a book. This is SASHA HASSLER (30) and her son ADAM (5). INT. INTERROGATION BOOTH - DAY Archer hovers over Sasha -- her maternal warmth replaced by an icy hatred. Tito and the child are gone. ARCHER When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? SASHA Who cares? He's dead. ARCHER Answer the question. SASHA Look, I'm clean. I teach kids now -- ARCHER Sasha -- you are a felon, on probation for harboring Castor Troy. So it's in your best interest to cooperate. (as she's silent) Would you like your son put in a foster home? Sasha's eyes flash, her body coils -- but she keeps control. SASHA No, but I'm sure you'd love it -- you sick bastard. ARCHER (unmoved) When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? She stares at him with equal amounts of pity and hatred. SASHA I haven't seen him for years. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY Archer watches as Adam leaves Dietrich and jumps into Sasha's arms. She hugs him protectively. Adam sees Archer watching them -- and smiles. Archer doesn't smile back. FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S REAL FACE PULL BACK TO: INT. I.C.U. - NIGHT Archer slowly circles Castor's muscular, hairy, tattooed body. Although on life support -- his signature smirk remains. ARCHER What about Lazarro? BRODIE No way -- the red tape alone would take a month. This is a black-bag operation -- completely off the books. MILLER If you need him, Tito can help you prepare. But you know the drill: You can't tell anyone -- not the Director, not your wife... nobody. Archer's face shows he doesn't like it -- then he nods. ARCHER I'm in. EXT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Archer slowly gets out of his car. Trudging toward the front door, he picks up a basketball and takes a shot. His form is terrible -- he misses by a mile. INT. HALLWAY - NIGHT Archer passes Jamie's room. Loud MUSIC POUNDS from within. He pauses to knock, thinks again, then heads down the hall. INT. MASTER BEDROOM - NIGHT Eve is in bed. Archer comes in quietly and sits beside her -- studying her peaceful, sleeping face. She stirs. EVE I was dreaming... ARCHER Something good? EVE I'm not sure... you were flying this

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"Face/Off", production draft, by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary FACE/OFF Written by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary Revised 9/10/96 FADE INTO: SEPIA-TONE FOOTAGE of a pig chasing a lion chasing a dinosaur chasing an elephant. Noah's Ark going round... and round... and round... EXT. GRIFFITH PARK CAROUSEL - DAY Disjointed CALLIOPE MUSIC as the wheel of fate and fortune goes around until we PULL BACK to reveal: JON ARCHER (30) rising winged Pegasus. On the adjacent unicorn is his son MATTHEW (5). Clutching a balloon, Matty waves at his dad. A happy moment, like so many certain to follow -- until we realize we are watching them THROUGH... SNIPER'S RIFLE SCOPE - SNIPER'S EYES wait until the child clears his aim -- Archer is the target. They round the bend and disappear... MATTHEW Loses his grip on the unicorn. Archer reaches over and pulls him into his lap. They happily ride together... As the horses sweep back INTO VIEW... exposing Archer... Now we see the sniper. CASTOR TROY is cool, efficient, aggressive, sexual. His finger closes around the trigger. BOOM! A BULLET RIPS into Archer's back. Bleeding... he drops off his horse... and sinks to the deck of the carousel. His eyes desperately searching... searching... searching... until he sees -- Matthew lies on his back -- still. Slowly, Archer reaches out and takes Matthew's hand... and now we see COLOR for the first time... Blood red... as bleeding father touches bleeding son... TILT UP TO the winged Pegasus flying by -- now in full color and UP UP UP TO Matthew's red balloon... floating away. HANDEL'S MESSIAH OVER a SERIES OF SHOTS: FBI BRIEFING ROOM Gazing out the window as dawn breaks over the city below is Jon Archer... older... unshaven... fatigued... his eyes reveal a man in the grip of obsession. CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by, as if marking time itself... HOLY PLACE Smoky, spiritual... dominated by a gleaming, golden cross. A priest kneels before it -- deep in prayer. The glimmering cross comes INTO FOCUS... but it's just a light-reflection... off the casing of a large bomb. This is no chapel... but an atrium. Somewhere. And as the "priest" rubs out his cigarette we see it's Castor Troy -- carefully installing this complex device. ANOTHER CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by... ARCHER pockets his FBI badge, then holsters his gun... CASTOR sets the bomb timer -- then replaces a wall panel in front of it. Totally hidden. BRIEFING ROOM - CASTOR'S MUGSHOT is on a computer screen. His criminal dossier scrolls by endlessly: bombings, assassinations, mercenary kidnappings, terrorism-for-hire... Rookie agent LOOMIS studies the details carefully. Other agents -- including BUZZ and WANDA scan computer grid- maps, man phones, etc. amid the take-out cartons and coffee cups. These people are on high alert. ARCHER Any follow-up from L.A.P.D. Intelligence? BUZZ No, sir, nothing yet. ARCHER Get them on the phone -- now. What about S.I.S. and our airport teams? WANDA We've had everything from psychics to satellites on this. Even if Castor was here... he must have slipped the net by now... ARCHER He's here! And we're going to keep looking until we find him! A silence descends on the chastised team. As they go back to work, veteran agent TITO BIONDI takes Archer aside. TITO Jon, these people have been working round the clock -- you gotta cut them some slack... Archer considers his best friend's advice -- then... ARCHER I'll cut them some slack when I cut myself some slack. Archer marches out -- slamming the door behind him. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY (MORNING) Castor quietly shuts the security door behind him. An Hispanic voice startles him. JANITOR What are you doing? CASTOR (in perfect Spanish) Thank goodness, I feel like Icarus in the labyrinth -- where's the men's room? JANITOR (in Spanish) This area is off limits, Padre. (re: security door) How did you get in that room? Realizing the JANITOR is already too suspicious, Castor puts a priestly arm around him -- and leads him down the hall. CASTOR Okay... I have a confession to make, but you aren't gonna like it. I was planting a bomb. JANITOR Bomb? CASTOR You know -- boom -- (patting his neck) Oh, never mind... The Janitor suddenly twitches, his eyes rolls up in his head. As he gasps his last -- Castor heaves him down a stairwell. Now we see the needle-thin custom stiletto in Castor's hand. Castor kicks the Janitor's mop and bucket down the stairs -- making everything look like an accident. INT. SAME BUILDING - MAIN FLOOR - DAY (MORNING) The children's church choir -- 200 strong -- sing "Behold the Lamb of God." Clergy and lay persons listen reverently. "Father" Castor strolls by the singers -- casually heading for the exit. As he passes the risers, a teenage girl drops her sheet music at his feet. Returning it -- he whispers in her ear -- so close he's practically licking it. CASTOR I've never enjoyed 'The Messiah.' But your voice makes even a hack like Handel seem like a genius. He pats her behind and leaves. Although a little shaken, she's also drawn by Castor's sexual magnetism. EXT. LA CONVENTION CENTER - DAY (MORNING) The marquee proclaims: INTERNATIONAL CHURCH CHOIRS 18th- 21st: AMERICAN BAR ASSOCIATION. Castor exits -- politely holding the door for a beat cop. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY (MORNING) The office is a monument to obsession: photographs, clues, newsclips, totems of Castor Troy surround a pacing Archer. ARCHER (on phone) ... I don't have time to get a warrant from some hung-over judge. Just give me the go-ahead, Victor, and I promise -- as soon as this is over -- you can brand my butt with the Fourth Amendment. The instant Archer hangs up -- the INTERCOM BUZZES. KIM (V.O.) Sir, your wife's on line one... S.I.S. on two... ARCHER Tell her to hang on -- As Archer punches up line two -- Tito bursts in. TITO A jet was chartered at Anderson Airfield. Guess who just showed up to pay for it? Pollux Troy. ARCHER Scramble the Reaction Team -- we're moving out. And get one of our people on that plane. TITO But there's still no sign of Castor... ARCHER Where one brother goes, the other's sure to follow... They rush our... the hold button on line 1 still blinking. EXT. PRIVATE AIRPORT - ESTABLISHING - DAY A sleek Cadillac pulls in... stopping next to a Land Rover. LARS MUELLER -- a muscular, crystal-eyed jar-head -- gets out of the Caddy. An instant later -- LUNT MUELLER -- emerges from the Rover. They are identical twins. The men scan the airport carefully, then open the rear doors of their respective vehicles. Castor emerges from the Caddy -- Armani clad. Exiting the Rover is Castor's younger brother POLLUX TROY -- skittish, brilliant, paranoid -- a human hummingbird. POLLUX You're 26 minutes late. The casing didn't fit -- right? I knew that cheap-shit Dietrich would rip us off... CASTOR Oh, God -- ! POLLUX What!? CASTOR I forgot to turn the damn thing on! POLLUX You're kidding, right? (to the twins) He's kidding... (grabs Castor by throat) ... are you fucking kidding!? Castor hugs Pollux lovingly. Pollux squirms like a kid. CASTOR Bro -- everything went fine. POLLUX I hate when you call me bro. Pollux heads for the jet. Castor hands Lunt a wad of cash. CASTOR Thanks for babysitting. LUNT Anything else? CASTOR I'll contact you when we get the rest of the money. (turns to leave) Oh, and stat away from downtown. The inversion layer's going to be pretty thick around the 18th. The twins nod... then take off. Castor heads for the jet. INT. JET - DAY Castor hustles in -- exhorting the PILOT. CASTOR Let's go, let's go! As the JET TURBINES start to WHINE, Castor sinks into his seat. A very sexy FLIGHT ATTENDANT appears and hands him a Scotch. He downs it, looking her over salaciously. FLIGHT ATTENDANT Would you like anything else? CASTOR Hell, yes... (pulls her into lap) It's the only way to fly. She smiles, not minding, until the jet suddenly slows its taxi down the runway. COCKPIT Castor yanks open the door. CASTOR What's wrong? AT END OF RUNWAY A squat car creeps INTO VIEW -- blocking the runway. EXT./INT. HUMVEE - MOVING - DAY Behind the wheel is Jon Archer. Beside him is Tito. BACK TO ARCHER CASTOR It's Archer. (gun to Pilot's head) Go, dammit! Suddenly the gun is BLASTED from Castor's hand. he turns around to see... the Flight Attendant behind them -- holding a smoking pistol. This is Agent WINTERS. WINTERS F.B.I.! Throttle down, captain! But Castor elbows the throttle up. The jet lurches forward, throwing Winters off balance. Pollux tackles her as the jet picks up speed. INT. HUMVEE - DAY Archer slams the vehicle into gear. ARCHER Get out. TITO You're not playing chicken with two tons of aluminum... ARCHER Get out! Tito obeys as Archer peels out. The HUMMER ROARS at the jet. The jet picks up speed, trying to get aloft. The humvee is aimed right at it... Archer's eyes narrow. COLLISION COURSE as two hunks of metal bear down. The machines are seconds apart when -- Archer looks up to see... Winters' face pressed up against the cockpit window, Castor holding a gun to her head. Archer cuts the wheel -- just avoiding the jet. The Hummer skids to a stop as Federal back-up arrives -- but too late. Archer watches an FBI chopper -- landing in a swirl of dust. As the jet picks up speed... the hatch opens. Castor blasts Winters in the side and tosses her onto the tarmac. INSIDE Castor smiles at Pollux, sensing freedom, until... KA-CHUNK: Something POUNDS the jet -- from above. Castor leans out the hatch and sees... The chopper on top of them -- Archer at the controls. Eye-contact -- years of hatred pass between these men. Castor BLASTS at him from the open hatch. The chopper's left windscreen spiderwebs. Archer jerks and weaves -- dodging the BULLETS. The chopper pulls away. The jet finally lifts off... when... The chopper settles on the jet -- slamming at its tail. TARMAC Tito reacts to this madness -- as the chopper plays a deadly game of leap-frog with the jet. The end of the runway is coming up fast. Archer crushes the jet's horizontal elevator flap. JET PILOT can't budge the jet's jammed yoke. Thwarted, he powers back the throttle. Thrust reverse. CASTOR What are you doing? PILOT The horizontal elevator's smashed! We can't lift off! CASTOR SHOOTS the Pilot -- then takes the controls. He struggles to maneuver the jet. Suddenly... A biplane descends right at them -- about to land. ARCHER pulls up just as the JET swerves radically to avoid the biplane and SLAMS into the hangar. JET plows through the GLASS DOOR, the NOSE-WHEEL SNAPS off. The PLANE SKIDS right into the hangar -- finally stopping at the wings. FBI CHOPPER lands. Archer steps out calmly -- like a cop about to write a traffic ticket. He hurries to join more FBI agents rushing into the hangar ahead of him. INT. HANGAR - DAY The jet hatch pops open -- Castor leaps from it, FIRING. Two FBI agents drop -- riddled. Pollux appears at the hatch -- an FBI sharpshooter FIRES, grazing Pollux's shoulder. Staggered, Pollux falls -- Castor catches him before he hits the floor -- simultaneously BLASTING the sharpshooter. Castor drags Pollux back into the smoke-filled hangar. Archer arrives and quickly checks the dead agents, his anger building. He signals Tito and the others to spread out. DEEP IN HANGAR A maze of airplane debris and heavy machinery. Led by Archer, the FBI agents pick their way through it. ROOKIE LOOMIS snaps alert -- did he see something? Advancing carefully, he comes up on... Castor -- staunching Pollux's shoulder wound. Pollux sees the agent -- and FIRES. Loomis hits the floor -- his bleeding ear is shredded. Suddenly a forklift charges down on Castor and Pollux. Tito is at the wheel. Castor FIRES -- forcing Tito to dive off. The forklift careens on -- driving apart the brothers. The forklift upends a stack of heavy crates -- pinning Pollux. Castor tries to free his trapped brother. POLLUX Forget it -- Go! Go! He slaps his Glock into Pollux's hand. CASTOR Wherever they put you, I'll find a way to get you out... Pollux starts FIRING -- covering Castor as he runs through a tunnel which leads to an adjoining hangar. Suddenly Wanda presses her machine-pistol into Pollux's head. As Pollux raises his gun -- Tito grabs his hand. TITO -- not unless you want that 200 I.Q. splattered all over the floor. (as Archer approaches) We got him now, Jon. ARCHER That's what you always say. Seal it off. I'm going in. Archer moves away from the group and enters the tunnel. MUSIC as Archer and Castor begin their cat-and-mouse dance. Sensing Archer, Castor pauses by an old landing gear. He draws a fresh pistol from his ankle holster and moves on. Archer pauses at the landing gear... his own stealthy movements mirroring Castor's. Castor waits behind a stack of steel drums... his gaze trying to penetrate the darkness... He SNAPS his fingers. The sound ECHOES as he tries to draw Archer in. Archer reacts to the sound and SNAPS back -- answering the challenge. As the deadly beat between them continues -- BLAM BLAM BLAM! Archer spins away just as Castor OPENS FIRE from the gloom... one step ahead. INTERCUT as necessary: CASTOR Jon, I'm getting a little annoyed by your obsessive need to spoil my fun. ARCHER And how much will your 'fun' net you this time? BOOM BOOM BOOM! Half-blind SHOTS send Castor spinning. A moment later, Archer pursues... SNAP! He fits a new CLIP into his pistol. CASTOR What's it to you? I declare it. Here I am, back in the States for less than a week -- ARCHER You're under arrest. Incredibly, you still have the right to remain silent -- CASTOR I've got something going down on the eighteenth... it's gonna be worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaoh. I'll give it up -- but my brother and I have to walk. ARCHER No discussion -- no deals. CASTOR What're you gonna do with me locked up? You'll drive your wife and kid nuts! I bet your daughter is just about ripe by now. What's her name, Janie? Enraged, Archer steps boldly forward -- trying to draw his enemy out. Silence -- then Archer senses... Castor is behind him. He FIRES -- Archer dives away. The BARRAGE CONTINUES -- driving Archer back between two huge turbine engines. As Archer reloads, he stares at the control panel switches. Castor moves in for the kill when he hears a final SNAP- SNAP. Except it isn't a finger snap... it's two switches. VRRRROOOM! The TWIN ENGINES ROAR on! Unable to fight the churning tornado-force wind... Castor's blasted across the hangar... slamming hard into the far wall. The ENGINES STOP and Archer emerges -- joined by Tito. TITO Tell me he didn't get away again... Then Tito follows Archer's gaze to Castor's lifeless body. Still as death -- somehow his mocking smile survives. EXT. AIRPORT TARMAC - SUNSET Heavily-manacled, an extremely agitated Pollux is herded into a SWAT van by Buzz and Wanda. POLLUX Where's my brother?! I want to see my brother! The van takes off -- passing an imposing older man, flanked by two bodyguards. Bullying through the media, Assistant FBI Director VICTOR LAZARRO scans the devastation. Approaching Archer, he watches as Castor's body is loaded on the ambulance. A sheet covers Castor's lifeless face. LAZARRO The oversight committee would've roasted us for this one -- thank God it paid off. Damn fine work. ARCHER Real fine, Victor. Especially the casualties. Archer contemplates the slain agents -- their three bodies laid out in a row -- waiting to be zip-locked. Lazarro reacts grimly as a reporter snaps a photo of the bodies. Instinctively, the two men close ranks. Archer grabs the Nikon, ejects the film, then shoves the camera back. LAZARRO Classified information. No photographs. Lazarro puts a caring arm around Archer's shoulder and leads him away from the media... and the carnage. LAZARRO You okay, Jon? (off Archer's nod) Then go home. Tell Eve. EXT. ARCHER'S HOME (SANTA MONICA) - SUNSET A renovated Craftsman. Sipping a carton of milk, Archer pulls into the driveway. He sits, gathering his thoughts. INT. ARCHER'S HOME - NIGHT Archer enters and sees his wife EVE. Handsome, intelligent. ARCHER Hi... (no response) ... What's wrong? She nods toward the KITCHEN. JAMIE is there -- a sullen and hard fifteen-year-old. There are cigarette cartons on the table. EVE She complimented for her 'F' in history with an 'A' in shoplifting... Archer marches into the kitchen -- noting the crate of Marlboros. Jamie matter-of-factly pours herself coffee. ARCHER Nice stunt, Jamie. You break the law and I'm expected to ignore it? JAMIE That's right -- it's all about you. Don't even ask me what happened. Archer looks to Eve for help. Eve shakes her head -- nope. ARCHER Okay. What happened? JAMIE Like you'd ever fucking believe me! She bolts. In anticipation, Eve calmly opens the door as Jamie rushes out, then closes it behind her. EVE Well, you tried. You failed miserably, but you tried. ARCHER Why won't she even talk to me? EVE Maybe because you taught her never to speak to strangers. (immediately regrets it) I'm sorry... that wasn't fair. Eve kisses his cheek -- then gathers up her doctor gear. EVE I've got patients waiting. Try again, Jon. She hates you -- but she needs you. ARCHER Eve... Something in Archer's expression makes her stop. EVE Jon -- what is it? But he's too overcome. He starts to speak -- but can't. EVE Is it -- him? It's... it's over? Emotions avalanche across his face until he finally looks up. Eve pulls him close -- a sheltering embrace for them both. ARCHER I'm going to make everything up to you and Jamie. I'll put in for a desk job. We'll go away, get counseling -- anything you want. This time, I mean it. INT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Freshly dressed, Archer heads down the hall. He pauses at the door to Jamie's room when he sees -- Jamie. Fully clothed, she's fast asleep on her bed cluttered with clothes and assorted girl-stuff. Her face peaceful. Archer looks around her room... sees the stuffed animals collecting dust... replaced by makeup, jewelry, beefcake Calvin Klein ads and band posters, etc. Archer's startled to see a lacey bustier... his little girl is growing up fast. And he's missing it. He pulls the blanket up over her and quietly slips out. The instant he leaves, Jamie kicks the blankets off. INT. FBI BUILDING - DAY Dominated by the FBI seal. Archer steps to the check point. SECURITY GUARD Print, please. Archer presses his thumb to a scan-pad -- and is cleared. INT. BULL PEN - DAY Efficient as a beehive -- agents, cryptologists, support staff buzz at their routines. Archer strides through -- drawing congratulatory nods and "thumbs up" signs... OUTSIDE HIS OFFICE Archer's team is there. Applauding. Proud. Uneasy with plaudits, he disperses the disappointed agents. ARCHER Much appreciated. Now let's get back to work, okay? WANDA (to Buzz) Is that stick ever gonna fall out of his ass? Archer's well-built secretary -- KIM BREWSTER -- hands him his messages. She's holding a bottle of Dom Perignon. KIMBERLY The C.I.A. sent this over. What should I do with it? ARCHER Send it back and tell them to stop wasting the taxpayers' money. Anything else, Miss Brewster? KIMBERLY No, sir. He enters his office. Kimberly sighs and turns to Wanda. KIMBERLY Four years -- and he still calls me 'Miss Brewster.' INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Sitting at his computer -- Archer scrolls through Castor's file. He grimly contemplates face-after-face of Troy's victims -- finally pausing on a photo of his son Matthew. Burying his feeling, he types "CASE CLOSED" over Castor's image. Archer starts to press "enter" when Tito comes in. ARCHER How's Loomis? TITO He needs some surgery, but he's going to be okay. That's the good news... ARCHER Go on. TITO ... Brodie and Miller from Special Ops need to see you. ARCHER I don't have time for those cloak and dagger guys. Big NED BRODIE and athletic female HOLLIS MILLER stroll in. BRODIE You better make time, Jon. (hefts a disc) We found this in the jet wreckage -- among Pollux Troy's effects... Archer accedes as Miller pops in the disk. The computer screen displays a CAD schematic of the bomb. Archer studies it carefully -- unease growing. ARCHER Porcelain casing... Thermal cloak... Undetectable payload. MILLER Powerful enough to flatten ten city blocks. ARCHER 'Worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaohs.' (to Tito) Get Pollux Troy. Now. DISSOLVE TO: INTERROGATION FOOTAGE Wired to a complex machine -- Pollux seems to have his frustrated interrogators on the run. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Archer, Lazarro, Tito, Brodie, Miller and other FBI officials watch the monitor. Pollux remains implacable POLLUX (V.O.) (on screen) That bomb was just a crossword puzzle to me... a mental exercise. I never built it... Lazarro shuts down the monitor... turns to Archer. ARCHER He's lying. LAZARRO He's hooked up to a full-spectrum polygraph. ARCHER Pollux is a manipulative psychopath. He can control his heartbeat, his sweat glands, his blood pressure... LAZARRO Jon, I trust your instincts, I always have. But D.C. wants more evidence. And frankly, so do I. ARCHER You'll get all the evidence you need when ten thousand people die. LAZARRO We'll get a team right on it. But we can't evacuate the city on what amounts to a hunch. Archer looks at the gathered brass. He knows it's hopeless. ARCHER That bomb has been built, it's out there somewhere and it's going to detonate... EXT. FBI BUILDING - INTELLIGENCE MEMORIAL - DAY Words etched in the granite wall read: IN HONOR OF THOSE MEMBERS OF THE FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION WHO SACRIFICED THEIR LIVES IN THE LINE OF DUTY Archer watches as a workman engraves the last of the three new stars among so many others -- each one honoring the dead. BRODIE Didn't Castor give any clue where the bomb might be? ARCHER Only one person knows -- his brother Pollux. And he'll keep his mouth shut until it blows. BRODIE We could plant an agent in his cell -- get him to spill the location. ARCHER Pollux is way too paranoid. The only person he'd talk to about that bomb is Castor himself. And dead men can't talk. Brodie and Miller exchange a knowing look. BRODIE There might be a way around that... FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S BODY Tubes and hoses are plugged into every orifice. INT. ICU ROOM - DAY Archer stares at the body... he can't believe it. ARCHER Why are you keeping him alive? (gets no answer) As long as he's breathing, he's dangerous. MILLER Relax, he's a turnip. Miller grinds out her cigarette on Castor's leg. Of course, Castor just lies there like a vegetable. BRODIE We can arrange for you to enter Erewhon Prison -- as Castor Troy. ARCHER What are you talking about? Archer turns as DR. MALCOLM HOAG (50s) enters the room. HOAG I think I'd better answer that question. (offers hand) Malcolm Hoag. I run the Physiological Camouflage Unit for Special Ops. ARCHER I know who you are. MILLER But you don't know what he can do. Physical augmentation; enhancement surgery... BRODIE ... He can disguise a compromised agent or alter the likeness -- even the voice -- of a government witness. HOAG Let me show you how it's done. (leading him out) I think you'll recognize our patient... INT. HOAG'S SURGICAL BAY - DAY Loomis lies still as a surgeon carefully scrapes away charred flesh around his burned ear. The doctor turns to a -- STEREO-LITHOGRAPHIC MACHINE Laser-beams attack an organic soup with incredible precision. The light forces a chemical reaction -- and out of the soup -- an ear begins to form. It rises from the liquid, now fully-formed. The surgeon takes the ear and fits it in place on Loomis's head. He starts suturing. OBSERVATION BOOTH - ABOVE Archer, Hoag, Brodie and Miller watch the operation -- video-enhanced by the two huge screens on the far walls. HOAG With our new generation of anti- inflammatories, healing is accelerated from weeks to days. By his next paycheck, he won't even remember which ear he lost. (a beat) Your situation, however, would be a little less permanent... BRODIE -- and a lot more classified. Hoag holds up a face-sized organic shell made up of yellow cartilage pieces and tendons, etc. Archer pulls it over his face -- like a gauze mask. A "tendon" falls off. ARCHER This'll fool Pollux. HOAG That is a state-of-the-art morpho- genetic template. The inside can be built to match the exact shape of your skull; the outside -- exactly like Castor's. Then we fit his face right on top -- MILLER -- and you become him. ARCHER You're talking about removing the guy's face? BRODIE Borrowing, Jon. The procedure's completely reversible. MILLER One way or the other -- the mission ends on the eighteenth. Archer turns the shell over and over and over in his hands. BRODIE You know Castor better than anyone. You've lived and breathed him for years -- hell, you even look a little like him. Archer shoves the template back at Hoag. ARCHER Find yourself another lab-rat. MILLER If you don't do this -- Castor will beat us again. He'll beat you again... Archer pushes his way past them -- and marches out. HOAG I don't think that went very well. BRODIE Trust us, Doc... MILLER ... he'll jerk around. Then he'll be back. INT. INTERROGATION BOOTHS - DAY Archer enters... sizes up DIETRICH HASSLER. His stylish garb doesn't completely hide his criminal roots. Archer sits down calmly. He looks at his watch. ARCHER I'm in a hurry, Dietrich. So you've only got ten seconds to go through your usual litany of lies, empty threats, and moronic denials. Then I'm coming over there -- DIETRICH If you're in such a fucking hurry -- why are you wasting your time with me? I'm just an art dealer. ARCHER You're a dealer, all right: technical secrets, munitions... explosives. DIETRICH You've never proven any of that. And when my bitchy, never-been- laid femi-nazi lawyer gets here, she's going to... ARCHER Time's up. Archer topples the wooden table and tears a leg from the top. Brandishing it -- he stalks the startled thug. HALLWAY JUST OUTSIDE - CONTINUOUS ACTION Lazarro blanches as an obsessed Archer repeatedly slams the table leg against the wall -- above Dietrich's head. LAZARRO The only ticking bomb I see is inside his head. He's getting worse, Tito. TITO Don't worry, sir. It's all an act... But as Lazarro leaves -- we see Tito's worried, too. BACK INSIDE BOOTH Archer has a terrified Dietrich backed into the corner. DIETRICH ... Okay! Castor called me but I blew him off... I swear I never saw him. And I don't know anything about any bomb! INT. CORRIDOR - OUTSIDE INTERROGATION BOOTHS - SAME TIME Archer emerges... eyes blazing. ARCHER Let him go, but I want him watched... Who's next? TITO Just Dietrich's sister... In another booth, a careworn but striking woman sits with a little boy on her lap. She gently helps him Crayola a book. This is SASHA HASSLER (30) and her son ADAM (5). INT. INTERROGATION BOOTH - DAY Archer hovers over Sasha -- her maternal warmth replaced by an icy hatred. Tito and the child are gone. ARCHER When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? SASHA Who cares? He's dead. ARCHER Answer the question. SASHA Look, I'm clean. I teach kids now -- ARCHER Sasha -- you are a felon, on probation for harboring Castor Troy. So it's in your best interest to cooperate. (as she's silent) Would you like your son put in a foster home? Sasha's eyes flash, her body coils -- but she keeps control. SASHA No, but I'm sure you'd love it -- you sick bastard. ARCHER (unmoved) When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? She stares at him with equal amounts of pity and hatred. SASHA I haven't seen him for years. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY Archer watches as Adam leaves Dietrich and jumps into Sasha's arms. She hugs him protectively. Adam sees Archer watching them -- and smiles. Archer doesn't smile back. FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S REAL FACE PULL BACK TO: INT. I.C.U. - NIGHT Archer slowly circles Castor's muscular, hairy, tattooed body. Although on life support -- his signature smirk remains. ARCHER What about Lazarro? BRODIE No way -- the red tape alone would take a month. This is a black-bag operation -- completely off the books. MILLER If you need him, Tito can help you prepare. But you know the drill: You can't tell anyone -- not the Director, not your wife... nobody. Archer's face shows he doesn't like it -- then he nods. ARCHER I'm in. EXT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Archer slowly gets out of his car. Trudging toward the front door, he picks up a basketball and takes a shot. His form is terrible -- he misses by a mile. INT. HALLWAY - NIGHT Archer passes Jamie's room. Loud MUSIC POUNDS from within. He pauses to knock, thinks again, then heads down the hall. INT. MASTER BEDROOM - NIGHT Eve is in bed. Archer comes in quietly and sits beside her -- studying her peaceful, sleeping face. She stirs. EVE I was dreaming... ARCHER Something good? EVE I'm not sure... you were flying this

cigarette

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

"Face/Off", production draft, by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary FACE/OFF Written by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary Revised 9/10/96 FADE INTO: SEPIA-TONE FOOTAGE of a pig chasing a lion chasing a dinosaur chasing an elephant. Noah's Ark going round... and round... and round... EXT. GRIFFITH PARK CAROUSEL - DAY Disjointed CALLIOPE MUSIC as the wheel of fate and fortune goes around until we PULL BACK to reveal: JON ARCHER (30) rising winged Pegasus. On the adjacent unicorn is his son MATTHEW (5). Clutching a balloon, Matty waves at his dad. A happy moment, like so many certain to follow -- until we realize we are watching them THROUGH... SNIPER'S RIFLE SCOPE - SNIPER'S EYES wait until the child clears his aim -- Archer is the target. They round the bend and disappear... MATTHEW Loses his grip on the unicorn. Archer reaches over and pulls him into his lap. They happily ride together... As the horses sweep back INTO VIEW... exposing Archer... Now we see the sniper. CASTOR TROY is cool, efficient, aggressive, sexual. His finger closes around the trigger. BOOM! A BULLET RIPS into Archer's back. Bleeding... he drops off his horse... and sinks to the deck of the carousel. His eyes desperately searching... searching... searching... until he sees -- Matthew lies on his back -- still. Slowly, Archer reaches out and takes Matthew's hand... and now we see COLOR for the first time... Blood red... as bleeding father touches bleeding son... TILT UP TO the winged Pegasus flying by -- now in full color and UP UP UP TO Matthew's red balloon... floating away. HANDEL'S MESSIAH OVER a SERIES OF SHOTS: FBI BRIEFING ROOM Gazing out the window as dawn breaks over the city below is Jon Archer... older... unshaven... fatigued... his eyes reveal a man in the grip of obsession. CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by, as if marking time itself... HOLY PLACE Smoky, spiritual... dominated by a gleaming, golden cross. A priest kneels before it -- deep in prayer. The glimmering cross comes INTO FOCUS... but it's just a light-reflection... off the casing of a large bomb. This is no chapel... but an atrium. Somewhere. And as the "priest" rubs out his cigarette we see it's Castor Troy -- carefully installing this complex device. ANOTHER CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by... ARCHER pockets his FBI badge, then holsters his gun... CASTOR sets the bomb timer -- then replaces a wall panel in front of it. Totally hidden. BRIEFING ROOM - CASTOR'S MUGSHOT is on a computer screen. His criminal dossier scrolls by endlessly: bombings, assassinations, mercenary kidnappings, terrorism-for-hire... Rookie agent LOOMIS studies the details carefully. Other agents -- including BUZZ and WANDA scan computer grid- maps, man phones, etc. amid the take-out cartons and coffee cups. These people are on high alert. ARCHER Any follow-up from L.A.P.D. Intelligence? BUZZ No, sir, nothing yet. ARCHER Get them on the phone -- now. What about S.I.S. and our airport teams? WANDA We've had everything from psychics to satellites on this. Even if Castor was here... he must have slipped the net by now... ARCHER He's here! And we're going to keep looking until we find him! A silence descends on the chastised team. As they go back to work, veteran agent TITO BIONDI takes Archer aside. TITO Jon, these people have been working round the clock -- you gotta cut them some slack... Archer considers his best friend's advice -- then... ARCHER I'll cut them some slack when I cut myself some slack. Archer marches out -- slamming the door behind him. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY (MORNING) Castor quietly shuts the security door behind him. An Hispanic voice startles him. JANITOR What are you doing? CASTOR (in perfect Spanish) Thank goodness, I feel like Icarus in the labyrinth -- where's the men's room? JANITOR (in Spanish) This area is off limits, Padre. (re: security door) How did you get in that room? Realizing the JANITOR is already too suspicious, Castor puts a priestly arm around him -- and leads him down the hall. CASTOR Okay... I have a confession to make, but you aren't gonna like it. I was planting a bomb. JANITOR Bomb? CASTOR You know -- boom -- (patting his neck) Oh, never mind... The Janitor suddenly twitches, his eyes rolls up in his head. As he gasps his last -- Castor heaves him down a stairwell. Now we see the needle-thin custom stiletto in Castor's hand. Castor kicks the Janitor's mop and bucket down the stairs -- making everything look like an accident. INT. SAME BUILDING - MAIN FLOOR - DAY (MORNING) The children's church choir -- 200 strong -- sing "Behold the Lamb of God." Clergy and lay persons listen reverently. "Father" Castor strolls by the singers -- casually heading for the exit. As he passes the risers, a teenage girl drops her sheet music at his feet. Returning it -- he whispers in her ear -- so close he's practically licking it. CASTOR I've never enjoyed 'The Messiah.' But your voice makes even a hack like Handel seem like a genius. He pats her behind and leaves. Although a little shaken, she's also drawn by Castor's sexual magnetism. EXT. LA CONVENTION CENTER - DAY (MORNING) The marquee proclaims: INTERNATIONAL CHURCH CHOIRS 18th- 21st: AMERICAN BAR ASSOCIATION. Castor exits -- politely holding the door for a beat cop. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY (MORNING) The office is a monument to obsession: photographs, clues, newsclips, totems of Castor Troy surround a pacing Archer. ARCHER (on phone) ... I don't have time to get a warrant from some hung-over judge. Just give me the go-ahead, Victor, and I promise -- as soon as this is over -- you can brand my butt with the Fourth Amendment. The instant Archer hangs up -- the INTERCOM BUZZES. KIM (V.O.) Sir, your wife's on line one... S.I.S. on two... ARCHER Tell her to hang on -- As Archer punches up line two -- Tito bursts in. TITO A jet was chartered at Anderson Airfield. Guess who just showed up to pay for it? Pollux Troy. ARCHER Scramble the Reaction Team -- we're moving out. And get one of our people on that plane. TITO But there's still no sign of Castor... ARCHER Where one brother goes, the other's sure to follow... They rush our... the hold button on line 1 still blinking. EXT. PRIVATE AIRPORT - ESTABLISHING - DAY A sleek Cadillac pulls in... stopping next to a Land Rover. LARS MUELLER -- a muscular, crystal-eyed jar-head -- gets out of the Caddy. An instant later -- LUNT MUELLER -- emerges from the Rover. They are identical twins. The men scan the airport carefully, then open the rear doors of their respective vehicles. Castor emerges from the Caddy -- Armani clad. Exiting the Rover is Castor's younger brother POLLUX TROY -- skittish, brilliant, paranoid -- a human hummingbird. POLLUX You're 26 minutes late. The casing didn't fit -- right? I knew that cheap-shit Dietrich would rip us off... CASTOR Oh, God -- ! POLLUX What!? CASTOR I forgot to turn the damn thing on! POLLUX You're kidding, right? (to the twins) He's kidding... (grabs Castor by throat) ... are you fucking kidding!? Castor hugs Pollux lovingly. Pollux squirms like a kid. CASTOR Bro -- everything went fine. POLLUX I hate when you call me bro. Pollux heads for the jet. Castor hands Lunt a wad of cash. CASTOR Thanks for babysitting. LUNT Anything else? CASTOR I'll contact you when we get the rest of the money. (turns to leave) Oh, and stat away from downtown. The inversion layer's going to be pretty thick around the 18th. The twins nod... then take off. Castor heads for the jet. INT. JET - DAY Castor hustles in -- exhorting the PILOT. CASTOR Let's go, let's go! As the JET TURBINES start to WHINE, Castor sinks into his seat. A very sexy FLIGHT ATTENDANT appears and hands him a Scotch. He downs it, looking her over salaciously. FLIGHT ATTENDANT Would you like anything else? CASTOR Hell, yes... (pulls her into lap) It's the only way to fly. She smiles, not minding, until the jet suddenly slows its taxi down the runway. COCKPIT Castor yanks open the door. CASTOR What's wrong? AT END OF RUNWAY A squat car creeps INTO VIEW -- blocking the runway. EXT./INT. HUMVEE - MOVING - DAY Behind the wheel is Jon Archer. Beside him is Tito. BACK TO ARCHER CASTOR It's Archer. (gun to Pilot's head) Go, dammit! Suddenly the gun is BLASTED from Castor's hand. he turns around to see... the Flight Attendant behind them -- holding a smoking pistol. This is Agent WINTERS. WINTERS F.B.I.! Throttle down, captain! But Castor elbows the throttle up. The jet lurches forward, throwing Winters off balance. Pollux tackles her as the jet picks up speed. INT. HUMVEE - DAY Archer slams the vehicle into gear. ARCHER Get out. TITO You're not playing chicken with two tons of aluminum... ARCHER Get out! Tito obeys as Archer peels out. The HUMMER ROARS at the jet. The jet picks up speed, trying to get aloft. The humvee is aimed right at it... Archer's eyes narrow. COLLISION COURSE as two hunks of metal bear down. The machines are seconds apart when -- Archer looks up to see... Winters' face pressed up against the cockpit window, Castor holding a gun to her head. Archer cuts the wheel -- just avoiding the jet. The Hummer skids to a stop as Federal back-up arrives -- but too late. Archer watches an FBI chopper -- landing in a swirl of dust. As the jet picks up speed... the hatch opens. Castor blasts Winters in the side and tosses her onto the tarmac. INSIDE Castor smiles at Pollux, sensing freedom, until... KA-CHUNK: Something POUNDS the jet -- from above. Castor leans out the hatch and sees... The chopper on top of them -- Archer at the controls. Eye-contact -- years of hatred pass between these men. Castor BLASTS at him from the open hatch. The chopper's left windscreen spiderwebs. Archer jerks and weaves -- dodging the BULLETS. The chopper pulls away. The jet finally lifts off... when... The chopper settles on the jet -- slamming at its tail. TARMAC Tito reacts to this madness -- as the chopper plays a deadly game of leap-frog with the jet. The end of the runway is coming up fast. Archer crushes the jet's horizontal elevator flap. JET PILOT can't budge the jet's jammed yoke. Thwarted, he powers back the throttle. Thrust reverse. CASTOR What are you doing? PILOT The horizontal elevator's smashed! We can't lift off! CASTOR SHOOTS the Pilot -- then takes the controls. He struggles to maneuver the jet. Suddenly... A biplane descends right at them -- about to land. ARCHER pulls up just as the JET swerves radically to avoid the biplane and SLAMS into the hangar. JET plows through the GLASS DOOR, the NOSE-WHEEL SNAPS off. The PLANE SKIDS right into the hangar -- finally stopping at the wings. FBI CHOPPER lands. Archer steps out calmly -- like a cop about to write a traffic ticket. He hurries to join more FBI agents rushing into the hangar ahead of him. INT. HANGAR - DAY The jet hatch pops open -- Castor leaps from it, FIRING. Two FBI agents drop -- riddled. Pollux appears at the hatch -- an FBI sharpshooter FIRES, grazing Pollux's shoulder. Staggered, Pollux falls -- Castor catches him before he hits the floor -- simultaneously BLASTING the sharpshooter. Castor drags Pollux back into the smoke-filled hangar. Archer arrives and quickly checks the dead agents, his anger building. He signals Tito and the others to spread out. DEEP IN HANGAR A maze of airplane debris and heavy machinery. Led by Archer, the FBI agents pick their way through it. ROOKIE LOOMIS snaps alert -- did he see something? Advancing carefully, he comes up on... Castor -- staunching Pollux's shoulder wound. Pollux sees the agent -- and FIRES. Loomis hits the floor -- his bleeding ear is shredded. Suddenly a forklift charges down on Castor and Pollux. Tito is at the wheel. Castor FIRES -- forcing Tito to dive off. The forklift careens on -- driving apart the brothers. The forklift upends a stack of heavy crates -- pinning Pollux. Castor tries to free his trapped brother. POLLUX Forget it -- Go! Go! He slaps his Glock into Pollux's hand. CASTOR Wherever they put you, I'll find a way to get you out... Pollux starts FIRING -- covering Castor as he runs through a tunnel which leads to an adjoining hangar. Suddenly Wanda presses her machine-pistol into Pollux's head. As Pollux raises his gun -- Tito grabs his hand. TITO -- not unless you want that 200 I.Q. splattered all over the floor. (as Archer approaches) We got him now, Jon. ARCHER That's what you always say. Seal it off. I'm going in. Archer moves away from the group and enters the tunnel. MUSIC as Archer and Castor begin their cat-and-mouse dance. Sensing Archer, Castor pauses by an old landing gear. He draws a fresh pistol from his ankle holster and moves on. Archer pauses at the landing gear... his own stealthy movements mirroring Castor's. Castor waits behind a stack of steel drums... his gaze trying to penetrate the darkness... He SNAPS his fingers. The sound ECHOES as he tries to draw Archer in. Archer reacts to the sound and SNAPS back -- answering the challenge. As the deadly beat between them continues -- BLAM BLAM BLAM! Archer spins away just as Castor OPENS FIRE from the gloom... one step ahead. INTERCUT as necessary: CASTOR Jon, I'm getting a little annoyed by your obsessive need to spoil my fun. ARCHER And how much will your 'fun' net you this time? BOOM BOOM BOOM! Half-blind SHOTS send Castor spinning. A moment later, Archer pursues... SNAP! He fits a new CLIP into his pistol. CASTOR What's it to you? I declare it. Here I am, back in the States for less than a week -- ARCHER You're under arrest. Incredibly, you still have the right to remain silent -- CASTOR I've got something going down on the eighteenth... it's gonna be worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaoh. I'll give it up -- but my brother and I have to walk. ARCHER No discussion -- no deals. CASTOR What're you gonna do with me locked up? You'll drive your wife and kid nuts! I bet your daughter is just about ripe by now. What's her name, Janie? Enraged, Archer steps boldly forward -- trying to draw his enemy out. Silence -- then Archer senses... Castor is behind him. He FIRES -- Archer dives away. The BARRAGE CONTINUES -- driving Archer back between two huge turbine engines. As Archer reloads, he stares at the control panel switches. Castor moves in for the kill when he hears a final SNAP- SNAP. Except it isn't a finger snap... it's two switches. VRRRROOOM! The TWIN ENGINES ROAR on! Unable to fight the churning tornado-force wind... Castor's blasted across the hangar... slamming hard into the far wall. The ENGINES STOP and Archer emerges -- joined by Tito. TITO Tell me he didn't get away again... Then Tito follows Archer's gaze to Castor's lifeless body. Still as death -- somehow his mocking smile survives. EXT. AIRPORT TARMAC - SUNSET Heavily-manacled, an extremely agitated Pollux is herded into a SWAT van by Buzz and Wanda. POLLUX Where's my brother?! I want to see my brother! The van takes off -- passing an imposing older man, flanked by two bodyguards. Bullying through the media, Assistant FBI Director VICTOR LAZARRO scans the devastation. Approaching Archer, he watches as Castor's body is loaded on the ambulance. A sheet covers Castor's lifeless face. LAZARRO The oversight committee would've roasted us for this one -- thank God it paid off. Damn fine work. ARCHER Real fine, Victor. Especially the casualties. Archer contemplates the slain agents -- their three bodies laid out in a row -- waiting to be zip-locked. Lazarro reacts grimly as a reporter snaps a photo of the bodies. Instinctively, the two men close ranks. Archer grabs the Nikon, ejects the film, then shoves the camera back. LAZARRO Classified information. No photographs. Lazarro puts a caring arm around Archer's shoulder and leads him away from the media... and the carnage. LAZARRO You okay, Jon? (off Archer's nod) Then go home. Tell Eve. EXT. ARCHER'S HOME (SANTA MONICA) - SUNSET A renovated Craftsman. Sipping a carton of milk, Archer pulls into the driveway. He sits, gathering his thoughts. INT. ARCHER'S HOME - NIGHT Archer enters and sees his wife EVE. Handsome, intelligent. ARCHER Hi... (no response) ... What's wrong? She nods toward the KITCHEN. JAMIE is there -- a sullen and hard fifteen-year-old. There are cigarette cartons on the table. EVE She complimented for her 'F' in history with an 'A' in shoplifting... Archer marches into the kitchen -- noting the crate of Marlboros. Jamie matter-of-factly pours herself coffee. ARCHER Nice stunt, Jamie. You break the law and I'm expected to ignore it? JAMIE That's right -- it's all about you. Don't even ask me what happened. Archer looks to Eve for help. Eve shakes her head -- nope. ARCHER Okay. What happened? JAMIE Like you'd ever fucking believe me! She bolts. In anticipation, Eve calmly opens the door as Jamie rushes out, then closes it behind her. EVE Well, you tried. You failed miserably, but you tried. ARCHER Why won't she even talk to me? EVE Maybe because you taught her never to speak to strangers. (immediately regrets it) I'm sorry... that wasn't fair. Eve kisses his cheek -- then gathers up her doctor gear. EVE I've got patients waiting. Try again, Jon. She hates you -- but she needs you. ARCHER Eve... Something in Archer's expression makes her stop. EVE Jon -- what is it? But he's too overcome. He starts to speak -- but can't. EVE Is it -- him? It's... it's over? Emotions avalanche across his face until he finally looks up. Eve pulls him close -- a sheltering embrace for them both. ARCHER I'm going to make everything up to you and Jamie. I'll put in for a desk job. We'll go away, get counseling -- anything you want. This time, I mean it. INT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Freshly dressed, Archer heads down the hall. He pauses at the door to Jamie's room when he sees -- Jamie. Fully clothed, she's fast asleep on her bed cluttered with clothes and assorted girl-stuff. Her face peaceful. Archer looks around her room... sees the stuffed animals collecting dust... replaced by makeup, jewelry, beefcake Calvin Klein ads and band posters, etc. Archer's startled to see a lacey bustier... his little girl is growing up fast. And he's missing it. He pulls the blanket up over her and quietly slips out. The instant he leaves, Jamie kicks the blankets off. INT. FBI BUILDING - DAY Dominated by the FBI seal. Archer steps to the check point. SECURITY GUARD Print, please. Archer presses his thumb to a scan-pad -- and is cleared. INT. BULL PEN - DAY Efficient as a beehive -- agents, cryptologists, support staff buzz at their routines. Archer strides through -- drawing congratulatory nods and "thumbs up" signs... OUTSIDE HIS OFFICE Archer's team is there. Applauding. Proud. Uneasy with plaudits, he disperses the disappointed agents. ARCHER Much appreciated. Now let's get back to work, okay? WANDA (to Buzz) Is that stick ever gonna fall out of his ass? Archer's well-built secretary -- KIM BREWSTER -- hands him his messages. She's holding a bottle of Dom Perignon. KIMBERLY The C.I.A. sent this over. What should I do with it? ARCHER Send it back and tell them to stop wasting the taxpayers' money. Anything else, Miss Brewster? KIMBERLY No, sir. He enters his office. Kimberly sighs and turns to Wanda. KIMBERLY Four years -- and he still calls me 'Miss Brewster.' INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Sitting at his computer -- Archer scrolls through Castor's file. He grimly contemplates face-after-face of Troy's victims -- finally pausing on a photo of his son Matthew. Burying his feeling, he types "CASE CLOSED" over Castor's image. Archer starts to press "enter" when Tito comes in. ARCHER How's Loomis? TITO He needs some surgery, but he's going to be okay. That's the good news... ARCHER Go on. TITO ... Brodie and Miller from Special Ops need to see you. ARCHER I don't have time for those cloak and dagger guys. Big NED BRODIE and athletic female HOLLIS MILLER stroll in. BRODIE You better make time, Jon. (hefts a disc) We found this in the jet wreckage -- among Pollux Troy's effects... Archer accedes as Miller pops in the disk. The computer screen displays a CAD schematic of the bomb. Archer studies it carefully -- unease growing. ARCHER Porcelain casing... Thermal cloak... Undetectable payload. MILLER Powerful enough to flatten ten city blocks. ARCHER 'Worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaohs.' (to Tito) Get Pollux Troy. Now. DISSOLVE TO: INTERROGATION FOOTAGE Wired to a complex machine -- Pollux seems to have his frustrated interrogators on the run. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Archer, Lazarro, Tito, Brodie, Miller and other FBI officials watch the monitor. Pollux remains implacable POLLUX (V.O.) (on screen) That bomb was just a crossword puzzle to me... a mental exercise. I never built it... Lazarro shuts down the monitor... turns to Archer. ARCHER He's lying. LAZARRO He's hooked up to a full-spectrum polygraph. ARCHER Pollux is a manipulative psychopath. He can control his heartbeat, his sweat glands, his blood pressure... LAZARRO Jon, I trust your instincts, I always have. But D.C. wants more evidence. And frankly, so do I. ARCHER You'll get all the evidence you need when ten thousand people die. LAZARRO We'll get a team right on it. But we can't evacuate the city on what amounts to a hunch. Archer looks at the gathered brass. He knows it's hopeless. ARCHER That bomb has been built, it's out there somewhere and it's going to detonate... EXT. FBI BUILDING - INTELLIGENCE MEMORIAL - DAY Words etched in the granite wall read: IN HONOR OF THOSE MEMBERS OF THE FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION WHO SACRIFICED THEIR LIVES IN THE LINE OF DUTY Archer watches as a workman engraves the last of the three new stars among so many others -- each one honoring the dead. BRODIE Didn't Castor give any clue where the bomb might be? ARCHER Only one person knows -- his brother Pollux. And he'll keep his mouth shut until it blows. BRODIE We could plant an agent in his cell -- get him to spill the location. ARCHER Pollux is way too paranoid. The only person he'd talk to about that bomb is Castor himself. And dead men can't talk. Brodie and Miller exchange a knowing look. BRODIE There might be a way around that... FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S BODY Tubes and hoses are plugged into every orifice. INT. ICU ROOM - DAY Archer stares at the body... he can't believe it. ARCHER Why are you keeping him alive? (gets no answer) As long as he's breathing, he's dangerous. MILLER Relax, he's a turnip. Miller grinds out her cigarette on Castor's leg. Of course, Castor just lies there like a vegetable. BRODIE We can arrange for you to enter Erewhon Prison -- as Castor Troy. ARCHER What are you talking about? Archer turns as DR. MALCOLM HOAG (50s) enters the room. HOAG I think I'd better answer that question. (offers hand) Malcolm Hoag. I run the Physiological Camouflage Unit for Special Ops. ARCHER I know who you are. MILLER But you don't know what he can do. Physical augmentation; enhancement surgery... BRODIE ... He can disguise a compromised agent or alter the likeness -- even the voice -- of a government witness. HOAG Let me show you how it's done. (leading him out) I think you'll recognize our patient... INT. HOAG'S SURGICAL BAY - DAY Loomis lies still as a surgeon carefully scrapes away charred flesh around his burned ear. The doctor turns to a -- STEREO-LITHOGRAPHIC MACHINE Laser-beams attack an organic soup with incredible precision. The light forces a chemical reaction -- and out of the soup -- an ear begins to form. It rises from the liquid, now fully-formed. The surgeon takes the ear and fits it in place on Loomis's head. He starts suturing. OBSERVATION BOOTH - ABOVE Archer, Hoag, Brodie and Miller watch the operation -- video-enhanced by the two huge screens on the far walls. HOAG With our new generation of anti- inflammatories, healing is accelerated from weeks to days. By his next paycheck, he won't even remember which ear he lost. (a beat) Your situation, however, would be a little less permanent... BRODIE -- and a lot more classified. Hoag holds up a face-sized organic shell made up of yellow cartilage pieces and tendons, etc. Archer pulls it over his face -- like a gauze mask. A "tendon" falls off. ARCHER This'll fool Pollux. HOAG That is a state-of-the-art morpho- genetic template. The inside can be built to match the exact shape of your skull; the outside -- exactly like Castor's. Then we fit his face right on top -- MILLER -- and you become him. ARCHER You're talking about removing the guy's face? BRODIE Borrowing, Jon. The procedure's completely reversible. MILLER One way or the other -- the mission ends on the eighteenth. Archer turns the shell over and over and over in his hands. BRODIE You know Castor better than anyone. You've lived and breathed him for years -- hell, you even look a little like him. Archer shoves the template back at Hoag. ARCHER Find yourself another lab-rat. MILLER If you don't do this -- Castor will beat us again. He'll beat you again... Archer pushes his way past them -- and marches out. HOAG I don't think that went very well. BRODIE Trust us, Doc... MILLER ... he'll jerk around. Then he'll be back. INT. INTERROGATION BOOTHS - DAY Archer enters... sizes up DIETRICH HASSLER. His stylish garb doesn't completely hide his criminal roots. Archer sits down calmly. He looks at his watch. ARCHER I'm in a hurry, Dietrich. So you've only got ten seconds to go through your usual litany of lies, empty threats, and moronic denials. Then I'm coming over there -- DIETRICH If you're in such a fucking hurry -- why are you wasting your time with me? I'm just an art dealer. ARCHER You're a dealer, all right: technical secrets, munitions... explosives. DIETRICH You've never proven any of that. And when my bitchy, never-been- laid femi-nazi lawyer gets here, she's going to... ARCHER Time's up. Archer topples the wooden table and tears a leg from the top. Brandishing it -- he stalks the startled thug. HALLWAY JUST OUTSIDE - CONTINUOUS ACTION Lazarro blanches as an obsessed Archer repeatedly slams the table leg against the wall -- above Dietrich's head. LAZARRO The only ticking bomb I see is inside his head. He's getting worse, Tito. TITO Don't worry, sir. It's all an act... But as Lazarro leaves -- we see Tito's worried, too. BACK INSIDE BOOTH Archer has a terrified Dietrich backed into the corner. DIETRICH ... Okay! Castor called me but I blew him off... I swear I never saw him. And I don't know anything about any bomb! INT. CORRIDOR - OUTSIDE INTERROGATION BOOTHS - SAME TIME Archer emerges... eyes blazing. ARCHER Let him go, but I want him watched... Who's next? TITO Just Dietrich's sister... In another booth, a careworn but striking woman sits with a little boy on her lap. She gently helps him Crayola a book. This is SASHA HASSLER (30) and her son ADAM (5). INT. INTERROGATION BOOTH - DAY Archer hovers over Sasha -- her maternal warmth replaced by an icy hatred. Tito and the child are gone. ARCHER When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? SASHA Who cares? He's dead. ARCHER Answer the question. SASHA Look, I'm clean. I teach kids now -- ARCHER Sasha -- you are a felon, on probation for harboring Castor Troy. So it's in your best interest to cooperate. (as she's silent) Would you like your son put in a foster home? Sasha's eyes flash, her body coils -- but she keeps control. SASHA No, but I'm sure you'd love it -- you sick bastard. ARCHER (unmoved) When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? She stares at him with equal amounts of pity and hatred. SASHA I haven't seen him for years. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY Archer watches as Adam leaves Dietrich and jumps into Sasha's arms. She hugs him protectively. Adam sees Archer watching them -- and smiles. Archer doesn't smile back. FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S REAL FACE PULL BACK TO: INT. I.C.U. - NIGHT Archer slowly circles Castor's muscular, hairy, tattooed body. Although on life support -- his signature smirk remains. ARCHER What about Lazarro? BRODIE No way -- the red tape alone would take a month. This is a black-bag operation -- completely off the books. MILLER If you need him, Tito can help you prepare. But you know the drill: You can't tell anyone -- not the Director, not your wife... nobody. Archer's face shows he doesn't like it -- then he nods. ARCHER I'm in. EXT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Archer slowly gets out of his car. Trudging toward the front door, he picks up a basketball and takes a shot. His form is terrible -- he misses by a mile. INT. HALLWAY - NIGHT Archer passes Jamie's room. Loud MUSIC POUNDS from within. He pauses to knock, thinks again, then heads down the hall. INT. MASTER BEDROOM - NIGHT Eve is in bed. Archer comes in quietly and sits beside her -- studying her peaceful, sleeping face. She stirs. EVE I was dreaming... ARCHER Something good? EVE I'm not sure... you were flying this

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"Face/Off", production draft, by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary FACE/OFF Written by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary Revised 9/10/96 FADE INTO: SEPIA-TONE FOOTAGE of a pig chasing a lion chasing a dinosaur chasing an elephant. Noah's Ark going round... and round... and round... EXT. GRIFFITH PARK CAROUSEL - DAY Disjointed CALLIOPE MUSIC as the wheel of fate and fortune goes around until we PULL BACK to reveal: JON ARCHER (30) rising winged Pegasus. On the adjacent unicorn is his son MATTHEW (5). Clutching a balloon, Matty waves at his dad. A happy moment, like so many certain to follow -- until we realize we are watching them THROUGH... SNIPER'S RIFLE SCOPE - SNIPER'S EYES wait until the child clears his aim -- Archer is the target. They round the bend and disappear... MATTHEW Loses his grip on the unicorn. Archer reaches over and pulls him into his lap. They happily ride together... As the horses sweep back INTO VIEW... exposing Archer... Now we see the sniper. CASTOR TROY is cool, efficient, aggressive, sexual. His finger closes around the trigger. BOOM! A BULLET RIPS into Archer's back. Bleeding... he drops off his horse... and sinks to the deck of the carousel. His eyes desperately searching... searching... searching... until he sees -- Matthew lies on his back -- still. Slowly, Archer reaches out and takes Matthew's hand... and now we see COLOR for the first time... Blood red... as bleeding father touches bleeding son... TILT UP TO the winged Pegasus flying by -- now in full color and UP UP UP TO Matthew's red balloon... floating away. HANDEL'S MESSIAH OVER a SERIES OF SHOTS: FBI BRIEFING ROOM Gazing out the window as dawn breaks over the city below is Jon Archer... older... unshaven... fatigued... his eyes reveal a man in the grip of obsession. CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by, as if marking time itself... HOLY PLACE Smoky, spiritual... dominated by a gleaming, golden cross. A priest kneels before it -- deep in prayer. The glimmering cross comes INTO FOCUS... but it's just a light-reflection... off the casing of a large bomb. This is no chapel... but an atrium. Somewhere. And as the "priest" rubs out his cigarette we see it's Castor Troy -- carefully installing this complex device. ANOTHER CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by... ARCHER pockets his FBI badge, then holsters his gun... CASTOR sets the bomb timer -- then replaces a wall panel in front of it. Totally hidden. BRIEFING ROOM - CASTOR'S MUGSHOT is on a computer screen. His criminal dossier scrolls by endlessly: bombings, assassinations, mercenary kidnappings, terrorism-for-hire... Rookie agent LOOMIS studies the details carefully. Other agents -- including BUZZ and WANDA scan computer grid- maps, man phones, etc. amid the take-out cartons and coffee cups. These people are on high alert. ARCHER Any follow-up from L.A.P.D. Intelligence? BUZZ No, sir, nothing yet. ARCHER Get them on the phone -- now. What about S.I.S. and our airport teams? WANDA We've had everything from psychics to satellites on this. Even if Castor was here... he must have slipped the net by now... ARCHER He's here! And we're going to keep looking until we find him! A silence descends on the chastised team. As they go back to work, veteran agent TITO BIONDI takes Archer aside. TITO Jon, these people have been working round the clock -- you gotta cut them some slack... Archer considers his best friend's advice -- then... ARCHER I'll cut them some slack when I cut myself some slack. Archer marches out -- slamming the door behind him. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY (MORNING) Castor quietly shuts the security door behind him. An Hispanic voice startles him. JANITOR What are you doing? CASTOR (in perfect Spanish) Thank goodness, I feel like Icarus in the labyrinth -- where's the men's room? JANITOR (in Spanish) This area is off limits, Padre. (re: security door) How did you get in that room? Realizing the JANITOR is already too suspicious, Castor puts a priestly arm around him -- and leads him down the hall. CASTOR Okay... I have a confession to make, but you aren't gonna like it. I was planting a bomb. JANITOR Bomb? CASTOR You know -- boom -- (patting his neck) Oh, never mind... The Janitor suddenly twitches, his eyes rolls up in his head. As he gasps his last -- Castor heaves him down a stairwell. Now we see the needle-thin custom stiletto in Castor's hand. Castor kicks the Janitor's mop and bucket down the stairs -- making everything look like an accident. INT. SAME BUILDING - MAIN FLOOR - DAY (MORNING) The children's church choir -- 200 strong -- sing "Behold the Lamb of God." Clergy and lay persons listen reverently. "Father" Castor strolls by the singers -- casually heading for the exit. As he passes the risers, a teenage girl drops her sheet music at his feet. Returning it -- he whispers in her ear -- so close he's practically licking it. CASTOR I've never enjoyed 'The Messiah.' But your voice makes even a hack like Handel seem like a genius. He pats her behind and leaves. Although a little shaken, she's also drawn by Castor's sexual magnetism. EXT. LA CONVENTION CENTER - DAY (MORNING) The marquee proclaims: INTERNATIONAL CHURCH CHOIRS 18th- 21st: AMERICAN BAR ASSOCIATION. Castor exits -- politely holding the door for a beat cop. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY (MORNING) The office is a monument to obsession: photographs, clues, newsclips, totems of Castor Troy surround a pacing Archer. ARCHER (on phone) ... I don't have time to get a warrant from some hung-over judge. Just give me the go-ahead, Victor, and I promise -- as soon as this is over -- you can brand my butt with the Fourth Amendment. The instant Archer hangs up -- the INTERCOM BUZZES. KIM (V.O.) Sir, your wife's on line one... S.I.S. on two... ARCHER Tell her to hang on -- As Archer punches up line two -- Tito bursts in. TITO A jet was chartered at Anderson Airfield. Guess who just showed up to pay for it? Pollux Troy. ARCHER Scramble the Reaction Team -- we're moving out. And get one of our people on that plane. TITO But there's still no sign of Castor... ARCHER Where one brother goes, the other's sure to follow... They rush our... the hold button on line 1 still blinking. EXT. PRIVATE AIRPORT - ESTABLISHING - DAY A sleek Cadillac pulls in... stopping next to a Land Rover. LARS MUELLER -- a muscular, crystal-eyed jar-head -- gets out of the Caddy. An instant later -- LUNT MUELLER -- emerges from the Rover. They are identical twins. The men scan the airport carefully, then open the rear doors of their respective vehicles. Castor emerges from the Caddy -- Armani clad. Exiting the Rover is Castor's younger brother POLLUX TROY -- skittish, brilliant, paranoid -- a human hummingbird. POLLUX You're 26 minutes late. The casing didn't fit -- right? I knew that cheap-shit Dietrich would rip us off... CASTOR Oh, God -- ! POLLUX What!? CASTOR I forgot to turn the damn thing on! POLLUX You're kidding, right? (to the twins) He's kidding... (grabs Castor by throat) ... are you fucking kidding!? Castor hugs Pollux lovingly. Pollux squirms like a kid. CASTOR Bro -- everything went fine. POLLUX I hate when you call me bro. Pollux heads for the jet. Castor hands Lunt a wad of cash. CASTOR Thanks for babysitting. LUNT Anything else? CASTOR I'll contact you when we get the rest of the money. (turns to leave) Oh, and stat away from downtown. The inversion layer's going to be pretty thick around the 18th. The twins nod... then take off. Castor heads for the jet. INT. JET - DAY Castor hustles in -- exhorting the PILOT. CASTOR Let's go, let's go! As the JET TURBINES start to WHINE, Castor sinks into his seat. A very sexy FLIGHT ATTENDANT appears and hands him a Scotch. He downs it, looking her over salaciously. FLIGHT ATTENDANT Would you like anything else? CASTOR Hell, yes... (pulls her into lap) It's the only way to fly. She smiles, not minding, until the jet suddenly slows its taxi down the runway. COCKPIT Castor yanks open the door. CASTOR What's wrong? AT END OF RUNWAY A squat car creeps INTO VIEW -- blocking the runway. EXT./INT. HUMVEE - MOVING - DAY Behind the wheel is Jon Archer. Beside him is Tito. BACK TO ARCHER CASTOR It's Archer. (gun to Pilot's head) Go, dammit! Suddenly the gun is BLASTED from Castor's hand. he turns around to see... the Flight Attendant behind them -- holding a smoking pistol. This is Agent WINTERS. WINTERS F.B.I.! Throttle down, captain! But Castor elbows the throttle up. The jet lurches forward, throwing Winters off balance. Pollux tackles her as the jet picks up speed. INT. HUMVEE - DAY Archer slams the vehicle into gear. ARCHER Get out. TITO You're not playing chicken with two tons of aluminum... ARCHER Get out! Tito obeys as Archer peels out. The HUMMER ROARS at the jet. The jet picks up speed, trying to get aloft. The humvee is aimed right at it... Archer's eyes narrow. COLLISION COURSE as two hunks of metal bear down. The machines are seconds apart when -- Archer looks up to see... Winters' face pressed up against the cockpit window, Castor holding a gun to her head. Archer cuts the wheel -- just avoiding the jet. The Hummer skids to a stop as Federal back-up arrives -- but too late. Archer watches an FBI chopper -- landing in a swirl of dust. As the jet picks up speed... the hatch opens. Castor blasts Winters in the side and tosses her onto the tarmac. INSIDE Castor smiles at Pollux, sensing freedom, until... KA-CHUNK: Something POUNDS the jet -- from above. Castor leans out the hatch and sees... The chopper on top of them -- Archer at the controls. Eye-contact -- years of hatred pass between these men. Castor BLASTS at him from the open hatch. The chopper's left windscreen spiderwebs. Archer jerks and weaves -- dodging the BULLETS. The chopper pulls away. The jet finally lifts off... when... The chopper settles on the jet -- slamming at its tail. TARMAC Tito reacts to this madness -- as the chopper plays a deadly game of leap-frog with the jet. The end of the runway is coming up fast. Archer crushes the jet's horizontal elevator flap. JET PILOT can't budge the jet's jammed yoke. Thwarted, he powers back the throttle. Thrust reverse. CASTOR What are you doing? PILOT The horizontal elevator's smashed! We can't lift off! CASTOR SHOOTS the Pilot -- then takes the controls. He struggles to maneuver the jet. Suddenly... A biplane descends right at them -- about to land. ARCHER pulls up just as the JET swerves radically to avoid the biplane and SLAMS into the hangar. JET plows through the GLASS DOOR, the NOSE-WHEEL SNAPS off. The PLANE SKIDS right into the hangar -- finally stopping at the wings. FBI CHOPPER lands. Archer steps out calmly -- like a cop about to write a traffic ticket. He hurries to join more FBI agents rushing into the hangar ahead of him. INT. HANGAR - DAY The jet hatch pops open -- Castor leaps from it, FIRING. Two FBI agents drop -- riddled. Pollux appears at the hatch -- an FBI sharpshooter FIRES, grazing Pollux's shoulder. Staggered, Pollux falls -- Castor catches him before he hits the floor -- simultaneously BLASTING the sharpshooter. Castor drags Pollux back into the smoke-filled hangar. Archer arrives and quickly checks the dead agents, his anger building. He signals Tito and the others to spread out. DEEP IN HANGAR A maze of airplane debris and heavy machinery. Led by Archer, the FBI agents pick their way through it. ROOKIE LOOMIS snaps alert -- did he see something? Advancing carefully, he comes up on... Castor -- staunching Pollux's shoulder wound. Pollux sees the agent -- and FIRES. Loomis hits the floor -- his bleeding ear is shredded. Suddenly a forklift charges down on Castor and Pollux. Tito is at the wheel. Castor FIRES -- forcing Tito to dive off. The forklift careens on -- driving apart the brothers. The forklift upends a stack of heavy crates -- pinning Pollux. Castor tries to free his trapped brother. POLLUX Forget it -- Go! Go! He slaps his Glock into Pollux's hand. CASTOR Wherever they put you, I'll find a way to get you out... Pollux starts FIRING -- covering Castor as he runs through a tunnel which leads to an adjoining hangar. Suddenly Wanda presses her machine-pistol into Pollux's head. As Pollux raises his gun -- Tito grabs his hand. TITO -- not unless you want that 200 I.Q. splattered all over the floor. (as Archer approaches) We got him now, Jon. ARCHER That's what you always say. Seal it off. I'm going in. Archer moves away from the group and enters the tunnel. MUSIC as Archer and Castor begin their cat-and-mouse dance. Sensing Archer, Castor pauses by an old landing gear. He draws a fresh pistol from his ankle holster and moves on. Archer pauses at the landing gear... his own stealthy movements mirroring Castor's. Castor waits behind a stack of steel drums... his gaze trying to penetrate the darkness... He SNAPS his fingers. The sound ECHOES as he tries to draw Archer in. Archer reacts to the sound and SNAPS back -- answering the challenge. As the deadly beat between them continues -- BLAM BLAM BLAM! Archer spins away just as Castor OPENS FIRE from the gloom... one step ahead. INTERCUT as necessary: CASTOR Jon, I'm getting a little annoyed by your obsessive need to spoil my fun. ARCHER And how much will your 'fun' net you this time? BOOM BOOM BOOM! Half-blind SHOTS send Castor spinning. A moment later, Archer pursues... SNAP! He fits a new CLIP into his pistol. CASTOR What's it to you? I declare it. Here I am, back in the States for less than a week -- ARCHER You're under arrest. Incredibly, you still have the right to remain silent -- CASTOR I've got something going down on the eighteenth... it's gonna be worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaoh. I'll give it up -- but my brother and I have to walk. ARCHER No discussion -- no deals. CASTOR What're you gonna do with me locked up? You'll drive your wife and kid nuts! I bet your daughter is just about ripe by now. What's her name, Janie? Enraged, Archer steps boldly forward -- trying to draw his enemy out. Silence -- then Archer senses... Castor is behind him. He FIRES -- Archer dives away. The BARRAGE CONTINUES -- driving Archer back between two huge turbine engines. As Archer reloads, he stares at the control panel switches. Castor moves in for the kill when he hears a final SNAP- SNAP. Except it isn't a finger snap... it's two switches. VRRRROOOM! The TWIN ENGINES ROAR on! Unable to fight the churning tornado-force wind... Castor's blasted across the hangar... slamming hard into the far wall. The ENGINES STOP and Archer emerges -- joined by Tito. TITO Tell me he didn't get away again... Then Tito follows Archer's gaze to Castor's lifeless body. Still as death -- somehow his mocking smile survives. EXT. AIRPORT TARMAC - SUNSET Heavily-manacled, an extremely agitated Pollux is herded into a SWAT van by Buzz and Wanda. POLLUX Where's my brother?! I want to see my brother! The van takes off -- passing an imposing older man, flanked by two bodyguards. Bullying through the media, Assistant FBI Director VICTOR LAZARRO scans the devastation. Approaching Archer, he watches as Castor's body is loaded on the ambulance. A sheet covers Castor's lifeless face. LAZARRO The oversight committee would've roasted us for this one -- thank God it paid off. Damn fine work. ARCHER Real fine, Victor. Especially the casualties. Archer contemplates the slain agents -- their three bodies laid out in a row -- waiting to be zip-locked. Lazarro reacts grimly as a reporter snaps a photo of the bodies. Instinctively, the two men close ranks. Archer grabs the Nikon, ejects the film, then shoves the camera back. LAZARRO Classified information. No photographs. Lazarro puts a caring arm around Archer's shoulder and leads him away from the media... and the carnage. LAZARRO You okay, Jon? (off Archer's nod) Then go home. Tell Eve. EXT. ARCHER'S HOME (SANTA MONICA) - SUNSET A renovated Craftsman. Sipping a carton of milk, Archer pulls into the driveway. He sits, gathering his thoughts. INT. ARCHER'S HOME - NIGHT Archer enters and sees his wife EVE. Handsome, intelligent. ARCHER Hi... (no response) ... What's wrong? She nods toward the KITCHEN. JAMIE is there -- a sullen and hard fifteen-year-old. There are cigarette cartons on the table. EVE She complimented for her 'F' in history with an 'A' in shoplifting... Archer marches into the kitchen -- noting the crate of Marlboros. Jamie matter-of-factly pours herself coffee. ARCHER Nice stunt, Jamie. You break the law and I'm expected to ignore it? JAMIE That's right -- it's all about you. Don't even ask me what happened. Archer looks to Eve for help. Eve shakes her head -- nope. ARCHER Okay. What happened? JAMIE Like you'd ever fucking believe me! She bolts. In anticipation, Eve calmly opens the door as Jamie rushes out, then closes it behind her. EVE Well, you tried. You failed miserably, but you tried. ARCHER Why won't she even talk to me? EVE Maybe because you taught her never to speak to strangers. (immediately regrets it) I'm sorry... that wasn't fair. Eve kisses his cheek -- then gathers up her doctor gear. EVE I've got patients waiting. Try again, Jon. She hates you -- but she needs you. ARCHER Eve... Something in Archer's expression makes her stop. EVE Jon -- what is it? But he's too overcome. He starts to speak -- but can't. EVE Is it -- him? It's... it's over? Emotions avalanche across his face until he finally looks up. Eve pulls him close -- a sheltering embrace for them both. ARCHER I'm going to make everything up to you and Jamie. I'll put in for a desk job. We'll go away, get counseling -- anything you want. This time, I mean it. INT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Freshly dressed, Archer heads down the hall. He pauses at the door to Jamie's room when he sees -- Jamie. Fully clothed, she's fast asleep on her bed cluttered with clothes and assorted girl-stuff. Her face peaceful. Archer looks around her room... sees the stuffed animals collecting dust... replaced by makeup, jewelry, beefcake Calvin Klein ads and band posters, etc. Archer's startled to see a lacey bustier... his little girl is growing up fast. And he's missing it. He pulls the blanket up over her and quietly slips out. The instant he leaves, Jamie kicks the blankets off. INT. FBI BUILDING - DAY Dominated by the FBI seal. Archer steps to the check point. SECURITY GUARD Print, please. Archer presses his thumb to a scan-pad -- and is cleared. INT. BULL PEN - DAY Efficient as a beehive -- agents, cryptologists, support staff buzz at their routines. Archer strides through -- drawing congratulatory nods and "thumbs up" signs... OUTSIDE HIS OFFICE Archer's team is there. Applauding. Proud. Uneasy with plaudits, he disperses the disappointed agents. ARCHER Much appreciated. Now let's get back to work, okay? WANDA (to Buzz) Is that stick ever gonna fall out of his ass? Archer's well-built secretary -- KIM BREWSTER -- hands him his messages. She's holding a bottle of Dom Perignon. KIMBERLY The C.I.A. sent this over. What should I do with it? ARCHER Send it back and tell them to stop wasting the taxpayers' money. Anything else, Miss Brewster? KIMBERLY No, sir. He enters his office. Kimberly sighs and turns to Wanda. KIMBERLY Four years -- and he still calls me 'Miss Brewster.' INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Sitting at his computer -- Archer scrolls through Castor's file. He grimly contemplates face-after-face of Troy's victims -- finally pausing on a photo of his son Matthew. Burying his feeling, he types "CASE CLOSED" over Castor's image. Archer starts to press "enter" when Tito comes in. ARCHER How's Loomis? TITO He needs some surgery, but he's going to be okay. That's the good news... ARCHER Go on. TITO ... Brodie and Miller from Special Ops need to see you. ARCHER I don't have time for those cloak and dagger guys. Big NED BRODIE and athletic female HOLLIS MILLER stroll in. BRODIE You better make time, Jon. (hefts a disc) We found this in the jet wreckage -- among Pollux Troy's effects... Archer accedes as Miller pops in the disk. The computer screen displays a CAD schematic of the bomb. Archer studies it carefully -- unease growing. ARCHER Porcelain casing... Thermal cloak... Undetectable payload. MILLER Powerful enough to flatten ten city blocks. ARCHER 'Worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaohs.' (to Tito) Get Pollux Troy. Now. DISSOLVE TO: INTERROGATION FOOTAGE Wired to a complex machine -- Pollux seems to have his frustrated interrogators on the run. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Archer, Lazarro, Tito, Brodie, Miller and other FBI officials watch the monitor. Pollux remains implacable POLLUX (V.O.) (on screen) That bomb was just a crossword puzzle to me... a mental exercise. I never built it... Lazarro shuts down the monitor... turns to Archer. ARCHER He's lying. LAZARRO He's hooked up to a full-spectrum polygraph. ARCHER Pollux is a manipulative psychopath. He can control his heartbeat, his sweat glands, his blood pressure... LAZARRO Jon, I trust your instincts, I always have. But D.C. wants more evidence. And frankly, so do I. ARCHER You'll get all the evidence you need when ten thousand people die. LAZARRO We'll get a team right on it. But we can't evacuate the city on what amounts to a hunch. Archer looks at the gathered brass. He knows it's hopeless. ARCHER That bomb has been built, it's out there somewhere and it's going to detonate... EXT. FBI BUILDING - INTELLIGENCE MEMORIAL - DAY Words etched in the granite wall read: IN HONOR OF THOSE MEMBERS OF THE FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION WHO SACRIFICED THEIR LIVES IN THE LINE OF DUTY Archer watches as a workman engraves the last of the three new stars among so many others -- each one honoring the dead. BRODIE Didn't Castor give any clue where the bomb might be? ARCHER Only one person knows -- his brother Pollux. And he'll keep his mouth shut until it blows. BRODIE We could plant an agent in his cell -- get him to spill the location. ARCHER Pollux is way too paranoid. The only person he'd talk to about that bomb is Castor himself. And dead men can't talk. Brodie and Miller exchange a knowing look. BRODIE There might be a way around that... FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S BODY Tubes and hoses are plugged into every orifice. INT. ICU ROOM - DAY Archer stares at the body... he can't believe it. ARCHER Why are you keeping him alive? (gets no answer) As long as he's breathing, he's dangerous. MILLER Relax, he's a turnip. Miller grinds out her cigarette on Castor's leg. Of course, Castor just lies there like a vegetable. BRODIE We can arrange for you to enter Erewhon Prison -- as Castor Troy. ARCHER What are you talking about? Archer turns as DR. MALCOLM HOAG (50s) enters the room. HOAG I think I'd better answer that question. (offers hand) Malcolm Hoag. I run the Physiological Camouflage Unit for Special Ops. ARCHER I know who you are. MILLER But you don't know what he can do. Physical augmentation; enhancement surgery... BRODIE ... He can disguise a compromised agent or alter the likeness -- even the voice -- of a government witness. HOAG Let me show you how it's done. (leading him out) I think you'll recognize our patient... INT. HOAG'S SURGICAL BAY - DAY Loomis lies still as a surgeon carefully scrapes away charred flesh around his burned ear. The doctor turns to a -- STEREO-LITHOGRAPHIC MACHINE Laser-beams attack an organic soup with incredible precision. The light forces a chemical reaction -- and out of the soup -- an ear begins to form. It rises from the liquid, now fully-formed. The surgeon takes the ear and fits it in place on Loomis's head. He starts suturing. OBSERVATION BOOTH - ABOVE Archer, Hoag, Brodie and Miller watch the operation -- video-enhanced by the two huge screens on the far walls. HOAG With our new generation of anti- inflammatories, healing is accelerated from weeks to days. By his next paycheck, he won't even remember which ear he lost. (a beat) Your situation, however, would be a little less permanent... BRODIE -- and a lot more classified. Hoag holds up a face-sized organic shell made up of yellow cartilage pieces and tendons, etc. Archer pulls it over his face -- like a gauze mask. A "tendon" falls off. ARCHER This'll fool Pollux. HOAG That is a state-of-the-art morpho- genetic template. The inside can be built to match the exact shape of your skull; the outside -- exactly like Castor's. Then we fit his face right on top -- MILLER -- and you become him. ARCHER You're talking about removing the guy's face? BRODIE Borrowing, Jon. The procedure's completely reversible. MILLER One way or the other -- the mission ends on the eighteenth. Archer turns the shell over and over and over in his hands. BRODIE You know Castor better than anyone. You've lived and breathed him for years -- hell, you even look a little like him. Archer shoves the template back at Hoag. ARCHER Find yourself another lab-rat. MILLER If you don't do this -- Castor will beat us again. He'll beat you again... Archer pushes his way past them -- and marches out. HOAG I don't think that went very well. BRODIE Trust us, Doc... MILLER ... he'll jerk around. Then he'll be back. INT. INTERROGATION BOOTHS - DAY Archer enters... sizes up DIETRICH HASSLER. His stylish garb doesn't completely hide his criminal roots. Archer sits down calmly. He looks at his watch. ARCHER I'm in a hurry, Dietrich. So you've only got ten seconds to go through your usual litany of lies, empty threats, and moronic denials. Then I'm coming over there -- DIETRICH If you're in such a fucking hurry -- why are you wasting your time with me? I'm just an art dealer. ARCHER You're a dealer, all right: technical secrets, munitions... explosives. DIETRICH You've never proven any of that. And when my bitchy, never-been- laid femi-nazi lawyer gets here, she's going to... ARCHER Time's up. Archer topples the wooden table and tears a leg from the top. Brandishing it -- he stalks the startled thug. HALLWAY JUST OUTSIDE - CONTINUOUS ACTION Lazarro blanches as an obsessed Archer repeatedly slams the table leg against the wall -- above Dietrich's head. LAZARRO The only ticking bomb I see is inside his head. He's getting worse, Tito. TITO Don't worry, sir. It's all an act... But as Lazarro leaves -- we see Tito's worried, too. BACK INSIDE BOOTH Archer has a terrified Dietrich backed into the corner. DIETRICH ... Okay! Castor called me but I blew him off... I swear I never saw him. And I don't know anything about any bomb! INT. CORRIDOR - OUTSIDE INTERROGATION BOOTHS - SAME TIME Archer emerges... eyes blazing. ARCHER Let him go, but I want him watched... Who's next? TITO Just Dietrich's sister... In another booth, a careworn but striking woman sits with a little boy on her lap. She gently helps him Crayola a book. This is SASHA HASSLER (30) and her son ADAM (5). INT. INTERROGATION BOOTH - DAY Archer hovers over Sasha -- her maternal warmth replaced by an icy hatred. Tito and the child are gone. ARCHER When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? SASHA Who cares? He's dead. ARCHER Answer the question. SASHA Look, I'm clean. I teach kids now -- ARCHER Sasha -- you are a felon, on probation for harboring Castor Troy. So it's in your best interest to cooperate. (as she's silent) Would you like your son put in a foster home? Sasha's eyes flash, her body coils -- but she keeps control. SASHA No, but I'm sure you'd love it -- you sick bastard. ARCHER (unmoved) When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? She stares at him with equal amounts of pity and hatred. SASHA I haven't seen him for years. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY Archer watches as Adam leaves Dietrich and jumps into Sasha's arms. She hugs him protectively. Adam sees Archer watching them -- and smiles. Archer doesn't smile back. FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S REAL FACE PULL BACK TO: INT. I.C.U. - NIGHT Archer slowly circles Castor's muscular, hairy, tattooed body. Although on life support -- his signature smirk remains. ARCHER What about Lazarro? BRODIE No way -- the red tape alone would take a month. This is a black-bag operation -- completely off the books. MILLER If you need him, Tito can help you prepare. But you know the drill: You can't tell anyone -- not the Director, not your wife... nobody. Archer's face shows he doesn't like it -- then he nods. ARCHER I'm in. EXT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Archer slowly gets out of his car. Trudging toward the front door, he picks up a basketball and takes a shot. His form is terrible -- he misses by a mile. INT. HALLWAY - NIGHT Archer passes Jamie's room. Loud MUSIC POUNDS from within. He pauses to knock, thinks again, then heads down the hall. INT. MASTER BEDROOM - NIGHT Eve is in bed. Archer comes in quietly and sits beside her -- studying her peaceful, sleeping face. She stirs. EVE I was dreaming... ARCHER Something good? EVE I'm not sure... you were flying this

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"Face/Off", production draft, by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary FACE/OFF Written by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary Revised 9/10/96 FADE INTO: SEPIA-TONE FOOTAGE of a pig chasing a lion chasing a dinosaur chasing an elephant. Noah's Ark going round... and round... and round... EXT. GRIFFITH PARK CAROUSEL - DAY Disjointed CALLIOPE MUSIC as the wheel of fate and fortune goes around until we PULL BACK to reveal: JON ARCHER (30) rising winged Pegasus. On the adjacent unicorn is his son MATTHEW (5). Clutching a balloon, Matty waves at his dad. A happy moment, like so many certain to follow -- until we realize we are watching them THROUGH... SNIPER'S RIFLE SCOPE - SNIPER'S EYES wait until the child clears his aim -- Archer is the target. They round the bend and disappear... MATTHEW Loses his grip on the unicorn. Archer reaches over and pulls him into his lap. They happily ride together... As the horses sweep back INTO VIEW... exposing Archer... Now we see the sniper. CASTOR TROY is cool, efficient, aggressive, sexual. His finger closes around the trigger. BOOM! A BULLET RIPS into Archer's back. Bleeding... he drops off his horse... and sinks to the deck of the carousel. His eyes desperately searching... searching... searching... until he sees -- Matthew lies on his back -- still. Slowly, Archer reaches out and takes Matthew's hand... and now we see COLOR for the first time... Blood red... as bleeding father touches bleeding son... TILT UP TO the winged Pegasus flying by -- now in full color and UP UP UP TO Matthew's red balloon... floating away. HANDEL'S MESSIAH OVER a SERIES OF SHOTS: FBI BRIEFING ROOM Gazing out the window as dawn breaks over the city below is Jon Archer... older... unshaven... fatigued... his eyes reveal a man in the grip of obsession. CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by, as if marking time itself... HOLY PLACE Smoky, spiritual... dominated by a gleaming, golden cross. A priest kneels before it -- deep in prayer. The glimmering cross comes INTO FOCUS... but it's just a light-reflection... off the casing of a large bomb. This is no chapel... but an atrium. Somewhere. And as the "priest" rubs out his cigarette we see it's Castor Troy -- carefully installing this complex device. ANOTHER CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by... ARCHER pockets his FBI badge, then holsters his gun... CASTOR sets the bomb timer -- then replaces a wall panel in front of it. Totally hidden. BRIEFING ROOM - CASTOR'S MUGSHOT is on a computer screen. His criminal dossier scrolls by endlessly: bombings, assassinations, mercenary kidnappings, terrorism-for-hire... Rookie agent LOOMIS studies the details carefully. Other agents -- including BUZZ and WANDA scan computer grid- maps, man phones, etc. amid the take-out cartons and coffee cups. These people are on high alert. ARCHER Any follow-up from L.A.P.D. Intelligence? BUZZ No, sir, nothing yet. ARCHER Get them on the phone -- now. What about S.I.S. and our airport teams? WANDA We've had everything from psychics to satellites on this. Even if Castor was here... he must have slipped the net by now... ARCHER He's here! And we're going to keep looking until we find him! A silence descends on the chastised team. As they go back to work, veteran agent TITO BIONDI takes Archer aside. TITO Jon, these people have been working round the clock -- you gotta cut them some slack... Archer considers his best friend's advice -- then... ARCHER I'll cut them some slack when I cut myself some slack. Archer marches out -- slamming the door behind him. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY (MORNING) Castor quietly shuts the security door behind him. An Hispanic voice startles him. JANITOR What are you doing? CASTOR (in perfect Spanish) Thank goodness, I feel like Icarus in the labyrinth -- where's the men's room? JANITOR (in Spanish) This area is off limits, Padre. (re: security door) How did you get in that room? Realizing the JANITOR is already too suspicious, Castor puts a priestly arm around him -- and leads him down the hall. CASTOR Okay... I have a confession to make, but you aren't gonna like it. I was planting a bomb. JANITOR Bomb? CASTOR You know -- boom -- (patting his neck) Oh, never mind... The Janitor suddenly twitches, his eyes rolls up in his head. As he gasps his last -- Castor heaves him down a stairwell. Now we see the needle-thin custom stiletto in Castor's hand. Castor kicks the Janitor's mop and bucket down the stairs -- making everything look like an accident. INT. SAME BUILDING - MAIN FLOOR - DAY (MORNING) The children's church choir -- 200 strong -- sing "Behold the Lamb of God." Clergy and lay persons listen reverently. "Father" Castor strolls by the singers -- casually heading for the exit. As he passes the risers, a teenage girl drops her sheet music at his feet. Returning it -- he whispers in her ear -- so close he's practically licking it. CASTOR I've never enjoyed 'The Messiah.' But your voice makes even a hack like Handel seem like a genius. He pats her behind and leaves. Although a little shaken, she's also drawn by Castor's sexual magnetism. EXT. LA CONVENTION CENTER - DAY (MORNING) The marquee proclaims: INTERNATIONAL CHURCH CHOIRS 18th- 21st: AMERICAN BAR ASSOCIATION. Castor exits -- politely holding the door for a beat cop. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY (MORNING) The office is a monument to obsession: photographs, clues, newsclips, totems of Castor Troy surround a pacing Archer. ARCHER (on phone) ... I don't have time to get a warrant from some hung-over judge. Just give me the go-ahead, Victor, and I promise -- as soon as this is over -- you can brand my butt with the Fourth Amendment. The instant Archer hangs up -- the INTERCOM BUZZES. KIM (V.O.) Sir, your wife's on line one... S.I.S. on two... ARCHER Tell her to hang on -- As Archer punches up line two -- Tito bursts in. TITO A jet was chartered at Anderson Airfield. Guess who just showed up to pay for it? Pollux Troy. ARCHER Scramble the Reaction Team -- we're moving out. And get one of our people on that plane. TITO But there's still no sign of Castor... ARCHER Where one brother goes, the other's sure to follow... They rush our... the hold button on line 1 still blinking. EXT. PRIVATE AIRPORT - ESTABLISHING - DAY A sleek Cadillac pulls in... stopping next to a Land Rover. LARS MUELLER -- a muscular, crystal-eyed jar-head -- gets out of the Caddy. An instant later -- LUNT MUELLER -- emerges from the Rover. They are identical twins. The men scan the airport carefully, then open the rear doors of their respective vehicles. Castor emerges from the Caddy -- Armani clad. Exiting the Rover is Castor's younger brother POLLUX TROY -- skittish, brilliant, paranoid -- a human hummingbird. POLLUX You're 26 minutes late. The casing didn't fit -- right? I knew that cheap-shit Dietrich would rip us off... CASTOR Oh, God -- ! POLLUX What!? CASTOR I forgot to turn the damn thing on! POLLUX You're kidding, right? (to the twins) He's kidding... (grabs Castor by throat) ... are you fucking kidding!? Castor hugs Pollux lovingly. Pollux squirms like a kid. CASTOR Bro -- everything went fine. POLLUX I hate when you call me bro. Pollux heads for the jet. Castor hands Lunt a wad of cash. CASTOR Thanks for babysitting. LUNT Anything else? CASTOR I'll contact you when we get the rest of the money. (turns to leave) Oh, and stat away from downtown. The inversion layer's going to be pretty thick around the 18th. The twins nod... then take off. Castor heads for the jet. INT. JET - DAY Castor hustles in -- exhorting the PILOT. CASTOR Let's go, let's go! As the JET TURBINES start to WHINE, Castor sinks into his seat. A very sexy FLIGHT ATTENDANT appears and hands him a Scotch. He downs it, looking her over salaciously. FLIGHT ATTENDANT Would you like anything else? CASTOR Hell, yes... (pulls her into lap) It's the only way to fly. She smiles, not minding, until the jet suddenly slows its taxi down the runway. COCKPIT Castor yanks open the door. CASTOR What's wrong? AT END OF RUNWAY A squat car creeps INTO VIEW -- blocking the runway. EXT./INT. HUMVEE - MOVING - DAY Behind the wheel is Jon Archer. Beside him is Tito. BACK TO ARCHER CASTOR It's Archer. (gun to Pilot's head) Go, dammit! Suddenly the gun is BLASTED from Castor's hand. he turns around to see... the Flight Attendant behind them -- holding a smoking pistol. This is Agent WINTERS. WINTERS F.B.I.! Throttle down, captain! But Castor elbows the throttle up. The jet lurches forward, throwing Winters off balance. Pollux tackles her as the jet picks up speed. INT. HUMVEE - DAY Archer slams the vehicle into gear. ARCHER Get out. TITO You're not playing chicken with two tons of aluminum... ARCHER Get out! Tito obeys as Archer peels out. The HUMMER ROARS at the jet. The jet picks up speed, trying to get aloft. The humvee is aimed right at it... Archer's eyes narrow. COLLISION COURSE as two hunks of metal bear down. The machines are seconds apart when -- Archer looks up to see... Winters' face pressed up against the cockpit window, Castor holding a gun to her head. Archer cuts the wheel -- just avoiding the jet. The Hummer skids to a stop as Federal back-up arrives -- but too late. Archer watches an FBI chopper -- landing in a swirl of dust. As the jet picks up speed... the hatch opens. Castor blasts Winters in the side and tosses her onto the tarmac. INSIDE Castor smiles at Pollux, sensing freedom, until... KA-CHUNK: Something POUNDS the jet -- from above. Castor leans out the hatch and sees... The chopper on top of them -- Archer at the controls. Eye-contact -- years of hatred pass between these men. Castor BLASTS at him from the open hatch. The chopper's left windscreen spiderwebs. Archer jerks and weaves -- dodging the BULLETS. The chopper pulls away. The jet finally lifts off... when... The chopper settles on the jet -- slamming at its tail. TARMAC Tito reacts to this madness -- as the chopper plays a deadly game of leap-frog with the jet. The end of the runway is coming up fast. Archer crushes the jet's horizontal elevator flap. JET PILOT can't budge the jet's jammed yoke. Thwarted, he powers back the throttle. Thrust reverse. CASTOR What are you doing? PILOT The horizontal elevator's smashed! We can't lift off! CASTOR SHOOTS the Pilot -- then takes the controls. He struggles to maneuver the jet. Suddenly... A biplane descends right at them -- about to land. ARCHER pulls up just as the JET swerves radically to avoid the biplane and SLAMS into the hangar. JET plows through the GLASS DOOR, the NOSE-WHEEL SNAPS off. The PLANE SKIDS right into the hangar -- finally stopping at the wings. FBI CHOPPER lands. Archer steps out calmly -- like a cop about to write a traffic ticket. He hurries to join more FBI agents rushing into the hangar ahead of him. INT. HANGAR - DAY The jet hatch pops open -- Castor leaps from it, FIRING. Two FBI agents drop -- riddled. Pollux appears at the hatch -- an FBI sharpshooter FIRES, grazing Pollux's shoulder. Staggered, Pollux falls -- Castor catches him before he hits the floor -- simultaneously BLASTING the sharpshooter. Castor drags Pollux back into the smoke-filled hangar. Archer arrives and quickly checks the dead agents, his anger building. He signals Tito and the others to spread out. DEEP IN HANGAR A maze of airplane debris and heavy machinery. Led by Archer, the FBI agents pick their way through it. ROOKIE LOOMIS snaps alert -- did he see something? Advancing carefully, he comes up on... Castor -- staunching Pollux's shoulder wound. Pollux sees the agent -- and FIRES. Loomis hits the floor -- his bleeding ear is shredded. Suddenly a forklift charges down on Castor and Pollux. Tito is at the wheel. Castor FIRES -- forcing Tito to dive off. The forklift careens on -- driving apart the brothers. The forklift upends a stack of heavy crates -- pinning Pollux. Castor tries to free his trapped brother. POLLUX Forget it -- Go! Go! He slaps his Glock into Pollux's hand. CASTOR Wherever they put you, I'll find a way to get you out... Pollux starts FIRING -- covering Castor as he runs through a tunnel which leads to an adjoining hangar. Suddenly Wanda presses her machine-pistol into Pollux's head. As Pollux raises his gun -- Tito grabs his hand. TITO -- not unless you want that 200 I.Q. splattered all over the floor. (as Archer approaches) We got him now, Jon. ARCHER That's what you always say. Seal it off. I'm going in. Archer moves away from the group and enters the tunnel. MUSIC as Archer and Castor begin their cat-and-mouse dance. Sensing Archer, Castor pauses by an old landing gear. He draws a fresh pistol from his ankle holster and moves on. Archer pauses at the landing gear... his own stealthy movements mirroring Castor's. Castor waits behind a stack of steel drums... his gaze trying to penetrate the darkness... He SNAPS his fingers. The sound ECHOES as he tries to draw Archer in. Archer reacts to the sound and SNAPS back -- answering the challenge. As the deadly beat between them continues -- BLAM BLAM BLAM! Archer spins away just as Castor OPENS FIRE from the gloom... one step ahead. INTERCUT as necessary: CASTOR Jon, I'm getting a little annoyed by your obsessive need to spoil my fun. ARCHER And how much will your 'fun' net you this time? BOOM BOOM BOOM! Half-blind SHOTS send Castor spinning. A moment later, Archer pursues... SNAP! He fits a new CLIP into his pistol. CASTOR What's it to you? I declare it. Here I am, back in the States for less than a week -- ARCHER You're under arrest. Incredibly, you still have the right to remain silent -- CASTOR I've got something going down on the eighteenth... it's gonna be worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaoh. I'll give it up -- but my brother and I have to walk. ARCHER No discussion -- no deals. CASTOR What're you gonna do with me locked up? You'll drive your wife and kid nuts! I bet your daughter is just about ripe by now. What's her name, Janie? Enraged, Archer steps boldly forward -- trying to draw his enemy out. Silence -- then Archer senses... Castor is behind him. He FIRES -- Archer dives away. The BARRAGE CONTINUES -- driving Archer back between two huge turbine engines. As Archer reloads, he stares at the control panel switches. Castor moves in for the kill when he hears a final SNAP- SNAP. Except it isn't a finger snap... it's two switches. VRRRROOOM! The TWIN ENGINES ROAR on! Unable to fight the churning tornado-force wind... Castor's blasted across the hangar... slamming hard into the far wall. The ENGINES STOP and Archer emerges -- joined by Tito. TITO Tell me he didn't get away again... Then Tito follows Archer's gaze to Castor's lifeless body. Still as death -- somehow his mocking smile survives. EXT. AIRPORT TARMAC - SUNSET Heavily-manacled, an extremely agitated Pollux is herded into a SWAT van by Buzz and Wanda. POLLUX Where's my brother?! I want to see my brother! The van takes off -- passing an imposing older man, flanked by two bodyguards. Bullying through the media, Assistant FBI Director VICTOR LAZARRO scans the devastation. Approaching Archer, he watches as Castor's body is loaded on the ambulance. A sheet covers Castor's lifeless face. LAZARRO The oversight committee would've roasted us for this one -- thank God it paid off. Damn fine work. ARCHER Real fine, Victor. Especially the casualties. Archer contemplates the slain agents -- their three bodies laid out in a row -- waiting to be zip-locked. Lazarro reacts grimly as a reporter snaps a photo of the bodies. Instinctively, the two men close ranks. Archer grabs the Nikon, ejects the film, then shoves the camera back. LAZARRO Classified information. No photographs. Lazarro puts a caring arm around Archer's shoulder and leads him away from the media... and the carnage. LAZARRO You okay, Jon? (off Archer's nod) Then go home. Tell Eve. EXT. ARCHER'S HOME (SANTA MONICA) - SUNSET A renovated Craftsman. Sipping a carton of milk, Archer pulls into the driveway. He sits, gathering his thoughts. INT. ARCHER'S HOME - NIGHT Archer enters and sees his wife EVE. Handsome, intelligent. ARCHER Hi... (no response) ... What's wrong? She nods toward the KITCHEN. JAMIE is there -- a sullen and hard fifteen-year-old. There are cigarette cartons on the table. EVE She complimented for her 'F' in history with an 'A' in shoplifting... Archer marches into the kitchen -- noting the crate of Marlboros. Jamie matter-of-factly pours herself coffee. ARCHER Nice stunt, Jamie. You break the law and I'm expected to ignore it? JAMIE That's right -- it's all about you. Don't even ask me what happened. Archer looks to Eve for help. Eve shakes her head -- nope. ARCHER Okay. What happened? JAMIE Like you'd ever fucking believe me! She bolts. In anticipation, Eve calmly opens the door as Jamie rushes out, then closes it behind her. EVE Well, you tried. You failed miserably, but you tried. ARCHER Why won't she even talk to me? EVE Maybe because you taught her never to speak to strangers. (immediately regrets it) I'm sorry... that wasn't fair. Eve kisses his cheek -- then gathers up her doctor gear. EVE I've got patients waiting. Try again, Jon. She hates you -- but she needs you. ARCHER Eve... Something in Archer's expression makes her stop. EVE Jon -- what is it? But he's too overcome. He starts to speak -- but can't. EVE Is it -- him? It's... it's over? Emotions avalanche across his face until he finally looks up. Eve pulls him close -- a sheltering embrace for them both. ARCHER I'm going to make everything up to you and Jamie. I'll put in for a desk job. We'll go away, get counseling -- anything you want. This time, I mean it. INT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Freshly dressed, Archer heads down the hall. He pauses at the door to Jamie's room when he sees -- Jamie. Fully clothed, she's fast asleep on her bed cluttered with clothes and assorted girl-stuff. Her face peaceful. Archer looks around her room... sees the stuffed animals collecting dust... replaced by makeup, jewelry, beefcake Calvin Klein ads and band posters, etc. Archer's startled to see a lacey bustier... his little girl is growing up fast. And he's missing it. He pulls the blanket up over her and quietly slips out. The instant he leaves, Jamie kicks the blankets off. INT. FBI BUILDING - DAY Dominated by the FBI seal. Archer steps to the check point. SECURITY GUARD Print, please. Archer presses his thumb to a scan-pad -- and is cleared. INT. BULL PEN - DAY Efficient as a beehive -- agents, cryptologists, support staff buzz at their routines. Archer strides through -- drawing congratulatory nods and "thumbs up" signs... OUTSIDE HIS OFFICE Archer's team is there. Applauding. Proud. Uneasy with plaudits, he disperses the disappointed agents. ARCHER Much appreciated. Now let's get back to work, okay? WANDA (to Buzz) Is that stick ever gonna fall out of his ass? Archer's well-built secretary -- KIM BREWSTER -- hands him his messages. She's holding a bottle of Dom Perignon. KIMBERLY The C.I.A. sent this over. What should I do with it? ARCHER Send it back and tell them to stop wasting the taxpayers' money. Anything else, Miss Brewster? KIMBERLY No, sir. He enters his office. Kimberly sighs and turns to Wanda. KIMBERLY Four years -- and he still calls me 'Miss Brewster.' INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Sitting at his computer -- Archer scrolls through Castor's file. He grimly contemplates face-after-face of Troy's victims -- finally pausing on a photo of his son Matthew. Burying his feeling, he types "CASE CLOSED" over Castor's image. Archer starts to press "enter" when Tito comes in. ARCHER How's Loomis? TITO He needs some surgery, but he's going to be okay. That's the good news... ARCHER Go on. TITO ... Brodie and Miller from Special Ops need to see you. ARCHER I don't have time for those cloak and dagger guys. Big NED BRODIE and athletic female HOLLIS MILLER stroll in. BRODIE You better make time, Jon. (hefts a disc) We found this in the jet wreckage -- among Pollux Troy's effects... Archer accedes as Miller pops in the disk. The computer screen displays a CAD schematic of the bomb. Archer studies it carefully -- unease growing. ARCHER Porcelain casing... Thermal cloak... Undetectable payload. MILLER Powerful enough to flatten ten city blocks. ARCHER 'Worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaohs.' (to Tito) Get Pollux Troy. Now. DISSOLVE TO: INTERROGATION FOOTAGE Wired to a complex machine -- Pollux seems to have his frustrated interrogators on the run. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Archer, Lazarro, Tito, Brodie, Miller and other FBI officials watch the monitor. Pollux remains implacable POLLUX (V.O.) (on screen) That bomb was just a crossword puzzle to me... a mental exercise. I never built it... Lazarro shuts down the monitor... turns to Archer. ARCHER He's lying. LAZARRO He's hooked up to a full-spectrum polygraph. ARCHER Pollux is a manipulative psychopath. He can control his heartbeat, his sweat glands, his blood pressure... LAZARRO Jon, I trust your instincts, I always have. But D.C. wants more evidence. And frankly, so do I. ARCHER You'll get all the evidence you need when ten thousand people die. LAZARRO We'll get a team right on it. But we can't evacuate the city on what amounts to a hunch. Archer looks at the gathered brass. He knows it's hopeless. ARCHER That bomb has been built, it's out there somewhere and it's going to detonate... EXT. FBI BUILDING - INTELLIGENCE MEMORIAL - DAY Words etched in the granite wall read: IN HONOR OF THOSE MEMBERS OF THE FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION WHO SACRIFICED THEIR LIVES IN THE LINE OF DUTY Archer watches as a workman engraves the last of the three new stars among so many others -- each one honoring the dead. BRODIE Didn't Castor give any clue where the bomb might be? ARCHER Only one person knows -- his brother Pollux. And he'll keep his mouth shut until it blows. BRODIE We could plant an agent in his cell -- get him to spill the location. ARCHER Pollux is way too paranoid. The only person he'd talk to about that bomb is Castor himself. And dead men can't talk. Brodie and Miller exchange a knowing look. BRODIE There might be a way around that... FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S BODY Tubes and hoses are plugged into every orifice. INT. ICU ROOM - DAY Archer stares at the body... he can't believe it. ARCHER Why are you keeping him alive? (gets no answer) As long as he's breathing, he's dangerous. MILLER Relax, he's a turnip. Miller grinds out her cigarette on Castor's leg. Of course, Castor just lies there like a vegetable. BRODIE We can arrange for you to enter Erewhon Prison -- as Castor Troy. ARCHER What are you talking about? Archer turns as DR. MALCOLM HOAG (50s) enters the room. HOAG I think I'd better answer that question. (offers hand) Malcolm Hoag. I run the Physiological Camouflage Unit for Special Ops. ARCHER I know who you are. MILLER But you don't know what he can do. Physical augmentation; enhancement surgery... BRODIE ... He can disguise a compromised agent or alter the likeness -- even the voice -- of a government witness. HOAG Let me show you how it's done. (leading him out) I think you'll recognize our patient... INT. HOAG'S SURGICAL BAY - DAY Loomis lies still as a surgeon carefully scrapes away charred flesh around his burned ear. The doctor turns to a -- STEREO-LITHOGRAPHIC MACHINE Laser-beams attack an organic soup with incredible precision. The light forces a chemical reaction -- and out of the soup -- an ear begins to form. It rises from the liquid, now fully-formed. The surgeon takes the ear and fits it in place on Loomis's head. He starts suturing. OBSERVATION BOOTH - ABOVE Archer, Hoag, Brodie and Miller watch the operation -- video-enhanced by the two huge screens on the far walls. HOAG With our new generation of anti- inflammatories, healing is accelerated from weeks to days. By his next paycheck, he won't even remember which ear he lost. (a beat) Your situation, however, would be a little less permanent... BRODIE -- and a lot more classified. Hoag holds up a face-sized organic shell made up of yellow cartilage pieces and tendons, etc. Archer pulls it over his face -- like a gauze mask. A "tendon" falls off. ARCHER This'll fool Pollux. HOAG That is a state-of-the-art morpho- genetic template. The inside can be built to match the exact shape of your skull; the outside -- exactly like Castor's. Then we fit his face right on top -- MILLER -- and you become him. ARCHER You're talking about removing the guy's face? BRODIE Borrowing, Jon. The procedure's completely reversible. MILLER One way or the other -- the mission ends on the eighteenth. Archer turns the shell over and over and over in his hands. BRODIE You know Castor better than anyone. You've lived and breathed him for years -- hell, you even look a little like him. Archer shoves the template back at Hoag. ARCHER Find yourself another lab-rat. MILLER If you don't do this -- Castor will beat us again. He'll beat you again... Archer pushes his way past them -- and marches out. HOAG I don't think that went very well. BRODIE Trust us, Doc... MILLER ... he'll jerk around. Then he'll be back. INT. INTERROGATION BOOTHS - DAY Archer enters... sizes up DIETRICH HASSLER. His stylish garb doesn't completely hide his criminal roots. Archer sits down calmly. He looks at his watch. ARCHER I'm in a hurry, Dietrich. So you've only got ten seconds to go through your usual litany of lies, empty threats, and moronic denials. Then I'm coming over there -- DIETRICH If you're in such a fucking hurry -- why are you wasting your time with me? I'm just an art dealer. ARCHER You're a dealer, all right: technical secrets, munitions... explosives. DIETRICH You've never proven any of that. And when my bitchy, never-been- laid femi-nazi lawyer gets here, she's going to... ARCHER Time's up. Archer topples the wooden table and tears a leg from the top. Brandishing it -- he stalks the startled thug. HALLWAY JUST OUTSIDE - CONTINUOUS ACTION Lazarro blanches as an obsessed Archer repeatedly slams the table leg against the wall -- above Dietrich's head. LAZARRO The only ticking bomb I see is inside his head. He's getting worse, Tito. TITO Don't worry, sir. It's all an act... But as Lazarro leaves -- we see Tito's worried, too. BACK INSIDE BOOTH Archer has a terrified Dietrich backed into the corner. DIETRICH ... Okay! Castor called me but I blew him off... I swear I never saw him. And I don't know anything about any bomb! INT. CORRIDOR - OUTSIDE INTERROGATION BOOTHS - SAME TIME Archer emerges... eyes blazing. ARCHER Let him go, but I want him watched... Who's next? TITO Just Dietrich's sister... In another booth, a careworn but striking woman sits with a little boy on her lap. She gently helps him Crayola a book. This is SASHA HASSLER (30) and her son ADAM (5). INT. INTERROGATION BOOTH - DAY Archer hovers over Sasha -- her maternal warmth replaced by an icy hatred. Tito and the child are gone. ARCHER When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? SASHA Who cares? He's dead. ARCHER Answer the question. SASHA Look, I'm clean. I teach kids now -- ARCHER Sasha -- you are a felon, on probation for harboring Castor Troy. So it's in your best interest to cooperate. (as she's silent) Would you like your son put in a foster home? Sasha's eyes flash, her body coils -- but she keeps control. SASHA No, but I'm sure you'd love it -- you sick bastard. ARCHER (unmoved) When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? She stares at him with equal amounts of pity and hatred. SASHA I haven't seen him for years. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY Archer watches as Adam leaves Dietrich and jumps into Sasha's arms. She hugs him protectively. Adam sees Archer watching them -- and smiles. Archer doesn't smile back. FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S REAL FACE PULL BACK TO: INT. I.C.U. - NIGHT Archer slowly circles Castor's muscular, hairy, tattooed body. Although on life support -- his signature smirk remains. ARCHER What about Lazarro? BRODIE No way -- the red tape alone would take a month. This is a black-bag operation -- completely off the books. MILLER If you need him, Tito can help you prepare. But you know the drill: You can't tell anyone -- not the Director, not your wife... nobody. Archer's face shows he doesn't like it -- then he nods. ARCHER I'm in. EXT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Archer slowly gets out of his car. Trudging toward the front door, he picks up a basketball and takes a shot. His form is terrible -- he misses by a mile. INT. HALLWAY - NIGHT Archer passes Jamie's room. Loud MUSIC POUNDS from within. He pauses to knock, thinks again, then heads down the hall. INT. MASTER BEDROOM - NIGHT Eve is in bed. Archer comes in quietly and sits beside her -- studying her peaceful, sleeping face. She stirs. EVE I was dreaming... ARCHER Something good? EVE I'm not sure... you were flying this

emerges

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

"Face/Off", production draft, by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary FACE/OFF Written by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary Revised 9/10/96 FADE INTO: SEPIA-TONE FOOTAGE of a pig chasing a lion chasing a dinosaur chasing an elephant. Noah's Ark going round... and round... and round... EXT. GRIFFITH PARK CAROUSEL - DAY Disjointed CALLIOPE MUSIC as the wheel of fate and fortune goes around until we PULL BACK to reveal: JON ARCHER (30) rising winged Pegasus. On the adjacent unicorn is his son MATTHEW (5). Clutching a balloon, Matty waves at his dad. A happy moment, like so many certain to follow -- until we realize we are watching them THROUGH... SNIPER'S RIFLE SCOPE - SNIPER'S EYES wait until the child clears his aim -- Archer is the target. They round the bend and disappear... MATTHEW Loses his grip on the unicorn. Archer reaches over and pulls him into his lap. They happily ride together... As the horses sweep back INTO VIEW... exposing Archer... Now we see the sniper. CASTOR TROY is cool, efficient, aggressive, sexual. His finger closes around the trigger. BOOM! A BULLET RIPS into Archer's back. Bleeding... he drops off his horse... and sinks to the deck of the carousel. His eyes desperately searching... searching... searching... until he sees -- Matthew lies on his back -- still. Slowly, Archer reaches out and takes Matthew's hand... and now we see COLOR for the first time... Blood red... as bleeding father touches bleeding son... TILT UP TO the winged Pegasus flying by -- now in full color and UP UP UP TO Matthew's red balloon... floating away. HANDEL'S MESSIAH OVER a SERIES OF SHOTS: FBI BRIEFING ROOM Gazing out the window as dawn breaks over the city below is Jon Archer... older... unshaven... fatigued... his eyes reveal a man in the grip of obsession. CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by, as if marking time itself... HOLY PLACE Smoky, spiritual... dominated by a gleaming, golden cross. A priest kneels before it -- deep in prayer. The glimmering cross comes INTO FOCUS... but it's just a light-reflection... off the casing of a large bomb. This is no chapel... but an atrium. Somewhere. And as the "priest" rubs out his cigarette we see it's Castor Troy -- carefully installing this complex device. ANOTHER CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by... ARCHER pockets his FBI badge, then holsters his gun... CASTOR sets the bomb timer -- then replaces a wall panel in front of it. Totally hidden. BRIEFING ROOM - CASTOR'S MUGSHOT is on a computer screen. His criminal dossier scrolls by endlessly: bombings, assassinations, mercenary kidnappings, terrorism-for-hire... Rookie agent LOOMIS studies the details carefully. Other agents -- including BUZZ and WANDA scan computer grid- maps, man phones, etc. amid the take-out cartons and coffee cups. These people are on high alert. ARCHER Any follow-up from L.A.P.D. Intelligence? BUZZ No, sir, nothing yet. ARCHER Get them on the phone -- now. What about S.I.S. and our airport teams? WANDA We've had everything from psychics to satellites on this. Even if Castor was here... he must have slipped the net by now... ARCHER He's here! And we're going to keep looking until we find him! A silence descends on the chastised team. As they go back to work, veteran agent TITO BIONDI takes Archer aside. TITO Jon, these people have been working round the clock -- you gotta cut them some slack... Archer considers his best friend's advice -- then... ARCHER I'll cut them some slack when I cut myself some slack. Archer marches out -- slamming the door behind him. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY (MORNING) Castor quietly shuts the security door behind him. An Hispanic voice startles him. JANITOR What are you doing? CASTOR (in perfect Spanish) Thank goodness, I feel like Icarus in the labyrinth -- where's the men's room? JANITOR (in Spanish) This area is off limits, Padre. (re: security door) How did you get in that room? Realizing the JANITOR is already too suspicious, Castor puts a priestly arm around him -- and leads him down the hall. CASTOR Okay... I have a confession to make, but you aren't gonna like it. I was planting a bomb. JANITOR Bomb? CASTOR You know -- boom -- (patting his neck) Oh, never mind... The Janitor suddenly twitches, his eyes rolls up in his head. As he gasps his last -- Castor heaves him down a stairwell. Now we see the needle-thin custom stiletto in Castor's hand. Castor kicks the Janitor's mop and bucket down the stairs -- making everything look like an accident. INT. SAME BUILDING - MAIN FLOOR - DAY (MORNING) The children's church choir -- 200 strong -- sing "Behold the Lamb of God." Clergy and lay persons listen reverently. "Father" Castor strolls by the singers -- casually heading for the exit. As he passes the risers, a teenage girl drops her sheet music at his feet. Returning it -- he whispers in her ear -- so close he's practically licking it. CASTOR I've never enjoyed 'The Messiah.' But your voice makes even a hack like Handel seem like a genius. He pats her behind and leaves. Although a little shaken, she's also drawn by Castor's sexual magnetism. EXT. LA CONVENTION CENTER - DAY (MORNING) The marquee proclaims: INTERNATIONAL CHURCH CHOIRS 18th- 21st: AMERICAN BAR ASSOCIATION. Castor exits -- politely holding the door for a beat cop. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY (MORNING) The office is a monument to obsession: photographs, clues, newsclips, totems of Castor Troy surround a pacing Archer. ARCHER (on phone) ... I don't have time to get a warrant from some hung-over judge. Just give me the go-ahead, Victor, and I promise -- as soon as this is over -- you can brand my butt with the Fourth Amendment. The instant Archer hangs up -- the INTERCOM BUZZES. KIM (V.O.) Sir, your wife's on line one... S.I.S. on two... ARCHER Tell her to hang on -- As Archer punches up line two -- Tito bursts in. TITO A jet was chartered at Anderson Airfield. Guess who just showed up to pay for it? Pollux Troy. ARCHER Scramble the Reaction Team -- we're moving out. And get one of our people on that plane. TITO But there's still no sign of Castor... ARCHER Where one brother goes, the other's sure to follow... They rush our... the hold button on line 1 still blinking. EXT. PRIVATE AIRPORT - ESTABLISHING - DAY A sleek Cadillac pulls in... stopping next to a Land Rover. LARS MUELLER -- a muscular, crystal-eyed jar-head -- gets out of the Caddy. An instant later -- LUNT MUELLER -- emerges from the Rover. They are identical twins. The men scan the airport carefully, then open the rear doors of their respective vehicles. Castor emerges from the Caddy -- Armani clad. Exiting the Rover is Castor's younger brother POLLUX TROY -- skittish, brilliant, paranoid -- a human hummingbird. POLLUX You're 26 minutes late. The casing didn't fit -- right? I knew that cheap-shit Dietrich would rip us off... CASTOR Oh, God -- ! POLLUX What!? CASTOR I forgot to turn the damn thing on! POLLUX You're kidding, right? (to the twins) He's kidding... (grabs Castor by throat) ... are you fucking kidding!? Castor hugs Pollux lovingly. Pollux squirms like a kid. CASTOR Bro -- everything went fine. POLLUX I hate when you call me bro. Pollux heads for the jet. Castor hands Lunt a wad of cash. CASTOR Thanks for babysitting. LUNT Anything else? CASTOR I'll contact you when we get the rest of the money. (turns to leave) Oh, and stat away from downtown. The inversion layer's going to be pretty thick around the 18th. The twins nod... then take off. Castor heads for the jet. INT. JET - DAY Castor hustles in -- exhorting the PILOT. CASTOR Let's go, let's go! As the JET TURBINES start to WHINE, Castor sinks into his seat. A very sexy FLIGHT ATTENDANT appears and hands him a Scotch. He downs it, looking her over salaciously. FLIGHT ATTENDANT Would you like anything else? CASTOR Hell, yes... (pulls her into lap) It's the only way to fly. She smiles, not minding, until the jet suddenly slows its taxi down the runway. COCKPIT Castor yanks open the door. CASTOR What's wrong? AT END OF RUNWAY A squat car creeps INTO VIEW -- blocking the runway. EXT./INT. HUMVEE - MOVING - DAY Behind the wheel is Jon Archer. Beside him is Tito. BACK TO ARCHER CASTOR It's Archer. (gun to Pilot's head) Go, dammit! Suddenly the gun is BLASTED from Castor's hand. he turns around to see... the Flight Attendant behind them -- holding a smoking pistol. This is Agent WINTERS. WINTERS F.B.I.! Throttle down, captain! But Castor elbows the throttle up. The jet lurches forward, throwing Winters off balance. Pollux tackles her as the jet picks up speed. INT. HUMVEE - DAY Archer slams the vehicle into gear. ARCHER Get out. TITO You're not playing chicken with two tons of aluminum... ARCHER Get out! Tito obeys as Archer peels out. The HUMMER ROARS at the jet. The jet picks up speed, trying to get aloft. The humvee is aimed right at it... Archer's eyes narrow. COLLISION COURSE as two hunks of metal bear down. The machines are seconds apart when -- Archer looks up to see... Winters' face pressed up against the cockpit window, Castor holding a gun to her head. Archer cuts the wheel -- just avoiding the jet. The Hummer skids to a stop as Federal back-up arrives -- but too late. Archer watches an FBI chopper -- landing in a swirl of dust. As the jet picks up speed... the hatch opens. Castor blasts Winters in the side and tosses her onto the tarmac. INSIDE Castor smiles at Pollux, sensing freedom, until... KA-CHUNK: Something POUNDS the jet -- from above. Castor leans out the hatch and sees... The chopper on top of them -- Archer at the controls. Eye-contact -- years of hatred pass between these men. Castor BLASTS at him from the open hatch. The chopper's left windscreen spiderwebs. Archer jerks and weaves -- dodging the BULLETS. The chopper pulls away. The jet finally lifts off... when... The chopper settles on the jet -- slamming at its tail. TARMAC Tito reacts to this madness -- as the chopper plays a deadly game of leap-frog with the jet. The end of the runway is coming up fast. Archer crushes the jet's horizontal elevator flap. JET PILOT can't budge the jet's jammed yoke. Thwarted, he powers back the throttle. Thrust reverse. CASTOR What are you doing? PILOT The horizontal elevator's smashed! We can't lift off! CASTOR SHOOTS the Pilot -- then takes the controls. He struggles to maneuver the jet. Suddenly... A biplane descends right at them -- about to land. ARCHER pulls up just as the JET swerves radically to avoid the biplane and SLAMS into the hangar. JET plows through the GLASS DOOR, the NOSE-WHEEL SNAPS off. The PLANE SKIDS right into the hangar -- finally stopping at the wings. FBI CHOPPER lands. Archer steps out calmly -- like a cop about to write a traffic ticket. He hurries to join more FBI agents rushing into the hangar ahead of him. INT. HANGAR - DAY The jet hatch pops open -- Castor leaps from it, FIRING. Two FBI agents drop -- riddled. Pollux appears at the hatch -- an FBI sharpshooter FIRES, grazing Pollux's shoulder. Staggered, Pollux falls -- Castor catches him before he hits the floor -- simultaneously BLASTING the sharpshooter. Castor drags Pollux back into the smoke-filled hangar. Archer arrives and quickly checks the dead agents, his anger building. He signals Tito and the others to spread out. DEEP IN HANGAR A maze of airplane debris and heavy machinery. Led by Archer, the FBI agents pick their way through it. ROOKIE LOOMIS snaps alert -- did he see something? Advancing carefully, he comes up on... Castor -- staunching Pollux's shoulder wound. Pollux sees the agent -- and FIRES. Loomis hits the floor -- his bleeding ear is shredded. Suddenly a forklift charges down on Castor and Pollux. Tito is at the wheel. Castor FIRES -- forcing Tito to dive off. The forklift careens on -- driving apart the brothers. The forklift upends a stack of heavy crates -- pinning Pollux. Castor tries to free his trapped brother. POLLUX Forget it -- Go! Go! He slaps his Glock into Pollux's hand. CASTOR Wherever they put you, I'll find a way to get you out... Pollux starts FIRING -- covering Castor as he runs through a tunnel which leads to an adjoining hangar. Suddenly Wanda presses her machine-pistol into Pollux's head. As Pollux raises his gun -- Tito grabs his hand. TITO -- not unless you want that 200 I.Q. splattered all over the floor. (as Archer approaches) We got him now, Jon. ARCHER That's what you always say. Seal it off. I'm going in. Archer moves away from the group and enters the tunnel. MUSIC as Archer and Castor begin their cat-and-mouse dance. Sensing Archer, Castor pauses by an old landing gear. He draws a fresh pistol from his ankle holster and moves on. Archer pauses at the landing gear... his own stealthy movements mirroring Castor's. Castor waits behind a stack of steel drums... his gaze trying to penetrate the darkness... He SNAPS his fingers. The sound ECHOES as he tries to draw Archer in. Archer reacts to the sound and SNAPS back -- answering the challenge. As the deadly beat between them continues -- BLAM BLAM BLAM! Archer spins away just as Castor OPENS FIRE from the gloom... one step ahead. INTERCUT as necessary: CASTOR Jon, I'm getting a little annoyed by your obsessive need to spoil my fun. ARCHER And how much will your 'fun' net you this time? BOOM BOOM BOOM! Half-blind SHOTS send Castor spinning. A moment later, Archer pursues... SNAP! He fits a new CLIP into his pistol. CASTOR What's it to you? I declare it. Here I am, back in the States for less than a week -- ARCHER You're under arrest. Incredibly, you still have the right to remain silent -- CASTOR I've got something going down on the eighteenth... it's gonna be worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaoh. I'll give it up -- but my brother and I have to walk. ARCHER No discussion -- no deals. CASTOR What're you gonna do with me locked up? You'll drive your wife and kid nuts! I bet your daughter is just about ripe by now. What's her name, Janie? Enraged, Archer steps boldly forward -- trying to draw his enemy out. Silence -- then Archer senses... Castor is behind him. He FIRES -- Archer dives away. The BARRAGE CONTINUES -- driving Archer back between two huge turbine engines. As Archer reloads, he stares at the control panel switches. Castor moves in for the kill when he hears a final SNAP- SNAP. Except it isn't a finger snap... it's two switches. VRRRROOOM! The TWIN ENGINES ROAR on! Unable to fight the churning tornado-force wind... Castor's blasted across the hangar... slamming hard into the far wall. The ENGINES STOP and Archer emerges -- joined by Tito. TITO Tell me he didn't get away again... Then Tito follows Archer's gaze to Castor's lifeless body. Still as death -- somehow his mocking smile survives. EXT. AIRPORT TARMAC - SUNSET Heavily-manacled, an extremely agitated Pollux is herded into a SWAT van by Buzz and Wanda. POLLUX Where's my brother?! I want to see my brother! The van takes off -- passing an imposing older man, flanked by two bodyguards. Bullying through the media, Assistant FBI Director VICTOR LAZARRO scans the devastation. Approaching Archer, he watches as Castor's body is loaded on the ambulance. A sheet covers Castor's lifeless face. LAZARRO The oversight committee would've roasted us for this one -- thank God it paid off. Damn fine work. ARCHER Real fine, Victor. Especially the casualties. Archer contemplates the slain agents -- their three bodies laid out in a row -- waiting to be zip-locked. Lazarro reacts grimly as a reporter snaps a photo of the bodies. Instinctively, the two men close ranks. Archer grabs the Nikon, ejects the film, then shoves the camera back. LAZARRO Classified information. No photographs. Lazarro puts a caring arm around Archer's shoulder and leads him away from the media... and the carnage. LAZARRO You okay, Jon? (off Archer's nod) Then go home. Tell Eve. EXT. ARCHER'S HOME (SANTA MONICA) - SUNSET A renovated Craftsman. Sipping a carton of milk, Archer pulls into the driveway. He sits, gathering his thoughts. INT. ARCHER'S HOME - NIGHT Archer enters and sees his wife EVE. Handsome, intelligent. ARCHER Hi... (no response) ... What's wrong? She nods toward the KITCHEN. JAMIE is there -- a sullen and hard fifteen-year-old. There are cigarette cartons on the table. EVE She complimented for her 'F' in history with an 'A' in shoplifting... Archer marches into the kitchen -- noting the crate of Marlboros. Jamie matter-of-factly pours herself coffee. ARCHER Nice stunt, Jamie. You break the law and I'm expected to ignore it? JAMIE That's right -- it's all about you. Don't even ask me what happened. Archer looks to Eve for help. Eve shakes her head -- nope. ARCHER Okay. What happened? JAMIE Like you'd ever fucking believe me! She bolts. In anticipation, Eve calmly opens the door as Jamie rushes out, then closes it behind her. EVE Well, you tried. You failed miserably, but you tried. ARCHER Why won't she even talk to me? EVE Maybe because you taught her never to speak to strangers. (immediately regrets it) I'm sorry... that wasn't fair. Eve kisses his cheek -- then gathers up her doctor gear. EVE I've got patients waiting. Try again, Jon. She hates you -- but she needs you. ARCHER Eve... Something in Archer's expression makes her stop. EVE Jon -- what is it? But he's too overcome. He starts to speak -- but can't. EVE Is it -- him? It's... it's over? Emotions avalanche across his face until he finally looks up. Eve pulls him close -- a sheltering embrace for them both. ARCHER I'm going to make everything up to you and Jamie. I'll put in for a desk job. We'll go away, get counseling -- anything you want. This time, I mean it. INT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Freshly dressed, Archer heads down the hall. He pauses at the door to Jamie's room when he sees -- Jamie. Fully clothed, she's fast asleep on her bed cluttered with clothes and assorted girl-stuff. Her face peaceful. Archer looks around her room... sees the stuffed animals collecting dust... replaced by makeup, jewelry, beefcake Calvin Klein ads and band posters, etc. Archer's startled to see a lacey bustier... his little girl is growing up fast. And he's missing it. He pulls the blanket up over her and quietly slips out. The instant he leaves, Jamie kicks the blankets off. INT. FBI BUILDING - DAY Dominated by the FBI seal. Archer steps to the check point. SECURITY GUARD Print, please. Archer presses his thumb to a scan-pad -- and is cleared. INT. BULL PEN - DAY Efficient as a beehive -- agents, cryptologists, support staff buzz at their routines. Archer strides through -- drawing congratulatory nods and "thumbs up" signs... OUTSIDE HIS OFFICE Archer's team is there. Applauding. Proud. Uneasy with plaudits, he disperses the disappointed agents. ARCHER Much appreciated. Now let's get back to work, okay? WANDA (to Buzz) Is that stick ever gonna fall out of his ass? Archer's well-built secretary -- KIM BREWSTER -- hands him his messages. She's holding a bottle of Dom Perignon. KIMBERLY The C.I.A. sent this over. What should I do with it? ARCHER Send it back and tell them to stop wasting the taxpayers' money. Anything else, Miss Brewster? KIMBERLY No, sir. He enters his office. Kimberly sighs and turns to Wanda. KIMBERLY Four years -- and he still calls me 'Miss Brewster.' INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Sitting at his computer -- Archer scrolls through Castor's file. He grimly contemplates face-after-face of Troy's victims -- finally pausing on a photo of his son Matthew. Burying his feeling, he types "CASE CLOSED" over Castor's image. Archer starts to press "enter" when Tito comes in. ARCHER How's Loomis? TITO He needs some surgery, but he's going to be okay. That's the good news... ARCHER Go on. TITO ... Brodie and Miller from Special Ops need to see you. ARCHER I don't have time for those cloak and dagger guys. Big NED BRODIE and athletic female HOLLIS MILLER stroll in. BRODIE You better make time, Jon. (hefts a disc) We found this in the jet wreckage -- among Pollux Troy's effects... Archer accedes as Miller pops in the disk. The computer screen displays a CAD schematic of the bomb. Archer studies it carefully -- unease growing. ARCHER Porcelain casing... Thermal cloak... Undetectable payload. MILLER Powerful enough to flatten ten city blocks. ARCHER 'Worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaohs.' (to Tito) Get Pollux Troy. Now. DISSOLVE TO: INTERROGATION FOOTAGE Wired to a complex machine -- Pollux seems to have his frustrated interrogators on the run. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Archer, Lazarro, Tito, Brodie, Miller and other FBI officials watch the monitor. Pollux remains implacable POLLUX (V.O.) (on screen) That bomb was just a crossword puzzle to me... a mental exercise. I never built it... Lazarro shuts down the monitor... turns to Archer. ARCHER He's lying. LAZARRO He's hooked up to a full-spectrum polygraph. ARCHER Pollux is a manipulative psychopath. He can control his heartbeat, his sweat glands, his blood pressure... LAZARRO Jon, I trust your instincts, I always have. But D.C. wants more evidence. And frankly, so do I. ARCHER You'll get all the evidence you need when ten thousand people die. LAZARRO We'll get a team right on it. But we can't evacuate the city on what amounts to a hunch. Archer looks at the gathered brass. He knows it's hopeless. ARCHER That bomb has been built, it's out there somewhere and it's going to detonate... EXT. FBI BUILDING - INTELLIGENCE MEMORIAL - DAY Words etched in the granite wall read: IN HONOR OF THOSE MEMBERS OF THE FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION WHO SACRIFICED THEIR LIVES IN THE LINE OF DUTY Archer watches as a workman engraves the last of the three new stars among so many others -- each one honoring the dead. BRODIE Didn't Castor give any clue where the bomb might be? ARCHER Only one person knows -- his brother Pollux. And he'll keep his mouth shut until it blows. BRODIE We could plant an agent in his cell -- get him to spill the location. ARCHER Pollux is way too paranoid. The only person he'd talk to about that bomb is Castor himself. And dead men can't talk. Brodie and Miller exchange a knowing look. BRODIE There might be a way around that... FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S BODY Tubes and hoses are plugged into every orifice. INT. ICU ROOM - DAY Archer stares at the body... he can't believe it. ARCHER Why are you keeping him alive? (gets no answer) As long as he's breathing, he's dangerous. MILLER Relax, he's a turnip. Miller grinds out her cigarette on Castor's leg. Of course, Castor just lies there like a vegetable. BRODIE We can arrange for you to enter Erewhon Prison -- as Castor Troy. ARCHER What are you talking about? Archer turns as DR. MALCOLM HOAG (50s) enters the room. HOAG I think I'd better answer that question. (offers hand) Malcolm Hoag. I run the Physiological Camouflage Unit for Special Ops. ARCHER I know who you are. MILLER But you don't know what he can do. Physical augmentation; enhancement surgery... BRODIE ... He can disguise a compromised agent or alter the likeness -- even the voice -- of a government witness. HOAG Let me show you how it's done. (leading him out) I think you'll recognize our patient... INT. HOAG'S SURGICAL BAY - DAY Loomis lies still as a surgeon carefully scrapes away charred flesh around his burned ear. The doctor turns to a -- STEREO-LITHOGRAPHIC MACHINE Laser-beams attack an organic soup with incredible precision. The light forces a chemical reaction -- and out of the soup -- an ear begins to form. It rises from the liquid, now fully-formed. The surgeon takes the ear and fits it in place on Loomis's head. He starts suturing. OBSERVATION BOOTH - ABOVE Archer, Hoag, Brodie and Miller watch the operation -- video-enhanced by the two huge screens on the far walls. HOAG With our new generation of anti- inflammatories, healing is accelerated from weeks to days. By his next paycheck, he won't even remember which ear he lost. (a beat) Your situation, however, would be a little less permanent... BRODIE -- and a lot more classified. Hoag holds up a face-sized organic shell made up of yellow cartilage pieces and tendons, etc. Archer pulls it over his face -- like a gauze mask. A "tendon" falls off. ARCHER This'll fool Pollux. HOAG That is a state-of-the-art morpho- genetic template. The inside can be built to match the exact shape of your skull; the outside -- exactly like Castor's. Then we fit his face right on top -- MILLER -- and you become him. ARCHER You're talking about removing the guy's face? BRODIE Borrowing, Jon. The procedure's completely reversible. MILLER One way or the other -- the mission ends on the eighteenth. Archer turns the shell over and over and over in his hands. BRODIE You know Castor better than anyone. You've lived and breathed him for years -- hell, you even look a little like him. Archer shoves the template back at Hoag. ARCHER Find yourself another lab-rat. MILLER If you don't do this -- Castor will beat us again. He'll beat you again... Archer pushes his way past them -- and marches out. HOAG I don't think that went very well. BRODIE Trust us, Doc... MILLER ... he'll jerk around. Then he'll be back. INT. INTERROGATION BOOTHS - DAY Archer enters... sizes up DIETRICH HASSLER. His stylish garb doesn't completely hide his criminal roots. Archer sits down calmly. He looks at his watch. ARCHER I'm in a hurry, Dietrich. So you've only got ten seconds to go through your usual litany of lies, empty threats, and moronic denials. Then I'm coming over there -- DIETRICH If you're in such a fucking hurry -- why are you wasting your time with me? I'm just an art dealer. ARCHER You're a dealer, all right: technical secrets, munitions... explosives. DIETRICH You've never proven any of that. And when my bitchy, never-been- laid femi-nazi lawyer gets here, she's going to... ARCHER Time's up. Archer topples the wooden table and tears a leg from the top. Brandishing it -- he stalks the startled thug. HALLWAY JUST OUTSIDE - CONTINUOUS ACTION Lazarro blanches as an obsessed Archer repeatedly slams the table leg against the wall -- above Dietrich's head. LAZARRO The only ticking bomb I see is inside his head. He's getting worse, Tito. TITO Don't worry, sir. It's all an act... But as Lazarro leaves -- we see Tito's worried, too. BACK INSIDE BOOTH Archer has a terrified Dietrich backed into the corner. DIETRICH ... Okay! Castor called me but I blew him off... I swear I never saw him. And I don't know anything about any bomb! INT. CORRIDOR - OUTSIDE INTERROGATION BOOTHS - SAME TIME Archer emerges... eyes blazing. ARCHER Let him go, but I want him watched... Who's next? TITO Just Dietrich's sister... In another booth, a careworn but striking woman sits with a little boy on her lap. She gently helps him Crayola a book. This is SASHA HASSLER (30) and her son ADAM (5). INT. INTERROGATION BOOTH - DAY Archer hovers over Sasha -- her maternal warmth replaced by an icy hatred. Tito and the child are gone. ARCHER When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? SASHA Who cares? He's dead. ARCHER Answer the question. SASHA Look, I'm clean. I teach kids now -- ARCHER Sasha -- you are a felon, on probation for harboring Castor Troy. So it's in your best interest to cooperate. (as she's silent) Would you like your son put in a foster home? Sasha's eyes flash, her body coils -- but she keeps control. SASHA No, but I'm sure you'd love it -- you sick bastard. ARCHER (unmoved) When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? She stares at him with equal amounts of pity and hatred. SASHA I haven't seen him for years. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY Archer watches as Adam leaves Dietrich and jumps into Sasha's arms. She hugs him protectively. Adam sees Archer watching them -- and smiles. Archer doesn't smile back. FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S REAL FACE PULL BACK TO: INT. I.C.U. - NIGHT Archer slowly circles Castor's muscular, hairy, tattooed body. Although on life support -- his signature smirk remains. ARCHER What about Lazarro? BRODIE No way -- the red tape alone would take a month. This is a black-bag operation -- completely off the books. MILLER If you need him, Tito can help you prepare. But you know the drill: You can't tell anyone -- not the Director, not your wife... nobody. Archer's face shows he doesn't like it -- then he nods. ARCHER I'm in. EXT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Archer slowly gets out of his car. Trudging toward the front door, he picks up a basketball and takes a shot. His form is terrible -- he misses by a mile. INT. HALLWAY - NIGHT Archer passes Jamie's room. Loud MUSIC POUNDS from within. He pauses to knock, thinks again, then heads down the hall. INT. MASTER BEDROOM - NIGHT Eve is in bed. Archer comes in quietly and sits beside her -- studying her peaceful, sleeping face. She stirs. EVE I was dreaming... ARCHER Something good? EVE I'm not sure... you were flying this

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"Face/Off", production draft, by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary FACE/OFF Written by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary Revised 9/10/96 FADE INTO: SEPIA-TONE FOOTAGE of a pig chasing a lion chasing a dinosaur chasing an elephant. Noah's Ark going round... and round... and round... EXT. GRIFFITH PARK CAROUSEL - DAY Disjointed CALLIOPE MUSIC as the wheel of fate and fortune goes around until we PULL BACK to reveal: JON ARCHER (30) rising winged Pegasus. On the adjacent unicorn is his son MATTHEW (5). Clutching a balloon, Matty waves at his dad. A happy moment, like so many certain to follow -- until we realize we are watching them THROUGH... SNIPER'S RIFLE SCOPE - SNIPER'S EYES wait until the child clears his aim -- Archer is the target. They round the bend and disappear... MATTHEW Loses his grip on the unicorn. Archer reaches over and pulls him into his lap. They happily ride together... As the horses sweep back INTO VIEW... exposing Archer... Now we see the sniper. CASTOR TROY is cool, efficient, aggressive, sexual. His finger closes around the trigger. BOOM! A BULLET RIPS into Archer's back. Bleeding... he drops off his horse... and sinks to the deck of the carousel. His eyes desperately searching... searching... searching... until he sees -- Matthew lies on his back -- still. Slowly, Archer reaches out and takes Matthew's hand... and now we see COLOR for the first time... Blood red... as bleeding father touches bleeding son... TILT UP TO the winged Pegasus flying by -- now in full color and UP UP UP TO Matthew's red balloon... floating away. HANDEL'S MESSIAH OVER a SERIES OF SHOTS: FBI BRIEFING ROOM Gazing out the window as dawn breaks over the city below is Jon Archer... older... unshaven... fatigued... his eyes reveal a man in the grip of obsession. CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by, as if marking time itself... HOLY PLACE Smoky, spiritual... dominated by a gleaming, golden cross. A priest kneels before it -- deep in prayer. The glimmering cross comes INTO FOCUS... but it's just a light-reflection... off the casing of a large bomb. This is no chapel... but an atrium. Somewhere. And as the "priest" rubs out his cigarette we see it's Castor Troy -- carefully installing this complex device. ANOTHER CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by... ARCHER pockets his FBI badge, then holsters his gun... CASTOR sets the bomb timer -- then replaces a wall panel in front of it. Totally hidden. BRIEFING ROOM - CASTOR'S MUGSHOT is on a computer screen. His criminal dossier scrolls by endlessly: bombings, assassinations, mercenary kidnappings, terrorism-for-hire... Rookie agent LOOMIS studies the details carefully. Other agents -- including BUZZ and WANDA scan computer grid- maps, man phones, etc. amid the take-out cartons and coffee cups. These people are on high alert. ARCHER Any follow-up from L.A.P.D. Intelligence? BUZZ No, sir, nothing yet. ARCHER Get them on the phone -- now. What about S.I.S. and our airport teams? WANDA We've had everything from psychics to satellites on this. Even if Castor was here... he must have slipped the net by now... ARCHER He's here! And we're going to keep looking until we find him! A silence descends on the chastised team. As they go back to work, veteran agent TITO BIONDI takes Archer aside. TITO Jon, these people have been working round the clock -- you gotta cut them some slack... Archer considers his best friend's advice -- then... ARCHER I'll cut them some slack when I cut myself some slack. Archer marches out -- slamming the door behind him. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY (MORNING) Castor quietly shuts the security door behind him. An Hispanic voice startles him. JANITOR What are you doing? CASTOR (in perfect Spanish) Thank goodness, I feel like Icarus in the labyrinth -- where's the men's room? JANITOR (in Spanish) This area is off limits, Padre. (re: security door) How did you get in that room? Realizing the JANITOR is already too suspicious, Castor puts a priestly arm around him -- and leads him down the hall. CASTOR Okay... I have a confession to make, but you aren't gonna like it. I was planting a bomb. JANITOR Bomb? CASTOR You know -- boom -- (patting his neck) Oh, never mind... The Janitor suddenly twitches, his eyes rolls up in his head. As he gasps his last -- Castor heaves him down a stairwell. Now we see the needle-thin custom stiletto in Castor's hand. Castor kicks the Janitor's mop and bucket down the stairs -- making everything look like an accident. INT. SAME BUILDING - MAIN FLOOR - DAY (MORNING) The children's church choir -- 200 strong -- sing "Behold the Lamb of God." Clergy and lay persons listen reverently. "Father" Castor strolls by the singers -- casually heading for the exit. As he passes the risers, a teenage girl drops her sheet music at his feet. Returning it -- he whispers in her ear -- so close he's practically licking it. CASTOR I've never enjoyed 'The Messiah.' But your voice makes even a hack like Handel seem like a genius. He pats her behind and leaves. Although a little shaken, she's also drawn by Castor's sexual magnetism. EXT. LA CONVENTION CENTER - DAY (MORNING) The marquee proclaims: INTERNATIONAL CHURCH CHOIRS 18th- 21st: AMERICAN BAR ASSOCIATION. Castor exits -- politely holding the door for a beat cop. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY (MORNING) The office is a monument to obsession: photographs, clues, newsclips, totems of Castor Troy surround a pacing Archer. ARCHER (on phone) ... I don't have time to get a warrant from some hung-over judge. Just give me the go-ahead, Victor, and I promise -- as soon as this is over -- you can brand my butt with the Fourth Amendment. The instant Archer hangs up -- the INTERCOM BUZZES. KIM (V.O.) Sir, your wife's on line one... S.I.S. on two... ARCHER Tell her to hang on -- As Archer punches up line two -- Tito bursts in. TITO A jet was chartered at Anderson Airfield. Guess who just showed up to pay for it? Pollux Troy. ARCHER Scramble the Reaction Team -- we're moving out. And get one of our people on that plane. TITO But there's still no sign of Castor... ARCHER Where one brother goes, the other's sure to follow... They rush our... the hold button on line 1 still blinking. EXT. PRIVATE AIRPORT - ESTABLISHING - DAY A sleek Cadillac pulls in... stopping next to a Land Rover. LARS MUELLER -- a muscular, crystal-eyed jar-head -- gets out of the Caddy. An instant later -- LUNT MUELLER -- emerges from the Rover. They are identical twins. The men scan the airport carefully, then open the rear doors of their respective vehicles. Castor emerges from the Caddy -- Armani clad. Exiting the Rover is Castor's younger brother POLLUX TROY -- skittish, brilliant, paranoid -- a human hummingbird. POLLUX You're 26 minutes late. The casing didn't fit -- right? I knew that cheap-shit Dietrich would rip us off... CASTOR Oh, God -- ! POLLUX What!? CASTOR I forgot to turn the damn thing on! POLLUX You're kidding, right? (to the twins) He's kidding... (grabs Castor by throat) ... are you fucking kidding!? Castor hugs Pollux lovingly. Pollux squirms like a kid. CASTOR Bro -- everything went fine. POLLUX I hate when you call me bro. Pollux heads for the jet. Castor hands Lunt a wad of cash. CASTOR Thanks for babysitting. LUNT Anything else? CASTOR I'll contact you when we get the rest of the money. (turns to leave) Oh, and stat away from downtown. The inversion layer's going to be pretty thick around the 18th. The twins nod... then take off. Castor heads for the jet. INT. JET - DAY Castor hustles in -- exhorting the PILOT. CASTOR Let's go, let's go! As the JET TURBINES start to WHINE, Castor sinks into his seat. A very sexy FLIGHT ATTENDANT appears and hands him a Scotch. He downs it, looking her over salaciously. FLIGHT ATTENDANT Would you like anything else? CASTOR Hell, yes... (pulls her into lap) It's the only way to fly. She smiles, not minding, until the jet suddenly slows its taxi down the runway. COCKPIT Castor yanks open the door. CASTOR What's wrong? AT END OF RUNWAY A squat car creeps INTO VIEW -- blocking the runway. EXT./INT. HUMVEE - MOVING - DAY Behind the wheel is Jon Archer. Beside him is Tito. BACK TO ARCHER CASTOR It's Archer. (gun to Pilot's head) Go, dammit! Suddenly the gun is BLASTED from Castor's hand. he turns around to see... the Flight Attendant behind them -- holding a smoking pistol. This is Agent WINTERS. WINTERS F.B.I.! Throttle down, captain! But Castor elbows the throttle up. The jet lurches forward, throwing Winters off balance. Pollux tackles her as the jet picks up speed. INT. HUMVEE - DAY Archer slams the vehicle into gear. ARCHER Get out. TITO You're not playing chicken with two tons of aluminum... ARCHER Get out! Tito obeys as Archer peels out. The HUMMER ROARS at the jet. The jet picks up speed, trying to get aloft. The humvee is aimed right at it... Archer's eyes narrow. COLLISION COURSE as two hunks of metal bear down. The machines are seconds apart when -- Archer looks up to see... Winters' face pressed up against the cockpit window, Castor holding a gun to her head. Archer cuts the wheel -- just avoiding the jet. The Hummer skids to a stop as Federal back-up arrives -- but too late. Archer watches an FBI chopper -- landing in a swirl of dust. As the jet picks up speed... the hatch opens. Castor blasts Winters in the side and tosses her onto the tarmac. INSIDE Castor smiles at Pollux, sensing freedom, until... KA-CHUNK: Something POUNDS the jet -- from above. Castor leans out the hatch and sees... The chopper on top of them -- Archer at the controls. Eye-contact -- years of hatred pass between these men. Castor BLASTS at him from the open hatch. The chopper's left windscreen spiderwebs. Archer jerks and weaves -- dodging the BULLETS. The chopper pulls away. The jet finally lifts off... when... The chopper settles on the jet -- slamming at its tail. TARMAC Tito reacts to this madness -- as the chopper plays a deadly game of leap-frog with the jet. The end of the runway is coming up fast. Archer crushes the jet's horizontal elevator flap. JET PILOT can't budge the jet's jammed yoke. Thwarted, he powers back the throttle. Thrust reverse. CASTOR What are you doing? PILOT The horizontal elevator's smashed! We can't lift off! CASTOR SHOOTS the Pilot -- then takes the controls. He struggles to maneuver the jet. Suddenly... A biplane descends right at them -- about to land. ARCHER pulls up just as the JET swerves radically to avoid the biplane and SLAMS into the hangar. JET plows through the GLASS DOOR, the NOSE-WHEEL SNAPS off. The PLANE SKIDS right into the hangar -- finally stopping at the wings. FBI CHOPPER lands. Archer steps out calmly -- like a cop about to write a traffic ticket. He hurries to join more FBI agents rushing into the hangar ahead of him. INT. HANGAR - DAY The jet hatch pops open -- Castor leaps from it, FIRING. Two FBI agents drop -- riddled. Pollux appears at the hatch -- an FBI sharpshooter FIRES, grazing Pollux's shoulder. Staggered, Pollux falls -- Castor catches him before he hits the floor -- simultaneously BLASTING the sharpshooter. Castor drags Pollux back into the smoke-filled hangar. Archer arrives and quickly checks the dead agents, his anger building. He signals Tito and the others to spread out. DEEP IN HANGAR A maze of airplane debris and heavy machinery. Led by Archer, the FBI agents pick their way through it. ROOKIE LOOMIS snaps alert -- did he see something? Advancing carefully, he comes up on... Castor -- staunching Pollux's shoulder wound. Pollux sees the agent -- and FIRES. Loomis hits the floor -- his bleeding ear is shredded. Suddenly a forklift charges down on Castor and Pollux. Tito is at the wheel. Castor FIRES -- forcing Tito to dive off. The forklift careens on -- driving apart the brothers. The forklift upends a stack of heavy crates -- pinning Pollux. Castor tries to free his trapped brother. POLLUX Forget it -- Go! Go! He slaps his Glock into Pollux's hand. CASTOR Wherever they put you, I'll find a way to get you out... Pollux starts FIRING -- covering Castor as he runs through a tunnel which leads to an adjoining hangar. Suddenly Wanda presses her machine-pistol into Pollux's head. As Pollux raises his gun -- Tito grabs his hand. TITO -- not unless you want that 200 I.Q. splattered all over the floor. (as Archer approaches) We got him now, Jon. ARCHER That's what you always say. Seal it off. I'm going in. Archer moves away from the group and enters the tunnel. MUSIC as Archer and Castor begin their cat-and-mouse dance. Sensing Archer, Castor pauses by an old landing gear. He draws a fresh pistol from his ankle holster and moves on. Archer pauses at the landing gear... his own stealthy movements mirroring Castor's. Castor waits behind a stack of steel drums... his gaze trying to penetrate the darkness... He SNAPS his fingers. The sound ECHOES as he tries to draw Archer in. Archer reacts to the sound and SNAPS back -- answering the challenge. As the deadly beat between them continues -- BLAM BLAM BLAM! Archer spins away just as Castor OPENS FIRE from the gloom... one step ahead. INTERCUT as necessary: CASTOR Jon, I'm getting a little annoyed by your obsessive need to spoil my fun. ARCHER And how much will your 'fun' net you this time? BOOM BOOM BOOM! Half-blind SHOTS send Castor spinning. A moment later, Archer pursues... SNAP! He fits a new CLIP into his pistol. CASTOR What's it to you? I declare it. Here I am, back in the States for less than a week -- ARCHER You're under arrest. Incredibly, you still have the right to remain silent -- CASTOR I've got something going down on the eighteenth... it's gonna be worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaoh. I'll give it up -- but my brother and I have to walk. ARCHER No discussion -- no deals. CASTOR What're you gonna do with me locked up? You'll drive your wife and kid nuts! I bet your daughter is just about ripe by now. What's her name, Janie? Enraged, Archer steps boldly forward -- trying to draw his enemy out. Silence -- then Archer senses... Castor is behind him. He FIRES -- Archer dives away. The BARRAGE CONTINUES -- driving Archer back between two huge turbine engines. As Archer reloads, he stares at the control panel switches. Castor moves in for the kill when he hears a final SNAP- SNAP. Except it isn't a finger snap... it's two switches. VRRRROOOM! The TWIN ENGINES ROAR on! Unable to fight the churning tornado-force wind... Castor's blasted across the hangar... slamming hard into the far wall. The ENGINES STOP and Archer emerges -- joined by Tito. TITO Tell me he didn't get away again... Then Tito follows Archer's gaze to Castor's lifeless body. Still as death -- somehow his mocking smile survives. EXT. AIRPORT TARMAC - SUNSET Heavily-manacled, an extremely agitated Pollux is herded into a SWAT van by Buzz and Wanda. POLLUX Where's my brother?! I want to see my brother! The van takes off -- passing an imposing older man, flanked by two bodyguards. Bullying through the media, Assistant FBI Director VICTOR LAZARRO scans the devastation. Approaching Archer, he watches as Castor's body is loaded on the ambulance. A sheet covers Castor's lifeless face. LAZARRO The oversight committee would've roasted us for this one -- thank God it paid off. Damn fine work. ARCHER Real fine, Victor. Especially the casualties. Archer contemplates the slain agents -- their three bodies laid out in a row -- waiting to be zip-locked. Lazarro reacts grimly as a reporter snaps a photo of the bodies. Instinctively, the two men close ranks. Archer grabs the Nikon, ejects the film, then shoves the camera back. LAZARRO Classified information. No photographs. Lazarro puts a caring arm around Archer's shoulder and leads him away from the media... and the carnage. LAZARRO You okay, Jon? (off Archer's nod) Then go home. Tell Eve. EXT. ARCHER'S HOME (SANTA MONICA) - SUNSET A renovated Craftsman. Sipping a carton of milk, Archer pulls into the driveway. He sits, gathering his thoughts. INT. ARCHER'S HOME - NIGHT Archer enters and sees his wife EVE. Handsome, intelligent. ARCHER Hi... (no response) ... What's wrong? She nods toward the KITCHEN. JAMIE is there -- a sullen and hard fifteen-year-old. There are cigarette cartons on the table. EVE She complimented for her 'F' in history with an 'A' in shoplifting... Archer marches into the kitchen -- noting the crate of Marlboros. Jamie matter-of-factly pours herself coffee. ARCHER Nice stunt, Jamie. You break the law and I'm expected to ignore it? JAMIE That's right -- it's all about you. Don't even ask me what happened. Archer looks to Eve for help. Eve shakes her head -- nope. ARCHER Okay. What happened? JAMIE Like you'd ever fucking believe me! She bolts. In anticipation, Eve calmly opens the door as Jamie rushes out, then closes it behind her. EVE Well, you tried. You failed miserably, but you tried. ARCHER Why won't she even talk to me? EVE Maybe because you taught her never to speak to strangers. (immediately regrets it) I'm sorry... that wasn't fair. Eve kisses his cheek -- then gathers up her doctor gear. EVE I've got patients waiting. Try again, Jon. She hates you -- but she needs you. ARCHER Eve... Something in Archer's expression makes her stop. EVE Jon -- what is it? But he's too overcome. He starts to speak -- but can't. EVE Is it -- him? It's... it's over? Emotions avalanche across his face until he finally looks up. Eve pulls him close -- a sheltering embrace for them both. ARCHER I'm going to make everything up to you and Jamie. I'll put in for a desk job. We'll go away, get counseling -- anything you want. This time, I mean it. INT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Freshly dressed, Archer heads down the hall. He pauses at the door to Jamie's room when he sees -- Jamie. Fully clothed, she's fast asleep on her bed cluttered with clothes and assorted girl-stuff. Her face peaceful. Archer looks around her room... sees the stuffed animals collecting dust... replaced by makeup, jewelry, beefcake Calvin Klein ads and band posters, etc. Archer's startled to see a lacey bustier... his little girl is growing up fast. And he's missing it. He pulls the blanket up over her and quietly slips out. The instant he leaves, Jamie kicks the blankets off. INT. FBI BUILDING - DAY Dominated by the FBI seal. Archer steps to the check point. SECURITY GUARD Print, please. Archer presses his thumb to a scan-pad -- and is cleared. INT. BULL PEN - DAY Efficient as a beehive -- agents, cryptologists, support staff buzz at their routines. Archer strides through -- drawing congratulatory nods and "thumbs up" signs... OUTSIDE HIS OFFICE Archer's team is there. Applauding. Proud. Uneasy with plaudits, he disperses the disappointed agents. ARCHER Much appreciated. Now let's get back to work, okay? WANDA (to Buzz) Is that stick ever gonna fall out of his ass? Archer's well-built secretary -- KIM BREWSTER -- hands him his messages. She's holding a bottle of Dom Perignon. KIMBERLY The C.I.A. sent this over. What should I do with it? ARCHER Send it back and tell them to stop wasting the taxpayers' money. Anything else, Miss Brewster? KIMBERLY No, sir. He enters his office. Kimberly sighs and turns to Wanda. KIMBERLY Four years -- and he still calls me 'Miss Brewster.' INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Sitting at his computer -- Archer scrolls through Castor's file. He grimly contemplates face-after-face of Troy's victims -- finally pausing on a photo of his son Matthew. Burying his feeling, he types "CASE CLOSED" over Castor's image. Archer starts to press "enter" when Tito comes in. ARCHER How's Loomis? TITO He needs some surgery, but he's going to be okay. That's the good news... ARCHER Go on. TITO ... Brodie and Miller from Special Ops need to see you. ARCHER I don't have time for those cloak and dagger guys. Big NED BRODIE and athletic female HOLLIS MILLER stroll in. BRODIE You better make time, Jon. (hefts a disc) We found this in the jet wreckage -- among Pollux Troy's effects... Archer accedes as Miller pops in the disk. The computer screen displays a CAD schematic of the bomb. Archer studies it carefully -- unease growing. ARCHER Porcelain casing... Thermal cloak... Undetectable payload. MILLER Powerful enough to flatten ten city blocks. ARCHER 'Worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaohs.' (to Tito) Get Pollux Troy. Now. DISSOLVE TO: INTERROGATION FOOTAGE Wired to a complex machine -- Pollux seems to have his frustrated interrogators on the run. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Archer, Lazarro, Tito, Brodie, Miller and other FBI officials watch the monitor. Pollux remains implacable POLLUX (V.O.) (on screen) That bomb was just a crossword puzzle to me... a mental exercise. I never built it... Lazarro shuts down the monitor... turns to Archer. ARCHER He's lying. LAZARRO He's hooked up to a full-spectrum polygraph. ARCHER Pollux is a manipulative psychopath. He can control his heartbeat, his sweat glands, his blood pressure... LAZARRO Jon, I trust your instincts, I always have. But D.C. wants more evidence. And frankly, so do I. ARCHER You'll get all the evidence you need when ten thousand people die. LAZARRO We'll get a team right on it. But we can't evacuate the city on what amounts to a hunch. Archer looks at the gathered brass. He knows it's hopeless. ARCHER That bomb has been built, it's out there somewhere and it's going to detonate... EXT. FBI BUILDING - INTELLIGENCE MEMORIAL - DAY Words etched in the granite wall read: IN HONOR OF THOSE MEMBERS OF THE FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION WHO SACRIFICED THEIR LIVES IN THE LINE OF DUTY Archer watches as a workman engraves the last of the three new stars among so many others -- each one honoring the dead. BRODIE Didn't Castor give any clue where the bomb might be? ARCHER Only one person knows -- his brother Pollux. And he'll keep his mouth shut until it blows. BRODIE We could plant an agent in his cell -- get him to spill the location. ARCHER Pollux is way too paranoid. The only person he'd talk to about that bomb is Castor himself. And dead men can't talk. Brodie and Miller exchange a knowing look. BRODIE There might be a way around that... FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S BODY Tubes and hoses are plugged into every orifice. INT. ICU ROOM - DAY Archer stares at the body... he can't believe it. ARCHER Why are you keeping him alive? (gets no answer) As long as he's breathing, he's dangerous. MILLER Relax, he's a turnip. Miller grinds out her cigarette on Castor's leg. Of course, Castor just lies there like a vegetable. BRODIE We can arrange for you to enter Erewhon Prison -- as Castor Troy. ARCHER What are you talking about? Archer turns as DR. MALCOLM HOAG (50s) enters the room. HOAG I think I'd better answer that question. (offers hand) Malcolm Hoag. I run the Physiological Camouflage Unit for Special Ops. ARCHER I know who you are. MILLER But you don't know what he can do. Physical augmentation; enhancement surgery... BRODIE ... He can disguise a compromised agent or alter the likeness -- even the voice -- of a government witness. HOAG Let me show you how it's done. (leading him out) I think you'll recognize our patient... INT. HOAG'S SURGICAL BAY - DAY Loomis lies still as a surgeon carefully scrapes away charred flesh around his burned ear. The doctor turns to a -- STEREO-LITHOGRAPHIC MACHINE Laser-beams attack an organic soup with incredible precision. The light forces a chemical reaction -- and out of the soup -- an ear begins to form. It rises from the liquid, now fully-formed. The surgeon takes the ear and fits it in place on Loomis's head. He starts suturing. OBSERVATION BOOTH - ABOVE Archer, Hoag, Brodie and Miller watch the operation -- video-enhanced by the two huge screens on the far walls. HOAG With our new generation of anti- inflammatories, healing is accelerated from weeks to days. By his next paycheck, he won't even remember which ear he lost. (a beat) Your situation, however, would be a little less permanent... BRODIE -- and a lot more classified. Hoag holds up a face-sized organic shell made up of yellow cartilage pieces and tendons, etc. Archer pulls it over his face -- like a gauze mask. A "tendon" falls off. ARCHER This'll fool Pollux. HOAG That is a state-of-the-art morpho- genetic template. The inside can be built to match the exact shape of your skull; the outside -- exactly like Castor's. Then we fit his face right on top -- MILLER -- and you become him. ARCHER You're talking about removing the guy's face? BRODIE Borrowing, Jon. The procedure's completely reversible. MILLER One way or the other -- the mission ends on the eighteenth. Archer turns the shell over and over and over in his hands. BRODIE You know Castor better than anyone. You've lived and breathed him for years -- hell, you even look a little like him. Archer shoves the template back at Hoag. ARCHER Find yourself another lab-rat. MILLER If you don't do this -- Castor will beat us again. He'll beat you again... Archer pushes his way past them -- and marches out. HOAG I don't think that went very well. BRODIE Trust us, Doc... MILLER ... he'll jerk around. Then he'll be back. INT. INTERROGATION BOOTHS - DAY Archer enters... sizes up DIETRICH HASSLER. His stylish garb doesn't completely hide his criminal roots. Archer sits down calmly. He looks at his watch. ARCHER I'm in a hurry, Dietrich. So you've only got ten seconds to go through your usual litany of lies, empty threats, and moronic denials. Then I'm coming over there -- DIETRICH If you're in such a fucking hurry -- why are you wasting your time with me? I'm just an art dealer. ARCHER You're a dealer, all right: technical secrets, munitions... explosives. DIETRICH You've never proven any of that. And when my bitchy, never-been- laid femi-nazi lawyer gets here, she's going to... ARCHER Time's up. Archer topples the wooden table and tears a leg from the top. Brandishing it -- he stalks the startled thug. HALLWAY JUST OUTSIDE - CONTINUOUS ACTION Lazarro blanches as an obsessed Archer repeatedly slams the table leg against the wall -- above Dietrich's head. LAZARRO The only ticking bomb I see is inside his head. He's getting worse, Tito. TITO Don't worry, sir. It's all an act... But as Lazarro leaves -- we see Tito's worried, too. BACK INSIDE BOOTH Archer has a terrified Dietrich backed into the corner. DIETRICH ... Okay! Castor called me but I blew him off... I swear I never saw him. And I don't know anything about any bomb! INT. CORRIDOR - OUTSIDE INTERROGATION BOOTHS - SAME TIME Archer emerges... eyes blazing. ARCHER Let him go, but I want him watched... Who's next? TITO Just Dietrich's sister... In another booth, a careworn but striking woman sits with a little boy on her lap. She gently helps him Crayola a book. This is SASHA HASSLER (30) and her son ADAM (5). INT. INTERROGATION BOOTH - DAY Archer hovers over Sasha -- her maternal warmth replaced by an icy hatred. Tito and the child are gone. ARCHER When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? SASHA Who cares? He's dead. ARCHER Answer the question. SASHA Look, I'm clean. I teach kids now -- ARCHER Sasha -- you are a felon, on probation for harboring Castor Troy. So it's in your best interest to cooperate. (as she's silent) Would you like your son put in a foster home? Sasha's eyes flash, her body coils -- but she keeps control. SASHA No, but I'm sure you'd love it -- you sick bastard. ARCHER (unmoved) When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? She stares at him with equal amounts of pity and hatred. SASHA I haven't seen him for years. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY Archer watches as Adam leaves Dietrich and jumps into Sasha's arms. She hugs him protectively. Adam sees Archer watching them -- and smiles. Archer doesn't smile back. FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S REAL FACE PULL BACK TO: INT. I.C.U. - NIGHT Archer slowly circles Castor's muscular, hairy, tattooed body. Although on life support -- his signature smirk remains. ARCHER What about Lazarro? BRODIE No way -- the red tape alone would take a month. This is a black-bag operation -- completely off the books. MILLER If you need him, Tito can help you prepare. But you know the drill: You can't tell anyone -- not the Director, not your wife... nobody. Archer's face shows he doesn't like it -- then he nods. ARCHER I'm in. EXT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Archer slowly gets out of his car. Trudging toward the front door, he picks up a basketball and takes a shot. His form is terrible -- he misses by a mile. INT. HALLWAY - NIGHT Archer passes Jamie's room. Loud MUSIC POUNDS from within. He pauses to knock, thinks again, then heads down the hall. INT. MASTER BEDROOM - NIGHT Eve is in bed. Archer comes in quietly and sits beside her -- studying her peaceful, sleeping face. She stirs. EVE I was dreaming... ARCHER Something good? EVE I'm not sure... you were flying this

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"Face/Off", production draft, by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary FACE/OFF Written by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary Revised 9/10/96 FADE INTO: SEPIA-TONE FOOTAGE of a pig chasing a lion chasing a dinosaur chasing an elephant. Noah's Ark going round... and round... and round... EXT. GRIFFITH PARK CAROUSEL - DAY Disjointed CALLIOPE MUSIC as the wheel of fate and fortune goes around until we PULL BACK to reveal: JON ARCHER (30) rising winged Pegasus. On the adjacent unicorn is his son MATTHEW (5). Clutching a balloon, Matty waves at his dad. A happy moment, like so many certain to follow -- until we realize we are watching them THROUGH... SNIPER'S RIFLE SCOPE - SNIPER'S EYES wait until the child clears his aim -- Archer is the target. They round the bend and disappear... MATTHEW Loses his grip on the unicorn. Archer reaches over and pulls him into his lap. They happily ride together... As the horses sweep back INTO VIEW... exposing Archer... Now we see the sniper. CASTOR TROY is cool, efficient, aggressive, sexual. His finger closes around the trigger. BOOM! A BULLET RIPS into Archer's back. Bleeding... he drops off his horse... and sinks to the deck of the carousel. His eyes desperately searching... searching... searching... until he sees -- Matthew lies on his back -- still. Slowly, Archer reaches out and takes Matthew's hand... and now we see COLOR for the first time... Blood red... as bleeding father touches bleeding son... TILT UP TO the winged Pegasus flying by -- now in full color and UP UP UP TO Matthew's red balloon... floating away. HANDEL'S MESSIAH OVER a SERIES OF SHOTS: FBI BRIEFING ROOM Gazing out the window as dawn breaks over the city below is Jon Archer... older... unshaven... fatigued... his eyes reveal a man in the grip of obsession. CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by, as if marking time itself... HOLY PLACE Smoky, spiritual... dominated by a gleaming, golden cross. A priest kneels before it -- deep in prayer. The glimmering cross comes INTO FOCUS... but it's just a light-reflection... off the casing of a large bomb. This is no chapel... but an atrium. Somewhere. And as the "priest" rubs out his cigarette we see it's Castor Troy -- carefully installing this complex device. ANOTHER CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by... ARCHER pockets his FBI badge, then holsters his gun... CASTOR sets the bomb timer -- then replaces a wall panel in front of it. Totally hidden. BRIEFING ROOM - CASTOR'S MUGSHOT is on a computer screen. His criminal dossier scrolls by endlessly: bombings, assassinations, mercenary kidnappings, terrorism-for-hire... Rookie agent LOOMIS studies the details carefully. Other agents -- including BUZZ and WANDA scan computer grid- maps, man phones, etc. amid the take-out cartons and coffee cups. These people are on high alert. ARCHER Any follow-up from L.A.P.D. Intelligence? BUZZ No, sir, nothing yet. ARCHER Get them on the phone -- now. What about S.I.S. and our airport teams? WANDA We've had everything from psychics to satellites on this. Even if Castor was here... he must have slipped the net by now... ARCHER He's here! And we're going to keep looking until we find him! A silence descends on the chastised team. As they go back to work, veteran agent TITO BIONDI takes Archer aside. TITO Jon, these people have been working round the clock -- you gotta cut them some slack... Archer considers his best friend's advice -- then... ARCHER I'll cut them some slack when I cut myself some slack. Archer marches out -- slamming the door behind him. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY (MORNING) Castor quietly shuts the security door behind him. An Hispanic voice startles him. JANITOR What are you doing? CASTOR (in perfect Spanish) Thank goodness, I feel like Icarus in the labyrinth -- where's the men's room? JANITOR (in Spanish) This area is off limits, Padre. (re: security door) How did you get in that room? Realizing the JANITOR is already too suspicious, Castor puts a priestly arm around him -- and leads him down the hall. CASTOR Okay... I have a confession to make, but you aren't gonna like it. I was planting a bomb. JANITOR Bomb? CASTOR You know -- boom -- (patting his neck) Oh, never mind... The Janitor suddenly twitches, his eyes rolls up in his head. As he gasps his last -- Castor heaves him down a stairwell. Now we see the needle-thin custom stiletto in Castor's hand. Castor kicks the Janitor's mop and bucket down the stairs -- making everything look like an accident. INT. SAME BUILDING - MAIN FLOOR - DAY (MORNING) The children's church choir -- 200 strong -- sing "Behold the Lamb of God." Clergy and lay persons listen reverently. "Father" Castor strolls by the singers -- casually heading for the exit. As he passes the risers, a teenage girl drops her sheet music at his feet. Returning it -- he whispers in her ear -- so close he's practically licking it. CASTOR I've never enjoyed 'The Messiah.' But your voice makes even a hack like Handel seem like a genius. He pats her behind and leaves. Although a little shaken, she's also drawn by Castor's sexual magnetism. EXT. LA CONVENTION CENTER - DAY (MORNING) The marquee proclaims: INTERNATIONAL CHURCH CHOIRS 18th- 21st: AMERICAN BAR ASSOCIATION. Castor exits -- politely holding the door for a beat cop. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY (MORNING) The office is a monument to obsession: photographs, clues, newsclips, totems of Castor Troy surround a pacing Archer. ARCHER (on phone) ... I don't have time to get a warrant from some hung-over judge. Just give me the go-ahead, Victor, and I promise -- as soon as this is over -- you can brand my butt with the Fourth Amendment. The instant Archer hangs up -- the INTERCOM BUZZES. KIM (V.O.) Sir, your wife's on line one... S.I.S. on two... ARCHER Tell her to hang on -- As Archer punches up line two -- Tito bursts in. TITO A jet was chartered at Anderson Airfield. Guess who just showed up to pay for it? Pollux Troy. ARCHER Scramble the Reaction Team -- we're moving out. And get one of our people on that plane. TITO But there's still no sign of Castor... ARCHER Where one brother goes, the other's sure to follow... They rush our... the hold button on line 1 still blinking. EXT. PRIVATE AIRPORT - ESTABLISHING - DAY A sleek Cadillac pulls in... stopping next to a Land Rover. LARS MUELLER -- a muscular, crystal-eyed jar-head -- gets out of the Caddy. An instant later -- LUNT MUELLER -- emerges from the Rover. They are identical twins. The men scan the airport carefully, then open the rear doors of their respective vehicles. Castor emerges from the Caddy -- Armani clad. Exiting the Rover is Castor's younger brother POLLUX TROY -- skittish, brilliant, paranoid -- a human hummingbird. POLLUX You're 26 minutes late. The casing didn't fit -- right? I knew that cheap-shit Dietrich would rip us off... CASTOR Oh, God -- ! POLLUX What!? CASTOR I forgot to turn the damn thing on! POLLUX You're kidding, right? (to the twins) He's kidding... (grabs Castor by throat) ... are you fucking kidding!? Castor hugs Pollux lovingly. Pollux squirms like a kid. CASTOR Bro -- everything went fine. POLLUX I hate when you call me bro. Pollux heads for the jet. Castor hands Lunt a wad of cash. CASTOR Thanks for babysitting. LUNT Anything else? CASTOR I'll contact you when we get the rest of the money. (turns to leave) Oh, and stat away from downtown. The inversion layer's going to be pretty thick around the 18th. The twins nod... then take off. Castor heads for the jet. INT. JET - DAY Castor hustles in -- exhorting the PILOT. CASTOR Let's go, let's go! As the JET TURBINES start to WHINE, Castor sinks into his seat. A very sexy FLIGHT ATTENDANT appears and hands him a Scotch. He downs it, looking her over salaciously. FLIGHT ATTENDANT Would you like anything else? CASTOR Hell, yes... (pulls her into lap) It's the only way to fly. She smiles, not minding, until the jet suddenly slows its taxi down the runway. COCKPIT Castor yanks open the door. CASTOR What's wrong? AT END OF RUNWAY A squat car creeps INTO VIEW -- blocking the runway. EXT./INT. HUMVEE - MOVING - DAY Behind the wheel is Jon Archer. Beside him is Tito. BACK TO ARCHER CASTOR It's Archer. (gun to Pilot's head) Go, dammit! Suddenly the gun is BLASTED from Castor's hand. he turns around to see... the Flight Attendant behind them -- holding a smoking pistol. This is Agent WINTERS. WINTERS F.B.I.! Throttle down, captain! But Castor elbows the throttle up. The jet lurches forward, throwing Winters off balance. Pollux tackles her as the jet picks up speed. INT. HUMVEE - DAY Archer slams the vehicle into gear. ARCHER Get out. TITO You're not playing chicken with two tons of aluminum... ARCHER Get out! Tito obeys as Archer peels out. The HUMMER ROARS at the jet. The jet picks up speed, trying to get aloft. The humvee is aimed right at it... Archer's eyes narrow. COLLISION COURSE as two hunks of metal bear down. The machines are seconds apart when -- Archer looks up to see... Winters' face pressed up against the cockpit window, Castor holding a gun to her head. Archer cuts the wheel -- just avoiding the jet. The Hummer skids to a stop as Federal back-up arrives -- but too late. Archer watches an FBI chopper -- landing in a swirl of dust. As the jet picks up speed... the hatch opens. Castor blasts Winters in the side and tosses her onto the tarmac. INSIDE Castor smiles at Pollux, sensing freedom, until... KA-CHUNK: Something POUNDS the jet -- from above. Castor leans out the hatch and sees... The chopper on top of them -- Archer at the controls. Eye-contact -- years of hatred pass between these men. Castor BLASTS at him from the open hatch. The chopper's left windscreen spiderwebs. Archer jerks and weaves -- dodging the BULLETS. The chopper pulls away. The jet finally lifts off... when... The chopper settles on the jet -- slamming at its tail. TARMAC Tito reacts to this madness -- as the chopper plays a deadly game of leap-frog with the jet. The end of the runway is coming up fast. Archer crushes the jet's horizontal elevator flap. JET PILOT can't budge the jet's jammed yoke. Thwarted, he powers back the throttle. Thrust reverse. CASTOR What are you doing? PILOT The horizontal elevator's smashed! We can't lift off! CASTOR SHOOTS the Pilot -- then takes the controls. He struggles to maneuver the jet. Suddenly... A biplane descends right at them -- about to land. ARCHER pulls up just as the JET swerves radically to avoid the biplane and SLAMS into the hangar. JET plows through the GLASS DOOR, the NOSE-WHEEL SNAPS off. The PLANE SKIDS right into the hangar -- finally stopping at the wings. FBI CHOPPER lands. Archer steps out calmly -- like a cop about to write a traffic ticket. He hurries to join more FBI agents rushing into the hangar ahead of him. INT. HANGAR - DAY The jet hatch pops open -- Castor leaps from it, FIRING. Two FBI agents drop -- riddled. Pollux appears at the hatch -- an FBI sharpshooter FIRES, grazing Pollux's shoulder. Staggered, Pollux falls -- Castor catches him before he hits the floor -- simultaneously BLASTING the sharpshooter. Castor drags Pollux back into the smoke-filled hangar. Archer arrives and quickly checks the dead agents, his anger building. He signals Tito and the others to spread out. DEEP IN HANGAR A maze of airplane debris and heavy machinery. Led by Archer, the FBI agents pick their way through it. ROOKIE LOOMIS snaps alert -- did he see something? Advancing carefully, he comes up on... Castor -- staunching Pollux's shoulder wound. Pollux sees the agent -- and FIRES. Loomis hits the floor -- his bleeding ear is shredded. Suddenly a forklift charges down on Castor and Pollux. Tito is at the wheel. Castor FIRES -- forcing Tito to dive off. The forklift careens on -- driving apart the brothers. The forklift upends a stack of heavy crates -- pinning Pollux. Castor tries to free his trapped brother. POLLUX Forget it -- Go! Go! He slaps his Glock into Pollux's hand. CASTOR Wherever they put you, I'll find a way to get you out... Pollux starts FIRING -- covering Castor as he runs through a tunnel which leads to an adjoining hangar. Suddenly Wanda presses her machine-pistol into Pollux's head. As Pollux raises his gun -- Tito grabs his hand. TITO -- not unless you want that 200 I.Q. splattered all over the floor. (as Archer approaches) We got him now, Jon. ARCHER That's what you always say. Seal it off. I'm going in. Archer moves away from the group and enters the tunnel. MUSIC as Archer and Castor begin their cat-and-mouse dance. Sensing Archer, Castor pauses by an old landing gear. He draws a fresh pistol from his ankle holster and moves on. Archer pauses at the landing gear... his own stealthy movements mirroring Castor's. Castor waits behind a stack of steel drums... his gaze trying to penetrate the darkness... He SNAPS his fingers. The sound ECHOES as he tries to draw Archer in. Archer reacts to the sound and SNAPS back -- answering the challenge. As the deadly beat between them continues -- BLAM BLAM BLAM! Archer spins away just as Castor OPENS FIRE from the gloom... one step ahead. INTERCUT as necessary: CASTOR Jon, I'm getting a little annoyed by your obsessive need to spoil my fun. ARCHER And how much will your 'fun' net you this time? BOOM BOOM BOOM! Half-blind SHOTS send Castor spinning. A moment later, Archer pursues... SNAP! He fits a new CLIP into his pistol. CASTOR What's it to you? I declare it. Here I am, back in the States for less than a week -- ARCHER You're under arrest. Incredibly, you still have the right to remain silent -- CASTOR I've got something going down on the eighteenth... it's gonna be worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaoh. I'll give it up -- but my brother and I have to walk. ARCHER No discussion -- no deals. CASTOR What're you gonna do with me locked up? You'll drive your wife and kid nuts! I bet your daughter is just about ripe by now. What's her name, Janie? Enraged, Archer steps boldly forward -- trying to draw his enemy out. Silence -- then Archer senses... Castor is behind him. He FIRES -- Archer dives away. The BARRAGE CONTINUES -- driving Archer back between two huge turbine engines. As Archer reloads, he stares at the control panel switches. Castor moves in for the kill when he hears a final SNAP- SNAP. Except it isn't a finger snap... it's two switches. VRRRROOOM! The TWIN ENGINES ROAR on! Unable to fight the churning tornado-force wind... Castor's blasted across the hangar... slamming hard into the far wall. The ENGINES STOP and Archer emerges -- joined by Tito. TITO Tell me he didn't get away again... Then Tito follows Archer's gaze to Castor's lifeless body. Still as death -- somehow his mocking smile survives. EXT. AIRPORT TARMAC - SUNSET Heavily-manacled, an extremely agitated Pollux is herded into a SWAT van by Buzz and Wanda. POLLUX Where's my brother?! I want to see my brother! The van takes off -- passing an imposing older man, flanked by two bodyguards. Bullying through the media, Assistant FBI Director VICTOR LAZARRO scans the devastation. Approaching Archer, he watches as Castor's body is loaded on the ambulance. A sheet covers Castor's lifeless face. LAZARRO The oversight committee would've roasted us for this one -- thank God it paid off. Damn fine work. ARCHER Real fine, Victor. Especially the casualties. Archer contemplates the slain agents -- their three bodies laid out in a row -- waiting to be zip-locked. Lazarro reacts grimly as a reporter snaps a photo of the bodies. Instinctively, the two men close ranks. Archer grabs the Nikon, ejects the film, then shoves the camera back. LAZARRO Classified information. No photographs. Lazarro puts a caring arm around Archer's shoulder and leads him away from the media... and the carnage. LAZARRO You okay, Jon? (off Archer's nod) Then go home. Tell Eve. EXT. ARCHER'S HOME (SANTA MONICA) - SUNSET A renovated Craftsman. Sipping a carton of milk, Archer pulls into the driveway. He sits, gathering his thoughts. INT. ARCHER'S HOME - NIGHT Archer enters and sees his wife EVE. Handsome, intelligent. ARCHER Hi... (no response) ... What's wrong? She nods toward the KITCHEN. JAMIE is there -- a sullen and hard fifteen-year-old. There are cigarette cartons on the table. EVE She complimented for her 'F' in history with an 'A' in shoplifting... Archer marches into the kitchen -- noting the crate of Marlboros. Jamie matter-of-factly pours herself coffee. ARCHER Nice stunt, Jamie. You break the law and I'm expected to ignore it? JAMIE That's right -- it's all about you. Don't even ask me what happened. Archer looks to Eve for help. Eve shakes her head -- nope. ARCHER Okay. What happened? JAMIE Like you'd ever fucking believe me! She bolts. In anticipation, Eve calmly opens the door as Jamie rushes out, then closes it behind her. EVE Well, you tried. You failed miserably, but you tried. ARCHER Why won't she even talk to me? EVE Maybe because you taught her never to speak to strangers. (immediately regrets it) I'm sorry... that wasn't fair. Eve kisses his cheek -- then gathers up her doctor gear. EVE I've got patients waiting. Try again, Jon. She hates you -- but she needs you. ARCHER Eve... Something in Archer's expression makes her stop. EVE Jon -- what is it? But he's too overcome. He starts to speak -- but can't. EVE Is it -- him? It's... it's over? Emotions avalanche across his face until he finally looks up. Eve pulls him close -- a sheltering embrace for them both. ARCHER I'm going to make everything up to you and Jamie. I'll put in for a desk job. We'll go away, get counseling -- anything you want. This time, I mean it. INT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Freshly dressed, Archer heads down the hall. He pauses at the door to Jamie's room when he sees -- Jamie. Fully clothed, she's fast asleep on her bed cluttered with clothes and assorted girl-stuff. Her face peaceful. Archer looks around her room... sees the stuffed animals collecting dust... replaced by makeup, jewelry, beefcake Calvin Klein ads and band posters, etc. Archer's startled to see a lacey bustier... his little girl is growing up fast. And he's missing it. He pulls the blanket up over her and quietly slips out. The instant he leaves, Jamie kicks the blankets off. INT. FBI BUILDING - DAY Dominated by the FBI seal. Archer steps to the check point. SECURITY GUARD Print, please. Archer presses his thumb to a scan-pad -- and is cleared. INT. BULL PEN - DAY Efficient as a beehive -- agents, cryptologists, support staff buzz at their routines. Archer strides through -- drawing congratulatory nods and "thumbs up" signs... OUTSIDE HIS OFFICE Archer's team is there. Applauding. Proud. Uneasy with plaudits, he disperses the disappointed agents. ARCHER Much appreciated. Now let's get back to work, okay? WANDA (to Buzz) Is that stick ever gonna fall out of his ass? Archer's well-built secretary -- KIM BREWSTER -- hands him his messages. She's holding a bottle of Dom Perignon. KIMBERLY The C.I.A. sent this over. What should I do with it? ARCHER Send it back and tell them to stop wasting the taxpayers' money. Anything else, Miss Brewster? KIMBERLY No, sir. He enters his office. Kimberly sighs and turns to Wanda. KIMBERLY Four years -- and he still calls me 'Miss Brewster.' INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Sitting at his computer -- Archer scrolls through Castor's file. He grimly contemplates face-after-face of Troy's victims -- finally pausing on a photo of his son Matthew. Burying his feeling, he types "CASE CLOSED" over Castor's image. Archer starts to press "enter" when Tito comes in. ARCHER How's Loomis? TITO He needs some surgery, but he's going to be okay. That's the good news... ARCHER Go on. TITO ... Brodie and Miller from Special Ops need to see you. ARCHER I don't have time for those cloak and dagger guys. Big NED BRODIE and athletic female HOLLIS MILLER stroll in. BRODIE You better make time, Jon. (hefts a disc) We found this in the jet wreckage -- among Pollux Troy's effects... Archer accedes as Miller pops in the disk. The computer screen displays a CAD schematic of the bomb. Archer studies it carefully -- unease growing. ARCHER Porcelain casing... Thermal cloak... Undetectable payload. MILLER Powerful enough to flatten ten city blocks. ARCHER 'Worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaohs.' (to Tito) Get Pollux Troy. Now. DISSOLVE TO: INTERROGATION FOOTAGE Wired to a complex machine -- Pollux seems to have his frustrated interrogators on the run. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Archer, Lazarro, Tito, Brodie, Miller and other FBI officials watch the monitor. Pollux remains implacable POLLUX (V.O.) (on screen) That bomb was just a crossword puzzle to me... a mental exercise. I never built it... Lazarro shuts down the monitor... turns to Archer. ARCHER He's lying. LAZARRO He's hooked up to a full-spectrum polygraph. ARCHER Pollux is a manipulative psychopath. He can control his heartbeat, his sweat glands, his blood pressure... LAZARRO Jon, I trust your instincts, I always have. But D.C. wants more evidence. And frankly, so do I. ARCHER You'll get all the evidence you need when ten thousand people die. LAZARRO We'll get a team right on it. But we can't evacuate the city on what amounts to a hunch. Archer looks at the gathered brass. He knows it's hopeless. ARCHER That bomb has been built, it's out there somewhere and it's going to detonate... EXT. FBI BUILDING - INTELLIGENCE MEMORIAL - DAY Words etched in the granite wall read: IN HONOR OF THOSE MEMBERS OF THE FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION WHO SACRIFICED THEIR LIVES IN THE LINE OF DUTY Archer watches as a workman engraves the last of the three new stars among so many others -- each one honoring the dead. BRODIE Didn't Castor give any clue where the bomb might be? ARCHER Only one person knows -- his brother Pollux. And he'll keep his mouth shut until it blows. BRODIE We could plant an agent in his cell -- get him to spill the location. ARCHER Pollux is way too paranoid. The only person he'd talk to about that bomb is Castor himself. And dead men can't talk. Brodie and Miller exchange a knowing look. BRODIE There might be a way around that... FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S BODY Tubes and hoses are plugged into every orifice. INT. ICU ROOM - DAY Archer stares at the body... he can't believe it. ARCHER Why are you keeping him alive? (gets no answer) As long as he's breathing, he's dangerous. MILLER Relax, he's a turnip. Miller grinds out her cigarette on Castor's leg. Of course, Castor just lies there like a vegetable. BRODIE We can arrange for you to enter Erewhon Prison -- as Castor Troy. ARCHER What are you talking about? Archer turns as DR. MALCOLM HOAG (50s) enters the room. HOAG I think I'd better answer that question. (offers hand) Malcolm Hoag. I run the Physiological Camouflage Unit for Special Ops. ARCHER I know who you are. MILLER But you don't know what he can do. Physical augmentation; enhancement surgery... BRODIE ... He can disguise a compromised agent or alter the likeness -- even the voice -- of a government witness. HOAG Let me show you how it's done. (leading him out) I think you'll recognize our patient... INT. HOAG'S SURGICAL BAY - DAY Loomis lies still as a surgeon carefully scrapes away charred flesh around his burned ear. The doctor turns to a -- STEREO-LITHOGRAPHIC MACHINE Laser-beams attack an organic soup with incredible precision. The light forces a chemical reaction -- and out of the soup -- an ear begins to form. It rises from the liquid, now fully-formed. The surgeon takes the ear and fits it in place on Loomis's head. He starts suturing. OBSERVATION BOOTH - ABOVE Archer, Hoag, Brodie and Miller watch the operation -- video-enhanced by the two huge screens on the far walls. HOAG With our new generation of anti- inflammatories, healing is accelerated from weeks to days. By his next paycheck, he won't even remember which ear he lost. (a beat) Your situation, however, would be a little less permanent... BRODIE -- and a lot more classified. Hoag holds up a face-sized organic shell made up of yellow cartilage pieces and tendons, etc. Archer pulls it over his face -- like a gauze mask. A "tendon" falls off. ARCHER This'll fool Pollux. HOAG That is a state-of-the-art morpho- genetic template. The inside can be built to match the exact shape of your skull; the outside -- exactly like Castor's. Then we fit his face right on top -- MILLER -- and you become him. ARCHER You're talking about removing the guy's face? BRODIE Borrowing, Jon. The procedure's completely reversible. MILLER One way or the other -- the mission ends on the eighteenth. Archer turns the shell over and over and over in his hands. BRODIE You know Castor better than anyone. You've lived and breathed him for years -- hell, you even look a little like him. Archer shoves the template back at Hoag. ARCHER Find yourself another lab-rat. MILLER If you don't do this -- Castor will beat us again. He'll beat you again... Archer pushes his way past them -- and marches out. HOAG I don't think that went very well. BRODIE Trust us, Doc... MILLER ... he'll jerk around. Then he'll be back. INT. INTERROGATION BOOTHS - DAY Archer enters... sizes up DIETRICH HASSLER. His stylish garb doesn't completely hide his criminal roots. Archer sits down calmly. He looks at his watch. ARCHER I'm in a hurry, Dietrich. So you've only got ten seconds to go through your usual litany of lies, empty threats, and moronic denials. Then I'm coming over there -- DIETRICH If you're in such a fucking hurry -- why are you wasting your time with me? I'm just an art dealer. ARCHER You're a dealer, all right: technical secrets, munitions... explosives. DIETRICH You've never proven any of that. And when my bitchy, never-been- laid femi-nazi lawyer gets here, she's going to... ARCHER Time's up. Archer topples the wooden table and tears a leg from the top. Brandishing it -- he stalks the startled thug. HALLWAY JUST OUTSIDE - CONTINUOUS ACTION Lazarro blanches as an obsessed Archer repeatedly slams the table leg against the wall -- above Dietrich's head. LAZARRO The only ticking bomb I see is inside his head. He's getting worse, Tito. TITO Don't worry, sir. It's all an act... But as Lazarro leaves -- we see Tito's worried, too. BACK INSIDE BOOTH Archer has a terrified Dietrich backed into the corner. DIETRICH ... Okay! Castor called me but I blew him off... I swear I never saw him. And I don't know anything about any bomb! INT. CORRIDOR - OUTSIDE INTERROGATION BOOTHS - SAME TIME Archer emerges... eyes blazing. ARCHER Let him go, but I want him watched... Who's next? TITO Just Dietrich's sister... In another booth, a careworn but striking woman sits with a little boy on her lap. She gently helps him Crayola a book. This is SASHA HASSLER (30) and her son ADAM (5). INT. INTERROGATION BOOTH - DAY Archer hovers over Sasha -- her maternal warmth replaced by an icy hatred. Tito and the child are gone. ARCHER When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? SASHA Who cares? He's dead. ARCHER Answer the question. SASHA Look, I'm clean. I teach kids now -- ARCHER Sasha -- you are a felon, on probation for harboring Castor Troy. So it's in your best interest to cooperate. (as she's silent) Would you like your son put in a foster home? Sasha's eyes flash, her body coils -- but she keeps control. SASHA No, but I'm sure you'd love it -- you sick bastard. ARCHER (unmoved) When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? She stares at him with equal amounts of pity and hatred. SASHA I haven't seen him for years. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY Archer watches as Adam leaves Dietrich and jumps into Sasha's arms. She hugs him protectively. Adam sees Archer watching them -- and smiles. Archer doesn't smile back. FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S REAL FACE PULL BACK TO: INT. I.C.U. - NIGHT Archer slowly circles Castor's muscular, hairy, tattooed body. Although on life support -- his signature smirk remains. ARCHER What about Lazarro? BRODIE No way -- the red tape alone would take a month. This is a black-bag operation -- completely off the books. MILLER If you need him, Tito can help you prepare. But you know the drill: You can't tell anyone -- not the Director, not your wife... nobody. Archer's face shows he doesn't like it -- then he nods. ARCHER I'm in. EXT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Archer slowly gets out of his car. Trudging toward the front door, he picks up a basketball and takes a shot. His form is terrible -- he misses by a mile. INT. HALLWAY - NIGHT Archer passes Jamie's room. Loud MUSIC POUNDS from within. He pauses to knock, thinks again, then heads down the hall. INT. MASTER BEDROOM - NIGHT Eve is in bed. Archer comes in quietly and sits beside her -- studying her peaceful, sleeping face. She stirs. EVE I was dreaming... ARCHER Something good? EVE I'm not sure... you were flying this

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"Face/Off", production draft, by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary FACE/OFF Written by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary Revised 9/10/96 FADE INTO: SEPIA-TONE FOOTAGE of a pig chasing a lion chasing a dinosaur chasing an elephant. Noah's Ark going round... and round... and round... EXT. GRIFFITH PARK CAROUSEL - DAY Disjointed CALLIOPE MUSIC as the wheel of fate and fortune goes around until we PULL BACK to reveal: JON ARCHER (30) rising winged Pegasus. On the adjacent unicorn is his son MATTHEW (5). Clutching a balloon, Matty waves at his dad. A happy moment, like so many certain to follow -- until we realize we are watching them THROUGH... SNIPER'S RIFLE SCOPE - SNIPER'S EYES wait until the child clears his aim -- Archer is the target. They round the bend and disappear... MATTHEW Loses his grip on the unicorn. Archer reaches over and pulls him into his lap. They happily ride together... As the horses sweep back INTO VIEW... exposing Archer... Now we see the sniper. CASTOR TROY is cool, efficient, aggressive, sexual. His finger closes around the trigger. BOOM! A BULLET RIPS into Archer's back. Bleeding... he drops off his horse... and sinks to the deck of the carousel. His eyes desperately searching... searching... searching... until he sees -- Matthew lies on his back -- still. Slowly, Archer reaches out and takes Matthew's hand... and now we see COLOR for the first time... Blood red... as bleeding father touches bleeding son... TILT UP TO the winged Pegasus flying by -- now in full color and UP UP UP TO Matthew's red balloon... floating away. HANDEL'S MESSIAH OVER a SERIES OF SHOTS: FBI BRIEFING ROOM Gazing out the window as dawn breaks over the city below is Jon Archer... older... unshaven... fatigued... his eyes reveal a man in the grip of obsession. CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by, as if marking time itself... HOLY PLACE Smoky, spiritual... dominated by a gleaming, golden cross. A priest kneels before it -- deep in prayer. The glimmering cross comes INTO FOCUS... but it's just a light-reflection... off the casing of a large bomb. This is no chapel... but an atrium. Somewhere. And as the "priest" rubs out his cigarette we see it's Castor Troy -- carefully installing this complex device. ANOTHER CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by... ARCHER pockets his FBI badge, then holsters his gun... CASTOR sets the bomb timer -- then replaces a wall panel in front of it. Totally hidden. BRIEFING ROOM - CASTOR'S MUGSHOT is on a computer screen. His criminal dossier scrolls by endlessly: bombings, assassinations, mercenary kidnappings, terrorism-for-hire... Rookie agent LOOMIS studies the details carefully. Other agents -- including BUZZ and WANDA scan computer grid- maps, man phones, etc. amid the take-out cartons and coffee cups. These people are on high alert. ARCHER Any follow-up from L.A.P.D. Intelligence? BUZZ No, sir, nothing yet. ARCHER Get them on the phone -- now. What about S.I.S. and our airport teams? WANDA We've had everything from psychics to satellites on this. Even if Castor was here... he must have slipped the net by now... ARCHER He's here! And we're going to keep looking until we find him! A silence descends on the chastised team. As they go back to work, veteran agent TITO BIONDI takes Archer aside. TITO Jon, these people have been working round the clock -- you gotta cut them some slack... Archer considers his best friend's advice -- then... ARCHER I'll cut them some slack when I cut myself some slack. Archer marches out -- slamming the door behind him. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY (MORNING) Castor quietly shuts the security door behind him. An Hispanic voice startles him. JANITOR What are you doing? CASTOR (in perfect Spanish) Thank goodness, I feel like Icarus in the labyrinth -- where's the men's room? JANITOR (in Spanish) This area is off limits, Padre. (re: security door) How did you get in that room? Realizing the JANITOR is already too suspicious, Castor puts a priestly arm around him -- and leads him down the hall. CASTOR Okay... I have a confession to make, but you aren't gonna like it. I was planting a bomb. JANITOR Bomb? CASTOR You know -- boom -- (patting his neck) Oh, never mind... The Janitor suddenly twitches, his eyes rolls up in his head. As he gasps his last -- Castor heaves him down a stairwell. Now we see the needle-thin custom stiletto in Castor's hand. Castor kicks the Janitor's mop and bucket down the stairs -- making everything look like an accident. INT. SAME BUILDING - MAIN FLOOR - DAY (MORNING) The children's church choir -- 200 strong -- sing "Behold the Lamb of God." Clergy and lay persons listen reverently. "Father" Castor strolls by the singers -- casually heading for the exit. As he passes the risers, a teenage girl drops her sheet music at his feet. Returning it -- he whispers in her ear -- so close he's practically licking it. CASTOR I've never enjoyed 'The Messiah.' But your voice makes even a hack like Handel seem like a genius. He pats her behind and leaves. Although a little shaken, she's also drawn by Castor's sexual magnetism. EXT. LA CONVENTION CENTER - DAY (MORNING) The marquee proclaims: INTERNATIONAL CHURCH CHOIRS 18th- 21st: AMERICAN BAR ASSOCIATION. Castor exits -- politely holding the door for a beat cop. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY (MORNING) The office is a monument to obsession: photographs, clues, newsclips, totems of Castor Troy surround a pacing Archer. ARCHER (on phone) ... I don't have time to get a warrant from some hung-over judge. Just give me the go-ahead, Victor, and I promise -- as soon as this is over -- you can brand my butt with the Fourth Amendment. The instant Archer hangs up -- the INTERCOM BUZZES. KIM (V.O.) Sir, your wife's on line one... S.I.S. on two... ARCHER Tell her to hang on -- As Archer punches up line two -- Tito bursts in. TITO A jet was chartered at Anderson Airfield. Guess who just showed up to pay for it? Pollux Troy. ARCHER Scramble the Reaction Team -- we're moving out. And get one of our people on that plane. TITO But there's still no sign of Castor... ARCHER Where one brother goes, the other's sure to follow... They rush our... the hold button on line 1 still blinking. EXT. PRIVATE AIRPORT - ESTABLISHING - DAY A sleek Cadillac pulls in... stopping next to a Land Rover. LARS MUELLER -- a muscular, crystal-eyed jar-head -- gets out of the Caddy. An instant later -- LUNT MUELLER -- emerges from the Rover. They are identical twins. The men scan the airport carefully, then open the rear doors of their respective vehicles. Castor emerges from the Caddy -- Armani clad. Exiting the Rover is Castor's younger brother POLLUX TROY -- skittish, brilliant, paranoid -- a human hummingbird. POLLUX You're 26 minutes late. The casing didn't fit -- right? I knew that cheap-shit Dietrich would rip us off... CASTOR Oh, God -- ! POLLUX What!? CASTOR I forgot to turn the damn thing on! POLLUX You're kidding, right? (to the twins) He's kidding... (grabs Castor by throat) ... are you fucking kidding!? Castor hugs Pollux lovingly. Pollux squirms like a kid. CASTOR Bro -- everything went fine. POLLUX I hate when you call me bro. Pollux heads for the jet. Castor hands Lunt a wad of cash. CASTOR Thanks for babysitting. LUNT Anything else? CASTOR I'll contact you when we get the rest of the money. (turns to leave) Oh, and stat away from downtown. The inversion layer's going to be pretty thick around the 18th. The twins nod... then take off. Castor heads for the jet. INT. JET - DAY Castor hustles in -- exhorting the PILOT. CASTOR Let's go, let's go! As the JET TURBINES start to WHINE, Castor sinks into his seat. A very sexy FLIGHT ATTENDANT appears and hands him a Scotch. He downs it, looking her over salaciously. FLIGHT ATTENDANT Would you like anything else? CASTOR Hell, yes... (pulls her into lap) It's the only way to fly. She smiles, not minding, until the jet suddenly slows its taxi down the runway. COCKPIT Castor yanks open the door. CASTOR What's wrong? AT END OF RUNWAY A squat car creeps INTO VIEW -- blocking the runway. EXT./INT. HUMVEE - MOVING - DAY Behind the wheel is Jon Archer. Beside him is Tito. BACK TO ARCHER CASTOR It's Archer. (gun to Pilot's head) Go, dammit! Suddenly the gun is BLASTED from Castor's hand. he turns around to see... the Flight Attendant behind them -- holding a smoking pistol. This is Agent WINTERS. WINTERS F.B.I.! Throttle down, captain! But Castor elbows the throttle up. The jet lurches forward, throwing Winters off balance. Pollux tackles her as the jet picks up speed. INT. HUMVEE - DAY Archer slams the vehicle into gear. ARCHER Get out. TITO You're not playing chicken with two tons of aluminum... ARCHER Get out! Tito obeys as Archer peels out. The HUMMER ROARS at the jet. The jet picks up speed, trying to get aloft. The humvee is aimed right at it... Archer's eyes narrow. COLLISION COURSE as two hunks of metal bear down. The machines are seconds apart when -- Archer looks up to see... Winters' face pressed up against the cockpit window, Castor holding a gun to her head. Archer cuts the wheel -- just avoiding the jet. The Hummer skids to a stop as Federal back-up arrives -- but too late. Archer watches an FBI chopper -- landing in a swirl of dust. As the jet picks up speed... the hatch opens. Castor blasts Winters in the side and tosses her onto the tarmac. INSIDE Castor smiles at Pollux, sensing freedom, until... KA-CHUNK: Something POUNDS the jet -- from above. Castor leans out the hatch and sees... The chopper on top of them -- Archer at the controls. Eye-contact -- years of hatred pass between these men. Castor BLASTS at him from the open hatch. The chopper's left windscreen spiderwebs. Archer jerks and weaves -- dodging the BULLETS. The chopper pulls away. The jet finally lifts off... when... The chopper settles on the jet -- slamming at its tail. TARMAC Tito reacts to this madness -- as the chopper plays a deadly game of leap-frog with the jet. The end of the runway is coming up fast. Archer crushes the jet's horizontal elevator flap. JET PILOT can't budge the jet's jammed yoke. Thwarted, he powers back the throttle. Thrust reverse. CASTOR What are you doing? PILOT The horizontal elevator's smashed! We can't lift off! CASTOR SHOOTS the Pilot -- then takes the controls. He struggles to maneuver the jet. Suddenly... A biplane descends right at them -- about to land. ARCHER pulls up just as the JET swerves radically to avoid the biplane and SLAMS into the hangar. JET plows through the GLASS DOOR, the NOSE-WHEEL SNAPS off. The PLANE SKIDS right into the hangar -- finally stopping at the wings. FBI CHOPPER lands. Archer steps out calmly -- like a cop about to write a traffic ticket. He hurries to join more FBI agents rushing into the hangar ahead of him. INT. HANGAR - DAY The jet hatch pops open -- Castor leaps from it, FIRING. Two FBI agents drop -- riddled. Pollux appears at the hatch -- an FBI sharpshooter FIRES, grazing Pollux's shoulder. Staggered, Pollux falls -- Castor catches him before he hits the floor -- simultaneously BLASTING the sharpshooter. Castor drags Pollux back into the smoke-filled hangar. Archer arrives and quickly checks the dead agents, his anger building. He signals Tito and the others to spread out. DEEP IN HANGAR A maze of airplane debris and heavy machinery. Led by Archer, the FBI agents pick their way through it. ROOKIE LOOMIS snaps alert -- did he see something? Advancing carefully, he comes up on... Castor -- staunching Pollux's shoulder wound. Pollux sees the agent -- and FIRES. Loomis hits the floor -- his bleeding ear is shredded. Suddenly a forklift charges down on Castor and Pollux. Tito is at the wheel. Castor FIRES -- forcing Tito to dive off. The forklift careens on -- driving apart the brothers. The forklift upends a stack of heavy crates -- pinning Pollux. Castor tries to free his trapped brother. POLLUX Forget it -- Go! Go! He slaps his Glock into Pollux's hand. CASTOR Wherever they put you, I'll find a way to get you out... Pollux starts FIRING -- covering Castor as he runs through a tunnel which leads to an adjoining hangar. Suddenly Wanda presses her machine-pistol into Pollux's head. As Pollux raises his gun -- Tito grabs his hand. TITO -- not unless you want that 200 I.Q. splattered all over the floor. (as Archer approaches) We got him now, Jon. ARCHER That's what you always say. Seal it off. I'm going in. Archer moves away from the group and enters the tunnel. MUSIC as Archer and Castor begin their cat-and-mouse dance. Sensing Archer, Castor pauses by an old landing gear. He draws a fresh pistol from his ankle holster and moves on. Archer pauses at the landing gear... his own stealthy movements mirroring Castor's. Castor waits behind a stack of steel drums... his gaze trying to penetrate the darkness... He SNAPS his fingers. The sound ECHOES as he tries to draw Archer in. Archer reacts to the sound and SNAPS back -- answering the challenge. As the deadly beat between them continues -- BLAM BLAM BLAM! Archer spins away just as Castor OPENS FIRE from the gloom... one step ahead. INTERCUT as necessary: CASTOR Jon, I'm getting a little annoyed by your obsessive need to spoil my fun. ARCHER And how much will your 'fun' net you this time? BOOM BOOM BOOM! Half-blind SHOTS send Castor spinning. A moment later, Archer pursues... SNAP! He fits a new CLIP into his pistol. CASTOR What's it to you? I declare it. Here I am, back in the States for less than a week -- ARCHER You're under arrest. Incredibly, you still have the right to remain silent -- CASTOR I've got something going down on the eighteenth... it's gonna be worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaoh. I'll give it up -- but my brother and I have to walk. ARCHER No discussion -- no deals. CASTOR What're you gonna do with me locked up? You'll drive your wife and kid nuts! I bet your daughter is just about ripe by now. What's her name, Janie? Enraged, Archer steps boldly forward -- trying to draw his enemy out. Silence -- then Archer senses... Castor is behind him. He FIRES -- Archer dives away. The BARRAGE CONTINUES -- driving Archer back between two huge turbine engines. As Archer reloads, he stares at the control panel switches. Castor moves in for the kill when he hears a final SNAP- SNAP. Except it isn't a finger snap... it's two switches. VRRRROOOM! The TWIN ENGINES ROAR on! Unable to fight the churning tornado-force wind... Castor's blasted across the hangar... slamming hard into the far wall. The ENGINES STOP and Archer emerges -- joined by Tito. TITO Tell me he didn't get away again... Then Tito follows Archer's gaze to Castor's lifeless body. Still as death -- somehow his mocking smile survives. EXT. AIRPORT TARMAC - SUNSET Heavily-manacled, an extremely agitated Pollux is herded into a SWAT van by Buzz and Wanda. POLLUX Where's my brother?! I want to see my brother! The van takes off -- passing an imposing older man, flanked by two bodyguards. Bullying through the media, Assistant FBI Director VICTOR LAZARRO scans the devastation. Approaching Archer, he watches as Castor's body is loaded on the ambulance. A sheet covers Castor's lifeless face. LAZARRO The oversight committee would've roasted us for this one -- thank God it paid off. Damn fine work. ARCHER Real fine, Victor. Especially the casualties. Archer contemplates the slain agents -- their three bodies laid out in a row -- waiting to be zip-locked. Lazarro reacts grimly as a reporter snaps a photo of the bodies. Instinctively, the two men close ranks. Archer grabs the Nikon, ejects the film, then shoves the camera back. LAZARRO Classified information. No photographs. Lazarro puts a caring arm around Archer's shoulder and leads him away from the media... and the carnage. LAZARRO You okay, Jon? (off Archer's nod) Then go home. Tell Eve. EXT. ARCHER'S HOME (SANTA MONICA) - SUNSET A renovated Craftsman. Sipping a carton of milk, Archer pulls into the driveway. He sits, gathering his thoughts. INT. ARCHER'S HOME - NIGHT Archer enters and sees his wife EVE. Handsome, intelligent. ARCHER Hi... (no response) ... What's wrong? She nods toward the KITCHEN. JAMIE is there -- a sullen and hard fifteen-year-old. There are cigarette cartons on the table. EVE She complimented for her 'F' in history with an 'A' in shoplifting... Archer marches into the kitchen -- noting the crate of Marlboros. Jamie matter-of-factly pours herself coffee. ARCHER Nice stunt, Jamie. You break the law and I'm expected to ignore it? JAMIE That's right -- it's all about you. Don't even ask me what happened. Archer looks to Eve for help. Eve shakes her head -- nope. ARCHER Okay. What happened? JAMIE Like you'd ever fucking believe me! She bolts. In anticipation, Eve calmly opens the door as Jamie rushes out, then closes it behind her. EVE Well, you tried. You failed miserably, but you tried. ARCHER Why won't she even talk to me? EVE Maybe because you taught her never to speak to strangers. (immediately regrets it) I'm sorry... that wasn't fair. Eve kisses his cheek -- then gathers up her doctor gear. EVE I've got patients waiting. Try again, Jon. She hates you -- but she needs you. ARCHER Eve... Something in Archer's expression makes her stop. EVE Jon -- what is it? But he's too overcome. He starts to speak -- but can't. EVE Is it -- him? It's... it's over? Emotions avalanche across his face until he finally looks up. Eve pulls him close -- a sheltering embrace for them both. ARCHER I'm going to make everything up to you and Jamie. I'll put in for a desk job. We'll go away, get counseling -- anything you want. This time, I mean it. INT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Freshly dressed, Archer heads down the hall. He pauses at the door to Jamie's room when he sees -- Jamie. Fully clothed, she's fast asleep on her bed cluttered with clothes and assorted girl-stuff. Her face peaceful. Archer looks around her room... sees the stuffed animals collecting dust... replaced by makeup, jewelry, beefcake Calvin Klein ads and band posters, etc. Archer's startled to see a lacey bustier... his little girl is growing up fast. And he's missing it. He pulls the blanket up over her and quietly slips out. The instant he leaves, Jamie kicks the blankets off. INT. FBI BUILDING - DAY Dominated by the FBI seal. Archer steps to the check point. SECURITY GUARD Print, please. Archer presses his thumb to a scan-pad -- and is cleared. INT. BULL PEN - DAY Efficient as a beehive -- agents, cryptologists, support staff buzz at their routines. Archer strides through -- drawing congratulatory nods and "thumbs up" signs... OUTSIDE HIS OFFICE Archer's team is there. Applauding. Proud. Uneasy with plaudits, he disperses the disappointed agents. ARCHER Much appreciated. Now let's get back to work, okay? WANDA (to Buzz) Is that stick ever gonna fall out of his ass? Archer's well-built secretary -- KIM BREWSTER -- hands him his messages. She's holding a bottle of Dom Perignon. KIMBERLY The C.I.A. sent this over. What should I do with it? ARCHER Send it back and tell them to stop wasting the taxpayers' money. Anything else, Miss Brewster? KIMBERLY No, sir. He enters his office. Kimberly sighs and turns to Wanda. KIMBERLY Four years -- and he still calls me 'Miss Brewster.' INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Sitting at his computer -- Archer scrolls through Castor's file. He grimly contemplates face-after-face of Troy's victims -- finally pausing on a photo of his son Matthew. Burying his feeling, he types "CASE CLOSED" over Castor's image. Archer starts to press "enter" when Tito comes in. ARCHER How's Loomis? TITO He needs some surgery, but he's going to be okay. That's the good news... ARCHER Go on. TITO ... Brodie and Miller from Special Ops need to see you. ARCHER I don't have time for those cloak and dagger guys. Big NED BRODIE and athletic female HOLLIS MILLER stroll in. BRODIE You better make time, Jon. (hefts a disc) We found this in the jet wreckage -- among Pollux Troy's effects... Archer accedes as Miller pops in the disk. The computer screen displays a CAD schematic of the bomb. Archer studies it carefully -- unease growing. ARCHER Porcelain casing... Thermal cloak... Undetectable payload. MILLER Powerful enough to flatten ten city blocks. ARCHER 'Worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaohs.' (to Tito) Get Pollux Troy. Now. DISSOLVE TO: INTERROGATION FOOTAGE Wired to a complex machine -- Pollux seems to have his frustrated interrogators on the run. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Archer, Lazarro, Tito, Brodie, Miller and other FBI officials watch the monitor. Pollux remains implacable POLLUX (V.O.) (on screen) That bomb was just a crossword puzzle to me... a mental exercise. I never built it... Lazarro shuts down the monitor... turns to Archer. ARCHER He's lying. LAZARRO He's hooked up to a full-spectrum polygraph. ARCHER Pollux is a manipulative psychopath. He can control his heartbeat, his sweat glands, his blood pressure... LAZARRO Jon, I trust your instincts, I always have. But D.C. wants more evidence. And frankly, so do I. ARCHER You'll get all the evidence you need when ten thousand people die. LAZARRO We'll get a team right on it. But we can't evacuate the city on what amounts to a hunch. Archer looks at the gathered brass. He knows it's hopeless. ARCHER That bomb has been built, it's out there somewhere and it's going to detonate... EXT. FBI BUILDING - INTELLIGENCE MEMORIAL - DAY Words etched in the granite wall read: IN HONOR OF THOSE MEMBERS OF THE FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION WHO SACRIFICED THEIR LIVES IN THE LINE OF DUTY Archer watches as a workman engraves the last of the three new stars among so many others -- each one honoring the dead. BRODIE Didn't Castor give any clue where the bomb might be? ARCHER Only one person knows -- his brother Pollux. And he'll keep his mouth shut until it blows. BRODIE We could plant an agent in his cell -- get him to spill the location. ARCHER Pollux is way too paranoid. The only person he'd talk to about that bomb is Castor himself. And dead men can't talk. Brodie and Miller exchange a knowing look. BRODIE There might be a way around that... FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S BODY Tubes and hoses are plugged into every orifice. INT. ICU ROOM - DAY Archer stares at the body... he can't believe it. ARCHER Why are you keeping him alive? (gets no answer) As long as he's breathing, he's dangerous. MILLER Relax, he's a turnip. Miller grinds out her cigarette on Castor's leg. Of course, Castor just lies there like a vegetable. BRODIE We can arrange for you to enter Erewhon Prison -- as Castor Troy. ARCHER What are you talking about? Archer turns as DR. MALCOLM HOAG (50s) enters the room. HOAG I think I'd better answer that question. (offers hand) Malcolm Hoag. I run the Physiological Camouflage Unit for Special Ops. ARCHER I know who you are. MILLER But you don't know what he can do. Physical augmentation; enhancement surgery... BRODIE ... He can disguise a compromised agent or alter the likeness -- even the voice -- of a government witness. HOAG Let me show you how it's done. (leading him out) I think you'll recognize our patient... INT. HOAG'S SURGICAL BAY - DAY Loomis lies still as a surgeon carefully scrapes away charred flesh around his burned ear. The doctor turns to a -- STEREO-LITHOGRAPHIC MACHINE Laser-beams attack an organic soup with incredible precision. The light forces a chemical reaction -- and out of the soup -- an ear begins to form. It rises from the liquid, now fully-formed. The surgeon takes the ear and fits it in place on Loomis's head. He starts suturing. OBSERVATION BOOTH - ABOVE Archer, Hoag, Brodie and Miller watch the operation -- video-enhanced by the two huge screens on the far walls. HOAG With our new generation of anti- inflammatories, healing is accelerated from weeks to days. By his next paycheck, he won't even remember which ear he lost. (a beat) Your situation, however, would be a little less permanent... BRODIE -- and a lot more classified. Hoag holds up a face-sized organic shell made up of yellow cartilage pieces and tendons, etc. Archer pulls it over his face -- like a gauze mask. A "tendon" falls off. ARCHER This'll fool Pollux. HOAG That is a state-of-the-art morpho- genetic template. The inside can be built to match the exact shape of your skull; the outside -- exactly like Castor's. Then we fit his face right on top -- MILLER -- and you become him. ARCHER You're talking about removing the guy's face? BRODIE Borrowing, Jon. The procedure's completely reversible. MILLER One way or the other -- the mission ends on the eighteenth. Archer turns the shell over and over and over in his hands. BRODIE You know Castor better than anyone. You've lived and breathed him for years -- hell, you even look a little like him. Archer shoves the template back at Hoag. ARCHER Find yourself another lab-rat. MILLER If you don't do this -- Castor will beat us again. He'll beat you again... Archer pushes his way past them -- and marches out. HOAG I don't think that went very well. BRODIE Trust us, Doc... MILLER ... he'll jerk around. Then he'll be back. INT. INTERROGATION BOOTHS - DAY Archer enters... sizes up DIETRICH HASSLER. His stylish garb doesn't completely hide his criminal roots. Archer sits down calmly. He looks at his watch. ARCHER I'm in a hurry, Dietrich. So you've only got ten seconds to go through your usual litany of lies, empty threats, and moronic denials. Then I'm coming over there -- DIETRICH If you're in such a fucking hurry -- why are you wasting your time with me? I'm just an art dealer. ARCHER You're a dealer, all right: technical secrets, munitions... explosives. DIETRICH You've never proven any of that. And when my bitchy, never-been- laid femi-nazi lawyer gets here, she's going to... ARCHER Time's up. Archer topples the wooden table and tears a leg from the top. Brandishing it -- he stalks the startled thug. HALLWAY JUST OUTSIDE - CONTINUOUS ACTION Lazarro blanches as an obsessed Archer repeatedly slams the table leg against the wall -- above Dietrich's head. LAZARRO The only ticking bomb I see is inside his head. He's getting worse, Tito. TITO Don't worry, sir. It's all an act... But as Lazarro leaves -- we see Tito's worried, too. BACK INSIDE BOOTH Archer has a terrified Dietrich backed into the corner. DIETRICH ... Okay! Castor called me but I blew him off... I swear I never saw him. And I don't know anything about any bomb! INT. CORRIDOR - OUTSIDE INTERROGATION BOOTHS - SAME TIME Archer emerges... eyes blazing. ARCHER Let him go, but I want him watched... Who's next? TITO Just Dietrich's sister... In another booth, a careworn but striking woman sits with a little boy on her lap. She gently helps him Crayola a book. This is SASHA HASSLER (30) and her son ADAM (5). INT. INTERROGATION BOOTH - DAY Archer hovers over Sasha -- her maternal warmth replaced by an icy hatred. Tito and the child are gone. ARCHER When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? SASHA Who cares? He's dead. ARCHER Answer the question. SASHA Look, I'm clean. I teach kids now -- ARCHER Sasha -- you are a felon, on probation for harboring Castor Troy. So it's in your best interest to cooperate. (as she's silent) Would you like your son put in a foster home? Sasha's eyes flash, her body coils -- but she keeps control. SASHA No, but I'm sure you'd love it -- you sick bastard. ARCHER (unmoved) When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? She stares at him with equal amounts of pity and hatred. SASHA I haven't seen him for years. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY Archer watches as Adam leaves Dietrich and jumps into Sasha's arms. She hugs him protectively. Adam sees Archer watching them -- and smiles. Archer doesn't smile back. FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S REAL FACE PULL BACK TO: INT. I.C.U. - NIGHT Archer slowly circles Castor's muscular, hairy, tattooed body. Although on life support -- his signature smirk remains. ARCHER What about Lazarro? BRODIE No way -- the red tape alone would take a month. This is a black-bag operation -- completely off the books. MILLER If you need him, Tito can help you prepare. But you know the drill: You can't tell anyone -- not the Director, not your wife... nobody. Archer's face shows he doesn't like it -- then he nods. ARCHER I'm in. EXT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Archer slowly gets out of his car. Trudging toward the front door, he picks up a basketball and takes a shot. His form is terrible -- he misses by a mile. INT. HALLWAY - NIGHT Archer passes Jamie's room. Loud MUSIC POUNDS from within. He pauses to knock, thinks again, then heads down the hall. INT. MASTER BEDROOM - NIGHT Eve is in bed. Archer comes in quietly and sits beside her -- studying her peaceful, sleeping face. She stirs. EVE I was dreaming... ARCHER Something good? EVE I'm not sure... you were flying this

instant

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

"Face/Off", production draft, by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary FACE/OFF Written by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary Revised 9/10/96 FADE INTO: SEPIA-TONE FOOTAGE of a pig chasing a lion chasing a dinosaur chasing an elephant. Noah's Ark going round... and round... and round... EXT. GRIFFITH PARK CAROUSEL - DAY Disjointed CALLIOPE MUSIC as the wheel of fate and fortune goes around until we PULL BACK to reveal: JON ARCHER (30) rising winged Pegasus. On the adjacent unicorn is his son MATTHEW (5). Clutching a balloon, Matty waves at his dad. A happy moment, like so many certain to follow -- until we realize we are watching them THROUGH... SNIPER'S RIFLE SCOPE - SNIPER'S EYES wait until the child clears his aim -- Archer is the target. They round the bend and disappear... MATTHEW Loses his grip on the unicorn. Archer reaches over and pulls him into his lap. They happily ride together... As the horses sweep back INTO VIEW... exposing Archer... Now we see the sniper. CASTOR TROY is cool, efficient, aggressive, sexual. His finger closes around the trigger. BOOM! A BULLET RIPS into Archer's back. Bleeding... he drops off his horse... and sinks to the deck of the carousel. His eyes desperately searching... searching... searching... until he sees -- Matthew lies on his back -- still. Slowly, Archer reaches out and takes Matthew's hand... and now we see COLOR for the first time... Blood red... as bleeding father touches bleeding son... TILT UP TO the winged Pegasus flying by -- now in full color and UP UP UP TO Matthew's red balloon... floating away. HANDEL'S MESSIAH OVER a SERIES OF SHOTS: FBI BRIEFING ROOM Gazing out the window as dawn breaks over the city below is Jon Archer... older... unshaven... fatigued... his eyes reveal a man in the grip of obsession. CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by, as if marking time itself... HOLY PLACE Smoky, spiritual... dominated by a gleaming, golden cross. A priest kneels before it -- deep in prayer. The glimmering cross comes INTO FOCUS... but it's just a light-reflection... off the casing of a large bomb. This is no chapel... but an atrium. Somewhere. And as the "priest" rubs out his cigarette we see it's Castor Troy -- carefully installing this complex device. ANOTHER CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by... ARCHER pockets his FBI badge, then holsters his gun... CASTOR sets the bomb timer -- then replaces a wall panel in front of it. Totally hidden. BRIEFING ROOM - CASTOR'S MUGSHOT is on a computer screen. His criminal dossier scrolls by endlessly: bombings, assassinations, mercenary kidnappings, terrorism-for-hire... Rookie agent LOOMIS studies the details carefully. Other agents -- including BUZZ and WANDA scan computer grid- maps, man phones, etc. amid the take-out cartons and coffee cups. These people are on high alert. ARCHER Any follow-up from L.A.P.D. Intelligence? BUZZ No, sir, nothing yet. ARCHER Get them on the phone -- now. What about S.I.S. and our airport teams? WANDA We've had everything from psychics to satellites on this. Even if Castor was here... he must have slipped the net by now... ARCHER He's here! And we're going to keep looking until we find him! A silence descends on the chastised team. As they go back to work, veteran agent TITO BIONDI takes Archer aside. TITO Jon, these people have been working round the clock -- you gotta cut them some slack... Archer considers his best friend's advice -- then... ARCHER I'll cut them some slack when I cut myself some slack. Archer marches out -- slamming the door behind him. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY (MORNING) Castor quietly shuts the security door behind him. An Hispanic voice startles him. JANITOR What are you doing? CASTOR (in perfect Spanish) Thank goodness, I feel like Icarus in the labyrinth -- where's the men's room? JANITOR (in Spanish) This area is off limits, Padre. (re: security door) How did you get in that room? Realizing the JANITOR is already too suspicious, Castor puts a priestly arm around him -- and leads him down the hall. CASTOR Okay... I have a confession to make, but you aren't gonna like it. I was planting a bomb. JANITOR Bomb? CASTOR You know -- boom -- (patting his neck) Oh, never mind... The Janitor suddenly twitches, his eyes rolls up in his head. As he gasps his last -- Castor heaves him down a stairwell. Now we see the needle-thin custom stiletto in Castor's hand. Castor kicks the Janitor's mop and bucket down the stairs -- making everything look like an accident. INT. SAME BUILDING - MAIN FLOOR - DAY (MORNING) The children's church choir -- 200 strong -- sing "Behold the Lamb of God." Clergy and lay persons listen reverently. "Father" Castor strolls by the singers -- casually heading for the exit. As he passes the risers, a teenage girl drops her sheet music at his feet. Returning it -- he whispers in her ear -- so close he's practically licking it. CASTOR I've never enjoyed 'The Messiah.' But your voice makes even a hack like Handel seem like a genius. He pats her behind and leaves. Although a little shaken, she's also drawn by Castor's sexual magnetism. EXT. LA CONVENTION CENTER - DAY (MORNING) The marquee proclaims: INTERNATIONAL CHURCH CHOIRS 18th- 21st: AMERICAN BAR ASSOCIATION. Castor exits -- politely holding the door for a beat cop. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY (MORNING) The office is a monument to obsession: photographs, clues, newsclips, totems of Castor Troy surround a pacing Archer. ARCHER (on phone) ... I don't have time to get a warrant from some hung-over judge. Just give me the go-ahead, Victor, and I promise -- as soon as this is over -- you can brand my butt with the Fourth Amendment. The instant Archer hangs up -- the INTERCOM BUZZES. KIM (V.O.) Sir, your wife's on line one... S.I.S. on two... ARCHER Tell her to hang on -- As Archer punches up line two -- Tito bursts in. TITO A jet was chartered at Anderson Airfield. Guess who just showed up to pay for it? Pollux Troy. ARCHER Scramble the Reaction Team -- we're moving out. And get one of our people on that plane. TITO But there's still no sign of Castor... ARCHER Where one brother goes, the other's sure to follow... They rush our... the hold button on line 1 still blinking. EXT. PRIVATE AIRPORT - ESTABLISHING - DAY A sleek Cadillac pulls in... stopping next to a Land Rover. LARS MUELLER -- a muscular, crystal-eyed jar-head -- gets out of the Caddy. An instant later -- LUNT MUELLER -- emerges from the Rover. They are identical twins. The men scan the airport carefully, then open the rear doors of their respective vehicles. Castor emerges from the Caddy -- Armani clad. Exiting the Rover is Castor's younger brother POLLUX TROY -- skittish, brilliant, paranoid -- a human hummingbird. POLLUX You're 26 minutes late. The casing didn't fit -- right? I knew that cheap-shit Dietrich would rip us off... CASTOR Oh, God -- ! POLLUX What!? CASTOR I forgot to turn the damn thing on! POLLUX You're kidding, right? (to the twins) He's kidding... (grabs Castor by throat) ... are you fucking kidding!? Castor hugs Pollux lovingly. Pollux squirms like a kid. CASTOR Bro -- everything went fine. POLLUX I hate when you call me bro. Pollux heads for the jet. Castor hands Lunt a wad of cash. CASTOR Thanks for babysitting. LUNT Anything else? CASTOR I'll contact you when we get the rest of the money. (turns to leave) Oh, and stat away from downtown. The inversion layer's going to be pretty thick around the 18th. The twins nod... then take off. Castor heads for the jet. INT. JET - DAY Castor hustles in -- exhorting the PILOT. CASTOR Let's go, let's go! As the JET TURBINES start to WHINE, Castor sinks into his seat. A very sexy FLIGHT ATTENDANT appears and hands him a Scotch. He downs it, looking her over salaciously. FLIGHT ATTENDANT Would you like anything else? CASTOR Hell, yes... (pulls her into lap) It's the only way to fly. She smiles, not minding, until the jet suddenly slows its taxi down the runway. COCKPIT Castor yanks open the door. CASTOR What's wrong? AT END OF RUNWAY A squat car creeps INTO VIEW -- blocking the runway. EXT./INT. HUMVEE - MOVING - DAY Behind the wheel is Jon Archer. Beside him is Tito. BACK TO ARCHER CASTOR It's Archer. (gun to Pilot's head) Go, dammit! Suddenly the gun is BLASTED from Castor's hand. he turns around to see... the Flight Attendant behind them -- holding a smoking pistol. This is Agent WINTERS. WINTERS F.B.I.! Throttle down, captain! But Castor elbows the throttle up. The jet lurches forward, throwing Winters off balance. Pollux tackles her as the jet picks up speed. INT. HUMVEE - DAY Archer slams the vehicle into gear. ARCHER Get out. TITO You're not playing chicken with two tons of aluminum... ARCHER Get out! Tito obeys as Archer peels out. The HUMMER ROARS at the jet. The jet picks up speed, trying to get aloft. The humvee is aimed right at it... Archer's eyes narrow. COLLISION COURSE as two hunks of metal bear down. The machines are seconds apart when -- Archer looks up to see... Winters' face pressed up against the cockpit window, Castor holding a gun to her head. Archer cuts the wheel -- just avoiding the jet. The Hummer skids to a stop as Federal back-up arrives -- but too late. Archer watches an FBI chopper -- landing in a swirl of dust. As the jet picks up speed... the hatch opens. Castor blasts Winters in the side and tosses her onto the tarmac. INSIDE Castor smiles at Pollux, sensing freedom, until... KA-CHUNK: Something POUNDS the jet -- from above. Castor leans out the hatch and sees... The chopper on top of them -- Archer at the controls. Eye-contact -- years of hatred pass between these men. Castor BLASTS at him from the open hatch. The chopper's left windscreen spiderwebs. Archer jerks and weaves -- dodging the BULLETS. The chopper pulls away. The jet finally lifts off... when... The chopper settles on the jet -- slamming at its tail. TARMAC Tito reacts to this madness -- as the chopper plays a deadly game of leap-frog with the jet. The end of the runway is coming up fast. Archer crushes the jet's horizontal elevator flap. JET PILOT can't budge the jet's jammed yoke. Thwarted, he powers back the throttle. Thrust reverse. CASTOR What are you doing? PILOT The horizontal elevator's smashed! We can't lift off! CASTOR SHOOTS the Pilot -- then takes the controls. He struggles to maneuver the jet. Suddenly... A biplane descends right at them -- about to land. ARCHER pulls up just as the JET swerves radically to avoid the biplane and SLAMS into the hangar. JET plows through the GLASS DOOR, the NOSE-WHEEL SNAPS off. The PLANE SKIDS right into the hangar -- finally stopping at the wings. FBI CHOPPER lands. Archer steps out calmly -- like a cop about to write a traffic ticket. He hurries to join more FBI agents rushing into the hangar ahead of him. INT. HANGAR - DAY The jet hatch pops open -- Castor leaps from it, FIRING. Two FBI agents drop -- riddled. Pollux appears at the hatch -- an FBI sharpshooter FIRES, grazing Pollux's shoulder. Staggered, Pollux falls -- Castor catches him before he hits the floor -- simultaneously BLASTING the sharpshooter. Castor drags Pollux back into the smoke-filled hangar. Archer arrives and quickly checks the dead agents, his anger building. He signals Tito and the others to spread out. DEEP IN HANGAR A maze of airplane debris and heavy machinery. Led by Archer, the FBI agents pick their way through it. ROOKIE LOOMIS snaps alert -- did he see something? Advancing carefully, he comes up on... Castor -- staunching Pollux's shoulder wound. Pollux sees the agent -- and FIRES. Loomis hits the floor -- his bleeding ear is shredded. Suddenly a forklift charges down on Castor and Pollux. Tito is at the wheel. Castor FIRES -- forcing Tito to dive off. The forklift careens on -- driving apart the brothers. The forklift upends a stack of heavy crates -- pinning Pollux. Castor tries to free his trapped brother. POLLUX Forget it -- Go! Go! He slaps his Glock into Pollux's hand. CASTOR Wherever they put you, I'll find a way to get you out... Pollux starts FIRING -- covering Castor as he runs through a tunnel which leads to an adjoining hangar. Suddenly Wanda presses her machine-pistol into Pollux's head. As Pollux raises his gun -- Tito grabs his hand. TITO -- not unless you want that 200 I.Q. splattered all over the floor. (as Archer approaches) We got him now, Jon. ARCHER That's what you always say. Seal it off. I'm going in. Archer moves away from the group and enters the tunnel. MUSIC as Archer and Castor begin their cat-and-mouse dance. Sensing Archer, Castor pauses by an old landing gear. He draws a fresh pistol from his ankle holster and moves on. Archer pauses at the landing gear... his own stealthy movements mirroring Castor's. Castor waits behind a stack of steel drums... his gaze trying to penetrate the darkness... He SNAPS his fingers. The sound ECHOES as he tries to draw Archer in. Archer reacts to the sound and SNAPS back -- answering the challenge. As the deadly beat between them continues -- BLAM BLAM BLAM! Archer spins away just as Castor OPENS FIRE from the gloom... one step ahead. INTERCUT as necessary: CASTOR Jon, I'm getting a little annoyed by your obsessive need to spoil my fun. ARCHER And how much will your 'fun' net you this time? BOOM BOOM BOOM! Half-blind SHOTS send Castor spinning. A moment later, Archer pursues... SNAP! He fits a new CLIP into his pistol. CASTOR What's it to you? I declare it. Here I am, back in the States for less than a week -- ARCHER You're under arrest. Incredibly, you still have the right to remain silent -- CASTOR I've got something going down on the eighteenth... it's gonna be worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaoh. I'll give it up -- but my brother and I have to walk. ARCHER No discussion -- no deals. CASTOR What're you gonna do with me locked up? You'll drive your wife and kid nuts! I bet your daughter is just about ripe by now. What's her name, Janie? Enraged, Archer steps boldly forward -- trying to draw his enemy out. Silence -- then Archer senses... Castor is behind him. He FIRES -- Archer dives away. The BARRAGE CONTINUES -- driving Archer back between two huge turbine engines. As Archer reloads, he stares at the control panel switches. Castor moves in for the kill when he hears a final SNAP- SNAP. Except it isn't a finger snap... it's two switches. VRRRROOOM! The TWIN ENGINES ROAR on! Unable to fight the churning tornado-force wind... Castor's blasted across the hangar... slamming hard into the far wall. The ENGINES STOP and Archer emerges -- joined by Tito. TITO Tell me he didn't get away again... Then Tito follows Archer's gaze to Castor's lifeless body. Still as death -- somehow his mocking smile survives. EXT. AIRPORT TARMAC - SUNSET Heavily-manacled, an extremely agitated Pollux is herded into a SWAT van by Buzz and Wanda. POLLUX Where's my brother?! I want to see my brother! The van takes off -- passing an imposing older man, flanked by two bodyguards. Bullying through the media, Assistant FBI Director VICTOR LAZARRO scans the devastation. Approaching Archer, he watches as Castor's body is loaded on the ambulance. A sheet covers Castor's lifeless face. LAZARRO The oversight committee would've roasted us for this one -- thank God it paid off. Damn fine work. ARCHER Real fine, Victor. Especially the casualties. Archer contemplates the slain agents -- their three bodies laid out in a row -- waiting to be zip-locked. Lazarro reacts grimly as a reporter snaps a photo of the bodies. Instinctively, the two men close ranks. Archer grabs the Nikon, ejects the film, then shoves the camera back. LAZARRO Classified information. No photographs. Lazarro puts a caring arm around Archer's shoulder and leads him away from the media... and the carnage. LAZARRO You okay, Jon? (off Archer's nod) Then go home. Tell Eve. EXT. ARCHER'S HOME (SANTA MONICA) - SUNSET A renovated Craftsman. Sipping a carton of milk, Archer pulls into the driveway. He sits, gathering his thoughts. INT. ARCHER'S HOME - NIGHT Archer enters and sees his wife EVE. Handsome, intelligent. ARCHER Hi... (no response) ... What's wrong? She nods toward the KITCHEN. JAMIE is there -- a sullen and hard fifteen-year-old. There are cigarette cartons on the table. EVE She complimented for her 'F' in history with an 'A' in shoplifting... Archer marches into the kitchen -- noting the crate of Marlboros. Jamie matter-of-factly pours herself coffee. ARCHER Nice stunt, Jamie. You break the law and I'm expected to ignore it? JAMIE That's right -- it's all about you. Don't even ask me what happened. Archer looks to Eve for help. Eve shakes her head -- nope. ARCHER Okay. What happened? JAMIE Like you'd ever fucking believe me! She bolts. In anticipation, Eve calmly opens the door as Jamie rushes out, then closes it behind her. EVE Well, you tried. You failed miserably, but you tried. ARCHER Why won't she even talk to me? EVE Maybe because you taught her never to speak to strangers. (immediately regrets it) I'm sorry... that wasn't fair. Eve kisses his cheek -- then gathers up her doctor gear. EVE I've got patients waiting. Try again, Jon. She hates you -- but she needs you. ARCHER Eve... Something in Archer's expression makes her stop. EVE Jon -- what is it? But he's too overcome. He starts to speak -- but can't. EVE Is it -- him? It's... it's over? Emotions avalanche across his face until he finally looks up. Eve pulls him close -- a sheltering embrace for them both. ARCHER I'm going to make everything up to you and Jamie. I'll put in for a desk job. We'll go away, get counseling -- anything you want. This time, I mean it. INT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Freshly dressed, Archer heads down the hall. He pauses at the door to Jamie's room when he sees -- Jamie. Fully clothed, she's fast asleep on her bed cluttered with clothes and assorted girl-stuff. Her face peaceful. Archer looks around her room... sees the stuffed animals collecting dust... replaced by makeup, jewelry, beefcake Calvin Klein ads and band posters, etc. Archer's startled to see a lacey bustier... his little girl is growing up fast. And he's missing it. He pulls the blanket up over her and quietly slips out. The instant he leaves, Jamie kicks the blankets off. INT. FBI BUILDING - DAY Dominated by the FBI seal. Archer steps to the check point. SECURITY GUARD Print, please. Archer presses his thumb to a scan-pad -- and is cleared. INT. BULL PEN - DAY Efficient as a beehive -- agents, cryptologists, support staff buzz at their routines. Archer strides through -- drawing congratulatory nods and "thumbs up" signs... OUTSIDE HIS OFFICE Archer's team is there. Applauding. Proud. Uneasy with plaudits, he disperses the disappointed agents. ARCHER Much appreciated. Now let's get back to work, okay? WANDA (to Buzz) Is that stick ever gonna fall out of his ass? Archer's well-built secretary -- KIM BREWSTER -- hands him his messages. She's holding a bottle of Dom Perignon. KIMBERLY The C.I.A. sent this over. What should I do with it? ARCHER Send it back and tell them to stop wasting the taxpayers' money. Anything else, Miss Brewster? KIMBERLY No, sir. He enters his office. Kimberly sighs and turns to Wanda. KIMBERLY Four years -- and he still calls me 'Miss Brewster.' INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Sitting at his computer -- Archer scrolls through Castor's file. He grimly contemplates face-after-face of Troy's victims -- finally pausing on a photo of his son Matthew. Burying his feeling, he types "CASE CLOSED" over Castor's image. Archer starts to press "enter" when Tito comes in. ARCHER How's Loomis? TITO He needs some surgery, but he's going to be okay. That's the good news... ARCHER Go on. TITO ... Brodie and Miller from Special Ops need to see you. ARCHER I don't have time for those cloak and dagger guys. Big NED BRODIE and athletic female HOLLIS MILLER stroll in. BRODIE You better make time, Jon. (hefts a disc) We found this in the jet wreckage -- among Pollux Troy's effects... Archer accedes as Miller pops in the disk. The computer screen displays a CAD schematic of the bomb. Archer studies it carefully -- unease growing. ARCHER Porcelain casing... Thermal cloak... Undetectable payload. MILLER Powerful enough to flatten ten city blocks. ARCHER 'Worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaohs.' (to Tito) Get Pollux Troy. Now. DISSOLVE TO: INTERROGATION FOOTAGE Wired to a complex machine -- Pollux seems to have his frustrated interrogators on the run. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Archer, Lazarro, Tito, Brodie, Miller and other FBI officials watch the monitor. Pollux remains implacable POLLUX (V.O.) (on screen) That bomb was just a crossword puzzle to me... a mental exercise. I never built it... Lazarro shuts down the monitor... turns to Archer. ARCHER He's lying. LAZARRO He's hooked up to a full-spectrum polygraph. ARCHER Pollux is a manipulative psychopath. He can control his heartbeat, his sweat glands, his blood pressure... LAZARRO Jon, I trust your instincts, I always have. But D.C. wants more evidence. And frankly, so do I. ARCHER You'll get all the evidence you need when ten thousand people die. LAZARRO We'll get a team right on it. But we can't evacuate the city on what amounts to a hunch. Archer looks at the gathered brass. He knows it's hopeless. ARCHER That bomb has been built, it's out there somewhere and it's going to detonate... EXT. FBI BUILDING - INTELLIGENCE MEMORIAL - DAY Words etched in the granite wall read: IN HONOR OF THOSE MEMBERS OF THE FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION WHO SACRIFICED THEIR LIVES IN THE LINE OF DUTY Archer watches as a workman engraves the last of the three new stars among so many others -- each one honoring the dead. BRODIE Didn't Castor give any clue where the bomb might be? ARCHER Only one person knows -- his brother Pollux. And he'll keep his mouth shut until it blows. BRODIE We could plant an agent in his cell -- get him to spill the location. ARCHER Pollux is way too paranoid. The only person he'd talk to about that bomb is Castor himself. And dead men can't talk. Brodie and Miller exchange a knowing look. BRODIE There might be a way around that... FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S BODY Tubes and hoses are plugged into every orifice. INT. ICU ROOM - DAY Archer stares at the body... he can't believe it. ARCHER Why are you keeping him alive? (gets no answer) As long as he's breathing, he's dangerous. MILLER Relax, he's a turnip. Miller grinds out her cigarette on Castor's leg. Of course, Castor just lies there like a vegetable. BRODIE We can arrange for you to enter Erewhon Prison -- as Castor Troy. ARCHER What are you talking about? Archer turns as DR. MALCOLM HOAG (50s) enters the room. HOAG I think I'd better answer that question. (offers hand) Malcolm Hoag. I run the Physiological Camouflage Unit for Special Ops. ARCHER I know who you are. MILLER But you don't know what he can do. Physical augmentation; enhancement surgery... BRODIE ... He can disguise a compromised agent or alter the likeness -- even the voice -- of a government witness. HOAG Let me show you how it's done. (leading him out) I think you'll recognize our patient... INT. HOAG'S SURGICAL BAY - DAY Loomis lies still as a surgeon carefully scrapes away charred flesh around his burned ear. The doctor turns to a -- STEREO-LITHOGRAPHIC MACHINE Laser-beams attack an organic soup with incredible precision. The light forces a chemical reaction -- and out of the soup -- an ear begins to form. It rises from the liquid, now fully-formed. The surgeon takes the ear and fits it in place on Loomis's head. He starts suturing. OBSERVATION BOOTH - ABOVE Archer, Hoag, Brodie and Miller watch the operation -- video-enhanced by the two huge screens on the far walls. HOAG With our new generation of anti- inflammatories, healing is accelerated from weeks to days. By his next paycheck, he won't even remember which ear he lost. (a beat) Your situation, however, would be a little less permanent... BRODIE -- and a lot more classified. Hoag holds up a face-sized organic shell made up of yellow cartilage pieces and tendons, etc. Archer pulls it over his face -- like a gauze mask. A "tendon" falls off. ARCHER This'll fool Pollux. HOAG That is a state-of-the-art morpho- genetic template. The inside can be built to match the exact shape of your skull; the outside -- exactly like Castor's. Then we fit his face right on top -- MILLER -- and you become him. ARCHER You're talking about removing the guy's face? BRODIE Borrowing, Jon. The procedure's completely reversible. MILLER One way or the other -- the mission ends on the eighteenth. Archer turns the shell over and over and over in his hands. BRODIE You know Castor better than anyone. You've lived and breathed him for years -- hell, you even look a little like him. Archer shoves the template back at Hoag. ARCHER Find yourself another lab-rat. MILLER If you don't do this -- Castor will beat us again. He'll beat you again... Archer pushes his way past them -- and marches out. HOAG I don't think that went very well. BRODIE Trust us, Doc... MILLER ... he'll jerk around. Then he'll be back. INT. INTERROGATION BOOTHS - DAY Archer enters... sizes up DIETRICH HASSLER. His stylish garb doesn't completely hide his criminal roots. Archer sits down calmly. He looks at his watch. ARCHER I'm in a hurry, Dietrich. So you've only got ten seconds to go through your usual litany of lies, empty threats, and moronic denials. Then I'm coming over there -- DIETRICH If you're in such a fucking hurry -- why are you wasting your time with me? I'm just an art dealer. ARCHER You're a dealer, all right: technical secrets, munitions... explosives. DIETRICH You've never proven any of that. And when my bitchy, never-been- laid femi-nazi lawyer gets here, she's going to... ARCHER Time's up. Archer topples the wooden table and tears a leg from the top. Brandishing it -- he stalks the startled thug. HALLWAY JUST OUTSIDE - CONTINUOUS ACTION Lazarro blanches as an obsessed Archer repeatedly slams the table leg against the wall -- above Dietrich's head. LAZARRO The only ticking bomb I see is inside his head. He's getting worse, Tito. TITO Don't worry, sir. It's all an act... But as Lazarro leaves -- we see Tito's worried, too. BACK INSIDE BOOTH Archer has a terrified Dietrich backed into the corner. DIETRICH ... Okay! Castor called me but I blew him off... I swear I never saw him. And I don't know anything about any bomb! INT. CORRIDOR - OUTSIDE INTERROGATION BOOTHS - SAME TIME Archer emerges... eyes blazing. ARCHER Let him go, but I want him watched... Who's next? TITO Just Dietrich's sister... In another booth, a careworn but striking woman sits with a little boy on her lap. She gently helps him Crayola a book. This is SASHA HASSLER (30) and her son ADAM (5). INT. INTERROGATION BOOTH - DAY Archer hovers over Sasha -- her maternal warmth replaced by an icy hatred. Tito and the child are gone. ARCHER When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? SASHA Who cares? He's dead. ARCHER Answer the question. SASHA Look, I'm clean. I teach kids now -- ARCHER Sasha -- you are a felon, on probation for harboring Castor Troy. So it's in your best interest to cooperate. (as she's silent) Would you like your son put in a foster home? Sasha's eyes flash, her body coils -- but she keeps control. SASHA No, but I'm sure you'd love it -- you sick bastard. ARCHER (unmoved) When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? She stares at him with equal amounts of pity and hatred. SASHA I haven't seen him for years. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY Archer watches as Adam leaves Dietrich and jumps into Sasha's arms. She hugs him protectively. Adam sees Archer watching them -- and smiles. Archer doesn't smile back. FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S REAL FACE PULL BACK TO: INT. I.C.U. - NIGHT Archer slowly circles Castor's muscular, hairy, tattooed body. Although on life support -- his signature smirk remains. ARCHER What about Lazarro? BRODIE No way -- the red tape alone would take a month. This is a black-bag operation -- completely off the books. MILLER If you need him, Tito can help you prepare. But you know the drill: You can't tell anyone -- not the Director, not your wife... nobody. Archer's face shows he doesn't like it -- then he nods. ARCHER I'm in. EXT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Archer slowly gets out of his car. Trudging toward the front door, he picks up a basketball and takes a shot. His form is terrible -- he misses by a mile. INT. HALLWAY - NIGHT Archer passes Jamie's room. Loud MUSIC POUNDS from within. He pauses to knock, thinks again, then heads down the hall. INT. MASTER BEDROOM - NIGHT Eve is in bed. Archer comes in quietly and sits beside her -- studying her peaceful, sleeping face. She stirs. EVE I was dreaming... ARCHER Something good? EVE I'm not sure... you were flying this

horse

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

"Face/Off", production draft, by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary FACE/OFF Written by Mike Werb & Michael Colleary Revised 9/10/96 FADE INTO: SEPIA-TONE FOOTAGE of a pig chasing a lion chasing a dinosaur chasing an elephant. Noah's Ark going round... and round... and round... EXT. GRIFFITH PARK CAROUSEL - DAY Disjointed CALLIOPE MUSIC as the wheel of fate and fortune goes around until we PULL BACK to reveal: JON ARCHER (30) rising winged Pegasus. On the adjacent unicorn is his son MATTHEW (5). Clutching a balloon, Matty waves at his dad. A happy moment, like so many certain to follow -- until we realize we are watching them THROUGH... SNIPER'S RIFLE SCOPE - SNIPER'S EYES wait until the child clears his aim -- Archer is the target. They round the bend and disappear... MATTHEW Loses his grip on the unicorn. Archer reaches over and pulls him into his lap. They happily ride together... As the horses sweep back INTO VIEW... exposing Archer... Now we see the sniper. CASTOR TROY is cool, efficient, aggressive, sexual. His finger closes around the trigger. BOOM! A BULLET RIPS into Archer's back. Bleeding... he drops off his horse... and sinks to the deck of the carousel. His eyes desperately searching... searching... searching... until he sees -- Matthew lies on his back -- still. Slowly, Archer reaches out and takes Matthew's hand... and now we see COLOR for the first time... Blood red... as bleeding father touches bleeding son... TILT UP TO the winged Pegasus flying by -- now in full color and UP UP UP TO Matthew's red balloon... floating away. HANDEL'S MESSIAH OVER a SERIES OF SHOTS: FBI BRIEFING ROOM Gazing out the window as dawn breaks over the city below is Jon Archer... older... unshaven... fatigued... his eyes reveal a man in the grip of obsession. CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by, as if marking time itself... HOLY PLACE Smoky, spiritual... dominated by a gleaming, golden cross. A priest kneels before it -- deep in prayer. The glimmering cross comes INTO FOCUS... but it's just a light-reflection... off the casing of a large bomb. This is no chapel... but an atrium. Somewhere. And as the "priest" rubs out his cigarette we see it's Castor Troy -- carefully installing this complex device. ANOTHER CAROUSEL HORSE sweeps by... ARCHER pockets his FBI badge, then holsters his gun... CASTOR sets the bomb timer -- then replaces a wall panel in front of it. Totally hidden. BRIEFING ROOM - CASTOR'S MUGSHOT is on a computer screen. His criminal dossier scrolls by endlessly: bombings, assassinations, mercenary kidnappings, terrorism-for-hire... Rookie agent LOOMIS studies the details carefully. Other agents -- including BUZZ and WANDA scan computer grid- maps, man phones, etc. amid the take-out cartons and coffee cups. These people are on high alert. ARCHER Any follow-up from L.A.P.D. Intelligence? BUZZ No, sir, nothing yet. ARCHER Get them on the phone -- now. What about S.I.S. and our airport teams? WANDA We've had everything from psychics to satellites on this. Even if Castor was here... he must have slipped the net by now... ARCHER He's here! And we're going to keep looking until we find him! A silence descends on the chastised team. As they go back to work, veteran agent TITO BIONDI takes Archer aside. TITO Jon, these people have been working round the clock -- you gotta cut them some slack... Archer considers his best friend's advice -- then... ARCHER I'll cut them some slack when I cut myself some slack. Archer marches out -- slamming the door behind him. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY (MORNING) Castor quietly shuts the security door behind him. An Hispanic voice startles him. JANITOR What are you doing? CASTOR (in perfect Spanish) Thank goodness, I feel like Icarus in the labyrinth -- where's the men's room? JANITOR (in Spanish) This area is off limits, Padre. (re: security door) How did you get in that room? Realizing the JANITOR is already too suspicious, Castor puts a priestly arm around him -- and leads him down the hall. CASTOR Okay... I have a confession to make, but you aren't gonna like it. I was planting a bomb. JANITOR Bomb? CASTOR You know -- boom -- (patting his neck) Oh, never mind... The Janitor suddenly twitches, his eyes rolls up in his head. As he gasps his last -- Castor heaves him down a stairwell. Now we see the needle-thin custom stiletto in Castor's hand. Castor kicks the Janitor's mop and bucket down the stairs -- making everything look like an accident. INT. SAME BUILDING - MAIN FLOOR - DAY (MORNING) The children's church choir -- 200 strong -- sing "Behold the Lamb of God." Clergy and lay persons listen reverently. "Father" Castor strolls by the singers -- casually heading for the exit. As he passes the risers, a teenage girl drops her sheet music at his feet. Returning it -- he whispers in her ear -- so close he's practically licking it. CASTOR I've never enjoyed 'The Messiah.' But your voice makes even a hack like Handel seem like a genius. He pats her behind and leaves. Although a little shaken, she's also drawn by Castor's sexual magnetism. EXT. LA CONVENTION CENTER - DAY (MORNING) The marquee proclaims: INTERNATIONAL CHURCH CHOIRS 18th- 21st: AMERICAN BAR ASSOCIATION. Castor exits -- politely holding the door for a beat cop. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY (MORNING) The office is a monument to obsession: photographs, clues, newsclips, totems of Castor Troy surround a pacing Archer. ARCHER (on phone) ... I don't have time to get a warrant from some hung-over judge. Just give me the go-ahead, Victor, and I promise -- as soon as this is over -- you can brand my butt with the Fourth Amendment. The instant Archer hangs up -- the INTERCOM BUZZES. KIM (V.O.) Sir, your wife's on line one... S.I.S. on two... ARCHER Tell her to hang on -- As Archer punches up line two -- Tito bursts in. TITO A jet was chartered at Anderson Airfield. Guess who just showed up to pay for it? Pollux Troy. ARCHER Scramble the Reaction Team -- we're moving out. And get one of our people on that plane. TITO But there's still no sign of Castor... ARCHER Where one brother goes, the other's sure to follow... They rush our... the hold button on line 1 still blinking. EXT. PRIVATE AIRPORT - ESTABLISHING - DAY A sleek Cadillac pulls in... stopping next to a Land Rover. LARS MUELLER -- a muscular, crystal-eyed jar-head -- gets out of the Caddy. An instant later -- LUNT MUELLER -- emerges from the Rover. They are identical twins. The men scan the airport carefully, then open the rear doors of their respective vehicles. Castor emerges from the Caddy -- Armani clad. Exiting the Rover is Castor's younger brother POLLUX TROY -- skittish, brilliant, paranoid -- a human hummingbird. POLLUX You're 26 minutes late. The casing didn't fit -- right? I knew that cheap-shit Dietrich would rip us off... CASTOR Oh, God -- ! POLLUX What!? CASTOR I forgot to turn the damn thing on! POLLUX You're kidding, right? (to the twins) He's kidding... (grabs Castor by throat) ... are you fucking kidding!? Castor hugs Pollux lovingly. Pollux squirms like a kid. CASTOR Bro -- everything went fine. POLLUX I hate when you call me bro. Pollux heads for the jet. Castor hands Lunt a wad of cash. CASTOR Thanks for babysitting. LUNT Anything else? CASTOR I'll contact you when we get the rest of the money. (turns to leave) Oh, and stat away from downtown. The inversion layer's going to be pretty thick around the 18th. The twins nod... then take off. Castor heads for the jet. INT. JET - DAY Castor hustles in -- exhorting the PILOT. CASTOR Let's go, let's go! As the JET TURBINES start to WHINE, Castor sinks into his seat. A very sexy FLIGHT ATTENDANT appears and hands him a Scotch. He downs it, looking her over salaciously. FLIGHT ATTENDANT Would you like anything else? CASTOR Hell, yes... (pulls her into lap) It's the only way to fly. She smiles, not minding, until the jet suddenly slows its taxi down the runway. COCKPIT Castor yanks open the door. CASTOR What's wrong? AT END OF RUNWAY A squat car creeps INTO VIEW -- blocking the runway. EXT./INT. HUMVEE - MOVING - DAY Behind the wheel is Jon Archer. Beside him is Tito. BACK TO ARCHER CASTOR It's Archer. (gun to Pilot's head) Go, dammit! Suddenly the gun is BLASTED from Castor's hand. he turns around to see... the Flight Attendant behind them -- holding a smoking pistol. This is Agent WINTERS. WINTERS F.B.I.! Throttle down, captain! But Castor elbows the throttle up. The jet lurches forward, throwing Winters off balance. Pollux tackles her as the jet picks up speed. INT. HUMVEE - DAY Archer slams the vehicle into gear. ARCHER Get out. TITO You're not playing chicken with two tons of aluminum... ARCHER Get out! Tito obeys as Archer peels out. The HUMMER ROARS at the jet. The jet picks up speed, trying to get aloft. The humvee is aimed right at it... Archer's eyes narrow. COLLISION COURSE as two hunks of metal bear down. The machines are seconds apart when -- Archer looks up to see... Winters' face pressed up against the cockpit window, Castor holding a gun to her head. Archer cuts the wheel -- just avoiding the jet. The Hummer skids to a stop as Federal back-up arrives -- but too late. Archer watches an FBI chopper -- landing in a swirl of dust. As the jet picks up speed... the hatch opens. Castor blasts Winters in the side and tosses her onto the tarmac. INSIDE Castor smiles at Pollux, sensing freedom, until... KA-CHUNK: Something POUNDS the jet -- from above. Castor leans out the hatch and sees... The chopper on top of them -- Archer at the controls. Eye-contact -- years of hatred pass between these men. Castor BLASTS at him from the open hatch. The chopper's left windscreen spiderwebs. Archer jerks and weaves -- dodging the BULLETS. The chopper pulls away. The jet finally lifts off... when... The chopper settles on the jet -- slamming at its tail. TARMAC Tito reacts to this madness -- as the chopper plays a deadly game of leap-frog with the jet. The end of the runway is coming up fast. Archer crushes the jet's horizontal elevator flap. JET PILOT can't budge the jet's jammed yoke. Thwarted, he powers back the throttle. Thrust reverse. CASTOR What are you doing? PILOT The horizontal elevator's smashed! We can't lift off! CASTOR SHOOTS the Pilot -- then takes the controls. He struggles to maneuver the jet. Suddenly... A biplane descends right at them -- about to land. ARCHER pulls up just as the JET swerves radically to avoid the biplane and SLAMS into the hangar. JET plows through the GLASS DOOR, the NOSE-WHEEL SNAPS off. The PLANE SKIDS right into the hangar -- finally stopping at the wings. FBI CHOPPER lands. Archer steps out calmly -- like a cop about to write a traffic ticket. He hurries to join more FBI agents rushing into the hangar ahead of him. INT. HANGAR - DAY The jet hatch pops open -- Castor leaps from it, FIRING. Two FBI agents drop -- riddled. Pollux appears at the hatch -- an FBI sharpshooter FIRES, grazing Pollux's shoulder. Staggered, Pollux falls -- Castor catches him before he hits the floor -- simultaneously BLASTING the sharpshooter. Castor drags Pollux back into the smoke-filled hangar. Archer arrives and quickly checks the dead agents, his anger building. He signals Tito and the others to spread out. DEEP IN HANGAR A maze of airplane debris and heavy machinery. Led by Archer, the FBI agents pick their way through it. ROOKIE LOOMIS snaps alert -- did he see something? Advancing carefully, he comes up on... Castor -- staunching Pollux's shoulder wound. Pollux sees the agent -- and FIRES. Loomis hits the floor -- his bleeding ear is shredded. Suddenly a forklift charges down on Castor and Pollux. Tito is at the wheel. Castor FIRES -- forcing Tito to dive off. The forklift careens on -- driving apart the brothers. The forklift upends a stack of heavy crates -- pinning Pollux. Castor tries to free his trapped brother. POLLUX Forget it -- Go! Go! He slaps his Glock into Pollux's hand. CASTOR Wherever they put you, I'll find a way to get you out... Pollux starts FIRING -- covering Castor as he runs through a tunnel which leads to an adjoining hangar. Suddenly Wanda presses her machine-pistol into Pollux's head. As Pollux raises his gun -- Tito grabs his hand. TITO -- not unless you want that 200 I.Q. splattered all over the floor. (as Archer approaches) We got him now, Jon. ARCHER That's what you always say. Seal it off. I'm going in. Archer moves away from the group and enters the tunnel. MUSIC as Archer and Castor begin their cat-and-mouse dance. Sensing Archer, Castor pauses by an old landing gear. He draws a fresh pistol from his ankle holster and moves on. Archer pauses at the landing gear... his own stealthy movements mirroring Castor's. Castor waits behind a stack of steel drums... his gaze trying to penetrate the darkness... He SNAPS his fingers. The sound ECHOES as he tries to draw Archer in. Archer reacts to the sound and SNAPS back -- answering the challenge. As the deadly beat between them continues -- BLAM BLAM BLAM! Archer spins away just as Castor OPENS FIRE from the gloom... one step ahead. INTERCUT as necessary: CASTOR Jon, I'm getting a little annoyed by your obsessive need to spoil my fun. ARCHER And how much will your 'fun' net you this time? BOOM BOOM BOOM! Half-blind SHOTS send Castor spinning. A moment later, Archer pursues... SNAP! He fits a new CLIP into his pistol. CASTOR What's it to you? I declare it. Here I am, back in the States for less than a week -- ARCHER You're under arrest. Incredibly, you still have the right to remain silent -- CASTOR I've got something going down on the eighteenth... it's gonna be worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaoh. I'll give it up -- but my brother and I have to walk. ARCHER No discussion -- no deals. CASTOR What're you gonna do with me locked up? You'll drive your wife and kid nuts! I bet your daughter is just about ripe by now. What's her name, Janie? Enraged, Archer steps boldly forward -- trying to draw his enemy out. Silence -- then Archer senses... Castor is behind him. He FIRES -- Archer dives away. The BARRAGE CONTINUES -- driving Archer back between two huge turbine engines. As Archer reloads, he stares at the control panel switches. Castor moves in for the kill when he hears a final SNAP- SNAP. Except it isn't a finger snap... it's two switches. VRRRROOOM! The TWIN ENGINES ROAR on! Unable to fight the churning tornado-force wind... Castor's blasted across the hangar... slamming hard into the far wall. The ENGINES STOP and Archer emerges -- joined by Tito. TITO Tell me he didn't get away again... Then Tito follows Archer's gaze to Castor's lifeless body. Still as death -- somehow his mocking smile survives. EXT. AIRPORT TARMAC - SUNSET Heavily-manacled, an extremely agitated Pollux is herded into a SWAT van by Buzz and Wanda. POLLUX Where's my brother?! I want to see my brother! The van takes off -- passing an imposing older man, flanked by two bodyguards. Bullying through the media, Assistant FBI Director VICTOR LAZARRO scans the devastation. Approaching Archer, he watches as Castor's body is loaded on the ambulance. A sheet covers Castor's lifeless face. LAZARRO The oversight committee would've roasted us for this one -- thank God it paid off. Damn fine work. ARCHER Real fine, Victor. Especially the casualties. Archer contemplates the slain agents -- their three bodies laid out in a row -- waiting to be zip-locked. Lazarro reacts grimly as a reporter snaps a photo of the bodies. Instinctively, the two men close ranks. Archer grabs the Nikon, ejects the film, then shoves the camera back. LAZARRO Classified information. No photographs. Lazarro puts a caring arm around Archer's shoulder and leads him away from the media... and the carnage. LAZARRO You okay, Jon? (off Archer's nod) Then go home. Tell Eve. EXT. ARCHER'S HOME (SANTA MONICA) - SUNSET A renovated Craftsman. Sipping a carton of milk, Archer pulls into the driveway. He sits, gathering his thoughts. INT. ARCHER'S HOME - NIGHT Archer enters and sees his wife EVE. Handsome, intelligent. ARCHER Hi... (no response) ... What's wrong? She nods toward the KITCHEN. JAMIE is there -- a sullen and hard fifteen-year-old. There are cigarette cartons on the table. EVE She complimented for her 'F' in history with an 'A' in shoplifting... Archer marches into the kitchen -- noting the crate of Marlboros. Jamie matter-of-factly pours herself coffee. ARCHER Nice stunt, Jamie. You break the law and I'm expected to ignore it? JAMIE That's right -- it's all about you. Don't even ask me what happened. Archer looks to Eve for help. Eve shakes her head -- nope. ARCHER Okay. What happened? JAMIE Like you'd ever fucking believe me! She bolts. In anticipation, Eve calmly opens the door as Jamie rushes out, then closes it behind her. EVE Well, you tried. You failed miserably, but you tried. ARCHER Why won't she even talk to me? EVE Maybe because you taught her never to speak to strangers. (immediately regrets it) I'm sorry... that wasn't fair. Eve kisses his cheek -- then gathers up her doctor gear. EVE I've got patients waiting. Try again, Jon. She hates you -- but she needs you. ARCHER Eve... Something in Archer's expression makes her stop. EVE Jon -- what is it? But he's too overcome. He starts to speak -- but can't. EVE Is it -- him? It's... it's over? Emotions avalanche across his face until he finally looks up. Eve pulls him close -- a sheltering embrace for them both. ARCHER I'm going to make everything up to you and Jamie. I'll put in for a desk job. We'll go away, get counseling -- anything you want. This time, I mean it. INT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Freshly dressed, Archer heads down the hall. He pauses at the door to Jamie's room when he sees -- Jamie. Fully clothed, she's fast asleep on her bed cluttered with clothes and assorted girl-stuff. Her face peaceful. Archer looks around her room... sees the stuffed animals collecting dust... replaced by makeup, jewelry, beefcake Calvin Klein ads and band posters, etc. Archer's startled to see a lacey bustier... his little girl is growing up fast. And he's missing it. He pulls the blanket up over her and quietly slips out. The instant he leaves, Jamie kicks the blankets off. INT. FBI BUILDING - DAY Dominated by the FBI seal. Archer steps to the check point. SECURITY GUARD Print, please. Archer presses his thumb to a scan-pad -- and is cleared. INT. BULL PEN - DAY Efficient as a beehive -- agents, cryptologists, support staff buzz at their routines. Archer strides through -- drawing congratulatory nods and "thumbs up" signs... OUTSIDE HIS OFFICE Archer's team is there. Applauding. Proud. Uneasy with plaudits, he disperses the disappointed agents. ARCHER Much appreciated. Now let's get back to work, okay? WANDA (to Buzz) Is that stick ever gonna fall out of his ass? Archer's well-built secretary -- KIM BREWSTER -- hands him his messages. She's holding a bottle of Dom Perignon. KIMBERLY The C.I.A. sent this over. What should I do with it? ARCHER Send it back and tell them to stop wasting the taxpayers' money. Anything else, Miss Brewster? KIMBERLY No, sir. He enters his office. Kimberly sighs and turns to Wanda. KIMBERLY Four years -- and he still calls me 'Miss Brewster.' INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Sitting at his computer -- Archer scrolls through Castor's file. He grimly contemplates face-after-face of Troy's victims -- finally pausing on a photo of his son Matthew. Burying his feeling, he types "CASE CLOSED" over Castor's image. Archer starts to press "enter" when Tito comes in. ARCHER How's Loomis? TITO He needs some surgery, but he's going to be okay. That's the good news... ARCHER Go on. TITO ... Brodie and Miller from Special Ops need to see you. ARCHER I don't have time for those cloak and dagger guys. Big NED BRODIE and athletic female HOLLIS MILLER stroll in. BRODIE You better make time, Jon. (hefts a disc) We found this in the jet wreckage -- among Pollux Troy's effects... Archer accedes as Miller pops in the disk. The computer screen displays a CAD schematic of the bomb. Archer studies it carefully -- unease growing. ARCHER Porcelain casing... Thermal cloak... Undetectable payload. MILLER Powerful enough to flatten ten city blocks. ARCHER 'Worse than anything God ever dumped on the Pharaohs.' (to Tito) Get Pollux Troy. Now. DISSOLVE TO: INTERROGATION FOOTAGE Wired to a complex machine -- Pollux seems to have his frustrated interrogators on the run. INT. ARCHER'S OFFICE - DAY Archer, Lazarro, Tito, Brodie, Miller and other FBI officials watch the monitor. Pollux remains implacable POLLUX (V.O.) (on screen) That bomb was just a crossword puzzle to me... a mental exercise. I never built it... Lazarro shuts down the monitor... turns to Archer. ARCHER He's lying. LAZARRO He's hooked up to a full-spectrum polygraph. ARCHER Pollux is a manipulative psychopath. He can control his heartbeat, his sweat glands, his blood pressure... LAZARRO Jon, I trust your instincts, I always have. But D.C. wants more evidence. And frankly, so do I. ARCHER You'll get all the evidence you need when ten thousand people die. LAZARRO We'll get a team right on it. But we can't evacuate the city on what amounts to a hunch. Archer looks at the gathered brass. He knows it's hopeless. ARCHER That bomb has been built, it's out there somewhere and it's going to detonate... EXT. FBI BUILDING - INTELLIGENCE MEMORIAL - DAY Words etched in the granite wall read: IN HONOR OF THOSE MEMBERS OF THE FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION WHO SACRIFICED THEIR LIVES IN THE LINE OF DUTY Archer watches as a workman engraves the last of the three new stars among so many others -- each one honoring the dead. BRODIE Didn't Castor give any clue where the bomb might be? ARCHER Only one person knows -- his brother Pollux. And he'll keep his mouth shut until it blows. BRODIE We could plant an agent in his cell -- get him to spill the location. ARCHER Pollux is way too paranoid. The only person he'd talk to about that bomb is Castor himself. And dead men can't talk. Brodie and Miller exchange a knowing look. BRODIE There might be a way around that... FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S BODY Tubes and hoses are plugged into every orifice. INT. ICU ROOM - DAY Archer stares at the body... he can't believe it. ARCHER Why are you keeping him alive? (gets no answer) As long as he's breathing, he's dangerous. MILLER Relax, he's a turnip. Miller grinds out her cigarette on Castor's leg. Of course, Castor just lies there like a vegetable. BRODIE We can arrange for you to enter Erewhon Prison -- as Castor Troy. ARCHER What are you talking about? Archer turns as DR. MALCOLM HOAG (50s) enters the room. HOAG I think I'd better answer that question. (offers hand) Malcolm Hoag. I run the Physiological Camouflage Unit for Special Ops. ARCHER I know who you are. MILLER But you don't know what he can do. Physical augmentation; enhancement surgery... BRODIE ... He can disguise a compromised agent or alter the likeness -- even the voice -- of a government witness. HOAG Let me show you how it's done. (leading him out) I think you'll recognize our patient... INT. HOAG'S SURGICAL BAY - DAY Loomis lies still as a surgeon carefully scrapes away charred flesh around his burned ear. The doctor turns to a -- STEREO-LITHOGRAPHIC MACHINE Laser-beams attack an organic soup with incredible precision. The light forces a chemical reaction -- and out of the soup -- an ear begins to form. It rises from the liquid, now fully-formed. The surgeon takes the ear and fits it in place on Loomis's head. He starts suturing. OBSERVATION BOOTH - ABOVE Archer, Hoag, Brodie and Miller watch the operation -- video-enhanced by the two huge screens on the far walls. HOAG With our new generation of anti- inflammatories, healing is accelerated from weeks to days. By his next paycheck, he won't even remember which ear he lost. (a beat) Your situation, however, would be a little less permanent... BRODIE -- and a lot more classified. Hoag holds up a face-sized organic shell made up of yellow cartilage pieces and tendons, etc. Archer pulls it over his face -- like a gauze mask. A "tendon" falls off. ARCHER This'll fool Pollux. HOAG That is a state-of-the-art morpho- genetic template. The inside can be built to match the exact shape of your skull; the outside -- exactly like Castor's. Then we fit his face right on top -- MILLER -- and you become him. ARCHER You're talking about removing the guy's face? BRODIE Borrowing, Jon. The procedure's completely reversible. MILLER One way or the other -- the mission ends on the eighteenth. Archer turns the shell over and over and over in his hands. BRODIE You know Castor better than anyone. You've lived and breathed him for years -- hell, you even look a little like him. Archer shoves the template back at Hoag. ARCHER Find yourself another lab-rat. MILLER If you don't do this -- Castor will beat us again. He'll beat you again... Archer pushes his way past them -- and marches out. HOAG I don't think that went very well. BRODIE Trust us, Doc... MILLER ... he'll jerk around. Then he'll be back. INT. INTERROGATION BOOTHS - DAY Archer enters... sizes up DIETRICH HASSLER. His stylish garb doesn't completely hide his criminal roots. Archer sits down calmly. He looks at his watch. ARCHER I'm in a hurry, Dietrich. So you've only got ten seconds to go through your usual litany of lies, empty threats, and moronic denials. Then I'm coming over there -- DIETRICH If you're in such a fucking hurry -- why are you wasting your time with me? I'm just an art dealer. ARCHER You're a dealer, all right: technical secrets, munitions... explosives. DIETRICH You've never proven any of that. And when my bitchy, never-been- laid femi-nazi lawyer gets here, she's going to... ARCHER Time's up. Archer topples the wooden table and tears a leg from the top. Brandishing it -- he stalks the startled thug. HALLWAY JUST OUTSIDE - CONTINUOUS ACTION Lazarro blanches as an obsessed Archer repeatedly slams the table leg against the wall -- above Dietrich's head. LAZARRO The only ticking bomb I see is inside his head. He's getting worse, Tito. TITO Don't worry, sir. It's all an act... But as Lazarro leaves -- we see Tito's worried, too. BACK INSIDE BOOTH Archer has a terrified Dietrich backed into the corner. DIETRICH ... Okay! Castor called me but I blew him off... I swear I never saw him. And I don't know anything about any bomb! INT. CORRIDOR - OUTSIDE INTERROGATION BOOTHS - SAME TIME Archer emerges... eyes blazing. ARCHER Let him go, but I want him watched... Who's next? TITO Just Dietrich's sister... In another booth, a careworn but striking woman sits with a little boy on her lap. She gently helps him Crayola a book. This is SASHA HASSLER (30) and her son ADAM (5). INT. INTERROGATION BOOTH - DAY Archer hovers over Sasha -- her maternal warmth replaced by an icy hatred. Tito and the child are gone. ARCHER When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? SASHA Who cares? He's dead. ARCHER Answer the question. SASHA Look, I'm clean. I teach kids now -- ARCHER Sasha -- you are a felon, on probation for harboring Castor Troy. So it's in your best interest to cooperate. (as she's silent) Would you like your son put in a foster home? Sasha's eyes flash, her body coils -- but she keeps control. SASHA No, but I'm sure you'd love it -- you sick bastard. ARCHER (unmoved) When was the last time you saw Castor Troy? She stares at him with equal amounts of pity and hatred. SASHA I haven't seen him for years. INT. CORRIDOR - DAY Archer watches as Adam leaves Dietrich and jumps into Sasha's arms. She hugs him protectively. Adam sees Archer watching them -- and smiles. Archer doesn't smile back. FULL SCREEN - CASTOR'S REAL FACE PULL BACK TO: INT. I.C.U. - NIGHT Archer slowly circles Castor's muscular, hairy, tattooed body. Although on life support -- his signature smirk remains. ARCHER What about Lazarro? BRODIE No way -- the red tape alone would take a month. This is a black-bag operation -- completely off the books. MILLER If you need him, Tito can help you prepare. But you know the drill: You can't tell anyone -- not the Director, not your wife... nobody. Archer's face shows he doesn't like it -- then he nods. ARCHER I'm in. EXT. ARCHER HOME - NIGHT Archer slowly gets out of his car. Trudging toward the front door, he picks up a basketball and takes a shot. His form is terrible -- he misses by a mile. INT. HALLWAY - NIGHT Archer passes Jamie's room. Loud MUSIC POUNDS from within. He pauses to knock, thinks again, then heads down the hall. INT. MASTER BEDROOM - NIGHT Eve is in bed. Archer comes in quietly and sits beside her -- studying her peaceful, sleeping face. She stirs. EVE I was dreaming... ARCHER Something good? EVE I'm not sure... you were flying this

plows

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

"I shall go grey, I fear, before the ring is on my finger," she said, slowly, keeping her gaze fastened upon him. She waited for what he would say, rolling down her turned-up sleeves. "No fear of that," he said, absently. She turned away as if it had been something final, and busied herself with household cares while Nostromo talked with her father. Conversation with the old Garibaldino was not easy. Age had left his faculties unimpaired, only they seemed to have withdrawn somewhere deep within him. His answers were slow in coming, with an effect of august gravity. But that day he was more animated, quicker; there seemed to be more life in the old lion. He was uneasy for the integrity of his honour. He believed Sidoni's warning as to Ramirez's designs upon his younger daughter. And he did not trust her. She was flighty. He said nothing of his cares to "Son Gian' Battista." It was a touch of senile vanity. He wanted to show that he was equal yet to the task of guarding alone the honour of his house. Nostromo went away early. As soon as he had disappeared, walking towards the beach, Linda stepped over the threshold and, with a haggard smile, sat down by the side of her father. Ever since that Sunday, when the infatuated and desperate Ramirez had waited for her on the wharf, she had no doubts whatever. The jealous ravings of that man were no revelation. They had only fixed with precision, as with a nail driven into her heart, that sense of unreality and deception which, instead of bliss and security, she had found in her intercourse with her promised husband. She had passed on, pouring indignation and scorn upon Ramirez; but, that Sunday, she nearly died of wretchedness and shame, lying on the carved and lettered stone of Teresa's grave, subscribed for by the engine-drivers and the fitters of the railway workshops, in sign of their respect for the hero of Italian Unity. Old Viola had not been able to carry out his desire of burying his wife in the sea; and Linda wept upon the stone. The gratuitous outrage appalled her. If he wished to break her heart--well and good. Everything was permitted to Gian' Battista. But why trample upon the pieces; why seek to humiliate her spirit? Aha! He could not break that. She dried her tears. And Giselle! Giselle! The little one that, ever since she could toddle, had always clung to her skirt for protection. What duplicity! But she could not help it probably. When there was a man in the case the poor featherheaded wretch could not help herself. Linda had a good share of the Viola stoicism. She resolved to say nothing. But woman-like she put passion into her stoicism. Giselle's short answers, prompted by fearful caution, drove her beside herself by their curtness that resembled disdain. One day she flung herself upon the chair in which her indolent sister was lying and impressed the mark of her teeth at the base of the whitest neck in Sulaco. Giselle cried out. But she had her share of the Viola heroism. Ready to faint with terror, she only said, in a lazy voice, "Madre de Dios! Are you going to eat me alive, Linda?" And this outburst passed off leaving no trace upon the situation. "She knows nothing. She cannot know any thing," reflected Giselle. "Perhaps it is not true. It cannot be true," Linda tried to persuade herself. But when she saw Captain Fidanza for the first time after her meeting with the distracted Ramirez, the certitude of her misfortune returned. She watched him from the doorway go away to his boat, asking herself stoically, "Will they meet to-night?" She made up her mind not to leave the tower for a second. When he had disappeared she came out and sat down by her father. The venerable Garibaldino felt, in his own words, "a young man yet." In one way or another a good deal of talk about Ramirez had reached him of late; and his contempt and dislike of that man who obviously was not what his son would have been, had made him restless. He slept very little now; but for several nights past instead of reading--or only sitting, with Mrs. Gould's silver spectacles on his nose, before the open Bible, he had been prowling actively all about the island with his old gun, on watch over his honour. Linda, laying her thin brown hand on his knee, tried to soothe his excitement. Ramirez was not in Sulaco. Nobody knew where he was. He was gone. His talk of what he would do meant nothing. "No," the old man interrupted. "But son Gian' Battista told me--quite of himself--that the cowardly esclavo was drinking and gambling with the rascals of Zapiga, over there on the north side of the gulf. He may get some of the worst scoundrels of that scoundrelly town of negroes to help him in his attempt upon the little one. . . . But I am not so old. No!" She argued earnestly against the probability of any attempt being made; and at last the old man fell silent, chewing his white moustache. Women had their obstinate notions which must be humoured--his poor wife was like that, and Linda resembled her mother. It was not seemly for a man to argue. "May be. May be," he mumbled. She was by no means easy in her mind. She loved Nostromo. She turned her eyes upon Giselle, sitting at a distance, with something of maternal tenderness, and the jealous anguish of a rival outraged in her defeat. Then she rose and walked over to her. "Listen--you," she said, roughly. The invincible candour of the gaze, raised up all violet and dew, excited her rage and admiration. She had beautiful eyes--the Chica--this vile thing of white flesh and black deception. She did not know whether she wanted to tear them out with shouts of vengeance or cover up their mysterious and shameless innocence with kisses of pity and love. And suddenly they became empty, gazing blankly at her, except for a little fear not quite buried deep enough with all the other emotions in Giselle's heart. Linda said, "Ramirez is boasting in town that he will carry you off from the island." "What folly!" answered the other, and in a perversity born of long restraint, she added: "He is not the man," in a jesting tone with a trembling audacity. "No?" said Linda, through her clenched teeth. "Is he not? Well, then, look to it; because father has been walking about with a loaded gun at night." "It is not good for him. You must tell him not to, Linda. He will not listen to me." "I shall say nothing--never any more--to anybody," cried Linda, passionately. This could not last, thought Giselle. Giovanni must take her away soon--the very next time he came. She would not suffer these terrors for ever so much silver. To speak with her sister made her ill. But she was not uneasy at her father's watchfulness. She had begged Nostromo not to come to the window that night. He had promised to keep away for this once. And she did not know, could not guess or imagine, that he had another reason for coming on the island. Linda had gone straight to the tower. It was time to light up. She unlocked the little door, and went heavily up the spiral staircase, carrying her love for the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores like an ever-increasing load of shameful fetters. No; she could not throw it off. No; let Heaven dispose of these two. And moving about the lantern, filled with twilight and the sheen of the moon, with careful movements she lighted the lamp. Then her arms fell along her body. "And with our mother looking on," she murmured. "My own sister--the Chica!" The whole refracting apparatus, with its brass fittings and rings of prisms, glittered and sparkled like a domeshaped shrine of diamonds, containing not a lamp, but some sacred flame, dominating the sea. And Linda, the keeper, in black, with a pale face, drooped low in a wooden chair, alone with her jealousy, far above the shames and passions of the earth. A strange, dragging pain as if somebody were pulling her about brutally by her dark hair with bronze glints, made her put her hands up to her temples. They would meet. They would meet. And she knew where, too. At the window. The sweat of torture fell in drops on her cheeks, while the moonlight in the offing closed as if with a colossal bar of silver the entrance of the Placid Gulf--the sombre cavern of clouds and stillness in the surf-fretted seaboard. Linda Viola stood up suddenly with a finger on her lip. He loved neither her nor her sister. The whole thing seemed so objectless as to frighten her, and also give her some hope. Why did he not carry her off? What prevented him? He was incomprehensible. What were they waiting for? For what end were these two lying and deceiving? Not for the ends of their love. There was no such thing. The hope of regaining him for herself made her break her vow of not leaving the tower that night. She must talk at once to her father, who was wise, and would understand. She ran down the spiral stairs. At the moment of opening the door at the bottom she heard the sound of the first shot ever fired on the Great Isabel. She felt a shock, as though the bullet had struck her breast. She ran on without pausing. The cottage was dark. She cried at the door, "Giselle! Giselle!" then dashed round the corner and screamed her sister's name at the open window, without getting an answer; but as she was rushing, distracted, round the house, Giselle came out of the door, and darted past her, running silently, her hair loose, and her eyes staring straight ahead. She seemed to skim along the grass as if on tiptoe, and vanished. Linda walked on slowly, with her arms stretched out before her. All was still on the island; she did not know where she was going. The tree under which Martin Decoud spent his last days, beholding life like a succession of senseless images, threw a large blotch of black shade upon the grass. Suddenly she saw her father, standing quietly all alone in the moonlight. The Garibaldino--big, erect, with his snow-white hair and beard--had a monumental repose in his immobility, leaning upon a rifle. She put her hand upon his arm lightly. He never stirred. "What have you done?" she asked, in her ordinary voice. "I have shot Ramirez--infame!" he answered, with his eyes directed to where the shade was blackest. "Like a thief he came, and like a thief he fell. The child had to be protected." He did not offer to move an inch, to advance a single step. He stood there, rugged and unstirring, like a statue of an old man guarding the honour of his house. Linda removed her trembling hand from his arm, firm and steady like an arm of stone, and, without a word, entered the blackness of the shade. She saw a stir of formless shapes on the ground, and stopped short. A murmur of despair and tears grew louder to her strained hearing. "I entreated you not to come to-night. Oh, my Giovanni! And you promised. Oh! Why--why did you come, Giovanni?" It was her sister's voice. It broke on a heartrending sob. And the voice of the resourceful Capataz de Cargadores, master and slave of the San Tome treasure, who had been caught unawares by old Giorgio while stealing across the open towards the ravine to get some more silver, answered careless and cool, but sounding startlingly weak from the ground. "It seemed as though I could not live through the night without seeing thee once more--my star, my little flower." * * * * * The brilliant tertulia was just over, the last guests had departed, and the Senor Administrador had gone to his room already, when Dr. Monygham, who had been expected in the evening but had not turned up, arrived driving along the wood-block pavement under the electric-lamps of the deserted Calle de la Constitucion, and found the great gateway of the Casa still open. He limped in, stumped up the stairs, and found the fat and sleek Basilio on the point of turning off the lights in the sala. The prosperous majordomo remained open-mouthed at this late invasion. "Don't put out the lights," commanded the doctor. "I want to see the senora." "The senora is in the Senor Adminstrador's cancillaria," said Basilio, in an unctuous voice. "The Senor Administrador starts for the mountain in an hour. There is some trouble with the workmen to be feared, it appears. A shameless people without reason and decency. And idle, senor. Idle." "You are shamelessly lazy and imbecile yourself," said the doctor, with that faculty for exasperation which made him so generally beloved. "Don't put the lights out." Basilio retired with dignity. Dr. Monygham, waiting in the brilliantly lighted sala, heard presently a door close at the further end of the house. A jingle of spurs died out. The Senor Administrador was off to the mountain. With a measured swish of her long train, flashing with jewels and the shimmer of silk, her delicate head bowed as if under the weight of a mass of fair hair, in which the silver threads were lost, the "first lady of Sulaco," as Captain Mitchell used to describe her, moved along the lighted corredor, wealthy beyond great dreams of wealth, considered, loved, respected, honoured, and as solitary as any human being had ever been, perhaps, on this earth. The doctor's "Mrs. Gould! One minute!" stopped her with a start at the door of the lighted and empty sala. From the similarity of mood and circumstance, the sight of the doctor, standing there all alone amongst the groups of furniture, recalled to her emotional memory her unexpected meeting with Martin Decoud; she seemed to hear in the silence the voice of that man, dead miserably so many years ago, pronounce the words, "Antonia left her fan here." But it was the doctor's voice that spoke, a little altered by his excitement. She remarked his shining eyes. "Mrs. Gould, you are wanted. Do you know what has happened? You remember what I told you yesterday about Nostromo. Well, it seems that a lancha, a decked boat, coming from Zapiga, with four negroes in her, passing close to the Great Isabel, was hailed from the cliff by a woman's voice--Linda's, as a matter of fact--commanding them (it's a moonlight night) to go round to the beach and take up a wounded man to the town. The patron (from whom I've heard all this), of course, did so at once. He told me that when they got round to the low side of the Great Isabel, they found Linda Viola waiting for them. They followed her: she led them under a tree not far from the cottage. There they found Nostromo lying on the ground with his head in the younger girl's lap, and father Viola standing some distance off leaning on his gun. Under Linda's direction they got a table out of the cottage for a stretcher, after breaking off the legs. They are here, Mrs. Gould. I mean Nostromo and--and Giselle. The negroes brought him in to the first-aid hospital near the harbour. He made the attendant send for me. But it was not me he wanted to see--it was you, Mrs. Gould! It was you." "Me?" whispered Mrs. Gould, shrinking a little. "Yes, you!" the doctor burst out. "He begged me--his enemy, as he thinks--to bring you to him at once. It seems he has something to say to you alone." "Impossible!" murmured Mrs. Gould. "He said to me, 'Remind her that I have done something to keep a roof over her head.' . . . Mrs. Gould," the doctor pursued, in the greatest excitement. "Do you remember the silver? The silver in the lighter--that was lost?" Mrs. Gould remembered. But she did not say she hated the mere mention of that silver. Frankness personified, she remembered with an exaggerated horror that for the first and last time of her life she had concealed the truth from her husband about that very silver. She had been corrupted by her fears at that time, and she had never forgiven herself. Moreover, that silver, which would never have come down if her husband had been made acquainted with the news brought by Decoud, had been in a roundabout way nearly the cause of Dr. Monygham's death. And these things appeared to her very dreadful. "Was it lost, though?" the doctor exclaimed. "I've always felt that there was a mystery about our Nostromo ever since. I do believe he wants now, at the point of death----" "The point of death?" repeated Mrs. Gould. "Yes. Yes. . . . He wants perhaps to tell you something concerning that silver which----" "Oh, no! No!" exclaimed Mrs. Gould, in a low voice. "Isn't it lost and done with? Isn't there enough treasure without it to make everybody in the world miserable?" The doctor remained still, in a submissive, disappointed silence. At last he ventured, very low-- "And there is that Viola girl, Giselle. What are we to do? It looks as though father and sister had----" Mrs. Gould admitted that she felt in duty bound to do her best for these girls. "I have a volante here," the doctor said. "If you don't mind getting into that----" He waited, all impatience, till Mrs. Gould reappeared, having thrown over her dress a grey cloak with a deep hood. It was thus that, cloaked and monastically hooded over her evening costume, this woman, full of endurance and compassion, stood by the side of the bed on which the splendid Capataz de Cargadores lay stretched out motionless on his back. The whiteness of sheets and pillows gave a sombre and energetic relief to his bronzed face, to the dark, nervous hands, so good on a tiller, upon a bridle and on a trigger, lying open and idle upon a white coverlet. "She is innocent," the Capataz was saying in a deep and level voice, as though afraid that a louder word would break the slender hold his spirit still kept upon his body. "She is innocent. It is I alone. But no matter. For these things I would answer to no man or woman alive." He paused. Mrs. Gould's face, very white within the shadow of the hood, bent over him with an invincible and dreary sadness. And the low sobs of Giselle Viola, kneeling at the end of the bed, her gold hair with coppery gleams loose and scattered over the Capataz's feet, hardly troubled the silence of the room. "Ha! Old Giorgio--the guardian of thine honour! Fancy the Vecchio coming upon me so light of foot, so steady of aim. I myself could have done no better. But the price of a charge of powder might have been saved. The honour was safe. . . . Senora, she would have followed to the end of the world Nostromo the thief. . . . I have said the word. The spell is broken!" A low moan from the girl made him cast his eyes down. "I cannot see her. . . . No matter," he went on, with the shadow of the old magnificent carelessness in his voice. "One kiss is enough, if there is no time for more. An airy soul, senora! Bright and warm, like sunshine--soon clouded, and soon serene. They would crush it there between them. Senora, cast on her the eye of your compassion, as famed from one end of the land to the other as the courage and daring of the man who speaks to you. She will console herself in time. And even Ramirez is not a bad fellow. I am not angry. No! It is not Ramirez who overcame the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores." He paused, made an effort, and in louder voice, a little wildly, declared-- "I die betrayed--betrayed by----" But he did not say by whom or by what he was dying betrayed. "She would not have betrayed me," he began again, opening his eyes very wide. "She was faithful. We were going very far--very soon. I could have torn myself away from that accursed treasure for her. For that child I would have left boxes and boxes of it--full. And Decoud took four. Four ingots. Why? Picardia! To betray me? How could I give back the treasure with four ingots missing? They would have said I had purloined them. The doctor would have said that. Alas! it holds me yet!" Mrs. Gould bent low, fascinated--cold with apprehension. "What became of Don Martin on that night, Nostromo?" "Who knows? I wondered what would become of me. Now I know. Death was to come upon me unawares. He went away! He betrayed me. And you think I have killed him! You are all alike, you fine people. The silver has killed me. It has held me. It holds me yet. Nobody knows where it is. But you are the wife of Don Carlos, who put it into my hands and said, 'Save it on your life.' And when I returned, and you all thought it was lost, what do I hear? 'It was nothing of importance. Let it go. Up, Nostromo, the faithful, and ride away to save us, for dear life!'" "Nostromo!" Mrs. Gould whispered, bending very low. "I, too, have hated the idea of that silver from the bottom of my heart." "Marvellous!--that one of you should hate the wealth that you know so well how to take from the hands of the poor. The world rests upon the poor, as old Giorgio says. You have been always good to the poor. But there is something accursed in wealth. Senora, shall I tell you where the treasure is? To you alone. . . . Shining! Incorruptible!" A pained, involuntary reluctance lingered in his tone, in his eyes, plain to the woman with the genius of sympathetic intuition. She averted her glance from the miserable subjection of the dying man, appalled, wishing to hear no more of the silver. "No, Capataz," she said. "No one misses it now. Let it be lost for ever." After hearing these words, Nostromo closed his eyes, uttered no word, made no movement. Outside the door of the sick-room Dr. Monygham, excited to the highest pitch, his eyes shining with eagerness, came up to the two women. "Now, Mrs. Gould," he said, almost brutally in his impatience, "tell me, was I right? There is a mystery. You have got the word of it, have you not? He told you----" "He told me nothing," said Mrs. Gould, steadily. The light of his temperamental enmity to Nostromo went out of Dr. Monygham's eyes. He stepped back submissively. He did not believe Mrs. Gould. But her word was law. He accepted her denial like an inexplicable fatality affirming the victory of Nostromo's genius over his own. Even before that woman, whom he loved with secret devotion, he had been defeated by the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores, the man who had lived his own life on the assumption of unbroken fidelity, rectitude, and courage! "Pray send at once somebody for my carriage," spoke Mrs. Gould from within her hood. Then, turning to Giselle Viola, "Come nearer me, child; come closer. We will wait here." Giselle Viola, heartbroken and childlike, her face veiled in her falling hair, crept up to her side. Mrs. Gould slipped her hand through the arm of the unworthy daughter of old Viola, the immaculate republican, the hero without a stain. Slowly, gradually, as a withered flower droops, the head of the girl, who would have followed a thief to the end of the world, rested on the shoulder of Dona Emilia, the first lady of Sulaco, the wife of the Senor Administrador of the San Tome mine. And Mrs. Gould, feeling her suppressed sobbing, nervous and excited, had the first and only moment of bitterness in her life. It was worthy of Dr. Monygham himself. "Console yourself, child. Very soon he would have forgotten you for his treasure." "Senora, he loved me. He loved me," Giselle whispered, despairingly. "He loved me as no one had ever been loved before." "I have been loved, too," Mrs. Gould said in a severe tone. Giselle clung to her convulsively. "Oh, senora, but you shall live adored to the end of your life," she sobbed out. Mrs. Gould kept an unbroken silence till the carriage arrived. She helped in the half-fainting girl. After the doctor had shut the door of the landau, she leaned over to him. "You can do nothing?" she whispered. "No, Mrs. Gould. Moreover, he won't let us touch him. It does not matter. I just had one look. . . . Useless." But he promised to see old Viola and the other girl that very night. He could get the police-boat to take him off to the island. He remained in the street, looking after the landau rolling away slowly behind the white mules. The rumour of some accident--an accident to Captain Fidanza--had been spreading along the new quays with their rows of lamps and the dark shapes of towering cranes. A knot of night prowlers--the poorest of the poor--hung about the door of the first-aid hospital, whispering in the moonlight of the empty street. There was no one with the wounded man but the pale photographer, small, frail, bloodthirsty, the hater of capitalists, perched on a high stool near the head of the bed with his knees up and his chin in his hands. He had been fetched by a comrade who, working late on the wharf, had heard from a negro belonging to a lancha, that Captain Fidanza had been brought ashore mortally wounded. "Have you any dispositions to make, comrade?" he asked, anxiously. "Do not forget that we want money for our work. The rich must be fought with their own weapons." Nostromo made no answer. The other did not insist, remaining huddled up on the stool, shock-headed, wildly hairy, like a hunchbacked monkey. Then, after a long silence-- "Comrade Fidanza," he began, solemnly, "you have refused all aid from that doctor. Is he really a dangerous enemy of the people?" In the dimly lit room Nostromo rolled his head slowly on the pillow and opened his eyes, directing at the weird figure perched by his bedside a glance of enigmatic and profound inquiry. Then his head rolled back, his eyelids fell, and the Capataz de Cargadores died without a word or moan after an hour of immobility, broken by short shudders testifying to the most atrocious sufferings. Dr. Monygham, going out in the police-galley to the islands, beheld the glitter of the moon upon the gulf and the high black shape of the Great Isabel sending a shaft of light afar, from under the canopy of clouds. "Pull easy," he said, wondering what he would find there. He tried to imagine Linda and her father, and discovered a strange reluctance within himself. "Pull easy," he repeated. * * * * * * From the moment he fired at the thief of his honour, Giorgio Viola had not stirred from the spot. He stood, his old gun grounded, his hand grasping the barrel near the muzzle. After the lancha carrying off Nostromo for ever from her had left the shore, Linda, coming up, stopped before him. He did not seem to be aware of her presence, but when, losing her forced calmness, she cried out-- "Do you know whom you have killed?" he answered-- "Ramirez the vagabond." White, and staring insanely at her father, Linda laughed in his face. After a time he joined her faintly in a deep-toned and distant echo of her peals. Then she stopped, and the old man spoke as if startled-- "He cried out in son Gian' Battista's voice." The gun fell from his opened hand, but the arm remained extended for a moment as if still supported. Linda seized it roughly. "You are too old to understand. Come into the house." He let her lead him. On the threshold he stumbled heavily, nearly coming to the ground together with his daughter. His excitement, his activity of the last few days, had been like the flare of a dying lamp. He caught at the back of his chair. "In son Gian' Battista's voice," he repeated in a severe tone. "I heard him--Ramirez--the miserable----" Linda helped him into the chair, and, bending low, hissed into his ear-- "You have killed Gian' Battista." The old man smiled under his thick moustache. Women had strange fancies. "Where is the child?" he asked, surprised at the penetrating chilliness of the air and the unwonted dimness of the lamp by which he used to sit up half the night with the open Bible before him. Linda hesitated a moment, then averted her eyes. "She is asleep," she said. "We shall talk of her tomorrow." She could not bear to look at him. He filled her with terror and with an almost unbearable feeling of pity. She had observed the change that came over him. He would never understand what he had done; and even to her the whole thing remained incomprehensible. He said with difficulty-- "Give me the book." Linda laid on the table the closed volume in its worn leather cover, the Bible given him ages ago by an Englishman in Palermo. "The child had to be protected," he said, in a strange, mournful voice. Behind

carry

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

"I shall go grey, I fear, before the ring is on my finger," she said, slowly, keeping her gaze fastened upon him. She waited for what he would say, rolling down her turned-up sleeves. "No fear of that," he said, absently. She turned away as if it had been something final, and busied herself with household cares while Nostromo talked with her father. Conversation with the old Garibaldino was not easy. Age had left his faculties unimpaired, only they seemed to have withdrawn somewhere deep within him. His answers were slow in coming, with an effect of august gravity. But that day he was more animated, quicker; there seemed to be more life in the old lion. He was uneasy for the integrity of his honour. He believed Sidoni's warning as to Ramirez's designs upon his younger daughter. And he did not trust her. She was flighty. He said nothing of his cares to "Son Gian' Battista." It was a touch of senile vanity. He wanted to show that he was equal yet to the task of guarding alone the honour of his house. Nostromo went away early. As soon as he had disappeared, walking towards the beach, Linda stepped over the threshold and, with a haggard smile, sat down by the side of her father. Ever since that Sunday, when the infatuated and desperate Ramirez had waited for her on the wharf, she had no doubts whatever. The jealous ravings of that man were no revelation. They had only fixed with precision, as with a nail driven into her heart, that sense of unreality and deception which, instead of bliss and security, she had found in her intercourse with her promised husband. She had passed on, pouring indignation and scorn upon Ramirez; but, that Sunday, she nearly died of wretchedness and shame, lying on the carved and lettered stone of Teresa's grave, subscribed for by the engine-drivers and the fitters of the railway workshops, in sign of their respect for the hero of Italian Unity. Old Viola had not been able to carry out his desire of burying his wife in the sea; and Linda wept upon the stone. The gratuitous outrage appalled her. If he wished to break her heart--well and good. Everything was permitted to Gian' Battista. But why trample upon the pieces; why seek to humiliate her spirit? Aha! He could not break that. She dried her tears. And Giselle! Giselle! The little one that, ever since she could toddle, had always clung to her skirt for protection. What duplicity! But she could not help it probably. When there was a man in the case the poor featherheaded wretch could not help herself. Linda had a good share of the Viola stoicism. She resolved to say nothing. But woman-like she put passion into her stoicism. Giselle's short answers, prompted by fearful caution, drove her beside herself by their curtness that resembled disdain. One day she flung herself upon the chair in which her indolent sister was lying and impressed the mark of her teeth at the base of the whitest neck in Sulaco. Giselle cried out. But she had her share of the Viola heroism. Ready to faint with terror, she only said, in a lazy voice, "Madre de Dios! Are you going to eat me alive, Linda?" And this outburst passed off leaving no trace upon the situation. "She knows nothing. She cannot know any thing," reflected Giselle. "Perhaps it is not true. It cannot be true," Linda tried to persuade herself. But when she saw Captain Fidanza for the first time after her meeting with the distracted Ramirez, the certitude of her misfortune returned. She watched him from the doorway go away to his boat, asking herself stoically, "Will they meet to-night?" She made up her mind not to leave the tower for a second. When he had disappeared she came out and sat down by her father. The venerable Garibaldino felt, in his own words, "a young man yet." In one way or another a good deal of talk about Ramirez had reached him of late; and his contempt and dislike of that man who obviously was not what his son would have been, had made him restless. He slept very little now; but for several nights past instead of reading--or only sitting, with Mrs. Gould's silver spectacles on his nose, before the open Bible, he had been prowling actively all about the island with his old gun, on watch over his honour. Linda, laying her thin brown hand on his knee, tried to soothe his excitement. Ramirez was not in Sulaco. Nobody knew where he was. He was gone. His talk of what he would do meant nothing. "No," the old man interrupted. "But son Gian' Battista told me--quite of himself--that the cowardly esclavo was drinking and gambling with the rascals of Zapiga, over there on the north side of the gulf. He may get some of the worst scoundrels of that scoundrelly town of negroes to help him in his attempt upon the little one. . . . But I am not so old. No!" She argued earnestly against the probability of any attempt being made; and at last the old man fell silent, chewing his white moustache. Women had their obstinate notions which must be humoured--his poor wife was like that, and Linda resembled her mother. It was not seemly for a man to argue. "May be. May be," he mumbled. She was by no means easy in her mind. She loved Nostromo. She turned her eyes upon Giselle, sitting at a distance, with something of maternal tenderness, and the jealous anguish of a rival outraged in her defeat. Then she rose and walked over to her. "Listen--you," she said, roughly. The invincible candour of the gaze, raised up all violet and dew, excited her rage and admiration. She had beautiful eyes--the Chica--this vile thing of white flesh and black deception. She did not know whether she wanted to tear them out with shouts of vengeance or cover up their mysterious and shameless innocence with kisses of pity and love. And suddenly they became empty, gazing blankly at her, except for a little fear not quite buried deep enough with all the other emotions in Giselle's heart. Linda said, "Ramirez is boasting in town that he will carry you off from the island." "What folly!" answered the other, and in a perversity born of long restraint, she added: "He is not the man," in a jesting tone with a trembling audacity. "No?" said Linda, through her clenched teeth. "Is he not? Well, then, look to it; because father has been walking about with a loaded gun at night." "It is not good for him. You must tell him not to, Linda. He will not listen to me." "I shall say nothing--never any more--to anybody," cried Linda, passionately. This could not last, thought Giselle. Giovanni must take her away soon--the very next time he came. She would not suffer these terrors for ever so much silver. To speak with her sister made her ill. But she was not uneasy at her father's watchfulness. She had begged Nostromo not to come to the window that night. He had promised to keep away for this once. And she did not know, could not guess or imagine, that he had another reason for coming on the island. Linda had gone straight to the tower. It was time to light up. She unlocked the little door, and went heavily up the spiral staircase, carrying her love for the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores like an ever-increasing load of shameful fetters. No; she could not throw it off. No; let Heaven dispose of these two. And moving about the lantern, filled with twilight and the sheen of the moon, with careful movements she lighted the lamp. Then her arms fell along her body. "And with our mother looking on," she murmured. "My own sister--the Chica!" The whole refracting apparatus, with its brass fittings and rings of prisms, glittered and sparkled like a domeshaped shrine of diamonds, containing not a lamp, but some sacred flame, dominating the sea. And Linda, the keeper, in black, with a pale face, drooped low in a wooden chair, alone with her jealousy, far above the shames and passions of the earth. A strange, dragging pain as if somebody were pulling her about brutally by her dark hair with bronze glints, made her put her hands up to her temples. They would meet. They would meet. And she knew where, too. At the window. The sweat of torture fell in drops on her cheeks, while the moonlight in the offing closed as if with a colossal bar of silver the entrance of the Placid Gulf--the sombre cavern of clouds and stillness in the surf-fretted seaboard. Linda Viola stood up suddenly with a finger on her lip. He loved neither her nor her sister. The whole thing seemed so objectless as to frighten her, and also give her some hope. Why did he not carry her off? What prevented him? He was incomprehensible. What were they waiting for? For what end were these two lying and deceiving? Not for the ends of their love. There was no such thing. The hope of regaining him for herself made her break her vow of not leaving the tower that night. She must talk at once to her father, who was wise, and would understand. She ran down the spiral stairs. At the moment of opening the door at the bottom she heard the sound of the first shot ever fired on the Great Isabel. She felt a shock, as though the bullet had struck her breast. She ran on without pausing. The cottage was dark. She cried at the door, "Giselle! Giselle!" then dashed round the corner and screamed her sister's name at the open window, without getting an answer; but as she was rushing, distracted, round the house, Giselle came out of the door, and darted past her, running silently, her hair loose, and her eyes staring straight ahead. She seemed to skim along the grass as if on tiptoe, and vanished. Linda walked on slowly, with her arms stretched out before her. All was still on the island; she did not know where she was going. The tree under which Martin Decoud spent his last days, beholding life like a succession of senseless images, threw a large blotch of black shade upon the grass. Suddenly she saw her father, standing quietly all alone in the moonlight. The Garibaldino--big, erect, with his snow-white hair and beard--had a monumental repose in his immobility, leaning upon a rifle. She put her hand upon his arm lightly. He never stirred. "What have you done?" she asked, in her ordinary voice. "I have shot Ramirez--infame!" he answered, with his eyes directed to where the shade was blackest. "Like a thief he came, and like a thief he fell. The child had to be protected." He did not offer to move an inch, to advance a single step. He stood there, rugged and unstirring, like a statue of an old man guarding the honour of his house. Linda removed her trembling hand from his arm, firm and steady like an arm of stone, and, without a word, entered the blackness of the shade. She saw a stir of formless shapes on the ground, and stopped short. A murmur of despair and tears grew louder to her strained hearing. "I entreated you not to come to-night. Oh, my Giovanni! And you promised. Oh! Why--why did you come, Giovanni?" It was her sister's voice. It broke on a heartrending sob. And the voice of the resourceful Capataz de Cargadores, master and slave of the San Tome treasure, who had been caught unawares by old Giorgio while stealing across the open towards the ravine to get some more silver, answered careless and cool, but sounding startlingly weak from the ground. "It seemed as though I could not live through the night without seeing thee once more--my star, my little flower." * * * * * The brilliant tertulia was just over, the last guests had departed, and the Senor Administrador had gone to his room already, when Dr. Monygham, who had been expected in the evening but had not turned up, arrived driving along the wood-block pavement under the electric-lamps of the deserted Calle de la Constitucion, and found the great gateway of the Casa still open. He limped in, stumped up the stairs, and found the fat and sleek Basilio on the point of turning off the lights in the sala. The prosperous majordomo remained open-mouthed at this late invasion. "Don't put out the lights," commanded the doctor. "I want to see the senora." "The senora is in the Senor Adminstrador's cancillaria," said Basilio, in an unctuous voice. "The Senor Administrador starts for the mountain in an hour. There is some trouble with the workmen to be feared, it appears. A shameless people without reason and decency. And idle, senor. Idle." "You are shamelessly lazy and imbecile yourself," said the doctor, with that faculty for exasperation which made him so generally beloved. "Don't put the lights out." Basilio retired with dignity. Dr. Monygham, waiting in the brilliantly lighted sala, heard presently a door close at the further end of the house. A jingle of spurs died out. The Senor Administrador was off to the mountain. With a measured swish of her long train, flashing with jewels and the shimmer of silk, her delicate head bowed as if under the weight of a mass of fair hair, in which the silver threads were lost, the "first lady of Sulaco," as Captain Mitchell used to describe her, moved along the lighted corredor, wealthy beyond great dreams of wealth, considered, loved, respected, honoured, and as solitary as any human being had ever been, perhaps, on this earth. The doctor's "Mrs. Gould! One minute!" stopped her with a start at the door of the lighted and empty sala. From the similarity of mood and circumstance, the sight of the doctor, standing there all alone amongst the groups of furniture, recalled to her emotional memory her unexpected meeting with Martin Decoud; she seemed to hear in the silence the voice of that man, dead miserably so many years ago, pronounce the words, "Antonia left her fan here." But it was the doctor's voice that spoke, a little altered by his excitement. She remarked his shining eyes. "Mrs. Gould, you are wanted. Do you know what has happened? You remember what I told you yesterday about Nostromo. Well, it seems that a lancha, a decked boat, coming from Zapiga, with four negroes in her, passing close to the Great Isabel, was hailed from the cliff by a woman's voice--Linda's, as a matter of fact--commanding them (it's a moonlight night) to go round to the beach and take up a wounded man to the town. The patron (from whom I've heard all this), of course, did so at once. He told me that when they got round to the low side of the Great Isabel, they found Linda Viola waiting for them. They followed her: she led them under a tree not far from the cottage. There they found Nostromo lying on the ground with his head in the younger girl's lap, and father Viola standing some distance off leaning on his gun. Under Linda's direction they got a table out of the cottage for a stretcher, after breaking off the legs. They are here, Mrs. Gould. I mean Nostromo and--and Giselle. The negroes brought him in to the first-aid hospital near the harbour. He made the attendant send for me. But it was not me he wanted to see--it was you, Mrs. Gould! It was you." "Me?" whispered Mrs. Gould, shrinking a little. "Yes, you!" the doctor burst out. "He begged me--his enemy, as he thinks--to bring you to him at once. It seems he has something to say to you alone." "Impossible!" murmured Mrs. Gould. "He said to me, 'Remind her that I have done something to keep a roof over her head.' . . . Mrs. Gould," the doctor pursued, in the greatest excitement. "Do you remember the silver? The silver in the lighter--that was lost?" Mrs. Gould remembered. But she did not say she hated the mere mention of that silver. Frankness personified, she remembered with an exaggerated horror that for the first and last time of her life she had concealed the truth from her husband about that very silver. She had been corrupted by her fears at that time, and she had never forgiven herself. Moreover, that silver, which would never have come down if her husband had been made acquainted with the news brought by Decoud, had been in a roundabout way nearly the cause of Dr. Monygham's death. And these things appeared to her very dreadful. "Was it lost, though?" the doctor exclaimed. "I've always felt that there was a mystery about our Nostromo ever since. I do believe he wants now, at the point of death----" "The point of death?" repeated Mrs. Gould. "Yes. Yes. . . . He wants perhaps to tell you something concerning that silver which----" "Oh, no! No!" exclaimed Mrs. Gould, in a low voice. "Isn't it lost and done with? Isn't there enough treasure without it to make everybody in the world miserable?" The doctor remained still, in a submissive, disappointed silence. At last he ventured, very low-- "And there is that Viola girl, Giselle. What are we to do? It looks as though father and sister had----" Mrs. Gould admitted that she felt in duty bound to do her best for these girls. "I have a volante here," the doctor said. "If you don't mind getting into that----" He waited, all impatience, till Mrs. Gould reappeared, having thrown over her dress a grey cloak with a deep hood. It was thus that, cloaked and monastically hooded over her evening costume, this woman, full of endurance and compassion, stood by the side of the bed on which the splendid Capataz de Cargadores lay stretched out motionless on his back. The whiteness of sheets and pillows gave a sombre and energetic relief to his bronzed face, to the dark, nervous hands, so good on a tiller, upon a bridle and on a trigger, lying open and idle upon a white coverlet. "She is innocent," the Capataz was saying in a deep and level voice, as though afraid that a louder word would break the slender hold his spirit still kept upon his body. "She is innocent. It is I alone. But no matter. For these things I would answer to no man or woman alive." He paused. Mrs. Gould's face, very white within the shadow of the hood, bent over him with an invincible and dreary sadness. And the low sobs of Giselle Viola, kneeling at the end of the bed, her gold hair with coppery gleams loose and scattered over the Capataz's feet, hardly troubled the silence of the room. "Ha! Old Giorgio--the guardian of thine honour! Fancy the Vecchio coming upon me so light of foot, so steady of aim. I myself could have done no better. But the price of a charge of powder might have been saved. The honour was safe. . . . Senora, she would have followed to the end of the world Nostromo the thief. . . . I have said the word. The spell is broken!" A low moan from the girl made him cast his eyes down. "I cannot see her. . . . No matter," he went on, with the shadow of the old magnificent carelessness in his voice. "One kiss is enough, if there is no time for more. An airy soul, senora! Bright and warm, like sunshine--soon clouded, and soon serene. They would crush it there between them. Senora, cast on her the eye of your compassion, as famed from one end of the land to the other as the courage and daring of the man who speaks to you. She will console herself in time. And even Ramirez is not a bad fellow. I am not angry. No! It is not Ramirez who overcame the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores." He paused, made an effort, and in louder voice, a little wildly, declared-- "I die betrayed--betrayed by----" But he did not say by whom or by what he was dying betrayed. "She would not have betrayed me," he began again, opening his eyes very wide. "She was faithful. We were going very far--very soon. I could have torn myself away from that accursed treasure for her. For that child I would have left boxes and boxes of it--full. And Decoud took four. Four ingots. Why? Picardia! To betray me? How could I give back the treasure with four ingots missing? They would have said I had purloined them. The doctor would have said that. Alas! it holds me yet!" Mrs. Gould bent low, fascinated--cold with apprehension. "What became of Don Martin on that night, Nostromo?" "Who knows? I wondered what would become of me. Now I know. Death was to come upon me unawares. He went away! He betrayed me. And you think I have killed him! You are all alike, you fine people. The silver has killed me. It has held me. It holds me yet. Nobody knows where it is. But you are the wife of Don Carlos, who put it into my hands and said, 'Save it on your life.' And when I returned, and you all thought it was lost, what do I hear? 'It was nothing of importance. Let it go. Up, Nostromo, the faithful, and ride away to save us, for dear life!'" "Nostromo!" Mrs. Gould whispered, bending very low. "I, too, have hated the idea of that silver from the bottom of my heart." "Marvellous!--that one of you should hate the wealth that you know so well how to take from the hands of the poor. The world rests upon the poor, as old Giorgio says. You have been always good to the poor. But there is something accursed in wealth. Senora, shall I tell you where the treasure is? To you alone. . . . Shining! Incorruptible!" A pained, involuntary reluctance lingered in his tone, in his eyes, plain to the woman with the genius of sympathetic intuition. She averted her glance from the miserable subjection of the dying man, appalled, wishing to hear no more of the silver. "No, Capataz," she said. "No one misses it now. Let it be lost for ever." After hearing these words, Nostromo closed his eyes, uttered no word, made no movement. Outside the door of the sick-room Dr. Monygham, excited to the highest pitch, his eyes shining with eagerness, came up to the two women. "Now, Mrs. Gould," he said, almost brutally in his impatience, "tell me, was I right? There is a mystery. You have got the word of it, have you not? He told you----" "He told me nothing," said Mrs. Gould, steadily. The light of his temperamental enmity to Nostromo went out of Dr. Monygham's eyes. He stepped back submissively. He did not believe Mrs. Gould. But her word was law. He accepted her denial like an inexplicable fatality affirming the victory of Nostromo's genius over his own. Even before that woman, whom he loved with secret devotion, he had been defeated by the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores, the man who had lived his own life on the assumption of unbroken fidelity, rectitude, and courage! "Pray send at once somebody for my carriage," spoke Mrs. Gould from within her hood. Then, turning to Giselle Viola, "Come nearer me, child; come closer. We will wait here." Giselle Viola, heartbroken and childlike, her face veiled in her falling hair, crept up to her side. Mrs. Gould slipped her hand through the arm of the unworthy daughter of old Viola, the immaculate republican, the hero without a stain. Slowly, gradually, as a withered flower droops, the head of the girl, who would have followed a thief to the end of the world, rested on the shoulder of Dona Emilia, the first lady of Sulaco, the wife of the Senor Administrador of the San Tome mine. And Mrs. Gould, feeling her suppressed sobbing, nervous and excited, had the first and only moment of bitterness in her life. It was worthy of Dr. Monygham himself. "Console yourself, child. Very soon he would have forgotten you for his treasure." "Senora, he loved me. He loved me," Giselle whispered, despairingly. "He loved me as no one had ever been loved before." "I have been loved, too," Mrs. Gould said in a severe tone. Giselle clung to her convulsively. "Oh, senora, but you shall live adored to the end of your life," she sobbed out. Mrs. Gould kept an unbroken silence till the carriage arrived. She helped in the half-fainting girl. After the doctor had shut the door of the landau, she leaned over to him. "You can do nothing?" she whispered. "No, Mrs. Gould. Moreover, he won't let us touch him. It does not matter. I just had one look. . . . Useless." But he promised to see old Viola and the other girl that very night. He could get the police-boat to take him off to the island. He remained in the street, looking after the landau rolling away slowly behind the white mules. The rumour of some accident--an accident to Captain Fidanza--had been spreading along the new quays with their rows of lamps and the dark shapes of towering cranes. A knot of night prowlers--the poorest of the poor--hung about the door of the first-aid hospital, whispering in the moonlight of the empty street. There was no one with the wounded man but the pale photographer, small, frail, bloodthirsty, the hater of capitalists, perched on a high stool near the head of the bed with his knees up and his chin in his hands. He had been fetched by a comrade who, working late on the wharf, had heard from a negro belonging to a lancha, that Captain Fidanza had been brought ashore mortally wounded. "Have you any dispositions to make, comrade?" he asked, anxiously. "Do not forget that we want money for our work. The rich must be fought with their own weapons." Nostromo made no answer. The other did not insist, remaining huddled up on the stool, shock-headed, wildly hairy, like a hunchbacked monkey. Then, after a long silence-- "Comrade Fidanza," he began, solemnly, "you have refused all aid from that doctor. Is he really a dangerous enemy of the people?" In the dimly lit room Nostromo rolled his head slowly on the pillow and opened his eyes, directing at the weird figure perched by his bedside a glance of enigmatic and profound inquiry. Then his head rolled back, his eyelids fell, and the Capataz de Cargadores died without a word or moan after an hour of immobility, broken by short shudders testifying to the most atrocious sufferings. Dr. Monygham, going out in the police-galley to the islands, beheld the glitter of the moon upon the gulf and the high black shape of the Great Isabel sending a shaft of light afar, from under the canopy of clouds. "Pull easy," he said, wondering what he would find there. He tried to imagine Linda and her father, and discovered a strange reluctance within himself. "Pull easy," he repeated. * * * * * * From the moment he fired at the thief of his honour, Giorgio Viola had not stirred from the spot. He stood, his old gun grounded, his hand grasping the barrel near the muzzle. After the lancha carrying off Nostromo for ever from her had left the shore, Linda, coming up, stopped before him. He did not seem to be aware of her presence, but when, losing her forced calmness, she cried out-- "Do you know whom you have killed?" he answered-- "Ramirez the vagabond." White, and staring insanely at her father, Linda laughed in his face. After a time he joined her faintly in a deep-toned and distant echo of her peals. Then she stopped, and the old man spoke as if startled-- "He cried out in son Gian' Battista's voice." The gun fell from his opened hand, but the arm remained extended for a moment as if still supported. Linda seized it roughly. "You are too old to understand. Come into the house." He let her lead him. On the threshold he stumbled heavily, nearly coming to the ground together with his daughter. His excitement, his activity of the last few days, had been like the flare of a dying lamp. He caught at the back of his chair. "In son Gian' Battista's voice," he repeated in a severe tone. "I heard him--Ramirez--the miserable----" Linda helped him into the chair, and, bending low, hissed into his ear-- "You have killed Gian' Battista." The old man smiled under his thick moustache. Women had strange fancies. "Where is the child?" he asked, surprised at the penetrating chilliness of the air and the unwonted dimness of the lamp by which he used to sit up half the night with the open Bible before him. Linda hesitated a moment, then averted her eyes. "She is asleep," she said. "We shall talk of her tomorrow." She could not bear to look at him. He filled her with terror and with an almost unbearable feeling of pity. She had observed the change that came over him. He would never understand what he had done; and even to her the whole thing remained incomprehensible. He said with difficulty-- "Give me the book." Linda laid on the table the closed volume in its worn leather cover, the Bible given him ages ago by an Englishman in Palermo. "The child had to be protected," he said, in a strange, mournful voice. Behind

window

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

"I shall go grey, I fear, before the ring is on my finger," she said, slowly, keeping her gaze fastened upon him. She waited for what he would say, rolling down her turned-up sleeves. "No fear of that," he said, absently. She turned away as if it had been something final, and busied herself with household cares while Nostromo talked with her father. Conversation with the old Garibaldino was not easy. Age had left his faculties unimpaired, only they seemed to have withdrawn somewhere deep within him. His answers were slow in coming, with an effect of august gravity. But that day he was more animated, quicker; there seemed to be more life in the old lion. He was uneasy for the integrity of his honour. He believed Sidoni's warning as to Ramirez's designs upon his younger daughter. And he did not trust her. She was flighty. He said nothing of his cares to "Son Gian' Battista." It was a touch of senile vanity. He wanted to show that he was equal yet to the task of guarding alone the honour of his house. Nostromo went away early. As soon as he had disappeared, walking towards the beach, Linda stepped over the threshold and, with a haggard smile, sat down by the side of her father. Ever since that Sunday, when the infatuated and desperate Ramirez had waited for her on the wharf, she had no doubts whatever. The jealous ravings of that man were no revelation. They had only fixed with precision, as with a nail driven into her heart, that sense of unreality and deception which, instead of bliss and security, she had found in her intercourse with her promised husband. She had passed on, pouring indignation and scorn upon Ramirez; but, that Sunday, she nearly died of wretchedness and shame, lying on the carved and lettered stone of Teresa's grave, subscribed for by the engine-drivers and the fitters of the railway workshops, in sign of their respect for the hero of Italian Unity. Old Viola had not been able to carry out his desire of burying his wife in the sea; and Linda wept upon the stone. The gratuitous outrage appalled her. If he wished to break her heart--well and good. Everything was permitted to Gian' Battista. But why trample upon the pieces; why seek to humiliate her spirit? Aha! He could not break that. She dried her tears. And Giselle! Giselle! The little one that, ever since she could toddle, had always clung to her skirt for protection. What duplicity! But she could not help it probably. When there was a man in the case the poor featherheaded wretch could not help herself. Linda had a good share of the Viola stoicism. She resolved to say nothing. But woman-like she put passion into her stoicism. Giselle's short answers, prompted by fearful caution, drove her beside herself by their curtness that resembled disdain. One day she flung herself upon the chair in which her indolent sister was lying and impressed the mark of her teeth at the base of the whitest neck in Sulaco. Giselle cried out. But she had her share of the Viola heroism. Ready to faint with terror, she only said, in a lazy voice, "Madre de Dios! Are you going to eat me alive, Linda?" And this outburst passed off leaving no trace upon the situation. "She knows nothing. She cannot know any thing," reflected Giselle. "Perhaps it is not true. It cannot be true," Linda tried to persuade herself. But when she saw Captain Fidanza for the first time after her meeting with the distracted Ramirez, the certitude of her misfortune returned. She watched him from the doorway go away to his boat, asking herself stoically, "Will they meet to-night?" She made up her mind not to leave the tower for a second. When he had disappeared she came out and sat down by her father. The venerable Garibaldino felt, in his own words, "a young man yet." In one way or another a good deal of talk about Ramirez had reached him of late; and his contempt and dislike of that man who obviously was not what his son would have been, had made him restless. He slept very little now; but for several nights past instead of reading--or only sitting, with Mrs. Gould's silver spectacles on his nose, before the open Bible, he had been prowling actively all about the island with his old gun, on watch over his honour. Linda, laying her thin brown hand on his knee, tried to soothe his excitement. Ramirez was not in Sulaco. Nobody knew where he was. He was gone. His talk of what he would do meant nothing. "No," the old man interrupted. "But son Gian' Battista told me--quite of himself--that the cowardly esclavo was drinking and gambling with the rascals of Zapiga, over there on the north side of the gulf. He may get some of the worst scoundrels of that scoundrelly town of negroes to help him in his attempt upon the little one. . . . But I am not so old. No!" She argued earnestly against the probability of any attempt being made; and at last the old man fell silent, chewing his white moustache. Women had their obstinate notions which must be humoured--his poor wife was like that, and Linda resembled her mother. It was not seemly for a man to argue. "May be. May be," he mumbled. She was by no means easy in her mind. She loved Nostromo. She turned her eyes upon Giselle, sitting at a distance, with something of maternal tenderness, and the jealous anguish of a rival outraged in her defeat. Then she rose and walked over to her. "Listen--you," she said, roughly. The invincible candour of the gaze, raised up all violet and dew, excited her rage and admiration. She had beautiful eyes--the Chica--this vile thing of white flesh and black deception. She did not know whether she wanted to tear them out with shouts of vengeance or cover up their mysterious and shameless innocence with kisses of pity and love. And suddenly they became empty, gazing blankly at her, except for a little fear not quite buried deep enough with all the other emotions in Giselle's heart. Linda said, "Ramirez is boasting in town that he will carry you off from the island." "What folly!" answered the other, and in a perversity born of long restraint, she added: "He is not the man," in a jesting tone with a trembling audacity. "No?" said Linda, through her clenched teeth. "Is he not? Well, then, look to it; because father has been walking about with a loaded gun at night." "It is not good for him. You must tell him not to, Linda. He will not listen to me." "I shall say nothing--never any more--to anybody," cried Linda, passionately. This could not last, thought Giselle. Giovanni must take her away soon--the very next time he came. She would not suffer these terrors for ever so much silver. To speak with her sister made her ill. But she was not uneasy at her father's watchfulness. She had begged Nostromo not to come to the window that night. He had promised to keep away for this once. And she did not know, could not guess or imagine, that he had another reason for coming on the island. Linda had gone straight to the tower. It was time to light up. She unlocked the little door, and went heavily up the spiral staircase, carrying her love for the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores like an ever-increasing load of shameful fetters. No; she could not throw it off. No; let Heaven dispose of these two. And moving about the lantern, filled with twilight and the sheen of the moon, with careful movements she lighted the lamp. Then her arms fell along her body. "And with our mother looking on," she murmured. "My own sister--the Chica!" The whole refracting apparatus, with its brass fittings and rings of prisms, glittered and sparkled like a domeshaped shrine of diamonds, containing not a lamp, but some sacred flame, dominating the sea. And Linda, the keeper, in black, with a pale face, drooped low in a wooden chair, alone with her jealousy, far above the shames and passions of the earth. A strange, dragging pain as if somebody were pulling her about brutally by her dark hair with bronze glints, made her put her hands up to her temples. They would meet. They would meet. And she knew where, too. At the window. The sweat of torture fell in drops on her cheeks, while the moonlight in the offing closed as if with a colossal bar of silver the entrance of the Placid Gulf--the sombre cavern of clouds and stillness in the surf-fretted seaboard. Linda Viola stood up suddenly with a finger on her lip. He loved neither her nor her sister. The whole thing seemed so objectless as to frighten her, and also give her some hope. Why did he not carry her off? What prevented him? He was incomprehensible. What were they waiting for? For what end were these two lying and deceiving? Not for the ends of their love. There was no such thing. The hope of regaining him for herself made her break her vow of not leaving the tower that night. She must talk at once to her father, who was wise, and would understand. She ran down the spiral stairs. At the moment of opening the door at the bottom she heard the sound of the first shot ever fired on the Great Isabel. She felt a shock, as though the bullet had struck her breast. She ran on without pausing. The cottage was dark. She cried at the door, "Giselle! Giselle!" then dashed round the corner and screamed her sister's name at the open window, without getting an answer; but as she was rushing, distracted, round the house, Giselle came out of the door, and darted past her, running silently, her hair loose, and her eyes staring straight ahead. She seemed to skim along the grass as if on tiptoe, and vanished. Linda walked on slowly, with her arms stretched out before her. All was still on the island; she did not know where she was going. The tree under which Martin Decoud spent his last days, beholding life like a succession of senseless images, threw a large blotch of black shade upon the grass. Suddenly she saw her father, standing quietly all alone in the moonlight. The Garibaldino--big, erect, with his snow-white hair and beard--had a monumental repose in his immobility, leaning upon a rifle. She put her hand upon his arm lightly. He never stirred. "What have you done?" she asked, in her ordinary voice. "I have shot Ramirez--infame!" he answered, with his eyes directed to where the shade was blackest. "Like a thief he came, and like a thief he fell. The child had to be protected." He did not offer to move an inch, to advance a single step. He stood there, rugged and unstirring, like a statue of an old man guarding the honour of his house. Linda removed her trembling hand from his arm, firm and steady like an arm of stone, and, without a word, entered the blackness of the shade. She saw a stir of formless shapes on the ground, and stopped short. A murmur of despair and tears grew louder to her strained hearing. "I entreated you not to come to-night. Oh, my Giovanni! And you promised. Oh! Why--why did you come, Giovanni?" It was her sister's voice. It broke on a heartrending sob. And the voice of the resourceful Capataz de Cargadores, master and slave of the San Tome treasure, who had been caught unawares by old Giorgio while stealing across the open towards the ravine to get some more silver, answered careless and cool, but sounding startlingly weak from the ground. "It seemed as though I could not live through the night without seeing thee once more--my star, my little flower." * * * * * The brilliant tertulia was just over, the last guests had departed, and the Senor Administrador had gone to his room already, when Dr. Monygham, who had been expected in the evening but had not turned up, arrived driving along the wood-block pavement under the electric-lamps of the deserted Calle de la Constitucion, and found the great gateway of the Casa still open. He limped in, stumped up the stairs, and found the fat and sleek Basilio on the point of turning off the lights in the sala. The prosperous majordomo remained open-mouthed at this late invasion. "Don't put out the lights," commanded the doctor. "I want to see the senora." "The senora is in the Senor Adminstrador's cancillaria," said Basilio, in an unctuous voice. "The Senor Administrador starts for the mountain in an hour. There is some trouble with the workmen to be feared, it appears. A shameless people without reason and decency. And idle, senor. Idle." "You are shamelessly lazy and imbecile yourself," said the doctor, with that faculty for exasperation which made him so generally beloved. "Don't put the lights out." Basilio retired with dignity. Dr. Monygham, waiting in the brilliantly lighted sala, heard presently a door close at the further end of the house. A jingle of spurs died out. The Senor Administrador was off to the mountain. With a measured swish of her long train, flashing with jewels and the shimmer of silk, her delicate head bowed as if under the weight of a mass of fair hair, in which the silver threads were lost, the "first lady of Sulaco," as Captain Mitchell used to describe her, moved along the lighted corredor, wealthy beyond great dreams of wealth, considered, loved, respected, honoured, and as solitary as any human being had ever been, perhaps, on this earth. The doctor's "Mrs. Gould! One minute!" stopped her with a start at the door of the lighted and empty sala. From the similarity of mood and circumstance, the sight of the doctor, standing there all alone amongst the groups of furniture, recalled to her emotional memory her unexpected meeting with Martin Decoud; she seemed to hear in the silence the voice of that man, dead miserably so many years ago, pronounce the words, "Antonia left her fan here." But it was the doctor's voice that spoke, a little altered by his excitement. She remarked his shining eyes. "Mrs. Gould, you are wanted. Do you know what has happened? You remember what I told you yesterday about Nostromo. Well, it seems that a lancha, a decked boat, coming from Zapiga, with four negroes in her, passing close to the Great Isabel, was hailed from the cliff by a woman's voice--Linda's, as a matter of fact--commanding them (it's a moonlight night) to go round to the beach and take up a wounded man to the town. The patron (from whom I've heard all this), of course, did so at once. He told me that when they got round to the low side of the Great Isabel, they found Linda Viola waiting for them. They followed her: she led them under a tree not far from the cottage. There they found Nostromo lying on the ground with his head in the younger girl's lap, and father Viola standing some distance off leaning on his gun. Under Linda's direction they got a table out of the cottage for a stretcher, after breaking off the legs. They are here, Mrs. Gould. I mean Nostromo and--and Giselle. The negroes brought him in to the first-aid hospital near the harbour. He made the attendant send for me. But it was not me he wanted to see--it was you, Mrs. Gould! It was you." "Me?" whispered Mrs. Gould, shrinking a little. "Yes, you!" the doctor burst out. "He begged me--his enemy, as he thinks--to bring you to him at once. It seems he has something to say to you alone." "Impossible!" murmured Mrs. Gould. "He said to me, 'Remind her that I have done something to keep a roof over her head.' . . . Mrs. Gould," the doctor pursued, in the greatest excitement. "Do you remember the silver? The silver in the lighter--that was lost?" Mrs. Gould remembered. But she did not say she hated the mere mention of that silver. Frankness personified, she remembered with an exaggerated horror that for the first and last time of her life she had concealed the truth from her husband about that very silver. She had been corrupted by her fears at that time, and she had never forgiven herself. Moreover, that silver, which would never have come down if her husband had been made acquainted with the news brought by Decoud, had been in a roundabout way nearly the cause of Dr. Monygham's death. And these things appeared to her very dreadful. "Was it lost, though?" the doctor exclaimed. "I've always felt that there was a mystery about our Nostromo ever since. I do believe he wants now, at the point of death----" "The point of death?" repeated Mrs. Gould. "Yes. Yes. . . . He wants perhaps to tell you something concerning that silver which----" "Oh, no! No!" exclaimed Mrs. Gould, in a low voice. "Isn't it lost and done with? Isn't there enough treasure without it to make everybody in the world miserable?" The doctor remained still, in a submissive, disappointed silence. At last he ventured, very low-- "And there is that Viola girl, Giselle. What are we to do? It looks as though father and sister had----" Mrs. Gould admitted that she felt in duty bound to do her best for these girls. "I have a volante here," the doctor said. "If you don't mind getting into that----" He waited, all impatience, till Mrs. Gould reappeared, having thrown over her dress a grey cloak with a deep hood. It was thus that, cloaked and monastically hooded over her evening costume, this woman, full of endurance and compassion, stood by the side of the bed on which the splendid Capataz de Cargadores lay stretched out motionless on his back. The whiteness of sheets and pillows gave a sombre and energetic relief to his bronzed face, to the dark, nervous hands, so good on a tiller, upon a bridle and on a trigger, lying open and idle upon a white coverlet. "She is innocent," the Capataz was saying in a deep and level voice, as though afraid that a louder word would break the slender hold his spirit still kept upon his body. "She is innocent. It is I alone. But no matter. For these things I would answer to no man or woman alive." He paused. Mrs. Gould's face, very white within the shadow of the hood, bent over him with an invincible and dreary sadness. And the low sobs of Giselle Viola, kneeling at the end of the bed, her gold hair with coppery gleams loose and scattered over the Capataz's feet, hardly troubled the silence of the room. "Ha! Old Giorgio--the guardian of thine honour! Fancy the Vecchio coming upon me so light of foot, so steady of aim. I myself could have done no better. But the price of a charge of powder might have been saved. The honour was safe. . . . Senora, she would have followed to the end of the world Nostromo the thief. . . . I have said the word. The spell is broken!" A low moan from the girl made him cast his eyes down. "I cannot see her. . . . No matter," he went on, with the shadow of the old magnificent carelessness in his voice. "One kiss is enough, if there is no time for more. An airy soul, senora! Bright and warm, like sunshine--soon clouded, and soon serene. They would crush it there between them. Senora, cast on her the eye of your compassion, as famed from one end of the land to the other as the courage and daring of the man who speaks to you. She will console herself in time. And even Ramirez is not a bad fellow. I am not angry. No! It is not Ramirez who overcame the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores." He paused, made an effort, and in louder voice, a little wildly, declared-- "I die betrayed--betrayed by----" But he did not say by whom or by what he was dying betrayed. "She would not have betrayed me," he began again, opening his eyes very wide. "She was faithful. We were going very far--very soon. I could have torn myself away from that accursed treasure for her. For that child I would have left boxes and boxes of it--full. And Decoud took four. Four ingots. Why? Picardia! To betray me? How could I give back the treasure with four ingots missing? They would have said I had purloined them. The doctor would have said that. Alas! it holds me yet!" Mrs. Gould bent low, fascinated--cold with apprehension. "What became of Don Martin on that night, Nostromo?" "Who knows? I wondered what would become of me. Now I know. Death was to come upon me unawares. He went away! He betrayed me. And you think I have killed him! You are all alike, you fine people. The silver has killed me. It has held me. It holds me yet. Nobody knows where it is. But you are the wife of Don Carlos, who put it into my hands and said, 'Save it on your life.' And when I returned, and you all thought it was lost, what do I hear? 'It was nothing of importance. Let it go. Up, Nostromo, the faithful, and ride away to save us, for dear life!'" "Nostromo!" Mrs. Gould whispered, bending very low. "I, too, have hated the idea of that silver from the bottom of my heart." "Marvellous!--that one of you should hate the wealth that you know so well how to take from the hands of the poor. The world rests upon the poor, as old Giorgio says. You have been always good to the poor. But there is something accursed in wealth. Senora, shall I tell you where the treasure is? To you alone. . . . Shining! Incorruptible!" A pained, involuntary reluctance lingered in his tone, in his eyes, plain to the woman with the genius of sympathetic intuition. She averted her glance from the miserable subjection of the dying man, appalled, wishing to hear no more of the silver. "No, Capataz," she said. "No one misses it now. Let it be lost for ever." After hearing these words, Nostromo closed his eyes, uttered no word, made no movement. Outside the door of the sick-room Dr. Monygham, excited to the highest pitch, his eyes shining with eagerness, came up to the two women. "Now, Mrs. Gould," he said, almost brutally in his impatience, "tell me, was I right? There is a mystery. You have got the word of it, have you not? He told you----" "He told me nothing," said Mrs. Gould, steadily. The light of his temperamental enmity to Nostromo went out of Dr. Monygham's eyes. He stepped back submissively. He did not believe Mrs. Gould. But her word was law. He accepted her denial like an inexplicable fatality affirming the victory of Nostromo's genius over his own. Even before that woman, whom he loved with secret devotion, he had been defeated by the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores, the man who had lived his own life on the assumption of unbroken fidelity, rectitude, and courage! "Pray send at once somebody for my carriage," spoke Mrs. Gould from within her hood. Then, turning to Giselle Viola, "Come nearer me, child; come closer. We will wait here." Giselle Viola, heartbroken and childlike, her face veiled in her falling hair, crept up to her side. Mrs. Gould slipped her hand through the arm of the unworthy daughter of old Viola, the immaculate republican, the hero without a stain. Slowly, gradually, as a withered flower droops, the head of the girl, who would have followed a thief to the end of the world, rested on the shoulder of Dona Emilia, the first lady of Sulaco, the wife of the Senor Administrador of the San Tome mine. And Mrs. Gould, feeling her suppressed sobbing, nervous and excited, had the first and only moment of bitterness in her life. It was worthy of Dr. Monygham himself. "Console yourself, child. Very soon he would have forgotten you for his treasure." "Senora, he loved me. He loved me," Giselle whispered, despairingly. "He loved me as no one had ever been loved before." "I have been loved, too," Mrs. Gould said in a severe tone. Giselle clung to her convulsively. "Oh, senora, but you shall live adored to the end of your life," she sobbed out. Mrs. Gould kept an unbroken silence till the carriage arrived. She helped in the half-fainting girl. After the doctor had shut the door of the landau, she leaned over to him. "You can do nothing?" she whispered. "No, Mrs. Gould. Moreover, he won't let us touch him. It does not matter. I just had one look. . . . Useless." But he promised to see old Viola and the other girl that very night. He could get the police-boat to take him off to the island. He remained in the street, looking after the landau rolling away slowly behind the white mules. The rumour of some accident--an accident to Captain Fidanza--had been spreading along the new quays with their rows of lamps and the dark shapes of towering cranes. A knot of night prowlers--the poorest of the poor--hung about the door of the first-aid hospital, whispering in the moonlight of the empty street. There was no one with the wounded man but the pale photographer, small, frail, bloodthirsty, the hater of capitalists, perched on a high stool near the head of the bed with his knees up and his chin in his hands. He had been fetched by a comrade who, working late on the wharf, had heard from a negro belonging to a lancha, that Captain Fidanza had been brought ashore mortally wounded. "Have you any dispositions to make, comrade?" he asked, anxiously. "Do not forget that we want money for our work. The rich must be fought with their own weapons." Nostromo made no answer. The other did not insist, remaining huddled up on the stool, shock-headed, wildly hairy, like a hunchbacked monkey. Then, after a long silence-- "Comrade Fidanza," he began, solemnly, "you have refused all aid from that doctor. Is he really a dangerous enemy of the people?" In the dimly lit room Nostromo rolled his head slowly on the pillow and opened his eyes, directing at the weird figure perched by his bedside a glance of enigmatic and profound inquiry. Then his head rolled back, his eyelids fell, and the Capataz de Cargadores died without a word or moan after an hour of immobility, broken by short shudders testifying to the most atrocious sufferings. Dr. Monygham, going out in the police-galley to the islands, beheld the glitter of the moon upon the gulf and the high black shape of the Great Isabel sending a shaft of light afar, from under the canopy of clouds. "Pull easy," he said, wondering what he would find there. He tried to imagine Linda and her father, and discovered a strange reluctance within himself. "Pull easy," he repeated. * * * * * * From the moment he fired at the thief of his honour, Giorgio Viola had not stirred from the spot. He stood, his old gun grounded, his hand grasping the barrel near the muzzle. After the lancha carrying off Nostromo for ever from her had left the shore, Linda, coming up, stopped before him. He did not seem to be aware of her presence, but when, losing her forced calmness, she cried out-- "Do you know whom you have killed?" he answered-- "Ramirez the vagabond." White, and staring insanely at her father, Linda laughed in his face. After a time he joined her faintly in a deep-toned and distant echo of her peals. Then she stopped, and the old man spoke as if startled-- "He cried out in son Gian' Battista's voice." The gun fell from his opened hand, but the arm remained extended for a moment as if still supported. Linda seized it roughly. "You are too old to understand. Come into the house." He let her lead him. On the threshold he stumbled heavily, nearly coming to the ground together with his daughter. His excitement, his activity of the last few days, had been like the flare of a dying lamp. He caught at the back of his chair. "In son Gian' Battista's voice," he repeated in a severe tone. "I heard him--Ramirez--the miserable----" Linda helped him into the chair, and, bending low, hissed into his ear-- "You have killed Gian' Battista." The old man smiled under his thick moustache. Women had strange fancies. "Where is the child?" he asked, surprised at the penetrating chilliness of the air and the unwonted dimness of the lamp by which he used to sit up half the night with the open Bible before him. Linda hesitated a moment, then averted her eyes. "She is asleep," she said. "We shall talk of her tomorrow." She could not bear to look at him. He filled her with terror and with an almost unbearable feeling of pity. She had observed the change that came over him. He would never understand what he had done; and even to her the whole thing remained incomprehensible. He said with difficulty-- "Give me the book." Linda laid on the table the closed volume in its worn leather cover, the Bible given him ages ago by an Englishman in Palermo. "The child had to be protected," he said, in a strange, mournful voice. Behind

dashed

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

"I shall go grey, I fear, before the ring is on my finger," she said, slowly, keeping her gaze fastened upon him. She waited for what he would say, rolling down her turned-up sleeves. "No fear of that," he said, absently. She turned away as if it had been something final, and busied herself with household cares while Nostromo talked with her father. Conversation with the old Garibaldino was not easy. Age had left his faculties unimpaired, only they seemed to have withdrawn somewhere deep within him. His answers were slow in coming, with an effect of august gravity. But that day he was more animated, quicker; there seemed to be more life in the old lion. He was uneasy for the integrity of his honour. He believed Sidoni's warning as to Ramirez's designs upon his younger daughter. And he did not trust her. She was flighty. He said nothing of his cares to "Son Gian' Battista." It was a touch of senile vanity. He wanted to show that he was equal yet to the task of guarding alone the honour of his house. Nostromo went away early. As soon as he had disappeared, walking towards the beach, Linda stepped over the threshold and, with a haggard smile, sat down by the side of her father. Ever since that Sunday, when the infatuated and desperate Ramirez had waited for her on the wharf, she had no doubts whatever. The jealous ravings of that man were no revelation. They had only fixed with precision, as with a nail driven into her heart, that sense of unreality and deception which, instead of bliss and security, she had found in her intercourse with her promised husband. She had passed on, pouring indignation and scorn upon Ramirez; but, that Sunday, she nearly died of wretchedness and shame, lying on the carved and lettered stone of Teresa's grave, subscribed for by the engine-drivers and the fitters of the railway workshops, in sign of their respect for the hero of Italian Unity. Old Viola had not been able to carry out his desire of burying his wife in the sea; and Linda wept upon the stone. The gratuitous outrage appalled her. If he wished to break her heart--well and good. Everything was permitted to Gian' Battista. But why trample upon the pieces; why seek to humiliate her spirit? Aha! He could not break that. She dried her tears. And Giselle! Giselle! The little one that, ever since she could toddle, had always clung to her skirt for protection. What duplicity! But she could not help it probably. When there was a man in the case the poor featherheaded wretch could not help herself. Linda had a good share of the Viola stoicism. She resolved to say nothing. But woman-like she put passion into her stoicism. Giselle's short answers, prompted by fearful caution, drove her beside herself by their curtness that resembled disdain. One day she flung herself upon the chair in which her indolent sister was lying and impressed the mark of her teeth at the base of the whitest neck in Sulaco. Giselle cried out. But she had her share of the Viola heroism. Ready to faint with terror, she only said, in a lazy voice, "Madre de Dios! Are you going to eat me alive, Linda?" And this outburst passed off leaving no trace upon the situation. "She knows nothing. She cannot know any thing," reflected Giselle. "Perhaps it is not true. It cannot be true," Linda tried to persuade herself. But when she saw Captain Fidanza for the first time after her meeting with the distracted Ramirez, the certitude of her misfortune returned. She watched him from the doorway go away to his boat, asking herself stoically, "Will they meet to-night?" She made up her mind not to leave the tower for a second. When he had disappeared she came out and sat down by her father. The venerable Garibaldino felt, in his own words, "a young man yet." In one way or another a good deal of talk about Ramirez had reached him of late; and his contempt and dislike of that man who obviously was not what his son would have been, had made him restless. He slept very little now; but for several nights past instead of reading--or only sitting, with Mrs. Gould's silver spectacles on his nose, before the open Bible, he had been prowling actively all about the island with his old gun, on watch over his honour. Linda, laying her thin brown hand on his knee, tried to soothe his excitement. Ramirez was not in Sulaco. Nobody knew where he was. He was gone. His talk of what he would do meant nothing. "No," the old man interrupted. "But son Gian' Battista told me--quite of himself--that the cowardly esclavo was drinking and gambling with the rascals of Zapiga, over there on the north side of the gulf. He may get some of the worst scoundrels of that scoundrelly town of negroes to help him in his attempt upon the little one. . . . But I am not so old. No!" She argued earnestly against the probability of any attempt being made; and at last the old man fell silent, chewing his white moustache. Women had their obstinate notions which must be humoured--his poor wife was like that, and Linda resembled her mother. It was not seemly for a man to argue. "May be. May be," he mumbled. She was by no means easy in her mind. She loved Nostromo. She turned her eyes upon Giselle, sitting at a distance, with something of maternal tenderness, and the jealous anguish of a rival outraged in her defeat. Then she rose and walked over to her. "Listen--you," she said, roughly. The invincible candour of the gaze, raised up all violet and dew, excited her rage and admiration. She had beautiful eyes--the Chica--this vile thing of white flesh and black deception. She did not know whether she wanted to tear them out with shouts of vengeance or cover up their mysterious and shameless innocence with kisses of pity and love. And suddenly they became empty, gazing blankly at her, except for a little fear not quite buried deep enough with all the other emotions in Giselle's heart. Linda said, "Ramirez is boasting in town that he will carry you off from the island." "What folly!" answered the other, and in a perversity born of long restraint, she added: "He is not the man," in a jesting tone with a trembling audacity. "No?" said Linda, through her clenched teeth. "Is he not? Well, then, look to it; because father has been walking about with a loaded gun at night." "It is not good for him. You must tell him not to, Linda. He will not listen to me." "I shall say nothing--never any more--to anybody," cried Linda, passionately. This could not last, thought Giselle. Giovanni must take her away soon--the very next time he came. She would not suffer these terrors for ever so much silver. To speak with her sister made her ill. But she was not uneasy at her father's watchfulness. She had begged Nostromo not to come to the window that night. He had promised to keep away for this once. And she did not know, could not guess or imagine, that he had another reason for coming on the island. Linda had gone straight to the tower. It was time to light up. She unlocked the little door, and went heavily up the spiral staircase, carrying her love for the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores like an ever-increasing load of shameful fetters. No; she could not throw it off. No; let Heaven dispose of these two. And moving about the lantern, filled with twilight and the sheen of the moon, with careful movements she lighted the lamp. Then her arms fell along her body. "And with our mother looking on," she murmured. "My own sister--the Chica!" The whole refracting apparatus, with its brass fittings and rings of prisms, glittered and sparkled like a domeshaped shrine of diamonds, containing not a lamp, but some sacred flame, dominating the sea. And Linda, the keeper, in black, with a pale face, drooped low in a wooden chair, alone with her jealousy, far above the shames and passions of the earth. A strange, dragging pain as if somebody were pulling her about brutally by her dark hair with bronze glints, made her put her hands up to her temples. They would meet. They would meet. And she knew where, too. At the window. The sweat of torture fell in drops on her cheeks, while the moonlight in the offing closed as if with a colossal bar of silver the entrance of the Placid Gulf--the sombre cavern of clouds and stillness in the surf-fretted seaboard. Linda Viola stood up suddenly with a finger on her lip. He loved neither her nor her sister. The whole thing seemed so objectless as to frighten her, and also give her some hope. Why did he not carry her off? What prevented him? He was incomprehensible. What were they waiting for? For what end were these two lying and deceiving? Not for the ends of their love. There was no such thing. The hope of regaining him for herself made her break her vow of not leaving the tower that night. She must talk at once to her father, who was wise, and would understand. She ran down the spiral stairs. At the moment of opening the door at the bottom she heard the sound of the first shot ever fired on the Great Isabel. She felt a shock, as though the bullet had struck her breast. She ran on without pausing. The cottage was dark. She cried at the door, "Giselle! Giselle!" then dashed round the corner and screamed her sister's name at the open window, without getting an answer; but as she was rushing, distracted, round the house, Giselle came out of the door, and darted past her, running silently, her hair loose, and her eyes staring straight ahead. She seemed to skim along the grass as if on tiptoe, and vanished. Linda walked on slowly, with her arms stretched out before her. All was still on the island; she did not know where she was going. The tree under which Martin Decoud spent his last days, beholding life like a succession of senseless images, threw a large blotch of black shade upon the grass. Suddenly she saw her father, standing quietly all alone in the moonlight. The Garibaldino--big, erect, with his snow-white hair and beard--had a monumental repose in his immobility, leaning upon a rifle. She put her hand upon his arm lightly. He never stirred. "What have you done?" she asked, in her ordinary voice. "I have shot Ramirez--infame!" he answered, with his eyes directed to where the shade was blackest. "Like a thief he came, and like a thief he fell. The child had to be protected." He did not offer to move an inch, to advance a single step. He stood there, rugged and unstirring, like a statue of an old man guarding the honour of his house. Linda removed her trembling hand from his arm, firm and steady like an arm of stone, and, without a word, entered the blackness of the shade. She saw a stir of formless shapes on the ground, and stopped short. A murmur of despair and tears grew louder to her strained hearing. "I entreated you not to come to-night. Oh, my Giovanni! And you promised. Oh! Why--why did you come, Giovanni?" It was her sister's voice. It broke on a heartrending sob. And the voice of the resourceful Capataz de Cargadores, master and slave of the San Tome treasure, who had been caught unawares by old Giorgio while stealing across the open towards the ravine to get some more silver, answered careless and cool, but sounding startlingly weak from the ground. "It seemed as though I could not live through the night without seeing thee once more--my star, my little flower." * * * * * The brilliant tertulia was just over, the last guests had departed, and the Senor Administrador had gone to his room already, when Dr. Monygham, who had been expected in the evening but had not turned up, arrived driving along the wood-block pavement under the electric-lamps of the deserted Calle de la Constitucion, and found the great gateway of the Casa still open. He limped in, stumped up the stairs, and found the fat and sleek Basilio on the point of turning off the lights in the sala. The prosperous majordomo remained open-mouthed at this late invasion. "Don't put out the lights," commanded the doctor. "I want to see the senora." "The senora is in the Senor Adminstrador's cancillaria," said Basilio, in an unctuous voice. "The Senor Administrador starts for the mountain in an hour. There is some trouble with the workmen to be feared, it appears. A shameless people without reason and decency. And idle, senor. Idle." "You are shamelessly lazy and imbecile yourself," said the doctor, with that faculty for exasperation which made him so generally beloved. "Don't put the lights out." Basilio retired with dignity. Dr. Monygham, waiting in the brilliantly lighted sala, heard presently a door close at the further end of the house. A jingle of spurs died out. The Senor Administrador was off to the mountain. With a measured swish of her long train, flashing with jewels and the shimmer of silk, her delicate head bowed as if under the weight of a mass of fair hair, in which the silver threads were lost, the "first lady of Sulaco," as Captain Mitchell used to describe her, moved along the lighted corredor, wealthy beyond great dreams of wealth, considered, loved, respected, honoured, and as solitary as any human being had ever been, perhaps, on this earth. The doctor's "Mrs. Gould! One minute!" stopped her with a start at the door of the lighted and empty sala. From the similarity of mood and circumstance, the sight of the doctor, standing there all alone amongst the groups of furniture, recalled to her emotional memory her unexpected meeting with Martin Decoud; she seemed to hear in the silence the voice of that man, dead miserably so many years ago, pronounce the words, "Antonia left her fan here." But it was the doctor's voice that spoke, a little altered by his excitement. She remarked his shining eyes. "Mrs. Gould, you are wanted. Do you know what has happened? You remember what I told you yesterday about Nostromo. Well, it seems that a lancha, a decked boat, coming from Zapiga, with four negroes in her, passing close to the Great Isabel, was hailed from the cliff by a woman's voice--Linda's, as a matter of fact--commanding them (it's a moonlight night) to go round to the beach and take up a wounded man to the town. The patron (from whom I've heard all this), of course, did so at once. He told me that when they got round to the low side of the Great Isabel, they found Linda Viola waiting for them. They followed her: she led them under a tree not far from the cottage. There they found Nostromo lying on the ground with his head in the younger girl's lap, and father Viola standing some distance off leaning on his gun. Under Linda's direction they got a table out of the cottage for a stretcher, after breaking off the legs. They are here, Mrs. Gould. I mean Nostromo and--and Giselle. The negroes brought him in to the first-aid hospital near the harbour. He made the attendant send for me. But it was not me he wanted to see--it was you, Mrs. Gould! It was you." "Me?" whispered Mrs. Gould, shrinking a little. "Yes, you!" the doctor burst out. "He begged me--his enemy, as he thinks--to bring you to him at once. It seems he has something to say to you alone." "Impossible!" murmured Mrs. Gould. "He said to me, 'Remind her that I have done something to keep a roof over her head.' . . . Mrs. Gould," the doctor pursued, in the greatest excitement. "Do you remember the silver? The silver in the lighter--that was lost?" Mrs. Gould remembered. But she did not say she hated the mere mention of that silver. Frankness personified, she remembered with an exaggerated horror that for the first and last time of her life she had concealed the truth from her husband about that very silver. She had been corrupted by her fears at that time, and she had never forgiven herself. Moreover, that silver, which would never have come down if her husband had been made acquainted with the news brought by Decoud, had been in a roundabout way nearly the cause of Dr. Monygham's death. And these things appeared to her very dreadful. "Was it lost, though?" the doctor exclaimed. "I've always felt that there was a mystery about our Nostromo ever since. I do believe he wants now, at the point of death----" "The point of death?" repeated Mrs. Gould. "Yes. Yes. . . . He wants perhaps to tell you something concerning that silver which----" "Oh, no! No!" exclaimed Mrs. Gould, in a low voice. "Isn't it lost and done with? Isn't there enough treasure without it to make everybody in the world miserable?" The doctor remained still, in a submissive, disappointed silence. At last he ventured, very low-- "And there is that Viola girl, Giselle. What are we to do? It looks as though father and sister had----" Mrs. Gould admitted that she felt in duty bound to do her best for these girls. "I have a volante here," the doctor said. "If you don't mind getting into that----" He waited, all impatience, till Mrs. Gould reappeared, having thrown over her dress a grey cloak with a deep hood. It was thus that, cloaked and monastically hooded over her evening costume, this woman, full of endurance and compassion, stood by the side of the bed on which the splendid Capataz de Cargadores lay stretched out motionless on his back. The whiteness of sheets and pillows gave a sombre and energetic relief to his bronzed face, to the dark, nervous hands, so good on a tiller, upon a bridle and on a trigger, lying open and idle upon a white coverlet. "She is innocent," the Capataz was saying in a deep and level voice, as though afraid that a louder word would break the slender hold his spirit still kept upon his body. "She is innocent. It is I alone. But no matter. For these things I would answer to no man or woman alive." He paused. Mrs. Gould's face, very white within the shadow of the hood, bent over him with an invincible and dreary sadness. And the low sobs of Giselle Viola, kneeling at the end of the bed, her gold hair with coppery gleams loose and scattered over the Capataz's feet, hardly troubled the silence of the room. "Ha! Old Giorgio--the guardian of thine honour! Fancy the Vecchio coming upon me so light of foot, so steady of aim. I myself could have done no better. But the price of a charge of powder might have been saved. The honour was safe. . . . Senora, she would have followed to the end of the world Nostromo the thief. . . . I have said the word. The spell is broken!" A low moan from the girl made him cast his eyes down. "I cannot see her. . . . No matter," he went on, with the shadow of the old magnificent carelessness in his voice. "One kiss is enough, if there is no time for more. An airy soul, senora! Bright and warm, like sunshine--soon clouded, and soon serene. They would crush it there between them. Senora, cast on her the eye of your compassion, as famed from one end of the land to the other as the courage and daring of the man who speaks to you. She will console herself in time. And even Ramirez is not a bad fellow. I am not angry. No! It is not Ramirez who overcame the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores." He paused, made an effort, and in louder voice, a little wildly, declared-- "I die betrayed--betrayed by----" But he did not say by whom or by what he was dying betrayed. "She would not have betrayed me," he began again, opening his eyes very wide. "She was faithful. We were going very far--very soon. I could have torn myself away from that accursed treasure for her. For that child I would have left boxes and boxes of it--full. And Decoud took four. Four ingots. Why? Picardia! To betray me? How could I give back the treasure with four ingots missing? They would have said I had purloined them. The doctor would have said that. Alas! it holds me yet!" Mrs. Gould bent low, fascinated--cold with apprehension. "What became of Don Martin on that night, Nostromo?" "Who knows? I wondered what would become of me. Now I know. Death was to come upon me unawares. He went away! He betrayed me. And you think I have killed him! You are all alike, you fine people. The silver has killed me. It has held me. It holds me yet. Nobody knows where it is. But you are the wife of Don Carlos, who put it into my hands and said, 'Save it on your life.' And when I returned, and you all thought it was lost, what do I hear? 'It was nothing of importance. Let it go. Up, Nostromo, the faithful, and ride away to save us, for dear life!'" "Nostromo!" Mrs. Gould whispered, bending very low. "I, too, have hated the idea of that silver from the bottom of my heart." "Marvellous!--that one of you should hate the wealth that you know so well how to take from the hands of the poor. The world rests upon the poor, as old Giorgio says. You have been always good to the poor. But there is something accursed in wealth. Senora, shall I tell you where the treasure is? To you alone. . . . Shining! Incorruptible!" A pained, involuntary reluctance lingered in his tone, in his eyes, plain to the woman with the genius of sympathetic intuition. She averted her glance from the miserable subjection of the dying man, appalled, wishing to hear no more of the silver. "No, Capataz," she said. "No one misses it now. Let it be lost for ever." After hearing these words, Nostromo closed his eyes, uttered no word, made no movement. Outside the door of the sick-room Dr. Monygham, excited to the highest pitch, his eyes shining with eagerness, came up to the two women. "Now, Mrs. Gould," he said, almost brutally in his impatience, "tell me, was I right? There is a mystery. You have got the word of it, have you not? He told you----" "He told me nothing," said Mrs. Gould, steadily. The light of his temperamental enmity to Nostromo went out of Dr. Monygham's eyes. He stepped back submissively. He did not believe Mrs. Gould. But her word was law. He accepted her denial like an inexplicable fatality affirming the victory of Nostromo's genius over his own. Even before that woman, whom he loved with secret devotion, he had been defeated by the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores, the man who had lived his own life on the assumption of unbroken fidelity, rectitude, and courage! "Pray send at once somebody for my carriage," spoke Mrs. Gould from within her hood. Then, turning to Giselle Viola, "Come nearer me, child; come closer. We will wait here." Giselle Viola, heartbroken and childlike, her face veiled in her falling hair, crept up to her side. Mrs. Gould slipped her hand through the arm of the unworthy daughter of old Viola, the immaculate republican, the hero without a stain. Slowly, gradually, as a withered flower droops, the head of the girl, who would have followed a thief to the end of the world, rested on the shoulder of Dona Emilia, the first lady of Sulaco, the wife of the Senor Administrador of the San Tome mine. And Mrs. Gould, feeling her suppressed sobbing, nervous and excited, had the first and only moment of bitterness in her life. It was worthy of Dr. Monygham himself. "Console yourself, child. Very soon he would have forgotten you for his treasure." "Senora, he loved me. He loved me," Giselle whispered, despairingly. "He loved me as no one had ever been loved before." "I have been loved, too," Mrs. Gould said in a severe tone. Giselle clung to her convulsively. "Oh, senora, but you shall live adored to the end of your life," she sobbed out. Mrs. Gould kept an unbroken silence till the carriage arrived. She helped in the half-fainting girl. After the doctor had shut the door of the landau, she leaned over to him. "You can do nothing?" she whispered. "No, Mrs. Gould. Moreover, he won't let us touch him. It does not matter. I just had one look. . . . Useless." But he promised to see old Viola and the other girl that very night. He could get the police-boat to take him off to the island. He remained in the street, looking after the landau rolling away slowly behind the white mules. The rumour of some accident--an accident to Captain Fidanza--had been spreading along the new quays with their rows of lamps and the dark shapes of towering cranes. A knot of night prowlers--the poorest of the poor--hung about the door of the first-aid hospital, whispering in the moonlight of the empty street. There was no one with the wounded man but the pale photographer, small, frail, bloodthirsty, the hater of capitalists, perched on a high stool near the head of the bed with his knees up and his chin in his hands. He had been fetched by a comrade who, working late on the wharf, had heard from a negro belonging to a lancha, that Captain Fidanza had been brought ashore mortally wounded. "Have you any dispositions to make, comrade?" he asked, anxiously. "Do not forget that we want money for our work. The rich must be fought with their own weapons." Nostromo made no answer. The other did not insist, remaining huddled up on the stool, shock-headed, wildly hairy, like a hunchbacked monkey. Then, after a long silence-- "Comrade Fidanza," he began, solemnly, "you have refused all aid from that doctor. Is he really a dangerous enemy of the people?" In the dimly lit room Nostromo rolled his head slowly on the pillow and opened his eyes, directing at the weird figure perched by his bedside a glance of enigmatic and profound inquiry. Then his head rolled back, his eyelids fell, and the Capataz de Cargadores died without a word or moan after an hour of immobility, broken by short shudders testifying to the most atrocious sufferings. Dr. Monygham, going out in the police-galley to the islands, beheld the glitter of the moon upon the gulf and the high black shape of the Great Isabel sending a shaft of light afar, from under the canopy of clouds. "Pull easy," he said, wondering what he would find there. He tried to imagine Linda and her father, and discovered a strange reluctance within himself. "Pull easy," he repeated. * * * * * * From the moment he fired at the thief of his honour, Giorgio Viola had not stirred from the spot. He stood, his old gun grounded, his hand grasping the barrel near the muzzle. After the lancha carrying off Nostromo for ever from her had left the shore, Linda, coming up, stopped before him. He did not seem to be aware of her presence, but when, losing her forced calmness, she cried out-- "Do you know whom you have killed?" he answered-- "Ramirez the vagabond." White, and staring insanely at her father, Linda laughed in his face. After a time he joined her faintly in a deep-toned and distant echo of her peals. Then she stopped, and the old man spoke as if startled-- "He cried out in son Gian' Battista's voice." The gun fell from his opened hand, but the arm remained extended for a moment as if still supported. Linda seized it roughly. "You are too old to understand. Come into the house." He let her lead him. On the threshold he stumbled heavily, nearly coming to the ground together with his daughter. His excitement, his activity of the last few days, had been like the flare of a dying lamp. He caught at the back of his chair. "In son Gian' Battista's voice," he repeated in a severe tone. "I heard him--Ramirez--the miserable----" Linda helped him into the chair, and, bending low, hissed into his ear-- "You have killed Gian' Battista." The old man smiled under his thick moustache. Women had strange fancies. "Where is the child?" he asked, surprised at the penetrating chilliness of the air and the unwonted dimness of the lamp by which he used to sit up half the night with the open Bible before him. Linda hesitated a moment, then averted her eyes. "She is asleep," she said. "We shall talk of her tomorrow." She could not bear to look at him. He filled her with terror and with an almost unbearable feeling of pity. She had observed the change that came over him. He would never understand what he had done; and even to her the whole thing remained incomprehensible. He said with difficulty-- "Give me the book." Linda laid on the table the closed volume in its worn leather cover, the Bible given him ages ago by an Englishman in Palermo. "The child had to be protected," he said, in a strange, mournful voice. Behind

fear

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

"I shall go grey, I fear, before the ring is on my finger," she said, slowly, keeping her gaze fastened upon him. She waited for what he would say, rolling down her turned-up sleeves. "No fear of that," he said, absently. She turned away as if it had been something final, and busied herself with household cares while Nostromo talked with her father. Conversation with the old Garibaldino was not easy. Age had left his faculties unimpaired, only they seemed to have withdrawn somewhere deep within him. His answers were slow in coming, with an effect of august gravity. But that day he was more animated, quicker; there seemed to be more life in the old lion. He was uneasy for the integrity of his honour. He believed Sidoni's warning as to Ramirez's designs upon his younger daughter. And he did not trust her. She was flighty. He said nothing of his cares to "Son Gian' Battista." It was a touch of senile vanity. He wanted to show that he was equal yet to the task of guarding alone the honour of his house. Nostromo went away early. As soon as he had disappeared, walking towards the beach, Linda stepped over the threshold and, with a haggard smile, sat down by the side of her father. Ever since that Sunday, when the infatuated and desperate Ramirez had waited for her on the wharf, she had no doubts whatever. The jealous ravings of that man were no revelation. They had only fixed with precision, as with a nail driven into her heart, that sense of unreality and deception which, instead of bliss and security, she had found in her intercourse with her promised husband. She had passed on, pouring indignation and scorn upon Ramirez; but, that Sunday, she nearly died of wretchedness and shame, lying on the carved and lettered stone of Teresa's grave, subscribed for by the engine-drivers and the fitters of the railway workshops, in sign of their respect for the hero of Italian Unity. Old Viola had not been able to carry out his desire of burying his wife in the sea; and Linda wept upon the stone. The gratuitous outrage appalled her. If he wished to break her heart--well and good. Everything was permitted to Gian' Battista. But why trample upon the pieces; why seek to humiliate her spirit? Aha! He could not break that. She dried her tears. And Giselle! Giselle! The little one that, ever since she could toddle, had always clung to her skirt for protection. What duplicity! But she could not help it probably. When there was a man in the case the poor featherheaded wretch could not help herself. Linda had a good share of the Viola stoicism. She resolved to say nothing. But woman-like she put passion into her stoicism. Giselle's short answers, prompted by fearful caution, drove her beside herself by their curtness that resembled disdain. One day she flung herself upon the chair in which her indolent sister was lying and impressed the mark of her teeth at the base of the whitest neck in Sulaco. Giselle cried out. But she had her share of the Viola heroism. Ready to faint with terror, she only said, in a lazy voice, "Madre de Dios! Are you going to eat me alive, Linda?" And this outburst passed off leaving no trace upon the situation. "She knows nothing. She cannot know any thing," reflected Giselle. "Perhaps it is not true. It cannot be true," Linda tried to persuade herself. But when she saw Captain Fidanza for the first time after her meeting with the distracted Ramirez, the certitude of her misfortune returned. She watched him from the doorway go away to his boat, asking herself stoically, "Will they meet to-night?" She made up her mind not to leave the tower for a second. When he had disappeared she came out and sat down by her father. The venerable Garibaldino felt, in his own words, "a young man yet." In one way or another a good deal of talk about Ramirez had reached him of late; and his contempt and dislike of that man who obviously was not what his son would have been, had made him restless. He slept very little now; but for several nights past instead of reading--or only sitting, with Mrs. Gould's silver spectacles on his nose, before the open Bible, he had been prowling actively all about the island with his old gun, on watch over his honour. Linda, laying her thin brown hand on his knee, tried to soothe his excitement. Ramirez was not in Sulaco. Nobody knew where he was. He was gone. His talk of what he would do meant nothing. "No," the old man interrupted. "But son Gian' Battista told me--quite of himself--that the cowardly esclavo was drinking and gambling with the rascals of Zapiga, over there on the north side of the gulf. He may get some of the worst scoundrels of that scoundrelly town of negroes to help him in his attempt upon the little one. . . . But I am not so old. No!" She argued earnestly against the probability of any attempt being made; and at last the old man fell silent, chewing his white moustache. Women had their obstinate notions which must be humoured--his poor wife was like that, and Linda resembled her mother. It was not seemly for a man to argue. "May be. May be," he mumbled. She was by no means easy in her mind. She loved Nostromo. She turned her eyes upon Giselle, sitting at a distance, with something of maternal tenderness, and the jealous anguish of a rival outraged in her defeat. Then she rose and walked over to her. "Listen--you," she said, roughly. The invincible candour of the gaze, raised up all violet and dew, excited her rage and admiration. She had beautiful eyes--the Chica--this vile thing of white flesh and black deception. She did not know whether she wanted to tear them out with shouts of vengeance or cover up their mysterious and shameless innocence with kisses of pity and love. And suddenly they became empty, gazing blankly at her, except for a little fear not quite buried deep enough with all the other emotions in Giselle's heart. Linda said, "Ramirez is boasting in town that he will carry you off from the island." "What folly!" answered the other, and in a perversity born of long restraint, she added: "He is not the man," in a jesting tone with a trembling audacity. "No?" said Linda, through her clenched teeth. "Is he not? Well, then, look to it; because father has been walking about with a loaded gun at night." "It is not good for him. You must tell him not to, Linda. He will not listen to me." "I shall say nothing--never any more--to anybody," cried Linda, passionately. This could not last, thought Giselle. Giovanni must take her away soon--the very next time he came. She would not suffer these terrors for ever so much silver. To speak with her sister made her ill. But she was not uneasy at her father's watchfulness. She had begged Nostromo not to come to the window that night. He had promised to keep away for this once. And she did not know, could not guess or imagine, that he had another reason for coming on the island. Linda had gone straight to the tower. It was time to light up. She unlocked the little door, and went heavily up the spiral staircase, carrying her love for the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores like an ever-increasing load of shameful fetters. No; she could not throw it off. No; let Heaven dispose of these two. And moving about the lantern, filled with twilight and the sheen of the moon, with careful movements she lighted the lamp. Then her arms fell along her body. "And with our mother looking on," she murmured. "My own sister--the Chica!" The whole refracting apparatus, with its brass fittings and rings of prisms, glittered and sparkled like a domeshaped shrine of diamonds, containing not a lamp, but some sacred flame, dominating the sea. And Linda, the keeper, in black, with a pale face, drooped low in a wooden chair, alone with her jealousy, far above the shames and passions of the earth. A strange, dragging pain as if somebody were pulling her about brutally by her dark hair with bronze glints, made her put her hands up to her temples. They would meet. They would meet. And she knew where, too. At the window. The sweat of torture fell in drops on her cheeks, while the moonlight in the offing closed as if with a colossal bar of silver the entrance of the Placid Gulf--the sombre cavern of clouds and stillness in the surf-fretted seaboard. Linda Viola stood up suddenly with a finger on her lip. He loved neither her nor her sister. The whole thing seemed so objectless as to frighten her, and also give her some hope. Why did he not carry her off? What prevented him? He was incomprehensible. What were they waiting for? For what end were these two lying and deceiving? Not for the ends of their love. There was no such thing. The hope of regaining him for herself made her break her vow of not leaving the tower that night. She must talk at once to her father, who was wise, and would understand. She ran down the spiral stairs. At the moment of opening the door at the bottom she heard the sound of the first shot ever fired on the Great Isabel. She felt a shock, as though the bullet had struck her breast. She ran on without pausing. The cottage was dark. She cried at the door, "Giselle! Giselle!" then dashed round the corner and screamed her sister's name at the open window, without getting an answer; but as she was rushing, distracted, round the house, Giselle came out of the door, and darted past her, running silently, her hair loose, and her eyes staring straight ahead. She seemed to skim along the grass as if on tiptoe, and vanished. Linda walked on slowly, with her arms stretched out before her. All was still on the island; she did not know where she was going. The tree under which Martin Decoud spent his last days, beholding life like a succession of senseless images, threw a large blotch of black shade upon the grass. Suddenly she saw her father, standing quietly all alone in the moonlight. The Garibaldino--big, erect, with his snow-white hair and beard--had a monumental repose in his immobility, leaning upon a rifle. She put her hand upon his arm lightly. He never stirred. "What have you done?" she asked, in her ordinary voice. "I have shot Ramirez--infame!" he answered, with his eyes directed to where the shade was blackest. "Like a thief he came, and like a thief he fell. The child had to be protected." He did not offer to move an inch, to advance a single step. He stood there, rugged and unstirring, like a statue of an old man guarding the honour of his house. Linda removed her trembling hand from his arm, firm and steady like an arm of stone, and, without a word, entered the blackness of the shade. She saw a stir of formless shapes on the ground, and stopped short. A murmur of despair and tears grew louder to her strained hearing. "I entreated you not to come to-night. Oh, my Giovanni! And you promised. Oh! Why--why did you come, Giovanni?" It was her sister's voice. It broke on a heartrending sob. And the voice of the resourceful Capataz de Cargadores, master and slave of the San Tome treasure, who had been caught unawares by old Giorgio while stealing across the open towards the ravine to get some more silver, answered careless and cool, but sounding startlingly weak from the ground. "It seemed as though I could not live through the night without seeing thee once more--my star, my little flower." * * * * * The brilliant tertulia was just over, the last guests had departed, and the Senor Administrador had gone to his room already, when Dr. Monygham, who had been expected in the evening but had not turned up, arrived driving along the wood-block pavement under the electric-lamps of the deserted Calle de la Constitucion, and found the great gateway of the Casa still open. He limped in, stumped up the stairs, and found the fat and sleek Basilio on the point of turning off the lights in the sala. The prosperous majordomo remained open-mouthed at this late invasion. "Don't put out the lights," commanded the doctor. "I want to see the senora." "The senora is in the Senor Adminstrador's cancillaria," said Basilio, in an unctuous voice. "The Senor Administrador starts for the mountain in an hour. There is some trouble with the workmen to be feared, it appears. A shameless people without reason and decency. And idle, senor. Idle." "You are shamelessly lazy and imbecile yourself," said the doctor, with that faculty for exasperation which made him so generally beloved. "Don't put the lights out." Basilio retired with dignity. Dr. Monygham, waiting in the brilliantly lighted sala, heard presently a door close at the further end of the house. A jingle of spurs died out. The Senor Administrador was off to the mountain. With a measured swish of her long train, flashing with jewels and the shimmer of silk, her delicate head bowed as if under the weight of a mass of fair hair, in which the silver threads were lost, the "first lady of Sulaco," as Captain Mitchell used to describe her, moved along the lighted corredor, wealthy beyond great dreams of wealth, considered, loved, respected, honoured, and as solitary as any human being had ever been, perhaps, on this earth. The doctor's "Mrs. Gould! One minute!" stopped her with a start at the door of the lighted and empty sala. From the similarity of mood and circumstance, the sight of the doctor, standing there all alone amongst the groups of furniture, recalled to her emotional memory her unexpected meeting with Martin Decoud; she seemed to hear in the silence the voice of that man, dead miserably so many years ago, pronounce the words, "Antonia left her fan here." But it was the doctor's voice that spoke, a little altered by his excitement. She remarked his shining eyes. "Mrs. Gould, you are wanted. Do you know what has happened? You remember what I told you yesterday about Nostromo. Well, it seems that a lancha, a decked boat, coming from Zapiga, with four negroes in her, passing close to the Great Isabel, was hailed from the cliff by a woman's voice--Linda's, as a matter of fact--commanding them (it's a moonlight night) to go round to the beach and take up a wounded man to the town. The patron (from whom I've heard all this), of course, did so at once. He told me that when they got round to the low side of the Great Isabel, they found Linda Viola waiting for them. They followed her: she led them under a tree not far from the cottage. There they found Nostromo lying on the ground with his head in the younger girl's lap, and father Viola standing some distance off leaning on his gun. Under Linda's direction they got a table out of the cottage for a stretcher, after breaking off the legs. They are here, Mrs. Gould. I mean Nostromo and--and Giselle. The negroes brought him in to the first-aid hospital near the harbour. He made the attendant send for me. But it was not me he wanted to see--it was you, Mrs. Gould! It was you." "Me?" whispered Mrs. Gould, shrinking a little. "Yes, you!" the doctor burst out. "He begged me--his enemy, as he thinks--to bring you to him at once. It seems he has something to say to you alone." "Impossible!" murmured Mrs. Gould. "He said to me, 'Remind her that I have done something to keep a roof over her head.' . . . Mrs. Gould," the doctor pursued, in the greatest excitement. "Do you remember the silver? The silver in the lighter--that was lost?" Mrs. Gould remembered. But she did not say she hated the mere mention of that silver. Frankness personified, she remembered with an exaggerated horror that for the first and last time of her life she had concealed the truth from her husband about that very silver. She had been corrupted by her fears at that time, and she had never forgiven herself. Moreover, that silver, which would never have come down if her husband had been made acquainted with the news brought by Decoud, had been in a roundabout way nearly the cause of Dr. Monygham's death. And these things appeared to her very dreadful. "Was it lost, though?" the doctor exclaimed. "I've always felt that there was a mystery about our Nostromo ever since. I do believe he wants now, at the point of death----" "The point of death?" repeated Mrs. Gould. "Yes. Yes. . . . He wants perhaps to tell you something concerning that silver which----" "Oh, no! No!" exclaimed Mrs. Gould, in a low voice. "Isn't it lost and done with? Isn't there enough treasure without it to make everybody in the world miserable?" The doctor remained still, in a submissive, disappointed silence. At last he ventured, very low-- "And there is that Viola girl, Giselle. What are we to do? It looks as though father and sister had----" Mrs. Gould admitted that she felt in duty bound to do her best for these girls. "I have a volante here," the doctor said. "If you don't mind getting into that----" He waited, all impatience, till Mrs. Gould reappeared, having thrown over her dress a grey cloak with a deep hood. It was thus that, cloaked and monastically hooded over her evening costume, this woman, full of endurance and compassion, stood by the side of the bed on which the splendid Capataz de Cargadores lay stretched out motionless on his back. The whiteness of sheets and pillows gave a sombre and energetic relief to his bronzed face, to the dark, nervous hands, so good on a tiller, upon a bridle and on a trigger, lying open and idle upon a white coverlet. "She is innocent," the Capataz was saying in a deep and level voice, as though afraid that a louder word would break the slender hold his spirit still kept upon his body. "She is innocent. It is I alone. But no matter. For these things I would answer to no man or woman alive." He paused. Mrs. Gould's face, very white within the shadow of the hood, bent over him with an invincible and dreary sadness. And the low sobs of Giselle Viola, kneeling at the end of the bed, her gold hair with coppery gleams loose and scattered over the Capataz's feet, hardly troubled the silence of the room. "Ha! Old Giorgio--the guardian of thine honour! Fancy the Vecchio coming upon me so light of foot, so steady of aim. I myself could have done no better. But the price of a charge of powder might have been saved. The honour was safe. . . . Senora, she would have followed to the end of the world Nostromo the thief. . . . I have said the word. The spell is broken!" A low moan from the girl made him cast his eyes down. "I cannot see her. . . . No matter," he went on, with the shadow of the old magnificent carelessness in his voice. "One kiss is enough, if there is no time for more. An airy soul, senora! Bright and warm, like sunshine--soon clouded, and soon serene. They would crush it there between them. Senora, cast on her the eye of your compassion, as famed from one end of the land to the other as the courage and daring of the man who speaks to you. She will console herself in time. And even Ramirez is not a bad fellow. I am not angry. No! It is not Ramirez who overcame the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores." He paused, made an effort, and in louder voice, a little wildly, declared-- "I die betrayed--betrayed by----" But he did not say by whom or by what he was dying betrayed. "She would not have betrayed me," he began again, opening his eyes very wide. "She was faithful. We were going very far--very soon. I could have torn myself away from that accursed treasure for her. For that child I would have left boxes and boxes of it--full. And Decoud took four. Four ingots. Why? Picardia! To betray me? How could I give back the treasure with four ingots missing? They would have said I had purloined them. The doctor would have said that. Alas! it holds me yet!" Mrs. Gould bent low, fascinated--cold with apprehension. "What became of Don Martin on that night, Nostromo?" "Who knows? I wondered what would become of me. Now I know. Death was to come upon me unawares. He went away! He betrayed me. And you think I have killed him! You are all alike, you fine people. The silver has killed me. It has held me. It holds me yet. Nobody knows where it is. But you are the wife of Don Carlos, who put it into my hands and said, 'Save it on your life.' And when I returned, and you all thought it was lost, what do I hear? 'It was nothing of importance. Let it go. Up, Nostromo, the faithful, and ride away to save us, for dear life!'" "Nostromo!" Mrs. Gould whispered, bending very low. "I, too, have hated the idea of that silver from the bottom of my heart." "Marvellous!--that one of you should hate the wealth that you know so well how to take from the hands of the poor. The world rests upon the poor, as old Giorgio says. You have been always good to the poor. But there is something accursed in wealth. Senora, shall I tell you where the treasure is? To you alone. . . . Shining! Incorruptible!" A pained, involuntary reluctance lingered in his tone, in his eyes, plain to the woman with the genius of sympathetic intuition. She averted her glance from the miserable subjection of the dying man, appalled, wishing to hear no more of the silver. "No, Capataz," she said. "No one misses it now. Let it be lost for ever." After hearing these words, Nostromo closed his eyes, uttered no word, made no movement. Outside the door of the sick-room Dr. Monygham, excited to the highest pitch, his eyes shining with eagerness, came up to the two women. "Now, Mrs. Gould," he said, almost brutally in his impatience, "tell me, was I right? There is a mystery. You have got the word of it, have you not? He told you----" "He told me nothing," said Mrs. Gould, steadily. The light of his temperamental enmity to Nostromo went out of Dr. Monygham's eyes. He stepped back submissively. He did not believe Mrs. Gould. But her word was law. He accepted her denial like an inexplicable fatality affirming the victory of Nostromo's genius over his own. Even before that woman, whom he loved with secret devotion, he had been defeated by the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores, the man who had lived his own life on the assumption of unbroken fidelity, rectitude, and courage! "Pray send at once somebody for my carriage," spoke Mrs. Gould from within her hood. Then, turning to Giselle Viola, "Come nearer me, child; come closer. We will wait here." Giselle Viola, heartbroken and childlike, her face veiled in her falling hair, crept up to her side. Mrs. Gould slipped her hand through the arm of the unworthy daughter of old Viola, the immaculate republican, the hero without a stain. Slowly, gradually, as a withered flower droops, the head of the girl, who would have followed a thief to the end of the world, rested on the shoulder of Dona Emilia, the first lady of Sulaco, the wife of the Senor Administrador of the San Tome mine. And Mrs. Gould, feeling her suppressed sobbing, nervous and excited, had the first and only moment of bitterness in her life. It was worthy of Dr. Monygham himself. "Console yourself, child. Very soon he would have forgotten you for his treasure." "Senora, he loved me. He loved me," Giselle whispered, despairingly. "He loved me as no one had ever been loved before." "I have been loved, too," Mrs. Gould said in a severe tone. Giselle clung to her convulsively. "Oh, senora, but you shall live adored to the end of your life," she sobbed out. Mrs. Gould kept an unbroken silence till the carriage arrived. She helped in the half-fainting girl. After the doctor had shut the door of the landau, she leaned over to him. "You can do nothing?" she whispered. "No, Mrs. Gould. Moreover, he won't let us touch him. It does not matter. I just had one look. . . . Useless." But he promised to see old Viola and the other girl that very night. He could get the police-boat to take him off to the island. He remained in the street, looking after the landau rolling away slowly behind the white mules. The rumour of some accident--an accident to Captain Fidanza--had been spreading along the new quays with their rows of lamps and the dark shapes of towering cranes. A knot of night prowlers--the poorest of the poor--hung about the door of the first-aid hospital, whispering in the moonlight of the empty street. There was no one with the wounded man but the pale photographer, small, frail, bloodthirsty, the hater of capitalists, perched on a high stool near the head of the bed with his knees up and his chin in his hands. He had been fetched by a comrade who, working late on the wharf, had heard from a negro belonging to a lancha, that Captain Fidanza had been brought ashore mortally wounded. "Have you any dispositions to make, comrade?" he asked, anxiously. "Do not forget that we want money for our work. The rich must be fought with their own weapons." Nostromo made no answer. The other did not insist, remaining huddled up on the stool, shock-headed, wildly hairy, like a hunchbacked monkey. Then, after a long silence-- "Comrade Fidanza," he began, solemnly, "you have refused all aid from that doctor. Is he really a dangerous enemy of the people?" In the dimly lit room Nostromo rolled his head slowly on the pillow and opened his eyes, directing at the weird figure perched by his bedside a glance of enigmatic and profound inquiry. Then his head rolled back, his eyelids fell, and the Capataz de Cargadores died without a word or moan after an hour of immobility, broken by short shudders testifying to the most atrocious sufferings. Dr. Monygham, going out in the police-galley to the islands, beheld the glitter of the moon upon the gulf and the high black shape of the Great Isabel sending a shaft of light afar, from under the canopy of clouds. "Pull easy," he said, wondering what he would find there. He tried to imagine Linda and her father, and discovered a strange reluctance within himself. "Pull easy," he repeated. * * * * * * From the moment he fired at the thief of his honour, Giorgio Viola had not stirred from the spot. He stood, his old gun grounded, his hand grasping the barrel near the muzzle. After the lancha carrying off Nostromo for ever from her had left the shore, Linda, coming up, stopped before him. He did not seem to be aware of her presence, but when, losing her forced calmness, she cried out-- "Do you know whom you have killed?" he answered-- "Ramirez the vagabond." White, and staring insanely at her father, Linda laughed in his face. After a time he joined her faintly in a deep-toned and distant echo of her peals. Then she stopped, and the old man spoke as if startled-- "He cried out in son Gian' Battista's voice." The gun fell from his opened hand, but the arm remained extended for a moment as if still supported. Linda seized it roughly. "You are too old to understand. Come into the house." He let her lead him. On the threshold he stumbled heavily, nearly coming to the ground together with his daughter. His excitement, his activity of the last few days, had been like the flare of a dying lamp. He caught at the back of his chair. "In son Gian' Battista's voice," he repeated in a severe tone. "I heard him--Ramirez--the miserable----" Linda helped him into the chair, and, bending low, hissed into his ear-- "You have killed Gian' Battista." The old man smiled under his thick moustache. Women had strange fancies. "Where is the child?" he asked, surprised at the penetrating chilliness of the air and the unwonted dimness of the lamp by which he used to sit up half the night with the open Bible before him. Linda hesitated a moment, then averted her eyes. "She is asleep," she said. "We shall talk of her tomorrow." She could not bear to look at him. He filled her with terror and with an almost unbearable feeling of pity. She had observed the change that came over him. He would never understand what he had done; and even to her the whole thing remained incomprehensible. He said with difficulty-- "Give me the book." Linda laid on the table the closed volume in its worn leather cover, the Bible given him ages ago by an Englishman in Palermo. "The child had to be protected," he said, in a strange, mournful voice. Behind

speak

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

"I shall go grey, I fear, before the ring is on my finger," she said, slowly, keeping her gaze fastened upon him. She waited for what he would say, rolling down her turned-up sleeves. "No fear of that," he said, absently. She turned away as if it had been something final, and busied herself with household cares while Nostromo talked with her father. Conversation with the old Garibaldino was not easy. Age had left his faculties unimpaired, only they seemed to have withdrawn somewhere deep within him. His answers were slow in coming, with an effect of august gravity. But that day he was more animated, quicker; there seemed to be more life in the old lion. He was uneasy for the integrity of his honour. He believed Sidoni's warning as to Ramirez's designs upon his younger daughter. And he did not trust her. She was flighty. He said nothing of his cares to "Son Gian' Battista." It was a touch of senile vanity. He wanted to show that he was equal yet to the task of guarding alone the honour of his house. Nostromo went away early. As soon as he had disappeared, walking towards the beach, Linda stepped over the threshold and, with a haggard smile, sat down by the side of her father. Ever since that Sunday, when the infatuated and desperate Ramirez had waited for her on the wharf, she had no doubts whatever. The jealous ravings of that man were no revelation. They had only fixed with precision, as with a nail driven into her heart, that sense of unreality and deception which, instead of bliss and security, she had found in her intercourse with her promised husband. She had passed on, pouring indignation and scorn upon Ramirez; but, that Sunday, she nearly died of wretchedness and shame, lying on the carved and lettered stone of Teresa's grave, subscribed for by the engine-drivers and the fitters of the railway workshops, in sign of their respect for the hero of Italian Unity. Old Viola had not been able to carry out his desire of burying his wife in the sea; and Linda wept upon the stone. The gratuitous outrage appalled her. If he wished to break her heart--well and good. Everything was permitted to Gian' Battista. But why trample upon the pieces; why seek to humiliate her spirit? Aha! He could not break that. She dried her tears. And Giselle! Giselle! The little one that, ever since she could toddle, had always clung to her skirt for protection. What duplicity! But she could not help it probably. When there was a man in the case the poor featherheaded wretch could not help herself. Linda had a good share of the Viola stoicism. She resolved to say nothing. But woman-like she put passion into her stoicism. Giselle's short answers, prompted by fearful caution, drove her beside herself by their curtness that resembled disdain. One day she flung herself upon the chair in which her indolent sister was lying and impressed the mark of her teeth at the base of the whitest neck in Sulaco. Giselle cried out. But she had her share of the Viola heroism. Ready to faint with terror, she only said, in a lazy voice, "Madre de Dios! Are you going to eat me alive, Linda?" And this outburst passed off leaving no trace upon the situation. "She knows nothing. She cannot know any thing," reflected Giselle. "Perhaps it is not true. It cannot be true," Linda tried to persuade herself. But when she saw Captain Fidanza for the first time after her meeting with the distracted Ramirez, the certitude of her misfortune returned. She watched him from the doorway go away to his boat, asking herself stoically, "Will they meet to-night?" She made up her mind not to leave the tower for a second. When he had disappeared she came out and sat down by her father. The venerable Garibaldino felt, in his own words, "a young man yet." In one way or another a good deal of talk about Ramirez had reached him of late; and his contempt and dislike of that man who obviously was not what his son would have been, had made him restless. He slept very little now; but for several nights past instead of reading--or only sitting, with Mrs. Gould's silver spectacles on his nose, before the open Bible, he had been prowling actively all about the island with his old gun, on watch over his honour. Linda, laying her thin brown hand on his knee, tried to soothe his excitement. Ramirez was not in Sulaco. Nobody knew where he was. He was gone. His talk of what he would do meant nothing. "No," the old man interrupted. "But son Gian' Battista told me--quite of himself--that the cowardly esclavo was drinking and gambling with the rascals of Zapiga, over there on the north side of the gulf. He may get some of the worst scoundrels of that scoundrelly town of negroes to help him in his attempt upon the little one. . . . But I am not so old. No!" She argued earnestly against the probability of any attempt being made; and at last the old man fell silent, chewing his white moustache. Women had their obstinate notions which must be humoured--his poor wife was like that, and Linda resembled her mother. It was not seemly for a man to argue. "May be. May be," he mumbled. She was by no means easy in her mind. She loved Nostromo. She turned her eyes upon Giselle, sitting at a distance, with something of maternal tenderness, and the jealous anguish of a rival outraged in her defeat. Then she rose and walked over to her. "Listen--you," she said, roughly. The invincible candour of the gaze, raised up all violet and dew, excited her rage and admiration. She had beautiful eyes--the Chica--this vile thing of white flesh and black deception. She did not know whether she wanted to tear them out with shouts of vengeance or cover up their mysterious and shameless innocence with kisses of pity and love. And suddenly they became empty, gazing blankly at her, except for a little fear not quite buried deep enough with all the other emotions in Giselle's heart. Linda said, "Ramirez is boasting in town that he will carry you off from the island." "What folly!" answered the other, and in a perversity born of long restraint, she added: "He is not the man," in a jesting tone with a trembling audacity. "No?" said Linda, through her clenched teeth. "Is he not? Well, then, look to it; because father has been walking about with a loaded gun at night." "It is not good for him. You must tell him not to, Linda. He will not listen to me." "I shall say nothing--never any more--to anybody," cried Linda, passionately. This could not last, thought Giselle. Giovanni must take her away soon--the very next time he came. She would not suffer these terrors for ever so much silver. To speak with her sister made her ill. But she was not uneasy at her father's watchfulness. She had begged Nostromo not to come to the window that night. He had promised to keep away for this once. And she did not know, could not guess or imagine, that he had another reason for coming on the island. Linda had gone straight to the tower. It was time to light up. She unlocked the little door, and went heavily up the spiral staircase, carrying her love for the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores like an ever-increasing load of shameful fetters. No; she could not throw it off. No; let Heaven dispose of these two. And moving about the lantern, filled with twilight and the sheen of the moon, with careful movements she lighted the lamp. Then her arms fell along her body. "And with our mother looking on," she murmured. "My own sister--the Chica!" The whole refracting apparatus, with its brass fittings and rings of prisms, glittered and sparkled like a domeshaped shrine of diamonds, containing not a lamp, but some sacred flame, dominating the sea. And Linda, the keeper, in black, with a pale face, drooped low in a wooden chair, alone with her jealousy, far above the shames and passions of the earth. A strange, dragging pain as if somebody were pulling her about brutally by her dark hair with bronze glints, made her put her hands up to her temples. They would meet. They would meet. And she knew where, too. At the window. The sweat of torture fell in drops on her cheeks, while the moonlight in the offing closed as if with a colossal bar of silver the entrance of the Placid Gulf--the sombre cavern of clouds and stillness in the surf-fretted seaboard. Linda Viola stood up suddenly with a finger on her lip. He loved neither her nor her sister. The whole thing seemed so objectless as to frighten her, and also give her some hope. Why did he not carry her off? What prevented him? He was incomprehensible. What were they waiting for? For what end were these two lying and deceiving? Not for the ends of their love. There was no such thing. The hope of regaining him for herself made her break her vow of not leaving the tower that night. She must talk at once to her father, who was wise, and would understand. She ran down the spiral stairs. At the moment of opening the door at the bottom she heard the sound of the first shot ever fired on the Great Isabel. She felt a shock, as though the bullet had struck her breast. She ran on without pausing. The cottage was dark. She cried at the door, "Giselle! Giselle!" then dashed round the corner and screamed her sister's name at the open window, without getting an answer; but as she was rushing, distracted, round the house, Giselle came out of the door, and darted past her, running silently, her hair loose, and her eyes staring straight ahead. She seemed to skim along the grass as if on tiptoe, and vanished. Linda walked on slowly, with her arms stretched out before her. All was still on the island; she did not know where she was going. The tree under which Martin Decoud spent his last days, beholding life like a succession of senseless images, threw a large blotch of black shade upon the grass. Suddenly she saw her father, standing quietly all alone in the moonlight. The Garibaldino--big, erect, with his snow-white hair and beard--had a monumental repose in his immobility, leaning upon a rifle. She put her hand upon his arm lightly. He never stirred. "What have you done?" she asked, in her ordinary voice. "I have shot Ramirez--infame!" he answered, with his eyes directed to where the shade was blackest. "Like a thief he came, and like a thief he fell. The child had to be protected." He did not offer to move an inch, to advance a single step. He stood there, rugged and unstirring, like a statue of an old man guarding the honour of his house. Linda removed her trembling hand from his arm, firm and steady like an arm of stone, and, without a word, entered the blackness of the shade. She saw a stir of formless shapes on the ground, and stopped short. A murmur of despair and tears grew louder to her strained hearing. "I entreated you not to come to-night. Oh, my Giovanni! And you promised. Oh! Why--why did you come, Giovanni?" It was her sister's voice. It broke on a heartrending sob. And the voice of the resourceful Capataz de Cargadores, master and slave of the San Tome treasure, who had been caught unawares by old Giorgio while stealing across the open towards the ravine to get some more silver, answered careless and cool, but sounding startlingly weak from the ground. "It seemed as though I could not live through the night without seeing thee once more--my star, my little flower." * * * * * The brilliant tertulia was just over, the last guests had departed, and the Senor Administrador had gone to his room already, when Dr. Monygham, who had been expected in the evening but had not turned up, arrived driving along the wood-block pavement under the electric-lamps of the deserted Calle de la Constitucion, and found the great gateway of the Casa still open. He limped in, stumped up the stairs, and found the fat and sleek Basilio on the point of turning off the lights in the sala. The prosperous majordomo remained open-mouthed at this late invasion. "Don't put out the lights," commanded the doctor. "I want to see the senora." "The senora is in the Senor Adminstrador's cancillaria," said Basilio, in an unctuous voice. "The Senor Administrador starts for the mountain in an hour. There is some trouble with the workmen to be feared, it appears. A shameless people without reason and decency. And idle, senor. Idle." "You are shamelessly lazy and imbecile yourself," said the doctor, with that faculty for exasperation which made him so generally beloved. "Don't put the lights out." Basilio retired with dignity. Dr. Monygham, waiting in the brilliantly lighted sala, heard presently a door close at the further end of the house. A jingle of spurs died out. The Senor Administrador was off to the mountain. With a measured swish of her long train, flashing with jewels and the shimmer of silk, her delicate head bowed as if under the weight of a mass of fair hair, in which the silver threads were lost, the "first lady of Sulaco," as Captain Mitchell used to describe her, moved along the lighted corredor, wealthy beyond great dreams of wealth, considered, loved, respected, honoured, and as solitary as any human being had ever been, perhaps, on this earth. The doctor's "Mrs. Gould! One minute!" stopped her with a start at the door of the lighted and empty sala. From the similarity of mood and circumstance, the sight of the doctor, standing there all alone amongst the groups of furniture, recalled to her emotional memory her unexpected meeting with Martin Decoud; she seemed to hear in the silence the voice of that man, dead miserably so many years ago, pronounce the words, "Antonia left her fan here." But it was the doctor's voice that spoke, a little altered by his excitement. She remarked his shining eyes. "Mrs. Gould, you are wanted. Do you know what has happened? You remember what I told you yesterday about Nostromo. Well, it seems that a lancha, a decked boat, coming from Zapiga, with four negroes in her, passing close to the Great Isabel, was hailed from the cliff by a woman's voice--Linda's, as a matter of fact--commanding them (it's a moonlight night) to go round to the beach and take up a wounded man to the town. The patron (from whom I've heard all this), of course, did so at once. He told me that when they got round to the low side of the Great Isabel, they found Linda Viola waiting for them. They followed her: she led them under a tree not far from the cottage. There they found Nostromo lying on the ground with his head in the younger girl's lap, and father Viola standing some distance off leaning on his gun. Under Linda's direction they got a table out of the cottage for a stretcher, after breaking off the legs. They are here, Mrs. Gould. I mean Nostromo and--and Giselle. The negroes brought him in to the first-aid hospital near the harbour. He made the attendant send for me. But it was not me he wanted to see--it was you, Mrs. Gould! It was you." "Me?" whispered Mrs. Gould, shrinking a little. "Yes, you!" the doctor burst out. "He begged me--his enemy, as he thinks--to bring you to him at once. It seems he has something to say to you alone." "Impossible!" murmured Mrs. Gould. "He said to me, 'Remind her that I have done something to keep a roof over her head.' . . . Mrs. Gould," the doctor pursued, in the greatest excitement. "Do you remember the silver? The silver in the lighter--that was lost?" Mrs. Gould remembered. But she did not say she hated the mere mention of that silver. Frankness personified, she remembered with an exaggerated horror that for the first and last time of her life she had concealed the truth from her husband about that very silver. She had been corrupted by her fears at that time, and she had never forgiven herself. Moreover, that silver, which would never have come down if her husband had been made acquainted with the news brought by Decoud, had been in a roundabout way nearly the cause of Dr. Monygham's death. And these things appeared to her very dreadful. "Was it lost, though?" the doctor exclaimed. "I've always felt that there was a mystery about our Nostromo ever since. I do believe he wants now, at the point of death----" "The point of death?" repeated Mrs. Gould. "Yes. Yes. . . . He wants perhaps to tell you something concerning that silver which----" "Oh, no! No!" exclaimed Mrs. Gould, in a low voice. "Isn't it lost and done with? Isn't there enough treasure without it to make everybody in the world miserable?" The doctor remained still, in a submissive, disappointed silence. At last he ventured, very low-- "And there is that Viola girl, Giselle. What are we to do? It looks as though father and sister had----" Mrs. Gould admitted that she felt in duty bound to do her best for these girls. "I have a volante here," the doctor said. "If you don't mind getting into that----" He waited, all impatience, till Mrs. Gould reappeared, having thrown over her dress a grey cloak with a deep hood. It was thus that, cloaked and monastically hooded over her evening costume, this woman, full of endurance and compassion, stood by the side of the bed on which the splendid Capataz de Cargadores lay stretched out motionless on his back. The whiteness of sheets and pillows gave a sombre and energetic relief to his bronzed face, to the dark, nervous hands, so good on a tiller, upon a bridle and on a trigger, lying open and idle upon a white coverlet. "She is innocent," the Capataz was saying in a deep and level voice, as though afraid that a louder word would break the slender hold his spirit still kept upon his body. "She is innocent. It is I alone. But no matter. For these things I would answer to no man or woman alive." He paused. Mrs. Gould's face, very white within the shadow of the hood, bent over him with an invincible and dreary sadness. And the low sobs of Giselle Viola, kneeling at the end of the bed, her gold hair with coppery gleams loose and scattered over the Capataz's feet, hardly troubled the silence of the room. "Ha! Old Giorgio--the guardian of thine honour! Fancy the Vecchio coming upon me so light of foot, so steady of aim. I myself could have done no better. But the price of a charge of powder might have been saved. The honour was safe. . . . Senora, she would have followed to the end of the world Nostromo the thief. . . . I have said the word. The spell is broken!" A low moan from the girl made him cast his eyes down. "I cannot see her. . . . No matter," he went on, with the shadow of the old magnificent carelessness in his voice. "One kiss is enough, if there is no time for more. An airy soul, senora! Bright and warm, like sunshine--soon clouded, and soon serene. They would crush it there between them. Senora, cast on her the eye of your compassion, as famed from one end of the land to the other as the courage and daring of the man who speaks to you. She will console herself in time. And even Ramirez is not a bad fellow. I am not angry. No! It is not Ramirez who overcame the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores." He paused, made an effort, and in louder voice, a little wildly, declared-- "I die betrayed--betrayed by----" But he did not say by whom or by what he was dying betrayed. "She would not have betrayed me," he began again, opening his eyes very wide. "She was faithful. We were going very far--very soon. I could have torn myself away from that accursed treasure for her. For that child I would have left boxes and boxes of it--full. And Decoud took four. Four ingots. Why? Picardia! To betray me? How could I give back the treasure with four ingots missing? They would have said I had purloined them. The doctor would have said that. Alas! it holds me yet!" Mrs. Gould bent low, fascinated--cold with apprehension. "What became of Don Martin on that night, Nostromo?" "Who knows? I wondered what would become of me. Now I know. Death was to come upon me unawares. He went away! He betrayed me. And you think I have killed him! You are all alike, you fine people. The silver has killed me. It has held me. It holds me yet. Nobody knows where it is. But you are the wife of Don Carlos, who put it into my hands and said, 'Save it on your life.' And when I returned, and you all thought it was lost, what do I hear? 'It was nothing of importance. Let it go. Up, Nostromo, the faithful, and ride away to save us, for dear life!'" "Nostromo!" Mrs. Gould whispered, bending very low. "I, too, have hated the idea of that silver from the bottom of my heart." "Marvellous!--that one of you should hate the wealth that you know so well how to take from the hands of the poor. The world rests upon the poor, as old Giorgio says. You have been always good to the poor. But there is something accursed in wealth. Senora, shall I tell you where the treasure is? To you alone. . . . Shining! Incorruptible!" A pained, involuntary reluctance lingered in his tone, in his eyes, plain to the woman with the genius of sympathetic intuition. She averted her glance from the miserable subjection of the dying man, appalled, wishing to hear no more of the silver. "No, Capataz," she said. "No one misses it now. Let it be lost for ever." After hearing these words, Nostromo closed his eyes, uttered no word, made no movement. Outside the door of the sick-room Dr. Monygham, excited to the highest pitch, his eyes shining with eagerness, came up to the two women. "Now, Mrs. Gould," he said, almost brutally in his impatience, "tell me, was I right? There is a mystery. You have got the word of it, have you not? He told you----" "He told me nothing," said Mrs. Gould, steadily. The light of his temperamental enmity to Nostromo went out of Dr. Monygham's eyes. He stepped back submissively. He did not believe Mrs. Gould. But her word was law. He accepted her denial like an inexplicable fatality affirming the victory of Nostromo's genius over his own. Even before that woman, whom he loved with secret devotion, he had been defeated by the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores, the man who had lived his own life on the assumption of unbroken fidelity, rectitude, and courage! "Pray send at once somebody for my carriage," spoke Mrs. Gould from within her hood. Then, turning to Giselle Viola, "Come nearer me, child; come closer. We will wait here." Giselle Viola, heartbroken and childlike, her face veiled in her falling hair, crept up to her side. Mrs. Gould slipped her hand through the arm of the unworthy daughter of old Viola, the immaculate republican, the hero without a stain. Slowly, gradually, as a withered flower droops, the head of the girl, who would have followed a thief to the end of the world, rested on the shoulder of Dona Emilia, the first lady of Sulaco, the wife of the Senor Administrador of the San Tome mine. And Mrs. Gould, feeling her suppressed sobbing, nervous and excited, had the first and only moment of bitterness in her life. It was worthy of Dr. Monygham himself. "Console yourself, child. Very soon he would have forgotten you for his treasure." "Senora, he loved me. He loved me," Giselle whispered, despairingly. "He loved me as no one had ever been loved before." "I have been loved, too," Mrs. Gould said in a severe tone. Giselle clung to her convulsively. "Oh, senora, but you shall live adored to the end of your life," she sobbed out. Mrs. Gould kept an unbroken silence till the carriage arrived. She helped in the half-fainting girl. After the doctor had shut the door of the landau, she leaned over to him. "You can do nothing?" she whispered. "No, Mrs. Gould. Moreover, he won't let us touch him. It does not matter. I just had one look. . . . Useless." But he promised to see old Viola and the other girl that very night. He could get the police-boat to take him off to the island. He remained in the street, looking after the landau rolling away slowly behind the white mules. The rumour of some accident--an accident to Captain Fidanza--had been spreading along the new quays with their rows of lamps and the dark shapes of towering cranes. A knot of night prowlers--the poorest of the poor--hung about the door of the first-aid hospital, whispering in the moonlight of the empty street. There was no one with the wounded man but the pale photographer, small, frail, bloodthirsty, the hater of capitalists, perched on a high stool near the head of the bed with his knees up and his chin in his hands. He had been fetched by a comrade who, working late on the wharf, had heard from a negro belonging to a lancha, that Captain Fidanza had been brought ashore mortally wounded. "Have you any dispositions to make, comrade?" he asked, anxiously. "Do not forget that we want money for our work. The rich must be fought with their own weapons." Nostromo made no answer. The other did not insist, remaining huddled up on the stool, shock-headed, wildly hairy, like a hunchbacked monkey. Then, after a long silence-- "Comrade Fidanza," he began, solemnly, "you have refused all aid from that doctor. Is he really a dangerous enemy of the people?" In the dimly lit room Nostromo rolled his head slowly on the pillow and opened his eyes, directing at the weird figure perched by his bedside a glance of enigmatic and profound inquiry. Then his head rolled back, his eyelids fell, and the Capataz de Cargadores died without a word or moan after an hour of immobility, broken by short shudders testifying to the most atrocious sufferings. Dr. Monygham, going out in the police-galley to the islands, beheld the glitter of the moon upon the gulf and the high black shape of the Great Isabel sending a shaft of light afar, from under the canopy of clouds. "Pull easy," he said, wondering what he would find there. He tried to imagine Linda and her father, and discovered a strange reluctance within himself. "Pull easy," he repeated. * * * * * * From the moment he fired at the thief of his honour, Giorgio Viola had not stirred from the spot. He stood, his old gun grounded, his hand grasping the barrel near the muzzle. After the lancha carrying off Nostromo for ever from her had left the shore, Linda, coming up, stopped before him. He did not seem to be aware of her presence, but when, losing her forced calmness, she cried out-- "Do you know whom you have killed?" he answered-- "Ramirez the vagabond." White, and staring insanely at her father, Linda laughed in his face. After a time he joined her faintly in a deep-toned and distant echo of her peals. Then she stopped, and the old man spoke as if startled-- "He cried out in son Gian' Battista's voice." The gun fell from his opened hand, but the arm remained extended for a moment as if still supported. Linda seized it roughly. "You are too old to understand. Come into the house." He let her lead him. On the threshold he stumbled heavily, nearly coming to the ground together with his daughter. His excitement, his activity of the last few days, had been like the flare of a dying lamp. He caught at the back of his chair. "In son Gian' Battista's voice," he repeated in a severe tone. "I heard him--Ramirez--the miserable----" Linda helped him into the chair, and, bending low, hissed into his ear-- "You have killed Gian' Battista." The old man smiled under his thick moustache. Women had strange fancies. "Where is the child?" he asked, surprised at the penetrating chilliness of the air and the unwonted dimness of the lamp by which he used to sit up half the night with the open Bible before him. Linda hesitated a moment, then averted her eyes. "She is asleep," she said. "We shall talk of her tomorrow." She could not bear to look at him. He filled her with terror and with an almost unbearable feeling of pity. She had observed the change that came over him. He would never understand what he had done; and even to her the whole thing remained incomprehensible. He said with difficulty-- "Give me the book." Linda laid on the table the closed volume in its worn leather cover, the Bible given him ages ago by an Englishman in Palermo. "The child had to be protected," he said, in a strange, mournful voice. Behind

another

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

"I shall go grey, I fear, before the ring is on my finger," she said, slowly, keeping her gaze fastened upon him. She waited for what he would say, rolling down her turned-up sleeves. "No fear of that," he said, absently. She turned away as if it had been something final, and busied herself with household cares while Nostromo talked with her father. Conversation with the old Garibaldino was not easy. Age had left his faculties unimpaired, only they seemed to have withdrawn somewhere deep within him. His answers were slow in coming, with an effect of august gravity. But that day he was more animated, quicker; there seemed to be more life in the old lion. He was uneasy for the integrity of his honour. He believed Sidoni's warning as to Ramirez's designs upon his younger daughter. And he did not trust her. She was flighty. He said nothing of his cares to "Son Gian' Battista." It was a touch of senile vanity. He wanted to show that he was equal yet to the task of guarding alone the honour of his house. Nostromo went away early. As soon as he had disappeared, walking towards the beach, Linda stepped over the threshold and, with a haggard smile, sat down by the side of her father. Ever since that Sunday, when the infatuated and desperate Ramirez had waited for her on the wharf, she had no doubts whatever. The jealous ravings of that man were no revelation. They had only fixed with precision, as with a nail driven into her heart, that sense of unreality and deception which, instead of bliss and security, she had found in her intercourse with her promised husband. She had passed on, pouring indignation and scorn upon Ramirez; but, that Sunday, she nearly died of wretchedness and shame, lying on the carved and lettered stone of Teresa's grave, subscribed for by the engine-drivers and the fitters of the railway workshops, in sign of their respect for the hero of Italian Unity. Old Viola had not been able to carry out his desire of burying his wife in the sea; and Linda wept upon the stone. The gratuitous outrage appalled her. If he wished to break her heart--well and good. Everything was permitted to Gian' Battista. But why trample upon the pieces; why seek to humiliate her spirit? Aha! He could not break that. She dried her tears. And Giselle! Giselle! The little one that, ever since she could toddle, had always clung to her skirt for protection. What duplicity! But she could not help it probably. When there was a man in the case the poor featherheaded wretch could not help herself. Linda had a good share of the Viola stoicism. She resolved to say nothing. But woman-like she put passion into her stoicism. Giselle's short answers, prompted by fearful caution, drove her beside herself by their curtness that resembled disdain. One day she flung herself upon the chair in which her indolent sister was lying and impressed the mark of her teeth at the base of the whitest neck in Sulaco. Giselle cried out. But she had her share of the Viola heroism. Ready to faint with terror, she only said, in a lazy voice, "Madre de Dios! Are you going to eat me alive, Linda?" And this outburst passed off leaving no trace upon the situation. "She knows nothing. She cannot know any thing," reflected Giselle. "Perhaps it is not true. It cannot be true," Linda tried to persuade herself. But when she saw Captain Fidanza for the first time after her meeting with the distracted Ramirez, the certitude of her misfortune returned. She watched him from the doorway go away to his boat, asking herself stoically, "Will they meet to-night?" She made up her mind not to leave the tower for a second. When he had disappeared she came out and sat down by her father. The venerable Garibaldino felt, in his own words, "a young man yet." In one way or another a good deal of talk about Ramirez had reached him of late; and his contempt and dislike of that man who obviously was not what his son would have been, had made him restless. He slept very little now; but for several nights past instead of reading--or only sitting, with Mrs. Gould's silver spectacles on his nose, before the open Bible, he had been prowling actively all about the island with his old gun, on watch over his honour. Linda, laying her thin brown hand on his knee, tried to soothe his excitement. Ramirez was not in Sulaco. Nobody knew where he was. He was gone. His talk of what he would do meant nothing. "No," the old man interrupted. "But son Gian' Battista told me--quite of himself--that the cowardly esclavo was drinking and gambling with the rascals of Zapiga, over there on the north side of the gulf. He may get some of the worst scoundrels of that scoundrelly town of negroes to help him in his attempt upon the little one. . . . But I am not so old. No!" She argued earnestly against the probability of any attempt being made; and at last the old man fell silent, chewing his white moustache. Women had their obstinate notions which must be humoured--his poor wife was like that, and Linda resembled her mother. It was not seemly for a man to argue. "May be. May be," he mumbled. She was by no means easy in her mind. She loved Nostromo. She turned her eyes upon Giselle, sitting at a distance, with something of maternal tenderness, and the jealous anguish of a rival outraged in her defeat. Then she rose and walked over to her. "Listen--you," she said, roughly. The invincible candour of the gaze, raised up all violet and dew, excited her rage and admiration. She had beautiful eyes--the Chica--this vile thing of white flesh and black deception. She did not know whether she wanted to tear them out with shouts of vengeance or cover up their mysterious and shameless innocence with kisses of pity and love. And suddenly they became empty, gazing blankly at her, except for a little fear not quite buried deep enough with all the other emotions in Giselle's heart. Linda said, "Ramirez is boasting in town that he will carry you off from the island." "What folly!" answered the other, and in a perversity born of long restraint, she added: "He is not the man," in a jesting tone with a trembling audacity. "No?" said Linda, through her clenched teeth. "Is he not? Well, then, look to it; because father has been walking about with a loaded gun at night." "It is not good for him. You must tell him not to, Linda. He will not listen to me." "I shall say nothing--never any more--to anybody," cried Linda, passionately. This could not last, thought Giselle. Giovanni must take her away soon--the very next time he came. She would not suffer these terrors for ever so much silver. To speak with her sister made her ill. But she was not uneasy at her father's watchfulness. She had begged Nostromo not to come to the window that night. He had promised to keep away for this once. And she did not know, could not guess or imagine, that he had another reason for coming on the island. Linda had gone straight to the tower. It was time to light up. She unlocked the little door, and went heavily up the spiral staircase, carrying her love for the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores like an ever-increasing load of shameful fetters. No; she could not throw it off. No; let Heaven dispose of these two. And moving about the lantern, filled with twilight and the sheen of the moon, with careful movements she lighted the lamp. Then her arms fell along her body. "And with our mother looking on," she murmured. "My own sister--the Chica!" The whole refracting apparatus, with its brass fittings and rings of prisms, glittered and sparkled like a domeshaped shrine of diamonds, containing not a lamp, but some sacred flame, dominating the sea. And Linda, the keeper, in black, with a pale face, drooped low in a wooden chair, alone with her jealousy, far above the shames and passions of the earth. A strange, dragging pain as if somebody were pulling her about brutally by her dark hair with bronze glints, made her put her hands up to her temples. They would meet. They would meet. And she knew where, too. At the window. The sweat of torture fell in drops on her cheeks, while the moonlight in the offing closed as if with a colossal bar of silver the entrance of the Placid Gulf--the sombre cavern of clouds and stillness in the surf-fretted seaboard. Linda Viola stood up suddenly with a finger on her lip. He loved neither her nor her sister. The whole thing seemed so objectless as to frighten her, and also give her some hope. Why did he not carry her off? What prevented him? He was incomprehensible. What were they waiting for? For what end were these two lying and deceiving? Not for the ends of their love. There was no such thing. The hope of regaining him for herself made her break her vow of not leaving the tower that night. She must talk at once to her father, who was wise, and would understand. She ran down the spiral stairs. At the moment of opening the door at the bottom she heard the sound of the first shot ever fired on the Great Isabel. She felt a shock, as though the bullet had struck her breast. She ran on without pausing. The cottage was dark. She cried at the door, "Giselle! Giselle!" then dashed round the corner and screamed her sister's name at the open window, without getting an answer; but as she was rushing, distracted, round the house, Giselle came out of the door, and darted past her, running silently, her hair loose, and her eyes staring straight ahead. She seemed to skim along the grass as if on tiptoe, and vanished. Linda walked on slowly, with her arms stretched out before her. All was still on the island; she did not know where she was going. The tree under which Martin Decoud spent his last days, beholding life like a succession of senseless images, threw a large blotch of black shade upon the grass. Suddenly she saw her father, standing quietly all alone in the moonlight. The Garibaldino--big, erect, with his snow-white hair and beard--had a monumental repose in his immobility, leaning upon a rifle. She put her hand upon his arm lightly. He never stirred. "What have you done?" she asked, in her ordinary voice. "I have shot Ramirez--infame!" he answered, with his eyes directed to where the shade was blackest. "Like a thief he came, and like a thief he fell. The child had to be protected." He did not offer to move an inch, to advance a single step. He stood there, rugged and unstirring, like a statue of an old man guarding the honour of his house. Linda removed her trembling hand from his arm, firm and steady like an arm of stone, and, without a word, entered the blackness of the shade. She saw a stir of formless shapes on the ground, and stopped short. A murmur of despair and tears grew louder to her strained hearing. "I entreated you not to come to-night. Oh, my Giovanni! And you promised. Oh! Why--why did you come, Giovanni?" It was her sister's voice. It broke on a heartrending sob. And the voice of the resourceful Capataz de Cargadores, master and slave of the San Tome treasure, who had been caught unawares by old Giorgio while stealing across the open towards the ravine to get some more silver, answered careless and cool, but sounding startlingly weak from the ground. "It seemed as though I could not live through the night without seeing thee once more--my star, my little flower." * * * * * The brilliant tertulia was just over, the last guests had departed, and the Senor Administrador had gone to his room already, when Dr. Monygham, who had been expected in the evening but had not turned up, arrived driving along the wood-block pavement under the electric-lamps of the deserted Calle de la Constitucion, and found the great gateway of the Casa still open. He limped in, stumped up the stairs, and found the fat and sleek Basilio on the point of turning off the lights in the sala. The prosperous majordomo remained open-mouthed at this late invasion. "Don't put out the lights," commanded the doctor. "I want to see the senora." "The senora is in the Senor Adminstrador's cancillaria," said Basilio, in an unctuous voice. "The Senor Administrador starts for the mountain in an hour. There is some trouble with the workmen to be feared, it appears. A shameless people without reason and decency. And idle, senor. Idle." "You are shamelessly lazy and imbecile yourself," said the doctor, with that faculty for exasperation which made him so generally beloved. "Don't put the lights out." Basilio retired with dignity. Dr. Monygham, waiting in the brilliantly lighted sala, heard presently a door close at the further end of the house. A jingle of spurs died out. The Senor Administrador was off to the mountain. With a measured swish of her long train, flashing with jewels and the shimmer of silk, her delicate head bowed as if under the weight of a mass of fair hair, in which the silver threads were lost, the "first lady of Sulaco," as Captain Mitchell used to describe her, moved along the lighted corredor, wealthy beyond great dreams of wealth, considered, loved, respected, honoured, and as solitary as any human being had ever been, perhaps, on this earth. The doctor's "Mrs. Gould! One minute!" stopped her with a start at the door of the lighted and empty sala. From the similarity of mood and circumstance, the sight of the doctor, standing there all alone amongst the groups of furniture, recalled to her emotional memory her unexpected meeting with Martin Decoud; she seemed to hear in the silence the voice of that man, dead miserably so many years ago, pronounce the words, "Antonia left her fan here." But it was the doctor's voice that spoke, a little altered by his excitement. She remarked his shining eyes. "Mrs. Gould, you are wanted. Do you know what has happened? You remember what I told you yesterday about Nostromo. Well, it seems that a lancha, a decked boat, coming from Zapiga, with four negroes in her, passing close to the Great Isabel, was hailed from the cliff by a woman's voice--Linda's, as a matter of fact--commanding them (it's a moonlight night) to go round to the beach and take up a wounded man to the town. The patron (from whom I've heard all this), of course, did so at once. He told me that when they got round to the low side of the Great Isabel, they found Linda Viola waiting for them. They followed her: she led them under a tree not far from the cottage. There they found Nostromo lying on the ground with his head in the younger girl's lap, and father Viola standing some distance off leaning on his gun. Under Linda's direction they got a table out of the cottage for a stretcher, after breaking off the legs. They are here, Mrs. Gould. I mean Nostromo and--and Giselle. The negroes brought him in to the first-aid hospital near the harbour. He made the attendant send for me. But it was not me he wanted to see--it was you, Mrs. Gould! It was you." "Me?" whispered Mrs. Gould, shrinking a little. "Yes, you!" the doctor burst out. "He begged me--his enemy, as he thinks--to bring you to him at once. It seems he has something to say to you alone." "Impossible!" murmured Mrs. Gould. "He said to me, 'Remind her that I have done something to keep a roof over her head.' . . . Mrs. Gould," the doctor pursued, in the greatest excitement. "Do you remember the silver? The silver in the lighter--that was lost?" Mrs. Gould remembered. But she did not say she hated the mere mention of that silver. Frankness personified, she remembered with an exaggerated horror that for the first and last time of her life she had concealed the truth from her husband about that very silver. She had been corrupted by her fears at that time, and she had never forgiven herself. Moreover, that silver, which would never have come down if her husband had been made acquainted with the news brought by Decoud, had been in a roundabout way nearly the cause of Dr. Monygham's death. And these things appeared to her very dreadful. "Was it lost, though?" the doctor exclaimed. "I've always felt that there was a mystery about our Nostromo ever since. I do believe he wants now, at the point of death----" "The point of death?" repeated Mrs. Gould. "Yes. Yes. . . . He wants perhaps to tell you something concerning that silver which----" "Oh, no! No!" exclaimed Mrs. Gould, in a low voice. "Isn't it lost and done with? Isn't there enough treasure without it to make everybody in the world miserable?" The doctor remained still, in a submissive, disappointed silence. At last he ventured, very low-- "And there is that Viola girl, Giselle. What are we to do? It looks as though father and sister had----" Mrs. Gould admitted that she felt in duty bound to do her best for these girls. "I have a volante here," the doctor said. "If you don't mind getting into that----" He waited, all impatience, till Mrs. Gould reappeared, having thrown over her dress a grey cloak with a deep hood. It was thus that, cloaked and monastically hooded over her evening costume, this woman, full of endurance and compassion, stood by the side of the bed on which the splendid Capataz de Cargadores lay stretched out motionless on his back. The whiteness of sheets and pillows gave a sombre and energetic relief to his bronzed face, to the dark, nervous hands, so good on a tiller, upon a bridle and on a trigger, lying open and idle upon a white coverlet. "She is innocent," the Capataz was saying in a deep and level voice, as though afraid that a louder word would break the slender hold his spirit still kept upon his body. "She is innocent. It is I alone. But no matter. For these things I would answer to no man or woman alive." He paused. Mrs. Gould's face, very white within the shadow of the hood, bent over him with an invincible and dreary sadness. And the low sobs of Giselle Viola, kneeling at the end of the bed, her gold hair with coppery gleams loose and scattered over the Capataz's feet, hardly troubled the silence of the room. "Ha! Old Giorgio--the guardian of thine honour! Fancy the Vecchio coming upon me so light of foot, so steady of aim. I myself could have done no better. But the price of a charge of powder might have been saved. The honour was safe. . . . Senora, she would have followed to the end of the world Nostromo the thief. . . . I have said the word. The spell is broken!" A low moan from the girl made him cast his eyes down. "I cannot see her. . . . No matter," he went on, with the shadow of the old magnificent carelessness in his voice. "One kiss is enough, if there is no time for more. An airy soul, senora! Bright and warm, like sunshine--soon clouded, and soon serene. They would crush it there between them. Senora, cast on her the eye of your compassion, as famed from one end of the land to the other as the courage and daring of the man who speaks to you. She will console herself in time. And even Ramirez is not a bad fellow. I am not angry. No! It is not Ramirez who overcame the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores." He paused, made an effort, and in louder voice, a little wildly, declared-- "I die betrayed--betrayed by----" But he did not say by whom or by what he was dying betrayed. "She would not have betrayed me," he began again, opening his eyes very wide. "She was faithful. We were going very far--very soon. I could have torn myself away from that accursed treasure for her. For that child I would have left boxes and boxes of it--full. And Decoud took four. Four ingots. Why? Picardia! To betray me? How could I give back the treasure with four ingots missing? They would have said I had purloined them. The doctor would have said that. Alas! it holds me yet!" Mrs. Gould bent low, fascinated--cold with apprehension. "What became of Don Martin on that night, Nostromo?" "Who knows? I wondered what would become of me. Now I know. Death was to come upon me unawares. He went away! He betrayed me. And you think I have killed him! You are all alike, you fine people. The silver has killed me. It has held me. It holds me yet. Nobody knows where it is. But you are the wife of Don Carlos, who put it into my hands and said, 'Save it on your life.' And when I returned, and you all thought it was lost, what do I hear? 'It was nothing of importance. Let it go. Up, Nostromo, the faithful, and ride away to save us, for dear life!'" "Nostromo!" Mrs. Gould whispered, bending very low. "I, too, have hated the idea of that silver from the bottom of my heart." "Marvellous!--that one of you should hate the wealth that you know so well how to take from the hands of the poor. The world rests upon the poor, as old Giorgio says. You have been always good to the poor. But there is something accursed in wealth. Senora, shall I tell you where the treasure is? To you alone. . . . Shining! Incorruptible!" A pained, involuntary reluctance lingered in his tone, in his eyes, plain to the woman with the genius of sympathetic intuition. She averted her glance from the miserable subjection of the dying man, appalled, wishing to hear no more of the silver. "No, Capataz," she said. "No one misses it now. Let it be lost for ever." After hearing these words, Nostromo closed his eyes, uttered no word, made no movement. Outside the door of the sick-room Dr. Monygham, excited to the highest pitch, his eyes shining with eagerness, came up to the two women. "Now, Mrs. Gould," he said, almost brutally in his impatience, "tell me, was I right? There is a mystery. You have got the word of it, have you not? He told you----" "He told me nothing," said Mrs. Gould, steadily. The light of his temperamental enmity to Nostromo went out of Dr. Monygham's eyes. He stepped back submissively. He did not believe Mrs. Gould. But her word was law. He accepted her denial like an inexplicable fatality affirming the victory of Nostromo's genius over his own. Even before that woman, whom he loved with secret devotion, he had been defeated by the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores, the man who had lived his own life on the assumption of unbroken fidelity, rectitude, and courage! "Pray send at once somebody for my carriage," spoke Mrs. Gould from within her hood. Then, turning to Giselle Viola, "Come nearer me, child; come closer. We will wait here." Giselle Viola, heartbroken and childlike, her face veiled in her falling hair, crept up to her side. Mrs. Gould slipped her hand through the arm of the unworthy daughter of old Viola, the immaculate republican, the hero without a stain. Slowly, gradually, as a withered flower droops, the head of the girl, who would have followed a thief to the end of the world, rested on the shoulder of Dona Emilia, the first lady of Sulaco, the wife of the Senor Administrador of the San Tome mine. And Mrs. Gould, feeling her suppressed sobbing, nervous and excited, had the first and only moment of bitterness in her life. It was worthy of Dr. Monygham himself. "Console yourself, child. Very soon he would have forgotten you for his treasure." "Senora, he loved me. He loved me," Giselle whispered, despairingly. "He loved me as no one had ever been loved before." "I have been loved, too," Mrs. Gould said in a severe tone. Giselle clung to her convulsively. "Oh, senora, but you shall live adored to the end of your life," she sobbed out. Mrs. Gould kept an unbroken silence till the carriage arrived. She helped in the half-fainting girl. After the doctor had shut the door of the landau, she leaned over to him. "You can do nothing?" she whispered. "No, Mrs. Gould. Moreover, he won't let us touch him. It does not matter. I just had one look. . . . Useless." But he promised to see old Viola and the other girl that very night. He could get the police-boat to take him off to the island. He remained in the street, looking after the landau rolling away slowly behind the white mules. The rumour of some accident--an accident to Captain Fidanza--had been spreading along the new quays with their rows of lamps and the dark shapes of towering cranes. A knot of night prowlers--the poorest of the poor--hung about the door of the first-aid hospital, whispering in the moonlight of the empty street. There was no one with the wounded man but the pale photographer, small, frail, bloodthirsty, the hater of capitalists, perched on a high stool near the head of the bed with his knees up and his chin in his hands. He had been fetched by a comrade who, working late on the wharf, had heard from a negro belonging to a lancha, that Captain Fidanza had been brought ashore mortally wounded. "Have you any dispositions to make, comrade?" he asked, anxiously. "Do not forget that we want money for our work. The rich must be fought with their own weapons." Nostromo made no answer. The other did not insist, remaining huddled up on the stool, shock-headed, wildly hairy, like a hunchbacked monkey. Then, after a long silence-- "Comrade Fidanza," he began, solemnly, "you have refused all aid from that doctor. Is he really a dangerous enemy of the people?" In the dimly lit room Nostromo rolled his head slowly on the pillow and opened his eyes, directing at the weird figure perched by his bedside a glance of enigmatic and profound inquiry. Then his head rolled back, his eyelids fell, and the Capataz de Cargadores died without a word or moan after an hour of immobility, broken by short shudders testifying to the most atrocious sufferings. Dr. Monygham, going out in the police-galley to the islands, beheld the glitter of the moon upon the gulf and the high black shape of the Great Isabel sending a shaft of light afar, from under the canopy of clouds. "Pull easy," he said, wondering what he would find there. He tried to imagine Linda and her father, and discovered a strange reluctance within himself. "Pull easy," he repeated. * * * * * * From the moment he fired at the thief of his honour, Giorgio Viola had not stirred from the spot. He stood, his old gun grounded, his hand grasping the barrel near the muzzle. After the lancha carrying off Nostromo for ever from her had left the shore, Linda, coming up, stopped before him. He did not seem to be aware of her presence, but when, losing her forced calmness, she cried out-- "Do you know whom you have killed?" he answered-- "Ramirez the vagabond." White, and staring insanely at her father, Linda laughed in his face. After a time he joined her faintly in a deep-toned and distant echo of her peals. Then she stopped, and the old man spoke as if startled-- "He cried out in son Gian' Battista's voice." The gun fell from his opened hand, but the arm remained extended for a moment as if still supported. Linda seized it roughly. "You are too old to understand. Come into the house." He let her lead him. On the threshold he stumbled heavily, nearly coming to the ground together with his daughter. His excitement, his activity of the last few days, had been like the flare of a dying lamp. He caught at the back of his chair. "In son Gian' Battista's voice," he repeated in a severe tone. "I heard him--Ramirez--the miserable----" Linda helped him into the chair, and, bending low, hissed into his ear-- "You have killed Gian' Battista." The old man smiled under his thick moustache. Women had strange fancies. "Where is the child?" he asked, surprised at the penetrating chilliness of the air and the unwonted dimness of the lamp by which he used to sit up half the night with the open Bible before him. Linda hesitated a moment, then averted her eyes. "She is asleep," she said. "We shall talk of her tomorrow." She could not bear to look at him. He filled her with terror and with an almost unbearable feeling of pity. She had observed the change that came over him. He would never understand what he had done; and even to her the whole thing remained incomprehensible. He said with difficulty-- "Give me the book." Linda laid on the table the closed volume in its worn leather cover, the Bible given him ages ago by an Englishman in Palermo. "The child had to be protected," he said, in a strange, mournful voice. Behind

husband

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

"I shall go grey, I fear, before the ring is on my finger," she said, slowly, keeping her gaze fastened upon him. She waited for what he would say, rolling down her turned-up sleeves. "No fear of that," he said, absently. She turned away as if it had been something final, and busied herself with household cares while Nostromo talked with her father. Conversation with the old Garibaldino was not easy. Age had left his faculties unimpaired, only they seemed to have withdrawn somewhere deep within him. His answers were slow in coming, with an effect of august gravity. But that day he was more animated, quicker; there seemed to be more life in the old lion. He was uneasy for the integrity of his honour. He believed Sidoni's warning as to Ramirez's designs upon his younger daughter. And he did not trust her. She was flighty. He said nothing of his cares to "Son Gian' Battista." It was a touch of senile vanity. He wanted to show that he was equal yet to the task of guarding alone the honour of his house. Nostromo went away early. As soon as he had disappeared, walking towards the beach, Linda stepped over the threshold and, with a haggard smile, sat down by the side of her father. Ever since that Sunday, when the infatuated and desperate Ramirez had waited for her on the wharf, she had no doubts whatever. The jealous ravings of that man were no revelation. They had only fixed with precision, as with a nail driven into her heart, that sense of unreality and deception which, instead of bliss and security, she had found in her intercourse with her promised husband. She had passed on, pouring indignation and scorn upon Ramirez; but, that Sunday, she nearly died of wretchedness and shame, lying on the carved and lettered stone of Teresa's grave, subscribed for by the engine-drivers and the fitters of the railway workshops, in sign of their respect for the hero of Italian Unity. Old Viola had not been able to carry out his desire of burying his wife in the sea; and Linda wept upon the stone. The gratuitous outrage appalled her. If he wished to break her heart--well and good. Everything was permitted to Gian' Battista. But why trample upon the pieces; why seek to humiliate her spirit? Aha! He could not break that. She dried her tears. And Giselle! Giselle! The little one that, ever since she could toddle, had always clung to her skirt for protection. What duplicity! But she could not help it probably. When there was a man in the case the poor featherheaded wretch could not help herself. Linda had a good share of the Viola stoicism. She resolved to say nothing. But woman-like she put passion into her stoicism. Giselle's short answers, prompted by fearful caution, drove her beside herself by their curtness that resembled disdain. One day she flung herself upon the chair in which her indolent sister was lying and impressed the mark of her teeth at the base of the whitest neck in Sulaco. Giselle cried out. But she had her share of the Viola heroism. Ready to faint with terror, she only said, in a lazy voice, "Madre de Dios! Are you going to eat me alive, Linda?" And this outburst passed off leaving no trace upon the situation. "She knows nothing. She cannot know any thing," reflected Giselle. "Perhaps it is not true. It cannot be true," Linda tried to persuade herself. But when she saw Captain Fidanza for the first time after her meeting with the distracted Ramirez, the certitude of her misfortune returned. She watched him from the doorway go away to his boat, asking herself stoically, "Will they meet to-night?" She made up her mind not to leave the tower for a second. When he had disappeared she came out and sat down by her father. The venerable Garibaldino felt, in his own words, "a young man yet." In one way or another a good deal of talk about Ramirez had reached him of late; and his contempt and dislike of that man who obviously was not what his son would have been, had made him restless. He slept very little now; but for several nights past instead of reading--or only sitting, with Mrs. Gould's silver spectacles on his nose, before the open Bible, he had been prowling actively all about the island with his old gun, on watch over his honour. Linda, laying her thin brown hand on his knee, tried to soothe his excitement. Ramirez was not in Sulaco. Nobody knew where he was. He was gone. His talk of what he would do meant nothing. "No," the old man interrupted. "But son Gian' Battista told me--quite of himself--that the cowardly esclavo was drinking and gambling with the rascals of Zapiga, over there on the north side of the gulf. He may get some of the worst scoundrels of that scoundrelly town of negroes to help him in his attempt upon the little one. . . . But I am not so old. No!" She argued earnestly against the probability of any attempt being made; and at last the old man fell silent, chewing his white moustache. Women had their obstinate notions which must be humoured--his poor wife was like that, and Linda resembled her mother. It was not seemly for a man to argue. "May be. May be," he mumbled. She was by no means easy in her mind. She loved Nostromo. She turned her eyes upon Giselle, sitting at a distance, with something of maternal tenderness, and the jealous anguish of a rival outraged in her defeat. Then she rose and walked over to her. "Listen--you," she said, roughly. The invincible candour of the gaze, raised up all violet and dew, excited her rage and admiration. She had beautiful eyes--the Chica--this vile thing of white flesh and black deception. She did not know whether she wanted to tear them out with shouts of vengeance or cover up their mysterious and shameless innocence with kisses of pity and love. And suddenly they became empty, gazing blankly at her, except for a little fear not quite buried deep enough with all the other emotions in Giselle's heart. Linda said, "Ramirez is boasting in town that he will carry you off from the island." "What folly!" answered the other, and in a perversity born of long restraint, she added: "He is not the man," in a jesting tone with a trembling audacity. "No?" said Linda, through her clenched teeth. "Is he not? Well, then, look to it; because father has been walking about with a loaded gun at night." "It is not good for him. You must tell him not to, Linda. He will not listen to me." "I shall say nothing--never any more--to anybody," cried Linda, passionately. This could not last, thought Giselle. Giovanni must take her away soon--the very next time he came. She would not suffer these terrors for ever so much silver. To speak with her sister made her ill. But she was not uneasy at her father's watchfulness. She had begged Nostromo not to come to the window that night. He had promised to keep away for this once. And she did not know, could not guess or imagine, that he had another reason for coming on the island. Linda had gone straight to the tower. It was time to light up. She unlocked the little door, and went heavily up the spiral staircase, carrying her love for the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores like an ever-increasing load of shameful fetters. No; she could not throw it off. No; let Heaven dispose of these two. And moving about the lantern, filled with twilight and the sheen of the moon, with careful movements she lighted the lamp. Then her arms fell along her body. "And with our mother looking on," she murmured. "My own sister--the Chica!" The whole refracting apparatus, with its brass fittings and rings of prisms, glittered and sparkled like a domeshaped shrine of diamonds, containing not a lamp, but some sacred flame, dominating the sea. And Linda, the keeper, in black, with a pale face, drooped low in a wooden chair, alone with her jealousy, far above the shames and passions of the earth. A strange, dragging pain as if somebody were pulling her about brutally by her dark hair with bronze glints, made her put her hands up to her temples. They would meet. They would meet. And she knew where, too. At the window. The sweat of torture fell in drops on her cheeks, while the moonlight in the offing closed as if with a colossal bar of silver the entrance of the Placid Gulf--the sombre cavern of clouds and stillness in the surf-fretted seaboard. Linda Viola stood up suddenly with a finger on her lip. He loved neither her nor her sister. The whole thing seemed so objectless as to frighten her, and also give her some hope. Why did he not carry her off? What prevented him? He was incomprehensible. What were they waiting for? For what end were these two lying and deceiving? Not for the ends of their love. There was no such thing. The hope of regaining him for herself made her break her vow of not leaving the tower that night. She must talk at once to her father, who was wise, and would understand. She ran down the spiral stairs. At the moment of opening the door at the bottom she heard the sound of the first shot ever fired on the Great Isabel. She felt a shock, as though the bullet had struck her breast. She ran on without pausing. The cottage was dark. She cried at the door, "Giselle! Giselle!" then dashed round the corner and screamed her sister's name at the open window, without getting an answer; but as she was rushing, distracted, round the house, Giselle came out of the door, and darted past her, running silently, her hair loose, and her eyes staring straight ahead. She seemed to skim along the grass as if on tiptoe, and vanished. Linda walked on slowly, with her arms stretched out before her. All was still on the island; she did not know where she was going. The tree under which Martin Decoud spent his last days, beholding life like a succession of senseless images, threw a large blotch of black shade upon the grass. Suddenly she saw her father, standing quietly all alone in the moonlight. The Garibaldino--big, erect, with his snow-white hair and beard--had a monumental repose in his immobility, leaning upon a rifle. She put her hand upon his arm lightly. He never stirred. "What have you done?" she asked, in her ordinary voice. "I have shot Ramirez--infame!" he answered, with his eyes directed to where the shade was blackest. "Like a thief he came, and like a thief he fell. The child had to be protected." He did not offer to move an inch, to advance a single step. He stood there, rugged and unstirring, like a statue of an old man guarding the honour of his house. Linda removed her trembling hand from his arm, firm and steady like an arm of stone, and, without a word, entered the blackness of the shade. She saw a stir of formless shapes on the ground, and stopped short. A murmur of despair and tears grew louder to her strained hearing. "I entreated you not to come to-night. Oh, my Giovanni! And you promised. Oh! Why--why did you come, Giovanni?" It was her sister's voice. It broke on a heartrending sob. And the voice of the resourceful Capataz de Cargadores, master and slave of the San Tome treasure, who had been caught unawares by old Giorgio while stealing across the open towards the ravine to get some more silver, answered careless and cool, but sounding startlingly weak from the ground. "It seemed as though I could not live through the night without seeing thee once more--my star, my little flower." * * * * * The brilliant tertulia was just over, the last guests had departed, and the Senor Administrador had gone to his room already, when Dr. Monygham, who had been expected in the evening but had not turned up, arrived driving along the wood-block pavement under the electric-lamps of the deserted Calle de la Constitucion, and found the great gateway of the Casa still open. He limped in, stumped up the stairs, and found the fat and sleek Basilio on the point of turning off the lights in the sala. The prosperous majordomo remained open-mouthed at this late invasion. "Don't put out the lights," commanded the doctor. "I want to see the senora." "The senora is in the Senor Adminstrador's cancillaria," said Basilio, in an unctuous voice. "The Senor Administrador starts for the mountain in an hour. There is some trouble with the workmen to be feared, it appears. A shameless people without reason and decency. And idle, senor. Idle." "You are shamelessly lazy and imbecile yourself," said the doctor, with that faculty for exasperation which made him so generally beloved. "Don't put the lights out." Basilio retired with dignity. Dr. Monygham, waiting in the brilliantly lighted sala, heard presently a door close at the further end of the house. A jingle of spurs died out. The Senor Administrador was off to the mountain. With a measured swish of her long train, flashing with jewels and the shimmer of silk, her delicate head bowed as if under the weight of a mass of fair hair, in which the silver threads were lost, the "first lady of Sulaco," as Captain Mitchell used to describe her, moved along the lighted corredor, wealthy beyond great dreams of wealth, considered, loved, respected, honoured, and as solitary as any human being had ever been, perhaps, on this earth. The doctor's "Mrs. Gould! One minute!" stopped her with a start at the door of the lighted and empty sala. From the similarity of mood and circumstance, the sight of the doctor, standing there all alone amongst the groups of furniture, recalled to her emotional memory her unexpected meeting with Martin Decoud; she seemed to hear in the silence the voice of that man, dead miserably so many years ago, pronounce the words, "Antonia left her fan here." But it was the doctor's voice that spoke, a little altered by his excitement. She remarked his shining eyes. "Mrs. Gould, you are wanted. Do you know what has happened? You remember what I told you yesterday about Nostromo. Well, it seems that a lancha, a decked boat, coming from Zapiga, with four negroes in her, passing close to the Great Isabel, was hailed from the cliff by a woman's voice--Linda's, as a matter of fact--commanding them (it's a moonlight night) to go round to the beach and take up a wounded man to the town. The patron (from whom I've heard all this), of course, did so at once. He told me that when they got round to the low side of the Great Isabel, they found Linda Viola waiting for them. They followed her: she led them under a tree not far from the cottage. There they found Nostromo lying on the ground with his head in the younger girl's lap, and father Viola standing some distance off leaning on his gun. Under Linda's direction they got a table out of the cottage for a stretcher, after breaking off the legs. They are here, Mrs. Gould. I mean Nostromo and--and Giselle. The negroes brought him in to the first-aid hospital near the harbour. He made the attendant send for me. But it was not me he wanted to see--it was you, Mrs. Gould! It was you." "Me?" whispered Mrs. Gould, shrinking a little. "Yes, you!" the doctor burst out. "He begged me--his enemy, as he thinks--to bring you to him at once. It seems he has something to say to you alone." "Impossible!" murmured Mrs. Gould. "He said to me, 'Remind her that I have done something to keep a roof over her head.' . . . Mrs. Gould," the doctor pursued, in the greatest excitement. "Do you remember the silver? The silver in the lighter--that was lost?" Mrs. Gould remembered. But she did not say she hated the mere mention of that silver. Frankness personified, she remembered with an exaggerated horror that for the first and last time of her life she had concealed the truth from her husband about that very silver. She had been corrupted by her fears at that time, and she had never forgiven herself. Moreover, that silver, which would never have come down if her husband had been made acquainted with the news brought by Decoud, had been in a roundabout way nearly the cause of Dr. Monygham's death. And these things appeared to her very dreadful. "Was it lost, though?" the doctor exclaimed. "I've always felt that there was a mystery about our Nostromo ever since. I do believe he wants now, at the point of death----" "The point of death?" repeated Mrs. Gould. "Yes. Yes. . . . He wants perhaps to tell you something concerning that silver which----" "Oh, no! No!" exclaimed Mrs. Gould, in a low voice. "Isn't it lost and done with? Isn't there enough treasure without it to make everybody in the world miserable?" The doctor remained still, in a submissive, disappointed silence. At last he ventured, very low-- "And there is that Viola girl, Giselle. What are we to do? It looks as though father and sister had----" Mrs. Gould admitted that she felt in duty bound to do her best for these girls. "I have a volante here," the doctor said. "If you don't mind getting into that----" He waited, all impatience, till Mrs. Gould reappeared, having thrown over her dress a grey cloak with a deep hood. It was thus that, cloaked and monastically hooded over her evening costume, this woman, full of endurance and compassion, stood by the side of the bed on which the splendid Capataz de Cargadores lay stretched out motionless on his back. The whiteness of sheets and pillows gave a sombre and energetic relief to his bronzed face, to the dark, nervous hands, so good on a tiller, upon a bridle and on a trigger, lying open and idle upon a white coverlet. "She is innocent," the Capataz was saying in a deep and level voice, as though afraid that a louder word would break the slender hold his spirit still kept upon his body. "She is innocent. It is I alone. But no matter. For these things I would answer to no man or woman alive." He paused. Mrs. Gould's face, very white within the shadow of the hood, bent over him with an invincible and dreary sadness. And the low sobs of Giselle Viola, kneeling at the end of the bed, her gold hair with coppery gleams loose and scattered over the Capataz's feet, hardly troubled the silence of the room. "Ha! Old Giorgio--the guardian of thine honour! Fancy the Vecchio coming upon me so light of foot, so steady of aim. I myself could have done no better. But the price of a charge of powder might have been saved. The honour was safe. . . . Senora, she would have followed to the end of the world Nostromo the thief. . . . I have said the word. The spell is broken!" A low moan from the girl made him cast his eyes down. "I cannot see her. . . . No matter," he went on, with the shadow of the old magnificent carelessness in his voice. "One kiss is enough, if there is no time for more. An airy soul, senora! Bright and warm, like sunshine--soon clouded, and soon serene. They would crush it there between them. Senora, cast on her the eye of your compassion, as famed from one end of the land to the other as the courage and daring of the man who speaks to you. She will console herself in time. And even Ramirez is not a bad fellow. I am not angry. No! It is not Ramirez who overcame the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores." He paused, made an effort, and in louder voice, a little wildly, declared-- "I die betrayed--betrayed by----" But he did not say by whom or by what he was dying betrayed. "She would not have betrayed me," he began again, opening his eyes very wide. "She was faithful. We were going very far--very soon. I could have torn myself away from that accursed treasure for her. For that child I would have left boxes and boxes of it--full. And Decoud took four. Four ingots. Why? Picardia! To betray me? How could I give back the treasure with four ingots missing? They would have said I had purloined them. The doctor would have said that. Alas! it holds me yet!" Mrs. Gould bent low, fascinated--cold with apprehension. "What became of Don Martin on that night, Nostromo?" "Who knows? I wondered what would become of me. Now I know. Death was to come upon me unawares. He went away! He betrayed me. And you think I have killed him! You are all alike, you fine people. The silver has killed me. It has held me. It holds me yet. Nobody knows where it is. But you are the wife of Don Carlos, who put it into my hands and said, 'Save it on your life.' And when I returned, and you all thought it was lost, what do I hear? 'It was nothing of importance. Let it go. Up, Nostromo, the faithful, and ride away to save us, for dear life!'" "Nostromo!" Mrs. Gould whispered, bending very low. "I, too, have hated the idea of that silver from the bottom of my heart." "Marvellous!--that one of you should hate the wealth that you know so well how to take from the hands of the poor. The world rests upon the poor, as old Giorgio says. You have been always good to the poor. But there is something accursed in wealth. Senora, shall I tell you where the treasure is? To you alone. . . . Shining! Incorruptible!" A pained, involuntary reluctance lingered in his tone, in his eyes, plain to the woman with the genius of sympathetic intuition. She averted her glance from the miserable subjection of the dying man, appalled, wishing to hear no more of the silver. "No, Capataz," she said. "No one misses it now. Let it be lost for ever." After hearing these words, Nostromo closed his eyes, uttered no word, made no movement. Outside the door of the sick-room Dr. Monygham, excited to the highest pitch, his eyes shining with eagerness, came up to the two women. "Now, Mrs. Gould," he said, almost brutally in his impatience, "tell me, was I right? There is a mystery. You have got the word of it, have you not? He told you----" "He told me nothing," said Mrs. Gould, steadily. The light of his temperamental enmity to Nostromo went out of Dr. Monygham's eyes. He stepped back submissively. He did not believe Mrs. Gould. But her word was law. He accepted her denial like an inexplicable fatality affirming the victory of Nostromo's genius over his own. Even before that woman, whom he loved with secret devotion, he had been defeated by the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores, the man who had lived his own life on the assumption of unbroken fidelity, rectitude, and courage! "Pray send at once somebody for my carriage," spoke Mrs. Gould from within her hood. Then, turning to Giselle Viola, "Come nearer me, child; come closer. We will wait here." Giselle Viola, heartbroken and childlike, her face veiled in her falling hair, crept up to her side. Mrs. Gould slipped her hand through the arm of the unworthy daughter of old Viola, the immaculate republican, the hero without a stain. Slowly, gradually, as a withered flower droops, the head of the girl, who would have followed a thief to the end of the world, rested on the shoulder of Dona Emilia, the first lady of Sulaco, the wife of the Senor Administrador of the San Tome mine. And Mrs. Gould, feeling her suppressed sobbing, nervous and excited, had the first and only moment of bitterness in her life. It was worthy of Dr. Monygham himself. "Console yourself, child. Very soon he would have forgotten you for his treasure." "Senora, he loved me. He loved me," Giselle whispered, despairingly. "He loved me as no one had ever been loved before." "I have been loved, too," Mrs. Gould said in a severe tone. Giselle clung to her convulsively. "Oh, senora, but you shall live adored to the end of your life," she sobbed out. Mrs. Gould kept an unbroken silence till the carriage arrived. She helped in the half-fainting girl. After the doctor had shut the door of the landau, she leaned over to him. "You can do nothing?" she whispered. "No, Mrs. Gould. Moreover, he won't let us touch him. It does not matter. I just had one look. . . . Useless." But he promised to see old Viola and the other girl that very night. He could get the police-boat to take him off to the island. He remained in the street, looking after the landau rolling away slowly behind the white mules. The rumour of some accident--an accident to Captain Fidanza--had been spreading along the new quays with their rows of lamps and the dark shapes of towering cranes. A knot of night prowlers--the poorest of the poor--hung about the door of the first-aid hospital, whispering in the moonlight of the empty street. There was no one with the wounded man but the pale photographer, small, frail, bloodthirsty, the hater of capitalists, perched on a high stool near the head of the bed with his knees up and his chin in his hands. He had been fetched by a comrade who, working late on the wharf, had heard from a negro belonging to a lancha, that Captain Fidanza had been brought ashore mortally wounded. "Have you any dispositions to make, comrade?" he asked, anxiously. "Do not forget that we want money for our work. The rich must be fought with their own weapons." Nostromo made no answer. The other did not insist, remaining huddled up on the stool, shock-headed, wildly hairy, like a hunchbacked monkey. Then, after a long silence-- "Comrade Fidanza," he began, solemnly, "you have refused all aid from that doctor. Is he really a dangerous enemy of the people?" In the dimly lit room Nostromo rolled his head slowly on the pillow and opened his eyes, directing at the weird figure perched by his bedside a glance of enigmatic and profound inquiry. Then his head rolled back, his eyelids fell, and the Capataz de Cargadores died without a word or moan after an hour of immobility, broken by short shudders testifying to the most atrocious sufferings. Dr. Monygham, going out in the police-galley to the islands, beheld the glitter of the moon upon the gulf and the high black shape of the Great Isabel sending a shaft of light afar, from under the canopy of clouds. "Pull easy," he said, wondering what he would find there. He tried to imagine Linda and her father, and discovered a strange reluctance within himself. "Pull easy," he repeated. * * * * * * From the moment he fired at the thief of his honour, Giorgio Viola had not stirred from the spot. He stood, his old gun grounded, his hand grasping the barrel near the muzzle. After the lancha carrying off Nostromo for ever from her had left the shore, Linda, coming up, stopped before him. He did not seem to be aware of her presence, but when, losing her forced calmness, she cried out-- "Do you know whom you have killed?" he answered-- "Ramirez the vagabond." White, and staring insanely at her father, Linda laughed in his face. After a time he joined her faintly in a deep-toned and distant echo of her peals. Then she stopped, and the old man spoke as if startled-- "He cried out in son Gian' Battista's voice." The gun fell from his opened hand, but the arm remained extended for a moment as if still supported. Linda seized it roughly. "You are too old to understand. Come into the house." He let her lead him. On the threshold he stumbled heavily, nearly coming to the ground together with his daughter. His excitement, his activity of the last few days, had been like the flare of a dying lamp. He caught at the back of his chair. "In son Gian' Battista's voice," he repeated in a severe tone. "I heard him--Ramirez--the miserable----" Linda helped him into the chair, and, bending low, hissed into his ear-- "You have killed Gian' Battista." The old man smiled under his thick moustache. Women had strange fancies. "Where is the child?" he asked, surprised at the penetrating chilliness of the air and the unwonted dimness of the lamp by which he used to sit up half the night with the open Bible before him. Linda hesitated a moment, then averted her eyes. "She is asleep," she said. "We shall talk of her tomorrow." She could not bear to look at him. He filled her with terror and with an almost unbearable feeling of pity. She had observed the change that came over him. He would never understand what he had done; and even to her the whole thing remained incomprehensible. He said with difficulty-- "Give me the book." Linda laid on the table the closed volume in its worn leather cover, the Bible given him ages ago by an Englishman in Palermo. "The child had to be protected," he said, in a strange, mournful voice. Behind

mystery

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

"I shall go grey, I fear, before the ring is on my finger," she said, slowly, keeping her gaze fastened upon him. She waited for what he would say, rolling down her turned-up sleeves. "No fear of that," he said, absently. She turned away as if it had been something final, and busied herself with household cares while Nostromo talked with her father. Conversation with the old Garibaldino was not easy. Age had left his faculties unimpaired, only they seemed to have withdrawn somewhere deep within him. His answers were slow in coming, with an effect of august gravity. But that day he was more animated, quicker; there seemed to be more life in the old lion. He was uneasy for the integrity of his honour. He believed Sidoni's warning as to Ramirez's designs upon his younger daughter. And he did not trust her. She was flighty. He said nothing of his cares to "Son Gian' Battista." It was a touch of senile vanity. He wanted to show that he was equal yet to the task of guarding alone the honour of his house. Nostromo went away early. As soon as he had disappeared, walking towards the beach, Linda stepped over the threshold and, with a haggard smile, sat down by the side of her father. Ever since that Sunday, when the infatuated and desperate Ramirez had waited for her on the wharf, she had no doubts whatever. The jealous ravings of that man were no revelation. They had only fixed with precision, as with a nail driven into her heart, that sense of unreality and deception which, instead of bliss and security, she had found in her intercourse with her promised husband. She had passed on, pouring indignation and scorn upon Ramirez; but, that Sunday, she nearly died of wretchedness and shame, lying on the carved and lettered stone of Teresa's grave, subscribed for by the engine-drivers and the fitters of the railway workshops, in sign of their respect for the hero of Italian Unity. Old Viola had not been able to carry out his desire of burying his wife in the sea; and Linda wept upon the stone. The gratuitous outrage appalled her. If he wished to break her heart--well and good. Everything was permitted to Gian' Battista. But why trample upon the pieces; why seek to humiliate her spirit? Aha! He could not break that. She dried her tears. And Giselle! Giselle! The little one that, ever since she could toddle, had always clung to her skirt for protection. What duplicity! But she could not help it probably. When there was a man in the case the poor featherheaded wretch could not help herself. Linda had a good share of the Viola stoicism. She resolved to say nothing. But woman-like she put passion into her stoicism. Giselle's short answers, prompted by fearful caution, drove her beside herself by their curtness that resembled disdain. One day she flung herself upon the chair in which her indolent sister was lying and impressed the mark of her teeth at the base of the whitest neck in Sulaco. Giselle cried out. But she had her share of the Viola heroism. Ready to faint with terror, she only said, in a lazy voice, "Madre de Dios! Are you going to eat me alive, Linda?" And this outburst passed off leaving no trace upon the situation. "She knows nothing. She cannot know any thing," reflected Giselle. "Perhaps it is not true. It cannot be true," Linda tried to persuade herself. But when she saw Captain Fidanza for the first time after her meeting with the distracted Ramirez, the certitude of her misfortune returned. She watched him from the doorway go away to his boat, asking herself stoically, "Will they meet to-night?" She made up her mind not to leave the tower for a second. When he had disappeared she came out and sat down by her father. The venerable Garibaldino felt, in his own words, "a young man yet." In one way or another a good deal of talk about Ramirez had reached him of late; and his contempt and dislike of that man who obviously was not what his son would have been, had made him restless. He slept very little now; but for several nights past instead of reading--or only sitting, with Mrs. Gould's silver spectacles on his nose, before the open Bible, he had been prowling actively all about the island with his old gun, on watch over his honour. Linda, laying her thin brown hand on his knee, tried to soothe his excitement. Ramirez was not in Sulaco. Nobody knew where he was. He was gone. His talk of what he would do meant nothing. "No," the old man interrupted. "But son Gian' Battista told me--quite of himself--that the cowardly esclavo was drinking and gambling with the rascals of Zapiga, over there on the north side of the gulf. He may get some of the worst scoundrels of that scoundrelly town of negroes to help him in his attempt upon the little one. . . . But I am not so old. No!" She argued earnestly against the probability of any attempt being made; and at last the old man fell silent, chewing his white moustache. Women had their obstinate notions which must be humoured--his poor wife was like that, and Linda resembled her mother. It was not seemly for a man to argue. "May be. May be," he mumbled. She was by no means easy in her mind. She loved Nostromo. She turned her eyes upon Giselle, sitting at a distance, with something of maternal tenderness, and the jealous anguish of a rival outraged in her defeat. Then she rose and walked over to her. "Listen--you," she said, roughly. The invincible candour of the gaze, raised up all violet and dew, excited her rage and admiration. She had beautiful eyes--the Chica--this vile thing of white flesh and black deception. She did not know whether she wanted to tear them out with shouts of vengeance or cover up their mysterious and shameless innocence with kisses of pity and love. And suddenly they became empty, gazing blankly at her, except for a little fear not quite buried deep enough with all the other emotions in Giselle's heart. Linda said, "Ramirez is boasting in town that he will carry you off from the island." "What folly!" answered the other, and in a perversity born of long restraint, she added: "He is not the man," in a jesting tone with a trembling audacity. "No?" said Linda, through her clenched teeth. "Is he not? Well, then, look to it; because father has been walking about with a loaded gun at night." "It is not good for him. You must tell him not to, Linda. He will not listen to me." "I shall say nothing--never any more--to anybody," cried Linda, passionately. This could not last, thought Giselle. Giovanni must take her away soon--the very next time he came. She would not suffer these terrors for ever so much silver. To speak with her sister made her ill. But she was not uneasy at her father's watchfulness. She had begged Nostromo not to come to the window that night. He had promised to keep away for this once. And she did not know, could not guess or imagine, that he had another reason for coming on the island. Linda had gone straight to the tower. It was time to light up. She unlocked the little door, and went heavily up the spiral staircase, carrying her love for the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores like an ever-increasing load of shameful fetters. No; she could not throw it off. No; let Heaven dispose of these two. And moving about the lantern, filled with twilight and the sheen of the moon, with careful movements she lighted the lamp. Then her arms fell along her body. "And with our mother looking on," she murmured. "My own sister--the Chica!" The whole refracting apparatus, with its brass fittings and rings of prisms, glittered and sparkled like a domeshaped shrine of diamonds, containing not a lamp, but some sacred flame, dominating the sea. And Linda, the keeper, in black, with a pale face, drooped low in a wooden chair, alone with her jealousy, far above the shames and passions of the earth. A strange, dragging pain as if somebody were pulling her about brutally by her dark hair with bronze glints, made her put her hands up to her temples. They would meet. They would meet. And she knew where, too. At the window. The sweat of torture fell in drops on her cheeks, while the moonlight in the offing closed as if with a colossal bar of silver the entrance of the Placid Gulf--the sombre cavern of clouds and stillness in the surf-fretted seaboard. Linda Viola stood up suddenly with a finger on her lip. He loved neither her nor her sister. The whole thing seemed so objectless as to frighten her, and also give her some hope. Why did he not carry her off? What prevented him? He was incomprehensible. What were they waiting for? For what end were these two lying and deceiving? Not for the ends of their love. There was no such thing. The hope of regaining him for herself made her break her vow of not leaving the tower that night. She must talk at once to her father, who was wise, and would understand. She ran down the spiral stairs. At the moment of opening the door at the bottom she heard the sound of the first shot ever fired on the Great Isabel. She felt a shock, as though the bullet had struck her breast. She ran on without pausing. The cottage was dark. She cried at the door, "Giselle! Giselle!" then dashed round the corner and screamed her sister's name at the open window, without getting an answer; but as she was rushing, distracted, round the house, Giselle came out of the door, and darted past her, running silently, her hair loose, and her eyes staring straight ahead. She seemed to skim along the grass as if on tiptoe, and vanished. Linda walked on slowly, with her arms stretched out before her. All was still on the island; she did not know where she was going. The tree under which Martin Decoud spent his last days, beholding life like a succession of senseless images, threw a large blotch of black shade upon the grass. Suddenly she saw her father, standing quietly all alone in the moonlight. The Garibaldino--big, erect, with his snow-white hair and beard--had a monumental repose in his immobility, leaning upon a rifle. She put her hand upon his arm lightly. He never stirred. "What have you done?" she asked, in her ordinary voice. "I have shot Ramirez--infame!" he answered, with his eyes directed to where the shade was blackest. "Like a thief he came, and like a thief he fell. The child had to be protected." He did not offer to move an inch, to advance a single step. He stood there, rugged and unstirring, like a statue of an old man guarding the honour of his house. Linda removed her trembling hand from his arm, firm and steady like an arm of stone, and, without a word, entered the blackness of the shade. She saw a stir of formless shapes on the ground, and stopped short. A murmur of despair and tears grew louder to her strained hearing. "I entreated you not to come to-night. Oh, my Giovanni! And you promised. Oh! Why--why did you come, Giovanni?" It was her sister's voice. It broke on a heartrending sob. And the voice of the resourceful Capataz de Cargadores, master and slave of the San Tome treasure, who had been caught unawares by old Giorgio while stealing across the open towards the ravine to get some more silver, answered careless and cool, but sounding startlingly weak from the ground. "It seemed as though I could not live through the night without seeing thee once more--my star, my little flower." * * * * * The brilliant tertulia was just over, the last guests had departed, and the Senor Administrador had gone to his room already, when Dr. Monygham, who had been expected in the evening but had not turned up, arrived driving along the wood-block pavement under the electric-lamps of the deserted Calle de la Constitucion, and found the great gateway of the Casa still open. He limped in, stumped up the stairs, and found the fat and sleek Basilio on the point of turning off the lights in the sala. The prosperous majordomo remained open-mouthed at this late invasion. "Don't put out the lights," commanded the doctor. "I want to see the senora." "The senora is in the Senor Adminstrador's cancillaria," said Basilio, in an unctuous voice. "The Senor Administrador starts for the mountain in an hour. There is some trouble with the workmen to be feared, it appears. A shameless people without reason and decency. And idle, senor. Idle." "You are shamelessly lazy and imbecile yourself," said the doctor, with that faculty for exasperation which made him so generally beloved. "Don't put the lights out." Basilio retired with dignity. Dr. Monygham, waiting in the brilliantly lighted sala, heard presently a door close at the further end of the house. A jingle of spurs died out. The Senor Administrador was off to the mountain. With a measured swish of her long train, flashing with jewels and the shimmer of silk, her delicate head bowed as if under the weight of a mass of fair hair, in which the silver threads were lost, the "first lady of Sulaco," as Captain Mitchell used to describe her, moved along the lighted corredor, wealthy beyond great dreams of wealth, considered, loved, respected, honoured, and as solitary as any human being had ever been, perhaps, on this earth. The doctor's "Mrs. Gould! One minute!" stopped her with a start at the door of the lighted and empty sala. From the similarity of mood and circumstance, the sight of the doctor, standing there all alone amongst the groups of furniture, recalled to her emotional memory her unexpected meeting with Martin Decoud; she seemed to hear in the silence the voice of that man, dead miserably so many years ago, pronounce the words, "Antonia left her fan here." But it was the doctor's voice that spoke, a little altered by his excitement. She remarked his shining eyes. "Mrs. Gould, you are wanted. Do you know what has happened? You remember what I told you yesterday about Nostromo. Well, it seems that a lancha, a decked boat, coming from Zapiga, with four negroes in her, passing close to the Great Isabel, was hailed from the cliff by a woman's voice--Linda's, as a matter of fact--commanding them (it's a moonlight night) to go round to the beach and take up a wounded man to the town. The patron (from whom I've heard all this), of course, did so at once. He told me that when they got round to the low side of the Great Isabel, they found Linda Viola waiting for them. They followed her: she led them under a tree not far from the cottage. There they found Nostromo lying on the ground with his head in the younger girl's lap, and father Viola standing some distance off leaning on his gun. Under Linda's direction they got a table out of the cottage for a stretcher, after breaking off the legs. They are here, Mrs. Gould. I mean Nostromo and--and Giselle. The negroes brought him in to the first-aid hospital near the harbour. He made the attendant send for me. But it was not me he wanted to see--it was you, Mrs. Gould! It was you." "Me?" whispered Mrs. Gould, shrinking a little. "Yes, you!" the doctor burst out. "He begged me--his enemy, as he thinks--to bring you to him at once. It seems he has something to say to you alone." "Impossible!" murmured Mrs. Gould. "He said to me, 'Remind her that I have done something to keep a roof over her head.' . . . Mrs. Gould," the doctor pursued, in the greatest excitement. "Do you remember the silver? The silver in the lighter--that was lost?" Mrs. Gould remembered. But she did not say she hated the mere mention of that silver. Frankness personified, she remembered with an exaggerated horror that for the first and last time of her life she had concealed the truth from her husband about that very silver. She had been corrupted by her fears at that time, and she had never forgiven herself. Moreover, that silver, which would never have come down if her husband had been made acquainted with the news brought by Decoud, had been in a roundabout way nearly the cause of Dr. Monygham's death. And these things appeared to her very dreadful. "Was it lost, though?" the doctor exclaimed. "I've always felt that there was a mystery about our Nostromo ever since. I do believe he wants now, at the point of death----" "The point of death?" repeated Mrs. Gould. "Yes. Yes. . . . He wants perhaps to tell you something concerning that silver which----" "Oh, no! No!" exclaimed Mrs. Gould, in a low voice. "Isn't it lost and done with? Isn't there enough treasure without it to make everybody in the world miserable?" The doctor remained still, in a submissive, disappointed silence. At last he ventured, very low-- "And there is that Viola girl, Giselle. What are we to do? It looks as though father and sister had----" Mrs. Gould admitted that she felt in duty bound to do her best for these girls. "I have a volante here," the doctor said. "If you don't mind getting into that----" He waited, all impatience, till Mrs. Gould reappeared, having thrown over her dress a grey cloak with a deep hood. It was thus that, cloaked and monastically hooded over her evening costume, this woman, full of endurance and compassion, stood by the side of the bed on which the splendid Capataz de Cargadores lay stretched out motionless on his back. The whiteness of sheets and pillows gave a sombre and energetic relief to his bronzed face, to the dark, nervous hands, so good on a tiller, upon a bridle and on a trigger, lying open and idle upon a white coverlet. "She is innocent," the Capataz was saying in a deep and level voice, as though afraid that a louder word would break the slender hold his spirit still kept upon his body. "She is innocent. It is I alone. But no matter. For these things I would answer to no man or woman alive." He paused. Mrs. Gould's face, very white within the shadow of the hood, bent over him with an invincible and dreary sadness. And the low sobs of Giselle Viola, kneeling at the end of the bed, her gold hair with coppery gleams loose and scattered over the Capataz's feet, hardly troubled the silence of the room. "Ha! Old Giorgio--the guardian of thine honour! Fancy the Vecchio coming upon me so light of foot, so steady of aim. I myself could have done no better. But the price of a charge of powder might have been saved. The honour was safe. . . . Senora, she would have followed to the end of the world Nostromo the thief. . . . I have said the word. The spell is broken!" A low moan from the girl made him cast his eyes down. "I cannot see her. . . . No matter," he went on, with the shadow of the old magnificent carelessness in his voice. "One kiss is enough, if there is no time for more. An airy soul, senora! Bright and warm, like sunshine--soon clouded, and soon serene. They would crush it there between them. Senora, cast on her the eye of your compassion, as famed from one end of the land to the other as the courage and daring of the man who speaks to you. She will console herself in time. And even Ramirez is not a bad fellow. I am not angry. No! It is not Ramirez who overcame the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores." He paused, made an effort, and in louder voice, a little wildly, declared-- "I die betrayed--betrayed by----" But he did not say by whom or by what he was dying betrayed. "She would not have betrayed me," he began again, opening his eyes very wide. "She was faithful. We were going very far--very soon. I could have torn myself away from that accursed treasure for her. For that child I would have left boxes and boxes of it--full. And Decoud took four. Four ingots. Why? Picardia! To betray me? How could I give back the treasure with four ingots missing? They would have said I had purloined them. The doctor would have said that. Alas! it holds me yet!" Mrs. Gould bent low, fascinated--cold with apprehension. "What became of Don Martin on that night, Nostromo?" "Who knows? I wondered what would become of me. Now I know. Death was to come upon me unawares. He went away! He betrayed me. And you think I have killed him! You are all alike, you fine people. The silver has killed me. It has held me. It holds me yet. Nobody knows where it is. But you are the wife of Don Carlos, who put it into my hands and said, 'Save it on your life.' And when I returned, and you all thought it was lost, what do I hear? 'It was nothing of importance. Let it go. Up, Nostromo, the faithful, and ride away to save us, for dear life!'" "Nostromo!" Mrs. Gould whispered, bending very low. "I, too, have hated the idea of that silver from the bottom of my heart." "Marvellous!--that one of you should hate the wealth that you know so well how to take from the hands of the poor. The world rests upon the poor, as old Giorgio says. You have been always good to the poor. But there is something accursed in wealth. Senora, shall I tell you where the treasure is? To you alone. . . . Shining! Incorruptible!" A pained, involuntary reluctance lingered in his tone, in his eyes, plain to the woman with the genius of sympathetic intuition. She averted her glance from the miserable subjection of the dying man, appalled, wishing to hear no more of the silver. "No, Capataz," she said. "No one misses it now. Let it be lost for ever." After hearing these words, Nostromo closed his eyes, uttered no word, made no movement. Outside the door of the sick-room Dr. Monygham, excited to the highest pitch, his eyes shining with eagerness, came up to the two women. "Now, Mrs. Gould," he said, almost brutally in his impatience, "tell me, was I right? There is a mystery. You have got the word of it, have you not? He told you----" "He told me nothing," said Mrs. Gould, steadily. The light of his temperamental enmity to Nostromo went out of Dr. Monygham's eyes. He stepped back submissively. He did not believe Mrs. Gould. But her word was law. He accepted her denial like an inexplicable fatality affirming the victory of Nostromo's genius over his own. Even before that woman, whom he loved with secret devotion, he had been defeated by the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores, the man who had lived his own life on the assumption of unbroken fidelity, rectitude, and courage! "Pray send at once somebody for my carriage," spoke Mrs. Gould from within her hood. Then, turning to Giselle Viola, "Come nearer me, child; come closer. We will wait here." Giselle Viola, heartbroken and childlike, her face veiled in her falling hair, crept up to her side. Mrs. Gould slipped her hand through the arm of the unworthy daughter of old Viola, the immaculate republican, the hero without a stain. Slowly, gradually, as a withered flower droops, the head of the girl, who would have followed a thief to the end of the world, rested on the shoulder of Dona Emilia, the first lady of Sulaco, the wife of the Senor Administrador of the San Tome mine. And Mrs. Gould, feeling her suppressed sobbing, nervous and excited, had the first and only moment of bitterness in her life. It was worthy of Dr. Monygham himself. "Console yourself, child. Very soon he would have forgotten you for his treasure." "Senora, he loved me. He loved me," Giselle whispered, despairingly. "He loved me as no one had ever been loved before." "I have been loved, too," Mrs. Gould said in a severe tone. Giselle clung to her convulsively. "Oh, senora, but you shall live adored to the end of your life," she sobbed out. Mrs. Gould kept an unbroken silence till the carriage arrived. She helped in the half-fainting girl. After the doctor had shut the door of the landau, she leaned over to him. "You can do nothing?" she whispered. "No, Mrs. Gould. Moreover, he won't let us touch him. It does not matter. I just had one look. . . . Useless." But he promised to see old Viola and the other girl that very night. He could get the police-boat to take him off to the island. He remained in the street, looking after the landau rolling away slowly behind the white mules. The rumour of some accident--an accident to Captain Fidanza--had been spreading along the new quays with their rows of lamps and the dark shapes of towering cranes. A knot of night prowlers--the poorest of the poor--hung about the door of the first-aid hospital, whispering in the moonlight of the empty street. There was no one with the wounded man but the pale photographer, small, frail, bloodthirsty, the hater of capitalists, perched on a high stool near the head of the bed with his knees up and his chin in his hands. He had been fetched by a comrade who, working late on the wharf, had heard from a negro belonging to a lancha, that Captain Fidanza had been brought ashore mortally wounded. "Have you any dispositions to make, comrade?" he asked, anxiously. "Do not forget that we want money for our work. The rich must be fought with their own weapons." Nostromo made no answer. The other did not insist, remaining huddled up on the stool, shock-headed, wildly hairy, like a hunchbacked monkey. Then, after a long silence-- "Comrade Fidanza," he began, solemnly, "you have refused all aid from that doctor. Is he really a dangerous enemy of the people?" In the dimly lit room Nostromo rolled his head slowly on the pillow and opened his eyes, directing at the weird figure perched by his bedside a glance of enigmatic and profound inquiry. Then his head rolled back, his eyelids fell, and the Capataz de Cargadores died without a word or moan after an hour of immobility, broken by short shudders testifying to the most atrocious sufferings. Dr. Monygham, going out in the police-galley to the islands, beheld the glitter of the moon upon the gulf and the high black shape of the Great Isabel sending a shaft of light afar, from under the canopy of clouds. "Pull easy," he said, wondering what he would find there. He tried to imagine Linda and her father, and discovered a strange reluctance within himself. "Pull easy," he repeated. * * * * * * From the moment he fired at the thief of his honour, Giorgio Viola had not stirred from the spot. He stood, his old gun grounded, his hand grasping the barrel near the muzzle. After the lancha carrying off Nostromo for ever from her had left the shore, Linda, coming up, stopped before him. He did not seem to be aware of her presence, but when, losing her forced calmness, she cried out-- "Do you know whom you have killed?" he answered-- "Ramirez the vagabond." White, and staring insanely at her father, Linda laughed in his face. After a time he joined her faintly in a deep-toned and distant echo of her peals. Then she stopped, and the old man spoke as if startled-- "He cried out in son Gian' Battista's voice." The gun fell from his opened hand, but the arm remained extended for a moment as if still supported. Linda seized it roughly. "You are too old to understand. Come into the house." He let her lead him. On the threshold he stumbled heavily, nearly coming to the ground together with his daughter. His excitement, his activity of the last few days, had been like the flare of a dying lamp. He caught at the back of his chair. "In son Gian' Battista's voice," he repeated in a severe tone. "I heard him--Ramirez--the miserable----" Linda helped him into the chair, and, bending low, hissed into his ear-- "You have killed Gian' Battista." The old man smiled under his thick moustache. Women had strange fancies. "Where is the child?" he asked, surprised at the penetrating chilliness of the air and the unwonted dimness of the lamp by which he used to sit up half the night with the open Bible before him. Linda hesitated a moment, then averted her eyes. "She is asleep," she said. "We shall talk of her tomorrow." She could not bear to look at him. He filled her with terror and with an almost unbearable feeling of pity. She had observed the change that came over him. He would never understand what he had done; and even to her the whole thing remained incomprehensible. He said with difficulty-- "Give me the book." Linda laid on the table the closed volume in its worn leather cover, the Bible given him ages ago by an Englishman in Palermo. "The child had to be protected," he said, in a strange, mournful voice. Behind

leaving

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

"I shall go grey, I fear, before the ring is on my finger," she said, slowly, keeping her gaze fastened upon him. She waited for what he would say, rolling down her turned-up sleeves. "No fear of that," he said, absently. She turned away as if it had been something final, and busied herself with household cares while Nostromo talked with her father. Conversation with the old Garibaldino was not easy. Age had left his faculties unimpaired, only they seemed to have withdrawn somewhere deep within him. His answers were slow in coming, with an effect of august gravity. But that day he was more animated, quicker; there seemed to be more life in the old lion. He was uneasy for the integrity of his honour. He believed Sidoni's warning as to Ramirez's designs upon his younger daughter. And he did not trust her. She was flighty. He said nothing of his cares to "Son Gian' Battista." It was a touch of senile vanity. He wanted to show that he was equal yet to the task of guarding alone the honour of his house. Nostromo went away early. As soon as he had disappeared, walking towards the beach, Linda stepped over the threshold and, with a haggard smile, sat down by the side of her father. Ever since that Sunday, when the infatuated and desperate Ramirez had waited for her on the wharf, she had no doubts whatever. The jealous ravings of that man were no revelation. They had only fixed with precision, as with a nail driven into her heart, that sense of unreality and deception which, instead of bliss and security, she had found in her intercourse with her promised husband. She had passed on, pouring indignation and scorn upon Ramirez; but, that Sunday, she nearly died of wretchedness and shame, lying on the carved and lettered stone of Teresa's grave, subscribed for by the engine-drivers and the fitters of the railway workshops, in sign of their respect for the hero of Italian Unity. Old Viola had not been able to carry out his desire of burying his wife in the sea; and Linda wept upon the stone. The gratuitous outrage appalled her. If he wished to break her heart--well and good. Everything was permitted to Gian' Battista. But why trample upon the pieces; why seek to humiliate her spirit? Aha! He could not break that. She dried her tears. And Giselle! Giselle! The little one that, ever since she could toddle, had always clung to her skirt for protection. What duplicity! But she could not help it probably. When there was a man in the case the poor featherheaded wretch could not help herself. Linda had a good share of the Viola stoicism. She resolved to say nothing. But woman-like she put passion into her stoicism. Giselle's short answers, prompted by fearful caution, drove her beside herself by their curtness that resembled disdain. One day she flung herself upon the chair in which her indolent sister was lying and impressed the mark of her teeth at the base of the whitest neck in Sulaco. Giselle cried out. But she had her share of the Viola heroism. Ready to faint with terror, she only said, in a lazy voice, "Madre de Dios! Are you going to eat me alive, Linda?" And this outburst passed off leaving no trace upon the situation. "She knows nothing. She cannot know any thing," reflected Giselle. "Perhaps it is not true. It cannot be true," Linda tried to persuade herself. But when she saw Captain Fidanza for the first time after her meeting with the distracted Ramirez, the certitude of her misfortune returned. She watched him from the doorway go away to his boat, asking herself stoically, "Will they meet to-night?" She made up her mind not to leave the tower for a second. When he had disappeared she came out and sat down by her father. The venerable Garibaldino felt, in his own words, "a young man yet." In one way or another a good deal of talk about Ramirez had reached him of late; and his contempt and dislike of that man who obviously was not what his son would have been, had made him restless. He slept very little now; but for several nights past instead of reading--or only sitting, with Mrs. Gould's silver spectacles on his nose, before the open Bible, he had been prowling actively all about the island with his old gun, on watch over his honour. Linda, laying her thin brown hand on his knee, tried to soothe his excitement. Ramirez was not in Sulaco. Nobody knew where he was. He was gone. His talk of what he would do meant nothing. "No," the old man interrupted. "But son Gian' Battista told me--quite of himself--that the cowardly esclavo was drinking and gambling with the rascals of Zapiga, over there on the north side of the gulf. He may get some of the worst scoundrels of that scoundrelly town of negroes to help him in his attempt upon the little one. . . . But I am not so old. No!" She argued earnestly against the probability of any attempt being made; and at last the old man fell silent, chewing his white moustache. Women had their obstinate notions which must be humoured--his poor wife was like that, and Linda resembled her mother. It was not seemly for a man to argue. "May be. May be," he mumbled. She was by no means easy in her mind. She loved Nostromo. She turned her eyes upon Giselle, sitting at a distance, with something of maternal tenderness, and the jealous anguish of a rival outraged in her defeat. Then she rose and walked over to her. "Listen--you," she said, roughly. The invincible candour of the gaze, raised up all violet and dew, excited her rage and admiration. She had beautiful eyes--the Chica--this vile thing of white flesh and black deception. She did not know whether she wanted to tear them out with shouts of vengeance or cover up their mysterious and shameless innocence with kisses of pity and love. And suddenly they became empty, gazing blankly at her, except for a little fear not quite buried deep enough with all the other emotions in Giselle's heart. Linda said, "Ramirez is boasting in town that he will carry you off from the island." "What folly!" answered the other, and in a perversity born of long restraint, she added: "He is not the man," in a jesting tone with a trembling audacity. "No?" said Linda, through her clenched teeth. "Is he not? Well, then, look to it; because father has been walking about with a loaded gun at night." "It is not good for him. You must tell him not to, Linda. He will not listen to me." "I shall say nothing--never any more--to anybody," cried Linda, passionately. This could not last, thought Giselle. Giovanni must take her away soon--the very next time he came. She would not suffer these terrors for ever so much silver. To speak with her sister made her ill. But she was not uneasy at her father's watchfulness. She had begged Nostromo not to come to the window that night. He had promised to keep away for this once. And she did not know, could not guess or imagine, that he had another reason for coming on the island. Linda had gone straight to the tower. It was time to light up. She unlocked the little door, and went heavily up the spiral staircase, carrying her love for the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores like an ever-increasing load of shameful fetters. No; she could not throw it off. No; let Heaven dispose of these two. And moving about the lantern, filled with twilight and the sheen of the moon, with careful movements she lighted the lamp. Then her arms fell along her body. "And with our mother looking on," she murmured. "My own sister--the Chica!" The whole refracting apparatus, with its brass fittings and rings of prisms, glittered and sparkled like a domeshaped shrine of diamonds, containing not a lamp, but some sacred flame, dominating the sea. And Linda, the keeper, in black, with a pale face, drooped low in a wooden chair, alone with her jealousy, far above the shames and passions of the earth. A strange, dragging pain as if somebody were pulling her about brutally by her dark hair with bronze glints, made her put her hands up to her temples. They would meet. They would meet. And she knew where, too. At the window. The sweat of torture fell in drops on her cheeks, while the moonlight in the offing closed as if with a colossal bar of silver the entrance of the Placid Gulf--the sombre cavern of clouds and stillness in the surf-fretted seaboard. Linda Viola stood up suddenly with a finger on her lip. He loved neither her nor her sister. The whole thing seemed so objectless as to frighten her, and also give her some hope. Why did he not carry her off? What prevented him? He was incomprehensible. What were they waiting for? For what end were these two lying and deceiving? Not for the ends of their love. There was no such thing. The hope of regaining him for herself made her break her vow of not leaving the tower that night. She must talk at once to her father, who was wise, and would understand. She ran down the spiral stairs. At the moment of opening the door at the bottom she heard the sound of the first shot ever fired on the Great Isabel. She felt a shock, as though the bullet had struck her breast. She ran on without pausing. The cottage was dark. She cried at the door, "Giselle! Giselle!" then dashed round the corner and screamed her sister's name at the open window, without getting an answer; but as she was rushing, distracted, round the house, Giselle came out of the door, and darted past her, running silently, her hair loose, and her eyes staring straight ahead. She seemed to skim along the grass as if on tiptoe, and vanished. Linda walked on slowly, with her arms stretched out before her. All was still on the island; she did not know where she was going. The tree under which Martin Decoud spent his last days, beholding life like a succession of senseless images, threw a large blotch of black shade upon the grass. Suddenly she saw her father, standing quietly all alone in the moonlight. The Garibaldino--big, erect, with his snow-white hair and beard--had a monumental repose in his immobility, leaning upon a rifle. She put her hand upon his arm lightly. He never stirred. "What have you done?" she asked, in her ordinary voice. "I have shot Ramirez--infame!" he answered, with his eyes directed to where the shade was blackest. "Like a thief he came, and like a thief he fell. The child had to be protected." He did not offer to move an inch, to advance a single step. He stood there, rugged and unstirring, like a statue of an old man guarding the honour of his house. Linda removed her trembling hand from his arm, firm and steady like an arm of stone, and, without a word, entered the blackness of the shade. She saw a stir of formless shapes on the ground, and stopped short. A murmur of despair and tears grew louder to her strained hearing. "I entreated you not to come to-night. Oh, my Giovanni! And you promised. Oh! Why--why did you come, Giovanni?" It was her sister's voice. It broke on a heartrending sob. And the voice of the resourceful Capataz de Cargadores, master and slave of the San Tome treasure, who had been caught unawares by old Giorgio while stealing across the open towards the ravine to get some more silver, answered careless and cool, but sounding startlingly weak from the ground. "It seemed as though I could not live through the night without seeing thee once more--my star, my little flower." * * * * * The brilliant tertulia was just over, the last guests had departed, and the Senor Administrador had gone to his room already, when Dr. Monygham, who had been expected in the evening but had not turned up, arrived driving along the wood-block pavement under the electric-lamps of the deserted Calle de la Constitucion, and found the great gateway of the Casa still open. He limped in, stumped up the stairs, and found the fat and sleek Basilio on the point of turning off the lights in the sala. The prosperous majordomo remained open-mouthed at this late invasion. "Don't put out the lights," commanded the doctor. "I want to see the senora." "The senora is in the Senor Adminstrador's cancillaria," said Basilio, in an unctuous voice. "The Senor Administrador starts for the mountain in an hour. There is some trouble with the workmen to be feared, it appears. A shameless people without reason and decency. And idle, senor. Idle." "You are shamelessly lazy and imbecile yourself," said the doctor, with that faculty for exasperation which made him so generally beloved. "Don't put the lights out." Basilio retired with dignity. Dr. Monygham, waiting in the brilliantly lighted sala, heard presently a door close at the further end of the house. A jingle of spurs died out. The Senor Administrador was off to the mountain. With a measured swish of her long train, flashing with jewels and the shimmer of silk, her delicate head bowed as if under the weight of a mass of fair hair, in which the silver threads were lost, the "first lady of Sulaco," as Captain Mitchell used to describe her, moved along the lighted corredor, wealthy beyond great dreams of wealth, considered, loved, respected, honoured, and as solitary as any human being had ever been, perhaps, on this earth. The doctor's "Mrs. Gould! One minute!" stopped her with a start at the door of the lighted and empty sala. From the similarity of mood and circumstance, the sight of the doctor, standing there all alone amongst the groups of furniture, recalled to her emotional memory her unexpected meeting with Martin Decoud; she seemed to hear in the silence the voice of that man, dead miserably so many years ago, pronounce the words, "Antonia left her fan here." But it was the doctor's voice that spoke, a little altered by his excitement. She remarked his shining eyes. "Mrs. Gould, you are wanted. Do you know what has happened? You remember what I told you yesterday about Nostromo. Well, it seems that a lancha, a decked boat, coming from Zapiga, with four negroes in her, passing close to the Great Isabel, was hailed from the cliff by a woman's voice--Linda's, as a matter of fact--commanding them (it's a moonlight night) to go round to the beach and take up a wounded man to the town. The patron (from whom I've heard all this), of course, did so at once. He told me that when they got round to the low side of the Great Isabel, they found Linda Viola waiting for them. They followed her: she led them under a tree not far from the cottage. There they found Nostromo lying on the ground with his head in the younger girl's lap, and father Viola standing some distance off leaning on his gun. Under Linda's direction they got a table out of the cottage for a stretcher, after breaking off the legs. They are here, Mrs. Gould. I mean Nostromo and--and Giselle. The negroes brought him in to the first-aid hospital near the harbour. He made the attendant send for me. But it was not me he wanted to see--it was you, Mrs. Gould! It was you." "Me?" whispered Mrs. Gould, shrinking a little. "Yes, you!" the doctor burst out. "He begged me--his enemy, as he thinks--to bring you to him at once. It seems he has something to say to you alone." "Impossible!" murmured Mrs. Gould. "He said to me, 'Remind her that I have done something to keep a roof over her head.' . . . Mrs. Gould," the doctor pursued, in the greatest excitement. "Do you remember the silver? The silver in the lighter--that was lost?" Mrs. Gould remembered. But she did not say she hated the mere mention of that silver. Frankness personified, she remembered with an exaggerated horror that for the first and last time of her life she had concealed the truth from her husband about that very silver. She had been corrupted by her fears at that time, and she had never forgiven herself. Moreover, that silver, which would never have come down if her husband had been made acquainted with the news brought by Decoud, had been in a roundabout way nearly the cause of Dr. Monygham's death. And these things appeared to her very dreadful. "Was it lost, though?" the doctor exclaimed. "I've always felt that there was a mystery about our Nostromo ever since. I do believe he wants now, at the point of death----" "The point of death?" repeated Mrs. Gould. "Yes. Yes. . . . He wants perhaps to tell you something concerning that silver which----" "Oh, no! No!" exclaimed Mrs. Gould, in a low voice. "Isn't it lost and done with? Isn't there enough treasure without it to make everybody in the world miserable?" The doctor remained still, in a submissive, disappointed silence. At last he ventured, very low-- "And there is that Viola girl, Giselle. What are we to do? It looks as though father and sister had----" Mrs. Gould admitted that she felt in duty bound to do her best for these girls. "I have a volante here," the doctor said. "If you don't mind getting into that----" He waited, all impatience, till Mrs. Gould reappeared, having thrown over her dress a grey cloak with a deep hood. It was thus that, cloaked and monastically hooded over her evening costume, this woman, full of endurance and compassion, stood by the side of the bed on which the splendid Capataz de Cargadores lay stretched out motionless on his back. The whiteness of sheets and pillows gave a sombre and energetic relief to his bronzed face, to the dark, nervous hands, so good on a tiller, upon a bridle and on a trigger, lying open and idle upon a white coverlet. "She is innocent," the Capataz was saying in a deep and level voice, as though afraid that a louder word would break the slender hold his spirit still kept upon his body. "She is innocent. It is I alone. But no matter. For these things I would answer to no man or woman alive." He paused. Mrs. Gould's face, very white within the shadow of the hood, bent over him with an invincible and dreary sadness. And the low sobs of Giselle Viola, kneeling at the end of the bed, her gold hair with coppery gleams loose and scattered over the Capataz's feet, hardly troubled the silence of the room. "Ha! Old Giorgio--the guardian of thine honour! Fancy the Vecchio coming upon me so light of foot, so steady of aim. I myself could have done no better. But the price of a charge of powder might have been saved. The honour was safe. . . . Senora, she would have followed to the end of the world Nostromo the thief. . . . I have said the word. The spell is broken!" A low moan from the girl made him cast his eyes down. "I cannot see her. . . . No matter," he went on, with the shadow of the old magnificent carelessness in his voice. "One kiss is enough, if there is no time for more. An airy soul, senora! Bright and warm, like sunshine--soon clouded, and soon serene. They would crush it there between them. Senora, cast on her the eye of your compassion, as famed from one end of the land to the other as the courage and daring of the man who speaks to you. She will console herself in time. And even Ramirez is not a bad fellow. I am not angry. No! It is not Ramirez who overcame the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores." He paused, made an effort, and in louder voice, a little wildly, declared-- "I die betrayed--betrayed by----" But he did not say by whom or by what he was dying betrayed. "She would not have betrayed me," he began again, opening his eyes very wide. "She was faithful. We were going very far--very soon. I could have torn myself away from that accursed treasure for her. For that child I would have left boxes and boxes of it--full. And Decoud took four. Four ingots. Why? Picardia! To betray me? How could I give back the treasure with four ingots missing? They would have said I had purloined them. The doctor would have said that. Alas! it holds me yet!" Mrs. Gould bent low, fascinated--cold with apprehension. "What became of Don Martin on that night, Nostromo?" "Who knows? I wondered what would become of me. Now I know. Death was to come upon me unawares. He went away! He betrayed me. And you think I have killed him! You are all alike, you fine people. The silver has killed me. It has held me. It holds me yet. Nobody knows where it is. But you are the wife of Don Carlos, who put it into my hands and said, 'Save it on your life.' And when I returned, and you all thought it was lost, what do I hear? 'It was nothing of importance. Let it go. Up, Nostromo, the faithful, and ride away to save us, for dear life!'" "Nostromo!" Mrs. Gould whispered, bending very low. "I, too, have hated the idea of that silver from the bottom of my heart." "Marvellous!--that one of you should hate the wealth that you know so well how to take from the hands of the poor. The world rests upon the poor, as old Giorgio says. You have been always good to the poor. But there is something accursed in wealth. Senora, shall I tell you where the treasure is? To you alone. . . . Shining! Incorruptible!" A pained, involuntary reluctance lingered in his tone, in his eyes, plain to the woman with the genius of sympathetic intuition. She averted her glance from the miserable subjection of the dying man, appalled, wishing to hear no more of the silver. "No, Capataz," she said. "No one misses it now. Let it be lost for ever." After hearing these words, Nostromo closed his eyes, uttered no word, made no movement. Outside the door of the sick-room Dr. Monygham, excited to the highest pitch, his eyes shining with eagerness, came up to the two women. "Now, Mrs. Gould," he said, almost brutally in his impatience, "tell me, was I right? There is a mystery. You have got the word of it, have you not? He told you----" "He told me nothing," said Mrs. Gould, steadily. The light of his temperamental enmity to Nostromo went out of Dr. Monygham's eyes. He stepped back submissively. He did not believe Mrs. Gould. But her word was law. He accepted her denial like an inexplicable fatality affirming the victory of Nostromo's genius over his own. Even before that woman, whom he loved with secret devotion, he had been defeated by the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores, the man who had lived his own life on the assumption of unbroken fidelity, rectitude, and courage! "Pray send at once somebody for my carriage," spoke Mrs. Gould from within her hood. Then, turning to Giselle Viola, "Come nearer me, child; come closer. We will wait here." Giselle Viola, heartbroken and childlike, her face veiled in her falling hair, crept up to her side. Mrs. Gould slipped her hand through the arm of the unworthy daughter of old Viola, the immaculate republican, the hero without a stain. Slowly, gradually, as a withered flower droops, the head of the girl, who would have followed a thief to the end of the world, rested on the shoulder of Dona Emilia, the first lady of Sulaco, the wife of the Senor Administrador of the San Tome mine. And Mrs. Gould, feeling her suppressed sobbing, nervous and excited, had the first and only moment of bitterness in her life. It was worthy of Dr. Monygham himself. "Console yourself, child. Very soon he would have forgotten you for his treasure." "Senora, he loved me. He loved me," Giselle whispered, despairingly. "He loved me as no one had ever been loved before." "I have been loved, too," Mrs. Gould said in a severe tone. Giselle clung to her convulsively. "Oh, senora, but you shall live adored to the end of your life," she sobbed out. Mrs. Gould kept an unbroken silence till the carriage arrived. She helped in the half-fainting girl. After the doctor had shut the door of the landau, she leaned over to him. "You can do nothing?" she whispered. "No, Mrs. Gould. Moreover, he won't let us touch him. It does not matter. I just had one look. . . . Useless." But he promised to see old Viola and the other girl that very night. He could get the police-boat to take him off to the island. He remained in the street, looking after the landau rolling away slowly behind the white mules. The rumour of some accident--an accident to Captain Fidanza--had been spreading along the new quays with their rows of lamps and the dark shapes of towering cranes. A knot of night prowlers--the poorest of the poor--hung about the door of the first-aid hospital, whispering in the moonlight of the empty street. There was no one with the wounded man but the pale photographer, small, frail, bloodthirsty, the hater of capitalists, perched on a high stool near the head of the bed with his knees up and his chin in his hands. He had been fetched by a comrade who, working late on the wharf, had heard from a negro belonging to a lancha, that Captain Fidanza had been brought ashore mortally wounded. "Have you any dispositions to make, comrade?" he asked, anxiously. "Do not forget that we want money for our work. The rich must be fought with their own weapons." Nostromo made no answer. The other did not insist, remaining huddled up on the stool, shock-headed, wildly hairy, like a hunchbacked monkey. Then, after a long silence-- "Comrade Fidanza," he began, solemnly, "you have refused all aid from that doctor. Is he really a dangerous enemy of the people?" In the dimly lit room Nostromo rolled his head slowly on the pillow and opened his eyes, directing at the weird figure perched by his bedside a glance of enigmatic and profound inquiry. Then his head rolled back, his eyelids fell, and the Capataz de Cargadores died without a word or moan after an hour of immobility, broken by short shudders testifying to the most atrocious sufferings. Dr. Monygham, going out in the police-galley to the islands, beheld the glitter of the moon upon the gulf and the high black shape of the Great Isabel sending a shaft of light afar, from under the canopy of clouds. "Pull easy," he said, wondering what he would find there. He tried to imagine Linda and her father, and discovered a strange reluctance within himself. "Pull easy," he repeated. * * * * * * From the moment he fired at the thief of his honour, Giorgio Viola had not stirred from the spot. He stood, his old gun grounded, his hand grasping the barrel near the muzzle. After the lancha carrying off Nostromo for ever from her had left the shore, Linda, coming up, stopped before him. He did not seem to be aware of her presence, but when, losing her forced calmness, she cried out-- "Do you know whom you have killed?" he answered-- "Ramirez the vagabond." White, and staring insanely at her father, Linda laughed in his face. After a time he joined her faintly in a deep-toned and distant echo of her peals. Then she stopped, and the old man spoke as if startled-- "He cried out in son Gian' Battista's voice." The gun fell from his opened hand, but the arm remained extended for a moment as if still supported. Linda seized it roughly. "You are too old to understand. Come into the house." He let her lead him. On the threshold he stumbled heavily, nearly coming to the ground together with his daughter. His excitement, his activity of the last few days, had been like the flare of a dying lamp. He caught at the back of his chair. "In son Gian' Battista's voice," he repeated in a severe tone. "I heard him--Ramirez--the miserable----" Linda helped him into the chair, and, bending low, hissed into his ear-- "You have killed Gian' Battista." The old man smiled under his thick moustache. Women had strange fancies. "Where is the child?" he asked, surprised at the penetrating chilliness of the air and the unwonted dimness of the lamp by which he used to sit up half the night with the open Bible before him. Linda hesitated a moment, then averted her eyes. "She is asleep," she said. "We shall talk of her tomorrow." She could not bear to look at him. He filled her with terror and with an almost unbearable feeling of pity. She had observed the change that came over him. He would never understand what he had done; and even to her the whole thing remained incomprehensible. He said with difficulty-- "Give me the book." Linda laid on the table the closed volume in its worn leather cover, the Bible given him ages ago by an Englishman in Palermo. "The child had to be protected," he said, in a strange, mournful voice. Behind

burying

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

"I shall go grey, I fear, before the ring is on my finger," she said, slowly, keeping her gaze fastened upon him. She waited for what he would say, rolling down her turned-up sleeves. "No fear of that," he said, absently. She turned away as if it had been something final, and busied herself with household cares while Nostromo talked with her father. Conversation with the old Garibaldino was not easy. Age had left his faculties unimpaired, only they seemed to have withdrawn somewhere deep within him. His answers were slow in coming, with an effect of august gravity. But that day he was more animated, quicker; there seemed to be more life in the old lion. He was uneasy for the integrity of his honour. He believed Sidoni's warning as to Ramirez's designs upon his younger daughter. And he did not trust her. She was flighty. He said nothing of his cares to "Son Gian' Battista." It was a touch of senile vanity. He wanted to show that he was equal yet to the task of guarding alone the honour of his house. Nostromo went away early. As soon as he had disappeared, walking towards the beach, Linda stepped over the threshold and, with a haggard smile, sat down by the side of her father. Ever since that Sunday, when the infatuated and desperate Ramirez had waited for her on the wharf, she had no doubts whatever. The jealous ravings of that man were no revelation. They had only fixed with precision, as with a nail driven into her heart, that sense of unreality and deception which, instead of bliss and security, she had found in her intercourse with her promised husband. She had passed on, pouring indignation and scorn upon Ramirez; but, that Sunday, she nearly died of wretchedness and shame, lying on the carved and lettered stone of Teresa's grave, subscribed for by the engine-drivers and the fitters of the railway workshops, in sign of their respect for the hero of Italian Unity. Old Viola had not been able to carry out his desire of burying his wife in the sea; and Linda wept upon the stone. The gratuitous outrage appalled her. If he wished to break her heart--well and good. Everything was permitted to Gian' Battista. But why trample upon the pieces; why seek to humiliate her spirit? Aha! He could not break that. She dried her tears. And Giselle! Giselle! The little one that, ever since she could toddle, had always clung to her skirt for protection. What duplicity! But she could not help it probably. When there was a man in the case the poor featherheaded wretch could not help herself. Linda had a good share of the Viola stoicism. She resolved to say nothing. But woman-like she put passion into her stoicism. Giselle's short answers, prompted by fearful caution, drove her beside herself by their curtness that resembled disdain. One day she flung herself upon the chair in which her indolent sister was lying and impressed the mark of her teeth at the base of the whitest neck in Sulaco. Giselle cried out. But she had her share of the Viola heroism. Ready to faint with terror, she only said, in a lazy voice, "Madre de Dios! Are you going to eat me alive, Linda?" And this outburst passed off leaving no trace upon the situation. "She knows nothing. She cannot know any thing," reflected Giselle. "Perhaps it is not true. It cannot be true," Linda tried to persuade herself. But when she saw Captain Fidanza for the first time after her meeting with the distracted Ramirez, the certitude of her misfortune returned. She watched him from the doorway go away to his boat, asking herself stoically, "Will they meet to-night?" She made up her mind not to leave the tower for a second. When he had disappeared she came out and sat down by her father. The venerable Garibaldino felt, in his own words, "a young man yet." In one way or another a good deal of talk about Ramirez had reached him of late; and his contempt and dislike of that man who obviously was not what his son would have been, had made him restless. He slept very little now; but for several nights past instead of reading--or only sitting, with Mrs. Gould's silver spectacles on his nose, before the open Bible, he had been prowling actively all about the island with his old gun, on watch over his honour. Linda, laying her thin brown hand on his knee, tried to soothe his excitement. Ramirez was not in Sulaco. Nobody knew where he was. He was gone. His talk of what he would do meant nothing. "No," the old man interrupted. "But son Gian' Battista told me--quite of himself--that the cowardly esclavo was drinking and gambling with the rascals of Zapiga, over there on the north side of the gulf. He may get some of the worst scoundrels of that scoundrelly town of negroes to help him in his attempt upon the little one. . . . But I am not so old. No!" She argued earnestly against the probability of any attempt being made; and at last the old man fell silent, chewing his white moustache. Women had their obstinate notions which must be humoured--his poor wife was like that, and Linda resembled her mother. It was not seemly for a man to argue. "May be. May be," he mumbled. She was by no means easy in her mind. She loved Nostromo. She turned her eyes upon Giselle, sitting at a distance, with something of maternal tenderness, and the jealous anguish of a rival outraged in her defeat. Then she rose and walked over to her. "Listen--you," she said, roughly. The invincible candour of the gaze, raised up all violet and dew, excited her rage and admiration. She had beautiful eyes--the Chica--this vile thing of white flesh and black deception. She did not know whether she wanted to tear them out with shouts of vengeance or cover up their mysterious and shameless innocence with kisses of pity and love. And suddenly they became empty, gazing blankly at her, except for a little fear not quite buried deep enough with all the other emotions in Giselle's heart. Linda said, "Ramirez is boasting in town that he will carry you off from the island." "What folly!" answered the other, and in a perversity born of long restraint, she added: "He is not the man," in a jesting tone with a trembling audacity. "No?" said Linda, through her clenched teeth. "Is he not? Well, then, look to it; because father has been walking about with a loaded gun at night." "It is not good for him. You must tell him not to, Linda. He will not listen to me." "I shall say nothing--never any more--to anybody," cried Linda, passionately. This could not last, thought Giselle. Giovanni must take her away soon--the very next time he came. She would not suffer these terrors for ever so much silver. To speak with her sister made her ill. But she was not uneasy at her father's watchfulness. She had begged Nostromo not to come to the window that night. He had promised to keep away for this once. And she did not know, could not guess or imagine, that he had another reason for coming on the island. Linda had gone straight to the tower. It was time to light up. She unlocked the little door, and went heavily up the spiral staircase, carrying her love for the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores like an ever-increasing load of shameful fetters. No; she could not throw it off. No; let Heaven dispose of these two. And moving about the lantern, filled with twilight and the sheen of the moon, with careful movements she lighted the lamp. Then her arms fell along her body. "And with our mother looking on," she murmured. "My own sister--the Chica!" The whole refracting apparatus, with its brass fittings and rings of prisms, glittered and sparkled like a domeshaped shrine of diamonds, containing not a lamp, but some sacred flame, dominating the sea. And Linda, the keeper, in black, with a pale face, drooped low in a wooden chair, alone with her jealousy, far above the shames and passions of the earth. A strange, dragging pain as if somebody were pulling her about brutally by her dark hair with bronze glints, made her put her hands up to her temples. They would meet. They would meet. And she knew where, too. At the window. The sweat of torture fell in drops on her cheeks, while the moonlight in the offing closed as if with a colossal bar of silver the entrance of the Placid Gulf--the sombre cavern of clouds and stillness in the surf-fretted seaboard. Linda Viola stood up suddenly with a finger on her lip. He loved neither her nor her sister. The whole thing seemed so objectless as to frighten her, and also give her some hope. Why did he not carry her off? What prevented him? He was incomprehensible. What were they waiting for? For what end were these two lying and deceiving? Not for the ends of their love. There was no such thing. The hope of regaining him for herself made her break her vow of not leaving the tower that night. She must talk at once to her father, who was wise, and would understand. She ran down the spiral stairs. At the moment of opening the door at the bottom she heard the sound of the first shot ever fired on the Great Isabel. She felt a shock, as though the bullet had struck her breast. She ran on without pausing. The cottage was dark. She cried at the door, "Giselle! Giselle!" then dashed round the corner and screamed her sister's name at the open window, without getting an answer; but as she was rushing, distracted, round the house, Giselle came out of the door, and darted past her, running silently, her hair loose, and her eyes staring straight ahead. She seemed to skim along the grass as if on tiptoe, and vanished. Linda walked on slowly, with her arms stretched out before her. All was still on the island; she did not know where she was going. The tree under which Martin Decoud spent his last days, beholding life like a succession of senseless images, threw a large blotch of black shade upon the grass. Suddenly she saw her father, standing quietly all alone in the moonlight. The Garibaldino--big, erect, with his snow-white hair and beard--had a monumental repose in his immobility, leaning upon a rifle. She put her hand upon his arm lightly. He never stirred. "What have you done?" she asked, in her ordinary voice. "I have shot Ramirez--infame!" he answered, with his eyes directed to where the shade was blackest. "Like a thief he came, and like a thief he fell. The child had to be protected." He did not offer to move an inch, to advance a single step. He stood there, rugged and unstirring, like a statue of an old man guarding the honour of his house. Linda removed her trembling hand from his arm, firm and steady like an arm of stone, and, without a word, entered the blackness of the shade. She saw a stir of formless shapes on the ground, and stopped short. A murmur of despair and tears grew louder to her strained hearing. "I entreated you not to come to-night. Oh, my Giovanni! And you promised. Oh! Why--why did you come, Giovanni?" It was her sister's voice. It broke on a heartrending sob. And the voice of the resourceful Capataz de Cargadores, master and slave of the San Tome treasure, who had been caught unawares by old Giorgio while stealing across the open towards the ravine to get some more silver, answered careless and cool, but sounding startlingly weak from the ground. "It seemed as though I could not live through the night without seeing thee once more--my star, my little flower." * * * * * The brilliant tertulia was just over, the last guests had departed, and the Senor Administrador had gone to his room already, when Dr. Monygham, who had been expected in the evening but had not turned up, arrived driving along the wood-block pavement under the electric-lamps of the deserted Calle de la Constitucion, and found the great gateway of the Casa still open. He limped in, stumped up the stairs, and found the fat and sleek Basilio on the point of turning off the lights in the sala. The prosperous majordomo remained open-mouthed at this late invasion. "Don't put out the lights," commanded the doctor. "I want to see the senora." "The senora is in the Senor Adminstrador's cancillaria," said Basilio, in an unctuous voice. "The Senor Administrador starts for the mountain in an hour. There is some trouble with the workmen to be feared, it appears. A shameless people without reason and decency. And idle, senor. Idle." "You are shamelessly lazy and imbecile yourself," said the doctor, with that faculty for exasperation which made him so generally beloved. "Don't put the lights out." Basilio retired with dignity. Dr. Monygham, waiting in the brilliantly lighted sala, heard presently a door close at the further end of the house. A jingle of spurs died out. The Senor Administrador was off to the mountain. With a measured swish of her long train, flashing with jewels and the shimmer of silk, her delicate head bowed as if under the weight of a mass of fair hair, in which the silver threads were lost, the "first lady of Sulaco," as Captain Mitchell used to describe her, moved along the lighted corredor, wealthy beyond great dreams of wealth, considered, loved, respected, honoured, and as solitary as any human being had ever been, perhaps, on this earth. The doctor's "Mrs. Gould! One minute!" stopped her with a start at the door of the lighted and empty sala. From the similarity of mood and circumstance, the sight of the doctor, standing there all alone amongst the groups of furniture, recalled to her emotional memory her unexpected meeting with Martin Decoud; she seemed to hear in the silence the voice of that man, dead miserably so many years ago, pronounce the words, "Antonia left her fan here." But it was the doctor's voice that spoke, a little altered by his excitement. She remarked his shining eyes. "Mrs. Gould, you are wanted. Do you know what has happened? You remember what I told you yesterday about Nostromo. Well, it seems that a lancha, a decked boat, coming from Zapiga, with four negroes in her, passing close to the Great Isabel, was hailed from the cliff by a woman's voice--Linda's, as a matter of fact--commanding them (it's a moonlight night) to go round to the beach and take up a wounded man to the town. The patron (from whom I've heard all this), of course, did so at once. He told me that when they got round to the low side of the Great Isabel, they found Linda Viola waiting for them. They followed her: she led them under a tree not far from the cottage. There they found Nostromo lying on the ground with his head in the younger girl's lap, and father Viola standing some distance off leaning on his gun. Under Linda's direction they got a table out of the cottage for a stretcher, after breaking off the legs. They are here, Mrs. Gould. I mean Nostromo and--and Giselle. The negroes brought him in to the first-aid hospital near the harbour. He made the attendant send for me. But it was not me he wanted to see--it was you, Mrs. Gould! It was you." "Me?" whispered Mrs. Gould, shrinking a little. "Yes, you!" the doctor burst out. "He begged me--his enemy, as he thinks--to bring you to him at once. It seems he has something to say to you alone." "Impossible!" murmured Mrs. Gould. "He said to me, 'Remind her that I have done something to keep a roof over her head.' . . . Mrs. Gould," the doctor pursued, in the greatest excitement. "Do you remember the silver? The silver in the lighter--that was lost?" Mrs. Gould remembered. But she did not say she hated the mere mention of that silver. Frankness personified, she remembered with an exaggerated horror that for the first and last time of her life she had concealed the truth from her husband about that very silver. She had been corrupted by her fears at that time, and she had never forgiven herself. Moreover, that silver, which would never have come down if her husband had been made acquainted with the news brought by Decoud, had been in a roundabout way nearly the cause of Dr. Monygham's death. And these things appeared to her very dreadful. "Was it lost, though?" the doctor exclaimed. "I've always felt that there was a mystery about our Nostromo ever since. I do believe he wants now, at the point of death----" "The point of death?" repeated Mrs. Gould. "Yes. Yes. . . . He wants perhaps to tell you something concerning that silver which----" "Oh, no! No!" exclaimed Mrs. Gould, in a low voice. "Isn't it lost and done with? Isn't there enough treasure without it to make everybody in the world miserable?" The doctor remained still, in a submissive, disappointed silence. At last he ventured, very low-- "And there is that Viola girl, Giselle. What are we to do? It looks as though father and sister had----" Mrs. Gould admitted that she felt in duty bound to do her best for these girls. "I have a volante here," the doctor said. "If you don't mind getting into that----" He waited, all impatience, till Mrs. Gould reappeared, having thrown over her dress a grey cloak with a deep hood. It was thus that, cloaked and monastically hooded over her evening costume, this woman, full of endurance and compassion, stood by the side of the bed on which the splendid Capataz de Cargadores lay stretched out motionless on his back. The whiteness of sheets and pillows gave a sombre and energetic relief to his bronzed face, to the dark, nervous hands, so good on a tiller, upon a bridle and on a trigger, lying open and idle upon a white coverlet. "She is innocent," the Capataz was saying in a deep and level voice, as though afraid that a louder word would break the slender hold his spirit still kept upon his body. "She is innocent. It is I alone. But no matter. For these things I would answer to no man or woman alive." He paused. Mrs. Gould's face, very white within the shadow of the hood, bent over him with an invincible and dreary sadness. And the low sobs of Giselle Viola, kneeling at the end of the bed, her gold hair with coppery gleams loose and scattered over the Capataz's feet, hardly troubled the silence of the room. "Ha! Old Giorgio--the guardian of thine honour! Fancy the Vecchio coming upon me so light of foot, so steady of aim. I myself could have done no better. But the price of a charge of powder might have been saved. The honour was safe. . . . Senora, she would have followed to the end of the world Nostromo the thief. . . . I have said the word. The spell is broken!" A low moan from the girl made him cast his eyes down. "I cannot see her. . . . No matter," he went on, with the shadow of the old magnificent carelessness in his voice. "One kiss is enough, if there is no time for more. An airy soul, senora! Bright and warm, like sunshine--soon clouded, and soon serene. They would crush it there between them. Senora, cast on her the eye of your compassion, as famed from one end of the land to the other as the courage and daring of the man who speaks to you. She will console herself in time. And even Ramirez is not a bad fellow. I am not angry. No! It is not Ramirez who overcame the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores." He paused, made an effort, and in louder voice, a little wildly, declared-- "I die betrayed--betrayed by----" But he did not say by whom or by what he was dying betrayed. "She would not have betrayed me," he began again, opening his eyes very wide. "She was faithful. We were going very far--very soon. I could have torn myself away from that accursed treasure for her. For that child I would have left boxes and boxes of it--full. And Decoud took four. Four ingots. Why? Picardia! To betray me? How could I give back the treasure with four ingots missing? They would have said I had purloined them. The doctor would have said that. Alas! it holds me yet!" Mrs. Gould bent low, fascinated--cold with apprehension. "What became of Don Martin on that night, Nostromo?" "Who knows? I wondered what would become of me. Now I know. Death was to come upon me unawares. He went away! He betrayed me. And you think I have killed him! You are all alike, you fine people. The silver has killed me. It has held me. It holds me yet. Nobody knows where it is. But you are the wife of Don Carlos, who put it into my hands and said, 'Save it on your life.' And when I returned, and you all thought it was lost, what do I hear? 'It was nothing of importance. Let it go. Up, Nostromo, the faithful, and ride away to save us, for dear life!'" "Nostromo!" Mrs. Gould whispered, bending very low. "I, too, have hated the idea of that silver from the bottom of my heart." "Marvellous!--that one of you should hate the wealth that you know so well how to take from the hands of the poor. The world rests upon the poor, as old Giorgio says. You have been always good to the poor. But there is something accursed in wealth. Senora, shall I tell you where the treasure is? To you alone. . . . Shining! Incorruptible!" A pained, involuntary reluctance lingered in his tone, in his eyes, plain to the woman with the genius of sympathetic intuition. She averted her glance from the miserable subjection of the dying man, appalled, wishing to hear no more of the silver. "No, Capataz," she said. "No one misses it now. Let it be lost for ever." After hearing these words, Nostromo closed his eyes, uttered no word, made no movement. Outside the door of the sick-room Dr. Monygham, excited to the highest pitch, his eyes shining with eagerness, came up to the two women. "Now, Mrs. Gould," he said, almost brutally in his impatience, "tell me, was I right? There is a mystery. You have got the word of it, have you not? He told you----" "He told me nothing," said Mrs. Gould, steadily. The light of his temperamental enmity to Nostromo went out of Dr. Monygham's eyes. He stepped back submissively. He did not believe Mrs. Gould. But her word was law. He accepted her denial like an inexplicable fatality affirming the victory of Nostromo's genius over his own. Even before that woman, whom he loved with secret devotion, he had been defeated by the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores, the man who had lived his own life on the assumption of unbroken fidelity, rectitude, and courage! "Pray send at once somebody for my carriage," spoke Mrs. Gould from within her hood. Then, turning to Giselle Viola, "Come nearer me, child; come closer. We will wait here." Giselle Viola, heartbroken and childlike, her face veiled in her falling hair, crept up to her side. Mrs. Gould slipped her hand through the arm of the unworthy daughter of old Viola, the immaculate republican, the hero without a stain. Slowly, gradually, as a withered flower droops, the head of the girl, who would have followed a thief to the end of the world, rested on the shoulder of Dona Emilia, the first lady of Sulaco, the wife of the Senor Administrador of the San Tome mine. And Mrs. Gould, feeling her suppressed sobbing, nervous and excited, had the first and only moment of bitterness in her life. It was worthy of Dr. Monygham himself. "Console yourself, child. Very soon he would have forgotten you for his treasure." "Senora, he loved me. He loved me," Giselle whispered, despairingly. "He loved me as no one had ever been loved before." "I have been loved, too," Mrs. Gould said in a severe tone. Giselle clung to her convulsively. "Oh, senora, but you shall live adored to the end of your life," she sobbed out. Mrs. Gould kept an unbroken silence till the carriage arrived. She helped in the half-fainting girl. After the doctor had shut the door of the landau, she leaned over to him. "You can do nothing?" she whispered. "No, Mrs. Gould. Moreover, he won't let us touch him. It does not matter. I just had one look. . . . Useless." But he promised to see old Viola and the other girl that very night. He could get the police-boat to take him off to the island. He remained in the street, looking after the landau rolling away slowly behind the white mules. The rumour of some accident--an accident to Captain Fidanza--had been spreading along the new quays with their rows of lamps and the dark shapes of towering cranes. A knot of night prowlers--the poorest of the poor--hung about the door of the first-aid hospital, whispering in the moonlight of the empty street. There was no one with the wounded man but the pale photographer, small, frail, bloodthirsty, the hater of capitalists, perched on a high stool near the head of the bed with his knees up and his chin in his hands. He had been fetched by a comrade who, working late on the wharf, had heard from a negro belonging to a lancha, that Captain Fidanza had been brought ashore mortally wounded. "Have you any dispositions to make, comrade?" he asked, anxiously. "Do not forget that we want money for our work. The rich must be fought with their own weapons." Nostromo made no answer. The other did not insist, remaining huddled up on the stool, shock-headed, wildly hairy, like a hunchbacked monkey. Then, after a long silence-- "Comrade Fidanza," he began, solemnly, "you have refused all aid from that doctor. Is he really a dangerous enemy of the people?" In the dimly lit room Nostromo rolled his head slowly on the pillow and opened his eyes, directing at the weird figure perched by his bedside a glance of enigmatic and profound inquiry. Then his head rolled back, his eyelids fell, and the Capataz de Cargadores died without a word or moan after an hour of immobility, broken by short shudders testifying to the most atrocious sufferings. Dr. Monygham, going out in the police-galley to the islands, beheld the glitter of the moon upon the gulf and the high black shape of the Great Isabel sending a shaft of light afar, from under the canopy of clouds. "Pull easy," he said, wondering what he would find there. He tried to imagine Linda and her father, and discovered a strange reluctance within himself. "Pull easy," he repeated. * * * * * * From the moment he fired at the thief of his honour, Giorgio Viola had not stirred from the spot. He stood, his old gun grounded, his hand grasping the barrel near the muzzle. After the lancha carrying off Nostromo for ever from her had left the shore, Linda, coming up, stopped before him. He did not seem to be aware of her presence, but when, losing her forced calmness, she cried out-- "Do you know whom you have killed?" he answered-- "Ramirez the vagabond." White, and staring insanely at her father, Linda laughed in his face. After a time he joined her faintly in a deep-toned and distant echo of her peals. Then she stopped, and the old man spoke as if startled-- "He cried out in son Gian' Battista's voice." The gun fell from his opened hand, but the arm remained extended for a moment as if still supported. Linda seized it roughly. "You are too old to understand. Come into the house." He let her lead him. On the threshold he stumbled heavily, nearly coming to the ground together with his daughter. His excitement, his activity of the last few days, had been like the flare of a dying lamp. He caught at the back of his chair. "In son Gian' Battista's voice," he repeated in a severe tone. "I heard him--Ramirez--the miserable----" Linda helped him into the chair, and, bending low, hissed into his ear-- "You have killed Gian' Battista." The old man smiled under his thick moustache. Women had strange fancies. "Where is the child?" he asked, surprised at the penetrating chilliness of the air and the unwonted dimness of the lamp by which he used to sit up half the night with the open Bible before him. Linda hesitated a moment, then averted her eyes. "She is asleep," she said. "We shall talk of her tomorrow." She could not bear to look at him. He filled her with terror and with an almost unbearable feeling of pity. She had observed the change that came over him. He would never understand what he had done; and even to her the whole thing remained incomprehensible. He said with difficulty-- "Give me the book." Linda laid on the table the closed volume in its worn leather cover, the Bible given him ages ago by an Englishman in Palermo. "The child had to be protected," he said, in a strange, mournful voice. Behind

sea

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

"I shall go grey, I fear, before the ring is on my finger," she said, slowly, keeping her gaze fastened upon him. She waited for what he would say, rolling down her turned-up sleeves. "No fear of that," he said, absently. She turned away as if it had been something final, and busied herself with household cares while Nostromo talked with her father. Conversation with the old Garibaldino was not easy. Age had left his faculties unimpaired, only they seemed to have withdrawn somewhere deep within him. His answers were slow in coming, with an effect of august gravity. But that day he was more animated, quicker; there seemed to be more life in the old lion. He was uneasy for the integrity of his honour. He believed Sidoni's warning as to Ramirez's designs upon his younger daughter. And he did not trust her. She was flighty. He said nothing of his cares to "Son Gian' Battista." It was a touch of senile vanity. He wanted to show that he was equal yet to the task of guarding alone the honour of his house. Nostromo went away early. As soon as he had disappeared, walking towards the beach, Linda stepped over the threshold and, with a haggard smile, sat down by the side of her father. Ever since that Sunday, when the infatuated and desperate Ramirez had waited for her on the wharf, she had no doubts whatever. The jealous ravings of that man were no revelation. They had only fixed with precision, as with a nail driven into her heart, that sense of unreality and deception which, instead of bliss and security, she had found in her intercourse with her promised husband. She had passed on, pouring indignation and scorn upon Ramirez; but, that Sunday, she nearly died of wretchedness and shame, lying on the carved and lettered stone of Teresa's grave, subscribed for by the engine-drivers and the fitters of the railway workshops, in sign of their respect for the hero of Italian Unity. Old Viola had not been able to carry out his desire of burying his wife in the sea; and Linda wept upon the stone. The gratuitous outrage appalled her. If he wished to break her heart--well and good. Everything was permitted to Gian' Battista. But why trample upon the pieces; why seek to humiliate her spirit? Aha! He could not break that. She dried her tears. And Giselle! Giselle! The little one that, ever since she could toddle, had always clung to her skirt for protection. What duplicity! But she could not help it probably. When there was a man in the case the poor featherheaded wretch could not help herself. Linda had a good share of the Viola stoicism. She resolved to say nothing. But woman-like she put passion into her stoicism. Giselle's short answers, prompted by fearful caution, drove her beside herself by their curtness that resembled disdain. One day she flung herself upon the chair in which her indolent sister was lying and impressed the mark of her teeth at the base of the whitest neck in Sulaco. Giselle cried out. But she had her share of the Viola heroism. Ready to faint with terror, she only said, in a lazy voice, "Madre de Dios! Are you going to eat me alive, Linda?" And this outburst passed off leaving no trace upon the situation. "She knows nothing. She cannot know any thing," reflected Giselle. "Perhaps it is not true. It cannot be true," Linda tried to persuade herself. But when she saw Captain Fidanza for the first time after her meeting with the distracted Ramirez, the certitude of her misfortune returned. She watched him from the doorway go away to his boat, asking herself stoically, "Will they meet to-night?" She made up her mind not to leave the tower for a second. When he had disappeared she came out and sat down by her father. The venerable Garibaldino felt, in his own words, "a young man yet." In one way or another a good deal of talk about Ramirez had reached him of late; and his contempt and dislike of that man who obviously was not what his son would have been, had made him restless. He slept very little now; but for several nights past instead of reading--or only sitting, with Mrs. Gould's silver spectacles on his nose, before the open Bible, he had been prowling actively all about the island with his old gun, on watch over his honour. Linda, laying her thin brown hand on his knee, tried to soothe his excitement. Ramirez was not in Sulaco. Nobody knew where he was. He was gone. His talk of what he would do meant nothing. "No," the old man interrupted. "But son Gian' Battista told me--quite of himself--that the cowardly esclavo was drinking and gambling with the rascals of Zapiga, over there on the north side of the gulf. He may get some of the worst scoundrels of that scoundrelly town of negroes to help him in his attempt upon the little one. . . . But I am not so old. No!" She argued earnestly against the probability of any attempt being made; and at last the old man fell silent, chewing his white moustache. Women had their obstinate notions which must be humoured--his poor wife was like that, and Linda resembled her mother. It was not seemly for a man to argue. "May be. May be," he mumbled. She was by no means easy in her mind. She loved Nostromo. She turned her eyes upon Giselle, sitting at a distance, with something of maternal tenderness, and the jealous anguish of a rival outraged in her defeat. Then she rose and walked over to her. "Listen--you," she said, roughly. The invincible candour of the gaze, raised up all violet and dew, excited her rage and admiration. She had beautiful eyes--the Chica--this vile thing of white flesh and black deception. She did not know whether she wanted to tear them out with shouts of vengeance or cover up their mysterious and shameless innocence with kisses of pity and love. And suddenly they became empty, gazing blankly at her, except for a little fear not quite buried deep enough with all the other emotions in Giselle's heart. Linda said, "Ramirez is boasting in town that he will carry you off from the island." "What folly!" answered the other, and in a perversity born of long restraint, she added: "He is not the man," in a jesting tone with a trembling audacity. "No?" said Linda, through her clenched teeth. "Is he not? Well, then, look to it; because father has been walking about with a loaded gun at night." "It is not good for him. You must tell him not to, Linda. He will not listen to me." "I shall say nothing--never any more--to anybody," cried Linda, passionately. This could not last, thought Giselle. Giovanni must take her away soon--the very next time he came. She would not suffer these terrors for ever so much silver. To speak with her sister made her ill. But she was not uneasy at her father's watchfulness. She had begged Nostromo not to come to the window that night. He had promised to keep away for this once. And she did not know, could not guess or imagine, that he had another reason for coming on the island. Linda had gone straight to the tower. It was time to light up. She unlocked the little door, and went heavily up the spiral staircase, carrying her love for the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores like an ever-increasing load of shameful fetters. No; she could not throw it off. No; let Heaven dispose of these two. And moving about the lantern, filled with twilight and the sheen of the moon, with careful movements she lighted the lamp. Then her arms fell along her body. "And with our mother looking on," she murmured. "My own sister--the Chica!" The whole refracting apparatus, with its brass fittings and rings of prisms, glittered and sparkled like a domeshaped shrine of diamonds, containing not a lamp, but some sacred flame, dominating the sea. And Linda, the keeper, in black, with a pale face, drooped low in a wooden chair, alone with her jealousy, far above the shames and passions of the earth. A strange, dragging pain as if somebody were pulling her about brutally by her dark hair with bronze glints, made her put her hands up to her temples. They would meet. They would meet. And she knew where, too. At the window. The sweat of torture fell in drops on her cheeks, while the moonlight in the offing closed as if with a colossal bar of silver the entrance of the Placid Gulf--the sombre cavern of clouds and stillness in the surf-fretted seaboard. Linda Viola stood up suddenly with a finger on her lip. He loved neither her nor her sister. The whole thing seemed so objectless as to frighten her, and also give her some hope. Why did he not carry her off? What prevented him? He was incomprehensible. What were they waiting for? For what end were these two lying and deceiving? Not for the ends of their love. There was no such thing. The hope of regaining him for herself made her break her vow of not leaving the tower that night. She must talk at once to her father, who was wise, and would understand. She ran down the spiral stairs. At the moment of opening the door at the bottom she heard the sound of the first shot ever fired on the Great Isabel. She felt a shock, as though the bullet had struck her breast. She ran on without pausing. The cottage was dark. She cried at the door, "Giselle! Giselle!" then dashed round the corner and screamed her sister's name at the open window, without getting an answer; but as she was rushing, distracted, round the house, Giselle came out of the door, and darted past her, running silently, her hair loose, and her eyes staring straight ahead. She seemed to skim along the grass as if on tiptoe, and vanished. Linda walked on slowly, with her arms stretched out before her. All was still on the island; she did not know where she was going. The tree under which Martin Decoud spent his last days, beholding life like a succession of senseless images, threw a large blotch of black shade upon the grass. Suddenly she saw her father, standing quietly all alone in the moonlight. The Garibaldino--big, erect, with his snow-white hair and beard--had a monumental repose in his immobility, leaning upon a rifle. She put her hand upon his arm lightly. He never stirred. "What have you done?" she asked, in her ordinary voice. "I have shot Ramirez--infame!" he answered, with his eyes directed to where the shade was blackest. "Like a thief he came, and like a thief he fell. The child had to be protected." He did not offer to move an inch, to advance a single step. He stood there, rugged and unstirring, like a statue of an old man guarding the honour of his house. Linda removed her trembling hand from his arm, firm and steady like an arm of stone, and, without a word, entered the blackness of the shade. She saw a stir of formless shapes on the ground, and stopped short. A murmur of despair and tears grew louder to her strained hearing. "I entreated you not to come to-night. Oh, my Giovanni! And you promised. Oh! Why--why did you come, Giovanni?" It was her sister's voice. It broke on a heartrending sob. And the voice of the resourceful Capataz de Cargadores, master and slave of the San Tome treasure, who had been caught unawares by old Giorgio while stealing across the open towards the ravine to get some more silver, answered careless and cool, but sounding startlingly weak from the ground. "It seemed as though I could not live through the night without seeing thee once more--my star, my little flower." * * * * * The brilliant tertulia was just over, the last guests had departed, and the Senor Administrador had gone to his room already, when Dr. Monygham, who had been expected in the evening but had not turned up, arrived driving along the wood-block pavement under the electric-lamps of the deserted Calle de la Constitucion, and found the great gateway of the Casa still open. He limped in, stumped up the stairs, and found the fat and sleek Basilio on the point of turning off the lights in the sala. The prosperous majordomo remained open-mouthed at this late invasion. "Don't put out the lights," commanded the doctor. "I want to see the senora." "The senora is in the Senor Adminstrador's cancillaria," said Basilio, in an unctuous voice. "The Senor Administrador starts for the mountain in an hour. There is some trouble with the workmen to be feared, it appears. A shameless people without reason and decency. And idle, senor. Idle." "You are shamelessly lazy and imbecile yourself," said the doctor, with that faculty for exasperation which made him so generally beloved. "Don't put the lights out." Basilio retired with dignity. Dr. Monygham, waiting in the brilliantly lighted sala, heard presently a door close at the further end of the house. A jingle of spurs died out. The Senor Administrador was off to the mountain. With a measured swish of her long train, flashing with jewels and the shimmer of silk, her delicate head bowed as if under the weight of a mass of fair hair, in which the silver threads were lost, the "first lady of Sulaco," as Captain Mitchell used to describe her, moved along the lighted corredor, wealthy beyond great dreams of wealth, considered, loved, respected, honoured, and as solitary as any human being had ever been, perhaps, on this earth. The doctor's "Mrs. Gould! One minute!" stopped her with a start at the door of the lighted and empty sala. From the similarity of mood and circumstance, the sight of the doctor, standing there all alone amongst the groups of furniture, recalled to her emotional memory her unexpected meeting with Martin Decoud; she seemed to hear in the silence the voice of that man, dead miserably so many years ago, pronounce the words, "Antonia left her fan here." But it was the doctor's voice that spoke, a little altered by his excitement. She remarked his shining eyes. "Mrs. Gould, you are wanted. Do you know what has happened? You remember what I told you yesterday about Nostromo. Well, it seems that a lancha, a decked boat, coming from Zapiga, with four negroes in her, passing close to the Great Isabel, was hailed from the cliff by a woman's voice--Linda's, as a matter of fact--commanding them (it's a moonlight night) to go round to the beach and take up a wounded man to the town. The patron (from whom I've heard all this), of course, did so at once. He told me that when they got round to the low side of the Great Isabel, they found Linda Viola waiting for them. They followed her: she led them under a tree not far from the cottage. There they found Nostromo lying on the ground with his head in the younger girl's lap, and father Viola standing some distance off leaning on his gun. Under Linda's direction they got a table out of the cottage for a stretcher, after breaking off the legs. They are here, Mrs. Gould. I mean Nostromo and--and Giselle. The negroes brought him in to the first-aid hospital near the harbour. He made the attendant send for me. But it was not me he wanted to see--it was you, Mrs. Gould! It was you." "Me?" whispered Mrs. Gould, shrinking a little. "Yes, you!" the doctor burst out. "He begged me--his enemy, as he thinks--to bring you to him at once. It seems he has something to say to you alone." "Impossible!" murmured Mrs. Gould. "He said to me, 'Remind her that I have done something to keep a roof over her head.' . . . Mrs. Gould," the doctor pursued, in the greatest excitement. "Do you remember the silver? The silver in the lighter--that was lost?" Mrs. Gould remembered. But she did not say she hated the mere mention of that silver. Frankness personified, she remembered with an exaggerated horror that for the first and last time of her life she had concealed the truth from her husband about that very silver. She had been corrupted by her fears at that time, and she had never forgiven herself. Moreover, that silver, which would never have come down if her husband had been made acquainted with the news brought by Decoud, had been in a roundabout way nearly the cause of Dr. Monygham's death. And these things appeared to her very dreadful. "Was it lost, though?" the doctor exclaimed. "I've always felt that there was a mystery about our Nostromo ever since. I do believe he wants now, at the point of death----" "The point of death?" repeated Mrs. Gould. "Yes. Yes. . . . He wants perhaps to tell you something concerning that silver which----" "Oh, no! No!" exclaimed Mrs. Gould, in a low voice. "Isn't it lost and done with? Isn't there enough treasure without it to make everybody in the world miserable?" The doctor remained still, in a submissive, disappointed silence. At last he ventured, very low-- "And there is that Viola girl, Giselle. What are we to do? It looks as though father and sister had----" Mrs. Gould admitted that she felt in duty bound to do her best for these girls. "I have a volante here," the doctor said. "If you don't mind getting into that----" He waited, all impatience, till Mrs. Gould reappeared, having thrown over her dress a grey cloak with a deep hood. It was thus that, cloaked and monastically hooded over her evening costume, this woman, full of endurance and compassion, stood by the side of the bed on which the splendid Capataz de Cargadores lay stretched out motionless on his back. The whiteness of sheets and pillows gave a sombre and energetic relief to his bronzed face, to the dark, nervous hands, so good on a tiller, upon a bridle and on a trigger, lying open and idle upon a white coverlet. "She is innocent," the Capataz was saying in a deep and level voice, as though afraid that a louder word would break the slender hold his spirit still kept upon his body. "She is innocent. It is I alone. But no matter. For these things I would answer to no man or woman alive." He paused. Mrs. Gould's face, very white within the shadow of the hood, bent over him with an invincible and dreary sadness. And the low sobs of Giselle Viola, kneeling at the end of the bed, her gold hair with coppery gleams loose and scattered over the Capataz's feet, hardly troubled the silence of the room. "Ha! Old Giorgio--the guardian of thine honour! Fancy the Vecchio coming upon me so light of foot, so steady of aim. I myself could have done no better. But the price of a charge of powder might have been saved. The honour was safe. . . . Senora, she would have followed to the end of the world Nostromo the thief. . . . I have said the word. The spell is broken!" A low moan from the girl made him cast his eyes down. "I cannot see her. . . . No matter," he went on, with the shadow of the old magnificent carelessness in his voice. "One kiss is enough, if there is no time for more. An airy soul, senora! Bright and warm, like sunshine--soon clouded, and soon serene. They would crush it there between them. Senora, cast on her the eye of your compassion, as famed from one end of the land to the other as the courage and daring of the man who speaks to you. She will console herself in time. And even Ramirez is not a bad fellow. I am not angry. No! It is not Ramirez who overcame the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores." He paused, made an effort, and in louder voice, a little wildly, declared-- "I die betrayed--betrayed by----" But he did not say by whom or by what he was dying betrayed. "She would not have betrayed me," he began again, opening his eyes very wide. "She was faithful. We were going very far--very soon. I could have torn myself away from that accursed treasure for her. For that child I would have left boxes and boxes of it--full. And Decoud took four. Four ingots. Why? Picardia! To betray me? How could I give back the treasure with four ingots missing? They would have said I had purloined them. The doctor would have said that. Alas! it holds me yet!" Mrs. Gould bent low, fascinated--cold with apprehension. "What became of Don Martin on that night, Nostromo?" "Who knows? I wondered what would become of me. Now I know. Death was to come upon me unawares. He went away! He betrayed me. And you think I have killed him! You are all alike, you fine people. The silver has killed me. It has held me. It holds me yet. Nobody knows where it is. But you are the wife of Don Carlos, who put it into my hands and said, 'Save it on your life.' And when I returned, and you all thought it was lost, what do I hear? 'It was nothing of importance. Let it go. Up, Nostromo, the faithful, and ride away to save us, for dear life!'" "Nostromo!" Mrs. Gould whispered, bending very low. "I, too, have hated the idea of that silver from the bottom of my heart." "Marvellous!--that one of you should hate the wealth that you know so well how to take from the hands of the poor. The world rests upon the poor, as old Giorgio says. You have been always good to the poor. But there is something accursed in wealth. Senora, shall I tell you where the treasure is? To you alone. . . . Shining! Incorruptible!" A pained, involuntary reluctance lingered in his tone, in his eyes, plain to the woman with the genius of sympathetic intuition. She averted her glance from the miserable subjection of the dying man, appalled, wishing to hear no more of the silver. "No, Capataz," she said. "No one misses it now. Let it be lost for ever." After hearing these words, Nostromo closed his eyes, uttered no word, made no movement. Outside the door of the sick-room Dr. Monygham, excited to the highest pitch, his eyes shining with eagerness, came up to the two women. "Now, Mrs. Gould," he said, almost brutally in his impatience, "tell me, was I right? There is a mystery. You have got the word of it, have you not? He told you----" "He told me nothing," said Mrs. Gould, steadily. The light of his temperamental enmity to Nostromo went out of Dr. Monygham's eyes. He stepped back submissively. He did not believe Mrs. Gould. But her word was law. He accepted her denial like an inexplicable fatality affirming the victory of Nostromo's genius over his own. Even before that woman, whom he loved with secret devotion, he had been defeated by the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores, the man who had lived his own life on the assumption of unbroken fidelity, rectitude, and courage! "Pray send at once somebody for my carriage," spoke Mrs. Gould from within her hood. Then, turning to Giselle Viola, "Come nearer me, child; come closer. We will wait here." Giselle Viola, heartbroken and childlike, her face veiled in her falling hair, crept up to her side. Mrs. Gould slipped her hand through the arm of the unworthy daughter of old Viola, the immaculate republican, the hero without a stain. Slowly, gradually, as a withered flower droops, the head of the girl, who would have followed a thief to the end of the world, rested on the shoulder of Dona Emilia, the first lady of Sulaco, the wife of the Senor Administrador of the San Tome mine. And Mrs. Gould, feeling her suppressed sobbing, nervous and excited, had the first and only moment of bitterness in her life. It was worthy of Dr. Monygham himself. "Console yourself, child. Very soon he would have forgotten you for his treasure." "Senora, he loved me. He loved me," Giselle whispered, despairingly. "He loved me as no one had ever been loved before." "I have been loved, too," Mrs. Gould said in a severe tone. Giselle clung to her convulsively. "Oh, senora, but you shall live adored to the end of your life," she sobbed out. Mrs. Gould kept an unbroken silence till the carriage arrived. She helped in the half-fainting girl. After the doctor had shut the door of the landau, she leaned over to him. "You can do nothing?" she whispered. "No, Mrs. Gould. Moreover, he won't let us touch him. It does not matter. I just had one look. . . . Useless." But he promised to see old Viola and the other girl that very night. He could get the police-boat to take him off to the island. He remained in the street, looking after the landau rolling away slowly behind the white mules. The rumour of some accident--an accident to Captain Fidanza--had been spreading along the new quays with their rows of lamps and the dark shapes of towering cranes. A knot of night prowlers--the poorest of the poor--hung about the door of the first-aid hospital, whispering in the moonlight of the empty street. There was no one with the wounded man but the pale photographer, small, frail, bloodthirsty, the hater of capitalists, perched on a high stool near the head of the bed with his knees up and his chin in his hands. He had been fetched by a comrade who, working late on the wharf, had heard from a negro belonging to a lancha, that Captain Fidanza had been brought ashore mortally wounded. "Have you any dispositions to make, comrade?" he asked, anxiously. "Do not forget that we want money for our work. The rich must be fought with their own weapons." Nostromo made no answer. The other did not insist, remaining huddled up on the stool, shock-headed, wildly hairy, like a hunchbacked monkey. Then, after a long silence-- "Comrade Fidanza," he began, solemnly, "you have refused all aid from that doctor. Is he really a dangerous enemy of the people?" In the dimly lit room Nostromo rolled his head slowly on the pillow and opened his eyes, directing at the weird figure perched by his bedside a glance of enigmatic and profound inquiry. Then his head rolled back, his eyelids fell, and the Capataz de Cargadores died without a word or moan after an hour of immobility, broken by short shudders testifying to the most atrocious sufferings. Dr. Monygham, going out in the police-galley to the islands, beheld the glitter of the moon upon the gulf and the high black shape of the Great Isabel sending a shaft of light afar, from under the canopy of clouds. "Pull easy," he said, wondering what he would find there. He tried to imagine Linda and her father, and discovered a strange reluctance within himself. "Pull easy," he repeated. * * * * * * From the moment he fired at the thief of his honour, Giorgio Viola had not stirred from the spot. He stood, his old gun grounded, his hand grasping the barrel near the muzzle. After the lancha carrying off Nostromo for ever from her had left the shore, Linda, coming up, stopped before him. He did not seem to be aware of her presence, but when, losing her forced calmness, she cried out-- "Do you know whom you have killed?" he answered-- "Ramirez the vagabond." White, and staring insanely at her father, Linda laughed in his face. After a time he joined her faintly in a deep-toned and distant echo of her peals. Then she stopped, and the old man spoke as if startled-- "He cried out in son Gian' Battista's voice." The gun fell from his opened hand, but the arm remained extended for a moment as if still supported. Linda seized it roughly. "You are too old to understand. Come into the house." He let her lead him. On the threshold he stumbled heavily, nearly coming to the ground together with his daughter. His excitement, his activity of the last few days, had been like the flare of a dying lamp. He caught at the back of his chair. "In son Gian' Battista's voice," he repeated in a severe tone. "I heard him--Ramirez--the miserable----" Linda helped him into the chair, and, bending low, hissed into his ear-- "You have killed Gian' Battista." The old man smiled under his thick moustache. Women had strange fancies. "Where is the child?" he asked, surprised at the penetrating chilliness of the air and the unwonted dimness of the lamp by which he used to sit up half the night with the open Bible before him. Linda hesitated a moment, then averted her eyes. "She is asleep," she said. "We shall talk of her tomorrow." She could not bear to look at him. He filled her with terror and with an almost unbearable feeling of pity. She had observed the change that came over him. He would never understand what he had done; and even to her the whole thing remained incomprehensible. He said with difficulty-- "Give me the book." Linda laid on the table the closed volume in its worn leather cover, the Bible given him ages ago by an Englishman in Palermo. "The child had to be protected," he said, in a strange, mournful voice. Behind

side

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

"I shall go grey, I fear, before the ring is on my finger," she said, slowly, keeping her gaze fastened upon him. She waited for what he would say, rolling down her turned-up sleeves. "No fear of that," he said, absently. She turned away as if it had been something final, and busied herself with household cares while Nostromo talked with her father. Conversation with the old Garibaldino was not easy. Age had left his faculties unimpaired, only they seemed to have withdrawn somewhere deep within him. His answers were slow in coming, with an effect of august gravity. But that day he was more animated, quicker; there seemed to be more life in the old lion. He was uneasy for the integrity of his honour. He believed Sidoni's warning as to Ramirez's designs upon his younger daughter. And he did not trust her. She was flighty. He said nothing of his cares to "Son Gian' Battista." It was a touch of senile vanity. He wanted to show that he was equal yet to the task of guarding alone the honour of his house. Nostromo went away early. As soon as he had disappeared, walking towards the beach, Linda stepped over the threshold and, with a haggard smile, sat down by the side of her father. Ever since that Sunday, when the infatuated and desperate Ramirez had waited for her on the wharf, she had no doubts whatever. The jealous ravings of that man were no revelation. They had only fixed with precision, as with a nail driven into her heart, that sense of unreality and deception which, instead of bliss and security, she had found in her intercourse with her promised husband. She had passed on, pouring indignation and scorn upon Ramirez; but, that Sunday, she nearly died of wretchedness and shame, lying on the carved and lettered stone of Teresa's grave, subscribed for by the engine-drivers and the fitters of the railway workshops, in sign of their respect for the hero of Italian Unity. Old Viola had not been able to carry out his desire of burying his wife in the sea; and Linda wept upon the stone. The gratuitous outrage appalled her. If he wished to break her heart--well and good. Everything was permitted to Gian' Battista. But why trample upon the pieces; why seek to humiliate her spirit? Aha! He could not break that. She dried her tears. And Giselle! Giselle! The little one that, ever since she could toddle, had always clung to her skirt for protection. What duplicity! But she could not help it probably. When there was a man in the case the poor featherheaded wretch could not help herself. Linda had a good share of the Viola stoicism. She resolved to say nothing. But woman-like she put passion into her stoicism. Giselle's short answers, prompted by fearful caution, drove her beside herself by their curtness that resembled disdain. One day she flung herself upon the chair in which her indolent sister was lying and impressed the mark of her teeth at the base of the whitest neck in Sulaco. Giselle cried out. But she had her share of the Viola heroism. Ready to faint with terror, she only said, in a lazy voice, "Madre de Dios! Are you going to eat me alive, Linda?" And this outburst passed off leaving no trace upon the situation. "She knows nothing. She cannot know any thing," reflected Giselle. "Perhaps it is not true. It cannot be true," Linda tried to persuade herself. But when she saw Captain Fidanza for the first time after her meeting with the distracted Ramirez, the certitude of her misfortune returned. She watched him from the doorway go away to his boat, asking herself stoically, "Will they meet to-night?" She made up her mind not to leave the tower for a second. When he had disappeared she came out and sat down by her father. The venerable Garibaldino felt, in his own words, "a young man yet." In one way or another a good deal of talk about Ramirez had reached him of late; and his contempt and dislike of that man who obviously was not what his son would have been, had made him restless. He slept very little now; but for several nights past instead of reading--or only sitting, with Mrs. Gould's silver spectacles on his nose, before the open Bible, he had been prowling actively all about the island with his old gun, on watch over his honour. Linda, laying her thin brown hand on his knee, tried to soothe his excitement. Ramirez was not in Sulaco. Nobody knew where he was. He was gone. His talk of what he would do meant nothing. "No," the old man interrupted. "But son Gian' Battista told me--quite of himself--that the cowardly esclavo was drinking and gambling with the rascals of Zapiga, over there on the north side of the gulf. He may get some of the worst scoundrels of that scoundrelly town of negroes to help him in his attempt upon the little one. . . . But I am not so old. No!" She argued earnestly against the probability of any attempt being made; and at last the old man fell silent, chewing his white moustache. Women had their obstinate notions which must be humoured--his poor wife was like that, and Linda resembled her mother. It was not seemly for a man to argue. "May be. May be," he mumbled. She was by no means easy in her mind. She loved Nostromo. She turned her eyes upon Giselle, sitting at a distance, with something of maternal tenderness, and the jealous anguish of a rival outraged in her defeat. Then she rose and walked over to her. "Listen--you," she said, roughly. The invincible candour of the gaze, raised up all violet and dew, excited her rage and admiration. She had beautiful eyes--the Chica--this vile thing of white flesh and black deception. She did not know whether she wanted to tear them out with shouts of vengeance or cover up their mysterious and shameless innocence with kisses of pity and love. And suddenly they became empty, gazing blankly at her, except for a little fear not quite buried deep enough with all the other emotions in Giselle's heart. Linda said, "Ramirez is boasting in town that he will carry you off from the island." "What folly!" answered the other, and in a perversity born of long restraint, she added: "He is not the man," in a jesting tone with a trembling audacity. "No?" said Linda, through her clenched teeth. "Is he not? Well, then, look to it; because father has been walking about with a loaded gun at night." "It is not good for him. You must tell him not to, Linda. He will not listen to me." "I shall say nothing--never any more--to anybody," cried Linda, passionately. This could not last, thought Giselle. Giovanni must take her away soon--the very next time he came. She would not suffer these terrors for ever so much silver. To speak with her sister made her ill. But she was not uneasy at her father's watchfulness. She had begged Nostromo not to come to the window that night. He had promised to keep away for this once. And she did not know, could not guess or imagine, that he had another reason for coming on the island. Linda had gone straight to the tower. It was time to light up. She unlocked the little door, and went heavily up the spiral staircase, carrying her love for the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores like an ever-increasing load of shameful fetters. No; she could not throw it off. No; let Heaven dispose of these two. And moving about the lantern, filled with twilight and the sheen of the moon, with careful movements she lighted the lamp. Then her arms fell along her body. "And with our mother looking on," she murmured. "My own sister--the Chica!" The whole refracting apparatus, with its brass fittings and rings of prisms, glittered and sparkled like a domeshaped shrine of diamonds, containing not a lamp, but some sacred flame, dominating the sea. And Linda, the keeper, in black, with a pale face, drooped low in a wooden chair, alone with her jealousy, far above the shames and passions of the earth. A strange, dragging pain as if somebody were pulling her about brutally by her dark hair with bronze glints, made her put her hands up to her temples. They would meet. They would meet. And she knew where, too. At the window. The sweat of torture fell in drops on her cheeks, while the moonlight in the offing closed as if with a colossal bar of silver the entrance of the Placid Gulf--the sombre cavern of clouds and stillness in the surf-fretted seaboard. Linda Viola stood up suddenly with a finger on her lip. He loved neither her nor her sister. The whole thing seemed so objectless as to frighten her, and also give her some hope. Why did he not carry her off? What prevented him? He was incomprehensible. What were they waiting for? For what end were these two lying and deceiving? Not for the ends of their love. There was no such thing. The hope of regaining him for herself made her break her vow of not leaving the tower that night. She must talk at once to her father, who was wise, and would understand. She ran down the spiral stairs. At the moment of opening the door at the bottom she heard the sound of the first shot ever fired on the Great Isabel. She felt a shock, as though the bullet had struck her breast. She ran on without pausing. The cottage was dark. She cried at the door, "Giselle! Giselle!" then dashed round the corner and screamed her sister's name at the open window, without getting an answer; but as she was rushing, distracted, round the house, Giselle came out of the door, and darted past her, running silently, her hair loose, and her eyes staring straight ahead. She seemed to skim along the grass as if on tiptoe, and vanished. Linda walked on slowly, with her arms stretched out before her. All was still on the island; she did not know where she was going. The tree under which Martin Decoud spent his last days, beholding life like a succession of senseless images, threw a large blotch of black shade upon the grass. Suddenly she saw her father, standing quietly all alone in the moonlight. The Garibaldino--big, erect, with his snow-white hair and beard--had a monumental repose in his immobility, leaning upon a rifle. She put her hand upon his arm lightly. He never stirred. "What have you done?" she asked, in her ordinary voice. "I have shot Ramirez--infame!" he answered, with his eyes directed to where the shade was blackest. "Like a thief he came, and like a thief he fell. The child had to be protected." He did not offer to move an inch, to advance a single step. He stood there, rugged and unstirring, like a statue of an old man guarding the honour of his house. Linda removed her trembling hand from his arm, firm and steady like an arm of stone, and, without a word, entered the blackness of the shade. She saw a stir of formless shapes on the ground, and stopped short. A murmur of despair and tears grew louder to her strained hearing. "I entreated you not to come to-night. Oh, my Giovanni! And you promised. Oh! Why--why did you come, Giovanni?" It was her sister's voice. It broke on a heartrending sob. And the voice of the resourceful Capataz de Cargadores, master and slave of the San Tome treasure, who had been caught unawares by old Giorgio while stealing across the open towards the ravine to get some more silver, answered careless and cool, but sounding startlingly weak from the ground. "It seemed as though I could not live through the night without seeing thee once more--my star, my little flower." * * * * * The brilliant tertulia was just over, the last guests had departed, and the Senor Administrador had gone to his room already, when Dr. Monygham, who had been expected in the evening but had not turned up, arrived driving along the wood-block pavement under the electric-lamps of the deserted Calle de la Constitucion, and found the great gateway of the Casa still open. He limped in, stumped up the stairs, and found the fat and sleek Basilio on the point of turning off the lights in the sala. The prosperous majordomo remained open-mouthed at this late invasion. "Don't put out the lights," commanded the doctor. "I want to see the senora." "The senora is in the Senor Adminstrador's cancillaria," said Basilio, in an unctuous voice. "The Senor Administrador starts for the mountain in an hour. There is some trouble with the workmen to be feared, it appears. A shameless people without reason and decency. And idle, senor. Idle." "You are shamelessly lazy and imbecile yourself," said the doctor, with that faculty for exasperation which made him so generally beloved. "Don't put the lights out." Basilio retired with dignity. Dr. Monygham, waiting in the brilliantly lighted sala, heard presently a door close at the further end of the house. A jingle of spurs died out. The Senor Administrador was off to the mountain. With a measured swish of her long train, flashing with jewels and the shimmer of silk, her delicate head bowed as if under the weight of a mass of fair hair, in which the silver threads were lost, the "first lady of Sulaco," as Captain Mitchell used to describe her, moved along the lighted corredor, wealthy beyond great dreams of wealth, considered, loved, respected, honoured, and as solitary as any human being had ever been, perhaps, on this earth. The doctor's "Mrs. Gould! One minute!" stopped her with a start at the door of the lighted and empty sala. From the similarity of mood and circumstance, the sight of the doctor, standing there all alone amongst the groups of furniture, recalled to her emotional memory her unexpected meeting with Martin Decoud; she seemed to hear in the silence the voice of that man, dead miserably so many years ago, pronounce the words, "Antonia left her fan here." But it was the doctor's voice that spoke, a little altered by his excitement. She remarked his shining eyes. "Mrs. Gould, you are wanted. Do you know what has happened? You remember what I told you yesterday about Nostromo. Well, it seems that a lancha, a decked boat, coming from Zapiga, with four negroes in her, passing close to the Great Isabel, was hailed from the cliff by a woman's voice--Linda's, as a matter of fact--commanding them (it's a moonlight night) to go round to the beach and take up a wounded man to the town. The patron (from whom I've heard all this), of course, did so at once. He told me that when they got round to the low side of the Great Isabel, they found Linda Viola waiting for them. They followed her: she led them under a tree not far from the cottage. There they found Nostromo lying on the ground with his head in the younger girl's lap, and father Viola standing some distance off leaning on his gun. Under Linda's direction they got a table out of the cottage for a stretcher, after breaking off the legs. They are here, Mrs. Gould. I mean Nostromo and--and Giselle. The negroes brought him in to the first-aid hospital near the harbour. He made the attendant send for me. But it was not me he wanted to see--it was you, Mrs. Gould! It was you." "Me?" whispered Mrs. Gould, shrinking a little. "Yes, you!" the doctor burst out. "He begged me--his enemy, as he thinks--to bring you to him at once. It seems he has something to say to you alone." "Impossible!" murmured Mrs. Gould. "He said to me, 'Remind her that I have done something to keep a roof over her head.' . . . Mrs. Gould," the doctor pursued, in the greatest excitement. "Do you remember the silver? The silver in the lighter--that was lost?" Mrs. Gould remembered. But she did not say she hated the mere mention of that silver. Frankness personified, she remembered with an exaggerated horror that for the first and last time of her life she had concealed the truth from her husband about that very silver. She had been corrupted by her fears at that time, and she had never forgiven herself. Moreover, that silver, which would never have come down if her husband had been made acquainted with the news brought by Decoud, had been in a roundabout way nearly the cause of Dr. Monygham's death. And these things appeared to her very dreadful. "Was it lost, though?" the doctor exclaimed. "I've always felt that there was a mystery about our Nostromo ever since. I do believe he wants now, at the point of death----" "The point of death?" repeated Mrs. Gould. "Yes. Yes. . . . He wants perhaps to tell you something concerning that silver which----" "Oh, no! No!" exclaimed Mrs. Gould, in a low voice. "Isn't it lost and done with? Isn't there enough treasure without it to make everybody in the world miserable?" The doctor remained still, in a submissive, disappointed silence. At last he ventured, very low-- "And there is that Viola girl, Giselle. What are we to do? It looks as though father and sister had----" Mrs. Gould admitted that she felt in duty bound to do her best for these girls. "I have a volante here," the doctor said. "If you don't mind getting into that----" He waited, all impatience, till Mrs. Gould reappeared, having thrown over her dress a grey cloak with a deep hood. It was thus that, cloaked and monastically hooded over her evening costume, this woman, full of endurance and compassion, stood by the side of the bed on which the splendid Capataz de Cargadores lay stretched out motionless on his back. The whiteness of sheets and pillows gave a sombre and energetic relief to his bronzed face, to the dark, nervous hands, so good on a tiller, upon a bridle and on a trigger, lying open and idle upon a white coverlet. "She is innocent," the Capataz was saying in a deep and level voice, as though afraid that a louder word would break the slender hold his spirit still kept upon his body. "She is innocent. It is I alone. But no matter. For these things I would answer to no man or woman alive." He paused. Mrs. Gould's face, very white within the shadow of the hood, bent over him with an invincible and dreary sadness. And the low sobs of Giselle Viola, kneeling at the end of the bed, her gold hair with coppery gleams loose and scattered over the Capataz's feet, hardly troubled the silence of the room. "Ha! Old Giorgio--the guardian of thine honour! Fancy the Vecchio coming upon me so light of foot, so steady of aim. I myself could have done no better. But the price of a charge of powder might have been saved. The honour was safe. . . . Senora, she would have followed to the end of the world Nostromo the thief. . . . I have said the word. The spell is broken!" A low moan from the girl made him cast his eyes down. "I cannot see her. . . . No matter," he went on, with the shadow of the old magnificent carelessness in his voice. "One kiss is enough, if there is no time for more. An airy soul, senora! Bright and warm, like sunshine--soon clouded, and soon serene. They would crush it there between them. Senora, cast on her the eye of your compassion, as famed from one end of the land to the other as the courage and daring of the man who speaks to you. She will console herself in time. And even Ramirez is not a bad fellow. I am not angry. No! It is not Ramirez who overcame the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores." He paused, made an effort, and in louder voice, a little wildly, declared-- "I die betrayed--betrayed by----" But he did not say by whom or by what he was dying betrayed. "She would not have betrayed me," he began again, opening his eyes very wide. "She was faithful. We were going very far--very soon. I could have torn myself away from that accursed treasure for her. For that child I would have left boxes and boxes of it--full. And Decoud took four. Four ingots. Why? Picardia! To betray me? How could I give back the treasure with four ingots missing? They would have said I had purloined them. The doctor would have said that. Alas! it holds me yet!" Mrs. Gould bent low, fascinated--cold with apprehension. "What became of Don Martin on that night, Nostromo?" "Who knows? I wondered what would become of me. Now I know. Death was to come upon me unawares. He went away! He betrayed me. And you think I have killed him! You are all alike, you fine people. The silver has killed me. It has held me. It holds me yet. Nobody knows where it is. But you are the wife of Don Carlos, who put it into my hands and said, 'Save it on your life.' And when I returned, and you all thought it was lost, what do I hear? 'It was nothing of importance. Let it go. Up, Nostromo, the faithful, and ride away to save us, for dear life!'" "Nostromo!" Mrs. Gould whispered, bending very low. "I, too, have hated the idea of that silver from the bottom of my heart." "Marvellous!--that one of you should hate the wealth that you know so well how to take from the hands of the poor. The world rests upon the poor, as old Giorgio says. You have been always good to the poor. But there is something accursed in wealth. Senora, shall I tell you where the treasure is? To you alone. . . . Shining! Incorruptible!" A pained, involuntary reluctance lingered in his tone, in his eyes, plain to the woman with the genius of sympathetic intuition. She averted her glance from the miserable subjection of the dying man, appalled, wishing to hear no more of the silver. "No, Capataz," she said. "No one misses it now. Let it be lost for ever." After hearing these words, Nostromo closed his eyes, uttered no word, made no movement. Outside the door of the sick-room Dr. Monygham, excited to the highest pitch, his eyes shining with eagerness, came up to the two women. "Now, Mrs. Gould," he said, almost brutally in his impatience, "tell me, was I right? There is a mystery. You have got the word of it, have you not? He told you----" "He told me nothing," said Mrs. Gould, steadily. The light of his temperamental enmity to Nostromo went out of Dr. Monygham's eyes. He stepped back submissively. He did not believe Mrs. Gould. But her word was law. He accepted her denial like an inexplicable fatality affirming the victory of Nostromo's genius over his own. Even before that woman, whom he loved with secret devotion, he had been defeated by the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores, the man who had lived his own life on the assumption of unbroken fidelity, rectitude, and courage! "Pray send at once somebody for my carriage," spoke Mrs. Gould from within her hood. Then, turning to Giselle Viola, "Come nearer me, child; come closer. We will wait here." Giselle Viola, heartbroken and childlike, her face veiled in her falling hair, crept up to her side. Mrs. Gould slipped her hand through the arm of the unworthy daughter of old Viola, the immaculate republican, the hero without a stain. Slowly, gradually, as a withered flower droops, the head of the girl, who would have followed a thief to the end of the world, rested on the shoulder of Dona Emilia, the first lady of Sulaco, the wife of the Senor Administrador of the San Tome mine. And Mrs. Gould, feeling her suppressed sobbing, nervous and excited, had the first and only moment of bitterness in her life. It was worthy of Dr. Monygham himself. "Console yourself, child. Very soon he would have forgotten you for his treasure." "Senora, he loved me. He loved me," Giselle whispered, despairingly. "He loved me as no one had ever been loved before." "I have been loved, too," Mrs. Gould said in a severe tone. Giselle clung to her convulsively. "Oh, senora, but you shall live adored to the end of your life," she sobbed out. Mrs. Gould kept an unbroken silence till the carriage arrived. She helped in the half-fainting girl. After the doctor had shut the door of the landau, she leaned over to him. "You can do nothing?" she whispered. "No, Mrs. Gould. Moreover, he won't let us touch him. It does not matter. I just had one look. . . . Useless." But he promised to see old Viola and the other girl that very night. He could get the police-boat to take him off to the island. He remained in the street, looking after the landau rolling away slowly behind the white mules. The rumour of some accident--an accident to Captain Fidanza--had been spreading along the new quays with their rows of lamps and the dark shapes of towering cranes. A knot of night prowlers--the poorest of the poor--hung about the door of the first-aid hospital, whispering in the moonlight of the empty street. There was no one with the wounded man but the pale photographer, small, frail, bloodthirsty, the hater of capitalists, perched on a high stool near the head of the bed with his knees up and his chin in his hands. He had been fetched by a comrade who, working late on the wharf, had heard from a negro belonging to a lancha, that Captain Fidanza had been brought ashore mortally wounded. "Have you any dispositions to make, comrade?" he asked, anxiously. "Do not forget that we want money for our work. The rich must be fought with their own weapons." Nostromo made no answer. The other did not insist, remaining huddled up on the stool, shock-headed, wildly hairy, like a hunchbacked monkey. Then, after a long silence-- "Comrade Fidanza," he began, solemnly, "you have refused all aid from that doctor. Is he really a dangerous enemy of the people?" In the dimly lit room Nostromo rolled his head slowly on the pillow and opened his eyes, directing at the weird figure perched by his bedside a glance of enigmatic and profound inquiry. Then his head rolled back, his eyelids fell, and the Capataz de Cargadores died without a word or moan after an hour of immobility, broken by short shudders testifying to the most atrocious sufferings. Dr. Monygham, going out in the police-galley to the islands, beheld the glitter of the moon upon the gulf and the high black shape of the Great Isabel sending a shaft of light afar, from under the canopy of clouds. "Pull easy," he said, wondering what he would find there. He tried to imagine Linda and her father, and discovered a strange reluctance within himself. "Pull easy," he repeated. * * * * * * From the moment he fired at the thief of his honour, Giorgio Viola had not stirred from the spot. He stood, his old gun grounded, his hand grasping the barrel near the muzzle. After the lancha carrying off Nostromo for ever from her had left the shore, Linda, coming up, stopped before him. He did not seem to be aware of her presence, but when, losing her forced calmness, she cried out-- "Do you know whom you have killed?" he answered-- "Ramirez the vagabond." White, and staring insanely at her father, Linda laughed in his face. After a time he joined her faintly in a deep-toned and distant echo of her peals. Then she stopped, and the old man spoke as if startled-- "He cried out in son Gian' Battista's voice." The gun fell from his opened hand, but the arm remained extended for a moment as if still supported. Linda seized it roughly. "You are too old to understand. Come into the house." He let her lead him. On the threshold he stumbled heavily, nearly coming to the ground together with his daughter. His excitement, his activity of the last few days, had been like the flare of a dying lamp. He caught at the back of his chair. "In son Gian' Battista's voice," he repeated in a severe tone. "I heard him--Ramirez--the miserable----" Linda helped him into the chair, and, bending low, hissed into his ear-- "You have killed Gian' Battista." The old man smiled under his thick moustache. Women had strange fancies. "Where is the child?" he asked, surprised at the penetrating chilliness of the air and the unwonted dimness of the lamp by which he used to sit up half the night with the open Bible before him. Linda hesitated a moment, then averted her eyes. "She is asleep," she said. "We shall talk of her tomorrow." She could not bear to look at him. He filled her with terror and with an almost unbearable feeling of pity. She had observed the change that came over him. He would never understand what he had done; and even to her the whole thing remained incomprehensible. He said with difficulty-- "Give me the book." Linda laid on the table the closed volume in its worn leather cover, the Bible given him ages ago by an Englishman in Palermo. "The child had to be protected," he said, in a strange, mournful voice. Behind

sacred

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

"I shall go grey, I fear, before the ring is on my finger," she said, slowly, keeping her gaze fastened upon him. She waited for what he would say, rolling down her turned-up sleeves. "No fear of that," he said, absently. She turned away as if it had been something final, and busied herself with household cares while Nostromo talked with her father. Conversation with the old Garibaldino was not easy. Age had left his faculties unimpaired, only they seemed to have withdrawn somewhere deep within him. His answers were slow in coming, with an effect of august gravity. But that day he was more animated, quicker; there seemed to be more life in the old lion. He was uneasy for the integrity of his honour. He believed Sidoni's warning as to Ramirez's designs upon his younger daughter. And he did not trust her. She was flighty. He said nothing of his cares to "Son Gian' Battista." It was a touch of senile vanity. He wanted to show that he was equal yet to the task of guarding alone the honour of his house. Nostromo went away early. As soon as he had disappeared, walking towards the beach, Linda stepped over the threshold and, with a haggard smile, sat down by the side of her father. Ever since that Sunday, when the infatuated and desperate Ramirez had waited for her on the wharf, she had no doubts whatever. The jealous ravings of that man were no revelation. They had only fixed with precision, as with a nail driven into her heart, that sense of unreality and deception which, instead of bliss and security, she had found in her intercourse with her promised husband. She had passed on, pouring indignation and scorn upon Ramirez; but, that Sunday, she nearly died of wretchedness and shame, lying on the carved and lettered stone of Teresa's grave, subscribed for by the engine-drivers and the fitters of the railway workshops, in sign of their respect for the hero of Italian Unity. Old Viola had not been able to carry out his desire of burying his wife in the sea; and Linda wept upon the stone. The gratuitous outrage appalled her. If he wished to break her heart--well and good. Everything was permitted to Gian' Battista. But why trample upon the pieces; why seek to humiliate her spirit? Aha! He could not break that. She dried her tears. And Giselle! Giselle! The little one that, ever since she could toddle, had always clung to her skirt for protection. What duplicity! But she could not help it probably. When there was a man in the case the poor featherheaded wretch could not help herself. Linda had a good share of the Viola stoicism. She resolved to say nothing. But woman-like she put passion into her stoicism. Giselle's short answers, prompted by fearful caution, drove her beside herself by their curtness that resembled disdain. One day she flung herself upon the chair in which her indolent sister was lying and impressed the mark of her teeth at the base of the whitest neck in Sulaco. Giselle cried out. But she had her share of the Viola heroism. Ready to faint with terror, she only said, in a lazy voice, "Madre de Dios! Are you going to eat me alive, Linda?" And this outburst passed off leaving no trace upon the situation. "She knows nothing. She cannot know any thing," reflected Giselle. "Perhaps it is not true. It cannot be true," Linda tried to persuade herself. But when she saw Captain Fidanza for the first time after her meeting with the distracted Ramirez, the certitude of her misfortune returned. She watched him from the doorway go away to his boat, asking herself stoically, "Will they meet to-night?" She made up her mind not to leave the tower for a second. When he had disappeared she came out and sat down by her father. The venerable Garibaldino felt, in his own words, "a young man yet." In one way or another a good deal of talk about Ramirez had reached him of late; and his contempt and dislike of that man who obviously was not what his son would have been, had made him restless. He slept very little now; but for several nights past instead of reading--or only sitting, with Mrs. Gould's silver spectacles on his nose, before the open Bible, he had been prowling actively all about the island with his old gun, on watch over his honour. Linda, laying her thin brown hand on his knee, tried to soothe his excitement. Ramirez was not in Sulaco. Nobody knew where he was. He was gone. His talk of what he would do meant nothing. "No," the old man interrupted. "But son Gian' Battista told me--quite of himself--that the cowardly esclavo was drinking and gambling with the rascals of Zapiga, over there on the north side of the gulf. He may get some of the worst scoundrels of that scoundrelly town of negroes to help him in his attempt upon the little one. . . . But I am not so old. No!" She argued earnestly against the probability of any attempt being made; and at last the old man fell silent, chewing his white moustache. Women had their obstinate notions which must be humoured--his poor wife was like that, and Linda resembled her mother. It was not seemly for a man to argue. "May be. May be," he mumbled. She was by no means easy in her mind. She loved Nostromo. She turned her eyes upon Giselle, sitting at a distance, with something of maternal tenderness, and the jealous anguish of a rival outraged in her defeat. Then she rose and walked over to her. "Listen--you," she said, roughly. The invincible candour of the gaze, raised up all violet and dew, excited her rage and admiration. She had beautiful eyes--the Chica--this vile thing of white flesh and black deception. She did not know whether she wanted to tear them out with shouts of vengeance or cover up their mysterious and shameless innocence with kisses of pity and love. And suddenly they became empty, gazing blankly at her, except for a little fear not quite buried deep enough with all the other emotions in Giselle's heart. Linda said, "Ramirez is boasting in town that he will carry you off from the island." "What folly!" answered the other, and in a perversity born of long restraint, she added: "He is not the man," in a jesting tone with a trembling audacity. "No?" said Linda, through her clenched teeth. "Is he not? Well, then, look to it; because father has been walking about with a loaded gun at night." "It is not good for him. You must tell him not to, Linda. He will not listen to me." "I shall say nothing--never any more--to anybody," cried Linda, passionately. This could not last, thought Giselle. Giovanni must take her away soon--the very next time he came. She would not suffer these terrors for ever so much silver. To speak with her sister made her ill. But she was not uneasy at her father's watchfulness. She had begged Nostromo not to come to the window that night. He had promised to keep away for this once. And she did not know, could not guess or imagine, that he had another reason for coming on the island. Linda had gone straight to the tower. It was time to light up. She unlocked the little door, and went heavily up the spiral staircase, carrying her love for the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores like an ever-increasing load of shameful fetters. No; she could not throw it off. No; let Heaven dispose of these two. And moving about the lantern, filled with twilight and the sheen of the moon, with careful movements she lighted the lamp. Then her arms fell along her body. "And with our mother looking on," she murmured. "My own sister--the Chica!" The whole refracting apparatus, with its brass fittings and rings of prisms, glittered and sparkled like a domeshaped shrine of diamonds, containing not a lamp, but some sacred flame, dominating the sea. And Linda, the keeper, in black, with a pale face, drooped low in a wooden chair, alone with her jealousy, far above the shames and passions of the earth. A strange, dragging pain as if somebody were pulling her about brutally by her dark hair with bronze glints, made her put her hands up to her temples. They would meet. They would meet. And she knew where, too. At the window. The sweat of torture fell in drops on her cheeks, while the moonlight in the offing closed as if with a colossal bar of silver the entrance of the Placid Gulf--the sombre cavern of clouds and stillness in the surf-fretted seaboard. Linda Viola stood up suddenly with a finger on her lip. He loved neither her nor her sister. The whole thing seemed so objectless as to frighten her, and also give her some hope. Why did he not carry her off? What prevented him? He was incomprehensible. What were they waiting for? For what end were these two lying and deceiving? Not for the ends of their love. There was no such thing. The hope of regaining him for herself made her break her vow of not leaving the tower that night. She must talk at once to her father, who was wise, and would understand. She ran down the spiral stairs. At the moment of opening the door at the bottom she heard the sound of the first shot ever fired on the Great Isabel. She felt a shock, as though the bullet had struck her breast. She ran on without pausing. The cottage was dark. She cried at the door, "Giselle! Giselle!" then dashed round the corner and screamed her sister's name at the open window, without getting an answer; but as she was rushing, distracted, round the house, Giselle came out of the door, and darted past her, running silently, her hair loose, and her eyes staring straight ahead. She seemed to skim along the grass as if on tiptoe, and vanished. Linda walked on slowly, with her arms stretched out before her. All was still on the island; she did not know where she was going. The tree under which Martin Decoud spent his last days, beholding life like a succession of senseless images, threw a large blotch of black shade upon the grass. Suddenly she saw her father, standing quietly all alone in the moonlight. The Garibaldino--big, erect, with his snow-white hair and beard--had a monumental repose in his immobility, leaning upon a rifle. She put her hand upon his arm lightly. He never stirred. "What have you done?" she asked, in her ordinary voice. "I have shot Ramirez--infame!" he answered, with his eyes directed to where the shade was blackest. "Like a thief he came, and like a thief he fell. The child had to be protected." He did not offer to move an inch, to advance a single step. He stood there, rugged and unstirring, like a statue of an old man guarding the honour of his house. Linda removed her trembling hand from his arm, firm and steady like an arm of stone, and, without a word, entered the blackness of the shade. She saw a stir of formless shapes on the ground, and stopped short. A murmur of despair and tears grew louder to her strained hearing. "I entreated you not to come to-night. Oh, my Giovanni! And you promised. Oh! Why--why did you come, Giovanni?" It was her sister's voice. It broke on a heartrending sob. And the voice of the resourceful Capataz de Cargadores, master and slave of the San Tome treasure, who had been caught unawares by old Giorgio while stealing across the open towards the ravine to get some more silver, answered careless and cool, but sounding startlingly weak from the ground. "It seemed as though I could not live through the night without seeing thee once more--my star, my little flower." * * * * * The brilliant tertulia was just over, the last guests had departed, and the Senor Administrador had gone to his room already, when Dr. Monygham, who had been expected in the evening but had not turned up, arrived driving along the wood-block pavement under the electric-lamps of the deserted Calle de la Constitucion, and found the great gateway of the Casa still open. He limped in, stumped up the stairs, and found the fat and sleek Basilio on the point of turning off the lights in the sala. The prosperous majordomo remained open-mouthed at this late invasion. "Don't put out the lights," commanded the doctor. "I want to see the senora." "The senora is in the Senor Adminstrador's cancillaria," said Basilio, in an unctuous voice. "The Senor Administrador starts for the mountain in an hour. There is some trouble with the workmen to be feared, it appears. A shameless people without reason and decency. And idle, senor. Idle." "You are shamelessly lazy and imbecile yourself," said the doctor, with that faculty for exasperation which made him so generally beloved. "Don't put the lights out." Basilio retired with dignity. Dr. Monygham, waiting in the brilliantly lighted sala, heard presently a door close at the further end of the house. A jingle of spurs died out. The Senor Administrador was off to the mountain. With a measured swish of her long train, flashing with jewels and the shimmer of silk, her delicate head bowed as if under the weight of a mass of fair hair, in which the silver threads were lost, the "first lady of Sulaco," as Captain Mitchell used to describe her, moved along the lighted corredor, wealthy beyond great dreams of wealth, considered, loved, respected, honoured, and as solitary as any human being had ever been, perhaps, on this earth. The doctor's "Mrs. Gould! One minute!" stopped her with a start at the door of the lighted and empty sala. From the similarity of mood and circumstance, the sight of the doctor, standing there all alone amongst the groups of furniture, recalled to her emotional memory her unexpected meeting with Martin Decoud; she seemed to hear in the silence the voice of that man, dead miserably so many years ago, pronounce the words, "Antonia left her fan here." But it was the doctor's voice that spoke, a little altered by his excitement. She remarked his shining eyes. "Mrs. Gould, you are wanted. Do you know what has happened? You remember what I told you yesterday about Nostromo. Well, it seems that a lancha, a decked boat, coming from Zapiga, with four negroes in her, passing close to the Great Isabel, was hailed from the cliff by a woman's voice--Linda's, as a matter of fact--commanding them (it's a moonlight night) to go round to the beach and take up a wounded man to the town. The patron (from whom I've heard all this), of course, did so at once. He told me that when they got round to the low side of the Great Isabel, they found Linda Viola waiting for them. They followed her: she led them under a tree not far from the cottage. There they found Nostromo lying on the ground with his head in the younger girl's lap, and father Viola standing some distance off leaning on his gun. Under Linda's direction they got a table out of the cottage for a stretcher, after breaking off the legs. They are here, Mrs. Gould. I mean Nostromo and--and Giselle. The negroes brought him in to the first-aid hospital near the harbour. He made the attendant send for me. But it was not me he wanted to see--it was you, Mrs. Gould! It was you." "Me?" whispered Mrs. Gould, shrinking a little. "Yes, you!" the doctor burst out. "He begged me--his enemy, as he thinks--to bring you to him at once. It seems he has something to say to you alone." "Impossible!" murmured Mrs. Gould. "He said to me, 'Remind her that I have done something to keep a roof over her head.' . . . Mrs. Gould," the doctor pursued, in the greatest excitement. "Do you remember the silver? The silver in the lighter--that was lost?" Mrs. Gould remembered. But she did not say she hated the mere mention of that silver. Frankness personified, she remembered with an exaggerated horror that for the first and last time of her life she had concealed the truth from her husband about that very silver. She had been corrupted by her fears at that time, and she had never forgiven herself. Moreover, that silver, which would never have come down if her husband had been made acquainted with the news brought by Decoud, had been in a roundabout way nearly the cause of Dr. Monygham's death. And these things appeared to her very dreadful. "Was it lost, though?" the doctor exclaimed. "I've always felt that there was a mystery about our Nostromo ever since. I do believe he wants now, at the point of death----" "The point of death?" repeated Mrs. Gould. "Yes. Yes. . . . He wants perhaps to tell you something concerning that silver which----" "Oh, no! No!" exclaimed Mrs. Gould, in a low voice. "Isn't it lost and done with? Isn't there enough treasure without it to make everybody in the world miserable?" The doctor remained still, in a submissive, disappointed silence. At last he ventured, very low-- "And there is that Viola girl, Giselle. What are we to do? It looks as though father and sister had----" Mrs. Gould admitted that she felt in duty bound to do her best for these girls. "I have a volante here," the doctor said. "If you don't mind getting into that----" He waited, all impatience, till Mrs. Gould reappeared, having thrown over her dress a grey cloak with a deep hood. It was thus that, cloaked and monastically hooded over her evening costume, this woman, full of endurance and compassion, stood by the side of the bed on which the splendid Capataz de Cargadores lay stretched out motionless on his back. The whiteness of sheets and pillows gave a sombre and energetic relief to his bronzed face, to the dark, nervous hands, so good on a tiller, upon a bridle and on a trigger, lying open and idle upon a white coverlet. "She is innocent," the Capataz was saying in a deep and level voice, as though afraid that a louder word would break the slender hold his spirit still kept upon his body. "She is innocent. It is I alone. But no matter. For these things I would answer to no man or woman alive." He paused. Mrs. Gould's face, very white within the shadow of the hood, bent over him with an invincible and dreary sadness. And the low sobs of Giselle Viola, kneeling at the end of the bed, her gold hair with coppery gleams loose and scattered over the Capataz's feet, hardly troubled the silence of the room. "Ha! Old Giorgio--the guardian of thine honour! Fancy the Vecchio coming upon me so light of foot, so steady of aim. I myself could have done no better. But the price of a charge of powder might have been saved. The honour was safe. . . . Senora, she would have followed to the end of the world Nostromo the thief. . . . I have said the word. The spell is broken!" A low moan from the girl made him cast his eyes down. "I cannot see her. . . . No matter," he went on, with the shadow of the old magnificent carelessness in his voice. "One kiss is enough, if there is no time for more. An airy soul, senora! Bright and warm, like sunshine--soon clouded, and soon serene. They would crush it there between them. Senora, cast on her the eye of your compassion, as famed from one end of the land to the other as the courage and daring of the man who speaks to you. She will console herself in time. And even Ramirez is not a bad fellow. I am not angry. No! It is not Ramirez who overcame the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores." He paused, made an effort, and in louder voice, a little wildly, declared-- "I die betrayed--betrayed by----" But he did not say by whom or by what he was dying betrayed. "She would not have betrayed me," he began again, opening his eyes very wide. "She was faithful. We were going very far--very soon. I could have torn myself away from that accursed treasure for her. For that child I would have left boxes and boxes of it--full. And Decoud took four. Four ingots. Why? Picardia! To betray me? How could I give back the treasure with four ingots missing? They would have said I had purloined them. The doctor would have said that. Alas! it holds me yet!" Mrs. Gould bent low, fascinated--cold with apprehension. "What became of Don Martin on that night, Nostromo?" "Who knows? I wondered what would become of me. Now I know. Death was to come upon me unawares. He went away! He betrayed me. And you think I have killed him! You are all alike, you fine people. The silver has killed me. It has held me. It holds me yet. Nobody knows where it is. But you are the wife of Don Carlos, who put it into my hands and said, 'Save it on your life.' And when I returned, and you all thought it was lost, what do I hear? 'It was nothing of importance. Let it go. Up, Nostromo, the faithful, and ride away to save us, for dear life!'" "Nostromo!" Mrs. Gould whispered, bending very low. "I, too, have hated the idea of that silver from the bottom of my heart." "Marvellous!--that one of you should hate the wealth that you know so well how to take from the hands of the poor. The world rests upon the poor, as old Giorgio says. You have been always good to the poor. But there is something accursed in wealth. Senora, shall I tell you where the treasure is? To you alone. . . . Shining! Incorruptible!" A pained, involuntary reluctance lingered in his tone, in his eyes, plain to the woman with the genius of sympathetic intuition. She averted her glance from the miserable subjection of the dying man, appalled, wishing to hear no more of the silver. "No, Capataz," she said. "No one misses it now. Let it be lost for ever." After hearing these words, Nostromo closed his eyes, uttered no word, made no movement. Outside the door of the sick-room Dr. Monygham, excited to the highest pitch, his eyes shining with eagerness, came up to the two women. "Now, Mrs. Gould," he said, almost brutally in his impatience, "tell me, was I right? There is a mystery. You have got the word of it, have you not? He told you----" "He told me nothing," said Mrs. Gould, steadily. The light of his temperamental enmity to Nostromo went out of Dr. Monygham's eyes. He stepped back submissively. He did not believe Mrs. Gould. But her word was law. He accepted her denial like an inexplicable fatality affirming the victory of Nostromo's genius over his own. Even before that woman, whom he loved with secret devotion, he had been defeated by the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores, the man who had lived his own life on the assumption of unbroken fidelity, rectitude, and courage! "Pray send at once somebody for my carriage," spoke Mrs. Gould from within her hood. Then, turning to Giselle Viola, "Come nearer me, child; come closer. We will wait here." Giselle Viola, heartbroken and childlike, her face veiled in her falling hair, crept up to her side. Mrs. Gould slipped her hand through the arm of the unworthy daughter of old Viola, the immaculate republican, the hero without a stain. Slowly, gradually, as a withered flower droops, the head of the girl, who would have followed a thief to the end of the world, rested on the shoulder of Dona Emilia, the first lady of Sulaco, the wife of the Senor Administrador of the San Tome mine. And Mrs. Gould, feeling her suppressed sobbing, nervous and excited, had the first and only moment of bitterness in her life. It was worthy of Dr. Monygham himself. "Console yourself, child. Very soon he would have forgotten you for his treasure." "Senora, he loved me. He loved me," Giselle whispered, despairingly. "He loved me as no one had ever been loved before." "I have been loved, too," Mrs. Gould said in a severe tone. Giselle clung to her convulsively. "Oh, senora, but you shall live adored to the end of your life," she sobbed out. Mrs. Gould kept an unbroken silence till the carriage arrived. She helped in the half-fainting girl. After the doctor had shut the door of the landau, she leaned over to him. "You can do nothing?" she whispered. "No, Mrs. Gould. Moreover, he won't let us touch him. It does not matter. I just had one look. . . . Useless." But he promised to see old Viola and the other girl that very night. He could get the police-boat to take him off to the island. He remained in the street, looking after the landau rolling away slowly behind the white mules. The rumour of some accident--an accident to Captain Fidanza--had been spreading along the new quays with their rows of lamps and the dark shapes of towering cranes. A knot of night prowlers--the poorest of the poor--hung about the door of the first-aid hospital, whispering in the moonlight of the empty street. There was no one with the wounded man but the pale photographer, small, frail, bloodthirsty, the hater of capitalists, perched on a high stool near the head of the bed with his knees up and his chin in his hands. He had been fetched by a comrade who, working late on the wharf, had heard from a negro belonging to a lancha, that Captain Fidanza had been brought ashore mortally wounded. "Have you any dispositions to make, comrade?" he asked, anxiously. "Do not forget that we want money for our work. The rich must be fought with their own weapons." Nostromo made no answer. The other did not insist, remaining huddled up on the stool, shock-headed, wildly hairy, like a hunchbacked monkey. Then, after a long silence-- "Comrade Fidanza," he began, solemnly, "you have refused all aid from that doctor. Is he really a dangerous enemy of the people?" In the dimly lit room Nostromo rolled his head slowly on the pillow and opened his eyes, directing at the weird figure perched by his bedside a glance of enigmatic and profound inquiry. Then his head rolled back, his eyelids fell, and the Capataz de Cargadores died without a word or moan after an hour of immobility, broken by short shudders testifying to the most atrocious sufferings. Dr. Monygham, going out in the police-galley to the islands, beheld the glitter of the moon upon the gulf and the high black shape of the Great Isabel sending a shaft of light afar, from under the canopy of clouds. "Pull easy," he said, wondering what he would find there. He tried to imagine Linda and her father, and discovered a strange reluctance within himself. "Pull easy," he repeated. * * * * * * From the moment he fired at the thief of his honour, Giorgio Viola had not stirred from the spot. He stood, his old gun grounded, his hand grasping the barrel near the muzzle. After the lancha carrying off Nostromo for ever from her had left the shore, Linda, coming up, stopped before him. He did not seem to be aware of her presence, but when, losing her forced calmness, she cried out-- "Do you know whom you have killed?" he answered-- "Ramirez the vagabond." White, and staring insanely at her father, Linda laughed in his face. After a time he joined her faintly in a deep-toned and distant echo of her peals. Then she stopped, and the old man spoke as if startled-- "He cried out in son Gian' Battista's voice." The gun fell from his opened hand, but the arm remained extended for a moment as if still supported. Linda seized it roughly. "You are too old to understand. Come into the house." He let her lead him. On the threshold he stumbled heavily, nearly coming to the ground together with his daughter. His excitement, his activity of the last few days, had been like the flare of a dying lamp. He caught at the back of his chair. "In son Gian' Battista's voice," he repeated in a severe tone. "I heard him--Ramirez--the miserable----" Linda helped him into the chair, and, bending low, hissed into his ear-- "You have killed Gian' Battista." The old man smiled under his thick moustache. Women had strange fancies. "Where is the child?" he asked, surprised at the penetrating chilliness of the air and the unwonted dimness of the lamp by which he used to sit up half the night with the open Bible before him. Linda hesitated a moment, then averted her eyes. "She is asleep," she said. "We shall talk of her tomorrow." She could not bear to look at him. He filled her with terror and with an almost unbearable feeling of pity. She had observed the change that came over him. He would never understand what he had done; and even to her the whole thing remained incomprehensible. He said with difficulty-- "Give me the book." Linda laid on the table the closed volume in its worn leather cover, the Bible given him ages ago by an Englishman in Palermo. "The child had to be protected," he said, in a strange, mournful voice. Behind

viola

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

"I shall go grey, I fear, before the ring is on my finger," she said, slowly, keeping her gaze fastened upon him. She waited for what he would say, rolling down her turned-up sleeves. "No fear of that," he said, absently. She turned away as if it had been something final, and busied herself with household cares while Nostromo talked with her father. Conversation with the old Garibaldino was not easy. Age had left his faculties unimpaired, only they seemed to have withdrawn somewhere deep within him. His answers were slow in coming, with an effect of august gravity. But that day he was more animated, quicker; there seemed to be more life in the old lion. He was uneasy for the integrity of his honour. He believed Sidoni's warning as to Ramirez's designs upon his younger daughter. And he did not trust her. She was flighty. He said nothing of his cares to "Son Gian' Battista." It was a touch of senile vanity. He wanted to show that he was equal yet to the task of guarding alone the honour of his house. Nostromo went away early. As soon as he had disappeared, walking towards the beach, Linda stepped over the threshold and, with a haggard smile, sat down by the side of her father. Ever since that Sunday, when the infatuated and desperate Ramirez had waited for her on the wharf, she had no doubts whatever. The jealous ravings of that man were no revelation. They had only fixed with precision, as with a nail driven into her heart, that sense of unreality and deception which, instead of bliss and security, she had found in her intercourse with her promised husband. She had passed on, pouring indignation and scorn upon Ramirez; but, that Sunday, she nearly died of wretchedness and shame, lying on the carved and lettered stone of Teresa's grave, subscribed for by the engine-drivers and the fitters of the railway workshops, in sign of their respect for the hero of Italian Unity. Old Viola had not been able to carry out his desire of burying his wife in the sea; and Linda wept upon the stone. The gratuitous outrage appalled her. If he wished to break her heart--well and good. Everything was permitted to Gian' Battista. But why trample upon the pieces; why seek to humiliate her spirit? Aha! He could not break that. She dried her tears. And Giselle! Giselle! The little one that, ever since she could toddle, had always clung to her skirt for protection. What duplicity! But she could not help it probably. When there was a man in the case the poor featherheaded wretch could not help herself. Linda had a good share of the Viola stoicism. She resolved to say nothing. But woman-like she put passion into her stoicism. Giselle's short answers, prompted by fearful caution, drove her beside herself by their curtness that resembled disdain. One day she flung herself upon the chair in which her indolent sister was lying and impressed the mark of her teeth at the base of the whitest neck in Sulaco. Giselle cried out. But she had her share of the Viola heroism. Ready to faint with terror, she only said, in a lazy voice, "Madre de Dios! Are you going to eat me alive, Linda?" And this outburst passed off leaving no trace upon the situation. "She knows nothing. She cannot know any thing," reflected Giselle. "Perhaps it is not true. It cannot be true," Linda tried to persuade herself. But when she saw Captain Fidanza for the first time after her meeting with the distracted Ramirez, the certitude of her misfortune returned. She watched him from the doorway go away to his boat, asking herself stoically, "Will they meet to-night?" She made up her mind not to leave the tower for a second. When he had disappeared she came out and sat down by her father. The venerable Garibaldino felt, in his own words, "a young man yet." In one way or another a good deal of talk about Ramirez had reached him of late; and his contempt and dislike of that man who obviously was not what his son would have been, had made him restless. He slept very little now; but for several nights past instead of reading--or only sitting, with Mrs. Gould's silver spectacles on his nose, before the open Bible, he had been prowling actively all about the island with his old gun, on watch over his honour. Linda, laying her thin brown hand on his knee, tried to soothe his excitement. Ramirez was not in Sulaco. Nobody knew where he was. He was gone. His talk of what he would do meant nothing. "No," the old man interrupted. "But son Gian' Battista told me--quite of himself--that the cowardly esclavo was drinking and gambling with the rascals of Zapiga, over there on the north side of the gulf. He may get some of the worst scoundrels of that scoundrelly town of negroes to help him in his attempt upon the little one. . . . But I am not so old. No!" She argued earnestly against the probability of any attempt being made; and at last the old man fell silent, chewing his white moustache. Women had their obstinate notions which must be humoured--his poor wife was like that, and Linda resembled her mother. It was not seemly for a man to argue. "May be. May be," he mumbled. She was by no means easy in her mind. She loved Nostromo. She turned her eyes upon Giselle, sitting at a distance, with something of maternal tenderness, and the jealous anguish of a rival outraged in her defeat. Then she rose and walked over to her. "Listen--you," she said, roughly. The invincible candour of the gaze, raised up all violet and dew, excited her rage and admiration. She had beautiful eyes--the Chica--this vile thing of white flesh and black deception. She did not know whether she wanted to tear them out with shouts of vengeance or cover up their mysterious and shameless innocence with kisses of pity and love. And suddenly they became empty, gazing blankly at her, except for a little fear not quite buried deep enough with all the other emotions in Giselle's heart. Linda said, "Ramirez is boasting in town that he will carry you off from the island." "What folly!" answered the other, and in a perversity born of long restraint, she added: "He is not the man," in a jesting tone with a trembling audacity. "No?" said Linda, through her clenched teeth. "Is he not? Well, then, look to it; because father has been walking about with a loaded gun at night." "It is not good for him. You must tell him not to, Linda. He will not listen to me." "I shall say nothing--never any more--to anybody," cried Linda, passionately. This could not last, thought Giselle. Giovanni must take her away soon--the very next time he came. She would not suffer these terrors for ever so much silver. To speak with her sister made her ill. But she was not uneasy at her father's watchfulness. She had begged Nostromo not to come to the window that night. He had promised to keep away for this once. And she did not know, could not guess or imagine, that he had another reason for coming on the island. Linda had gone straight to the tower. It was time to light up. She unlocked the little door, and went heavily up the spiral staircase, carrying her love for the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores like an ever-increasing load of shameful fetters. No; she could not throw it off. No; let Heaven dispose of these two. And moving about the lantern, filled with twilight and the sheen of the moon, with careful movements she lighted the lamp. Then her arms fell along her body. "And with our mother looking on," she murmured. "My own sister--the Chica!" The whole refracting apparatus, with its brass fittings and rings of prisms, glittered and sparkled like a domeshaped shrine of diamonds, containing not a lamp, but some sacred flame, dominating the sea. And Linda, the keeper, in black, with a pale face, drooped low in a wooden chair, alone with her jealousy, far above the shames and passions of the earth. A strange, dragging pain as if somebody were pulling her about brutally by her dark hair with bronze glints, made her put her hands up to her temples. They would meet. They would meet. And she knew where, too. At the window. The sweat of torture fell in drops on her cheeks, while the moonlight in the offing closed as if with a colossal bar of silver the entrance of the Placid Gulf--the sombre cavern of clouds and stillness in the surf-fretted seaboard. Linda Viola stood up suddenly with a finger on her lip. He loved neither her nor her sister. The whole thing seemed so objectless as to frighten her, and also give her some hope. Why did he not carry her off? What prevented him? He was incomprehensible. What were they waiting for? For what end were these two lying and deceiving? Not for the ends of their love. There was no such thing. The hope of regaining him for herself made her break her vow of not leaving the tower that night. She must talk at once to her father, who was wise, and would understand. She ran down the spiral stairs. At the moment of opening the door at the bottom she heard the sound of the first shot ever fired on the Great Isabel. She felt a shock, as though the bullet had struck her breast. She ran on without pausing. The cottage was dark. She cried at the door, "Giselle! Giselle!" then dashed round the corner and screamed her sister's name at the open window, without getting an answer; but as she was rushing, distracted, round the house, Giselle came out of the door, and darted past her, running silently, her hair loose, and her eyes staring straight ahead. She seemed to skim along the grass as if on tiptoe, and vanished. Linda walked on slowly, with her arms stretched out before her. All was still on the island; she did not know where she was going. The tree under which Martin Decoud spent his last days, beholding life like a succession of senseless images, threw a large blotch of black shade upon the grass. Suddenly she saw her father, standing quietly all alone in the moonlight. The Garibaldino--big, erect, with his snow-white hair and beard--had a monumental repose in his immobility, leaning upon a rifle. She put her hand upon his arm lightly. He never stirred. "What have you done?" she asked, in her ordinary voice. "I have shot Ramirez--infame!" he answered, with his eyes directed to where the shade was blackest. "Like a thief he came, and like a thief he fell. The child had to be protected." He did not offer to move an inch, to advance a single step. He stood there, rugged and unstirring, like a statue of an old man guarding the honour of his house. Linda removed her trembling hand from his arm, firm and steady like an arm of stone, and, without a word, entered the blackness of the shade. She saw a stir of formless shapes on the ground, and stopped short. A murmur of despair and tears grew louder to her strained hearing. "I entreated you not to come to-night. Oh, my Giovanni! And you promised. Oh! Why--why did you come, Giovanni?" It was her sister's voice. It broke on a heartrending sob. And the voice of the resourceful Capataz de Cargadores, master and slave of the San Tome treasure, who had been caught unawares by old Giorgio while stealing across the open towards the ravine to get some more silver, answered careless and cool, but sounding startlingly weak from the ground. "It seemed as though I could not live through the night without seeing thee once more--my star, my little flower." * * * * * The brilliant tertulia was just over, the last guests had departed, and the Senor Administrador had gone to his room already, when Dr. Monygham, who had been expected in the evening but had not turned up, arrived driving along the wood-block pavement under the electric-lamps of the deserted Calle de la Constitucion, and found the great gateway of the Casa still open. He limped in, stumped up the stairs, and found the fat and sleek Basilio on the point of turning off the lights in the sala. The prosperous majordomo remained open-mouthed at this late invasion. "Don't put out the lights," commanded the doctor. "I want to see the senora." "The senora is in the Senor Adminstrador's cancillaria," said Basilio, in an unctuous voice. "The Senor Administrador starts for the mountain in an hour. There is some trouble with the workmen to be feared, it appears. A shameless people without reason and decency. And idle, senor. Idle." "You are shamelessly lazy and imbecile yourself," said the doctor, with that faculty for exasperation which made him so generally beloved. "Don't put the lights out." Basilio retired with dignity. Dr. Monygham, waiting in the brilliantly lighted sala, heard presently a door close at the further end of the house. A jingle of spurs died out. The Senor Administrador was off to the mountain. With a measured swish of her long train, flashing with jewels and the shimmer of silk, her delicate head bowed as if under the weight of a mass of fair hair, in which the silver threads were lost, the "first lady of Sulaco," as Captain Mitchell used to describe her, moved along the lighted corredor, wealthy beyond great dreams of wealth, considered, loved, respected, honoured, and as solitary as any human being had ever been, perhaps, on this earth. The doctor's "Mrs. Gould! One minute!" stopped her with a start at the door of the lighted and empty sala. From the similarity of mood and circumstance, the sight of the doctor, standing there all alone amongst the groups of furniture, recalled to her emotional memory her unexpected meeting with Martin Decoud; she seemed to hear in the silence the voice of that man, dead miserably so many years ago, pronounce the words, "Antonia left her fan here." But it was the doctor's voice that spoke, a little altered by his excitement. She remarked his shining eyes. "Mrs. Gould, you are wanted. Do you know what has happened? You remember what I told you yesterday about Nostromo. Well, it seems that a lancha, a decked boat, coming from Zapiga, with four negroes in her, passing close to the Great Isabel, was hailed from the cliff by a woman's voice--Linda's, as a matter of fact--commanding them (it's a moonlight night) to go round to the beach and take up a wounded man to the town. The patron (from whom I've heard all this), of course, did so at once. He told me that when they got round to the low side of the Great Isabel, they found Linda Viola waiting for them. They followed her: she led them under a tree not far from the cottage. There they found Nostromo lying on the ground with his head in the younger girl's lap, and father Viola standing some distance off leaning on his gun. Under Linda's direction they got a table out of the cottage for a stretcher, after breaking off the legs. They are here, Mrs. Gould. I mean Nostromo and--and Giselle. The negroes brought him in to the first-aid hospital near the harbour. He made the attendant send for me. But it was not me he wanted to see--it was you, Mrs. Gould! It was you." "Me?" whispered Mrs. Gould, shrinking a little. "Yes, you!" the doctor burst out. "He begged me--his enemy, as he thinks--to bring you to him at once. It seems he has something to say to you alone." "Impossible!" murmured Mrs. Gould. "He said to me, 'Remind her that I have done something to keep a roof over her head.' . . . Mrs. Gould," the doctor pursued, in the greatest excitement. "Do you remember the silver? The silver in the lighter--that was lost?" Mrs. Gould remembered. But she did not say she hated the mere mention of that silver. Frankness personified, she remembered with an exaggerated horror that for the first and last time of her life she had concealed the truth from her husband about that very silver. She had been corrupted by her fears at that time, and she had never forgiven herself. Moreover, that silver, which would never have come down if her husband had been made acquainted with the news brought by Decoud, had been in a roundabout way nearly the cause of Dr. Monygham's death. And these things appeared to her very dreadful. "Was it lost, though?" the doctor exclaimed. "I've always felt that there was a mystery about our Nostromo ever since. I do believe he wants now, at the point of death----" "The point of death?" repeated Mrs. Gould. "Yes. Yes. . . . He wants perhaps to tell you something concerning that silver which----" "Oh, no! No!" exclaimed Mrs. Gould, in a low voice. "Isn't it lost and done with? Isn't there enough treasure without it to make everybody in the world miserable?" The doctor remained still, in a submissive, disappointed silence. At last he ventured, very low-- "And there is that Viola girl, Giselle. What are we to do? It looks as though father and sister had----" Mrs. Gould admitted that she felt in duty bound to do her best for these girls. "I have a volante here," the doctor said. "If you don't mind getting into that----" He waited, all impatience, till Mrs. Gould reappeared, having thrown over her dress a grey cloak with a deep hood. It was thus that, cloaked and monastically hooded over her evening costume, this woman, full of endurance and compassion, stood by the side of the bed on which the splendid Capataz de Cargadores lay stretched out motionless on his back. The whiteness of sheets and pillows gave a sombre and energetic relief to his bronzed face, to the dark, nervous hands, so good on a tiller, upon a bridle and on a trigger, lying open and idle upon a white coverlet. "She is innocent," the Capataz was saying in a deep and level voice, as though afraid that a louder word would break the slender hold his spirit still kept upon his body. "She is innocent. It is I alone. But no matter. For these things I would answer to no man or woman alive." He paused. Mrs. Gould's face, very white within the shadow of the hood, bent over him with an invincible and dreary sadness. And the low sobs of Giselle Viola, kneeling at the end of the bed, her gold hair with coppery gleams loose and scattered over the Capataz's feet, hardly troubled the silence of the room. "Ha! Old Giorgio--the guardian of thine honour! Fancy the Vecchio coming upon me so light of foot, so steady of aim. I myself could have done no better. But the price of a charge of powder might have been saved. The honour was safe. . . . Senora, she would have followed to the end of the world Nostromo the thief. . . . I have said the word. The spell is broken!" A low moan from the girl made him cast his eyes down. "I cannot see her. . . . No matter," he went on, with the shadow of the old magnificent carelessness in his voice. "One kiss is enough, if there is no time for more. An airy soul, senora! Bright and warm, like sunshine--soon clouded, and soon serene. They would crush it there between them. Senora, cast on her the eye of your compassion, as famed from one end of the land to the other as the courage and daring of the man who speaks to you. She will console herself in time. And even Ramirez is not a bad fellow. I am not angry. No! It is not Ramirez who overcame the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores." He paused, made an effort, and in louder voice, a little wildly, declared-- "I die betrayed--betrayed by----" But he did not say by whom or by what he was dying betrayed. "She would not have betrayed me," he began again, opening his eyes very wide. "She was faithful. We were going very far--very soon. I could have torn myself away from that accursed treasure for her. For that child I would have left boxes and boxes of it--full. And Decoud took four. Four ingots. Why? Picardia! To betray me? How could I give back the treasure with four ingots missing? They would have said I had purloined them. The doctor would have said that. Alas! it holds me yet!" Mrs. Gould bent low, fascinated--cold with apprehension. "What became of Don Martin on that night, Nostromo?" "Who knows? I wondered what would become of me. Now I know. Death was to come upon me unawares. He went away! He betrayed me. And you think I have killed him! You are all alike, you fine people. The silver has killed me. It has held me. It holds me yet. Nobody knows where it is. But you are the wife of Don Carlos, who put it into my hands and said, 'Save it on your life.' And when I returned, and you all thought it was lost, what do I hear? 'It was nothing of importance. Let it go. Up, Nostromo, the faithful, and ride away to save us, for dear life!'" "Nostromo!" Mrs. Gould whispered, bending very low. "I, too, have hated the idea of that silver from the bottom of my heart." "Marvellous!--that one of you should hate the wealth that you know so well how to take from the hands of the poor. The world rests upon the poor, as old Giorgio says. You have been always good to the poor. But there is something accursed in wealth. Senora, shall I tell you where the treasure is? To you alone. . . . Shining! Incorruptible!" A pained, involuntary reluctance lingered in his tone, in his eyes, plain to the woman with the genius of sympathetic intuition. She averted her glance from the miserable subjection of the dying man, appalled, wishing to hear no more of the silver. "No, Capataz," she said. "No one misses it now. Let it be lost for ever." After hearing these words, Nostromo closed his eyes, uttered no word, made no movement. Outside the door of the sick-room Dr. Monygham, excited to the highest pitch, his eyes shining with eagerness, came up to the two women. "Now, Mrs. Gould," he said, almost brutally in his impatience, "tell me, was I right? There is a mystery. You have got the word of it, have you not? He told you----" "He told me nothing," said Mrs. Gould, steadily. The light of his temperamental enmity to Nostromo went out of Dr. Monygham's eyes. He stepped back submissively. He did not believe Mrs. Gould. But her word was law. He accepted her denial like an inexplicable fatality affirming the victory of Nostromo's genius over his own. Even before that woman, whom he loved with secret devotion, he had been defeated by the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores, the man who had lived his own life on the assumption of unbroken fidelity, rectitude, and courage! "Pray send at once somebody for my carriage," spoke Mrs. Gould from within her hood. Then, turning to Giselle Viola, "Come nearer me, child; come closer. We will wait here." Giselle Viola, heartbroken and childlike, her face veiled in her falling hair, crept up to her side. Mrs. Gould slipped her hand through the arm of the unworthy daughter of old Viola, the immaculate republican, the hero without a stain. Slowly, gradually, as a withered flower droops, the head of the girl, who would have followed a thief to the end of the world, rested on the shoulder of Dona Emilia, the first lady of Sulaco, the wife of the Senor Administrador of the San Tome mine. And Mrs. Gould, feeling her suppressed sobbing, nervous and excited, had the first and only moment of bitterness in her life. It was worthy of Dr. Monygham himself. "Console yourself, child. Very soon he would have forgotten you for his treasure." "Senora, he loved me. He loved me," Giselle whispered, despairingly. "He loved me as no one had ever been loved before." "I have been loved, too," Mrs. Gould said in a severe tone. Giselle clung to her convulsively. "Oh, senora, but you shall live adored to the end of your life," she sobbed out. Mrs. Gould kept an unbroken silence till the carriage arrived. She helped in the half-fainting girl. After the doctor had shut the door of the landau, she leaned over to him. "You can do nothing?" she whispered. "No, Mrs. Gould. Moreover, he won't let us touch him. It does not matter. I just had one look. . . . Useless." But he promised to see old Viola and the other girl that very night. He could get the police-boat to take him off to the island. He remained in the street, looking after the landau rolling away slowly behind the white mules. The rumour of some accident--an accident to Captain Fidanza--had been spreading along the new quays with their rows of lamps and the dark shapes of towering cranes. A knot of night prowlers--the poorest of the poor--hung about the door of the first-aid hospital, whispering in the moonlight of the empty street. There was no one with the wounded man but the pale photographer, small, frail, bloodthirsty, the hater of capitalists, perched on a high stool near the head of the bed with his knees up and his chin in his hands. He had been fetched by a comrade who, working late on the wharf, had heard from a negro belonging to a lancha, that Captain Fidanza had been brought ashore mortally wounded. "Have you any dispositions to make, comrade?" he asked, anxiously. "Do not forget that we want money for our work. The rich must be fought with their own weapons." Nostromo made no answer. The other did not insist, remaining huddled up on the stool, shock-headed, wildly hairy, like a hunchbacked monkey. Then, after a long silence-- "Comrade Fidanza," he began, solemnly, "you have refused all aid from that doctor. Is he really a dangerous enemy of the people?" In the dimly lit room Nostromo rolled his head slowly on the pillow and opened his eyes, directing at the weird figure perched by his bedside a glance of enigmatic and profound inquiry. Then his head rolled back, his eyelids fell, and the Capataz de Cargadores died without a word or moan after an hour of immobility, broken by short shudders testifying to the most atrocious sufferings. Dr. Monygham, going out in the police-galley to the islands, beheld the glitter of the moon upon the gulf and the high black shape of the Great Isabel sending a shaft of light afar, from under the canopy of clouds. "Pull easy," he said, wondering what he would find there. He tried to imagine Linda and her father, and discovered a strange reluctance within himself. "Pull easy," he repeated. * * * * * * From the moment he fired at the thief of his honour, Giorgio Viola had not stirred from the spot. He stood, his old gun grounded, his hand grasping the barrel near the muzzle. After the lancha carrying off Nostromo for ever from her had left the shore, Linda, coming up, stopped before him. He did not seem to be aware of her presence, but when, losing her forced calmness, she cried out-- "Do you know whom you have killed?" he answered-- "Ramirez the vagabond." White, and staring insanely at her father, Linda laughed in his face. After a time he joined her faintly in a deep-toned and distant echo of her peals. Then she stopped, and the old man spoke as if startled-- "He cried out in son Gian' Battista's voice." The gun fell from his opened hand, but the arm remained extended for a moment as if still supported. Linda seized it roughly. "You are too old to understand. Come into the house." He let her lead him. On the threshold he stumbled heavily, nearly coming to the ground together with his daughter. His excitement, his activity of the last few days, had been like the flare of a dying lamp. He caught at the back of his chair. "In son Gian' Battista's voice," he repeated in a severe tone. "I heard him--Ramirez--the miserable----" Linda helped him into the chair, and, bending low, hissed into his ear-- "You have killed Gian' Battista." The old man smiled under his thick moustache. Women had strange fancies. "Where is the child?" he asked, surprised at the penetrating chilliness of the air and the unwonted dimness of the lamp by which he used to sit up half the night with the open Bible before him. Linda hesitated a moment, then averted her eyes. "She is asleep," she said. "We shall talk of her tomorrow." She could not bear to look at him. He filled her with terror and with an almost unbearable feeling of pity. She had observed the change that came over him. He would never understand what he had done; and even to her the whole thing remained incomprehensible. He said with difficulty-- "Give me the book." Linda laid on the table the closed volume in its worn leather cover, the Bible given him ages ago by an Englishman in Palermo. "The child had to be protected," he said, in a strange, mournful voice. Behind

news

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

"I shall go grey, I fear, before the ring is on my finger," she said, slowly, keeping her gaze fastened upon him. She waited for what he would say, rolling down her turned-up sleeves. "No fear of that," he said, absently. She turned away as if it had been something final, and busied herself with household cares while Nostromo talked with her father. Conversation with the old Garibaldino was not easy. Age had left his faculties unimpaired, only they seemed to have withdrawn somewhere deep within him. His answers were slow in coming, with an effect of august gravity. But that day he was more animated, quicker; there seemed to be more life in the old lion. He was uneasy for the integrity of his honour. He believed Sidoni's warning as to Ramirez's designs upon his younger daughter. And he did not trust her. She was flighty. He said nothing of his cares to "Son Gian' Battista." It was a touch of senile vanity. He wanted to show that he was equal yet to the task of guarding alone the honour of his house. Nostromo went away early. As soon as he had disappeared, walking towards the beach, Linda stepped over the threshold and, with a haggard smile, sat down by the side of her father. Ever since that Sunday, when the infatuated and desperate Ramirez had waited for her on the wharf, she had no doubts whatever. The jealous ravings of that man were no revelation. They had only fixed with precision, as with a nail driven into her heart, that sense of unreality and deception which, instead of bliss and security, she had found in her intercourse with her promised husband. She had passed on, pouring indignation and scorn upon Ramirez; but, that Sunday, she nearly died of wretchedness and shame, lying on the carved and lettered stone of Teresa's grave, subscribed for by the engine-drivers and the fitters of the railway workshops, in sign of their respect for the hero of Italian Unity. Old Viola had not been able to carry out his desire of burying his wife in the sea; and Linda wept upon the stone. The gratuitous outrage appalled her. If he wished to break her heart--well and good. Everything was permitted to Gian' Battista. But why trample upon the pieces; why seek to humiliate her spirit? Aha! He could not break that. She dried her tears. And Giselle! Giselle! The little one that, ever since she could toddle, had always clung to her skirt for protection. What duplicity! But she could not help it probably. When there was a man in the case the poor featherheaded wretch could not help herself. Linda had a good share of the Viola stoicism. She resolved to say nothing. But woman-like she put passion into her stoicism. Giselle's short answers, prompted by fearful caution, drove her beside herself by their curtness that resembled disdain. One day she flung herself upon the chair in which her indolent sister was lying and impressed the mark of her teeth at the base of the whitest neck in Sulaco. Giselle cried out. But she had her share of the Viola heroism. Ready to faint with terror, she only said, in a lazy voice, "Madre de Dios! Are you going to eat me alive, Linda?" And this outburst passed off leaving no trace upon the situation. "She knows nothing. She cannot know any thing," reflected Giselle. "Perhaps it is not true. It cannot be true," Linda tried to persuade herself. But when she saw Captain Fidanza for the first time after her meeting with the distracted Ramirez, the certitude of her misfortune returned. She watched him from the doorway go away to his boat, asking herself stoically, "Will they meet to-night?" She made up her mind not to leave the tower for a second. When he had disappeared she came out and sat down by her father. The venerable Garibaldino felt, in his own words, "a young man yet." In one way or another a good deal of talk about Ramirez had reached him of late; and his contempt and dislike of that man who obviously was not what his son would have been, had made him restless. He slept very little now; but for several nights past instead of reading--or only sitting, with Mrs. Gould's silver spectacles on his nose, before the open Bible, he had been prowling actively all about the island with his old gun, on watch over his honour. Linda, laying her thin brown hand on his knee, tried to soothe his excitement. Ramirez was not in Sulaco. Nobody knew where he was. He was gone. His talk of what he would do meant nothing. "No," the old man interrupted. "But son Gian' Battista told me--quite of himself--that the cowardly esclavo was drinking and gambling with the rascals of Zapiga, over there on the north side of the gulf. He may get some of the worst scoundrels of that scoundrelly town of negroes to help him in his attempt upon the little one. . . . But I am not so old. No!" She argued earnestly against the probability of any attempt being made; and at last the old man fell silent, chewing his white moustache. Women had their obstinate notions which must be humoured--his poor wife was like that, and Linda resembled her mother. It was not seemly for a man to argue. "May be. May be," he mumbled. She was by no means easy in her mind. She loved Nostromo. She turned her eyes upon Giselle, sitting at a distance, with something of maternal tenderness, and the jealous anguish of a rival outraged in her defeat. Then she rose and walked over to her. "Listen--you," she said, roughly. The invincible candour of the gaze, raised up all violet and dew, excited her rage and admiration. She had beautiful eyes--the Chica--this vile thing of white flesh and black deception. She did not know whether she wanted to tear them out with shouts of vengeance or cover up their mysterious and shameless innocence with kisses of pity and love. And suddenly they became empty, gazing blankly at her, except for a little fear not quite buried deep enough with all the other emotions in Giselle's heart. Linda said, "Ramirez is boasting in town that he will carry you off from the island." "What folly!" answered the other, and in a perversity born of long restraint, she added: "He is not the man," in a jesting tone with a trembling audacity. "No?" said Linda, through her clenched teeth. "Is he not? Well, then, look to it; because father has been walking about with a loaded gun at night." "It is not good for him. You must tell him not to, Linda. He will not listen to me." "I shall say nothing--never any more--to anybody," cried Linda, passionately. This could not last, thought Giselle. Giovanni must take her away soon--the very next time he came. She would not suffer these terrors for ever so much silver. To speak with her sister made her ill. But she was not uneasy at her father's watchfulness. She had begged Nostromo not to come to the window that night. He had promised to keep away for this once. And she did not know, could not guess or imagine, that he had another reason for coming on the island. Linda had gone straight to the tower. It was time to light up. She unlocked the little door, and went heavily up the spiral staircase, carrying her love for the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores like an ever-increasing load of shameful fetters. No; she could not throw it off. No; let Heaven dispose of these two. And moving about the lantern, filled with twilight and the sheen of the moon, with careful movements she lighted the lamp. Then her arms fell along her body. "And with our mother looking on," she murmured. "My own sister--the Chica!" The whole refracting apparatus, with its brass fittings and rings of prisms, glittered and sparkled like a domeshaped shrine of diamonds, containing not a lamp, but some sacred flame, dominating the sea. And Linda, the keeper, in black, with a pale face, drooped low in a wooden chair, alone with her jealousy, far above the shames and passions of the earth. A strange, dragging pain as if somebody were pulling her about brutally by her dark hair with bronze glints, made her put her hands up to her temples. They would meet. They would meet. And she knew where, too. At the window. The sweat of torture fell in drops on her cheeks, while the moonlight in the offing closed as if with a colossal bar of silver the entrance of the Placid Gulf--the sombre cavern of clouds and stillness in the surf-fretted seaboard. Linda Viola stood up suddenly with a finger on her lip. He loved neither her nor her sister. The whole thing seemed so objectless as to frighten her, and also give her some hope. Why did he not carry her off? What prevented him? He was incomprehensible. What were they waiting for? For what end were these two lying and deceiving? Not for the ends of their love. There was no such thing. The hope of regaining him for herself made her break her vow of not leaving the tower that night. She must talk at once to her father, who was wise, and would understand. She ran down the spiral stairs. At the moment of opening the door at the bottom she heard the sound of the first shot ever fired on the Great Isabel. She felt a shock, as though the bullet had struck her breast. She ran on without pausing. The cottage was dark. She cried at the door, "Giselle! Giselle!" then dashed round the corner and screamed her sister's name at the open window, without getting an answer; but as she was rushing, distracted, round the house, Giselle came out of the door, and darted past her, running silently, her hair loose, and her eyes staring straight ahead. She seemed to skim along the grass as if on tiptoe, and vanished. Linda walked on slowly, with her arms stretched out before her. All was still on the island; she did not know where she was going. The tree under which Martin Decoud spent his last days, beholding life like a succession of senseless images, threw a large blotch of black shade upon the grass. Suddenly she saw her father, standing quietly all alone in the moonlight. The Garibaldino--big, erect, with his snow-white hair and beard--had a monumental repose in his immobility, leaning upon a rifle. She put her hand upon his arm lightly. He never stirred. "What have you done?" she asked, in her ordinary voice. "I have shot Ramirez--infame!" he answered, with his eyes directed to where the shade was blackest. "Like a thief he came, and like a thief he fell. The child had to be protected." He did not offer to move an inch, to advance a single step. He stood there, rugged and unstirring, like a statue of an old man guarding the honour of his house. Linda removed her trembling hand from his arm, firm and steady like an arm of stone, and, without a word, entered the blackness of the shade. She saw a stir of formless shapes on the ground, and stopped short. A murmur of despair and tears grew louder to her strained hearing. "I entreated you not to come to-night. Oh, my Giovanni! And you promised. Oh! Why--why did you come, Giovanni?" It was her sister's voice. It broke on a heartrending sob. And the voice of the resourceful Capataz de Cargadores, master and slave of the San Tome treasure, who had been caught unawares by old Giorgio while stealing across the open towards the ravine to get some more silver, answered careless and cool, but sounding startlingly weak from the ground. "It seemed as though I could not live through the night without seeing thee once more--my star, my little flower." * * * * * The brilliant tertulia was just over, the last guests had departed, and the Senor Administrador had gone to his room already, when Dr. Monygham, who had been expected in the evening but had not turned up, arrived driving along the wood-block pavement under the electric-lamps of the deserted Calle de la Constitucion, and found the great gateway of the Casa still open. He limped in, stumped up the stairs, and found the fat and sleek Basilio on the point of turning off the lights in the sala. The prosperous majordomo remained open-mouthed at this late invasion. "Don't put out the lights," commanded the doctor. "I want to see the senora." "The senora is in the Senor Adminstrador's cancillaria," said Basilio, in an unctuous voice. "The Senor Administrador starts for the mountain in an hour. There is some trouble with the workmen to be feared, it appears. A shameless people without reason and decency. And idle, senor. Idle." "You are shamelessly lazy and imbecile yourself," said the doctor, with that faculty for exasperation which made him so generally beloved. "Don't put the lights out." Basilio retired with dignity. Dr. Monygham, waiting in the brilliantly lighted sala, heard presently a door close at the further end of the house. A jingle of spurs died out. The Senor Administrador was off to the mountain. With a measured swish of her long train, flashing with jewels and the shimmer of silk, her delicate head bowed as if under the weight of a mass of fair hair, in which the silver threads were lost, the "first lady of Sulaco," as Captain Mitchell used to describe her, moved along the lighted corredor, wealthy beyond great dreams of wealth, considered, loved, respected, honoured, and as solitary as any human being had ever been, perhaps, on this earth. The doctor's "Mrs. Gould! One minute!" stopped her with a start at the door of the lighted and empty sala. From the similarity of mood and circumstance, the sight of the doctor, standing there all alone amongst the groups of furniture, recalled to her emotional memory her unexpected meeting with Martin Decoud; she seemed to hear in the silence the voice of that man, dead miserably so many years ago, pronounce the words, "Antonia left her fan here." But it was the doctor's voice that spoke, a little altered by his excitement. She remarked his shining eyes. "Mrs. Gould, you are wanted. Do you know what has happened? You remember what I told you yesterday about Nostromo. Well, it seems that a lancha, a decked boat, coming from Zapiga, with four negroes in her, passing close to the Great Isabel, was hailed from the cliff by a woman's voice--Linda's, as a matter of fact--commanding them (it's a moonlight night) to go round to the beach and take up a wounded man to the town. The patron (from whom I've heard all this), of course, did so at once. He told me that when they got round to the low side of the Great Isabel, they found Linda Viola waiting for them. They followed her: she led them under a tree not far from the cottage. There they found Nostromo lying on the ground with his head in the younger girl's lap, and father Viola standing some distance off leaning on his gun. Under Linda's direction they got a table out of the cottage for a stretcher, after breaking off the legs. They are here, Mrs. Gould. I mean Nostromo and--and Giselle. The negroes brought him in to the first-aid hospital near the harbour. He made the attendant send for me. But it was not me he wanted to see--it was you, Mrs. Gould! It was you." "Me?" whispered Mrs. Gould, shrinking a little. "Yes, you!" the doctor burst out. "He begged me--his enemy, as he thinks--to bring you to him at once. It seems he has something to say to you alone." "Impossible!" murmured Mrs. Gould. "He said to me, 'Remind her that I have done something to keep a roof over her head.' . . . Mrs. Gould," the doctor pursued, in the greatest excitement. "Do you remember the silver? The silver in the lighter--that was lost?" Mrs. Gould remembered. But she did not say she hated the mere mention of that silver. Frankness personified, she remembered with an exaggerated horror that for the first and last time of her life she had concealed the truth from her husband about that very silver. She had been corrupted by her fears at that time, and she had never forgiven herself. Moreover, that silver, which would never have come down if her husband had been made acquainted with the news brought by Decoud, had been in a roundabout way nearly the cause of Dr. Monygham's death. And these things appeared to her very dreadful. "Was it lost, though?" the doctor exclaimed. "I've always felt that there was a mystery about our Nostromo ever since. I do believe he wants now, at the point of death----" "The point of death?" repeated Mrs. Gould. "Yes. Yes. . . . He wants perhaps to tell you something concerning that silver which----" "Oh, no! No!" exclaimed Mrs. Gould, in a low voice. "Isn't it lost and done with? Isn't there enough treasure without it to make everybody in the world miserable?" The doctor remained still, in a submissive, disappointed silence. At last he ventured, very low-- "And there is that Viola girl, Giselle. What are we to do? It looks as though father and sister had----" Mrs. Gould admitted that she felt in duty bound to do her best for these girls. "I have a volante here," the doctor said. "If you don't mind getting into that----" He waited, all impatience, till Mrs. Gould reappeared, having thrown over her dress a grey cloak with a deep hood. It was thus that, cloaked and monastically hooded over her evening costume, this woman, full of endurance and compassion, stood by the side of the bed on which the splendid Capataz de Cargadores lay stretched out motionless on his back. The whiteness of sheets and pillows gave a sombre and energetic relief to his bronzed face, to the dark, nervous hands, so good on a tiller, upon a bridle and on a trigger, lying open and idle upon a white coverlet. "She is innocent," the Capataz was saying in a deep and level voice, as though afraid that a louder word would break the slender hold his spirit still kept upon his body. "She is innocent. It is I alone. But no matter. For these things I would answer to no man or woman alive." He paused. Mrs. Gould's face, very white within the shadow of the hood, bent over him with an invincible and dreary sadness. And the low sobs of Giselle Viola, kneeling at the end of the bed, her gold hair with coppery gleams loose and scattered over the Capataz's feet, hardly troubled the silence of the room. "Ha! Old Giorgio--the guardian of thine honour! Fancy the Vecchio coming upon me so light of foot, so steady of aim. I myself could have done no better. But the price of a charge of powder might have been saved. The honour was safe. . . . Senora, she would have followed to the end of the world Nostromo the thief. . . . I have said the word. The spell is broken!" A low moan from the girl made him cast his eyes down. "I cannot see her. . . . No matter," he went on, with the shadow of the old magnificent carelessness in his voice. "One kiss is enough, if there is no time for more. An airy soul, senora! Bright and warm, like sunshine--soon clouded, and soon serene. They would crush it there between them. Senora, cast on her the eye of your compassion, as famed from one end of the land to the other as the courage and daring of the man who speaks to you. She will console herself in time. And even Ramirez is not a bad fellow. I am not angry. No! It is not Ramirez who overcame the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores." He paused, made an effort, and in louder voice, a little wildly, declared-- "I die betrayed--betrayed by----" But he did not say by whom or by what he was dying betrayed. "She would not have betrayed me," he began again, opening his eyes very wide. "She was faithful. We were going very far--very soon. I could have torn myself away from that accursed treasure for her. For that child I would have left boxes and boxes of it--full. And Decoud took four. Four ingots. Why? Picardia! To betray me? How could I give back the treasure with four ingots missing? They would have said I had purloined them. The doctor would have said that. Alas! it holds me yet!" Mrs. Gould bent low, fascinated--cold with apprehension. "What became of Don Martin on that night, Nostromo?" "Who knows? I wondered what would become of me. Now I know. Death was to come upon me unawares. He went away! He betrayed me. And you think I have killed him! You are all alike, you fine people. The silver has killed me. It has held me. It holds me yet. Nobody knows where it is. But you are the wife of Don Carlos, who put it into my hands and said, 'Save it on your life.' And when I returned, and you all thought it was lost, what do I hear? 'It was nothing of importance. Let it go. Up, Nostromo, the faithful, and ride away to save us, for dear life!'" "Nostromo!" Mrs. Gould whispered, bending very low. "I, too, have hated the idea of that silver from the bottom of my heart." "Marvellous!--that one of you should hate the wealth that you know so well how to take from the hands of the poor. The world rests upon the poor, as old Giorgio says. You have been always good to the poor. But there is something accursed in wealth. Senora, shall I tell you where the treasure is? To you alone. . . . Shining! Incorruptible!" A pained, involuntary reluctance lingered in his tone, in his eyes, plain to the woman with the genius of sympathetic intuition. She averted her glance from the miserable subjection of the dying man, appalled, wishing to hear no more of the silver. "No, Capataz," she said. "No one misses it now. Let it be lost for ever." After hearing these words, Nostromo closed his eyes, uttered no word, made no movement. Outside the door of the sick-room Dr. Monygham, excited to the highest pitch, his eyes shining with eagerness, came up to the two women. "Now, Mrs. Gould," he said, almost brutally in his impatience, "tell me, was I right? There is a mystery. You have got the word of it, have you not? He told you----" "He told me nothing," said Mrs. Gould, steadily. The light of his temperamental enmity to Nostromo went out of Dr. Monygham's eyes. He stepped back submissively. He did not believe Mrs. Gould. But her word was law. He accepted her denial like an inexplicable fatality affirming the victory of Nostromo's genius over his own. Even before that woman, whom he loved with secret devotion, he had been defeated by the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores, the man who had lived his own life on the assumption of unbroken fidelity, rectitude, and courage! "Pray send at once somebody for my carriage," spoke Mrs. Gould from within her hood. Then, turning to Giselle Viola, "Come nearer me, child; come closer. We will wait here." Giselle Viola, heartbroken and childlike, her face veiled in her falling hair, crept up to her side. Mrs. Gould slipped her hand through the arm of the unworthy daughter of old Viola, the immaculate republican, the hero without a stain. Slowly, gradually, as a withered flower droops, the head of the girl, who would have followed a thief to the end of the world, rested on the shoulder of Dona Emilia, the first lady of Sulaco, the wife of the Senor Administrador of the San Tome mine. And Mrs. Gould, feeling her suppressed sobbing, nervous and excited, had the first and only moment of bitterness in her life. It was worthy of Dr. Monygham himself. "Console yourself, child. Very soon he would have forgotten you for his treasure." "Senora, he loved me. He loved me," Giselle whispered, despairingly. "He loved me as no one had ever been loved before." "I have been loved, too," Mrs. Gould said in a severe tone. Giselle clung to her convulsively. "Oh, senora, but you shall live adored to the end of your life," she sobbed out. Mrs. Gould kept an unbroken silence till the carriage arrived. She helped in the half-fainting girl. After the doctor had shut the door of the landau, she leaned over to him. "You can do nothing?" she whispered. "No, Mrs. Gould. Moreover, he won't let us touch him. It does not matter. I just had one look. . . . Useless." But he promised to see old Viola and the other girl that very night. He could get the police-boat to take him off to the island. He remained in the street, looking after the landau rolling away slowly behind the white mules. The rumour of some accident--an accident to Captain Fidanza--had been spreading along the new quays with their rows of lamps and the dark shapes of towering cranes. A knot of night prowlers--the poorest of the poor--hung about the door of the first-aid hospital, whispering in the moonlight of the empty street. There was no one with the wounded man but the pale photographer, small, frail, bloodthirsty, the hater of capitalists, perched on a high stool near the head of the bed with his knees up and his chin in his hands. He had been fetched by a comrade who, working late on the wharf, had heard from a negro belonging to a lancha, that Captain Fidanza had been brought ashore mortally wounded. "Have you any dispositions to make, comrade?" he asked, anxiously. "Do not forget that we want money for our work. The rich must be fought with their own weapons." Nostromo made no answer. The other did not insist, remaining huddled up on the stool, shock-headed, wildly hairy, like a hunchbacked monkey. Then, after a long silence-- "Comrade Fidanza," he began, solemnly, "you have refused all aid from that doctor. Is he really a dangerous enemy of the people?" In the dimly lit room Nostromo rolled his head slowly on the pillow and opened his eyes, directing at the weird figure perched by his bedside a glance of enigmatic and profound inquiry. Then his head rolled back, his eyelids fell, and the Capataz de Cargadores died without a word or moan after an hour of immobility, broken by short shudders testifying to the most atrocious sufferings. Dr. Monygham, going out in the police-galley to the islands, beheld the glitter of the moon upon the gulf and the high black shape of the Great Isabel sending a shaft of light afar, from under the canopy of clouds. "Pull easy," he said, wondering what he would find there. He tried to imagine Linda and her father, and discovered a strange reluctance within himself. "Pull easy," he repeated. * * * * * * From the moment he fired at the thief of his honour, Giorgio Viola had not stirred from the spot. He stood, his old gun grounded, his hand grasping the barrel near the muzzle. After the lancha carrying off Nostromo for ever from her had left the shore, Linda, coming up, stopped before him. He did not seem to be aware of her presence, but when, losing her forced calmness, she cried out-- "Do you know whom you have killed?" he answered-- "Ramirez the vagabond." White, and staring insanely at her father, Linda laughed in his face. After a time he joined her faintly in a deep-toned and distant echo of her peals. Then she stopped, and the old man spoke as if startled-- "He cried out in son Gian' Battista's voice." The gun fell from his opened hand, but the arm remained extended for a moment as if still supported. Linda seized it roughly. "You are too old to understand. Come into the house." He let her lead him. On the threshold he stumbled heavily, nearly coming to the ground together with his daughter. His excitement, his activity of the last few days, had been like the flare of a dying lamp. He caught at the back of his chair. "In son Gian' Battista's voice," he repeated in a severe tone. "I heard him--Ramirez--the miserable----" Linda helped him into the chair, and, bending low, hissed into his ear-- "You have killed Gian' Battista." The old man smiled under his thick moustache. Women had strange fancies. "Where is the child?" he asked, surprised at the penetrating chilliness of the air and the unwonted dimness of the lamp by which he used to sit up half the night with the open Bible before him. Linda hesitated a moment, then averted her eyes. "She is asleep," she said. "We shall talk of her tomorrow." She could not bear to look at him. He filled her with terror and with an almost unbearable feeling of pity. She had observed the change that came over him. He would never understand what he had done; and even to her the whole thing remained incomprehensible. He said with difficulty-- "Give me the book." Linda laid on the table the closed volume in its worn leather cover, the Bible given him ages ago by an Englishman in Palermo. "The child had to be protected," he said, in a strange, mournful voice. Behind

true

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

"I shall go grey, I fear, before the ring is on my finger," she said, slowly, keeping her gaze fastened upon him. She waited for what he would say, rolling down her turned-up sleeves. "No fear of that," he said, absently. She turned away as if it had been something final, and busied herself with household cares while Nostromo talked with her father. Conversation with the old Garibaldino was not easy. Age had left his faculties unimpaired, only they seemed to have withdrawn somewhere deep within him. His answers were slow in coming, with an effect of august gravity. But that day he was more animated, quicker; there seemed to be more life in the old lion. He was uneasy for the integrity of his honour. He believed Sidoni's warning as to Ramirez's designs upon his younger daughter. And he did not trust her. She was flighty. He said nothing of his cares to "Son Gian' Battista." It was a touch of senile vanity. He wanted to show that he was equal yet to the task of guarding alone the honour of his house. Nostromo went away early. As soon as he had disappeared, walking towards the beach, Linda stepped over the threshold and, with a haggard smile, sat down by the side of her father. Ever since that Sunday, when the infatuated and desperate Ramirez had waited for her on the wharf, she had no doubts whatever. The jealous ravings of that man were no revelation. They had only fixed with precision, as with a nail driven into her heart, that sense of unreality and deception which, instead of bliss and security, she had found in her intercourse with her promised husband. She had passed on, pouring indignation and scorn upon Ramirez; but, that Sunday, she nearly died of wretchedness and shame, lying on the carved and lettered stone of Teresa's grave, subscribed for by the engine-drivers and the fitters of the railway workshops, in sign of their respect for the hero of Italian Unity. Old Viola had not been able to carry out his desire of burying his wife in the sea; and Linda wept upon the stone. The gratuitous outrage appalled her. If he wished to break her heart--well and good. Everything was permitted to Gian' Battista. But why trample upon the pieces; why seek to humiliate her spirit? Aha! He could not break that. She dried her tears. And Giselle! Giselle! The little one that, ever since she could toddle, had always clung to her skirt for protection. What duplicity! But she could not help it probably. When there was a man in the case the poor featherheaded wretch could not help herself. Linda had a good share of the Viola stoicism. She resolved to say nothing. But woman-like she put passion into her stoicism. Giselle's short answers, prompted by fearful caution, drove her beside herself by their curtness that resembled disdain. One day she flung herself upon the chair in which her indolent sister was lying and impressed the mark of her teeth at the base of the whitest neck in Sulaco. Giselle cried out. But she had her share of the Viola heroism. Ready to faint with terror, she only said, in a lazy voice, "Madre de Dios! Are you going to eat me alive, Linda?" And this outburst passed off leaving no trace upon the situation. "She knows nothing. She cannot know any thing," reflected Giselle. "Perhaps it is not true. It cannot be true," Linda tried to persuade herself. But when she saw Captain Fidanza for the first time after her meeting with the distracted Ramirez, the certitude of her misfortune returned. She watched him from the doorway go away to his boat, asking herself stoically, "Will they meet to-night?" She made up her mind not to leave the tower for a second. When he had disappeared she came out and sat down by her father. The venerable Garibaldino felt, in his own words, "a young man yet." In one way or another a good deal of talk about Ramirez had reached him of late; and his contempt and dislike of that man who obviously was not what his son would have been, had made him restless. He slept very little now; but for several nights past instead of reading--or only sitting, with Mrs. Gould's silver spectacles on his nose, before the open Bible, he had been prowling actively all about the island with his old gun, on watch over his honour. Linda, laying her thin brown hand on his knee, tried to soothe his excitement. Ramirez was not in Sulaco. Nobody knew where he was. He was gone. His talk of what he would do meant nothing. "No," the old man interrupted. "But son Gian' Battista told me--quite of himself--that the cowardly esclavo was drinking and gambling with the rascals of Zapiga, over there on the north side of the gulf. He may get some of the worst scoundrels of that scoundrelly town of negroes to help him in his attempt upon the little one. . . . But I am not so old. No!" She argued earnestly against the probability of any attempt being made; and at last the old man fell silent, chewing his white moustache. Women had their obstinate notions which must be humoured--his poor wife was like that, and Linda resembled her mother. It was not seemly for a man to argue. "May be. May be," he mumbled. She was by no means easy in her mind. She loved Nostromo. She turned her eyes upon Giselle, sitting at a distance, with something of maternal tenderness, and the jealous anguish of a rival outraged in her defeat. Then she rose and walked over to her. "Listen--you," she said, roughly. The invincible candour of the gaze, raised up all violet and dew, excited her rage and admiration. She had beautiful eyes--the Chica--this vile thing of white flesh and black deception. She did not know whether she wanted to tear them out with shouts of vengeance or cover up their mysterious and shameless innocence with kisses of pity and love. And suddenly they became empty, gazing blankly at her, except for a little fear not quite buried deep enough with all the other emotions in Giselle's heart. Linda said, "Ramirez is boasting in town that he will carry you off from the island." "What folly!" answered the other, and in a perversity born of long restraint, she added: "He is not the man," in a jesting tone with a trembling audacity. "No?" said Linda, through her clenched teeth. "Is he not? Well, then, look to it; because father has been walking about with a loaded gun at night." "It is not good for him. You must tell him not to, Linda. He will not listen to me." "I shall say nothing--never any more--to anybody," cried Linda, passionately. This could not last, thought Giselle. Giovanni must take her away soon--the very next time he came. She would not suffer these terrors for ever so much silver. To speak with her sister made her ill. But she was not uneasy at her father's watchfulness. She had begged Nostromo not to come to the window that night. He had promised to keep away for this once. And she did not know, could not guess or imagine, that he had another reason for coming on the island. Linda had gone straight to the tower. It was time to light up. She unlocked the little door, and went heavily up the spiral staircase, carrying her love for the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores like an ever-increasing load of shameful fetters. No; she could not throw it off. No; let Heaven dispose of these two. And moving about the lantern, filled with twilight and the sheen of the moon, with careful movements she lighted the lamp. Then her arms fell along her body. "And with our mother looking on," she murmured. "My own sister--the Chica!" The whole refracting apparatus, with its brass fittings and rings of prisms, glittered and sparkled like a domeshaped shrine of diamonds, containing not a lamp, but some sacred flame, dominating the sea. And Linda, the keeper, in black, with a pale face, drooped low in a wooden chair, alone with her jealousy, far above the shames and passions of the earth. A strange, dragging pain as if somebody were pulling her about brutally by her dark hair with bronze glints, made her put her hands up to her temples. They would meet. They would meet. And she knew where, too. At the window. The sweat of torture fell in drops on her cheeks, while the moonlight in the offing closed as if with a colossal bar of silver the entrance of the Placid Gulf--the sombre cavern of clouds and stillness in the surf-fretted seaboard. Linda Viola stood up suddenly with a finger on her lip. He loved neither her nor her sister. The whole thing seemed so objectless as to frighten her, and also give her some hope. Why did he not carry her off? What prevented him? He was incomprehensible. What were they waiting for? For what end were these two lying and deceiving? Not for the ends of their love. There was no such thing. The hope of regaining him for herself made her break her vow of not leaving the tower that night. She must talk at once to her father, who was wise, and would understand. She ran down the spiral stairs. At the moment of opening the door at the bottom she heard the sound of the first shot ever fired on the Great Isabel. She felt a shock, as though the bullet had struck her breast. She ran on without pausing. The cottage was dark. She cried at the door, "Giselle! Giselle!" then dashed round the corner and screamed her sister's name at the open window, without getting an answer; but as she was rushing, distracted, round the house, Giselle came out of the door, and darted past her, running silently, her hair loose, and her eyes staring straight ahead. She seemed to skim along the grass as if on tiptoe, and vanished. Linda walked on slowly, with her arms stretched out before her. All was still on the island; she did not know where she was going. The tree under which Martin Decoud spent his last days, beholding life like a succession of senseless images, threw a large blotch of black shade upon the grass. Suddenly she saw her father, standing quietly all alone in the moonlight. The Garibaldino--big, erect, with his snow-white hair and beard--had a monumental repose in his immobility, leaning upon a rifle. She put her hand upon his arm lightly. He never stirred. "What have you done?" she asked, in her ordinary voice. "I have shot Ramirez--infame!" he answered, with his eyes directed to where the shade was blackest. "Like a thief he came, and like a thief he fell. The child had to be protected." He did not offer to move an inch, to advance a single step. He stood there, rugged and unstirring, like a statue of an old man guarding the honour of his house. Linda removed her trembling hand from his arm, firm and steady like an arm of stone, and, without a word, entered the blackness of the shade. She saw a stir of formless shapes on the ground, and stopped short. A murmur of despair and tears grew louder to her strained hearing. "I entreated you not to come to-night. Oh, my Giovanni! And you promised. Oh! Why--why did you come, Giovanni?" It was her sister's voice. It broke on a heartrending sob. And the voice of the resourceful Capataz de Cargadores, master and slave of the San Tome treasure, who had been caught unawares by old Giorgio while stealing across the open towards the ravine to get some more silver, answered careless and cool, but sounding startlingly weak from the ground. "It seemed as though I could not live through the night without seeing thee once more--my star, my little flower." * * * * * The brilliant tertulia was just over, the last guests had departed, and the Senor Administrador had gone to his room already, when Dr. Monygham, who had been expected in the evening but had not turned up, arrived driving along the wood-block pavement under the electric-lamps of the deserted Calle de la Constitucion, and found the great gateway of the Casa still open. He limped in, stumped up the stairs, and found the fat and sleek Basilio on the point of turning off the lights in the sala. The prosperous majordomo remained open-mouthed at this late invasion. "Don't put out the lights," commanded the doctor. "I want to see the senora." "The senora is in the Senor Adminstrador's cancillaria," said Basilio, in an unctuous voice. "The Senor Administrador starts for the mountain in an hour. There is some trouble with the workmen to be feared, it appears. A shameless people without reason and decency. And idle, senor. Idle." "You are shamelessly lazy and imbecile yourself," said the doctor, with that faculty for exasperation which made him so generally beloved. "Don't put the lights out." Basilio retired with dignity. Dr. Monygham, waiting in the brilliantly lighted sala, heard presently a door close at the further end of the house. A jingle of spurs died out. The Senor Administrador was off to the mountain. With a measured swish of her long train, flashing with jewels and the shimmer of silk, her delicate head bowed as if under the weight of a mass of fair hair, in which the silver threads were lost, the "first lady of Sulaco," as Captain Mitchell used to describe her, moved along the lighted corredor, wealthy beyond great dreams of wealth, considered, loved, respected, honoured, and as solitary as any human being had ever been, perhaps, on this earth. The doctor's "Mrs. Gould! One minute!" stopped her with a start at the door of the lighted and empty sala. From the similarity of mood and circumstance, the sight of the doctor, standing there all alone amongst the groups of furniture, recalled to her emotional memory her unexpected meeting with Martin Decoud; she seemed to hear in the silence the voice of that man, dead miserably so many years ago, pronounce the words, "Antonia left her fan here." But it was the doctor's voice that spoke, a little altered by his excitement. She remarked his shining eyes. "Mrs. Gould, you are wanted. Do you know what has happened? You remember what I told you yesterday about Nostromo. Well, it seems that a lancha, a decked boat, coming from Zapiga, with four negroes in her, passing close to the Great Isabel, was hailed from the cliff by a woman's voice--Linda's, as a matter of fact--commanding them (it's a moonlight night) to go round to the beach and take up a wounded man to the town. The patron (from whom I've heard all this), of course, did so at once. He told me that when they got round to the low side of the Great Isabel, they found Linda Viola waiting for them. They followed her: she led them under a tree not far from the cottage. There they found Nostromo lying on the ground with his head in the younger girl's lap, and father Viola standing some distance off leaning on his gun. Under Linda's direction they got a table out of the cottage for a stretcher, after breaking off the legs. They are here, Mrs. Gould. I mean Nostromo and--and Giselle. The negroes brought him in to the first-aid hospital near the harbour. He made the attendant send for me. But it was not me he wanted to see--it was you, Mrs. Gould! It was you." "Me?" whispered Mrs. Gould, shrinking a little. "Yes, you!" the doctor burst out. "He begged me--his enemy, as he thinks--to bring you to him at once. It seems he has something to say to you alone." "Impossible!" murmured Mrs. Gould. "He said to me, 'Remind her that I have done something to keep a roof over her head.' . . . Mrs. Gould," the doctor pursued, in the greatest excitement. "Do you remember the silver? The silver in the lighter--that was lost?" Mrs. Gould remembered. But she did not say she hated the mere mention of that silver. Frankness personified, she remembered with an exaggerated horror that for the first and last time of her life she had concealed the truth from her husband about that very silver. She had been corrupted by her fears at that time, and she had never forgiven herself. Moreover, that silver, which would never have come down if her husband had been made acquainted with the news brought by Decoud, had been in a roundabout way nearly the cause of Dr. Monygham's death. And these things appeared to her very dreadful. "Was it lost, though?" the doctor exclaimed. "I've always felt that there was a mystery about our Nostromo ever since. I do believe he wants now, at the point of death----" "The point of death?" repeated Mrs. Gould. "Yes. Yes. . . . He wants perhaps to tell you something concerning that silver which----" "Oh, no! No!" exclaimed Mrs. Gould, in a low voice. "Isn't it lost and done with? Isn't there enough treasure without it to make everybody in the world miserable?" The doctor remained still, in a submissive, disappointed silence. At last he ventured, very low-- "And there is that Viola girl, Giselle. What are we to do? It looks as though father and sister had----" Mrs. Gould admitted that she felt in duty bound to do her best for these girls. "I have a volante here," the doctor said. "If you don't mind getting into that----" He waited, all impatience, till Mrs. Gould reappeared, having thrown over her dress a grey cloak with a deep hood. It was thus that, cloaked and monastically hooded over her evening costume, this woman, full of endurance and compassion, stood by the side of the bed on which the splendid Capataz de Cargadores lay stretched out motionless on his back. The whiteness of sheets and pillows gave a sombre and energetic relief to his bronzed face, to the dark, nervous hands, so good on a tiller, upon a bridle and on a trigger, lying open and idle upon a white coverlet. "She is innocent," the Capataz was saying in a deep and level voice, as though afraid that a louder word would break the slender hold his spirit still kept upon his body. "She is innocent. It is I alone. But no matter. For these things I would answer to no man or woman alive." He paused. Mrs. Gould's face, very white within the shadow of the hood, bent over him with an invincible and dreary sadness. And the low sobs of Giselle Viola, kneeling at the end of the bed, her gold hair with coppery gleams loose and scattered over the Capataz's feet, hardly troubled the silence of the room. "Ha! Old Giorgio--the guardian of thine honour! Fancy the Vecchio coming upon me so light of foot, so steady of aim. I myself could have done no better. But the price of a charge of powder might have been saved. The honour was safe. . . . Senora, she would have followed to the end of the world Nostromo the thief. . . . I have said the word. The spell is broken!" A low moan from the girl made him cast his eyes down. "I cannot see her. . . . No matter," he went on, with the shadow of the old magnificent carelessness in his voice. "One kiss is enough, if there is no time for more. An airy soul, senora! Bright and warm, like sunshine--soon clouded, and soon serene. They would crush it there between them. Senora, cast on her the eye of your compassion, as famed from one end of the land to the other as the courage and daring of the man who speaks to you. She will console herself in time. And even Ramirez is not a bad fellow. I am not angry. No! It is not Ramirez who overcame the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores." He paused, made an effort, and in louder voice, a little wildly, declared-- "I die betrayed--betrayed by----" But he did not say by whom or by what he was dying betrayed. "She would not have betrayed me," he began again, opening his eyes very wide. "She was faithful. We were going very far--very soon. I could have torn myself away from that accursed treasure for her. For that child I would have left boxes and boxes of it--full. And Decoud took four. Four ingots. Why? Picardia! To betray me? How could I give back the treasure with four ingots missing? They would have said I had purloined them. The doctor would have said that. Alas! it holds me yet!" Mrs. Gould bent low, fascinated--cold with apprehension. "What became of Don Martin on that night, Nostromo?" "Who knows? I wondered what would become of me. Now I know. Death was to come upon me unawares. He went away! He betrayed me. And you think I have killed him! You are all alike, you fine people. The silver has killed me. It has held me. It holds me yet. Nobody knows where it is. But you are the wife of Don Carlos, who put it into my hands and said, 'Save it on your life.' And when I returned, and you all thought it was lost, what do I hear? 'It was nothing of importance. Let it go. Up, Nostromo, the faithful, and ride away to save us, for dear life!'" "Nostromo!" Mrs. Gould whispered, bending very low. "I, too, have hated the idea of that silver from the bottom of my heart." "Marvellous!--that one of you should hate the wealth that you know so well how to take from the hands of the poor. The world rests upon the poor, as old Giorgio says. You have been always good to the poor. But there is something accursed in wealth. Senora, shall I tell you where the treasure is? To you alone. . . . Shining! Incorruptible!" A pained, involuntary reluctance lingered in his tone, in his eyes, plain to the woman with the genius of sympathetic intuition. She averted her glance from the miserable subjection of the dying man, appalled, wishing to hear no more of the silver. "No, Capataz," she said. "No one misses it now. Let it be lost for ever." After hearing these words, Nostromo closed his eyes, uttered no word, made no movement. Outside the door of the sick-room Dr. Monygham, excited to the highest pitch, his eyes shining with eagerness, came up to the two women. "Now, Mrs. Gould," he said, almost brutally in his impatience, "tell me, was I right? There is a mystery. You have got the word of it, have you not? He told you----" "He told me nothing," said Mrs. Gould, steadily. The light of his temperamental enmity to Nostromo went out of Dr. Monygham's eyes. He stepped back submissively. He did not believe Mrs. Gould. But her word was law. He accepted her denial like an inexplicable fatality affirming the victory of Nostromo's genius over his own. Even before that woman, whom he loved with secret devotion, he had been defeated by the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores, the man who had lived his own life on the assumption of unbroken fidelity, rectitude, and courage! "Pray send at once somebody for my carriage," spoke Mrs. Gould from within her hood. Then, turning to Giselle Viola, "Come nearer me, child; come closer. We will wait here." Giselle Viola, heartbroken and childlike, her face veiled in her falling hair, crept up to her side. Mrs. Gould slipped her hand through the arm of the unworthy daughter of old Viola, the immaculate republican, the hero without a stain. Slowly, gradually, as a withered flower droops, the head of the girl, who would have followed a thief to the end of the world, rested on the shoulder of Dona Emilia, the first lady of Sulaco, the wife of the Senor Administrador of the San Tome mine. And Mrs. Gould, feeling her suppressed sobbing, nervous and excited, had the first and only moment of bitterness in her life. It was worthy of Dr. Monygham himself. "Console yourself, child. Very soon he would have forgotten you for his treasure." "Senora, he loved me. He loved me," Giselle whispered, despairingly. "He loved me as no one had ever been loved before." "I have been loved, too," Mrs. Gould said in a severe tone. Giselle clung to her convulsively. "Oh, senora, but you shall live adored to the end of your life," she sobbed out. Mrs. Gould kept an unbroken silence till the carriage arrived. She helped in the half-fainting girl. After the doctor had shut the door of the landau, she leaned over to him. "You can do nothing?" she whispered. "No, Mrs. Gould. Moreover, he won't let us touch him. It does not matter. I just had one look. . . . Useless." But he promised to see old Viola and the other girl that very night. He could get the police-boat to take him off to the island. He remained in the street, looking after the landau rolling away slowly behind the white mules. The rumour of some accident--an accident to Captain Fidanza--had been spreading along the new quays with their rows of lamps and the dark shapes of towering cranes. A knot of night prowlers--the poorest of the poor--hung about the door of the first-aid hospital, whispering in the moonlight of the empty street. There was no one with the wounded man but the pale photographer, small, frail, bloodthirsty, the hater of capitalists, perched on a high stool near the head of the bed with his knees up and his chin in his hands. He had been fetched by a comrade who, working late on the wharf, had heard from a negro belonging to a lancha, that Captain Fidanza had been brought ashore mortally wounded. "Have you any dispositions to make, comrade?" he asked, anxiously. "Do not forget that we want money for our work. The rich must be fought with their own weapons." Nostromo made no answer. The other did not insist, remaining huddled up on the stool, shock-headed, wildly hairy, like a hunchbacked monkey. Then, after a long silence-- "Comrade Fidanza," he began, solemnly, "you have refused all aid from that doctor. Is he really a dangerous enemy of the people?" In the dimly lit room Nostromo rolled his head slowly on the pillow and opened his eyes, directing at the weird figure perched by his bedside a glance of enigmatic and profound inquiry. Then his head rolled back, his eyelids fell, and the Capataz de Cargadores died without a word or moan after an hour of immobility, broken by short shudders testifying to the most atrocious sufferings. Dr. Monygham, going out in the police-galley to the islands, beheld the glitter of the moon upon the gulf and the high black shape of the Great Isabel sending a shaft of light afar, from under the canopy of clouds. "Pull easy," he said, wondering what he would find there. He tried to imagine Linda and her father, and discovered a strange reluctance within himself. "Pull easy," he repeated. * * * * * * From the moment he fired at the thief of his honour, Giorgio Viola had not stirred from the spot. He stood, his old gun grounded, his hand grasping the barrel near the muzzle. After the lancha carrying off Nostromo for ever from her had left the shore, Linda, coming up, stopped before him. He did not seem to be aware of her presence, but when, losing her forced calmness, she cried out-- "Do you know whom you have killed?" he answered-- "Ramirez the vagabond." White, and staring insanely at her father, Linda laughed in his face. After a time he joined her faintly in a deep-toned and distant echo of her peals. Then she stopped, and the old man spoke as if startled-- "He cried out in son Gian' Battista's voice." The gun fell from his opened hand, but the arm remained extended for a moment as if still supported. Linda seized it roughly. "You are too old to understand. Come into the house." He let her lead him. On the threshold he stumbled heavily, nearly coming to the ground together with his daughter. His excitement, his activity of the last few days, had been like the flare of a dying lamp. He caught at the back of his chair. "In son Gian' Battista's voice," he repeated in a severe tone. "I heard him--Ramirez--the miserable----" Linda helped him into the chair, and, bending low, hissed into his ear-- "You have killed Gian' Battista." The old man smiled under his thick moustache. Women had strange fancies. "Where is the child?" he asked, surprised at the penetrating chilliness of the air and the unwonted dimness of the lamp by which he used to sit up half the night with the open Bible before him. Linda hesitated a moment, then averted her eyes. "She is asleep," she said. "We shall talk of her tomorrow." She could not bear to look at him. He filled her with terror and with an almost unbearable feeling of pity. She had observed the change that came over him. He would never understand what he had done; and even to her the whole thing remained incomprehensible. He said with difficulty-- "Give me the book." Linda laid on the table the closed volume in its worn leather cover, the Bible given him ages ago by an Englishman in Palermo. "The child had to be protected," he said, in a strange, mournful voice. Behind

t

How many times the word 't' appears in the text?

"I shall go grey, I fear, before the ring is on my finger," she said, slowly, keeping her gaze fastened upon him. She waited for what he would say, rolling down her turned-up sleeves. "No fear of that," he said, absently. She turned away as if it had been something final, and busied herself with household cares while Nostromo talked with her father. Conversation with the old Garibaldino was not easy. Age had left his faculties unimpaired, only they seemed to have withdrawn somewhere deep within him. His answers were slow in coming, with an effect of august gravity. But that day he was more animated, quicker; there seemed to be more life in the old lion. He was uneasy for the integrity of his honour. He believed Sidoni's warning as to Ramirez's designs upon his younger daughter. And he did not trust her. She was flighty. He said nothing of his cares to "Son Gian' Battista." It was a touch of senile vanity. He wanted to show that he was equal yet to the task of guarding alone the honour of his house. Nostromo went away early. As soon as he had disappeared, walking towards the beach, Linda stepped over the threshold and, with a haggard smile, sat down by the side of her father. Ever since that Sunday, when the infatuated and desperate Ramirez had waited for her on the wharf, she had no doubts whatever. The jealous ravings of that man were no revelation. They had only fixed with precision, as with a nail driven into her heart, that sense of unreality and deception which, instead of bliss and security, she had found in her intercourse with her promised husband. She had passed on, pouring indignation and scorn upon Ramirez; but, that Sunday, she nearly died of wretchedness and shame, lying on the carved and lettered stone of Teresa's grave, subscribed for by the engine-drivers and the fitters of the railway workshops, in sign of their respect for the hero of Italian Unity. Old Viola had not been able to carry out his desire of burying his wife in the sea; and Linda wept upon the stone. The gratuitous outrage appalled her. If he wished to break her heart--well and good. Everything was permitted to Gian' Battista. But why trample upon the pieces; why seek to humiliate her spirit? Aha! He could not break that. She dried her tears. And Giselle! Giselle! The little one that, ever since she could toddle, had always clung to her skirt for protection. What duplicity! But she could not help it probably. When there was a man in the case the poor featherheaded wretch could not help herself. Linda had a good share of the Viola stoicism. She resolved to say nothing. But woman-like she put passion into her stoicism. Giselle's short answers, prompted by fearful caution, drove her beside herself by their curtness that resembled disdain. One day she flung herself upon the chair in which her indolent sister was lying and impressed the mark of her teeth at the base of the whitest neck in Sulaco. Giselle cried out. But she had her share of the Viola heroism. Ready to faint with terror, she only said, in a lazy voice, "Madre de Dios! Are you going to eat me alive, Linda?" And this outburst passed off leaving no trace upon the situation. "She knows nothing. She cannot know any thing," reflected Giselle. "Perhaps it is not true. It cannot be true," Linda tried to persuade herself. But when she saw Captain Fidanza for the first time after her meeting with the distracted Ramirez, the certitude of her misfortune returned. She watched him from the doorway go away to his boat, asking herself stoically, "Will they meet to-night?" She made up her mind not to leave the tower for a second. When he had disappeared she came out and sat down by her father. The venerable Garibaldino felt, in his own words, "a young man yet." In one way or another a good deal of talk about Ramirez had reached him of late; and his contempt and dislike of that man who obviously was not what his son would have been, had made him restless. He slept very little now; but for several nights past instead of reading--or only sitting, with Mrs. Gould's silver spectacles on his nose, before the open Bible, he had been prowling actively all about the island with his old gun, on watch over his honour. Linda, laying her thin brown hand on his knee, tried to soothe his excitement. Ramirez was not in Sulaco. Nobody knew where he was. He was gone. His talk of what he would do meant nothing. "No," the old man interrupted. "But son Gian' Battista told me--quite of himself--that the cowardly esclavo was drinking and gambling with the rascals of Zapiga, over there on the north side of the gulf. He may get some of the worst scoundrels of that scoundrelly town of negroes to help him in his attempt upon the little one. . . . But I am not so old. No!" She argued earnestly against the probability of any attempt being made; and at last the old man fell silent, chewing his white moustache. Women had their obstinate notions which must be humoured--his poor wife was like that, and Linda resembled her mother. It was not seemly for a man to argue. "May be. May be," he mumbled. She was by no means easy in her mind. She loved Nostromo. She turned her eyes upon Giselle, sitting at a distance, with something of maternal tenderness, and the jealous anguish of a rival outraged in her defeat. Then she rose and walked over to her. "Listen--you," she said, roughly. The invincible candour of the gaze, raised up all violet and dew, excited her rage and admiration. She had beautiful eyes--the Chica--this vile thing of white flesh and black deception. She did not know whether she wanted to tear them out with shouts of vengeance or cover up their mysterious and shameless innocence with kisses of pity and love. And suddenly they became empty, gazing blankly at her, except for a little fear not quite buried deep enough with all the other emotions in Giselle's heart. Linda said, "Ramirez is boasting in town that he will carry you off from the island." "What folly!" answered the other, and in a perversity born of long restraint, she added: "He is not the man," in a jesting tone with a trembling audacity. "No?" said Linda, through her clenched teeth. "Is he not? Well, then, look to it; because father has been walking about with a loaded gun at night." "It is not good for him. You must tell him not to, Linda. He will not listen to me." "I shall say nothing--never any more--to anybody," cried Linda, passionately. This could not last, thought Giselle. Giovanni must take her away soon--the very next time he came. She would not suffer these terrors for ever so much silver. To speak with her sister made her ill. But she was not uneasy at her father's watchfulness. She had begged Nostromo not to come to the window that night. He had promised to keep away for this once. And she did not know, could not guess or imagine, that he had another reason for coming on the island. Linda had gone straight to the tower. It was time to light up. She unlocked the little door, and went heavily up the spiral staircase, carrying her love for the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores like an ever-increasing load of shameful fetters. No; she could not throw it off. No; let Heaven dispose of these two. And moving about the lantern, filled with twilight and the sheen of the moon, with careful movements she lighted the lamp. Then her arms fell along her body. "And with our mother looking on," she murmured. "My own sister--the Chica!" The whole refracting apparatus, with its brass fittings and rings of prisms, glittered and sparkled like a domeshaped shrine of diamonds, containing not a lamp, but some sacred flame, dominating the sea. And Linda, the keeper, in black, with a pale face, drooped low in a wooden chair, alone with her jealousy, far above the shames and passions of the earth. A strange, dragging pain as if somebody were pulling her about brutally by her dark hair with bronze glints, made her put her hands up to her temples. They would meet. They would meet. And she knew where, too. At the window. The sweat of torture fell in drops on her cheeks, while the moonlight in the offing closed as if with a colossal bar of silver the entrance of the Placid Gulf--the sombre cavern of clouds and stillness in the surf-fretted seaboard. Linda Viola stood up suddenly with a finger on her lip. He loved neither her nor her sister. The whole thing seemed so objectless as to frighten her, and also give her some hope. Why did he not carry her off? What prevented him? He was incomprehensible. What were they waiting for? For what end were these two lying and deceiving? Not for the ends of their love. There was no such thing. The hope of regaining him for herself made her break her vow of not leaving the tower that night. She must talk at once to her father, who was wise, and would understand. She ran down the spiral stairs. At the moment of opening the door at the bottom she heard the sound of the first shot ever fired on the Great Isabel. She felt a shock, as though the bullet had struck her breast. She ran on without pausing. The cottage was dark. She cried at the door, "Giselle! Giselle!" then dashed round the corner and screamed her sister's name at the open window, without getting an answer; but as she was rushing, distracted, round the house, Giselle came out of the door, and darted past her, running silently, her hair loose, and her eyes staring straight ahead. She seemed to skim along the grass as if on tiptoe, and vanished. Linda walked on slowly, with her arms stretched out before her. All was still on the island; she did not know where she was going. The tree under which Martin Decoud spent his last days, beholding life like a succession of senseless images, threw a large blotch of black shade upon the grass. Suddenly she saw her father, standing quietly all alone in the moonlight. The Garibaldino--big, erect, with his snow-white hair and beard--had a monumental repose in his immobility, leaning upon a rifle. She put her hand upon his arm lightly. He never stirred. "What have you done?" she asked, in her ordinary voice. "I have shot Ramirez--infame!" he answered, with his eyes directed to where the shade was blackest. "Like a thief he came, and like a thief he fell. The child had to be protected." He did not offer to move an inch, to advance a single step. He stood there, rugged and unstirring, like a statue of an old man guarding the honour of his house. Linda removed her trembling hand from his arm, firm and steady like an arm of stone, and, without a word, entered the blackness of the shade. She saw a stir of formless shapes on the ground, and stopped short. A murmur of despair and tears grew louder to her strained hearing. "I entreated you not to come to-night. Oh, my Giovanni! And you promised. Oh! Why--why did you come, Giovanni?" It was her sister's voice. It broke on a heartrending sob. And the voice of the resourceful Capataz de Cargadores, master and slave of the San Tome treasure, who had been caught unawares by old Giorgio while stealing across the open towards the ravine to get some more silver, answered careless and cool, but sounding startlingly weak from the ground. "It seemed as though I could not live through the night without seeing thee once more--my star, my little flower." * * * * * The brilliant tertulia was just over, the last guests had departed, and the Senor Administrador had gone to his room already, when Dr. Monygham, who had been expected in the evening but had not turned up, arrived driving along the wood-block pavement under the electric-lamps of the deserted Calle de la Constitucion, and found the great gateway of the Casa still open. He limped in, stumped up the stairs, and found the fat and sleek Basilio on the point of turning off the lights in the sala. The prosperous majordomo remained open-mouthed at this late invasion. "Don't put out the lights," commanded the doctor. "I want to see the senora." "The senora is in the Senor Adminstrador's cancillaria," said Basilio, in an unctuous voice. "The Senor Administrador starts for the mountain in an hour. There is some trouble with the workmen to be feared, it appears. A shameless people without reason and decency. And idle, senor. Idle." "You are shamelessly lazy and imbecile yourself," said the doctor, with that faculty for exasperation which made him so generally beloved. "Don't put the lights out." Basilio retired with dignity. Dr. Monygham, waiting in the brilliantly lighted sala, heard presently a door close at the further end of the house. A jingle of spurs died out. The Senor Administrador was off to the mountain. With a measured swish of her long train, flashing with jewels and the shimmer of silk, her delicate head bowed as if under the weight of a mass of fair hair, in which the silver threads were lost, the "first lady of Sulaco," as Captain Mitchell used to describe her, moved along the lighted corredor, wealthy beyond great dreams of wealth, considered, loved, respected, honoured, and as solitary as any human being had ever been, perhaps, on this earth. The doctor's "Mrs. Gould! One minute!" stopped her with a start at the door of the lighted and empty sala. From the similarity of mood and circumstance, the sight of the doctor, standing there all alone amongst the groups of furniture, recalled to her emotional memory her unexpected meeting with Martin Decoud; she seemed to hear in the silence the voice of that man, dead miserably so many years ago, pronounce the words, "Antonia left her fan here." But it was the doctor's voice that spoke, a little altered by his excitement. She remarked his shining eyes. "Mrs. Gould, you are wanted. Do you know what has happened? You remember what I told you yesterday about Nostromo. Well, it seems that a lancha, a decked boat, coming from Zapiga, with four negroes in her, passing close to the Great Isabel, was hailed from the cliff by a woman's voice--Linda's, as a matter of fact--commanding them (it's a moonlight night) to go round to the beach and take up a wounded man to the town. The patron (from whom I've heard all this), of course, did so at once. He told me that when they got round to the low side of the Great Isabel, they found Linda Viola waiting for them. They followed her: she led them under a tree not far from the cottage. There they found Nostromo lying on the ground with his head in the younger girl's lap, and father Viola standing some distance off leaning on his gun. Under Linda's direction they got a table out of the cottage for a stretcher, after breaking off the legs. They are here, Mrs. Gould. I mean Nostromo and--and Giselle. The negroes brought him in to the first-aid hospital near the harbour. He made the attendant send for me. But it was not me he wanted to see--it was you, Mrs. Gould! It was you." "Me?" whispered Mrs. Gould, shrinking a little. "Yes, you!" the doctor burst out. "He begged me--his enemy, as he thinks--to bring you to him at once. It seems he has something to say to you alone." "Impossible!" murmured Mrs. Gould. "He said to me, 'Remind her that I have done something to keep a roof over her head.' . . . Mrs. Gould," the doctor pursued, in the greatest excitement. "Do you remember the silver? The silver in the lighter--that was lost?" Mrs. Gould remembered. But she did not say she hated the mere mention of that silver. Frankness personified, she remembered with an exaggerated horror that for the first and last time of her life she had concealed the truth from her husband about that very silver. She had been corrupted by her fears at that time, and she had never forgiven herself. Moreover, that silver, which would never have come down if her husband had been made acquainted with the news brought by Decoud, had been in a roundabout way nearly the cause of Dr. Monygham's death. And these things appeared to her very dreadful. "Was it lost, though?" the doctor exclaimed. "I've always felt that there was a mystery about our Nostromo ever since. I do believe he wants now, at the point of death----" "The point of death?" repeated Mrs. Gould. "Yes. Yes. . . . He wants perhaps to tell you something concerning that silver which----" "Oh, no! No!" exclaimed Mrs. Gould, in a low voice. "Isn't it lost and done with? Isn't there enough treasure without it to make everybody in the world miserable?" The doctor remained still, in a submissive, disappointed silence. At last he ventured, very low-- "And there is that Viola girl, Giselle. What are we to do? It looks as though father and sister had----" Mrs. Gould admitted that she felt in duty bound to do her best for these girls. "I have a volante here," the doctor said. "If you don't mind getting into that----" He waited, all impatience, till Mrs. Gould reappeared, having thrown over her dress a grey cloak with a deep hood. It was thus that, cloaked and monastically hooded over her evening costume, this woman, full of endurance and compassion, stood by the side of the bed on which the splendid Capataz de Cargadores lay stretched out motionless on his back. The whiteness of sheets and pillows gave a sombre and energetic relief to his bronzed face, to the dark, nervous hands, so good on a tiller, upon a bridle and on a trigger, lying open and idle upon a white coverlet. "She is innocent," the Capataz was saying in a deep and level voice, as though afraid that a louder word would break the slender hold his spirit still kept upon his body. "She is innocent. It is I alone. But no matter. For these things I would answer to no man or woman alive." He paused. Mrs. Gould's face, very white within the shadow of the hood, bent over him with an invincible and dreary sadness. And the low sobs of Giselle Viola, kneeling at the end of the bed, her gold hair with coppery gleams loose and scattered over the Capataz's feet, hardly troubled the silence of the room. "Ha! Old Giorgio--the guardian of thine honour! Fancy the Vecchio coming upon me so light of foot, so steady of aim. I myself could have done no better. But the price of a charge of powder might have been saved. The honour was safe. . . . Senora, she would have followed to the end of the world Nostromo the thief. . . . I have said the word. The spell is broken!" A low moan from the girl made him cast his eyes down. "I cannot see her. . . . No matter," he went on, with the shadow of the old magnificent carelessness in his voice. "One kiss is enough, if there is no time for more. An airy soul, senora! Bright and warm, like sunshine--soon clouded, and soon serene. They would crush it there between them. Senora, cast on her the eye of your compassion, as famed from one end of the land to the other as the courage and daring of the man who speaks to you. She will console herself in time. And even Ramirez is not a bad fellow. I am not angry. No! It is not Ramirez who overcame the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores." He paused, made an effort, and in louder voice, a little wildly, declared-- "I die betrayed--betrayed by----" But he did not say by whom or by what he was dying betrayed. "She would not have betrayed me," he began again, opening his eyes very wide. "She was faithful. We were going very far--very soon. I could have torn myself away from that accursed treasure for her. For that child I would have left boxes and boxes of it--full. And Decoud took four. Four ingots. Why? Picardia! To betray me? How could I give back the treasure with four ingots missing? They would have said I had purloined them. The doctor would have said that. Alas! it holds me yet!" Mrs. Gould bent low, fascinated--cold with apprehension. "What became of Don Martin on that night, Nostromo?" "Who knows? I wondered what would become of me. Now I know. Death was to come upon me unawares. He went away! He betrayed me. And you think I have killed him! You are all alike, you fine people. The silver has killed me. It has held me. It holds me yet. Nobody knows where it is. But you are the wife of Don Carlos, who put it into my hands and said, 'Save it on your life.' And when I returned, and you all thought it was lost, what do I hear? 'It was nothing of importance. Let it go. Up, Nostromo, the faithful, and ride away to save us, for dear life!'" "Nostromo!" Mrs. Gould whispered, bending very low. "I, too, have hated the idea of that silver from the bottom of my heart." "Marvellous!--that one of you should hate the wealth that you know so well how to take from the hands of the poor. The world rests upon the poor, as old Giorgio says. You have been always good to the poor. But there is something accursed in wealth. Senora, shall I tell you where the treasure is? To you alone. . . . Shining! Incorruptible!" A pained, involuntary reluctance lingered in his tone, in his eyes, plain to the woman with the genius of sympathetic intuition. She averted her glance from the miserable subjection of the dying man, appalled, wishing to hear no more of the silver. "No, Capataz," she said. "No one misses it now. Let it be lost for ever." After hearing these words, Nostromo closed his eyes, uttered no word, made no movement. Outside the door of the sick-room Dr. Monygham, excited to the highest pitch, his eyes shining with eagerness, came up to the two women. "Now, Mrs. Gould," he said, almost brutally in his impatience, "tell me, was I right? There is a mystery. You have got the word of it, have you not? He told you----" "He told me nothing," said Mrs. Gould, steadily. The light of his temperamental enmity to Nostromo went out of Dr. Monygham's eyes. He stepped back submissively. He did not believe Mrs. Gould. But her word was law. He accepted her denial like an inexplicable fatality affirming the victory of Nostromo's genius over his own. Even before that woman, whom he loved with secret devotion, he had been defeated by the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores, the man who had lived his own life on the assumption of unbroken fidelity, rectitude, and courage! "Pray send at once somebody for my carriage," spoke Mrs. Gould from within her hood. Then, turning to Giselle Viola, "Come nearer me, child; come closer. We will wait here." Giselle Viola, heartbroken and childlike, her face veiled in her falling hair, crept up to her side. Mrs. Gould slipped her hand through the arm of the unworthy daughter of old Viola, the immaculate republican, the hero without a stain. Slowly, gradually, as a withered flower droops, the head of the girl, who would have followed a thief to the end of the world, rested on the shoulder of Dona Emilia, the first lady of Sulaco, the wife of the Senor Administrador of the San Tome mine. And Mrs. Gould, feeling her suppressed sobbing, nervous and excited, had the first and only moment of bitterness in her life. It was worthy of Dr. Monygham himself. "Console yourself, child. Very soon he would have forgotten you for his treasure." "Senora, he loved me. He loved me," Giselle whispered, despairingly. "He loved me as no one had ever been loved before." "I have been loved, too," Mrs. Gould said in a severe tone. Giselle clung to her convulsively. "Oh, senora, but you shall live adored to the end of your life," she sobbed out. Mrs. Gould kept an unbroken silence till the carriage arrived. She helped in the half-fainting girl. After the doctor had shut the door of the landau, she leaned over to him. "You can do nothing?" she whispered. "No, Mrs. Gould. Moreover, he won't let us touch him. It does not matter. I just had one look. . . . Useless." But he promised to see old Viola and the other girl that very night. He could get the police-boat to take him off to the island. He remained in the street, looking after the landau rolling away slowly behind the white mules. The rumour of some accident--an accident to Captain Fidanza--had been spreading along the new quays with their rows of lamps and the dark shapes of towering cranes. A knot of night prowlers--the poorest of the poor--hung about the door of the first-aid hospital, whispering in the moonlight of the empty street. There was no one with the wounded man but the pale photographer, small, frail, bloodthirsty, the hater of capitalists, perched on a high stool near the head of the bed with his knees up and his chin in his hands. He had been fetched by a comrade who, working late on the wharf, had heard from a negro belonging to a lancha, that Captain Fidanza had been brought ashore mortally wounded. "Have you any dispositions to make, comrade?" he asked, anxiously. "Do not forget that we want money for our work. The rich must be fought with their own weapons." Nostromo made no answer. The other did not insist, remaining huddled up on the stool, shock-headed, wildly hairy, like a hunchbacked monkey. Then, after a long silence-- "Comrade Fidanza," he began, solemnly, "you have refused all aid from that doctor. Is he really a dangerous enemy of the people?" In the dimly lit room Nostromo rolled his head slowly on the pillow and opened his eyes, directing at the weird figure perched by his bedside a glance of enigmatic and profound inquiry. Then his head rolled back, his eyelids fell, and the Capataz de Cargadores died without a word or moan after an hour of immobility, broken by short shudders testifying to the most atrocious sufferings. Dr. Monygham, going out in the police-galley to the islands, beheld the glitter of the moon upon the gulf and the high black shape of the Great Isabel sending a shaft of light afar, from under the canopy of clouds. "Pull easy," he said, wondering what he would find there. He tried to imagine Linda and her father, and discovered a strange reluctance within himself. "Pull easy," he repeated. * * * * * * From the moment he fired at the thief of his honour, Giorgio Viola had not stirred from the spot. He stood, his old gun grounded, his hand grasping the barrel near the muzzle. After the lancha carrying off Nostromo for ever from her had left the shore, Linda, coming up, stopped before him. He did not seem to be aware of her presence, but when, losing her forced calmness, she cried out-- "Do you know whom you have killed?" he answered-- "Ramirez the vagabond." White, and staring insanely at her father, Linda laughed in his face. After a time he joined her faintly in a deep-toned and distant echo of her peals. Then she stopped, and the old man spoke as if startled-- "He cried out in son Gian' Battista's voice." The gun fell from his opened hand, but the arm remained extended for a moment as if still supported. Linda seized it roughly. "You are too old to understand. Come into the house." He let her lead him. On the threshold he stumbled heavily, nearly coming to the ground together with his daughter. His excitement, his activity of the last few days, had been like the flare of a dying lamp. He caught at the back of his chair. "In son Gian' Battista's voice," he repeated in a severe tone. "I heard him--Ramirez--the miserable----" Linda helped him into the chair, and, bending low, hissed into his ear-- "You have killed Gian' Battista." The old man smiled under his thick moustache. Women had strange fancies. "Where is the child?" he asked, surprised at the penetrating chilliness of the air and the unwonted dimness of the lamp by which he used to sit up half the night with the open Bible before him. Linda hesitated a moment, then averted her eyes. "She is asleep," she said. "We shall talk of her tomorrow." She could not bear to look at him. He filled her with terror and with an almost unbearable feeling of pity. She had observed the change that came over him. He would never understand what he had done; and even to her the whole thing remained incomprehensible. He said with difficulty-- "Give me the book." Linda laid on the table the closed volume in its worn leather cover, the Bible given him ages ago by an Englishman in Palermo. "The child had to be protected," he said, in a strange, mournful voice. Behind

injustice

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

"I shall go grey, I fear, before the ring is on my finger," she said, slowly, keeping her gaze fastened upon him. She waited for what he would say, rolling down her turned-up sleeves. "No fear of that," he said, absently. She turned away as if it had been something final, and busied herself with household cares while Nostromo talked with her father. Conversation with the old Garibaldino was not easy. Age had left his faculties unimpaired, only they seemed to have withdrawn somewhere deep within him. His answers were slow in coming, with an effect of august gravity. But that day he was more animated, quicker; there seemed to be more life in the old lion. He was uneasy for the integrity of his honour. He believed Sidoni's warning as to Ramirez's designs upon his younger daughter. And he did not trust her. She was flighty. He said nothing of his cares to "Son Gian' Battista." It was a touch of senile vanity. He wanted to show that he was equal yet to the task of guarding alone the honour of his house. Nostromo went away early. As soon as he had disappeared, walking towards the beach, Linda stepped over the threshold and, with a haggard smile, sat down by the side of her father. Ever since that Sunday, when the infatuated and desperate Ramirez had waited for her on the wharf, she had no doubts whatever. The jealous ravings of that man were no revelation. They had only fixed with precision, as with a nail driven into her heart, that sense of unreality and deception which, instead of bliss and security, she had found in her intercourse with her promised husband. She had passed on, pouring indignation and scorn upon Ramirez; but, that Sunday, she nearly died of wretchedness and shame, lying on the carved and lettered stone of Teresa's grave, subscribed for by the engine-drivers and the fitters of the railway workshops, in sign of their respect for the hero of Italian Unity. Old Viola had not been able to carry out his desire of burying his wife in the sea; and Linda wept upon the stone. The gratuitous outrage appalled her. If he wished to break her heart--well and good. Everything was permitted to Gian' Battista. But why trample upon the pieces; why seek to humiliate her spirit? Aha! He could not break that. She dried her tears. And Giselle! Giselle! The little one that, ever since she could toddle, had always clung to her skirt for protection. What duplicity! But she could not help it probably. When there was a man in the case the poor featherheaded wretch could not help herself. Linda had a good share of the Viola stoicism. She resolved to say nothing. But woman-like she put passion into her stoicism. Giselle's short answers, prompted by fearful caution, drove her beside herself by their curtness that resembled disdain. One day she flung herself upon the chair in which her indolent sister was lying and impressed the mark of her teeth at the base of the whitest neck in Sulaco. Giselle cried out. But she had her share of the Viola heroism. Ready to faint with terror, she only said, in a lazy voice, "Madre de Dios! Are you going to eat me alive, Linda?" And this outburst passed off leaving no trace upon the situation. "She knows nothing. She cannot know any thing," reflected Giselle. "Perhaps it is not true. It cannot be true," Linda tried to persuade herself. But when she saw Captain Fidanza for the first time after her meeting with the distracted Ramirez, the certitude of her misfortune returned. She watched him from the doorway go away to his boat, asking herself stoically, "Will they meet to-night?" She made up her mind not to leave the tower for a second. When he had disappeared she came out and sat down by her father. The venerable Garibaldino felt, in his own words, "a young man yet." In one way or another a good deal of talk about Ramirez had reached him of late; and his contempt and dislike of that man who obviously was not what his son would have been, had made him restless. He slept very little now; but for several nights past instead of reading--or only sitting, with Mrs. Gould's silver spectacles on his nose, before the open Bible, he had been prowling actively all about the island with his old gun, on watch over his honour. Linda, laying her thin brown hand on his knee, tried to soothe his excitement. Ramirez was not in Sulaco. Nobody knew where he was. He was gone. His talk of what he would do meant nothing. "No," the old man interrupted. "But son Gian' Battista told me--quite of himself--that the cowardly esclavo was drinking and gambling with the rascals of Zapiga, over there on the north side of the gulf. He may get some of the worst scoundrels of that scoundrelly town of negroes to help him in his attempt upon the little one. . . . But I am not so old. No!" She argued earnestly against the probability of any attempt being made; and at last the old man fell silent, chewing his white moustache. Women had their obstinate notions which must be humoured--his poor wife was like that, and Linda resembled her mother. It was not seemly for a man to argue. "May be. May be," he mumbled. She was by no means easy in her mind. She loved Nostromo. She turned her eyes upon Giselle, sitting at a distance, with something of maternal tenderness, and the jealous anguish of a rival outraged in her defeat. Then she rose and walked over to her. "Listen--you," she said, roughly. The invincible candour of the gaze, raised up all violet and dew, excited her rage and admiration. She had beautiful eyes--the Chica--this vile thing of white flesh and black deception. She did not know whether she wanted to tear them out with shouts of vengeance or cover up their mysterious and shameless innocence with kisses of pity and love. And suddenly they became empty, gazing blankly at her, except for a little fear not quite buried deep enough with all the other emotions in Giselle's heart. Linda said, "Ramirez is boasting in town that he will carry you off from the island." "What folly!" answered the other, and in a perversity born of long restraint, she added: "He is not the man," in a jesting tone with a trembling audacity. "No?" said Linda, through her clenched teeth. "Is he not? Well, then, look to it; because father has been walking about with a loaded gun at night." "It is not good for him. You must tell him not to, Linda. He will not listen to me." "I shall say nothing--never any more--to anybody," cried Linda, passionately. This could not last, thought Giselle. Giovanni must take her away soon--the very next time he came. She would not suffer these terrors for ever so much silver. To speak with her sister made her ill. But she was not uneasy at her father's watchfulness. She had begged Nostromo not to come to the window that night. He had promised to keep away for this once. And she did not know, could not guess or imagine, that he had another reason for coming on the island. Linda had gone straight to the tower. It was time to light up. She unlocked the little door, and went heavily up the spiral staircase, carrying her love for the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores like an ever-increasing load of shameful fetters. No; she could not throw it off. No; let Heaven dispose of these two. And moving about the lantern, filled with twilight and the sheen of the moon, with careful movements she lighted the lamp. Then her arms fell along her body. "And with our mother looking on," she murmured. "My own sister--the Chica!" The whole refracting apparatus, with its brass fittings and rings of prisms, glittered and sparkled like a domeshaped shrine of diamonds, containing not a lamp, but some sacred flame, dominating the sea. And Linda, the keeper, in black, with a pale face, drooped low in a wooden chair, alone with her jealousy, far above the shames and passions of the earth. A strange, dragging pain as if somebody were pulling her about brutally by her dark hair with bronze glints, made her put her hands up to her temples. They would meet. They would meet. And she knew where, too. At the window. The sweat of torture fell in drops on her cheeks, while the moonlight in the offing closed as if with a colossal bar of silver the entrance of the Placid Gulf--the sombre cavern of clouds and stillness in the surf-fretted seaboard. Linda Viola stood up suddenly with a finger on her lip. He loved neither her nor her sister. The whole thing seemed so objectless as to frighten her, and also give her some hope. Why did he not carry her off? What prevented him? He was incomprehensible. What were they waiting for? For what end were these two lying and deceiving? Not for the ends of their love. There was no such thing. The hope of regaining him for herself made her break her vow of not leaving the tower that night. She must talk at once to her father, who was wise, and would understand. She ran down the spiral stairs. At the moment of opening the door at the bottom she heard the sound of the first shot ever fired on the Great Isabel. She felt a shock, as though the bullet had struck her breast. She ran on without pausing. The cottage was dark. She cried at the door, "Giselle! Giselle!" then dashed round the corner and screamed her sister's name at the open window, without getting an answer; but as she was rushing, distracted, round the house, Giselle came out of the door, and darted past her, running silently, her hair loose, and her eyes staring straight ahead. She seemed to skim along the grass as if on tiptoe, and vanished. Linda walked on slowly, with her arms stretched out before her. All was still on the island; she did not know where she was going. The tree under which Martin Decoud spent his last days, beholding life like a succession of senseless images, threw a large blotch of black shade upon the grass. Suddenly she saw her father, standing quietly all alone in the moonlight. The Garibaldino--big, erect, with his snow-white hair and beard--had a monumental repose in his immobility, leaning upon a rifle. She put her hand upon his arm lightly. He never stirred. "What have you done?" she asked, in her ordinary voice. "I have shot Ramirez--infame!" he answered, with his eyes directed to where the shade was blackest. "Like a thief he came, and like a thief he fell. The child had to be protected." He did not offer to move an inch, to advance a single step. He stood there, rugged and unstirring, like a statue of an old man guarding the honour of his house. Linda removed her trembling hand from his arm, firm and steady like an arm of stone, and, without a word, entered the blackness of the shade. She saw a stir of formless shapes on the ground, and stopped short. A murmur of despair and tears grew louder to her strained hearing. "I entreated you not to come to-night. Oh, my Giovanni! And you promised. Oh! Why--why did you come, Giovanni?" It was her sister's voice. It broke on a heartrending sob. And the voice of the resourceful Capataz de Cargadores, master and slave of the San Tome treasure, who had been caught unawares by old Giorgio while stealing across the open towards the ravine to get some more silver, answered careless and cool, but sounding startlingly weak from the ground. "It seemed as though I could not live through the night without seeing thee once more--my star, my little flower." * * * * * The brilliant tertulia was just over, the last guests had departed, and the Senor Administrador had gone to his room already, when Dr. Monygham, who had been expected in the evening but had not turned up, arrived driving along the wood-block pavement under the electric-lamps of the deserted Calle de la Constitucion, and found the great gateway of the Casa still open. He limped in, stumped up the stairs, and found the fat and sleek Basilio on the point of turning off the lights in the sala. The prosperous majordomo remained open-mouthed at this late invasion. "Don't put out the lights," commanded the doctor. "I want to see the senora." "The senora is in the Senor Adminstrador's cancillaria," said Basilio, in an unctuous voice. "The Senor Administrador starts for the mountain in an hour. There is some trouble with the workmen to be feared, it appears. A shameless people without reason and decency. And idle, senor. Idle." "You are shamelessly lazy and imbecile yourself," said the doctor, with that faculty for exasperation which made him so generally beloved. "Don't put the lights out." Basilio retired with dignity. Dr. Monygham, waiting in the brilliantly lighted sala, heard presently a door close at the further end of the house. A jingle of spurs died out. The Senor Administrador was off to the mountain. With a measured swish of her long train, flashing with jewels and the shimmer of silk, her delicate head bowed as if under the weight of a mass of fair hair, in which the silver threads were lost, the "first lady of Sulaco," as Captain Mitchell used to describe her, moved along the lighted corredor, wealthy beyond great dreams of wealth, considered, loved, respected, honoured, and as solitary as any human being had ever been, perhaps, on this earth. The doctor's "Mrs. Gould! One minute!" stopped her with a start at the door of the lighted and empty sala. From the similarity of mood and circumstance, the sight of the doctor, standing there all alone amongst the groups of furniture, recalled to her emotional memory her unexpected meeting with Martin Decoud; she seemed to hear in the silence the voice of that man, dead miserably so many years ago, pronounce the words, "Antonia left her fan here." But it was the doctor's voice that spoke, a little altered by his excitement. She remarked his shining eyes. "Mrs. Gould, you are wanted. Do you know what has happened? You remember what I told you yesterday about Nostromo. Well, it seems that a lancha, a decked boat, coming from Zapiga, with four negroes in her, passing close to the Great Isabel, was hailed from the cliff by a woman's voice--Linda's, as a matter of fact--commanding them (it's a moonlight night) to go round to the beach and take up a wounded man to the town. The patron (from whom I've heard all this), of course, did so at once. He told me that when they got round to the low side of the Great Isabel, they found Linda Viola waiting for them. They followed her: she led them under a tree not far from the cottage. There they found Nostromo lying on the ground with his head in the younger girl's lap, and father Viola standing some distance off leaning on his gun. Under Linda's direction they got a table out of the cottage for a stretcher, after breaking off the legs. They are here, Mrs. Gould. I mean Nostromo and--and Giselle. The negroes brought him in to the first-aid hospital near the harbour. He made the attendant send for me. But it was not me he wanted to see--it was you, Mrs. Gould! It was you." "Me?" whispered Mrs. Gould, shrinking a little. "Yes, you!" the doctor burst out. "He begged me--his enemy, as he thinks--to bring you to him at once. It seems he has something to say to you alone." "Impossible!" murmured Mrs. Gould. "He said to me, 'Remind her that I have done something to keep a roof over her head.' . . . Mrs. Gould," the doctor pursued, in the greatest excitement. "Do you remember the silver? The silver in the lighter--that was lost?" Mrs. Gould remembered. But she did not say she hated the mere mention of that silver. Frankness personified, she remembered with an exaggerated horror that for the first and last time of her life she had concealed the truth from her husband about that very silver. She had been corrupted by her fears at that time, and she had never forgiven herself. Moreover, that silver, which would never have come down if her husband had been made acquainted with the news brought by Decoud, had been in a roundabout way nearly the cause of Dr. Monygham's death. And these things appeared to her very dreadful. "Was it lost, though?" the doctor exclaimed. "I've always felt that there was a mystery about our Nostromo ever since. I do believe he wants now, at the point of death----" "The point of death?" repeated Mrs. Gould. "Yes. Yes. . . . He wants perhaps to tell you something concerning that silver which----" "Oh, no! No!" exclaimed Mrs. Gould, in a low voice. "Isn't it lost and done with? Isn't there enough treasure without it to make everybody in the world miserable?" The doctor remained still, in a submissive, disappointed silence. At last he ventured, very low-- "And there is that Viola girl, Giselle. What are we to do? It looks as though father and sister had----" Mrs. Gould admitted that she felt in duty bound to do her best for these girls. "I have a volante here," the doctor said. "If you don't mind getting into that----" He waited, all impatience, till Mrs. Gould reappeared, having thrown over her dress a grey cloak with a deep hood. It was thus that, cloaked and monastically hooded over her evening costume, this woman, full of endurance and compassion, stood by the side of the bed on which the splendid Capataz de Cargadores lay stretched out motionless on his back. The whiteness of sheets and pillows gave a sombre and energetic relief to his bronzed face, to the dark, nervous hands, so good on a tiller, upon a bridle and on a trigger, lying open and idle upon a white coverlet. "She is innocent," the Capataz was saying in a deep and level voice, as though afraid that a louder word would break the slender hold his spirit still kept upon his body. "She is innocent. It is I alone. But no matter. For these things I would answer to no man or woman alive." He paused. Mrs. Gould's face, very white within the shadow of the hood, bent over him with an invincible and dreary sadness. And the low sobs of Giselle Viola, kneeling at the end of the bed, her gold hair with coppery gleams loose and scattered over the Capataz's feet, hardly troubled the silence of the room. "Ha! Old Giorgio--the guardian of thine honour! Fancy the Vecchio coming upon me so light of foot, so steady of aim. I myself could have done no better. But the price of a charge of powder might have been saved. The honour was safe. . . . Senora, she would have followed to the end of the world Nostromo the thief. . . . I have said the word. The spell is broken!" A low moan from the girl made him cast his eyes down. "I cannot see her. . . . No matter," he went on, with the shadow of the old magnificent carelessness in his voice. "One kiss is enough, if there is no time for more. An airy soul, senora! Bright and warm, like sunshine--soon clouded, and soon serene. They would crush it there between them. Senora, cast on her the eye of your compassion, as famed from one end of the land to the other as the courage and daring of the man who speaks to you. She will console herself in time. And even Ramirez is not a bad fellow. I am not angry. No! It is not Ramirez who overcame the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores." He paused, made an effort, and in louder voice, a little wildly, declared-- "I die betrayed--betrayed by----" But he did not say by whom or by what he was dying betrayed. "She would not have betrayed me," he began again, opening his eyes very wide. "She was faithful. We were going very far--very soon. I could have torn myself away from that accursed treasure for her. For that child I would have left boxes and boxes of it--full. And Decoud took four. Four ingots. Why? Picardia! To betray me? How could I give back the treasure with four ingots missing? They would have said I had purloined them. The doctor would have said that. Alas! it holds me yet!" Mrs. Gould bent low, fascinated--cold with apprehension. "What became of Don Martin on that night, Nostromo?" "Who knows? I wondered what would become of me. Now I know. Death was to come upon me unawares. He went away! He betrayed me. And you think I have killed him! You are all alike, you fine people. The silver has killed me. It has held me. It holds me yet. Nobody knows where it is. But you are the wife of Don Carlos, who put it into my hands and said, 'Save it on your life.' And when I returned, and you all thought it was lost, what do I hear? 'It was nothing of importance. Let it go. Up, Nostromo, the faithful, and ride away to save us, for dear life!'" "Nostromo!" Mrs. Gould whispered, bending very low. "I, too, have hated the idea of that silver from the bottom of my heart." "Marvellous!--that one of you should hate the wealth that you know so well how to take from the hands of the poor. The world rests upon the poor, as old Giorgio says. You have been always good to the poor. But there is something accursed in wealth. Senora, shall I tell you where the treasure is? To you alone. . . . Shining! Incorruptible!" A pained, involuntary reluctance lingered in his tone, in his eyes, plain to the woman with the genius of sympathetic intuition. She averted her glance from the miserable subjection of the dying man, appalled, wishing to hear no more of the silver. "No, Capataz," she said. "No one misses it now. Let it be lost for ever." After hearing these words, Nostromo closed his eyes, uttered no word, made no movement. Outside the door of the sick-room Dr. Monygham, excited to the highest pitch, his eyes shining with eagerness, came up to the two women. "Now, Mrs. Gould," he said, almost brutally in his impatience, "tell me, was I right? There is a mystery. You have got the word of it, have you not? He told you----" "He told me nothing," said Mrs. Gould, steadily. The light of his temperamental enmity to Nostromo went out of Dr. Monygham's eyes. He stepped back submissively. He did not believe Mrs. Gould. But her word was law. He accepted her denial like an inexplicable fatality affirming the victory of Nostromo's genius over his own. Even before that woman, whom he loved with secret devotion, he had been defeated by the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores, the man who had lived his own life on the assumption of unbroken fidelity, rectitude, and courage! "Pray send at once somebody for my carriage," spoke Mrs. Gould from within her hood. Then, turning to Giselle Viola, "Come nearer me, child; come closer. We will wait here." Giselle Viola, heartbroken and childlike, her face veiled in her falling hair, crept up to her side. Mrs. Gould slipped her hand through the arm of the unworthy daughter of old Viola, the immaculate republican, the hero without a stain. Slowly, gradually, as a withered flower droops, the head of the girl, who would have followed a thief to the end of the world, rested on the shoulder of Dona Emilia, the first lady of Sulaco, the wife of the Senor Administrador of the San Tome mine. And Mrs. Gould, feeling her suppressed sobbing, nervous and excited, had the first and only moment of bitterness in her life. It was worthy of Dr. Monygham himself. "Console yourself, child. Very soon he would have forgotten you for his treasure." "Senora, he loved me. He loved me," Giselle whispered, despairingly. "He loved me as no one had ever been loved before." "I have been loved, too," Mrs. Gould said in a severe tone. Giselle clung to her convulsively. "Oh, senora, but you shall live adored to the end of your life," she sobbed out. Mrs. Gould kept an unbroken silence till the carriage arrived. She helped in the half-fainting girl. After the doctor had shut the door of the landau, she leaned over to him. "You can do nothing?" she whispered. "No, Mrs. Gould. Moreover, he won't let us touch him. It does not matter. I just had one look. . . . Useless." But he promised to see old Viola and the other girl that very night. He could get the police-boat to take him off to the island. He remained in the street, looking after the landau rolling away slowly behind the white mules. The rumour of some accident--an accident to Captain Fidanza--had been spreading along the new quays with their rows of lamps and the dark shapes of towering cranes. A knot of night prowlers--the poorest of the poor--hung about the door of the first-aid hospital, whispering in the moonlight of the empty street. There was no one with the wounded man but the pale photographer, small, frail, bloodthirsty, the hater of capitalists, perched on a high stool near the head of the bed with his knees up and his chin in his hands. He had been fetched by a comrade who, working late on the wharf, had heard from a negro belonging to a lancha, that Captain Fidanza had been brought ashore mortally wounded. "Have you any dispositions to make, comrade?" he asked, anxiously. "Do not forget that we want money for our work. The rich must be fought with their own weapons." Nostromo made no answer. The other did not insist, remaining huddled up on the stool, shock-headed, wildly hairy, like a hunchbacked monkey. Then, after a long silence-- "Comrade Fidanza," he began, solemnly, "you have refused all aid from that doctor. Is he really a dangerous enemy of the people?" In the dimly lit room Nostromo rolled his head slowly on the pillow and opened his eyes, directing at the weird figure perched by his bedside a glance of enigmatic and profound inquiry. Then his head rolled back, his eyelids fell, and the Capataz de Cargadores died without a word or moan after an hour of immobility, broken by short shudders testifying to the most atrocious sufferings. Dr. Monygham, going out in the police-galley to the islands, beheld the glitter of the moon upon the gulf and the high black shape of the Great Isabel sending a shaft of light afar, from under the canopy of clouds. "Pull easy," he said, wondering what he would find there. He tried to imagine Linda and her father, and discovered a strange reluctance within himself. "Pull easy," he repeated. * * * * * * From the moment he fired at the thief of his honour, Giorgio Viola had not stirred from the spot. He stood, his old gun grounded, his hand grasping the barrel near the muzzle. After the lancha carrying off Nostromo for ever from her had left the shore, Linda, coming up, stopped before him. He did not seem to be aware of her presence, but when, losing her forced calmness, she cried out-- "Do you know whom you have killed?" he answered-- "Ramirez the vagabond." White, and staring insanely at her father, Linda laughed in his face. After a time he joined her faintly in a deep-toned and distant echo of her peals. Then she stopped, and the old man spoke as if startled-- "He cried out in son Gian' Battista's voice." The gun fell from his opened hand, but the arm remained extended for a moment as if still supported. Linda seized it roughly. "You are too old to understand. Come into the house." He let her lead him. On the threshold he stumbled heavily, nearly coming to the ground together with his daughter. His excitement, his activity of the last few days, had been like the flare of a dying lamp. He caught at the back of his chair. "In son Gian' Battista's voice," he repeated in a severe tone. "I heard him--Ramirez--the miserable----" Linda helped him into the chair, and, bending low, hissed into his ear-- "You have killed Gian' Battista." The old man smiled under his thick moustache. Women had strange fancies. "Where is the child?" he asked, surprised at the penetrating chilliness of the air and the unwonted dimness of the lamp by which he used to sit up half the night with the open Bible before him. Linda hesitated a moment, then averted her eyes. "She is asleep," she said. "We shall talk of her tomorrow." She could not bear to look at him. He filled her with terror and with an almost unbearable feeling of pity. She had observed the change that came over him. He would never understand what he had done; and even to her the whole thing remained incomprehensible. He said with difficulty-- "Give me the book." Linda laid on the table the closed volume in its worn leather cover, the Bible given him ages ago by an Englishman in Palermo. "The child had to be protected," he said, in a strange, mournful voice. Behind

words

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

"I shall go grey, I fear, before the ring is on my finger," she said, slowly, keeping her gaze fastened upon him. She waited for what he would say, rolling down her turned-up sleeves. "No fear of that," he said, absently. She turned away as if it had been something final, and busied herself with household cares while Nostromo talked with her father. Conversation with the old Garibaldino was not easy. Age had left his faculties unimpaired, only they seemed to have withdrawn somewhere deep within him. His answers were slow in coming, with an effect of august gravity. But that day he was more animated, quicker; there seemed to be more life in the old lion. He was uneasy for the integrity of his honour. He believed Sidoni's warning as to Ramirez's designs upon his younger daughter. And he did not trust her. She was flighty. He said nothing of his cares to "Son Gian' Battista." It was a touch of senile vanity. He wanted to show that he was equal yet to the task of guarding alone the honour of his house. Nostromo went away early. As soon as he had disappeared, walking towards the beach, Linda stepped over the threshold and, with a haggard smile, sat down by the side of her father. Ever since that Sunday, when the infatuated and desperate Ramirez had waited for her on the wharf, she had no doubts whatever. The jealous ravings of that man were no revelation. They had only fixed with precision, as with a nail driven into her heart, that sense of unreality and deception which, instead of bliss and security, she had found in her intercourse with her promised husband. She had passed on, pouring indignation and scorn upon Ramirez; but, that Sunday, she nearly died of wretchedness and shame, lying on the carved and lettered stone of Teresa's grave, subscribed for by the engine-drivers and the fitters of the railway workshops, in sign of their respect for the hero of Italian Unity. Old Viola had not been able to carry out his desire of burying his wife in the sea; and Linda wept upon the stone. The gratuitous outrage appalled her. If he wished to break her heart--well and good. Everything was permitted to Gian' Battista. But why trample upon the pieces; why seek to humiliate her spirit? Aha! He could not break that. She dried her tears. And Giselle! Giselle! The little one that, ever since she could toddle, had always clung to her skirt for protection. What duplicity! But she could not help it probably. When there was a man in the case the poor featherheaded wretch could not help herself. Linda had a good share of the Viola stoicism. She resolved to say nothing. But woman-like she put passion into her stoicism. Giselle's short answers, prompted by fearful caution, drove her beside herself by their curtness that resembled disdain. One day she flung herself upon the chair in which her indolent sister was lying and impressed the mark of her teeth at the base of the whitest neck in Sulaco. Giselle cried out. But she had her share of the Viola heroism. Ready to faint with terror, she only said, in a lazy voice, "Madre de Dios! Are you going to eat me alive, Linda?" And this outburst passed off leaving no trace upon the situation. "She knows nothing. She cannot know any thing," reflected Giselle. "Perhaps it is not true. It cannot be true," Linda tried to persuade herself. But when she saw Captain Fidanza for the first time after her meeting with the distracted Ramirez, the certitude of her misfortune returned. She watched him from the doorway go away to his boat, asking herself stoically, "Will they meet to-night?" She made up her mind not to leave the tower for a second. When he had disappeared she came out and sat down by her father. The venerable Garibaldino felt, in his own words, "a young man yet." In one way or another a good deal of talk about Ramirez had reached him of late; and his contempt and dislike of that man who obviously was not what his son would have been, had made him restless. He slept very little now; but for several nights past instead of reading--or only sitting, with Mrs. Gould's silver spectacles on his nose, before the open Bible, he had been prowling actively all about the island with his old gun, on watch over his honour. Linda, laying her thin brown hand on his knee, tried to soothe his excitement. Ramirez was not in Sulaco. Nobody knew where he was. He was gone. His talk of what he would do meant nothing. "No," the old man interrupted. "But son Gian' Battista told me--quite of himself--that the cowardly esclavo was drinking and gambling with the rascals of Zapiga, over there on the north side of the gulf. He may get some of the worst scoundrels of that scoundrelly town of negroes to help him in his attempt upon the little one. . . . But I am not so old. No!" She argued earnestly against the probability of any attempt being made; and at last the old man fell silent, chewing his white moustache. Women had their obstinate notions which must be humoured--his poor wife was like that, and Linda resembled her mother. It was not seemly for a man to argue. "May be. May be," he mumbled. She was by no means easy in her mind. She loved Nostromo. She turned her eyes upon Giselle, sitting at a distance, with something of maternal tenderness, and the jealous anguish of a rival outraged in her defeat. Then she rose and walked over to her. "Listen--you," she said, roughly. The invincible candour of the gaze, raised up all violet and dew, excited her rage and admiration. She had beautiful eyes--the Chica--this vile thing of white flesh and black deception. She did not know whether she wanted to tear them out with shouts of vengeance or cover up their mysterious and shameless innocence with kisses of pity and love. And suddenly they became empty, gazing blankly at her, except for a little fear not quite buried deep enough with all the other emotions in Giselle's heart. Linda said, "Ramirez is boasting in town that he will carry you off from the island." "What folly!" answered the other, and in a perversity born of long restraint, she added: "He is not the man," in a jesting tone with a trembling audacity. "No?" said Linda, through her clenched teeth. "Is he not? Well, then, look to it; because father has been walking about with a loaded gun at night." "It is not good for him. You must tell him not to, Linda. He will not listen to me." "I shall say nothing--never any more--to anybody," cried Linda, passionately. This could not last, thought Giselle. Giovanni must take her away soon--the very next time he came. She would not suffer these terrors for ever so much silver. To speak with her sister made her ill. But she was not uneasy at her father's watchfulness. She had begged Nostromo not to come to the window that night. He had promised to keep away for this once. And she did not know, could not guess or imagine, that he had another reason for coming on the island. Linda had gone straight to the tower. It was time to light up. She unlocked the little door, and went heavily up the spiral staircase, carrying her love for the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores like an ever-increasing load of shameful fetters. No; she could not throw it off. No; let Heaven dispose of these two. And moving about the lantern, filled with twilight and the sheen of the moon, with careful movements she lighted the lamp. Then her arms fell along her body. "And with our mother looking on," she murmured. "My own sister--the Chica!" The whole refracting apparatus, with its brass fittings and rings of prisms, glittered and sparkled like a domeshaped shrine of diamonds, containing not a lamp, but some sacred flame, dominating the sea. And Linda, the keeper, in black, with a pale face, drooped low in a wooden chair, alone with her jealousy, far above the shames and passions of the earth. A strange, dragging pain as if somebody were pulling her about brutally by her dark hair with bronze glints, made her put her hands up to her temples. They would meet. They would meet. And she knew where, too. At the window. The sweat of torture fell in drops on her cheeks, while the moonlight in the offing closed as if with a colossal bar of silver the entrance of the Placid Gulf--the sombre cavern of clouds and stillness in the surf-fretted seaboard. Linda Viola stood up suddenly with a finger on her lip. He loved neither her nor her sister. The whole thing seemed so objectless as to frighten her, and also give her some hope. Why did he not carry her off? What prevented him? He was incomprehensible. What were they waiting for? For what end were these two lying and deceiving? Not for the ends of their love. There was no such thing. The hope of regaining him for herself made her break her vow of not leaving the tower that night. She must talk at once to her father, who was wise, and would understand. She ran down the spiral stairs. At the moment of opening the door at the bottom she heard the sound of the first shot ever fired on the Great Isabel. She felt a shock, as though the bullet had struck her breast. She ran on without pausing. The cottage was dark. She cried at the door, "Giselle! Giselle!" then dashed round the corner and screamed her sister's name at the open window, without getting an answer; but as she was rushing, distracted, round the house, Giselle came out of the door, and darted past her, running silently, her hair loose, and her eyes staring straight ahead. She seemed to skim along the grass as if on tiptoe, and vanished. Linda walked on slowly, with her arms stretched out before her. All was still on the island; she did not know where she was going. The tree under which Martin Decoud spent his last days, beholding life like a succession of senseless images, threw a large blotch of black shade upon the grass. Suddenly she saw her father, standing quietly all alone in the moonlight. The Garibaldino--big, erect, with his snow-white hair and beard--had a monumental repose in his immobility, leaning upon a rifle. She put her hand upon his arm lightly. He never stirred. "What have you done?" she asked, in her ordinary voice. "I have shot Ramirez--infame!" he answered, with his eyes directed to where the shade was blackest. "Like a thief he came, and like a thief he fell. The child had to be protected." He did not offer to move an inch, to advance a single step. He stood there, rugged and unstirring, like a statue of an old man guarding the honour of his house. Linda removed her trembling hand from his arm, firm and steady like an arm of stone, and, without a word, entered the blackness of the shade. She saw a stir of formless shapes on the ground, and stopped short. A murmur of despair and tears grew louder to her strained hearing. "I entreated you not to come to-night. Oh, my Giovanni! And you promised. Oh! Why--why did you come, Giovanni?" It was her sister's voice. It broke on a heartrending sob. And the voice of the resourceful Capataz de Cargadores, master and slave of the San Tome treasure, who had been caught unawares by old Giorgio while stealing across the open towards the ravine to get some more silver, answered careless and cool, but sounding startlingly weak from the ground. "It seemed as though I could not live through the night without seeing thee once more--my star, my little flower." * * * * * The brilliant tertulia was just over, the last guests had departed, and the Senor Administrador had gone to his room already, when Dr. Monygham, who had been expected in the evening but had not turned up, arrived driving along the wood-block pavement under the electric-lamps of the deserted Calle de la Constitucion, and found the great gateway of the Casa still open. He limped in, stumped up the stairs, and found the fat and sleek Basilio on the point of turning off the lights in the sala. The prosperous majordomo remained open-mouthed at this late invasion. "Don't put out the lights," commanded the doctor. "I want to see the senora." "The senora is in the Senor Adminstrador's cancillaria," said Basilio, in an unctuous voice. "The Senor Administrador starts for the mountain in an hour. There is some trouble with the workmen to be feared, it appears. A shameless people without reason and decency. And idle, senor. Idle." "You are shamelessly lazy and imbecile yourself," said the doctor, with that faculty for exasperation which made him so generally beloved. "Don't put the lights out." Basilio retired with dignity. Dr. Monygham, waiting in the brilliantly lighted sala, heard presently a door close at the further end of the house. A jingle of spurs died out. The Senor Administrador was off to the mountain. With a measured swish of her long train, flashing with jewels and the shimmer of silk, her delicate head bowed as if under the weight of a mass of fair hair, in which the silver threads were lost, the "first lady of Sulaco," as Captain Mitchell used to describe her, moved along the lighted corredor, wealthy beyond great dreams of wealth, considered, loved, respected, honoured, and as solitary as any human being had ever been, perhaps, on this earth. The doctor's "Mrs. Gould! One minute!" stopped her with a start at the door of the lighted and empty sala. From the similarity of mood and circumstance, the sight of the doctor, standing there all alone amongst the groups of furniture, recalled to her emotional memory her unexpected meeting with Martin Decoud; she seemed to hear in the silence the voice of that man, dead miserably so many years ago, pronounce the words, "Antonia left her fan here." But it was the doctor's voice that spoke, a little altered by his excitement. She remarked his shining eyes. "Mrs. Gould, you are wanted. Do you know what has happened? You remember what I told you yesterday about Nostromo. Well, it seems that a lancha, a decked boat, coming from Zapiga, with four negroes in her, passing close to the Great Isabel, was hailed from the cliff by a woman's voice--Linda's, as a matter of fact--commanding them (it's a moonlight night) to go round to the beach and take up a wounded man to the town. The patron (from whom I've heard all this), of course, did so at once. He told me that when they got round to the low side of the Great Isabel, they found Linda Viola waiting for them. They followed her: she led them under a tree not far from the cottage. There they found Nostromo lying on the ground with his head in the younger girl's lap, and father Viola standing some distance off leaning on his gun. Under Linda's direction they got a table out of the cottage for a stretcher, after breaking off the legs. They are here, Mrs. Gould. I mean Nostromo and--and Giselle. The negroes brought him in to the first-aid hospital near the harbour. He made the attendant send for me. But it was not me he wanted to see--it was you, Mrs. Gould! It was you." "Me?" whispered Mrs. Gould, shrinking a little. "Yes, you!" the doctor burst out. "He begged me--his enemy, as he thinks--to bring you to him at once. It seems he has something to say to you alone." "Impossible!" murmured Mrs. Gould. "He said to me, 'Remind her that I have done something to keep a roof over her head.' . . . Mrs. Gould," the doctor pursued, in the greatest excitement. "Do you remember the silver? The silver in the lighter--that was lost?" Mrs. Gould remembered. But she did not say she hated the mere mention of that silver. Frankness personified, she remembered with an exaggerated horror that for the first and last time of her life she had concealed the truth from her husband about that very silver. She had been corrupted by her fears at that time, and she had never forgiven herself. Moreover, that silver, which would never have come down if her husband had been made acquainted with the news brought by Decoud, had been in a roundabout way nearly the cause of Dr. Monygham's death. And these things appeared to her very dreadful. "Was it lost, though?" the doctor exclaimed. "I've always felt that there was a mystery about our Nostromo ever since. I do believe he wants now, at the point of death----" "The point of death?" repeated Mrs. Gould. "Yes. Yes. . . . He wants perhaps to tell you something concerning that silver which----" "Oh, no! No!" exclaimed Mrs. Gould, in a low voice. "Isn't it lost and done with? Isn't there enough treasure without it to make everybody in the world miserable?" The doctor remained still, in a submissive, disappointed silence. At last he ventured, very low-- "And there is that Viola girl, Giselle. What are we to do? It looks as though father and sister had----" Mrs. Gould admitted that she felt in duty bound to do her best for these girls. "I have a volante here," the doctor said. "If you don't mind getting into that----" He waited, all impatience, till Mrs. Gould reappeared, having thrown over her dress a grey cloak with a deep hood. It was thus that, cloaked and monastically hooded over her evening costume, this woman, full of endurance and compassion, stood by the side of the bed on which the splendid Capataz de Cargadores lay stretched out motionless on his back. The whiteness of sheets and pillows gave a sombre and energetic relief to his bronzed face, to the dark, nervous hands, so good on a tiller, upon a bridle and on a trigger, lying open and idle upon a white coverlet. "She is innocent," the Capataz was saying in a deep and level voice, as though afraid that a louder word would break the slender hold his spirit still kept upon his body. "She is innocent. It is I alone. But no matter. For these things I would answer to no man or woman alive." He paused. Mrs. Gould's face, very white within the shadow of the hood, bent over him with an invincible and dreary sadness. And the low sobs of Giselle Viola, kneeling at the end of the bed, her gold hair with coppery gleams loose and scattered over the Capataz's feet, hardly troubled the silence of the room. "Ha! Old Giorgio--the guardian of thine honour! Fancy the Vecchio coming upon me so light of foot, so steady of aim. I myself could have done no better. But the price of a charge of powder might have been saved. The honour was safe. . . . Senora, she would have followed to the end of the world Nostromo the thief. . . . I have said the word. The spell is broken!" A low moan from the girl made him cast his eyes down. "I cannot see her. . . . No matter," he went on, with the shadow of the old magnificent carelessness in his voice. "One kiss is enough, if there is no time for more. An airy soul, senora! Bright and warm, like sunshine--soon clouded, and soon serene. They would crush it there between them. Senora, cast on her the eye of your compassion, as famed from one end of the land to the other as the courage and daring of the man who speaks to you. She will console herself in time. And even Ramirez is not a bad fellow. I am not angry. No! It is not Ramirez who overcame the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores." He paused, made an effort, and in louder voice, a little wildly, declared-- "I die betrayed--betrayed by----" But he did not say by whom or by what he was dying betrayed. "She would not have betrayed me," he began again, opening his eyes very wide. "She was faithful. We were going very far--very soon. I could have torn myself away from that accursed treasure for her. For that child I would have left boxes and boxes of it--full. And Decoud took four. Four ingots. Why? Picardia! To betray me? How could I give back the treasure with four ingots missing? They would have said I had purloined them. The doctor would have said that. Alas! it holds me yet!" Mrs. Gould bent low, fascinated--cold with apprehension. "What became of Don Martin on that night, Nostromo?" "Who knows? I wondered what would become of me. Now I know. Death was to come upon me unawares. He went away! He betrayed me. And you think I have killed him! You are all alike, you fine people. The silver has killed me. It has held me. It holds me yet. Nobody knows where it is. But you are the wife of Don Carlos, who put it into my hands and said, 'Save it on your life.' And when I returned, and you all thought it was lost, what do I hear? 'It was nothing of importance. Let it go. Up, Nostromo, the faithful, and ride away to save us, for dear life!'" "Nostromo!" Mrs. Gould whispered, bending very low. "I, too, have hated the idea of that silver from the bottom of my heart." "Marvellous!--that one of you should hate the wealth that you know so well how to take from the hands of the poor. The world rests upon the poor, as old Giorgio says. You have been always good to the poor. But there is something accursed in wealth. Senora, shall I tell you where the treasure is? To you alone. . . . Shining! Incorruptible!" A pained, involuntary reluctance lingered in his tone, in his eyes, plain to the woman with the genius of sympathetic intuition. She averted her glance from the miserable subjection of the dying man, appalled, wishing to hear no more of the silver. "No, Capataz," she said. "No one misses it now. Let it be lost for ever." After hearing these words, Nostromo closed his eyes, uttered no word, made no movement. Outside the door of the sick-room Dr. Monygham, excited to the highest pitch, his eyes shining with eagerness, came up to the two women. "Now, Mrs. Gould," he said, almost brutally in his impatience, "tell me, was I right? There is a mystery. You have got the word of it, have you not? He told you----" "He told me nothing," said Mrs. Gould, steadily. The light of his temperamental enmity to Nostromo went out of Dr. Monygham's eyes. He stepped back submissively. He did not believe Mrs. Gould. But her word was law. He accepted her denial like an inexplicable fatality affirming the victory of Nostromo's genius over his own. Even before that woman, whom he loved with secret devotion, he had been defeated by the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores, the man who had lived his own life on the assumption of unbroken fidelity, rectitude, and courage! "Pray send at once somebody for my carriage," spoke Mrs. Gould from within her hood. Then, turning to Giselle Viola, "Come nearer me, child; come closer. We will wait here." Giselle Viola, heartbroken and childlike, her face veiled in her falling hair, crept up to her side. Mrs. Gould slipped her hand through the arm of the unworthy daughter of old Viola, the immaculate republican, the hero without a stain. Slowly, gradually, as a withered flower droops, the head of the girl, who would have followed a thief to the end of the world, rested on the shoulder of Dona Emilia, the first lady of Sulaco, the wife of the Senor Administrador of the San Tome mine. And Mrs. Gould, feeling her suppressed sobbing, nervous and excited, had the first and only moment of bitterness in her life. It was worthy of Dr. Monygham himself. "Console yourself, child. Very soon he would have forgotten you for his treasure." "Senora, he loved me. He loved me," Giselle whispered, despairingly. "He loved me as no one had ever been loved before." "I have been loved, too," Mrs. Gould said in a severe tone. Giselle clung to her convulsively. "Oh, senora, but you shall live adored to the end of your life," she sobbed out. Mrs. Gould kept an unbroken silence till the carriage arrived. She helped in the half-fainting girl. After the doctor had shut the door of the landau, she leaned over to him. "You can do nothing?" she whispered. "No, Mrs. Gould. Moreover, he won't let us touch him. It does not matter. I just had one look. . . . Useless." But he promised to see old Viola and the other girl that very night. He could get the police-boat to take him off to the island. He remained in the street, looking after the landau rolling away slowly behind the white mules. The rumour of some accident--an accident to Captain Fidanza--had been spreading along the new quays with their rows of lamps and the dark shapes of towering cranes. A knot of night prowlers--the poorest of the poor--hung about the door of the first-aid hospital, whispering in the moonlight of the empty street. There was no one with the wounded man but the pale photographer, small, frail, bloodthirsty, the hater of capitalists, perched on a high stool near the head of the bed with his knees up and his chin in his hands. He had been fetched by a comrade who, working late on the wharf, had heard from a negro belonging to a lancha, that Captain Fidanza had been brought ashore mortally wounded. "Have you any dispositions to make, comrade?" he asked, anxiously. "Do not forget that we want money for our work. The rich must be fought with their own weapons." Nostromo made no answer. The other did not insist, remaining huddled up on the stool, shock-headed, wildly hairy, like a hunchbacked monkey. Then, after a long silence-- "Comrade Fidanza," he began, solemnly, "you have refused all aid from that doctor. Is he really a dangerous enemy of the people?" In the dimly lit room Nostromo rolled his head slowly on the pillow and opened his eyes, directing at the weird figure perched by his bedside a glance of enigmatic and profound inquiry. Then his head rolled back, his eyelids fell, and the Capataz de Cargadores died without a word or moan after an hour of immobility, broken by short shudders testifying to the most atrocious sufferings. Dr. Monygham, going out in the police-galley to the islands, beheld the glitter of the moon upon the gulf and the high black shape of the Great Isabel sending a shaft of light afar, from under the canopy of clouds. "Pull easy," he said, wondering what he would find there. He tried to imagine Linda and her father, and discovered a strange reluctance within himself. "Pull easy," he repeated. * * * * * * From the moment he fired at the thief of his honour, Giorgio Viola had not stirred from the spot. He stood, his old gun grounded, his hand grasping the barrel near the muzzle. After the lancha carrying off Nostromo for ever from her had left the shore, Linda, coming up, stopped before him. He did not seem to be aware of her presence, but when, losing her forced calmness, she cried out-- "Do you know whom you have killed?" he answered-- "Ramirez the vagabond." White, and staring insanely at her father, Linda laughed in his face. After a time he joined her faintly in a deep-toned and distant echo of her peals. Then she stopped, and the old man spoke as if startled-- "He cried out in son Gian' Battista's voice." The gun fell from his opened hand, but the arm remained extended for a moment as if still supported. Linda seized it roughly. "You are too old to understand. Come into the house." He let her lead him. On the threshold he stumbled heavily, nearly coming to the ground together with his daughter. His excitement, his activity of the last few days, had been like the flare of a dying lamp. He caught at the back of his chair. "In son Gian' Battista's voice," he repeated in a severe tone. "I heard him--Ramirez--the miserable----" Linda helped him into the chair, and, bending low, hissed into his ear-- "You have killed Gian' Battista." The old man smiled under his thick moustache. Women had strange fancies. "Where is the child?" he asked, surprised at the penetrating chilliness of the air and the unwonted dimness of the lamp by which he used to sit up half the night with the open Bible before him. Linda hesitated a moment, then averted her eyes. "She is asleep," she said. "We shall talk of her tomorrow." She could not bear to look at him. He filled her with terror and with an almost unbearable feeling of pity. She had observed the change that came over him. He would never understand what he had done; and even to her the whole thing remained incomprehensible. He said with difficulty-- "Give me the book." Linda laid on the table the closed volume in its worn leather cover, the Bible given him ages ago by an Englishman in Palermo. "The child had to be protected," he said, in a strange, mournful voice. Behind

straight

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

"I shan't dance, Mrs. Greenow, unless you like to stand up for a set." "No, my friend, no; I shall not do that. I fear you forget how recent has been my bereavement. Your asking me is the bitterest reproach to me for having ventured to join your festive board." "Upon my honour I didn't mean it, Mrs. Greenow. I didn't mean it, indeed." "I do not suspect you. It would have been unmanly." "And nobody can say that of me. There isn't a man or woman in Norfolk that wouldn't say I was manly." "I'm quite sure of that." "I have my faults, I'm aware." "And what are your faults, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well; perhaps I'm extravagant. But it's only in these kind of things you know, when I spend a little money for the sake of making my friends happy. When I'm about, on the lands at home, I ain't extravagant, I can tell you." "Extravagance is a great vice." "Oh, I ain't extravagant in that sense;--not a bit in the world. But when a man's enamoured, and perhaps looking out for a wife, he does like to be a little free, you know." "And are you looking out for a wife, Mr. Cheesacre?" "If I told you I suppose you'd only laugh at me." "No; indeed I would not. I am not given to joking when any one that I regard speaks to me seriously." "Ain't you though? I'm so glad of that. When one has really got a serious thing to say, one doesn't like to have fun poked at one." "And, besides, how could I laugh at marriages, seeing how happy I have been in that condition?--so--very--happy," and Mrs. Greenow put up her handkerchief to her eyes. "So happy that you'll try it again some day; won't you?" "Never, Mr. Cheesacre; never. Is that the way you talk of serious things without joking? Anything like love--love of that sort--is over for me. It lies buried under the sod with my poor dear departed saint." "But, Mrs. Greenow,"--and Cheesacre, as he prepared to argue the question with her, got nearer to her in the corner behind the table,--"But, Mrs. Greenow, care killed a cat, you know." "And sometimes I think that care will kill me." "No, by George; not if I can prevent it." "You're very kind, Mr. Cheesacre; but there's no preventing such care as mine." "Isn't there though? I'll tell you what, Mrs. Greenow; I'm in earnest, I am indeed. If you'll inquire, you'll find there isn't a fellow in Norfolk pays his way better than I do, or is better able to do it. I don't pay a sixpence of rent, and I sit upon seven hundred acres of as good land as there is in the county. There's not an acre that won't do me a bullock and a half. Just put that and that together, and see what it comes to. And, mind you, some of these fellows that farm their own land are worse off than if they'd rent to pay. They've borrowed so much to carry on with, that the interest is more than rent. I don't owe a sixpence to ere a man or ere a company in the world. I can walk into every bank in Norwich without seeing my master. There ain't any of my paper flying about, Mrs. Greenow. I'm Samuel Cheesacre of Oileymead, and it's all my own." Mr. Cheesacre, as he thus spoke of his good fortunes and firm standing in the world, became impetuous in the energy of the moment, and brought down his fist powerfully on the slight table before them. The whole fabric rattled, and the boat resounded, but the noise he had made seemed to assist him. "It's all my own, Mrs. Greenow, and the half of it shall be yours if you'll please to take it;" then he stretched out his hand to her, not as though he intended to grasp hers in a grasp of love, but as if he expected some hand-pledge from her as a token that she accepted the bargain. "If you'd known Greenow, Mr. Cheesacre--" "I've no doubt he was a very good sort of man." "If you'd known him, you would not have addressed me in this way." "What difference would that make? My idea is that care killed a cat, as I said before. I never knew what was the good of being unhappy. If I find early mangels don't do on a bit of land, then I sow late turnips; and never cry after spilt milk. Greenow was the early mangels; I'll be the late turnips. Come then, say the word. There ain't a bedroom in my house,--not one of the front ones,--that isn't mahogany furnished!" "What's furniture to me?" said Mrs. Greenow, with her handkerchief to her eyes. Just at this moment Maria's mother stepped in under the canvas. It was most inopportune. Mr. Cheesacre felt that he was progressing well, and was conscious that he had got safely over those fences in the race which his bashfulness would naturally make difficult to him. He knew that he had done this under the influence of the champagne, and was aware that it might not be easy to procure again a combination of circumstances that would be so beneficial to him. But now he was interrupted just as he was expecting success. He was interrupted, and felt himself to be looking like a guilty creature under the eye of the strange lady. He had not a word to say; but drawing himself suddenly a foot and half away from the widow's side, sat there confessing his guilt in his face. Mrs. Greenow felt no guilt, and was afraid of no strange eyes. "Mr. Cheesacre and I are talking about farming," she said. "Oh; farming!" answered Maria's mother. "Mr. Cheesacre thinks that turnips are better than early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "Yes, I do," said Cheesacre, "I prefer the early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think nature ever intended those late crops. What do you say, Mrs. Walker?" "I daresay Mr. Cheesacre understands what he's about when he's at home," said the lady. "I know what a bit of land can do as well as any man in Norfolk," said the gentleman. "It may be very well in Norfolk," said Mrs. Greenow, rising from her seat; "but the practice isn't thought much of in the other counties with which I am better acquainted." "I'd just come in to say that I thought we might be getting to the boats," said Mrs. Walker. "My Ophelia is so delicate." At this moment the delicate Ophelia was to be seen, under the influence of the music, taking a distant range upon the sands with Joe Fairstairs' arm round her waist. The attitude was justified by the tune that was in progress, and there is no reason why a galop on the sands should have any special termination in distance, as it must have in a room. But, under such circumstances, Mrs. Walker's solicitude was not unreasonable. The erratic steps of the distant dancers were recalled and preparations were made for the return journey. Others had strayed besides the delicate Ophelia and the idle Joe, and some little time was taken up in collecting the party. The boats had to be drawn down, and the boatmen fetched from their cans and tobacco-pipes. "I hope they're sober," said Mrs. Walker, with a look of great dismay. "Sober as judges," said Bellfield, who had himself been looking after the remains of Mr. Cheesacre's hampers, while that gentleman had been so much better engaged in the tent. "Because," continued Mrs. Walker, "I know that they play all manner of tricks when they're--in liquor. They'd think nothing of taking us out to sea, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, I do wish they would," said Ophelia. "Ophelia, mind you come in the boat with me," said her mother, and she looked very savage when she gave the order. It was Mrs. Walker's intention that that boat should not carry Joe Fairstairs. But Joe and her daughter together were too clever for her. When the boats went off she found herself to be in that one over which Mr. Cheesacre presided, while the sinning Ophelia with her good-for-nothing admirer were under the more mirthful protection of Captain Bellfield. "Mamma will be so angry," said Ophelia, "and it was all your fault. I did mean to go into the other boat. Don't, Mr. Fairstairs." Then they got settled down in their seats, to the satisfaction, let us hope, of them both. Mr. Cheesacre had vainly endeavoured to arrange that Mrs. Greenow should return with him. But not only was Captain Bellfield opposed to such a change in their positions, but so also was Mrs. Greenow. "I think we'd better go back as we came," she said, giving her hand to the Captain. "Oh, certainly," said Captain Bellfield. "Why should there be any change? Cheesacre, old fellow, mind you look after Mrs. Walker. Come along, my hearty." It really almost appeared that Captain Bellfield was addressing Mrs. Greenow as "his hearty," but it must be presumed that the term of genial endearment was intended for the whole boat's load. Mrs. Greenow took her place on the comfortable broad bench in the stern, and Bellfield seated himself beside her, with the tiller in his hand. "If you're going to steer, Captain Bellfield, I beg that you'll be careful." "Careful,--and with you on board!" said the Captain. "Don't you know that I would sooner perish beneath the waves than that a drop of water should touch you roughly?" "But you see, we might perish beneath the waves together." "Together! What a sweet word that is;--perish together! If it were not that there might be something better even than that, I would wish to perish in such company." "But I should not wish anything of the kind, Captain Bellfield, and therefore pray be careful." There was no perishing by water on that occasion. Mr. Cheesacre's boat reached the pier at Yarmouth first, and gave up its load without accident. Very shortly afterwards Captain Bellfield's crew reached the same place in the same state of preservation. "There," said he, as he handed out Mrs. Greenow. "I have brought you to no harm, at any rate as yet." "And, as I hope, will not do so hereafter." "May the heavens forbid it, Mrs. Greenow! Whatever may be our lots hereafter,--yours I mean and mine,--I trust that yours may be free from all disaster. Oh, that I might venture to hope that, at some future day, the privilege might be mine of protecting you from all danger!" "I can protect myself very well, I can assure you. Good night, Captain Bellfield. We won't take you and Mr. Cheesacre out of your way;--will we, Kate? We have had a most pleasant day." They were now upon the esplanade, and Mrs. Greenow's house was to the right, whereas the lodgings of both the gentlemen were to the left. Each of them fought hard for the privilege of accompanying the widow to her door; but Mrs. Greenow was self-willed, and upon this occasion would have neither of them. "Mr. Joe Fairstairs must pass the house," said she, "and he will see us home. Mr. Cheesacre, good night. Indeed you shall not;--not a step." There was that in her voice which induced Mr. Cheesacre to obey her, and which made Captain Bellfield aware that he would only injure his cause if he endeavoured to make further progress in it on the present occasion. "Well, Kate, what do you think of the day?" the aunt said when she was alone with her niece. "I never think much about such days, aunt. It was all very well, but I fear I have not the temperament fitted for enjoying the fun. I envied Ophelia Walker because she made herself thoroughly happy." "I do like to see girls enjoy themselves," said Mrs. Greenow, "I do, indeed;--and young men too. It seems so natural; why shouldn't young people flirt?" "Or old people either for the matter of that?" "Or old people either,--if they don't do any harm to anybody. I'll tell you what it is, Kate; people have become so very virtuous, that they're driven into all manner of abominable resources for amusement and occupation. If I had sons and daughters I should think a little flirting the very best thing for them as a safety valve. When people get to be old, there's a difficulty. They want to flirt with the young people and the young people don't want them. If the old people would be content to flirt together, I don't see why they should ever give it up;--till they're obliged to give up every thing, and go away." That was Mrs. Greenow's doctrine on the subject of flirtation. CHAPTER X. Nethercoats. We will leave Mrs. Greenow with her niece and two sisters at Yarmouth, and returning by stages to London, will call upon Mr. Grey at his place in Cambridgeshire as we pass by. I believe it is conceded by all the other counties, that Cambridgeshire possesses fewer rural beauties than any other county in England. It is very flat; it is not well timbered; the rivers are merely dikes; and in a very large portion of the county the farms and fields are divided simply by ditches--not by hedgerows. Such arrangements are, no doubt, well adapted for agricultural purposes, but are not conducive to rural beauty. Mr. Grey's residence was situated in a part of Cambridgeshire in which the above-named characteristics are very much marked. It was in the Isle of Ely, some few miles distant from the Cathedral town, on the side of a long straight road, which ran through the fields for miles without even a bush to cheer it. The name of his place was Nethercoats, and here he lived generally throughout the year, and here he intended to live throughout his life. His father had held a prebendal stall at Ely in times when prebendal stalls were worth more than they are at present, and having also been possessed of a living in the neighbourhood, had amassed a considerable sum of money. With this he had during his life purchased the property of Nethercoats, and had built on it the house in which his son now lived. He had married late in life, and had lost his wife soon after the birth of an only child. The house had been built in his own parish, and his wife had lived there for a few months and had died there. But after that event the old clergyman had gone back to his residence in the Close at Ely, and there John Grey had had the home of his youth. He had been brought up under his father's eye, having been sent to no public school. But he had gone to Cambridge, had taken college honours, and had then, his father dying exactly at this time, declined to accept a fellowship. His father had left to him an income of some fifteen hundred a year, and with this he sat himself down, near to his college friends, near also to the old cathedral which he loved, in the house which his father had built. But though Nethercoats possessed no beauty of scenery, though the country around it was in truth as uninteresting as any country could be, it had many delights of its own. The house itself was as excellent a residence for a country gentleman of small means as taste and skill together could construct. I doubt whether prettier rooms were ever seen than the drawing-room, the library, and the dining-room at Nethercoats. They were all on the ground-floor, and all opened out on to the garden and lawn. The library, which was the largest of the three, was a handsome chamber, and so filled as to make it well known in the University as one of the best private collections in that part of England. But perhaps the gardens of Nethercoats constituted its greatest glory. They were spacious and excellently kept up, and had been originally laid out with that knowledge of gardening without which no garden, merely as a garden, can be effective. And such, of necessity, was the garden of Nethercoats. Fine single forest trees there were none there, nor was it possible that there should have been any such. Nor could there be a clear rippling stream with steep green banks, and broken rocks lying about its bed. Such beauties are beauties of landscape, and do not of their nature belong to a garden. But the shrubs of Nethercoats were of the rarest kind, and had been long enough in their present places to have reached the period of their beauty. Nothing had been spared that a garden could want. The fruit-trees were perfect in their kind, and the glass-houses were so good and so extensive that John Grey in his prudence was some times tempted to think that he had too much of them. It must be understood that there were no grounds, according to the meaning usually given to that word, belonging to the house at Nethercoats. Between the garden and the public road there was a paddock belonging to the house, along the side of which, but divided from it by a hedge and shrubbery, ran the private carriageway up to the house. This swept through the small front flower-garden, dividing it equally; but the lawns and indeed the whole of that which made the beauty of the place lay on the back of the house, on which side opened the windows from the three sitting-rooms. Down on the public road there stood a lodge at which lived one of the gardeners. There was another field of some six or seven acres, to which there was a gate from the corner of the front paddock, and which went round two sides of the garden. This was Nethercoats, and the whole estate covered about twelve acres. It was not a place for much bachelor enjoyment of that sort generally popular with bachelors; nevertheless Mr. Grey had been constant in his residence there for the seven years which had now elapsed since he had left his college. His easy access to Cambridge had probably done much to mitigate what might otherwise have been the too great tedium of his life; and he had, prompted thereto by early associations, found most of his society in the Close of Ely Cathedral. But, with all the delight he could derive from these two sources, there had still been many solitary hours in his life, and he had gradually learned to feel that he of all men wanted a companion in his home. His visits to London had generally been short and far between, occasioned probably by some need in the library, or by the necessity of some slight literary transaction with the editor or publisher of a periodical. In one of these visits he had met Alice Vavasor, and had remained in Town,--I will not say till Alice had promised to share his home in Cambridgeshire, but so long that he had resolved before he went that he would ask her to do so. He had asked her, and we know that he had been successful. He had obtained her promise, and from that moment all his life had been changed for him. Hitherto at Nethercoats his little smoking-room, his books, and his plants had been everything to him. Now he began to surround himself with an infinity of feminine belongings, and to promise himself an infinity of feminine blessings, wondering much that he should have been content to pass so long a portion of his life in the dull seclusion which he had endured. He was not by nature an impatient man; but now he became impatient, longing for the fruition of his new idea of happiness,--longing to have that as his own which he certainly loved beyond all else in the world, and which, perhaps, was all he had ever loved with the perfect love of equality. But though impatient, and fully aware of his own impatience, he acknowledged to himself that Alice could not be expected to share it. He could plan nothing now,--could have no pleasure in life that she was not expected to share. But as yet it could not be so with her. She had her house in London, her town society, and her father. And, inasmuch as the change for her would be much greater than it would be for him, it was natural that she should require some small delay. He had not pressed her. At least he had not pressed her with that eager pressure which a girl must resist with something of the opposition of a contest, if she resist it at all. But in truth his impatience was now waxing strong, and during the absence in Switzerland of which we have spoken, he resolved that a marriage very late in the autumn,--that a marriage even in winter, would be better than a marriage postponed till the following year. It was not yet late in August when the party returned from their tour. Would not a further delay of two months suffice for his bride? Alice had written to him occasionally from Switzerland, and her first two letters had been very charming. They had referred almost exclusively to the tour, and had been made pleasant with some slightly coloured account of George Vavasor's idleness, and of Kate's obedience to her brother's behests. Alice had never written much of love in her love-letters, and Grey was well enough contented with her style, though it was not impassioned. As for doubting her love, it was not in the heart of the man to do so after it had been once assured to him by her word. He could not so slightly respect himself or her as to leave room for such a doubt in his bosom. He was a man who could never have suggested to himself that a woman loved him till the fact was there before him; but who having ascertained, as he might think, the fact, could never suggest to himself that her love would fail him. Her first two letters from Switzerland had been very pleasant; but after that there had seemed to have crept over her a melancholy which she unconsciously transferred to her words, and which he could not but taste in them,--at first unconsciously, also, but soon with so plain a flavour that he recognised it, and made it a matter of mental inquiry. During the three or four last days of the journey, while they were at Basle and on their way home, she had not written. But she did write on the day after her arrival, having then received from Mr. Grey a letter, in which he told her how very much she would add to his happiness if she would now agree that their marriage should not be postponed beyond the end of October. This letter she found in her room on her return, and this she answered at once. And she answered it in such words that Mr. Grey resolved that he would at once go to her in London. I will give her letter at length, as I shall then be best able to proceed with my story quickly. Queen Anne Street, -- August, 186--. DEAREST JOHN,-- We reached home yesterday tired enough, as we came through from Paris without stopping. I may indeed say that we came through from Strasbourg, as we only slept in Paris. I don't like Strasbourg. A steeple, after all, is not everything, and putting the steeple aside, I don't think the style is good. But the hotel was uncomfortable, which goes for so much;--and then we were saturated with beauty of a better kind. I got your letter directly I came in last night, and I suppose I had better dash at it at once. I would so willingly delay doing so, saying nice little things the while, did I not know that this would be mere cowardice. Whatever happens I won't be a coward, and therefore I will tell you at once that I cannot let you hope that we should be married this year. Of course you will ask me why, as you have a right to do, and of course I am bound to answer. I do not know that I can give any answer with which you will not have a right to complain. If it be so, I can only ask your pardon for the injury I am doing you. Marriage is a great change in life,--much greater to me than to you, who will remain in your old house, will keep your old pursuits, will still be your own master, and will change in nothing,--except in this, that you will have a companion who probably may not be all that you expect. But I must change everything. It will be to me as though I were passing through a grave to a new world. I shall see nothing that I have been accustomed to see, and must abandon all the ways of life that I have hitherto adopted. Of course I should have thought of this before I accepted you; and I did think of it. I made up my mind that, as I truly loved you, I would risk the change;--that I would risk it for your sake and for mine, hoping that I might add something to your happiness, and that I might secure my own. Dear John, do not suppose that I despair that it may be so; but, indeed, you must not hurry me. I must tune myself to the change that I have to make. What if I should wake some morning after six months living with you, and tell you that the quiet of your home was making me mad? You must not ask me again till the winter shall have passed away. If in the meantime I shall find that I have been wrong, I will humbly confess that I have wronged you, and ask you to forgive me. And I will freely admit this. If the delay which I now purpose is so contrary to your own plans as to make your marriage, under such circumstances, not that which you had expected, I know that you are free to tell me so, and to say that our engagement shall be over. I am well aware that I can have no right to bind you to a marriage at one period which you had only contemplated as to take place at another period. I think I may promise that I will obey any wish you may express in anything,--except in that one thing which you urged in your last letter. Kate is going down to Yarmouth with Mrs. Greenow, and I shall see no more of her probably till next year, as she will be due in Westmoreland after that. George left me at the door when he brought me home, and declared that he intended to vanish out of London. Whether in town or out, he is never to be seen at this period of the year. Papa offers to go to Ramsgate for a fortnight, but he looks so wretched when he makes the offer, that I shall not have the heart to hold him to it. Lady Macleod very much wants me to go to Cheltenham. I very much want not to go, simply because I can never agree with her about anything; but it will probably end in my going there for a week or two. Over and beyond that, I have no prospects before Christmas which are not purely domestic. There is a project that we shall all eat our Christmas dinner at Vavasor Hall,--of course not including George,--but this project is quite in the clouds, and, as far as I am concerned, will remain there. Dear John, let me hear that this letter does not make you unhappy. Most affectionately yours, ALICE VAVASOR. At Nethercoats, the post was brought in at breakfast-time, and Mr. Grey was sitting with his tea and eggs before him, when he read Alice's letter. He read it twice before he began to think what he would do in regard to it, and then referred to one or two others which he had received from Switzerland,--reading them also very carefully. After that, he took up the slouch hat which he had been wearing in the garden before he was called to his breakfast, and, with the letters in his hand, sauntered down among the shrubs and lawns. He knew, he thought he knew, that there was more in Alice's mind than a mere wish for delay. There was more in it than that hesitation to take at once a step which she really desired to take, if not now, then after some short interval. He felt that she was unhappy, and unhappy because she distrusted the results of her marriage; but it never for a moment occurred to him that, therefore, the engagement between them should be broken. In the first place he loved her too well to allow of his admitting such an idea without terrible sorrow to himself. He was a constant, firm man, somewhat reserved, and unwilling to make new acquaintances, and, therefore, specially unwilling to break away from those which he had made. Undoubtedly, had he satisfied himself that Alice's happiness demanded such a sacrifice of himself, he would have made it, and made it without a word of complaint. The blow would not have prostrated him, but the bruise would have remained on his heart, indelible, not to be healed but by death. He would have submitted, and no man would have seen that he had been

during

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

"I shan't dance, Mrs. Greenow, unless you like to stand up for a set." "No, my friend, no; I shall not do that. I fear you forget how recent has been my bereavement. Your asking me is the bitterest reproach to me for having ventured to join your festive board." "Upon my honour I didn't mean it, Mrs. Greenow. I didn't mean it, indeed." "I do not suspect you. It would have been unmanly." "And nobody can say that of me. There isn't a man or woman in Norfolk that wouldn't say I was manly." "I'm quite sure of that." "I have my faults, I'm aware." "And what are your faults, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well; perhaps I'm extravagant. But it's only in these kind of things you know, when I spend a little money for the sake of making my friends happy. When I'm about, on the lands at home, I ain't extravagant, I can tell you." "Extravagance is a great vice." "Oh, I ain't extravagant in that sense;--not a bit in the world. But when a man's enamoured, and perhaps looking out for a wife, he does like to be a little free, you know." "And are you looking out for a wife, Mr. Cheesacre?" "If I told you I suppose you'd only laugh at me." "No; indeed I would not. I am not given to joking when any one that I regard speaks to me seriously." "Ain't you though? I'm so glad of that. When one has really got a serious thing to say, one doesn't like to have fun poked at one." "And, besides, how could I laugh at marriages, seeing how happy I have been in that condition?--so--very--happy," and Mrs. Greenow put up her handkerchief to her eyes. "So happy that you'll try it again some day; won't you?" "Never, Mr. Cheesacre; never. Is that the way you talk of serious things without joking? Anything like love--love of that sort--is over for me. It lies buried under the sod with my poor dear departed saint." "But, Mrs. Greenow,"--and Cheesacre, as he prepared to argue the question with her, got nearer to her in the corner behind the table,--"But, Mrs. Greenow, care killed a cat, you know." "And sometimes I think that care will kill me." "No, by George; not if I can prevent it." "You're very kind, Mr. Cheesacre; but there's no preventing such care as mine." "Isn't there though? I'll tell you what, Mrs. Greenow; I'm in earnest, I am indeed. If you'll inquire, you'll find there isn't a fellow in Norfolk pays his way better than I do, or is better able to do it. I don't pay a sixpence of rent, and I sit upon seven hundred acres of as good land as there is in the county. There's not an acre that won't do me a bullock and a half. Just put that and that together, and see what it comes to. And, mind you, some of these fellows that farm their own land are worse off than if they'd rent to pay. They've borrowed so much to carry on with, that the interest is more than rent. I don't owe a sixpence to ere a man or ere a company in the world. I can walk into every bank in Norwich without seeing my master. There ain't any of my paper flying about, Mrs. Greenow. I'm Samuel Cheesacre of Oileymead, and it's all my own." Mr. Cheesacre, as he thus spoke of his good fortunes and firm standing in the world, became impetuous in the energy of the moment, and brought down his fist powerfully on the slight table before them. The whole fabric rattled, and the boat resounded, but the noise he had made seemed to assist him. "It's all my own, Mrs. Greenow, and the half of it shall be yours if you'll please to take it;" then he stretched out his hand to her, not as though he intended to grasp hers in a grasp of love, but as if he expected some hand-pledge from her as a token that she accepted the bargain. "If you'd known Greenow, Mr. Cheesacre--" "I've no doubt he was a very good sort of man." "If you'd known him, you would not have addressed me in this way." "What difference would that make? My idea is that care killed a cat, as I said before. I never knew what was the good of being unhappy. If I find early mangels don't do on a bit of land, then I sow late turnips; and never cry after spilt milk. Greenow was the early mangels; I'll be the late turnips. Come then, say the word. There ain't a bedroom in my house,--not one of the front ones,--that isn't mahogany furnished!" "What's furniture to me?" said Mrs. Greenow, with her handkerchief to her eyes. Just at this moment Maria's mother stepped in under the canvas. It was most inopportune. Mr. Cheesacre felt that he was progressing well, and was conscious that he had got safely over those fences in the race which his bashfulness would naturally make difficult to him. He knew that he had done this under the influence of the champagne, and was aware that it might not be easy to procure again a combination of circumstances that would be so beneficial to him. But now he was interrupted just as he was expecting success. He was interrupted, and felt himself to be looking like a guilty creature under the eye of the strange lady. He had not a word to say; but drawing himself suddenly a foot and half away from the widow's side, sat there confessing his guilt in his face. Mrs. Greenow felt no guilt, and was afraid of no strange eyes. "Mr. Cheesacre and I are talking about farming," she said. "Oh; farming!" answered Maria's mother. "Mr. Cheesacre thinks that turnips are better than early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "Yes, I do," said Cheesacre, "I prefer the early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think nature ever intended those late crops. What do you say, Mrs. Walker?" "I daresay Mr. Cheesacre understands what he's about when he's at home," said the lady. "I know what a bit of land can do as well as any man in Norfolk," said the gentleman. "It may be very well in Norfolk," said Mrs. Greenow, rising from her seat; "but the practice isn't thought much of in the other counties with which I am better acquainted." "I'd just come in to say that I thought we might be getting to the boats," said Mrs. Walker. "My Ophelia is so delicate." At this moment the delicate Ophelia was to be seen, under the influence of the music, taking a distant range upon the sands with Joe Fairstairs' arm round her waist. The attitude was justified by the tune that was in progress, and there is no reason why a galop on the sands should have any special termination in distance, as it must have in a room. But, under such circumstances, Mrs. Walker's solicitude was not unreasonable. The erratic steps of the distant dancers were recalled and preparations were made for the return journey. Others had strayed besides the delicate Ophelia and the idle Joe, and some little time was taken up in collecting the party. The boats had to be drawn down, and the boatmen fetched from their cans and tobacco-pipes. "I hope they're sober," said Mrs. Walker, with a look of great dismay. "Sober as judges," said Bellfield, who had himself been looking after the remains of Mr. Cheesacre's hampers, while that gentleman had been so much better engaged in the tent. "Because," continued Mrs. Walker, "I know that they play all manner of tricks when they're--in liquor. They'd think nothing of taking us out to sea, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, I do wish they would," said Ophelia. "Ophelia, mind you come in the boat with me," said her mother, and she looked very savage when she gave the order. It was Mrs. Walker's intention that that boat should not carry Joe Fairstairs. But Joe and her daughter together were too clever for her. When the boats went off she found herself to be in that one over which Mr. Cheesacre presided, while the sinning Ophelia with her good-for-nothing admirer were under the more mirthful protection of Captain Bellfield. "Mamma will be so angry," said Ophelia, "and it was all your fault. I did mean to go into the other boat. Don't, Mr. Fairstairs." Then they got settled down in their seats, to the satisfaction, let us hope, of them both. Mr. Cheesacre had vainly endeavoured to arrange that Mrs. Greenow should return with him. But not only was Captain Bellfield opposed to such a change in their positions, but so also was Mrs. Greenow. "I think we'd better go back as we came," she said, giving her hand to the Captain. "Oh, certainly," said Captain Bellfield. "Why should there be any change? Cheesacre, old fellow, mind you look after Mrs. Walker. Come along, my hearty." It really almost appeared that Captain Bellfield was addressing Mrs. Greenow as "his hearty," but it must be presumed that the term of genial endearment was intended for the whole boat's load. Mrs. Greenow took her place on the comfortable broad bench in the stern, and Bellfield seated himself beside her, with the tiller in his hand. "If you're going to steer, Captain Bellfield, I beg that you'll be careful." "Careful,--and with you on board!" said the Captain. "Don't you know that I would sooner perish beneath the waves than that a drop of water should touch you roughly?" "But you see, we might perish beneath the waves together." "Together! What a sweet word that is;--perish together! If it were not that there might be something better even than that, I would wish to perish in such company." "But I should not wish anything of the kind, Captain Bellfield, and therefore pray be careful." There was no perishing by water on that occasion. Mr. Cheesacre's boat reached the pier at Yarmouth first, and gave up its load without accident. Very shortly afterwards Captain Bellfield's crew reached the same place in the same state of preservation. "There," said he, as he handed out Mrs. Greenow. "I have brought you to no harm, at any rate as yet." "And, as I hope, will not do so hereafter." "May the heavens forbid it, Mrs. Greenow! Whatever may be our lots hereafter,--yours I mean and mine,--I trust that yours may be free from all disaster. Oh, that I might venture to hope that, at some future day, the privilege might be mine of protecting you from all danger!" "I can protect myself very well, I can assure you. Good night, Captain Bellfield. We won't take you and Mr. Cheesacre out of your way;--will we, Kate? We have had a most pleasant day." They were now upon the esplanade, and Mrs. Greenow's house was to the right, whereas the lodgings of both the gentlemen were to the left. Each of them fought hard for the privilege of accompanying the widow to her door; but Mrs. Greenow was self-willed, and upon this occasion would have neither of them. "Mr. Joe Fairstairs must pass the house," said she, "and he will see us home. Mr. Cheesacre, good night. Indeed you shall not;--not a step." There was that in her voice which induced Mr. Cheesacre to obey her, and which made Captain Bellfield aware that he would only injure his cause if he endeavoured to make further progress in it on the present occasion. "Well, Kate, what do you think of the day?" the aunt said when she was alone with her niece. "I never think much about such days, aunt. It was all very well, but I fear I have not the temperament fitted for enjoying the fun. I envied Ophelia Walker because she made herself thoroughly happy." "I do like to see girls enjoy themselves," said Mrs. Greenow, "I do, indeed;--and young men too. It seems so natural; why shouldn't young people flirt?" "Or old people either for the matter of that?" "Or old people either,--if they don't do any harm to anybody. I'll tell you what it is, Kate; people have become so very virtuous, that they're driven into all manner of abominable resources for amusement and occupation. If I had sons and daughters I should think a little flirting the very best thing for them as a safety valve. When people get to be old, there's a difficulty. They want to flirt with the young people and the young people don't want them. If the old people would be content to flirt together, I don't see why they should ever give it up;--till they're obliged to give up every thing, and go away." That was Mrs. Greenow's doctrine on the subject of flirtation. CHAPTER X. Nethercoats. We will leave Mrs. Greenow with her niece and two sisters at Yarmouth, and returning by stages to London, will call upon Mr. Grey at his place in Cambridgeshire as we pass by. I believe it is conceded by all the other counties, that Cambridgeshire possesses fewer rural beauties than any other county in England. It is very flat; it is not well timbered; the rivers are merely dikes; and in a very large portion of the county the farms and fields are divided simply by ditches--not by hedgerows. Such arrangements are, no doubt, well adapted for agricultural purposes, but are not conducive to rural beauty. Mr. Grey's residence was situated in a part of Cambridgeshire in which the above-named characteristics are very much marked. It was in the Isle of Ely, some few miles distant from the Cathedral town, on the side of a long straight road, which ran through the fields for miles without even a bush to cheer it. The name of his place was Nethercoats, and here he lived generally throughout the year, and here he intended to live throughout his life. His father had held a prebendal stall at Ely in times when prebendal stalls were worth more than they are at present, and having also been possessed of a living in the neighbourhood, had amassed a considerable sum of money. With this he had during his life purchased the property of Nethercoats, and had built on it the house in which his son now lived. He had married late in life, and had lost his wife soon after the birth of an only child. The house had been built in his own parish, and his wife had lived there for a few months and had died there. But after that event the old clergyman had gone back to his residence in the Close at Ely, and there John Grey had had the home of his youth. He had been brought up under his father's eye, having been sent to no public school. But he had gone to Cambridge, had taken college honours, and had then, his father dying exactly at this time, declined to accept a fellowship. His father had left to him an income of some fifteen hundred a year, and with this he sat himself down, near to his college friends, near also to the old cathedral which he loved, in the house which his father had built. But though Nethercoats possessed no beauty of scenery, though the country around it was in truth as uninteresting as any country could be, it had many delights of its own. The house itself was as excellent a residence for a country gentleman of small means as taste and skill together could construct. I doubt whether prettier rooms were ever seen than the drawing-room, the library, and the dining-room at Nethercoats. They were all on the ground-floor, and all opened out on to the garden and lawn. The library, which was the largest of the three, was a handsome chamber, and so filled as to make it well known in the University as one of the best private collections in that part of England. But perhaps the gardens of Nethercoats constituted its greatest glory. They were spacious and excellently kept up, and had been originally laid out with that knowledge of gardening without which no garden, merely as a garden, can be effective. And such, of necessity, was the garden of Nethercoats. Fine single forest trees there were none there, nor was it possible that there should have been any such. Nor could there be a clear rippling stream with steep green banks, and broken rocks lying about its bed. Such beauties are beauties of landscape, and do not of their nature belong to a garden. But the shrubs of Nethercoats were of the rarest kind, and had been long enough in their present places to have reached the period of their beauty. Nothing had been spared that a garden could want. The fruit-trees were perfect in their kind, and the glass-houses were so good and so extensive that John Grey in his prudence was some times tempted to think that he had too much of them. It must be understood that there were no grounds, according to the meaning usually given to that word, belonging to the house at Nethercoats. Between the garden and the public road there was a paddock belonging to the house, along the side of which, but divided from it by a hedge and shrubbery, ran the private carriageway up to the house. This swept through the small front flower-garden, dividing it equally; but the lawns and indeed the whole of that which made the beauty of the place lay on the back of the house, on which side opened the windows from the three sitting-rooms. Down on the public road there stood a lodge at which lived one of the gardeners. There was another field of some six or seven acres, to which there was a gate from the corner of the front paddock, and which went round two sides of the garden. This was Nethercoats, and the whole estate covered about twelve acres. It was not a place for much bachelor enjoyment of that sort generally popular with bachelors; nevertheless Mr. Grey had been constant in his residence there for the seven years which had now elapsed since he had left his college. His easy access to Cambridge had probably done much to mitigate what might otherwise have been the too great tedium of his life; and he had, prompted thereto by early associations, found most of his society in the Close of Ely Cathedral. But, with all the delight he could derive from these two sources, there had still been many solitary hours in his life, and he had gradually learned to feel that he of all men wanted a companion in his home. His visits to London had generally been short and far between, occasioned probably by some need in the library, or by the necessity of some slight literary transaction with the editor or publisher of a periodical. In one of these visits he had met Alice Vavasor, and had remained in Town,--I will not say till Alice had promised to share his home in Cambridgeshire, but so long that he had resolved before he went that he would ask her to do so. He had asked her, and we know that he had been successful. He had obtained her promise, and from that moment all his life had been changed for him. Hitherto at Nethercoats his little smoking-room, his books, and his plants had been everything to him. Now he began to surround himself with an infinity of feminine belongings, and to promise himself an infinity of feminine blessings, wondering much that he should have been content to pass so long a portion of his life in the dull seclusion which he had endured. He was not by nature an impatient man; but now he became impatient, longing for the fruition of his new idea of happiness,--longing to have that as his own which he certainly loved beyond all else in the world, and which, perhaps, was all he had ever loved with the perfect love of equality. But though impatient, and fully aware of his own impatience, he acknowledged to himself that Alice could not be expected to share it. He could plan nothing now,--could have no pleasure in life that she was not expected to share. But as yet it could not be so with her. She had her house in London, her town society, and her father. And, inasmuch as the change for her would be much greater than it would be for him, it was natural that she should require some small delay. He had not pressed her. At least he had not pressed her with that eager pressure which a girl must resist with something of the opposition of a contest, if she resist it at all. But in truth his impatience was now waxing strong, and during the absence in Switzerland of which we have spoken, he resolved that a marriage very late in the autumn,--that a marriage even in winter, would be better than a marriage postponed till the following year. It was not yet late in August when the party returned from their tour. Would not a further delay of two months suffice for his bride? Alice had written to him occasionally from Switzerland, and her first two letters had been very charming. They had referred almost exclusively to the tour, and had been made pleasant with some slightly coloured account of George Vavasor's idleness, and of Kate's obedience to her brother's behests. Alice had never written much of love in her love-letters, and Grey was well enough contented with her style, though it was not impassioned. As for doubting her love, it was not in the heart of the man to do so after it had been once assured to him by her word. He could not so slightly respect himself or her as to leave room for such a doubt in his bosom. He was a man who could never have suggested to himself that a woman loved him till the fact was there before him; but who having ascertained, as he might think, the fact, could never suggest to himself that her love would fail him. Her first two letters from Switzerland had been very pleasant; but after that there had seemed to have crept over her a melancholy which she unconsciously transferred to her words, and which he could not but taste in them,--at first unconsciously, also, but soon with so plain a flavour that he recognised it, and made it a matter of mental inquiry. During the three or four last days of the journey, while they were at Basle and on their way home, she had not written. But she did write on the day after her arrival, having then received from Mr. Grey a letter, in which he told her how very much she would add to his happiness if she would now agree that their marriage should not be postponed beyond the end of October. This letter she found in her room on her return, and this she answered at once. And she answered it in such words that Mr. Grey resolved that he would at once go to her in London. I will give her letter at length, as I shall then be best able to proceed with my story quickly. Queen Anne Street, -- August, 186--. DEAREST JOHN,-- We reached home yesterday tired enough, as we came through from Paris without stopping. I may indeed say that we came through from Strasbourg, as we only slept in Paris. I don't like Strasbourg. A steeple, after all, is not everything, and putting the steeple aside, I don't think the style is good. But the hotel was uncomfortable, which goes for so much;--and then we were saturated with beauty of a better kind. I got your letter directly I came in last night, and I suppose I had better dash at it at once. I would so willingly delay doing so, saying nice little things the while, did I not know that this would be mere cowardice. Whatever happens I won't be a coward, and therefore I will tell you at once that I cannot let you hope that we should be married this year. Of course you will ask me why, as you have a right to do, and of course I am bound to answer. I do not know that I can give any answer with which you will not have a right to complain. If it be so, I can only ask your pardon for the injury I am doing you. Marriage is a great change in life,--much greater to me than to you, who will remain in your old house, will keep your old pursuits, will still be your own master, and will change in nothing,--except in this, that you will have a companion who probably may not be all that you expect. But I must change everything. It will be to me as though I were passing through a grave to a new world. I shall see nothing that I have been accustomed to see, and must abandon all the ways of life that I have hitherto adopted. Of course I should have thought of this before I accepted you; and I did think of it. I made up my mind that, as I truly loved you, I would risk the change;--that I would risk it for your sake and for mine, hoping that I might add something to your happiness, and that I might secure my own. Dear John, do not suppose that I despair that it may be so; but, indeed, you must not hurry me. I must tune myself to the change that I have to make. What if I should wake some morning after six months living with you, and tell you that the quiet of your home was making me mad? You must not ask me again till the winter shall have passed away. If in the meantime I shall find that I have been wrong, I will humbly confess that I have wronged you, and ask you to forgive me. And I will freely admit this. If the delay which I now purpose is so contrary to your own plans as to make your marriage, under such circumstances, not that which you had expected, I know that you are free to tell me so, and to say that our engagement shall be over. I am well aware that I can have no right to bind you to a marriage at one period which you had only contemplated as to take place at another period. I think I may promise that I will obey any wish you may express in anything,--except in that one thing which you urged in your last letter. Kate is going down to Yarmouth with Mrs. Greenow, and I shall see no more of her probably till next year, as she will be due in Westmoreland after that. George left me at the door when he brought me home, and declared that he intended to vanish out of London. Whether in town or out, he is never to be seen at this period of the year. Papa offers to go to Ramsgate for a fortnight, but he looks so wretched when he makes the offer, that I shall not have the heart to hold him to it. Lady Macleod very much wants me to go to Cheltenham. I very much want not to go, simply because I can never agree with her about anything; but it will probably end in my going there for a week or two. Over and beyond that, I have no prospects before Christmas which are not purely domestic. There is a project that we shall all eat our Christmas dinner at Vavasor Hall,--of course not including George,--but this project is quite in the clouds, and, as far as I am concerned, will remain there. Dear John, let me hear that this letter does not make you unhappy. Most affectionately yours, ALICE VAVASOR. At Nethercoats, the post was brought in at breakfast-time, and Mr. Grey was sitting with his tea and eggs before him, when he read Alice's letter. He read it twice before he began to think what he would do in regard to it, and then referred to one or two others which he had received from Switzerland,--reading them also very carefully. After that, he took up the slouch hat which he had been wearing in the garden before he was called to his breakfast, and, with the letters in his hand, sauntered down among the shrubs and lawns. He knew, he thought he knew, that there was more in Alice's mind than a mere wish for delay. There was more in it than that hesitation to take at once a step which she really desired to take, if not now, then after some short interval. He felt that she was unhappy, and unhappy because she distrusted the results of her marriage; but it never for a moment occurred to him that, therefore, the engagement between them should be broken. In the first place he loved her too well to allow of his admitting such an idea without terrible sorrow to himself. He was a constant, firm man, somewhat reserved, and unwilling to make new acquaintances, and, therefore, specially unwilling to break away from those which he had made. Undoubtedly, had he satisfied himself that Alice's happiness demanded such a sacrifice of himself, he would have made it, and made it without a word of complaint. The blow would not have prostrated him, but the bruise would have remained on his heart, indelible, not to be healed but by death. He would have submitted, and no man would have seen that he had been

defaulter

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

"I shan't dance, Mrs. Greenow, unless you like to stand up for a set." "No, my friend, no; I shall not do that. I fear you forget how recent has been my bereavement. Your asking me is the bitterest reproach to me for having ventured to join your festive board." "Upon my honour I didn't mean it, Mrs. Greenow. I didn't mean it, indeed." "I do not suspect you. It would have been unmanly." "And nobody can say that of me. There isn't a man or woman in Norfolk that wouldn't say I was manly." "I'm quite sure of that." "I have my faults, I'm aware." "And what are your faults, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well; perhaps I'm extravagant. But it's only in these kind of things you know, when I spend a little money for the sake of making my friends happy. When I'm about, on the lands at home, I ain't extravagant, I can tell you." "Extravagance is a great vice." "Oh, I ain't extravagant in that sense;--not a bit in the world. But when a man's enamoured, and perhaps looking out for a wife, he does like to be a little free, you know." "And are you looking out for a wife, Mr. Cheesacre?" "If I told you I suppose you'd only laugh at me." "No; indeed I would not. I am not given to joking when any one that I regard speaks to me seriously." "Ain't you though? I'm so glad of that. When one has really got a serious thing to say, one doesn't like to have fun poked at one." "And, besides, how could I laugh at marriages, seeing how happy I have been in that condition?--so--very--happy," and Mrs. Greenow put up her handkerchief to her eyes. "So happy that you'll try it again some day; won't you?" "Never, Mr. Cheesacre; never. Is that the way you talk of serious things without joking? Anything like love--love of that sort--is over for me. It lies buried under the sod with my poor dear departed saint." "But, Mrs. Greenow,"--and Cheesacre, as he prepared to argue the question with her, got nearer to her in the corner behind the table,--"But, Mrs. Greenow, care killed a cat, you know." "And sometimes I think that care will kill me." "No, by George; not if I can prevent it." "You're very kind, Mr. Cheesacre; but there's no preventing such care as mine." "Isn't there though? I'll tell you what, Mrs. Greenow; I'm in earnest, I am indeed. If you'll inquire, you'll find there isn't a fellow in Norfolk pays his way better than I do, or is better able to do it. I don't pay a sixpence of rent, and I sit upon seven hundred acres of as good land as there is in the county. There's not an acre that won't do me a bullock and a half. Just put that and that together, and see what it comes to. And, mind you, some of these fellows that farm their own land are worse off than if they'd rent to pay. They've borrowed so much to carry on with, that the interest is more than rent. I don't owe a sixpence to ere a man or ere a company in the world. I can walk into every bank in Norwich without seeing my master. There ain't any of my paper flying about, Mrs. Greenow. I'm Samuel Cheesacre of Oileymead, and it's all my own." Mr. Cheesacre, as he thus spoke of his good fortunes and firm standing in the world, became impetuous in the energy of the moment, and brought down his fist powerfully on the slight table before them. The whole fabric rattled, and the boat resounded, but the noise he had made seemed to assist him. "It's all my own, Mrs. Greenow, and the half of it shall be yours if you'll please to take it;" then he stretched out his hand to her, not as though he intended to grasp hers in a grasp of love, but as if he expected some hand-pledge from her as a token that she accepted the bargain. "If you'd known Greenow, Mr. Cheesacre--" "I've no doubt he was a very good sort of man." "If you'd known him, you would not have addressed me in this way." "What difference would that make? My idea is that care killed a cat, as I said before. I never knew what was the good of being unhappy. If I find early mangels don't do on a bit of land, then I sow late turnips; and never cry after spilt milk. Greenow was the early mangels; I'll be the late turnips. Come then, say the word. There ain't a bedroom in my house,--not one of the front ones,--that isn't mahogany furnished!" "What's furniture to me?" said Mrs. Greenow, with her handkerchief to her eyes. Just at this moment Maria's mother stepped in under the canvas. It was most inopportune. Mr. Cheesacre felt that he was progressing well, and was conscious that he had got safely over those fences in the race which his bashfulness would naturally make difficult to him. He knew that he had done this under the influence of the champagne, and was aware that it might not be easy to procure again a combination of circumstances that would be so beneficial to him. But now he was interrupted just as he was expecting success. He was interrupted, and felt himself to be looking like a guilty creature under the eye of the strange lady. He had not a word to say; but drawing himself suddenly a foot and half away from the widow's side, sat there confessing his guilt in his face. Mrs. Greenow felt no guilt, and was afraid of no strange eyes. "Mr. Cheesacre and I are talking about farming," she said. "Oh; farming!" answered Maria's mother. "Mr. Cheesacre thinks that turnips are better than early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "Yes, I do," said Cheesacre, "I prefer the early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think nature ever intended those late crops. What do you say, Mrs. Walker?" "I daresay Mr. Cheesacre understands what he's about when he's at home," said the lady. "I know what a bit of land can do as well as any man in Norfolk," said the gentleman. "It may be very well in Norfolk," said Mrs. Greenow, rising from her seat; "but the practice isn't thought much of in the other counties with which I am better acquainted." "I'd just come in to say that I thought we might be getting to the boats," said Mrs. Walker. "My Ophelia is so delicate." At this moment the delicate Ophelia was to be seen, under the influence of the music, taking a distant range upon the sands with Joe Fairstairs' arm round her waist. The attitude was justified by the tune that was in progress, and there is no reason why a galop on the sands should have any special termination in distance, as it must have in a room. But, under such circumstances, Mrs. Walker's solicitude was not unreasonable. The erratic steps of the distant dancers were recalled and preparations were made for the return journey. Others had strayed besides the delicate Ophelia and the idle Joe, and some little time was taken up in collecting the party. The boats had to be drawn down, and the boatmen fetched from their cans and tobacco-pipes. "I hope they're sober," said Mrs. Walker, with a look of great dismay. "Sober as judges," said Bellfield, who had himself been looking after the remains of Mr. Cheesacre's hampers, while that gentleman had been so much better engaged in the tent. "Because," continued Mrs. Walker, "I know that they play all manner of tricks when they're--in liquor. They'd think nothing of taking us out to sea, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, I do wish they would," said Ophelia. "Ophelia, mind you come in the boat with me," said her mother, and she looked very savage when she gave the order. It was Mrs. Walker's intention that that boat should not carry Joe Fairstairs. But Joe and her daughter together were too clever for her. When the boats went off she found herself to be in that one over which Mr. Cheesacre presided, while the sinning Ophelia with her good-for-nothing admirer were under the more mirthful protection of Captain Bellfield. "Mamma will be so angry," said Ophelia, "and it was all your fault. I did mean to go into the other boat. Don't, Mr. Fairstairs." Then they got settled down in their seats, to the satisfaction, let us hope, of them both. Mr. Cheesacre had vainly endeavoured to arrange that Mrs. Greenow should return with him. But not only was Captain Bellfield opposed to such a change in their positions, but so also was Mrs. Greenow. "I think we'd better go back as we came," she said, giving her hand to the Captain. "Oh, certainly," said Captain Bellfield. "Why should there be any change? Cheesacre, old fellow, mind you look after Mrs. Walker. Come along, my hearty." It really almost appeared that Captain Bellfield was addressing Mrs. Greenow as "his hearty," but it must be presumed that the term of genial endearment was intended for the whole boat's load. Mrs. Greenow took her place on the comfortable broad bench in the stern, and Bellfield seated himself beside her, with the tiller in his hand. "If you're going to steer, Captain Bellfield, I beg that you'll be careful." "Careful,--and with you on board!" said the Captain. "Don't you know that I would sooner perish beneath the waves than that a drop of water should touch you roughly?" "But you see, we might perish beneath the waves together." "Together! What a sweet word that is;--perish together! If it were not that there might be something better even than that, I would wish to perish in such company." "But I should not wish anything of the kind, Captain Bellfield, and therefore pray be careful." There was no perishing by water on that occasion. Mr. Cheesacre's boat reached the pier at Yarmouth first, and gave up its load without accident. Very shortly afterwards Captain Bellfield's crew reached the same place in the same state of preservation. "There," said he, as he handed out Mrs. Greenow. "I have brought you to no harm, at any rate as yet." "And, as I hope, will not do so hereafter." "May the heavens forbid it, Mrs. Greenow! Whatever may be our lots hereafter,--yours I mean and mine,--I trust that yours may be free from all disaster. Oh, that I might venture to hope that, at some future day, the privilege might be mine of protecting you from all danger!" "I can protect myself very well, I can assure you. Good night, Captain Bellfield. We won't take you and Mr. Cheesacre out of your way;--will we, Kate? We have had a most pleasant day." They were now upon the esplanade, and Mrs. Greenow's house was to the right, whereas the lodgings of both the gentlemen were to the left. Each of them fought hard for the privilege of accompanying the widow to her door; but Mrs. Greenow was self-willed, and upon this occasion would have neither of them. "Mr. Joe Fairstairs must pass the house," said she, "and he will see us home. Mr. Cheesacre, good night. Indeed you shall not;--not a step." There was that in her voice which induced Mr. Cheesacre to obey her, and which made Captain Bellfield aware that he would only injure his cause if he endeavoured to make further progress in it on the present occasion. "Well, Kate, what do you think of the day?" the aunt said when she was alone with her niece. "I never think much about such days, aunt. It was all very well, but I fear I have not the temperament fitted for enjoying the fun. I envied Ophelia Walker because she made herself thoroughly happy." "I do like to see girls enjoy themselves," said Mrs. Greenow, "I do, indeed;--and young men too. It seems so natural; why shouldn't young people flirt?" "Or old people either for the matter of that?" "Or old people either,--if they don't do any harm to anybody. I'll tell you what it is, Kate; people have become so very virtuous, that they're driven into all manner of abominable resources for amusement and occupation. If I had sons and daughters I should think a little flirting the very best thing for them as a safety valve. When people get to be old, there's a difficulty. They want to flirt with the young people and the young people don't want them. If the old people would be content to flirt together, I don't see why they should ever give it up;--till they're obliged to give up every thing, and go away." That was Mrs. Greenow's doctrine on the subject of flirtation. CHAPTER X. Nethercoats. We will leave Mrs. Greenow with her niece and two sisters at Yarmouth, and returning by stages to London, will call upon Mr. Grey at his place in Cambridgeshire as we pass by. I believe it is conceded by all the other counties, that Cambridgeshire possesses fewer rural beauties than any other county in England. It is very flat; it is not well timbered; the rivers are merely dikes; and in a very large portion of the county the farms and fields are divided simply by ditches--not by hedgerows. Such arrangements are, no doubt, well adapted for agricultural purposes, but are not conducive to rural beauty. Mr. Grey's residence was situated in a part of Cambridgeshire in which the above-named characteristics are very much marked. It was in the Isle of Ely, some few miles distant from the Cathedral town, on the side of a long straight road, which ran through the fields for miles without even a bush to cheer it. The name of his place was Nethercoats, and here he lived generally throughout the year, and here he intended to live throughout his life. His father had held a prebendal stall at Ely in times when prebendal stalls were worth more than they are at present, and having also been possessed of a living in the neighbourhood, had amassed a considerable sum of money. With this he had during his life purchased the property of Nethercoats, and had built on it the house in which his son now lived. He had married late in life, and had lost his wife soon after the birth of an only child. The house had been built in his own parish, and his wife had lived there for a few months and had died there. But after that event the old clergyman had gone back to his residence in the Close at Ely, and there John Grey had had the home of his youth. He had been brought up under his father's eye, having been sent to no public school. But he had gone to Cambridge, had taken college honours, and had then, his father dying exactly at this time, declined to accept a fellowship. His father had left to him an income of some fifteen hundred a year, and with this he sat himself down, near to his college friends, near also to the old cathedral which he loved, in the house which his father had built. But though Nethercoats possessed no beauty of scenery, though the country around it was in truth as uninteresting as any country could be, it had many delights of its own. The house itself was as excellent a residence for a country gentleman of small means as taste and skill together could construct. I doubt whether prettier rooms were ever seen than the drawing-room, the library, and the dining-room at Nethercoats. They were all on the ground-floor, and all opened out on to the garden and lawn. The library, which was the largest of the three, was a handsome chamber, and so filled as to make it well known in the University as one of the best private collections in that part of England. But perhaps the gardens of Nethercoats constituted its greatest glory. They were spacious and excellently kept up, and had been originally laid out with that knowledge of gardening without which no garden, merely as a garden, can be effective. And such, of necessity, was the garden of Nethercoats. Fine single forest trees there were none there, nor was it possible that there should have been any such. Nor could there be a clear rippling stream with steep green banks, and broken rocks lying about its bed. Such beauties are beauties of landscape, and do not of their nature belong to a garden. But the shrubs of Nethercoats were of the rarest kind, and had been long enough in their present places to have reached the period of their beauty. Nothing had been spared that a garden could want. The fruit-trees were perfect in their kind, and the glass-houses were so good and so extensive that John Grey in his prudence was some times tempted to think that he had too much of them. It must be understood that there were no grounds, according to the meaning usually given to that word, belonging to the house at Nethercoats. Between the garden and the public road there was a paddock belonging to the house, along the side of which, but divided from it by a hedge and shrubbery, ran the private carriageway up to the house. This swept through the small front flower-garden, dividing it equally; but the lawns and indeed the whole of that which made the beauty of the place lay on the back of the house, on which side opened the windows from the three sitting-rooms. Down on the public road there stood a lodge at which lived one of the gardeners. There was another field of some six or seven acres, to which there was a gate from the corner of the front paddock, and which went round two sides of the garden. This was Nethercoats, and the whole estate covered about twelve acres. It was not a place for much bachelor enjoyment of that sort generally popular with bachelors; nevertheless Mr. Grey had been constant in his residence there for the seven years which had now elapsed since he had left his college. His easy access to Cambridge had probably done much to mitigate what might otherwise have been the too great tedium of his life; and he had, prompted thereto by early associations, found most of his society in the Close of Ely Cathedral. But, with all the delight he could derive from these two sources, there had still been many solitary hours in his life, and he had gradually learned to feel that he of all men wanted a companion in his home. His visits to London had generally been short and far between, occasioned probably by some need in the library, or by the necessity of some slight literary transaction with the editor or publisher of a periodical. In one of these visits he had met Alice Vavasor, and had remained in Town,--I will not say till Alice had promised to share his home in Cambridgeshire, but so long that he had resolved before he went that he would ask her to do so. He had asked her, and we know that he had been successful. He had obtained her promise, and from that moment all his life had been changed for him. Hitherto at Nethercoats his little smoking-room, his books, and his plants had been everything to him. Now he began to surround himself with an infinity of feminine belongings, and to promise himself an infinity of feminine blessings, wondering much that he should have been content to pass so long a portion of his life in the dull seclusion which he had endured. He was not by nature an impatient man; but now he became impatient, longing for the fruition of his new idea of happiness,--longing to have that as his own which he certainly loved beyond all else in the world, and which, perhaps, was all he had ever loved with the perfect love of equality. But though impatient, and fully aware of his own impatience, he acknowledged to himself that Alice could not be expected to share it. He could plan nothing now,--could have no pleasure in life that she was not expected to share. But as yet it could not be so with her. She had her house in London, her town society, and her father. And, inasmuch as the change for her would be much greater than it would be for him, it was natural that she should require some small delay. He had not pressed her. At least he had not pressed her with that eager pressure which a girl must resist with something of the opposition of a contest, if she resist it at all. But in truth his impatience was now waxing strong, and during the absence in Switzerland of which we have spoken, he resolved that a marriage very late in the autumn,--that a marriage even in winter, would be better than a marriage postponed till the following year. It was not yet late in August when the party returned from their tour. Would not a further delay of two months suffice for his bride? Alice had written to him occasionally from Switzerland, and her first two letters had been very charming. They had referred almost exclusively to the tour, and had been made pleasant with some slightly coloured account of George Vavasor's idleness, and of Kate's obedience to her brother's behests. Alice had never written much of love in her love-letters, and Grey was well enough contented with her style, though it was not impassioned. As for doubting her love, it was not in the heart of the man to do so after it had been once assured to him by her word. He could not so slightly respect himself or her as to leave room for such a doubt in his bosom. He was a man who could never have suggested to himself that a woman loved him till the fact was there before him; but who having ascertained, as he might think, the fact, could never suggest to himself that her love would fail him. Her first two letters from Switzerland had been very pleasant; but after that there had seemed to have crept over her a melancholy which she unconsciously transferred to her words, and which he could not but taste in them,--at first unconsciously, also, but soon with so plain a flavour that he recognised it, and made it a matter of mental inquiry. During the three or four last days of the journey, while they were at Basle and on their way home, she had not written. But she did write on the day after her arrival, having then received from Mr. Grey a letter, in which he told her how very much she would add to his happiness if she would now agree that their marriage should not be postponed beyond the end of October. This letter she found in her room on her return, and this she answered at once. And she answered it in such words that Mr. Grey resolved that he would at once go to her in London. I will give her letter at length, as I shall then be best able to proceed with my story quickly. Queen Anne Street, -- August, 186--. DEAREST JOHN,-- We reached home yesterday tired enough, as we came through from Paris without stopping. I may indeed say that we came through from Strasbourg, as we only slept in Paris. I don't like Strasbourg. A steeple, after all, is not everything, and putting the steeple aside, I don't think the style is good. But the hotel was uncomfortable, which goes for so much;--and then we were saturated with beauty of a better kind. I got your letter directly I came in last night, and I suppose I had better dash at it at once. I would so willingly delay doing so, saying nice little things the while, did I not know that this would be mere cowardice. Whatever happens I won't be a coward, and therefore I will tell you at once that I cannot let you hope that we should be married this year. Of course you will ask me why, as you have a right to do, and of course I am bound to answer. I do not know that I can give any answer with which you will not have a right to complain. If it be so, I can only ask your pardon for the injury I am doing you. Marriage is a great change in life,--much greater to me than to you, who will remain in your old house, will keep your old pursuits, will still be your own master, and will change in nothing,--except in this, that you will have a companion who probably may not be all that you expect. But I must change everything. It will be to me as though I were passing through a grave to a new world. I shall see nothing that I have been accustomed to see, and must abandon all the ways of life that I have hitherto adopted. Of course I should have thought of this before I accepted you; and I did think of it. I made up my mind that, as I truly loved you, I would risk the change;--that I would risk it for your sake and for mine, hoping that I might add something to your happiness, and that I might secure my own. Dear John, do not suppose that I despair that it may be so; but, indeed, you must not hurry me. I must tune myself to the change that I have to make. What if I should wake some morning after six months living with you, and tell you that the quiet of your home was making me mad? You must not ask me again till the winter shall have passed away. If in the meantime I shall find that I have been wrong, I will humbly confess that I have wronged you, and ask you to forgive me. And I will freely admit this. If the delay which I now purpose is so contrary to your own plans as to make your marriage, under such circumstances, not that which you had expected, I know that you are free to tell me so, and to say that our engagement shall be over. I am well aware that I can have no right to bind you to a marriage at one period which you had only contemplated as to take place at another period. I think I may promise that I will obey any wish you may express in anything,--except in that one thing which you urged in your last letter. Kate is going down to Yarmouth with Mrs. Greenow, and I shall see no more of her probably till next year, as she will be due in Westmoreland after that. George left me at the door when he brought me home, and declared that he intended to vanish out of London. Whether in town or out, he is never to be seen at this period of the year. Papa offers to go to Ramsgate for a fortnight, but he looks so wretched when he makes the offer, that I shall not have the heart to hold him to it. Lady Macleod very much wants me to go to Cheltenham. I very much want not to go, simply because I can never agree with her about anything; but it will probably end in my going there for a week or two. Over and beyond that, I have no prospects before Christmas which are not purely domestic. There is a project that we shall all eat our Christmas dinner at Vavasor Hall,--of course not including George,--but this project is quite in the clouds, and, as far as I am concerned, will remain there. Dear John, let me hear that this letter does not make you unhappy. Most affectionately yours, ALICE VAVASOR. At Nethercoats, the post was brought in at breakfast-time, and Mr. Grey was sitting with his tea and eggs before him, when he read Alice's letter. He read it twice before he began to think what he would do in regard to it, and then referred to one or two others which he had received from Switzerland,--reading them also very carefully. After that, he took up the slouch hat which he had been wearing in the garden before he was called to his breakfast, and, with the letters in his hand, sauntered down among the shrubs and lawns. He knew, he thought he knew, that there was more in Alice's mind than a mere wish for delay. There was more in it than that hesitation to take at once a step which she really desired to take, if not now, then after some short interval. He felt that she was unhappy, and unhappy because she distrusted the results of her marriage; but it never for a moment occurred to him that, therefore, the engagement between them should be broken. In the first place he loved her too well to allow of his admitting such an idea without terrible sorrow to himself. He was a constant, firm man, somewhat reserved, and unwilling to make new acquaintances, and, therefore, specially unwilling to break away from those which he had made. Undoubtedly, had he satisfied himself that Alice's happiness demanded such a sacrifice of himself, he would have made it, and made it without a word of complaint. The blow would not have prostrated him, but the bruise would have remained on his heart, indelible, not to be healed but by death. He would have submitted, and no man would have seen that he had been

relations

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

"I shan't dance, Mrs. Greenow, unless you like to stand up for a set." "No, my friend, no; I shall not do that. I fear you forget how recent has been my bereavement. Your asking me is the bitterest reproach to me for having ventured to join your festive board." "Upon my honour I didn't mean it, Mrs. Greenow. I didn't mean it, indeed." "I do not suspect you. It would have been unmanly." "And nobody can say that of me. There isn't a man or woman in Norfolk that wouldn't say I was manly." "I'm quite sure of that." "I have my faults, I'm aware." "And what are your faults, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well; perhaps I'm extravagant. But it's only in these kind of things you know, when I spend a little money for the sake of making my friends happy. When I'm about, on the lands at home, I ain't extravagant, I can tell you." "Extravagance is a great vice." "Oh, I ain't extravagant in that sense;--not a bit in the world. But when a man's enamoured, and perhaps looking out for a wife, he does like to be a little free, you know." "And are you looking out for a wife, Mr. Cheesacre?" "If I told you I suppose you'd only laugh at me." "No; indeed I would not. I am not given to joking when any one that I regard speaks to me seriously." "Ain't you though? I'm so glad of that. When one has really got a serious thing to say, one doesn't like to have fun poked at one." "And, besides, how could I laugh at marriages, seeing how happy I have been in that condition?--so--very--happy," and Mrs. Greenow put up her handkerchief to her eyes. "So happy that you'll try it again some day; won't you?" "Never, Mr. Cheesacre; never. Is that the way you talk of serious things without joking? Anything like love--love of that sort--is over for me. It lies buried under the sod with my poor dear departed saint." "But, Mrs. Greenow,"--and Cheesacre, as he prepared to argue the question with her, got nearer to her in the corner behind the table,--"But, Mrs. Greenow, care killed a cat, you know." "And sometimes I think that care will kill me." "No, by George; not if I can prevent it." "You're very kind, Mr. Cheesacre; but there's no preventing such care as mine." "Isn't there though? I'll tell you what, Mrs. Greenow; I'm in earnest, I am indeed. If you'll inquire, you'll find there isn't a fellow in Norfolk pays his way better than I do, or is better able to do it. I don't pay a sixpence of rent, and I sit upon seven hundred acres of as good land as there is in the county. There's not an acre that won't do me a bullock and a half. Just put that and that together, and see what it comes to. And, mind you, some of these fellows that farm their own land are worse off than if they'd rent to pay. They've borrowed so much to carry on with, that the interest is more than rent. I don't owe a sixpence to ere a man or ere a company in the world. I can walk into every bank in Norwich without seeing my master. There ain't any of my paper flying about, Mrs. Greenow. I'm Samuel Cheesacre of Oileymead, and it's all my own." Mr. Cheesacre, as he thus spoke of his good fortunes and firm standing in the world, became impetuous in the energy of the moment, and brought down his fist powerfully on the slight table before them. The whole fabric rattled, and the boat resounded, but the noise he had made seemed to assist him. "It's all my own, Mrs. Greenow, and the half of it shall be yours if you'll please to take it;" then he stretched out his hand to her, not as though he intended to grasp hers in a grasp of love, but as if he expected some hand-pledge from her as a token that she accepted the bargain. "If you'd known Greenow, Mr. Cheesacre--" "I've no doubt he was a very good sort of man." "If you'd known him, you would not have addressed me in this way." "What difference would that make? My idea is that care killed a cat, as I said before. I never knew what was the good of being unhappy. If I find early mangels don't do on a bit of land, then I sow late turnips; and never cry after spilt milk. Greenow was the early mangels; I'll be the late turnips. Come then, say the word. There ain't a bedroom in my house,--not one of the front ones,--that isn't mahogany furnished!" "What's furniture to me?" said Mrs. Greenow, with her handkerchief to her eyes. Just at this moment Maria's mother stepped in under the canvas. It was most inopportune. Mr. Cheesacre felt that he was progressing well, and was conscious that he had got safely over those fences in the race which his bashfulness would naturally make difficult to him. He knew that he had done this under the influence of the champagne, and was aware that it might not be easy to procure again a combination of circumstances that would be so beneficial to him. But now he was interrupted just as he was expecting success. He was interrupted, and felt himself to be looking like a guilty creature under the eye of the strange lady. He had not a word to say; but drawing himself suddenly a foot and half away from the widow's side, sat there confessing his guilt in his face. Mrs. Greenow felt no guilt, and was afraid of no strange eyes. "Mr. Cheesacre and I are talking about farming," she said. "Oh; farming!" answered Maria's mother. "Mr. Cheesacre thinks that turnips are better than early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "Yes, I do," said Cheesacre, "I prefer the early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think nature ever intended those late crops. What do you say, Mrs. Walker?" "I daresay Mr. Cheesacre understands what he's about when he's at home," said the lady. "I know what a bit of land can do as well as any man in Norfolk," said the gentleman. "It may be very well in Norfolk," said Mrs. Greenow, rising from her seat; "but the practice isn't thought much of in the other counties with which I am better acquainted." "I'd just come in to say that I thought we might be getting to the boats," said Mrs. Walker. "My Ophelia is so delicate." At this moment the delicate Ophelia was to be seen, under the influence of the music, taking a distant range upon the sands with Joe Fairstairs' arm round her waist. The attitude was justified by the tune that was in progress, and there is no reason why a galop on the sands should have any special termination in distance, as it must have in a room. But, under such circumstances, Mrs. Walker's solicitude was not unreasonable. The erratic steps of the distant dancers were recalled and preparations were made for the return journey. Others had strayed besides the delicate Ophelia and the idle Joe, and some little time was taken up in collecting the party. The boats had to be drawn down, and the boatmen fetched from their cans and tobacco-pipes. "I hope they're sober," said Mrs. Walker, with a look of great dismay. "Sober as judges," said Bellfield, who had himself been looking after the remains of Mr. Cheesacre's hampers, while that gentleman had been so much better engaged in the tent. "Because," continued Mrs. Walker, "I know that they play all manner of tricks when they're--in liquor. They'd think nothing of taking us out to sea, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, I do wish they would," said Ophelia. "Ophelia, mind you come in the boat with me," said her mother, and she looked very savage when she gave the order. It was Mrs. Walker's intention that that boat should not carry Joe Fairstairs. But Joe and her daughter together were too clever for her. When the boats went off she found herself to be in that one over which Mr. Cheesacre presided, while the sinning Ophelia with her good-for-nothing admirer were under the more mirthful protection of Captain Bellfield. "Mamma will be so angry," said Ophelia, "and it was all your fault. I did mean to go into the other boat. Don't, Mr. Fairstairs." Then they got settled down in their seats, to the satisfaction, let us hope, of them both. Mr. Cheesacre had vainly endeavoured to arrange that Mrs. Greenow should return with him. But not only was Captain Bellfield opposed to such a change in their positions, but so also was Mrs. Greenow. "I think we'd better go back as we came," she said, giving her hand to the Captain. "Oh, certainly," said Captain Bellfield. "Why should there be any change? Cheesacre, old fellow, mind you look after Mrs. Walker. Come along, my hearty." It really almost appeared that Captain Bellfield was addressing Mrs. Greenow as "his hearty," but it must be presumed that the term of genial endearment was intended for the whole boat's load. Mrs. Greenow took her place on the comfortable broad bench in the stern, and Bellfield seated himself beside her, with the tiller in his hand. "If you're going to steer, Captain Bellfield, I beg that you'll be careful." "Careful,--and with you on board!" said the Captain. "Don't you know that I would sooner perish beneath the waves than that a drop of water should touch you roughly?" "But you see, we might perish beneath the waves together." "Together! What a sweet word that is;--perish together! If it were not that there might be something better even than that, I would wish to perish in such company." "But I should not wish anything of the kind, Captain Bellfield, and therefore pray be careful." There was no perishing by water on that occasion. Mr. Cheesacre's boat reached the pier at Yarmouth first, and gave up its load without accident. Very shortly afterwards Captain Bellfield's crew reached the same place in the same state of preservation. "There," said he, as he handed out Mrs. Greenow. "I have brought you to no harm, at any rate as yet." "And, as I hope, will not do so hereafter." "May the heavens forbid it, Mrs. Greenow! Whatever may be our lots hereafter,--yours I mean and mine,--I trust that yours may be free from all disaster. Oh, that I might venture to hope that, at some future day, the privilege might be mine of protecting you from all danger!" "I can protect myself very well, I can assure you. Good night, Captain Bellfield. We won't take you and Mr. Cheesacre out of your way;--will we, Kate? We have had a most pleasant day." They were now upon the esplanade, and Mrs. Greenow's house was to the right, whereas the lodgings of both the gentlemen were to the left. Each of them fought hard for the privilege of accompanying the widow to her door; but Mrs. Greenow was self-willed, and upon this occasion would have neither of them. "Mr. Joe Fairstairs must pass the house," said she, "and he will see us home. Mr. Cheesacre, good night. Indeed you shall not;--not a step." There was that in her voice which induced Mr. Cheesacre to obey her, and which made Captain Bellfield aware that he would only injure his cause if he endeavoured to make further progress in it on the present occasion. "Well, Kate, what do you think of the day?" the aunt said when she was alone with her niece. "I never think much about such days, aunt. It was all very well, but I fear I have not the temperament fitted for enjoying the fun. I envied Ophelia Walker because she made herself thoroughly happy." "I do like to see girls enjoy themselves," said Mrs. Greenow, "I do, indeed;--and young men too. It seems so natural; why shouldn't young people flirt?" "Or old people either for the matter of that?" "Or old people either,--if they don't do any harm to anybody. I'll tell you what it is, Kate; people have become so very virtuous, that they're driven into all manner of abominable resources for amusement and occupation. If I had sons and daughters I should think a little flirting the very best thing for them as a safety valve. When people get to be old, there's a difficulty. They want to flirt with the young people and the young people don't want them. If the old people would be content to flirt together, I don't see why they should ever give it up;--till they're obliged to give up every thing, and go away." That was Mrs. Greenow's doctrine on the subject of flirtation. CHAPTER X. Nethercoats. We will leave Mrs. Greenow with her niece and two sisters at Yarmouth, and returning by stages to London, will call upon Mr. Grey at his place in Cambridgeshire as we pass by. I believe it is conceded by all the other counties, that Cambridgeshire possesses fewer rural beauties than any other county in England. It is very flat; it is not well timbered; the rivers are merely dikes; and in a very large portion of the county the farms and fields are divided simply by ditches--not by hedgerows. Such arrangements are, no doubt, well adapted for agricultural purposes, but are not conducive to rural beauty. Mr. Grey's residence was situated in a part of Cambridgeshire in which the above-named characteristics are very much marked. It was in the Isle of Ely, some few miles distant from the Cathedral town, on the side of a long straight road, which ran through the fields for miles without even a bush to cheer it. The name of his place was Nethercoats, and here he lived generally throughout the year, and here he intended to live throughout his life. His father had held a prebendal stall at Ely in times when prebendal stalls were worth more than they are at present, and having also been possessed of a living in the neighbourhood, had amassed a considerable sum of money. With this he had during his life purchased the property of Nethercoats, and had built on it the house in which his son now lived. He had married late in life, and had lost his wife soon after the birth of an only child. The house had been built in his own parish, and his wife had lived there for a few months and had died there. But after that event the old clergyman had gone back to his residence in the Close at Ely, and there John Grey had had the home of his youth. He had been brought up under his father's eye, having been sent to no public school. But he had gone to Cambridge, had taken college honours, and had then, his father dying exactly at this time, declined to accept a fellowship. His father had left to him an income of some fifteen hundred a year, and with this he sat himself down, near to his college friends, near also to the old cathedral which he loved, in the house which his father had built. But though Nethercoats possessed no beauty of scenery, though the country around it was in truth as uninteresting as any country could be, it had many delights of its own. The house itself was as excellent a residence for a country gentleman of small means as taste and skill together could construct. I doubt whether prettier rooms were ever seen than the drawing-room, the library, and the dining-room at Nethercoats. They were all on the ground-floor, and all opened out on to the garden and lawn. The library, which was the largest of the three, was a handsome chamber, and so filled as to make it well known in the University as one of the best private collections in that part of England. But perhaps the gardens of Nethercoats constituted its greatest glory. They were spacious and excellently kept up, and had been originally laid out with that knowledge of gardening without which no garden, merely as a garden, can be effective. And such, of necessity, was the garden of Nethercoats. Fine single forest trees there were none there, nor was it possible that there should have been any such. Nor could there be a clear rippling stream with steep green banks, and broken rocks lying about its bed. Such beauties are beauties of landscape, and do not of their nature belong to a garden. But the shrubs of Nethercoats were of the rarest kind, and had been long enough in their present places to have reached the period of their beauty. Nothing had been spared that a garden could want. The fruit-trees were perfect in their kind, and the glass-houses were so good and so extensive that John Grey in his prudence was some times tempted to think that he had too much of them. It must be understood that there were no grounds, according to the meaning usually given to that word, belonging to the house at Nethercoats. Between the garden and the public road there was a paddock belonging to the house, along the side of which, but divided from it by a hedge and shrubbery, ran the private carriageway up to the house. This swept through the small front flower-garden, dividing it equally; but the lawns and indeed the whole of that which made the beauty of the place lay on the back of the house, on which side opened the windows from the three sitting-rooms. Down on the public road there stood a lodge at which lived one of the gardeners. There was another field of some six or seven acres, to which there was a gate from the corner of the front paddock, and which went round two sides of the garden. This was Nethercoats, and the whole estate covered about twelve acres. It was not a place for much bachelor enjoyment of that sort generally popular with bachelors; nevertheless Mr. Grey had been constant in his residence there for the seven years which had now elapsed since he had left his college. His easy access to Cambridge had probably done much to mitigate what might otherwise have been the too great tedium of his life; and he had, prompted thereto by early associations, found most of his society in the Close of Ely Cathedral. But, with all the delight he could derive from these two sources, there had still been many solitary hours in his life, and he had gradually learned to feel that he of all men wanted a companion in his home. His visits to London had generally been short and far between, occasioned probably by some need in the library, or by the necessity of some slight literary transaction with the editor or publisher of a periodical. In one of these visits he had met Alice Vavasor, and had remained in Town,--I will not say till Alice had promised to share his home in Cambridgeshire, but so long that he had resolved before he went that he would ask her to do so. He had asked her, and we know that he had been successful. He had obtained her promise, and from that moment all his life had been changed for him. Hitherto at Nethercoats his little smoking-room, his books, and his plants had been everything to him. Now he began to surround himself with an infinity of feminine belongings, and to promise himself an infinity of feminine blessings, wondering much that he should have been content to pass so long a portion of his life in the dull seclusion which he had endured. He was not by nature an impatient man; but now he became impatient, longing for the fruition of his new idea of happiness,--longing to have that as his own which he certainly loved beyond all else in the world, and which, perhaps, was all he had ever loved with the perfect love of equality. But though impatient, and fully aware of his own impatience, he acknowledged to himself that Alice could not be expected to share it. He could plan nothing now,--could have no pleasure in life that she was not expected to share. But as yet it could not be so with her. She had her house in London, her town society, and her father. And, inasmuch as the change for her would be much greater than it would be for him, it was natural that she should require some small delay. He had not pressed her. At least he had not pressed her with that eager pressure which a girl must resist with something of the opposition of a contest, if she resist it at all. But in truth his impatience was now waxing strong, and during the absence in Switzerland of which we have spoken, he resolved that a marriage very late in the autumn,--that a marriage even in winter, would be better than a marriage postponed till the following year. It was not yet late in August when the party returned from their tour. Would not a further delay of two months suffice for his bride? Alice had written to him occasionally from Switzerland, and her first two letters had been very charming. They had referred almost exclusively to the tour, and had been made pleasant with some slightly coloured account of George Vavasor's idleness, and of Kate's obedience to her brother's behests. Alice had never written much of love in her love-letters, and Grey was well enough contented with her style, though it was not impassioned. As for doubting her love, it was not in the heart of the man to do so after it had been once assured to him by her word. He could not so slightly respect himself or her as to leave room for such a doubt in his bosom. He was a man who could never have suggested to himself that a woman loved him till the fact was there before him; but who having ascertained, as he might think, the fact, could never suggest to himself that her love would fail him. Her first two letters from Switzerland had been very pleasant; but after that there had seemed to have crept over her a melancholy which she unconsciously transferred to her words, and which he could not but taste in them,--at first unconsciously, also, but soon with so plain a flavour that he recognised it, and made it a matter of mental inquiry. During the three or four last days of the journey, while they were at Basle and on their way home, she had not written. But she did write on the day after her arrival, having then received from Mr. Grey a letter, in which he told her how very much she would add to his happiness if she would now agree that their marriage should not be postponed beyond the end of October. This letter she found in her room on her return, and this she answered at once. And she answered it in such words that Mr. Grey resolved that he would at once go to her in London. I will give her letter at length, as I shall then be best able to proceed with my story quickly. Queen Anne Street, -- August, 186--. DEAREST JOHN,-- We reached home yesterday tired enough, as we came through from Paris without stopping. I may indeed say that we came through from Strasbourg, as we only slept in Paris. I don't like Strasbourg. A steeple, after all, is not everything, and putting the steeple aside, I don't think the style is good. But the hotel was uncomfortable, which goes for so much;--and then we were saturated with beauty of a better kind. I got your letter directly I came in last night, and I suppose I had better dash at it at once. I would so willingly delay doing so, saying nice little things the while, did I not know that this would be mere cowardice. Whatever happens I won't be a coward, and therefore I will tell you at once that I cannot let you hope that we should be married this year. Of course you will ask me why, as you have a right to do, and of course I am bound to answer. I do not know that I can give any answer with which you will not have a right to complain. If it be so, I can only ask your pardon for the injury I am doing you. Marriage is a great change in life,--much greater to me than to you, who will remain in your old house, will keep your old pursuits, will still be your own master, and will change in nothing,--except in this, that you will have a companion who probably may not be all that you expect. But I must change everything. It will be to me as though I were passing through a grave to a new world. I shall see nothing that I have been accustomed to see, and must abandon all the ways of life that I have hitherto adopted. Of course I should have thought of this before I accepted you; and I did think of it. I made up my mind that, as I truly loved you, I would risk the change;--that I would risk it for your sake and for mine, hoping that I might add something to your happiness, and that I might secure my own. Dear John, do not suppose that I despair that it may be so; but, indeed, you must not hurry me. I must tune myself to the change that I have to make. What if I should wake some morning after six months living with you, and tell you that the quiet of your home was making me mad? You must not ask me again till the winter shall have passed away. If in the meantime I shall find that I have been wrong, I will humbly confess that I have wronged you, and ask you to forgive me. And I will freely admit this. If the delay which I now purpose is so contrary to your own plans as to make your marriage, under such circumstances, not that which you had expected, I know that you are free to tell me so, and to say that our engagement shall be over. I am well aware that I can have no right to bind you to a marriage at one period which you had only contemplated as to take place at another period. I think I may promise that I will obey any wish you may express in anything,--except in that one thing which you urged in your last letter. Kate is going down to Yarmouth with Mrs. Greenow, and I shall see no more of her probably till next year, as she will be due in Westmoreland after that. George left me at the door when he brought me home, and declared that he intended to vanish out of London. Whether in town or out, he is never to be seen at this period of the year. Papa offers to go to Ramsgate for a fortnight, but he looks so wretched when he makes the offer, that I shall not have the heart to hold him to it. Lady Macleod very much wants me to go to Cheltenham. I very much want not to go, simply because I can never agree with her about anything; but it will probably end in my going there for a week or two. Over and beyond that, I have no prospects before Christmas which are not purely domestic. There is a project that we shall all eat our Christmas dinner at Vavasor Hall,--of course not including George,--but this project is quite in the clouds, and, as far as I am concerned, will remain there. Dear John, let me hear that this letter does not make you unhappy. Most affectionately yours, ALICE VAVASOR. At Nethercoats, the post was brought in at breakfast-time, and Mr. Grey was sitting with his tea and eggs before him, when he read Alice's letter. He read it twice before he began to think what he would do in regard to it, and then referred to one or two others which he had received from Switzerland,--reading them also very carefully. After that, he took up the slouch hat which he had been wearing in the garden before he was called to his breakfast, and, with the letters in his hand, sauntered down among the shrubs and lawns. He knew, he thought he knew, that there was more in Alice's mind than a mere wish for delay. There was more in it than that hesitation to take at once a step which she really desired to take, if not now, then after some short interval. He felt that she was unhappy, and unhappy because she distrusted the results of her marriage; but it never for a moment occurred to him that, therefore, the engagement between them should be broken. In the first place he loved her too well to allow of his admitting such an idea without terrible sorrow to himself. He was a constant, firm man, somewhat reserved, and unwilling to make new acquaintances, and, therefore, specially unwilling to break away from those which he had made. Undoubtedly, had he satisfied himself that Alice's happiness demanded such a sacrifice of himself, he would have made it, and made it without a word of complaint. The blow would not have prostrated him, but the bruise would have remained on his heart, indelible, not to be healed but by death. He would have submitted, and no man would have seen that he had been

son

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

"I shan't dance, Mrs. Greenow, unless you like to stand up for a set." "No, my friend, no; I shall not do that. I fear you forget how recent has been my bereavement. Your asking me is the bitterest reproach to me for having ventured to join your festive board." "Upon my honour I didn't mean it, Mrs. Greenow. I didn't mean it, indeed." "I do not suspect you. It would have been unmanly." "And nobody can say that of me. There isn't a man or woman in Norfolk that wouldn't say I was manly." "I'm quite sure of that." "I have my faults, I'm aware." "And what are your faults, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well; perhaps I'm extravagant. But it's only in these kind of things you know, when I spend a little money for the sake of making my friends happy. When I'm about, on the lands at home, I ain't extravagant, I can tell you." "Extravagance is a great vice." "Oh, I ain't extravagant in that sense;--not a bit in the world. But when a man's enamoured, and perhaps looking out for a wife, he does like to be a little free, you know." "And are you looking out for a wife, Mr. Cheesacre?" "If I told you I suppose you'd only laugh at me." "No; indeed I would not. I am not given to joking when any one that I regard speaks to me seriously." "Ain't you though? I'm so glad of that. When one has really got a serious thing to say, one doesn't like to have fun poked at one." "And, besides, how could I laugh at marriages, seeing how happy I have been in that condition?--so--very--happy," and Mrs. Greenow put up her handkerchief to her eyes. "So happy that you'll try it again some day; won't you?" "Never, Mr. Cheesacre; never. Is that the way you talk of serious things without joking? Anything like love--love of that sort--is over for me. It lies buried under the sod with my poor dear departed saint." "But, Mrs. Greenow,"--and Cheesacre, as he prepared to argue the question with her, got nearer to her in the corner behind the table,--"But, Mrs. Greenow, care killed a cat, you know." "And sometimes I think that care will kill me." "No, by George; not if I can prevent it." "You're very kind, Mr. Cheesacre; but there's no preventing such care as mine." "Isn't there though? I'll tell you what, Mrs. Greenow; I'm in earnest, I am indeed. If you'll inquire, you'll find there isn't a fellow in Norfolk pays his way better than I do, or is better able to do it. I don't pay a sixpence of rent, and I sit upon seven hundred acres of as good land as there is in the county. There's not an acre that won't do me a bullock and a half. Just put that and that together, and see what it comes to. And, mind you, some of these fellows that farm their own land are worse off than if they'd rent to pay. They've borrowed so much to carry on with, that the interest is more than rent. I don't owe a sixpence to ere a man or ere a company in the world. I can walk into every bank in Norwich without seeing my master. There ain't any of my paper flying about, Mrs. Greenow. I'm Samuel Cheesacre of Oileymead, and it's all my own." Mr. Cheesacre, as he thus spoke of his good fortunes and firm standing in the world, became impetuous in the energy of the moment, and brought down his fist powerfully on the slight table before them. The whole fabric rattled, and the boat resounded, but the noise he had made seemed to assist him. "It's all my own, Mrs. Greenow, and the half of it shall be yours if you'll please to take it;" then he stretched out his hand to her, not as though he intended to grasp hers in a grasp of love, but as if he expected some hand-pledge from her as a token that she accepted the bargain. "If you'd known Greenow, Mr. Cheesacre--" "I've no doubt he was a very good sort of man." "If you'd known him, you would not have addressed me in this way." "What difference would that make? My idea is that care killed a cat, as I said before. I never knew what was the good of being unhappy. If I find early mangels don't do on a bit of land, then I sow late turnips; and never cry after spilt milk. Greenow was the early mangels; I'll be the late turnips. Come then, say the word. There ain't a bedroom in my house,--not one of the front ones,--that isn't mahogany furnished!" "What's furniture to me?" said Mrs. Greenow, with her handkerchief to her eyes. Just at this moment Maria's mother stepped in under the canvas. It was most inopportune. Mr. Cheesacre felt that he was progressing well, and was conscious that he had got safely over those fences in the race which his bashfulness would naturally make difficult to him. He knew that he had done this under the influence of the champagne, and was aware that it might not be easy to procure again a combination of circumstances that would be so beneficial to him. But now he was interrupted just as he was expecting success. He was interrupted, and felt himself to be looking like a guilty creature under the eye of the strange lady. He had not a word to say; but drawing himself suddenly a foot and half away from the widow's side, sat there confessing his guilt in his face. Mrs. Greenow felt no guilt, and was afraid of no strange eyes. "Mr. Cheesacre and I are talking about farming," she said. "Oh; farming!" answered Maria's mother. "Mr. Cheesacre thinks that turnips are better than early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "Yes, I do," said Cheesacre, "I prefer the early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think nature ever intended those late crops. What do you say, Mrs. Walker?" "I daresay Mr. Cheesacre understands what he's about when he's at home," said the lady. "I know what a bit of land can do as well as any man in Norfolk," said the gentleman. "It may be very well in Norfolk," said Mrs. Greenow, rising from her seat; "but the practice isn't thought much of in the other counties with which I am better acquainted." "I'd just come in to say that I thought we might be getting to the boats," said Mrs. Walker. "My Ophelia is so delicate." At this moment the delicate Ophelia was to be seen, under the influence of the music, taking a distant range upon the sands with Joe Fairstairs' arm round her waist. The attitude was justified by the tune that was in progress, and there is no reason why a galop on the sands should have any special termination in distance, as it must have in a room. But, under such circumstances, Mrs. Walker's solicitude was not unreasonable. The erratic steps of the distant dancers were recalled and preparations were made for the return journey. Others had strayed besides the delicate Ophelia and the idle Joe, and some little time was taken up in collecting the party. The boats had to be drawn down, and the boatmen fetched from their cans and tobacco-pipes. "I hope they're sober," said Mrs. Walker, with a look of great dismay. "Sober as judges," said Bellfield, who had himself been looking after the remains of Mr. Cheesacre's hampers, while that gentleman had been so much better engaged in the tent. "Because," continued Mrs. Walker, "I know that they play all manner of tricks when they're--in liquor. They'd think nothing of taking us out to sea, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, I do wish they would," said Ophelia. "Ophelia, mind you come in the boat with me," said her mother, and she looked very savage when she gave the order. It was Mrs. Walker's intention that that boat should not carry Joe Fairstairs. But Joe and her daughter together were too clever for her. When the boats went off she found herself to be in that one over which Mr. Cheesacre presided, while the sinning Ophelia with her good-for-nothing admirer were under the more mirthful protection of Captain Bellfield. "Mamma will be so angry," said Ophelia, "and it was all your fault. I did mean to go into the other boat. Don't, Mr. Fairstairs." Then they got settled down in their seats, to the satisfaction, let us hope, of them both. Mr. Cheesacre had vainly endeavoured to arrange that Mrs. Greenow should return with him. But not only was Captain Bellfield opposed to such a change in their positions, but so also was Mrs. Greenow. "I think we'd better go back as we came," she said, giving her hand to the Captain. "Oh, certainly," said Captain Bellfield. "Why should there be any change? Cheesacre, old fellow, mind you look after Mrs. Walker. Come along, my hearty." It really almost appeared that Captain Bellfield was addressing Mrs. Greenow as "his hearty," but it must be presumed that the term of genial endearment was intended for the whole boat's load. Mrs. Greenow took her place on the comfortable broad bench in the stern, and Bellfield seated himself beside her, with the tiller in his hand. "If you're going to steer, Captain Bellfield, I beg that you'll be careful." "Careful,--and with you on board!" said the Captain. "Don't you know that I would sooner perish beneath the waves than that a drop of water should touch you roughly?" "But you see, we might perish beneath the waves together." "Together! What a sweet word that is;--perish together! If it were not that there might be something better even than that, I would wish to perish in such company." "But I should not wish anything of the kind, Captain Bellfield, and therefore pray be careful." There was no perishing by water on that occasion. Mr. Cheesacre's boat reached the pier at Yarmouth first, and gave up its load without accident. Very shortly afterwards Captain Bellfield's crew reached the same place in the same state of preservation. "There," said he, as he handed out Mrs. Greenow. "I have brought you to no harm, at any rate as yet." "And, as I hope, will not do so hereafter." "May the heavens forbid it, Mrs. Greenow! Whatever may be our lots hereafter,--yours I mean and mine,--I trust that yours may be free from all disaster. Oh, that I might venture to hope that, at some future day, the privilege might be mine of protecting you from all danger!" "I can protect myself very well, I can assure you. Good night, Captain Bellfield. We won't take you and Mr. Cheesacre out of your way;--will we, Kate? We have had a most pleasant day." They were now upon the esplanade, and Mrs. Greenow's house was to the right, whereas the lodgings of both the gentlemen were to the left. Each of them fought hard for the privilege of accompanying the widow to her door; but Mrs. Greenow was self-willed, and upon this occasion would have neither of them. "Mr. Joe Fairstairs must pass the house," said she, "and he will see us home. Mr. Cheesacre, good night. Indeed you shall not;--not a step." There was that in her voice which induced Mr. Cheesacre to obey her, and which made Captain Bellfield aware that he would only injure his cause if he endeavoured to make further progress in it on the present occasion. "Well, Kate, what do you think of the day?" the aunt said when she was alone with her niece. "I never think much about such days, aunt. It was all very well, but I fear I have not the temperament fitted for enjoying the fun. I envied Ophelia Walker because she made herself thoroughly happy." "I do like to see girls enjoy themselves," said Mrs. Greenow, "I do, indeed;--and young men too. It seems so natural; why shouldn't young people flirt?" "Or old people either for the matter of that?" "Or old people either,--if they don't do any harm to anybody. I'll tell you what it is, Kate; people have become so very virtuous, that they're driven into all manner of abominable resources for amusement and occupation. If I had sons and daughters I should think a little flirting the very best thing for them as a safety valve. When people get to be old, there's a difficulty. They want to flirt with the young people and the young people don't want them. If the old people would be content to flirt together, I don't see why they should ever give it up;--till they're obliged to give up every thing, and go away." That was Mrs. Greenow's doctrine on the subject of flirtation. CHAPTER X. Nethercoats. We will leave Mrs. Greenow with her niece and two sisters at Yarmouth, and returning by stages to London, will call upon Mr. Grey at his place in Cambridgeshire as we pass by. I believe it is conceded by all the other counties, that Cambridgeshire possesses fewer rural beauties than any other county in England. It is very flat; it is not well timbered; the rivers are merely dikes; and in a very large portion of the county the farms and fields are divided simply by ditches--not by hedgerows. Such arrangements are, no doubt, well adapted for agricultural purposes, but are not conducive to rural beauty. Mr. Grey's residence was situated in a part of Cambridgeshire in which the above-named characteristics are very much marked. It was in the Isle of Ely, some few miles distant from the Cathedral town, on the side of a long straight road, which ran through the fields for miles without even a bush to cheer it. The name of his place was Nethercoats, and here he lived generally throughout the year, and here he intended to live throughout his life. His father had held a prebendal stall at Ely in times when prebendal stalls were worth more than they are at present, and having also been possessed of a living in the neighbourhood, had amassed a considerable sum of money. With this he had during his life purchased the property of Nethercoats, and had built on it the house in which his son now lived. He had married late in life, and had lost his wife soon after the birth of an only child. The house had been built in his own parish, and his wife had lived there for a few months and had died there. But after that event the old clergyman had gone back to his residence in the Close at Ely, and there John Grey had had the home of his youth. He had been brought up under his father's eye, having been sent to no public school. But he had gone to Cambridge, had taken college honours, and had then, his father dying exactly at this time, declined to accept a fellowship. His father had left to him an income of some fifteen hundred a year, and with this he sat himself down, near to his college friends, near also to the old cathedral which he loved, in the house which his father had built. But though Nethercoats possessed no beauty of scenery, though the country around it was in truth as uninteresting as any country could be, it had many delights of its own. The house itself was as excellent a residence for a country gentleman of small means as taste and skill together could construct. I doubt whether prettier rooms were ever seen than the drawing-room, the library, and the dining-room at Nethercoats. They were all on the ground-floor, and all opened out on to the garden and lawn. The library, which was the largest of the three, was a handsome chamber, and so filled as to make it well known in the University as one of the best private collections in that part of England. But perhaps the gardens of Nethercoats constituted its greatest glory. They were spacious and excellently kept up, and had been originally laid out with that knowledge of gardening without which no garden, merely as a garden, can be effective. And such, of necessity, was the garden of Nethercoats. Fine single forest trees there were none there, nor was it possible that there should have been any such. Nor could there be a clear rippling stream with steep green banks, and broken rocks lying about its bed. Such beauties are beauties of landscape, and do not of their nature belong to a garden. But the shrubs of Nethercoats were of the rarest kind, and had been long enough in their present places to have reached the period of their beauty. Nothing had been spared that a garden could want. The fruit-trees were perfect in their kind, and the glass-houses were so good and so extensive that John Grey in his prudence was some times tempted to think that he had too much of them. It must be understood that there were no grounds, according to the meaning usually given to that word, belonging to the house at Nethercoats. Between the garden and the public road there was a paddock belonging to the house, along the side of which, but divided from it by a hedge and shrubbery, ran the private carriageway up to the house. This swept through the small front flower-garden, dividing it equally; but the lawns and indeed the whole of that which made the beauty of the place lay on the back of the house, on which side opened the windows from the three sitting-rooms. Down on the public road there stood a lodge at which lived one of the gardeners. There was another field of some six or seven acres, to which there was a gate from the corner of the front paddock, and which went round two sides of the garden. This was Nethercoats, and the whole estate covered about twelve acres. It was not a place for much bachelor enjoyment of that sort generally popular with bachelors; nevertheless Mr. Grey had been constant in his residence there for the seven years which had now elapsed since he had left his college. His easy access to Cambridge had probably done much to mitigate what might otherwise have been the too great tedium of his life; and he had, prompted thereto by early associations, found most of his society in the Close of Ely Cathedral. But, with all the delight he could derive from these two sources, there had still been many solitary hours in his life, and he had gradually learned to feel that he of all men wanted a companion in his home. His visits to London had generally been short and far between, occasioned probably by some need in the library, or by the necessity of some slight literary transaction with the editor or publisher of a periodical. In one of these visits he had met Alice Vavasor, and had remained in Town,--I will not say till Alice had promised to share his home in Cambridgeshire, but so long that he had resolved before he went that he would ask her to do so. He had asked her, and we know that he had been successful. He had obtained her promise, and from that moment all his life had been changed for him. Hitherto at Nethercoats his little smoking-room, his books, and his plants had been everything to him. Now he began to surround himself with an infinity of feminine belongings, and to promise himself an infinity of feminine blessings, wondering much that he should have been content to pass so long a portion of his life in the dull seclusion which he had endured. He was not by nature an impatient man; but now he became impatient, longing for the fruition of his new idea of happiness,--longing to have that as his own which he certainly loved beyond all else in the world, and which, perhaps, was all he had ever loved with the perfect love of equality. But though impatient, and fully aware of his own impatience, he acknowledged to himself that Alice could not be expected to share it. He could plan nothing now,--could have no pleasure in life that she was not expected to share. But as yet it could not be so with her. She had her house in London, her town society, and her father. And, inasmuch as the change for her would be much greater than it would be for him, it was natural that she should require some small delay. He had not pressed her. At least he had not pressed her with that eager pressure which a girl must resist with something of the opposition of a contest, if she resist it at all. But in truth his impatience was now waxing strong, and during the absence in Switzerland of which we have spoken, he resolved that a marriage very late in the autumn,--that a marriage even in winter, would be better than a marriage postponed till the following year. It was not yet late in August when the party returned from their tour. Would not a further delay of two months suffice for his bride? Alice had written to him occasionally from Switzerland, and her first two letters had been very charming. They had referred almost exclusively to the tour, and had been made pleasant with some slightly coloured account of George Vavasor's idleness, and of Kate's obedience to her brother's behests. Alice had never written much of love in her love-letters, and Grey was well enough contented with her style, though it was not impassioned. As for doubting her love, it was not in the heart of the man to do so after it had been once assured to him by her word. He could not so slightly respect himself or her as to leave room for such a doubt in his bosom. He was a man who could never have suggested to himself that a woman loved him till the fact was there before him; but who having ascertained, as he might think, the fact, could never suggest to himself that her love would fail him. Her first two letters from Switzerland had been very pleasant; but after that there had seemed to have crept over her a melancholy which she unconsciously transferred to her words, and which he could not but taste in them,--at first unconsciously, also, but soon with so plain a flavour that he recognised it, and made it a matter of mental inquiry. During the three or four last days of the journey, while they were at Basle and on their way home, she had not written. But she did write on the day after her arrival, having then received from Mr. Grey a letter, in which he told her how very much she would add to his happiness if she would now agree that their marriage should not be postponed beyond the end of October. This letter she found in her room on her return, and this she answered at once. And she answered it in such words that Mr. Grey resolved that he would at once go to her in London. I will give her letter at length, as I shall then be best able to proceed with my story quickly. Queen Anne Street, -- August, 186--. DEAREST JOHN,-- We reached home yesterday tired enough, as we came through from Paris without stopping. I may indeed say that we came through from Strasbourg, as we only slept in Paris. I don't like Strasbourg. A steeple, after all, is not everything, and putting the steeple aside, I don't think the style is good. But the hotel was uncomfortable, which goes for so much;--and then we were saturated with beauty of a better kind. I got your letter directly I came in last night, and I suppose I had better dash at it at once. I would so willingly delay doing so, saying nice little things the while, did I not know that this would be mere cowardice. Whatever happens I won't be a coward, and therefore I will tell you at once that I cannot let you hope that we should be married this year. Of course you will ask me why, as you have a right to do, and of course I am bound to answer. I do not know that I can give any answer with which you will not have a right to complain. If it be so, I can only ask your pardon for the injury I am doing you. Marriage is a great change in life,--much greater to me than to you, who will remain in your old house, will keep your old pursuits, will still be your own master, and will change in nothing,--except in this, that you will have a companion who probably may not be all that you expect. But I must change everything. It will be to me as though I were passing through a grave to a new world. I shall see nothing that I have been accustomed to see, and must abandon all the ways of life that I have hitherto adopted. Of course I should have thought of this before I accepted you; and I did think of it. I made up my mind that, as I truly loved you, I would risk the change;--that I would risk it for your sake and for mine, hoping that I might add something to your happiness, and that I might secure my own. Dear John, do not suppose that I despair that it may be so; but, indeed, you must not hurry me. I must tune myself to the change that I have to make. What if I should wake some morning after six months living with you, and tell you that the quiet of your home was making me mad? You must not ask me again till the winter shall have passed away. If in the meantime I shall find that I have been wrong, I will humbly confess that I have wronged you, and ask you to forgive me. And I will freely admit this. If the delay which I now purpose is so contrary to your own plans as to make your marriage, under such circumstances, not that which you had expected, I know that you are free to tell me so, and to say that our engagement shall be over. I am well aware that I can have no right to bind you to a marriage at one period which you had only contemplated as to take place at another period. I think I may promise that I will obey any wish you may express in anything,--except in that one thing which you urged in your last letter. Kate is going down to Yarmouth with Mrs. Greenow, and I shall see no more of her probably till next year, as she will be due in Westmoreland after that. George left me at the door when he brought me home, and declared that he intended to vanish out of London. Whether in town or out, he is never to be seen at this period of the year. Papa offers to go to Ramsgate for a fortnight, but he looks so wretched when he makes the offer, that I shall not have the heart to hold him to it. Lady Macleod very much wants me to go to Cheltenham. I very much want not to go, simply because I can never agree with her about anything; but it will probably end in my going there for a week or two. Over and beyond that, I have no prospects before Christmas which are not purely domestic. There is a project that we shall all eat our Christmas dinner at Vavasor Hall,--of course not including George,--but this project is quite in the clouds, and, as far as I am concerned, will remain there. Dear John, let me hear that this letter does not make you unhappy. Most affectionately yours, ALICE VAVASOR. At Nethercoats, the post was brought in at breakfast-time, and Mr. Grey was sitting with his tea and eggs before him, when he read Alice's letter. He read it twice before he began to think what he would do in regard to it, and then referred to one or two others which he had received from Switzerland,--reading them also very carefully. After that, he took up the slouch hat which he had been wearing in the garden before he was called to his breakfast, and, with the letters in his hand, sauntered down among the shrubs and lawns. He knew, he thought he knew, that there was more in Alice's mind than a mere wish for delay. There was more in it than that hesitation to take at once a step which she really desired to take, if not now, then after some short interval. He felt that she was unhappy, and unhappy because she distrusted the results of her marriage; but it never for a moment occurred to him that, therefore, the engagement between them should be broken. In the first place he loved her too well to allow of his admitting such an idea without terrible sorrow to himself. He was a constant, firm man, somewhat reserved, and unwilling to make new acquaintances, and, therefore, specially unwilling to break away from those which he had made. Undoubtedly, had he satisfied himself that Alice's happiness demanded such a sacrifice of himself, he would have made it, and made it without a word of complaint. The blow would not have prostrated him, but the bruise would have remained on his heart, indelible, not to be healed but by death. He would have submitted, and no man would have seen that he had been

lined

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

"I shan't dance, Mrs. Greenow, unless you like to stand up for a set." "No, my friend, no; I shall not do that. I fear you forget how recent has been my bereavement. Your asking me is the bitterest reproach to me for having ventured to join your festive board." "Upon my honour I didn't mean it, Mrs. Greenow. I didn't mean it, indeed." "I do not suspect you. It would have been unmanly." "And nobody can say that of me. There isn't a man or woman in Norfolk that wouldn't say I was manly." "I'm quite sure of that." "I have my faults, I'm aware." "And what are your faults, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well; perhaps I'm extravagant. But it's only in these kind of things you know, when I spend a little money for the sake of making my friends happy. When I'm about, on the lands at home, I ain't extravagant, I can tell you." "Extravagance is a great vice." "Oh, I ain't extravagant in that sense;--not a bit in the world. But when a man's enamoured, and perhaps looking out for a wife, he does like to be a little free, you know." "And are you looking out for a wife, Mr. Cheesacre?" "If I told you I suppose you'd only laugh at me." "No; indeed I would not. I am not given to joking when any one that I regard speaks to me seriously." "Ain't you though? I'm so glad of that. When one has really got a serious thing to say, one doesn't like to have fun poked at one." "And, besides, how could I laugh at marriages, seeing how happy I have been in that condition?--so--very--happy," and Mrs. Greenow put up her handkerchief to her eyes. "So happy that you'll try it again some day; won't you?" "Never, Mr. Cheesacre; never. Is that the way you talk of serious things without joking? Anything like love--love of that sort--is over for me. It lies buried under the sod with my poor dear departed saint." "But, Mrs. Greenow,"--and Cheesacre, as he prepared to argue the question with her, got nearer to her in the corner behind the table,--"But, Mrs. Greenow, care killed a cat, you know." "And sometimes I think that care will kill me." "No, by George; not if I can prevent it." "You're very kind, Mr. Cheesacre; but there's no preventing such care as mine." "Isn't there though? I'll tell you what, Mrs. Greenow; I'm in earnest, I am indeed. If you'll inquire, you'll find there isn't a fellow in Norfolk pays his way better than I do, or is better able to do it. I don't pay a sixpence of rent, and I sit upon seven hundred acres of as good land as there is in the county. There's not an acre that won't do me a bullock and a half. Just put that and that together, and see what it comes to. And, mind you, some of these fellows that farm their own land are worse off than if they'd rent to pay. They've borrowed so much to carry on with, that the interest is more than rent. I don't owe a sixpence to ere a man or ere a company in the world. I can walk into every bank in Norwich without seeing my master. There ain't any of my paper flying about, Mrs. Greenow. I'm Samuel Cheesacre of Oileymead, and it's all my own." Mr. Cheesacre, as he thus spoke of his good fortunes and firm standing in the world, became impetuous in the energy of the moment, and brought down his fist powerfully on the slight table before them. The whole fabric rattled, and the boat resounded, but the noise he had made seemed to assist him. "It's all my own, Mrs. Greenow, and the half of it shall be yours if you'll please to take it;" then he stretched out his hand to her, not as though he intended to grasp hers in a grasp of love, but as if he expected some hand-pledge from her as a token that she accepted the bargain. "If you'd known Greenow, Mr. Cheesacre--" "I've no doubt he was a very good sort of man." "If you'd known him, you would not have addressed me in this way." "What difference would that make? My idea is that care killed a cat, as I said before. I never knew what was the good of being unhappy. If I find early mangels don't do on a bit of land, then I sow late turnips; and never cry after spilt milk. Greenow was the early mangels; I'll be the late turnips. Come then, say the word. There ain't a bedroom in my house,--not one of the front ones,--that isn't mahogany furnished!" "What's furniture to me?" said Mrs. Greenow, with her handkerchief to her eyes. Just at this moment Maria's mother stepped in under the canvas. It was most inopportune. Mr. Cheesacre felt that he was progressing well, and was conscious that he had got safely over those fences in the race which his bashfulness would naturally make difficult to him. He knew that he had done this under the influence of the champagne, and was aware that it might not be easy to procure again a combination of circumstances that would be so beneficial to him. But now he was interrupted just as he was expecting success. He was interrupted, and felt himself to be looking like a guilty creature under the eye of the strange lady. He had not a word to say; but drawing himself suddenly a foot and half away from the widow's side, sat there confessing his guilt in his face. Mrs. Greenow felt no guilt, and was afraid of no strange eyes. "Mr. Cheesacre and I are talking about farming," she said. "Oh; farming!" answered Maria's mother. "Mr. Cheesacre thinks that turnips are better than early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "Yes, I do," said Cheesacre, "I prefer the early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think nature ever intended those late crops. What do you say, Mrs. Walker?" "I daresay Mr. Cheesacre understands what he's about when he's at home," said the lady. "I know what a bit of land can do as well as any man in Norfolk," said the gentleman. "It may be very well in Norfolk," said Mrs. Greenow, rising from her seat; "but the practice isn't thought much of in the other counties with which I am better acquainted." "I'd just come in to say that I thought we might be getting to the boats," said Mrs. Walker. "My Ophelia is so delicate." At this moment the delicate Ophelia was to be seen, under the influence of the music, taking a distant range upon the sands with Joe Fairstairs' arm round her waist. The attitude was justified by the tune that was in progress, and there is no reason why a galop on the sands should have any special termination in distance, as it must have in a room. But, under such circumstances, Mrs. Walker's solicitude was not unreasonable. The erratic steps of the distant dancers were recalled and preparations were made for the return journey. Others had strayed besides the delicate Ophelia and the idle Joe, and some little time was taken up in collecting the party. The boats had to be drawn down, and the boatmen fetched from their cans and tobacco-pipes. "I hope they're sober," said Mrs. Walker, with a look of great dismay. "Sober as judges," said Bellfield, who had himself been looking after the remains of Mr. Cheesacre's hampers, while that gentleman had been so much better engaged in the tent. "Because," continued Mrs. Walker, "I know that they play all manner of tricks when they're--in liquor. They'd think nothing of taking us out to sea, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, I do wish they would," said Ophelia. "Ophelia, mind you come in the boat with me," said her mother, and she looked very savage when she gave the order. It was Mrs. Walker's intention that that boat should not carry Joe Fairstairs. But Joe and her daughter together were too clever for her. When the boats went off she found herself to be in that one over which Mr. Cheesacre presided, while the sinning Ophelia with her good-for-nothing admirer were under the more mirthful protection of Captain Bellfield. "Mamma will be so angry," said Ophelia, "and it was all your fault. I did mean to go into the other boat. Don't, Mr. Fairstairs." Then they got settled down in their seats, to the satisfaction, let us hope, of them both. Mr. Cheesacre had vainly endeavoured to arrange that Mrs. Greenow should return with him. But not only was Captain Bellfield opposed to such a change in their positions, but so also was Mrs. Greenow. "I think we'd better go back as we came," she said, giving her hand to the Captain. "Oh, certainly," said Captain Bellfield. "Why should there be any change? Cheesacre, old fellow, mind you look after Mrs. Walker. Come along, my hearty." It really almost appeared that Captain Bellfield was addressing Mrs. Greenow as "his hearty," but it must be presumed that the term of genial endearment was intended for the whole boat's load. Mrs. Greenow took her place on the comfortable broad bench in the stern, and Bellfield seated himself beside her, with the tiller in his hand. "If you're going to steer, Captain Bellfield, I beg that you'll be careful." "Careful,--and with you on board!" said the Captain. "Don't you know that I would sooner perish beneath the waves than that a drop of water should touch you roughly?" "But you see, we might perish beneath the waves together." "Together! What a sweet word that is;--perish together! If it were not that there might be something better even than that, I would wish to perish in such company." "But I should not wish anything of the kind, Captain Bellfield, and therefore pray be careful." There was no perishing by water on that occasion. Mr. Cheesacre's boat reached the pier at Yarmouth first, and gave up its load without accident. Very shortly afterwards Captain Bellfield's crew reached the same place in the same state of preservation. "There," said he, as he handed out Mrs. Greenow. "I have brought you to no harm, at any rate as yet." "And, as I hope, will not do so hereafter." "May the heavens forbid it, Mrs. Greenow! Whatever may be our lots hereafter,--yours I mean and mine,--I trust that yours may be free from all disaster. Oh, that I might venture to hope that, at some future day, the privilege might be mine of protecting you from all danger!" "I can protect myself very well, I can assure you. Good night, Captain Bellfield. We won't take you and Mr. Cheesacre out of your way;--will we, Kate? We have had a most pleasant day." They were now upon the esplanade, and Mrs. Greenow's house was to the right, whereas the lodgings of both the gentlemen were to the left. Each of them fought hard for the privilege of accompanying the widow to her door; but Mrs. Greenow was self-willed, and upon this occasion would have neither of them. "Mr. Joe Fairstairs must pass the house," said she, "and he will see us home. Mr. Cheesacre, good night. Indeed you shall not;--not a step." There was that in her voice which induced Mr. Cheesacre to obey her, and which made Captain Bellfield aware that he would only injure his cause if he endeavoured to make further progress in it on the present occasion. "Well, Kate, what do you think of the day?" the aunt said when she was alone with her niece. "I never think much about such days, aunt. It was all very well, but I fear I have not the temperament fitted for enjoying the fun. I envied Ophelia Walker because she made herself thoroughly happy." "I do like to see girls enjoy themselves," said Mrs. Greenow, "I do, indeed;--and young men too. It seems so natural; why shouldn't young people flirt?" "Or old people either for the matter of that?" "Or old people either,--if they don't do any harm to anybody. I'll tell you what it is, Kate; people have become so very virtuous, that they're driven into all manner of abominable resources for amusement and occupation. If I had sons and daughters I should think a little flirting the very best thing for them as a safety valve. When people get to be old, there's a difficulty. They want to flirt with the young people and the young people don't want them. If the old people would be content to flirt together, I don't see why they should ever give it up;--till they're obliged to give up every thing, and go away." That was Mrs. Greenow's doctrine on the subject of flirtation. CHAPTER X. Nethercoats. We will leave Mrs. Greenow with her niece and two sisters at Yarmouth, and returning by stages to London, will call upon Mr. Grey at his place in Cambridgeshire as we pass by. I believe it is conceded by all the other counties, that Cambridgeshire possesses fewer rural beauties than any other county in England. It is very flat; it is not well timbered; the rivers are merely dikes; and in a very large portion of the county the farms and fields are divided simply by ditches--not by hedgerows. Such arrangements are, no doubt, well adapted for agricultural purposes, but are not conducive to rural beauty. Mr. Grey's residence was situated in a part of Cambridgeshire in which the above-named characteristics are very much marked. It was in the Isle of Ely, some few miles distant from the Cathedral town, on the side of a long straight road, which ran through the fields for miles without even a bush to cheer it. The name of his place was Nethercoats, and here he lived generally throughout the year, and here he intended to live throughout his life. His father had held a prebendal stall at Ely in times when prebendal stalls were worth more than they are at present, and having also been possessed of a living in the neighbourhood, had amassed a considerable sum of money. With this he had during his life purchased the property of Nethercoats, and had built on it the house in which his son now lived. He had married late in life, and had lost his wife soon after the birth of an only child. The house had been built in his own parish, and his wife had lived there for a few months and had died there. But after that event the old clergyman had gone back to his residence in the Close at Ely, and there John Grey had had the home of his youth. He had been brought up under his father's eye, having been sent to no public school. But he had gone to Cambridge, had taken college honours, and had then, his father dying exactly at this time, declined to accept a fellowship. His father had left to him an income of some fifteen hundred a year, and with this he sat himself down, near to his college friends, near also to the old cathedral which he loved, in the house which his father had built. But though Nethercoats possessed no beauty of scenery, though the country around it was in truth as uninteresting as any country could be, it had many delights of its own. The house itself was as excellent a residence for a country gentleman of small means as taste and skill together could construct. I doubt whether prettier rooms were ever seen than the drawing-room, the library, and the dining-room at Nethercoats. They were all on the ground-floor, and all opened out on to the garden and lawn. The library, which was the largest of the three, was a handsome chamber, and so filled as to make it well known in the University as one of the best private collections in that part of England. But perhaps the gardens of Nethercoats constituted its greatest glory. They were spacious and excellently kept up, and had been originally laid out with that knowledge of gardening without which no garden, merely as a garden, can be effective. And such, of necessity, was the garden of Nethercoats. Fine single forest trees there were none there, nor was it possible that there should have been any such. Nor could there be a clear rippling stream with steep green banks, and broken rocks lying about its bed. Such beauties are beauties of landscape, and do not of their nature belong to a garden. But the shrubs of Nethercoats were of the rarest kind, and had been long enough in their present places to have reached the period of their beauty. Nothing had been spared that a garden could want. The fruit-trees were perfect in their kind, and the glass-houses were so good and so extensive that John Grey in his prudence was some times tempted to think that he had too much of them. It must be understood that there were no grounds, according to the meaning usually given to that word, belonging to the house at Nethercoats. Between the garden and the public road there was a paddock belonging to the house, along the side of which, but divided from it by a hedge and shrubbery, ran the private carriageway up to the house. This swept through the small front flower-garden, dividing it equally; but the lawns and indeed the whole of that which made the beauty of the place lay on the back of the house, on which side opened the windows from the three sitting-rooms. Down on the public road there stood a lodge at which lived one of the gardeners. There was another field of some six or seven acres, to which there was a gate from the corner of the front paddock, and which went round two sides of the garden. This was Nethercoats, and the whole estate covered about twelve acres. It was not a place for much bachelor enjoyment of that sort generally popular with bachelors; nevertheless Mr. Grey had been constant in his residence there for the seven years which had now elapsed since he had left his college. His easy access to Cambridge had probably done much to mitigate what might otherwise have been the too great tedium of his life; and he had, prompted thereto by early associations, found most of his society in the Close of Ely Cathedral. But, with all the delight he could derive from these two sources, there had still been many solitary hours in his life, and he had gradually learned to feel that he of all men wanted a companion in his home. His visits to London had generally been short and far between, occasioned probably by some need in the library, or by the necessity of some slight literary transaction with the editor or publisher of a periodical. In one of these visits he had met Alice Vavasor, and had remained in Town,--I will not say till Alice had promised to share his home in Cambridgeshire, but so long that he had resolved before he went that he would ask her to do so. He had asked her, and we know that he had been successful. He had obtained her promise, and from that moment all his life had been changed for him. Hitherto at Nethercoats his little smoking-room, his books, and his plants had been everything to him. Now he began to surround himself with an infinity of feminine belongings, and to promise himself an infinity of feminine blessings, wondering much that he should have been content to pass so long a portion of his life in the dull seclusion which he had endured. He was not by nature an impatient man; but now he became impatient, longing for the fruition of his new idea of happiness,--longing to have that as his own which he certainly loved beyond all else in the world, and which, perhaps, was all he had ever loved with the perfect love of equality. But though impatient, and fully aware of his own impatience, he acknowledged to himself that Alice could not be expected to share it. He could plan nothing now,--could have no pleasure in life that she was not expected to share. But as yet it could not be so with her. She had her house in London, her town society, and her father. And, inasmuch as the change for her would be much greater than it would be for him, it was natural that she should require some small delay. He had not pressed her. At least he had not pressed her with that eager pressure which a girl must resist with something of the opposition of a contest, if she resist it at all. But in truth his impatience was now waxing strong, and during the absence in Switzerland of which we have spoken, he resolved that a marriage very late in the autumn,--that a marriage even in winter, would be better than a marriage postponed till the following year. It was not yet late in August when the party returned from their tour. Would not a further delay of two months suffice for his bride? Alice had written to him occasionally from Switzerland, and her first two letters had been very charming. They had referred almost exclusively to the tour, and had been made pleasant with some slightly coloured account of George Vavasor's idleness, and of Kate's obedience to her brother's behests. Alice had never written much of love in her love-letters, and Grey was well enough contented with her style, though it was not impassioned. As for doubting her love, it was not in the heart of the man to do so after it had been once assured to him by her word. He could not so slightly respect himself or her as to leave room for such a doubt in his bosom. He was a man who could never have suggested to himself that a woman loved him till the fact was there before him; but who having ascertained, as he might think, the fact, could never suggest to himself that her love would fail him. Her first two letters from Switzerland had been very pleasant; but after that there had seemed to have crept over her a melancholy which she unconsciously transferred to her words, and which he could not but taste in them,--at first unconsciously, also, but soon with so plain a flavour that he recognised it, and made it a matter of mental inquiry. During the three or four last days of the journey, while they were at Basle and on their way home, she had not written. But she did write on the day after her arrival, having then received from Mr. Grey a letter, in which he told her how very much she would add to his happiness if she would now agree that their marriage should not be postponed beyond the end of October. This letter she found in her room on her return, and this she answered at once. And she answered it in such words that Mr. Grey resolved that he would at once go to her in London. I will give her letter at length, as I shall then be best able to proceed with my story quickly. Queen Anne Street, -- August, 186--. DEAREST JOHN,-- We reached home yesterday tired enough, as we came through from Paris without stopping. I may indeed say that we came through from Strasbourg, as we only slept in Paris. I don't like Strasbourg. A steeple, after all, is not everything, and putting the steeple aside, I don't think the style is good. But the hotel was uncomfortable, which goes for so much;--and then we were saturated with beauty of a better kind. I got your letter directly I came in last night, and I suppose I had better dash at it at once. I would so willingly delay doing so, saying nice little things the while, did I not know that this would be mere cowardice. Whatever happens I won't be a coward, and therefore I will tell you at once that I cannot let you hope that we should be married this year. Of course you will ask me why, as you have a right to do, and of course I am bound to answer. I do not know that I can give any answer with which you will not have a right to complain. If it be so, I can only ask your pardon for the injury I am doing you. Marriage is a great change in life,--much greater to me than to you, who will remain in your old house, will keep your old pursuits, will still be your own master, and will change in nothing,--except in this, that you will have a companion who probably may not be all that you expect. But I must change everything. It will be to me as though I were passing through a grave to a new world. I shall see nothing that I have been accustomed to see, and must abandon all the ways of life that I have hitherto adopted. Of course I should have thought of this before I accepted you; and I did think of it. I made up my mind that, as I truly loved you, I would risk the change;--that I would risk it for your sake and for mine, hoping that I might add something to your happiness, and that I might secure my own. Dear John, do not suppose that I despair that it may be so; but, indeed, you must not hurry me. I must tune myself to the change that I have to make. What if I should wake some morning after six months living with you, and tell you that the quiet of your home was making me mad? You must not ask me again till the winter shall have passed away. If in the meantime I shall find that I have been wrong, I will humbly confess that I have wronged you, and ask you to forgive me. And I will freely admit this. If the delay which I now purpose is so contrary to your own plans as to make your marriage, under such circumstances, not that which you had expected, I know that you are free to tell me so, and to say that our engagement shall be over. I am well aware that I can have no right to bind you to a marriage at one period which you had only contemplated as to take place at another period. I think I may promise that I will obey any wish you may express in anything,--except in that one thing which you urged in your last letter. Kate is going down to Yarmouth with Mrs. Greenow, and I shall see no more of her probably till next year, as she will be due in Westmoreland after that. George left me at the door when he brought me home, and declared that he intended to vanish out of London. Whether in town or out, he is never to be seen at this period of the year. Papa offers to go to Ramsgate for a fortnight, but he looks so wretched when he makes the offer, that I shall not have the heart to hold him to it. Lady Macleod very much wants me to go to Cheltenham. I very much want not to go, simply because I can never agree with her about anything; but it will probably end in my going there for a week or two. Over and beyond that, I have no prospects before Christmas which are not purely domestic. There is a project that we shall all eat our Christmas dinner at Vavasor Hall,--of course not including George,--but this project is quite in the clouds, and, as far as I am concerned, will remain there. Dear John, let me hear that this letter does not make you unhappy. Most affectionately yours, ALICE VAVASOR. At Nethercoats, the post was brought in at breakfast-time, and Mr. Grey was sitting with his tea and eggs before him, when he read Alice's letter. He read it twice before he began to think what he would do in regard to it, and then referred to one or two others which he had received from Switzerland,--reading them also very carefully. After that, he took up the slouch hat which he had been wearing in the garden before he was called to his breakfast, and, with the letters in his hand, sauntered down among the shrubs and lawns. He knew, he thought he knew, that there was more in Alice's mind than a mere wish for delay. There was more in it than that hesitation to take at once a step which she really desired to take, if not now, then after some short interval. He felt that she was unhappy, and unhappy because she distrusted the results of her marriage; but it never for a moment occurred to him that, therefore, the engagement between them should be broken. In the first place he loved her too well to allow of his admitting such an idea without terrible sorrow to himself. He was a constant, firm man, somewhat reserved, and unwilling to make new acquaintances, and, therefore, specially unwilling to break away from those which he had made. Undoubtedly, had he satisfied himself that Alice's happiness demanded such a sacrifice of himself, he would have made it, and made it without a word of complaint. The blow would not have prostrated him, but the bruise would have remained on his heart, indelible, not to be healed but by death. He would have submitted, and no man would have seen that he had been

declined

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

"I shan't dance, Mrs. Greenow, unless you like to stand up for a set." "No, my friend, no; I shall not do that. I fear you forget how recent has been my bereavement. Your asking me is the bitterest reproach to me for having ventured to join your festive board." "Upon my honour I didn't mean it, Mrs. Greenow. I didn't mean it, indeed." "I do not suspect you. It would have been unmanly." "And nobody can say that of me. There isn't a man or woman in Norfolk that wouldn't say I was manly." "I'm quite sure of that." "I have my faults, I'm aware." "And what are your faults, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well; perhaps I'm extravagant. But it's only in these kind of things you know, when I spend a little money for the sake of making my friends happy. When I'm about, on the lands at home, I ain't extravagant, I can tell you." "Extravagance is a great vice." "Oh, I ain't extravagant in that sense;--not a bit in the world. But when a man's enamoured, and perhaps looking out for a wife, he does like to be a little free, you know." "And are you looking out for a wife, Mr. Cheesacre?" "If I told you I suppose you'd only laugh at me." "No; indeed I would not. I am not given to joking when any one that I regard speaks to me seriously." "Ain't you though? I'm so glad of that. When one has really got a serious thing to say, one doesn't like to have fun poked at one." "And, besides, how could I laugh at marriages, seeing how happy I have been in that condition?--so--very--happy," and Mrs. Greenow put up her handkerchief to her eyes. "So happy that you'll try it again some day; won't you?" "Never, Mr. Cheesacre; never. Is that the way you talk of serious things without joking? Anything like love--love of that sort--is over for me. It lies buried under the sod with my poor dear departed saint." "But, Mrs. Greenow,"--and Cheesacre, as he prepared to argue the question with her, got nearer to her in the corner behind the table,--"But, Mrs. Greenow, care killed a cat, you know." "And sometimes I think that care will kill me." "No, by George; not if I can prevent it." "You're very kind, Mr. Cheesacre; but there's no preventing such care as mine." "Isn't there though? I'll tell you what, Mrs. Greenow; I'm in earnest, I am indeed. If you'll inquire, you'll find there isn't a fellow in Norfolk pays his way better than I do, or is better able to do it. I don't pay a sixpence of rent, and I sit upon seven hundred acres of as good land as there is in the county. There's not an acre that won't do me a bullock and a half. Just put that and that together, and see what it comes to. And, mind you, some of these fellows that farm their own land are worse off than if they'd rent to pay. They've borrowed so much to carry on with, that the interest is more than rent. I don't owe a sixpence to ere a man or ere a company in the world. I can walk into every bank in Norwich without seeing my master. There ain't any of my paper flying about, Mrs. Greenow. I'm Samuel Cheesacre of Oileymead, and it's all my own." Mr. Cheesacre, as he thus spoke of his good fortunes and firm standing in the world, became impetuous in the energy of the moment, and brought down his fist powerfully on the slight table before them. The whole fabric rattled, and the boat resounded, but the noise he had made seemed to assist him. "It's all my own, Mrs. Greenow, and the half of it shall be yours if you'll please to take it;" then he stretched out his hand to her, not as though he intended to grasp hers in a grasp of love, but as if he expected some hand-pledge from her as a token that she accepted the bargain. "If you'd known Greenow, Mr. Cheesacre--" "I've no doubt he was a very good sort of man." "If you'd known him, you would not have addressed me in this way." "What difference would that make? My idea is that care killed a cat, as I said before. I never knew what was the good of being unhappy. If I find early mangels don't do on a bit of land, then I sow late turnips; and never cry after spilt milk. Greenow was the early mangels; I'll be the late turnips. Come then, say the word. There ain't a bedroom in my house,--not one of the front ones,--that isn't mahogany furnished!" "What's furniture to me?" said Mrs. Greenow, with her handkerchief to her eyes. Just at this moment Maria's mother stepped in under the canvas. It was most inopportune. Mr. Cheesacre felt that he was progressing well, and was conscious that he had got safely over those fences in the race which his bashfulness would naturally make difficult to him. He knew that he had done this under the influence of the champagne, and was aware that it might not be easy to procure again a combination of circumstances that would be so beneficial to him. But now he was interrupted just as he was expecting success. He was interrupted, and felt himself to be looking like a guilty creature under the eye of the strange lady. He had not a word to say; but drawing himself suddenly a foot and half away from the widow's side, sat there confessing his guilt in his face. Mrs. Greenow felt no guilt, and was afraid of no strange eyes. "Mr. Cheesacre and I are talking about farming," she said. "Oh; farming!" answered Maria's mother. "Mr. Cheesacre thinks that turnips are better than early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "Yes, I do," said Cheesacre, "I prefer the early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think nature ever intended those late crops. What do you say, Mrs. Walker?" "I daresay Mr. Cheesacre understands what he's about when he's at home," said the lady. "I know what a bit of land can do as well as any man in Norfolk," said the gentleman. "It may be very well in Norfolk," said Mrs. Greenow, rising from her seat; "but the practice isn't thought much of in the other counties with which I am better acquainted." "I'd just come in to say that I thought we might be getting to the boats," said Mrs. Walker. "My Ophelia is so delicate." At this moment the delicate Ophelia was to be seen, under the influence of the music, taking a distant range upon the sands with Joe Fairstairs' arm round her waist. The attitude was justified by the tune that was in progress, and there is no reason why a galop on the sands should have any special termination in distance, as it must have in a room. But, under such circumstances, Mrs. Walker's solicitude was not unreasonable. The erratic steps of the distant dancers were recalled and preparations were made for the return journey. Others had strayed besides the delicate Ophelia and the idle Joe, and some little time was taken up in collecting the party. The boats had to be drawn down, and the boatmen fetched from their cans and tobacco-pipes. "I hope they're sober," said Mrs. Walker, with a look of great dismay. "Sober as judges," said Bellfield, who had himself been looking after the remains of Mr. Cheesacre's hampers, while that gentleman had been so much better engaged in the tent. "Because," continued Mrs. Walker, "I know that they play all manner of tricks when they're--in liquor. They'd think nothing of taking us out to sea, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, I do wish they would," said Ophelia. "Ophelia, mind you come in the boat with me," said her mother, and she looked very savage when she gave the order. It was Mrs. Walker's intention that that boat should not carry Joe Fairstairs. But Joe and her daughter together were too clever for her. When the boats went off she found herself to be in that one over which Mr. Cheesacre presided, while the sinning Ophelia with her good-for-nothing admirer were under the more mirthful protection of Captain Bellfield. "Mamma will be so angry," said Ophelia, "and it was all your fault. I did mean to go into the other boat. Don't, Mr. Fairstairs." Then they got settled down in their seats, to the satisfaction, let us hope, of them both. Mr. Cheesacre had vainly endeavoured to arrange that Mrs. Greenow should return with him. But not only was Captain Bellfield opposed to such a change in their positions, but so also was Mrs. Greenow. "I think we'd better go back as we came," she said, giving her hand to the Captain. "Oh, certainly," said Captain Bellfield. "Why should there be any change? Cheesacre, old fellow, mind you look after Mrs. Walker. Come along, my hearty." It really almost appeared that Captain Bellfield was addressing Mrs. Greenow as "his hearty," but it must be presumed that the term of genial endearment was intended for the whole boat's load. Mrs. Greenow took her place on the comfortable broad bench in the stern, and Bellfield seated himself beside her, with the tiller in his hand. "If you're going to steer, Captain Bellfield, I beg that you'll be careful." "Careful,--and with you on board!" said the Captain. "Don't you know that I would sooner perish beneath the waves than that a drop of water should touch you roughly?" "But you see, we might perish beneath the waves together." "Together! What a sweet word that is;--perish together! If it were not that there might be something better even than that, I would wish to perish in such company." "But I should not wish anything of the kind, Captain Bellfield, and therefore pray be careful." There was no perishing by water on that occasion. Mr. Cheesacre's boat reached the pier at Yarmouth first, and gave up its load without accident. Very shortly afterwards Captain Bellfield's crew reached the same place in the same state of preservation. "There," said he, as he handed out Mrs. Greenow. "I have brought you to no harm, at any rate as yet." "And, as I hope, will not do so hereafter." "May the heavens forbid it, Mrs. Greenow! Whatever may be our lots hereafter,--yours I mean and mine,--I trust that yours may be free from all disaster. Oh, that I might venture to hope that, at some future day, the privilege might be mine of protecting you from all danger!" "I can protect myself very well, I can assure you. Good night, Captain Bellfield. We won't take you and Mr. Cheesacre out of your way;--will we, Kate? We have had a most pleasant day." They were now upon the esplanade, and Mrs. Greenow's house was to the right, whereas the lodgings of both the gentlemen were to the left. Each of them fought hard for the privilege of accompanying the widow to her door; but Mrs. Greenow was self-willed, and upon this occasion would have neither of them. "Mr. Joe Fairstairs must pass the house," said she, "and he will see us home. Mr. Cheesacre, good night. Indeed you shall not;--not a step." There was that in her voice which induced Mr. Cheesacre to obey her, and which made Captain Bellfield aware that he would only injure his cause if he endeavoured to make further progress in it on the present occasion. "Well, Kate, what do you think of the day?" the aunt said when she was alone with her niece. "I never think much about such days, aunt. It was all very well, but I fear I have not the temperament fitted for enjoying the fun. I envied Ophelia Walker because she made herself thoroughly happy." "I do like to see girls enjoy themselves," said Mrs. Greenow, "I do, indeed;--and young men too. It seems so natural; why shouldn't young people flirt?" "Or old people either for the matter of that?" "Or old people either,--if they don't do any harm to anybody. I'll tell you what it is, Kate; people have become so very virtuous, that they're driven into all manner of abominable resources for amusement and occupation. If I had sons and daughters I should think a little flirting the very best thing for them as a safety valve. When people get to be old, there's a difficulty. They want to flirt with the young people and the young people don't want them. If the old people would be content to flirt together, I don't see why they should ever give it up;--till they're obliged to give up every thing, and go away." That was Mrs. Greenow's doctrine on the subject of flirtation. CHAPTER X. Nethercoats. We will leave Mrs. Greenow with her niece and two sisters at Yarmouth, and returning by stages to London, will call upon Mr. Grey at his place in Cambridgeshire as we pass by. I believe it is conceded by all the other counties, that Cambridgeshire possesses fewer rural beauties than any other county in England. It is very flat; it is not well timbered; the rivers are merely dikes; and in a very large portion of the county the farms and fields are divided simply by ditches--not by hedgerows. Such arrangements are, no doubt, well adapted for agricultural purposes, but are not conducive to rural beauty. Mr. Grey's residence was situated in a part of Cambridgeshire in which the above-named characteristics are very much marked. It was in the Isle of Ely, some few miles distant from the Cathedral town, on the side of a long straight road, which ran through the fields for miles without even a bush to cheer it. The name of his place was Nethercoats, and here he lived generally throughout the year, and here he intended to live throughout his life. His father had held a prebendal stall at Ely in times when prebendal stalls were worth more than they are at present, and having also been possessed of a living in the neighbourhood, had amassed a considerable sum of money. With this he had during his life purchased the property of Nethercoats, and had built on it the house in which his son now lived. He had married late in life, and had lost his wife soon after the birth of an only child. The house had been built in his own parish, and his wife had lived there for a few months and had died there. But after that event the old clergyman had gone back to his residence in the Close at Ely, and there John Grey had had the home of his youth. He had been brought up under his father's eye, having been sent to no public school. But he had gone to Cambridge, had taken college honours, and had then, his father dying exactly at this time, declined to accept a fellowship. His father had left to him an income of some fifteen hundred a year, and with this he sat himself down, near to his college friends, near also to the old cathedral which he loved, in the house which his father had built. But though Nethercoats possessed no beauty of scenery, though the country around it was in truth as uninteresting as any country could be, it had many delights of its own. The house itself was as excellent a residence for a country gentleman of small means as taste and skill together could construct. I doubt whether prettier rooms were ever seen than the drawing-room, the library, and the dining-room at Nethercoats. They were all on the ground-floor, and all opened out on to the garden and lawn. The library, which was the largest of the three, was a handsome chamber, and so filled as to make it well known in the University as one of the best private collections in that part of England. But perhaps the gardens of Nethercoats constituted its greatest glory. They were spacious and excellently kept up, and had been originally laid out with that knowledge of gardening without which no garden, merely as a garden, can be effective. And such, of necessity, was the garden of Nethercoats. Fine single forest trees there were none there, nor was it possible that there should have been any such. Nor could there be a clear rippling stream with steep green banks, and broken rocks lying about its bed. Such beauties are beauties of landscape, and do not of their nature belong to a garden. But the shrubs of Nethercoats were of the rarest kind, and had been long enough in their present places to have reached the period of their beauty. Nothing had been spared that a garden could want. The fruit-trees were perfect in their kind, and the glass-houses were so good and so extensive that John Grey in his prudence was some times tempted to think that he had too much of them. It must be understood that there were no grounds, according to the meaning usually given to that word, belonging to the house at Nethercoats. Between the garden and the public road there was a paddock belonging to the house, along the side of which, but divided from it by a hedge and shrubbery, ran the private carriageway up to the house. This swept through the small front flower-garden, dividing it equally; but the lawns and indeed the whole of that which made the beauty of the place lay on the back of the house, on which side opened the windows from the three sitting-rooms. Down on the public road there stood a lodge at which lived one of the gardeners. There was another field of some six or seven acres, to which there was a gate from the corner of the front paddock, and which went round two sides of the garden. This was Nethercoats, and the whole estate covered about twelve acres. It was not a place for much bachelor enjoyment of that sort generally popular with bachelors; nevertheless Mr. Grey had been constant in his residence there for the seven years which had now elapsed since he had left his college. His easy access to Cambridge had probably done much to mitigate what might otherwise have been the too great tedium of his life; and he had, prompted thereto by early associations, found most of his society in the Close of Ely Cathedral. But, with all the delight he could derive from these two sources, there had still been many solitary hours in his life, and he had gradually learned to feel that he of all men wanted a companion in his home. His visits to London had generally been short and far between, occasioned probably by some need in the library, or by the necessity of some slight literary transaction with the editor or publisher of a periodical. In one of these visits he had met Alice Vavasor, and had remained in Town,--I will not say till Alice had promised to share his home in Cambridgeshire, but so long that he had resolved before he went that he would ask her to do so. He had asked her, and we know that he had been successful. He had obtained her promise, and from that moment all his life had been changed for him. Hitherto at Nethercoats his little smoking-room, his books, and his plants had been everything to him. Now he began to surround himself with an infinity of feminine belongings, and to promise himself an infinity of feminine blessings, wondering much that he should have been content to pass so long a portion of his life in the dull seclusion which he had endured. He was not by nature an impatient man; but now he became impatient, longing for the fruition of his new idea of happiness,--longing to have that as his own which he certainly loved beyond all else in the world, and which, perhaps, was all he had ever loved with the perfect love of equality. But though impatient, and fully aware of his own impatience, he acknowledged to himself that Alice could not be expected to share it. He could plan nothing now,--could have no pleasure in life that she was not expected to share. But as yet it could not be so with her. She had her house in London, her town society, and her father. And, inasmuch as the change for her would be much greater than it would be for him, it was natural that she should require some small delay. He had not pressed her. At least he had not pressed her with that eager pressure which a girl must resist with something of the opposition of a contest, if she resist it at all. But in truth his impatience was now waxing strong, and during the absence in Switzerland of which we have spoken, he resolved that a marriage very late in the autumn,--that a marriage even in winter, would be better than a marriage postponed till the following year. It was not yet late in August when the party returned from their tour. Would not a further delay of two months suffice for his bride? Alice had written to him occasionally from Switzerland, and her first two letters had been very charming. They had referred almost exclusively to the tour, and had been made pleasant with some slightly coloured account of George Vavasor's idleness, and of Kate's obedience to her brother's behests. Alice had never written much of love in her love-letters, and Grey was well enough contented with her style, though it was not impassioned. As for doubting her love, it was not in the heart of the man to do so after it had been once assured to him by her word. He could not so slightly respect himself or her as to leave room for such a doubt in his bosom. He was a man who could never have suggested to himself that a woman loved him till the fact was there before him; but who having ascertained, as he might think, the fact, could never suggest to himself that her love would fail him. Her first two letters from Switzerland had been very pleasant; but after that there had seemed to have crept over her a melancholy which she unconsciously transferred to her words, and which he could not but taste in them,--at first unconsciously, also, but soon with so plain a flavour that he recognised it, and made it a matter of mental inquiry. During the three or four last days of the journey, while they were at Basle and on their way home, she had not written. But she did write on the day after her arrival, having then received from Mr. Grey a letter, in which he told her how very much she would add to his happiness if she would now agree that their marriage should not be postponed beyond the end of October. This letter she found in her room on her return, and this she answered at once. And she answered it in such words that Mr. Grey resolved that he would at once go to her in London. I will give her letter at length, as I shall then be best able to proceed with my story quickly. Queen Anne Street, -- August, 186--. DEAREST JOHN,-- We reached home yesterday tired enough, as we came through from Paris without stopping. I may indeed say that we came through from Strasbourg, as we only slept in Paris. I don't like Strasbourg. A steeple, after all, is not everything, and putting the steeple aside, I don't think the style is good. But the hotel was uncomfortable, which goes for so much;--and then we were saturated with beauty of a better kind. I got your letter directly I came in last night, and I suppose I had better dash at it at once. I would so willingly delay doing so, saying nice little things the while, did I not know that this would be mere cowardice. Whatever happens I won't be a coward, and therefore I will tell you at once that I cannot let you hope that we should be married this year. Of course you will ask me why, as you have a right to do, and of course I am bound to answer. I do not know that I can give any answer with which you will not have a right to complain. If it be so, I can only ask your pardon for the injury I am doing you. Marriage is a great change in life,--much greater to me than to you, who will remain in your old house, will keep your old pursuits, will still be your own master, and will change in nothing,--except in this, that you will have a companion who probably may not be all that you expect. But I must change everything. It will be to me as though I were passing through a grave to a new world. I shall see nothing that I have been accustomed to see, and must abandon all the ways of life that I have hitherto adopted. Of course I should have thought of this before I accepted you; and I did think of it. I made up my mind that, as I truly loved you, I would risk the change;--that I would risk it for your sake and for mine, hoping that I might add something to your happiness, and that I might secure my own. Dear John, do not suppose that I despair that it may be so; but, indeed, you must not hurry me. I must tune myself to the change that I have to make. What if I should wake some morning after six months living with you, and tell you that the quiet of your home was making me mad? You must not ask me again till the winter shall have passed away. If in the meantime I shall find that I have been wrong, I will humbly confess that I have wronged you, and ask you to forgive me. And I will freely admit this. If the delay which I now purpose is so contrary to your own plans as to make your marriage, under such circumstances, not that which you had expected, I know that you are free to tell me so, and to say that our engagement shall be over. I am well aware that I can have no right to bind you to a marriage at one period which you had only contemplated as to take place at another period. I think I may promise that I will obey any wish you may express in anything,--except in that one thing which you urged in your last letter. Kate is going down to Yarmouth with Mrs. Greenow, and I shall see no more of her probably till next year, as she will be due in Westmoreland after that. George left me at the door when he brought me home, and declared that he intended to vanish out of London. Whether in town or out, he is never to be seen at this period of the year. Papa offers to go to Ramsgate for a fortnight, but he looks so wretched when he makes the offer, that I shall not have the heart to hold him to it. Lady Macleod very much wants me to go to Cheltenham. I very much want not to go, simply because I can never agree with her about anything; but it will probably end in my going there for a week or two. Over and beyond that, I have no prospects before Christmas which are not purely domestic. There is a project that we shall all eat our Christmas dinner at Vavasor Hall,--of course not including George,--but this project is quite in the clouds, and, as far as I am concerned, will remain there. Dear John, let me hear that this letter does not make you unhappy. Most affectionately yours, ALICE VAVASOR. At Nethercoats, the post was brought in at breakfast-time, and Mr. Grey was sitting with his tea and eggs before him, when he read Alice's letter. He read it twice before he began to think what he would do in regard to it, and then referred to one or two others which he had received from Switzerland,--reading them also very carefully. After that, he took up the slouch hat which he had been wearing in the garden before he was called to his breakfast, and, with the letters in his hand, sauntered down among the shrubs and lawns. He knew, he thought he knew, that there was more in Alice's mind than a mere wish for delay. There was more in it than that hesitation to take at once a step which she really desired to take, if not now, then after some short interval. He felt that she was unhappy, and unhappy because she distrusted the results of her marriage; but it never for a moment occurred to him that, therefore, the engagement between them should be broken. In the first place he loved her too well to allow of his admitting such an idea without terrible sorrow to himself. He was a constant, firm man, somewhat reserved, and unwilling to make new acquaintances, and, therefore, specially unwilling to break away from those which he had made. Undoubtedly, had he satisfied himself that Alice's happiness demanded such a sacrifice of himself, he would have made it, and made it without a word of complaint. The blow would not have prostrated him, but the bruise would have remained on his heart, indelible, not to be healed but by death. He would have submitted, and no man would have seen that he had been

interrupted

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

"I shan't dance, Mrs. Greenow, unless you like to stand up for a set." "No, my friend, no; I shall not do that. I fear you forget how recent has been my bereavement. Your asking me is the bitterest reproach to me for having ventured to join your festive board." "Upon my honour I didn't mean it, Mrs. Greenow. I didn't mean it, indeed." "I do not suspect you. It would have been unmanly." "And nobody can say that of me. There isn't a man or woman in Norfolk that wouldn't say I was manly." "I'm quite sure of that." "I have my faults, I'm aware." "And what are your faults, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well; perhaps I'm extravagant. But it's only in these kind of things you know, when I spend a little money for the sake of making my friends happy. When I'm about, on the lands at home, I ain't extravagant, I can tell you." "Extravagance is a great vice." "Oh, I ain't extravagant in that sense;--not a bit in the world. But when a man's enamoured, and perhaps looking out for a wife, he does like to be a little free, you know." "And are you looking out for a wife, Mr. Cheesacre?" "If I told you I suppose you'd only laugh at me." "No; indeed I would not. I am not given to joking when any one that I regard speaks to me seriously." "Ain't you though? I'm so glad of that. When one has really got a serious thing to say, one doesn't like to have fun poked at one." "And, besides, how could I laugh at marriages, seeing how happy I have been in that condition?--so--very--happy," and Mrs. Greenow put up her handkerchief to her eyes. "So happy that you'll try it again some day; won't you?" "Never, Mr. Cheesacre; never. Is that the way you talk of serious things without joking? Anything like love--love of that sort--is over for me. It lies buried under the sod with my poor dear departed saint." "But, Mrs. Greenow,"--and Cheesacre, as he prepared to argue the question with her, got nearer to her in the corner behind the table,--"But, Mrs. Greenow, care killed a cat, you know." "And sometimes I think that care will kill me." "No, by George; not if I can prevent it." "You're very kind, Mr. Cheesacre; but there's no preventing such care as mine." "Isn't there though? I'll tell you what, Mrs. Greenow; I'm in earnest, I am indeed. If you'll inquire, you'll find there isn't a fellow in Norfolk pays his way better than I do, or is better able to do it. I don't pay a sixpence of rent, and I sit upon seven hundred acres of as good land as there is in the county. There's not an acre that won't do me a bullock and a half. Just put that and that together, and see what it comes to. And, mind you, some of these fellows that farm their own land are worse off than if they'd rent to pay. They've borrowed so much to carry on with, that the interest is more than rent. I don't owe a sixpence to ere a man or ere a company in the world. I can walk into every bank in Norwich without seeing my master. There ain't any of my paper flying about, Mrs. Greenow. I'm Samuel Cheesacre of Oileymead, and it's all my own." Mr. Cheesacre, as he thus spoke of his good fortunes and firm standing in the world, became impetuous in the energy of the moment, and brought down his fist powerfully on the slight table before them. The whole fabric rattled, and the boat resounded, but the noise he had made seemed to assist him. "It's all my own, Mrs. Greenow, and the half of it shall be yours if you'll please to take it;" then he stretched out his hand to her, not as though he intended to grasp hers in a grasp of love, but as if he expected some hand-pledge from her as a token that she accepted the bargain. "If you'd known Greenow, Mr. Cheesacre--" "I've no doubt he was a very good sort of man." "If you'd known him, you would not have addressed me in this way." "What difference would that make? My idea is that care killed a cat, as I said before. I never knew what was the good of being unhappy. If I find early mangels don't do on a bit of land, then I sow late turnips; and never cry after spilt milk. Greenow was the early mangels; I'll be the late turnips. Come then, say the word. There ain't a bedroom in my house,--not one of the front ones,--that isn't mahogany furnished!" "What's furniture to me?" said Mrs. Greenow, with her handkerchief to her eyes. Just at this moment Maria's mother stepped in under the canvas. It was most inopportune. Mr. Cheesacre felt that he was progressing well, and was conscious that he had got safely over those fences in the race which his bashfulness would naturally make difficult to him. He knew that he had done this under the influence of the champagne, and was aware that it might not be easy to procure again a combination of circumstances that would be so beneficial to him. But now he was interrupted just as he was expecting success. He was interrupted, and felt himself to be looking like a guilty creature under the eye of the strange lady. He had not a word to say; but drawing himself suddenly a foot and half away from the widow's side, sat there confessing his guilt in his face. Mrs. Greenow felt no guilt, and was afraid of no strange eyes. "Mr. Cheesacre and I are talking about farming," she said. "Oh; farming!" answered Maria's mother. "Mr. Cheesacre thinks that turnips are better than early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "Yes, I do," said Cheesacre, "I prefer the early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think nature ever intended those late crops. What do you say, Mrs. Walker?" "I daresay Mr. Cheesacre understands what he's about when he's at home," said the lady. "I know what a bit of land can do as well as any man in Norfolk," said the gentleman. "It may be very well in Norfolk," said Mrs. Greenow, rising from her seat; "but the practice isn't thought much of in the other counties with which I am better acquainted." "I'd just come in to say that I thought we might be getting to the boats," said Mrs. Walker. "My Ophelia is so delicate." At this moment the delicate Ophelia was to be seen, under the influence of the music, taking a distant range upon the sands with Joe Fairstairs' arm round her waist. The attitude was justified by the tune that was in progress, and there is no reason why a galop on the sands should have any special termination in distance, as it must have in a room. But, under such circumstances, Mrs. Walker's solicitude was not unreasonable. The erratic steps of the distant dancers were recalled and preparations were made for the return journey. Others had strayed besides the delicate Ophelia and the idle Joe, and some little time was taken up in collecting the party. The boats had to be drawn down, and the boatmen fetched from their cans and tobacco-pipes. "I hope they're sober," said Mrs. Walker, with a look of great dismay. "Sober as judges," said Bellfield, who had himself been looking after the remains of Mr. Cheesacre's hampers, while that gentleman had been so much better engaged in the tent. "Because," continued Mrs. Walker, "I know that they play all manner of tricks when they're--in liquor. They'd think nothing of taking us out to sea, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, I do wish they would," said Ophelia. "Ophelia, mind you come in the boat with me," said her mother, and she looked very savage when she gave the order. It was Mrs. Walker's intention that that boat should not carry Joe Fairstairs. But Joe and her daughter together were too clever for her. When the boats went off she found herself to be in that one over which Mr. Cheesacre presided, while the sinning Ophelia with her good-for-nothing admirer were under the more mirthful protection of Captain Bellfield. "Mamma will be so angry," said Ophelia, "and it was all your fault. I did mean to go into the other boat. Don't, Mr. Fairstairs." Then they got settled down in their seats, to the satisfaction, let us hope, of them both. Mr. Cheesacre had vainly endeavoured to arrange that Mrs. Greenow should return with him. But not only was Captain Bellfield opposed to such a change in their positions, but so also was Mrs. Greenow. "I think we'd better go back as we came," she said, giving her hand to the Captain. "Oh, certainly," said Captain Bellfield. "Why should there be any change? Cheesacre, old fellow, mind you look after Mrs. Walker. Come along, my hearty." It really almost appeared that Captain Bellfield was addressing Mrs. Greenow as "his hearty," but it must be presumed that the term of genial endearment was intended for the whole boat's load. Mrs. Greenow took her place on the comfortable broad bench in the stern, and Bellfield seated himself beside her, with the tiller in his hand. "If you're going to steer, Captain Bellfield, I beg that you'll be careful." "Careful,--and with you on board!" said the Captain. "Don't you know that I would sooner perish beneath the waves than that a drop of water should touch you roughly?" "But you see, we might perish beneath the waves together." "Together! What a sweet word that is;--perish together! If it were not that there might be something better even than that, I would wish to perish in such company." "But I should not wish anything of the kind, Captain Bellfield, and therefore pray be careful." There was no perishing by water on that occasion. Mr. Cheesacre's boat reached the pier at Yarmouth first, and gave up its load without accident. Very shortly afterwards Captain Bellfield's crew reached the same place in the same state of preservation. "There," said he, as he handed out Mrs. Greenow. "I have brought you to no harm, at any rate as yet." "And, as I hope, will not do so hereafter." "May the heavens forbid it, Mrs. Greenow! Whatever may be our lots hereafter,--yours I mean and mine,--I trust that yours may be free from all disaster. Oh, that I might venture to hope that, at some future day, the privilege might be mine of protecting you from all danger!" "I can protect myself very well, I can assure you. Good night, Captain Bellfield. We won't take you and Mr. Cheesacre out of your way;--will we, Kate? We have had a most pleasant day." They were now upon the esplanade, and Mrs. Greenow's house was to the right, whereas the lodgings of both the gentlemen were to the left. Each of them fought hard for the privilege of accompanying the widow to her door; but Mrs. Greenow was self-willed, and upon this occasion would have neither of them. "Mr. Joe Fairstairs must pass the house," said she, "and he will see us home. Mr. Cheesacre, good night. Indeed you shall not;--not a step." There was that in her voice which induced Mr. Cheesacre to obey her, and which made Captain Bellfield aware that he would only injure his cause if he endeavoured to make further progress in it on the present occasion. "Well, Kate, what do you think of the day?" the aunt said when she was alone with her niece. "I never think much about such days, aunt. It was all very well, but I fear I have not the temperament fitted for enjoying the fun. I envied Ophelia Walker because she made herself thoroughly happy." "I do like to see girls enjoy themselves," said Mrs. Greenow, "I do, indeed;--and young men too. It seems so natural; why shouldn't young people flirt?" "Or old people either for the matter of that?" "Or old people either,--if they don't do any harm to anybody. I'll tell you what it is, Kate; people have become so very virtuous, that they're driven into all manner of abominable resources for amusement and occupation. If I had sons and daughters I should think a little flirting the very best thing for them as a safety valve. When people get to be old, there's a difficulty. They want to flirt with the young people and the young people don't want them. If the old people would be content to flirt together, I don't see why they should ever give it up;--till they're obliged to give up every thing, and go away." That was Mrs. Greenow's doctrine on the subject of flirtation. CHAPTER X. Nethercoats. We will leave Mrs. Greenow with her niece and two sisters at Yarmouth, and returning by stages to London, will call upon Mr. Grey at his place in Cambridgeshire as we pass by. I believe it is conceded by all the other counties, that Cambridgeshire possesses fewer rural beauties than any other county in England. It is very flat; it is not well timbered; the rivers are merely dikes; and in a very large portion of the county the farms and fields are divided simply by ditches--not by hedgerows. Such arrangements are, no doubt, well adapted for agricultural purposes, but are not conducive to rural beauty. Mr. Grey's residence was situated in a part of Cambridgeshire in which the above-named characteristics are very much marked. It was in the Isle of Ely, some few miles distant from the Cathedral town, on the side of a long straight road, which ran through the fields for miles without even a bush to cheer it. The name of his place was Nethercoats, and here he lived generally throughout the year, and here he intended to live throughout his life. His father had held a prebendal stall at Ely in times when prebendal stalls were worth more than they are at present, and having also been possessed of a living in the neighbourhood, had amassed a considerable sum of money. With this he had during his life purchased the property of Nethercoats, and had built on it the house in which his son now lived. He had married late in life, and had lost his wife soon after the birth of an only child. The house had been built in his own parish, and his wife had lived there for a few months and had died there. But after that event the old clergyman had gone back to his residence in the Close at Ely, and there John Grey had had the home of his youth. He had been brought up under his father's eye, having been sent to no public school. But he had gone to Cambridge, had taken college honours, and had then, his father dying exactly at this time, declined to accept a fellowship. His father had left to him an income of some fifteen hundred a year, and with this he sat himself down, near to his college friends, near also to the old cathedral which he loved, in the house which his father had built. But though Nethercoats possessed no beauty of scenery, though the country around it was in truth as uninteresting as any country could be, it had many delights of its own. The house itself was as excellent a residence for a country gentleman of small means as taste and skill together could construct. I doubt whether prettier rooms were ever seen than the drawing-room, the library, and the dining-room at Nethercoats. They were all on the ground-floor, and all opened out on to the garden and lawn. The library, which was the largest of the three, was a handsome chamber, and so filled as to make it well known in the University as one of the best private collections in that part of England. But perhaps the gardens of Nethercoats constituted its greatest glory. They were spacious and excellently kept up, and had been originally laid out with that knowledge of gardening without which no garden, merely as a garden, can be effective. And such, of necessity, was the garden of Nethercoats. Fine single forest trees there were none there, nor was it possible that there should have been any such. Nor could there be a clear rippling stream with steep green banks, and broken rocks lying about its bed. Such beauties are beauties of landscape, and do not of their nature belong to a garden. But the shrubs of Nethercoats were of the rarest kind, and had been long enough in their present places to have reached the period of their beauty. Nothing had been spared that a garden could want. The fruit-trees were perfect in their kind, and the glass-houses were so good and so extensive that John Grey in his prudence was some times tempted to think that he had too much of them. It must be understood that there were no grounds, according to the meaning usually given to that word, belonging to the house at Nethercoats. Between the garden and the public road there was a paddock belonging to the house, along the side of which, but divided from it by a hedge and shrubbery, ran the private carriageway up to the house. This swept through the small front flower-garden, dividing it equally; but the lawns and indeed the whole of that which made the beauty of the place lay on the back of the house, on which side opened the windows from the three sitting-rooms. Down on the public road there stood a lodge at which lived one of the gardeners. There was another field of some six or seven acres, to which there was a gate from the corner of the front paddock, and which went round two sides of the garden. This was Nethercoats, and the whole estate covered about twelve acres. It was not a place for much bachelor enjoyment of that sort generally popular with bachelors; nevertheless Mr. Grey had been constant in his residence there for the seven years which had now elapsed since he had left his college. His easy access to Cambridge had probably done much to mitigate what might otherwise have been the too great tedium of his life; and he had, prompted thereto by early associations, found most of his society in the Close of Ely Cathedral. But, with all the delight he could derive from these two sources, there had still been many solitary hours in his life, and he had gradually learned to feel that he of all men wanted a companion in his home. His visits to London had generally been short and far between, occasioned probably by some need in the library, or by the necessity of some slight literary transaction with the editor or publisher of a periodical. In one of these visits he had met Alice Vavasor, and had remained in Town,--I will not say till Alice had promised to share his home in Cambridgeshire, but so long that he had resolved before he went that he would ask her to do so. He had asked her, and we know that he had been successful. He had obtained her promise, and from that moment all his life had been changed for him. Hitherto at Nethercoats his little smoking-room, his books, and his plants had been everything to him. Now he began to surround himself with an infinity of feminine belongings, and to promise himself an infinity of feminine blessings, wondering much that he should have been content to pass so long a portion of his life in the dull seclusion which he had endured. He was not by nature an impatient man; but now he became impatient, longing for the fruition of his new idea of happiness,--longing to have that as his own which he certainly loved beyond all else in the world, and which, perhaps, was all he had ever loved with the perfect love of equality. But though impatient, and fully aware of his own impatience, he acknowledged to himself that Alice could not be expected to share it. He could plan nothing now,--could have no pleasure in life that she was not expected to share. But as yet it could not be so with her. She had her house in London, her town society, and her father. And, inasmuch as the change for her would be much greater than it would be for him, it was natural that she should require some small delay. He had not pressed her. At least he had not pressed her with that eager pressure which a girl must resist with something of the opposition of a contest, if she resist it at all. But in truth his impatience was now waxing strong, and during the absence in Switzerland of which we have spoken, he resolved that a marriage very late in the autumn,--that a marriage even in winter, would be better than a marriage postponed till the following year. It was not yet late in August when the party returned from their tour. Would not a further delay of two months suffice for his bride? Alice had written to him occasionally from Switzerland, and her first two letters had been very charming. They had referred almost exclusively to the tour, and had been made pleasant with some slightly coloured account of George Vavasor's idleness, and of Kate's obedience to her brother's behests. Alice had never written much of love in her love-letters, and Grey was well enough contented with her style, though it was not impassioned. As for doubting her love, it was not in the heart of the man to do so after it had been once assured to him by her word. He could not so slightly respect himself or her as to leave room for such a doubt in his bosom. He was a man who could never have suggested to himself that a woman loved him till the fact was there before him; but who having ascertained, as he might think, the fact, could never suggest to himself that her love would fail him. Her first two letters from Switzerland had been very pleasant; but after that there had seemed to have crept over her a melancholy which she unconsciously transferred to her words, and which he could not but taste in them,--at first unconsciously, also, but soon with so plain a flavour that he recognised it, and made it a matter of mental inquiry. During the three or four last days of the journey, while they were at Basle and on their way home, she had not written. But she did write on the day after her arrival, having then received from Mr. Grey a letter, in which he told her how very much she would add to his happiness if she would now agree that their marriage should not be postponed beyond the end of October. This letter she found in her room on her return, and this she answered at once. And she answered it in such words that Mr. Grey resolved that he would at once go to her in London. I will give her letter at length, as I shall then be best able to proceed with my story quickly. Queen Anne Street, -- August, 186--. DEAREST JOHN,-- We reached home yesterday tired enough, as we came through from Paris without stopping. I may indeed say that we came through from Strasbourg, as we only slept in Paris. I don't like Strasbourg. A steeple, after all, is not everything, and putting the steeple aside, I don't think the style is good. But the hotel was uncomfortable, which goes for so much;--and then we were saturated with beauty of a better kind. I got your letter directly I came in last night, and I suppose I had better dash at it at once. I would so willingly delay doing so, saying nice little things the while, did I not know that this would be mere cowardice. Whatever happens I won't be a coward, and therefore I will tell you at once that I cannot let you hope that we should be married this year. Of course you will ask me why, as you have a right to do, and of course I am bound to answer. I do not know that I can give any answer with which you will not have a right to complain. If it be so, I can only ask your pardon for the injury I am doing you. Marriage is a great change in life,--much greater to me than to you, who will remain in your old house, will keep your old pursuits, will still be your own master, and will change in nothing,--except in this, that you will have a companion who probably may not be all that you expect. But I must change everything. It will be to me as though I were passing through a grave to a new world. I shall see nothing that I have been accustomed to see, and must abandon all the ways of life that I have hitherto adopted. Of course I should have thought of this before I accepted you; and I did think of it. I made up my mind that, as I truly loved you, I would risk the change;--that I would risk it for your sake and for mine, hoping that I might add something to your happiness, and that I might secure my own. Dear John, do not suppose that I despair that it may be so; but, indeed, you must not hurry me. I must tune myself to the change that I have to make. What if I should wake some morning after six months living with you, and tell you that the quiet of your home was making me mad? You must not ask me again till the winter shall have passed away. If in the meantime I shall find that I have been wrong, I will humbly confess that I have wronged you, and ask you to forgive me. And I will freely admit this. If the delay which I now purpose is so contrary to your own plans as to make your marriage, under such circumstances, not that which you had expected, I know that you are free to tell me so, and to say that our engagement shall be over. I am well aware that I can have no right to bind you to a marriage at one period which you had only contemplated as to take place at another period. I think I may promise that I will obey any wish you may express in anything,--except in that one thing which you urged in your last letter. Kate is going down to Yarmouth with Mrs. Greenow, and I shall see no more of her probably till next year, as she will be due in Westmoreland after that. George left me at the door when he brought me home, and declared that he intended to vanish out of London. Whether in town or out, he is never to be seen at this period of the year. Papa offers to go to Ramsgate for a fortnight, but he looks so wretched when he makes the offer, that I shall not have the heart to hold him to it. Lady Macleod very much wants me to go to Cheltenham. I very much want not to go, simply because I can never agree with her about anything; but it will probably end in my going there for a week or two. Over and beyond that, I have no prospects before Christmas which are not purely domestic. There is a project that we shall all eat our Christmas dinner at Vavasor Hall,--of course not including George,--but this project is quite in the clouds, and, as far as I am concerned, will remain there. Dear John, let me hear that this letter does not make you unhappy. Most affectionately yours, ALICE VAVASOR. At Nethercoats, the post was brought in at breakfast-time, and Mr. Grey was sitting with his tea and eggs before him, when he read Alice's letter. He read it twice before he began to think what he would do in regard to it, and then referred to one or two others which he had received from Switzerland,--reading them also very carefully. After that, he took up the slouch hat which he had been wearing in the garden before he was called to his breakfast, and, with the letters in his hand, sauntered down among the shrubs and lawns. He knew, he thought he knew, that there was more in Alice's mind than a mere wish for delay. There was more in it than that hesitation to take at once a step which she really desired to take, if not now, then after some short interval. He felt that she was unhappy, and unhappy because she distrusted the results of her marriage; but it never for a moment occurred to him that, therefore, the engagement between them should be broken. In the first place he loved her too well to allow of his admitting such an idea without terrible sorrow to himself. He was a constant, firm man, somewhat reserved, and unwilling to make new acquaintances, and, therefore, specially unwilling to break away from those which he had made. Undoubtedly, had he satisfied himself that Alice's happiness demanded such a sacrifice of himself, he would have made it, and made it without a word of complaint. The blow would not have prostrated him, but the bruise would have remained on his heart, indelible, not to be healed but by death. He would have submitted, and no man would have seen that he had been

generally

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

"I shan't dance, Mrs. Greenow, unless you like to stand up for a set." "No, my friend, no; I shall not do that. I fear you forget how recent has been my bereavement. Your asking me is the bitterest reproach to me for having ventured to join your festive board." "Upon my honour I didn't mean it, Mrs. Greenow. I didn't mean it, indeed." "I do not suspect you. It would have been unmanly." "And nobody can say that of me. There isn't a man or woman in Norfolk that wouldn't say I was manly." "I'm quite sure of that." "I have my faults, I'm aware." "And what are your faults, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well; perhaps I'm extravagant. But it's only in these kind of things you know, when I spend a little money for the sake of making my friends happy. When I'm about, on the lands at home, I ain't extravagant, I can tell you." "Extravagance is a great vice." "Oh, I ain't extravagant in that sense;--not a bit in the world. But when a man's enamoured, and perhaps looking out for a wife, he does like to be a little free, you know." "And are you looking out for a wife, Mr. Cheesacre?" "If I told you I suppose you'd only laugh at me." "No; indeed I would not. I am not given to joking when any one that I regard speaks to me seriously." "Ain't you though? I'm so glad of that. When one has really got a serious thing to say, one doesn't like to have fun poked at one." "And, besides, how could I laugh at marriages, seeing how happy I have been in that condition?--so--very--happy," and Mrs. Greenow put up her handkerchief to her eyes. "So happy that you'll try it again some day; won't you?" "Never, Mr. Cheesacre; never. Is that the way you talk of serious things without joking? Anything like love--love of that sort--is over for me. It lies buried under the sod with my poor dear departed saint." "But, Mrs. Greenow,"--and Cheesacre, as he prepared to argue the question with her, got nearer to her in the corner behind the table,--"But, Mrs. Greenow, care killed a cat, you know." "And sometimes I think that care will kill me." "No, by George; not if I can prevent it." "You're very kind, Mr. Cheesacre; but there's no preventing such care as mine." "Isn't there though? I'll tell you what, Mrs. Greenow; I'm in earnest, I am indeed. If you'll inquire, you'll find there isn't a fellow in Norfolk pays his way better than I do, or is better able to do it. I don't pay a sixpence of rent, and I sit upon seven hundred acres of as good land as there is in the county. There's not an acre that won't do me a bullock and a half. Just put that and that together, and see what it comes to. And, mind you, some of these fellows that farm their own land are worse off than if they'd rent to pay. They've borrowed so much to carry on with, that the interest is more than rent. I don't owe a sixpence to ere a man or ere a company in the world. I can walk into every bank in Norwich without seeing my master. There ain't any of my paper flying about, Mrs. Greenow. I'm Samuel Cheesacre of Oileymead, and it's all my own." Mr. Cheesacre, as he thus spoke of his good fortunes and firm standing in the world, became impetuous in the energy of the moment, and brought down his fist powerfully on the slight table before them. The whole fabric rattled, and the boat resounded, but the noise he had made seemed to assist him. "It's all my own, Mrs. Greenow, and the half of it shall be yours if you'll please to take it;" then he stretched out his hand to her, not as though he intended to grasp hers in a grasp of love, but as if he expected some hand-pledge from her as a token that she accepted the bargain. "If you'd known Greenow, Mr. Cheesacre--" "I've no doubt he was a very good sort of man." "If you'd known him, you would not have addressed me in this way." "What difference would that make? My idea is that care killed a cat, as I said before. I never knew what was the good of being unhappy. If I find early mangels don't do on a bit of land, then I sow late turnips; and never cry after spilt milk. Greenow was the early mangels; I'll be the late turnips. Come then, say the word. There ain't a bedroom in my house,--not one of the front ones,--that isn't mahogany furnished!" "What's furniture to me?" said Mrs. Greenow, with her handkerchief to her eyes. Just at this moment Maria's mother stepped in under the canvas. It was most inopportune. Mr. Cheesacre felt that he was progressing well, and was conscious that he had got safely over those fences in the race which his bashfulness would naturally make difficult to him. He knew that he had done this under the influence of the champagne, and was aware that it might not be easy to procure again a combination of circumstances that would be so beneficial to him. But now he was interrupted just as he was expecting success. He was interrupted, and felt himself to be looking like a guilty creature under the eye of the strange lady. He had not a word to say; but drawing himself suddenly a foot and half away from the widow's side, sat there confessing his guilt in his face. Mrs. Greenow felt no guilt, and was afraid of no strange eyes. "Mr. Cheesacre and I are talking about farming," she said. "Oh; farming!" answered Maria's mother. "Mr. Cheesacre thinks that turnips are better than early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "Yes, I do," said Cheesacre, "I prefer the early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think nature ever intended those late crops. What do you say, Mrs. Walker?" "I daresay Mr. Cheesacre understands what he's about when he's at home," said the lady. "I know what a bit of land can do as well as any man in Norfolk," said the gentleman. "It may be very well in Norfolk," said Mrs. Greenow, rising from her seat; "but the practice isn't thought much of in the other counties with which I am better acquainted." "I'd just come in to say that I thought we might be getting to the boats," said Mrs. Walker. "My Ophelia is so delicate." At this moment the delicate Ophelia was to be seen, under the influence of the music, taking a distant range upon the sands with Joe Fairstairs' arm round her waist. The attitude was justified by the tune that was in progress, and there is no reason why a galop on the sands should have any special termination in distance, as it must have in a room. But, under such circumstances, Mrs. Walker's solicitude was not unreasonable. The erratic steps of the distant dancers were recalled and preparations were made for the return journey. Others had strayed besides the delicate Ophelia and the idle Joe, and some little time was taken up in collecting the party. The boats had to be drawn down, and the boatmen fetched from their cans and tobacco-pipes. "I hope they're sober," said Mrs. Walker, with a look of great dismay. "Sober as judges," said Bellfield, who had himself been looking after the remains of Mr. Cheesacre's hampers, while that gentleman had been so much better engaged in the tent. "Because," continued Mrs. Walker, "I know that they play all manner of tricks when they're--in liquor. They'd think nothing of taking us out to sea, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, I do wish they would," said Ophelia. "Ophelia, mind you come in the boat with me," said her mother, and she looked very savage when she gave the order. It was Mrs. Walker's intention that that boat should not carry Joe Fairstairs. But Joe and her daughter together were too clever for her. When the boats went off she found herself to be in that one over which Mr. Cheesacre presided, while the sinning Ophelia with her good-for-nothing admirer were under the more mirthful protection of Captain Bellfield. "Mamma will be so angry," said Ophelia, "and it was all your fault. I did mean to go into the other boat. Don't, Mr. Fairstairs." Then they got settled down in their seats, to the satisfaction, let us hope, of them both. Mr. Cheesacre had vainly endeavoured to arrange that Mrs. Greenow should return with him. But not only was Captain Bellfield opposed to such a change in their positions, but so also was Mrs. Greenow. "I think we'd better go back as we came," she said, giving her hand to the Captain. "Oh, certainly," said Captain Bellfield. "Why should there be any change? Cheesacre, old fellow, mind you look after Mrs. Walker. Come along, my hearty." It really almost appeared that Captain Bellfield was addressing Mrs. Greenow as "his hearty," but it must be presumed that the term of genial endearment was intended for the whole boat's load. Mrs. Greenow took her place on the comfortable broad bench in the stern, and Bellfield seated himself beside her, with the tiller in his hand. "If you're going to steer, Captain Bellfield, I beg that you'll be careful." "Careful,--and with you on board!" said the Captain. "Don't you know that I would sooner perish beneath the waves than that a drop of water should touch you roughly?" "But you see, we might perish beneath the waves together." "Together! What a sweet word that is;--perish together! If it were not that there might be something better even than that, I would wish to perish in such company." "But I should not wish anything of the kind, Captain Bellfield, and therefore pray be careful." There was no perishing by water on that occasion. Mr. Cheesacre's boat reached the pier at Yarmouth first, and gave up its load without accident. Very shortly afterwards Captain Bellfield's crew reached the same place in the same state of preservation. "There," said he, as he handed out Mrs. Greenow. "I have brought you to no harm, at any rate as yet." "And, as I hope, will not do so hereafter." "May the heavens forbid it, Mrs. Greenow! Whatever may be our lots hereafter,--yours I mean and mine,--I trust that yours may be free from all disaster. Oh, that I might venture to hope that, at some future day, the privilege might be mine of protecting you from all danger!" "I can protect myself very well, I can assure you. Good night, Captain Bellfield. We won't take you and Mr. Cheesacre out of your way;--will we, Kate? We have had a most pleasant day." They were now upon the esplanade, and Mrs. Greenow's house was to the right, whereas the lodgings of both the gentlemen were to the left. Each of them fought hard for the privilege of accompanying the widow to her door; but Mrs. Greenow was self-willed, and upon this occasion would have neither of them. "Mr. Joe Fairstairs must pass the house," said she, "and he will see us home. Mr. Cheesacre, good night. Indeed you shall not;--not a step." There was that in her voice which induced Mr. Cheesacre to obey her, and which made Captain Bellfield aware that he would only injure his cause if he endeavoured to make further progress in it on the present occasion. "Well, Kate, what do you think of the day?" the aunt said when she was alone with her niece. "I never think much about such days, aunt. It was all very well, but I fear I have not the temperament fitted for enjoying the fun. I envied Ophelia Walker because she made herself thoroughly happy." "I do like to see girls enjoy themselves," said Mrs. Greenow, "I do, indeed;--and young men too. It seems so natural; why shouldn't young people flirt?" "Or old people either for the matter of that?" "Or old people either,--if they don't do any harm to anybody. I'll tell you what it is, Kate; people have become so very virtuous, that they're driven into all manner of abominable resources for amusement and occupation. If I had sons and daughters I should think a little flirting the very best thing for them as a safety valve. When people get to be old, there's a difficulty. They want to flirt with the young people and the young people don't want them. If the old people would be content to flirt together, I don't see why they should ever give it up;--till they're obliged to give up every thing, and go away." That was Mrs. Greenow's doctrine on the subject of flirtation. CHAPTER X. Nethercoats. We will leave Mrs. Greenow with her niece and two sisters at Yarmouth, and returning by stages to London, will call upon Mr. Grey at his place in Cambridgeshire as we pass by. I believe it is conceded by all the other counties, that Cambridgeshire possesses fewer rural beauties than any other county in England. It is very flat; it is not well timbered; the rivers are merely dikes; and in a very large portion of the county the farms and fields are divided simply by ditches--not by hedgerows. Such arrangements are, no doubt, well adapted for agricultural purposes, but are not conducive to rural beauty. Mr. Grey's residence was situated in a part of Cambridgeshire in which the above-named characteristics are very much marked. It was in the Isle of Ely, some few miles distant from the Cathedral town, on the side of a long straight road, which ran through the fields for miles without even a bush to cheer it. The name of his place was Nethercoats, and here he lived generally throughout the year, and here he intended to live throughout his life. His father had held a prebendal stall at Ely in times when prebendal stalls were worth more than they are at present, and having also been possessed of a living in the neighbourhood, had amassed a considerable sum of money. With this he had during his life purchased the property of Nethercoats, and had built on it the house in which his son now lived. He had married late in life, and had lost his wife soon after the birth of an only child. The house had been built in his own parish, and his wife had lived there for a few months and had died there. But after that event the old clergyman had gone back to his residence in the Close at Ely, and there John Grey had had the home of his youth. He had been brought up under his father's eye, having been sent to no public school. But he had gone to Cambridge, had taken college honours, and had then, his father dying exactly at this time, declined to accept a fellowship. His father had left to him an income of some fifteen hundred a year, and with this he sat himself down, near to his college friends, near also to the old cathedral which he loved, in the house which his father had built. But though Nethercoats possessed no beauty of scenery, though the country around it was in truth as uninteresting as any country could be, it had many delights of its own. The house itself was as excellent a residence for a country gentleman of small means as taste and skill together could construct. I doubt whether prettier rooms were ever seen than the drawing-room, the library, and the dining-room at Nethercoats. They were all on the ground-floor, and all opened out on to the garden and lawn. The library, which was the largest of the three, was a handsome chamber, and so filled as to make it well known in the University as one of the best private collections in that part of England. But perhaps the gardens of Nethercoats constituted its greatest glory. They were spacious and excellently kept up, and had been originally laid out with that knowledge of gardening without which no garden, merely as a garden, can be effective. And such, of necessity, was the garden of Nethercoats. Fine single forest trees there were none there, nor was it possible that there should have been any such. Nor could there be a clear rippling stream with steep green banks, and broken rocks lying about its bed. Such beauties are beauties of landscape, and do not of their nature belong to a garden. But the shrubs of Nethercoats were of the rarest kind, and had been long enough in their present places to have reached the period of their beauty. Nothing had been spared that a garden could want. The fruit-trees were perfect in their kind, and the glass-houses were so good and so extensive that John Grey in his prudence was some times tempted to think that he had too much of them. It must be understood that there were no grounds, according to the meaning usually given to that word, belonging to the house at Nethercoats. Between the garden and the public road there was a paddock belonging to the house, along the side of which, but divided from it by a hedge and shrubbery, ran the private carriageway up to the house. This swept through the small front flower-garden, dividing it equally; but the lawns and indeed the whole of that which made the beauty of the place lay on the back of the house, on which side opened the windows from the three sitting-rooms. Down on the public road there stood a lodge at which lived one of the gardeners. There was another field of some six or seven acres, to which there was a gate from the corner of the front paddock, and which went round two sides of the garden. This was Nethercoats, and the whole estate covered about twelve acres. It was not a place for much bachelor enjoyment of that sort generally popular with bachelors; nevertheless Mr. Grey had been constant in his residence there for the seven years which had now elapsed since he had left his college. His easy access to Cambridge had probably done much to mitigate what might otherwise have been the too great tedium of his life; and he had, prompted thereto by early associations, found most of his society in the Close of Ely Cathedral. But, with all the delight he could derive from these two sources, there had still been many solitary hours in his life, and he had gradually learned to feel that he of all men wanted a companion in his home. His visits to London had generally been short and far between, occasioned probably by some need in the library, or by the necessity of some slight literary transaction with the editor or publisher of a periodical. In one of these visits he had met Alice Vavasor, and had remained in Town,--I will not say till Alice had promised to share his home in Cambridgeshire, but so long that he had resolved before he went that he would ask her to do so. He had asked her, and we know that he had been successful. He had obtained her promise, and from that moment all his life had been changed for him. Hitherto at Nethercoats his little smoking-room, his books, and his plants had been everything to him. Now he began to surround himself with an infinity of feminine belongings, and to promise himself an infinity of feminine blessings, wondering much that he should have been content to pass so long a portion of his life in the dull seclusion which he had endured. He was not by nature an impatient man; but now he became impatient, longing for the fruition of his new idea of happiness,--longing to have that as his own which he certainly loved beyond all else in the world, and which, perhaps, was all he had ever loved with the perfect love of equality. But though impatient, and fully aware of his own impatience, he acknowledged to himself that Alice could not be expected to share it. He could plan nothing now,--could have no pleasure in life that she was not expected to share. But as yet it could not be so with her. She had her house in London, her town society, and her father. And, inasmuch as the change for her would be much greater than it would be for him, it was natural that she should require some small delay. He had not pressed her. At least he had not pressed her with that eager pressure which a girl must resist with something of the opposition of a contest, if she resist it at all. But in truth his impatience was now waxing strong, and during the absence in Switzerland of which we have spoken, he resolved that a marriage very late in the autumn,--that a marriage even in winter, would be better than a marriage postponed till the following year. It was not yet late in August when the party returned from their tour. Would not a further delay of two months suffice for his bride? Alice had written to him occasionally from Switzerland, and her first two letters had been very charming. They had referred almost exclusively to the tour, and had been made pleasant with some slightly coloured account of George Vavasor's idleness, and of Kate's obedience to her brother's behests. Alice had never written much of love in her love-letters, and Grey was well enough contented with her style, though it was not impassioned. As for doubting her love, it was not in the heart of the man to do so after it had been once assured to him by her word. He could not so slightly respect himself or her as to leave room for such a doubt in his bosom. He was a man who could never have suggested to himself that a woman loved him till the fact was there before him; but who having ascertained, as he might think, the fact, could never suggest to himself that her love would fail him. Her first two letters from Switzerland had been very pleasant; but after that there had seemed to have crept over her a melancholy which she unconsciously transferred to her words, and which he could not but taste in them,--at first unconsciously, also, but soon with so plain a flavour that he recognised it, and made it a matter of mental inquiry. During the three or four last days of the journey, while they were at Basle and on their way home, she had not written. But she did write on the day after her arrival, having then received from Mr. Grey a letter, in which he told her how very much she would add to his happiness if she would now agree that their marriage should not be postponed beyond the end of October. This letter she found in her room on her return, and this she answered at once. And she answered it in such words that Mr. Grey resolved that he would at once go to her in London. I will give her letter at length, as I shall then be best able to proceed with my story quickly. Queen Anne Street, -- August, 186--. DEAREST JOHN,-- We reached home yesterday tired enough, as we came through from Paris without stopping. I may indeed say that we came through from Strasbourg, as we only slept in Paris. I don't like Strasbourg. A steeple, after all, is not everything, and putting the steeple aside, I don't think the style is good. But the hotel was uncomfortable, which goes for so much;--and then we were saturated with beauty of a better kind. I got your letter directly I came in last night, and I suppose I had better dash at it at once. I would so willingly delay doing so, saying nice little things the while, did I not know that this would be mere cowardice. Whatever happens I won't be a coward, and therefore I will tell you at once that I cannot let you hope that we should be married this year. Of course you will ask me why, as you have a right to do, and of course I am bound to answer. I do not know that I can give any answer with which you will not have a right to complain. If it be so, I can only ask your pardon for the injury I am doing you. Marriage is a great change in life,--much greater to me than to you, who will remain in your old house, will keep your old pursuits, will still be your own master, and will change in nothing,--except in this, that you will have a companion who probably may not be all that you expect. But I must change everything. It will be to me as though I were passing through a grave to a new world. I shall see nothing that I have been accustomed to see, and must abandon all the ways of life that I have hitherto adopted. Of course I should have thought of this before I accepted you; and I did think of it. I made up my mind that, as I truly loved you, I would risk the change;--that I would risk it for your sake and for mine, hoping that I might add something to your happiness, and that I might secure my own. Dear John, do not suppose that I despair that it may be so; but, indeed, you must not hurry me. I must tune myself to the change that I have to make. What if I should wake some morning after six months living with you, and tell you that the quiet of your home was making me mad? You must not ask me again till the winter shall have passed away. If in the meantime I shall find that I have been wrong, I will humbly confess that I have wronged you, and ask you to forgive me. And I will freely admit this. If the delay which I now purpose is so contrary to your own plans as to make your marriage, under such circumstances, not that which you had expected, I know that you are free to tell me so, and to say that our engagement shall be over. I am well aware that I can have no right to bind you to a marriage at one period which you had only contemplated as to take place at another period. I think I may promise that I will obey any wish you may express in anything,--except in that one thing which you urged in your last letter. Kate is going down to Yarmouth with Mrs. Greenow, and I shall see no more of her probably till next year, as she will be due in Westmoreland after that. George left me at the door when he brought me home, and declared that he intended to vanish out of London. Whether in town or out, he is never to be seen at this period of the year. Papa offers to go to Ramsgate for a fortnight, but he looks so wretched when he makes the offer, that I shall not have the heart to hold him to it. Lady Macleod very much wants me to go to Cheltenham. I very much want not to go, simply because I can never agree with her about anything; but it will probably end in my going there for a week or two. Over and beyond that, I have no prospects before Christmas which are not purely domestic. There is a project that we shall all eat our Christmas dinner at Vavasor Hall,--of course not including George,--but this project is quite in the clouds, and, as far as I am concerned, will remain there. Dear John, let me hear that this letter does not make you unhappy. Most affectionately yours, ALICE VAVASOR. At Nethercoats, the post was brought in at breakfast-time, and Mr. Grey was sitting with his tea and eggs before him, when he read Alice's letter. He read it twice before he began to think what he would do in regard to it, and then referred to one or two others which he had received from Switzerland,--reading them also very carefully. After that, he took up the slouch hat which he had been wearing in the garden before he was called to his breakfast, and, with the letters in his hand, sauntered down among the shrubs and lawns. He knew, he thought he knew, that there was more in Alice's mind than a mere wish for delay. There was more in it than that hesitation to take at once a step which she really desired to take, if not now, then after some short interval. He felt that she was unhappy, and unhappy because she distrusted the results of her marriage; but it never for a moment occurred to him that, therefore, the engagement between them should be broken. In the first place he loved her too well to allow of his admitting such an idea without terrible sorrow to himself. He was a constant, firm man, somewhat reserved, and unwilling to make new acquaintances, and, therefore, specially unwilling to break away from those which he had made. Undoubtedly, had he satisfied himself that Alice's happiness demanded such a sacrifice of himself, he would have made it, and made it without a word of complaint. The blow would not have prostrated him, but the bruise would have remained on his heart, indelible, not to be healed but by death. He would have submitted, and no man would have seen that he had been

fineness

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

"I shan't dance, Mrs. Greenow, unless you like to stand up for a set." "No, my friend, no; I shall not do that. I fear you forget how recent has been my bereavement. Your asking me is the bitterest reproach to me for having ventured to join your festive board." "Upon my honour I didn't mean it, Mrs. Greenow. I didn't mean it, indeed." "I do not suspect you. It would have been unmanly." "And nobody can say that of me. There isn't a man or woman in Norfolk that wouldn't say I was manly." "I'm quite sure of that." "I have my faults, I'm aware." "And what are your faults, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well; perhaps I'm extravagant. But it's only in these kind of things you know, when I spend a little money for the sake of making my friends happy. When I'm about, on the lands at home, I ain't extravagant, I can tell you." "Extravagance is a great vice." "Oh, I ain't extravagant in that sense;--not a bit in the world. But when a man's enamoured, and perhaps looking out for a wife, he does like to be a little free, you know." "And are you looking out for a wife, Mr. Cheesacre?" "If I told you I suppose you'd only laugh at me." "No; indeed I would not. I am not given to joking when any one that I regard speaks to me seriously." "Ain't you though? I'm so glad of that. When one has really got a serious thing to say, one doesn't like to have fun poked at one." "And, besides, how could I laugh at marriages, seeing how happy I have been in that condition?--so--very--happy," and Mrs. Greenow put up her handkerchief to her eyes. "So happy that you'll try it again some day; won't you?" "Never, Mr. Cheesacre; never. Is that the way you talk of serious things without joking? Anything like love--love of that sort--is over for me. It lies buried under the sod with my poor dear departed saint." "But, Mrs. Greenow,"--and Cheesacre, as he prepared to argue the question with her, got nearer to her in the corner behind the table,--"But, Mrs. Greenow, care killed a cat, you know." "And sometimes I think that care will kill me." "No, by George; not if I can prevent it." "You're very kind, Mr. Cheesacre; but there's no preventing such care as mine." "Isn't there though? I'll tell you what, Mrs. Greenow; I'm in earnest, I am indeed. If you'll inquire, you'll find there isn't a fellow in Norfolk pays his way better than I do, or is better able to do it. I don't pay a sixpence of rent, and I sit upon seven hundred acres of as good land as there is in the county. There's not an acre that won't do me a bullock and a half. Just put that and that together, and see what it comes to. And, mind you, some of these fellows that farm their own land are worse off than if they'd rent to pay. They've borrowed so much to carry on with, that the interest is more than rent. I don't owe a sixpence to ere a man or ere a company in the world. I can walk into every bank in Norwich without seeing my master. There ain't any of my paper flying about, Mrs. Greenow. I'm Samuel Cheesacre of Oileymead, and it's all my own." Mr. Cheesacre, as he thus spoke of his good fortunes and firm standing in the world, became impetuous in the energy of the moment, and brought down his fist powerfully on the slight table before them. The whole fabric rattled, and the boat resounded, but the noise he had made seemed to assist him. "It's all my own, Mrs. Greenow, and the half of it shall be yours if you'll please to take it;" then he stretched out his hand to her, not as though he intended to grasp hers in a grasp of love, but as if he expected some hand-pledge from her as a token that she accepted the bargain. "If you'd known Greenow, Mr. Cheesacre--" "I've no doubt he was a very good sort of man." "If you'd known him, you would not have addressed me in this way." "What difference would that make? My idea is that care killed a cat, as I said before. I never knew what was the good of being unhappy. If I find early mangels don't do on a bit of land, then I sow late turnips; and never cry after spilt milk. Greenow was the early mangels; I'll be the late turnips. Come then, say the word. There ain't a bedroom in my house,--not one of the front ones,--that isn't mahogany furnished!" "What's furniture to me?" said Mrs. Greenow, with her handkerchief to her eyes. Just at this moment Maria's mother stepped in under the canvas. It was most inopportune. Mr. Cheesacre felt that he was progressing well, and was conscious that he had got safely over those fences in the race which his bashfulness would naturally make difficult to him. He knew that he had done this under the influence of the champagne, and was aware that it might not be easy to procure again a combination of circumstances that would be so beneficial to him. But now he was interrupted just as he was expecting success. He was interrupted, and felt himself to be looking like a guilty creature under the eye of the strange lady. He had not a word to say; but drawing himself suddenly a foot and half away from the widow's side, sat there confessing his guilt in his face. Mrs. Greenow felt no guilt, and was afraid of no strange eyes. "Mr. Cheesacre and I are talking about farming," she said. "Oh; farming!" answered Maria's mother. "Mr. Cheesacre thinks that turnips are better than early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "Yes, I do," said Cheesacre, "I prefer the early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think nature ever intended those late crops. What do you say, Mrs. Walker?" "I daresay Mr. Cheesacre understands what he's about when he's at home," said the lady. "I know what a bit of land can do as well as any man in Norfolk," said the gentleman. "It may be very well in Norfolk," said Mrs. Greenow, rising from her seat; "but the practice isn't thought much of in the other counties with which I am better acquainted." "I'd just come in to say that I thought we might be getting to the boats," said Mrs. Walker. "My Ophelia is so delicate." At this moment the delicate Ophelia was to be seen, under the influence of the music, taking a distant range upon the sands with Joe Fairstairs' arm round her waist. The attitude was justified by the tune that was in progress, and there is no reason why a galop on the sands should have any special termination in distance, as it must have in a room. But, under such circumstances, Mrs. Walker's solicitude was not unreasonable. The erratic steps of the distant dancers were recalled and preparations were made for the return journey. Others had strayed besides the delicate Ophelia and the idle Joe, and some little time was taken up in collecting the party. The boats had to be drawn down, and the boatmen fetched from their cans and tobacco-pipes. "I hope they're sober," said Mrs. Walker, with a look of great dismay. "Sober as judges," said Bellfield, who had himself been looking after the remains of Mr. Cheesacre's hampers, while that gentleman had been so much better engaged in the tent. "Because," continued Mrs. Walker, "I know that they play all manner of tricks when they're--in liquor. They'd think nothing of taking us out to sea, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, I do wish they would," said Ophelia. "Ophelia, mind you come in the boat with me," said her mother, and she looked very savage when she gave the order. It was Mrs. Walker's intention that that boat should not carry Joe Fairstairs. But Joe and her daughter together were too clever for her. When the boats went off she found herself to be in that one over which Mr. Cheesacre presided, while the sinning Ophelia with her good-for-nothing admirer were under the more mirthful protection of Captain Bellfield. "Mamma will be so angry," said Ophelia, "and it was all your fault. I did mean to go into the other boat. Don't, Mr. Fairstairs." Then they got settled down in their seats, to the satisfaction, let us hope, of them both. Mr. Cheesacre had vainly endeavoured to arrange that Mrs. Greenow should return with him. But not only was Captain Bellfield opposed to such a change in their positions, but so also was Mrs. Greenow. "I think we'd better go back as we came," she said, giving her hand to the Captain. "Oh, certainly," said Captain Bellfield. "Why should there be any change? Cheesacre, old fellow, mind you look after Mrs. Walker. Come along, my hearty." It really almost appeared that Captain Bellfield was addressing Mrs. Greenow as "his hearty," but it must be presumed that the term of genial endearment was intended for the whole boat's load. Mrs. Greenow took her place on the comfortable broad bench in the stern, and Bellfield seated himself beside her, with the tiller in his hand. "If you're going to steer, Captain Bellfield, I beg that you'll be careful." "Careful,--and with you on board!" said the Captain. "Don't you know that I would sooner perish beneath the waves than that a drop of water should touch you roughly?" "But you see, we might perish beneath the waves together." "Together! What a sweet word that is;--perish together! If it were not that there might be something better even than that, I would wish to perish in such company." "But I should not wish anything of the kind, Captain Bellfield, and therefore pray be careful." There was no perishing by water on that occasion. Mr. Cheesacre's boat reached the pier at Yarmouth first, and gave up its load without accident. Very shortly afterwards Captain Bellfield's crew reached the same place in the same state of preservation. "There," said he, as he handed out Mrs. Greenow. "I have brought you to no harm, at any rate as yet." "And, as I hope, will not do so hereafter." "May the heavens forbid it, Mrs. Greenow! Whatever may be our lots hereafter,--yours I mean and mine,--I trust that yours may be free from all disaster. Oh, that I might venture to hope that, at some future day, the privilege might be mine of protecting you from all danger!" "I can protect myself very well, I can assure you. Good night, Captain Bellfield. We won't take you and Mr. Cheesacre out of your way;--will we, Kate? We have had a most pleasant day." They were now upon the esplanade, and Mrs. Greenow's house was to the right, whereas the lodgings of both the gentlemen were to the left. Each of them fought hard for the privilege of accompanying the widow to her door; but Mrs. Greenow was self-willed, and upon this occasion would have neither of them. "Mr. Joe Fairstairs must pass the house," said she, "and he will see us home. Mr. Cheesacre, good night. Indeed you shall not;--not a step." There was that in her voice which induced Mr. Cheesacre to obey her, and which made Captain Bellfield aware that he would only injure his cause if he endeavoured to make further progress in it on the present occasion. "Well, Kate, what do you think of the day?" the aunt said when she was alone with her niece. "I never think much about such days, aunt. It was all very well, but I fear I have not the temperament fitted for enjoying the fun. I envied Ophelia Walker because she made herself thoroughly happy." "I do like to see girls enjoy themselves," said Mrs. Greenow, "I do, indeed;--and young men too. It seems so natural; why shouldn't young people flirt?" "Or old people either for the matter of that?" "Or old people either,--if they don't do any harm to anybody. I'll tell you what it is, Kate; people have become so very virtuous, that they're driven into all manner of abominable resources for amusement and occupation. If I had sons and daughters I should think a little flirting the very best thing for them as a safety valve. When people get to be old, there's a difficulty. They want to flirt with the young people and the young people don't want them. If the old people would be content to flirt together, I don't see why they should ever give it up;--till they're obliged to give up every thing, and go away." That was Mrs. Greenow's doctrine on the subject of flirtation. CHAPTER X. Nethercoats. We will leave Mrs. Greenow with her niece and two sisters at Yarmouth, and returning by stages to London, will call upon Mr. Grey at his place in Cambridgeshire as we pass by. I believe it is conceded by all the other counties, that Cambridgeshire possesses fewer rural beauties than any other county in England. It is very flat; it is not well timbered; the rivers are merely dikes; and in a very large portion of the county the farms and fields are divided simply by ditches--not by hedgerows. Such arrangements are, no doubt, well adapted for agricultural purposes, but are not conducive to rural beauty. Mr. Grey's residence was situated in a part of Cambridgeshire in which the above-named characteristics are very much marked. It was in the Isle of Ely, some few miles distant from the Cathedral town, on the side of a long straight road, which ran through the fields for miles without even a bush to cheer it. The name of his place was Nethercoats, and here he lived generally throughout the year, and here he intended to live throughout his life. His father had held a prebendal stall at Ely in times when prebendal stalls were worth more than they are at present, and having also been possessed of a living in the neighbourhood, had amassed a considerable sum of money. With this he had during his life purchased the property of Nethercoats, and had built on it the house in which his son now lived. He had married late in life, and had lost his wife soon after the birth of an only child. The house had been built in his own parish, and his wife had lived there for a few months and had died there. But after that event the old clergyman had gone back to his residence in the Close at Ely, and there John Grey had had the home of his youth. He had been brought up under his father's eye, having been sent to no public school. But he had gone to Cambridge, had taken college honours, and had then, his father dying exactly at this time, declined to accept a fellowship. His father had left to him an income of some fifteen hundred a year, and with this he sat himself down, near to his college friends, near also to the old cathedral which he loved, in the house which his father had built. But though Nethercoats possessed no beauty of scenery, though the country around it was in truth as uninteresting as any country could be, it had many delights of its own. The house itself was as excellent a residence for a country gentleman of small means as taste and skill together could construct. I doubt whether prettier rooms were ever seen than the drawing-room, the library, and the dining-room at Nethercoats. They were all on the ground-floor, and all opened out on to the garden and lawn. The library, which was the largest of the three, was a handsome chamber, and so filled as to make it well known in the University as one of the best private collections in that part of England. But perhaps the gardens of Nethercoats constituted its greatest glory. They were spacious and excellently kept up, and had been originally laid out with that knowledge of gardening without which no garden, merely as a garden, can be effective. And such, of necessity, was the garden of Nethercoats. Fine single forest trees there were none there, nor was it possible that there should have been any such. Nor could there be a clear rippling stream with steep green banks, and broken rocks lying about its bed. Such beauties are beauties of landscape, and do not of their nature belong to a garden. But the shrubs of Nethercoats were of the rarest kind, and had been long enough in their present places to have reached the period of their beauty. Nothing had been spared that a garden could want. The fruit-trees were perfect in their kind, and the glass-houses were so good and so extensive that John Grey in his prudence was some times tempted to think that he had too much of them. It must be understood that there were no grounds, according to the meaning usually given to that word, belonging to the house at Nethercoats. Between the garden and the public road there was a paddock belonging to the house, along the side of which, but divided from it by a hedge and shrubbery, ran the private carriageway up to the house. This swept through the small front flower-garden, dividing it equally; but the lawns and indeed the whole of that which made the beauty of the place lay on the back of the house, on which side opened the windows from the three sitting-rooms. Down on the public road there stood a lodge at which lived one of the gardeners. There was another field of some six or seven acres, to which there was a gate from the corner of the front paddock, and which went round two sides of the garden. This was Nethercoats, and the whole estate covered about twelve acres. It was not a place for much bachelor enjoyment of that sort generally popular with bachelors; nevertheless Mr. Grey had been constant in his residence there for the seven years which had now elapsed since he had left his college. His easy access to Cambridge had probably done much to mitigate what might otherwise have been the too great tedium of his life; and he had, prompted thereto by early associations, found most of his society in the Close of Ely Cathedral. But, with all the delight he could derive from these two sources, there had still been many solitary hours in his life, and he had gradually learned to feel that he of all men wanted a companion in his home. His visits to London had generally been short and far between, occasioned probably by some need in the library, or by the necessity of some slight literary transaction with the editor or publisher of a periodical. In one of these visits he had met Alice Vavasor, and had remained in Town,--I will not say till Alice had promised to share his home in Cambridgeshire, but so long that he had resolved before he went that he would ask her to do so. He had asked her, and we know that he had been successful. He had obtained her promise, and from that moment all his life had been changed for him. Hitherto at Nethercoats his little smoking-room, his books, and his plants had been everything to him. Now he began to surround himself with an infinity of feminine belongings, and to promise himself an infinity of feminine blessings, wondering much that he should have been content to pass so long a portion of his life in the dull seclusion which he had endured. He was not by nature an impatient man; but now he became impatient, longing for the fruition of his new idea of happiness,--longing to have that as his own which he certainly loved beyond all else in the world, and which, perhaps, was all he had ever loved with the perfect love of equality. But though impatient, and fully aware of his own impatience, he acknowledged to himself that Alice could not be expected to share it. He could plan nothing now,--could have no pleasure in life that she was not expected to share. But as yet it could not be so with her. She had her house in London, her town society, and her father. And, inasmuch as the change for her would be much greater than it would be for him, it was natural that she should require some small delay. He had not pressed her. At least he had not pressed her with that eager pressure which a girl must resist with something of the opposition of a contest, if she resist it at all. But in truth his impatience was now waxing strong, and during the absence in Switzerland of which we have spoken, he resolved that a marriage very late in the autumn,--that a marriage even in winter, would be better than a marriage postponed till the following year. It was not yet late in August when the party returned from their tour. Would not a further delay of two months suffice for his bride? Alice had written to him occasionally from Switzerland, and her first two letters had been very charming. They had referred almost exclusively to the tour, and had been made pleasant with some slightly coloured account of George Vavasor's idleness, and of Kate's obedience to her brother's behests. Alice had never written much of love in her love-letters, and Grey was well enough contented with her style, though it was not impassioned. As for doubting her love, it was not in the heart of the man to do so after it had been once assured to him by her word. He could not so slightly respect himself or her as to leave room for such a doubt in his bosom. He was a man who could never have suggested to himself that a woman loved him till the fact was there before him; but who having ascertained, as he might think, the fact, could never suggest to himself that her love would fail him. Her first two letters from Switzerland had been very pleasant; but after that there had seemed to have crept over her a melancholy which she unconsciously transferred to her words, and which he could not but taste in them,--at first unconsciously, also, but soon with so plain a flavour that he recognised it, and made it a matter of mental inquiry. During the three or four last days of the journey, while they were at Basle and on their way home, she had not written. But she did write on the day after her arrival, having then received from Mr. Grey a letter, in which he told her how very much she would add to his happiness if she would now agree that their marriage should not be postponed beyond the end of October. This letter she found in her room on her return, and this she answered at once. And she answered it in such words that Mr. Grey resolved that he would at once go to her in London. I will give her letter at length, as I shall then be best able to proceed with my story quickly. Queen Anne Street, -- August, 186--. DEAREST JOHN,-- We reached home yesterday tired enough, as we came through from Paris without stopping. I may indeed say that we came through from Strasbourg, as we only slept in Paris. I don't like Strasbourg. A steeple, after all, is not everything, and putting the steeple aside, I don't think the style is good. But the hotel was uncomfortable, which goes for so much;--and then we were saturated with beauty of a better kind. I got your letter directly I came in last night, and I suppose I had better dash at it at once. I would so willingly delay doing so, saying nice little things the while, did I not know that this would be mere cowardice. Whatever happens I won't be a coward, and therefore I will tell you at once that I cannot let you hope that we should be married this year. Of course you will ask me why, as you have a right to do, and of course I am bound to answer. I do not know that I can give any answer with which you will not have a right to complain. If it be so, I can only ask your pardon for the injury I am doing you. Marriage is a great change in life,--much greater to me than to you, who will remain in your old house, will keep your old pursuits, will still be your own master, and will change in nothing,--except in this, that you will have a companion who probably may not be all that you expect. But I must change everything. It will be to me as though I were passing through a grave to a new world. I shall see nothing that I have been accustomed to see, and must abandon all the ways of life that I have hitherto adopted. Of course I should have thought of this before I accepted you; and I did think of it. I made up my mind that, as I truly loved you, I would risk the change;--that I would risk it for your sake and for mine, hoping that I might add something to your happiness, and that I might secure my own. Dear John, do not suppose that I despair that it may be so; but, indeed, you must not hurry me. I must tune myself to the change that I have to make. What if I should wake some morning after six months living with you, and tell you that the quiet of your home was making me mad? You must not ask me again till the winter shall have passed away. If in the meantime I shall find that I have been wrong, I will humbly confess that I have wronged you, and ask you to forgive me. And I will freely admit this. If the delay which I now purpose is so contrary to your own plans as to make your marriage, under such circumstances, not that which you had expected, I know that you are free to tell me so, and to say that our engagement shall be over. I am well aware that I can have no right to bind you to a marriage at one period which you had only contemplated as to take place at another period. I think I may promise that I will obey any wish you may express in anything,--except in that one thing which you urged in your last letter. Kate is going down to Yarmouth with Mrs. Greenow, and I shall see no more of her probably till next year, as she will be due in Westmoreland after that. George left me at the door when he brought me home, and declared that he intended to vanish out of London. Whether in town or out, he is never to be seen at this period of the year. Papa offers to go to Ramsgate for a fortnight, but he looks so wretched when he makes the offer, that I shall not have the heart to hold him to it. Lady Macleod very much wants me to go to Cheltenham. I very much want not to go, simply because I can never agree with her about anything; but it will probably end in my going there for a week or two. Over and beyond that, I have no prospects before Christmas which are not purely domestic. There is a project that we shall all eat our Christmas dinner at Vavasor Hall,--of course not including George,--but this project is quite in the clouds, and, as far as I am concerned, will remain there. Dear John, let me hear that this letter does not make you unhappy. Most affectionately yours, ALICE VAVASOR. At Nethercoats, the post was brought in at breakfast-time, and Mr. Grey was sitting with his tea and eggs before him, when he read Alice's letter. He read it twice before he began to think what he would do in regard to it, and then referred to one or two others which he had received from Switzerland,--reading them also very carefully. After that, he took up the slouch hat which he had been wearing in the garden before he was called to his breakfast, and, with the letters in his hand, sauntered down among the shrubs and lawns. He knew, he thought he knew, that there was more in Alice's mind than a mere wish for delay. There was more in it than that hesitation to take at once a step which she really desired to take, if not now, then after some short interval. He felt that she was unhappy, and unhappy because she distrusted the results of her marriage; but it never for a moment occurred to him that, therefore, the engagement between them should be broken. In the first place he loved her too well to allow of his admitting such an idea without terrible sorrow to himself. He was a constant, firm man, somewhat reserved, and unwilling to make new acquaintances, and, therefore, specially unwilling to break away from those which he had made. Undoubtedly, had he satisfied himself that Alice's happiness demanded such a sacrifice of himself, he would have made it, and made it without a word of complaint. The blow would not have prostrated him, but the bruise would have remained on his heart, indelible, not to be healed but by death. He would have submitted, and no man would have seen that he had been

satisfactory

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

"I shan't dance, Mrs. Greenow, unless you like to stand up for a set." "No, my friend, no; I shall not do that. I fear you forget how recent has been my bereavement. Your asking me is the bitterest reproach to me for having ventured to join your festive board." "Upon my honour I didn't mean it, Mrs. Greenow. I didn't mean it, indeed." "I do not suspect you. It would have been unmanly." "And nobody can say that of me. There isn't a man or woman in Norfolk that wouldn't say I was manly." "I'm quite sure of that." "I have my faults, I'm aware." "And what are your faults, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well; perhaps I'm extravagant. But it's only in these kind of things you know, when I spend a little money for the sake of making my friends happy. When I'm about, on the lands at home, I ain't extravagant, I can tell you." "Extravagance is a great vice." "Oh, I ain't extravagant in that sense;--not a bit in the world. But when a man's enamoured, and perhaps looking out for a wife, he does like to be a little free, you know." "And are you looking out for a wife, Mr. Cheesacre?" "If I told you I suppose you'd only laugh at me." "No; indeed I would not. I am not given to joking when any one that I regard speaks to me seriously." "Ain't you though? I'm so glad of that. When one has really got a serious thing to say, one doesn't like to have fun poked at one." "And, besides, how could I laugh at marriages, seeing how happy I have been in that condition?--so--very--happy," and Mrs. Greenow put up her handkerchief to her eyes. "So happy that you'll try it again some day; won't you?" "Never, Mr. Cheesacre; never. Is that the way you talk of serious things without joking? Anything like love--love of that sort--is over for me. It lies buried under the sod with my poor dear departed saint." "But, Mrs. Greenow,"--and Cheesacre, as he prepared to argue the question with her, got nearer to her in the corner behind the table,--"But, Mrs. Greenow, care killed a cat, you know." "And sometimes I think that care will kill me." "No, by George; not if I can prevent it." "You're very kind, Mr. Cheesacre; but there's no preventing such care as mine." "Isn't there though? I'll tell you what, Mrs. Greenow; I'm in earnest, I am indeed. If you'll inquire, you'll find there isn't a fellow in Norfolk pays his way better than I do, or is better able to do it. I don't pay a sixpence of rent, and I sit upon seven hundred acres of as good land as there is in the county. There's not an acre that won't do me a bullock and a half. Just put that and that together, and see what it comes to. And, mind you, some of these fellows that farm their own land are worse off than if they'd rent to pay. They've borrowed so much to carry on with, that the interest is more than rent. I don't owe a sixpence to ere a man or ere a company in the world. I can walk into every bank in Norwich without seeing my master. There ain't any of my paper flying about, Mrs. Greenow. I'm Samuel Cheesacre of Oileymead, and it's all my own." Mr. Cheesacre, as he thus spoke of his good fortunes and firm standing in the world, became impetuous in the energy of the moment, and brought down his fist powerfully on the slight table before them. The whole fabric rattled, and the boat resounded, but the noise he had made seemed to assist him. "It's all my own, Mrs. Greenow, and the half of it shall be yours if you'll please to take it;" then he stretched out his hand to her, not as though he intended to grasp hers in a grasp of love, but as if he expected some hand-pledge from her as a token that she accepted the bargain. "If you'd known Greenow, Mr. Cheesacre--" "I've no doubt he was a very good sort of man." "If you'd known him, you would not have addressed me in this way." "What difference would that make? My idea is that care killed a cat, as I said before. I never knew what was the good of being unhappy. If I find early mangels don't do on a bit of land, then I sow late turnips; and never cry after spilt milk. Greenow was the early mangels; I'll be the late turnips. Come then, say the word. There ain't a bedroom in my house,--not one of the front ones,--that isn't mahogany furnished!" "What's furniture to me?" said Mrs. Greenow, with her handkerchief to her eyes. Just at this moment Maria's mother stepped in under the canvas. It was most inopportune. Mr. Cheesacre felt that he was progressing well, and was conscious that he had got safely over those fences in the race which his bashfulness would naturally make difficult to him. He knew that he had done this under the influence of the champagne, and was aware that it might not be easy to procure again a combination of circumstances that would be so beneficial to him. But now he was interrupted just as he was expecting success. He was interrupted, and felt himself to be looking like a guilty creature under the eye of the strange lady. He had not a word to say; but drawing himself suddenly a foot and half away from the widow's side, sat there confessing his guilt in his face. Mrs. Greenow felt no guilt, and was afraid of no strange eyes. "Mr. Cheesacre and I are talking about farming," she said. "Oh; farming!" answered Maria's mother. "Mr. Cheesacre thinks that turnips are better than early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "Yes, I do," said Cheesacre, "I prefer the early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think nature ever intended those late crops. What do you say, Mrs. Walker?" "I daresay Mr. Cheesacre understands what he's about when he's at home," said the lady. "I know what a bit of land can do as well as any man in Norfolk," said the gentleman. "It may be very well in Norfolk," said Mrs. Greenow, rising from her seat; "but the practice isn't thought much of in the other counties with which I am better acquainted." "I'd just come in to say that I thought we might be getting to the boats," said Mrs. Walker. "My Ophelia is so delicate." At this moment the delicate Ophelia was to be seen, under the influence of the music, taking a distant range upon the sands with Joe Fairstairs' arm round her waist. The attitude was justified by the tune that was in progress, and there is no reason why a galop on the sands should have any special termination in distance, as it must have in a room. But, under such circumstances, Mrs. Walker's solicitude was not unreasonable. The erratic steps of the distant dancers were recalled and preparations were made for the return journey. Others had strayed besides the delicate Ophelia and the idle Joe, and some little time was taken up in collecting the party. The boats had to be drawn down, and the boatmen fetched from their cans and tobacco-pipes. "I hope they're sober," said Mrs. Walker, with a look of great dismay. "Sober as judges," said Bellfield, who had himself been looking after the remains of Mr. Cheesacre's hampers, while that gentleman had been so much better engaged in the tent. "Because," continued Mrs. Walker, "I know that they play all manner of tricks when they're--in liquor. They'd think nothing of taking us out to sea, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, I do wish they would," said Ophelia. "Ophelia, mind you come in the boat with me," said her mother, and she looked very savage when she gave the order. It was Mrs. Walker's intention that that boat should not carry Joe Fairstairs. But Joe and her daughter together were too clever for her. When the boats went off she found herself to be in that one over which Mr. Cheesacre presided, while the sinning Ophelia with her good-for-nothing admirer were under the more mirthful protection of Captain Bellfield. "Mamma will be so angry," said Ophelia, "and it was all your fault. I did mean to go into the other boat. Don't, Mr. Fairstairs." Then they got settled down in their seats, to the satisfaction, let us hope, of them both. Mr. Cheesacre had vainly endeavoured to arrange that Mrs. Greenow should return with him. But not only was Captain Bellfield opposed to such a change in their positions, but so also was Mrs. Greenow. "I think we'd better go back as we came," she said, giving her hand to the Captain. "Oh, certainly," said Captain Bellfield. "Why should there be any change? Cheesacre, old fellow, mind you look after Mrs. Walker. Come along, my hearty." It really almost appeared that Captain Bellfield was addressing Mrs. Greenow as "his hearty," but it must be presumed that the term of genial endearment was intended for the whole boat's load. Mrs. Greenow took her place on the comfortable broad bench in the stern, and Bellfield seated himself beside her, with the tiller in his hand. "If you're going to steer, Captain Bellfield, I beg that you'll be careful." "Careful,--and with you on board!" said the Captain. "Don't you know that I would sooner perish beneath the waves than that a drop of water should touch you roughly?" "But you see, we might perish beneath the waves together." "Together! What a sweet word that is;--perish together! If it were not that there might be something better even than that, I would wish to perish in such company." "But I should not wish anything of the kind, Captain Bellfield, and therefore pray be careful." There was no perishing by water on that occasion. Mr. Cheesacre's boat reached the pier at Yarmouth first, and gave up its load without accident. Very shortly afterwards Captain Bellfield's crew reached the same place in the same state of preservation. "There," said he, as he handed out Mrs. Greenow. "I have brought you to no harm, at any rate as yet." "And, as I hope, will not do so hereafter." "May the heavens forbid it, Mrs. Greenow! Whatever may be our lots hereafter,--yours I mean and mine,--I trust that yours may be free from all disaster. Oh, that I might venture to hope that, at some future day, the privilege might be mine of protecting you from all danger!" "I can protect myself very well, I can assure you. Good night, Captain Bellfield. We won't take you and Mr. Cheesacre out of your way;--will we, Kate? We have had a most pleasant day." They were now upon the esplanade, and Mrs. Greenow's house was to the right, whereas the lodgings of both the gentlemen were to the left. Each of them fought hard for the privilege of accompanying the widow to her door; but Mrs. Greenow was self-willed, and upon this occasion would have neither of them. "Mr. Joe Fairstairs must pass the house," said she, "and he will see us home. Mr. Cheesacre, good night. Indeed you shall not;--not a step." There was that in her voice which induced Mr. Cheesacre to obey her, and which made Captain Bellfield aware that he would only injure his cause if he endeavoured to make further progress in it on the present occasion. "Well, Kate, what do you think of the day?" the aunt said when she was alone with her niece. "I never think much about such days, aunt. It was all very well, but I fear I have not the temperament fitted for enjoying the fun. I envied Ophelia Walker because she made herself thoroughly happy." "I do like to see girls enjoy themselves," said Mrs. Greenow, "I do, indeed;--and young men too. It seems so natural; why shouldn't young people flirt?" "Or old people either for the matter of that?" "Or old people either,--if they don't do any harm to anybody. I'll tell you what it is, Kate; people have become so very virtuous, that they're driven into all manner of abominable resources for amusement and occupation. If I had sons and daughters I should think a little flirting the very best thing for them as a safety valve. When people get to be old, there's a difficulty. They want to flirt with the young people and the young people don't want them. If the old people would be content to flirt together, I don't see why they should ever give it up;--till they're obliged to give up every thing, and go away." That was Mrs. Greenow's doctrine on the subject of flirtation. CHAPTER X. Nethercoats. We will leave Mrs. Greenow with her niece and two sisters at Yarmouth, and returning by stages to London, will call upon Mr. Grey at his place in Cambridgeshire as we pass by. I believe it is conceded by all the other counties, that Cambridgeshire possesses fewer rural beauties than any other county in England. It is very flat; it is not well timbered; the rivers are merely dikes; and in a very large portion of the county the farms and fields are divided simply by ditches--not by hedgerows. Such arrangements are, no doubt, well adapted for agricultural purposes, but are not conducive to rural beauty. Mr. Grey's residence was situated in a part of Cambridgeshire in which the above-named characteristics are very much marked. It was in the Isle of Ely, some few miles distant from the Cathedral town, on the side of a long straight road, which ran through the fields for miles without even a bush to cheer it. The name of his place was Nethercoats, and here he lived generally throughout the year, and here he intended to live throughout his life. His father had held a prebendal stall at Ely in times when prebendal stalls were worth more than they are at present, and having also been possessed of a living in the neighbourhood, had amassed a considerable sum of money. With this he had during his life purchased the property of Nethercoats, and had built on it the house in which his son now lived. He had married late in life, and had lost his wife soon after the birth of an only child. The house had been built in his own parish, and his wife had lived there for a few months and had died there. But after that event the old clergyman had gone back to his residence in the Close at Ely, and there John Grey had had the home of his youth. He had been brought up under his father's eye, having been sent to no public school. But he had gone to Cambridge, had taken college honours, and had then, his father dying exactly at this time, declined to accept a fellowship. His father had left to him an income of some fifteen hundred a year, and with this he sat himself down, near to his college friends, near also to the old cathedral which he loved, in the house which his father had built. But though Nethercoats possessed no beauty of scenery, though the country around it was in truth as uninteresting as any country could be, it had many delights of its own. The house itself was as excellent a residence for a country gentleman of small means as taste and skill together could construct. I doubt whether prettier rooms were ever seen than the drawing-room, the library, and the dining-room at Nethercoats. They were all on the ground-floor, and all opened out on to the garden and lawn. The library, which was the largest of the three, was a handsome chamber, and so filled as to make it well known in the University as one of the best private collections in that part of England. But perhaps the gardens of Nethercoats constituted its greatest glory. They were spacious and excellently kept up, and had been originally laid out with that knowledge of gardening without which no garden, merely as a garden, can be effective. And such, of necessity, was the garden of Nethercoats. Fine single forest trees there were none there, nor was it possible that there should have been any such. Nor could there be a clear rippling stream with steep green banks, and broken rocks lying about its bed. Such beauties are beauties of landscape, and do not of their nature belong to a garden. But the shrubs of Nethercoats were of the rarest kind, and had been long enough in their present places to have reached the period of their beauty. Nothing had been spared that a garden could want. The fruit-trees were perfect in their kind, and the glass-houses were so good and so extensive that John Grey in his prudence was some times tempted to think that he had too much of them. It must be understood that there were no grounds, according to the meaning usually given to that word, belonging to the house at Nethercoats. Between the garden and the public road there was a paddock belonging to the house, along the side of which, but divided from it by a hedge and shrubbery, ran the private carriageway up to the house. This swept through the small front flower-garden, dividing it equally; but the lawns and indeed the whole of that which made the beauty of the place lay on the back of the house, on which side opened the windows from the three sitting-rooms. Down on the public road there stood a lodge at which lived one of the gardeners. There was another field of some six or seven acres, to which there was a gate from the corner of the front paddock, and which went round two sides of the garden. This was Nethercoats, and the whole estate covered about twelve acres. It was not a place for much bachelor enjoyment of that sort generally popular with bachelors; nevertheless Mr. Grey had been constant in his residence there for the seven years which had now elapsed since he had left his college. His easy access to Cambridge had probably done much to mitigate what might otherwise have been the too great tedium of his life; and he had, prompted thereto by early associations, found most of his society in the Close of Ely Cathedral. But, with all the delight he could derive from these two sources, there had still been many solitary hours in his life, and he had gradually learned to feel that he of all men wanted a companion in his home. His visits to London had generally been short and far between, occasioned probably by some need in the library, or by the necessity of some slight literary transaction with the editor or publisher of a periodical. In one of these visits he had met Alice Vavasor, and had remained in Town,--I will not say till Alice had promised to share his home in Cambridgeshire, but so long that he had resolved before he went that he would ask her to do so. He had asked her, and we know that he had been successful. He had obtained her promise, and from that moment all his life had been changed for him. Hitherto at Nethercoats his little smoking-room, his books, and his plants had been everything to him. Now he began to surround himself with an infinity of feminine belongings, and to promise himself an infinity of feminine blessings, wondering much that he should have been content to pass so long a portion of his life in the dull seclusion which he had endured. He was not by nature an impatient man; but now he became impatient, longing for the fruition of his new idea of happiness,--longing to have that as his own which he certainly loved beyond all else in the world, and which, perhaps, was all he had ever loved with the perfect love of equality. But though impatient, and fully aware of his own impatience, he acknowledged to himself that Alice could not be expected to share it. He could plan nothing now,--could have no pleasure in life that she was not expected to share. But as yet it could not be so with her. She had her house in London, her town society, and her father. And, inasmuch as the change for her would be much greater than it would be for him, it was natural that she should require some small delay. He had not pressed her. At least he had not pressed her with that eager pressure which a girl must resist with something of the opposition of a contest, if she resist it at all. But in truth his impatience was now waxing strong, and during the absence in Switzerland of which we have spoken, he resolved that a marriage very late in the autumn,--that a marriage even in winter, would be better than a marriage postponed till the following year. It was not yet late in August when the party returned from their tour. Would not a further delay of two months suffice for his bride? Alice had written to him occasionally from Switzerland, and her first two letters had been very charming. They had referred almost exclusively to the tour, and had been made pleasant with some slightly coloured account of George Vavasor's idleness, and of Kate's obedience to her brother's behests. Alice had never written much of love in her love-letters, and Grey was well enough contented with her style, though it was not impassioned. As for doubting her love, it was not in the heart of the man to do so after it had been once assured to him by her word. He could not so slightly respect himself or her as to leave room for such a doubt in his bosom. He was a man who could never have suggested to himself that a woman loved him till the fact was there before him; but who having ascertained, as he might think, the fact, could never suggest to himself that her love would fail him. Her first two letters from Switzerland had been very pleasant; but after that there had seemed to have crept over her a melancholy which she unconsciously transferred to her words, and which he could not but taste in them,--at first unconsciously, also, but soon with so plain a flavour that he recognised it, and made it a matter of mental inquiry. During the three or four last days of the journey, while they were at Basle and on their way home, she had not written. But she did write on the day after her arrival, having then received from Mr. Grey a letter, in which he told her how very much she would add to his happiness if she would now agree that their marriage should not be postponed beyond the end of October. This letter she found in her room on her return, and this she answered at once. And she answered it in such words that Mr. Grey resolved that he would at once go to her in London. I will give her letter at length, as I shall then be best able to proceed with my story quickly. Queen Anne Street, -- August, 186--. DEAREST JOHN,-- We reached home yesterday tired enough, as we came through from Paris without stopping. I may indeed say that we came through from Strasbourg, as we only slept in Paris. I don't like Strasbourg. A steeple, after all, is not everything, and putting the steeple aside, I don't think the style is good. But the hotel was uncomfortable, which goes for so much;--and then we were saturated with beauty of a better kind. I got your letter directly I came in last night, and I suppose I had better dash at it at once. I would so willingly delay doing so, saying nice little things the while, did I not know that this would be mere cowardice. Whatever happens I won't be a coward, and therefore I will tell you at once that I cannot let you hope that we should be married this year. Of course you will ask me why, as you have a right to do, and of course I am bound to answer. I do not know that I can give any answer with which you will not have a right to complain. If it be so, I can only ask your pardon for the injury I am doing you. Marriage is a great change in life,--much greater to me than to you, who will remain in your old house, will keep your old pursuits, will still be your own master, and will change in nothing,--except in this, that you will have a companion who probably may not be all that you expect. But I must change everything. It will be to me as though I were passing through a grave to a new world. I shall see nothing that I have been accustomed to see, and must abandon all the ways of life that I have hitherto adopted. Of course I should have thought of this before I accepted you; and I did think of it. I made up my mind that, as I truly loved you, I would risk the change;--that I would risk it for your sake and for mine, hoping that I might add something to your happiness, and that I might secure my own. Dear John, do not suppose that I despair that it may be so; but, indeed, you must not hurry me. I must tune myself to the change that I have to make. What if I should wake some morning after six months living with you, and tell you that the quiet of your home was making me mad? You must not ask me again till the winter shall have passed away. If in the meantime I shall find that I have been wrong, I will humbly confess that I have wronged you, and ask you to forgive me. And I will freely admit this. If the delay which I now purpose is so contrary to your own plans as to make your marriage, under such circumstances, not that which you had expected, I know that you are free to tell me so, and to say that our engagement shall be over. I am well aware that I can have no right to bind you to a marriage at one period which you had only contemplated as to take place at another period. I think I may promise that I will obey any wish you may express in anything,--except in that one thing which you urged in your last letter. Kate is going down to Yarmouth with Mrs. Greenow, and I shall see no more of her probably till next year, as she will be due in Westmoreland after that. George left me at the door when he brought me home, and declared that he intended to vanish out of London. Whether in town or out, he is never to be seen at this period of the year. Papa offers to go to Ramsgate for a fortnight, but he looks so wretched when he makes the offer, that I shall not have the heart to hold him to it. Lady Macleod very much wants me to go to Cheltenham. I very much want not to go, simply because I can never agree with her about anything; but it will probably end in my going there for a week or two. Over and beyond that, I have no prospects before Christmas which are not purely domestic. There is a project that we shall all eat our Christmas dinner at Vavasor Hall,--of course not including George,--but this project is quite in the clouds, and, as far as I am concerned, will remain there. Dear John, let me hear that this letter does not make you unhappy. Most affectionately yours, ALICE VAVASOR. At Nethercoats, the post was brought in at breakfast-time, and Mr. Grey was sitting with his tea and eggs before him, when he read Alice's letter. He read it twice before he began to think what he would do in regard to it, and then referred to one or two others which he had received from Switzerland,--reading them also very carefully. After that, he took up the slouch hat which he had been wearing in the garden before he was called to his breakfast, and, with the letters in his hand, sauntered down among the shrubs and lawns. He knew, he thought he knew, that there was more in Alice's mind than a mere wish for delay. There was more in it than that hesitation to take at once a step which she really desired to take, if not now, then after some short interval. He felt that she was unhappy, and unhappy because she distrusted the results of her marriage; but it never for a moment occurred to him that, therefore, the engagement between them should be broken. In the first place he loved her too well to allow of his admitting such an idea without terrible sorrow to himself. He was a constant, firm man, somewhat reserved, and unwilling to make new acquaintances, and, therefore, specially unwilling to break away from those which he had made. Undoubtedly, had he satisfied himself that Alice's happiness demanded such a sacrifice of himself, he would have made it, and made it without a word of complaint. The blow would not have prostrated him, but the bruise would have remained on his heart, indelible, not to be healed but by death. He would have submitted, and no man would have seen that he had been

leave

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

"I shan't dance, Mrs. Greenow, unless you like to stand up for a set." "No, my friend, no; I shall not do that. I fear you forget how recent has been my bereavement. Your asking me is the bitterest reproach to me for having ventured to join your festive board." "Upon my honour I didn't mean it, Mrs. Greenow. I didn't mean it, indeed." "I do not suspect you. It would have been unmanly." "And nobody can say that of me. There isn't a man or woman in Norfolk that wouldn't say I was manly." "I'm quite sure of that." "I have my faults, I'm aware." "And what are your faults, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well; perhaps I'm extravagant. But it's only in these kind of things you know, when I spend a little money for the sake of making my friends happy. When I'm about, on the lands at home, I ain't extravagant, I can tell you." "Extravagance is a great vice." "Oh, I ain't extravagant in that sense;--not a bit in the world. But when a man's enamoured, and perhaps looking out for a wife, he does like to be a little free, you know." "And are you looking out for a wife, Mr. Cheesacre?" "If I told you I suppose you'd only laugh at me." "No; indeed I would not. I am not given to joking when any one that I regard speaks to me seriously." "Ain't you though? I'm so glad of that. When one has really got a serious thing to say, one doesn't like to have fun poked at one." "And, besides, how could I laugh at marriages, seeing how happy I have been in that condition?--so--very--happy," and Mrs. Greenow put up her handkerchief to her eyes. "So happy that you'll try it again some day; won't you?" "Never, Mr. Cheesacre; never. Is that the way you talk of serious things without joking? Anything like love--love of that sort--is over for me. It lies buried under the sod with my poor dear departed saint." "But, Mrs. Greenow,"--and Cheesacre, as he prepared to argue the question with her, got nearer to her in the corner behind the table,--"But, Mrs. Greenow, care killed a cat, you know." "And sometimes I think that care will kill me." "No, by George; not if I can prevent it." "You're very kind, Mr. Cheesacre; but there's no preventing such care as mine." "Isn't there though? I'll tell you what, Mrs. Greenow; I'm in earnest, I am indeed. If you'll inquire, you'll find there isn't a fellow in Norfolk pays his way better than I do, or is better able to do it. I don't pay a sixpence of rent, and I sit upon seven hundred acres of as good land as there is in the county. There's not an acre that won't do me a bullock and a half. Just put that and that together, and see what it comes to. And, mind you, some of these fellows that farm their own land are worse off than if they'd rent to pay. They've borrowed so much to carry on with, that the interest is more than rent. I don't owe a sixpence to ere a man or ere a company in the world. I can walk into every bank in Norwich without seeing my master. There ain't any of my paper flying about, Mrs. Greenow. I'm Samuel Cheesacre of Oileymead, and it's all my own." Mr. Cheesacre, as he thus spoke of his good fortunes and firm standing in the world, became impetuous in the energy of the moment, and brought down his fist powerfully on the slight table before them. The whole fabric rattled, and the boat resounded, but the noise he had made seemed to assist him. "It's all my own, Mrs. Greenow, and the half of it shall be yours if you'll please to take it;" then he stretched out his hand to her, not as though he intended to grasp hers in a grasp of love, but as if he expected some hand-pledge from her as a token that she accepted the bargain. "If you'd known Greenow, Mr. Cheesacre--" "I've no doubt he was a very good sort of man." "If you'd known him, you would not have addressed me in this way." "What difference would that make? My idea is that care killed a cat, as I said before. I never knew what was the good of being unhappy. If I find early mangels don't do on a bit of land, then I sow late turnips; and never cry after spilt milk. Greenow was the early mangels; I'll be the late turnips. Come then, say the word. There ain't a bedroom in my house,--not one of the front ones,--that isn't mahogany furnished!" "What's furniture to me?" said Mrs. Greenow, with her handkerchief to her eyes. Just at this moment Maria's mother stepped in under the canvas. It was most inopportune. Mr. Cheesacre felt that he was progressing well, and was conscious that he had got safely over those fences in the race which his bashfulness would naturally make difficult to him. He knew that he had done this under the influence of the champagne, and was aware that it might not be easy to procure again a combination of circumstances that would be so beneficial to him. But now he was interrupted just as he was expecting success. He was interrupted, and felt himself to be looking like a guilty creature under the eye of the strange lady. He had not a word to say; but drawing himself suddenly a foot and half away from the widow's side, sat there confessing his guilt in his face. Mrs. Greenow felt no guilt, and was afraid of no strange eyes. "Mr. Cheesacre and I are talking about farming," she said. "Oh; farming!" answered Maria's mother. "Mr. Cheesacre thinks that turnips are better than early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "Yes, I do," said Cheesacre, "I prefer the early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think nature ever intended those late crops. What do you say, Mrs. Walker?" "I daresay Mr. Cheesacre understands what he's about when he's at home," said the lady. "I know what a bit of land can do as well as any man in Norfolk," said the gentleman. "It may be very well in Norfolk," said Mrs. Greenow, rising from her seat; "but the practice isn't thought much of in the other counties with which I am better acquainted." "I'd just come in to say that I thought we might be getting to the boats," said Mrs. Walker. "My Ophelia is so delicate." At this moment the delicate Ophelia was to be seen, under the influence of the music, taking a distant range upon the sands with Joe Fairstairs' arm round her waist. The attitude was justified by the tune that was in progress, and there is no reason why a galop on the sands should have any special termination in distance, as it must have in a room. But, under such circumstances, Mrs. Walker's solicitude was not unreasonable. The erratic steps of the distant dancers were recalled and preparations were made for the return journey. Others had strayed besides the delicate Ophelia and the idle Joe, and some little time was taken up in collecting the party. The boats had to be drawn down, and the boatmen fetched from their cans and tobacco-pipes. "I hope they're sober," said Mrs. Walker, with a look of great dismay. "Sober as judges," said Bellfield, who had himself been looking after the remains of Mr. Cheesacre's hampers, while that gentleman had been so much better engaged in the tent. "Because," continued Mrs. Walker, "I know that they play all manner of tricks when they're--in liquor. They'd think nothing of taking us out to sea, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, I do wish they would," said Ophelia. "Ophelia, mind you come in the boat with me," said her mother, and she looked very savage when she gave the order. It was Mrs. Walker's intention that that boat should not carry Joe Fairstairs. But Joe and her daughter together were too clever for her. When the boats went off she found herself to be in that one over which Mr. Cheesacre presided, while the sinning Ophelia with her good-for-nothing admirer were under the more mirthful protection of Captain Bellfield. "Mamma will be so angry," said Ophelia, "and it was all your fault. I did mean to go into the other boat. Don't, Mr. Fairstairs." Then they got settled down in their seats, to the satisfaction, let us hope, of them both. Mr. Cheesacre had vainly endeavoured to arrange that Mrs. Greenow should return with him. But not only was Captain Bellfield opposed to such a change in their positions, but so also was Mrs. Greenow. "I think we'd better go back as we came," she said, giving her hand to the Captain. "Oh, certainly," said Captain Bellfield. "Why should there be any change? Cheesacre, old fellow, mind you look after Mrs. Walker. Come along, my hearty." It really almost appeared that Captain Bellfield was addressing Mrs. Greenow as "his hearty," but it must be presumed that the term of genial endearment was intended for the whole boat's load. Mrs. Greenow took her place on the comfortable broad bench in the stern, and Bellfield seated himself beside her, with the tiller in his hand. "If you're going to steer, Captain Bellfield, I beg that you'll be careful." "Careful,--and with you on board!" said the Captain. "Don't you know that I would sooner perish beneath the waves than that a drop of water should touch you roughly?" "But you see, we might perish beneath the waves together." "Together! What a sweet word that is;--perish together! If it were not that there might be something better even than that, I would wish to perish in such company." "But I should not wish anything of the kind, Captain Bellfield, and therefore pray be careful." There was no perishing by water on that occasion. Mr. Cheesacre's boat reached the pier at Yarmouth first, and gave up its load without accident. Very shortly afterwards Captain Bellfield's crew reached the same place in the same state of preservation. "There," said he, as he handed out Mrs. Greenow. "I have brought you to no harm, at any rate as yet." "And, as I hope, will not do so hereafter." "May the heavens forbid it, Mrs. Greenow! Whatever may be our lots hereafter,--yours I mean and mine,--I trust that yours may be free from all disaster. Oh, that I might venture to hope that, at some future day, the privilege might be mine of protecting you from all danger!" "I can protect myself very well, I can assure you. Good night, Captain Bellfield. We won't take you and Mr. Cheesacre out of your way;--will we, Kate? We have had a most pleasant day." They were now upon the esplanade, and Mrs. Greenow's house was to the right, whereas the lodgings of both the gentlemen were to the left. Each of them fought hard for the privilege of accompanying the widow to her door; but Mrs. Greenow was self-willed, and upon this occasion would have neither of them. "Mr. Joe Fairstairs must pass the house," said she, "and he will see us home. Mr. Cheesacre, good night. Indeed you shall not;--not a step." There was that in her voice which induced Mr. Cheesacre to obey her, and which made Captain Bellfield aware that he would only injure his cause if he endeavoured to make further progress in it on the present occasion. "Well, Kate, what do you think of the day?" the aunt said when she was alone with her niece. "I never think much about such days, aunt. It was all very well, but I fear I have not the temperament fitted for enjoying the fun. I envied Ophelia Walker because she made herself thoroughly happy." "I do like to see girls enjoy themselves," said Mrs. Greenow, "I do, indeed;--and young men too. It seems so natural; why shouldn't young people flirt?" "Or old people either for the matter of that?" "Or old people either,--if they don't do any harm to anybody. I'll tell you what it is, Kate; people have become so very virtuous, that they're driven into all manner of abominable resources for amusement and occupation. If I had sons and daughters I should think a little flirting the very best thing for them as a safety valve. When people get to be old, there's a difficulty. They want to flirt with the young people and the young people don't want them. If the old people would be content to flirt together, I don't see why they should ever give it up;--till they're obliged to give up every thing, and go away." That was Mrs. Greenow's doctrine on the subject of flirtation. CHAPTER X. Nethercoats. We will leave Mrs. Greenow with her niece and two sisters at Yarmouth, and returning by stages to London, will call upon Mr. Grey at his place in Cambridgeshire as we pass by. I believe it is conceded by all the other counties, that Cambridgeshire possesses fewer rural beauties than any other county in England. It is very flat; it is not well timbered; the rivers are merely dikes; and in a very large portion of the county the farms and fields are divided simply by ditches--not by hedgerows. Such arrangements are, no doubt, well adapted for agricultural purposes, but are not conducive to rural beauty. Mr. Grey's residence was situated in a part of Cambridgeshire in which the above-named characteristics are very much marked. It was in the Isle of Ely, some few miles distant from the Cathedral town, on the side of a long straight road, which ran through the fields for miles without even a bush to cheer it. The name of his place was Nethercoats, and here he lived generally throughout the year, and here he intended to live throughout his life. His father had held a prebendal stall at Ely in times when prebendal stalls were worth more than they are at present, and having also been possessed of a living in the neighbourhood, had amassed a considerable sum of money. With this he had during his life purchased the property of Nethercoats, and had built on it the house in which his son now lived. He had married late in life, and had lost his wife soon after the birth of an only child. The house had been built in his own parish, and his wife had lived there for a few months and had died there. But after that event the old clergyman had gone back to his residence in the Close at Ely, and there John Grey had had the home of his youth. He had been brought up under his father's eye, having been sent to no public school. But he had gone to Cambridge, had taken college honours, and had then, his father dying exactly at this time, declined to accept a fellowship. His father had left to him an income of some fifteen hundred a year, and with this he sat himself down, near to his college friends, near also to the old cathedral which he loved, in the house which his father had built. But though Nethercoats possessed no beauty of scenery, though the country around it was in truth as uninteresting as any country could be, it had many delights of its own. The house itself was as excellent a residence for a country gentleman of small means as taste and skill together could construct. I doubt whether prettier rooms were ever seen than the drawing-room, the library, and the dining-room at Nethercoats. They were all on the ground-floor, and all opened out on to the garden and lawn. The library, which was the largest of the three, was a handsome chamber, and so filled as to make it well known in the University as one of the best private collections in that part of England. But perhaps the gardens of Nethercoats constituted its greatest glory. They were spacious and excellently kept up, and had been originally laid out with that knowledge of gardening without which no garden, merely as a garden, can be effective. And such, of necessity, was the garden of Nethercoats. Fine single forest trees there were none there, nor was it possible that there should have been any such. Nor could there be a clear rippling stream with steep green banks, and broken rocks lying about its bed. Such beauties are beauties of landscape, and do not of their nature belong to a garden. But the shrubs of Nethercoats were of the rarest kind, and had been long enough in their present places to have reached the period of their beauty. Nothing had been spared that a garden could want. The fruit-trees were perfect in their kind, and the glass-houses were so good and so extensive that John Grey in his prudence was some times tempted to think that he had too much of them. It must be understood that there were no grounds, according to the meaning usually given to that word, belonging to the house at Nethercoats. Between the garden and the public road there was a paddock belonging to the house, along the side of which, but divided from it by a hedge and shrubbery, ran the private carriageway up to the house. This swept through the small front flower-garden, dividing it equally; but the lawns and indeed the whole of that which made the beauty of the place lay on the back of the house, on which side opened the windows from the three sitting-rooms. Down on the public road there stood a lodge at which lived one of the gardeners. There was another field of some six or seven acres, to which there was a gate from the corner of the front paddock, and which went round two sides of the garden. This was Nethercoats, and the whole estate covered about twelve acres. It was not a place for much bachelor enjoyment of that sort generally popular with bachelors; nevertheless Mr. Grey had been constant in his residence there for the seven years which had now elapsed since he had left his college. His easy access to Cambridge had probably done much to mitigate what might otherwise have been the too great tedium of his life; and he had, prompted thereto by early associations, found most of his society in the Close of Ely Cathedral. But, with all the delight he could derive from these two sources, there had still been many solitary hours in his life, and he had gradually learned to feel that he of all men wanted a companion in his home. His visits to London had generally been short and far between, occasioned probably by some need in the library, or by the necessity of some slight literary transaction with the editor or publisher of a periodical. In one of these visits he had met Alice Vavasor, and had remained in Town,--I will not say till Alice had promised to share his home in Cambridgeshire, but so long that he had resolved before he went that he would ask her to do so. He had asked her, and we know that he had been successful. He had obtained her promise, and from that moment all his life had been changed for him. Hitherto at Nethercoats his little smoking-room, his books, and his plants had been everything to him. Now he began to surround himself with an infinity of feminine belongings, and to promise himself an infinity of feminine blessings, wondering much that he should have been content to pass so long a portion of his life in the dull seclusion which he had endured. He was not by nature an impatient man; but now he became impatient, longing for the fruition of his new idea of happiness,--longing to have that as his own which he certainly loved beyond all else in the world, and which, perhaps, was all he had ever loved with the perfect love of equality. But though impatient, and fully aware of his own impatience, he acknowledged to himself that Alice could not be expected to share it. He could plan nothing now,--could have no pleasure in life that she was not expected to share. But as yet it could not be so with her. She had her house in London, her town society, and her father. And, inasmuch as the change for her would be much greater than it would be for him, it was natural that she should require some small delay. He had not pressed her. At least he had not pressed her with that eager pressure which a girl must resist with something of the opposition of a contest, if she resist it at all. But in truth his impatience was now waxing strong, and during the absence in Switzerland of which we have spoken, he resolved that a marriage very late in the autumn,--that a marriage even in winter, would be better than a marriage postponed till the following year. It was not yet late in August when the party returned from their tour. Would not a further delay of two months suffice for his bride? Alice had written to him occasionally from Switzerland, and her first two letters had been very charming. They had referred almost exclusively to the tour, and had been made pleasant with some slightly coloured account of George Vavasor's idleness, and of Kate's obedience to her brother's behests. Alice had never written much of love in her love-letters, and Grey was well enough contented with her style, though it was not impassioned. As for doubting her love, it was not in the heart of the man to do so after it had been once assured to him by her word. He could not so slightly respect himself or her as to leave room for such a doubt in his bosom. He was a man who could never have suggested to himself that a woman loved him till the fact was there before him; but who having ascertained, as he might think, the fact, could never suggest to himself that her love would fail him. Her first two letters from Switzerland had been very pleasant; but after that there had seemed to have crept over her a melancholy which she unconsciously transferred to her words, and which he could not but taste in them,--at first unconsciously, also, but soon with so plain a flavour that he recognised it, and made it a matter of mental inquiry. During the three or four last days of the journey, while they were at Basle and on their way home, she had not written. But she did write on the day after her arrival, having then received from Mr. Grey a letter, in which he told her how very much she would add to his happiness if she would now agree that their marriage should not be postponed beyond the end of October. This letter she found in her room on her return, and this she answered at once. And she answered it in such words that Mr. Grey resolved that he would at once go to her in London. I will give her letter at length, as I shall then be best able to proceed with my story quickly. Queen Anne Street, -- August, 186--. DEAREST JOHN,-- We reached home yesterday tired enough, as we came through from Paris without stopping. I may indeed say that we came through from Strasbourg, as we only slept in Paris. I don't like Strasbourg. A steeple, after all, is not everything, and putting the steeple aside, I don't think the style is good. But the hotel was uncomfortable, which goes for so much;--and then we were saturated with beauty of a better kind. I got your letter directly I came in last night, and I suppose I had better dash at it at once. I would so willingly delay doing so, saying nice little things the while, did I not know that this would be mere cowardice. Whatever happens I won't be a coward, and therefore I will tell you at once that I cannot let you hope that we should be married this year. Of course you will ask me why, as you have a right to do, and of course I am bound to answer. I do not know that I can give any answer with which you will not have a right to complain. If it be so, I can only ask your pardon for the injury I am doing you. Marriage is a great change in life,--much greater to me than to you, who will remain in your old house, will keep your old pursuits, will still be your own master, and will change in nothing,--except in this, that you will have a companion who probably may not be all that you expect. But I must change everything. It will be to me as though I were passing through a grave to a new world. I shall see nothing that I have been accustomed to see, and must abandon all the ways of life that I have hitherto adopted. Of course I should have thought of this before I accepted you; and I did think of it. I made up my mind that, as I truly loved you, I would risk the change;--that I would risk it for your sake and for mine, hoping that I might add something to your happiness, and that I might secure my own. Dear John, do not suppose that I despair that it may be so; but, indeed, you must not hurry me. I must tune myself to the change that I have to make. What if I should wake some morning after six months living with you, and tell you that the quiet of your home was making me mad? You must not ask me again till the winter shall have passed away. If in the meantime I shall find that I have been wrong, I will humbly confess that I have wronged you, and ask you to forgive me. And I will freely admit this. If the delay which I now purpose is so contrary to your own plans as to make your marriage, under such circumstances, not that which you had expected, I know that you are free to tell me so, and to say that our engagement shall be over. I am well aware that I can have no right to bind you to a marriage at one period which you had only contemplated as to take place at another period. I think I may promise that I will obey any wish you may express in anything,--except in that one thing which you urged in your last letter. Kate is going down to Yarmouth with Mrs. Greenow, and I shall see no more of her probably till next year, as she will be due in Westmoreland after that. George left me at the door when he brought me home, and declared that he intended to vanish out of London. Whether in town or out, he is never to be seen at this period of the year. Papa offers to go to Ramsgate for a fortnight, but he looks so wretched when he makes the offer, that I shall not have the heart to hold him to it. Lady Macleod very much wants me to go to Cheltenham. I very much want not to go, simply because I can never agree with her about anything; but it will probably end in my going there for a week or two. Over and beyond that, I have no prospects before Christmas which are not purely domestic. There is a project that we shall all eat our Christmas dinner at Vavasor Hall,--of course not including George,--but this project is quite in the clouds, and, as far as I am concerned, will remain there. Dear John, let me hear that this letter does not make you unhappy. Most affectionately yours, ALICE VAVASOR. At Nethercoats, the post was brought in at breakfast-time, and Mr. Grey was sitting with his tea and eggs before him, when he read Alice's letter. He read it twice before he began to think what he would do in regard to it, and then referred to one or two others which he had received from Switzerland,--reading them also very carefully. After that, he took up the slouch hat which he had been wearing in the garden before he was called to his breakfast, and, with the letters in his hand, sauntered down among the shrubs and lawns. He knew, he thought he knew, that there was more in Alice's mind than a mere wish for delay. There was more in it than that hesitation to take at once a step which she really desired to take, if not now, then after some short interval. He felt that she was unhappy, and unhappy because she distrusted the results of her marriage; but it never for a moment occurred to him that, therefore, the engagement between them should be broken. In the first place he loved her too well to allow of his admitting such an idea without terrible sorrow to himself. He was a constant, firm man, somewhat reserved, and unwilling to make new acquaintances, and, therefore, specially unwilling to break away from those which he had made. Undoubtedly, had he satisfied himself that Alice's happiness demanded such a sacrifice of himself, he would have made it, and made it without a word of complaint. The blow would not have prostrated him, but the bruise would have remained on his heart, indelible, not to be healed but by death. He would have submitted, and no man would have seen that he had been

held

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

"I shan't dance, Mrs. Greenow, unless you like to stand up for a set." "No, my friend, no; I shall not do that. I fear you forget how recent has been my bereavement. Your asking me is the bitterest reproach to me for having ventured to join your festive board." "Upon my honour I didn't mean it, Mrs. Greenow. I didn't mean it, indeed." "I do not suspect you. It would have been unmanly." "And nobody can say that of me. There isn't a man or woman in Norfolk that wouldn't say I was manly." "I'm quite sure of that." "I have my faults, I'm aware." "And what are your faults, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well; perhaps I'm extravagant. But it's only in these kind of things you know, when I spend a little money for the sake of making my friends happy. When I'm about, on the lands at home, I ain't extravagant, I can tell you." "Extravagance is a great vice." "Oh, I ain't extravagant in that sense;--not a bit in the world. But when a man's enamoured, and perhaps looking out for a wife, he does like to be a little free, you know." "And are you looking out for a wife, Mr. Cheesacre?" "If I told you I suppose you'd only laugh at me." "No; indeed I would not. I am not given to joking when any one that I regard speaks to me seriously." "Ain't you though? I'm so glad of that. When one has really got a serious thing to say, one doesn't like to have fun poked at one." "And, besides, how could I laugh at marriages, seeing how happy I have been in that condition?--so--very--happy," and Mrs. Greenow put up her handkerchief to her eyes. "So happy that you'll try it again some day; won't you?" "Never, Mr. Cheesacre; never. Is that the way you talk of serious things without joking? Anything like love--love of that sort--is over for me. It lies buried under the sod with my poor dear departed saint." "But, Mrs. Greenow,"--and Cheesacre, as he prepared to argue the question with her, got nearer to her in the corner behind the table,--"But, Mrs. Greenow, care killed a cat, you know." "And sometimes I think that care will kill me." "No, by George; not if I can prevent it." "You're very kind, Mr. Cheesacre; but there's no preventing such care as mine." "Isn't there though? I'll tell you what, Mrs. Greenow; I'm in earnest, I am indeed. If you'll inquire, you'll find there isn't a fellow in Norfolk pays his way better than I do, or is better able to do it. I don't pay a sixpence of rent, and I sit upon seven hundred acres of as good land as there is in the county. There's not an acre that won't do me a bullock and a half. Just put that and that together, and see what it comes to. And, mind you, some of these fellows that farm their own land are worse off than if they'd rent to pay. They've borrowed so much to carry on with, that the interest is more than rent. I don't owe a sixpence to ere a man or ere a company in the world. I can walk into every bank in Norwich without seeing my master. There ain't any of my paper flying about, Mrs. Greenow. I'm Samuel Cheesacre of Oileymead, and it's all my own." Mr. Cheesacre, as he thus spoke of his good fortunes and firm standing in the world, became impetuous in the energy of the moment, and brought down his fist powerfully on the slight table before them. The whole fabric rattled, and the boat resounded, but the noise he had made seemed to assist him. "It's all my own, Mrs. Greenow, and the half of it shall be yours if you'll please to take it;" then he stretched out his hand to her, not as though he intended to grasp hers in a grasp of love, but as if he expected some hand-pledge from her as a token that she accepted the bargain. "If you'd known Greenow, Mr. Cheesacre--" "I've no doubt he was a very good sort of man." "If you'd known him, you would not have addressed me in this way." "What difference would that make? My idea is that care killed a cat, as I said before. I never knew what was the good of being unhappy. If I find early mangels don't do on a bit of land, then I sow late turnips; and never cry after spilt milk. Greenow was the early mangels; I'll be the late turnips. Come then, say the word. There ain't a bedroom in my house,--not one of the front ones,--that isn't mahogany furnished!" "What's furniture to me?" said Mrs. Greenow, with her handkerchief to her eyes. Just at this moment Maria's mother stepped in under the canvas. It was most inopportune. Mr. Cheesacre felt that he was progressing well, and was conscious that he had got safely over those fences in the race which his bashfulness would naturally make difficult to him. He knew that he had done this under the influence of the champagne, and was aware that it might not be easy to procure again a combination of circumstances that would be so beneficial to him. But now he was interrupted just as he was expecting success. He was interrupted, and felt himself to be looking like a guilty creature under the eye of the strange lady. He had not a word to say; but drawing himself suddenly a foot and half away from the widow's side, sat there confessing his guilt in his face. Mrs. Greenow felt no guilt, and was afraid of no strange eyes. "Mr. Cheesacre and I are talking about farming," she said. "Oh; farming!" answered Maria's mother. "Mr. Cheesacre thinks that turnips are better than early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "Yes, I do," said Cheesacre, "I prefer the early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think nature ever intended those late crops. What do you say, Mrs. Walker?" "I daresay Mr. Cheesacre understands what he's about when he's at home," said the lady. "I know what a bit of land can do as well as any man in Norfolk," said the gentleman. "It may be very well in Norfolk," said Mrs. Greenow, rising from her seat; "but the practice isn't thought much of in the other counties with which I am better acquainted." "I'd just come in to say that I thought we might be getting to the boats," said Mrs. Walker. "My Ophelia is so delicate." At this moment the delicate Ophelia was to be seen, under the influence of the music, taking a distant range upon the sands with Joe Fairstairs' arm round her waist. The attitude was justified by the tune that was in progress, and there is no reason why a galop on the sands should have any special termination in distance, as it must have in a room. But, under such circumstances, Mrs. Walker's solicitude was not unreasonable. The erratic steps of the distant dancers were recalled and preparations were made for the return journey. Others had strayed besides the delicate Ophelia and the idle Joe, and some little time was taken up in collecting the party. The boats had to be drawn down, and the boatmen fetched from their cans and tobacco-pipes. "I hope they're sober," said Mrs. Walker, with a look of great dismay. "Sober as judges," said Bellfield, who had himself been looking after the remains of Mr. Cheesacre's hampers, while that gentleman had been so much better engaged in the tent. "Because," continued Mrs. Walker, "I know that they play all manner of tricks when they're--in liquor. They'd think nothing of taking us out to sea, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, I do wish they would," said Ophelia. "Ophelia, mind you come in the boat with me," said her mother, and she looked very savage when she gave the order. It was Mrs. Walker's intention that that boat should not carry Joe Fairstairs. But Joe and her daughter together were too clever for her. When the boats went off she found herself to be in that one over which Mr. Cheesacre presided, while the sinning Ophelia with her good-for-nothing admirer were under the more mirthful protection of Captain Bellfield. "Mamma will be so angry," said Ophelia, "and it was all your fault. I did mean to go into the other boat. Don't, Mr. Fairstairs." Then they got settled down in their seats, to the satisfaction, let us hope, of them both. Mr. Cheesacre had vainly endeavoured to arrange that Mrs. Greenow should return with him. But not only was Captain Bellfield opposed to such a change in their positions, but so also was Mrs. Greenow. "I think we'd better go back as we came," she said, giving her hand to the Captain. "Oh, certainly," said Captain Bellfield. "Why should there be any change? Cheesacre, old fellow, mind you look after Mrs. Walker. Come along, my hearty." It really almost appeared that Captain Bellfield was addressing Mrs. Greenow as "his hearty," but it must be presumed that the term of genial endearment was intended for the whole boat's load. Mrs. Greenow took her place on the comfortable broad bench in the stern, and Bellfield seated himself beside her, with the tiller in his hand. "If you're going to steer, Captain Bellfield, I beg that you'll be careful." "Careful,--and with you on board!" said the Captain. "Don't you know that I would sooner perish beneath the waves than that a drop of water should touch you roughly?" "But you see, we might perish beneath the waves together." "Together! What a sweet word that is;--perish together! If it were not that there might be something better even than that, I would wish to perish in such company." "But I should not wish anything of the kind, Captain Bellfield, and therefore pray be careful." There was no perishing by water on that occasion. Mr. Cheesacre's boat reached the pier at Yarmouth first, and gave up its load without accident. Very shortly afterwards Captain Bellfield's crew reached the same place in the same state of preservation. "There," said he, as he handed out Mrs. Greenow. "I have brought you to no harm, at any rate as yet." "And, as I hope, will not do so hereafter." "May the heavens forbid it, Mrs. Greenow! Whatever may be our lots hereafter,--yours I mean and mine,--I trust that yours may be free from all disaster. Oh, that I might venture to hope that, at some future day, the privilege might be mine of protecting you from all danger!" "I can protect myself very well, I can assure you. Good night, Captain Bellfield. We won't take you and Mr. Cheesacre out of your way;--will we, Kate? We have had a most pleasant day." They were now upon the esplanade, and Mrs. Greenow's house was to the right, whereas the lodgings of both the gentlemen were to the left. Each of them fought hard for the privilege of accompanying the widow to her door; but Mrs. Greenow was self-willed, and upon this occasion would have neither of them. "Mr. Joe Fairstairs must pass the house," said she, "and he will see us home. Mr. Cheesacre, good night. Indeed you shall not;--not a step." There was that in her voice which induced Mr. Cheesacre to obey her, and which made Captain Bellfield aware that he would only injure his cause if he endeavoured to make further progress in it on the present occasion. "Well, Kate, what do you think of the day?" the aunt said when she was alone with her niece. "I never think much about such days, aunt. It was all very well, but I fear I have not the temperament fitted for enjoying the fun. I envied Ophelia Walker because she made herself thoroughly happy." "I do like to see girls enjoy themselves," said Mrs. Greenow, "I do, indeed;--and young men too. It seems so natural; why shouldn't young people flirt?" "Or old people either for the matter of that?" "Or old people either,--if they don't do any harm to anybody. I'll tell you what it is, Kate; people have become so very virtuous, that they're driven into all manner of abominable resources for amusement and occupation. If I had sons and daughters I should think a little flirting the very best thing for them as a safety valve. When people get to be old, there's a difficulty. They want to flirt with the young people and the young people don't want them. If the old people would be content to flirt together, I don't see why they should ever give it up;--till they're obliged to give up every thing, and go away." That was Mrs. Greenow's doctrine on the subject of flirtation. CHAPTER X. Nethercoats. We will leave Mrs. Greenow with her niece and two sisters at Yarmouth, and returning by stages to London, will call upon Mr. Grey at his place in Cambridgeshire as we pass by. I believe it is conceded by all the other counties, that Cambridgeshire possesses fewer rural beauties than any other county in England. It is very flat; it is not well timbered; the rivers are merely dikes; and in a very large portion of the county the farms and fields are divided simply by ditches--not by hedgerows. Such arrangements are, no doubt, well adapted for agricultural purposes, but are not conducive to rural beauty. Mr. Grey's residence was situated in a part of Cambridgeshire in which the above-named characteristics are very much marked. It was in the Isle of Ely, some few miles distant from the Cathedral town, on the side of a long straight road, which ran through the fields for miles without even a bush to cheer it. The name of his place was Nethercoats, and here he lived generally throughout the year, and here he intended to live throughout his life. His father had held a prebendal stall at Ely in times when prebendal stalls were worth more than they are at present, and having also been possessed of a living in the neighbourhood, had amassed a considerable sum of money. With this he had during his life purchased the property of Nethercoats, and had built on it the house in which his son now lived. He had married late in life, and had lost his wife soon after the birth of an only child. The house had been built in his own parish, and his wife had lived there for a few months and had died there. But after that event the old clergyman had gone back to his residence in the Close at Ely, and there John Grey had had the home of his youth. He had been brought up under his father's eye, having been sent to no public school. But he had gone to Cambridge, had taken college honours, and had then, his father dying exactly at this time, declined to accept a fellowship. His father had left to him an income of some fifteen hundred a year, and with this he sat himself down, near to his college friends, near also to the old cathedral which he loved, in the house which his father had built. But though Nethercoats possessed no beauty of scenery, though the country around it was in truth as uninteresting as any country could be, it had many delights of its own. The house itself was as excellent a residence for a country gentleman of small means as taste and skill together could construct. I doubt whether prettier rooms were ever seen than the drawing-room, the library, and the dining-room at Nethercoats. They were all on the ground-floor, and all opened out on to the garden and lawn. The library, which was the largest of the three, was a handsome chamber, and so filled as to make it well known in the University as one of the best private collections in that part of England. But perhaps the gardens of Nethercoats constituted its greatest glory. They were spacious and excellently kept up, and had been originally laid out with that knowledge of gardening without which no garden, merely as a garden, can be effective. And such, of necessity, was the garden of Nethercoats. Fine single forest trees there were none there, nor was it possible that there should have been any such. Nor could there be a clear rippling stream with steep green banks, and broken rocks lying about its bed. Such beauties are beauties of landscape, and do not of their nature belong to a garden. But the shrubs of Nethercoats were of the rarest kind, and had been long enough in their present places to have reached the period of their beauty. Nothing had been spared that a garden could want. The fruit-trees were perfect in their kind, and the glass-houses were so good and so extensive that John Grey in his prudence was some times tempted to think that he had too much of them. It must be understood that there were no grounds, according to the meaning usually given to that word, belonging to the house at Nethercoats. Between the garden and the public road there was a paddock belonging to the house, along the side of which, but divided from it by a hedge and shrubbery, ran the private carriageway up to the house. This swept through the small front flower-garden, dividing it equally; but the lawns and indeed the whole of that which made the beauty of the place lay on the back of the house, on which side opened the windows from the three sitting-rooms. Down on the public road there stood a lodge at which lived one of the gardeners. There was another field of some six or seven acres, to which there was a gate from the corner of the front paddock, and which went round two sides of the garden. This was Nethercoats, and the whole estate covered about twelve acres. It was not a place for much bachelor enjoyment of that sort generally popular with bachelors; nevertheless Mr. Grey had been constant in his residence there for the seven years which had now elapsed since he had left his college. His easy access to Cambridge had probably done much to mitigate what might otherwise have been the too great tedium of his life; and he had, prompted thereto by early associations, found most of his society in the Close of Ely Cathedral. But, with all the delight he could derive from these two sources, there had still been many solitary hours in his life, and he had gradually learned to feel that he of all men wanted a companion in his home. His visits to London had generally been short and far between, occasioned probably by some need in the library, or by the necessity of some slight literary transaction with the editor or publisher of a periodical. In one of these visits he had met Alice Vavasor, and had remained in Town,--I will not say till Alice had promised to share his home in Cambridgeshire, but so long that he had resolved before he went that he would ask her to do so. He had asked her, and we know that he had been successful. He had obtained her promise, and from that moment all his life had been changed for him. Hitherto at Nethercoats his little smoking-room, his books, and his plants had been everything to him. Now he began to surround himself with an infinity of feminine belongings, and to promise himself an infinity of feminine blessings, wondering much that he should have been content to pass so long a portion of his life in the dull seclusion which he had endured. He was not by nature an impatient man; but now he became impatient, longing for the fruition of his new idea of happiness,--longing to have that as his own which he certainly loved beyond all else in the world, and which, perhaps, was all he had ever loved with the perfect love of equality. But though impatient, and fully aware of his own impatience, he acknowledged to himself that Alice could not be expected to share it. He could plan nothing now,--could have no pleasure in life that she was not expected to share. But as yet it could not be so with her. She had her house in London, her town society, and her father. And, inasmuch as the change for her would be much greater than it would be for him, it was natural that she should require some small delay. He had not pressed her. At least he had not pressed her with that eager pressure which a girl must resist with something of the opposition of a contest, if she resist it at all. But in truth his impatience was now waxing strong, and during the absence in Switzerland of which we have spoken, he resolved that a marriage very late in the autumn,--that a marriage even in winter, would be better than a marriage postponed till the following year. It was not yet late in August when the party returned from their tour. Would not a further delay of two months suffice for his bride? Alice had written to him occasionally from Switzerland, and her first two letters had been very charming. They had referred almost exclusively to the tour, and had been made pleasant with some slightly coloured account of George Vavasor's idleness, and of Kate's obedience to her brother's behests. Alice had never written much of love in her love-letters, and Grey was well enough contented with her style, though it was not impassioned. As for doubting her love, it was not in the heart of the man to do so after it had been once assured to him by her word. He could not so slightly respect himself or her as to leave room for such a doubt in his bosom. He was a man who could never have suggested to himself that a woman loved him till the fact was there before him; but who having ascertained, as he might think, the fact, could never suggest to himself that her love would fail him. Her first two letters from Switzerland had been very pleasant; but after that there had seemed to have crept over her a melancholy which she unconsciously transferred to her words, and which he could not but taste in them,--at first unconsciously, also, but soon with so plain a flavour that he recognised it, and made it a matter of mental inquiry. During the three or four last days of the journey, while they were at Basle and on their way home, she had not written. But she did write on the day after her arrival, having then received from Mr. Grey a letter, in which he told her how very much she would add to his happiness if she would now agree that their marriage should not be postponed beyond the end of October. This letter she found in her room on her return, and this she answered at once. And she answered it in such words that Mr. Grey resolved that he would at once go to her in London. I will give her letter at length, as I shall then be best able to proceed with my story quickly. Queen Anne Street, -- August, 186--. DEAREST JOHN,-- We reached home yesterday tired enough, as we came through from Paris without stopping. I may indeed say that we came through from Strasbourg, as we only slept in Paris. I don't like Strasbourg. A steeple, after all, is not everything, and putting the steeple aside, I don't think the style is good. But the hotel was uncomfortable, which goes for so much;--and then we were saturated with beauty of a better kind. I got your letter directly I came in last night, and I suppose I had better dash at it at once. I would so willingly delay doing so, saying nice little things the while, did I not know that this would be mere cowardice. Whatever happens I won't be a coward, and therefore I will tell you at once that I cannot let you hope that we should be married this year. Of course you will ask me why, as you have a right to do, and of course I am bound to answer. I do not know that I can give any answer with which you will not have a right to complain. If it be so, I can only ask your pardon for the injury I am doing you. Marriage is a great change in life,--much greater to me than to you, who will remain in your old house, will keep your old pursuits, will still be your own master, and will change in nothing,--except in this, that you will have a companion who probably may not be all that you expect. But I must change everything. It will be to me as though I were passing through a grave to a new world. I shall see nothing that I have been accustomed to see, and must abandon all the ways of life that I have hitherto adopted. Of course I should have thought of this before I accepted you; and I did think of it. I made up my mind that, as I truly loved you, I would risk the change;--that I would risk it for your sake and for mine, hoping that I might add something to your happiness, and that I might secure my own. Dear John, do not suppose that I despair that it may be so; but, indeed, you must not hurry me. I must tune myself to the change that I have to make. What if I should wake some morning after six months living with you, and tell you that the quiet of your home was making me mad? You must not ask me again till the winter shall have passed away. If in the meantime I shall find that I have been wrong, I will humbly confess that I have wronged you, and ask you to forgive me. And I will freely admit this. If the delay which I now purpose is so contrary to your own plans as to make your marriage, under such circumstances, not that which you had expected, I know that you are free to tell me so, and to say that our engagement shall be over. I am well aware that I can have no right to bind you to a marriage at one period which you had only contemplated as to take place at another period. I think I may promise that I will obey any wish you may express in anything,--except in that one thing which you urged in your last letter. Kate is going down to Yarmouth with Mrs. Greenow, and I shall see no more of her probably till next year, as she will be due in Westmoreland after that. George left me at the door when he brought me home, and declared that he intended to vanish out of London. Whether in town or out, he is never to be seen at this period of the year. Papa offers to go to Ramsgate for a fortnight, but he looks so wretched when he makes the offer, that I shall not have the heart to hold him to it. Lady Macleod very much wants me to go to Cheltenham. I very much want not to go, simply because I can never agree with her about anything; but it will probably end in my going there for a week or two. Over and beyond that, I have no prospects before Christmas which are not purely domestic. There is a project that we shall all eat our Christmas dinner at Vavasor Hall,--of course not including George,--but this project is quite in the clouds, and, as far as I am concerned, will remain there. Dear John, let me hear that this letter does not make you unhappy. Most affectionately yours, ALICE VAVASOR. At Nethercoats, the post was brought in at breakfast-time, and Mr. Grey was sitting with his tea and eggs before him, when he read Alice's letter. He read it twice before he began to think what he would do in regard to it, and then referred to one or two others which he had received from Switzerland,--reading them also very carefully. After that, he took up the slouch hat which he had been wearing in the garden before he was called to his breakfast, and, with the letters in his hand, sauntered down among the shrubs and lawns. He knew, he thought he knew, that there was more in Alice's mind than a mere wish for delay. There was more in it than that hesitation to take at once a step which she really desired to take, if not now, then after some short interval. He felt that she was unhappy, and unhappy because she distrusted the results of her marriage; but it never for a moment occurred to him that, therefore, the engagement between them should be broken. In the first place he loved her too well to allow of his admitting such an idea without terrible sorrow to himself. He was a constant, firm man, somewhat reserved, and unwilling to make new acquaintances, and, therefore, specially unwilling to break away from those which he had made. Undoubtedly, had he satisfied himself that Alice's happiness demanded such a sacrifice of himself, he would have made it, and made it without a word of complaint. The blow would not have prostrated him, but the bruise would have remained on his heart, indelible, not to be healed but by death. He would have submitted, and no man would have seen that he had been

buried

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

"I shan't dance, Mrs. Greenow, unless you like to stand up for a set." "No, my friend, no; I shall not do that. I fear you forget how recent has been my bereavement. Your asking me is the bitterest reproach to me for having ventured to join your festive board." "Upon my honour I didn't mean it, Mrs. Greenow. I didn't mean it, indeed." "I do not suspect you. It would have been unmanly." "And nobody can say that of me. There isn't a man or woman in Norfolk that wouldn't say I was manly." "I'm quite sure of that." "I have my faults, I'm aware." "And what are your faults, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well; perhaps I'm extravagant. But it's only in these kind of things you know, when I spend a little money for the sake of making my friends happy. When I'm about, on the lands at home, I ain't extravagant, I can tell you." "Extravagance is a great vice." "Oh, I ain't extravagant in that sense;--not a bit in the world. But when a man's enamoured, and perhaps looking out for a wife, he does like to be a little free, you know." "And are you looking out for a wife, Mr. Cheesacre?" "If I told you I suppose you'd only laugh at me." "No; indeed I would not. I am not given to joking when any one that I regard speaks to me seriously." "Ain't you though? I'm so glad of that. When one has really got a serious thing to say, one doesn't like to have fun poked at one." "And, besides, how could I laugh at marriages, seeing how happy I have been in that condition?--so--very--happy," and Mrs. Greenow put up her handkerchief to her eyes. "So happy that you'll try it again some day; won't you?" "Never, Mr. Cheesacre; never. Is that the way you talk of serious things without joking? Anything like love--love of that sort--is over for me. It lies buried under the sod with my poor dear departed saint." "But, Mrs. Greenow,"--and Cheesacre, as he prepared to argue the question with her, got nearer to her in the corner behind the table,--"But, Mrs. Greenow, care killed a cat, you know." "And sometimes I think that care will kill me." "No, by George; not if I can prevent it." "You're very kind, Mr. Cheesacre; but there's no preventing such care as mine." "Isn't there though? I'll tell you what, Mrs. Greenow; I'm in earnest, I am indeed. If you'll inquire, you'll find there isn't a fellow in Norfolk pays his way better than I do, or is better able to do it. I don't pay a sixpence of rent, and I sit upon seven hundred acres of as good land as there is in the county. There's not an acre that won't do me a bullock and a half. Just put that and that together, and see what it comes to. And, mind you, some of these fellows that farm their own land are worse off than if they'd rent to pay. They've borrowed so much to carry on with, that the interest is more than rent. I don't owe a sixpence to ere a man or ere a company in the world. I can walk into every bank in Norwich without seeing my master. There ain't any of my paper flying about, Mrs. Greenow. I'm Samuel Cheesacre of Oileymead, and it's all my own." Mr. Cheesacre, as he thus spoke of his good fortunes and firm standing in the world, became impetuous in the energy of the moment, and brought down his fist powerfully on the slight table before them. The whole fabric rattled, and the boat resounded, but the noise he had made seemed to assist him. "It's all my own, Mrs. Greenow, and the half of it shall be yours if you'll please to take it;" then he stretched out his hand to her, not as though he intended to grasp hers in a grasp of love, but as if he expected some hand-pledge from her as a token that she accepted the bargain. "If you'd known Greenow, Mr. Cheesacre--" "I've no doubt he was a very good sort of man." "If you'd known him, you would not have addressed me in this way." "What difference would that make? My idea is that care killed a cat, as I said before. I never knew what was the good of being unhappy. If I find early mangels don't do on a bit of land, then I sow late turnips; and never cry after spilt milk. Greenow was the early mangels; I'll be the late turnips. Come then, say the word. There ain't a bedroom in my house,--not one of the front ones,--that isn't mahogany furnished!" "What's furniture to me?" said Mrs. Greenow, with her handkerchief to her eyes. Just at this moment Maria's mother stepped in under the canvas. It was most inopportune. Mr. Cheesacre felt that he was progressing well, and was conscious that he had got safely over those fences in the race which his bashfulness would naturally make difficult to him. He knew that he had done this under the influence of the champagne, and was aware that it might not be easy to procure again a combination of circumstances that would be so beneficial to him. But now he was interrupted just as he was expecting success. He was interrupted, and felt himself to be looking like a guilty creature under the eye of the strange lady. He had not a word to say; but drawing himself suddenly a foot and half away from the widow's side, sat there confessing his guilt in his face. Mrs. Greenow felt no guilt, and was afraid of no strange eyes. "Mr. Cheesacre and I are talking about farming," she said. "Oh; farming!" answered Maria's mother. "Mr. Cheesacre thinks that turnips are better than early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "Yes, I do," said Cheesacre, "I prefer the early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think nature ever intended those late crops. What do you say, Mrs. Walker?" "I daresay Mr. Cheesacre understands what he's about when he's at home," said the lady. "I know what a bit of land can do as well as any man in Norfolk," said the gentleman. "It may be very well in Norfolk," said Mrs. Greenow, rising from her seat; "but the practice isn't thought much of in the other counties with which I am better acquainted." "I'd just come in to say that I thought we might be getting to the boats," said Mrs. Walker. "My Ophelia is so delicate." At this moment the delicate Ophelia was to be seen, under the influence of the music, taking a distant range upon the sands with Joe Fairstairs' arm round her waist. The attitude was justified by the tune that was in progress, and there is no reason why a galop on the sands should have any special termination in distance, as it must have in a room. But, under such circumstances, Mrs. Walker's solicitude was not unreasonable. The erratic steps of the distant dancers were recalled and preparations were made for the return journey. Others had strayed besides the delicate Ophelia and the idle Joe, and some little time was taken up in collecting the party. The boats had to be drawn down, and the boatmen fetched from their cans and tobacco-pipes. "I hope they're sober," said Mrs. Walker, with a look of great dismay. "Sober as judges," said Bellfield, who had himself been looking after the remains of Mr. Cheesacre's hampers, while that gentleman had been so much better engaged in the tent. "Because," continued Mrs. Walker, "I know that they play all manner of tricks when they're--in liquor. They'd think nothing of taking us out to sea, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, I do wish they would," said Ophelia. "Ophelia, mind you come in the boat with me," said her mother, and she looked very savage when she gave the order. It was Mrs. Walker's intention that that boat should not carry Joe Fairstairs. But Joe and her daughter together were too clever for her. When the boats went off she found herself to be in that one over which Mr. Cheesacre presided, while the sinning Ophelia with her good-for-nothing admirer were under the more mirthful protection of Captain Bellfield. "Mamma will be so angry," said Ophelia, "and it was all your fault. I did mean to go into the other boat. Don't, Mr. Fairstairs." Then they got settled down in their seats, to the satisfaction, let us hope, of them both. Mr. Cheesacre had vainly endeavoured to arrange that Mrs. Greenow should return with him. But not only was Captain Bellfield opposed to such a change in their positions, but so also was Mrs. Greenow. "I think we'd better go back as we came," she said, giving her hand to the Captain. "Oh, certainly," said Captain Bellfield. "Why should there be any change? Cheesacre, old fellow, mind you look after Mrs. Walker. Come along, my hearty." It really almost appeared that Captain Bellfield was addressing Mrs. Greenow as "his hearty," but it must be presumed that the term of genial endearment was intended for the whole boat's load. Mrs. Greenow took her place on the comfortable broad bench in the stern, and Bellfield seated himself beside her, with the tiller in his hand. "If you're going to steer, Captain Bellfield, I beg that you'll be careful." "Careful,--and with you on board!" said the Captain. "Don't you know that I would sooner perish beneath the waves than that a drop of water should touch you roughly?" "But you see, we might perish beneath the waves together." "Together! What a sweet word that is;--perish together! If it were not that there might be something better even than that, I would wish to perish in such company." "But I should not wish anything of the kind, Captain Bellfield, and therefore pray be careful." There was no perishing by water on that occasion. Mr. Cheesacre's boat reached the pier at Yarmouth first, and gave up its load without accident. Very shortly afterwards Captain Bellfield's crew reached the same place in the same state of preservation. "There," said he, as he handed out Mrs. Greenow. "I have brought you to no harm, at any rate as yet." "And, as I hope, will not do so hereafter." "May the heavens forbid it, Mrs. Greenow! Whatever may be our lots hereafter,--yours I mean and mine,--I trust that yours may be free from all disaster. Oh, that I might venture to hope that, at some future day, the privilege might be mine of protecting you from all danger!" "I can protect myself very well, I can assure you. Good night, Captain Bellfield. We won't take you and Mr. Cheesacre out of your way;--will we, Kate? We have had a most pleasant day." They were now upon the esplanade, and Mrs. Greenow's house was to the right, whereas the lodgings of both the gentlemen were to the left. Each of them fought hard for the privilege of accompanying the widow to her door; but Mrs. Greenow was self-willed, and upon this occasion would have neither of them. "Mr. Joe Fairstairs must pass the house," said she, "and he will see us home. Mr. Cheesacre, good night. Indeed you shall not;--not a step." There was that in her voice which induced Mr. Cheesacre to obey her, and which made Captain Bellfield aware that he would only injure his cause if he endeavoured to make further progress in it on the present occasion. "Well, Kate, what do you think of the day?" the aunt said when she was alone with her niece. "I never think much about such days, aunt. It was all very well, but I fear I have not the temperament fitted for enjoying the fun. I envied Ophelia Walker because she made herself thoroughly happy." "I do like to see girls enjoy themselves," said Mrs. Greenow, "I do, indeed;--and young men too. It seems so natural; why shouldn't young people flirt?" "Or old people either for the matter of that?" "Or old people either,--if they don't do any harm to anybody. I'll tell you what it is, Kate; people have become so very virtuous, that they're driven into all manner of abominable resources for amusement and occupation. If I had sons and daughters I should think a little flirting the very best thing for them as a safety valve. When people get to be old, there's a difficulty. They want to flirt with the young people and the young people don't want them. If the old people would be content to flirt together, I don't see why they should ever give it up;--till they're obliged to give up every thing, and go away." That was Mrs. Greenow's doctrine on the subject of flirtation. CHAPTER X. Nethercoats. We will leave Mrs. Greenow with her niece and two sisters at Yarmouth, and returning by stages to London, will call upon Mr. Grey at his place in Cambridgeshire as we pass by. I believe it is conceded by all the other counties, that Cambridgeshire possesses fewer rural beauties than any other county in England. It is very flat; it is not well timbered; the rivers are merely dikes; and in a very large portion of the county the farms and fields are divided simply by ditches--not by hedgerows. Such arrangements are, no doubt, well adapted for agricultural purposes, but are not conducive to rural beauty. Mr. Grey's residence was situated in a part of Cambridgeshire in which the above-named characteristics are very much marked. It was in the Isle of Ely, some few miles distant from the Cathedral town, on the side of a long straight road, which ran through the fields for miles without even a bush to cheer it. The name of his place was Nethercoats, and here he lived generally throughout the year, and here he intended to live throughout his life. His father had held a prebendal stall at Ely in times when prebendal stalls were worth more than they are at present, and having also been possessed of a living in the neighbourhood, had amassed a considerable sum of money. With this he had during his life purchased the property of Nethercoats, and had built on it the house in which his son now lived. He had married late in life, and had lost his wife soon after the birth of an only child. The house had been built in his own parish, and his wife had lived there for a few months and had died there. But after that event the old clergyman had gone back to his residence in the Close at Ely, and there John Grey had had the home of his youth. He had been brought up under his father's eye, having been sent to no public school. But he had gone to Cambridge, had taken college honours, and had then, his father dying exactly at this time, declined to accept a fellowship. His father had left to him an income of some fifteen hundred a year, and with this he sat himself down, near to his college friends, near also to the old cathedral which he loved, in the house which his father had built. But though Nethercoats possessed no beauty of scenery, though the country around it was in truth as uninteresting as any country could be, it had many delights of its own. The house itself was as excellent a residence for a country gentleman of small means as taste and skill together could construct. I doubt whether prettier rooms were ever seen than the drawing-room, the library, and the dining-room at Nethercoats. They were all on the ground-floor, and all opened out on to the garden and lawn. The library, which was the largest of the three, was a handsome chamber, and so filled as to make it well known in the University as one of the best private collections in that part of England. But perhaps the gardens of Nethercoats constituted its greatest glory. They were spacious and excellently kept up, and had been originally laid out with that knowledge of gardening without which no garden, merely as a garden, can be effective. And such, of necessity, was the garden of Nethercoats. Fine single forest trees there were none there, nor was it possible that there should have been any such. Nor could there be a clear rippling stream with steep green banks, and broken rocks lying about its bed. Such beauties are beauties of landscape, and do not of their nature belong to a garden. But the shrubs of Nethercoats were of the rarest kind, and had been long enough in their present places to have reached the period of their beauty. Nothing had been spared that a garden could want. The fruit-trees were perfect in their kind, and the glass-houses were so good and so extensive that John Grey in his prudence was some times tempted to think that he had too much of them. It must be understood that there were no grounds, according to the meaning usually given to that word, belonging to the house at Nethercoats. Between the garden and the public road there was a paddock belonging to the house, along the side of which, but divided from it by a hedge and shrubbery, ran the private carriageway up to the house. This swept through the small front flower-garden, dividing it equally; but the lawns and indeed the whole of that which made the beauty of the place lay on the back of the house, on which side opened the windows from the three sitting-rooms. Down on the public road there stood a lodge at which lived one of the gardeners. There was another field of some six or seven acres, to which there was a gate from the corner of the front paddock, and which went round two sides of the garden. This was Nethercoats, and the whole estate covered about twelve acres. It was not a place for much bachelor enjoyment of that sort generally popular with bachelors; nevertheless Mr. Grey had been constant in his residence there for the seven years which had now elapsed since he had left his college. His easy access to Cambridge had probably done much to mitigate what might otherwise have been the too great tedium of his life; and he had, prompted thereto by early associations, found most of his society in the Close of Ely Cathedral. But, with all the delight he could derive from these two sources, there had still been many solitary hours in his life, and he had gradually learned to feel that he of all men wanted a companion in his home. His visits to London had generally been short and far between, occasioned probably by some need in the library, or by the necessity of some slight literary transaction with the editor or publisher of a periodical. In one of these visits he had met Alice Vavasor, and had remained in Town,--I will not say till Alice had promised to share his home in Cambridgeshire, but so long that he had resolved before he went that he would ask her to do so. He had asked her, and we know that he had been successful. He had obtained her promise, and from that moment all his life had been changed for him. Hitherto at Nethercoats his little smoking-room, his books, and his plants had been everything to him. Now he began to surround himself with an infinity of feminine belongings, and to promise himself an infinity of feminine blessings, wondering much that he should have been content to pass so long a portion of his life in the dull seclusion which he had endured. He was not by nature an impatient man; but now he became impatient, longing for the fruition of his new idea of happiness,--longing to have that as his own which he certainly loved beyond all else in the world, and which, perhaps, was all he had ever loved with the perfect love of equality. But though impatient, and fully aware of his own impatience, he acknowledged to himself that Alice could not be expected to share it. He could plan nothing now,--could have no pleasure in life that she was not expected to share. But as yet it could not be so with her. She had her house in London, her town society, and her father. And, inasmuch as the change for her would be much greater than it would be for him, it was natural that she should require some small delay. He had not pressed her. At least he had not pressed her with that eager pressure which a girl must resist with something of the opposition of a contest, if she resist it at all. But in truth his impatience was now waxing strong, and during the absence in Switzerland of which we have spoken, he resolved that a marriage very late in the autumn,--that a marriage even in winter, would be better than a marriage postponed till the following year. It was not yet late in August when the party returned from their tour. Would not a further delay of two months suffice for his bride? Alice had written to him occasionally from Switzerland, and her first two letters had been very charming. They had referred almost exclusively to the tour, and had been made pleasant with some slightly coloured account of George Vavasor's idleness, and of Kate's obedience to her brother's behests. Alice had never written much of love in her love-letters, and Grey was well enough contented with her style, though it was not impassioned. As for doubting her love, it was not in the heart of the man to do so after it had been once assured to him by her word. He could not so slightly respect himself or her as to leave room for such a doubt in his bosom. He was a man who could never have suggested to himself that a woman loved him till the fact was there before him; but who having ascertained, as he might think, the fact, could never suggest to himself that her love would fail him. Her first two letters from Switzerland had been very pleasant; but after that there had seemed to have crept over her a melancholy which she unconsciously transferred to her words, and which he could not but taste in them,--at first unconsciously, also, but soon with so plain a flavour that he recognised it, and made it a matter of mental inquiry. During the three or four last days of the journey, while they were at Basle and on their way home, she had not written. But she did write on the day after her arrival, having then received from Mr. Grey a letter, in which he told her how very much she would add to his happiness if she would now agree that their marriage should not be postponed beyond the end of October. This letter she found in her room on her return, and this she answered at once. And she answered it in such words that Mr. Grey resolved that he would at once go to her in London. I will give her letter at length, as I shall then be best able to proceed with my story quickly. Queen Anne Street, -- August, 186--. DEAREST JOHN,-- We reached home yesterday tired enough, as we came through from Paris without stopping. I may indeed say that we came through from Strasbourg, as we only slept in Paris. I don't like Strasbourg. A steeple, after all, is not everything, and putting the steeple aside, I don't think the style is good. But the hotel was uncomfortable, which goes for so much;--and then we were saturated with beauty of a better kind. I got your letter directly I came in last night, and I suppose I had better dash at it at once. I would so willingly delay doing so, saying nice little things the while, did I not know that this would be mere cowardice. Whatever happens I won't be a coward, and therefore I will tell you at once that I cannot let you hope that we should be married this year. Of course you will ask me why, as you have a right to do, and of course I am bound to answer. I do not know that I can give any answer with which you will not have a right to complain. If it be so, I can only ask your pardon for the injury I am doing you. Marriage is a great change in life,--much greater to me than to you, who will remain in your old house, will keep your old pursuits, will still be your own master, and will change in nothing,--except in this, that you will have a companion who probably may not be all that you expect. But I must change everything. It will be to me as though I were passing through a grave to a new world. I shall see nothing that I have been accustomed to see, and must abandon all the ways of life that I have hitherto adopted. Of course I should have thought of this before I accepted you; and I did think of it. I made up my mind that, as I truly loved you, I would risk the change;--that I would risk it for your sake and for mine, hoping that I might add something to your happiness, and that I might secure my own. Dear John, do not suppose that I despair that it may be so; but, indeed, you must not hurry me. I must tune myself to the change that I have to make. What if I should wake some morning after six months living with you, and tell you that the quiet of your home was making me mad? You must not ask me again till the winter shall have passed away. If in the meantime I shall find that I have been wrong, I will humbly confess that I have wronged you, and ask you to forgive me. And I will freely admit this. If the delay which I now purpose is so contrary to your own plans as to make your marriage, under such circumstances, not that which you had expected, I know that you are free to tell me so, and to say that our engagement shall be over. I am well aware that I can have no right to bind you to a marriage at one period which you had only contemplated as to take place at another period. I think I may promise that I will obey any wish you may express in anything,--except in that one thing which you urged in your last letter. Kate is going down to Yarmouth with Mrs. Greenow, and I shall see no more of her probably till next year, as she will be due in Westmoreland after that. George left me at the door when he brought me home, and declared that he intended to vanish out of London. Whether in town or out, he is never to be seen at this period of the year. Papa offers to go to Ramsgate for a fortnight, but he looks so wretched when he makes the offer, that I shall not have the heart to hold him to it. Lady Macleod very much wants me to go to Cheltenham. I very much want not to go, simply because I can never agree with her about anything; but it will probably end in my going there for a week or two. Over and beyond that, I have no prospects before Christmas which are not purely domestic. There is a project that we shall all eat our Christmas dinner at Vavasor Hall,--of course not including George,--but this project is quite in the clouds, and, as far as I am concerned, will remain there. Dear John, let me hear that this letter does not make you unhappy. Most affectionately yours, ALICE VAVASOR. At Nethercoats, the post was brought in at breakfast-time, and Mr. Grey was sitting with his tea and eggs before him, when he read Alice's letter. He read it twice before he began to think what he would do in regard to it, and then referred to one or two others which he had received from Switzerland,--reading them also very carefully. After that, he took up the slouch hat which he had been wearing in the garden before he was called to his breakfast, and, with the letters in his hand, sauntered down among the shrubs and lawns. He knew, he thought he knew, that there was more in Alice's mind than a mere wish for delay. There was more in it than that hesitation to take at once a step which she really desired to take, if not now, then after some short interval. He felt that she was unhappy, and unhappy because she distrusted the results of her marriage; but it never for a moment occurred to him that, therefore, the engagement between them should be broken. In the first place he loved her too well to allow of his admitting such an idea without terrible sorrow to himself. He was a constant, firm man, somewhat reserved, and unwilling to make new acquaintances, and, therefore, specially unwilling to break away from those which he had made. Undoubtedly, had he satisfied himself that Alice's happiness demanded such a sacrifice of himself, he would have made it, and made it without a word of complaint. The blow would not have prostrated him, but the bruise would have remained on his heart, indelible, not to be healed but by death. He would have submitted, and no man would have seen that he had been

resentment

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

"I shan't dance, Mrs. Greenow, unless you like to stand up for a set." "No, my friend, no; I shall not do that. I fear you forget how recent has been my bereavement. Your asking me is the bitterest reproach to me for having ventured to join your festive board." "Upon my honour I didn't mean it, Mrs. Greenow. I didn't mean it, indeed." "I do not suspect you. It would have been unmanly." "And nobody can say that of me. There isn't a man or woman in Norfolk that wouldn't say I was manly." "I'm quite sure of that." "I have my faults, I'm aware." "And what are your faults, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well; perhaps I'm extravagant. But it's only in these kind of things you know, when I spend a little money for the sake of making my friends happy. When I'm about, on the lands at home, I ain't extravagant, I can tell you." "Extravagance is a great vice." "Oh, I ain't extravagant in that sense;--not a bit in the world. But when a man's enamoured, and perhaps looking out for a wife, he does like to be a little free, you know." "And are you looking out for a wife, Mr. Cheesacre?" "If I told you I suppose you'd only laugh at me." "No; indeed I would not. I am not given to joking when any one that I regard speaks to me seriously." "Ain't you though? I'm so glad of that. When one has really got a serious thing to say, one doesn't like to have fun poked at one." "And, besides, how could I laugh at marriages, seeing how happy I have been in that condition?--so--very--happy," and Mrs. Greenow put up her handkerchief to her eyes. "So happy that you'll try it again some day; won't you?" "Never, Mr. Cheesacre; never. Is that the way you talk of serious things without joking? Anything like love--love of that sort--is over for me. It lies buried under the sod with my poor dear departed saint." "But, Mrs. Greenow,"--and Cheesacre, as he prepared to argue the question with her, got nearer to her in the corner behind the table,--"But, Mrs. Greenow, care killed a cat, you know." "And sometimes I think that care will kill me." "No, by George; not if I can prevent it." "You're very kind, Mr. Cheesacre; but there's no preventing such care as mine." "Isn't there though? I'll tell you what, Mrs. Greenow; I'm in earnest, I am indeed. If you'll inquire, you'll find there isn't a fellow in Norfolk pays his way better than I do, or is better able to do it. I don't pay a sixpence of rent, and I sit upon seven hundred acres of as good land as there is in the county. There's not an acre that won't do me a bullock and a half. Just put that and that together, and see what it comes to. And, mind you, some of these fellows that farm their own land are worse off than if they'd rent to pay. They've borrowed so much to carry on with, that the interest is more than rent. I don't owe a sixpence to ere a man or ere a company in the world. I can walk into every bank in Norwich without seeing my master. There ain't any of my paper flying about, Mrs. Greenow. I'm Samuel Cheesacre of Oileymead, and it's all my own." Mr. Cheesacre, as he thus spoke of his good fortunes and firm standing in the world, became impetuous in the energy of the moment, and brought down his fist powerfully on the slight table before them. The whole fabric rattled, and the boat resounded, but the noise he had made seemed to assist him. "It's all my own, Mrs. Greenow, and the half of it shall be yours if you'll please to take it;" then he stretched out his hand to her, not as though he intended to grasp hers in a grasp of love, but as if he expected some hand-pledge from her as a token that she accepted the bargain. "If you'd known Greenow, Mr. Cheesacre--" "I've no doubt he was a very good sort of man." "If you'd known him, you would not have addressed me in this way." "What difference would that make? My idea is that care killed a cat, as I said before. I never knew what was the good of being unhappy. If I find early mangels don't do on a bit of land, then I sow late turnips; and never cry after spilt milk. Greenow was the early mangels; I'll be the late turnips. Come then, say the word. There ain't a bedroom in my house,--not one of the front ones,--that isn't mahogany furnished!" "What's furniture to me?" said Mrs. Greenow, with her handkerchief to her eyes. Just at this moment Maria's mother stepped in under the canvas. It was most inopportune. Mr. Cheesacre felt that he was progressing well, and was conscious that he had got safely over those fences in the race which his bashfulness would naturally make difficult to him. He knew that he had done this under the influence of the champagne, and was aware that it might not be easy to procure again a combination of circumstances that would be so beneficial to him. But now he was interrupted just as he was expecting success. He was interrupted, and felt himself to be looking like a guilty creature under the eye of the strange lady. He had not a word to say; but drawing himself suddenly a foot and half away from the widow's side, sat there confessing his guilt in his face. Mrs. Greenow felt no guilt, and was afraid of no strange eyes. "Mr. Cheesacre and I are talking about farming," she said. "Oh; farming!" answered Maria's mother. "Mr. Cheesacre thinks that turnips are better than early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "Yes, I do," said Cheesacre, "I prefer the early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think nature ever intended those late crops. What do you say, Mrs. Walker?" "I daresay Mr. Cheesacre understands what he's about when he's at home," said the lady. "I know what a bit of land can do as well as any man in Norfolk," said the gentleman. "It may be very well in Norfolk," said Mrs. Greenow, rising from her seat; "but the practice isn't thought much of in the other counties with which I am better acquainted." "I'd just come in to say that I thought we might be getting to the boats," said Mrs. Walker. "My Ophelia is so delicate." At this moment the delicate Ophelia was to be seen, under the influence of the music, taking a distant range upon the sands with Joe Fairstairs' arm round her waist. The attitude was justified by the tune that was in progress, and there is no reason why a galop on the sands should have any special termination in distance, as it must have in a room. But, under such circumstances, Mrs. Walker's solicitude was not unreasonable. The erratic steps of the distant dancers were recalled and preparations were made for the return journey. Others had strayed besides the delicate Ophelia and the idle Joe, and some little time was taken up in collecting the party. The boats had to be drawn down, and the boatmen fetched from their cans and tobacco-pipes. "I hope they're sober," said Mrs. Walker, with a look of great dismay. "Sober as judges," said Bellfield, who had himself been looking after the remains of Mr. Cheesacre's hampers, while that gentleman had been so much better engaged in the tent. "Because," continued Mrs. Walker, "I know that they play all manner of tricks when they're--in liquor. They'd think nothing of taking us out to sea, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, I do wish they would," said Ophelia. "Ophelia, mind you come in the boat with me," said her mother, and she looked very savage when she gave the order. It was Mrs. Walker's intention that that boat should not carry Joe Fairstairs. But Joe and her daughter together were too clever for her. When the boats went off she found herself to be in that one over which Mr. Cheesacre presided, while the sinning Ophelia with her good-for-nothing admirer were under the more mirthful protection of Captain Bellfield. "Mamma will be so angry," said Ophelia, "and it was all your fault. I did mean to go into the other boat. Don't, Mr. Fairstairs." Then they got settled down in their seats, to the satisfaction, let us hope, of them both. Mr. Cheesacre had vainly endeavoured to arrange that Mrs. Greenow should return with him. But not only was Captain Bellfield opposed to such a change in their positions, but so also was Mrs. Greenow. "I think we'd better go back as we came," she said, giving her hand to the Captain. "Oh, certainly," said Captain Bellfield. "Why should there be any change? Cheesacre, old fellow, mind you look after Mrs. Walker. Come along, my hearty." It really almost appeared that Captain Bellfield was addressing Mrs. Greenow as "his hearty," but it must be presumed that the term of genial endearment was intended for the whole boat's load. Mrs. Greenow took her place on the comfortable broad bench in the stern, and Bellfield seated himself beside her, with the tiller in his hand. "If you're going to steer, Captain Bellfield, I beg that you'll be careful." "Careful,--and with you on board!" said the Captain. "Don't you know that I would sooner perish beneath the waves than that a drop of water should touch you roughly?" "But you see, we might perish beneath the waves together." "Together! What a sweet word that is;--perish together! If it were not that there might be something better even than that, I would wish to perish in such company." "But I should not wish anything of the kind, Captain Bellfield, and therefore pray be careful." There was no perishing by water on that occasion. Mr. Cheesacre's boat reached the pier at Yarmouth first, and gave up its load without accident. Very shortly afterwards Captain Bellfield's crew reached the same place in the same state of preservation. "There," said he, as he handed out Mrs. Greenow. "I have brought you to no harm, at any rate as yet." "And, as I hope, will not do so hereafter." "May the heavens forbid it, Mrs. Greenow! Whatever may be our lots hereafter,--yours I mean and mine,--I trust that yours may be free from all disaster. Oh, that I might venture to hope that, at some future day, the privilege might be mine of protecting you from all danger!" "I can protect myself very well, I can assure you. Good night, Captain Bellfield. We won't take you and Mr. Cheesacre out of your way;--will we, Kate? We have had a most pleasant day." They were now upon the esplanade, and Mrs. Greenow's house was to the right, whereas the lodgings of both the gentlemen were to the left. Each of them fought hard for the privilege of accompanying the widow to her door; but Mrs. Greenow was self-willed, and upon this occasion would have neither of them. "Mr. Joe Fairstairs must pass the house," said she, "and he will see us home. Mr. Cheesacre, good night. Indeed you shall not;--not a step." There was that in her voice which induced Mr. Cheesacre to obey her, and which made Captain Bellfield aware that he would only injure his cause if he endeavoured to make further progress in it on the present occasion. "Well, Kate, what do you think of the day?" the aunt said when she was alone with her niece. "I never think much about such days, aunt. It was all very well, but I fear I have not the temperament fitted for enjoying the fun. I envied Ophelia Walker because she made herself thoroughly happy." "I do like to see girls enjoy themselves," said Mrs. Greenow, "I do, indeed;--and young men too. It seems so natural; why shouldn't young people flirt?" "Or old people either for the matter of that?" "Or old people either,--if they don't do any harm to anybody. I'll tell you what it is, Kate; people have become so very virtuous, that they're driven into all manner of abominable resources for amusement and occupation. If I had sons and daughters I should think a little flirting the very best thing for them as a safety valve. When people get to be old, there's a difficulty. They want to flirt with the young people and the young people don't want them. If the old people would be content to flirt together, I don't see why they should ever give it up;--till they're obliged to give up every thing, and go away." That was Mrs. Greenow's doctrine on the subject of flirtation. CHAPTER X. Nethercoats. We will leave Mrs. Greenow with her niece and two sisters at Yarmouth, and returning by stages to London, will call upon Mr. Grey at his place in Cambridgeshire as we pass by. I believe it is conceded by all the other counties, that Cambridgeshire possesses fewer rural beauties than any other county in England. It is very flat; it is not well timbered; the rivers are merely dikes; and in a very large portion of the county the farms and fields are divided simply by ditches--not by hedgerows. Such arrangements are, no doubt, well adapted for agricultural purposes, but are not conducive to rural beauty. Mr. Grey's residence was situated in a part of Cambridgeshire in which the above-named characteristics are very much marked. It was in the Isle of Ely, some few miles distant from the Cathedral town, on the side of a long straight road, which ran through the fields for miles without even a bush to cheer it. The name of his place was Nethercoats, and here he lived generally throughout the year, and here he intended to live throughout his life. His father had held a prebendal stall at Ely in times when prebendal stalls were worth more than they are at present, and having also been possessed of a living in the neighbourhood, had amassed a considerable sum of money. With this he had during his life purchased the property of Nethercoats, and had built on it the house in which his son now lived. He had married late in life, and had lost his wife soon after the birth of an only child. The house had been built in his own parish, and his wife had lived there for a few months and had died there. But after that event the old clergyman had gone back to his residence in the Close at Ely, and there John Grey had had the home of his youth. He had been brought up under his father's eye, having been sent to no public school. But he had gone to Cambridge, had taken college honours, and had then, his father dying exactly at this time, declined to accept a fellowship. His father had left to him an income of some fifteen hundred a year, and with this he sat himself down, near to his college friends, near also to the old cathedral which he loved, in the house which his father had built. But though Nethercoats possessed no beauty of scenery, though the country around it was in truth as uninteresting as any country could be, it had many delights of its own. The house itself was as excellent a residence for a country gentleman of small means as taste and skill together could construct. I doubt whether prettier rooms were ever seen than the drawing-room, the library, and the dining-room at Nethercoats. They were all on the ground-floor, and all opened out on to the garden and lawn. The library, which was the largest of the three, was a handsome chamber, and so filled as to make it well known in the University as one of the best private collections in that part of England. But perhaps the gardens of Nethercoats constituted its greatest glory. They were spacious and excellently kept up, and had been originally laid out with that knowledge of gardening without which no garden, merely as a garden, can be effective. And such, of necessity, was the garden of Nethercoats. Fine single forest trees there were none there, nor was it possible that there should have been any such. Nor could there be a clear rippling stream with steep green banks, and broken rocks lying about its bed. Such beauties are beauties of landscape, and do not of their nature belong to a garden. But the shrubs of Nethercoats were of the rarest kind, and had been long enough in their present places to have reached the period of their beauty. Nothing had been spared that a garden could want. The fruit-trees were perfect in their kind, and the glass-houses were so good and so extensive that John Grey in his prudence was some times tempted to think that he had too much of them. It must be understood that there were no grounds, according to the meaning usually given to that word, belonging to the house at Nethercoats. Between the garden and the public road there was a paddock belonging to the house, along the side of which, but divided from it by a hedge and shrubbery, ran the private carriageway up to the house. This swept through the small front flower-garden, dividing it equally; but the lawns and indeed the whole of that which made the beauty of the place lay on the back of the house, on which side opened the windows from the three sitting-rooms. Down on the public road there stood a lodge at which lived one of the gardeners. There was another field of some six or seven acres, to which there was a gate from the corner of the front paddock, and which went round two sides of the garden. This was Nethercoats, and the whole estate covered about twelve acres. It was not a place for much bachelor enjoyment of that sort generally popular with bachelors; nevertheless Mr. Grey had been constant in his residence there for the seven years which had now elapsed since he had left his college. His easy access to Cambridge had probably done much to mitigate what might otherwise have been the too great tedium of his life; and he had, prompted thereto by early associations, found most of his society in the Close of Ely Cathedral. But, with all the delight he could derive from these two sources, there had still been many solitary hours in his life, and he had gradually learned to feel that he of all men wanted a companion in his home. His visits to London had generally been short and far between, occasioned probably by some need in the library, or by the necessity of some slight literary transaction with the editor or publisher of a periodical. In one of these visits he had met Alice Vavasor, and had remained in Town,--I will not say till Alice had promised to share his home in Cambridgeshire, but so long that he had resolved before he went that he would ask her to do so. He had asked her, and we know that he had been successful. He had obtained her promise, and from that moment all his life had been changed for him. Hitherto at Nethercoats his little smoking-room, his books, and his plants had been everything to him. Now he began to surround himself with an infinity of feminine belongings, and to promise himself an infinity of feminine blessings, wondering much that he should have been content to pass so long a portion of his life in the dull seclusion which he had endured. He was not by nature an impatient man; but now he became impatient, longing for the fruition of his new idea of happiness,--longing to have that as his own which he certainly loved beyond all else in the world, and which, perhaps, was all he had ever loved with the perfect love of equality. But though impatient, and fully aware of his own impatience, he acknowledged to himself that Alice could not be expected to share it. He could plan nothing now,--could have no pleasure in life that she was not expected to share. But as yet it could not be so with her. She had her house in London, her town society, and her father. And, inasmuch as the change for her would be much greater than it would be for him, it was natural that she should require some small delay. He had not pressed her. At least he had not pressed her with that eager pressure which a girl must resist with something of the opposition of a contest, if she resist it at all. But in truth his impatience was now waxing strong, and during the absence in Switzerland of which we have spoken, he resolved that a marriage very late in the autumn,--that a marriage even in winter, would be better than a marriage postponed till the following year. It was not yet late in August when the party returned from their tour. Would not a further delay of two months suffice for his bride? Alice had written to him occasionally from Switzerland, and her first two letters had been very charming. They had referred almost exclusively to the tour, and had been made pleasant with some slightly coloured account of George Vavasor's idleness, and of Kate's obedience to her brother's behests. Alice had never written much of love in her love-letters, and Grey was well enough contented with her style, though it was not impassioned. As for doubting her love, it was not in the heart of the man to do so after it had been once assured to him by her word. He could not so slightly respect himself or her as to leave room for such a doubt in his bosom. He was a man who could never have suggested to himself that a woman loved him till the fact was there before him; but who having ascertained, as he might think, the fact, could never suggest to himself that her love would fail him. Her first two letters from Switzerland had been very pleasant; but after that there had seemed to have crept over her a melancholy which she unconsciously transferred to her words, and which he could not but taste in them,--at first unconsciously, also, but soon with so plain a flavour that he recognised it, and made it a matter of mental inquiry. During the three or four last days of the journey, while they were at Basle and on their way home, she had not written. But she did write on the day after her arrival, having then received from Mr. Grey a letter, in which he told her how very much she would add to his happiness if she would now agree that their marriage should not be postponed beyond the end of October. This letter she found in her room on her return, and this she answered at once. And she answered it in such words that Mr. Grey resolved that he would at once go to her in London. I will give her letter at length, as I shall then be best able to proceed with my story quickly. Queen Anne Street, -- August, 186--. DEAREST JOHN,-- We reached home yesterday tired enough, as we came through from Paris without stopping. I may indeed say that we came through from Strasbourg, as we only slept in Paris. I don't like Strasbourg. A steeple, after all, is not everything, and putting the steeple aside, I don't think the style is good. But the hotel was uncomfortable, which goes for so much;--and then we were saturated with beauty of a better kind. I got your letter directly I came in last night, and I suppose I had better dash at it at once. I would so willingly delay doing so, saying nice little things the while, did I not know that this would be mere cowardice. Whatever happens I won't be a coward, and therefore I will tell you at once that I cannot let you hope that we should be married this year. Of course you will ask me why, as you have a right to do, and of course I am bound to answer. I do not know that I can give any answer with which you will not have a right to complain. If it be so, I can only ask your pardon for the injury I am doing you. Marriage is a great change in life,--much greater to me than to you, who will remain in your old house, will keep your old pursuits, will still be your own master, and will change in nothing,--except in this, that you will have a companion who probably may not be all that you expect. But I must change everything. It will be to me as though I were passing through a grave to a new world. I shall see nothing that I have been accustomed to see, and must abandon all the ways of life that I have hitherto adopted. Of course I should have thought of this before I accepted you; and I did think of it. I made up my mind that, as I truly loved you, I would risk the change;--that I would risk it for your sake and for mine, hoping that I might add something to your happiness, and that I might secure my own. Dear John, do not suppose that I despair that it may be so; but, indeed, you must not hurry me. I must tune myself to the change that I have to make. What if I should wake some morning after six months living with you, and tell you that the quiet of your home was making me mad? You must not ask me again till the winter shall have passed away. If in the meantime I shall find that I have been wrong, I will humbly confess that I have wronged you, and ask you to forgive me. And I will freely admit this. If the delay which I now purpose is so contrary to your own plans as to make your marriage, under such circumstances, not that which you had expected, I know that you are free to tell me so, and to say that our engagement shall be over. I am well aware that I can have no right to bind you to a marriage at one period which you had only contemplated as to take place at another period. I think I may promise that I will obey any wish you may express in anything,--except in that one thing which you urged in your last letter. Kate is going down to Yarmouth with Mrs. Greenow, and I shall see no more of her probably till next year, as she will be due in Westmoreland after that. George left me at the door when he brought me home, and declared that he intended to vanish out of London. Whether in town or out, he is never to be seen at this period of the year. Papa offers to go to Ramsgate for a fortnight, but he looks so wretched when he makes the offer, that I shall not have the heart to hold him to it. Lady Macleod very much wants me to go to Cheltenham. I very much want not to go, simply because I can never agree with her about anything; but it will probably end in my going there for a week or two. Over and beyond that, I have no prospects before Christmas which are not purely domestic. There is a project that we shall all eat our Christmas dinner at Vavasor Hall,--of course not including George,--but this project is quite in the clouds, and, as far as I am concerned, will remain there. Dear John, let me hear that this letter does not make you unhappy. Most affectionately yours, ALICE VAVASOR. At Nethercoats, the post was brought in at breakfast-time, and Mr. Grey was sitting with his tea and eggs before him, when he read Alice's letter. He read it twice before he began to think what he would do in regard to it, and then referred to one or two others which he had received from Switzerland,--reading them also very carefully. After that, he took up the slouch hat which he had been wearing in the garden before he was called to his breakfast, and, with the letters in his hand, sauntered down among the shrubs and lawns. He knew, he thought he knew, that there was more in Alice's mind than a mere wish for delay. There was more in it than that hesitation to take at once a step which she really desired to take, if not now, then after some short interval. He felt that she was unhappy, and unhappy because she distrusted the results of her marriage; but it never for a moment occurred to him that, therefore, the engagement between them should be broken. In the first place he loved her too well to allow of his admitting such an idea without terrible sorrow to himself. He was a constant, firm man, somewhat reserved, and unwilling to make new acquaintances, and, therefore, specially unwilling to break away from those which he had made. Undoubtedly, had he satisfied himself that Alice's happiness demanded such a sacrifice of himself, he would have made it, and made it without a word of complaint. The blow would not have prostrated him, but the bruise would have remained on his heart, indelible, not to be healed but by death. He would have submitted, and no man would have seen that he had been

got

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

"I shan't dance, Mrs. Greenow, unless you like to stand up for a set." "No, my friend, no; I shall not do that. I fear you forget how recent has been my bereavement. Your asking me is the bitterest reproach to me for having ventured to join your festive board." "Upon my honour I didn't mean it, Mrs. Greenow. I didn't mean it, indeed." "I do not suspect you. It would have been unmanly." "And nobody can say that of me. There isn't a man or woman in Norfolk that wouldn't say I was manly." "I'm quite sure of that." "I have my faults, I'm aware." "And what are your faults, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well; perhaps I'm extravagant. But it's only in these kind of things you know, when I spend a little money for the sake of making my friends happy. When I'm about, on the lands at home, I ain't extravagant, I can tell you." "Extravagance is a great vice." "Oh, I ain't extravagant in that sense;--not a bit in the world. But when a man's enamoured, and perhaps looking out for a wife, he does like to be a little free, you know." "And are you looking out for a wife, Mr. Cheesacre?" "If I told you I suppose you'd only laugh at me." "No; indeed I would not. I am not given to joking when any one that I regard speaks to me seriously." "Ain't you though? I'm so glad of that. When one has really got a serious thing to say, one doesn't like to have fun poked at one." "And, besides, how could I laugh at marriages, seeing how happy I have been in that condition?--so--very--happy," and Mrs. Greenow put up her handkerchief to her eyes. "So happy that you'll try it again some day; won't you?" "Never, Mr. Cheesacre; never. Is that the way you talk of serious things without joking? Anything like love--love of that sort--is over for me. It lies buried under the sod with my poor dear departed saint." "But, Mrs. Greenow,"--and Cheesacre, as he prepared to argue the question with her, got nearer to her in the corner behind the table,--"But, Mrs. Greenow, care killed a cat, you know." "And sometimes I think that care will kill me." "No, by George; not if I can prevent it." "You're very kind, Mr. Cheesacre; but there's no preventing such care as mine." "Isn't there though? I'll tell you what, Mrs. Greenow; I'm in earnest, I am indeed. If you'll inquire, you'll find there isn't a fellow in Norfolk pays his way better than I do, or is better able to do it. I don't pay a sixpence of rent, and I sit upon seven hundred acres of as good land as there is in the county. There's not an acre that won't do me a bullock and a half. Just put that and that together, and see what it comes to. And, mind you, some of these fellows that farm their own land are worse off than if they'd rent to pay. They've borrowed so much to carry on with, that the interest is more than rent. I don't owe a sixpence to ere a man or ere a company in the world. I can walk into every bank in Norwich without seeing my master. There ain't any of my paper flying about, Mrs. Greenow. I'm Samuel Cheesacre of Oileymead, and it's all my own." Mr. Cheesacre, as he thus spoke of his good fortunes and firm standing in the world, became impetuous in the energy of the moment, and brought down his fist powerfully on the slight table before them. The whole fabric rattled, and the boat resounded, but the noise he had made seemed to assist him. "It's all my own, Mrs. Greenow, and the half of it shall be yours if you'll please to take it;" then he stretched out his hand to her, not as though he intended to grasp hers in a grasp of love, but as if he expected some hand-pledge from her as a token that she accepted the bargain. "If you'd known Greenow, Mr. Cheesacre--" "I've no doubt he was a very good sort of man." "If you'd known him, you would not have addressed me in this way." "What difference would that make? My idea is that care killed a cat, as I said before. I never knew what was the good of being unhappy. If I find early mangels don't do on a bit of land, then I sow late turnips; and never cry after spilt milk. Greenow was the early mangels; I'll be the late turnips. Come then, say the word. There ain't a bedroom in my house,--not one of the front ones,--that isn't mahogany furnished!" "What's furniture to me?" said Mrs. Greenow, with her handkerchief to her eyes. Just at this moment Maria's mother stepped in under the canvas. It was most inopportune. Mr. Cheesacre felt that he was progressing well, and was conscious that he had got safely over those fences in the race which his bashfulness would naturally make difficult to him. He knew that he had done this under the influence of the champagne, and was aware that it might not be easy to procure again a combination of circumstances that would be so beneficial to him. But now he was interrupted just as he was expecting success. He was interrupted, and felt himself to be looking like a guilty creature under the eye of the strange lady. He had not a word to say; but drawing himself suddenly a foot and half away from the widow's side, sat there confessing his guilt in his face. Mrs. Greenow felt no guilt, and was afraid of no strange eyes. "Mr. Cheesacre and I are talking about farming," she said. "Oh; farming!" answered Maria's mother. "Mr. Cheesacre thinks that turnips are better than early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "Yes, I do," said Cheesacre, "I prefer the early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think nature ever intended those late crops. What do you say, Mrs. Walker?" "I daresay Mr. Cheesacre understands what he's about when he's at home," said the lady. "I know what a bit of land can do as well as any man in Norfolk," said the gentleman. "It may be very well in Norfolk," said Mrs. Greenow, rising from her seat; "but the practice isn't thought much of in the other counties with which I am better acquainted." "I'd just come in to say that I thought we might be getting to the boats," said Mrs. Walker. "My Ophelia is so delicate." At this moment the delicate Ophelia was to be seen, under the influence of the music, taking a distant range upon the sands with Joe Fairstairs' arm round her waist. The attitude was justified by the tune that was in progress, and there is no reason why a galop on the sands should have any special termination in distance, as it must have in a room. But, under such circumstances, Mrs. Walker's solicitude was not unreasonable. The erratic steps of the distant dancers were recalled and preparations were made for the return journey. Others had strayed besides the delicate Ophelia and the idle Joe, and some little time was taken up in collecting the party. The boats had to be drawn down, and the boatmen fetched from their cans and tobacco-pipes. "I hope they're sober," said Mrs. Walker, with a look of great dismay. "Sober as judges," said Bellfield, who had himself been looking after the remains of Mr. Cheesacre's hampers, while that gentleman had been so much better engaged in the tent. "Because," continued Mrs. Walker, "I know that they play all manner of tricks when they're--in liquor. They'd think nothing of taking us out to sea, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, I do wish they would," said Ophelia. "Ophelia, mind you come in the boat with me," said her mother, and she looked very savage when she gave the order. It was Mrs. Walker's intention that that boat should not carry Joe Fairstairs. But Joe and her daughter together were too clever for her. When the boats went off she found herself to be in that one over which Mr. Cheesacre presided, while the sinning Ophelia with her good-for-nothing admirer were under the more mirthful protection of Captain Bellfield. "Mamma will be so angry," said Ophelia, "and it was all your fault. I did mean to go into the other boat. Don't, Mr. Fairstairs." Then they got settled down in their seats, to the satisfaction, let us hope, of them both. Mr. Cheesacre had vainly endeavoured to arrange that Mrs. Greenow should return with him. But not only was Captain Bellfield opposed to such a change in their positions, but so also was Mrs. Greenow. "I think we'd better go back as we came," she said, giving her hand to the Captain. "Oh, certainly," said Captain Bellfield. "Why should there be any change? Cheesacre, old fellow, mind you look after Mrs. Walker. Come along, my hearty." It really almost appeared that Captain Bellfield was addressing Mrs. Greenow as "his hearty," but it must be presumed that the term of genial endearment was intended for the whole boat's load. Mrs. Greenow took her place on the comfortable broad bench in the stern, and Bellfield seated himself beside her, with the tiller in his hand. "If you're going to steer, Captain Bellfield, I beg that you'll be careful." "Careful,--and with you on board!" said the Captain. "Don't you know that I would sooner perish beneath the waves than that a drop of water should touch you roughly?" "But you see, we might perish beneath the waves together." "Together! What a sweet word that is;--perish together! If it were not that there might be something better even than that, I would wish to perish in such company." "But I should not wish anything of the kind, Captain Bellfield, and therefore pray be careful." There was no perishing by water on that occasion. Mr. Cheesacre's boat reached the pier at Yarmouth first, and gave up its load without accident. Very shortly afterwards Captain Bellfield's crew reached the same place in the same state of preservation. "There," said he, as he handed out Mrs. Greenow. "I have brought you to no harm, at any rate as yet." "And, as I hope, will not do so hereafter." "May the heavens forbid it, Mrs. Greenow! Whatever may be our lots hereafter,--yours I mean and mine,--I trust that yours may be free from all disaster. Oh, that I might venture to hope that, at some future day, the privilege might be mine of protecting you from all danger!" "I can protect myself very well, I can assure you. Good night, Captain Bellfield. We won't take you and Mr. Cheesacre out of your way;--will we, Kate? We have had a most pleasant day." They were now upon the esplanade, and Mrs. Greenow's house was to the right, whereas the lodgings of both the gentlemen were to the left. Each of them fought hard for the privilege of accompanying the widow to her door; but Mrs. Greenow was self-willed, and upon this occasion would have neither of them. "Mr. Joe Fairstairs must pass the house," said she, "and he will see us home. Mr. Cheesacre, good night. Indeed you shall not;--not a step." There was that in her voice which induced Mr. Cheesacre to obey her, and which made Captain Bellfield aware that he would only injure his cause if he endeavoured to make further progress in it on the present occasion. "Well, Kate, what do you think of the day?" the aunt said when she was alone with her niece. "I never think much about such days, aunt. It was all very well, but I fear I have not the temperament fitted for enjoying the fun. I envied Ophelia Walker because she made herself thoroughly happy." "I do like to see girls enjoy themselves," said Mrs. Greenow, "I do, indeed;--and young men too. It seems so natural; why shouldn't young people flirt?" "Or old people either for the matter of that?" "Or old people either,--if they don't do any harm to anybody. I'll tell you what it is, Kate; people have become so very virtuous, that they're driven into all manner of abominable resources for amusement and occupation. If I had sons and daughters I should think a little flirting the very best thing for them as a safety valve. When people get to be old, there's a difficulty. They want to flirt with the young people and the young people don't want them. If the old people would be content to flirt together, I don't see why they should ever give it up;--till they're obliged to give up every thing, and go away." That was Mrs. Greenow's doctrine on the subject of flirtation. CHAPTER X. Nethercoats. We will leave Mrs. Greenow with her niece and two sisters at Yarmouth, and returning by stages to London, will call upon Mr. Grey at his place in Cambridgeshire as we pass by. I believe it is conceded by all the other counties, that Cambridgeshire possesses fewer rural beauties than any other county in England. It is very flat; it is not well timbered; the rivers are merely dikes; and in a very large portion of the county the farms and fields are divided simply by ditches--not by hedgerows. Such arrangements are, no doubt, well adapted for agricultural purposes, but are not conducive to rural beauty. Mr. Grey's residence was situated in a part of Cambridgeshire in which the above-named characteristics are very much marked. It was in the Isle of Ely, some few miles distant from the Cathedral town, on the side of a long straight road, which ran through the fields for miles without even a bush to cheer it. The name of his place was Nethercoats, and here he lived generally throughout the year, and here he intended to live throughout his life. His father had held a prebendal stall at Ely in times when prebendal stalls were worth more than they are at present, and having also been possessed of a living in the neighbourhood, had amassed a considerable sum of money. With this he had during his life purchased the property of Nethercoats, and had built on it the house in which his son now lived. He had married late in life, and had lost his wife soon after the birth of an only child. The house had been built in his own parish, and his wife had lived there for a few months and had died there. But after that event the old clergyman had gone back to his residence in the Close at Ely, and there John Grey had had the home of his youth. He had been brought up under his father's eye, having been sent to no public school. But he had gone to Cambridge, had taken college honours, and had then, his father dying exactly at this time, declined to accept a fellowship. His father had left to him an income of some fifteen hundred a year, and with this he sat himself down, near to his college friends, near also to the old cathedral which he loved, in the house which his father had built. But though Nethercoats possessed no beauty of scenery, though the country around it was in truth as uninteresting as any country could be, it had many delights of its own. The house itself was as excellent a residence for a country gentleman of small means as taste and skill together could construct. I doubt whether prettier rooms were ever seen than the drawing-room, the library, and the dining-room at Nethercoats. They were all on the ground-floor, and all opened out on to the garden and lawn. The library, which was the largest of the three, was a handsome chamber, and so filled as to make it well known in the University as one of the best private collections in that part of England. But perhaps the gardens of Nethercoats constituted its greatest glory. They were spacious and excellently kept up, and had been originally laid out with that knowledge of gardening without which no garden, merely as a garden, can be effective. And such, of necessity, was the garden of Nethercoats. Fine single forest trees there were none there, nor was it possible that there should have been any such. Nor could there be a clear rippling stream with steep green banks, and broken rocks lying about its bed. Such beauties are beauties of landscape, and do not of their nature belong to a garden. But the shrubs of Nethercoats were of the rarest kind, and had been long enough in their present places to have reached the period of their beauty. Nothing had been spared that a garden could want. The fruit-trees were perfect in their kind, and the glass-houses were so good and so extensive that John Grey in his prudence was some times tempted to think that he had too much of them. It must be understood that there were no grounds, according to the meaning usually given to that word, belonging to the house at Nethercoats. Between the garden and the public road there was a paddock belonging to the house, along the side of which, but divided from it by a hedge and shrubbery, ran the private carriageway up to the house. This swept through the small front flower-garden, dividing it equally; but the lawns and indeed the whole of that which made the beauty of the place lay on the back of the house, on which side opened the windows from the three sitting-rooms. Down on the public road there stood a lodge at which lived one of the gardeners. There was another field of some six or seven acres, to which there was a gate from the corner of the front paddock, and which went round two sides of the garden. This was Nethercoats, and the whole estate covered about twelve acres. It was not a place for much bachelor enjoyment of that sort generally popular with bachelors; nevertheless Mr. Grey had been constant in his residence there for the seven years which had now elapsed since he had left his college. His easy access to Cambridge had probably done much to mitigate what might otherwise have been the too great tedium of his life; and he had, prompted thereto by early associations, found most of his society in the Close of Ely Cathedral. But, with all the delight he could derive from these two sources, there had still been many solitary hours in his life, and he had gradually learned to feel that he of all men wanted a companion in his home. His visits to London had generally been short and far between, occasioned probably by some need in the library, or by the necessity of some slight literary transaction with the editor or publisher of a periodical. In one of these visits he had met Alice Vavasor, and had remained in Town,--I will not say till Alice had promised to share his home in Cambridgeshire, but so long that he had resolved before he went that he would ask her to do so. He had asked her, and we know that he had been successful. He had obtained her promise, and from that moment all his life had been changed for him. Hitherto at Nethercoats his little smoking-room, his books, and his plants had been everything to him. Now he began to surround himself with an infinity of feminine belongings, and to promise himself an infinity of feminine blessings, wondering much that he should have been content to pass so long a portion of his life in the dull seclusion which he had endured. He was not by nature an impatient man; but now he became impatient, longing for the fruition of his new idea of happiness,--longing to have that as his own which he certainly loved beyond all else in the world, and which, perhaps, was all he had ever loved with the perfect love of equality. But though impatient, and fully aware of his own impatience, he acknowledged to himself that Alice could not be expected to share it. He could plan nothing now,--could have no pleasure in life that she was not expected to share. But as yet it could not be so with her. She had her house in London, her town society, and her father. And, inasmuch as the change for her would be much greater than it would be for him, it was natural that she should require some small delay. He had not pressed her. At least he had not pressed her with that eager pressure which a girl must resist with something of the opposition of a contest, if she resist it at all. But in truth his impatience was now waxing strong, and during the absence in Switzerland of which we have spoken, he resolved that a marriage very late in the autumn,--that a marriage even in winter, would be better than a marriage postponed till the following year. It was not yet late in August when the party returned from their tour. Would not a further delay of two months suffice for his bride? Alice had written to him occasionally from Switzerland, and her first two letters had been very charming. They had referred almost exclusively to the tour, and had been made pleasant with some slightly coloured account of George Vavasor's idleness, and of Kate's obedience to her brother's behests. Alice had never written much of love in her love-letters, and Grey was well enough contented with her style, though it was not impassioned. As for doubting her love, it was not in the heart of the man to do so after it had been once assured to him by her word. He could not so slightly respect himself or her as to leave room for such a doubt in his bosom. He was a man who could never have suggested to himself that a woman loved him till the fact was there before him; but who having ascertained, as he might think, the fact, could never suggest to himself that her love would fail him. Her first two letters from Switzerland had been very pleasant; but after that there had seemed to have crept over her a melancholy which she unconsciously transferred to her words, and which he could not but taste in them,--at first unconsciously, also, but soon with so plain a flavour that he recognised it, and made it a matter of mental inquiry. During the three or four last days of the journey, while they were at Basle and on their way home, she had not written. But she did write on the day after her arrival, having then received from Mr. Grey a letter, in which he told her how very much she would add to his happiness if she would now agree that their marriage should not be postponed beyond the end of October. This letter she found in her room on her return, and this she answered at once. And she answered it in such words that Mr. Grey resolved that he would at once go to her in London. I will give her letter at length, as I shall then be best able to proceed with my story quickly. Queen Anne Street, -- August, 186--. DEAREST JOHN,-- We reached home yesterday tired enough, as we came through from Paris without stopping. I may indeed say that we came through from Strasbourg, as we only slept in Paris. I don't like Strasbourg. A steeple, after all, is not everything, and putting the steeple aside, I don't think the style is good. But the hotel was uncomfortable, which goes for so much;--and then we were saturated with beauty of a better kind. I got your letter directly I came in last night, and I suppose I had better dash at it at once. I would so willingly delay doing so, saying nice little things the while, did I not know that this would be mere cowardice. Whatever happens I won't be a coward, and therefore I will tell you at once that I cannot let you hope that we should be married this year. Of course you will ask me why, as you have a right to do, and of course I am bound to answer. I do not know that I can give any answer with which you will not have a right to complain. If it be so, I can only ask your pardon for the injury I am doing you. Marriage is a great change in life,--much greater to me than to you, who will remain in your old house, will keep your old pursuits, will still be your own master, and will change in nothing,--except in this, that you will have a companion who probably may not be all that you expect. But I must change everything. It will be to me as though I were passing through a grave to a new world. I shall see nothing that I have been accustomed to see, and must abandon all the ways of life that I have hitherto adopted. Of course I should have thought of this before I accepted you; and I did think of it. I made up my mind that, as I truly loved you, I would risk the change;--that I would risk it for your sake and for mine, hoping that I might add something to your happiness, and that I might secure my own. Dear John, do not suppose that I despair that it may be so; but, indeed, you must not hurry me. I must tune myself to the change that I have to make. What if I should wake some morning after six months living with you, and tell you that the quiet of your home was making me mad? You must not ask me again till the winter shall have passed away. If in the meantime I shall find that I have been wrong, I will humbly confess that I have wronged you, and ask you to forgive me. And I will freely admit this. If the delay which I now purpose is so contrary to your own plans as to make your marriage, under such circumstances, not that which you had expected, I know that you are free to tell me so, and to say that our engagement shall be over. I am well aware that I can have no right to bind you to a marriage at one period which you had only contemplated as to take place at another period. I think I may promise that I will obey any wish you may express in anything,--except in that one thing which you urged in your last letter. Kate is going down to Yarmouth with Mrs. Greenow, and I shall see no more of her probably till next year, as she will be due in Westmoreland after that. George left me at the door when he brought me home, and declared that he intended to vanish out of London. Whether in town or out, he is never to be seen at this period of the year. Papa offers to go to Ramsgate for a fortnight, but he looks so wretched when he makes the offer, that I shall not have the heart to hold him to it. Lady Macleod very much wants me to go to Cheltenham. I very much want not to go, simply because I can never agree with her about anything; but it will probably end in my going there for a week or two. Over and beyond that, I have no prospects before Christmas which are not purely domestic. There is a project that we shall all eat our Christmas dinner at Vavasor Hall,--of course not including George,--but this project is quite in the clouds, and, as far as I am concerned, will remain there. Dear John, let me hear that this letter does not make you unhappy. Most affectionately yours, ALICE VAVASOR. At Nethercoats, the post was brought in at breakfast-time, and Mr. Grey was sitting with his tea and eggs before him, when he read Alice's letter. He read it twice before he began to think what he would do in regard to it, and then referred to one or two others which he had received from Switzerland,--reading them also very carefully. After that, he took up the slouch hat which he had been wearing in the garden before he was called to his breakfast, and, with the letters in his hand, sauntered down among the shrubs and lawns. He knew, he thought he knew, that there was more in Alice's mind than a mere wish for delay. There was more in it than that hesitation to take at once a step which she really desired to take, if not now, then after some short interval. He felt that she was unhappy, and unhappy because she distrusted the results of her marriage; but it never for a moment occurred to him that, therefore, the engagement between them should be broken. In the first place he loved her too well to allow of his admitting such an idea without terrible sorrow to himself. He was a constant, firm man, somewhat reserved, and unwilling to make new acquaintances, and, therefore, specially unwilling to break away from those which he had made. Undoubtedly, had he satisfied himself that Alice's happiness demanded such a sacrifice of himself, he would have made it, and made it without a word of complaint. The blow would not have prostrated him, but the bruise would have remained on his heart, indelible, not to be healed but by death. He would have submitted, and no man would have seen that he had been

boats

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

"I shan't dance, Mrs. Greenow, unless you like to stand up for a set." "No, my friend, no; I shall not do that. I fear you forget how recent has been my bereavement. Your asking me is the bitterest reproach to me for having ventured to join your festive board." "Upon my honour I didn't mean it, Mrs. Greenow. I didn't mean it, indeed." "I do not suspect you. It would have been unmanly." "And nobody can say that of me. There isn't a man or woman in Norfolk that wouldn't say I was manly." "I'm quite sure of that." "I have my faults, I'm aware." "And what are your faults, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well; perhaps I'm extravagant. But it's only in these kind of things you know, when I spend a little money for the sake of making my friends happy. When I'm about, on the lands at home, I ain't extravagant, I can tell you." "Extravagance is a great vice." "Oh, I ain't extravagant in that sense;--not a bit in the world. But when a man's enamoured, and perhaps looking out for a wife, he does like to be a little free, you know." "And are you looking out for a wife, Mr. Cheesacre?" "If I told you I suppose you'd only laugh at me." "No; indeed I would not. I am not given to joking when any one that I regard speaks to me seriously." "Ain't you though? I'm so glad of that. When one has really got a serious thing to say, one doesn't like to have fun poked at one." "And, besides, how could I laugh at marriages, seeing how happy I have been in that condition?--so--very--happy," and Mrs. Greenow put up her handkerchief to her eyes. "So happy that you'll try it again some day; won't you?" "Never, Mr. Cheesacre; never. Is that the way you talk of serious things without joking? Anything like love--love of that sort--is over for me. It lies buried under the sod with my poor dear departed saint." "But, Mrs. Greenow,"--and Cheesacre, as he prepared to argue the question with her, got nearer to her in the corner behind the table,--"But, Mrs. Greenow, care killed a cat, you know." "And sometimes I think that care will kill me." "No, by George; not if I can prevent it." "You're very kind, Mr. Cheesacre; but there's no preventing such care as mine." "Isn't there though? I'll tell you what, Mrs. Greenow; I'm in earnest, I am indeed. If you'll inquire, you'll find there isn't a fellow in Norfolk pays his way better than I do, or is better able to do it. I don't pay a sixpence of rent, and I sit upon seven hundred acres of as good land as there is in the county. There's not an acre that won't do me a bullock and a half. Just put that and that together, and see what it comes to. And, mind you, some of these fellows that farm their own land are worse off than if they'd rent to pay. They've borrowed so much to carry on with, that the interest is more than rent. I don't owe a sixpence to ere a man or ere a company in the world. I can walk into every bank in Norwich without seeing my master. There ain't any of my paper flying about, Mrs. Greenow. I'm Samuel Cheesacre of Oileymead, and it's all my own." Mr. Cheesacre, as he thus spoke of his good fortunes and firm standing in the world, became impetuous in the energy of the moment, and brought down his fist powerfully on the slight table before them. The whole fabric rattled, and the boat resounded, but the noise he had made seemed to assist him. "It's all my own, Mrs. Greenow, and the half of it shall be yours if you'll please to take it;" then he stretched out his hand to her, not as though he intended to grasp hers in a grasp of love, but as if he expected some hand-pledge from her as a token that she accepted the bargain. "If you'd known Greenow, Mr. Cheesacre--" "I've no doubt he was a very good sort of man." "If you'd known him, you would not have addressed me in this way." "What difference would that make? My idea is that care killed a cat, as I said before. I never knew what was the good of being unhappy. If I find early mangels don't do on a bit of land, then I sow late turnips; and never cry after spilt milk. Greenow was the early mangels; I'll be the late turnips. Come then, say the word. There ain't a bedroom in my house,--not one of the front ones,--that isn't mahogany furnished!" "What's furniture to me?" said Mrs. Greenow, with her handkerchief to her eyes. Just at this moment Maria's mother stepped in under the canvas. It was most inopportune. Mr. Cheesacre felt that he was progressing well, and was conscious that he had got safely over those fences in the race which his bashfulness would naturally make difficult to him. He knew that he had done this under the influence of the champagne, and was aware that it might not be easy to procure again a combination of circumstances that would be so beneficial to him. But now he was interrupted just as he was expecting success. He was interrupted, and felt himself to be looking like a guilty creature under the eye of the strange lady. He had not a word to say; but drawing himself suddenly a foot and half away from the widow's side, sat there confessing his guilt in his face. Mrs. Greenow felt no guilt, and was afraid of no strange eyes. "Mr. Cheesacre and I are talking about farming," she said. "Oh; farming!" answered Maria's mother. "Mr. Cheesacre thinks that turnips are better than early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "Yes, I do," said Cheesacre, "I prefer the early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think nature ever intended those late crops. What do you say, Mrs. Walker?" "I daresay Mr. Cheesacre understands what he's about when he's at home," said the lady. "I know what a bit of land can do as well as any man in Norfolk," said the gentleman. "It may be very well in Norfolk," said Mrs. Greenow, rising from her seat; "but the practice isn't thought much of in the other counties with which I am better acquainted." "I'd just come in to say that I thought we might be getting to the boats," said Mrs. Walker. "My Ophelia is so delicate." At this moment the delicate Ophelia was to be seen, under the influence of the music, taking a distant range upon the sands with Joe Fairstairs' arm round her waist. The attitude was justified by the tune that was in progress, and there is no reason why a galop on the sands should have any special termination in distance, as it must have in a room. But, under such circumstances, Mrs. Walker's solicitude was not unreasonable. The erratic steps of the distant dancers were recalled and preparations were made for the return journey. Others had strayed besides the delicate Ophelia and the idle Joe, and some little time was taken up in collecting the party. The boats had to be drawn down, and the boatmen fetched from their cans and tobacco-pipes. "I hope they're sober," said Mrs. Walker, with a look of great dismay. "Sober as judges," said Bellfield, who had himself been looking after the remains of Mr. Cheesacre's hampers, while that gentleman had been so much better engaged in the tent. "Because," continued Mrs. Walker, "I know that they play all manner of tricks when they're--in liquor. They'd think nothing of taking us out to sea, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, I do wish they would," said Ophelia. "Ophelia, mind you come in the boat with me," said her mother, and she looked very savage when she gave the order. It was Mrs. Walker's intention that that boat should not carry Joe Fairstairs. But Joe and her daughter together were too clever for her. When the boats went off she found herself to be in that one over which Mr. Cheesacre presided, while the sinning Ophelia with her good-for-nothing admirer were under the more mirthful protection of Captain Bellfield. "Mamma will be so angry," said Ophelia, "and it was all your fault. I did mean to go into the other boat. Don't, Mr. Fairstairs." Then they got settled down in their seats, to the satisfaction, let us hope, of them both. Mr. Cheesacre had vainly endeavoured to arrange that Mrs. Greenow should return with him. But not only was Captain Bellfield opposed to such a change in their positions, but so also was Mrs. Greenow. "I think we'd better go back as we came," she said, giving her hand to the Captain. "Oh, certainly," said Captain Bellfield. "Why should there be any change? Cheesacre, old fellow, mind you look after Mrs. Walker. Come along, my hearty." It really almost appeared that Captain Bellfield was addressing Mrs. Greenow as "his hearty," but it must be presumed that the term of genial endearment was intended for the whole boat's load. Mrs. Greenow took her place on the comfortable broad bench in the stern, and Bellfield seated himself beside her, with the tiller in his hand. "If you're going to steer, Captain Bellfield, I beg that you'll be careful." "Careful,--and with you on board!" said the Captain. "Don't you know that I would sooner perish beneath the waves than that a drop of water should touch you roughly?" "But you see, we might perish beneath the waves together." "Together! What a sweet word that is;--perish together! If it were not that there might be something better even than that, I would wish to perish in such company." "But I should not wish anything of the kind, Captain Bellfield, and therefore pray be careful." There was no perishing by water on that occasion. Mr. Cheesacre's boat reached the pier at Yarmouth first, and gave up its load without accident. Very shortly afterwards Captain Bellfield's crew reached the same place in the same state of preservation. "There," said he, as he handed out Mrs. Greenow. "I have brought you to no harm, at any rate as yet." "And, as I hope, will not do so hereafter." "May the heavens forbid it, Mrs. Greenow! Whatever may be our lots hereafter,--yours I mean and mine,--I trust that yours may be free from all disaster. Oh, that I might venture to hope that, at some future day, the privilege might be mine of protecting you from all danger!" "I can protect myself very well, I can assure you. Good night, Captain Bellfield. We won't take you and Mr. Cheesacre out of your way;--will we, Kate? We have had a most pleasant day." They were now upon the esplanade, and Mrs. Greenow's house was to the right, whereas the lodgings of both the gentlemen were to the left. Each of them fought hard for the privilege of accompanying the widow to her door; but Mrs. Greenow was self-willed, and upon this occasion would have neither of them. "Mr. Joe Fairstairs must pass the house," said she, "and he will see us home. Mr. Cheesacre, good night. Indeed you shall not;--not a step." There was that in her voice which induced Mr. Cheesacre to obey her, and which made Captain Bellfield aware that he would only injure his cause if he endeavoured to make further progress in it on the present occasion. "Well, Kate, what do you think of the day?" the aunt said when she was alone with her niece. "I never think much about such days, aunt. It was all very well, but I fear I have not the temperament fitted for enjoying the fun. I envied Ophelia Walker because she made herself thoroughly happy." "I do like to see girls enjoy themselves," said Mrs. Greenow, "I do, indeed;--and young men too. It seems so natural; why shouldn't young people flirt?" "Or old people either for the matter of that?" "Or old people either,--if they don't do any harm to anybody. I'll tell you what it is, Kate; people have become so very virtuous, that they're driven into all manner of abominable resources for amusement and occupation. If I had sons and daughters I should think a little flirting the very best thing for them as a safety valve. When people get to be old, there's a difficulty. They want to flirt with the young people and the young people don't want them. If the old people would be content to flirt together, I don't see why they should ever give it up;--till they're obliged to give up every thing, and go away." That was Mrs. Greenow's doctrine on the subject of flirtation. CHAPTER X. Nethercoats. We will leave Mrs. Greenow with her niece and two sisters at Yarmouth, and returning by stages to London, will call upon Mr. Grey at his place in Cambridgeshire as we pass by. I believe it is conceded by all the other counties, that Cambridgeshire possesses fewer rural beauties than any other county in England. It is very flat; it is not well timbered; the rivers are merely dikes; and in a very large portion of the county the farms and fields are divided simply by ditches--not by hedgerows. Such arrangements are, no doubt, well adapted for agricultural purposes, but are not conducive to rural beauty. Mr. Grey's residence was situated in a part of Cambridgeshire in which the above-named characteristics are very much marked. It was in the Isle of Ely, some few miles distant from the Cathedral town, on the side of a long straight road, which ran through the fields for miles without even a bush to cheer it. The name of his place was Nethercoats, and here he lived generally throughout the year, and here he intended to live throughout his life. His father had held a prebendal stall at Ely in times when prebendal stalls were worth more than they are at present, and having also been possessed of a living in the neighbourhood, had amassed a considerable sum of money. With this he had during his life purchased the property of Nethercoats, and had built on it the house in which his son now lived. He had married late in life, and had lost his wife soon after the birth of an only child. The house had been built in his own parish, and his wife had lived there for a few months and had died there. But after that event the old clergyman had gone back to his residence in the Close at Ely, and there John Grey had had the home of his youth. He had been brought up under his father's eye, having been sent to no public school. But he had gone to Cambridge, had taken college honours, and had then, his father dying exactly at this time, declined to accept a fellowship. His father had left to him an income of some fifteen hundred a year, and with this he sat himself down, near to his college friends, near also to the old cathedral which he loved, in the house which his father had built. But though Nethercoats possessed no beauty of scenery, though the country around it was in truth as uninteresting as any country could be, it had many delights of its own. The house itself was as excellent a residence for a country gentleman of small means as taste and skill together could construct. I doubt whether prettier rooms were ever seen than the drawing-room, the library, and the dining-room at Nethercoats. They were all on the ground-floor, and all opened out on to the garden and lawn. The library, which was the largest of the three, was a handsome chamber, and so filled as to make it well known in the University as one of the best private collections in that part of England. But perhaps the gardens of Nethercoats constituted its greatest glory. They were spacious and excellently kept up, and had been originally laid out with that knowledge of gardening without which no garden, merely as a garden, can be effective. And such, of necessity, was the garden of Nethercoats. Fine single forest trees there were none there, nor was it possible that there should have been any such. Nor could there be a clear rippling stream with steep green banks, and broken rocks lying about its bed. Such beauties are beauties of landscape, and do not of their nature belong to a garden. But the shrubs of Nethercoats were of the rarest kind, and had been long enough in their present places to have reached the period of their beauty. Nothing had been spared that a garden could want. The fruit-trees were perfect in their kind, and the glass-houses were so good and so extensive that John Grey in his prudence was some times tempted to think that he had too much of them. It must be understood that there were no grounds, according to the meaning usually given to that word, belonging to the house at Nethercoats. Between the garden and the public road there was a paddock belonging to the house, along the side of which, but divided from it by a hedge and shrubbery, ran the private carriageway up to the house. This swept through the small front flower-garden, dividing it equally; but the lawns and indeed the whole of that which made the beauty of the place lay on the back of the house, on which side opened the windows from the three sitting-rooms. Down on the public road there stood a lodge at which lived one of the gardeners. There was another field of some six or seven acres, to which there was a gate from the corner of the front paddock, and which went round two sides of the garden. This was Nethercoats, and the whole estate covered about twelve acres. It was not a place for much bachelor enjoyment of that sort generally popular with bachelors; nevertheless Mr. Grey had been constant in his residence there for the seven years which had now elapsed since he had left his college. His easy access to Cambridge had probably done much to mitigate what might otherwise have been the too great tedium of his life; and he had, prompted thereto by early associations, found most of his society in the Close of Ely Cathedral. But, with all the delight he could derive from these two sources, there had still been many solitary hours in his life, and he had gradually learned to feel that he of all men wanted a companion in his home. His visits to London had generally been short and far between, occasioned probably by some need in the library, or by the necessity of some slight literary transaction with the editor or publisher of a periodical. In one of these visits he had met Alice Vavasor, and had remained in Town,--I will not say till Alice had promised to share his home in Cambridgeshire, but so long that he had resolved before he went that he would ask her to do so. He had asked her, and we know that he had been successful. He had obtained her promise, and from that moment all his life had been changed for him. Hitherto at Nethercoats his little smoking-room, his books, and his plants had been everything to him. Now he began to surround himself with an infinity of feminine belongings, and to promise himself an infinity of feminine blessings, wondering much that he should have been content to pass so long a portion of his life in the dull seclusion which he had endured. He was not by nature an impatient man; but now he became impatient, longing for the fruition of his new idea of happiness,--longing to have that as his own which he certainly loved beyond all else in the world, and which, perhaps, was all he had ever loved with the perfect love of equality. But though impatient, and fully aware of his own impatience, he acknowledged to himself that Alice could not be expected to share it. He could plan nothing now,--could have no pleasure in life that she was not expected to share. But as yet it could not be so with her. She had her house in London, her town society, and her father. And, inasmuch as the change for her would be much greater than it would be for him, it was natural that she should require some small delay. He had not pressed her. At least he had not pressed her with that eager pressure which a girl must resist with something of the opposition of a contest, if she resist it at all. But in truth his impatience was now waxing strong, and during the absence in Switzerland of which we have spoken, he resolved that a marriage very late in the autumn,--that a marriage even in winter, would be better than a marriage postponed till the following year. It was not yet late in August when the party returned from their tour. Would not a further delay of two months suffice for his bride? Alice had written to him occasionally from Switzerland, and her first two letters had been very charming. They had referred almost exclusively to the tour, and had been made pleasant with some slightly coloured account of George Vavasor's idleness, and of Kate's obedience to her brother's behests. Alice had never written much of love in her love-letters, and Grey was well enough contented with her style, though it was not impassioned. As for doubting her love, it was not in the heart of the man to do so after it had been once assured to him by her word. He could not so slightly respect himself or her as to leave room for such a doubt in his bosom. He was a man who could never have suggested to himself that a woman loved him till the fact was there before him; but who having ascertained, as he might think, the fact, could never suggest to himself that her love would fail him. Her first two letters from Switzerland had been very pleasant; but after that there had seemed to have crept over her a melancholy which she unconsciously transferred to her words, and which he could not but taste in them,--at first unconsciously, also, but soon with so plain a flavour that he recognised it, and made it a matter of mental inquiry. During the three or four last days of the journey, while they were at Basle and on their way home, she had not written. But she did write on the day after her arrival, having then received from Mr. Grey a letter, in which he told her how very much she would add to his happiness if she would now agree that their marriage should not be postponed beyond the end of October. This letter she found in her room on her return, and this she answered at once. And she answered it in such words that Mr. Grey resolved that he would at once go to her in London. I will give her letter at length, as I shall then be best able to proceed with my story quickly. Queen Anne Street, -- August, 186--. DEAREST JOHN,-- We reached home yesterday tired enough, as we came through from Paris without stopping. I may indeed say that we came through from Strasbourg, as we only slept in Paris. I don't like Strasbourg. A steeple, after all, is not everything, and putting the steeple aside, I don't think the style is good. But the hotel was uncomfortable, which goes for so much;--and then we were saturated with beauty of a better kind. I got your letter directly I came in last night, and I suppose I had better dash at it at once. I would so willingly delay doing so, saying nice little things the while, did I not know that this would be mere cowardice. Whatever happens I won't be a coward, and therefore I will tell you at once that I cannot let you hope that we should be married this year. Of course you will ask me why, as you have a right to do, and of course I am bound to answer. I do not know that I can give any answer with which you will not have a right to complain. If it be so, I can only ask your pardon for the injury I am doing you. Marriage is a great change in life,--much greater to me than to you, who will remain in your old house, will keep your old pursuits, will still be your own master, and will change in nothing,--except in this, that you will have a companion who probably may not be all that you expect. But I must change everything. It will be to me as though I were passing through a grave to a new world. I shall see nothing that I have been accustomed to see, and must abandon all the ways of life that I have hitherto adopted. Of course I should have thought of this before I accepted you; and I did think of it. I made up my mind that, as I truly loved you, I would risk the change;--that I would risk it for your sake and for mine, hoping that I might add something to your happiness, and that I might secure my own. Dear John, do not suppose that I despair that it may be so; but, indeed, you must not hurry me. I must tune myself to the change that I have to make. What if I should wake some morning after six months living with you, and tell you that the quiet of your home was making me mad? You must not ask me again till the winter shall have passed away. If in the meantime I shall find that I have been wrong, I will humbly confess that I have wronged you, and ask you to forgive me. And I will freely admit this. If the delay which I now purpose is so contrary to your own plans as to make your marriage, under such circumstances, not that which you had expected, I know that you are free to tell me so, and to say that our engagement shall be over. I am well aware that I can have no right to bind you to a marriage at one period which you had only contemplated as to take place at another period. I think I may promise that I will obey any wish you may express in anything,--except in that one thing which you urged in your last letter. Kate is going down to Yarmouth with Mrs. Greenow, and I shall see no more of her probably till next year, as she will be due in Westmoreland after that. George left me at the door when he brought me home, and declared that he intended to vanish out of London. Whether in town or out, he is never to be seen at this period of the year. Papa offers to go to Ramsgate for a fortnight, but he looks so wretched when he makes the offer, that I shall not have the heart to hold him to it. Lady Macleod very much wants me to go to Cheltenham. I very much want not to go, simply because I can never agree with her about anything; but it will probably end in my going there for a week or two. Over and beyond that, I have no prospects before Christmas which are not purely domestic. There is a project that we shall all eat our Christmas dinner at Vavasor Hall,--of course not including George,--but this project is quite in the clouds, and, as far as I am concerned, will remain there. Dear John, let me hear that this letter does not make you unhappy. Most affectionately yours, ALICE VAVASOR. At Nethercoats, the post was brought in at breakfast-time, and Mr. Grey was sitting with his tea and eggs before him, when he read Alice's letter. He read it twice before he began to think what he would do in regard to it, and then referred to one or two others which he had received from Switzerland,--reading them also very carefully. After that, he took up the slouch hat which he had been wearing in the garden before he was called to his breakfast, and, with the letters in his hand, sauntered down among the shrubs and lawns. He knew, he thought he knew, that there was more in Alice's mind than a mere wish for delay. There was more in it than that hesitation to take at once a step which she really desired to take, if not now, then after some short interval. He felt that she was unhappy, and unhappy because she distrusted the results of her marriage; but it never for a moment occurred to him that, therefore, the engagement between them should be broken. In the first place he loved her too well to allow of his admitting such an idea without terrible sorrow to himself. He was a constant, firm man, somewhat reserved, and unwilling to make new acquaintances, and, therefore, specially unwilling to break away from those which he had made. Undoubtedly, had he satisfied himself that Alice's happiness demanded such a sacrifice of himself, he would have made it, and made it without a word of complaint. The blow would not have prostrated him, but the bruise would have remained on his heart, indelible, not to be healed but by death. He would have submitted, and no man would have seen that he had been

recedes

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

"I shan't dance, Mrs. Greenow, unless you like to stand up for a set." "No, my friend, no; I shall not do that. I fear you forget how recent has been my bereavement. Your asking me is the bitterest reproach to me for having ventured to join your festive board." "Upon my honour I didn't mean it, Mrs. Greenow. I didn't mean it, indeed." "I do not suspect you. It would have been unmanly." "And nobody can say that of me. There isn't a man or woman in Norfolk that wouldn't say I was manly." "I'm quite sure of that." "I have my faults, I'm aware." "And what are your faults, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well; perhaps I'm extravagant. But it's only in these kind of things you know, when I spend a little money for the sake of making my friends happy. When I'm about, on the lands at home, I ain't extravagant, I can tell you." "Extravagance is a great vice." "Oh, I ain't extravagant in that sense;--not a bit in the world. But when a man's enamoured, and perhaps looking out for a wife, he does like to be a little free, you know." "And are you looking out for a wife, Mr. Cheesacre?" "If I told you I suppose you'd only laugh at me." "No; indeed I would not. I am not given to joking when any one that I regard speaks to me seriously." "Ain't you though? I'm so glad of that. When one has really got a serious thing to say, one doesn't like to have fun poked at one." "And, besides, how could I laugh at marriages, seeing how happy I have been in that condition?--so--very--happy," and Mrs. Greenow put up her handkerchief to her eyes. "So happy that you'll try it again some day; won't you?" "Never, Mr. Cheesacre; never. Is that the way you talk of serious things without joking? Anything like love--love of that sort--is over for me. It lies buried under the sod with my poor dear departed saint." "But, Mrs. Greenow,"--and Cheesacre, as he prepared to argue the question with her, got nearer to her in the corner behind the table,--"But, Mrs. Greenow, care killed a cat, you know." "And sometimes I think that care will kill me." "No, by George; not if I can prevent it." "You're very kind, Mr. Cheesacre; but there's no preventing such care as mine." "Isn't there though? I'll tell you what, Mrs. Greenow; I'm in earnest, I am indeed. If you'll inquire, you'll find there isn't a fellow in Norfolk pays his way better than I do, or is better able to do it. I don't pay a sixpence of rent, and I sit upon seven hundred acres of as good land as there is in the county. There's not an acre that won't do me a bullock and a half. Just put that and that together, and see what it comes to. And, mind you, some of these fellows that farm their own land are worse off than if they'd rent to pay. They've borrowed so much to carry on with, that the interest is more than rent. I don't owe a sixpence to ere a man or ere a company in the world. I can walk into every bank in Norwich without seeing my master. There ain't any of my paper flying about, Mrs. Greenow. I'm Samuel Cheesacre of Oileymead, and it's all my own." Mr. Cheesacre, as he thus spoke of his good fortunes and firm standing in the world, became impetuous in the energy of the moment, and brought down his fist powerfully on the slight table before them. The whole fabric rattled, and the boat resounded, but the noise he had made seemed to assist him. "It's all my own, Mrs. Greenow, and the half of it shall be yours if you'll please to take it;" then he stretched out his hand to her, not as though he intended to grasp hers in a grasp of love, but as if he expected some hand-pledge from her as a token that she accepted the bargain. "If you'd known Greenow, Mr. Cheesacre--" "I've no doubt he was a very good sort of man." "If you'd known him, you would not have addressed me in this way." "What difference would that make? My idea is that care killed a cat, as I said before. I never knew what was the good of being unhappy. If I find early mangels don't do on a bit of land, then I sow late turnips; and never cry after spilt milk. Greenow was the early mangels; I'll be the late turnips. Come then, say the word. There ain't a bedroom in my house,--not one of the front ones,--that isn't mahogany furnished!" "What's furniture to me?" said Mrs. Greenow, with her handkerchief to her eyes. Just at this moment Maria's mother stepped in under the canvas. It was most inopportune. Mr. Cheesacre felt that he was progressing well, and was conscious that he had got safely over those fences in the race which his bashfulness would naturally make difficult to him. He knew that he had done this under the influence of the champagne, and was aware that it might not be easy to procure again a combination of circumstances that would be so beneficial to him. But now he was interrupted just as he was expecting success. He was interrupted, and felt himself to be looking like a guilty creature under the eye of the strange lady. He had not a word to say; but drawing himself suddenly a foot and half away from the widow's side, sat there confessing his guilt in his face. Mrs. Greenow felt no guilt, and was afraid of no strange eyes. "Mr. Cheesacre and I are talking about farming," she said. "Oh; farming!" answered Maria's mother. "Mr. Cheesacre thinks that turnips are better than early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "Yes, I do," said Cheesacre, "I prefer the early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think nature ever intended those late crops. What do you say, Mrs. Walker?" "I daresay Mr. Cheesacre understands what he's about when he's at home," said the lady. "I know what a bit of land can do as well as any man in Norfolk," said the gentleman. "It may be very well in Norfolk," said Mrs. Greenow, rising from her seat; "but the practice isn't thought much of in the other counties with which I am better acquainted." "I'd just come in to say that I thought we might be getting to the boats," said Mrs. Walker. "My Ophelia is so delicate." At this moment the delicate Ophelia was to be seen, under the influence of the music, taking a distant range upon the sands with Joe Fairstairs' arm round her waist. The attitude was justified by the tune that was in progress, and there is no reason why a galop on the sands should have any special termination in distance, as it must have in a room. But, under such circumstances, Mrs. Walker's solicitude was not unreasonable. The erratic steps of the distant dancers were recalled and preparations were made for the return journey. Others had strayed besides the delicate Ophelia and the idle Joe, and some little time was taken up in collecting the party. The boats had to be drawn down, and the boatmen fetched from their cans and tobacco-pipes. "I hope they're sober," said Mrs. Walker, with a look of great dismay. "Sober as judges," said Bellfield, who had himself been looking after the remains of Mr. Cheesacre's hampers, while that gentleman had been so much better engaged in the tent. "Because," continued Mrs. Walker, "I know that they play all manner of tricks when they're--in liquor. They'd think nothing of taking us out to sea, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, I do wish they would," said Ophelia. "Ophelia, mind you come in the boat with me," said her mother, and she looked very savage when she gave the order. It was Mrs. Walker's intention that that boat should not carry Joe Fairstairs. But Joe and her daughter together were too clever for her. When the boats went off she found herself to be in that one over which Mr. Cheesacre presided, while the sinning Ophelia with her good-for-nothing admirer were under the more mirthful protection of Captain Bellfield. "Mamma will be so angry," said Ophelia, "and it was all your fault. I did mean to go into the other boat. Don't, Mr. Fairstairs." Then they got settled down in their seats, to the satisfaction, let us hope, of them both. Mr. Cheesacre had vainly endeavoured to arrange that Mrs. Greenow should return with him. But not only was Captain Bellfield opposed to such a change in their positions, but so also was Mrs. Greenow. "I think we'd better go back as we came," she said, giving her hand to the Captain. "Oh, certainly," said Captain Bellfield. "Why should there be any change? Cheesacre, old fellow, mind you look after Mrs. Walker. Come along, my hearty." It really almost appeared that Captain Bellfield was addressing Mrs. Greenow as "his hearty," but it must be presumed that the term of genial endearment was intended for the whole boat's load. Mrs. Greenow took her place on the comfortable broad bench in the stern, and Bellfield seated himself beside her, with the tiller in his hand. "If you're going to steer, Captain Bellfield, I beg that you'll be careful." "Careful,--and with you on board!" said the Captain. "Don't you know that I would sooner perish beneath the waves than that a drop of water should touch you roughly?" "But you see, we might perish beneath the waves together." "Together! What a sweet word that is;--perish together! If it were not that there might be something better even than that, I would wish to perish in such company." "But I should not wish anything of the kind, Captain Bellfield, and therefore pray be careful." There was no perishing by water on that occasion. Mr. Cheesacre's boat reached the pier at Yarmouth first, and gave up its load without accident. Very shortly afterwards Captain Bellfield's crew reached the same place in the same state of preservation. "There," said he, as he handed out Mrs. Greenow. "I have brought you to no harm, at any rate as yet." "And, as I hope, will not do so hereafter." "May the heavens forbid it, Mrs. Greenow! Whatever may be our lots hereafter,--yours I mean and mine,--I trust that yours may be free from all disaster. Oh, that I might venture to hope that, at some future day, the privilege might be mine of protecting you from all danger!" "I can protect myself very well, I can assure you. Good night, Captain Bellfield. We won't take you and Mr. Cheesacre out of your way;--will we, Kate? We have had a most pleasant day." They were now upon the esplanade, and Mrs. Greenow's house was to the right, whereas the lodgings of both the gentlemen were to the left. Each of them fought hard for the privilege of accompanying the widow to her door; but Mrs. Greenow was self-willed, and upon this occasion would have neither of them. "Mr. Joe Fairstairs must pass the house," said she, "and he will see us home. Mr. Cheesacre, good night. Indeed you shall not;--not a step." There was that in her voice which induced Mr. Cheesacre to obey her, and which made Captain Bellfield aware that he would only injure his cause if he endeavoured to make further progress in it on the present occasion. "Well, Kate, what do you think of the day?" the aunt said when she was alone with her niece. "I never think much about such days, aunt. It was all very well, but I fear I have not the temperament fitted for enjoying the fun. I envied Ophelia Walker because she made herself thoroughly happy." "I do like to see girls enjoy themselves," said Mrs. Greenow, "I do, indeed;--and young men too. It seems so natural; why shouldn't young people flirt?" "Or old people either for the matter of that?" "Or old people either,--if they don't do any harm to anybody. I'll tell you what it is, Kate; people have become so very virtuous, that they're driven into all manner of abominable resources for amusement and occupation. If I had sons and daughters I should think a little flirting the very best thing for them as a safety valve. When people get to be old, there's a difficulty. They want to flirt with the young people and the young people don't want them. If the old people would be content to flirt together, I don't see why they should ever give it up;--till they're obliged to give up every thing, and go away." That was Mrs. Greenow's doctrine on the subject of flirtation. CHAPTER X. Nethercoats. We will leave Mrs. Greenow with her niece and two sisters at Yarmouth, and returning by stages to London, will call upon Mr. Grey at his place in Cambridgeshire as we pass by. I believe it is conceded by all the other counties, that Cambridgeshire possesses fewer rural beauties than any other county in England. It is very flat; it is not well timbered; the rivers are merely dikes; and in a very large portion of the county the farms and fields are divided simply by ditches--not by hedgerows. Such arrangements are, no doubt, well adapted for agricultural purposes, but are not conducive to rural beauty. Mr. Grey's residence was situated in a part of Cambridgeshire in which the above-named characteristics are very much marked. It was in the Isle of Ely, some few miles distant from the Cathedral town, on the side of a long straight road, which ran through the fields for miles without even a bush to cheer it. The name of his place was Nethercoats, and here he lived generally throughout the year, and here he intended to live throughout his life. His father had held a prebendal stall at Ely in times when prebendal stalls were worth more than they are at present, and having also been possessed of a living in the neighbourhood, had amassed a considerable sum of money. With this he had during his life purchased the property of Nethercoats, and had built on it the house in which his son now lived. He had married late in life, and had lost his wife soon after the birth of an only child. The house had been built in his own parish, and his wife had lived there for a few months and had died there. But after that event the old clergyman had gone back to his residence in the Close at Ely, and there John Grey had had the home of his youth. He had been brought up under his father's eye, having been sent to no public school. But he had gone to Cambridge, had taken college honours, and had then, his father dying exactly at this time, declined to accept a fellowship. His father had left to him an income of some fifteen hundred a year, and with this he sat himself down, near to his college friends, near also to the old cathedral which he loved, in the house which his father had built. But though Nethercoats possessed no beauty of scenery, though the country around it was in truth as uninteresting as any country could be, it had many delights of its own. The house itself was as excellent a residence for a country gentleman of small means as taste and skill together could construct. I doubt whether prettier rooms were ever seen than the drawing-room, the library, and the dining-room at Nethercoats. They were all on the ground-floor, and all opened out on to the garden and lawn. The library, which was the largest of the three, was a handsome chamber, and so filled as to make it well known in the University as one of the best private collections in that part of England. But perhaps the gardens of Nethercoats constituted its greatest glory. They were spacious and excellently kept up, and had been originally laid out with that knowledge of gardening without which no garden, merely as a garden, can be effective. And such, of necessity, was the garden of Nethercoats. Fine single forest trees there were none there, nor was it possible that there should have been any such. Nor could there be a clear rippling stream with steep green banks, and broken rocks lying about its bed. Such beauties are beauties of landscape, and do not of their nature belong to a garden. But the shrubs of Nethercoats were of the rarest kind, and had been long enough in their present places to have reached the period of their beauty. Nothing had been spared that a garden could want. The fruit-trees were perfect in their kind, and the glass-houses were so good and so extensive that John Grey in his prudence was some times tempted to think that he had too much of them. It must be understood that there were no grounds, according to the meaning usually given to that word, belonging to the house at Nethercoats. Between the garden and the public road there was a paddock belonging to the house, along the side of which, but divided from it by a hedge and shrubbery, ran the private carriageway up to the house. This swept through the small front flower-garden, dividing it equally; but the lawns and indeed the whole of that which made the beauty of the place lay on the back of the house, on which side opened the windows from the three sitting-rooms. Down on the public road there stood a lodge at which lived one of the gardeners. There was another field of some six or seven acres, to which there was a gate from the corner of the front paddock, and which went round two sides of the garden. This was Nethercoats, and the whole estate covered about twelve acres. It was not a place for much bachelor enjoyment of that sort generally popular with bachelors; nevertheless Mr. Grey had been constant in his residence there for the seven years which had now elapsed since he had left his college. His easy access to Cambridge had probably done much to mitigate what might otherwise have been the too great tedium of his life; and he had, prompted thereto by early associations, found most of his society in the Close of Ely Cathedral. But, with all the delight he could derive from these two sources, there had still been many solitary hours in his life, and he had gradually learned to feel that he of all men wanted a companion in his home. His visits to London had generally been short and far between, occasioned probably by some need in the library, or by the necessity of some slight literary transaction with the editor or publisher of a periodical. In one of these visits he had met Alice Vavasor, and had remained in Town,--I will not say till Alice had promised to share his home in Cambridgeshire, but so long that he had resolved before he went that he would ask her to do so. He had asked her, and we know that he had been successful. He had obtained her promise, and from that moment all his life had been changed for him. Hitherto at Nethercoats his little smoking-room, his books, and his plants had been everything to him. Now he began to surround himself with an infinity of feminine belongings, and to promise himself an infinity of feminine blessings, wondering much that he should have been content to pass so long a portion of his life in the dull seclusion which he had endured. He was not by nature an impatient man; but now he became impatient, longing for the fruition of his new idea of happiness,--longing to have that as his own which he certainly loved beyond all else in the world, and which, perhaps, was all he had ever loved with the perfect love of equality. But though impatient, and fully aware of his own impatience, he acknowledged to himself that Alice could not be expected to share it. He could plan nothing now,--could have no pleasure in life that she was not expected to share. But as yet it could not be so with her. She had her house in London, her town society, and her father. And, inasmuch as the change for her would be much greater than it would be for him, it was natural that she should require some small delay. He had not pressed her. At least he had not pressed her with that eager pressure which a girl must resist with something of the opposition of a contest, if she resist it at all. But in truth his impatience was now waxing strong, and during the absence in Switzerland of which we have spoken, he resolved that a marriage very late in the autumn,--that a marriage even in winter, would be better than a marriage postponed till the following year. It was not yet late in August when the party returned from their tour. Would not a further delay of two months suffice for his bride? Alice had written to him occasionally from Switzerland, and her first two letters had been very charming. They had referred almost exclusively to the tour, and had been made pleasant with some slightly coloured account of George Vavasor's idleness, and of Kate's obedience to her brother's behests. Alice had never written much of love in her love-letters, and Grey was well enough contented with her style, though it was not impassioned. As for doubting her love, it was not in the heart of the man to do so after it had been once assured to him by her word. He could not so slightly respect himself or her as to leave room for such a doubt in his bosom. He was a man who could never have suggested to himself that a woman loved him till the fact was there before him; but who having ascertained, as he might think, the fact, could never suggest to himself that her love would fail him. Her first two letters from Switzerland had been very pleasant; but after that there had seemed to have crept over her a melancholy which she unconsciously transferred to her words, and which he could not but taste in them,--at first unconsciously, also, but soon with so plain a flavour that he recognised it, and made it a matter of mental inquiry. During the three or four last days of the journey, while they were at Basle and on their way home, she had not written. But she did write on the day after her arrival, having then received from Mr. Grey a letter, in which he told her how very much she would add to his happiness if she would now agree that their marriage should not be postponed beyond the end of October. This letter she found in her room on her return, and this she answered at once. And she answered it in such words that Mr. Grey resolved that he would at once go to her in London. I will give her letter at length, as I shall then be best able to proceed with my story quickly. Queen Anne Street, -- August, 186--. DEAREST JOHN,-- We reached home yesterday tired enough, as we came through from Paris without stopping. I may indeed say that we came through from Strasbourg, as we only slept in Paris. I don't like Strasbourg. A steeple, after all, is not everything, and putting the steeple aside, I don't think the style is good. But the hotel was uncomfortable, which goes for so much;--and then we were saturated with beauty of a better kind. I got your letter directly I came in last night, and I suppose I had better dash at it at once. I would so willingly delay doing so, saying nice little things the while, did I not know that this would be mere cowardice. Whatever happens I won't be a coward, and therefore I will tell you at once that I cannot let you hope that we should be married this year. Of course you will ask me why, as you have a right to do, and of course I am bound to answer. I do not know that I can give any answer with which you will not have a right to complain. If it be so, I can only ask your pardon for the injury I am doing you. Marriage is a great change in life,--much greater to me than to you, who will remain in your old house, will keep your old pursuits, will still be your own master, and will change in nothing,--except in this, that you will have a companion who probably may not be all that you expect. But I must change everything. It will be to me as though I were passing through a grave to a new world. I shall see nothing that I have been accustomed to see, and must abandon all the ways of life that I have hitherto adopted. Of course I should have thought of this before I accepted you; and I did think of it. I made up my mind that, as I truly loved you, I would risk the change;--that I would risk it for your sake and for mine, hoping that I might add something to your happiness, and that I might secure my own. Dear John, do not suppose that I despair that it may be so; but, indeed, you must not hurry me. I must tune myself to the change that I have to make. What if I should wake some morning after six months living with you, and tell you that the quiet of your home was making me mad? You must not ask me again till the winter shall have passed away. If in the meantime I shall find that I have been wrong, I will humbly confess that I have wronged you, and ask you to forgive me. And I will freely admit this. If the delay which I now purpose is so contrary to your own plans as to make your marriage, under such circumstances, not that which you had expected, I know that you are free to tell me so, and to say that our engagement shall be over. I am well aware that I can have no right to bind you to a marriage at one period which you had only contemplated as to take place at another period. I think I may promise that I will obey any wish you may express in anything,--except in that one thing which you urged in your last letter. Kate is going down to Yarmouth with Mrs. Greenow, and I shall see no more of her probably till next year, as she will be due in Westmoreland after that. George left me at the door when he brought me home, and declared that he intended to vanish out of London. Whether in town or out, he is never to be seen at this period of the year. Papa offers to go to Ramsgate for a fortnight, but he looks so wretched when he makes the offer, that I shall not have the heart to hold him to it. Lady Macleod very much wants me to go to Cheltenham. I very much want not to go, simply because I can never agree with her about anything; but it will probably end in my going there for a week or two. Over and beyond that, I have no prospects before Christmas which are not purely domestic. There is a project that we shall all eat our Christmas dinner at Vavasor Hall,--of course not including George,--but this project is quite in the clouds, and, as far as I am concerned, will remain there. Dear John, let me hear that this letter does not make you unhappy. Most affectionately yours, ALICE VAVASOR. At Nethercoats, the post was brought in at breakfast-time, and Mr. Grey was sitting with his tea and eggs before him, when he read Alice's letter. He read it twice before he began to think what he would do in regard to it, and then referred to one or two others which he had received from Switzerland,--reading them also very carefully. After that, he took up the slouch hat which he had been wearing in the garden before he was called to his breakfast, and, with the letters in his hand, sauntered down among the shrubs and lawns. He knew, he thought he knew, that there was more in Alice's mind than a mere wish for delay. There was more in it than that hesitation to take at once a step which she really desired to take, if not now, then after some short interval. He felt that she was unhappy, and unhappy because she distrusted the results of her marriage; but it never for a moment occurred to him that, therefore, the engagement between them should be broken. In the first place he loved her too well to allow of his admitting such an idea without terrible sorrow to himself. He was a constant, firm man, somewhat reserved, and unwilling to make new acquaintances, and, therefore, specially unwilling to break away from those which he had made. Undoubtedly, had he satisfied himself that Alice's happiness demanded such a sacrifice of himself, he would have made it, and made it without a word of complaint. The blow would not have prostrated him, but the bruise would have remained on his heart, indelible, not to be healed but by death. He would have submitted, and no man would have seen that he had been

twitches

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

"I shan't dance, Mrs. Greenow, unless you like to stand up for a set." "No, my friend, no; I shall not do that. I fear you forget how recent has been my bereavement. Your asking me is the bitterest reproach to me for having ventured to join your festive board." "Upon my honour I didn't mean it, Mrs. Greenow. I didn't mean it, indeed." "I do not suspect you. It would have been unmanly." "And nobody can say that of me. There isn't a man or woman in Norfolk that wouldn't say I was manly." "I'm quite sure of that." "I have my faults, I'm aware." "And what are your faults, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well; perhaps I'm extravagant. But it's only in these kind of things you know, when I spend a little money for the sake of making my friends happy. When I'm about, on the lands at home, I ain't extravagant, I can tell you." "Extravagance is a great vice." "Oh, I ain't extravagant in that sense;--not a bit in the world. But when a man's enamoured, and perhaps looking out for a wife, he does like to be a little free, you know." "And are you looking out for a wife, Mr. Cheesacre?" "If I told you I suppose you'd only laugh at me." "No; indeed I would not. I am not given to joking when any one that I regard speaks to me seriously." "Ain't you though? I'm so glad of that. When one has really got a serious thing to say, one doesn't like to have fun poked at one." "And, besides, how could I laugh at marriages, seeing how happy I have been in that condition?--so--very--happy," and Mrs. Greenow put up her handkerchief to her eyes. "So happy that you'll try it again some day; won't you?" "Never, Mr. Cheesacre; never. Is that the way you talk of serious things without joking? Anything like love--love of that sort--is over for me. It lies buried under the sod with my poor dear departed saint." "But, Mrs. Greenow,"--and Cheesacre, as he prepared to argue the question with her, got nearer to her in the corner behind the table,--"But, Mrs. Greenow, care killed a cat, you know." "And sometimes I think that care will kill me." "No, by George; not if I can prevent it." "You're very kind, Mr. Cheesacre; but there's no preventing such care as mine." "Isn't there though? I'll tell you what, Mrs. Greenow; I'm in earnest, I am indeed. If you'll inquire, you'll find there isn't a fellow in Norfolk pays his way better than I do, or is better able to do it. I don't pay a sixpence of rent, and I sit upon seven hundred acres of as good land as there is in the county. There's not an acre that won't do me a bullock and a half. Just put that and that together, and see what it comes to. And, mind you, some of these fellows that farm their own land are worse off than if they'd rent to pay. They've borrowed so much to carry on with, that the interest is more than rent. I don't owe a sixpence to ere a man or ere a company in the world. I can walk into every bank in Norwich without seeing my master. There ain't any of my paper flying about, Mrs. Greenow. I'm Samuel Cheesacre of Oileymead, and it's all my own." Mr. Cheesacre, as he thus spoke of his good fortunes and firm standing in the world, became impetuous in the energy of the moment, and brought down his fist powerfully on the slight table before them. The whole fabric rattled, and the boat resounded, but the noise he had made seemed to assist him. "It's all my own, Mrs. Greenow, and the half of it shall be yours if you'll please to take it;" then he stretched out his hand to her, not as though he intended to grasp hers in a grasp of love, but as if he expected some hand-pledge from her as a token that she accepted the bargain. "If you'd known Greenow, Mr. Cheesacre--" "I've no doubt he was a very good sort of man." "If you'd known him, you would not have addressed me in this way." "What difference would that make? My idea is that care killed a cat, as I said before. I never knew what was the good of being unhappy. If I find early mangels don't do on a bit of land, then I sow late turnips; and never cry after spilt milk. Greenow was the early mangels; I'll be the late turnips. Come then, say the word. There ain't a bedroom in my house,--not one of the front ones,--that isn't mahogany furnished!" "What's furniture to me?" said Mrs. Greenow, with her handkerchief to her eyes. Just at this moment Maria's mother stepped in under the canvas. It was most inopportune. Mr. Cheesacre felt that he was progressing well, and was conscious that he had got safely over those fences in the race which his bashfulness would naturally make difficult to him. He knew that he had done this under the influence of the champagne, and was aware that it might not be easy to procure again a combination of circumstances that would be so beneficial to him. But now he was interrupted just as he was expecting success. He was interrupted, and felt himself to be looking like a guilty creature under the eye of the strange lady. He had not a word to say; but drawing himself suddenly a foot and half away from the widow's side, sat there confessing his guilt in his face. Mrs. Greenow felt no guilt, and was afraid of no strange eyes. "Mr. Cheesacre and I are talking about farming," she said. "Oh; farming!" answered Maria's mother. "Mr. Cheesacre thinks that turnips are better than early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "Yes, I do," said Cheesacre, "I prefer the early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think nature ever intended those late crops. What do you say, Mrs. Walker?" "I daresay Mr. Cheesacre understands what he's about when he's at home," said the lady. "I know what a bit of land can do as well as any man in Norfolk," said the gentleman. "It may be very well in Norfolk," said Mrs. Greenow, rising from her seat; "but the practice isn't thought much of in the other counties with which I am better acquainted." "I'd just come in to say that I thought we might be getting to the boats," said Mrs. Walker. "My Ophelia is so delicate." At this moment the delicate Ophelia was to be seen, under the influence of the music, taking a distant range upon the sands with Joe Fairstairs' arm round her waist. The attitude was justified by the tune that was in progress, and there is no reason why a galop on the sands should have any special termination in distance, as it must have in a room. But, under such circumstances, Mrs. Walker's solicitude was not unreasonable. The erratic steps of the distant dancers were recalled and preparations were made for the return journey. Others had strayed besides the delicate Ophelia and the idle Joe, and some little time was taken up in collecting the party. The boats had to be drawn down, and the boatmen fetched from their cans and tobacco-pipes. "I hope they're sober," said Mrs. Walker, with a look of great dismay. "Sober as judges," said Bellfield, who had himself been looking after the remains of Mr. Cheesacre's hampers, while that gentleman had been so much better engaged in the tent. "Because," continued Mrs. Walker, "I know that they play all manner of tricks when they're--in liquor. They'd think nothing of taking us out to sea, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, I do wish they would," said Ophelia. "Ophelia, mind you come in the boat with me," said her mother, and she looked very savage when she gave the order. It was Mrs. Walker's intention that that boat should not carry Joe Fairstairs. But Joe and her daughter together were too clever for her. When the boats went off she found herself to be in that one over which Mr. Cheesacre presided, while the sinning Ophelia with her good-for-nothing admirer were under the more mirthful protection of Captain Bellfield. "Mamma will be so angry," said Ophelia, "and it was all your fault. I did mean to go into the other boat. Don't, Mr. Fairstairs." Then they got settled down in their seats, to the satisfaction, let us hope, of them both. Mr. Cheesacre had vainly endeavoured to arrange that Mrs. Greenow should return with him. But not only was Captain Bellfield opposed to such a change in their positions, but so also was Mrs. Greenow. "I think we'd better go back as we came," she said, giving her hand to the Captain. "Oh, certainly," said Captain Bellfield. "Why should there be any change? Cheesacre, old fellow, mind you look after Mrs. Walker. Come along, my hearty." It really almost appeared that Captain Bellfield was addressing Mrs. Greenow as "his hearty," but it must be presumed that the term of genial endearment was intended for the whole boat's load. Mrs. Greenow took her place on the comfortable broad bench in the stern, and Bellfield seated himself beside her, with the tiller in his hand. "If you're going to steer, Captain Bellfield, I beg that you'll be careful." "Careful,--and with you on board!" said the Captain. "Don't you know that I would sooner perish beneath the waves than that a drop of water should touch you roughly?" "But you see, we might perish beneath the waves together." "Together! What a sweet word that is;--perish together! If it were not that there might be something better even than that, I would wish to perish in such company." "But I should not wish anything of the kind, Captain Bellfield, and therefore pray be careful." There was no perishing by water on that occasion. Mr. Cheesacre's boat reached the pier at Yarmouth first, and gave up its load without accident. Very shortly afterwards Captain Bellfield's crew reached the same place in the same state of preservation. "There," said he, as he handed out Mrs. Greenow. "I have brought you to no harm, at any rate as yet." "And, as I hope, will not do so hereafter." "May the heavens forbid it, Mrs. Greenow! Whatever may be our lots hereafter,--yours I mean and mine,--I trust that yours may be free from all disaster. Oh, that I might venture to hope that, at some future day, the privilege might be mine of protecting you from all danger!" "I can protect myself very well, I can assure you. Good night, Captain Bellfield. We won't take you and Mr. Cheesacre out of your way;--will we, Kate? We have had a most pleasant day." They were now upon the esplanade, and Mrs. Greenow's house was to the right, whereas the lodgings of both the gentlemen were to the left. Each of them fought hard for the privilege of accompanying the widow to her door; but Mrs. Greenow was self-willed, and upon this occasion would have neither of them. "Mr. Joe Fairstairs must pass the house," said she, "and he will see us home. Mr. Cheesacre, good night. Indeed you shall not;--not a step." There was that in her voice which induced Mr. Cheesacre to obey her, and which made Captain Bellfield aware that he would only injure his cause if he endeavoured to make further progress in it on the present occasion. "Well, Kate, what do you think of the day?" the aunt said when she was alone with her niece. "I never think much about such days, aunt. It was all very well, but I fear I have not the temperament fitted for enjoying the fun. I envied Ophelia Walker because she made herself thoroughly happy." "I do like to see girls enjoy themselves," said Mrs. Greenow, "I do, indeed;--and young men too. It seems so natural; why shouldn't young people flirt?" "Or old people either for the matter of that?" "Or old people either,--if they don't do any harm to anybody. I'll tell you what it is, Kate; people have become so very virtuous, that they're driven into all manner of abominable resources for amusement and occupation. If I had sons and daughters I should think a little flirting the very best thing for them as a safety valve. When people get to be old, there's a difficulty. They want to flirt with the young people and the young people don't want them. If the old people would be content to flirt together, I don't see why they should ever give it up;--till they're obliged to give up every thing, and go away." That was Mrs. Greenow's doctrine on the subject of flirtation. CHAPTER X. Nethercoats. We will leave Mrs. Greenow with her niece and two sisters at Yarmouth, and returning by stages to London, will call upon Mr. Grey at his place in Cambridgeshire as we pass by. I believe it is conceded by all the other counties, that Cambridgeshire possesses fewer rural beauties than any other county in England. It is very flat; it is not well timbered; the rivers are merely dikes; and in a very large portion of the county the farms and fields are divided simply by ditches--not by hedgerows. Such arrangements are, no doubt, well adapted for agricultural purposes, but are not conducive to rural beauty. Mr. Grey's residence was situated in a part of Cambridgeshire in which the above-named characteristics are very much marked. It was in the Isle of Ely, some few miles distant from the Cathedral town, on the side of a long straight road, which ran through the fields for miles without even a bush to cheer it. The name of his place was Nethercoats, and here he lived generally throughout the year, and here he intended to live throughout his life. His father had held a prebendal stall at Ely in times when prebendal stalls were worth more than they are at present, and having also been possessed of a living in the neighbourhood, had amassed a considerable sum of money. With this he had during his life purchased the property of Nethercoats, and had built on it the house in which his son now lived. He had married late in life, and had lost his wife soon after the birth of an only child. The house had been built in his own parish, and his wife had lived there for a few months and had died there. But after that event the old clergyman had gone back to his residence in the Close at Ely, and there John Grey had had the home of his youth. He had been brought up under his father's eye, having been sent to no public school. But he had gone to Cambridge, had taken college honours, and had then, his father dying exactly at this time, declined to accept a fellowship. His father had left to him an income of some fifteen hundred a year, and with this he sat himself down, near to his college friends, near also to the old cathedral which he loved, in the house which his father had built. But though Nethercoats possessed no beauty of scenery, though the country around it was in truth as uninteresting as any country could be, it had many delights of its own. The house itself was as excellent a residence for a country gentleman of small means as taste and skill together could construct. I doubt whether prettier rooms were ever seen than the drawing-room, the library, and the dining-room at Nethercoats. They were all on the ground-floor, and all opened out on to the garden and lawn. The library, which was the largest of the three, was a handsome chamber, and so filled as to make it well known in the University as one of the best private collections in that part of England. But perhaps the gardens of Nethercoats constituted its greatest glory. They were spacious and excellently kept up, and had been originally laid out with that knowledge of gardening without which no garden, merely as a garden, can be effective. And such, of necessity, was the garden of Nethercoats. Fine single forest trees there were none there, nor was it possible that there should have been any such. Nor could there be a clear rippling stream with steep green banks, and broken rocks lying about its bed. Such beauties are beauties of landscape, and do not of their nature belong to a garden. But the shrubs of Nethercoats were of the rarest kind, and had been long enough in their present places to have reached the period of their beauty. Nothing had been spared that a garden could want. The fruit-trees were perfect in their kind, and the glass-houses were so good and so extensive that John Grey in his prudence was some times tempted to think that he had too much of them. It must be understood that there were no grounds, according to the meaning usually given to that word, belonging to the house at Nethercoats. Between the garden and the public road there was a paddock belonging to the house, along the side of which, but divided from it by a hedge and shrubbery, ran the private carriageway up to the house. This swept through the small front flower-garden, dividing it equally; but the lawns and indeed the whole of that which made the beauty of the place lay on the back of the house, on which side opened the windows from the three sitting-rooms. Down on the public road there stood a lodge at which lived one of the gardeners. There was another field of some six or seven acres, to which there was a gate from the corner of the front paddock, and which went round two sides of the garden. This was Nethercoats, and the whole estate covered about twelve acres. It was not a place for much bachelor enjoyment of that sort generally popular with bachelors; nevertheless Mr. Grey had been constant in his residence there for the seven years which had now elapsed since he had left his college. His easy access to Cambridge had probably done much to mitigate what might otherwise have been the too great tedium of his life; and he had, prompted thereto by early associations, found most of his society in the Close of Ely Cathedral. But, with all the delight he could derive from these two sources, there had still been many solitary hours in his life, and he had gradually learned to feel that he of all men wanted a companion in his home. His visits to London had generally been short and far between, occasioned probably by some need in the library, or by the necessity of some slight literary transaction with the editor or publisher of a periodical. In one of these visits he had met Alice Vavasor, and had remained in Town,--I will not say till Alice had promised to share his home in Cambridgeshire, but so long that he had resolved before he went that he would ask her to do so. He had asked her, and we know that he had been successful. He had obtained her promise, and from that moment all his life had been changed for him. Hitherto at Nethercoats his little smoking-room, his books, and his plants had been everything to him. Now he began to surround himself with an infinity of feminine belongings, and to promise himself an infinity of feminine blessings, wondering much that he should have been content to pass so long a portion of his life in the dull seclusion which he had endured. He was not by nature an impatient man; but now he became impatient, longing for the fruition of his new idea of happiness,--longing to have that as his own which he certainly loved beyond all else in the world, and which, perhaps, was all he had ever loved with the perfect love of equality. But though impatient, and fully aware of his own impatience, he acknowledged to himself that Alice could not be expected to share it. He could plan nothing now,--could have no pleasure in life that she was not expected to share. But as yet it could not be so with her. She had her house in London, her town society, and her father. And, inasmuch as the change for her would be much greater than it would be for him, it was natural that she should require some small delay. He had not pressed her. At least he had not pressed her with that eager pressure which a girl must resist with something of the opposition of a contest, if she resist it at all. But in truth his impatience was now waxing strong, and during the absence in Switzerland of which we have spoken, he resolved that a marriage very late in the autumn,--that a marriage even in winter, would be better than a marriage postponed till the following year. It was not yet late in August when the party returned from their tour. Would not a further delay of two months suffice for his bride? Alice had written to him occasionally from Switzerland, and her first two letters had been very charming. They had referred almost exclusively to the tour, and had been made pleasant with some slightly coloured account of George Vavasor's idleness, and of Kate's obedience to her brother's behests. Alice had never written much of love in her love-letters, and Grey was well enough contented with her style, though it was not impassioned. As for doubting her love, it was not in the heart of the man to do so after it had been once assured to him by her word. He could not so slightly respect himself or her as to leave room for such a doubt in his bosom. He was a man who could never have suggested to himself that a woman loved him till the fact was there before him; but who having ascertained, as he might think, the fact, could never suggest to himself that her love would fail him. Her first two letters from Switzerland had been very pleasant; but after that there had seemed to have crept over her a melancholy which she unconsciously transferred to her words, and which he could not but taste in them,--at first unconsciously, also, but soon with so plain a flavour that he recognised it, and made it a matter of mental inquiry. During the three or four last days of the journey, while they were at Basle and on their way home, she had not written. But she did write on the day after her arrival, having then received from Mr. Grey a letter, in which he told her how very much she would add to his happiness if she would now agree that their marriage should not be postponed beyond the end of October. This letter she found in her room on her return, and this she answered at once. And she answered it in such words that Mr. Grey resolved that he would at once go to her in London. I will give her letter at length, as I shall then be best able to proceed with my story quickly. Queen Anne Street, -- August, 186--. DEAREST JOHN,-- We reached home yesterday tired enough, as we came through from Paris without stopping. I may indeed say that we came through from Strasbourg, as we only slept in Paris. I don't like Strasbourg. A steeple, after all, is not everything, and putting the steeple aside, I don't think the style is good. But the hotel was uncomfortable, which goes for so much;--and then we were saturated with beauty of a better kind. I got your letter directly I came in last night, and I suppose I had better dash at it at once. I would so willingly delay doing so, saying nice little things the while, did I not know that this would be mere cowardice. Whatever happens I won't be a coward, and therefore I will tell you at once that I cannot let you hope that we should be married this year. Of course you will ask me why, as you have a right to do, and of course I am bound to answer. I do not know that I can give any answer with which you will not have a right to complain. If it be so, I can only ask your pardon for the injury I am doing you. Marriage is a great change in life,--much greater to me than to you, who will remain in your old house, will keep your old pursuits, will still be your own master, and will change in nothing,--except in this, that you will have a companion who probably may not be all that you expect. But I must change everything. It will be to me as though I were passing through a grave to a new world. I shall see nothing that I have been accustomed to see, and must abandon all the ways of life that I have hitherto adopted. Of course I should have thought of this before I accepted you; and I did think of it. I made up my mind that, as I truly loved you, I would risk the change;--that I would risk it for your sake and for mine, hoping that I might add something to your happiness, and that I might secure my own. Dear John, do not suppose that I despair that it may be so; but, indeed, you must not hurry me. I must tune myself to the change that I have to make. What if I should wake some morning after six months living with you, and tell you that the quiet of your home was making me mad? You must not ask me again till the winter shall have passed away. If in the meantime I shall find that I have been wrong, I will humbly confess that I have wronged you, and ask you to forgive me. And I will freely admit this. If the delay which I now purpose is so contrary to your own plans as to make your marriage, under such circumstances, not that which you had expected, I know that you are free to tell me so, and to say that our engagement shall be over. I am well aware that I can have no right to bind you to a marriage at one period which you had only contemplated as to take place at another period. I think I may promise that I will obey any wish you may express in anything,--except in that one thing which you urged in your last letter. Kate is going down to Yarmouth with Mrs. Greenow, and I shall see no more of her probably till next year, as she will be due in Westmoreland after that. George left me at the door when he brought me home, and declared that he intended to vanish out of London. Whether in town or out, he is never to be seen at this period of the year. Papa offers to go to Ramsgate for a fortnight, but he looks so wretched when he makes the offer, that I shall not have the heart to hold him to it. Lady Macleod very much wants me to go to Cheltenham. I very much want not to go, simply because I can never agree with her about anything; but it will probably end in my going there for a week or two. Over and beyond that, I have no prospects before Christmas which are not purely domestic. There is a project that we shall all eat our Christmas dinner at Vavasor Hall,--of course not including George,--but this project is quite in the clouds, and, as far as I am concerned, will remain there. Dear John, let me hear that this letter does not make you unhappy. Most affectionately yours, ALICE VAVASOR. At Nethercoats, the post was brought in at breakfast-time, and Mr. Grey was sitting with his tea and eggs before him, when he read Alice's letter. He read it twice before he began to think what he would do in regard to it, and then referred to one or two others which he had received from Switzerland,--reading them also very carefully. After that, he took up the slouch hat which he had been wearing in the garden before he was called to his breakfast, and, with the letters in his hand, sauntered down among the shrubs and lawns. He knew, he thought he knew, that there was more in Alice's mind than a mere wish for delay. There was more in it than that hesitation to take at once a step which she really desired to take, if not now, then after some short interval. He felt that she was unhappy, and unhappy because she distrusted the results of her marriage; but it never for a moment occurred to him that, therefore, the engagement between them should be broken. In the first place he loved her too well to allow of his admitting such an idea without terrible sorrow to himself. He was a constant, firm man, somewhat reserved, and unwilling to make new acquaintances, and, therefore, specially unwilling to break away from those which he had made. Undoubtedly, had he satisfied himself that Alice's happiness demanded such a sacrifice of himself, he would have made it, and made it without a word of complaint. The blow would not have prostrated him, but the bruise would have remained on his heart, indelible, not to be healed but by death. He would have submitted, and no man would have seen that he had been

board

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

"I shan't dance, Mrs. Greenow, unless you like to stand up for a set." "No, my friend, no; I shall not do that. I fear you forget how recent has been my bereavement. Your asking me is the bitterest reproach to me for having ventured to join your festive board." "Upon my honour I didn't mean it, Mrs. Greenow. I didn't mean it, indeed." "I do not suspect you. It would have been unmanly." "And nobody can say that of me. There isn't a man or woman in Norfolk that wouldn't say I was manly." "I'm quite sure of that." "I have my faults, I'm aware." "And what are your faults, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well; perhaps I'm extravagant. But it's only in these kind of things you know, when I spend a little money for the sake of making my friends happy. When I'm about, on the lands at home, I ain't extravagant, I can tell you." "Extravagance is a great vice." "Oh, I ain't extravagant in that sense;--not a bit in the world. But when a man's enamoured, and perhaps looking out for a wife, he does like to be a little free, you know." "And are you looking out for a wife, Mr. Cheesacre?" "If I told you I suppose you'd only laugh at me." "No; indeed I would not. I am not given to joking when any one that I regard speaks to me seriously." "Ain't you though? I'm so glad of that. When one has really got a serious thing to say, one doesn't like to have fun poked at one." "And, besides, how could I laugh at marriages, seeing how happy I have been in that condition?--so--very--happy," and Mrs. Greenow put up her handkerchief to her eyes. "So happy that you'll try it again some day; won't you?" "Never, Mr. Cheesacre; never. Is that the way you talk of serious things without joking? Anything like love--love of that sort--is over for me. It lies buried under the sod with my poor dear departed saint." "But, Mrs. Greenow,"--and Cheesacre, as he prepared to argue the question with her, got nearer to her in the corner behind the table,--"But, Mrs. Greenow, care killed a cat, you know." "And sometimes I think that care will kill me." "No, by George; not if I can prevent it." "You're very kind, Mr. Cheesacre; but there's no preventing such care as mine." "Isn't there though? I'll tell you what, Mrs. Greenow; I'm in earnest, I am indeed. If you'll inquire, you'll find there isn't a fellow in Norfolk pays his way better than I do, or is better able to do it. I don't pay a sixpence of rent, and I sit upon seven hundred acres of as good land as there is in the county. There's not an acre that won't do me a bullock and a half. Just put that and that together, and see what it comes to. And, mind you, some of these fellows that farm their own land are worse off than if they'd rent to pay. They've borrowed so much to carry on with, that the interest is more than rent. I don't owe a sixpence to ere a man or ere a company in the world. I can walk into every bank in Norwich without seeing my master. There ain't any of my paper flying about, Mrs. Greenow. I'm Samuel Cheesacre of Oileymead, and it's all my own." Mr. Cheesacre, as he thus spoke of his good fortunes and firm standing in the world, became impetuous in the energy of the moment, and brought down his fist powerfully on the slight table before them. The whole fabric rattled, and the boat resounded, but the noise he had made seemed to assist him. "It's all my own, Mrs. Greenow, and the half of it shall be yours if you'll please to take it;" then he stretched out his hand to her, not as though he intended to grasp hers in a grasp of love, but as if he expected some hand-pledge from her as a token that she accepted the bargain. "If you'd known Greenow, Mr. Cheesacre--" "I've no doubt he was a very good sort of man." "If you'd known him, you would not have addressed me in this way." "What difference would that make? My idea is that care killed a cat, as I said before. I never knew what was the good of being unhappy. If I find early mangels don't do on a bit of land, then I sow late turnips; and never cry after spilt milk. Greenow was the early mangels; I'll be the late turnips. Come then, say the word. There ain't a bedroom in my house,--not one of the front ones,--that isn't mahogany furnished!" "What's furniture to me?" said Mrs. Greenow, with her handkerchief to her eyes. Just at this moment Maria's mother stepped in under the canvas. It was most inopportune. Mr. Cheesacre felt that he was progressing well, and was conscious that he had got safely over those fences in the race which his bashfulness would naturally make difficult to him. He knew that he had done this under the influence of the champagne, and was aware that it might not be easy to procure again a combination of circumstances that would be so beneficial to him. But now he was interrupted just as he was expecting success. He was interrupted, and felt himself to be looking like a guilty creature under the eye of the strange lady. He had not a word to say; but drawing himself suddenly a foot and half away from the widow's side, sat there confessing his guilt in his face. Mrs. Greenow felt no guilt, and was afraid of no strange eyes. "Mr. Cheesacre and I are talking about farming," she said. "Oh; farming!" answered Maria's mother. "Mr. Cheesacre thinks that turnips are better than early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "Yes, I do," said Cheesacre, "I prefer the early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think nature ever intended those late crops. What do you say, Mrs. Walker?" "I daresay Mr. Cheesacre understands what he's about when he's at home," said the lady. "I know what a bit of land can do as well as any man in Norfolk," said the gentleman. "It may be very well in Norfolk," said Mrs. Greenow, rising from her seat; "but the practice isn't thought much of in the other counties with which I am better acquainted." "I'd just come in to say that I thought we might be getting to the boats," said Mrs. Walker. "My Ophelia is so delicate." At this moment the delicate Ophelia was to be seen, under the influence of the music, taking a distant range upon the sands with Joe Fairstairs' arm round her waist. The attitude was justified by the tune that was in progress, and there is no reason why a galop on the sands should have any special termination in distance, as it must have in a room. But, under such circumstances, Mrs. Walker's solicitude was not unreasonable. The erratic steps of the distant dancers were recalled and preparations were made for the return journey. Others had strayed besides the delicate Ophelia and the idle Joe, and some little time was taken up in collecting the party. The boats had to be drawn down, and the boatmen fetched from their cans and tobacco-pipes. "I hope they're sober," said Mrs. Walker, with a look of great dismay. "Sober as judges," said Bellfield, who had himself been looking after the remains of Mr. Cheesacre's hampers, while that gentleman had been so much better engaged in the tent. "Because," continued Mrs. Walker, "I know that they play all manner of tricks when they're--in liquor. They'd think nothing of taking us out to sea, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, I do wish they would," said Ophelia. "Ophelia, mind you come in the boat with me," said her mother, and she looked very savage when she gave the order. It was Mrs. Walker's intention that that boat should not carry Joe Fairstairs. But Joe and her daughter together were too clever for her. When the boats went off she found herself to be in that one over which Mr. Cheesacre presided, while the sinning Ophelia with her good-for-nothing admirer were under the more mirthful protection of Captain Bellfield. "Mamma will be so angry," said Ophelia, "and it was all your fault. I did mean to go into the other boat. Don't, Mr. Fairstairs." Then they got settled down in their seats, to the satisfaction, let us hope, of them both. Mr. Cheesacre had vainly endeavoured to arrange that Mrs. Greenow should return with him. But not only was Captain Bellfield opposed to such a change in their positions, but so also was Mrs. Greenow. "I think we'd better go back as we came," she said, giving her hand to the Captain. "Oh, certainly," said Captain Bellfield. "Why should there be any change? Cheesacre, old fellow, mind you look after Mrs. Walker. Come along, my hearty." It really almost appeared that Captain Bellfield was addressing Mrs. Greenow as "his hearty," but it must be presumed that the term of genial endearment was intended for the whole boat's load. Mrs. Greenow took her place on the comfortable broad bench in the stern, and Bellfield seated himself beside her, with the tiller in his hand. "If you're going to steer, Captain Bellfield, I beg that you'll be careful." "Careful,--and with you on board!" said the Captain. "Don't you know that I would sooner perish beneath the waves than that a drop of water should touch you roughly?" "But you see, we might perish beneath the waves together." "Together! What a sweet word that is;--perish together! If it were not that there might be something better even than that, I would wish to perish in such company." "But I should not wish anything of the kind, Captain Bellfield, and therefore pray be careful." There was no perishing by water on that occasion. Mr. Cheesacre's boat reached the pier at Yarmouth first, and gave up its load without accident. Very shortly afterwards Captain Bellfield's crew reached the same place in the same state of preservation. "There," said he, as he handed out Mrs. Greenow. "I have brought you to no harm, at any rate as yet." "And, as I hope, will not do so hereafter." "May the heavens forbid it, Mrs. Greenow! Whatever may be our lots hereafter,--yours I mean and mine,--I trust that yours may be free from all disaster. Oh, that I might venture to hope that, at some future day, the privilege might be mine of protecting you from all danger!" "I can protect myself very well, I can assure you. Good night, Captain Bellfield. We won't take you and Mr. Cheesacre out of your way;--will we, Kate? We have had a most pleasant day." They were now upon the esplanade, and Mrs. Greenow's house was to the right, whereas the lodgings of both the gentlemen were to the left. Each of them fought hard for the privilege of accompanying the widow to her door; but Mrs. Greenow was self-willed, and upon this occasion would have neither of them. "Mr. Joe Fairstairs must pass the house," said she, "and he will see us home. Mr. Cheesacre, good night. Indeed you shall not;--not a step." There was that in her voice which induced Mr. Cheesacre to obey her, and which made Captain Bellfield aware that he would only injure his cause if he endeavoured to make further progress in it on the present occasion. "Well, Kate, what do you think of the day?" the aunt said when she was alone with her niece. "I never think much about such days, aunt. It was all very well, but I fear I have not the temperament fitted for enjoying the fun. I envied Ophelia Walker because she made herself thoroughly happy." "I do like to see girls enjoy themselves," said Mrs. Greenow, "I do, indeed;--and young men too. It seems so natural; why shouldn't young people flirt?" "Or old people either for the matter of that?" "Or old people either,--if they don't do any harm to anybody. I'll tell you what it is, Kate; people have become so very virtuous, that they're driven into all manner of abominable resources for amusement and occupation. If I had sons and daughters I should think a little flirting the very best thing for them as a safety valve. When people get to be old, there's a difficulty. They want to flirt with the young people and the young people don't want them. If the old people would be content to flirt together, I don't see why they should ever give it up;--till they're obliged to give up every thing, and go away." That was Mrs. Greenow's doctrine on the subject of flirtation. CHAPTER X. Nethercoats. We will leave Mrs. Greenow with her niece and two sisters at Yarmouth, and returning by stages to London, will call upon Mr. Grey at his place in Cambridgeshire as we pass by. I believe it is conceded by all the other counties, that Cambridgeshire possesses fewer rural beauties than any other county in England. It is very flat; it is not well timbered; the rivers are merely dikes; and in a very large portion of the county the farms and fields are divided simply by ditches--not by hedgerows. Such arrangements are, no doubt, well adapted for agricultural purposes, but are not conducive to rural beauty. Mr. Grey's residence was situated in a part of Cambridgeshire in which the above-named characteristics are very much marked. It was in the Isle of Ely, some few miles distant from the Cathedral town, on the side of a long straight road, which ran through the fields for miles without even a bush to cheer it. The name of his place was Nethercoats, and here he lived generally throughout the year, and here he intended to live throughout his life. His father had held a prebendal stall at Ely in times when prebendal stalls were worth more than they are at present, and having also been possessed of a living in the neighbourhood, had amassed a considerable sum of money. With this he had during his life purchased the property of Nethercoats, and had built on it the house in which his son now lived. He had married late in life, and had lost his wife soon after the birth of an only child. The house had been built in his own parish, and his wife had lived there for a few months and had died there. But after that event the old clergyman had gone back to his residence in the Close at Ely, and there John Grey had had the home of his youth. He had been brought up under his father's eye, having been sent to no public school. But he had gone to Cambridge, had taken college honours, and had then, his father dying exactly at this time, declined to accept a fellowship. His father had left to him an income of some fifteen hundred a year, and with this he sat himself down, near to his college friends, near also to the old cathedral which he loved, in the house which his father had built. But though Nethercoats possessed no beauty of scenery, though the country around it was in truth as uninteresting as any country could be, it had many delights of its own. The house itself was as excellent a residence for a country gentleman of small means as taste and skill together could construct. I doubt whether prettier rooms were ever seen than the drawing-room, the library, and the dining-room at Nethercoats. They were all on the ground-floor, and all opened out on to the garden and lawn. The library, which was the largest of the three, was a handsome chamber, and so filled as to make it well known in the University as one of the best private collections in that part of England. But perhaps the gardens of Nethercoats constituted its greatest glory. They were spacious and excellently kept up, and had been originally laid out with that knowledge of gardening without which no garden, merely as a garden, can be effective. And such, of necessity, was the garden of Nethercoats. Fine single forest trees there were none there, nor was it possible that there should have been any such. Nor could there be a clear rippling stream with steep green banks, and broken rocks lying about its bed. Such beauties are beauties of landscape, and do not of their nature belong to a garden. But the shrubs of Nethercoats were of the rarest kind, and had been long enough in their present places to have reached the period of their beauty. Nothing had been spared that a garden could want. The fruit-trees were perfect in their kind, and the glass-houses were so good and so extensive that John Grey in his prudence was some times tempted to think that he had too much of them. It must be understood that there were no grounds, according to the meaning usually given to that word, belonging to the house at Nethercoats. Between the garden and the public road there was a paddock belonging to the house, along the side of which, but divided from it by a hedge and shrubbery, ran the private carriageway up to the house. This swept through the small front flower-garden, dividing it equally; but the lawns and indeed the whole of that which made the beauty of the place lay on the back of the house, on which side opened the windows from the three sitting-rooms. Down on the public road there stood a lodge at which lived one of the gardeners. There was another field of some six or seven acres, to which there was a gate from the corner of the front paddock, and which went round two sides of the garden. This was Nethercoats, and the whole estate covered about twelve acres. It was not a place for much bachelor enjoyment of that sort generally popular with bachelors; nevertheless Mr. Grey had been constant in his residence there for the seven years which had now elapsed since he had left his college. His easy access to Cambridge had probably done much to mitigate what might otherwise have been the too great tedium of his life; and he had, prompted thereto by early associations, found most of his society in the Close of Ely Cathedral. But, with all the delight he could derive from these two sources, there had still been many solitary hours in his life, and he had gradually learned to feel that he of all men wanted a companion in his home. His visits to London had generally been short and far between, occasioned probably by some need in the library, or by the necessity of some slight literary transaction with the editor or publisher of a periodical. In one of these visits he had met Alice Vavasor, and had remained in Town,--I will not say till Alice had promised to share his home in Cambridgeshire, but so long that he had resolved before he went that he would ask her to do so. He had asked her, and we know that he had been successful. He had obtained her promise, and from that moment all his life had been changed for him. Hitherto at Nethercoats his little smoking-room, his books, and his plants had been everything to him. Now he began to surround himself with an infinity of feminine belongings, and to promise himself an infinity of feminine blessings, wondering much that he should have been content to pass so long a portion of his life in the dull seclusion which he had endured. He was not by nature an impatient man; but now he became impatient, longing for the fruition of his new idea of happiness,--longing to have that as his own which he certainly loved beyond all else in the world, and which, perhaps, was all he had ever loved with the perfect love of equality. But though impatient, and fully aware of his own impatience, he acknowledged to himself that Alice could not be expected to share it. He could plan nothing now,--could have no pleasure in life that she was not expected to share. But as yet it could not be so with her. She had her house in London, her town society, and her father. And, inasmuch as the change for her would be much greater than it would be for him, it was natural that she should require some small delay. He had not pressed her. At least he had not pressed her with that eager pressure which a girl must resist with something of the opposition of a contest, if she resist it at all. But in truth his impatience was now waxing strong, and during the absence in Switzerland of which we have spoken, he resolved that a marriage very late in the autumn,--that a marriage even in winter, would be better than a marriage postponed till the following year. It was not yet late in August when the party returned from their tour. Would not a further delay of two months suffice for his bride? Alice had written to him occasionally from Switzerland, and her first two letters had been very charming. They had referred almost exclusively to the tour, and had been made pleasant with some slightly coloured account of George Vavasor's idleness, and of Kate's obedience to her brother's behests. Alice had never written much of love in her love-letters, and Grey was well enough contented with her style, though it was not impassioned. As for doubting her love, it was not in the heart of the man to do so after it had been once assured to him by her word. He could not so slightly respect himself or her as to leave room for such a doubt in his bosom. He was a man who could never have suggested to himself that a woman loved him till the fact was there before him; but who having ascertained, as he might think, the fact, could never suggest to himself that her love would fail him. Her first two letters from Switzerland had been very pleasant; but after that there had seemed to have crept over her a melancholy which she unconsciously transferred to her words, and which he could not but taste in them,--at first unconsciously, also, but soon with so plain a flavour that he recognised it, and made it a matter of mental inquiry. During the three or four last days of the journey, while they were at Basle and on their way home, she had not written. But she did write on the day after her arrival, having then received from Mr. Grey a letter, in which he told her how very much she would add to his happiness if she would now agree that their marriage should not be postponed beyond the end of October. This letter she found in her room on her return, and this she answered at once. And she answered it in such words that Mr. Grey resolved that he would at once go to her in London. I will give her letter at length, as I shall then be best able to proceed with my story quickly. Queen Anne Street, -- August, 186--. DEAREST JOHN,-- We reached home yesterday tired enough, as we came through from Paris without stopping. I may indeed say that we came through from Strasbourg, as we only slept in Paris. I don't like Strasbourg. A steeple, after all, is not everything, and putting the steeple aside, I don't think the style is good. But the hotel was uncomfortable, which goes for so much;--and then we were saturated with beauty of a better kind. I got your letter directly I came in last night, and I suppose I had better dash at it at once. I would so willingly delay doing so, saying nice little things the while, did I not know that this would be mere cowardice. Whatever happens I won't be a coward, and therefore I will tell you at once that I cannot let you hope that we should be married this year. Of course you will ask me why, as you have a right to do, and of course I am bound to answer. I do not know that I can give any answer with which you will not have a right to complain. If it be so, I can only ask your pardon for the injury I am doing you. Marriage is a great change in life,--much greater to me than to you, who will remain in your old house, will keep your old pursuits, will still be your own master, and will change in nothing,--except in this, that you will have a companion who probably may not be all that you expect. But I must change everything. It will be to me as though I were passing through a grave to a new world. I shall see nothing that I have been accustomed to see, and must abandon all the ways of life that I have hitherto adopted. Of course I should have thought of this before I accepted you; and I did think of it. I made up my mind that, as I truly loved you, I would risk the change;--that I would risk it for your sake and for mine, hoping that I might add something to your happiness, and that I might secure my own. Dear John, do not suppose that I despair that it may be so; but, indeed, you must not hurry me. I must tune myself to the change that I have to make. What if I should wake some morning after six months living with you, and tell you that the quiet of your home was making me mad? You must not ask me again till the winter shall have passed away. If in the meantime I shall find that I have been wrong, I will humbly confess that I have wronged you, and ask you to forgive me. And I will freely admit this. If the delay which I now purpose is so contrary to your own plans as to make your marriage, under such circumstances, not that which you had expected, I know that you are free to tell me so, and to say that our engagement shall be over. I am well aware that I can have no right to bind you to a marriage at one period which you had only contemplated as to take place at another period. I think I may promise that I will obey any wish you may express in anything,--except in that one thing which you urged in your last letter. Kate is going down to Yarmouth with Mrs. Greenow, and I shall see no more of her probably till next year, as she will be due in Westmoreland after that. George left me at the door when he brought me home, and declared that he intended to vanish out of London. Whether in town or out, he is never to be seen at this period of the year. Papa offers to go to Ramsgate for a fortnight, but he looks so wretched when he makes the offer, that I shall not have the heart to hold him to it. Lady Macleod very much wants me to go to Cheltenham. I very much want not to go, simply because I can never agree with her about anything; but it will probably end in my going there for a week or two. Over and beyond that, I have no prospects before Christmas which are not purely domestic. There is a project that we shall all eat our Christmas dinner at Vavasor Hall,--of course not including George,--but this project is quite in the clouds, and, as far as I am concerned, will remain there. Dear John, let me hear that this letter does not make you unhappy. Most affectionately yours, ALICE VAVASOR. At Nethercoats, the post was brought in at breakfast-time, and Mr. Grey was sitting with his tea and eggs before him, when he read Alice's letter. He read it twice before he began to think what he would do in regard to it, and then referred to one or two others which he had received from Switzerland,--reading them also very carefully. After that, he took up the slouch hat which he had been wearing in the garden before he was called to his breakfast, and, with the letters in his hand, sauntered down among the shrubs and lawns. He knew, he thought he knew, that there was more in Alice's mind than a mere wish for delay. There was more in it than that hesitation to take at once a step which she really desired to take, if not now, then after some short interval. He felt that she was unhappy, and unhappy because she distrusted the results of her marriage; but it never for a moment occurred to him that, therefore, the engagement between them should be broken. In the first place he loved her too well to allow of his admitting such an idea without terrible sorrow to himself. He was a constant, firm man, somewhat reserved, and unwilling to make new acquaintances, and, therefore, specially unwilling to break away from those which he had made. Undoubtedly, had he satisfied himself that Alice's happiness demanded such a sacrifice of himself, he would have made it, and made it without a word of complaint. The blow would not have prostrated him, but the bruise would have remained on his heart, indelible, not to be healed but by death. He would have submitted, and no man would have seen that he had been

resolved

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

"Is the child her child?" "I s'd think so--they say so." "Who told you about her?" "Why, Lizzie--a-Monday--we seed her goin' past." "You'd have to be rattling your tongues if anything went past." Brangwen stood musing. That evening he went up to Cossethay to the "Red Lion", half with the intention of hearing more. She was the widow of a Polish doctor, he gathered. Her husband had died, a refugee, in London. She spoke a bit foreign-like, but you could easily make out what she said. She had one little girl named Anna. Lensky was the woman's name, Mrs. Lensky. Brangwen felt that here was the unreality established at last. He felt also a curious certainty about her, as if she were destined to him. It was to him a profound satisfaction that she was a foreigner. A swift change had taken place on the earth for him, as if a new creation were fulfilled, in which he had real existence. Things had all been stark, unreal, barren, mere nullities before. Now they were actualities that he could handle. He dared scarcely think of the woman. He was afraid. Only all the time he was aware of her presence not far off, he lived in her. But he dared not know her, even acquaint himself with her by thinking of her. One day he met her walking along the road with her little girl. It was a child with a face like a bud of apple-blossom, and glistening fair hair like thistle-down sticking out in straight, wild, flamy pieces, and very dark eyes. The child clung jealously to her mother's side when he looked at her, staring with resentful black eyes. But the mother glanced at him again, almost vacantly. And the very vacancy of her look inflamed him. She had wide grey-brown eyes with very dark, fathomless pupils. He felt the fine flame running under his skin, as if all his veins had caught fire on the surface. And he went on walking without knowledge. It was coming, he knew, his fate. The world was submitting to its transformation. He made no move: it would come, what would come. When his sister Effie came to the Marsh for a week, he went with her for once to church. In the tiny place, with its mere dozen pews, he sat not far from the stranger. There was a fineness about her, a poignancy about the way she sat and held her head lifted. She was strange, from far off, yet so intimate. She was from far away, a presence, so close to his soul. She was not really there, sitting in Cossethay church beside her little girl. She was not living the apparent life of her days. She belonged to somewhere else. He felt it poignantly, as something real and natural. But a pang of fear for his own concrete life, that was only Cossethay, hurt him, and gave him misgiving. Her thick dark brows almost met above her irregular nose, she had a wide, rather thick mouth. But her face was lifted to another world of life: not to heaven or death: but to some place where she still lived, in spite of her body's absence. The child beside her watched everything with wide, black eyes. She had an odd little defiant look, her little red mouth was pinched shut. She seemed to be jealously guarding something, to be always on the alert for defence. She met Brangwen's near, vacant, intimate gaze, and a palpitating hostility, almost like a flame of pain, came into the wide, over-conscious dark eyes. The old clergyman droned on, Cossethay sat unmoved as usual. And there was the foreign woman with a foreign air about her, inviolate, and the strange child, also foreign, jealously guarding something. When the service was over, he walked in the way of another existence out of the church. As he went down the church-path with his sister, behind the woman and child, the little girl suddenly broke from her mother's hand, and slipped back with quick, almost invisible movement, and was picking at something almost under Brangwen's feet. Her tiny fingers were fine and quick, but they missed the red button. "Have you found something?" said Brangwen to her. And he also stooped for the button. But she had got it, and she stood back with it pressed against her little coat, her black eyes flaring at him, as if to forbid him to notice her. Then, having silenced him, she turned with a swift "Mother----," and was gone down the path. The mother had stood watching impassive, looking not at the child, but at Brangwen. He became aware of the woman looking at him, standing there isolated yet for him dominant in her foreign existence. He did not know what to do, and turned to his sister. But the wide grey eyes, almost vacant yet so moving, held him beyond himself. "Mother, I may have it, mayn't I?" came the child's proud, silvery tones. "Mother"-she seemed always to be calling her mother to remember her-"mother"-and she had nothing to continue now her mother had replied "Yes, my child." But, with ready invention, the child stumbled and ran on, "What are those people's names?" Brangwen heard the abstract: "I don't know, dear." He went on down the road as if he were not living inside himself, but somewhere outside. "Who was that person?" his sister Effie asked. "I couldn't tell you," he answered unknowing. "She's somebody very funny," said Effie, almost in condemnation. "That child's like one bewitched." "Bewitched--how bewitched?" he repeated. "You can see for yourself. The mother's plain, I must say--but the child is like a changeling. She'd be about thirty-five." But he took no notice. His sister talked on. "There's your woman for you," she continued. "You'd better marry her." But still he took no notice. Things were as they were. Another day, at tea-time, as he sat alone at table, there came a knock at the front door. It startled him like a portent. No one ever knocked at the front door. He rose and began slotting back the bolts, turning the big key. When he had opened the door, the strange woman stood on the threshold. "Can you give me a pound of butter?" she asked, in a curious detached way of one speaking a foreign language. He tried to attend to her question. She was looking at him questioningly. But underneath the question, what was there, in her very standing motionless, which affected him? He stepped aside and she at once entered the house, as if the door had been opened to admit her. That startled him. It was the custom for everybody to wait on the doorstep till asked inside. He went into the kitchen and she followed. His tea-things were spread on the scrubbed deal table, a big fire was burning, a dog rose from the hearth and went to her. She stood motionless just inside the kitchen. "Tilly," he called loudly, "have we got any butter?" The stranger stood there like a silence in her black cloak. "Eh?" came the shrill cry from the distance. He shouted his question again. "We've got what's on t' table," answered Tilly's shrill voice out of the dairy. Brangwen looked at the table. There was a large pat of butter on a plate, almost a pound. It was round, and stamped with acorns and oak-leaves. "Can't you come when you're wanted?" he shouted. "Why, what d'you want?" Tilly protested, as she came peeking inquisitively through the other door. She saw the strange woman, stared at her with cross-eyes, but said nothing. "Haven't we any butter?" asked Brangwen again, impatiently, as if he could command some by his question. "I tell you there's what's on t' table," said Tilly, impatient that she was unable to create any to his demand. "We haven't a morsel besides." There was a moment's silence. The stranger spoke, in her curiously distinct, detached manner of one who must think her speech first. "Oh, then thank you very much. I am sorry that I have come to trouble you." She could not understand the entire lack of manners, was slightly puzzled. Any politeness would have made the situation quite impersonal. But here it was a case of wills in confusion. Brangwen flushed at her polite speech. Still he did not let her go. "Get summat an' wrap that up for her," he said to Tilly, looking at the butter on the table. And taking a clean knife, he cut off that side of the butter where it was touched. His speech, the "for her", penetrated slowly into the foreign woman and angered Tilly. "Vicar has his butter fra Brown's by rights," said the insuppressible servant-woman. "We s'll be churnin' to-morrow mornin' first thing." "Yes"--the long-drawn foreign yes--"yes," said the Polish woman, "I went to Mrs. Brown's. She hasn't any more." Tilly bridled her head, bursting to say that, according to the etiquette of people who bought butter, it was no sort of manners whatever coming to a place cool as you like and knocking at the front door asking for a pound as a stop-gap while your other people were short. If you go to Brown's you go to Brown's, an' my butter isn't just to make shift when Brown's has got none. Brangwen understood perfectly this unspoken speech of Tilly's. The Polish lady did not. And as she wanted butter for the vicar, and as Tilly was churning in the morning, she waited. "Sluther up now," said Brangwen loudly after this silence had resolved itself out; and Tilly disappeared through the inner door. "I am afraid that I should not come, so," said the stranger, looking at him enquiringly, as if referring to him for what it was usual to do. He felt confused. "How's that?" he said, trying to be genial and being only protective. "Do you----?" she began deliberately. But she was not sure of her ground, and the conversation came to an end. Her eyes looked at him all the while, because she could not speak the language. They stood facing each other. The dog walked away from her to him. He bent down to it. "And how's your little girl?" he asked. "Yes, thank you, she is very well," was the reply, a phrase of polite speech in a foreign language merely. "Sit you down," he said. And she sat in a chair, her slim arms, coming through the slits of her cloak, resting on her lap. "You're not used to these parts," he said, still standing on the hearthrug with his back to the fire, coatless, looking with curious directness at the woman. Her self-possession pleased him and inspired him, set him curiously free. It seemed to him almost brutal to feel so master of himself and of the situation. Her eyes rested on him for a moment, questioning, as she thought of the meaning of his speech. "No," she said, understanding. "No--it is strange." "You find it middlin' rough?" he said. Her eyes waited on him, so that he should say it again. "Our ways are rough to you," he repeated. "Yes--yes, I understand. Yes, it is different, it is strange. But I was in Yorkshire----" "Oh, well then," he said, "it's no worse here than what they are up there." She did not quite understand. His protective manner, and his sureness, and his intimacy, puzzled her. What did he mean? If he was her equal, why did he behave so without formality? "No----" she said, vaguely, her eyes resting on him. She saw him fresh and naive, uncouth, almost entirely beyond relationship with her. Yet he was good-looking, with his fair hair and blue eyes full of energy, and with his healthy body that seemed to take equality with her. She watched him steadily. He was difficult for her to understand, warm, uncouth, and confident as he was, sure on his feet as if he did not know what it was to be unsure. What then was it that gave him this curious stability? She did not know. She wondered. She looked round the room he lived in. It had a close intimacy that fascinated and almost frightened her. The furniture was old and familiar as old people, the whole place seemed so kin to him, as if it partook of his being, that she was uneasy. "It is already a long time that you have lived in this house--yes?" she asked. "I've always lived here," he said. "Yes--but your people--your family?" "We've been here above two hundred years," he said. Her eyes were on him all the time, wide-open and trying to grasp him. He felt that he was there for her. "It is your own place, the house, the farm----?" "Yes," he said. He looked down at her and met her look. It disturbed her. She did not know him. He was a foreigner, they had nothing to do with each other. Yet his look disturbed her to knowledge of him. He was so strangely confident and direct. "You live quite alone?" "Yes--if you call it alone?" She did not understand. It seemed unusual to her. What was the meaning of it? And whenever her eyes, after watching him for some time, inevitably met his, she was aware of a heat beating up over her consciousness. She sat motionless and in conflict. Who was this strange man who was at once so near to her? What was happening to her? Something in his young, warm-twinkling eyes seemed to assume a right to her, to speak to her, to extend her his protection. But how? Why did he speak to her? Why were his eyes so certain, so full of light and confident, waiting for no permission nor signal? Tilly returned with a large leaf and found the two silent. At once he felt it incumbent on him to speak, now the serving-woman had come back. "How old is your little girl?" he asked. "Four years," she replied. "Her father hasn't been dead long, then?" he asked. "She was one year when he died." "Three years?" "Yes, three years that he is dead--yes." Curiously quiet she was, almost abstracted, answering these questions. She looked at him again, with some maidenhood opening in her eyes. He felt he could not move, neither towards her nor away from her. Something about her presence hurt him, till he was almost rigid before her. He saw the girl's wondering look rise in her eyes. Tilly handed her the butter and she rose. "Thank you very much," she said. "How much is it?" "We'll make th' vicar a present of it," he said. "It'll do for me goin' to church." "It 'ud look better of you if you went to church and took th' money for your butter," said Tilly, persistent in her claim to him. "You'd have to put in, shouldn't you?" he said. "How much, please?" said the Polish woman to Tilly. Brangwen stood by and let be. "Then, thank you very much," she said. "Bring your little girl down sometime to look at th' fowls and horses," he said,--"if she'd like it." "Yes, she would like it," said the stranger. And she went. Brangwen stood dimmed by her departure. He could not notice Tilly, who was looking at him uneasily, wanting to be reassured. He could not think of anything. He felt that he had made some invisible connection with the strange woman. A daze had come over his mind, he had another centre of consciousness. In his breast, or in his bowels, somewhere in his body, there had started another activity. It was as if a strong light were burning there, and he was blind within it, unable to know anything, except that this transfiguration burned between him and her, connecting them, like a secret power. Since she had come to the house he went about in a daze, scarcely seeing even the things he handled, drifting, quiescent, in a state of metamorphosis. He submitted to that which was happening to him, letting go his will, suffering the loss of himself, dormant always on the brink of ecstasy, like a creature evolving to a new birth. She came twice with her child to the farm, but there was this lull between them, an intense calm and passivity like a torpor upon them, so that there was no active change took place. He was almost unaware of the child, yet by his native good humour he gained her confidence, even her affection, setting her on a horse to ride, giving her corn for the fowls. Once he drove the mother and child from Ilkeston, picking them up on the road. The child huddled close to him as if for love, the mother sat very still. There was a vagueness, like a soft mist over all of them, and a silence as if their wills were suspended. Only he saw her hands, ungloved, folded in her lap, and he noticed the wedding-ring on her finger. It excluded him: it was a closed circle. It bound her life, the wedding-ring, it stood for her life in which he could have no part. Nevertheless, beyond all this, there was herself and himself which should meet. As he helped her down from the trap, almost lifting her, he felt he had some right to take her thus between his hands. She belonged as yet to that other, to that which was behind. But he must care for her also. She was too living to be neglected. Sometimes her vagueness, in which he was lost, made him angry, made him rage. But he held himself still as yet. She had no response, no being towards him. It puzzled and enraged him, but he submitted for a long time. Then, from the accumulated troubling of her ignoring him, gradually a fury broke out, destructive, and he wanted to go away, to escape her. It happened she came down to the Marsh with the child whilst he was in this state. Then he stood over against her, strong and heavy in his revolt, and though he said nothing, still she felt his anger and heavy impatience grip hold of her, she was shaken again as out of a torpor. Again her heart stirred with a quick, out-running impulse, she looked at him, at the stranger who was not a gentleman yet who insisted on coming into her life, and the pain of a new birth in herself strung all her veins to a new form. She would have to begin again, to find a new being, a new form, to respond to that blind, insistent figure standing over against her. A shiver, a sickness of new birth passed over her, the flame leaped up him, under his skin. She wanted it, this new life from him, with him, yet she must defend herself against it, for it was a destruction. As he worked alone on the land, or sat up with his ewes at lambing time, the facts and material of his daily life fell away, leaving the kernel of his purpose clean. And then it came upon him that he would marry her and she would be his life. Gradually, even without seeing her, he came to know her. He would have liked to think of her as of something given into his protection, like a child without parents. But it was forbidden him. He had to come down from this pleasant view of the case. She might refuse him. And besides, he was afraid of her. But during the long February nights with the ewes in labour, looking out from the shelter into the flashing stars, he knew he did not belong to himself. He must admit that he was only fragmentary, something incomplete and subject. There were the stars in the dark heaven travelling, the whole host passing by on some eternal voyage. So he sat small and submissive to the greater ordering. Unless she would come to him, he must remain as a nothingness. It was a hard experience. But, after her repeated obliviousness to him, after he had seen so often that he did not exist for her, after he had raged and tried to escape, and said he was good enough by himself, he was a man, and could stand alone, he must, in the starry multiplicity of the night humble himself, and admit and know that without her he was nothing. He was nothing. But with her, he would be real. If she were now walking across the frosty grass near the sheep-shelter, through the fretful bleating of the ewes and lambs, she would bring him completeness and perfection. And if it should be so, that she should come to him! It should be so--it was ordained so. He was a long time resolving definitely to ask her to marry him. And he knew, if he asked her, she must really acquiesce. She must, it could not be otherwise. He had learned a little of her. She was poor, quite alone, and had had a hard time in London, both before and after her husband died. But in Poland she was a lady well born, a landowner's daughter. All these things were only words to him, the fact of her superior birth, the fact that her husband had been a brilliant doctor, the fact that he himself was her inferior in almost every way of distinction. There was an inner reality, a logic of the soul, which connected her with him. One evening in March, when the wind was roaring outside, came the moment to ask her. He had sat with his hands before him, leaning to the fire. And as he watched the fire, he knew almost without thinking that he was going this evening. "Have you got a clean shirt?" he asked Tilly. "You know you've got clean shirts," she said. "Ay,--bring me a white one." Tilly brought down one of the linen shirts he had inherited from his father, putting it before him to air at the fire. She loved him with a dumb, aching love as he sat leaning with his arms on his knees, still and absorbed, unaware of her. Lately, a quivering inclination to cry had come over her, when she did anything for him in his presence. Now her hands trembled as she spread the shirt. He was never shouting and teasing now. The deep stillness there was in the house made her tremble. He went to wash himself. Queer little breaks of consciousness seemed to rise and burst like bubbles out of the depths of his stillness. "It's got to be done," he said as he stooped to take the shirt out of the fender, "it's got to be done, so why balk it?" And as he combed his hair before the mirror on the wall, he retorted to himself, superficially: "The woman's not speechless dumb. She's not clutterin' at the nipple. She's got the right to please herself, and displease whosoever she likes." This streak of common sense carried him a little further. "Did you want anythink?" asked Tilly, suddenly appearing, having heard him speak. She stood watching him comb his fair beard. His eyes were calm and uninterrupted. "Ay," he said, "where have you put the scissors?" She brought them to him, and stood watching as, chin forward, he trimmed his beard. "Don't go an' crop yourself as if you was at a shearin' contest," she said, anxiously. He blew the fine-curled hair quickly off his lips. He put on all clean clothes, folded his stock carefully, and donned his best coat. Then, being ready, as grey twilight was falling, he went across to the orchard to gather the daffodils. The wind was roaring in the apple trees, the yellow flowers swayed violently up and down, he heard even the fine whisper of their spears as he stooped to break the flattened, brittle stems of the flowers. "What's to-do?" shouted a friend who met him as he left the garden gate. "Bit of courtin', like," said Brangwen. And Tilly, in a great state of trepidation and excitement, let the wind whisk her over the field to the big gate, whence she could watch him go. He went up the hill and on towards the vicarage, the wind roaring through the hedges, whilst he tried to shelter his bunch of daffodils by his side. He did not think of anything, only knew that the wind was blowing. Night was falling, the bare trees drummed and whistled. The vicar, he knew, would be in his study, the Polish woman in the kitchen, a comfortable room, with her child. In the darkest of twilight, he went through the gate and down the path where a few daffodils stooped in the wind, and shattered crocuses made a pale, colourless ravel. There was a light streaming on to the bushes at the back from the kitchen window. He began to hesitate. How could he do this? Looking through the window, he saw her seated in the rocking-chair with the child, already in its nightdress, sitting on her knee. The fair head with its wild, fierce hair was drooping towards the fire-warmth, which reflected on the bright cheeks and clear skin of the child, who seemed to be musing, almost like a grown-up person. The mother's face was dark and still, and he saw, with a pang, that she was away back in the life that had been. The child's hair gleamed like spun glass, her face was illuminated till it seemed like wax lit up from the inside. The wind boomed strongly. Mother and child sat motionless, silent, the child staring with vacant dark eyes into the fire, the mother looking into space. The little girl was almost asleep. It was her will which kept her eyes so wide. Suddenly she looked round, troubled, as the wind shook the house, and Brangwen saw the small lips move. The mother began to rock, he heard the slight crunch of the rockers of the chair. Then he heard the low, monotonous murmur of a song in a foreign language. Then a great burst of wind, the mother seemed to have drifted away, the child's eyes were black and dilated. Brangwen looked up at the clouds which packed in great, alarming haste across the dark sky. Then there came the child's high, complaining, yet imperative voice: "Don't sing that stuff, mother; I don't want to hear it." The singing died away. "You will go to bed," said the mother. He saw the clinging protest of the child, the unmoved farawayness of the mother, the clinging, grasping effort of the child. Then suddenly the clear childish challenge: "I want you to tell me a story." The wind blew, the story began, the child nestled against the mother, Brangwen waited outside, suspended, looking at the wild waving of the trees in the wind and the gathering darkness. He had his fate to follow, he lingered there at the threshold. The child crouched distinct and motionless, curled in against her mother, the eyes dark and unblinking among the keen wisps of hair, like a curled-up animal asleep but for the eyes. The mother sat as if in shadow, the story went on as if by itself. Brangwen stood outside seeing the night fall. He did not notice the passage of time. The hand that held the daffodils was fixed and cold. The story came to an end, the mother rose at last, with the child clinging round her neck. She must be strong, to carry so large a child so easily. The little Anna clung round her mother's neck. The fair, strange face of the child looked over the shoulder of the mother, all asleep but the eyes, and these, wide and dark, kept up the resistance and the fight with something unseen. When they were gone, Brangwen stirred for the first time from the place where he stood, and looked round at the night. He wished it were really as beautiful and familiar as it seemed in these few moments of release. Along with the child, he felt a curious strain on him, a suffering, like a fate. The mother came down again, and began folding the child's clothes. He knocked. She opened wondering, a little bit at bay, like a foreigner, uneasy. "Good evening," he said. "I'll just come in a minute." A change went quickly over her face; she was unprepared. She looked down at him as he stood in the light from the window, holding the daffodils, the darkness behind. In his black clothes she again did not know him. She was almost afraid. But he was already stepping on to the threshold, and closing the door behind him. She turned into the kitchen, startled out of herself by this invasion from the night. He took off his hat, and came towards her. Then he stood in the light, in his black clothes and his black stock, hat in one hand and yellow flowers in the other. She stood away, at his mercy, snatched out of herself. She did not know him, only she knew he was a man come for her. She could only see the dark-clad man's figure standing there upon her, and the gripped fist of flowers. She could not see the face and the living eyes. He was watching her, without knowing her, only aware underneath of her presence. "I come to have a word with you," he said, striding forward to the table, laying down his hat and the flowers, which tumbled apart and lay in a loose heap. She had flinched from his advance. She had no will, no being. The wind boomed in the chimney, and he waited. He had disembarrassed his hands. Now he shut his fists. He was aware of her standing

twined

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

"Is the child her child?" "I s'd think so--they say so." "Who told you about her?" "Why, Lizzie--a-Monday--we seed her goin' past." "You'd have to be rattling your tongues if anything went past." Brangwen stood musing. That evening he went up to Cossethay to the "Red Lion", half with the intention of hearing more. She was the widow of a Polish doctor, he gathered. Her husband had died, a refugee, in London. She spoke a bit foreign-like, but you could easily make out what she said. She had one little girl named Anna. Lensky was the woman's name, Mrs. Lensky. Brangwen felt that here was the unreality established at last. He felt also a curious certainty about her, as if she were destined to him. It was to him a profound satisfaction that she was a foreigner. A swift change had taken place on the earth for him, as if a new creation were fulfilled, in which he had real existence. Things had all been stark, unreal, barren, mere nullities before. Now they were actualities that he could handle. He dared scarcely think of the woman. He was afraid. Only all the time he was aware of her presence not far off, he lived in her. But he dared not know her, even acquaint himself with her by thinking of her. One day he met her walking along the road with her little girl. It was a child with a face like a bud of apple-blossom, and glistening fair hair like thistle-down sticking out in straight, wild, flamy pieces, and very dark eyes. The child clung jealously to her mother's side when he looked at her, staring with resentful black eyes. But the mother glanced at him again, almost vacantly. And the very vacancy of her look inflamed him. She had wide grey-brown eyes with very dark, fathomless pupils. He felt the fine flame running under his skin, as if all his veins had caught fire on the surface. And he went on walking without knowledge. It was coming, he knew, his fate. The world was submitting to its transformation. He made no move: it would come, what would come. When his sister Effie came to the Marsh for a week, he went with her for once to church. In the tiny place, with its mere dozen pews, he sat not far from the stranger. There was a fineness about her, a poignancy about the way she sat and held her head lifted. She was strange, from far off, yet so intimate. She was from far away, a presence, so close to his soul. She was not really there, sitting in Cossethay church beside her little girl. She was not living the apparent life of her days. She belonged to somewhere else. He felt it poignantly, as something real and natural. But a pang of fear for his own concrete life, that was only Cossethay, hurt him, and gave him misgiving. Her thick dark brows almost met above her irregular nose, she had a wide, rather thick mouth. But her face was lifted to another world of life: not to heaven or death: but to some place where she still lived, in spite of her body's absence. The child beside her watched everything with wide, black eyes. She had an odd little defiant look, her little red mouth was pinched shut. She seemed to be jealously guarding something, to be always on the alert for defence. She met Brangwen's near, vacant, intimate gaze, and a palpitating hostility, almost like a flame of pain, came into the wide, over-conscious dark eyes. The old clergyman droned on, Cossethay sat unmoved as usual. And there was the foreign woman with a foreign air about her, inviolate, and the strange child, also foreign, jealously guarding something. When the service was over, he walked in the way of another existence out of the church. As he went down the church-path with his sister, behind the woman and child, the little girl suddenly broke from her mother's hand, and slipped back with quick, almost invisible movement, and was picking at something almost under Brangwen's feet. Her tiny fingers were fine and quick, but they missed the red button. "Have you found something?" said Brangwen to her. And he also stooped for the button. But she had got it, and she stood back with it pressed against her little coat, her black eyes flaring at him, as if to forbid him to notice her. Then, having silenced him, she turned with a swift "Mother----," and was gone down the path. The mother had stood watching impassive, looking not at the child, but at Brangwen. He became aware of the woman looking at him, standing there isolated yet for him dominant in her foreign existence. He did not know what to do, and turned to his sister. But the wide grey eyes, almost vacant yet so moving, held him beyond himself. "Mother, I may have it, mayn't I?" came the child's proud, silvery tones. "Mother"-she seemed always to be calling her mother to remember her-"mother"-and she had nothing to continue now her mother had replied "Yes, my child." But, with ready invention, the child stumbled and ran on, "What are those people's names?" Brangwen heard the abstract: "I don't know, dear." He went on down the road as if he were not living inside himself, but somewhere outside. "Who was that person?" his sister Effie asked. "I couldn't tell you," he answered unknowing. "She's somebody very funny," said Effie, almost in condemnation. "That child's like one bewitched." "Bewitched--how bewitched?" he repeated. "You can see for yourself. The mother's plain, I must say--but the child is like a changeling. She'd be about thirty-five." But he took no notice. His sister talked on. "There's your woman for you," she continued. "You'd better marry her." But still he took no notice. Things were as they were. Another day, at tea-time, as he sat alone at table, there came a knock at the front door. It startled him like a portent. No one ever knocked at the front door. He rose and began slotting back the bolts, turning the big key. When he had opened the door, the strange woman stood on the threshold. "Can you give me a pound of butter?" she asked, in a curious detached way of one speaking a foreign language. He tried to attend to her question. She was looking at him questioningly. But underneath the question, what was there, in her very standing motionless, which affected him? He stepped aside and she at once entered the house, as if the door had been opened to admit her. That startled him. It was the custom for everybody to wait on the doorstep till asked inside. He went into the kitchen and she followed. His tea-things were spread on the scrubbed deal table, a big fire was burning, a dog rose from the hearth and went to her. She stood motionless just inside the kitchen. "Tilly," he called loudly, "have we got any butter?" The stranger stood there like a silence in her black cloak. "Eh?" came the shrill cry from the distance. He shouted his question again. "We've got what's on t' table," answered Tilly's shrill voice out of the dairy. Brangwen looked at the table. There was a large pat of butter on a plate, almost a pound. It was round, and stamped with acorns and oak-leaves. "Can't you come when you're wanted?" he shouted. "Why, what d'you want?" Tilly protested, as she came peeking inquisitively through the other door. She saw the strange woman, stared at her with cross-eyes, but said nothing. "Haven't we any butter?" asked Brangwen again, impatiently, as if he could command some by his question. "I tell you there's what's on t' table," said Tilly, impatient that she was unable to create any to his demand. "We haven't a morsel besides." There was a moment's silence. The stranger spoke, in her curiously distinct, detached manner of one who must think her speech first. "Oh, then thank you very much. I am sorry that I have come to trouble you." She could not understand the entire lack of manners, was slightly puzzled. Any politeness would have made the situation quite impersonal. But here it was a case of wills in confusion. Brangwen flushed at her polite speech. Still he did not let her go. "Get summat an' wrap that up for her," he said to Tilly, looking at the butter on the table. And taking a clean knife, he cut off that side of the butter where it was touched. His speech, the "for her", penetrated slowly into the foreign woman and angered Tilly. "Vicar has his butter fra Brown's by rights," said the insuppressible servant-woman. "We s'll be churnin' to-morrow mornin' first thing." "Yes"--the long-drawn foreign yes--"yes," said the Polish woman, "I went to Mrs. Brown's. She hasn't any more." Tilly bridled her head, bursting to say that, according to the etiquette of people who bought butter, it was no sort of manners whatever coming to a place cool as you like and knocking at the front door asking for a pound as a stop-gap while your other people were short. If you go to Brown's you go to Brown's, an' my butter isn't just to make shift when Brown's has got none. Brangwen understood perfectly this unspoken speech of Tilly's. The Polish lady did not. And as she wanted butter for the vicar, and as Tilly was churning in the morning, she waited. "Sluther up now," said Brangwen loudly after this silence had resolved itself out; and Tilly disappeared through the inner door. "I am afraid that I should not come, so," said the stranger, looking at him enquiringly, as if referring to him for what it was usual to do. He felt confused. "How's that?" he said, trying to be genial and being only protective. "Do you----?" she began deliberately. But she was not sure of her ground, and the conversation came to an end. Her eyes looked at him all the while, because she could not speak the language. They stood facing each other. The dog walked away from her to him. He bent down to it. "And how's your little girl?" he asked. "Yes, thank you, she is very well," was the reply, a phrase of polite speech in a foreign language merely. "Sit you down," he said. And she sat in a chair, her slim arms, coming through the slits of her cloak, resting on her lap. "You're not used to these parts," he said, still standing on the hearthrug with his back to the fire, coatless, looking with curious directness at the woman. Her self-possession pleased him and inspired him, set him curiously free. It seemed to him almost brutal to feel so master of himself and of the situation. Her eyes rested on him for a moment, questioning, as she thought of the meaning of his speech. "No," she said, understanding. "No--it is strange." "You find it middlin' rough?" he said. Her eyes waited on him, so that he should say it again. "Our ways are rough to you," he repeated. "Yes--yes, I understand. Yes, it is different, it is strange. But I was in Yorkshire----" "Oh, well then," he said, "it's no worse here than what they are up there." She did not quite understand. His protective manner, and his sureness, and his intimacy, puzzled her. What did he mean? If he was her equal, why did he behave so without formality? "No----" she said, vaguely, her eyes resting on him. She saw him fresh and naive, uncouth, almost entirely beyond relationship with her. Yet he was good-looking, with his fair hair and blue eyes full of energy, and with his healthy body that seemed to take equality with her. She watched him steadily. He was difficult for her to understand, warm, uncouth, and confident as he was, sure on his feet as if he did not know what it was to be unsure. What then was it that gave him this curious stability? She did not know. She wondered. She looked round the room he lived in. It had a close intimacy that fascinated and almost frightened her. The furniture was old and familiar as old people, the whole place seemed so kin to him, as if it partook of his being, that she was uneasy. "It is already a long time that you have lived in this house--yes?" she asked. "I've always lived here," he said. "Yes--but your people--your family?" "We've been here above two hundred years," he said. Her eyes were on him all the time, wide-open and trying to grasp him. He felt that he was there for her. "It is your own place, the house, the farm----?" "Yes," he said. He looked down at her and met her look. It disturbed her. She did not know him. He was a foreigner, they had nothing to do with each other. Yet his look disturbed her to knowledge of him. He was so strangely confident and direct. "You live quite alone?" "Yes--if you call it alone?" She did not understand. It seemed unusual to her. What was the meaning of it? And whenever her eyes, after watching him for some time, inevitably met his, she was aware of a heat beating up over her consciousness. She sat motionless and in conflict. Who was this strange man who was at once so near to her? What was happening to her? Something in his young, warm-twinkling eyes seemed to assume a right to her, to speak to her, to extend her his protection. But how? Why did he speak to her? Why were his eyes so certain, so full of light and confident, waiting for no permission nor signal? Tilly returned with a large leaf and found the two silent. At once he felt it incumbent on him to speak, now the serving-woman had come back. "How old is your little girl?" he asked. "Four years," she replied. "Her father hasn't been dead long, then?" he asked. "She was one year when he died." "Three years?" "Yes, three years that he is dead--yes." Curiously quiet she was, almost abstracted, answering these questions. She looked at him again, with some maidenhood opening in her eyes. He felt he could not move, neither towards her nor away from her. Something about her presence hurt him, till he was almost rigid before her. He saw the girl's wondering look rise in her eyes. Tilly handed her the butter and she rose. "Thank you very much," she said. "How much is it?" "We'll make th' vicar a present of it," he said. "It'll do for me goin' to church." "It 'ud look better of you if you went to church and took th' money for your butter," said Tilly, persistent in her claim to him. "You'd have to put in, shouldn't you?" he said. "How much, please?" said the Polish woman to Tilly. Brangwen stood by and let be. "Then, thank you very much," she said. "Bring your little girl down sometime to look at th' fowls and horses," he said,--"if she'd like it." "Yes, she would like it," said the stranger. And she went. Brangwen stood dimmed by her departure. He could not notice Tilly, who was looking at him uneasily, wanting to be reassured. He could not think of anything. He felt that he had made some invisible connection with the strange woman. A daze had come over his mind, he had another centre of consciousness. In his breast, or in his bowels, somewhere in his body, there had started another activity. It was as if a strong light were burning there, and he was blind within it, unable to know anything, except that this transfiguration burned between him and her, connecting them, like a secret power. Since she had come to the house he went about in a daze, scarcely seeing even the things he handled, drifting, quiescent, in a state of metamorphosis. He submitted to that which was happening to him, letting go his will, suffering the loss of himself, dormant always on the brink of ecstasy, like a creature evolving to a new birth. She came twice with her child to the farm, but there was this lull between them, an intense calm and passivity like a torpor upon them, so that there was no active change took place. He was almost unaware of the child, yet by his native good humour he gained her confidence, even her affection, setting her on a horse to ride, giving her corn for the fowls. Once he drove the mother and child from Ilkeston, picking them up on the road. The child huddled close to him as if for love, the mother sat very still. There was a vagueness, like a soft mist over all of them, and a silence as if their wills were suspended. Only he saw her hands, ungloved, folded in her lap, and he noticed the wedding-ring on her finger. It excluded him: it was a closed circle. It bound her life, the wedding-ring, it stood for her life in which he could have no part. Nevertheless, beyond all this, there was herself and himself which should meet. As he helped her down from the trap, almost lifting her, he felt he had some right to take her thus between his hands. She belonged as yet to that other, to that which was behind. But he must care for her also. She was too living to be neglected. Sometimes her vagueness, in which he was lost, made him angry, made him rage. But he held himself still as yet. She had no response, no being towards him. It puzzled and enraged him, but he submitted for a long time. Then, from the accumulated troubling of her ignoring him, gradually a fury broke out, destructive, and he wanted to go away, to escape her. It happened she came down to the Marsh with the child whilst he was in this state. Then he stood over against her, strong and heavy in his revolt, and though he said nothing, still she felt his anger and heavy impatience grip hold of her, she was shaken again as out of a torpor. Again her heart stirred with a quick, out-running impulse, she looked at him, at the stranger who was not a gentleman yet who insisted on coming into her life, and the pain of a new birth in herself strung all her veins to a new form. She would have to begin again, to find a new being, a new form, to respond to that blind, insistent figure standing over against her. A shiver, a sickness of new birth passed over her, the flame leaped up him, under his skin. She wanted it, this new life from him, with him, yet she must defend herself against it, for it was a destruction. As he worked alone on the land, or sat up with his ewes at lambing time, the facts and material of his daily life fell away, leaving the kernel of his purpose clean. And then it came upon him that he would marry her and she would be his life. Gradually, even without seeing her, he came to know her. He would have liked to think of her as of something given into his protection, like a child without parents. But it was forbidden him. He had to come down from this pleasant view of the case. She might refuse him. And besides, he was afraid of her. But during the long February nights with the ewes in labour, looking out from the shelter into the flashing stars, he knew he did not belong to himself. He must admit that he was only fragmentary, something incomplete and subject. There were the stars in the dark heaven travelling, the whole host passing by on some eternal voyage. So he sat small and submissive to the greater ordering. Unless she would come to him, he must remain as a nothingness. It was a hard experience. But, after her repeated obliviousness to him, after he had seen so often that he did not exist for her, after he had raged and tried to escape, and said he was good enough by himself, he was a man, and could stand alone, he must, in the starry multiplicity of the night humble himself, and admit and know that without her he was nothing. He was nothing. But with her, he would be real. If she were now walking across the frosty grass near the sheep-shelter, through the fretful bleating of the ewes and lambs, she would bring him completeness and perfection. And if it should be so, that she should come to him! It should be so--it was ordained so. He was a long time resolving definitely to ask her to marry him. And he knew, if he asked her, she must really acquiesce. She must, it could not be otherwise. He had learned a little of her. She was poor, quite alone, and had had a hard time in London, both before and after her husband died. But in Poland she was a lady well born, a landowner's daughter. All these things were only words to him, the fact of her superior birth, the fact that her husband had been a brilliant doctor, the fact that he himself was her inferior in almost every way of distinction. There was an inner reality, a logic of the soul, which connected her with him. One evening in March, when the wind was roaring outside, came the moment to ask her. He had sat with his hands before him, leaning to the fire. And as he watched the fire, he knew almost without thinking that he was going this evening. "Have you got a clean shirt?" he asked Tilly. "You know you've got clean shirts," she said. "Ay,--bring me a white one." Tilly brought down one of the linen shirts he had inherited from his father, putting it before him to air at the fire. She loved him with a dumb, aching love as he sat leaning with his arms on his knees, still and absorbed, unaware of her. Lately, a quivering inclination to cry had come over her, when she did anything for him in his presence. Now her hands trembled as she spread the shirt. He was never shouting and teasing now. The deep stillness there was in the house made her tremble. He went to wash himself. Queer little breaks of consciousness seemed to rise and burst like bubbles out of the depths of his stillness. "It's got to be done," he said as he stooped to take the shirt out of the fender, "it's got to be done, so why balk it?" And as he combed his hair before the mirror on the wall, he retorted to himself, superficially: "The woman's not speechless dumb. She's not clutterin' at the nipple. She's got the right to please herself, and displease whosoever she likes." This streak of common sense carried him a little further. "Did you want anythink?" asked Tilly, suddenly appearing, having heard him speak. She stood watching him comb his fair beard. His eyes were calm and uninterrupted. "Ay," he said, "where have you put the scissors?" She brought them to him, and stood watching as, chin forward, he trimmed his beard. "Don't go an' crop yourself as if you was at a shearin' contest," she said, anxiously. He blew the fine-curled hair quickly off his lips. He put on all clean clothes, folded his stock carefully, and donned his best coat. Then, being ready, as grey twilight was falling, he went across to the orchard to gather the daffodils. The wind was roaring in the apple trees, the yellow flowers swayed violently up and down, he heard even the fine whisper of their spears as he stooped to break the flattened, brittle stems of the flowers. "What's to-do?" shouted a friend who met him as he left the garden gate. "Bit of courtin', like," said Brangwen. And Tilly, in a great state of trepidation and excitement, let the wind whisk her over the field to the big gate, whence she could watch him go. He went up the hill and on towards the vicarage, the wind roaring through the hedges, whilst he tried to shelter his bunch of daffodils by his side. He did not think of anything, only knew that the wind was blowing. Night was falling, the bare trees drummed and whistled. The vicar, he knew, would be in his study, the Polish woman in the kitchen, a comfortable room, with her child. In the darkest of twilight, he went through the gate and down the path where a few daffodils stooped in the wind, and shattered crocuses made a pale, colourless ravel. There was a light streaming on to the bushes at the back from the kitchen window. He began to hesitate. How could he do this? Looking through the window, he saw her seated in the rocking-chair with the child, already in its nightdress, sitting on her knee. The fair head with its wild, fierce hair was drooping towards the fire-warmth, which reflected on the bright cheeks and clear skin of the child, who seemed to be musing, almost like a grown-up person. The mother's face was dark and still, and he saw, with a pang, that she was away back in the life that had been. The child's hair gleamed like spun glass, her face was illuminated till it seemed like wax lit up from the inside. The wind boomed strongly. Mother and child sat motionless, silent, the child staring with vacant dark eyes into the fire, the mother looking into space. The little girl was almost asleep. It was her will which kept her eyes so wide. Suddenly she looked round, troubled, as the wind shook the house, and Brangwen saw the small lips move. The mother began to rock, he heard the slight crunch of the rockers of the chair. Then he heard the low, monotonous murmur of a song in a foreign language. Then a great burst of wind, the mother seemed to have drifted away, the child's eyes were black and dilated. Brangwen looked up at the clouds which packed in great, alarming haste across the dark sky. Then there came the child's high, complaining, yet imperative voice: "Don't sing that stuff, mother; I don't want to hear it." The singing died away. "You will go to bed," said the mother. He saw the clinging protest of the child, the unmoved farawayness of the mother, the clinging, grasping effort of the child. Then suddenly the clear childish challenge: "I want you to tell me a story." The wind blew, the story began, the child nestled against the mother, Brangwen waited outside, suspended, looking at the wild waving of the trees in the wind and the gathering darkness. He had his fate to follow, he lingered there at the threshold. The child crouched distinct and motionless, curled in against her mother, the eyes dark and unblinking among the keen wisps of hair, like a curled-up animal asleep but for the eyes. The mother sat as if in shadow, the story went on as if by itself. Brangwen stood outside seeing the night fall. He did not notice the passage of time. The hand that held the daffodils was fixed and cold. The story came to an end, the mother rose at last, with the child clinging round her neck. She must be strong, to carry so large a child so easily. The little Anna clung round her mother's neck. The fair, strange face of the child looked over the shoulder of the mother, all asleep but the eyes, and these, wide and dark, kept up the resistance and the fight with something unseen. When they were gone, Brangwen stirred for the first time from the place where he stood, and looked round at the night. He wished it were really as beautiful and familiar as it seemed in these few moments of release. Along with the child, he felt a curious strain on him, a suffering, like a fate. The mother came down again, and began folding the child's clothes. He knocked. She opened wondering, a little bit at bay, like a foreigner, uneasy. "Good evening," he said. "I'll just come in a minute." A change went quickly over her face; she was unprepared. She looked down at him as he stood in the light from the window, holding the daffodils, the darkness behind. In his black clothes she again did not know him. She was almost afraid. But he was already stepping on to the threshold, and closing the door behind him. She turned into the kitchen, startled out of herself by this invasion from the night. He took off his hat, and came towards her. Then he stood in the light, in his black clothes and his black stock, hat in one hand and yellow flowers in the other. She stood away, at his mercy, snatched out of herself. She did not know him, only she knew he was a man come for her. She could only see the dark-clad man's figure standing there upon her, and the gripped fist of flowers. She could not see the face and the living eyes. He was watching her, without knowing her, only aware underneath of her presence. "I come to have a word with you," he said, striding forward to the table, laying down his hat and the flowers, which tumbled apart and lay in a loose heap. She had flinched from his advance. She had no will, no being. The wind boomed in the chimney, and he waited. He had disembarrassed his hands. Now he shut his fists. He was aware of her standing

thick

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

"Is the child her child?" "I s'd think so--they say so." "Who told you about her?" "Why, Lizzie--a-Monday--we seed her goin' past." "You'd have to be rattling your tongues if anything went past." Brangwen stood musing. That evening he went up to Cossethay to the "Red Lion", half with the intention of hearing more. She was the widow of a Polish doctor, he gathered. Her husband had died, a refugee, in London. She spoke a bit foreign-like, but you could easily make out what she said. She had one little girl named Anna. Lensky was the woman's name, Mrs. Lensky. Brangwen felt that here was the unreality established at last. He felt also a curious certainty about her, as if she were destined to him. It was to him a profound satisfaction that she was a foreigner. A swift change had taken place on the earth for him, as if a new creation were fulfilled, in which he had real existence. Things had all been stark, unreal, barren, mere nullities before. Now they were actualities that he could handle. He dared scarcely think of the woman. He was afraid. Only all the time he was aware of her presence not far off, he lived in her. But he dared not know her, even acquaint himself with her by thinking of her. One day he met her walking along the road with her little girl. It was a child with a face like a bud of apple-blossom, and glistening fair hair like thistle-down sticking out in straight, wild, flamy pieces, and very dark eyes. The child clung jealously to her mother's side when he looked at her, staring with resentful black eyes. But the mother glanced at him again, almost vacantly. And the very vacancy of her look inflamed him. She had wide grey-brown eyes with very dark, fathomless pupils. He felt the fine flame running under his skin, as if all his veins had caught fire on the surface. And he went on walking without knowledge. It was coming, he knew, his fate. The world was submitting to its transformation. He made no move: it would come, what would come. When his sister Effie came to the Marsh for a week, he went with her for once to church. In the tiny place, with its mere dozen pews, he sat not far from the stranger. There was a fineness about her, a poignancy about the way she sat and held her head lifted. She was strange, from far off, yet so intimate. She was from far away, a presence, so close to his soul. She was not really there, sitting in Cossethay church beside her little girl. She was not living the apparent life of her days. She belonged to somewhere else. He felt it poignantly, as something real and natural. But a pang of fear for his own concrete life, that was only Cossethay, hurt him, and gave him misgiving. Her thick dark brows almost met above her irregular nose, she had a wide, rather thick mouth. But her face was lifted to another world of life: not to heaven or death: but to some place where she still lived, in spite of her body's absence. The child beside her watched everything with wide, black eyes. She had an odd little defiant look, her little red mouth was pinched shut. She seemed to be jealously guarding something, to be always on the alert for defence. She met Brangwen's near, vacant, intimate gaze, and a palpitating hostility, almost like a flame of pain, came into the wide, over-conscious dark eyes. The old clergyman droned on, Cossethay sat unmoved as usual. And there was the foreign woman with a foreign air about her, inviolate, and the strange child, also foreign, jealously guarding something. When the service was over, he walked in the way of another existence out of the church. As he went down the church-path with his sister, behind the woman and child, the little girl suddenly broke from her mother's hand, and slipped back with quick, almost invisible movement, and was picking at something almost under Brangwen's feet. Her tiny fingers were fine and quick, but they missed the red button. "Have you found something?" said Brangwen to her. And he also stooped for the button. But she had got it, and she stood back with it pressed against her little coat, her black eyes flaring at him, as if to forbid him to notice her. Then, having silenced him, she turned with a swift "Mother----," and was gone down the path. The mother had stood watching impassive, looking not at the child, but at Brangwen. He became aware of the woman looking at him, standing there isolated yet for him dominant in her foreign existence. He did not know what to do, and turned to his sister. But the wide grey eyes, almost vacant yet so moving, held him beyond himself. "Mother, I may have it, mayn't I?" came the child's proud, silvery tones. "Mother"-she seemed always to be calling her mother to remember her-"mother"-and she had nothing to continue now her mother had replied "Yes, my child." But, with ready invention, the child stumbled and ran on, "What are those people's names?" Brangwen heard the abstract: "I don't know, dear." He went on down the road as if he were not living inside himself, but somewhere outside. "Who was that person?" his sister Effie asked. "I couldn't tell you," he answered unknowing. "She's somebody very funny," said Effie, almost in condemnation. "That child's like one bewitched." "Bewitched--how bewitched?" he repeated. "You can see for yourself. The mother's plain, I must say--but the child is like a changeling. She'd be about thirty-five." But he took no notice. His sister talked on. "There's your woman for you," she continued. "You'd better marry her." But still he took no notice. Things were as they were. Another day, at tea-time, as he sat alone at table, there came a knock at the front door. It startled him like a portent. No one ever knocked at the front door. He rose and began slotting back the bolts, turning the big key. When he had opened the door, the strange woman stood on the threshold. "Can you give me a pound of butter?" she asked, in a curious detached way of one speaking a foreign language. He tried to attend to her question. She was looking at him questioningly. But underneath the question, what was there, in her very standing motionless, which affected him? He stepped aside and she at once entered the house, as if the door had been opened to admit her. That startled him. It was the custom for everybody to wait on the doorstep till asked inside. He went into the kitchen and she followed. His tea-things were spread on the scrubbed deal table, a big fire was burning, a dog rose from the hearth and went to her. She stood motionless just inside the kitchen. "Tilly," he called loudly, "have we got any butter?" The stranger stood there like a silence in her black cloak. "Eh?" came the shrill cry from the distance. He shouted his question again. "We've got what's on t' table," answered Tilly's shrill voice out of the dairy. Brangwen looked at the table. There was a large pat of butter on a plate, almost a pound. It was round, and stamped with acorns and oak-leaves. "Can't you come when you're wanted?" he shouted. "Why, what d'you want?" Tilly protested, as she came peeking inquisitively through the other door. She saw the strange woman, stared at her with cross-eyes, but said nothing. "Haven't we any butter?" asked Brangwen again, impatiently, as if he could command some by his question. "I tell you there's what's on t' table," said Tilly, impatient that she was unable to create any to his demand. "We haven't a morsel besides." There was a moment's silence. The stranger spoke, in her curiously distinct, detached manner of one who must think her speech first. "Oh, then thank you very much. I am sorry that I have come to trouble you." She could not understand the entire lack of manners, was slightly puzzled. Any politeness would have made the situation quite impersonal. But here it was a case of wills in confusion. Brangwen flushed at her polite speech. Still he did not let her go. "Get summat an' wrap that up for her," he said to Tilly, looking at the butter on the table. And taking a clean knife, he cut off that side of the butter where it was touched. His speech, the "for her", penetrated slowly into the foreign woman and angered Tilly. "Vicar has his butter fra Brown's by rights," said the insuppressible servant-woman. "We s'll be churnin' to-morrow mornin' first thing." "Yes"--the long-drawn foreign yes--"yes," said the Polish woman, "I went to Mrs. Brown's. She hasn't any more." Tilly bridled her head, bursting to say that, according to the etiquette of people who bought butter, it was no sort of manners whatever coming to a place cool as you like and knocking at the front door asking for a pound as a stop-gap while your other people were short. If you go to Brown's you go to Brown's, an' my butter isn't just to make shift when Brown's has got none. Brangwen understood perfectly this unspoken speech of Tilly's. The Polish lady did not. And as she wanted butter for the vicar, and as Tilly was churning in the morning, she waited. "Sluther up now," said Brangwen loudly after this silence had resolved itself out; and Tilly disappeared through the inner door. "I am afraid that I should not come, so," said the stranger, looking at him enquiringly, as if referring to him for what it was usual to do. He felt confused. "How's that?" he said, trying to be genial and being only protective. "Do you----?" she began deliberately. But she was not sure of her ground, and the conversation came to an end. Her eyes looked at him all the while, because she could not speak the language. They stood facing each other. The dog walked away from her to him. He bent down to it. "And how's your little girl?" he asked. "Yes, thank you, she is very well," was the reply, a phrase of polite speech in a foreign language merely. "Sit you down," he said. And she sat in a chair, her slim arms, coming through the slits of her cloak, resting on her lap. "You're not used to these parts," he said, still standing on the hearthrug with his back to the fire, coatless, looking with curious directness at the woman. Her self-possession pleased him and inspired him, set him curiously free. It seemed to him almost brutal to feel so master of himself and of the situation. Her eyes rested on him for a moment, questioning, as she thought of the meaning of his speech. "No," she said, understanding. "No--it is strange." "You find it middlin' rough?" he said. Her eyes waited on him, so that he should say it again. "Our ways are rough to you," he repeated. "Yes--yes, I understand. Yes, it is different, it is strange. But I was in Yorkshire----" "Oh, well then," he said, "it's no worse here than what they are up there." She did not quite understand. His protective manner, and his sureness, and his intimacy, puzzled her. What did he mean? If he was her equal, why did he behave so without formality? "No----" she said, vaguely, her eyes resting on him. She saw him fresh and naive, uncouth, almost entirely beyond relationship with her. Yet he was good-looking, with his fair hair and blue eyes full of energy, and with his healthy body that seemed to take equality with her. She watched him steadily. He was difficult for her to understand, warm, uncouth, and confident as he was, sure on his feet as if he did not know what it was to be unsure. What then was it that gave him this curious stability? She did not know. She wondered. She looked round the room he lived in. It had a close intimacy that fascinated and almost frightened her. The furniture was old and familiar as old people, the whole place seemed so kin to him, as if it partook of his being, that she was uneasy. "It is already a long time that you have lived in this house--yes?" she asked. "I've always lived here," he said. "Yes--but your people--your family?" "We've been here above two hundred years," he said. Her eyes were on him all the time, wide-open and trying to grasp him. He felt that he was there for her. "It is your own place, the house, the farm----?" "Yes," he said. He looked down at her and met her look. It disturbed her. She did not know him. He was a foreigner, they had nothing to do with each other. Yet his look disturbed her to knowledge of him. He was so strangely confident and direct. "You live quite alone?" "Yes--if you call it alone?" She did not understand. It seemed unusual to her. What was the meaning of it? And whenever her eyes, after watching him for some time, inevitably met his, she was aware of a heat beating up over her consciousness. She sat motionless and in conflict. Who was this strange man who was at once so near to her? What was happening to her? Something in his young, warm-twinkling eyes seemed to assume a right to her, to speak to her, to extend her his protection. But how? Why did he speak to her? Why were his eyes so certain, so full of light and confident, waiting for no permission nor signal? Tilly returned with a large leaf and found the two silent. At once he felt it incumbent on him to speak, now the serving-woman had come back. "How old is your little girl?" he asked. "Four years," she replied. "Her father hasn't been dead long, then?" he asked. "She was one year when he died." "Three years?" "Yes, three years that he is dead--yes." Curiously quiet she was, almost abstracted, answering these questions. She looked at him again, with some maidenhood opening in her eyes. He felt he could not move, neither towards her nor away from her. Something about her presence hurt him, till he was almost rigid before her. He saw the girl's wondering look rise in her eyes. Tilly handed her the butter and she rose. "Thank you very much," she said. "How much is it?" "We'll make th' vicar a present of it," he said. "It'll do for me goin' to church." "It 'ud look better of you if you went to church and took th' money for your butter," said Tilly, persistent in her claim to him. "You'd have to put in, shouldn't you?" he said. "How much, please?" said the Polish woman to Tilly. Brangwen stood by and let be. "Then, thank you very much," she said. "Bring your little girl down sometime to look at th' fowls and horses," he said,--"if she'd like it." "Yes, she would like it," said the stranger. And she went. Brangwen stood dimmed by her departure. He could not notice Tilly, who was looking at him uneasily, wanting to be reassured. He could not think of anything. He felt that he had made some invisible connection with the strange woman. A daze had come over his mind, he had another centre of consciousness. In his breast, or in his bowels, somewhere in his body, there had started another activity. It was as if a strong light were burning there, and he was blind within it, unable to know anything, except that this transfiguration burned between him and her, connecting them, like a secret power. Since she had come to the house he went about in a daze, scarcely seeing even the things he handled, drifting, quiescent, in a state of metamorphosis. He submitted to that which was happening to him, letting go his will, suffering the loss of himself, dormant always on the brink of ecstasy, like a creature evolving to a new birth. She came twice with her child to the farm, but there was this lull between them, an intense calm and passivity like a torpor upon them, so that there was no active change took place. He was almost unaware of the child, yet by his native good humour he gained her confidence, even her affection, setting her on a horse to ride, giving her corn for the fowls. Once he drove the mother and child from Ilkeston, picking them up on the road. The child huddled close to him as if for love, the mother sat very still. There was a vagueness, like a soft mist over all of them, and a silence as if their wills were suspended. Only he saw her hands, ungloved, folded in her lap, and he noticed the wedding-ring on her finger. It excluded him: it was a closed circle. It bound her life, the wedding-ring, it stood for her life in which he could have no part. Nevertheless, beyond all this, there was herself and himself which should meet. As he helped her down from the trap, almost lifting her, he felt he had some right to take her thus between his hands. She belonged as yet to that other, to that which was behind. But he must care for her also. She was too living to be neglected. Sometimes her vagueness, in which he was lost, made him angry, made him rage. But he held himself still as yet. She had no response, no being towards him. It puzzled and enraged him, but he submitted for a long time. Then, from the accumulated troubling of her ignoring him, gradually a fury broke out, destructive, and he wanted to go away, to escape her. It happened she came down to the Marsh with the child whilst he was in this state. Then he stood over against her, strong and heavy in his revolt, and though he said nothing, still she felt his anger and heavy impatience grip hold of her, she was shaken again as out of a torpor. Again her heart stirred with a quick, out-running impulse, she looked at him, at the stranger who was not a gentleman yet who insisted on coming into her life, and the pain of a new birth in herself strung all her veins to a new form. She would have to begin again, to find a new being, a new form, to respond to that blind, insistent figure standing over against her. A shiver, a sickness of new birth passed over her, the flame leaped up him, under his skin. She wanted it, this new life from him, with him, yet she must defend herself against it, for it was a destruction. As he worked alone on the land, or sat up with his ewes at lambing time, the facts and material of his daily life fell away, leaving the kernel of his purpose clean. And then it came upon him that he would marry her and she would be his life. Gradually, even without seeing her, he came to know her. He would have liked to think of her as of something given into his protection, like a child without parents. But it was forbidden him. He had to come down from this pleasant view of the case. She might refuse him. And besides, he was afraid of her. But during the long February nights with the ewes in labour, looking out from the shelter into the flashing stars, he knew he did not belong to himself. He must admit that he was only fragmentary, something incomplete and subject. There were the stars in the dark heaven travelling, the whole host passing by on some eternal voyage. So he sat small and submissive to the greater ordering. Unless she would come to him, he must remain as a nothingness. It was a hard experience. But, after her repeated obliviousness to him, after he had seen so often that he did not exist for her, after he had raged and tried to escape, and said he was good enough by himself, he was a man, and could stand alone, he must, in the starry multiplicity of the night humble himself, and admit and know that without her he was nothing. He was nothing. But with her, he would be real. If she were now walking across the frosty grass near the sheep-shelter, through the fretful bleating of the ewes and lambs, she would bring him completeness and perfection. And if it should be so, that she should come to him! It should be so--it was ordained so. He was a long time resolving definitely to ask her to marry him. And he knew, if he asked her, she must really acquiesce. She must, it could not be otherwise. He had learned a little of her. She was poor, quite alone, and had had a hard time in London, both before and after her husband died. But in Poland she was a lady well born, a landowner's daughter. All these things were only words to him, the fact of her superior birth, the fact that her husband had been a brilliant doctor, the fact that he himself was her inferior in almost every way of distinction. There was an inner reality, a logic of the soul, which connected her with him. One evening in March, when the wind was roaring outside, came the moment to ask her. He had sat with his hands before him, leaning to the fire. And as he watched the fire, he knew almost without thinking that he was going this evening. "Have you got a clean shirt?" he asked Tilly. "You know you've got clean shirts," she said. "Ay,--bring me a white one." Tilly brought down one of the linen shirts he had inherited from his father, putting it before him to air at the fire. She loved him with a dumb, aching love as he sat leaning with his arms on his knees, still and absorbed, unaware of her. Lately, a quivering inclination to cry had come over her, when she did anything for him in his presence. Now her hands trembled as she spread the shirt. He was never shouting and teasing now. The deep stillness there was in the house made her tremble. He went to wash himself. Queer little breaks of consciousness seemed to rise and burst like bubbles out of the depths of his stillness. "It's got to be done," he said as he stooped to take the shirt out of the fender, "it's got to be done, so why balk it?" And as he combed his hair before the mirror on the wall, he retorted to himself, superficially: "The woman's not speechless dumb. She's not clutterin' at the nipple. She's got the right to please herself, and displease whosoever she likes." This streak of common sense carried him a little further. "Did you want anythink?" asked Tilly, suddenly appearing, having heard him speak. She stood watching him comb his fair beard. His eyes were calm and uninterrupted. "Ay," he said, "where have you put the scissors?" She brought them to him, and stood watching as, chin forward, he trimmed his beard. "Don't go an' crop yourself as if you was at a shearin' contest," she said, anxiously. He blew the fine-curled hair quickly off his lips. He put on all clean clothes, folded his stock carefully, and donned his best coat. Then, being ready, as grey twilight was falling, he went across to the orchard to gather the daffodils. The wind was roaring in the apple trees, the yellow flowers swayed violently up and down, he heard even the fine whisper of their spears as he stooped to break the flattened, brittle stems of the flowers. "What's to-do?" shouted a friend who met him as he left the garden gate. "Bit of courtin', like," said Brangwen. And Tilly, in a great state of trepidation and excitement, let the wind whisk her over the field to the big gate, whence she could watch him go. He went up the hill and on towards the vicarage, the wind roaring through the hedges, whilst he tried to shelter his bunch of daffodils by his side. He did not think of anything, only knew that the wind was blowing. Night was falling, the bare trees drummed and whistled. The vicar, he knew, would be in his study, the Polish woman in the kitchen, a comfortable room, with her child. In the darkest of twilight, he went through the gate and down the path where a few daffodils stooped in the wind, and shattered crocuses made a pale, colourless ravel. There was a light streaming on to the bushes at the back from the kitchen window. He began to hesitate. How could he do this? Looking through the window, he saw her seated in the rocking-chair with the child, already in its nightdress, sitting on her knee. The fair head with its wild, fierce hair was drooping towards the fire-warmth, which reflected on the bright cheeks and clear skin of the child, who seemed to be musing, almost like a grown-up person. The mother's face was dark and still, and he saw, with a pang, that she was away back in the life that had been. The child's hair gleamed like spun glass, her face was illuminated till it seemed like wax lit up from the inside. The wind boomed strongly. Mother and child sat motionless, silent, the child staring with vacant dark eyes into the fire, the mother looking into space. The little girl was almost asleep. It was her will which kept her eyes so wide. Suddenly she looked round, troubled, as the wind shook the house, and Brangwen saw the small lips move. The mother began to rock, he heard the slight crunch of the rockers of the chair. Then he heard the low, monotonous murmur of a song in a foreign language. Then a great burst of wind, the mother seemed to have drifted away, the child's eyes were black and dilated. Brangwen looked up at the clouds which packed in great, alarming haste across the dark sky. Then there came the child's high, complaining, yet imperative voice: "Don't sing that stuff, mother; I don't want to hear it." The singing died away. "You will go to bed," said the mother. He saw the clinging protest of the child, the unmoved farawayness of the mother, the clinging, grasping effort of the child. Then suddenly the clear childish challenge: "I want you to tell me a story." The wind blew, the story began, the child nestled against the mother, Brangwen waited outside, suspended, looking at the wild waving of the trees in the wind and the gathering darkness. He had his fate to follow, he lingered there at the threshold. The child crouched distinct and motionless, curled in against her mother, the eyes dark and unblinking among the keen wisps of hair, like a curled-up animal asleep but for the eyes. The mother sat as if in shadow, the story went on as if by itself. Brangwen stood outside seeing the night fall. He did not notice the passage of time. The hand that held the daffodils was fixed and cold. The story came to an end, the mother rose at last, with the child clinging round her neck. She must be strong, to carry so large a child so easily. The little Anna clung round her mother's neck. The fair, strange face of the child looked over the shoulder of the mother, all asleep but the eyes, and these, wide and dark, kept up the resistance and the fight with something unseen. When they were gone, Brangwen stirred for the first time from the place where he stood, and looked round at the night. He wished it were really as beautiful and familiar as it seemed in these few moments of release. Along with the child, he felt a curious strain on him, a suffering, like a fate. The mother came down again, and began folding the child's clothes. He knocked. She opened wondering, a little bit at bay, like a foreigner, uneasy. "Good evening," he said. "I'll just come in a minute." A change went quickly over her face; she was unprepared. She looked down at him as he stood in the light from the window, holding the daffodils, the darkness behind. In his black clothes she again did not know him. She was almost afraid. But he was already stepping on to the threshold, and closing the door behind him. She turned into the kitchen, startled out of herself by this invasion from the night. He took off his hat, and came towards her. Then he stood in the light, in his black clothes and his black stock, hat in one hand and yellow flowers in the other. She stood away, at his mercy, snatched out of herself. She did not know him, only she knew he was a man come for her. She could only see the dark-clad man's figure standing there upon her, and the gripped fist of flowers. She could not see the face and the living eyes. He was watching her, without knowing her, only aware underneath of her presence. "I come to have a word with you," he said, striding forward to the table, laying down his hat and the flowers, which tumbled apart and lay in a loose heap. She had flinched from his advance. She had no will, no being. The wind boomed in the chimney, and he waited. He had disembarrassed his hands. Now he shut his fists. He was aware of her standing

well

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

"Is the child her child?" "I s'd think so--they say so." "Who told you about her?" "Why, Lizzie--a-Monday--we seed her goin' past." "You'd have to be rattling your tongues if anything went past." Brangwen stood musing. That evening he went up to Cossethay to the "Red Lion", half with the intention of hearing more. She was the widow of a Polish doctor, he gathered. Her husband had died, a refugee, in London. She spoke a bit foreign-like, but you could easily make out what she said. She had one little girl named Anna. Lensky was the woman's name, Mrs. Lensky. Brangwen felt that here was the unreality established at last. He felt also a curious certainty about her, as if she were destined to him. It was to him a profound satisfaction that she was a foreigner. A swift change had taken place on the earth for him, as if a new creation were fulfilled, in which he had real existence. Things had all been stark, unreal, barren, mere nullities before. Now they were actualities that he could handle. He dared scarcely think of the woman. He was afraid. Only all the time he was aware of her presence not far off, he lived in her. But he dared not know her, even acquaint himself with her by thinking of her. One day he met her walking along the road with her little girl. It was a child with a face like a bud of apple-blossom, and glistening fair hair like thistle-down sticking out in straight, wild, flamy pieces, and very dark eyes. The child clung jealously to her mother's side when he looked at her, staring with resentful black eyes. But the mother glanced at him again, almost vacantly. And the very vacancy of her look inflamed him. She had wide grey-brown eyes with very dark, fathomless pupils. He felt the fine flame running under his skin, as if all his veins had caught fire on the surface. And he went on walking without knowledge. It was coming, he knew, his fate. The world was submitting to its transformation. He made no move: it would come, what would come. When his sister Effie came to the Marsh for a week, he went with her for once to church. In the tiny place, with its mere dozen pews, he sat not far from the stranger. There was a fineness about her, a poignancy about the way she sat and held her head lifted. She was strange, from far off, yet so intimate. She was from far away, a presence, so close to his soul. She was not really there, sitting in Cossethay church beside her little girl. She was not living the apparent life of her days. She belonged to somewhere else. He felt it poignantly, as something real and natural. But a pang of fear for his own concrete life, that was only Cossethay, hurt him, and gave him misgiving. Her thick dark brows almost met above her irregular nose, she had a wide, rather thick mouth. But her face was lifted to another world of life: not to heaven or death: but to some place where she still lived, in spite of her body's absence. The child beside her watched everything with wide, black eyes. She had an odd little defiant look, her little red mouth was pinched shut. She seemed to be jealously guarding something, to be always on the alert for defence. She met Brangwen's near, vacant, intimate gaze, and a palpitating hostility, almost like a flame of pain, came into the wide, over-conscious dark eyes. The old clergyman droned on, Cossethay sat unmoved as usual. And there was the foreign woman with a foreign air about her, inviolate, and the strange child, also foreign, jealously guarding something. When the service was over, he walked in the way of another existence out of the church. As he went down the church-path with his sister, behind the woman and child, the little girl suddenly broke from her mother's hand, and slipped back with quick, almost invisible movement, and was picking at something almost under Brangwen's feet. Her tiny fingers were fine and quick, but they missed the red button. "Have you found something?" said Brangwen to her. And he also stooped for the button. But she had got it, and she stood back with it pressed against her little coat, her black eyes flaring at him, as if to forbid him to notice her. Then, having silenced him, she turned with a swift "Mother----," and was gone down the path. The mother had stood watching impassive, looking not at the child, but at Brangwen. He became aware of the woman looking at him, standing there isolated yet for him dominant in her foreign existence. He did not know what to do, and turned to his sister. But the wide grey eyes, almost vacant yet so moving, held him beyond himself. "Mother, I may have it, mayn't I?" came the child's proud, silvery tones. "Mother"-she seemed always to be calling her mother to remember her-"mother"-and she had nothing to continue now her mother had replied "Yes, my child." But, with ready invention, the child stumbled and ran on, "What are those people's names?" Brangwen heard the abstract: "I don't know, dear." He went on down the road as if he were not living inside himself, but somewhere outside. "Who was that person?" his sister Effie asked. "I couldn't tell you," he answered unknowing. "She's somebody very funny," said Effie, almost in condemnation. "That child's like one bewitched." "Bewitched--how bewitched?" he repeated. "You can see for yourself. The mother's plain, I must say--but the child is like a changeling. She'd be about thirty-five." But he took no notice. His sister talked on. "There's your woman for you," she continued. "You'd better marry her." But still he took no notice. Things were as they were. Another day, at tea-time, as he sat alone at table, there came a knock at the front door. It startled him like a portent. No one ever knocked at the front door. He rose and began slotting back the bolts, turning the big key. When he had opened the door, the strange woman stood on the threshold. "Can you give me a pound of butter?" she asked, in a curious detached way of one speaking a foreign language. He tried to attend to her question. She was looking at him questioningly. But underneath the question, what was there, in her very standing motionless, which affected him? He stepped aside and she at once entered the house, as if the door had been opened to admit her. That startled him. It was the custom for everybody to wait on the doorstep till asked inside. He went into the kitchen and she followed. His tea-things were spread on the scrubbed deal table, a big fire was burning, a dog rose from the hearth and went to her. She stood motionless just inside the kitchen. "Tilly," he called loudly, "have we got any butter?" The stranger stood there like a silence in her black cloak. "Eh?" came the shrill cry from the distance. He shouted his question again. "We've got what's on t' table," answered Tilly's shrill voice out of the dairy. Brangwen looked at the table. There was a large pat of butter on a plate, almost a pound. It was round, and stamped with acorns and oak-leaves. "Can't you come when you're wanted?" he shouted. "Why, what d'you want?" Tilly protested, as she came peeking inquisitively through the other door. She saw the strange woman, stared at her with cross-eyes, but said nothing. "Haven't we any butter?" asked Brangwen again, impatiently, as if he could command some by his question. "I tell you there's what's on t' table," said Tilly, impatient that she was unable to create any to his demand. "We haven't a morsel besides." There was a moment's silence. The stranger spoke, in her curiously distinct, detached manner of one who must think her speech first. "Oh, then thank you very much. I am sorry that I have come to trouble you." She could not understand the entire lack of manners, was slightly puzzled. Any politeness would have made the situation quite impersonal. But here it was a case of wills in confusion. Brangwen flushed at her polite speech. Still he did not let her go. "Get summat an' wrap that up for her," he said to Tilly, looking at the butter on the table. And taking a clean knife, he cut off that side of the butter where it was touched. His speech, the "for her", penetrated slowly into the foreign woman and angered Tilly. "Vicar has his butter fra Brown's by rights," said the insuppressible servant-woman. "We s'll be churnin' to-morrow mornin' first thing." "Yes"--the long-drawn foreign yes--"yes," said the Polish woman, "I went to Mrs. Brown's. She hasn't any more." Tilly bridled her head, bursting to say that, according to the etiquette of people who bought butter, it was no sort of manners whatever coming to a place cool as you like and knocking at the front door asking for a pound as a stop-gap while your other people were short. If you go to Brown's you go to Brown's, an' my butter isn't just to make shift when Brown's has got none. Brangwen understood perfectly this unspoken speech of Tilly's. The Polish lady did not. And as she wanted butter for the vicar, and as Tilly was churning in the morning, she waited. "Sluther up now," said Brangwen loudly after this silence had resolved itself out; and Tilly disappeared through the inner door. "I am afraid that I should not come, so," said the stranger, looking at him enquiringly, as if referring to him for what it was usual to do. He felt confused. "How's that?" he said, trying to be genial and being only protective. "Do you----?" she began deliberately. But she was not sure of her ground, and the conversation came to an end. Her eyes looked at him all the while, because she could not speak the language. They stood facing each other. The dog walked away from her to him. He bent down to it. "And how's your little girl?" he asked. "Yes, thank you, she is very well," was the reply, a phrase of polite speech in a foreign language merely. "Sit you down," he said. And she sat in a chair, her slim arms, coming through the slits of her cloak, resting on her lap. "You're not used to these parts," he said, still standing on the hearthrug with his back to the fire, coatless, looking with curious directness at the woman. Her self-possession pleased him and inspired him, set him curiously free. It seemed to him almost brutal to feel so master of himself and of the situation. Her eyes rested on him for a moment, questioning, as she thought of the meaning of his speech. "No," she said, understanding. "No--it is strange." "You find it middlin' rough?" he said. Her eyes waited on him, so that he should say it again. "Our ways are rough to you," he repeated. "Yes--yes, I understand. Yes, it is different, it is strange. But I was in Yorkshire----" "Oh, well then," he said, "it's no worse here than what they are up there." She did not quite understand. His protective manner, and his sureness, and his intimacy, puzzled her. What did he mean? If he was her equal, why did he behave so without formality? "No----" she said, vaguely, her eyes resting on him. She saw him fresh and naive, uncouth, almost entirely beyond relationship with her. Yet he was good-looking, with his fair hair and blue eyes full of energy, and with his healthy body that seemed to take equality with her. She watched him steadily. He was difficult for her to understand, warm, uncouth, and confident as he was, sure on his feet as if he did not know what it was to be unsure. What then was it that gave him this curious stability? She did not know. She wondered. She looked round the room he lived in. It had a close intimacy that fascinated and almost frightened her. The furniture was old and familiar as old people, the whole place seemed so kin to him, as if it partook of his being, that she was uneasy. "It is already a long time that you have lived in this house--yes?" she asked. "I've always lived here," he said. "Yes--but your people--your family?" "We've been here above two hundred years," he said. Her eyes were on him all the time, wide-open and trying to grasp him. He felt that he was there for her. "It is your own place, the house, the farm----?" "Yes," he said. He looked down at her and met her look. It disturbed her. She did not know him. He was a foreigner, they had nothing to do with each other. Yet his look disturbed her to knowledge of him. He was so strangely confident and direct. "You live quite alone?" "Yes--if you call it alone?" She did not understand. It seemed unusual to her. What was the meaning of it? And whenever her eyes, after watching him for some time, inevitably met his, she was aware of a heat beating up over her consciousness. She sat motionless and in conflict. Who was this strange man who was at once so near to her? What was happening to her? Something in his young, warm-twinkling eyes seemed to assume a right to her, to speak to her, to extend her his protection. But how? Why did he speak to her? Why were his eyes so certain, so full of light and confident, waiting for no permission nor signal? Tilly returned with a large leaf and found the two silent. At once he felt it incumbent on him to speak, now the serving-woman had come back. "How old is your little girl?" he asked. "Four years," she replied. "Her father hasn't been dead long, then?" he asked. "She was one year when he died." "Three years?" "Yes, three years that he is dead--yes." Curiously quiet she was, almost abstracted, answering these questions. She looked at him again, with some maidenhood opening in her eyes. He felt he could not move, neither towards her nor away from her. Something about her presence hurt him, till he was almost rigid before her. He saw the girl's wondering look rise in her eyes. Tilly handed her the butter and she rose. "Thank you very much," she said. "How much is it?" "We'll make th' vicar a present of it," he said. "It'll do for me goin' to church." "It 'ud look better of you if you went to church and took th' money for your butter," said Tilly, persistent in her claim to him. "You'd have to put in, shouldn't you?" he said. "How much, please?" said the Polish woman to Tilly. Brangwen stood by and let be. "Then, thank you very much," she said. "Bring your little girl down sometime to look at th' fowls and horses," he said,--"if she'd like it." "Yes, she would like it," said the stranger. And she went. Brangwen stood dimmed by her departure. He could not notice Tilly, who was looking at him uneasily, wanting to be reassured. He could not think of anything. He felt that he had made some invisible connection with the strange woman. A daze had come over his mind, he had another centre of consciousness. In his breast, or in his bowels, somewhere in his body, there had started another activity. It was as if a strong light were burning there, and he was blind within it, unable to know anything, except that this transfiguration burned between him and her, connecting them, like a secret power. Since she had come to the house he went about in a daze, scarcely seeing even the things he handled, drifting, quiescent, in a state of metamorphosis. He submitted to that which was happening to him, letting go his will, suffering the loss of himself, dormant always on the brink of ecstasy, like a creature evolving to a new birth. She came twice with her child to the farm, but there was this lull between them, an intense calm and passivity like a torpor upon them, so that there was no active change took place. He was almost unaware of the child, yet by his native good humour he gained her confidence, even her affection, setting her on a horse to ride, giving her corn for the fowls. Once he drove the mother and child from Ilkeston, picking them up on the road. The child huddled close to him as if for love, the mother sat very still. There was a vagueness, like a soft mist over all of them, and a silence as if their wills were suspended. Only he saw her hands, ungloved, folded in her lap, and he noticed the wedding-ring on her finger. It excluded him: it was a closed circle. It bound her life, the wedding-ring, it stood for her life in which he could have no part. Nevertheless, beyond all this, there was herself and himself which should meet. As he helped her down from the trap, almost lifting her, he felt he had some right to take her thus between his hands. She belonged as yet to that other, to that which was behind. But he must care for her also. She was too living to be neglected. Sometimes her vagueness, in which he was lost, made him angry, made him rage. But he held himself still as yet. She had no response, no being towards him. It puzzled and enraged him, but he submitted for a long time. Then, from the accumulated troubling of her ignoring him, gradually a fury broke out, destructive, and he wanted to go away, to escape her. It happened she came down to the Marsh with the child whilst he was in this state. Then he stood over against her, strong and heavy in his revolt, and though he said nothing, still she felt his anger and heavy impatience grip hold of her, she was shaken again as out of a torpor. Again her heart stirred with a quick, out-running impulse, she looked at him, at the stranger who was not a gentleman yet who insisted on coming into her life, and the pain of a new birth in herself strung all her veins to a new form. She would have to begin again, to find a new being, a new form, to respond to that blind, insistent figure standing over against her. A shiver, a sickness of new birth passed over her, the flame leaped up him, under his skin. She wanted it, this new life from him, with him, yet she must defend herself against it, for it was a destruction. As he worked alone on the land, or sat up with his ewes at lambing time, the facts and material of his daily life fell away, leaving the kernel of his purpose clean. And then it came upon him that he would marry her and she would be his life. Gradually, even without seeing her, he came to know her. He would have liked to think of her as of something given into his protection, like a child without parents. But it was forbidden him. He had to come down from this pleasant view of the case. She might refuse him. And besides, he was afraid of her. But during the long February nights with the ewes in labour, looking out from the shelter into the flashing stars, he knew he did not belong to himself. He must admit that he was only fragmentary, something incomplete and subject. There were the stars in the dark heaven travelling, the whole host passing by on some eternal voyage. So he sat small and submissive to the greater ordering. Unless she would come to him, he must remain as a nothingness. It was a hard experience. But, after her repeated obliviousness to him, after he had seen so often that he did not exist for her, after he had raged and tried to escape, and said he was good enough by himself, he was a man, and could stand alone, he must, in the starry multiplicity of the night humble himself, and admit and know that without her he was nothing. He was nothing. But with her, he would be real. If she were now walking across the frosty grass near the sheep-shelter, through the fretful bleating of the ewes and lambs, she would bring him completeness and perfection. And if it should be so, that she should come to him! It should be so--it was ordained so. He was a long time resolving definitely to ask her to marry him. And he knew, if he asked her, she must really acquiesce. She must, it could not be otherwise. He had learned a little of her. She was poor, quite alone, and had had a hard time in London, both before and after her husband died. But in Poland she was a lady well born, a landowner's daughter. All these things were only words to him, the fact of her superior birth, the fact that her husband had been a brilliant doctor, the fact that he himself was her inferior in almost every way of distinction. There was an inner reality, a logic of the soul, which connected her with him. One evening in March, when the wind was roaring outside, came the moment to ask her. He had sat with his hands before him, leaning to the fire. And as he watched the fire, he knew almost without thinking that he was going this evening. "Have you got a clean shirt?" he asked Tilly. "You know you've got clean shirts," she said. "Ay,--bring me a white one." Tilly brought down one of the linen shirts he had inherited from his father, putting it before him to air at the fire. She loved him with a dumb, aching love as he sat leaning with his arms on his knees, still and absorbed, unaware of her. Lately, a quivering inclination to cry had come over her, when she did anything for him in his presence. Now her hands trembled as she spread the shirt. He was never shouting and teasing now. The deep stillness there was in the house made her tremble. He went to wash himself. Queer little breaks of consciousness seemed to rise and burst like bubbles out of the depths of his stillness. "It's got to be done," he said as he stooped to take the shirt out of the fender, "it's got to be done, so why balk it?" And as he combed his hair before the mirror on the wall, he retorted to himself, superficially: "The woman's not speechless dumb. She's not clutterin' at the nipple. She's got the right to please herself, and displease whosoever she likes." This streak of common sense carried him a little further. "Did you want anythink?" asked Tilly, suddenly appearing, having heard him speak. She stood watching him comb his fair beard. His eyes were calm and uninterrupted. "Ay," he said, "where have you put the scissors?" She brought them to him, and stood watching as, chin forward, he trimmed his beard. "Don't go an' crop yourself as if you was at a shearin' contest," she said, anxiously. He blew the fine-curled hair quickly off his lips. He put on all clean clothes, folded his stock carefully, and donned his best coat. Then, being ready, as grey twilight was falling, he went across to the orchard to gather the daffodils. The wind was roaring in the apple trees, the yellow flowers swayed violently up and down, he heard even the fine whisper of their spears as he stooped to break the flattened, brittle stems of the flowers. "What's to-do?" shouted a friend who met him as he left the garden gate. "Bit of courtin', like," said Brangwen. And Tilly, in a great state of trepidation and excitement, let the wind whisk her over the field to the big gate, whence she could watch him go. He went up the hill and on towards the vicarage, the wind roaring through the hedges, whilst he tried to shelter his bunch of daffodils by his side. He did not think of anything, only knew that the wind was blowing. Night was falling, the bare trees drummed and whistled. The vicar, he knew, would be in his study, the Polish woman in the kitchen, a comfortable room, with her child. In the darkest of twilight, he went through the gate and down the path where a few daffodils stooped in the wind, and shattered crocuses made a pale, colourless ravel. There was a light streaming on to the bushes at the back from the kitchen window. He began to hesitate. How could he do this? Looking through the window, he saw her seated in the rocking-chair with the child, already in its nightdress, sitting on her knee. The fair head with its wild, fierce hair was drooping towards the fire-warmth, which reflected on the bright cheeks and clear skin of the child, who seemed to be musing, almost like a grown-up person. The mother's face was dark and still, and he saw, with a pang, that she was away back in the life that had been. The child's hair gleamed like spun glass, her face was illuminated till it seemed like wax lit up from the inside. The wind boomed strongly. Mother and child sat motionless, silent, the child staring with vacant dark eyes into the fire, the mother looking into space. The little girl was almost asleep. It was her will which kept her eyes so wide. Suddenly she looked round, troubled, as the wind shook the house, and Brangwen saw the small lips move. The mother began to rock, he heard the slight crunch of the rockers of the chair. Then he heard the low, monotonous murmur of a song in a foreign language. Then a great burst of wind, the mother seemed to have drifted away, the child's eyes were black and dilated. Brangwen looked up at the clouds which packed in great, alarming haste across the dark sky. Then there came the child's high, complaining, yet imperative voice: "Don't sing that stuff, mother; I don't want to hear it." The singing died away. "You will go to bed," said the mother. He saw the clinging protest of the child, the unmoved farawayness of the mother, the clinging, grasping effort of the child. Then suddenly the clear childish challenge: "I want you to tell me a story." The wind blew, the story began, the child nestled against the mother, Brangwen waited outside, suspended, looking at the wild waving of the trees in the wind and the gathering darkness. He had his fate to follow, he lingered there at the threshold. The child crouched distinct and motionless, curled in against her mother, the eyes dark and unblinking among the keen wisps of hair, like a curled-up animal asleep but for the eyes. The mother sat as if in shadow, the story went on as if by itself. Brangwen stood outside seeing the night fall. He did not notice the passage of time. The hand that held the daffodils was fixed and cold. The story came to an end, the mother rose at last, with the child clinging round her neck. She must be strong, to carry so large a child so easily. The little Anna clung round her mother's neck. The fair, strange face of the child looked over the shoulder of the mother, all asleep but the eyes, and these, wide and dark, kept up the resistance and the fight with something unseen. When they were gone, Brangwen stirred for the first time from the place where he stood, and looked round at the night. He wished it were really as beautiful and familiar as it seemed in these few moments of release. Along with the child, he felt a curious strain on him, a suffering, like a fate. The mother came down again, and began folding the child's clothes. He knocked. She opened wondering, a little bit at bay, like a foreigner, uneasy. "Good evening," he said. "I'll just come in a minute." A change went quickly over her face; she was unprepared. She looked down at him as he stood in the light from the window, holding the daffodils, the darkness behind. In his black clothes she again did not know him. She was almost afraid. But he was already stepping on to the threshold, and closing the door behind him. She turned into the kitchen, startled out of herself by this invasion from the night. He took off his hat, and came towards her. Then he stood in the light, in his black clothes and his black stock, hat in one hand and yellow flowers in the other. She stood away, at his mercy, snatched out of herself. She did not know him, only she knew he was a man come for her. She could only see the dark-clad man's figure standing there upon her, and the gripped fist of flowers. She could not see the face and the living eyes. He was watching her, without knowing her, only aware underneath of her presence. "I come to have a word with you," he said, striding forward to the table, laying down his hat and the flowers, which tumbled apart and lay in a loose heap. She had flinched from his advance. She had no will, no being. The wind boomed in the chimney, and he waited. He had disembarrassed his hands. Now he shut his fists. He was aware of her standing

free

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

"Is the child her child?" "I s'd think so--they say so." "Who told you about her?" "Why, Lizzie--a-Monday--we seed her goin' past." "You'd have to be rattling your tongues if anything went past." Brangwen stood musing. That evening he went up to Cossethay to the "Red Lion", half with the intention of hearing more. She was the widow of a Polish doctor, he gathered. Her husband had died, a refugee, in London. She spoke a bit foreign-like, but you could easily make out what she said. She had one little girl named Anna. Lensky was the woman's name, Mrs. Lensky. Brangwen felt that here was the unreality established at last. He felt also a curious certainty about her, as if she were destined to him. It was to him a profound satisfaction that she was a foreigner. A swift change had taken place on the earth for him, as if a new creation were fulfilled, in which he had real existence. Things had all been stark, unreal, barren, mere nullities before. Now they were actualities that he could handle. He dared scarcely think of the woman. He was afraid. Only all the time he was aware of her presence not far off, he lived in her. But he dared not know her, even acquaint himself with her by thinking of her. One day he met her walking along the road with her little girl. It was a child with a face like a bud of apple-blossom, and glistening fair hair like thistle-down sticking out in straight, wild, flamy pieces, and very dark eyes. The child clung jealously to her mother's side when he looked at her, staring with resentful black eyes. But the mother glanced at him again, almost vacantly. And the very vacancy of her look inflamed him. She had wide grey-brown eyes with very dark, fathomless pupils. He felt the fine flame running under his skin, as if all his veins had caught fire on the surface. And he went on walking without knowledge. It was coming, he knew, his fate. The world was submitting to its transformation. He made no move: it would come, what would come. When his sister Effie came to the Marsh for a week, he went with her for once to church. In the tiny place, with its mere dozen pews, he sat not far from the stranger. There was a fineness about her, a poignancy about the way she sat and held her head lifted. She was strange, from far off, yet so intimate. She was from far away, a presence, so close to his soul. She was not really there, sitting in Cossethay church beside her little girl. She was not living the apparent life of her days. She belonged to somewhere else. He felt it poignantly, as something real and natural. But a pang of fear for his own concrete life, that was only Cossethay, hurt him, and gave him misgiving. Her thick dark brows almost met above her irregular nose, she had a wide, rather thick mouth. But her face was lifted to another world of life: not to heaven or death: but to some place where she still lived, in spite of her body's absence. The child beside her watched everything with wide, black eyes. She had an odd little defiant look, her little red mouth was pinched shut. She seemed to be jealously guarding something, to be always on the alert for defence. She met Brangwen's near, vacant, intimate gaze, and a palpitating hostility, almost like a flame of pain, came into the wide, over-conscious dark eyes. The old clergyman droned on, Cossethay sat unmoved as usual. And there was the foreign woman with a foreign air about her, inviolate, and the strange child, also foreign, jealously guarding something. When the service was over, he walked in the way of another existence out of the church. As he went down the church-path with his sister, behind the woman and child, the little girl suddenly broke from her mother's hand, and slipped back with quick, almost invisible movement, and was picking at something almost under Brangwen's feet. Her tiny fingers were fine and quick, but they missed the red button. "Have you found something?" said Brangwen to her. And he also stooped for the button. But she had got it, and she stood back with it pressed against her little coat, her black eyes flaring at him, as if to forbid him to notice her. Then, having silenced him, she turned with a swift "Mother----," and was gone down the path. The mother had stood watching impassive, looking not at the child, but at Brangwen. He became aware of the woman looking at him, standing there isolated yet for him dominant in her foreign existence. He did not know what to do, and turned to his sister. But the wide grey eyes, almost vacant yet so moving, held him beyond himself. "Mother, I may have it, mayn't I?" came the child's proud, silvery tones. "Mother"-she seemed always to be calling her mother to remember her-"mother"-and she had nothing to continue now her mother had replied "Yes, my child." But, with ready invention, the child stumbled and ran on, "What are those people's names?" Brangwen heard the abstract: "I don't know, dear." He went on down the road as if he were not living inside himself, but somewhere outside. "Who was that person?" his sister Effie asked. "I couldn't tell you," he answered unknowing. "She's somebody very funny," said Effie, almost in condemnation. "That child's like one bewitched." "Bewitched--how bewitched?" he repeated. "You can see for yourself. The mother's plain, I must say--but the child is like a changeling. She'd be about thirty-five." But he took no notice. His sister talked on. "There's your woman for you," she continued. "You'd better marry her." But still he took no notice. Things were as they were. Another day, at tea-time, as he sat alone at table, there came a knock at the front door. It startled him like a portent. No one ever knocked at the front door. He rose and began slotting back the bolts, turning the big key. When he had opened the door, the strange woman stood on the threshold. "Can you give me a pound of butter?" she asked, in a curious detached way of one speaking a foreign language. He tried to attend to her question. She was looking at him questioningly. But underneath the question, what was there, in her very standing motionless, which affected him? He stepped aside and she at once entered the house, as if the door had been opened to admit her. That startled him. It was the custom for everybody to wait on the doorstep till asked inside. He went into the kitchen and she followed. His tea-things were spread on the scrubbed deal table, a big fire was burning, a dog rose from the hearth and went to her. She stood motionless just inside the kitchen. "Tilly," he called loudly, "have we got any butter?" The stranger stood there like a silence in her black cloak. "Eh?" came the shrill cry from the distance. He shouted his question again. "We've got what's on t' table," answered Tilly's shrill voice out of the dairy. Brangwen looked at the table. There was a large pat of butter on a plate, almost a pound. It was round, and stamped with acorns and oak-leaves. "Can't you come when you're wanted?" he shouted. "Why, what d'you want?" Tilly protested, as she came peeking inquisitively through the other door. She saw the strange woman, stared at her with cross-eyes, but said nothing. "Haven't we any butter?" asked Brangwen again, impatiently, as if he could command some by his question. "I tell you there's what's on t' table," said Tilly, impatient that she was unable to create any to his demand. "We haven't a morsel besides." There was a moment's silence. The stranger spoke, in her curiously distinct, detached manner of one who must think her speech first. "Oh, then thank you very much. I am sorry that I have come to trouble you." She could not understand the entire lack of manners, was slightly puzzled. Any politeness would have made the situation quite impersonal. But here it was a case of wills in confusion. Brangwen flushed at her polite speech. Still he did not let her go. "Get summat an' wrap that up for her," he said to Tilly, looking at the butter on the table. And taking a clean knife, he cut off that side of the butter where it was touched. His speech, the "for her", penetrated slowly into the foreign woman and angered Tilly. "Vicar has his butter fra Brown's by rights," said the insuppressible servant-woman. "We s'll be churnin' to-morrow mornin' first thing." "Yes"--the long-drawn foreign yes--"yes," said the Polish woman, "I went to Mrs. Brown's. She hasn't any more." Tilly bridled her head, bursting to say that, according to the etiquette of people who bought butter, it was no sort of manners whatever coming to a place cool as you like and knocking at the front door asking for a pound as a stop-gap while your other people were short. If you go to Brown's you go to Brown's, an' my butter isn't just to make shift when Brown's has got none. Brangwen understood perfectly this unspoken speech of Tilly's. The Polish lady did not. And as she wanted butter for the vicar, and as Tilly was churning in the morning, she waited. "Sluther up now," said Brangwen loudly after this silence had resolved itself out; and Tilly disappeared through the inner door. "I am afraid that I should not come, so," said the stranger, looking at him enquiringly, as if referring to him for what it was usual to do. He felt confused. "How's that?" he said, trying to be genial and being only protective. "Do you----?" she began deliberately. But she was not sure of her ground, and the conversation came to an end. Her eyes looked at him all the while, because she could not speak the language. They stood facing each other. The dog walked away from her to him. He bent down to it. "And how's your little girl?" he asked. "Yes, thank you, she is very well," was the reply, a phrase of polite speech in a foreign language merely. "Sit you down," he said. And she sat in a chair, her slim arms, coming through the slits of her cloak, resting on her lap. "You're not used to these parts," he said, still standing on the hearthrug with his back to the fire, coatless, looking with curious directness at the woman. Her self-possession pleased him and inspired him, set him curiously free. It seemed to him almost brutal to feel so master of himself and of the situation. Her eyes rested on him for a moment, questioning, as she thought of the meaning of his speech. "No," she said, understanding. "No--it is strange." "You find it middlin' rough?" he said. Her eyes waited on him, so that he should say it again. "Our ways are rough to you," he repeated. "Yes--yes, I understand. Yes, it is different, it is strange. But I was in Yorkshire----" "Oh, well then," he said, "it's no worse here than what they are up there." She did not quite understand. His protective manner, and his sureness, and his intimacy, puzzled her. What did he mean? If he was her equal, why did he behave so without formality? "No----" she said, vaguely, her eyes resting on him. She saw him fresh and naive, uncouth, almost entirely beyond relationship with her. Yet he was good-looking, with his fair hair and blue eyes full of energy, and with his healthy body that seemed to take equality with her. She watched him steadily. He was difficult for her to understand, warm, uncouth, and confident as he was, sure on his feet as if he did not know what it was to be unsure. What then was it that gave him this curious stability? She did not know. She wondered. She looked round the room he lived in. It had a close intimacy that fascinated and almost frightened her. The furniture was old and familiar as old people, the whole place seemed so kin to him, as if it partook of his being, that she was uneasy. "It is already a long time that you have lived in this house--yes?" she asked. "I've always lived here," he said. "Yes--but your people--your family?" "We've been here above two hundred years," he said. Her eyes were on him all the time, wide-open and trying to grasp him. He felt that he was there for her. "It is your own place, the house, the farm----?" "Yes," he said. He looked down at her and met her look. It disturbed her. She did not know him. He was a foreigner, they had nothing to do with each other. Yet his look disturbed her to knowledge of him. He was so strangely confident and direct. "You live quite alone?" "Yes--if you call it alone?" She did not understand. It seemed unusual to her. What was the meaning of it? And whenever her eyes, after watching him for some time, inevitably met his, she was aware of a heat beating up over her consciousness. She sat motionless and in conflict. Who was this strange man who was at once so near to her? What was happening to her? Something in his young, warm-twinkling eyes seemed to assume a right to her, to speak to her, to extend her his protection. But how? Why did he speak to her? Why were his eyes so certain, so full of light and confident, waiting for no permission nor signal? Tilly returned with a large leaf and found the two silent. At once he felt it incumbent on him to speak, now the serving-woman had come back. "How old is your little girl?" he asked. "Four years," she replied. "Her father hasn't been dead long, then?" he asked. "She was one year when he died." "Three years?" "Yes, three years that he is dead--yes." Curiously quiet she was, almost abstracted, answering these questions. She looked at him again, with some maidenhood opening in her eyes. He felt he could not move, neither towards her nor away from her. Something about her presence hurt him, till he was almost rigid before her. He saw the girl's wondering look rise in her eyes. Tilly handed her the butter and she rose. "Thank you very much," she said. "How much is it?" "We'll make th' vicar a present of it," he said. "It'll do for me goin' to church." "It 'ud look better of you if you went to church and took th' money for your butter," said Tilly, persistent in her claim to him. "You'd have to put in, shouldn't you?" he said. "How much, please?" said the Polish woman to Tilly. Brangwen stood by and let be. "Then, thank you very much," she said. "Bring your little girl down sometime to look at th' fowls and horses," he said,--"if she'd like it." "Yes, she would like it," said the stranger. And she went. Brangwen stood dimmed by her departure. He could not notice Tilly, who was looking at him uneasily, wanting to be reassured. He could not think of anything. He felt that he had made some invisible connection with the strange woman. A daze had come over his mind, he had another centre of consciousness. In his breast, or in his bowels, somewhere in his body, there had started another activity. It was as if a strong light were burning there, and he was blind within it, unable to know anything, except that this transfiguration burned between him and her, connecting them, like a secret power. Since she had come to the house he went about in a daze, scarcely seeing even the things he handled, drifting, quiescent, in a state of metamorphosis. He submitted to that which was happening to him, letting go his will, suffering the loss of himself, dormant always on the brink of ecstasy, like a creature evolving to a new birth. She came twice with her child to the farm, but there was this lull between them, an intense calm and passivity like a torpor upon them, so that there was no active change took place. He was almost unaware of the child, yet by his native good humour he gained her confidence, even her affection, setting her on a horse to ride, giving her corn for the fowls. Once he drove the mother and child from Ilkeston, picking them up on the road. The child huddled close to him as if for love, the mother sat very still. There was a vagueness, like a soft mist over all of them, and a silence as if their wills were suspended. Only he saw her hands, ungloved, folded in her lap, and he noticed the wedding-ring on her finger. It excluded him: it was a closed circle. It bound her life, the wedding-ring, it stood for her life in which he could have no part. Nevertheless, beyond all this, there was herself and himself which should meet. As he helped her down from the trap, almost lifting her, he felt he had some right to take her thus between his hands. She belonged as yet to that other, to that which was behind. But he must care for her also. She was too living to be neglected. Sometimes her vagueness, in which he was lost, made him angry, made him rage. But he held himself still as yet. She had no response, no being towards him. It puzzled and enraged him, but he submitted for a long time. Then, from the accumulated troubling of her ignoring him, gradually a fury broke out, destructive, and he wanted to go away, to escape her. It happened she came down to the Marsh with the child whilst he was in this state. Then he stood over against her, strong and heavy in his revolt, and though he said nothing, still she felt his anger and heavy impatience grip hold of her, she was shaken again as out of a torpor. Again her heart stirred with a quick, out-running impulse, she looked at him, at the stranger who was not a gentleman yet who insisted on coming into her life, and the pain of a new birth in herself strung all her veins to a new form. She would have to begin again, to find a new being, a new form, to respond to that blind, insistent figure standing over against her. A shiver, a sickness of new birth passed over her, the flame leaped up him, under his skin. She wanted it, this new life from him, with him, yet she must defend herself against it, for it was a destruction. As he worked alone on the land, or sat up with his ewes at lambing time, the facts and material of his daily life fell away, leaving the kernel of his purpose clean. And then it came upon him that he would marry her and she would be his life. Gradually, even without seeing her, he came to know her. He would have liked to think of her as of something given into his protection, like a child without parents. But it was forbidden him. He had to come down from this pleasant view of the case. She might refuse him. And besides, he was afraid of her. But during the long February nights with the ewes in labour, looking out from the shelter into the flashing stars, he knew he did not belong to himself. He must admit that he was only fragmentary, something incomplete and subject. There were the stars in the dark heaven travelling, the whole host passing by on some eternal voyage. So he sat small and submissive to the greater ordering. Unless she would come to him, he must remain as a nothingness. It was a hard experience. But, after her repeated obliviousness to him, after he had seen so often that he did not exist for her, after he had raged and tried to escape, and said he was good enough by himself, he was a man, and could stand alone, he must, in the starry multiplicity of the night humble himself, and admit and know that without her he was nothing. He was nothing. But with her, he would be real. If she were now walking across the frosty grass near the sheep-shelter, through the fretful bleating of the ewes and lambs, she would bring him completeness and perfection. And if it should be so, that she should come to him! It should be so--it was ordained so. He was a long time resolving definitely to ask her to marry him. And he knew, if he asked her, she must really acquiesce. She must, it could not be otherwise. He had learned a little of her. She was poor, quite alone, and had had a hard time in London, both before and after her husband died. But in Poland she was a lady well born, a landowner's daughter. All these things were only words to him, the fact of her superior birth, the fact that her husband had been a brilliant doctor, the fact that he himself was her inferior in almost every way of distinction. There was an inner reality, a logic of the soul, which connected her with him. One evening in March, when the wind was roaring outside, came the moment to ask her. He had sat with his hands before him, leaning to the fire. And as he watched the fire, he knew almost without thinking that he was going this evening. "Have you got a clean shirt?" he asked Tilly. "You know you've got clean shirts," she said. "Ay,--bring me a white one." Tilly brought down one of the linen shirts he had inherited from his father, putting it before him to air at the fire. She loved him with a dumb, aching love as he sat leaning with his arms on his knees, still and absorbed, unaware of her. Lately, a quivering inclination to cry had come over her, when she did anything for him in his presence. Now her hands trembled as she spread the shirt. He was never shouting and teasing now. The deep stillness there was in the house made her tremble. He went to wash himself. Queer little breaks of consciousness seemed to rise and burst like bubbles out of the depths of his stillness. "It's got to be done," he said as he stooped to take the shirt out of the fender, "it's got to be done, so why balk it?" And as he combed his hair before the mirror on the wall, he retorted to himself, superficially: "The woman's not speechless dumb. She's not clutterin' at the nipple. She's got the right to please herself, and displease whosoever she likes." This streak of common sense carried him a little further. "Did you want anythink?" asked Tilly, suddenly appearing, having heard him speak. She stood watching him comb his fair beard. His eyes were calm and uninterrupted. "Ay," he said, "where have you put the scissors?" She brought them to him, and stood watching as, chin forward, he trimmed his beard. "Don't go an' crop yourself as if you was at a shearin' contest," she said, anxiously. He blew the fine-curled hair quickly off his lips. He put on all clean clothes, folded his stock carefully, and donned his best coat. Then, being ready, as grey twilight was falling, he went across to the orchard to gather the daffodils. The wind was roaring in the apple trees, the yellow flowers swayed violently up and down, he heard even the fine whisper of their spears as he stooped to break the flattened, brittle stems of the flowers. "What's to-do?" shouted a friend who met him as he left the garden gate. "Bit of courtin', like," said Brangwen. And Tilly, in a great state of trepidation and excitement, let the wind whisk her over the field to the big gate, whence she could watch him go. He went up the hill and on towards the vicarage, the wind roaring through the hedges, whilst he tried to shelter his bunch of daffodils by his side. He did not think of anything, only knew that the wind was blowing. Night was falling, the bare trees drummed and whistled. The vicar, he knew, would be in his study, the Polish woman in the kitchen, a comfortable room, with her child. In the darkest of twilight, he went through the gate and down the path where a few daffodils stooped in the wind, and shattered crocuses made a pale, colourless ravel. There was a light streaming on to the bushes at the back from the kitchen window. He began to hesitate. How could he do this? Looking through the window, he saw her seated in the rocking-chair with the child, already in its nightdress, sitting on her knee. The fair head with its wild, fierce hair was drooping towards the fire-warmth, which reflected on the bright cheeks and clear skin of the child, who seemed to be musing, almost like a grown-up person. The mother's face was dark and still, and he saw, with a pang, that she was away back in the life that had been. The child's hair gleamed like spun glass, her face was illuminated till it seemed like wax lit up from the inside. The wind boomed strongly. Mother and child sat motionless, silent, the child staring with vacant dark eyes into the fire, the mother looking into space. The little girl was almost asleep. It was her will which kept her eyes so wide. Suddenly she looked round, troubled, as the wind shook the house, and Brangwen saw the small lips move. The mother began to rock, he heard the slight crunch of the rockers of the chair. Then he heard the low, monotonous murmur of a song in a foreign language. Then a great burst of wind, the mother seemed to have drifted away, the child's eyes were black and dilated. Brangwen looked up at the clouds which packed in great, alarming haste across the dark sky. Then there came the child's high, complaining, yet imperative voice: "Don't sing that stuff, mother; I don't want to hear it." The singing died away. "You will go to bed," said the mother. He saw the clinging protest of the child, the unmoved farawayness of the mother, the clinging, grasping effort of the child. Then suddenly the clear childish challenge: "I want you to tell me a story." The wind blew, the story began, the child nestled against the mother, Brangwen waited outside, suspended, looking at the wild waving of the trees in the wind and the gathering darkness. He had his fate to follow, he lingered there at the threshold. The child crouched distinct and motionless, curled in against her mother, the eyes dark and unblinking among the keen wisps of hair, like a curled-up animal asleep but for the eyes. The mother sat as if in shadow, the story went on as if by itself. Brangwen stood outside seeing the night fall. He did not notice the passage of time. The hand that held the daffodils was fixed and cold. The story came to an end, the mother rose at last, with the child clinging round her neck. She must be strong, to carry so large a child so easily. The little Anna clung round her mother's neck. The fair, strange face of the child looked over the shoulder of the mother, all asleep but the eyes, and these, wide and dark, kept up the resistance and the fight with something unseen. When they were gone, Brangwen stirred for the first time from the place where he stood, and looked round at the night. He wished it were really as beautiful and familiar as it seemed in these few moments of release. Along with the child, he felt a curious strain on him, a suffering, like a fate. The mother came down again, and began folding the child's clothes. He knocked. She opened wondering, a little bit at bay, like a foreigner, uneasy. "Good evening," he said. "I'll just come in a minute." A change went quickly over her face; she was unprepared. She looked down at him as he stood in the light from the window, holding the daffodils, the darkness behind. In his black clothes she again did not know him. She was almost afraid. But he was already stepping on to the threshold, and closing the door behind him. She turned into the kitchen, startled out of herself by this invasion from the night. He took off his hat, and came towards her. Then he stood in the light, in his black clothes and his black stock, hat in one hand and yellow flowers in the other. She stood away, at his mercy, snatched out of herself. She did not know him, only she knew he was a man come for her. She could only see the dark-clad man's figure standing there upon her, and the gripped fist of flowers. She could not see the face and the living eyes. He was watching her, without knowing her, only aware underneath of her presence. "I come to have a word with you," he said, striding forward to the table, laying down his hat and the flowers, which tumbled apart and lay in a loose heap. She had flinched from his advance. She had no will, no being. The wind boomed in the chimney, and he waited. He had disembarrassed his hands. Now he shut his fists. He was aware of her standing

guarding

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

"Is the child her child?" "I s'd think so--they say so." "Who told you about her?" "Why, Lizzie--a-Monday--we seed her goin' past." "You'd have to be rattling your tongues if anything went past." Brangwen stood musing. That evening he went up to Cossethay to the "Red Lion", half with the intention of hearing more. She was the widow of a Polish doctor, he gathered. Her husband had died, a refugee, in London. She spoke a bit foreign-like, but you could easily make out what she said. She had one little girl named Anna. Lensky was the woman's name, Mrs. Lensky. Brangwen felt that here was the unreality established at last. He felt also a curious certainty about her, as if she were destined to him. It was to him a profound satisfaction that she was a foreigner. A swift change had taken place on the earth for him, as if a new creation were fulfilled, in which he had real existence. Things had all been stark, unreal, barren, mere nullities before. Now they were actualities that he could handle. He dared scarcely think of the woman. He was afraid. Only all the time he was aware of her presence not far off, he lived in her. But he dared not know her, even acquaint himself with her by thinking of her. One day he met her walking along the road with her little girl. It was a child with a face like a bud of apple-blossom, and glistening fair hair like thistle-down sticking out in straight, wild, flamy pieces, and very dark eyes. The child clung jealously to her mother's side when he looked at her, staring with resentful black eyes. But the mother glanced at him again, almost vacantly. And the very vacancy of her look inflamed him. She had wide grey-brown eyes with very dark, fathomless pupils. He felt the fine flame running under his skin, as if all his veins had caught fire on the surface. And he went on walking without knowledge. It was coming, he knew, his fate. The world was submitting to its transformation. He made no move: it would come, what would come. When his sister Effie came to the Marsh for a week, he went with her for once to church. In the tiny place, with its mere dozen pews, he sat not far from the stranger. There was a fineness about her, a poignancy about the way she sat and held her head lifted. She was strange, from far off, yet so intimate. She was from far away, a presence, so close to his soul. She was not really there, sitting in Cossethay church beside her little girl. She was not living the apparent life of her days. She belonged to somewhere else. He felt it poignantly, as something real and natural. But a pang of fear for his own concrete life, that was only Cossethay, hurt him, and gave him misgiving. Her thick dark brows almost met above her irregular nose, she had a wide, rather thick mouth. But her face was lifted to another world of life: not to heaven or death: but to some place where she still lived, in spite of her body's absence. The child beside her watched everything with wide, black eyes. She had an odd little defiant look, her little red mouth was pinched shut. She seemed to be jealously guarding something, to be always on the alert for defence. She met Brangwen's near, vacant, intimate gaze, and a palpitating hostility, almost like a flame of pain, came into the wide, over-conscious dark eyes. The old clergyman droned on, Cossethay sat unmoved as usual. And there was the foreign woman with a foreign air about her, inviolate, and the strange child, also foreign, jealously guarding something. When the service was over, he walked in the way of another existence out of the church. As he went down the church-path with his sister, behind the woman and child, the little girl suddenly broke from her mother's hand, and slipped back with quick, almost invisible movement, and was picking at something almost under Brangwen's feet. Her tiny fingers were fine and quick, but they missed the red button. "Have you found something?" said Brangwen to her. And he also stooped for the button. But she had got it, and she stood back with it pressed against her little coat, her black eyes flaring at him, as if to forbid him to notice her. Then, having silenced him, she turned with a swift "Mother----," and was gone down the path. The mother had stood watching impassive, looking not at the child, but at Brangwen. He became aware of the woman looking at him, standing there isolated yet for him dominant in her foreign existence. He did not know what to do, and turned to his sister. But the wide grey eyes, almost vacant yet so moving, held him beyond himself. "Mother, I may have it, mayn't I?" came the child's proud, silvery tones. "Mother"-she seemed always to be calling her mother to remember her-"mother"-and she had nothing to continue now her mother had replied "Yes, my child." But, with ready invention, the child stumbled and ran on, "What are those people's names?" Brangwen heard the abstract: "I don't know, dear." He went on down the road as if he were not living inside himself, but somewhere outside. "Who was that person?" his sister Effie asked. "I couldn't tell you," he answered unknowing. "She's somebody very funny," said Effie, almost in condemnation. "That child's like one bewitched." "Bewitched--how bewitched?" he repeated. "You can see for yourself. The mother's plain, I must say--but the child is like a changeling. She'd be about thirty-five." But he took no notice. His sister talked on. "There's your woman for you," she continued. "You'd better marry her." But still he took no notice. Things were as they were. Another day, at tea-time, as he sat alone at table, there came a knock at the front door. It startled him like a portent. No one ever knocked at the front door. He rose and began slotting back the bolts, turning the big key. When he had opened the door, the strange woman stood on the threshold. "Can you give me a pound of butter?" she asked, in a curious detached way of one speaking a foreign language. He tried to attend to her question. She was looking at him questioningly. But underneath the question, what was there, in her very standing motionless, which affected him? He stepped aside and she at once entered the house, as if the door had been opened to admit her. That startled him. It was the custom for everybody to wait on the doorstep till asked inside. He went into the kitchen and she followed. His tea-things were spread on the scrubbed deal table, a big fire was burning, a dog rose from the hearth and went to her. She stood motionless just inside the kitchen. "Tilly," he called loudly, "have we got any butter?" The stranger stood there like a silence in her black cloak. "Eh?" came the shrill cry from the distance. He shouted his question again. "We've got what's on t' table," answered Tilly's shrill voice out of the dairy. Brangwen looked at the table. There was a large pat of butter on a plate, almost a pound. It was round, and stamped with acorns and oak-leaves. "Can't you come when you're wanted?" he shouted. "Why, what d'you want?" Tilly protested, as she came peeking inquisitively through the other door. She saw the strange woman, stared at her with cross-eyes, but said nothing. "Haven't we any butter?" asked Brangwen again, impatiently, as if he could command some by his question. "I tell you there's what's on t' table," said Tilly, impatient that she was unable to create any to his demand. "We haven't a morsel besides." There was a moment's silence. The stranger spoke, in her curiously distinct, detached manner of one who must think her speech first. "Oh, then thank you very much. I am sorry that I have come to trouble you." She could not understand the entire lack of manners, was slightly puzzled. Any politeness would have made the situation quite impersonal. But here it was a case of wills in confusion. Brangwen flushed at her polite speech. Still he did not let her go. "Get summat an' wrap that up for her," he said to Tilly, looking at the butter on the table. And taking a clean knife, he cut off that side of the butter where it was touched. His speech, the "for her", penetrated slowly into the foreign woman and angered Tilly. "Vicar has his butter fra Brown's by rights," said the insuppressible servant-woman. "We s'll be churnin' to-morrow mornin' first thing." "Yes"--the long-drawn foreign yes--"yes," said the Polish woman, "I went to Mrs. Brown's. She hasn't any more." Tilly bridled her head, bursting to say that, according to the etiquette of people who bought butter, it was no sort of manners whatever coming to a place cool as you like and knocking at the front door asking for a pound as a stop-gap while your other people were short. If you go to Brown's you go to Brown's, an' my butter isn't just to make shift when Brown's has got none. Brangwen understood perfectly this unspoken speech of Tilly's. The Polish lady did not. And as she wanted butter for the vicar, and as Tilly was churning in the morning, she waited. "Sluther up now," said Brangwen loudly after this silence had resolved itself out; and Tilly disappeared through the inner door. "I am afraid that I should not come, so," said the stranger, looking at him enquiringly, as if referring to him for what it was usual to do. He felt confused. "How's that?" he said, trying to be genial and being only protective. "Do you----?" she began deliberately. But she was not sure of her ground, and the conversation came to an end. Her eyes looked at him all the while, because she could not speak the language. They stood facing each other. The dog walked away from her to him. He bent down to it. "And how's your little girl?" he asked. "Yes, thank you, she is very well," was the reply, a phrase of polite speech in a foreign language merely. "Sit you down," he said. And she sat in a chair, her slim arms, coming through the slits of her cloak, resting on her lap. "You're not used to these parts," he said, still standing on the hearthrug with his back to the fire, coatless, looking with curious directness at the woman. Her self-possession pleased him and inspired him, set him curiously free. It seemed to him almost brutal to feel so master of himself and of the situation. Her eyes rested on him for a moment, questioning, as she thought of the meaning of his speech. "No," she said, understanding. "No--it is strange." "You find it middlin' rough?" he said. Her eyes waited on him, so that he should say it again. "Our ways are rough to you," he repeated. "Yes--yes, I understand. Yes, it is different, it is strange. But I was in Yorkshire----" "Oh, well then," he said, "it's no worse here than what they are up there." She did not quite understand. His protective manner, and his sureness, and his intimacy, puzzled her. What did he mean? If he was her equal, why did he behave so without formality? "No----" she said, vaguely, her eyes resting on him. She saw him fresh and naive, uncouth, almost entirely beyond relationship with her. Yet he was good-looking, with his fair hair and blue eyes full of energy, and with his healthy body that seemed to take equality with her. She watched him steadily. He was difficult for her to understand, warm, uncouth, and confident as he was, sure on his feet as if he did not know what it was to be unsure. What then was it that gave him this curious stability? She did not know. She wondered. She looked round the room he lived in. It had a close intimacy that fascinated and almost frightened her. The furniture was old and familiar as old people, the whole place seemed so kin to him, as if it partook of his being, that she was uneasy. "It is already a long time that you have lived in this house--yes?" she asked. "I've always lived here," he said. "Yes--but your people--your family?" "We've been here above two hundred years," he said. Her eyes were on him all the time, wide-open and trying to grasp him. He felt that he was there for her. "It is your own place, the house, the farm----?" "Yes," he said. He looked down at her and met her look. It disturbed her. She did not know him. He was a foreigner, they had nothing to do with each other. Yet his look disturbed her to knowledge of him. He was so strangely confident and direct. "You live quite alone?" "Yes--if you call it alone?" She did not understand. It seemed unusual to her. What was the meaning of it? And whenever her eyes, after watching him for some time, inevitably met his, she was aware of a heat beating up over her consciousness. She sat motionless and in conflict. Who was this strange man who was at once so near to her? What was happening to her? Something in his young, warm-twinkling eyes seemed to assume a right to her, to speak to her, to extend her his protection. But how? Why did he speak to her? Why were his eyes so certain, so full of light and confident, waiting for no permission nor signal? Tilly returned with a large leaf and found the two silent. At once he felt it incumbent on him to speak, now the serving-woman had come back. "How old is your little girl?" he asked. "Four years," she replied. "Her father hasn't been dead long, then?" he asked. "She was one year when he died." "Three years?" "Yes, three years that he is dead--yes." Curiously quiet she was, almost abstracted, answering these questions. She looked at him again, with some maidenhood opening in her eyes. He felt he could not move, neither towards her nor away from her. Something about her presence hurt him, till he was almost rigid before her. He saw the girl's wondering look rise in her eyes. Tilly handed her the butter and she rose. "Thank you very much," she said. "How much is it?" "We'll make th' vicar a present of it," he said. "It'll do for me goin' to church." "It 'ud look better of you if you went to church and took th' money for your butter," said Tilly, persistent in her claim to him. "You'd have to put in, shouldn't you?" he said. "How much, please?" said the Polish woman to Tilly. Brangwen stood by and let be. "Then, thank you very much," she said. "Bring your little girl down sometime to look at th' fowls and horses," he said,--"if she'd like it." "Yes, she would like it," said the stranger. And she went. Brangwen stood dimmed by her departure. He could not notice Tilly, who was looking at him uneasily, wanting to be reassured. He could not think of anything. He felt that he had made some invisible connection with the strange woman. A daze had come over his mind, he had another centre of consciousness. In his breast, or in his bowels, somewhere in his body, there had started another activity. It was as if a strong light were burning there, and he was blind within it, unable to know anything, except that this transfiguration burned between him and her, connecting them, like a secret power. Since she had come to the house he went about in a daze, scarcely seeing even the things he handled, drifting, quiescent, in a state of metamorphosis. He submitted to that which was happening to him, letting go his will, suffering the loss of himself, dormant always on the brink of ecstasy, like a creature evolving to a new birth. She came twice with her child to the farm, but there was this lull between them, an intense calm and passivity like a torpor upon them, so that there was no active change took place. He was almost unaware of the child, yet by his native good humour he gained her confidence, even her affection, setting her on a horse to ride, giving her corn for the fowls. Once he drove the mother and child from Ilkeston, picking them up on the road. The child huddled close to him as if for love, the mother sat very still. There was a vagueness, like a soft mist over all of them, and a silence as if their wills were suspended. Only he saw her hands, ungloved, folded in her lap, and he noticed the wedding-ring on her finger. It excluded him: it was a closed circle. It bound her life, the wedding-ring, it stood for her life in which he could have no part. Nevertheless, beyond all this, there was herself and himself which should meet. As he helped her down from the trap, almost lifting her, he felt he had some right to take her thus between his hands. She belonged as yet to that other, to that which was behind. But he must care for her also. She was too living to be neglected. Sometimes her vagueness, in which he was lost, made him angry, made him rage. But he held himself still as yet. She had no response, no being towards him. It puzzled and enraged him, but he submitted for a long time. Then, from the accumulated troubling of her ignoring him, gradually a fury broke out, destructive, and he wanted to go away, to escape her. It happened she came down to the Marsh with the child whilst he was in this state. Then he stood over against her, strong and heavy in his revolt, and though he said nothing, still she felt his anger and heavy impatience grip hold of her, she was shaken again as out of a torpor. Again her heart stirred with a quick, out-running impulse, she looked at him, at the stranger who was not a gentleman yet who insisted on coming into her life, and the pain of a new birth in herself strung all her veins to a new form. She would have to begin again, to find a new being, a new form, to respond to that blind, insistent figure standing over against her. A shiver, a sickness of new birth passed over her, the flame leaped up him, under his skin. She wanted it, this new life from him, with him, yet she must defend herself against it, for it was a destruction. As he worked alone on the land, or sat up with his ewes at lambing time, the facts and material of his daily life fell away, leaving the kernel of his purpose clean. And then it came upon him that he would marry her and she would be his life. Gradually, even without seeing her, he came to know her. He would have liked to think of her as of something given into his protection, like a child without parents. But it was forbidden him. He had to come down from this pleasant view of the case. She might refuse him. And besides, he was afraid of her. But during the long February nights with the ewes in labour, looking out from the shelter into the flashing stars, he knew he did not belong to himself. He must admit that he was only fragmentary, something incomplete and subject. There were the stars in the dark heaven travelling, the whole host passing by on some eternal voyage. So he sat small and submissive to the greater ordering. Unless she would come to him, he must remain as a nothingness. It was a hard experience. But, after her repeated obliviousness to him, after he had seen so often that he did not exist for her, after he had raged and tried to escape, and said he was good enough by himself, he was a man, and could stand alone, he must, in the starry multiplicity of the night humble himself, and admit and know that without her he was nothing. He was nothing. But with her, he would be real. If she were now walking across the frosty grass near the sheep-shelter, through the fretful bleating of the ewes and lambs, she would bring him completeness and perfection. And if it should be so, that she should come to him! It should be so--it was ordained so. He was a long time resolving definitely to ask her to marry him. And he knew, if he asked her, she must really acquiesce. She must, it could not be otherwise. He had learned a little of her. She was poor, quite alone, and had had a hard time in London, both before and after her husband died. But in Poland she was a lady well born, a landowner's daughter. All these things were only words to him, the fact of her superior birth, the fact that her husband had been a brilliant doctor, the fact that he himself was her inferior in almost every way of distinction. There was an inner reality, a logic of the soul, which connected her with him. One evening in March, when the wind was roaring outside, came the moment to ask her. He had sat with his hands before him, leaning to the fire. And as he watched the fire, he knew almost without thinking that he was going this evening. "Have you got a clean shirt?" he asked Tilly. "You know you've got clean shirts," she said. "Ay,--bring me a white one." Tilly brought down one of the linen shirts he had inherited from his father, putting it before him to air at the fire. She loved him with a dumb, aching love as he sat leaning with his arms on his knees, still and absorbed, unaware of her. Lately, a quivering inclination to cry had come over her, when she did anything for him in his presence. Now her hands trembled as she spread the shirt. He was never shouting and teasing now. The deep stillness there was in the house made her tremble. He went to wash himself. Queer little breaks of consciousness seemed to rise and burst like bubbles out of the depths of his stillness. "It's got to be done," he said as he stooped to take the shirt out of the fender, "it's got to be done, so why balk it?" And as he combed his hair before the mirror on the wall, he retorted to himself, superficially: "The woman's not speechless dumb. She's not clutterin' at the nipple. She's got the right to please herself, and displease whosoever she likes." This streak of common sense carried him a little further. "Did you want anythink?" asked Tilly, suddenly appearing, having heard him speak. She stood watching him comb his fair beard. His eyes were calm and uninterrupted. "Ay," he said, "where have you put the scissors?" She brought them to him, and stood watching as, chin forward, he trimmed his beard. "Don't go an' crop yourself as if you was at a shearin' contest," she said, anxiously. He blew the fine-curled hair quickly off his lips. He put on all clean clothes, folded his stock carefully, and donned his best coat. Then, being ready, as grey twilight was falling, he went across to the orchard to gather the daffodils. The wind was roaring in the apple trees, the yellow flowers swayed violently up and down, he heard even the fine whisper of their spears as he stooped to break the flattened, brittle stems of the flowers. "What's to-do?" shouted a friend who met him as he left the garden gate. "Bit of courtin', like," said Brangwen. And Tilly, in a great state of trepidation and excitement, let the wind whisk her over the field to the big gate, whence she could watch him go. He went up the hill and on towards the vicarage, the wind roaring through the hedges, whilst he tried to shelter his bunch of daffodils by his side. He did not think of anything, only knew that the wind was blowing. Night was falling, the bare trees drummed and whistled. The vicar, he knew, would be in his study, the Polish woman in the kitchen, a comfortable room, with her child. In the darkest of twilight, he went through the gate and down the path where a few daffodils stooped in the wind, and shattered crocuses made a pale, colourless ravel. There was a light streaming on to the bushes at the back from the kitchen window. He began to hesitate. How could he do this? Looking through the window, he saw her seated in the rocking-chair with the child, already in its nightdress, sitting on her knee. The fair head with its wild, fierce hair was drooping towards the fire-warmth, which reflected on the bright cheeks and clear skin of the child, who seemed to be musing, almost like a grown-up person. The mother's face was dark and still, and he saw, with a pang, that she was away back in the life that had been. The child's hair gleamed like spun glass, her face was illuminated till it seemed like wax lit up from the inside. The wind boomed strongly. Mother and child sat motionless, silent, the child staring with vacant dark eyes into the fire, the mother looking into space. The little girl was almost asleep. It was her will which kept her eyes so wide. Suddenly she looked round, troubled, as the wind shook the house, and Brangwen saw the small lips move. The mother began to rock, he heard the slight crunch of the rockers of the chair. Then he heard the low, monotonous murmur of a song in a foreign language. Then a great burst of wind, the mother seemed to have drifted away, the child's eyes were black and dilated. Brangwen looked up at the clouds which packed in great, alarming haste across the dark sky. Then there came the child's high, complaining, yet imperative voice: "Don't sing that stuff, mother; I don't want to hear it." The singing died away. "You will go to bed," said the mother. He saw the clinging protest of the child, the unmoved farawayness of the mother, the clinging, grasping effort of the child. Then suddenly the clear childish challenge: "I want you to tell me a story." The wind blew, the story began, the child nestled against the mother, Brangwen waited outside, suspended, looking at the wild waving of the trees in the wind and the gathering darkness. He had his fate to follow, he lingered there at the threshold. The child crouched distinct and motionless, curled in against her mother, the eyes dark and unblinking among the keen wisps of hair, like a curled-up animal asleep but for the eyes. The mother sat as if in shadow, the story went on as if by itself. Brangwen stood outside seeing the night fall. He did not notice the passage of time. The hand that held the daffodils was fixed and cold. The story came to an end, the mother rose at last, with the child clinging round her neck. She must be strong, to carry so large a child so easily. The little Anna clung round her mother's neck. The fair, strange face of the child looked over the shoulder of the mother, all asleep but the eyes, and these, wide and dark, kept up the resistance and the fight with something unseen. When they were gone, Brangwen stirred for the first time from the place where he stood, and looked round at the night. He wished it were really as beautiful and familiar as it seemed in these few moments of release. Along with the child, he felt a curious strain on him, a suffering, like a fate. The mother came down again, and began folding the child's clothes. He knocked. She opened wondering, a little bit at bay, like a foreigner, uneasy. "Good evening," he said. "I'll just come in a minute." A change went quickly over her face; she was unprepared. She looked down at him as he stood in the light from the window, holding the daffodils, the darkness behind. In his black clothes she again did not know him. She was almost afraid. But he was already stepping on to the threshold, and closing the door behind him. She turned into the kitchen, startled out of herself by this invasion from the night. He took off his hat, and came towards her. Then he stood in the light, in his black clothes and his black stock, hat in one hand and yellow flowers in the other. She stood away, at his mercy, snatched out of herself. She did not know him, only she knew he was a man come for her. She could only see the dark-clad man's figure standing there upon her, and the gripped fist of flowers. She could not see the face and the living eyes. He was watching her, without knowing her, only aware underneath of her presence. "I come to have a word with you," he said, striding forward to the table, laying down his hat and the flowers, which tumbled apart and lay in a loose heap. She had flinched from his advance. She had no will, no being. The wind boomed in the chimney, and he waited. He had disembarrassed his hands. Now he shut his fists. He was aware of her standing

being

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

"Is the child her child?" "I s'd think so--they say so." "Who told you about her?" "Why, Lizzie--a-Monday--we seed her goin' past." "You'd have to be rattling your tongues if anything went past." Brangwen stood musing. That evening he went up to Cossethay to the "Red Lion", half with the intention of hearing more. She was the widow of a Polish doctor, he gathered. Her husband had died, a refugee, in London. She spoke a bit foreign-like, but you could easily make out what she said. She had one little girl named Anna. Lensky was the woman's name, Mrs. Lensky. Brangwen felt that here was the unreality established at last. He felt also a curious certainty about her, as if she were destined to him. It was to him a profound satisfaction that she was a foreigner. A swift change had taken place on the earth for him, as if a new creation were fulfilled, in which he had real existence. Things had all been stark, unreal, barren, mere nullities before. Now they were actualities that he could handle. He dared scarcely think of the woman. He was afraid. Only all the time he was aware of her presence not far off, he lived in her. But he dared not know her, even acquaint himself with her by thinking of her. One day he met her walking along the road with her little girl. It was a child with a face like a bud of apple-blossom, and glistening fair hair like thistle-down sticking out in straight, wild, flamy pieces, and very dark eyes. The child clung jealously to her mother's side when he looked at her, staring with resentful black eyes. But the mother glanced at him again, almost vacantly. And the very vacancy of her look inflamed him. She had wide grey-brown eyes with very dark, fathomless pupils. He felt the fine flame running under his skin, as if all his veins had caught fire on the surface. And he went on walking without knowledge. It was coming, he knew, his fate. The world was submitting to its transformation. He made no move: it would come, what would come. When his sister Effie came to the Marsh for a week, he went with her for once to church. In the tiny place, with its mere dozen pews, he sat not far from the stranger. There was a fineness about her, a poignancy about the way she sat and held her head lifted. She was strange, from far off, yet so intimate. She was from far away, a presence, so close to his soul. She was not really there, sitting in Cossethay church beside her little girl. She was not living the apparent life of her days. She belonged to somewhere else. He felt it poignantly, as something real and natural. But a pang of fear for his own concrete life, that was only Cossethay, hurt him, and gave him misgiving. Her thick dark brows almost met above her irregular nose, she had a wide, rather thick mouth. But her face was lifted to another world of life: not to heaven or death: but to some place where she still lived, in spite of her body's absence. The child beside her watched everything with wide, black eyes. She had an odd little defiant look, her little red mouth was pinched shut. She seemed to be jealously guarding something, to be always on the alert for defence. She met Brangwen's near, vacant, intimate gaze, and a palpitating hostility, almost like a flame of pain, came into the wide, over-conscious dark eyes. The old clergyman droned on, Cossethay sat unmoved as usual. And there was the foreign woman with a foreign air about her, inviolate, and the strange child, also foreign, jealously guarding something. When the service was over, he walked in the way of another existence out of the church. As he went down the church-path with his sister, behind the woman and child, the little girl suddenly broke from her mother's hand, and slipped back with quick, almost invisible movement, and was picking at something almost under Brangwen's feet. Her tiny fingers were fine and quick, but they missed the red button. "Have you found something?" said Brangwen to her. And he also stooped for the button. But she had got it, and she stood back with it pressed against her little coat, her black eyes flaring at him, as if to forbid him to notice her. Then, having silenced him, she turned with a swift "Mother----," and was gone down the path. The mother had stood watching impassive, looking not at the child, but at Brangwen. He became aware of the woman looking at him, standing there isolated yet for him dominant in her foreign existence. He did not know what to do, and turned to his sister. But the wide grey eyes, almost vacant yet so moving, held him beyond himself. "Mother, I may have it, mayn't I?" came the child's proud, silvery tones. "Mother"-she seemed always to be calling her mother to remember her-"mother"-and she had nothing to continue now her mother had replied "Yes, my child." But, with ready invention, the child stumbled and ran on, "What are those people's names?" Brangwen heard the abstract: "I don't know, dear." He went on down the road as if he were not living inside himself, but somewhere outside. "Who was that person?" his sister Effie asked. "I couldn't tell you," he answered unknowing. "She's somebody very funny," said Effie, almost in condemnation. "That child's like one bewitched." "Bewitched--how bewitched?" he repeated. "You can see for yourself. The mother's plain, I must say--but the child is like a changeling. She'd be about thirty-five." But he took no notice. His sister talked on. "There's your woman for you," she continued. "You'd better marry her." But still he took no notice. Things were as they were. Another day, at tea-time, as he sat alone at table, there came a knock at the front door. It startled him like a portent. No one ever knocked at the front door. He rose and began slotting back the bolts, turning the big key. When he had opened the door, the strange woman stood on the threshold. "Can you give me a pound of butter?" she asked, in a curious detached way of one speaking a foreign language. He tried to attend to her question. She was looking at him questioningly. But underneath the question, what was there, in her very standing motionless, which affected him? He stepped aside and she at once entered the house, as if the door had been opened to admit her. That startled him. It was the custom for everybody to wait on the doorstep till asked inside. He went into the kitchen and she followed. His tea-things were spread on the scrubbed deal table, a big fire was burning, a dog rose from the hearth and went to her. She stood motionless just inside the kitchen. "Tilly," he called loudly, "have we got any butter?" The stranger stood there like a silence in her black cloak. "Eh?" came the shrill cry from the distance. He shouted his question again. "We've got what's on t' table," answered Tilly's shrill voice out of the dairy. Brangwen looked at the table. There was a large pat of butter on a plate, almost a pound. It was round, and stamped with acorns and oak-leaves. "Can't you come when you're wanted?" he shouted. "Why, what d'you want?" Tilly protested, as she came peeking inquisitively through the other door. She saw the strange woman, stared at her with cross-eyes, but said nothing. "Haven't we any butter?" asked Brangwen again, impatiently, as if he could command some by his question. "I tell you there's what's on t' table," said Tilly, impatient that she was unable to create any to his demand. "We haven't a morsel besides." There was a moment's silence. The stranger spoke, in her curiously distinct, detached manner of one who must think her speech first. "Oh, then thank you very much. I am sorry that I have come to trouble you." She could not understand the entire lack of manners, was slightly puzzled. Any politeness would have made the situation quite impersonal. But here it was a case of wills in confusion. Brangwen flushed at her polite speech. Still he did not let her go. "Get summat an' wrap that up for her," he said to Tilly, looking at the butter on the table. And taking a clean knife, he cut off that side of the butter where it was touched. His speech, the "for her", penetrated slowly into the foreign woman and angered Tilly. "Vicar has his butter fra Brown's by rights," said the insuppressible servant-woman. "We s'll be churnin' to-morrow mornin' first thing." "Yes"--the long-drawn foreign yes--"yes," said the Polish woman, "I went to Mrs. Brown's. She hasn't any more." Tilly bridled her head, bursting to say that, according to the etiquette of people who bought butter, it was no sort of manners whatever coming to a place cool as you like and knocking at the front door asking for a pound as a stop-gap while your other people were short. If you go to Brown's you go to Brown's, an' my butter isn't just to make shift when Brown's has got none. Brangwen understood perfectly this unspoken speech of Tilly's. The Polish lady did not. And as she wanted butter for the vicar, and as Tilly was churning in the morning, she waited. "Sluther up now," said Brangwen loudly after this silence had resolved itself out; and Tilly disappeared through the inner door. "I am afraid that I should not come, so," said the stranger, looking at him enquiringly, as if referring to him for what it was usual to do. He felt confused. "How's that?" he said, trying to be genial and being only protective. "Do you----?" she began deliberately. But she was not sure of her ground, and the conversation came to an end. Her eyes looked at him all the while, because she could not speak the language. They stood facing each other. The dog walked away from her to him. He bent down to it. "And how's your little girl?" he asked. "Yes, thank you, she is very well," was the reply, a phrase of polite speech in a foreign language merely. "Sit you down," he said. And she sat in a chair, her slim arms, coming through the slits of her cloak, resting on her lap. "You're not used to these parts," he said, still standing on the hearthrug with his back to the fire, coatless, looking with curious directness at the woman. Her self-possession pleased him and inspired him, set him curiously free. It seemed to him almost brutal to feel so master of himself and of the situation. Her eyes rested on him for a moment, questioning, as she thought of the meaning of his speech. "No," she said, understanding. "No--it is strange." "You find it middlin' rough?" he said. Her eyes waited on him, so that he should say it again. "Our ways are rough to you," he repeated. "Yes--yes, I understand. Yes, it is different, it is strange. But I was in Yorkshire----" "Oh, well then," he said, "it's no worse here than what they are up there." She did not quite understand. His protective manner, and his sureness, and his intimacy, puzzled her. What did he mean? If he was her equal, why did he behave so without formality? "No----" she said, vaguely, her eyes resting on him. She saw him fresh and naive, uncouth, almost entirely beyond relationship with her. Yet he was good-looking, with his fair hair and blue eyes full of energy, and with his healthy body that seemed to take equality with her. She watched him steadily. He was difficult for her to understand, warm, uncouth, and confident as he was, sure on his feet as if he did not know what it was to be unsure. What then was it that gave him this curious stability? She did not know. She wondered. She looked round the room he lived in. It had a close intimacy that fascinated and almost frightened her. The furniture was old and familiar as old people, the whole place seemed so kin to him, as if it partook of his being, that she was uneasy. "It is already a long time that you have lived in this house--yes?" she asked. "I've always lived here," he said. "Yes--but your people--your family?" "We've been here above two hundred years," he said. Her eyes were on him all the time, wide-open and trying to grasp him. He felt that he was there for her. "It is your own place, the house, the farm----?" "Yes," he said. He looked down at her and met her look. It disturbed her. She did not know him. He was a foreigner, they had nothing to do with each other. Yet his look disturbed her to knowledge of him. He was so strangely confident and direct. "You live quite alone?" "Yes--if you call it alone?" She did not understand. It seemed unusual to her. What was the meaning of it? And whenever her eyes, after watching him for some time, inevitably met his, she was aware of a heat beating up over her consciousness. She sat motionless and in conflict. Who was this strange man who was at once so near to her? What was happening to her? Something in his young, warm-twinkling eyes seemed to assume a right to her, to speak to her, to extend her his protection. But how? Why did he speak to her? Why were his eyes so certain, so full of light and confident, waiting for no permission nor signal? Tilly returned with a large leaf and found the two silent. At once he felt it incumbent on him to speak, now the serving-woman had come back. "How old is your little girl?" he asked. "Four years," she replied. "Her father hasn't been dead long, then?" he asked. "She was one year when he died." "Three years?" "Yes, three years that he is dead--yes." Curiously quiet she was, almost abstracted, answering these questions. She looked at him again, with some maidenhood opening in her eyes. He felt he could not move, neither towards her nor away from her. Something about her presence hurt him, till he was almost rigid before her. He saw the girl's wondering look rise in her eyes. Tilly handed her the butter and she rose. "Thank you very much," she said. "How much is it?" "We'll make th' vicar a present of it," he said. "It'll do for me goin' to church." "It 'ud look better of you if you went to church and took th' money for your butter," said Tilly, persistent in her claim to him. "You'd have to put in, shouldn't you?" he said. "How much, please?" said the Polish woman to Tilly. Brangwen stood by and let be. "Then, thank you very much," she said. "Bring your little girl down sometime to look at th' fowls and horses," he said,--"if she'd like it." "Yes, she would like it," said the stranger. And she went. Brangwen stood dimmed by her departure. He could not notice Tilly, who was looking at him uneasily, wanting to be reassured. He could not think of anything. He felt that he had made some invisible connection with the strange woman. A daze had come over his mind, he had another centre of consciousness. In his breast, or in his bowels, somewhere in his body, there had started another activity. It was as if a strong light were burning there, and he was blind within it, unable to know anything, except that this transfiguration burned between him and her, connecting them, like a secret power. Since she had come to the house he went about in a daze, scarcely seeing even the things he handled, drifting, quiescent, in a state of metamorphosis. He submitted to that which was happening to him, letting go his will, suffering the loss of himself, dormant always on the brink of ecstasy, like a creature evolving to a new birth. She came twice with her child to the farm, but there was this lull between them, an intense calm and passivity like a torpor upon them, so that there was no active change took place. He was almost unaware of the child, yet by his native good humour he gained her confidence, even her affection, setting her on a horse to ride, giving her corn for the fowls. Once he drove the mother and child from Ilkeston, picking them up on the road. The child huddled close to him as if for love, the mother sat very still. There was a vagueness, like a soft mist over all of them, and a silence as if their wills were suspended. Only he saw her hands, ungloved, folded in her lap, and he noticed the wedding-ring on her finger. It excluded him: it was a closed circle. It bound her life, the wedding-ring, it stood for her life in which he could have no part. Nevertheless, beyond all this, there was herself and himself which should meet. As he helped her down from the trap, almost lifting her, he felt he had some right to take her thus between his hands. She belonged as yet to that other, to that which was behind. But he must care for her also. She was too living to be neglected. Sometimes her vagueness, in which he was lost, made him angry, made him rage. But he held himself still as yet. She had no response, no being towards him. It puzzled and enraged him, but he submitted for a long time. Then, from the accumulated troubling of her ignoring him, gradually a fury broke out, destructive, and he wanted to go away, to escape her. It happened she came down to the Marsh with the child whilst he was in this state. Then he stood over against her, strong and heavy in his revolt, and though he said nothing, still she felt his anger and heavy impatience grip hold of her, she was shaken again as out of a torpor. Again her heart stirred with a quick, out-running impulse, she looked at him, at the stranger who was not a gentleman yet who insisted on coming into her life, and the pain of a new birth in herself strung all her veins to a new form. She would have to begin again, to find a new being, a new form, to respond to that blind, insistent figure standing over against her. A shiver, a sickness of new birth passed over her, the flame leaped up him, under his skin. She wanted it, this new life from him, with him, yet she must defend herself against it, for it was a destruction. As he worked alone on the land, or sat up with his ewes at lambing time, the facts and material of his daily life fell away, leaving the kernel of his purpose clean. And then it came upon him that he would marry her and she would be his life. Gradually, even without seeing her, he came to know her. He would have liked to think of her as of something given into his protection, like a child without parents. But it was forbidden him. He had to come down from this pleasant view of the case. She might refuse him. And besides, he was afraid of her. But during the long February nights with the ewes in labour, looking out from the shelter into the flashing stars, he knew he did not belong to himself. He must admit that he was only fragmentary, something incomplete and subject. There were the stars in the dark heaven travelling, the whole host passing by on some eternal voyage. So he sat small and submissive to the greater ordering. Unless she would come to him, he must remain as a nothingness. It was a hard experience. But, after her repeated obliviousness to him, after he had seen so often that he did not exist for her, after he had raged and tried to escape, and said he was good enough by himself, he was a man, and could stand alone, he must, in the starry multiplicity of the night humble himself, and admit and know that without her he was nothing. He was nothing. But with her, he would be real. If she were now walking across the frosty grass near the sheep-shelter, through the fretful bleating of the ewes and lambs, she would bring him completeness and perfection. And if it should be so, that she should come to him! It should be so--it was ordained so. He was a long time resolving definitely to ask her to marry him. And he knew, if he asked her, she must really acquiesce. She must, it could not be otherwise. He had learned a little of her. She was poor, quite alone, and had had a hard time in London, both before and after her husband died. But in Poland she was a lady well born, a landowner's daughter. All these things were only words to him, the fact of her superior birth, the fact that her husband had been a brilliant doctor, the fact that he himself was her inferior in almost every way of distinction. There was an inner reality, a logic of the soul, which connected her with him. One evening in March, when the wind was roaring outside, came the moment to ask her. He had sat with his hands before him, leaning to the fire. And as he watched the fire, he knew almost without thinking that he was going this evening. "Have you got a clean shirt?" he asked Tilly. "You know you've got clean shirts," she said. "Ay,--bring me a white one." Tilly brought down one of the linen shirts he had inherited from his father, putting it before him to air at the fire. She loved him with a dumb, aching love as he sat leaning with his arms on his knees, still and absorbed, unaware of her. Lately, a quivering inclination to cry had come over her, when she did anything for him in his presence. Now her hands trembled as she spread the shirt. He was never shouting and teasing now. The deep stillness there was in the house made her tremble. He went to wash himself. Queer little breaks of consciousness seemed to rise and burst like bubbles out of the depths of his stillness. "It's got to be done," he said as he stooped to take the shirt out of the fender, "it's got to be done, so why balk it?" And as he combed his hair before the mirror on the wall, he retorted to himself, superficially: "The woman's not speechless dumb. She's not clutterin' at the nipple. She's got the right to please herself, and displease whosoever she likes." This streak of common sense carried him a little further. "Did you want anythink?" asked Tilly, suddenly appearing, having heard him speak. She stood watching him comb his fair beard. His eyes were calm and uninterrupted. "Ay," he said, "where have you put the scissors?" She brought them to him, and stood watching as, chin forward, he trimmed his beard. "Don't go an' crop yourself as if you was at a shearin' contest," she said, anxiously. He blew the fine-curled hair quickly off his lips. He put on all clean clothes, folded his stock carefully, and donned his best coat. Then, being ready, as grey twilight was falling, he went across to the orchard to gather the daffodils. The wind was roaring in the apple trees, the yellow flowers swayed violently up and down, he heard even the fine whisper of their spears as he stooped to break the flattened, brittle stems of the flowers. "What's to-do?" shouted a friend who met him as he left the garden gate. "Bit of courtin', like," said Brangwen. And Tilly, in a great state of trepidation and excitement, let the wind whisk her over the field to the big gate, whence she could watch him go. He went up the hill and on towards the vicarage, the wind roaring through the hedges, whilst he tried to shelter his bunch of daffodils by his side. He did not think of anything, only knew that the wind was blowing. Night was falling, the bare trees drummed and whistled. The vicar, he knew, would be in his study, the Polish woman in the kitchen, a comfortable room, with her child. In the darkest of twilight, he went through the gate and down the path where a few daffodils stooped in the wind, and shattered crocuses made a pale, colourless ravel. There was a light streaming on to the bushes at the back from the kitchen window. He began to hesitate. How could he do this? Looking through the window, he saw her seated in the rocking-chair with the child, already in its nightdress, sitting on her knee. The fair head with its wild, fierce hair was drooping towards the fire-warmth, which reflected on the bright cheeks and clear skin of the child, who seemed to be musing, almost like a grown-up person. The mother's face was dark and still, and he saw, with a pang, that she was away back in the life that had been. The child's hair gleamed like spun glass, her face was illuminated till it seemed like wax lit up from the inside. The wind boomed strongly. Mother and child sat motionless, silent, the child staring with vacant dark eyes into the fire, the mother looking into space. The little girl was almost asleep. It was her will which kept her eyes so wide. Suddenly she looked round, troubled, as the wind shook the house, and Brangwen saw the small lips move. The mother began to rock, he heard the slight crunch of the rockers of the chair. Then he heard the low, monotonous murmur of a song in a foreign language. Then a great burst of wind, the mother seemed to have drifted away, the child's eyes were black and dilated. Brangwen looked up at the clouds which packed in great, alarming haste across the dark sky. Then there came the child's high, complaining, yet imperative voice: "Don't sing that stuff, mother; I don't want to hear it." The singing died away. "You will go to bed," said the mother. He saw the clinging protest of the child, the unmoved farawayness of the mother, the clinging, grasping effort of the child. Then suddenly the clear childish challenge: "I want you to tell me a story." The wind blew, the story began, the child nestled against the mother, Brangwen waited outside, suspended, looking at the wild waving of the trees in the wind and the gathering darkness. He had his fate to follow, he lingered there at the threshold. The child crouched distinct and motionless, curled in against her mother, the eyes dark and unblinking among the keen wisps of hair, like a curled-up animal asleep but for the eyes. The mother sat as if in shadow, the story went on as if by itself. Brangwen stood outside seeing the night fall. He did not notice the passage of time. The hand that held the daffodils was fixed and cold. The story came to an end, the mother rose at last, with the child clinging round her neck. She must be strong, to carry so large a child so easily. The little Anna clung round her mother's neck. The fair, strange face of the child looked over the shoulder of the mother, all asleep but the eyes, and these, wide and dark, kept up the resistance and the fight with something unseen. When they were gone, Brangwen stirred for the first time from the place where he stood, and looked round at the night. He wished it were really as beautiful and familiar as it seemed in these few moments of release. Along with the child, he felt a curious strain on him, a suffering, like a fate. The mother came down again, and began folding the child's clothes. He knocked. She opened wondering, a little bit at bay, like a foreigner, uneasy. "Good evening," he said. "I'll just come in a minute." A change went quickly over her face; she was unprepared. She looked down at him as he stood in the light from the window, holding the daffodils, the darkness behind. In his black clothes she again did not know him. She was almost afraid. But he was already stepping on to the threshold, and closing the door behind him. She turned into the kitchen, startled out of herself by this invasion from the night. He took off his hat, and came towards her. Then he stood in the light, in his black clothes and his black stock, hat in one hand and yellow flowers in the other. She stood away, at his mercy, snatched out of herself. She did not know him, only she knew he was a man come for her. She could only see the dark-clad man's figure standing there upon her, and the gripped fist of flowers. She could not see the face and the living eyes. He was watching her, without knowing her, only aware underneath of her presence. "I come to have a word with you," he said, striding forward to the table, laying down his hat and the flowers, which tumbled apart and lay in a loose heap. She had flinched from his advance. She had no will, no being. The wind boomed in the chimney, and he waited. He had disembarrassed his hands. Now he shut his fists. He was aware of her standing

lab

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

"Is the child her child?" "I s'd think so--they say so." "Who told you about her?" "Why, Lizzie--a-Monday--we seed her goin' past." "You'd have to be rattling your tongues if anything went past." Brangwen stood musing. That evening he went up to Cossethay to the "Red Lion", half with the intention of hearing more. She was the widow of a Polish doctor, he gathered. Her husband had died, a refugee, in London. She spoke a bit foreign-like, but you could easily make out what she said. She had one little girl named Anna. Lensky was the woman's name, Mrs. Lensky. Brangwen felt that here was the unreality established at last. He felt also a curious certainty about her, as if she were destined to him. It was to him a profound satisfaction that she was a foreigner. A swift change had taken place on the earth for him, as if a new creation were fulfilled, in which he had real existence. Things had all been stark, unreal, barren, mere nullities before. Now they were actualities that he could handle. He dared scarcely think of the woman. He was afraid. Only all the time he was aware of her presence not far off, he lived in her. But he dared not know her, even acquaint himself with her by thinking of her. One day he met her walking along the road with her little girl. It was a child with a face like a bud of apple-blossom, and glistening fair hair like thistle-down sticking out in straight, wild, flamy pieces, and very dark eyes. The child clung jealously to her mother's side when he looked at her, staring with resentful black eyes. But the mother glanced at him again, almost vacantly. And the very vacancy of her look inflamed him. She had wide grey-brown eyes with very dark, fathomless pupils. He felt the fine flame running under his skin, as if all his veins had caught fire on the surface. And he went on walking without knowledge. It was coming, he knew, his fate. The world was submitting to its transformation. He made no move: it would come, what would come. When his sister Effie came to the Marsh for a week, he went with her for once to church. In the tiny place, with its mere dozen pews, he sat not far from the stranger. There was a fineness about her, a poignancy about the way she sat and held her head lifted. She was strange, from far off, yet so intimate. She was from far away, a presence, so close to his soul. She was not really there, sitting in Cossethay church beside her little girl. She was not living the apparent life of her days. She belonged to somewhere else. He felt it poignantly, as something real and natural. But a pang of fear for his own concrete life, that was only Cossethay, hurt him, and gave him misgiving. Her thick dark brows almost met above her irregular nose, she had a wide, rather thick mouth. But her face was lifted to another world of life: not to heaven or death: but to some place where she still lived, in spite of her body's absence. The child beside her watched everything with wide, black eyes. She had an odd little defiant look, her little red mouth was pinched shut. She seemed to be jealously guarding something, to be always on the alert for defence. She met Brangwen's near, vacant, intimate gaze, and a palpitating hostility, almost like a flame of pain, came into the wide, over-conscious dark eyes. The old clergyman droned on, Cossethay sat unmoved as usual. And there was the foreign woman with a foreign air about her, inviolate, and the strange child, also foreign, jealously guarding something. When the service was over, he walked in the way of another existence out of the church. As he went down the church-path with his sister, behind the woman and child, the little girl suddenly broke from her mother's hand, and slipped back with quick, almost invisible movement, and was picking at something almost under Brangwen's feet. Her tiny fingers were fine and quick, but they missed the red button. "Have you found something?" said Brangwen to her. And he also stooped for the button. But she had got it, and she stood back with it pressed against her little coat, her black eyes flaring at him, as if to forbid him to notice her. Then, having silenced him, she turned with a swift "Mother----," and was gone down the path. The mother had stood watching impassive, looking not at the child, but at Brangwen. He became aware of the woman looking at him, standing there isolated yet for him dominant in her foreign existence. He did not know what to do, and turned to his sister. But the wide grey eyes, almost vacant yet so moving, held him beyond himself. "Mother, I may have it, mayn't I?" came the child's proud, silvery tones. "Mother"-she seemed always to be calling her mother to remember her-"mother"-and she had nothing to continue now her mother had replied "Yes, my child." But, with ready invention, the child stumbled and ran on, "What are those people's names?" Brangwen heard the abstract: "I don't know, dear." He went on down the road as if he were not living inside himself, but somewhere outside. "Who was that person?" his sister Effie asked. "I couldn't tell you," he answered unknowing. "She's somebody very funny," said Effie, almost in condemnation. "That child's like one bewitched." "Bewitched--how bewitched?" he repeated. "You can see for yourself. The mother's plain, I must say--but the child is like a changeling. She'd be about thirty-five." But he took no notice. His sister talked on. "There's your woman for you," she continued. "You'd better marry her." But still he took no notice. Things were as they were. Another day, at tea-time, as he sat alone at table, there came a knock at the front door. It startled him like a portent. No one ever knocked at the front door. He rose and began slotting back the bolts, turning the big key. When he had opened the door, the strange woman stood on the threshold. "Can you give me a pound of butter?" she asked, in a curious detached way of one speaking a foreign language. He tried to attend to her question. She was looking at him questioningly. But underneath the question, what was there, in her very standing motionless, which affected him? He stepped aside and she at once entered the house, as if the door had been opened to admit her. That startled him. It was the custom for everybody to wait on the doorstep till asked inside. He went into the kitchen and she followed. His tea-things were spread on the scrubbed deal table, a big fire was burning, a dog rose from the hearth and went to her. She stood motionless just inside the kitchen. "Tilly," he called loudly, "have we got any butter?" The stranger stood there like a silence in her black cloak. "Eh?" came the shrill cry from the distance. He shouted his question again. "We've got what's on t' table," answered Tilly's shrill voice out of the dairy. Brangwen looked at the table. There was a large pat of butter on a plate, almost a pound. It was round, and stamped with acorns and oak-leaves. "Can't you come when you're wanted?" he shouted. "Why, what d'you want?" Tilly protested, as she came peeking inquisitively through the other door. She saw the strange woman, stared at her with cross-eyes, but said nothing. "Haven't we any butter?" asked Brangwen again, impatiently, as if he could command some by his question. "I tell you there's what's on t' table," said Tilly, impatient that she was unable to create any to his demand. "We haven't a morsel besides." There was a moment's silence. The stranger spoke, in her curiously distinct, detached manner of one who must think her speech first. "Oh, then thank you very much. I am sorry that I have come to trouble you." She could not understand the entire lack of manners, was slightly puzzled. Any politeness would have made the situation quite impersonal. But here it was a case of wills in confusion. Brangwen flushed at her polite speech. Still he did not let her go. "Get summat an' wrap that up for her," he said to Tilly, looking at the butter on the table. And taking a clean knife, he cut off that side of the butter where it was touched. His speech, the "for her", penetrated slowly into the foreign woman and angered Tilly. "Vicar has his butter fra Brown's by rights," said the insuppressible servant-woman. "We s'll be churnin' to-morrow mornin' first thing." "Yes"--the long-drawn foreign yes--"yes," said the Polish woman, "I went to Mrs. Brown's. She hasn't any more." Tilly bridled her head, bursting to say that, according to the etiquette of people who bought butter, it was no sort of manners whatever coming to a place cool as you like and knocking at the front door asking for a pound as a stop-gap while your other people were short. If you go to Brown's you go to Brown's, an' my butter isn't just to make shift when Brown's has got none. Brangwen understood perfectly this unspoken speech of Tilly's. The Polish lady did not. And as she wanted butter for the vicar, and as Tilly was churning in the morning, she waited. "Sluther up now," said Brangwen loudly after this silence had resolved itself out; and Tilly disappeared through the inner door. "I am afraid that I should not come, so," said the stranger, looking at him enquiringly, as if referring to him for what it was usual to do. He felt confused. "How's that?" he said, trying to be genial and being only protective. "Do you----?" she began deliberately. But she was not sure of her ground, and the conversation came to an end. Her eyes looked at him all the while, because she could not speak the language. They stood facing each other. The dog walked away from her to him. He bent down to it. "And how's your little girl?" he asked. "Yes, thank you, she is very well," was the reply, a phrase of polite speech in a foreign language merely. "Sit you down," he said. And she sat in a chair, her slim arms, coming through the slits of her cloak, resting on her lap. "You're not used to these parts," he said, still standing on the hearthrug with his back to the fire, coatless, looking with curious directness at the woman. Her self-possession pleased him and inspired him, set him curiously free. It seemed to him almost brutal to feel so master of himself and of the situation. Her eyes rested on him for a moment, questioning, as she thought of the meaning of his speech. "No," she said, understanding. "No--it is strange." "You find it middlin' rough?" he said. Her eyes waited on him, so that he should say it again. "Our ways are rough to you," he repeated. "Yes--yes, I understand. Yes, it is different, it is strange. But I was in Yorkshire----" "Oh, well then," he said, "it's no worse here than what they are up there." She did not quite understand. His protective manner, and his sureness, and his intimacy, puzzled her. What did he mean? If he was her equal, why did he behave so without formality? "No----" she said, vaguely, her eyes resting on him. She saw him fresh and naive, uncouth, almost entirely beyond relationship with her. Yet he was good-looking, with his fair hair and blue eyes full of energy, and with his healthy body that seemed to take equality with her. She watched him steadily. He was difficult for her to understand, warm, uncouth, and confident as he was, sure on his feet as if he did not know what it was to be unsure. What then was it that gave him this curious stability? She did not know. She wondered. She looked round the room he lived in. It had a close intimacy that fascinated and almost frightened her. The furniture was old and familiar as old people, the whole place seemed so kin to him, as if it partook of his being, that she was uneasy. "It is already a long time that you have lived in this house--yes?" she asked. "I've always lived here," he said. "Yes--but your people--your family?" "We've been here above two hundred years," he said. Her eyes were on him all the time, wide-open and trying to grasp him. He felt that he was there for her. "It is your own place, the house, the farm----?" "Yes," he said. He looked down at her and met her look. It disturbed her. She did not know him. He was a foreigner, they had nothing to do with each other. Yet his look disturbed her to knowledge of him. He was so strangely confident and direct. "You live quite alone?" "Yes--if you call it alone?" She did not understand. It seemed unusual to her. What was the meaning of it? And whenever her eyes, after watching him for some time, inevitably met his, she was aware of a heat beating up over her consciousness. She sat motionless and in conflict. Who was this strange man who was at once so near to her? What was happening to her? Something in his young, warm-twinkling eyes seemed to assume a right to her, to speak to her, to extend her his protection. But how? Why did he speak to her? Why were his eyes so certain, so full of light and confident, waiting for no permission nor signal? Tilly returned with a large leaf and found the two silent. At once he felt it incumbent on him to speak, now the serving-woman had come back. "How old is your little girl?" he asked. "Four years," she replied. "Her father hasn't been dead long, then?" he asked. "She was one year when he died." "Three years?" "Yes, three years that he is dead--yes." Curiously quiet she was, almost abstracted, answering these questions. She looked at him again, with some maidenhood opening in her eyes. He felt he could not move, neither towards her nor away from her. Something about her presence hurt him, till he was almost rigid before her. He saw the girl's wondering look rise in her eyes. Tilly handed her the butter and she rose. "Thank you very much," she said. "How much is it?" "We'll make th' vicar a present of it," he said. "It'll do for me goin' to church." "It 'ud look better of you if you went to church and took th' money for your butter," said Tilly, persistent in her claim to him. "You'd have to put in, shouldn't you?" he said. "How much, please?" said the Polish woman to Tilly. Brangwen stood by and let be. "Then, thank you very much," she said. "Bring your little girl down sometime to look at th' fowls and horses," he said,--"if she'd like it." "Yes, she would like it," said the stranger. And she went. Brangwen stood dimmed by her departure. He could not notice Tilly, who was looking at him uneasily, wanting to be reassured. He could not think of anything. He felt that he had made some invisible connection with the strange woman. A daze had come over his mind, he had another centre of consciousness. In his breast, or in his bowels, somewhere in his body, there had started another activity. It was as if a strong light were burning there, and he was blind within it, unable to know anything, except that this transfiguration burned between him and her, connecting them, like a secret power. Since she had come to the house he went about in a daze, scarcely seeing even the things he handled, drifting, quiescent, in a state of metamorphosis. He submitted to that which was happening to him, letting go his will, suffering the loss of himself, dormant always on the brink of ecstasy, like a creature evolving to a new birth. She came twice with her child to the farm, but there was this lull between them, an intense calm and passivity like a torpor upon them, so that there was no active change took place. He was almost unaware of the child, yet by his native good humour he gained her confidence, even her affection, setting her on a horse to ride, giving her corn for the fowls. Once he drove the mother and child from Ilkeston, picking them up on the road. The child huddled close to him as if for love, the mother sat very still. There was a vagueness, like a soft mist over all of them, and a silence as if their wills were suspended. Only he saw her hands, ungloved, folded in her lap, and he noticed the wedding-ring on her finger. It excluded him: it was a closed circle. It bound her life, the wedding-ring, it stood for her life in which he could have no part. Nevertheless, beyond all this, there was herself and himself which should meet. As he helped her down from the trap, almost lifting her, he felt he had some right to take her thus between his hands. She belonged as yet to that other, to that which was behind. But he must care for her also. She was too living to be neglected. Sometimes her vagueness, in which he was lost, made him angry, made him rage. But he held himself still as yet. She had no response, no being towards him. It puzzled and enraged him, but he submitted for a long time. Then, from the accumulated troubling of her ignoring him, gradually a fury broke out, destructive, and he wanted to go away, to escape her. It happened she came down to the Marsh with the child whilst he was in this state. Then he stood over against her, strong and heavy in his revolt, and though he said nothing, still she felt his anger and heavy impatience grip hold of her, she was shaken again as out of a torpor. Again her heart stirred with a quick, out-running impulse, she looked at him, at the stranger who was not a gentleman yet who insisted on coming into her life, and the pain of a new birth in herself strung all her veins to a new form. She would have to begin again, to find a new being, a new form, to respond to that blind, insistent figure standing over against her. A shiver, a sickness of new birth passed over her, the flame leaped up him, under his skin. She wanted it, this new life from him, with him, yet she must defend herself against it, for it was a destruction. As he worked alone on the land, or sat up with his ewes at lambing time, the facts and material of his daily life fell away, leaving the kernel of his purpose clean. And then it came upon him that he would marry her and she would be his life. Gradually, even without seeing her, he came to know her. He would have liked to think of her as of something given into his protection, like a child without parents. But it was forbidden him. He had to come down from this pleasant view of the case. She might refuse him. And besides, he was afraid of her. But during the long February nights with the ewes in labour, looking out from the shelter into the flashing stars, he knew he did not belong to himself. He must admit that he was only fragmentary, something incomplete and subject. There were the stars in the dark heaven travelling, the whole host passing by on some eternal voyage. So he sat small and submissive to the greater ordering. Unless she would come to him, he must remain as a nothingness. It was a hard experience. But, after her repeated obliviousness to him, after he had seen so often that he did not exist for her, after he had raged and tried to escape, and said he was good enough by himself, he was a man, and could stand alone, he must, in the starry multiplicity of the night humble himself, and admit and know that without her he was nothing. He was nothing. But with her, he would be real. If she were now walking across the frosty grass near the sheep-shelter, through the fretful bleating of the ewes and lambs, she would bring him completeness and perfection. And if it should be so, that she should come to him! It should be so--it was ordained so. He was a long time resolving definitely to ask her to marry him. And he knew, if he asked her, she must really acquiesce. She must, it could not be otherwise. He had learned a little of her. She was poor, quite alone, and had had a hard time in London, both before and after her husband died. But in Poland she was a lady well born, a landowner's daughter. All these things were only words to him, the fact of her superior birth, the fact that her husband had been a brilliant doctor, the fact that he himself was her inferior in almost every way of distinction. There was an inner reality, a logic of the soul, which connected her with him. One evening in March, when the wind was roaring outside, came the moment to ask her. He had sat with his hands before him, leaning to the fire. And as he watched the fire, he knew almost without thinking that he was going this evening. "Have you got a clean shirt?" he asked Tilly. "You know you've got clean shirts," she said. "Ay,--bring me a white one." Tilly brought down one of the linen shirts he had inherited from his father, putting it before him to air at the fire. She loved him with a dumb, aching love as he sat leaning with his arms on his knees, still and absorbed, unaware of her. Lately, a quivering inclination to cry had come over her, when she did anything for him in his presence. Now her hands trembled as she spread the shirt. He was never shouting and teasing now. The deep stillness there was in the house made her tremble. He went to wash himself. Queer little breaks of consciousness seemed to rise and burst like bubbles out of the depths of his stillness. "It's got to be done," he said as he stooped to take the shirt out of the fender, "it's got to be done, so why balk it?" And as he combed his hair before the mirror on the wall, he retorted to himself, superficially: "The woman's not speechless dumb. She's not clutterin' at the nipple. She's got the right to please herself, and displease whosoever she likes." This streak of common sense carried him a little further. "Did you want anythink?" asked Tilly, suddenly appearing, having heard him speak. She stood watching him comb his fair beard. His eyes were calm and uninterrupted. "Ay," he said, "where have you put the scissors?" She brought them to him, and stood watching as, chin forward, he trimmed his beard. "Don't go an' crop yourself as if you was at a shearin' contest," she said, anxiously. He blew the fine-curled hair quickly off his lips. He put on all clean clothes, folded his stock carefully, and donned his best coat. Then, being ready, as grey twilight was falling, he went across to the orchard to gather the daffodils. The wind was roaring in the apple trees, the yellow flowers swayed violently up and down, he heard even the fine whisper of their spears as he stooped to break the flattened, brittle stems of the flowers. "What's to-do?" shouted a friend who met him as he left the garden gate. "Bit of courtin', like," said Brangwen. And Tilly, in a great state of trepidation and excitement, let the wind whisk her over the field to the big gate, whence she could watch him go. He went up the hill and on towards the vicarage, the wind roaring through the hedges, whilst he tried to shelter his bunch of daffodils by his side. He did not think of anything, only knew that the wind was blowing. Night was falling, the bare trees drummed and whistled. The vicar, he knew, would be in his study, the Polish woman in the kitchen, a comfortable room, with her child. In the darkest of twilight, he went through the gate and down the path where a few daffodils stooped in the wind, and shattered crocuses made a pale, colourless ravel. There was a light streaming on to the bushes at the back from the kitchen window. He began to hesitate. How could he do this? Looking through the window, he saw her seated in the rocking-chair with the child, already in its nightdress, sitting on her knee. The fair head with its wild, fierce hair was drooping towards the fire-warmth, which reflected on the bright cheeks and clear skin of the child, who seemed to be musing, almost like a grown-up person. The mother's face was dark and still, and he saw, with a pang, that she was away back in the life that had been. The child's hair gleamed like spun glass, her face was illuminated till it seemed like wax lit up from the inside. The wind boomed strongly. Mother and child sat motionless, silent, the child staring with vacant dark eyes into the fire, the mother looking into space. The little girl was almost asleep. It was her will which kept her eyes so wide. Suddenly she looked round, troubled, as the wind shook the house, and Brangwen saw the small lips move. The mother began to rock, he heard the slight crunch of the rockers of the chair. Then he heard the low, monotonous murmur of a song in a foreign language. Then a great burst of wind, the mother seemed to have drifted away, the child's eyes were black and dilated. Brangwen looked up at the clouds which packed in great, alarming haste across the dark sky. Then there came the child's high, complaining, yet imperative voice: "Don't sing that stuff, mother; I don't want to hear it." The singing died away. "You will go to bed," said the mother. He saw the clinging protest of the child, the unmoved farawayness of the mother, the clinging, grasping effort of the child. Then suddenly the clear childish challenge: "I want you to tell me a story." The wind blew, the story began, the child nestled against the mother, Brangwen waited outside, suspended, looking at the wild waving of the trees in the wind and the gathering darkness. He had his fate to follow, he lingered there at the threshold. The child crouched distinct and motionless, curled in against her mother, the eyes dark and unblinking among the keen wisps of hair, like a curled-up animal asleep but for the eyes. The mother sat as if in shadow, the story went on as if by itself. Brangwen stood outside seeing the night fall. He did not notice the passage of time. The hand that held the daffodils was fixed and cold. The story came to an end, the mother rose at last, with the child clinging round her neck. She must be strong, to carry so large a child so easily. The little Anna clung round her mother's neck. The fair, strange face of the child looked over the shoulder of the mother, all asleep but the eyes, and these, wide and dark, kept up the resistance and the fight with something unseen. When they were gone, Brangwen stirred for the first time from the place where he stood, and looked round at the night. He wished it were really as beautiful and familiar as it seemed in these few moments of release. Along with the child, he felt a curious strain on him, a suffering, like a fate. The mother came down again, and began folding the child's clothes. He knocked. She opened wondering, a little bit at bay, like a foreigner, uneasy. "Good evening," he said. "I'll just come in a minute." A change went quickly over her face; she was unprepared. She looked down at him as he stood in the light from the window, holding the daffodils, the darkness behind. In his black clothes she again did not know him. She was almost afraid. But he was already stepping on to the threshold, and closing the door behind him. She turned into the kitchen, startled out of herself by this invasion from the night. He took off his hat, and came towards her. Then he stood in the light, in his black clothes and his black stock, hat in one hand and yellow flowers in the other. She stood away, at his mercy, snatched out of herself. She did not know him, only she knew he was a man come for her. She could only see the dark-clad man's figure standing there upon her, and the gripped fist of flowers. She could not see the face and the living eyes. He was watching her, without knowing her, only aware underneath of her presence. "I come to have a word with you," he said, striding forward to the table, laying down his hat and the flowers, which tumbled apart and lay in a loose heap. She had flinched from his advance. She had no will, no being. The wind boomed in the chimney, and he waited. He had disembarrassed his hands. Now he shut his fists. He was aware of her standing

civility

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

"Is the child her child?" "I s'd think so--they say so." "Who told you about her?" "Why, Lizzie--a-Monday--we seed her goin' past." "You'd have to be rattling your tongues if anything went past." Brangwen stood musing. That evening he went up to Cossethay to the "Red Lion", half with the intention of hearing more. She was the widow of a Polish doctor, he gathered. Her husband had died, a refugee, in London. She spoke a bit foreign-like, but you could easily make out what she said. She had one little girl named Anna. Lensky was the woman's name, Mrs. Lensky. Brangwen felt that here was the unreality established at last. He felt also a curious certainty about her, as if she were destined to him. It was to him a profound satisfaction that she was a foreigner. A swift change had taken place on the earth for him, as if a new creation were fulfilled, in which he had real existence. Things had all been stark, unreal, barren, mere nullities before. Now they were actualities that he could handle. He dared scarcely think of the woman. He was afraid. Only all the time he was aware of her presence not far off, he lived in her. But he dared not know her, even acquaint himself with her by thinking of her. One day he met her walking along the road with her little girl. It was a child with a face like a bud of apple-blossom, and glistening fair hair like thistle-down sticking out in straight, wild, flamy pieces, and very dark eyes. The child clung jealously to her mother's side when he looked at her, staring with resentful black eyes. But the mother glanced at him again, almost vacantly. And the very vacancy of her look inflamed him. She had wide grey-brown eyes with very dark, fathomless pupils. He felt the fine flame running under his skin, as if all his veins had caught fire on the surface. And he went on walking without knowledge. It was coming, he knew, his fate. The world was submitting to its transformation. He made no move: it would come, what would come. When his sister Effie came to the Marsh for a week, he went with her for once to church. In the tiny place, with its mere dozen pews, he sat not far from the stranger. There was a fineness about her, a poignancy about the way she sat and held her head lifted. She was strange, from far off, yet so intimate. She was from far away, a presence, so close to his soul. She was not really there, sitting in Cossethay church beside her little girl. She was not living the apparent life of her days. She belonged to somewhere else. He felt it poignantly, as something real and natural. But a pang of fear for his own concrete life, that was only Cossethay, hurt him, and gave him misgiving. Her thick dark brows almost met above her irregular nose, she had a wide, rather thick mouth. But her face was lifted to another world of life: not to heaven or death: but to some place where she still lived, in spite of her body's absence. The child beside her watched everything with wide, black eyes. She had an odd little defiant look, her little red mouth was pinched shut. She seemed to be jealously guarding something, to be always on the alert for defence. She met Brangwen's near, vacant, intimate gaze, and a palpitating hostility, almost like a flame of pain, came into the wide, over-conscious dark eyes. The old clergyman droned on, Cossethay sat unmoved as usual. And there was the foreign woman with a foreign air about her, inviolate, and the strange child, also foreign, jealously guarding something. When the service was over, he walked in the way of another existence out of the church. As he went down the church-path with his sister, behind the woman and child, the little girl suddenly broke from her mother's hand, and slipped back with quick, almost invisible movement, and was picking at something almost under Brangwen's feet. Her tiny fingers were fine and quick, but they missed the red button. "Have you found something?" said Brangwen to her. And he also stooped for the button. But she had got it, and she stood back with it pressed against her little coat, her black eyes flaring at him, as if to forbid him to notice her. Then, having silenced him, she turned with a swift "Mother----," and was gone down the path. The mother had stood watching impassive, looking not at the child, but at Brangwen. He became aware of the woman looking at him, standing there isolated yet for him dominant in her foreign existence. He did not know what to do, and turned to his sister. But the wide grey eyes, almost vacant yet so moving, held him beyond himself. "Mother, I may have it, mayn't I?" came the child's proud, silvery tones. "Mother"-she seemed always to be calling her mother to remember her-"mother"-and she had nothing to continue now her mother had replied "Yes, my child." But, with ready invention, the child stumbled and ran on, "What are those people's names?" Brangwen heard the abstract: "I don't know, dear." He went on down the road as if he were not living inside himself, but somewhere outside. "Who was that person?" his sister Effie asked. "I couldn't tell you," he answered unknowing. "She's somebody very funny," said Effie, almost in condemnation. "That child's like one bewitched." "Bewitched--how bewitched?" he repeated. "You can see for yourself. The mother's plain, I must say--but the child is like a changeling. She'd be about thirty-five." But he took no notice. His sister talked on. "There's your woman for you," she continued. "You'd better marry her." But still he took no notice. Things were as they were. Another day, at tea-time, as he sat alone at table, there came a knock at the front door. It startled him like a portent. No one ever knocked at the front door. He rose and began slotting back the bolts, turning the big key. When he had opened the door, the strange woman stood on the threshold. "Can you give me a pound of butter?" she asked, in a curious detached way of one speaking a foreign language. He tried to attend to her question. She was looking at him questioningly. But underneath the question, what was there, in her very standing motionless, which affected him? He stepped aside and she at once entered the house, as if the door had been opened to admit her. That startled him. It was the custom for everybody to wait on the doorstep till asked inside. He went into the kitchen and she followed. His tea-things were spread on the scrubbed deal table, a big fire was burning, a dog rose from the hearth and went to her. She stood motionless just inside the kitchen. "Tilly," he called loudly, "have we got any butter?" The stranger stood there like a silence in her black cloak. "Eh?" came the shrill cry from the distance. He shouted his question again. "We've got what's on t' table," answered Tilly's shrill voice out of the dairy. Brangwen looked at the table. There was a large pat of butter on a plate, almost a pound. It was round, and stamped with acorns and oak-leaves. "Can't you come when you're wanted?" he shouted. "Why, what d'you want?" Tilly protested, as she came peeking inquisitively through the other door. She saw the strange woman, stared at her with cross-eyes, but said nothing. "Haven't we any butter?" asked Brangwen again, impatiently, as if he could command some by his question. "I tell you there's what's on t' table," said Tilly, impatient that she was unable to create any to his demand. "We haven't a morsel besides." There was a moment's silence. The stranger spoke, in her curiously distinct, detached manner of one who must think her speech first. "Oh, then thank you very much. I am sorry that I have come to trouble you." She could not understand the entire lack of manners, was slightly puzzled. Any politeness would have made the situation quite impersonal. But here it was a case of wills in confusion. Brangwen flushed at her polite speech. Still he did not let her go. "Get summat an' wrap that up for her," he said to Tilly, looking at the butter on the table. And taking a clean knife, he cut off that side of the butter where it was touched. His speech, the "for her", penetrated slowly into the foreign woman and angered Tilly. "Vicar has his butter fra Brown's by rights," said the insuppressible servant-woman. "We s'll be churnin' to-morrow mornin' first thing." "Yes"--the long-drawn foreign yes--"yes," said the Polish woman, "I went to Mrs. Brown's. She hasn't any more." Tilly bridled her head, bursting to say that, according to the etiquette of people who bought butter, it was no sort of manners whatever coming to a place cool as you like and knocking at the front door asking for a pound as a stop-gap while your other people were short. If you go to Brown's you go to Brown's, an' my butter isn't just to make shift when Brown's has got none. Brangwen understood perfectly this unspoken speech of Tilly's. The Polish lady did not. And as she wanted butter for the vicar, and as Tilly was churning in the morning, she waited. "Sluther up now," said Brangwen loudly after this silence had resolved itself out; and Tilly disappeared through the inner door. "I am afraid that I should not come, so," said the stranger, looking at him enquiringly, as if referring to him for what it was usual to do. He felt confused. "How's that?" he said, trying to be genial and being only protective. "Do you----?" she began deliberately. But she was not sure of her ground, and the conversation came to an end. Her eyes looked at him all the while, because she could not speak the language. They stood facing each other. The dog walked away from her to him. He bent down to it. "And how's your little girl?" he asked. "Yes, thank you, she is very well," was the reply, a phrase of polite speech in a foreign language merely. "Sit you down," he said. And she sat in a chair, her slim arms, coming through the slits of her cloak, resting on her lap. "You're not used to these parts," he said, still standing on the hearthrug with his back to the fire, coatless, looking with curious directness at the woman. Her self-possession pleased him and inspired him, set him curiously free. It seemed to him almost brutal to feel so master of himself and of the situation. Her eyes rested on him for a moment, questioning, as she thought of the meaning of his speech. "No," she said, understanding. "No--it is strange." "You find it middlin' rough?" he said. Her eyes waited on him, so that he should say it again. "Our ways are rough to you," he repeated. "Yes--yes, I understand. Yes, it is different, it is strange. But I was in Yorkshire----" "Oh, well then," he said, "it's no worse here than what they are up there." She did not quite understand. His protective manner, and his sureness, and his intimacy, puzzled her. What did he mean? If he was her equal, why did he behave so without formality? "No----" she said, vaguely, her eyes resting on him. She saw him fresh and naive, uncouth, almost entirely beyond relationship with her. Yet he was good-looking, with his fair hair and blue eyes full of energy, and with his healthy body that seemed to take equality with her. She watched him steadily. He was difficult for her to understand, warm, uncouth, and confident as he was, sure on his feet as if he did not know what it was to be unsure. What then was it that gave him this curious stability? She did not know. She wondered. She looked round the room he lived in. It had a close intimacy that fascinated and almost frightened her. The furniture was old and familiar as old people, the whole place seemed so kin to him, as if it partook of his being, that she was uneasy. "It is already a long time that you have lived in this house--yes?" she asked. "I've always lived here," he said. "Yes--but your people--your family?" "We've been here above two hundred years," he said. Her eyes were on him all the time, wide-open and trying to grasp him. He felt that he was there for her. "It is your own place, the house, the farm----?" "Yes," he said. He looked down at her and met her look. It disturbed her. She did not know him. He was a foreigner, they had nothing to do with each other. Yet his look disturbed her to knowledge of him. He was so strangely confident and direct. "You live quite alone?" "Yes--if you call it alone?" She did not understand. It seemed unusual to her. What was the meaning of it? And whenever her eyes, after watching him for some time, inevitably met his, she was aware of a heat beating up over her consciousness. She sat motionless and in conflict. Who was this strange man who was at once so near to her? What was happening to her? Something in his young, warm-twinkling eyes seemed to assume a right to her, to speak to her, to extend her his protection. But how? Why did he speak to her? Why were his eyes so certain, so full of light and confident, waiting for no permission nor signal? Tilly returned with a large leaf and found the two silent. At once he felt it incumbent on him to speak, now the serving-woman had come back. "How old is your little girl?" he asked. "Four years," she replied. "Her father hasn't been dead long, then?" he asked. "She was one year when he died." "Three years?" "Yes, three years that he is dead--yes." Curiously quiet she was, almost abstracted, answering these questions. She looked at him again, with some maidenhood opening in her eyes. He felt he could not move, neither towards her nor away from her. Something about her presence hurt him, till he was almost rigid before her. He saw the girl's wondering look rise in her eyes. Tilly handed her the butter and she rose. "Thank you very much," she said. "How much is it?" "We'll make th' vicar a present of it," he said. "It'll do for me goin' to church." "It 'ud look better of you if you went to church and took th' money for your butter," said Tilly, persistent in her claim to him. "You'd have to put in, shouldn't you?" he said. "How much, please?" said the Polish woman to Tilly. Brangwen stood by and let be. "Then, thank you very much," she said. "Bring your little girl down sometime to look at th' fowls and horses," he said,--"if she'd like it." "Yes, she would like it," said the stranger. And she went. Brangwen stood dimmed by her departure. He could not notice Tilly, who was looking at him uneasily, wanting to be reassured. He could not think of anything. He felt that he had made some invisible connection with the strange woman. A daze had come over his mind, he had another centre of consciousness. In his breast, or in his bowels, somewhere in his body, there had started another activity. It was as if a strong light were burning there, and he was blind within it, unable to know anything, except that this transfiguration burned between him and her, connecting them, like a secret power. Since she had come to the house he went about in a daze, scarcely seeing even the things he handled, drifting, quiescent, in a state of metamorphosis. He submitted to that which was happening to him, letting go his will, suffering the loss of himself, dormant always on the brink of ecstasy, like a creature evolving to a new birth. She came twice with her child to the farm, but there was this lull between them, an intense calm and passivity like a torpor upon them, so that there was no active change took place. He was almost unaware of the child, yet by his native good humour he gained her confidence, even her affection, setting her on a horse to ride, giving her corn for the fowls. Once he drove the mother and child from Ilkeston, picking them up on the road. The child huddled close to him as if for love, the mother sat very still. There was a vagueness, like a soft mist over all of them, and a silence as if their wills were suspended. Only he saw her hands, ungloved, folded in her lap, and he noticed the wedding-ring on her finger. It excluded him: it was a closed circle. It bound her life, the wedding-ring, it stood for her life in which he could have no part. Nevertheless, beyond all this, there was herself and himself which should meet. As he helped her down from the trap, almost lifting her, he felt he had some right to take her thus between his hands. She belonged as yet to that other, to that which was behind. But he must care for her also. She was too living to be neglected. Sometimes her vagueness, in which he was lost, made him angry, made him rage. But he held himself still as yet. She had no response, no being towards him. It puzzled and enraged him, but he submitted for a long time. Then, from the accumulated troubling of her ignoring him, gradually a fury broke out, destructive, and he wanted to go away, to escape her. It happened she came down to the Marsh with the child whilst he was in this state. Then he stood over against her, strong and heavy in his revolt, and though he said nothing, still she felt his anger and heavy impatience grip hold of her, she was shaken again as out of a torpor. Again her heart stirred with a quick, out-running impulse, she looked at him, at the stranger who was not a gentleman yet who insisted on coming into her life, and the pain of a new birth in herself strung all her veins to a new form. She would have to begin again, to find a new being, a new form, to respond to that blind, insistent figure standing over against her. A shiver, a sickness of new birth passed over her, the flame leaped up him, under his skin. She wanted it, this new life from him, with him, yet she must defend herself against it, for it was a destruction. As he worked alone on the land, or sat up with his ewes at lambing time, the facts and material of his daily life fell away, leaving the kernel of his purpose clean. And then it came upon him that he would marry her and she would be his life. Gradually, even without seeing her, he came to know her. He would have liked to think of her as of something given into his protection, like a child without parents. But it was forbidden him. He had to come down from this pleasant view of the case. She might refuse him. And besides, he was afraid of her. But during the long February nights with the ewes in labour, looking out from the shelter into the flashing stars, he knew he did not belong to himself. He must admit that he was only fragmentary, something incomplete and subject. There were the stars in the dark heaven travelling, the whole host passing by on some eternal voyage. So he sat small and submissive to the greater ordering. Unless she would come to him, he must remain as a nothingness. It was a hard experience. But, after her repeated obliviousness to him, after he had seen so often that he did not exist for her, after he had raged and tried to escape, and said he was good enough by himself, he was a man, and could stand alone, he must, in the starry multiplicity of the night humble himself, and admit and know that without her he was nothing. He was nothing. But with her, he would be real. If she were now walking across the frosty grass near the sheep-shelter, through the fretful bleating of the ewes and lambs, she would bring him completeness and perfection. And if it should be so, that she should come to him! It should be so--it was ordained so. He was a long time resolving definitely to ask her to marry him. And he knew, if he asked her, she must really acquiesce. She must, it could not be otherwise. He had learned a little of her. She was poor, quite alone, and had had a hard time in London, both before and after her husband died. But in Poland she was a lady well born, a landowner's daughter. All these things were only words to him, the fact of her superior birth, the fact that her husband had been a brilliant doctor, the fact that he himself was her inferior in almost every way of distinction. There was an inner reality, a logic of the soul, which connected her with him. One evening in March, when the wind was roaring outside, came the moment to ask her. He had sat with his hands before him, leaning to the fire. And as he watched the fire, he knew almost without thinking that he was going this evening. "Have you got a clean shirt?" he asked Tilly. "You know you've got clean shirts," she said. "Ay,--bring me a white one." Tilly brought down one of the linen shirts he had inherited from his father, putting it before him to air at the fire. She loved him with a dumb, aching love as he sat leaning with his arms on his knees, still and absorbed, unaware of her. Lately, a quivering inclination to cry had come over her, when she did anything for him in his presence. Now her hands trembled as she spread the shirt. He was never shouting and teasing now. The deep stillness there was in the house made her tremble. He went to wash himself. Queer little breaks of consciousness seemed to rise and burst like bubbles out of the depths of his stillness. "It's got to be done," he said as he stooped to take the shirt out of the fender, "it's got to be done, so why balk it?" And as he combed his hair before the mirror on the wall, he retorted to himself, superficially: "The woman's not speechless dumb. She's not clutterin' at the nipple. She's got the right to please herself, and displease whosoever she likes." This streak of common sense carried him a little further. "Did you want anythink?" asked Tilly, suddenly appearing, having heard him speak. She stood watching him comb his fair beard. His eyes were calm and uninterrupted. "Ay," he said, "where have you put the scissors?" She brought them to him, and stood watching as, chin forward, he trimmed his beard. "Don't go an' crop yourself as if you was at a shearin' contest," she said, anxiously. He blew the fine-curled hair quickly off his lips. He put on all clean clothes, folded his stock carefully, and donned his best coat. Then, being ready, as grey twilight was falling, he went across to the orchard to gather the daffodils. The wind was roaring in the apple trees, the yellow flowers swayed violently up and down, he heard even the fine whisper of their spears as he stooped to break the flattened, brittle stems of the flowers. "What's to-do?" shouted a friend who met him as he left the garden gate. "Bit of courtin', like," said Brangwen. And Tilly, in a great state of trepidation and excitement, let the wind whisk her over the field to the big gate, whence she could watch him go. He went up the hill and on towards the vicarage, the wind roaring through the hedges, whilst he tried to shelter his bunch of daffodils by his side. He did not think of anything, only knew that the wind was blowing. Night was falling, the bare trees drummed and whistled. The vicar, he knew, would be in his study, the Polish woman in the kitchen, a comfortable room, with her child. In the darkest of twilight, he went through the gate and down the path where a few daffodils stooped in the wind, and shattered crocuses made a pale, colourless ravel. There was a light streaming on to the bushes at the back from the kitchen window. He began to hesitate. How could he do this? Looking through the window, he saw her seated in the rocking-chair with the child, already in its nightdress, sitting on her knee. The fair head with its wild, fierce hair was drooping towards the fire-warmth, which reflected on the bright cheeks and clear skin of the child, who seemed to be musing, almost like a grown-up person. The mother's face was dark and still, and he saw, with a pang, that she was away back in the life that had been. The child's hair gleamed like spun glass, her face was illuminated till it seemed like wax lit up from the inside. The wind boomed strongly. Mother and child sat motionless, silent, the child staring with vacant dark eyes into the fire, the mother looking into space. The little girl was almost asleep. It was her will which kept her eyes so wide. Suddenly she looked round, troubled, as the wind shook the house, and Brangwen saw the small lips move. The mother began to rock, he heard the slight crunch of the rockers of the chair. Then he heard the low, monotonous murmur of a song in a foreign language. Then a great burst of wind, the mother seemed to have drifted away, the child's eyes were black and dilated. Brangwen looked up at the clouds which packed in great, alarming haste across the dark sky. Then there came the child's high, complaining, yet imperative voice: "Don't sing that stuff, mother; I don't want to hear it." The singing died away. "You will go to bed," said the mother. He saw the clinging protest of the child, the unmoved farawayness of the mother, the clinging, grasping effort of the child. Then suddenly the clear childish challenge: "I want you to tell me a story." The wind blew, the story began, the child nestled against the mother, Brangwen waited outside, suspended, looking at the wild waving of the trees in the wind and the gathering darkness. He had his fate to follow, he lingered there at the threshold. The child crouched distinct and motionless, curled in against her mother, the eyes dark and unblinking among the keen wisps of hair, like a curled-up animal asleep but for the eyes. The mother sat as if in shadow, the story went on as if by itself. Brangwen stood outside seeing the night fall. He did not notice the passage of time. The hand that held the daffodils was fixed and cold. The story came to an end, the mother rose at last, with the child clinging round her neck. She must be strong, to carry so large a child so easily. The little Anna clung round her mother's neck. The fair, strange face of the child looked over the shoulder of the mother, all asleep but the eyes, and these, wide and dark, kept up the resistance and the fight with something unseen. When they were gone, Brangwen stirred for the first time from the place where he stood, and looked round at the night. He wished it were really as beautiful and familiar as it seemed in these few moments of release. Along with the child, he felt a curious strain on him, a suffering, like a fate. The mother came down again, and began folding the child's clothes. He knocked. She opened wondering, a little bit at bay, like a foreigner, uneasy. "Good evening," he said. "I'll just come in a minute." A change went quickly over her face; she was unprepared. She looked down at him as he stood in the light from the window, holding the daffodils, the darkness behind. In his black clothes she again did not know him. She was almost afraid. But he was already stepping on to the threshold, and closing the door behind him. She turned into the kitchen, startled out of herself by this invasion from the night. He took off his hat, and came towards her. Then he stood in the light, in his black clothes and his black stock, hat in one hand and yellow flowers in the other. She stood away, at his mercy, snatched out of herself. She did not know him, only she knew he was a man come for her. She could only see the dark-clad man's figure standing there upon her, and the gripped fist of flowers. She could not see the face and the living eyes. He was watching her, without knowing her, only aware underneath of her presence. "I come to have a word with you," he said, striding forward to the table, laying down his hat and the flowers, which tumbled apart and lay in a loose heap. She had flinched from his advance. She had no will, no being. The wind boomed in the chimney, and he waited. He had disembarrassed his hands. Now he shut his fists. He was aware of her standing

bewitched

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

"Is the child her child?" "I s'd think so--they say so." "Who told you about her?" "Why, Lizzie--a-Monday--we seed her goin' past." "You'd have to be rattling your tongues if anything went past." Brangwen stood musing. That evening he went up to Cossethay to the "Red Lion", half with the intention of hearing more. She was the widow of a Polish doctor, he gathered. Her husband had died, a refugee, in London. She spoke a bit foreign-like, but you could easily make out what she said. She had one little girl named Anna. Lensky was the woman's name, Mrs. Lensky. Brangwen felt that here was the unreality established at last. He felt also a curious certainty about her, as if she were destined to him. It was to him a profound satisfaction that she was a foreigner. A swift change had taken place on the earth for him, as if a new creation were fulfilled, in which he had real existence. Things had all been stark, unreal, barren, mere nullities before. Now they were actualities that he could handle. He dared scarcely think of the woman. He was afraid. Only all the time he was aware of her presence not far off, he lived in her. But he dared not know her, even acquaint himself with her by thinking of her. One day he met her walking along the road with her little girl. It was a child with a face like a bud of apple-blossom, and glistening fair hair like thistle-down sticking out in straight, wild, flamy pieces, and very dark eyes. The child clung jealously to her mother's side when he looked at her, staring with resentful black eyes. But the mother glanced at him again, almost vacantly. And the very vacancy of her look inflamed him. She had wide grey-brown eyes with very dark, fathomless pupils. He felt the fine flame running under his skin, as if all his veins had caught fire on the surface. And he went on walking without knowledge. It was coming, he knew, his fate. The world was submitting to its transformation. He made no move: it would come, what would come. When his sister Effie came to the Marsh for a week, he went with her for once to church. In the tiny place, with its mere dozen pews, he sat not far from the stranger. There was a fineness about her, a poignancy about the way she sat and held her head lifted. She was strange, from far off, yet so intimate. She was from far away, a presence, so close to his soul. She was not really there, sitting in Cossethay church beside her little girl. She was not living the apparent life of her days. She belonged to somewhere else. He felt it poignantly, as something real and natural. But a pang of fear for his own concrete life, that was only Cossethay, hurt him, and gave him misgiving. Her thick dark brows almost met above her irregular nose, she had a wide, rather thick mouth. But her face was lifted to another world of life: not to heaven or death: but to some place where she still lived, in spite of her body's absence. The child beside her watched everything with wide, black eyes. She had an odd little defiant look, her little red mouth was pinched shut. She seemed to be jealously guarding something, to be always on the alert for defence. She met Brangwen's near, vacant, intimate gaze, and a palpitating hostility, almost like a flame of pain, came into the wide, over-conscious dark eyes. The old clergyman droned on, Cossethay sat unmoved as usual. And there was the foreign woman with a foreign air about her, inviolate, and the strange child, also foreign, jealously guarding something. When the service was over, he walked in the way of another existence out of the church. As he went down the church-path with his sister, behind the woman and child, the little girl suddenly broke from her mother's hand, and slipped back with quick, almost invisible movement, and was picking at something almost under Brangwen's feet. Her tiny fingers were fine and quick, but they missed the red button. "Have you found something?" said Brangwen to her. And he also stooped for the button. But she had got it, and she stood back with it pressed against her little coat, her black eyes flaring at him, as if to forbid him to notice her. Then, having silenced him, she turned with a swift "Mother----," and was gone down the path. The mother had stood watching impassive, looking not at the child, but at Brangwen. He became aware of the woman looking at him, standing there isolated yet for him dominant in her foreign existence. He did not know what to do, and turned to his sister. But the wide grey eyes, almost vacant yet so moving, held him beyond himself. "Mother, I may have it, mayn't I?" came the child's proud, silvery tones. "Mother"-she seemed always to be calling her mother to remember her-"mother"-and she had nothing to continue now her mother had replied "Yes, my child." But, with ready invention, the child stumbled and ran on, "What are those people's names?" Brangwen heard the abstract: "I don't know, dear." He went on down the road as if he were not living inside himself, but somewhere outside. "Who was that person?" his sister Effie asked. "I couldn't tell you," he answered unknowing. "She's somebody very funny," said Effie, almost in condemnation. "That child's like one bewitched." "Bewitched--how bewitched?" he repeated. "You can see for yourself. The mother's plain, I must say--but the child is like a changeling. She'd be about thirty-five." But he took no notice. His sister talked on. "There's your woman for you," she continued. "You'd better marry her." But still he took no notice. Things were as they were. Another day, at tea-time, as he sat alone at table, there came a knock at the front door. It startled him like a portent. No one ever knocked at the front door. He rose and began slotting back the bolts, turning the big key. When he had opened the door, the strange woman stood on the threshold. "Can you give me a pound of butter?" she asked, in a curious detached way of one speaking a foreign language. He tried to attend to her question. She was looking at him questioningly. But underneath the question, what was there, in her very standing motionless, which affected him? He stepped aside and she at once entered the house, as if the door had been opened to admit her. That startled him. It was the custom for everybody to wait on the doorstep till asked inside. He went into the kitchen and she followed. His tea-things were spread on the scrubbed deal table, a big fire was burning, a dog rose from the hearth and went to her. She stood motionless just inside the kitchen. "Tilly," he called loudly, "have we got any butter?" The stranger stood there like a silence in her black cloak. "Eh?" came the shrill cry from the distance. He shouted his question again. "We've got what's on t' table," answered Tilly's shrill voice out of the dairy. Brangwen looked at the table. There was a large pat of butter on a plate, almost a pound. It was round, and stamped with acorns and oak-leaves. "Can't you come when you're wanted?" he shouted. "Why, what d'you want?" Tilly protested, as she came peeking inquisitively through the other door. She saw the strange woman, stared at her with cross-eyes, but said nothing. "Haven't we any butter?" asked Brangwen again, impatiently, as if he could command some by his question. "I tell you there's what's on t' table," said Tilly, impatient that she was unable to create any to his demand. "We haven't a morsel besides." There was a moment's silence. The stranger spoke, in her curiously distinct, detached manner of one who must think her speech first. "Oh, then thank you very much. I am sorry that I have come to trouble you." She could not understand the entire lack of manners, was slightly puzzled. Any politeness would have made the situation quite impersonal. But here it was a case of wills in confusion. Brangwen flushed at her polite speech. Still he did not let her go. "Get summat an' wrap that up for her," he said to Tilly, looking at the butter on the table. And taking a clean knife, he cut off that side of the butter where it was touched. His speech, the "for her", penetrated slowly into the foreign woman and angered Tilly. "Vicar has his butter fra Brown's by rights," said the insuppressible servant-woman. "We s'll be churnin' to-morrow mornin' first thing." "Yes"--the long-drawn foreign yes--"yes," said the Polish woman, "I went to Mrs. Brown's. She hasn't any more." Tilly bridled her head, bursting to say that, according to the etiquette of people who bought butter, it was no sort of manners whatever coming to a place cool as you like and knocking at the front door asking for a pound as a stop-gap while your other people were short. If you go to Brown's you go to Brown's, an' my butter isn't just to make shift when Brown's has got none. Brangwen understood perfectly this unspoken speech of Tilly's. The Polish lady did not. And as she wanted butter for the vicar, and as Tilly was churning in the morning, she waited. "Sluther up now," said Brangwen loudly after this silence had resolved itself out; and Tilly disappeared through the inner door. "I am afraid that I should not come, so," said the stranger, looking at him enquiringly, as if referring to him for what it was usual to do. He felt confused. "How's that?" he said, trying to be genial and being only protective. "Do you----?" she began deliberately. But she was not sure of her ground, and the conversation came to an end. Her eyes looked at him all the while, because she could not speak the language. They stood facing each other. The dog walked away from her to him. He bent down to it. "And how's your little girl?" he asked. "Yes, thank you, she is very well," was the reply, a phrase of polite speech in a foreign language merely. "Sit you down," he said. And she sat in a chair, her slim arms, coming through the slits of her cloak, resting on her lap. "You're not used to these parts," he said, still standing on the hearthrug with his back to the fire, coatless, looking with curious directness at the woman. Her self-possession pleased him and inspired him, set him curiously free. It seemed to him almost brutal to feel so master of himself and of the situation. Her eyes rested on him for a moment, questioning, as she thought of the meaning of his speech. "No," she said, understanding. "No--it is strange." "You find it middlin' rough?" he said. Her eyes waited on him, so that he should say it again. "Our ways are rough to you," he repeated. "Yes--yes, I understand. Yes, it is different, it is strange. But I was in Yorkshire----" "Oh, well then," he said, "it's no worse here than what they are up there." She did not quite understand. His protective manner, and his sureness, and his intimacy, puzzled her. What did he mean? If he was her equal, why did he behave so without formality? "No----" she said, vaguely, her eyes resting on him. She saw him fresh and naive, uncouth, almost entirely beyond relationship with her. Yet he was good-looking, with his fair hair and blue eyes full of energy, and with his healthy body that seemed to take equality with her. She watched him steadily. He was difficult for her to understand, warm, uncouth, and confident as he was, sure on his feet as if he did not know what it was to be unsure. What then was it that gave him this curious stability? She did not know. She wondered. She looked round the room he lived in. It had a close intimacy that fascinated and almost frightened her. The furniture was old and familiar as old people, the whole place seemed so kin to him, as if it partook of his being, that she was uneasy. "It is already a long time that you have lived in this house--yes?" she asked. "I've always lived here," he said. "Yes--but your people--your family?" "We've been here above two hundred years," he said. Her eyes were on him all the time, wide-open and trying to grasp him. He felt that he was there for her. "It is your own place, the house, the farm----?" "Yes," he said. He looked down at her and met her look. It disturbed her. She did not know him. He was a foreigner, they had nothing to do with each other. Yet his look disturbed her to knowledge of him. He was so strangely confident and direct. "You live quite alone?" "Yes--if you call it alone?" She did not understand. It seemed unusual to her. What was the meaning of it? And whenever her eyes, after watching him for some time, inevitably met his, she was aware of a heat beating up over her consciousness. She sat motionless and in conflict. Who was this strange man who was at once so near to her? What was happening to her? Something in his young, warm-twinkling eyes seemed to assume a right to her, to speak to her, to extend her his protection. But how? Why did he speak to her? Why were his eyes so certain, so full of light and confident, waiting for no permission nor signal? Tilly returned with a large leaf and found the two silent. At once he felt it incumbent on him to speak, now the serving-woman had come back. "How old is your little girl?" he asked. "Four years," she replied. "Her father hasn't been dead long, then?" he asked. "She was one year when he died." "Three years?" "Yes, three years that he is dead--yes." Curiously quiet she was, almost abstracted, answering these questions. She looked at him again, with some maidenhood opening in her eyes. He felt he could not move, neither towards her nor away from her. Something about her presence hurt him, till he was almost rigid before her. He saw the girl's wondering look rise in her eyes. Tilly handed her the butter and she rose. "Thank you very much," she said. "How much is it?" "We'll make th' vicar a present of it," he said. "It'll do for me goin' to church." "It 'ud look better of you if you went to church and took th' money for your butter," said Tilly, persistent in her claim to him. "You'd have to put in, shouldn't you?" he said. "How much, please?" said the Polish woman to Tilly. Brangwen stood by and let be. "Then, thank you very much," she said. "Bring your little girl down sometime to look at th' fowls and horses," he said,--"if she'd like it." "Yes, she would like it," said the stranger. And she went. Brangwen stood dimmed by her departure. He could not notice Tilly, who was looking at him uneasily, wanting to be reassured. He could not think of anything. He felt that he had made some invisible connection with the strange woman. A daze had come over his mind, he had another centre of consciousness. In his breast, or in his bowels, somewhere in his body, there had started another activity. It was as if a strong light were burning there, and he was blind within it, unable to know anything, except that this transfiguration burned between him and her, connecting them, like a secret power. Since she had come to the house he went about in a daze, scarcely seeing even the things he handled, drifting, quiescent, in a state of metamorphosis. He submitted to that which was happening to him, letting go his will, suffering the loss of himself, dormant always on the brink of ecstasy, like a creature evolving to a new birth. She came twice with her child to the farm, but there was this lull between them, an intense calm and passivity like a torpor upon them, so that there was no active change took place. He was almost unaware of the child, yet by his native good humour he gained her confidence, even her affection, setting her on a horse to ride, giving her corn for the fowls. Once he drove the mother and child from Ilkeston, picking them up on the road. The child huddled close to him as if for love, the mother sat very still. There was a vagueness, like a soft mist over all of them, and a silence as if their wills were suspended. Only he saw her hands, ungloved, folded in her lap, and he noticed the wedding-ring on her finger. It excluded him: it was a closed circle. It bound her life, the wedding-ring, it stood for her life in which he could have no part. Nevertheless, beyond all this, there was herself and himself which should meet. As he helped her down from the trap, almost lifting her, he felt he had some right to take her thus between his hands. She belonged as yet to that other, to that which was behind. But he must care for her also. She was too living to be neglected. Sometimes her vagueness, in which he was lost, made him angry, made him rage. But he held himself still as yet. She had no response, no being towards him. It puzzled and enraged him, but he submitted for a long time. Then, from the accumulated troubling of her ignoring him, gradually a fury broke out, destructive, and he wanted to go away, to escape her. It happened she came down to the Marsh with the child whilst he was in this state. Then he stood over against her, strong and heavy in his revolt, and though he said nothing, still she felt his anger and heavy impatience grip hold of her, she was shaken again as out of a torpor. Again her heart stirred with a quick, out-running impulse, she looked at him, at the stranger who was not a gentleman yet who insisted on coming into her life, and the pain of a new birth in herself strung all her veins to a new form. She would have to begin again, to find a new being, a new form, to respond to that blind, insistent figure standing over against her. A shiver, a sickness of new birth passed over her, the flame leaped up him, under his skin. She wanted it, this new life from him, with him, yet she must defend herself against it, for it was a destruction. As he worked alone on the land, or sat up with his ewes at lambing time, the facts and material of his daily life fell away, leaving the kernel of his purpose clean. And then it came upon him that he would marry her and she would be his life. Gradually, even without seeing her, he came to know her. He would have liked to think of her as of something given into his protection, like a child without parents. But it was forbidden him. He had to come down from this pleasant view of the case. She might refuse him. And besides, he was afraid of her. But during the long February nights with the ewes in labour, looking out from the shelter into the flashing stars, he knew he did not belong to himself. He must admit that he was only fragmentary, something incomplete and subject. There were the stars in the dark heaven travelling, the whole host passing by on some eternal voyage. So he sat small and submissive to the greater ordering. Unless she would come to him, he must remain as a nothingness. It was a hard experience. But, after her repeated obliviousness to him, after he had seen so often that he did not exist for her, after he had raged and tried to escape, and said he was good enough by himself, he was a man, and could stand alone, he must, in the starry multiplicity of the night humble himself, and admit and know that without her he was nothing. He was nothing. But with her, he would be real. If she were now walking across the frosty grass near the sheep-shelter, through the fretful bleating of the ewes and lambs, she would bring him completeness and perfection. And if it should be so, that she should come to him! It should be so--it was ordained so. He was a long time resolving definitely to ask her to marry him. And he knew, if he asked her, she must really acquiesce. She must, it could not be otherwise. He had learned a little of her. She was poor, quite alone, and had had a hard time in London, both before and after her husband died. But in Poland she was a lady well born, a landowner's daughter. All these things were only words to him, the fact of her superior birth, the fact that her husband had been a brilliant doctor, the fact that he himself was her inferior in almost every way of distinction. There was an inner reality, a logic of the soul, which connected her with him. One evening in March, when the wind was roaring outside, came the moment to ask her. He had sat with his hands before him, leaning to the fire. And as he watched the fire, he knew almost without thinking that he was going this evening. "Have you got a clean shirt?" he asked Tilly. "You know you've got clean shirts," she said. "Ay,--bring me a white one." Tilly brought down one of the linen shirts he had inherited from his father, putting it before him to air at the fire. She loved him with a dumb, aching love as he sat leaning with his arms on his knees, still and absorbed, unaware of her. Lately, a quivering inclination to cry had come over her, when she did anything for him in his presence. Now her hands trembled as she spread the shirt. He was never shouting and teasing now. The deep stillness there was in the house made her tremble. He went to wash himself. Queer little breaks of consciousness seemed to rise and burst like bubbles out of the depths of his stillness. "It's got to be done," he said as he stooped to take the shirt out of the fender, "it's got to be done, so why balk it?" And as he combed his hair before the mirror on the wall, he retorted to himself, superficially: "The woman's not speechless dumb. She's not clutterin' at the nipple. She's got the right to please herself, and displease whosoever she likes." This streak of common sense carried him a little further. "Did you want anythink?" asked Tilly, suddenly appearing, having heard him speak. She stood watching him comb his fair beard. His eyes were calm and uninterrupted. "Ay," he said, "where have you put the scissors?" She brought them to him, and stood watching as, chin forward, he trimmed his beard. "Don't go an' crop yourself as if you was at a shearin' contest," she said, anxiously. He blew the fine-curled hair quickly off his lips. He put on all clean clothes, folded his stock carefully, and donned his best coat. Then, being ready, as grey twilight was falling, he went across to the orchard to gather the daffodils. The wind was roaring in the apple trees, the yellow flowers swayed violently up and down, he heard even the fine whisper of their spears as he stooped to break the flattened, brittle stems of the flowers. "What's to-do?" shouted a friend who met him as he left the garden gate. "Bit of courtin', like," said Brangwen. And Tilly, in a great state of trepidation and excitement, let the wind whisk her over the field to the big gate, whence she could watch him go. He went up the hill and on towards the vicarage, the wind roaring through the hedges, whilst he tried to shelter his bunch of daffodils by his side. He did not think of anything, only knew that the wind was blowing. Night was falling, the bare trees drummed and whistled. The vicar, he knew, would be in his study, the Polish woman in the kitchen, a comfortable room, with her child. In the darkest of twilight, he went through the gate and down the path where a few daffodils stooped in the wind, and shattered crocuses made a pale, colourless ravel. There was a light streaming on to the bushes at the back from the kitchen window. He began to hesitate. How could he do this? Looking through the window, he saw her seated in the rocking-chair with the child, already in its nightdress, sitting on her knee. The fair head with its wild, fierce hair was drooping towards the fire-warmth, which reflected on the bright cheeks and clear skin of the child, who seemed to be musing, almost like a grown-up person. The mother's face was dark and still, and he saw, with a pang, that she was away back in the life that had been. The child's hair gleamed like spun glass, her face was illuminated till it seemed like wax lit up from the inside. The wind boomed strongly. Mother and child sat motionless, silent, the child staring with vacant dark eyes into the fire, the mother looking into space. The little girl was almost asleep. It was her will which kept her eyes so wide. Suddenly she looked round, troubled, as the wind shook the house, and Brangwen saw the small lips move. The mother began to rock, he heard the slight crunch of the rockers of the chair. Then he heard the low, monotonous murmur of a song in a foreign language. Then a great burst of wind, the mother seemed to have drifted away, the child's eyes were black and dilated. Brangwen looked up at the clouds which packed in great, alarming haste across the dark sky. Then there came the child's high, complaining, yet imperative voice: "Don't sing that stuff, mother; I don't want to hear it." The singing died away. "You will go to bed," said the mother. He saw the clinging protest of the child, the unmoved farawayness of the mother, the clinging, grasping effort of the child. Then suddenly the clear childish challenge: "I want you to tell me a story." The wind blew, the story began, the child nestled against the mother, Brangwen waited outside, suspended, looking at the wild waving of the trees in the wind and the gathering darkness. He had his fate to follow, he lingered there at the threshold. The child crouched distinct and motionless, curled in against her mother, the eyes dark and unblinking among the keen wisps of hair, like a curled-up animal asleep but for the eyes. The mother sat as if in shadow, the story went on as if by itself. Brangwen stood outside seeing the night fall. He did not notice the passage of time. The hand that held the daffodils was fixed and cold. The story came to an end, the mother rose at last, with the child clinging round her neck. She must be strong, to carry so large a child so easily. The little Anna clung round her mother's neck. The fair, strange face of the child looked over the shoulder of the mother, all asleep but the eyes, and these, wide and dark, kept up the resistance and the fight with something unseen. When they were gone, Brangwen stirred for the first time from the place where he stood, and looked round at the night. He wished it were really as beautiful and familiar as it seemed in these few moments of release. Along with the child, he felt a curious strain on him, a suffering, like a fate. The mother came down again, and began folding the child's clothes. He knocked. She opened wondering, a little bit at bay, like a foreigner, uneasy. "Good evening," he said. "I'll just come in a minute." A change went quickly over her face; she was unprepared. She looked down at him as he stood in the light from the window, holding the daffodils, the darkness behind. In his black clothes she again did not know him. She was almost afraid. But he was already stepping on to the threshold, and closing the door behind him. She turned into the kitchen, startled out of herself by this invasion from the night. He took off his hat, and came towards her. Then he stood in the light, in his black clothes and his black stock, hat in one hand and yellow flowers in the other. She stood away, at his mercy, snatched out of herself. She did not know him, only she knew he was a man come for her. She could only see the dark-clad man's figure standing there upon her, and the gripped fist of flowers. She could not see the face and the living eyes. He was watching her, without knowing her, only aware underneath of her presence. "I come to have a word with you," he said, striding forward to the table, laying down his hat and the flowers, which tumbled apart and lay in a loose heap. She had flinched from his advance. She had no will, no being. The wind boomed in the chimney, and he waited. He had disembarrassed his hands. Now he shut his fists. He was aware of her standing

puzzled

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

"Is the child her child?" "I s'd think so--they say so." "Who told you about her?" "Why, Lizzie--a-Monday--we seed her goin' past." "You'd have to be rattling your tongues if anything went past." Brangwen stood musing. That evening he went up to Cossethay to the "Red Lion", half with the intention of hearing more. She was the widow of a Polish doctor, he gathered. Her husband had died, a refugee, in London. She spoke a bit foreign-like, but you could easily make out what she said. She had one little girl named Anna. Lensky was the woman's name, Mrs. Lensky. Brangwen felt that here was the unreality established at last. He felt also a curious certainty about her, as if she were destined to him. It was to him a profound satisfaction that she was a foreigner. A swift change had taken place on the earth for him, as if a new creation were fulfilled, in which he had real existence. Things had all been stark, unreal, barren, mere nullities before. Now they were actualities that he could handle. He dared scarcely think of the woman. He was afraid. Only all the time he was aware of her presence not far off, he lived in her. But he dared not know her, even acquaint himself with her by thinking of her. One day he met her walking along the road with her little girl. It was a child with a face like a bud of apple-blossom, and glistening fair hair like thistle-down sticking out in straight, wild, flamy pieces, and very dark eyes. The child clung jealously to her mother's side when he looked at her, staring with resentful black eyes. But the mother glanced at him again, almost vacantly. And the very vacancy of her look inflamed him. She had wide grey-brown eyes with very dark, fathomless pupils. He felt the fine flame running under his skin, as if all his veins had caught fire on the surface. And he went on walking without knowledge. It was coming, he knew, his fate. The world was submitting to its transformation. He made no move: it would come, what would come. When his sister Effie came to the Marsh for a week, he went with her for once to church. In the tiny place, with its mere dozen pews, he sat not far from the stranger. There was a fineness about her, a poignancy about the way she sat and held her head lifted. She was strange, from far off, yet so intimate. She was from far away, a presence, so close to his soul. She was not really there, sitting in Cossethay church beside her little girl. She was not living the apparent life of her days. She belonged to somewhere else. He felt it poignantly, as something real and natural. But a pang of fear for his own concrete life, that was only Cossethay, hurt him, and gave him misgiving. Her thick dark brows almost met above her irregular nose, she had a wide, rather thick mouth. But her face was lifted to another world of life: not to heaven or death: but to some place where she still lived, in spite of her body's absence. The child beside her watched everything with wide, black eyes. She had an odd little defiant look, her little red mouth was pinched shut. She seemed to be jealously guarding something, to be always on the alert for defence. She met Brangwen's near, vacant, intimate gaze, and a palpitating hostility, almost like a flame of pain, came into the wide, over-conscious dark eyes. The old clergyman droned on, Cossethay sat unmoved as usual. And there was the foreign woman with a foreign air about her, inviolate, and the strange child, also foreign, jealously guarding something. When the service was over, he walked in the way of another existence out of the church. As he went down the church-path with his sister, behind the woman and child, the little girl suddenly broke from her mother's hand, and slipped back with quick, almost invisible movement, and was picking at something almost under Brangwen's feet. Her tiny fingers were fine and quick, but they missed the red button. "Have you found something?" said Brangwen to her. And he also stooped for the button. But she had got it, and she stood back with it pressed against her little coat, her black eyes flaring at him, as if to forbid him to notice her. Then, having silenced him, she turned with a swift "Mother----," and was gone down the path. The mother had stood watching impassive, looking not at the child, but at Brangwen. He became aware of the woman looking at him, standing there isolated yet for him dominant in her foreign existence. He did not know what to do, and turned to his sister. But the wide grey eyes, almost vacant yet so moving, held him beyond himself. "Mother, I may have it, mayn't I?" came the child's proud, silvery tones. "Mother"-she seemed always to be calling her mother to remember her-"mother"-and she had nothing to continue now her mother had replied "Yes, my child." But, with ready invention, the child stumbled and ran on, "What are those people's names?" Brangwen heard the abstract: "I don't know, dear." He went on down the road as if he were not living inside himself, but somewhere outside. "Who was that person?" his sister Effie asked. "I couldn't tell you," he answered unknowing. "She's somebody very funny," said Effie, almost in condemnation. "That child's like one bewitched." "Bewitched--how bewitched?" he repeated. "You can see for yourself. The mother's plain, I must say--but the child is like a changeling. She'd be about thirty-five." But he took no notice. His sister talked on. "There's your woman for you," she continued. "You'd better marry her." But still he took no notice. Things were as they were. Another day, at tea-time, as he sat alone at table, there came a knock at the front door. It startled him like a portent. No one ever knocked at the front door. He rose and began slotting back the bolts, turning the big key. When he had opened the door, the strange woman stood on the threshold. "Can you give me a pound of butter?" she asked, in a curious detached way of one speaking a foreign language. He tried to attend to her question. She was looking at him questioningly. But underneath the question, what was there, in her very standing motionless, which affected him? He stepped aside and she at once entered the house, as if the door had been opened to admit her. That startled him. It was the custom for everybody to wait on the doorstep till asked inside. He went into the kitchen and she followed. His tea-things were spread on the scrubbed deal table, a big fire was burning, a dog rose from the hearth and went to her. She stood motionless just inside the kitchen. "Tilly," he called loudly, "have we got any butter?" The stranger stood there like a silence in her black cloak. "Eh?" came the shrill cry from the distance. He shouted his question again. "We've got what's on t' table," answered Tilly's shrill voice out of the dairy. Brangwen looked at the table. There was a large pat of butter on a plate, almost a pound. It was round, and stamped with acorns and oak-leaves. "Can't you come when you're wanted?" he shouted. "Why, what d'you want?" Tilly protested, as she came peeking inquisitively through the other door. She saw the strange woman, stared at her with cross-eyes, but said nothing. "Haven't we any butter?" asked Brangwen again, impatiently, as if he could command some by his question. "I tell you there's what's on t' table," said Tilly, impatient that she was unable to create any to his demand. "We haven't a morsel besides." There was a moment's silence. The stranger spoke, in her curiously distinct, detached manner of one who must think her speech first. "Oh, then thank you very much. I am sorry that I have come to trouble you." She could not understand the entire lack of manners, was slightly puzzled. Any politeness would have made the situation quite impersonal. But here it was a case of wills in confusion. Brangwen flushed at her polite speech. Still he did not let her go. "Get summat an' wrap that up for her," he said to Tilly, looking at the butter on the table. And taking a clean knife, he cut off that side of the butter where it was touched. His speech, the "for her", penetrated slowly into the foreign woman and angered Tilly. "Vicar has his butter fra Brown's by rights," said the insuppressible servant-woman. "We s'll be churnin' to-morrow mornin' first thing." "Yes"--the long-drawn foreign yes--"yes," said the Polish woman, "I went to Mrs. Brown's. She hasn't any more." Tilly bridled her head, bursting to say that, according to the etiquette of people who bought butter, it was no sort of manners whatever coming to a place cool as you like and knocking at the front door asking for a pound as a stop-gap while your other people were short. If you go to Brown's you go to Brown's, an' my butter isn't just to make shift when Brown's has got none. Brangwen understood perfectly this unspoken speech of Tilly's. The Polish lady did not. And as she wanted butter for the vicar, and as Tilly was churning in the morning, she waited. "Sluther up now," said Brangwen loudly after this silence had resolved itself out; and Tilly disappeared through the inner door. "I am afraid that I should not come, so," said the stranger, looking at him enquiringly, as if referring to him for what it was usual to do. He felt confused. "How's that?" he said, trying to be genial and being only protective. "Do you----?" she began deliberately. But she was not sure of her ground, and the conversation came to an end. Her eyes looked at him all the while, because she could not speak the language. They stood facing each other. The dog walked away from her to him. He bent down to it. "And how's your little girl?" he asked. "Yes, thank you, she is very well," was the reply, a phrase of polite speech in a foreign language merely. "Sit you down," he said. And she sat in a chair, her slim arms, coming through the slits of her cloak, resting on her lap. "You're not used to these parts," he said, still standing on the hearthrug with his back to the fire, coatless, looking with curious directness at the woman. Her self-possession pleased him and inspired him, set him curiously free. It seemed to him almost brutal to feel so master of himself and of the situation. Her eyes rested on him for a moment, questioning, as she thought of the meaning of his speech. "No," she said, understanding. "No--it is strange." "You find it middlin' rough?" he said. Her eyes waited on him, so that he should say it again. "Our ways are rough to you," he repeated. "Yes--yes, I understand. Yes, it is different, it is strange. But I was in Yorkshire----" "Oh, well then," he said, "it's no worse here than what they are up there." She did not quite understand. His protective manner, and his sureness, and his intimacy, puzzled her. What did he mean? If he was her equal, why did he behave so without formality? "No----" she said, vaguely, her eyes resting on him. She saw him fresh and naive, uncouth, almost entirely beyond relationship with her. Yet he was good-looking, with his fair hair and blue eyes full of energy, and with his healthy body that seemed to take equality with her. She watched him steadily. He was difficult for her to understand, warm, uncouth, and confident as he was, sure on his feet as if he did not know what it was to be unsure. What then was it that gave him this curious stability? She did not know. She wondered. She looked round the room he lived in. It had a close intimacy that fascinated and almost frightened her. The furniture was old and familiar as old people, the whole place seemed so kin to him, as if it partook of his being, that she was uneasy. "It is already a long time that you have lived in this house--yes?" she asked. "I've always lived here," he said. "Yes--but your people--your family?" "We've been here above two hundred years," he said. Her eyes were on him all the time, wide-open and trying to grasp him. He felt that he was there for her. "It is your own place, the house, the farm----?" "Yes," he said. He looked down at her and met her look. It disturbed her. She did not know him. He was a foreigner, they had nothing to do with each other. Yet his look disturbed her to knowledge of him. He was so strangely confident and direct. "You live quite alone?" "Yes--if you call it alone?" She did not understand. It seemed unusual to her. What was the meaning of it? And whenever her eyes, after watching him for some time, inevitably met his, she was aware of a heat beating up over her consciousness. She sat motionless and in conflict. Who was this strange man who was at once so near to her? What was happening to her? Something in his young, warm-twinkling eyes seemed to assume a right to her, to speak to her, to extend her his protection. But how? Why did he speak to her? Why were his eyes so certain, so full of light and confident, waiting for no permission nor signal? Tilly returned with a large leaf and found the two silent. At once he felt it incumbent on him to speak, now the serving-woman had come back. "How old is your little girl?" he asked. "Four years," she replied. "Her father hasn't been dead long, then?" he asked. "She was one year when he died." "Three years?" "Yes, three years that he is dead--yes." Curiously quiet she was, almost abstracted, answering these questions. She looked at him again, with some maidenhood opening in her eyes. He felt he could not move, neither towards her nor away from her. Something about her presence hurt him, till he was almost rigid before her. He saw the girl's wondering look rise in her eyes. Tilly handed her the butter and she rose. "Thank you very much," she said. "How much is it?" "We'll make th' vicar a present of it," he said. "It'll do for me goin' to church." "It 'ud look better of you if you went to church and took th' money for your butter," said Tilly, persistent in her claim to him. "You'd have to put in, shouldn't you?" he said. "How much, please?" said the Polish woman to Tilly. Brangwen stood by and let be. "Then, thank you very much," she said. "Bring your little girl down sometime to look at th' fowls and horses," he said,--"if she'd like it." "Yes, she would like it," said the stranger. And she went. Brangwen stood dimmed by her departure. He could not notice Tilly, who was looking at him uneasily, wanting to be reassured. He could not think of anything. He felt that he had made some invisible connection with the strange woman. A daze had come over his mind, he had another centre of consciousness. In his breast, or in his bowels, somewhere in his body, there had started another activity. It was as if a strong light were burning there, and he was blind within it, unable to know anything, except that this transfiguration burned between him and her, connecting them, like a secret power. Since she had come to the house he went about in a daze, scarcely seeing even the things he handled, drifting, quiescent, in a state of metamorphosis. He submitted to that which was happening to him, letting go his will, suffering the loss of himself, dormant always on the brink of ecstasy, like a creature evolving to a new birth. She came twice with her child to the farm, but there was this lull between them, an intense calm and passivity like a torpor upon them, so that there was no active change took place. He was almost unaware of the child, yet by his native good humour he gained her confidence, even her affection, setting her on a horse to ride, giving her corn for the fowls. Once he drove the mother and child from Ilkeston, picking them up on the road. The child huddled close to him as if for love, the mother sat very still. There was a vagueness, like a soft mist over all of them, and a silence as if their wills were suspended. Only he saw her hands, ungloved, folded in her lap, and he noticed the wedding-ring on her finger. It excluded him: it was a closed circle. It bound her life, the wedding-ring, it stood for her life in which he could have no part. Nevertheless, beyond all this, there was herself and himself which should meet. As he helped her down from the trap, almost lifting her, he felt he had some right to take her thus between his hands. She belonged as yet to that other, to that which was behind. But he must care for her also. She was too living to be neglected. Sometimes her vagueness, in which he was lost, made him angry, made him rage. But he held himself still as yet. She had no response, no being towards him. It puzzled and enraged him, but he submitted for a long time. Then, from the accumulated troubling of her ignoring him, gradually a fury broke out, destructive, and he wanted to go away, to escape her. It happened she came down to the Marsh with the child whilst he was in this state. Then he stood over against her, strong and heavy in his revolt, and though he said nothing, still she felt his anger and heavy impatience grip hold of her, she was shaken again as out of a torpor. Again her heart stirred with a quick, out-running impulse, she looked at him, at the stranger who was not a gentleman yet who insisted on coming into her life, and the pain of a new birth in herself strung all her veins to a new form. She would have to begin again, to find a new being, a new form, to respond to that blind, insistent figure standing over against her. A shiver, a sickness of new birth passed over her, the flame leaped up him, under his skin. She wanted it, this new life from him, with him, yet she must defend herself against it, for it was a destruction. As he worked alone on the land, or sat up with his ewes at lambing time, the facts and material of his daily life fell away, leaving the kernel of his purpose clean. And then it came upon him that he would marry her and she would be his life. Gradually, even without seeing her, he came to know her. He would have liked to think of her as of something given into his protection, like a child without parents. But it was forbidden him. He had to come down from this pleasant view of the case. She might refuse him. And besides, he was afraid of her. But during the long February nights with the ewes in labour, looking out from the shelter into the flashing stars, he knew he did not belong to himself. He must admit that he was only fragmentary, something incomplete and subject. There were the stars in the dark heaven travelling, the whole host passing by on some eternal voyage. So he sat small and submissive to the greater ordering. Unless she would come to him, he must remain as a nothingness. It was a hard experience. But, after her repeated obliviousness to him, after he had seen so often that he did not exist for her, after he had raged and tried to escape, and said he was good enough by himself, he was a man, and could stand alone, he must, in the starry multiplicity of the night humble himself, and admit and know that without her he was nothing. He was nothing. But with her, he would be real. If she were now walking across the frosty grass near the sheep-shelter, through the fretful bleating of the ewes and lambs, she would bring him completeness and perfection. And if it should be so, that she should come to him! It should be so--it was ordained so. He was a long time resolving definitely to ask her to marry him. And he knew, if he asked her, she must really acquiesce. She must, it could not be otherwise. He had learned a little of her. She was poor, quite alone, and had had a hard time in London, both before and after her husband died. But in Poland she was a lady well born, a landowner's daughter. All these things were only words to him, the fact of her superior birth, the fact that her husband had been a brilliant doctor, the fact that he himself was her inferior in almost every way of distinction. There was an inner reality, a logic of the soul, which connected her with him. One evening in March, when the wind was roaring outside, came the moment to ask her. He had sat with his hands before him, leaning to the fire. And as he watched the fire, he knew almost without thinking that he was going this evening. "Have you got a clean shirt?" he asked Tilly. "You know you've got clean shirts," she said. "Ay,--bring me a white one." Tilly brought down one of the linen shirts he had inherited from his father, putting it before him to air at the fire. She loved him with a dumb, aching love as he sat leaning with his arms on his knees, still and absorbed, unaware of her. Lately, a quivering inclination to cry had come over her, when she did anything for him in his presence. Now her hands trembled as she spread the shirt. He was never shouting and teasing now. The deep stillness there was in the house made her tremble. He went to wash himself. Queer little breaks of consciousness seemed to rise and burst like bubbles out of the depths of his stillness. "It's got to be done," he said as he stooped to take the shirt out of the fender, "it's got to be done, so why balk it?" And as he combed his hair before the mirror on the wall, he retorted to himself, superficially: "The woman's not speechless dumb. She's not clutterin' at the nipple. She's got the right to please herself, and displease whosoever she likes." This streak of common sense carried him a little further. "Did you want anythink?" asked Tilly, suddenly appearing, having heard him speak. She stood watching him comb his fair beard. His eyes were calm and uninterrupted. "Ay," he said, "where have you put the scissors?" She brought them to him, and stood watching as, chin forward, he trimmed his beard. "Don't go an' crop yourself as if you was at a shearin' contest," she said, anxiously. He blew the fine-curled hair quickly off his lips. He put on all clean clothes, folded his stock carefully, and donned his best coat. Then, being ready, as grey twilight was falling, he went across to the orchard to gather the daffodils. The wind was roaring in the apple trees, the yellow flowers swayed violently up and down, he heard even the fine whisper of their spears as he stooped to break the flattened, brittle stems of the flowers. "What's to-do?" shouted a friend who met him as he left the garden gate. "Bit of courtin', like," said Brangwen. And Tilly, in a great state of trepidation and excitement, let the wind whisk her over the field to the big gate, whence she could watch him go. He went up the hill and on towards the vicarage, the wind roaring through the hedges, whilst he tried to shelter his bunch of daffodils by his side. He did not think of anything, only knew that the wind was blowing. Night was falling, the bare trees drummed and whistled. The vicar, he knew, would be in his study, the Polish woman in the kitchen, a comfortable room, with her child. In the darkest of twilight, he went through the gate and down the path where a few daffodils stooped in the wind, and shattered crocuses made a pale, colourless ravel. There was a light streaming on to the bushes at the back from the kitchen window. He began to hesitate. How could he do this? Looking through the window, he saw her seated in the rocking-chair with the child, already in its nightdress, sitting on her knee. The fair head with its wild, fierce hair was drooping towards the fire-warmth, which reflected on the bright cheeks and clear skin of the child, who seemed to be musing, almost like a grown-up person. The mother's face was dark and still, and he saw, with a pang, that she was away back in the life that had been. The child's hair gleamed like spun glass, her face was illuminated till it seemed like wax lit up from the inside. The wind boomed strongly. Mother and child sat motionless, silent, the child staring with vacant dark eyes into the fire, the mother looking into space. The little girl was almost asleep. It was her will which kept her eyes so wide. Suddenly she looked round, troubled, as the wind shook the house, and Brangwen saw the small lips move. The mother began to rock, he heard the slight crunch of the rockers of the chair. Then he heard the low, monotonous murmur of a song in a foreign language. Then a great burst of wind, the mother seemed to have drifted away, the child's eyes were black and dilated. Brangwen looked up at the clouds which packed in great, alarming haste across the dark sky. Then there came the child's high, complaining, yet imperative voice: "Don't sing that stuff, mother; I don't want to hear it." The singing died away. "You will go to bed," said the mother. He saw the clinging protest of the child, the unmoved farawayness of the mother, the clinging, grasping effort of the child. Then suddenly the clear childish challenge: "I want you to tell me a story." The wind blew, the story began, the child nestled against the mother, Brangwen waited outside, suspended, looking at the wild waving of the trees in the wind and the gathering darkness. He had his fate to follow, he lingered there at the threshold. The child crouched distinct and motionless, curled in against her mother, the eyes dark and unblinking among the keen wisps of hair, like a curled-up animal asleep but for the eyes. The mother sat as if in shadow, the story went on as if by itself. Brangwen stood outside seeing the night fall. He did not notice the passage of time. The hand that held the daffodils was fixed and cold. The story came to an end, the mother rose at last, with the child clinging round her neck. She must be strong, to carry so large a child so easily. The little Anna clung round her mother's neck. The fair, strange face of the child looked over the shoulder of the mother, all asleep but the eyes, and these, wide and dark, kept up the resistance and the fight with something unseen. When they were gone, Brangwen stirred for the first time from the place where he stood, and looked round at the night. He wished it were really as beautiful and familiar as it seemed in these few moments of release. Along with the child, he felt a curious strain on him, a suffering, like a fate. The mother came down again, and began folding the child's clothes. He knocked. She opened wondering, a little bit at bay, like a foreigner, uneasy. "Good evening," he said. "I'll just come in a minute." A change went quickly over her face; she was unprepared. She looked down at him as he stood in the light from the window, holding the daffodils, the darkness behind. In his black clothes she again did not know him. She was almost afraid. But he was already stepping on to the threshold, and closing the door behind him. She turned into the kitchen, startled out of herself by this invasion from the night. He took off his hat, and came towards her. Then he stood in the light, in his black clothes and his black stock, hat in one hand and yellow flowers in the other. She stood away, at his mercy, snatched out of herself. She did not know him, only she knew he was a man come for her. She could only see the dark-clad man's figure standing there upon her, and the gripped fist of flowers. She could not see the face and the living eyes. He was watching her, without knowing her, only aware underneath of her presence. "I come to have a word with you," he said, striding forward to the table, laying down his hat and the flowers, which tumbled apart and lay in a loose heap. She had flinched from his advance. She had no will, no being. The wind boomed in the chimney, and he waited. He had disembarrassed his hands. Now he shut his fists. He was aware of her standing

doctor

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

"Is the child her child?" "I s'd think so--they say so." "Who told you about her?" "Why, Lizzie--a-Monday--we seed her goin' past." "You'd have to be rattling your tongues if anything went past." Brangwen stood musing. That evening he went up to Cossethay to the "Red Lion", half with the intention of hearing more. She was the widow of a Polish doctor, he gathered. Her husband had died, a refugee, in London. She spoke a bit foreign-like, but you could easily make out what she said. She had one little girl named Anna. Lensky was the woman's name, Mrs. Lensky. Brangwen felt that here was the unreality established at last. He felt also a curious certainty about her, as if she were destined to him. It was to him a profound satisfaction that she was a foreigner. A swift change had taken place on the earth for him, as if a new creation were fulfilled, in which he had real existence. Things had all been stark, unreal, barren, mere nullities before. Now they were actualities that he could handle. He dared scarcely think of the woman. He was afraid. Only all the time he was aware of her presence not far off, he lived in her. But he dared not know her, even acquaint himself with her by thinking of her. One day he met her walking along the road with her little girl. It was a child with a face like a bud of apple-blossom, and glistening fair hair like thistle-down sticking out in straight, wild, flamy pieces, and very dark eyes. The child clung jealously to her mother's side when he looked at her, staring with resentful black eyes. But the mother glanced at him again, almost vacantly. And the very vacancy of her look inflamed him. She had wide grey-brown eyes with very dark, fathomless pupils. He felt the fine flame running under his skin, as if all his veins had caught fire on the surface. And he went on walking without knowledge. It was coming, he knew, his fate. The world was submitting to its transformation. He made no move: it would come, what would come. When his sister Effie came to the Marsh for a week, he went with her for once to church. In the tiny place, with its mere dozen pews, he sat not far from the stranger. There was a fineness about her, a poignancy about the way she sat and held her head lifted. She was strange, from far off, yet so intimate. She was from far away, a presence, so close to his soul. She was not really there, sitting in Cossethay church beside her little girl. She was not living the apparent life of her days. She belonged to somewhere else. He felt it poignantly, as something real and natural. But a pang of fear for his own concrete life, that was only Cossethay, hurt him, and gave him misgiving. Her thick dark brows almost met above her irregular nose, she had a wide, rather thick mouth. But her face was lifted to another world of life: not to heaven or death: but to some place where she still lived, in spite of her body's absence. The child beside her watched everything with wide, black eyes. She had an odd little defiant look, her little red mouth was pinched shut. She seemed to be jealously guarding something, to be always on the alert for defence. She met Brangwen's near, vacant, intimate gaze, and a palpitating hostility, almost like a flame of pain, came into the wide, over-conscious dark eyes. The old clergyman droned on, Cossethay sat unmoved as usual. And there was the foreign woman with a foreign air about her, inviolate, and the strange child, also foreign, jealously guarding something. When the service was over, he walked in the way of another existence out of the church. As he went down the church-path with his sister, behind the woman and child, the little girl suddenly broke from her mother's hand, and slipped back with quick, almost invisible movement, and was picking at something almost under Brangwen's feet. Her tiny fingers were fine and quick, but they missed the red button. "Have you found something?" said Brangwen to her. And he also stooped for the button. But she had got it, and she stood back with it pressed against her little coat, her black eyes flaring at him, as if to forbid him to notice her. Then, having silenced him, she turned with a swift "Mother----," and was gone down the path. The mother had stood watching impassive, looking not at the child, but at Brangwen. He became aware of the woman looking at him, standing there isolated yet for him dominant in her foreign existence. He did not know what to do, and turned to his sister. But the wide grey eyes, almost vacant yet so moving, held him beyond himself. "Mother, I may have it, mayn't I?" came the child's proud, silvery tones. "Mother"-she seemed always to be calling her mother to remember her-"mother"-and she had nothing to continue now her mother had replied "Yes, my child." But, with ready invention, the child stumbled and ran on, "What are those people's names?" Brangwen heard the abstract: "I don't know, dear." He went on down the road as if he were not living inside himself, but somewhere outside. "Who was that person?" his sister Effie asked. "I couldn't tell you," he answered unknowing. "She's somebody very funny," said Effie, almost in condemnation. "That child's like one bewitched." "Bewitched--how bewitched?" he repeated. "You can see for yourself. The mother's plain, I must say--but the child is like a changeling. She'd be about thirty-five." But he took no notice. His sister talked on. "There's your woman for you," she continued. "You'd better marry her." But still he took no notice. Things were as they were. Another day, at tea-time, as he sat alone at table, there came a knock at the front door. It startled him like a portent. No one ever knocked at the front door. He rose and began slotting back the bolts, turning the big key. When he had opened the door, the strange woman stood on the threshold. "Can you give me a pound of butter?" she asked, in a curious detached way of one speaking a foreign language. He tried to attend to her question. She was looking at him questioningly. But underneath the question, what was there, in her very standing motionless, which affected him? He stepped aside and she at once entered the house, as if the door had been opened to admit her. That startled him. It was the custom for everybody to wait on the doorstep till asked inside. He went into the kitchen and she followed. His tea-things were spread on the scrubbed deal table, a big fire was burning, a dog rose from the hearth and went to her. She stood motionless just inside the kitchen. "Tilly," he called loudly, "have we got any butter?" The stranger stood there like a silence in her black cloak. "Eh?" came the shrill cry from the distance. He shouted his question again. "We've got what's on t' table," answered Tilly's shrill voice out of the dairy. Brangwen looked at the table. There was a large pat of butter on a plate, almost a pound. It was round, and stamped with acorns and oak-leaves. "Can't you come when you're wanted?" he shouted. "Why, what d'you want?" Tilly protested, as she came peeking inquisitively through the other door. She saw the strange woman, stared at her with cross-eyes, but said nothing. "Haven't we any butter?" asked Brangwen again, impatiently, as if he could command some by his question. "I tell you there's what's on t' table," said Tilly, impatient that she was unable to create any to his demand. "We haven't a morsel besides." There was a moment's silence. The stranger spoke, in her curiously distinct, detached manner of one who must think her speech first. "Oh, then thank you very much. I am sorry that I have come to trouble you." She could not understand the entire lack of manners, was slightly puzzled. Any politeness would have made the situation quite impersonal. But here it was a case of wills in confusion. Brangwen flushed at her polite speech. Still he did not let her go. "Get summat an' wrap that up for her," he said to Tilly, looking at the butter on the table. And taking a clean knife, he cut off that side of the butter where it was touched. His speech, the "for her", penetrated slowly into the foreign woman and angered Tilly. "Vicar has his butter fra Brown's by rights," said the insuppressible servant-woman. "We s'll be churnin' to-morrow mornin' first thing." "Yes"--the long-drawn foreign yes--"yes," said the Polish woman, "I went to Mrs. Brown's. She hasn't any more." Tilly bridled her head, bursting to say that, according to the etiquette of people who bought butter, it was no sort of manners whatever coming to a place cool as you like and knocking at the front door asking for a pound as a stop-gap while your other people were short. If you go to Brown's you go to Brown's, an' my butter isn't just to make shift when Brown's has got none. Brangwen understood perfectly this unspoken speech of Tilly's. The Polish lady did not. And as she wanted butter for the vicar, and as Tilly was churning in the morning, she waited. "Sluther up now," said Brangwen loudly after this silence had resolved itself out; and Tilly disappeared through the inner door. "I am afraid that I should not come, so," said the stranger, looking at him enquiringly, as if referring to him for what it was usual to do. He felt confused. "How's that?" he said, trying to be genial and being only protective. "Do you----?" she began deliberately. But she was not sure of her ground, and the conversation came to an end. Her eyes looked at him all the while, because she could not speak the language. They stood facing each other. The dog walked away from her to him. He bent down to it. "And how's your little girl?" he asked. "Yes, thank you, she is very well," was the reply, a phrase of polite speech in a foreign language merely. "Sit you down," he said. And she sat in a chair, her slim arms, coming through the slits of her cloak, resting on her lap. "You're not used to these parts," he said, still standing on the hearthrug with his back to the fire, coatless, looking with curious directness at the woman. Her self-possession pleased him and inspired him, set him curiously free. It seemed to him almost brutal to feel so master of himself and of the situation. Her eyes rested on him for a moment, questioning, as she thought of the meaning of his speech. "No," she said, understanding. "No--it is strange." "You find it middlin' rough?" he said. Her eyes waited on him, so that he should say it again. "Our ways are rough to you," he repeated. "Yes--yes, I understand. Yes, it is different, it is strange. But I was in Yorkshire----" "Oh, well then," he said, "it's no worse here than what they are up there." She did not quite understand. His protective manner, and his sureness, and his intimacy, puzzled her. What did he mean? If he was her equal, why did he behave so without formality? "No----" she said, vaguely, her eyes resting on him. She saw him fresh and naive, uncouth, almost entirely beyond relationship with her. Yet he was good-looking, with his fair hair and blue eyes full of energy, and with his healthy body that seemed to take equality with her. She watched him steadily. He was difficult for her to understand, warm, uncouth, and confident as he was, sure on his feet as if he did not know what it was to be unsure. What then was it that gave him this curious stability? She did not know. She wondered. She looked round the room he lived in. It had a close intimacy that fascinated and almost frightened her. The furniture was old and familiar as old people, the whole place seemed so kin to him, as if it partook of his being, that she was uneasy. "It is already a long time that you have lived in this house--yes?" she asked. "I've always lived here," he said. "Yes--but your people--your family?" "We've been here above two hundred years," he said. Her eyes were on him all the time, wide-open and trying to grasp him. He felt that he was there for her. "It is your own place, the house, the farm----?" "Yes," he said. He looked down at her and met her look. It disturbed her. She did not know him. He was a foreigner, they had nothing to do with each other. Yet his look disturbed her to knowledge of him. He was so strangely confident and direct. "You live quite alone?" "Yes--if you call it alone?" She did not understand. It seemed unusual to her. What was the meaning of it? And whenever her eyes, after watching him for some time, inevitably met his, she was aware of a heat beating up over her consciousness. She sat motionless and in conflict. Who was this strange man who was at once so near to her? What was happening to her? Something in his young, warm-twinkling eyes seemed to assume a right to her, to speak to her, to extend her his protection. But how? Why did he speak to her? Why were his eyes so certain, so full of light and confident, waiting for no permission nor signal? Tilly returned with a large leaf and found the two silent. At once he felt it incumbent on him to speak, now the serving-woman had come back. "How old is your little girl?" he asked. "Four years," she replied. "Her father hasn't been dead long, then?" he asked. "She was one year when he died." "Three years?" "Yes, three years that he is dead--yes." Curiously quiet she was, almost abstracted, answering these questions. She looked at him again, with some maidenhood opening in her eyes. He felt he could not move, neither towards her nor away from her. Something about her presence hurt him, till he was almost rigid before her. He saw the girl's wondering look rise in her eyes. Tilly handed her the butter and she rose. "Thank you very much," she said. "How much is it?" "We'll make th' vicar a present of it," he said. "It'll do for me goin' to church." "It 'ud look better of you if you went to church and took th' money for your butter," said Tilly, persistent in her claim to him. "You'd have to put in, shouldn't you?" he said. "How much, please?" said the Polish woman to Tilly. Brangwen stood by and let be. "Then, thank you very much," she said. "Bring your little girl down sometime to look at th' fowls and horses," he said,--"if she'd like it." "Yes, she would like it," said the stranger. And she went. Brangwen stood dimmed by her departure. He could not notice Tilly, who was looking at him uneasily, wanting to be reassured. He could not think of anything. He felt that he had made some invisible connection with the strange woman. A daze had come over his mind, he had another centre of consciousness. In his breast, or in his bowels, somewhere in his body, there had started another activity. It was as if a strong light were burning there, and he was blind within it, unable to know anything, except that this transfiguration burned between him and her, connecting them, like a secret power. Since she had come to the house he went about in a daze, scarcely seeing even the things he handled, drifting, quiescent, in a state of metamorphosis. He submitted to that which was happening to him, letting go his will, suffering the loss of himself, dormant always on the brink of ecstasy, like a creature evolving to a new birth. She came twice with her child to the farm, but there was this lull between them, an intense calm and passivity like a torpor upon them, so that there was no active change took place. He was almost unaware of the child, yet by his native good humour he gained her confidence, even her affection, setting her on a horse to ride, giving her corn for the fowls. Once he drove the mother and child from Ilkeston, picking them up on the road. The child huddled close to him as if for love, the mother sat very still. There was a vagueness, like a soft mist over all of them, and a silence as if their wills were suspended. Only he saw her hands, ungloved, folded in her lap, and he noticed the wedding-ring on her finger. It excluded him: it was a closed circle. It bound her life, the wedding-ring, it stood for her life in which he could have no part. Nevertheless, beyond all this, there was herself and himself which should meet. As he helped her down from the trap, almost lifting her, he felt he had some right to take her thus between his hands. She belonged as yet to that other, to that which was behind. But he must care for her also. She was too living to be neglected. Sometimes her vagueness, in which he was lost, made him angry, made him rage. But he held himself still as yet. She had no response, no being towards him. It puzzled and enraged him, but he submitted for a long time. Then, from the accumulated troubling of her ignoring him, gradually a fury broke out, destructive, and he wanted to go away, to escape her. It happened she came down to the Marsh with the child whilst he was in this state. Then he stood over against her, strong and heavy in his revolt, and though he said nothing, still she felt his anger and heavy impatience grip hold of her, she was shaken again as out of a torpor. Again her heart stirred with a quick, out-running impulse, she looked at him, at the stranger who was not a gentleman yet who insisted on coming into her life, and the pain of a new birth in herself strung all her veins to a new form. She would have to begin again, to find a new being, a new form, to respond to that blind, insistent figure standing over against her. A shiver, a sickness of new birth passed over her, the flame leaped up him, under his skin. She wanted it, this new life from him, with him, yet she must defend herself against it, for it was a destruction. As he worked alone on the land, or sat up with his ewes at lambing time, the facts and material of his daily life fell away, leaving the kernel of his purpose clean. And then it came upon him that he would marry her and she would be his life. Gradually, even without seeing her, he came to know her. He would have liked to think of her as of something given into his protection, like a child without parents. But it was forbidden him. He had to come down from this pleasant view of the case. She might refuse him. And besides, he was afraid of her. But during the long February nights with the ewes in labour, looking out from the shelter into the flashing stars, he knew he did not belong to himself. He must admit that he was only fragmentary, something incomplete and subject. There were the stars in the dark heaven travelling, the whole host passing by on some eternal voyage. So he sat small and submissive to the greater ordering. Unless she would come to him, he must remain as a nothingness. It was a hard experience. But, after her repeated obliviousness to him, after he had seen so often that he did not exist for her, after he had raged and tried to escape, and said he was good enough by himself, he was a man, and could stand alone, he must, in the starry multiplicity of the night humble himself, and admit and know that without her he was nothing. He was nothing. But with her, he would be real. If she were now walking across the frosty grass near the sheep-shelter, through the fretful bleating of the ewes and lambs, she would bring him completeness and perfection. And if it should be so, that she should come to him! It should be so--it was ordained so. He was a long time resolving definitely to ask her to marry him. And he knew, if he asked her, she must really acquiesce. She must, it could not be otherwise. He had learned a little of her. She was poor, quite alone, and had had a hard time in London, both before and after her husband died. But in Poland she was a lady well born, a landowner's daughter. All these things were only words to him, the fact of her superior birth, the fact that her husband had been a brilliant doctor, the fact that he himself was her inferior in almost every way of distinction. There was an inner reality, a logic of the soul, which connected her with him. One evening in March, when the wind was roaring outside, came the moment to ask her. He had sat with his hands before him, leaning to the fire. And as he watched the fire, he knew almost without thinking that he was going this evening. "Have you got a clean shirt?" he asked Tilly. "You know you've got clean shirts," she said. "Ay,--bring me a white one." Tilly brought down one of the linen shirts he had inherited from his father, putting it before him to air at the fire. She loved him with a dumb, aching love as he sat leaning with his arms on his knees, still and absorbed, unaware of her. Lately, a quivering inclination to cry had come over her, when she did anything for him in his presence. Now her hands trembled as she spread the shirt. He was never shouting and teasing now. The deep stillness there was in the house made her tremble. He went to wash himself. Queer little breaks of consciousness seemed to rise and burst like bubbles out of the depths of his stillness. "It's got to be done," he said as he stooped to take the shirt out of the fender, "it's got to be done, so why balk it?" And as he combed his hair before the mirror on the wall, he retorted to himself, superficially: "The woman's not speechless dumb. She's not clutterin' at the nipple. She's got the right to please herself, and displease whosoever she likes." This streak of common sense carried him a little further. "Did you want anythink?" asked Tilly, suddenly appearing, having heard him speak. She stood watching him comb his fair beard. His eyes were calm and uninterrupted. "Ay," he said, "where have you put the scissors?" She brought them to him, and stood watching as, chin forward, he trimmed his beard. "Don't go an' crop yourself as if you was at a shearin' contest," she said, anxiously. He blew the fine-curled hair quickly off his lips. He put on all clean clothes, folded his stock carefully, and donned his best coat. Then, being ready, as grey twilight was falling, he went across to the orchard to gather the daffodils. The wind was roaring in the apple trees, the yellow flowers swayed violently up and down, he heard even the fine whisper of their spears as he stooped to break the flattened, brittle stems of the flowers. "What's to-do?" shouted a friend who met him as he left the garden gate. "Bit of courtin', like," said Brangwen. And Tilly, in a great state of trepidation and excitement, let the wind whisk her over the field to the big gate, whence she could watch him go. He went up the hill and on towards the vicarage, the wind roaring through the hedges, whilst he tried to shelter his bunch of daffodils by his side. He did not think of anything, only knew that the wind was blowing. Night was falling, the bare trees drummed and whistled. The vicar, he knew, would be in his study, the Polish woman in the kitchen, a comfortable room, with her child. In the darkest of twilight, he went through the gate and down the path where a few daffodils stooped in the wind, and shattered crocuses made a pale, colourless ravel. There was a light streaming on to the bushes at the back from the kitchen window. He began to hesitate. How could he do this? Looking through the window, he saw her seated in the rocking-chair with the child, already in its nightdress, sitting on her knee. The fair head with its wild, fierce hair was drooping towards the fire-warmth, which reflected on the bright cheeks and clear skin of the child, who seemed to be musing, almost like a grown-up person. The mother's face was dark and still, and he saw, with a pang, that she was away back in the life that had been. The child's hair gleamed like spun glass, her face was illuminated till it seemed like wax lit up from the inside. The wind boomed strongly. Mother and child sat motionless, silent, the child staring with vacant dark eyes into the fire, the mother looking into space. The little girl was almost asleep. It was her will which kept her eyes so wide. Suddenly she looked round, troubled, as the wind shook the house, and Brangwen saw the small lips move. The mother began to rock, he heard the slight crunch of the rockers of the chair. Then he heard the low, monotonous murmur of a song in a foreign language. Then a great burst of wind, the mother seemed to have drifted away, the child's eyes were black and dilated. Brangwen looked up at the clouds which packed in great, alarming haste across the dark sky. Then there came the child's high, complaining, yet imperative voice: "Don't sing that stuff, mother; I don't want to hear it." The singing died away. "You will go to bed," said the mother. He saw the clinging protest of the child, the unmoved farawayness of the mother, the clinging, grasping effort of the child. Then suddenly the clear childish challenge: "I want you to tell me a story." The wind blew, the story began, the child nestled against the mother, Brangwen waited outside, suspended, looking at the wild waving of the trees in the wind and the gathering darkness. He had his fate to follow, he lingered there at the threshold. The child crouched distinct and motionless, curled in against her mother, the eyes dark and unblinking among the keen wisps of hair, like a curled-up animal asleep but for the eyes. The mother sat as if in shadow, the story went on as if by itself. Brangwen stood outside seeing the night fall. He did not notice the passage of time. The hand that held the daffodils was fixed and cold. The story came to an end, the mother rose at last, with the child clinging round her neck. She must be strong, to carry so large a child so easily. The little Anna clung round her mother's neck. The fair, strange face of the child looked over the shoulder of the mother, all asleep but the eyes, and these, wide and dark, kept up the resistance and the fight with something unseen. When they were gone, Brangwen stirred for the first time from the place where he stood, and looked round at the night. He wished it were really as beautiful and familiar as it seemed in these few moments of release. Along with the child, he felt a curious strain on him, a suffering, like a fate. The mother came down again, and began folding the child's clothes. He knocked. She opened wondering, a little bit at bay, like a foreigner, uneasy. "Good evening," he said. "I'll just come in a minute." A change went quickly over her face; she was unprepared. She looked down at him as he stood in the light from the window, holding the daffodils, the darkness behind. In his black clothes she again did not know him. She was almost afraid. But he was already stepping on to the threshold, and closing the door behind him. She turned into the kitchen, startled out of herself by this invasion from the night. He took off his hat, and came towards her. Then he stood in the light, in his black clothes and his black stock, hat in one hand and yellow flowers in the other. She stood away, at his mercy, snatched out of herself. She did not know him, only she knew he was a man come for her. She could only see the dark-clad man's figure standing there upon her, and the gripped fist of flowers. She could not see the face and the living eyes. He was watching her, without knowing her, only aware underneath of her presence. "I come to have a word with you," he said, striding forward to the table, laying down his hat and the flowers, which tumbled apart and lay in a loose heap. She had flinched from his advance. She had no will, no being. The wind boomed in the chimney, and he waited. He had disembarrassed his hands. Now he shut his fists. He was aware of her standing

consciousness

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

"Is the child her child?" "I s'd think so--they say so." "Who told you about her?" "Why, Lizzie--a-Monday--we seed her goin' past." "You'd have to be rattling your tongues if anything went past." Brangwen stood musing. That evening he went up to Cossethay to the "Red Lion", half with the intention of hearing more. She was the widow of a Polish doctor, he gathered. Her husband had died, a refugee, in London. She spoke a bit foreign-like, but you could easily make out what she said. She had one little girl named Anna. Lensky was the woman's name, Mrs. Lensky. Brangwen felt that here was the unreality established at last. He felt also a curious certainty about her, as if she were destined to him. It was to him a profound satisfaction that she was a foreigner. A swift change had taken place on the earth for him, as if a new creation were fulfilled, in which he had real existence. Things had all been stark, unreal, barren, mere nullities before. Now they were actualities that he could handle. He dared scarcely think of the woman. He was afraid. Only all the time he was aware of her presence not far off, he lived in her. But he dared not know her, even acquaint himself with her by thinking of her. One day he met her walking along the road with her little girl. It was a child with a face like a bud of apple-blossom, and glistening fair hair like thistle-down sticking out in straight, wild, flamy pieces, and very dark eyes. The child clung jealously to her mother's side when he looked at her, staring with resentful black eyes. But the mother glanced at him again, almost vacantly. And the very vacancy of her look inflamed him. She had wide grey-brown eyes with very dark, fathomless pupils. He felt the fine flame running under his skin, as if all his veins had caught fire on the surface. And he went on walking without knowledge. It was coming, he knew, his fate. The world was submitting to its transformation. He made no move: it would come, what would come. When his sister Effie came to the Marsh for a week, he went with her for once to church. In the tiny place, with its mere dozen pews, he sat not far from the stranger. There was a fineness about her, a poignancy about the way she sat and held her head lifted. She was strange, from far off, yet so intimate. She was from far away, a presence, so close to his soul. She was not really there, sitting in Cossethay church beside her little girl. She was not living the apparent life of her days. She belonged to somewhere else. He felt it poignantly, as something real and natural. But a pang of fear for his own concrete life, that was only Cossethay, hurt him, and gave him misgiving. Her thick dark brows almost met above her irregular nose, she had a wide, rather thick mouth. But her face was lifted to another world of life: not to heaven or death: but to some place where she still lived, in spite of her body's absence. The child beside her watched everything with wide, black eyes. She had an odd little defiant look, her little red mouth was pinched shut. She seemed to be jealously guarding something, to be always on the alert for defence. She met Brangwen's near, vacant, intimate gaze, and a palpitating hostility, almost like a flame of pain, came into the wide, over-conscious dark eyes. The old clergyman droned on, Cossethay sat unmoved as usual. And there was the foreign woman with a foreign air about her, inviolate, and the strange child, also foreign, jealously guarding something. When the service was over, he walked in the way of another existence out of the church. As he went down the church-path with his sister, behind the woman and child, the little girl suddenly broke from her mother's hand, and slipped back with quick, almost invisible movement, and was picking at something almost under Brangwen's feet. Her tiny fingers were fine and quick, but they missed the red button. "Have you found something?" said Brangwen to her. And he also stooped for the button. But she had got it, and she stood back with it pressed against her little coat, her black eyes flaring at him, as if to forbid him to notice her. Then, having silenced him, she turned with a swift "Mother----," and was gone down the path. The mother had stood watching impassive, looking not at the child, but at Brangwen. He became aware of the woman looking at him, standing there isolated yet for him dominant in her foreign existence. He did not know what to do, and turned to his sister. But the wide grey eyes, almost vacant yet so moving, held him beyond himself. "Mother, I may have it, mayn't I?" came the child's proud, silvery tones. "Mother"-she seemed always to be calling her mother to remember her-"mother"-and she had nothing to continue now her mother had replied "Yes, my child." But, with ready invention, the child stumbled and ran on, "What are those people's names?" Brangwen heard the abstract: "I don't know, dear." He went on down the road as if he were not living inside himself, but somewhere outside. "Who was that person?" his sister Effie asked. "I couldn't tell you," he answered unknowing. "She's somebody very funny," said Effie, almost in condemnation. "That child's like one bewitched." "Bewitched--how bewitched?" he repeated. "You can see for yourself. The mother's plain, I must say--but the child is like a changeling. She'd be about thirty-five." But he took no notice. His sister talked on. "There's your woman for you," she continued. "You'd better marry her." But still he took no notice. Things were as they were. Another day, at tea-time, as he sat alone at table, there came a knock at the front door. It startled him like a portent. No one ever knocked at the front door. He rose and began slotting back the bolts, turning the big key. When he had opened the door, the strange woman stood on the threshold. "Can you give me a pound of butter?" she asked, in a curious detached way of one speaking a foreign language. He tried to attend to her question. She was looking at him questioningly. But underneath the question, what was there, in her very standing motionless, which affected him? He stepped aside and she at once entered the house, as if the door had been opened to admit her. That startled him. It was the custom for everybody to wait on the doorstep till asked inside. He went into the kitchen and she followed. His tea-things were spread on the scrubbed deal table, a big fire was burning, a dog rose from the hearth and went to her. She stood motionless just inside the kitchen. "Tilly," he called loudly, "have we got any butter?" The stranger stood there like a silence in her black cloak. "Eh?" came the shrill cry from the distance. He shouted his question again. "We've got what's on t' table," answered Tilly's shrill voice out of the dairy. Brangwen looked at the table. There was a large pat of butter on a plate, almost a pound. It was round, and stamped with acorns and oak-leaves. "Can't you come when you're wanted?" he shouted. "Why, what d'you want?" Tilly protested, as she came peeking inquisitively through the other door. She saw the strange woman, stared at her with cross-eyes, but said nothing. "Haven't we any butter?" asked Brangwen again, impatiently, as if he could command some by his question. "I tell you there's what's on t' table," said Tilly, impatient that she was unable to create any to his demand. "We haven't a morsel besides." There was a moment's silence. The stranger spoke, in her curiously distinct, detached manner of one who must think her speech first. "Oh, then thank you very much. I am sorry that I have come to trouble you." She could not understand the entire lack of manners, was slightly puzzled. Any politeness would have made the situation quite impersonal. But here it was a case of wills in confusion. Brangwen flushed at her polite speech. Still he did not let her go. "Get summat an' wrap that up for her," he said to Tilly, looking at the butter on the table. And taking a clean knife, he cut off that side of the butter where it was touched. His speech, the "for her", penetrated slowly into the foreign woman and angered Tilly. "Vicar has his butter fra Brown's by rights," said the insuppressible servant-woman. "We s'll be churnin' to-morrow mornin' first thing." "Yes"--the long-drawn foreign yes--"yes," said the Polish woman, "I went to Mrs. Brown's. She hasn't any more." Tilly bridled her head, bursting to say that, according to the etiquette of people who bought butter, it was no sort of manners whatever coming to a place cool as you like and knocking at the front door asking for a pound as a stop-gap while your other people were short. If you go to Brown's you go to Brown's, an' my butter isn't just to make shift when Brown's has got none. Brangwen understood perfectly this unspoken speech of Tilly's. The Polish lady did not. And as she wanted butter for the vicar, and as Tilly was churning in the morning, she waited. "Sluther up now," said Brangwen loudly after this silence had resolved itself out; and Tilly disappeared through the inner door. "I am afraid that I should not come, so," said the stranger, looking at him enquiringly, as if referring to him for what it was usual to do. He felt confused. "How's that?" he said, trying to be genial and being only protective. "Do you----?" she began deliberately. But she was not sure of her ground, and the conversation came to an end. Her eyes looked at him all the while, because she could not speak the language. They stood facing each other. The dog walked away from her to him. He bent down to it. "And how's your little girl?" he asked. "Yes, thank you, she is very well," was the reply, a phrase of polite speech in a foreign language merely. "Sit you down," he said. And she sat in a chair, her slim arms, coming through the slits of her cloak, resting on her lap. "You're not used to these parts," he said, still standing on the hearthrug with his back to the fire, coatless, looking with curious directness at the woman. Her self-possession pleased him and inspired him, set him curiously free. It seemed to him almost brutal to feel so master of himself and of the situation. Her eyes rested on him for a moment, questioning, as she thought of the meaning of his speech. "No," she said, understanding. "No--it is strange." "You find it middlin' rough?" he said. Her eyes waited on him, so that he should say it again. "Our ways are rough to you," he repeated. "Yes--yes, I understand. Yes, it is different, it is strange. But I was in Yorkshire----" "Oh, well then," he said, "it's no worse here than what they are up there." She did not quite understand. His protective manner, and his sureness, and his intimacy, puzzled her. What did he mean? If he was her equal, why did he behave so without formality? "No----" she said, vaguely, her eyes resting on him. She saw him fresh and naive, uncouth, almost entirely beyond relationship with her. Yet he was good-looking, with his fair hair and blue eyes full of energy, and with his healthy body that seemed to take equality with her. She watched him steadily. He was difficult for her to understand, warm, uncouth, and confident as he was, sure on his feet as if he did not know what it was to be unsure. What then was it that gave him this curious stability? She did not know. She wondered. She looked round the room he lived in. It had a close intimacy that fascinated and almost frightened her. The furniture was old and familiar as old people, the whole place seemed so kin to him, as if it partook of his being, that she was uneasy. "It is already a long time that you have lived in this house--yes?" she asked. "I've always lived here," he said. "Yes--but your people--your family?" "We've been here above two hundred years," he said. Her eyes were on him all the time, wide-open and trying to grasp him. He felt that he was there for her. "It is your own place, the house, the farm----?" "Yes," he said. He looked down at her and met her look. It disturbed her. She did not know him. He was a foreigner, they had nothing to do with each other. Yet his look disturbed her to knowledge of him. He was so strangely confident and direct. "You live quite alone?" "Yes--if you call it alone?" She did not understand. It seemed unusual to her. What was the meaning of it? And whenever her eyes, after watching him for some time, inevitably met his, she was aware of a heat beating up over her consciousness. She sat motionless and in conflict. Who was this strange man who was at once so near to her? What was happening to her? Something in his young, warm-twinkling eyes seemed to assume a right to her, to speak to her, to extend her his protection. But how? Why did he speak to her? Why were his eyes so certain, so full of light and confident, waiting for no permission nor signal? Tilly returned with a large leaf and found the two silent. At once he felt it incumbent on him to speak, now the serving-woman had come back. "How old is your little girl?" he asked. "Four years," she replied. "Her father hasn't been dead long, then?" he asked. "She was one year when he died." "Three years?" "Yes, three years that he is dead--yes." Curiously quiet she was, almost abstracted, answering these questions. She looked at him again, with some maidenhood opening in her eyes. He felt he could not move, neither towards her nor away from her. Something about her presence hurt him, till he was almost rigid before her. He saw the girl's wondering look rise in her eyes. Tilly handed her the butter and she rose. "Thank you very much," she said. "How much is it?" "We'll make th' vicar a present of it," he said. "It'll do for me goin' to church." "It 'ud look better of you if you went to church and took th' money for your butter," said Tilly, persistent in her claim to him. "You'd have to put in, shouldn't you?" he said. "How much, please?" said the Polish woman to Tilly. Brangwen stood by and let be. "Then, thank you very much," she said. "Bring your little girl down sometime to look at th' fowls and horses," he said,--"if she'd like it." "Yes, she would like it," said the stranger. And she went. Brangwen stood dimmed by her departure. He could not notice Tilly, who was looking at him uneasily, wanting to be reassured. He could not think of anything. He felt that he had made some invisible connection with the strange woman. A daze had come over his mind, he had another centre of consciousness. In his breast, or in his bowels, somewhere in his body, there had started another activity. It was as if a strong light were burning there, and he was blind within it, unable to know anything, except that this transfiguration burned between him and her, connecting them, like a secret power. Since she had come to the house he went about in a daze, scarcely seeing even the things he handled, drifting, quiescent, in a state of metamorphosis. He submitted to that which was happening to him, letting go his will, suffering the loss of himself, dormant always on the brink of ecstasy, like a creature evolving to a new birth. She came twice with her child to the farm, but there was this lull between them, an intense calm and passivity like a torpor upon them, so that there was no active change took place. He was almost unaware of the child, yet by his native good humour he gained her confidence, even her affection, setting her on a horse to ride, giving her corn for the fowls. Once he drove the mother and child from Ilkeston, picking them up on the road. The child huddled close to him as if for love, the mother sat very still. There was a vagueness, like a soft mist over all of them, and a silence as if their wills were suspended. Only he saw her hands, ungloved, folded in her lap, and he noticed the wedding-ring on her finger. It excluded him: it was a closed circle. It bound her life, the wedding-ring, it stood for her life in which he could have no part. Nevertheless, beyond all this, there was herself and himself which should meet. As he helped her down from the trap, almost lifting her, he felt he had some right to take her thus between his hands. She belonged as yet to that other, to that which was behind. But he must care for her also. She was too living to be neglected. Sometimes her vagueness, in which he was lost, made him angry, made him rage. But he held himself still as yet. She had no response, no being towards him. It puzzled and enraged him, but he submitted for a long time. Then, from the accumulated troubling of her ignoring him, gradually a fury broke out, destructive, and he wanted to go away, to escape her. It happened she came down to the Marsh with the child whilst he was in this state. Then he stood over against her, strong and heavy in his revolt, and though he said nothing, still she felt his anger and heavy impatience grip hold of her, she was shaken again as out of a torpor. Again her heart stirred with a quick, out-running impulse, she looked at him, at the stranger who was not a gentleman yet who insisted on coming into her life, and the pain of a new birth in herself strung all her veins to a new form. She would have to begin again, to find a new being, a new form, to respond to that blind, insistent figure standing over against her. A shiver, a sickness of new birth passed over her, the flame leaped up him, under his skin. She wanted it, this new life from him, with him, yet she must defend herself against it, for it was a destruction. As he worked alone on the land, or sat up with his ewes at lambing time, the facts and material of his daily life fell away, leaving the kernel of his purpose clean. And then it came upon him that he would marry her and she would be his life. Gradually, even without seeing her, he came to know her. He would have liked to think of her as of something given into his protection, like a child without parents. But it was forbidden him. He had to come down from this pleasant view of the case. She might refuse him. And besides, he was afraid of her. But during the long February nights with the ewes in labour, looking out from the shelter into the flashing stars, he knew he did not belong to himself. He must admit that he was only fragmentary, something incomplete and subject. There were the stars in the dark heaven travelling, the whole host passing by on some eternal voyage. So he sat small and submissive to the greater ordering. Unless she would come to him, he must remain as a nothingness. It was a hard experience. But, after her repeated obliviousness to him, after he had seen so often that he did not exist for her, after he had raged and tried to escape, and said he was good enough by himself, he was a man, and could stand alone, he must, in the starry multiplicity of the night humble himself, and admit and know that without her he was nothing. He was nothing. But with her, he would be real. If she were now walking across the frosty grass near the sheep-shelter, through the fretful bleating of the ewes and lambs, she would bring him completeness and perfection. And if it should be so, that she should come to him! It should be so--it was ordained so. He was a long time resolving definitely to ask her to marry him. And he knew, if he asked her, she must really acquiesce. She must, it could not be otherwise. He had learned a little of her. She was poor, quite alone, and had had a hard time in London, both before and after her husband died. But in Poland she was a lady well born, a landowner's daughter. All these things were only words to him, the fact of her superior birth, the fact that her husband had been a brilliant doctor, the fact that he himself was her inferior in almost every way of distinction. There was an inner reality, a logic of the soul, which connected her with him. One evening in March, when the wind was roaring outside, came the moment to ask her. He had sat with his hands before him, leaning to the fire. And as he watched the fire, he knew almost without thinking that he was going this evening. "Have you got a clean shirt?" he asked Tilly. "You know you've got clean shirts," she said. "Ay,--bring me a white one." Tilly brought down one of the linen shirts he had inherited from his father, putting it before him to air at the fire. She loved him with a dumb, aching love as he sat leaning with his arms on his knees, still and absorbed, unaware of her. Lately, a quivering inclination to cry had come over her, when she did anything for him in his presence. Now her hands trembled as she spread the shirt. He was never shouting and teasing now. The deep stillness there was in the house made her tremble. He went to wash himself. Queer little breaks of consciousness seemed to rise and burst like bubbles out of the depths of his stillness. "It's got to be done," he said as he stooped to take the shirt out of the fender, "it's got to be done, so why balk it?" And as he combed his hair before the mirror on the wall, he retorted to himself, superficially: "The woman's not speechless dumb. She's not clutterin' at the nipple. She's got the right to please herself, and displease whosoever she likes." This streak of common sense carried him a little further. "Did you want anythink?" asked Tilly, suddenly appearing, having heard him speak. She stood watching him comb his fair beard. His eyes were calm and uninterrupted. "Ay," he said, "where have you put the scissors?" She brought them to him, and stood watching as, chin forward, he trimmed his beard. "Don't go an' crop yourself as if you was at a shearin' contest," she said, anxiously. He blew the fine-curled hair quickly off his lips. He put on all clean clothes, folded his stock carefully, and donned his best coat. Then, being ready, as grey twilight was falling, he went across to the orchard to gather the daffodils. The wind was roaring in the apple trees, the yellow flowers swayed violently up and down, he heard even the fine whisper of their spears as he stooped to break the flattened, brittle stems of the flowers. "What's to-do?" shouted a friend who met him as he left the garden gate. "Bit of courtin', like," said Brangwen. And Tilly, in a great state of trepidation and excitement, let the wind whisk her over the field to the big gate, whence she could watch him go. He went up the hill and on towards the vicarage, the wind roaring through the hedges, whilst he tried to shelter his bunch of daffodils by his side. He did not think of anything, only knew that the wind was blowing. Night was falling, the bare trees drummed and whistled. The vicar, he knew, would be in his study, the Polish woman in the kitchen, a comfortable room, with her child. In the darkest of twilight, he went through the gate and down the path where a few daffodils stooped in the wind, and shattered crocuses made a pale, colourless ravel. There was a light streaming on to the bushes at the back from the kitchen window. He began to hesitate. How could he do this? Looking through the window, he saw her seated in the rocking-chair with the child, already in its nightdress, sitting on her knee. The fair head with its wild, fierce hair was drooping towards the fire-warmth, which reflected on the bright cheeks and clear skin of the child, who seemed to be musing, almost like a grown-up person. The mother's face was dark and still, and he saw, with a pang, that she was away back in the life that had been. The child's hair gleamed like spun glass, her face was illuminated till it seemed like wax lit up from the inside. The wind boomed strongly. Mother and child sat motionless, silent, the child staring with vacant dark eyes into the fire, the mother looking into space. The little girl was almost asleep. It was her will which kept her eyes so wide. Suddenly she looked round, troubled, as the wind shook the house, and Brangwen saw the small lips move. The mother began to rock, he heard the slight crunch of the rockers of the chair. Then he heard the low, monotonous murmur of a song in a foreign language. Then a great burst of wind, the mother seemed to have drifted away, the child's eyes were black and dilated. Brangwen looked up at the clouds which packed in great, alarming haste across the dark sky. Then there came the child's high, complaining, yet imperative voice: "Don't sing that stuff, mother; I don't want to hear it." The singing died away. "You will go to bed," said the mother. He saw the clinging protest of the child, the unmoved farawayness of the mother, the clinging, grasping effort of the child. Then suddenly the clear childish challenge: "I want you to tell me a story." The wind blew, the story began, the child nestled against the mother, Brangwen waited outside, suspended, looking at the wild waving of the trees in the wind and the gathering darkness. He had his fate to follow, he lingered there at the threshold. The child crouched distinct and motionless, curled in against her mother, the eyes dark and unblinking among the keen wisps of hair, like a curled-up animal asleep but for the eyes. The mother sat as if in shadow, the story went on as if by itself. Brangwen stood outside seeing the night fall. He did not notice the passage of time. The hand that held the daffodils was fixed and cold. The story came to an end, the mother rose at last, with the child clinging round her neck. She must be strong, to carry so large a child so easily. The little Anna clung round her mother's neck. The fair, strange face of the child looked over the shoulder of the mother, all asleep but the eyes, and these, wide and dark, kept up the resistance and the fight with something unseen. When they were gone, Brangwen stirred for the first time from the place where he stood, and looked round at the night. He wished it were really as beautiful and familiar as it seemed in these few moments of release. Along with the child, he felt a curious strain on him, a suffering, like a fate. The mother came down again, and began folding the child's clothes. He knocked. She opened wondering, a little bit at bay, like a foreigner, uneasy. "Good evening," he said. "I'll just come in a minute." A change went quickly over her face; she was unprepared. She looked down at him as he stood in the light from the window, holding the daffodils, the darkness behind. In his black clothes she again did not know him. She was almost afraid. But he was already stepping on to the threshold, and closing the door behind him. She turned into the kitchen, startled out of herself by this invasion from the night. He took off his hat, and came towards her. Then he stood in the light, in his black clothes and his black stock, hat in one hand and yellow flowers in the other. She stood away, at his mercy, snatched out of herself. She did not know him, only she knew he was a man come for her. She could only see the dark-clad man's figure standing there upon her, and the gripped fist of flowers. She could not see the face and the living eyes. He was watching her, without knowing her, only aware underneath of her presence. "I come to have a word with you," he said, striding forward to the table, laying down his hat and the flowers, which tumbled apart and lay in a loose heap. She had flinched from his advance. She had no will, no being. The wind boomed in the chimney, and he waited. He had disembarrassed his hands. Now he shut his fists. He was aware of her standing

churnin

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

"Is the child her child?" "I s'd think so--they say so." "Who told you about her?" "Why, Lizzie--a-Monday--we seed her goin' past." "You'd have to be rattling your tongues if anything went past." Brangwen stood musing. That evening he went up to Cossethay to the "Red Lion", half with the intention of hearing more. She was the widow of a Polish doctor, he gathered. Her husband had died, a refugee, in London. She spoke a bit foreign-like, but you could easily make out what she said. She had one little girl named Anna. Lensky was the woman's name, Mrs. Lensky. Brangwen felt that here was the unreality established at last. He felt also a curious certainty about her, as if she were destined to him. It was to him a profound satisfaction that she was a foreigner. A swift change had taken place on the earth for him, as if a new creation were fulfilled, in which he had real existence. Things had all been stark, unreal, barren, mere nullities before. Now they were actualities that he could handle. He dared scarcely think of the woman. He was afraid. Only all the time he was aware of her presence not far off, he lived in her. But he dared not know her, even acquaint himself with her by thinking of her. One day he met her walking along the road with her little girl. It was a child with a face like a bud of apple-blossom, and glistening fair hair like thistle-down sticking out in straight, wild, flamy pieces, and very dark eyes. The child clung jealously to her mother's side when he looked at her, staring with resentful black eyes. But the mother glanced at him again, almost vacantly. And the very vacancy of her look inflamed him. She had wide grey-brown eyes with very dark, fathomless pupils. He felt the fine flame running under his skin, as if all his veins had caught fire on the surface. And he went on walking without knowledge. It was coming, he knew, his fate. The world was submitting to its transformation. He made no move: it would come, what would come. When his sister Effie came to the Marsh for a week, he went with her for once to church. In the tiny place, with its mere dozen pews, he sat not far from the stranger. There was a fineness about her, a poignancy about the way she sat and held her head lifted. She was strange, from far off, yet so intimate. She was from far away, a presence, so close to his soul. She was not really there, sitting in Cossethay church beside her little girl. She was not living the apparent life of her days. She belonged to somewhere else. He felt it poignantly, as something real and natural. But a pang of fear for his own concrete life, that was only Cossethay, hurt him, and gave him misgiving. Her thick dark brows almost met above her irregular nose, she had a wide, rather thick mouth. But her face was lifted to another world of life: not to heaven or death: but to some place where she still lived, in spite of her body's absence. The child beside her watched everything with wide, black eyes. She had an odd little defiant look, her little red mouth was pinched shut. She seemed to be jealously guarding something, to be always on the alert for defence. She met Brangwen's near, vacant, intimate gaze, and a palpitating hostility, almost like a flame of pain, came into the wide, over-conscious dark eyes. The old clergyman droned on, Cossethay sat unmoved as usual. And there was the foreign woman with a foreign air about her, inviolate, and the strange child, also foreign, jealously guarding something. When the service was over, he walked in the way of another existence out of the church. As he went down the church-path with his sister, behind the woman and child, the little girl suddenly broke from her mother's hand, and slipped back with quick, almost invisible movement, and was picking at something almost under Brangwen's feet. Her tiny fingers were fine and quick, but they missed the red button. "Have you found something?" said Brangwen to her. And he also stooped for the button. But she had got it, and she stood back with it pressed against her little coat, her black eyes flaring at him, as if to forbid him to notice her. Then, having silenced him, she turned with a swift "Mother----," and was gone down the path. The mother had stood watching impassive, looking not at the child, but at Brangwen. He became aware of the woman looking at him, standing there isolated yet for him dominant in her foreign existence. He did not know what to do, and turned to his sister. But the wide grey eyes, almost vacant yet so moving, held him beyond himself. "Mother, I may have it, mayn't I?" came the child's proud, silvery tones. "Mother"-she seemed always to be calling her mother to remember her-"mother"-and she had nothing to continue now her mother had replied "Yes, my child." But, with ready invention, the child stumbled and ran on, "What are those people's names?" Brangwen heard the abstract: "I don't know, dear." He went on down the road as if he were not living inside himself, but somewhere outside. "Who was that person?" his sister Effie asked. "I couldn't tell you," he answered unknowing. "She's somebody very funny," said Effie, almost in condemnation. "That child's like one bewitched." "Bewitched--how bewitched?" he repeated. "You can see for yourself. The mother's plain, I must say--but the child is like a changeling. She'd be about thirty-five." But he took no notice. His sister talked on. "There's your woman for you," she continued. "You'd better marry her." But still he took no notice. Things were as they were. Another day, at tea-time, as he sat alone at table, there came a knock at the front door. It startled him like a portent. No one ever knocked at the front door. He rose and began slotting back the bolts, turning the big key. When he had opened the door, the strange woman stood on the threshold. "Can you give me a pound of butter?" she asked, in a curious detached way of one speaking a foreign language. He tried to attend to her question. She was looking at him questioningly. But underneath the question, what was there, in her very standing motionless, which affected him? He stepped aside and she at once entered the house, as if the door had been opened to admit her. That startled him. It was the custom for everybody to wait on the doorstep till asked inside. He went into the kitchen and she followed. His tea-things were spread on the scrubbed deal table, a big fire was burning, a dog rose from the hearth and went to her. She stood motionless just inside the kitchen. "Tilly," he called loudly, "have we got any butter?" The stranger stood there like a silence in her black cloak. "Eh?" came the shrill cry from the distance. He shouted his question again. "We've got what's on t' table," answered Tilly's shrill voice out of the dairy. Brangwen looked at the table. There was a large pat of butter on a plate, almost a pound. It was round, and stamped with acorns and oak-leaves. "Can't you come when you're wanted?" he shouted. "Why, what d'you want?" Tilly protested, as she came peeking inquisitively through the other door. She saw the strange woman, stared at her with cross-eyes, but said nothing. "Haven't we any butter?" asked Brangwen again, impatiently, as if he could command some by his question. "I tell you there's what's on t' table," said Tilly, impatient that she was unable to create any to his demand. "We haven't a morsel besides." There was a moment's silence. The stranger spoke, in her curiously distinct, detached manner of one who must think her speech first. "Oh, then thank you very much. I am sorry that I have come to trouble you." She could not understand the entire lack of manners, was slightly puzzled. Any politeness would have made the situation quite impersonal. But here it was a case of wills in confusion. Brangwen flushed at her polite speech. Still he did not let her go. "Get summat an' wrap that up for her," he said to Tilly, looking at the butter on the table. And taking a clean knife, he cut off that side of the butter where it was touched. His speech, the "for her", penetrated slowly into the foreign woman and angered Tilly. "Vicar has his butter fra Brown's by rights," said the insuppressible servant-woman. "We s'll be churnin' to-morrow mornin' first thing." "Yes"--the long-drawn foreign yes--"yes," said the Polish woman, "I went to Mrs. Brown's. She hasn't any more." Tilly bridled her head, bursting to say that, according to the etiquette of people who bought butter, it was no sort of manners whatever coming to a place cool as you like and knocking at the front door asking for a pound as a stop-gap while your other people were short. If you go to Brown's you go to Brown's, an' my butter isn't just to make shift when Brown's has got none. Brangwen understood perfectly this unspoken speech of Tilly's. The Polish lady did not. And as she wanted butter for the vicar, and as Tilly was churning in the morning, she waited. "Sluther up now," said Brangwen loudly after this silence had resolved itself out; and Tilly disappeared through the inner door. "I am afraid that I should not come, so," said the stranger, looking at him enquiringly, as if referring to him for what it was usual to do. He felt confused. "How's that?" he said, trying to be genial and being only protective. "Do you----?" she began deliberately. But she was not sure of her ground, and the conversation came to an end. Her eyes looked at him all the while, because she could not speak the language. They stood facing each other. The dog walked away from her to him. He bent down to it. "And how's your little girl?" he asked. "Yes, thank you, she is very well," was the reply, a phrase of polite speech in a foreign language merely. "Sit you down," he said. And she sat in a chair, her slim arms, coming through the slits of her cloak, resting on her lap. "You're not used to these parts," he said, still standing on the hearthrug with his back to the fire, coatless, looking with curious directness at the woman. Her self-possession pleased him and inspired him, set him curiously free. It seemed to him almost brutal to feel so master of himself and of the situation. Her eyes rested on him for a moment, questioning, as she thought of the meaning of his speech. "No," she said, understanding. "No--it is strange." "You find it middlin' rough?" he said. Her eyes waited on him, so that he should say it again. "Our ways are rough to you," he repeated. "Yes--yes, I understand. Yes, it is different, it is strange. But I was in Yorkshire----" "Oh, well then," he said, "it's no worse here than what they are up there." She did not quite understand. His protective manner, and his sureness, and his intimacy, puzzled her. What did he mean? If he was her equal, why did he behave so without formality? "No----" she said, vaguely, her eyes resting on him. She saw him fresh and naive, uncouth, almost entirely beyond relationship with her. Yet he was good-looking, with his fair hair and blue eyes full of energy, and with his healthy body that seemed to take equality with her. She watched him steadily. He was difficult for her to understand, warm, uncouth, and confident as he was, sure on his feet as if he did not know what it was to be unsure. What then was it that gave him this curious stability? She did not know. She wondered. She looked round the room he lived in. It had a close intimacy that fascinated and almost frightened her. The furniture was old and familiar as old people, the whole place seemed so kin to him, as if it partook of his being, that she was uneasy. "It is already a long time that you have lived in this house--yes?" she asked. "I've always lived here," he said. "Yes--but your people--your family?" "We've been here above two hundred years," he said. Her eyes were on him all the time, wide-open and trying to grasp him. He felt that he was there for her. "It is your own place, the house, the farm----?" "Yes," he said. He looked down at her and met her look. It disturbed her. She did not know him. He was a foreigner, they had nothing to do with each other. Yet his look disturbed her to knowledge of him. He was so strangely confident and direct. "You live quite alone?" "Yes--if you call it alone?" She did not understand. It seemed unusual to her. What was the meaning of it? And whenever her eyes, after watching him for some time, inevitably met his, she was aware of a heat beating up over her consciousness. She sat motionless and in conflict. Who was this strange man who was at once so near to her? What was happening to her? Something in his young, warm-twinkling eyes seemed to assume a right to her, to speak to her, to extend her his protection. But how? Why did he speak to her? Why were his eyes so certain, so full of light and confident, waiting for no permission nor signal? Tilly returned with a large leaf and found the two silent. At once he felt it incumbent on him to speak, now the serving-woman had come back. "How old is your little girl?" he asked. "Four years," she replied. "Her father hasn't been dead long, then?" he asked. "She was one year when he died." "Three years?" "Yes, three years that he is dead--yes." Curiously quiet she was, almost abstracted, answering these questions. She looked at him again, with some maidenhood opening in her eyes. He felt he could not move, neither towards her nor away from her. Something about her presence hurt him, till he was almost rigid before her. He saw the girl's wondering look rise in her eyes. Tilly handed her the butter and she rose. "Thank you very much," she said. "How much is it?" "We'll make th' vicar a present of it," he said. "It'll do for me goin' to church." "It 'ud look better of you if you went to church and took th' money for your butter," said Tilly, persistent in her claim to him. "You'd have to put in, shouldn't you?" he said. "How much, please?" said the Polish woman to Tilly. Brangwen stood by and let be. "Then, thank you very much," she said. "Bring your little girl down sometime to look at th' fowls and horses," he said,--"if she'd like it." "Yes, she would like it," said the stranger. And she went. Brangwen stood dimmed by her departure. He could not notice Tilly, who was looking at him uneasily, wanting to be reassured. He could not think of anything. He felt that he had made some invisible connection with the strange woman. A daze had come over his mind, he had another centre of consciousness. In his breast, or in his bowels, somewhere in his body, there had started another activity. It was as if a strong light were burning there, and he was blind within it, unable to know anything, except that this transfiguration burned between him and her, connecting them, like a secret power. Since she had come to the house he went about in a daze, scarcely seeing even the things he handled, drifting, quiescent, in a state of metamorphosis. He submitted to that which was happening to him, letting go his will, suffering the loss of himself, dormant always on the brink of ecstasy, like a creature evolving to a new birth. She came twice with her child to the farm, but there was this lull between them, an intense calm and passivity like a torpor upon them, so that there was no active change took place. He was almost unaware of the child, yet by his native good humour he gained her confidence, even her affection, setting her on a horse to ride, giving her corn for the fowls. Once he drove the mother and child from Ilkeston, picking them up on the road. The child huddled close to him as if for love, the mother sat very still. There was a vagueness, like a soft mist over all of them, and a silence as if their wills were suspended. Only he saw her hands, ungloved, folded in her lap, and he noticed the wedding-ring on her finger. It excluded him: it was a closed circle. It bound her life, the wedding-ring, it stood for her life in which he could have no part. Nevertheless, beyond all this, there was herself and himself which should meet. As he helped her down from the trap, almost lifting her, he felt he had some right to take her thus between his hands. She belonged as yet to that other, to that which was behind. But he must care for her also. She was too living to be neglected. Sometimes her vagueness, in which he was lost, made him angry, made him rage. But he held himself still as yet. She had no response, no being towards him. It puzzled and enraged him, but he submitted for a long time. Then, from the accumulated troubling of her ignoring him, gradually a fury broke out, destructive, and he wanted to go away, to escape her. It happened she came down to the Marsh with the child whilst he was in this state. Then he stood over against her, strong and heavy in his revolt, and though he said nothing, still she felt his anger and heavy impatience grip hold of her, she was shaken again as out of a torpor. Again her heart stirred with a quick, out-running impulse, she looked at him, at the stranger who was not a gentleman yet who insisted on coming into her life, and the pain of a new birth in herself strung all her veins to a new form. She would have to begin again, to find a new being, a new form, to respond to that blind, insistent figure standing over against her. A shiver, a sickness of new birth passed over her, the flame leaped up him, under his skin. She wanted it, this new life from him, with him, yet she must defend herself against it, for it was a destruction. As he worked alone on the land, or sat up with his ewes at lambing time, the facts and material of his daily life fell away, leaving the kernel of his purpose clean. And then it came upon him that he would marry her and she would be his life. Gradually, even without seeing her, he came to know her. He would have liked to think of her as of something given into his protection, like a child without parents. But it was forbidden him. He had to come down from this pleasant view of the case. She might refuse him. And besides, he was afraid of her. But during the long February nights with the ewes in labour, looking out from the shelter into the flashing stars, he knew he did not belong to himself. He must admit that he was only fragmentary, something incomplete and subject. There were the stars in the dark heaven travelling, the whole host passing by on some eternal voyage. So he sat small and submissive to the greater ordering. Unless she would come to him, he must remain as a nothingness. It was a hard experience. But, after her repeated obliviousness to him, after he had seen so often that he did not exist for her, after he had raged and tried to escape, and said he was good enough by himself, he was a man, and could stand alone, he must, in the starry multiplicity of the night humble himself, and admit and know that without her he was nothing. He was nothing. But with her, he would be real. If she were now walking across the frosty grass near the sheep-shelter, through the fretful bleating of the ewes and lambs, she would bring him completeness and perfection. And if it should be so, that she should come to him! It should be so--it was ordained so. He was a long time resolving definitely to ask her to marry him. And he knew, if he asked her, she must really acquiesce. She must, it could not be otherwise. He had learned a little of her. She was poor, quite alone, and had had a hard time in London, both before and after her husband died. But in Poland she was a lady well born, a landowner's daughter. All these things were only words to him, the fact of her superior birth, the fact that her husband had been a brilliant doctor, the fact that he himself was her inferior in almost every way of distinction. There was an inner reality, a logic of the soul, which connected her with him. One evening in March, when the wind was roaring outside, came the moment to ask her. He had sat with his hands before him, leaning to the fire. And as he watched the fire, he knew almost without thinking that he was going this evening. "Have you got a clean shirt?" he asked Tilly. "You know you've got clean shirts," she said. "Ay,--bring me a white one." Tilly brought down one of the linen shirts he had inherited from his father, putting it before him to air at the fire. She loved him with a dumb, aching love as he sat leaning with his arms on his knees, still and absorbed, unaware of her. Lately, a quivering inclination to cry had come over her, when she did anything for him in his presence. Now her hands trembled as she spread the shirt. He was never shouting and teasing now. The deep stillness there was in the house made her tremble. He went to wash himself. Queer little breaks of consciousness seemed to rise and burst like bubbles out of the depths of his stillness. "It's got to be done," he said as he stooped to take the shirt out of the fender, "it's got to be done, so why balk it?" And as he combed his hair before the mirror on the wall, he retorted to himself, superficially: "The woman's not speechless dumb. She's not clutterin' at the nipple. She's got the right to please herself, and displease whosoever she likes." This streak of common sense carried him a little further. "Did you want anythink?" asked Tilly, suddenly appearing, having heard him speak. She stood watching him comb his fair beard. His eyes were calm and uninterrupted. "Ay," he said, "where have you put the scissors?" She brought them to him, and stood watching as, chin forward, he trimmed his beard. "Don't go an' crop yourself as if you was at a shearin' contest," she said, anxiously. He blew the fine-curled hair quickly off his lips. He put on all clean clothes, folded his stock carefully, and donned his best coat. Then, being ready, as grey twilight was falling, he went across to the orchard to gather the daffodils. The wind was roaring in the apple trees, the yellow flowers swayed violently up and down, he heard even the fine whisper of their spears as he stooped to break the flattened, brittle stems of the flowers. "What's to-do?" shouted a friend who met him as he left the garden gate. "Bit of courtin', like," said Brangwen. And Tilly, in a great state of trepidation and excitement, let the wind whisk her over the field to the big gate, whence she could watch him go. He went up the hill and on towards the vicarage, the wind roaring through the hedges, whilst he tried to shelter his bunch of daffodils by his side. He did not think of anything, only knew that the wind was blowing. Night was falling, the bare trees drummed and whistled. The vicar, he knew, would be in his study, the Polish woman in the kitchen, a comfortable room, with her child. In the darkest of twilight, he went through the gate and down the path where a few daffodils stooped in the wind, and shattered crocuses made a pale, colourless ravel. There was a light streaming on to the bushes at the back from the kitchen window. He began to hesitate. How could he do this? Looking through the window, he saw her seated in the rocking-chair with the child, already in its nightdress, sitting on her knee. The fair head with its wild, fierce hair was drooping towards the fire-warmth, which reflected on the bright cheeks and clear skin of the child, who seemed to be musing, almost like a grown-up person. The mother's face was dark and still, and he saw, with a pang, that she was away back in the life that had been. The child's hair gleamed like spun glass, her face was illuminated till it seemed like wax lit up from the inside. The wind boomed strongly. Mother and child sat motionless, silent, the child staring with vacant dark eyes into the fire, the mother looking into space. The little girl was almost asleep. It was her will which kept her eyes so wide. Suddenly she looked round, troubled, as the wind shook the house, and Brangwen saw the small lips move. The mother began to rock, he heard the slight crunch of the rockers of the chair. Then he heard the low, monotonous murmur of a song in a foreign language. Then a great burst of wind, the mother seemed to have drifted away, the child's eyes were black and dilated. Brangwen looked up at the clouds which packed in great, alarming haste across the dark sky. Then there came the child's high, complaining, yet imperative voice: "Don't sing that stuff, mother; I don't want to hear it." The singing died away. "You will go to bed," said the mother. He saw the clinging protest of the child, the unmoved farawayness of the mother, the clinging, grasping effort of the child. Then suddenly the clear childish challenge: "I want you to tell me a story." The wind blew, the story began, the child nestled against the mother, Brangwen waited outside, suspended, looking at the wild waving of the trees in the wind and the gathering darkness. He had his fate to follow, he lingered there at the threshold. The child crouched distinct and motionless, curled in against her mother, the eyes dark and unblinking among the keen wisps of hair, like a curled-up animal asleep but for the eyes. The mother sat as if in shadow, the story went on as if by itself. Brangwen stood outside seeing the night fall. He did not notice the passage of time. The hand that held the daffodils was fixed and cold. The story came to an end, the mother rose at last, with the child clinging round her neck. She must be strong, to carry so large a child so easily. The little Anna clung round her mother's neck. The fair, strange face of the child looked over the shoulder of the mother, all asleep but the eyes, and these, wide and dark, kept up the resistance and the fight with something unseen. When they were gone, Brangwen stirred for the first time from the place where he stood, and looked round at the night. He wished it were really as beautiful and familiar as it seemed in these few moments of release. Along with the child, he felt a curious strain on him, a suffering, like a fate. The mother came down again, and began folding the child's clothes. He knocked. She opened wondering, a little bit at bay, like a foreigner, uneasy. "Good evening," he said. "I'll just come in a minute." A change went quickly over her face; she was unprepared. She looked down at him as he stood in the light from the window, holding the daffodils, the darkness behind. In his black clothes she again did not know him. She was almost afraid. But he was already stepping on to the threshold, and closing the door behind him. She turned into the kitchen, startled out of herself by this invasion from the night. He took off his hat, and came towards her. Then he stood in the light, in his black clothes and his black stock, hat in one hand and yellow flowers in the other. She stood away, at his mercy, snatched out of herself. She did not know him, only she knew he was a man come for her. She could only see the dark-clad man's figure standing there upon her, and the gripped fist of flowers. She could not see the face and the living eyes. He was watching her, without knowing her, only aware underneath of her presence. "I come to have a word with you," he said, striding forward to the table, laying down his hat and the flowers, which tumbled apart and lay in a loose heap. She had flinched from his advance. She had no will, no being. The wind boomed in the chimney, and he waited. He had disembarrassed his hands. Now he shut his fists. He was aware of her standing

troubling

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

"Is the child her child?" "I s'd think so--they say so." "Who told you about her?" "Why, Lizzie--a-Monday--we seed her goin' past." "You'd have to be rattling your tongues if anything went past." Brangwen stood musing. That evening he went up to Cossethay to the "Red Lion", half with the intention of hearing more. She was the widow of a Polish doctor, he gathered. Her husband had died, a refugee, in London. She spoke a bit foreign-like, but you could easily make out what she said. She had one little girl named Anna. Lensky was the woman's name, Mrs. Lensky. Brangwen felt that here was the unreality established at last. He felt also a curious certainty about her, as if she were destined to him. It was to him a profound satisfaction that she was a foreigner. A swift change had taken place on the earth for him, as if a new creation were fulfilled, in which he had real existence. Things had all been stark, unreal, barren, mere nullities before. Now they were actualities that he could handle. He dared scarcely think of the woman. He was afraid. Only all the time he was aware of her presence not far off, he lived in her. But he dared not know her, even acquaint himself with her by thinking of her. One day he met her walking along the road with her little girl. It was a child with a face like a bud of apple-blossom, and glistening fair hair like thistle-down sticking out in straight, wild, flamy pieces, and very dark eyes. The child clung jealously to her mother's side when he looked at her, staring with resentful black eyes. But the mother glanced at him again, almost vacantly. And the very vacancy of her look inflamed him. She had wide grey-brown eyes with very dark, fathomless pupils. He felt the fine flame running under his skin, as if all his veins had caught fire on the surface. And he went on walking without knowledge. It was coming, he knew, his fate. The world was submitting to its transformation. He made no move: it would come, what would come. When his sister Effie came to the Marsh for a week, he went with her for once to church. In the tiny place, with its mere dozen pews, he sat not far from the stranger. There was a fineness about her, a poignancy about the way she sat and held her head lifted. She was strange, from far off, yet so intimate. She was from far away, a presence, so close to his soul. She was not really there, sitting in Cossethay church beside her little girl. She was not living the apparent life of her days. She belonged to somewhere else. He felt it poignantly, as something real and natural. But a pang of fear for his own concrete life, that was only Cossethay, hurt him, and gave him misgiving. Her thick dark brows almost met above her irregular nose, she had a wide, rather thick mouth. But her face was lifted to another world of life: not to heaven or death: but to some place where she still lived, in spite of her body's absence. The child beside her watched everything with wide, black eyes. She had an odd little defiant look, her little red mouth was pinched shut. She seemed to be jealously guarding something, to be always on the alert for defence. She met Brangwen's near, vacant, intimate gaze, and a palpitating hostility, almost like a flame of pain, came into the wide, over-conscious dark eyes. The old clergyman droned on, Cossethay sat unmoved as usual. And there was the foreign woman with a foreign air about her, inviolate, and the strange child, also foreign, jealously guarding something. When the service was over, he walked in the way of another existence out of the church. As he went down the church-path with his sister, behind the woman and child, the little girl suddenly broke from her mother's hand, and slipped back with quick, almost invisible movement, and was picking at something almost under Brangwen's feet. Her tiny fingers were fine and quick, but they missed the red button. "Have you found something?" said Brangwen to her. And he also stooped for the button. But she had got it, and she stood back with it pressed against her little coat, her black eyes flaring at him, as if to forbid him to notice her. Then, having silenced him, she turned with a swift "Mother----," and was gone down the path. The mother had stood watching impassive, looking not at the child, but at Brangwen. He became aware of the woman looking at him, standing there isolated yet for him dominant in her foreign existence. He did not know what to do, and turned to his sister. But the wide grey eyes, almost vacant yet so moving, held him beyond himself. "Mother, I may have it, mayn't I?" came the child's proud, silvery tones. "Mother"-she seemed always to be calling her mother to remember her-"mother"-and she had nothing to continue now her mother had replied "Yes, my child." But, with ready invention, the child stumbled and ran on, "What are those people's names?" Brangwen heard the abstract: "I don't know, dear." He went on down the road as if he were not living inside himself, but somewhere outside. "Who was that person?" his sister Effie asked. "I couldn't tell you," he answered unknowing. "She's somebody very funny," said Effie, almost in condemnation. "That child's like one bewitched." "Bewitched--how bewitched?" he repeated. "You can see for yourself. The mother's plain, I must say--but the child is like a changeling. She'd be about thirty-five." But he took no notice. His sister talked on. "There's your woman for you," she continued. "You'd better marry her." But still he took no notice. Things were as they were. Another day, at tea-time, as he sat alone at table, there came a knock at the front door. It startled him like a portent. No one ever knocked at the front door. He rose and began slotting back the bolts, turning the big key. When he had opened the door, the strange woman stood on the threshold. "Can you give me a pound of butter?" she asked, in a curious detached way of one speaking a foreign language. He tried to attend to her question. She was looking at him questioningly. But underneath the question, what was there, in her very standing motionless, which affected him? He stepped aside and she at once entered the house, as if the door had been opened to admit her. That startled him. It was the custom for everybody to wait on the doorstep till asked inside. He went into the kitchen and she followed. His tea-things were spread on the scrubbed deal table, a big fire was burning, a dog rose from the hearth and went to her. She stood motionless just inside the kitchen. "Tilly," he called loudly, "have we got any butter?" The stranger stood there like a silence in her black cloak. "Eh?" came the shrill cry from the distance. He shouted his question again. "We've got what's on t' table," answered Tilly's shrill voice out of the dairy. Brangwen looked at the table. There was a large pat of butter on a plate, almost a pound. It was round, and stamped with acorns and oak-leaves. "Can't you come when you're wanted?" he shouted. "Why, what d'you want?" Tilly protested, as she came peeking inquisitively through the other door. She saw the strange woman, stared at her with cross-eyes, but said nothing. "Haven't we any butter?" asked Brangwen again, impatiently, as if he could command some by his question. "I tell you there's what's on t' table," said Tilly, impatient that she was unable to create any to his demand. "We haven't a morsel besides." There was a moment's silence. The stranger spoke, in her curiously distinct, detached manner of one who must think her speech first. "Oh, then thank you very much. I am sorry that I have come to trouble you." She could not understand the entire lack of manners, was slightly puzzled. Any politeness would have made the situation quite impersonal. But here it was a case of wills in confusion. Brangwen flushed at her polite speech. Still he did not let her go. "Get summat an' wrap that up for her," he said to Tilly, looking at the butter on the table. And taking a clean knife, he cut off that side of the butter where it was touched. His speech, the "for her", penetrated slowly into the foreign woman and angered Tilly. "Vicar has his butter fra Brown's by rights," said the insuppressible servant-woman. "We s'll be churnin' to-morrow mornin' first thing." "Yes"--the long-drawn foreign yes--"yes," said the Polish woman, "I went to Mrs. Brown's. She hasn't any more." Tilly bridled her head, bursting to say that, according to the etiquette of people who bought butter, it was no sort of manners whatever coming to a place cool as you like and knocking at the front door asking for a pound as a stop-gap while your other people were short. If you go to Brown's you go to Brown's, an' my butter isn't just to make shift when Brown's has got none. Brangwen understood perfectly this unspoken speech of Tilly's. The Polish lady did not. And as she wanted butter for the vicar, and as Tilly was churning in the morning, she waited. "Sluther up now," said Brangwen loudly after this silence had resolved itself out; and Tilly disappeared through the inner door. "I am afraid that I should not come, so," said the stranger, looking at him enquiringly, as if referring to him for what it was usual to do. He felt confused. "How's that?" he said, trying to be genial and being only protective. "Do you----?" she began deliberately. But she was not sure of her ground, and the conversation came to an end. Her eyes looked at him all the while, because she could not speak the language. They stood facing each other. The dog walked away from her to him. He bent down to it. "And how's your little girl?" he asked. "Yes, thank you, she is very well," was the reply, a phrase of polite speech in a foreign language merely. "Sit you down," he said. And she sat in a chair, her slim arms, coming through the slits of her cloak, resting on her lap. "You're not used to these parts," he said, still standing on the hearthrug with his back to the fire, coatless, looking with curious directness at the woman. Her self-possession pleased him and inspired him, set him curiously free. It seemed to him almost brutal to feel so master of himself and of the situation. Her eyes rested on him for a moment, questioning, as she thought of the meaning of his speech. "No," she said, understanding. "No--it is strange." "You find it middlin' rough?" he said. Her eyes waited on him, so that he should say it again. "Our ways are rough to you," he repeated. "Yes--yes, I understand. Yes, it is different, it is strange. But I was in Yorkshire----" "Oh, well then," he said, "it's no worse here than what they are up there." She did not quite understand. His protective manner, and his sureness, and his intimacy, puzzled her. What did he mean? If he was her equal, why did he behave so without formality? "No----" she said, vaguely, her eyes resting on him. She saw him fresh and naive, uncouth, almost entirely beyond relationship with her. Yet he was good-looking, with his fair hair and blue eyes full of energy, and with his healthy body that seemed to take equality with her. She watched him steadily. He was difficult for her to understand, warm, uncouth, and confident as he was, sure on his feet as if he did not know what it was to be unsure. What then was it that gave him this curious stability? She did not know. She wondered. She looked round the room he lived in. It had a close intimacy that fascinated and almost frightened her. The furniture was old and familiar as old people, the whole place seemed so kin to him, as if it partook of his being, that she was uneasy. "It is already a long time that you have lived in this house--yes?" she asked. "I've always lived here," he said. "Yes--but your people--your family?" "We've been here above two hundred years," he said. Her eyes were on him all the time, wide-open and trying to grasp him. He felt that he was there for her. "It is your own place, the house, the farm----?" "Yes," he said. He looked down at her and met her look. It disturbed her. She did not know him. He was a foreigner, they had nothing to do with each other. Yet his look disturbed her to knowledge of him. He was so strangely confident and direct. "You live quite alone?" "Yes--if you call it alone?" She did not understand. It seemed unusual to her. What was the meaning of it? And whenever her eyes, after watching him for some time, inevitably met his, she was aware of a heat beating up over her consciousness. She sat motionless and in conflict. Who was this strange man who was at once so near to her? What was happening to her? Something in his young, warm-twinkling eyes seemed to assume a right to her, to speak to her, to extend her his protection. But how? Why did he speak to her? Why were his eyes so certain, so full of light and confident, waiting for no permission nor signal? Tilly returned with a large leaf and found the two silent. At once he felt it incumbent on him to speak, now the serving-woman had come back. "How old is your little girl?" he asked. "Four years," she replied. "Her father hasn't been dead long, then?" he asked. "She was one year when he died." "Three years?" "Yes, three years that he is dead--yes." Curiously quiet she was, almost abstracted, answering these questions. She looked at him again, with some maidenhood opening in her eyes. He felt he could not move, neither towards her nor away from her. Something about her presence hurt him, till he was almost rigid before her. He saw the girl's wondering look rise in her eyes. Tilly handed her the butter and she rose. "Thank you very much," she said. "How much is it?" "We'll make th' vicar a present of it," he said. "It'll do for me goin' to church." "It 'ud look better of you if you went to church and took th' money for your butter," said Tilly, persistent in her claim to him. "You'd have to put in, shouldn't you?" he said. "How much, please?" said the Polish woman to Tilly. Brangwen stood by and let be. "Then, thank you very much," she said. "Bring your little girl down sometime to look at th' fowls and horses," he said,--"if she'd like it." "Yes, she would like it," said the stranger. And she went. Brangwen stood dimmed by her departure. He could not notice Tilly, who was looking at him uneasily, wanting to be reassured. He could not think of anything. He felt that he had made some invisible connection with the strange woman. A daze had come over his mind, he had another centre of consciousness. In his breast, or in his bowels, somewhere in his body, there had started another activity. It was as if a strong light were burning there, and he was blind within it, unable to know anything, except that this transfiguration burned between him and her, connecting them, like a secret power. Since she had come to the house he went about in a daze, scarcely seeing even the things he handled, drifting, quiescent, in a state of metamorphosis. He submitted to that which was happening to him, letting go his will, suffering the loss of himself, dormant always on the brink of ecstasy, like a creature evolving to a new birth. She came twice with her child to the farm, but there was this lull between them, an intense calm and passivity like a torpor upon them, so that there was no active change took place. He was almost unaware of the child, yet by his native good humour he gained her confidence, even her affection, setting her on a horse to ride, giving her corn for the fowls. Once he drove the mother and child from Ilkeston, picking them up on the road. The child huddled close to him as if for love, the mother sat very still. There was a vagueness, like a soft mist over all of them, and a silence as if their wills were suspended. Only he saw her hands, ungloved, folded in her lap, and he noticed the wedding-ring on her finger. It excluded him: it was a closed circle. It bound her life, the wedding-ring, it stood for her life in which he could have no part. Nevertheless, beyond all this, there was herself and himself which should meet. As he helped her down from the trap, almost lifting her, he felt he had some right to take her thus between his hands. She belonged as yet to that other, to that which was behind. But he must care for her also. She was too living to be neglected. Sometimes her vagueness, in which he was lost, made him angry, made him rage. But he held himself still as yet. She had no response, no being towards him. It puzzled and enraged him, but he submitted for a long time. Then, from the accumulated troubling of her ignoring him, gradually a fury broke out, destructive, and he wanted to go away, to escape her. It happened she came down to the Marsh with the child whilst he was in this state. Then he stood over against her, strong and heavy in his revolt, and though he said nothing, still she felt his anger and heavy impatience grip hold of her, she was shaken again as out of a torpor. Again her heart stirred with a quick, out-running impulse, she looked at him, at the stranger who was not a gentleman yet who insisted on coming into her life, and the pain of a new birth in herself strung all her veins to a new form. She would have to begin again, to find a new being, a new form, to respond to that blind, insistent figure standing over against her. A shiver, a sickness of new birth passed over her, the flame leaped up him, under his skin. She wanted it, this new life from him, with him, yet she must defend herself against it, for it was a destruction. As he worked alone on the land, or sat up with his ewes at lambing time, the facts and material of his daily life fell away, leaving the kernel of his purpose clean. And then it came upon him that he would marry her and she would be his life. Gradually, even without seeing her, he came to know her. He would have liked to think of her as of something given into his protection, like a child without parents. But it was forbidden him. He had to come down from this pleasant view of the case. She might refuse him. And besides, he was afraid of her. But during the long February nights with the ewes in labour, looking out from the shelter into the flashing stars, he knew he did not belong to himself. He must admit that he was only fragmentary, something incomplete and subject. There were the stars in the dark heaven travelling, the whole host passing by on some eternal voyage. So he sat small and submissive to the greater ordering. Unless she would come to him, he must remain as a nothingness. It was a hard experience. But, after her repeated obliviousness to him, after he had seen so often that he did not exist for her, after he had raged and tried to escape, and said he was good enough by himself, he was a man, and could stand alone, he must, in the starry multiplicity of the night humble himself, and admit and know that without her he was nothing. He was nothing. But with her, he would be real. If she were now walking across the frosty grass near the sheep-shelter, through the fretful bleating of the ewes and lambs, she would bring him completeness and perfection. And if it should be so, that she should come to him! It should be so--it was ordained so. He was a long time resolving definitely to ask her to marry him. And he knew, if he asked her, she must really acquiesce. She must, it could not be otherwise. He had learned a little of her. She was poor, quite alone, and had had a hard time in London, both before and after her husband died. But in Poland she was a lady well born, a landowner's daughter. All these things were only words to him, the fact of her superior birth, the fact that her husband had been a brilliant doctor, the fact that he himself was her inferior in almost every way of distinction. There was an inner reality, a logic of the soul, which connected her with him. One evening in March, when the wind was roaring outside, came the moment to ask her. He had sat with his hands before him, leaning to the fire. And as he watched the fire, he knew almost without thinking that he was going this evening. "Have you got a clean shirt?" he asked Tilly. "You know you've got clean shirts," she said. "Ay,--bring me a white one." Tilly brought down one of the linen shirts he had inherited from his father, putting it before him to air at the fire. She loved him with a dumb, aching love as he sat leaning with his arms on his knees, still and absorbed, unaware of her. Lately, a quivering inclination to cry had come over her, when she did anything for him in his presence. Now her hands trembled as she spread the shirt. He was never shouting and teasing now. The deep stillness there was in the house made her tremble. He went to wash himself. Queer little breaks of consciousness seemed to rise and burst like bubbles out of the depths of his stillness. "It's got to be done," he said as he stooped to take the shirt out of the fender, "it's got to be done, so why balk it?" And as he combed his hair before the mirror on the wall, he retorted to himself, superficially: "The woman's not speechless dumb. She's not clutterin' at the nipple. She's got the right to please herself, and displease whosoever she likes." This streak of common sense carried him a little further. "Did you want anythink?" asked Tilly, suddenly appearing, having heard him speak. She stood watching him comb his fair beard. His eyes were calm and uninterrupted. "Ay," he said, "where have you put the scissors?" She brought them to him, and stood watching as, chin forward, he trimmed his beard. "Don't go an' crop yourself as if you was at a shearin' contest," she said, anxiously. He blew the fine-curled hair quickly off his lips. He put on all clean clothes, folded his stock carefully, and donned his best coat. Then, being ready, as grey twilight was falling, he went across to the orchard to gather the daffodils. The wind was roaring in the apple trees, the yellow flowers swayed violently up and down, he heard even the fine whisper of their spears as he stooped to break the flattened, brittle stems of the flowers. "What's to-do?" shouted a friend who met him as he left the garden gate. "Bit of courtin', like," said Brangwen. And Tilly, in a great state of trepidation and excitement, let the wind whisk her over the field to the big gate, whence she could watch him go. He went up the hill and on towards the vicarage, the wind roaring through the hedges, whilst he tried to shelter his bunch of daffodils by his side. He did not think of anything, only knew that the wind was blowing. Night was falling, the bare trees drummed and whistled. The vicar, he knew, would be in his study, the Polish woman in the kitchen, a comfortable room, with her child. In the darkest of twilight, he went through the gate and down the path where a few daffodils stooped in the wind, and shattered crocuses made a pale, colourless ravel. There was a light streaming on to the bushes at the back from the kitchen window. He began to hesitate. How could he do this? Looking through the window, he saw her seated in the rocking-chair with the child, already in its nightdress, sitting on her knee. The fair head with its wild, fierce hair was drooping towards the fire-warmth, which reflected on the bright cheeks and clear skin of the child, who seemed to be musing, almost like a grown-up person. The mother's face was dark and still, and he saw, with a pang, that she was away back in the life that had been. The child's hair gleamed like spun glass, her face was illuminated till it seemed like wax lit up from the inside. The wind boomed strongly. Mother and child sat motionless, silent, the child staring with vacant dark eyes into the fire, the mother looking into space. The little girl was almost asleep. It was her will which kept her eyes so wide. Suddenly she looked round, troubled, as the wind shook the house, and Brangwen saw the small lips move. The mother began to rock, he heard the slight crunch of the rockers of the chair. Then he heard the low, monotonous murmur of a song in a foreign language. Then a great burst of wind, the mother seemed to have drifted away, the child's eyes were black and dilated. Brangwen looked up at the clouds which packed in great, alarming haste across the dark sky. Then there came the child's high, complaining, yet imperative voice: "Don't sing that stuff, mother; I don't want to hear it." The singing died away. "You will go to bed," said the mother. He saw the clinging protest of the child, the unmoved farawayness of the mother, the clinging, grasping effort of the child. Then suddenly the clear childish challenge: "I want you to tell me a story." The wind blew, the story began, the child nestled against the mother, Brangwen waited outside, suspended, looking at the wild waving of the trees in the wind and the gathering darkness. He had his fate to follow, he lingered there at the threshold. The child crouched distinct and motionless, curled in against her mother, the eyes dark and unblinking among the keen wisps of hair, like a curled-up animal asleep but for the eyes. The mother sat as if in shadow, the story went on as if by itself. Brangwen stood outside seeing the night fall. He did not notice the passage of time. The hand that held the daffodils was fixed and cold. The story came to an end, the mother rose at last, with the child clinging round her neck. She must be strong, to carry so large a child so easily. The little Anna clung round her mother's neck. The fair, strange face of the child looked over the shoulder of the mother, all asleep but the eyes, and these, wide and dark, kept up the resistance and the fight with something unseen. When they were gone, Brangwen stirred for the first time from the place where he stood, and looked round at the night. He wished it were really as beautiful and familiar as it seemed in these few moments of release. Along with the child, he felt a curious strain on him, a suffering, like a fate. The mother came down again, and began folding the child's clothes. He knocked. She opened wondering, a little bit at bay, like a foreigner, uneasy. "Good evening," he said. "I'll just come in a minute." A change went quickly over her face; she was unprepared. She looked down at him as he stood in the light from the window, holding the daffodils, the darkness behind. In his black clothes she again did not know him. She was almost afraid. But he was already stepping on to the threshold, and closing the door behind him. She turned into the kitchen, startled out of herself by this invasion from the night. He took off his hat, and came towards her. Then he stood in the light, in his black clothes and his black stock, hat in one hand and yellow flowers in the other. She stood away, at his mercy, snatched out of herself. She did not know him, only she knew he was a man come for her. She could only see the dark-clad man's figure standing there upon her, and the gripped fist of flowers. She could not see the face and the living eyes. He was watching her, without knowing her, only aware underneath of her presence. "I come to have a word with you," he said, striding forward to the table, laying down his hat and the flowers, which tumbled apart and lay in a loose heap. She had flinched from his advance. She had no will, no being. The wind boomed in the chimney, and he waited. He had disembarrassed his hands. Now he shut his fists. He was aware of her standing

lurked

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

"Is the child her child?" "I s'd think so--they say so." "Who told you about her?" "Why, Lizzie--a-Monday--we seed her goin' past." "You'd have to be rattling your tongues if anything went past." Brangwen stood musing. That evening he went up to Cossethay to the "Red Lion", half with the intention of hearing more. She was the widow of a Polish doctor, he gathered. Her husband had died, a refugee, in London. She spoke a bit foreign-like, but you could easily make out what she said. She had one little girl named Anna. Lensky was the woman's name, Mrs. Lensky. Brangwen felt that here was the unreality established at last. He felt also a curious certainty about her, as if she were destined to him. It was to him a profound satisfaction that she was a foreigner. A swift change had taken place on the earth for him, as if a new creation were fulfilled, in which he had real existence. Things had all been stark, unreal, barren, mere nullities before. Now they were actualities that he could handle. He dared scarcely think of the woman. He was afraid. Only all the time he was aware of her presence not far off, he lived in her. But he dared not know her, even acquaint himself with her by thinking of her. One day he met her walking along the road with her little girl. It was a child with a face like a bud of apple-blossom, and glistening fair hair like thistle-down sticking out in straight, wild, flamy pieces, and very dark eyes. The child clung jealously to her mother's side when he looked at her, staring with resentful black eyes. But the mother glanced at him again, almost vacantly. And the very vacancy of her look inflamed him. She had wide grey-brown eyes with very dark, fathomless pupils. He felt the fine flame running under his skin, as if all his veins had caught fire on the surface. And he went on walking without knowledge. It was coming, he knew, his fate. The world was submitting to its transformation. He made no move: it would come, what would come. When his sister Effie came to the Marsh for a week, he went with her for once to church. In the tiny place, with its mere dozen pews, he sat not far from the stranger. There was a fineness about her, a poignancy about the way she sat and held her head lifted. She was strange, from far off, yet so intimate. She was from far away, a presence, so close to his soul. She was not really there, sitting in Cossethay church beside her little girl. She was not living the apparent life of her days. She belonged to somewhere else. He felt it poignantly, as something real and natural. But a pang of fear for his own concrete life, that was only Cossethay, hurt him, and gave him misgiving. Her thick dark brows almost met above her irregular nose, she had a wide, rather thick mouth. But her face was lifted to another world of life: not to heaven or death: but to some place where she still lived, in spite of her body's absence. The child beside her watched everything with wide, black eyes. She had an odd little defiant look, her little red mouth was pinched shut. She seemed to be jealously guarding something, to be always on the alert for defence. She met Brangwen's near, vacant, intimate gaze, and a palpitating hostility, almost like a flame of pain, came into the wide, over-conscious dark eyes. The old clergyman droned on, Cossethay sat unmoved as usual. And there was the foreign woman with a foreign air about her, inviolate, and the strange child, also foreign, jealously guarding something. When the service was over, he walked in the way of another existence out of the church. As he went down the church-path with his sister, behind the woman and child, the little girl suddenly broke from her mother's hand, and slipped back with quick, almost invisible movement, and was picking at something almost under Brangwen's feet. Her tiny fingers were fine and quick, but they missed the red button. "Have you found something?" said Brangwen to her. And he also stooped for the button. But she had got it, and she stood back with it pressed against her little coat, her black eyes flaring at him, as if to forbid him to notice her. Then, having silenced him, she turned with a swift "Mother----," and was gone down the path. The mother had stood watching impassive, looking not at the child, but at Brangwen. He became aware of the woman looking at him, standing there isolated yet for him dominant in her foreign existence. He did not know what to do, and turned to his sister. But the wide grey eyes, almost vacant yet so moving, held him beyond himself. "Mother, I may have it, mayn't I?" came the child's proud, silvery tones. "Mother"-she seemed always to be calling her mother to remember her-"mother"-and she had nothing to continue now her mother had replied "Yes, my child." But, with ready invention, the child stumbled and ran on, "What are those people's names?" Brangwen heard the abstract: "I don't know, dear." He went on down the road as if he were not living inside himself, but somewhere outside. "Who was that person?" his sister Effie asked. "I couldn't tell you," he answered unknowing. "She's somebody very funny," said Effie, almost in condemnation. "That child's like one bewitched." "Bewitched--how bewitched?" he repeated. "You can see for yourself. The mother's plain, I must say--but the child is like a changeling. She'd be about thirty-five." But he took no notice. His sister talked on. "There's your woman for you," she continued. "You'd better marry her." But still he took no notice. Things were as they were. Another day, at tea-time, as he sat alone at table, there came a knock at the front door. It startled him like a portent. No one ever knocked at the front door. He rose and began slotting back the bolts, turning the big key. When he had opened the door, the strange woman stood on the threshold. "Can you give me a pound of butter?" she asked, in a curious detached way of one speaking a foreign language. He tried to attend to her question. She was looking at him questioningly. But underneath the question, what was there, in her very standing motionless, which affected him? He stepped aside and she at once entered the house, as if the door had been opened to admit her. That startled him. It was the custom for everybody to wait on the doorstep till asked inside. He went into the kitchen and she followed. His tea-things were spread on the scrubbed deal table, a big fire was burning, a dog rose from the hearth and went to her. She stood motionless just inside the kitchen. "Tilly," he called loudly, "have we got any butter?" The stranger stood there like a silence in her black cloak. "Eh?" came the shrill cry from the distance. He shouted his question again. "We've got what's on t' table," answered Tilly's shrill voice out of the dairy. Brangwen looked at the table. There was a large pat of butter on a plate, almost a pound. It was round, and stamped with acorns and oak-leaves. "Can't you come when you're wanted?" he shouted. "Why, what d'you want?" Tilly protested, as she came peeking inquisitively through the other door. She saw the strange woman, stared at her with cross-eyes, but said nothing. "Haven't we any butter?" asked Brangwen again, impatiently, as if he could command some by his question. "I tell you there's what's on t' table," said Tilly, impatient that she was unable to create any to his demand. "We haven't a morsel besides." There was a moment's silence. The stranger spoke, in her curiously distinct, detached manner of one who must think her speech first. "Oh, then thank you very much. I am sorry that I have come to trouble you." She could not understand the entire lack of manners, was slightly puzzled. Any politeness would have made the situation quite impersonal. But here it was a case of wills in confusion. Brangwen flushed at her polite speech. Still he did not let her go. "Get summat an' wrap that up for her," he said to Tilly, looking at the butter on the table. And taking a clean knife, he cut off that side of the butter where it was touched. His speech, the "for her", penetrated slowly into the foreign woman and angered Tilly. "Vicar has his butter fra Brown's by rights," said the insuppressible servant-woman. "We s'll be churnin' to-morrow mornin' first thing." "Yes"--the long-drawn foreign yes--"yes," said the Polish woman, "I went to Mrs. Brown's. She hasn't any more." Tilly bridled her head, bursting to say that, according to the etiquette of people who bought butter, it was no sort of manners whatever coming to a place cool as you like and knocking at the front door asking for a pound as a stop-gap while your other people were short. If you go to Brown's you go to Brown's, an' my butter isn't just to make shift when Brown's has got none. Brangwen understood perfectly this unspoken speech of Tilly's. The Polish lady did not. And as she wanted butter for the vicar, and as Tilly was churning in the morning, she waited. "Sluther up now," said Brangwen loudly after this silence had resolved itself out; and Tilly disappeared through the inner door. "I am afraid that I should not come, so," said the stranger, looking at him enquiringly, as if referring to him for what it was usual to do. He felt confused. "How's that?" he said, trying to be genial and being only protective. "Do you----?" she began deliberately. But she was not sure of her ground, and the conversation came to an end. Her eyes looked at him all the while, because she could not speak the language. They stood facing each other. The dog walked away from her to him. He bent down to it. "And how's your little girl?" he asked. "Yes, thank you, she is very well," was the reply, a phrase of polite speech in a foreign language merely. "Sit you down," he said. And she sat in a chair, her slim arms, coming through the slits of her cloak, resting on her lap. "You're not used to these parts," he said, still standing on the hearthrug with his back to the fire, coatless, looking with curious directness at the woman. Her self-possession pleased him and inspired him, set him curiously free. It seemed to him almost brutal to feel so master of himself and of the situation. Her eyes rested on him for a moment, questioning, as she thought of the meaning of his speech. "No," she said, understanding. "No--it is strange." "You find it middlin' rough?" he said. Her eyes waited on him, so that he should say it again. "Our ways are rough to you," he repeated. "Yes--yes, I understand. Yes, it is different, it is strange. But I was in Yorkshire----" "Oh, well then," he said, "it's no worse here than what they are up there." She did not quite understand. His protective manner, and his sureness, and his intimacy, puzzled her. What did he mean? If he was her equal, why did he behave so without formality? "No----" she said, vaguely, her eyes resting on him. She saw him fresh and naive, uncouth, almost entirely beyond relationship with her. Yet he was good-looking, with his fair hair and blue eyes full of energy, and with his healthy body that seemed to take equality with her. She watched him steadily. He was difficult for her to understand, warm, uncouth, and confident as he was, sure on his feet as if he did not know what it was to be unsure. What then was it that gave him this curious stability? She did not know. She wondered. She looked round the room he lived in. It had a close intimacy that fascinated and almost frightened her. The furniture was old and familiar as old people, the whole place seemed so kin to him, as if it partook of his being, that she was uneasy. "It is already a long time that you have lived in this house--yes?" she asked. "I've always lived here," he said. "Yes--but your people--your family?" "We've been here above two hundred years," he said. Her eyes were on him all the time, wide-open and trying to grasp him. He felt that he was there for her. "It is your own place, the house, the farm----?" "Yes," he said. He looked down at her and met her look. It disturbed her. She did not know him. He was a foreigner, they had nothing to do with each other. Yet his look disturbed her to knowledge of him. He was so strangely confident and direct. "You live quite alone?" "Yes--if you call it alone?" She did not understand. It seemed unusual to her. What was the meaning of it? And whenever her eyes, after watching him for some time, inevitably met his, she was aware of a heat beating up over her consciousness. She sat motionless and in conflict. Who was this strange man who was at once so near to her? What was happening to her? Something in his young, warm-twinkling eyes seemed to assume a right to her, to speak to her, to extend her his protection. But how? Why did he speak to her? Why were his eyes so certain, so full of light and confident, waiting for no permission nor signal? Tilly returned with a large leaf and found the two silent. At once he felt it incumbent on him to speak, now the serving-woman had come back. "How old is your little girl?" he asked. "Four years," she replied. "Her father hasn't been dead long, then?" he asked. "She was one year when he died." "Three years?" "Yes, three years that he is dead--yes." Curiously quiet she was, almost abstracted, answering these questions. She looked at him again, with some maidenhood opening in her eyes. He felt he could not move, neither towards her nor away from her. Something about her presence hurt him, till he was almost rigid before her. He saw the girl's wondering look rise in her eyes. Tilly handed her the butter and she rose. "Thank you very much," she said. "How much is it?" "We'll make th' vicar a present of it," he said. "It'll do for me goin' to church." "It 'ud look better of you if you went to church and took th' money for your butter," said Tilly, persistent in her claim to him. "You'd have to put in, shouldn't you?" he said. "How much, please?" said the Polish woman to Tilly. Brangwen stood by and let be. "Then, thank you very much," she said. "Bring your little girl down sometime to look at th' fowls and horses," he said,--"if she'd like it." "Yes, she would like it," said the stranger. And she went. Brangwen stood dimmed by her departure. He could not notice Tilly, who was looking at him uneasily, wanting to be reassured. He could not think of anything. He felt that he had made some invisible connection with the strange woman. A daze had come over his mind, he had another centre of consciousness. In his breast, or in his bowels, somewhere in his body, there had started another activity. It was as if a strong light were burning there, and he was blind within it, unable to know anything, except that this transfiguration burned between him and her, connecting them, like a secret power. Since she had come to the house he went about in a daze, scarcely seeing even the things he handled, drifting, quiescent, in a state of metamorphosis. He submitted to that which was happening to him, letting go his will, suffering the loss of himself, dormant always on the brink of ecstasy, like a creature evolving to a new birth. She came twice with her child to the farm, but there was this lull between them, an intense calm and passivity like a torpor upon them, so that there was no active change took place. He was almost unaware of the child, yet by his native good humour he gained her confidence, even her affection, setting her on a horse to ride, giving her corn for the fowls. Once he drove the mother and child from Ilkeston, picking them up on the road. The child huddled close to him as if for love, the mother sat very still. There was a vagueness, like a soft mist over all of them, and a silence as if their wills were suspended. Only he saw her hands, ungloved, folded in her lap, and he noticed the wedding-ring on her finger. It excluded him: it was a closed circle. It bound her life, the wedding-ring, it stood for her life in which he could have no part. Nevertheless, beyond all this, there was herself and himself which should meet. As he helped her down from the trap, almost lifting her, he felt he had some right to take her thus between his hands. She belonged as yet to that other, to that which was behind. But he must care for her also. She was too living to be neglected. Sometimes her vagueness, in which he was lost, made him angry, made him rage. But he held himself still as yet. She had no response, no being towards him. It puzzled and enraged him, but he submitted for a long time. Then, from the accumulated troubling of her ignoring him, gradually a fury broke out, destructive, and he wanted to go away, to escape her. It happened she came down to the Marsh with the child whilst he was in this state. Then he stood over against her, strong and heavy in his revolt, and though he said nothing, still she felt his anger and heavy impatience grip hold of her, she was shaken again as out of a torpor. Again her heart stirred with a quick, out-running impulse, she looked at him, at the stranger who was not a gentleman yet who insisted on coming into her life, and the pain of a new birth in herself strung all her veins to a new form. She would have to begin again, to find a new being, a new form, to respond to that blind, insistent figure standing over against her. A shiver, a sickness of new birth passed over her, the flame leaped up him, under his skin. She wanted it, this new life from him, with him, yet she must defend herself against it, for it was a destruction. As he worked alone on the land, or sat up with his ewes at lambing time, the facts and material of his daily life fell away, leaving the kernel of his purpose clean. And then it came upon him that he would marry her and she would be his life. Gradually, even without seeing her, he came to know her. He would have liked to think of her as of something given into his protection, like a child without parents. But it was forbidden him. He had to come down from this pleasant view of the case. She might refuse him. And besides, he was afraid of her. But during the long February nights with the ewes in labour, looking out from the shelter into the flashing stars, he knew he did not belong to himself. He must admit that he was only fragmentary, something incomplete and subject. There were the stars in the dark heaven travelling, the whole host passing by on some eternal voyage. So he sat small and submissive to the greater ordering. Unless she would come to him, he must remain as a nothingness. It was a hard experience. But, after her repeated obliviousness to him, after he had seen so often that he did not exist for her, after he had raged and tried to escape, and said he was good enough by himself, he was a man, and could stand alone, he must, in the starry multiplicity of the night humble himself, and admit and know that without her he was nothing. He was nothing. But with her, he would be real. If she were now walking across the frosty grass near the sheep-shelter, through the fretful bleating of the ewes and lambs, she would bring him completeness and perfection. And if it should be so, that she should come to him! It should be so--it was ordained so. He was a long time resolving definitely to ask her to marry him. And he knew, if he asked her, she must really acquiesce. She must, it could not be otherwise. He had learned a little of her. She was poor, quite alone, and had had a hard time in London, both before and after her husband died. But in Poland she was a lady well born, a landowner's daughter. All these things were only words to him, the fact of her superior birth, the fact that her husband had been a brilliant doctor, the fact that he himself was her inferior in almost every way of distinction. There was an inner reality, a logic of the soul, which connected her with him. One evening in March, when the wind was roaring outside, came the moment to ask her. He had sat with his hands before him, leaning to the fire. And as he watched the fire, he knew almost without thinking that he was going this evening. "Have you got a clean shirt?" he asked Tilly. "You know you've got clean shirts," she said. "Ay,--bring me a white one." Tilly brought down one of the linen shirts he had inherited from his father, putting it before him to air at the fire. She loved him with a dumb, aching love as he sat leaning with his arms on his knees, still and absorbed, unaware of her. Lately, a quivering inclination to cry had come over her, when she did anything for him in his presence. Now her hands trembled as she spread the shirt. He was never shouting and teasing now. The deep stillness there was in the house made her tremble. He went to wash himself. Queer little breaks of consciousness seemed to rise and burst like bubbles out of the depths of his stillness. "It's got to be done," he said as he stooped to take the shirt out of the fender, "it's got to be done, so why balk it?" And as he combed his hair before the mirror on the wall, he retorted to himself, superficially: "The woman's not speechless dumb. She's not clutterin' at the nipple. She's got the right to please herself, and displease whosoever she likes." This streak of common sense carried him a little further. "Did you want anythink?" asked Tilly, suddenly appearing, having heard him speak. She stood watching him comb his fair beard. His eyes were calm and uninterrupted. "Ay," he said, "where have you put the scissors?" She brought them to him, and stood watching as, chin forward, he trimmed his beard. "Don't go an' crop yourself as if you was at a shearin' contest," she said, anxiously. He blew the fine-curled hair quickly off his lips. He put on all clean clothes, folded his stock carefully, and donned his best coat. Then, being ready, as grey twilight was falling, he went across to the orchard to gather the daffodils. The wind was roaring in the apple trees, the yellow flowers swayed violently up and down, he heard even the fine whisper of their spears as he stooped to break the flattened, brittle stems of the flowers. "What's to-do?" shouted a friend who met him as he left the garden gate. "Bit of courtin', like," said Brangwen. And Tilly, in a great state of trepidation and excitement, let the wind whisk her over the field to the big gate, whence she could watch him go. He went up the hill and on towards the vicarage, the wind roaring through the hedges, whilst he tried to shelter his bunch of daffodils by his side. He did not think of anything, only knew that the wind was blowing. Night was falling, the bare trees drummed and whistled. The vicar, he knew, would be in his study, the Polish woman in the kitchen, a comfortable room, with her child. In the darkest of twilight, he went through the gate and down the path where a few daffodils stooped in the wind, and shattered crocuses made a pale, colourless ravel. There was a light streaming on to the bushes at the back from the kitchen window. He began to hesitate. How could he do this? Looking through the window, he saw her seated in the rocking-chair with the child, already in its nightdress, sitting on her knee. The fair head with its wild, fierce hair was drooping towards the fire-warmth, which reflected on the bright cheeks and clear skin of the child, who seemed to be musing, almost like a grown-up person. The mother's face was dark and still, and he saw, with a pang, that she was away back in the life that had been. The child's hair gleamed like spun glass, her face was illuminated till it seemed like wax lit up from the inside. The wind boomed strongly. Mother and child sat motionless, silent, the child staring with vacant dark eyes into the fire, the mother looking into space. The little girl was almost asleep. It was her will which kept her eyes so wide. Suddenly she looked round, troubled, as the wind shook the house, and Brangwen saw the small lips move. The mother began to rock, he heard the slight crunch of the rockers of the chair. Then he heard the low, monotonous murmur of a song in a foreign language. Then a great burst of wind, the mother seemed to have drifted away, the child's eyes were black and dilated. Brangwen looked up at the clouds which packed in great, alarming haste across the dark sky. Then there came the child's high, complaining, yet imperative voice: "Don't sing that stuff, mother; I don't want to hear it." The singing died away. "You will go to bed," said the mother. He saw the clinging protest of the child, the unmoved farawayness of the mother, the clinging, grasping effort of the child. Then suddenly the clear childish challenge: "I want you to tell me a story." The wind blew, the story began, the child nestled against the mother, Brangwen waited outside, suspended, looking at the wild waving of the trees in the wind and the gathering darkness. He had his fate to follow, he lingered there at the threshold. The child crouched distinct and motionless, curled in against her mother, the eyes dark and unblinking among the keen wisps of hair, like a curled-up animal asleep but for the eyes. The mother sat as if in shadow, the story went on as if by itself. Brangwen stood outside seeing the night fall. He did not notice the passage of time. The hand that held the daffodils was fixed and cold. The story came to an end, the mother rose at last, with the child clinging round her neck. She must be strong, to carry so large a child so easily. The little Anna clung round her mother's neck. The fair, strange face of the child looked over the shoulder of the mother, all asleep but the eyes, and these, wide and dark, kept up the resistance and the fight with something unseen. When they were gone, Brangwen stirred for the first time from the place where he stood, and looked round at the night. He wished it were really as beautiful and familiar as it seemed in these few moments of release. Along with the child, he felt a curious strain on him, a suffering, like a fate. The mother came down again, and began folding the child's clothes. He knocked. She opened wondering, a little bit at bay, like a foreigner, uneasy. "Good evening," he said. "I'll just come in a minute." A change went quickly over her face; she was unprepared. She looked down at him as he stood in the light from the window, holding the daffodils, the darkness behind. In his black clothes she again did not know him. She was almost afraid. But he was already stepping on to the threshold, and closing the door behind him. She turned into the kitchen, startled out of herself by this invasion from the night. He took off his hat, and came towards her. Then he stood in the light, in his black clothes and his black stock, hat in one hand and yellow flowers in the other. She stood away, at his mercy, snatched out of herself. She did not know him, only she knew he was a man come for her. She could only see the dark-clad man's figure standing there upon her, and the gripped fist of flowers. She could not see the face and the living eyes. He was watching her, without knowing her, only aware underneath of her presence. "I come to have a word with you," he said, striding forward to the table, laying down his hat and the flowers, which tumbled apart and lay in a loose heap. She had flinched from his advance. She had no will, no being. The wind boomed in the chimney, and he waited. He had disembarrassed his hands. Now he shut his fists. He was aware of her standing

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

"Is the child her child?" "I s'd think so--they say so." "Who told you about her?" "Why, Lizzie--a-Monday--we seed her goin' past." "You'd have to be rattling your tongues if anything went past." Brangwen stood musing. That evening he went up to Cossethay to the "Red Lion", half with the intention of hearing more. She was the widow of a Polish doctor, he gathered. Her husband had died, a refugee, in London. She spoke a bit foreign-like, but you could easily make out what she said. She had one little girl named Anna. Lensky was the woman's name, Mrs. Lensky. Brangwen felt that here was the unreality established at last. He felt also a curious certainty about her, as if she were destined to him. It was to him a profound satisfaction that she was a foreigner. A swift change had taken place on the earth for him, as if a new creation were fulfilled, in which he had real existence. Things had all been stark, unreal, barren, mere nullities before. Now they were actualities that he could handle. He dared scarcely think of the woman. He was afraid. Only all the time he was aware of her presence not far off, he lived in her. But he dared not know her, even acquaint himself with her by thinking of her. One day he met her walking along the road with her little girl. It was a child with a face like a bud of apple-blossom, and glistening fair hair like thistle-down sticking out in straight, wild, flamy pieces, and very dark eyes. The child clung jealously to her mother's side when he looked at her, staring with resentful black eyes. But the mother glanced at him again, almost vacantly. And the very vacancy of her look inflamed him. She had wide grey-brown eyes with very dark, fathomless pupils. He felt the fine flame running under his skin, as if all his veins had caught fire on the surface. And he went on walking without knowledge. It was coming, he knew, his fate. The world was submitting to its transformation. He made no move: it would come, what would come. When his sister Effie came to the Marsh for a week, he went with her for once to church. In the tiny place, with its mere dozen pews, he sat not far from the stranger. There was a fineness about her, a poignancy about the way she sat and held her head lifted. She was strange, from far off, yet so intimate. She was from far away, a presence, so close to his soul. She was not really there, sitting in Cossethay church beside her little girl. She was not living the apparent life of her days. She belonged to somewhere else. He felt it poignantly, as something real and natural. But a pang of fear for his own concrete life, that was only Cossethay, hurt him, and gave him misgiving. Her thick dark brows almost met above her irregular nose, she had a wide, rather thick mouth. But her face was lifted to another world of life: not to heaven or death: but to some place where she still lived, in spite of her body's absence. The child beside her watched everything with wide, black eyes. She had an odd little defiant look, her little red mouth was pinched shut. She seemed to be jealously guarding something, to be always on the alert for defence. She met Brangwen's near, vacant, intimate gaze, and a palpitating hostility, almost like a flame of pain, came into the wide, over-conscious dark eyes. The old clergyman droned on, Cossethay sat unmoved as usual. And there was the foreign woman with a foreign air about her, inviolate, and the strange child, also foreign, jealously guarding something. When the service was over, he walked in the way of another existence out of the church. As he went down the church-path with his sister, behind the woman and child, the little girl suddenly broke from her mother's hand, and slipped back with quick, almost invisible movement, and was picking at something almost under Brangwen's feet. Her tiny fingers were fine and quick, but they missed the red button. "Have you found something?" said Brangwen to her. And he also stooped for the button. But she had got it, and she stood back with it pressed against her little coat, her black eyes flaring at him, as if to forbid him to notice her. Then, having silenced him, she turned with a swift "Mother----," and was gone down the path. The mother had stood watching impassive, looking not at the child, but at Brangwen. He became aware of the woman looking at him, standing there isolated yet for him dominant in her foreign existence. He did not know what to do, and turned to his sister. But the wide grey eyes, almost vacant yet so moving, held him beyond himself. "Mother, I may have it, mayn't I?" came the child's proud, silvery tones. "Mother"-she seemed always to be calling her mother to remember her-"mother"-and she had nothing to continue now her mother had replied "Yes, my child." But, with ready invention, the child stumbled and ran on, "What are those people's names?" Brangwen heard the abstract: "I don't know, dear." He went on down the road as if he were not living inside himself, but somewhere outside. "Who was that person?" his sister Effie asked. "I couldn't tell you," he answered unknowing. "She's somebody very funny," said Effie, almost in condemnation. "That child's like one bewitched." "Bewitched--how bewitched?" he repeated. "You can see for yourself. The mother's plain, I must say--but the child is like a changeling. She'd be about thirty-five." But he took no notice. His sister talked on. "There's your woman for you," she continued. "You'd better marry her." But still he took no notice. Things were as they were. Another day, at tea-time, as he sat alone at table, there came a knock at the front door. It startled him like a portent. No one ever knocked at the front door. He rose and began slotting back the bolts, turning the big key. When he had opened the door, the strange woman stood on the threshold. "Can you give me a pound of butter?" she asked, in a curious detached way of one speaking a foreign language. He tried to attend to her question. She was looking at him questioningly. But underneath the question, what was there, in her very standing motionless, which affected him? He stepped aside and she at once entered the house, as if the door had been opened to admit her. That startled him. It was the custom for everybody to wait on the doorstep till asked inside. He went into the kitchen and she followed. His tea-things were spread on the scrubbed deal table, a big fire was burning, a dog rose from the hearth and went to her. She stood motionless just inside the kitchen. "Tilly," he called loudly, "have we got any butter?" The stranger stood there like a silence in her black cloak. "Eh?" came the shrill cry from the distance. He shouted his question again. "We've got what's on t' table," answered Tilly's shrill voice out of the dairy. Brangwen looked at the table. There was a large pat of butter on a plate, almost a pound. It was round, and stamped with acorns and oak-leaves. "Can't you come when you're wanted?" he shouted. "Why, what d'you want?" Tilly protested, as she came peeking inquisitively through the other door. She saw the strange woman, stared at her with cross-eyes, but said nothing. "Haven't we any butter?" asked Brangwen again, impatiently, as if he could command some by his question. "I tell you there's what's on t' table," said Tilly, impatient that she was unable to create any to his demand. "We haven't a morsel besides." There was a moment's silence. The stranger spoke, in her curiously distinct, detached manner of one who must think her speech first. "Oh, then thank you very much. I am sorry that I have come to trouble you." She could not understand the entire lack of manners, was slightly puzzled. Any politeness would have made the situation quite impersonal. But here it was a case of wills in confusion. Brangwen flushed at her polite speech. Still he did not let her go. "Get summat an' wrap that up for her," he said to Tilly, looking at the butter on the table. And taking a clean knife, he cut off that side of the butter where it was touched. His speech, the "for her", penetrated slowly into the foreign woman and angered Tilly. "Vicar has his butter fra Brown's by rights," said the insuppressible servant-woman. "We s'll be churnin' to-morrow mornin' first thing." "Yes"--the long-drawn foreign yes--"yes," said the Polish woman, "I went to Mrs. Brown's. She hasn't any more." Tilly bridled her head, bursting to say that, according to the etiquette of people who bought butter, it was no sort of manners whatever coming to a place cool as you like and knocking at the front door asking for a pound as a stop-gap while your other people were short. If you go to Brown's you go to Brown's, an' my butter isn't just to make shift when Brown's has got none. Brangwen understood perfectly this unspoken speech of Tilly's. The Polish lady did not. And as she wanted butter for the vicar, and as Tilly was churning in the morning, she waited. "Sluther up now," said Brangwen loudly after this silence had resolved itself out; and Tilly disappeared through the inner door. "I am afraid that I should not come, so," said the stranger, looking at him enquiringly, as if referring to him for what it was usual to do. He felt confused. "How's that?" he said, trying to be genial and being only protective. "Do you----?" she began deliberately. But she was not sure of her ground, and the conversation came to an end. Her eyes looked at him all the while, because she could not speak the language. They stood facing each other. The dog walked away from her to him. He bent down to it. "And how's your little girl?" he asked. "Yes, thank you, she is very well," was the reply, a phrase of polite speech in a foreign language merely. "Sit you down," he said. And she sat in a chair, her slim arms, coming through the slits of her cloak, resting on her lap. "You're not used to these parts," he said, still standing on the hearthrug with his back to the fire, coatless, looking with curious directness at the woman. Her self-possession pleased him and inspired him, set him curiously free. It seemed to him almost brutal to feel so master of himself and of the situation. Her eyes rested on him for a moment, questioning, as she thought of the meaning of his speech. "No," she said, understanding. "No--it is strange." "You find it middlin' rough?" he said. Her eyes waited on him, so that he should say it again. "Our ways are rough to you," he repeated. "Yes--yes, I understand. Yes, it is different, it is strange. But I was in Yorkshire----" "Oh, well then," he said, "it's no worse here than what they are up there." She did not quite understand. His protective manner, and his sureness, and his intimacy, puzzled her. What did he mean? If he was her equal, why did he behave so without formality? "No----" she said, vaguely, her eyes resting on him. She saw him fresh and naive, uncouth, almost entirely beyond relationship with her. Yet he was good-looking, with his fair hair and blue eyes full of energy, and with his healthy body that seemed to take equality with her. She watched him steadily. He was difficult for her to understand, warm, uncouth, and confident as he was, sure on his feet as if he did not know what it was to be unsure. What then was it that gave him this curious stability? She did not know. She wondered. She looked round the room he lived in. It had a close intimacy that fascinated and almost frightened her. The furniture was old and familiar as old people, the whole place seemed so kin to him, as if it partook of his being, that she was uneasy. "It is already a long time that you have lived in this house--yes?" she asked. "I've always lived here," he said. "Yes--but your people--your family?" "We've been here above two hundred years," he said. Her eyes were on him all the time, wide-open and trying to grasp him. He felt that he was there for her. "It is your own place, the house, the farm----?" "Yes," he said. He looked down at her and met her look. It disturbed her. She did not know him. He was a foreigner, they had nothing to do with each other. Yet his look disturbed her to knowledge of him. He was so strangely confident and direct. "You live quite alone?" "Yes--if you call it alone?" She did not understand. It seemed unusual to her. What was the meaning of it? And whenever her eyes, after watching him for some time, inevitably met his, she was aware of a heat beating up over her consciousness. She sat motionless and in conflict. Who was this strange man who was at once so near to her? What was happening to her? Something in his young, warm-twinkling eyes seemed to assume a right to her, to speak to her, to extend her his protection. But how? Why did he speak to her? Why were his eyes so certain, so full of light and confident, waiting for no permission nor signal? Tilly returned with a large leaf and found the two silent. At once he felt it incumbent on him to speak, now the serving-woman had come back. "How old is your little girl?" he asked. "Four years," she replied. "Her father hasn't been dead long, then?" he asked. "She was one year when he died." "Three years?" "Yes, three years that he is dead--yes." Curiously quiet she was, almost abstracted, answering these questions. She looked at him again, with some maidenhood opening in her eyes. He felt he could not move, neither towards her nor away from her. Something about her presence hurt him, till he was almost rigid before her. He saw the girl's wondering look rise in her eyes. Tilly handed her the butter and she rose. "Thank you very much," she said. "How much is it?" "We'll make th' vicar a present of it," he said. "It'll do for me goin' to church." "It 'ud look better of you if you went to church and took th' money for your butter," said Tilly, persistent in her claim to him. "You'd have to put in, shouldn't you?" he said. "How much, please?" said the Polish woman to Tilly. Brangwen stood by and let be. "Then, thank you very much," she said. "Bring your little girl down sometime to look at th' fowls and horses," he said,--"if she'd like it." "Yes, she would like it," said the stranger. And she went. Brangwen stood dimmed by her departure. He could not notice Tilly, who was looking at him uneasily, wanting to be reassured. He could not think of anything. He felt that he had made some invisible connection with the strange woman. A daze had come over his mind, he had another centre of consciousness. In his breast, or in his bowels, somewhere in his body, there had started another activity. It was as if a strong light were burning there, and he was blind within it, unable to know anything, except that this transfiguration burned between him and her, connecting them, like a secret power. Since she had come to the house he went about in a daze, scarcely seeing even the things he handled, drifting, quiescent, in a state of metamorphosis. He submitted to that which was happening to him, letting go his will, suffering the loss of himself, dormant always on the brink of ecstasy, like a creature evolving to a new birth. She came twice with her child to the farm, but there was this lull between them, an intense calm and passivity like a torpor upon them, so that there was no active change took place. He was almost unaware of the child, yet by his native good humour he gained her confidence, even her affection, setting her on a horse to ride, giving her corn for the fowls. Once he drove the mother and child from Ilkeston, picking them up on the road. The child huddled close to him as if for love, the mother sat very still. There was a vagueness, like a soft mist over all of them, and a silence as if their wills were suspended. Only he saw her hands, ungloved, folded in her lap, and he noticed the wedding-ring on her finger. It excluded him: it was a closed circle. It bound her life, the wedding-ring, it stood for her life in which he could have no part. Nevertheless, beyond all this, there was herself and himself which should meet. As he helped her down from the trap, almost lifting her, he felt he had some right to take her thus between his hands. She belonged as yet to that other, to that which was behind. But he must care for her also. She was too living to be neglected. Sometimes her vagueness, in which he was lost, made him angry, made him rage. But he held himself still as yet. She had no response, no being towards him. It puzzled and enraged him, but he submitted for a long time. Then, from the accumulated troubling of her ignoring him, gradually a fury broke out, destructive, and he wanted to go away, to escape her. It happened she came down to the Marsh with the child whilst he was in this state. Then he stood over against her, strong and heavy in his revolt, and though he said nothing, still she felt his anger and heavy impatience grip hold of her, she was shaken again as out of a torpor. Again her heart stirred with a quick, out-running impulse, she looked at him, at the stranger who was not a gentleman yet who insisted on coming into her life, and the pain of a new birth in herself strung all her veins to a new form. She would have to begin again, to find a new being, a new form, to respond to that blind, insistent figure standing over against her. A shiver, a sickness of new birth passed over her, the flame leaped up him, under his skin. She wanted it, this new life from him, with him, yet she must defend herself against it, for it was a destruction. As he worked alone on the land, or sat up with his ewes at lambing time, the facts and material of his daily life fell away, leaving the kernel of his purpose clean. And then it came upon him that he would marry her and she would be his life. Gradually, even without seeing her, he came to know her. He would have liked to think of her as of something given into his protection, like a child without parents. But it was forbidden him. He had to come down from this pleasant view of the case. She might refuse him. And besides, he was afraid of her. But during the long February nights with the ewes in labour, looking out from the shelter into the flashing stars, he knew he did not belong to himself. He must admit that he was only fragmentary, something incomplete and subject. There were the stars in the dark heaven travelling, the whole host passing by on some eternal voyage. So he sat small and submissive to the greater ordering. Unless she would come to him, he must remain as a nothingness. It was a hard experience. But, after her repeated obliviousness to him, after he had seen so often that he did not exist for her, after he had raged and tried to escape, and said he was good enough by himself, he was a man, and could stand alone, he must, in the starry multiplicity of the night humble himself, and admit and know that without her he was nothing. He was nothing. But with her, he would be real. If she were now walking across the frosty grass near the sheep-shelter, through the fretful bleating of the ewes and lambs, she would bring him completeness and perfection. And if it should be so, that she should come to him! It should be so--it was ordained so. He was a long time resolving definitely to ask her to marry him. And he knew, if he asked her, she must really acquiesce. She must, it could not be otherwise. He had learned a little of her. She was poor, quite alone, and had had a hard time in London, both before and after her husband died. But in Poland she was a lady well born, a landowner's daughter. All these things were only words to him, the fact of her superior birth, the fact that her husband had been a brilliant doctor, the fact that he himself was her inferior in almost every way of distinction. There was an inner reality, a logic of the soul, which connected her with him. One evening in March, when the wind was roaring outside, came the moment to ask her. He had sat with his hands before him, leaning to the fire. And as he watched the fire, he knew almost without thinking that he was going this evening. "Have you got a clean shirt?" he asked Tilly. "You know you've got clean shirts," she said. "Ay,--bring me a white one." Tilly brought down one of the linen shirts he had inherited from his father, putting it before him to air at the fire. She loved him with a dumb, aching love as he sat leaning with his arms on his knees, still and absorbed, unaware of her. Lately, a quivering inclination to cry had come over her, when she did anything for him in his presence. Now her hands trembled as she spread the shirt. He was never shouting and teasing now. The deep stillness there was in the house made her tremble. He went to wash himself. Queer little breaks of consciousness seemed to rise and burst like bubbles out of the depths of his stillness. "It's got to be done," he said as he stooped to take the shirt out of the fender, "it's got to be done, so why balk it?" And as he combed his hair before the mirror on the wall, he retorted to himself, superficially: "The woman's not speechless dumb. She's not clutterin' at the nipple. She's got the right to please herself, and displease whosoever she likes." This streak of common sense carried him a little further. "Did you want anythink?" asked Tilly, suddenly appearing, having heard him speak. She stood watching him comb his fair beard. His eyes were calm and uninterrupted. "Ay," he said, "where have you put the scissors?" She brought them to him, and stood watching as, chin forward, he trimmed his beard. "Don't go an' crop yourself as if you was at a shearin' contest," she said, anxiously. He blew the fine-curled hair quickly off his lips. He put on all clean clothes, folded his stock carefully, and donned his best coat. Then, being ready, as grey twilight was falling, he went across to the orchard to gather the daffodils. The wind was roaring in the apple trees, the yellow flowers swayed violently up and down, he heard even the fine whisper of their spears as he stooped to break the flattened, brittle stems of the flowers. "What's to-do?" shouted a friend who met him as he left the garden gate. "Bit of courtin', like," said Brangwen. And Tilly, in a great state of trepidation and excitement, let the wind whisk her over the field to the big gate, whence she could watch him go. He went up the hill and on towards the vicarage, the wind roaring through the hedges, whilst he tried to shelter his bunch of daffodils by his side. He did not think of anything, only knew that the wind was blowing. Night was falling, the bare trees drummed and whistled. The vicar, he knew, would be in his study, the Polish woman in the kitchen, a comfortable room, with her child. In the darkest of twilight, he went through the gate and down the path where a few daffodils stooped in the wind, and shattered crocuses made a pale, colourless ravel. There was a light streaming on to the bushes at the back from the kitchen window. He began to hesitate. How could he do this? Looking through the window, he saw her seated in the rocking-chair with the child, already in its nightdress, sitting on her knee. The fair head with its wild, fierce hair was drooping towards the fire-warmth, which reflected on the bright cheeks and clear skin of the child, who seemed to be musing, almost like a grown-up person. The mother's face was dark and still, and he saw, with a pang, that she was away back in the life that had been. The child's hair gleamed like spun glass, her face was illuminated till it seemed like wax lit up from the inside. The wind boomed strongly. Mother and child sat motionless, silent, the child staring with vacant dark eyes into the fire, the mother looking into space. The little girl was almost asleep. It was her will which kept her eyes so wide. Suddenly she looked round, troubled, as the wind shook the house, and Brangwen saw the small lips move. The mother began to rock, he heard the slight crunch of the rockers of the chair. Then he heard the low, monotonous murmur of a song in a foreign language. Then a great burst of wind, the mother seemed to have drifted away, the child's eyes were black and dilated. Brangwen looked up at the clouds which packed in great, alarming haste across the dark sky. Then there came the child's high, complaining, yet imperative voice: "Don't sing that stuff, mother; I don't want to hear it." The singing died away. "You will go to bed," said the mother. He saw the clinging protest of the child, the unmoved farawayness of the mother, the clinging, grasping effort of the child. Then suddenly the clear childish challenge: "I want you to tell me a story." The wind blew, the story began, the child nestled against the mother, Brangwen waited outside, suspended, looking at the wild waving of the trees in the wind and the gathering darkness. He had his fate to follow, he lingered there at the threshold. The child crouched distinct and motionless, curled in against her mother, the eyes dark and unblinking among the keen wisps of hair, like a curled-up animal asleep but for the eyes. The mother sat as if in shadow, the story went on as if by itself. Brangwen stood outside seeing the night fall. He did not notice the passage of time. The hand that held the daffodils was fixed and cold. The story came to an end, the mother rose at last, with the child clinging round her neck. She must be strong, to carry so large a child so easily. The little Anna clung round her mother's neck. The fair, strange face of the child looked over the shoulder of the mother, all asleep but the eyes, and these, wide and dark, kept up the resistance and the fight with something unseen. When they were gone, Brangwen stirred for the first time from the place where he stood, and looked round at the night. He wished it were really as beautiful and familiar as it seemed in these few moments of release. Along with the child, he felt a curious strain on him, a suffering, like a fate. The mother came down again, and began folding the child's clothes. He knocked. She opened wondering, a little bit at bay, like a foreigner, uneasy. "Good evening," he said. "I'll just come in a minute." A change went quickly over her face; she was unprepared. She looked down at him as he stood in the light from the window, holding the daffodils, the darkness behind. In his black clothes she again did not know him. She was almost afraid. But he was already stepping on to the threshold, and closing the door behind him. She turned into the kitchen, startled out of herself by this invasion from the night. He took off his hat, and came towards her. Then he stood in the light, in his black clothes and his black stock, hat in one hand and yellow flowers in the other. She stood away, at his mercy, snatched out of herself. She did not know him, only she knew he was a man come for her. She could only see the dark-clad man's figure standing there upon her, and the gripped fist of flowers. She could not see the face and the living eyes. He was watching her, without knowing her, only aware underneath of her presence. "I come to have a word with you," he said, striding forward to the table, laying down his hat and the flowers, which tumbled apart and lay in a loose heap. She had flinched from his advance. She had no will, no being. The wind boomed in the chimney, and he waited. He had disembarrassed his hands. Now he shut his fists. He was aware of her standing

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

"Is the child her child?" "I s'd think so--they say so." "Who told you about her?" "Why, Lizzie--a-Monday--we seed her goin' past." "You'd have to be rattling your tongues if anything went past." Brangwen stood musing. That evening he went up to Cossethay to the "Red Lion", half with the intention of hearing more. She was the widow of a Polish doctor, he gathered. Her husband had died, a refugee, in London. She spoke a bit foreign-like, but you could easily make out what she said. She had one little girl named Anna. Lensky was the woman's name, Mrs. Lensky. Brangwen felt that here was the unreality established at last. He felt also a curious certainty about her, as if she were destined to him. It was to him a profound satisfaction that she was a foreigner. A swift change had taken place on the earth for him, as if a new creation were fulfilled, in which he had real existence. Things had all been stark, unreal, barren, mere nullities before. Now they were actualities that he could handle. He dared scarcely think of the woman. He was afraid. Only all the time he was aware of her presence not far off, he lived in her. But he dared not know her, even acquaint himself with her by thinking of her. One day he met her walking along the road with her little girl. It was a child with a face like a bud of apple-blossom, and glistening fair hair like thistle-down sticking out in straight, wild, flamy pieces, and very dark eyes. The child clung jealously to her mother's side when he looked at her, staring with resentful black eyes. But the mother glanced at him again, almost vacantly. And the very vacancy of her look inflamed him. She had wide grey-brown eyes with very dark, fathomless pupils. He felt the fine flame running under his skin, as if all his veins had caught fire on the surface. And he went on walking without knowledge. It was coming, he knew, his fate. The world was submitting to its transformation. He made no move: it would come, what would come. When his sister Effie came to the Marsh for a week, he went with her for once to church. In the tiny place, with its mere dozen pews, he sat not far from the stranger. There was a fineness about her, a poignancy about the way she sat and held her head lifted. She was strange, from far off, yet so intimate. She was from far away, a presence, so close to his soul. She was not really there, sitting in Cossethay church beside her little girl. She was not living the apparent life of her days. She belonged to somewhere else. He felt it poignantly, as something real and natural. But a pang of fear for his own concrete life, that was only Cossethay, hurt him, and gave him misgiving. Her thick dark brows almost met above her irregular nose, she had a wide, rather thick mouth. But her face was lifted to another world of life: not to heaven or death: but to some place where she still lived, in spite of her body's absence. The child beside her watched everything with wide, black eyes. She had an odd little defiant look, her little red mouth was pinched shut. She seemed to be jealously guarding something, to be always on the alert for defence. She met Brangwen's near, vacant, intimate gaze, and a palpitating hostility, almost like a flame of pain, came into the wide, over-conscious dark eyes. The old clergyman droned on, Cossethay sat unmoved as usual. And there was the foreign woman with a foreign air about her, inviolate, and the strange child, also foreign, jealously guarding something. When the service was over, he walked in the way of another existence out of the church. As he went down the church-path with his sister, behind the woman and child, the little girl suddenly broke from her mother's hand, and slipped back with quick, almost invisible movement, and was picking at something almost under Brangwen's feet. Her tiny fingers were fine and quick, but they missed the red button. "Have you found something?" said Brangwen to her. And he also stooped for the button. But she had got it, and she stood back with it pressed against her little coat, her black eyes flaring at him, as if to forbid him to notice her. Then, having silenced him, she turned with a swift "Mother----," and was gone down the path. The mother had stood watching impassive, looking not at the child, but at Brangwen. He became aware of the woman looking at him, standing there isolated yet for him dominant in her foreign existence. He did not know what to do, and turned to his sister. But the wide grey eyes, almost vacant yet so moving, held him beyond himself. "Mother, I may have it, mayn't I?" came the child's proud, silvery tones. "Mother"-she seemed always to be calling her mother to remember her-"mother"-and she had nothing to continue now her mother had replied "Yes, my child." But, with ready invention, the child stumbled and ran on, "What are those people's names?" Brangwen heard the abstract: "I don't know, dear." He went on down the road as if he were not living inside himself, but somewhere outside. "Who was that person?" his sister Effie asked. "I couldn't tell you," he answered unknowing. "She's somebody very funny," said Effie, almost in condemnation. "That child's like one bewitched." "Bewitched--how bewitched?" he repeated. "You can see for yourself. The mother's plain, I must say--but the child is like a changeling. She'd be about thirty-five." But he took no notice. His sister talked on. "There's your woman for you," she continued. "You'd better marry her." But still he took no notice. Things were as they were. Another day, at tea-time, as he sat alone at table, there came a knock at the front door. It startled him like a portent. No one ever knocked at the front door. He rose and began slotting back the bolts, turning the big key. When he had opened the door, the strange woman stood on the threshold. "Can you give me a pound of butter?" she asked, in a curious detached way of one speaking a foreign language. He tried to attend to her question. She was looking at him questioningly. But underneath the question, what was there, in her very standing motionless, which affected him? He stepped aside and she at once entered the house, as if the door had been opened to admit her. That startled him. It was the custom for everybody to wait on the doorstep till asked inside. He went into the kitchen and she followed. His tea-things were spread on the scrubbed deal table, a big fire was burning, a dog rose from the hearth and went to her. She stood motionless just inside the kitchen. "Tilly," he called loudly, "have we got any butter?" The stranger stood there like a silence in her black cloak. "Eh?" came the shrill cry from the distance. He shouted his question again. "We've got what's on t' table," answered Tilly's shrill voice out of the dairy. Brangwen looked at the table. There was a large pat of butter on a plate, almost a pound. It was round, and stamped with acorns and oak-leaves. "Can't you come when you're wanted?" he shouted. "Why, what d'you want?" Tilly protested, as she came peeking inquisitively through the other door. She saw the strange woman, stared at her with cross-eyes, but said nothing. "Haven't we any butter?" asked Brangwen again, impatiently, as if he could command some by his question. "I tell you there's what's on t' table," said Tilly, impatient that she was unable to create any to his demand. "We haven't a morsel besides." There was a moment's silence. The stranger spoke, in her curiously distinct, detached manner of one who must think her speech first. "Oh, then thank you very much. I am sorry that I have come to trouble you." She could not understand the entire lack of manners, was slightly puzzled. Any politeness would have made the situation quite impersonal. But here it was a case of wills in confusion. Brangwen flushed at her polite speech. Still he did not let her go. "Get summat an' wrap that up for her," he said to Tilly, looking at the butter on the table. And taking a clean knife, he cut off that side of the butter where it was touched. His speech, the "for her", penetrated slowly into the foreign woman and angered Tilly. "Vicar has his butter fra Brown's by rights," said the insuppressible servant-woman. "We s'll be churnin' to-morrow mornin' first thing." "Yes"--the long-drawn foreign yes--"yes," said the Polish woman, "I went to Mrs. Brown's. She hasn't any more." Tilly bridled her head, bursting to say that, according to the etiquette of people who bought butter, it was no sort of manners whatever coming to a place cool as you like and knocking at the front door asking for a pound as a stop-gap while your other people were short. If you go to Brown's you go to Brown's, an' my butter isn't just to make shift when Brown's has got none. Brangwen understood perfectly this unspoken speech of Tilly's. The Polish lady did not. And as she wanted butter for the vicar, and as Tilly was churning in the morning, she waited. "Sluther up now," said Brangwen loudly after this silence had resolved itself out; and Tilly disappeared through the inner door. "I am afraid that I should not come, so," said the stranger, looking at him enquiringly, as if referring to him for what it was usual to do. He felt confused. "How's that?" he said, trying to be genial and being only protective. "Do you----?" she began deliberately. But she was not sure of her ground, and the conversation came to an end. Her eyes looked at him all the while, because she could not speak the language. They stood facing each other. The dog walked away from her to him. He bent down to it. "And how's your little girl?" he asked. "Yes, thank you, she is very well," was the reply, a phrase of polite speech in a foreign language merely. "Sit you down," he said. And she sat in a chair, her slim arms, coming through the slits of her cloak, resting on her lap. "You're not used to these parts," he said, still standing on the hearthrug with his back to the fire, coatless, looking with curious directness at the woman. Her self-possession pleased him and inspired him, set him curiously free. It seemed to him almost brutal to feel so master of himself and of the situation. Her eyes rested on him for a moment, questioning, as she thought of the meaning of his speech. "No," she said, understanding. "No--it is strange." "You find it middlin' rough?" he said. Her eyes waited on him, so that he should say it again. "Our ways are rough to you," he repeated. "Yes--yes, I understand. Yes, it is different, it is strange. But I was in Yorkshire----" "Oh, well then," he said, "it's no worse here than what they are up there." She did not quite understand. His protective manner, and his sureness, and his intimacy, puzzled her. What did he mean? If he was her equal, why did he behave so without formality? "No----" she said, vaguely, her eyes resting on him. She saw him fresh and naive, uncouth, almost entirely beyond relationship with her. Yet he was good-looking, with his fair hair and blue eyes full of energy, and with his healthy body that seemed to take equality with her. She watched him steadily. He was difficult for her to understand, warm, uncouth, and confident as he was, sure on his feet as if he did not know what it was to be unsure. What then was it that gave him this curious stability? She did not know. She wondered. She looked round the room he lived in. It had a close intimacy that fascinated and almost frightened her. The furniture was old and familiar as old people, the whole place seemed so kin to him, as if it partook of his being, that she was uneasy. "It is already a long time that you have lived in this house--yes?" she asked. "I've always lived here," he said. "Yes--but your people--your family?" "We've been here above two hundred years," he said. Her eyes were on him all the time, wide-open and trying to grasp him. He felt that he was there for her. "It is your own place, the house, the farm----?" "Yes," he said. He looked down at her and met her look. It disturbed her. She did not know him. He was a foreigner, they had nothing to do with each other. Yet his look disturbed her to knowledge of him. He was so strangely confident and direct. "You live quite alone?" "Yes--if you call it alone?" She did not understand. It seemed unusual to her. What was the meaning of it? And whenever her eyes, after watching him for some time, inevitably met his, she was aware of a heat beating up over her consciousness. She sat motionless and in conflict. Who was this strange man who was at once so near to her? What was happening to her? Something in his young, warm-twinkling eyes seemed to assume a right to her, to speak to her, to extend her his protection. But how? Why did he speak to her? Why were his eyes so certain, so full of light and confident, waiting for no permission nor signal? Tilly returned with a large leaf and found the two silent. At once he felt it incumbent on him to speak, now the serving-woman had come back. "How old is your little girl?" he asked. "Four years," she replied. "Her father hasn't been dead long, then?" he asked. "She was one year when he died." "Three years?" "Yes, three years that he is dead--yes." Curiously quiet she was, almost abstracted, answering these questions. She looked at him again, with some maidenhood opening in her eyes. He felt he could not move, neither towards her nor away from her. Something about her presence hurt him, till he was almost rigid before her. He saw the girl's wondering look rise in her eyes. Tilly handed her the butter and she rose. "Thank you very much," she said. "How much is it?" "We'll make th' vicar a present of it," he said. "It'll do for me goin' to church." "It 'ud look better of you if you went to church and took th' money for your butter," said Tilly, persistent in her claim to him. "You'd have to put in, shouldn't you?" he said. "How much, please?" said the Polish woman to Tilly. Brangwen stood by and let be. "Then, thank you very much," she said. "Bring your little girl down sometime to look at th' fowls and horses," he said,--"if she'd like it." "Yes, she would like it," said the stranger. And she went. Brangwen stood dimmed by her departure. He could not notice Tilly, who was looking at him uneasily, wanting to be reassured. He could not think of anything. He felt that he had made some invisible connection with the strange woman. A daze had come over his mind, he had another centre of consciousness. In his breast, or in his bowels, somewhere in his body, there had started another activity. It was as if a strong light were burning there, and he was blind within it, unable to know anything, except that this transfiguration burned between him and her, connecting them, like a secret power. Since she had come to the house he went about in a daze, scarcely seeing even the things he handled, drifting, quiescent, in a state of metamorphosis. He submitted to that which was happening to him, letting go his will, suffering the loss of himself, dormant always on the brink of ecstasy, like a creature evolving to a new birth. She came twice with her child to the farm, but there was this lull between them, an intense calm and passivity like a torpor upon them, so that there was no active change took place. He was almost unaware of the child, yet by his native good humour he gained her confidence, even her affection, setting her on a horse to ride, giving her corn for the fowls. Once he drove the mother and child from Ilkeston, picking them up on the road. The child huddled close to him as if for love, the mother sat very still. There was a vagueness, like a soft mist over all of them, and a silence as if their wills were suspended. Only he saw her hands, ungloved, folded in her lap, and he noticed the wedding-ring on her finger. It excluded him: it was a closed circle. It bound her life, the wedding-ring, it stood for her life in which he could have no part. Nevertheless, beyond all this, there was herself and himself which should meet. As he helped her down from the trap, almost lifting her, he felt he had some right to take her thus between his hands. She belonged as yet to that other, to that which was behind. But he must care for her also. She was too living to be neglected. Sometimes her vagueness, in which he was lost, made him angry, made him rage. But he held himself still as yet. She had no response, no being towards him. It puzzled and enraged him, but he submitted for a long time. Then, from the accumulated troubling of her ignoring him, gradually a fury broke out, destructive, and he wanted to go away, to escape her. It happened she came down to the Marsh with the child whilst he was in this state. Then he stood over against her, strong and heavy in his revolt, and though he said nothing, still she felt his anger and heavy impatience grip hold of her, she was shaken again as out of a torpor. Again her heart stirred with a quick, out-running impulse, she looked at him, at the stranger who was not a gentleman yet who insisted on coming into her life, and the pain of a new birth in herself strung all her veins to a new form. She would have to begin again, to find a new being, a new form, to respond to that blind, insistent figure standing over against her. A shiver, a sickness of new birth passed over her, the flame leaped up him, under his skin. She wanted it, this new life from him, with him, yet she must defend herself against it, for it was a destruction. As he worked alone on the land, or sat up with his ewes at lambing time, the facts and material of his daily life fell away, leaving the kernel of his purpose clean. And then it came upon him that he would marry her and she would be his life. Gradually, even without seeing her, he came to know her. He would have liked to think of her as of something given into his protection, like a child without parents. But it was forbidden him. He had to come down from this pleasant view of the case. She might refuse him. And besides, he was afraid of her. But during the long February nights with the ewes in labour, looking out from the shelter into the flashing stars, he knew he did not belong to himself. He must admit that he was only fragmentary, something incomplete and subject. There were the stars in the dark heaven travelling, the whole host passing by on some eternal voyage. So he sat small and submissive to the greater ordering. Unless she would come to him, he must remain as a nothingness. It was a hard experience. But, after her repeated obliviousness to him, after he had seen so often that he did not exist for her, after he had raged and tried to escape, and said he was good enough by himself, he was a man, and could stand alone, he must, in the starry multiplicity of the night humble himself, and admit and know that without her he was nothing. He was nothing. But with her, he would be real. If she were now walking across the frosty grass near the sheep-shelter, through the fretful bleating of the ewes and lambs, she would bring him completeness and perfection. And if it should be so, that she should come to him! It should be so--it was ordained so. He was a long time resolving definitely to ask her to marry him. And he knew, if he asked her, she must really acquiesce. She must, it could not be otherwise. He had learned a little of her. She was poor, quite alone, and had had a hard time in London, both before and after her husband died. But in Poland she was a lady well born, a landowner's daughter. All these things were only words to him, the fact of her superior birth, the fact that her husband had been a brilliant doctor, the fact that he himself was her inferior in almost every way of distinction. There was an inner reality, a logic of the soul, which connected her with him. One evening in March, when the wind was roaring outside, came the moment to ask her. He had sat with his hands before him, leaning to the fire. And as he watched the fire, he knew almost without thinking that he was going this evening. "Have you got a clean shirt?" he asked Tilly. "You know you've got clean shirts," she said. "Ay,--bring me a white one." Tilly brought down one of the linen shirts he had inherited from his father, putting it before him to air at the fire. She loved him with a dumb, aching love as he sat leaning with his arms on his knees, still and absorbed, unaware of her. Lately, a quivering inclination to cry had come over her, when she did anything for him in his presence. Now her hands trembled as she spread the shirt. He was never shouting and teasing now. The deep stillness there was in the house made her tremble. He went to wash himself. Queer little breaks of consciousness seemed to rise and burst like bubbles out of the depths of his stillness. "It's got to be done," he said as he stooped to take the shirt out of the fender, "it's got to be done, so why balk it?" And as he combed his hair before the mirror on the wall, he retorted to himself, superficially: "The woman's not speechless dumb. She's not clutterin' at the nipple. She's got the right to please herself, and displease whosoever she likes." This streak of common sense carried him a little further. "Did you want anythink?" asked Tilly, suddenly appearing, having heard him speak. She stood watching him comb his fair beard. His eyes were calm and uninterrupted. "Ay," he said, "where have you put the scissors?" She brought them to him, and stood watching as, chin forward, he trimmed his beard. "Don't go an' crop yourself as if you was at a shearin' contest," she said, anxiously. He blew the fine-curled hair quickly off his lips. He put on all clean clothes, folded his stock carefully, and donned his best coat. Then, being ready, as grey twilight was falling, he went across to the orchard to gather the daffodils. The wind was roaring in the apple trees, the yellow flowers swayed violently up and down, he heard even the fine whisper of their spears as he stooped to break the flattened, brittle stems of the flowers. "What's to-do?" shouted a friend who met him as he left the garden gate. "Bit of courtin', like," said Brangwen. And Tilly, in a great state of trepidation and excitement, let the wind whisk her over the field to the big gate, whence she could watch him go. He went up the hill and on towards the vicarage, the wind roaring through the hedges, whilst he tried to shelter his bunch of daffodils by his side. He did not think of anything, only knew that the wind was blowing. Night was falling, the bare trees drummed and whistled. The vicar, he knew, would be in his study, the Polish woman in the kitchen, a comfortable room, with her child. In the darkest of twilight, he went through the gate and down the path where a few daffodils stooped in the wind, and shattered crocuses made a pale, colourless ravel. There was a light streaming on to the bushes at the back from the kitchen window. He began to hesitate. How could he do this? Looking through the window, he saw her seated in the rocking-chair with the child, already in its nightdress, sitting on her knee. The fair head with its wild, fierce hair was drooping towards the fire-warmth, which reflected on the bright cheeks and clear skin of the child, who seemed to be musing, almost like a grown-up person. The mother's face was dark and still, and he saw, with a pang, that she was away back in the life that had been. The child's hair gleamed like spun glass, her face was illuminated till it seemed like wax lit up from the inside. The wind boomed strongly. Mother and child sat motionless, silent, the child staring with vacant dark eyes into the fire, the mother looking into space. The little girl was almost asleep. It was her will which kept her eyes so wide. Suddenly she looked round, troubled, as the wind shook the house, and Brangwen saw the small lips move. The mother began to rock, he heard the slight crunch of the rockers of the chair. Then he heard the low, monotonous murmur of a song in a foreign language. Then a great burst of wind, the mother seemed to have drifted away, the child's eyes were black and dilated. Brangwen looked up at the clouds which packed in great, alarming haste across the dark sky. Then there came the child's high, complaining, yet imperative voice: "Don't sing that stuff, mother; I don't want to hear it." The singing died away. "You will go to bed," said the mother. He saw the clinging protest of the child, the unmoved farawayness of the mother, the clinging, grasping effort of the child. Then suddenly the clear childish challenge: "I want you to tell me a story." The wind blew, the story began, the child nestled against the mother, Brangwen waited outside, suspended, looking at the wild waving of the trees in the wind and the gathering darkness. He had his fate to follow, he lingered there at the threshold. The child crouched distinct and motionless, curled in against her mother, the eyes dark and unblinking among the keen wisps of hair, like a curled-up animal asleep but for the eyes. The mother sat as if in shadow, the story went on as if by itself. Brangwen stood outside seeing the night fall. He did not notice the passage of time. The hand that held the daffodils was fixed and cold. The story came to an end, the mother rose at last, with the child clinging round her neck. She must be strong, to carry so large a child so easily. The little Anna clung round her mother's neck. The fair, strange face of the child looked over the shoulder of the mother, all asleep but the eyes, and these, wide and dark, kept up the resistance and the fight with something unseen. When they were gone, Brangwen stirred for the first time from the place where he stood, and looked round at the night. He wished it were really as beautiful and familiar as it seemed in these few moments of release. Along with the child, he felt a curious strain on him, a suffering, like a fate. The mother came down again, and began folding the child's clothes. He knocked. She opened wondering, a little bit at bay, like a foreigner, uneasy. "Good evening," he said. "I'll just come in a minute." A change went quickly over her face; she was unprepared. She looked down at him as he stood in the light from the window, holding the daffodils, the darkness behind. In his black clothes she again did not know him. She was almost afraid. But he was already stepping on to the threshold, and closing the door behind him. She turned into the kitchen, startled out of herself by this invasion from the night. He took off his hat, and came towards her. Then he stood in the light, in his black clothes and his black stock, hat in one hand and yellow flowers in the other. She stood away, at his mercy, snatched out of herself. She did not know him, only she knew he was a man come for her. She could only see the dark-clad man's figure standing there upon her, and the gripped fist of flowers. She could not see the face and the living eyes. He was watching her, without knowing her, only aware underneath of her presence. "I come to have a word with you," he said, striding forward to the table, laying down his hat and the flowers, which tumbled apart and lay in a loose heap. She had flinched from his advance. She had no will, no being. The wind boomed in the chimney, and he waited. He had disembarrassed his hands. Now he shut his fists. He was aware of her standing

chapter

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

"Is the child her child?" "I s'd think so--they say so." "Who told you about her?" "Why, Lizzie--a-Monday--we seed her goin' past." "You'd have to be rattling your tongues if anything went past." Brangwen stood musing. That evening he went up to Cossethay to the "Red Lion", half with the intention of hearing more. She was the widow of a Polish doctor, he gathered. Her husband had died, a refugee, in London. She spoke a bit foreign-like, but you could easily make out what she said. She had one little girl named Anna. Lensky was the woman's name, Mrs. Lensky. Brangwen felt that here was the unreality established at last. He felt also a curious certainty about her, as if she were destined to him. It was to him a profound satisfaction that she was a foreigner. A swift change had taken place on the earth for him, as if a new creation were fulfilled, in which he had real existence. Things had all been stark, unreal, barren, mere nullities before. Now they were actualities that he could handle. He dared scarcely think of the woman. He was afraid. Only all the time he was aware of her presence not far off, he lived in her. But he dared not know her, even acquaint himself with her by thinking of her. One day he met her walking along the road with her little girl. It was a child with a face like a bud of apple-blossom, and glistening fair hair like thistle-down sticking out in straight, wild, flamy pieces, and very dark eyes. The child clung jealously to her mother's side when he looked at her, staring with resentful black eyes. But the mother glanced at him again, almost vacantly. And the very vacancy of her look inflamed him. She had wide grey-brown eyes with very dark, fathomless pupils. He felt the fine flame running under his skin, as if all his veins had caught fire on the surface. And he went on walking without knowledge. It was coming, he knew, his fate. The world was submitting to its transformation. He made no move: it would come, what would come. When his sister Effie came to the Marsh for a week, he went with her for once to church. In the tiny place, with its mere dozen pews, he sat not far from the stranger. There was a fineness about her, a poignancy about the way she sat and held her head lifted. She was strange, from far off, yet so intimate. She was from far away, a presence, so close to his soul. She was not really there, sitting in Cossethay church beside her little girl. She was not living the apparent life of her days. She belonged to somewhere else. He felt it poignantly, as something real and natural. But a pang of fear for his own concrete life, that was only Cossethay, hurt him, and gave him misgiving. Her thick dark brows almost met above her irregular nose, she had a wide, rather thick mouth. But her face was lifted to another world of life: not to heaven or death: but to some place where she still lived, in spite of her body's absence. The child beside her watched everything with wide, black eyes. She had an odd little defiant look, her little red mouth was pinched shut. She seemed to be jealously guarding something, to be always on the alert for defence. She met Brangwen's near, vacant, intimate gaze, and a palpitating hostility, almost like a flame of pain, came into the wide, over-conscious dark eyes. The old clergyman droned on, Cossethay sat unmoved as usual. And there was the foreign woman with a foreign air about her, inviolate, and the strange child, also foreign, jealously guarding something. When the service was over, he walked in the way of another existence out of the church. As he went down the church-path with his sister, behind the woman and child, the little girl suddenly broke from her mother's hand, and slipped back with quick, almost invisible movement, and was picking at something almost under Brangwen's feet. Her tiny fingers were fine and quick, but they missed the red button. "Have you found something?" said Brangwen to her. And he also stooped for the button. But she had got it, and she stood back with it pressed against her little coat, her black eyes flaring at him, as if to forbid him to notice her. Then, having silenced him, she turned with a swift "Mother----," and was gone down the path. The mother had stood watching impassive, looking not at the child, but at Brangwen. He became aware of the woman looking at him, standing there isolated yet for him dominant in her foreign existence. He did not know what to do, and turned to his sister. But the wide grey eyes, almost vacant yet so moving, held him beyond himself. "Mother, I may have it, mayn't I?" came the child's proud, silvery tones. "Mother"-she seemed always to be calling her mother to remember her-"mother"-and she had nothing to continue now her mother had replied "Yes, my child." But, with ready invention, the child stumbled and ran on, "What are those people's names?" Brangwen heard the abstract: "I don't know, dear." He went on down the road as if he were not living inside himself, but somewhere outside. "Who was that person?" his sister Effie asked. "I couldn't tell you," he answered unknowing. "She's somebody very funny," said Effie, almost in condemnation. "That child's like one bewitched." "Bewitched--how bewitched?" he repeated. "You can see for yourself. The mother's plain, I must say--but the child is like a changeling. She'd be about thirty-five." But he took no notice. His sister talked on. "There's your woman for you," she continued. "You'd better marry her." But still he took no notice. Things were as they were. Another day, at tea-time, as he sat alone at table, there came a knock at the front door. It startled him like a portent. No one ever knocked at the front door. He rose and began slotting back the bolts, turning the big key. When he had opened the door, the strange woman stood on the threshold. "Can you give me a pound of butter?" she asked, in a curious detached way of one speaking a foreign language. He tried to attend to her question. She was looking at him questioningly. But underneath the question, what was there, in her very standing motionless, which affected him? He stepped aside and she at once entered the house, as if the door had been opened to admit her. That startled him. It was the custom for everybody to wait on the doorstep till asked inside. He went into the kitchen and she followed. His tea-things were spread on the scrubbed deal table, a big fire was burning, a dog rose from the hearth and went to her. She stood motionless just inside the kitchen. "Tilly," he called loudly, "have we got any butter?" The stranger stood there like a silence in her black cloak. "Eh?" came the shrill cry from the distance. He shouted his question again. "We've got what's on t' table," answered Tilly's shrill voice out of the dairy. Brangwen looked at the table. There was a large pat of butter on a plate, almost a pound. It was round, and stamped with acorns and oak-leaves. "Can't you come when you're wanted?" he shouted. "Why, what d'you want?" Tilly protested, as she came peeking inquisitively through the other door. She saw the strange woman, stared at her with cross-eyes, but said nothing. "Haven't we any butter?" asked Brangwen again, impatiently, as if he could command some by his question. "I tell you there's what's on t' table," said Tilly, impatient that she was unable to create any to his demand. "We haven't a morsel besides." There was a moment's silence. The stranger spoke, in her curiously distinct, detached manner of one who must think her speech first. "Oh, then thank you very much. I am sorry that I have come to trouble you." She could not understand the entire lack of manners, was slightly puzzled. Any politeness would have made the situation quite impersonal. But here it was a case of wills in confusion. Brangwen flushed at her polite speech. Still he did not let her go. "Get summat an' wrap that up for her," he said to Tilly, looking at the butter on the table. And taking a clean knife, he cut off that side of the butter where it was touched. His speech, the "for her", penetrated slowly into the foreign woman and angered Tilly. "Vicar has his butter fra Brown's by rights," said the insuppressible servant-woman. "We s'll be churnin' to-morrow mornin' first thing." "Yes"--the long-drawn foreign yes--"yes," said the Polish woman, "I went to Mrs. Brown's. She hasn't any more." Tilly bridled her head, bursting to say that, according to the etiquette of people who bought butter, it was no sort of manners whatever coming to a place cool as you like and knocking at the front door asking for a pound as a stop-gap while your other people were short. If you go to Brown's you go to Brown's, an' my butter isn't just to make shift when Brown's has got none. Brangwen understood perfectly this unspoken speech of Tilly's. The Polish lady did not. And as she wanted butter for the vicar, and as Tilly was churning in the morning, she waited. "Sluther up now," said Brangwen loudly after this silence had resolved itself out; and Tilly disappeared through the inner door. "I am afraid that I should not come, so," said the stranger, looking at him enquiringly, as if referring to him for what it was usual to do. He felt confused. "How's that?" he said, trying to be genial and being only protective. "Do you----?" she began deliberately. But she was not sure of her ground, and the conversation came to an end. Her eyes looked at him all the while, because she could not speak the language. They stood facing each other. The dog walked away from her to him. He bent down to it. "And how's your little girl?" he asked. "Yes, thank you, she is very well," was the reply, a phrase of polite speech in a foreign language merely. "Sit you down," he said. And she sat in a chair, her slim arms, coming through the slits of her cloak, resting on her lap. "You're not used to these parts," he said, still standing on the hearthrug with his back to the fire, coatless, looking with curious directness at the woman. Her self-possession pleased him and inspired him, set him curiously free. It seemed to him almost brutal to feel so master of himself and of the situation. Her eyes rested on him for a moment, questioning, as she thought of the meaning of his speech. "No," she said, understanding. "No--it is strange." "You find it middlin' rough?" he said. Her eyes waited on him, so that he should say it again. "Our ways are rough to you," he repeated. "Yes--yes, I understand. Yes, it is different, it is strange. But I was in Yorkshire----" "Oh, well then," he said, "it's no worse here than what they are up there." She did not quite understand. His protective manner, and his sureness, and his intimacy, puzzled her. What did he mean? If he was her equal, why did he behave so without formality? "No----" she said, vaguely, her eyes resting on him. She saw him fresh and naive, uncouth, almost entirely beyond relationship with her. Yet he was good-looking, with his fair hair and blue eyes full of energy, and with his healthy body that seemed to take equality with her. She watched him steadily. He was difficult for her to understand, warm, uncouth, and confident as he was, sure on his feet as if he did not know what it was to be unsure. What then was it that gave him this curious stability? She did not know. She wondered. She looked round the room he lived in. It had a close intimacy that fascinated and almost frightened her. The furniture was old and familiar as old people, the whole place seemed so kin to him, as if it partook of his being, that she was uneasy. "It is already a long time that you have lived in this house--yes?" she asked. "I've always lived here," he said. "Yes--but your people--your family?" "We've been here above two hundred years," he said. Her eyes were on him all the time, wide-open and trying to grasp him. He felt that he was there for her. "It is your own place, the house, the farm----?" "Yes," he said. He looked down at her and met her look. It disturbed her. She did not know him. He was a foreigner, they had nothing to do with each other. Yet his look disturbed her to knowledge of him. He was so strangely confident and direct. "You live quite alone?" "Yes--if you call it alone?" She did not understand. It seemed unusual to her. What was the meaning of it? And whenever her eyes, after watching him for some time, inevitably met his, she was aware of a heat beating up over her consciousness. She sat motionless and in conflict. Who was this strange man who was at once so near to her? What was happening to her? Something in his young, warm-twinkling eyes seemed to assume a right to her, to speak to her, to extend her his protection. But how? Why did he speak to her? Why were his eyes so certain, so full of light and confident, waiting for no permission nor signal? Tilly returned with a large leaf and found the two silent. At once he felt it incumbent on him to speak, now the serving-woman had come back. "How old is your little girl?" he asked. "Four years," she replied. "Her father hasn't been dead long, then?" he asked. "She was one year when he died." "Three years?" "Yes, three years that he is dead--yes." Curiously quiet she was, almost abstracted, answering these questions. She looked at him again, with some maidenhood opening in her eyes. He felt he could not move, neither towards her nor away from her. Something about her presence hurt him, till he was almost rigid before her. He saw the girl's wondering look rise in her eyes. Tilly handed her the butter and she rose. "Thank you very much," she said. "How much is it?" "We'll make th' vicar a present of it," he said. "It'll do for me goin' to church." "It 'ud look better of you if you went to church and took th' money for your butter," said Tilly, persistent in her claim to him. "You'd have to put in, shouldn't you?" he said. "How much, please?" said the Polish woman to Tilly. Brangwen stood by and let be. "Then, thank you very much," she said. "Bring your little girl down sometime to look at th' fowls and horses," he said,--"if she'd like it." "Yes, she would like it," said the stranger. And she went. Brangwen stood dimmed by her departure. He could not notice Tilly, who was looking at him uneasily, wanting to be reassured. He could not think of anything. He felt that he had made some invisible connection with the strange woman. A daze had come over his mind, he had another centre of consciousness. In his breast, or in his bowels, somewhere in his body, there had started another activity. It was as if a strong light were burning there, and he was blind within it, unable to know anything, except that this transfiguration burned between him and her, connecting them, like a secret power. Since she had come to the house he went about in a daze, scarcely seeing even the things he handled, drifting, quiescent, in a state of metamorphosis. He submitted to that which was happening to him, letting go his will, suffering the loss of himself, dormant always on the brink of ecstasy, like a creature evolving to a new birth. She came twice with her child to the farm, but there was this lull between them, an intense calm and passivity like a torpor upon them, so that there was no active change took place. He was almost unaware of the child, yet by his native good humour he gained her confidence, even her affection, setting her on a horse to ride, giving her corn for the fowls. Once he drove the mother and child from Ilkeston, picking them up on the road. The child huddled close to him as if for love, the mother sat very still. There was a vagueness, like a soft mist over all of them, and a silence as if their wills were suspended. Only he saw her hands, ungloved, folded in her lap, and he noticed the wedding-ring on her finger. It excluded him: it was a closed circle. It bound her life, the wedding-ring, it stood for her life in which he could have no part. Nevertheless, beyond all this, there was herself and himself which should meet. As he helped her down from the trap, almost lifting her, he felt he had some right to take her thus between his hands. She belonged as yet to that other, to that which was behind. But he must care for her also. She was too living to be neglected. Sometimes her vagueness, in which he was lost, made him angry, made him rage. But he held himself still as yet. She had no response, no being towards him. It puzzled and enraged him, but he submitted for a long time. Then, from the accumulated troubling of her ignoring him, gradually a fury broke out, destructive, and he wanted to go away, to escape her. It happened she came down to the Marsh with the child whilst he was in this state. Then he stood over against her, strong and heavy in his revolt, and though he said nothing, still she felt his anger and heavy impatience grip hold of her, she was shaken again as out of a torpor. Again her heart stirred with a quick, out-running impulse, she looked at him, at the stranger who was not a gentleman yet who insisted on coming into her life, and the pain of a new birth in herself strung all her veins to a new form. She would have to begin again, to find a new being, a new form, to respond to that blind, insistent figure standing over against her. A shiver, a sickness of new birth passed over her, the flame leaped up him, under his skin. She wanted it, this new life from him, with him, yet she must defend herself against it, for it was a destruction. As he worked alone on the land, or sat up with his ewes at lambing time, the facts and material of his daily life fell away, leaving the kernel of his purpose clean. And then it came upon him that he would marry her and she would be his life. Gradually, even without seeing her, he came to know her. He would have liked to think of her as of something given into his protection, like a child without parents. But it was forbidden him. He had to come down from this pleasant view of the case. She might refuse him. And besides, he was afraid of her. But during the long February nights with the ewes in labour, looking out from the shelter into the flashing stars, he knew he did not belong to himself. He must admit that he was only fragmentary, something incomplete and subject. There were the stars in the dark heaven travelling, the whole host passing by on some eternal voyage. So he sat small and submissive to the greater ordering. Unless she would come to him, he must remain as a nothingness. It was a hard experience. But, after her repeated obliviousness to him, after he had seen so often that he did not exist for her, after he had raged and tried to escape, and said he was good enough by himself, he was a man, and could stand alone, he must, in the starry multiplicity of the night humble himself, and admit and know that without her he was nothing. He was nothing. But with her, he would be real. If she were now walking across the frosty grass near the sheep-shelter, through the fretful bleating of the ewes and lambs, she would bring him completeness and perfection. And if it should be so, that she should come to him! It should be so--it was ordained so. He was a long time resolving definitely to ask her to marry him. And he knew, if he asked her, she must really acquiesce. She must, it could not be otherwise. He had learned a little of her. She was poor, quite alone, and had had a hard time in London, both before and after her husband died. But in Poland she was a lady well born, a landowner's daughter. All these things were only words to him, the fact of her superior birth, the fact that her husband had been a brilliant doctor, the fact that he himself was her inferior in almost every way of distinction. There was an inner reality, a logic of the soul, which connected her with him. One evening in March, when the wind was roaring outside, came the moment to ask her. He had sat with his hands before him, leaning to the fire. And as he watched the fire, he knew almost without thinking that he was going this evening. "Have you got a clean shirt?" he asked Tilly. "You know you've got clean shirts," she said. "Ay,--bring me a white one." Tilly brought down one of the linen shirts he had inherited from his father, putting it before him to air at the fire. She loved him with a dumb, aching love as he sat leaning with his arms on his knees, still and absorbed, unaware of her. Lately, a quivering inclination to cry had come over her, when she did anything for him in his presence. Now her hands trembled as she spread the shirt. He was never shouting and teasing now. The deep stillness there was in the house made her tremble. He went to wash himself. Queer little breaks of consciousness seemed to rise and burst like bubbles out of the depths of his stillness. "It's got to be done," he said as he stooped to take the shirt out of the fender, "it's got to be done, so why balk it?" And as he combed his hair before the mirror on the wall, he retorted to himself, superficially: "The woman's not speechless dumb. She's not clutterin' at the nipple. She's got the right to please herself, and displease whosoever she likes." This streak of common sense carried him a little further. "Did you want anythink?" asked Tilly, suddenly appearing, having heard him speak. She stood watching him comb his fair beard. His eyes were calm and uninterrupted. "Ay," he said, "where have you put the scissors?" She brought them to him, and stood watching as, chin forward, he trimmed his beard. "Don't go an' crop yourself as if you was at a shearin' contest," she said, anxiously. He blew the fine-curled hair quickly off his lips. He put on all clean clothes, folded his stock carefully, and donned his best coat. Then, being ready, as grey twilight was falling, he went across to the orchard to gather the daffodils. The wind was roaring in the apple trees, the yellow flowers swayed violently up and down, he heard even the fine whisper of their spears as he stooped to break the flattened, brittle stems of the flowers. "What's to-do?" shouted a friend who met him as he left the garden gate. "Bit of courtin', like," said Brangwen. And Tilly, in a great state of trepidation and excitement, let the wind whisk her over the field to the big gate, whence she could watch him go. He went up the hill and on towards the vicarage, the wind roaring through the hedges, whilst he tried to shelter his bunch of daffodils by his side. He did not think of anything, only knew that the wind was blowing. Night was falling, the bare trees drummed and whistled. The vicar, he knew, would be in his study, the Polish woman in the kitchen, a comfortable room, with her child. In the darkest of twilight, he went through the gate and down the path where a few daffodils stooped in the wind, and shattered crocuses made a pale, colourless ravel. There was a light streaming on to the bushes at the back from the kitchen window. He began to hesitate. How could he do this? Looking through the window, he saw her seated in the rocking-chair with the child, already in its nightdress, sitting on her knee. The fair head with its wild, fierce hair was drooping towards the fire-warmth, which reflected on the bright cheeks and clear skin of the child, who seemed to be musing, almost like a grown-up person. The mother's face was dark and still, and he saw, with a pang, that she was away back in the life that had been. The child's hair gleamed like spun glass, her face was illuminated till it seemed like wax lit up from the inside. The wind boomed strongly. Mother and child sat motionless, silent, the child staring with vacant dark eyes into the fire, the mother looking into space. The little girl was almost asleep. It was her will which kept her eyes so wide. Suddenly she looked round, troubled, as the wind shook the house, and Brangwen saw the small lips move. The mother began to rock, he heard the slight crunch of the rockers of the chair. Then he heard the low, monotonous murmur of a song in a foreign language. Then a great burst of wind, the mother seemed to have drifted away, the child's eyes were black and dilated. Brangwen looked up at the clouds which packed in great, alarming haste across the dark sky. Then there came the child's high, complaining, yet imperative voice: "Don't sing that stuff, mother; I don't want to hear it." The singing died away. "You will go to bed," said the mother. He saw the clinging protest of the child, the unmoved farawayness of the mother, the clinging, grasping effort of the child. Then suddenly the clear childish challenge: "I want you to tell me a story." The wind blew, the story began, the child nestled against the mother, Brangwen waited outside, suspended, looking at the wild waving of the trees in the wind and the gathering darkness. He had his fate to follow, he lingered there at the threshold. The child crouched distinct and motionless, curled in against her mother, the eyes dark and unblinking among the keen wisps of hair, like a curled-up animal asleep but for the eyes. The mother sat as if in shadow, the story went on as if by itself. Brangwen stood outside seeing the night fall. He did not notice the passage of time. The hand that held the daffodils was fixed and cold. The story came to an end, the mother rose at last, with the child clinging round her neck. She must be strong, to carry so large a child so easily. The little Anna clung round her mother's neck. The fair, strange face of the child looked over the shoulder of the mother, all asleep but the eyes, and these, wide and dark, kept up the resistance and the fight with something unseen. When they were gone, Brangwen stirred for the first time from the place where he stood, and looked round at the night. He wished it were really as beautiful and familiar as it seemed in these few moments of release. Along with the child, he felt a curious strain on him, a suffering, like a fate. The mother came down again, and began folding the child's clothes. He knocked. She opened wondering, a little bit at bay, like a foreigner, uneasy. "Good evening," he said. "I'll just come in a minute." A change went quickly over her face; she was unprepared. She looked down at him as he stood in the light from the window, holding the daffodils, the darkness behind. In his black clothes she again did not know him. She was almost afraid. But he was already stepping on to the threshold, and closing the door behind him. She turned into the kitchen, startled out of herself by this invasion from the night. He took off his hat, and came towards her. Then he stood in the light, in his black clothes and his black stock, hat in one hand and yellow flowers in the other. She stood away, at his mercy, snatched out of herself. She did not know him, only she knew he was a man come for her. She could only see the dark-clad man's figure standing there upon her, and the gripped fist of flowers. She could not see the face and the living eyes. He was watching her, without knowing her, only aware underneath of her presence. "I come to have a word with you," he said, striding forward to the table, laying down his hat and the flowers, which tumbled apart and lay in a loose heap. She had flinched from his advance. She had no will, no being. The wind boomed in the chimney, and he waited. He had disembarrassed his hands. Now he shut his fists. He was aware of her standing

sufferings

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

"Is the child her child?" "I s'd think so--they say so." "Who told you about her?" "Why, Lizzie--a-Monday--we seed her goin' past." "You'd have to be rattling your tongues if anything went past." Brangwen stood musing. That evening he went up to Cossethay to the "Red Lion", half with the intention of hearing more. She was the widow of a Polish doctor, he gathered. Her husband had died, a refugee, in London. She spoke a bit foreign-like, but you could easily make out what she said. She had one little girl named Anna. Lensky was the woman's name, Mrs. Lensky. Brangwen felt that here was the unreality established at last. He felt also a curious certainty about her, as if she were destined to him. It was to him a profound satisfaction that she was a foreigner. A swift change had taken place on the earth for him, as if a new creation were fulfilled, in which he had real existence. Things had all been stark, unreal, barren, mere nullities before. Now they were actualities that he could handle. He dared scarcely think of the woman. He was afraid. Only all the time he was aware of her presence not far off, he lived in her. But he dared not know her, even acquaint himself with her by thinking of her. One day he met her walking along the road with her little girl. It was a child with a face like a bud of apple-blossom, and glistening fair hair like thistle-down sticking out in straight, wild, flamy pieces, and very dark eyes. The child clung jealously to her mother's side when he looked at her, staring with resentful black eyes. But the mother glanced at him again, almost vacantly. And the very vacancy of her look inflamed him. She had wide grey-brown eyes with very dark, fathomless pupils. He felt the fine flame running under his skin, as if all his veins had caught fire on the surface. And he went on walking without knowledge. It was coming, he knew, his fate. The world was submitting to its transformation. He made no move: it would come, what would come. When his sister Effie came to the Marsh for a week, he went with her for once to church. In the tiny place, with its mere dozen pews, he sat not far from the stranger. There was a fineness about her, a poignancy about the way she sat and held her head lifted. She was strange, from far off, yet so intimate. She was from far away, a presence, so close to his soul. She was not really there, sitting in Cossethay church beside her little girl. She was not living the apparent life of her days. She belonged to somewhere else. He felt it poignantly, as something real and natural. But a pang of fear for his own concrete life, that was only Cossethay, hurt him, and gave him misgiving. Her thick dark brows almost met above her irregular nose, she had a wide, rather thick mouth. But her face was lifted to another world of life: not to heaven or death: but to some place where she still lived, in spite of her body's absence. The child beside her watched everything with wide, black eyes. She had an odd little defiant look, her little red mouth was pinched shut. She seemed to be jealously guarding something, to be always on the alert for defence. She met Brangwen's near, vacant, intimate gaze, and a palpitating hostility, almost like a flame of pain, came into the wide, over-conscious dark eyes. The old clergyman droned on, Cossethay sat unmoved as usual. And there was the foreign woman with a foreign air about her, inviolate, and the strange child, also foreign, jealously guarding something. When the service was over, he walked in the way of another existence out of the church. As he went down the church-path with his sister, behind the woman and child, the little girl suddenly broke from her mother's hand, and slipped back with quick, almost invisible movement, and was picking at something almost under Brangwen's feet. Her tiny fingers were fine and quick, but they missed the red button. "Have you found something?" said Brangwen to her. And he also stooped for the button. But she had got it, and she stood back with it pressed against her little coat, her black eyes flaring at him, as if to forbid him to notice her. Then, having silenced him, she turned with a swift "Mother----," and was gone down the path. The mother had stood watching impassive, looking not at the child, but at Brangwen. He became aware of the woman looking at him, standing there isolated yet for him dominant in her foreign existence. He did not know what to do, and turned to his sister. But the wide grey eyes, almost vacant yet so moving, held him beyond himself. "Mother, I may have it, mayn't I?" came the child's proud, silvery tones. "Mother"-she seemed always to be calling her mother to remember her-"mother"-and she had nothing to continue now her mother had replied "Yes, my child." But, with ready invention, the child stumbled and ran on, "What are those people's names?" Brangwen heard the abstract: "I don't know, dear." He went on down the road as if he were not living inside himself, but somewhere outside. "Who was that person?" his sister Effie asked. "I couldn't tell you," he answered unknowing. "She's somebody very funny," said Effie, almost in condemnation. "That child's like one bewitched." "Bewitched--how bewitched?" he repeated. "You can see for yourself. The mother's plain, I must say--but the child is like a changeling. She'd be about thirty-five." But he took no notice. His sister talked on. "There's your woman for you," she continued. "You'd better marry her." But still he took no notice. Things were as they were. Another day, at tea-time, as he sat alone at table, there came a knock at the front door. It startled him like a portent. No one ever knocked at the front door. He rose and began slotting back the bolts, turning the big key. When he had opened the door, the strange woman stood on the threshold. "Can you give me a pound of butter?" she asked, in a curious detached way of one speaking a foreign language. He tried to attend to her question. She was looking at him questioningly. But underneath the question, what was there, in her very standing motionless, which affected him? He stepped aside and she at once entered the house, as if the door had been opened to admit her. That startled him. It was the custom for everybody to wait on the doorstep till asked inside. He went into the kitchen and she followed. His tea-things were spread on the scrubbed deal table, a big fire was burning, a dog rose from the hearth and went to her. She stood motionless just inside the kitchen. "Tilly," he called loudly, "have we got any butter?" The stranger stood there like a silence in her black cloak. "Eh?" came the shrill cry from the distance. He shouted his question again. "We've got what's on t' table," answered Tilly's shrill voice out of the dairy. Brangwen looked at the table. There was a large pat of butter on a plate, almost a pound. It was round, and stamped with acorns and oak-leaves. "Can't you come when you're wanted?" he shouted. "Why, what d'you want?" Tilly protested, as she came peeking inquisitively through the other door. She saw the strange woman, stared at her with cross-eyes, but said nothing. "Haven't we any butter?" asked Brangwen again, impatiently, as if he could command some by his question. "I tell you there's what's on t' table," said Tilly, impatient that she was unable to create any to his demand. "We haven't a morsel besides." There was a moment's silence. The stranger spoke, in her curiously distinct, detached manner of one who must think her speech first. "Oh, then thank you very much. I am sorry that I have come to trouble you." She could not understand the entire lack of manners, was slightly puzzled. Any politeness would have made the situation quite impersonal. But here it was a case of wills in confusion. Brangwen flushed at her polite speech. Still he did not let her go. "Get summat an' wrap that up for her," he said to Tilly, looking at the butter on the table. And taking a clean knife, he cut off that side of the butter where it was touched. His speech, the "for her", penetrated slowly into the foreign woman and angered Tilly. "Vicar has his butter fra Brown's by rights," said the insuppressible servant-woman. "We s'll be churnin' to-morrow mornin' first thing." "Yes"--the long-drawn foreign yes--"yes," said the Polish woman, "I went to Mrs. Brown's. She hasn't any more." Tilly bridled her head, bursting to say that, according to the etiquette of people who bought butter, it was no sort of manners whatever coming to a place cool as you like and knocking at the front door asking for a pound as a stop-gap while your other people were short. If you go to Brown's you go to Brown's, an' my butter isn't just to make shift when Brown's has got none. Brangwen understood perfectly this unspoken speech of Tilly's. The Polish lady did not. And as she wanted butter for the vicar, and as Tilly was churning in the morning, she waited. "Sluther up now," said Brangwen loudly after this silence had resolved itself out; and Tilly disappeared through the inner door. "I am afraid that I should not come, so," said the stranger, looking at him enquiringly, as if referring to him for what it was usual to do. He felt confused. "How's that?" he said, trying to be genial and being only protective. "Do you----?" she began deliberately. But she was not sure of her ground, and the conversation came to an end. Her eyes looked at him all the while, because she could not speak the language. They stood facing each other. The dog walked away from her to him. He bent down to it. "And how's your little girl?" he asked. "Yes, thank you, she is very well," was the reply, a phrase of polite speech in a foreign language merely. "Sit you down," he said. And she sat in a chair, her slim arms, coming through the slits of her cloak, resting on her lap. "You're not used to these parts," he said, still standing on the hearthrug with his back to the fire, coatless, looking with curious directness at the woman. Her self-possession pleased him and inspired him, set him curiously free. It seemed to him almost brutal to feel so master of himself and of the situation. Her eyes rested on him for a moment, questioning, as she thought of the meaning of his speech. "No," she said, understanding. "No--it is strange." "You find it middlin' rough?" he said. Her eyes waited on him, so that he should say it again. "Our ways are rough to you," he repeated. "Yes--yes, I understand. Yes, it is different, it is strange. But I was in Yorkshire----" "Oh, well then," he said, "it's no worse here than what they are up there." She did not quite understand. His protective manner, and his sureness, and his intimacy, puzzled her. What did he mean? If he was her equal, why did he behave so without formality? "No----" she said, vaguely, her eyes resting on him. She saw him fresh and naive, uncouth, almost entirely beyond relationship with her. Yet he was good-looking, with his fair hair and blue eyes full of energy, and with his healthy body that seemed to take equality with her. She watched him steadily. He was difficult for her to understand, warm, uncouth, and confident as he was, sure on his feet as if he did not know what it was to be unsure. What then was it that gave him this curious stability? She did not know. She wondered. She looked round the room he lived in. It had a close intimacy that fascinated and almost frightened her. The furniture was old and familiar as old people, the whole place seemed so kin to him, as if it partook of his being, that she was uneasy. "It is already a long time that you have lived in this house--yes?" she asked. "I've always lived here," he said. "Yes--but your people--your family?" "We've been here above two hundred years," he said. Her eyes were on him all the time, wide-open and trying to grasp him. He felt that he was there for her. "It is your own place, the house, the farm----?" "Yes," he said. He looked down at her and met her look. It disturbed her. She did not know him. He was a foreigner, they had nothing to do with each other. Yet his look disturbed her to knowledge of him. He was so strangely confident and direct. "You live quite alone?" "Yes--if you call it alone?" She did not understand. It seemed unusual to her. What was the meaning of it? And whenever her eyes, after watching him for some time, inevitably met his, she was aware of a heat beating up over her consciousness. She sat motionless and in conflict. Who was this strange man who was at once so near to her? What was happening to her? Something in his young, warm-twinkling eyes seemed to assume a right to her, to speak to her, to extend her his protection. But how? Why did he speak to her? Why were his eyes so certain, so full of light and confident, waiting for no permission nor signal? Tilly returned with a large leaf and found the two silent. At once he felt it incumbent on him to speak, now the serving-woman had come back. "How old is your little girl?" he asked. "Four years," she replied. "Her father hasn't been dead long, then?" he asked. "She was one year when he died." "Three years?" "Yes, three years that he is dead--yes." Curiously quiet she was, almost abstracted, answering these questions. She looked at him again, with some maidenhood opening in her eyes. He felt he could not move, neither towards her nor away from her. Something about her presence hurt him, till he was almost rigid before her. He saw the girl's wondering look rise in her eyes. Tilly handed her the butter and she rose. "Thank you very much," she said. "How much is it?" "We'll make th' vicar a present of it," he said. "It'll do for me goin' to church." "It 'ud look better of you if you went to church and took th' money for your butter," said Tilly, persistent in her claim to him. "You'd have to put in, shouldn't you?" he said. "How much, please?" said the Polish woman to Tilly. Brangwen stood by and let be. "Then, thank you very much," she said. "Bring your little girl down sometime to look at th' fowls and horses," he said,--"if she'd like it." "Yes, she would like it," said the stranger. And she went. Brangwen stood dimmed by her departure. He could not notice Tilly, who was looking at him uneasily, wanting to be reassured. He could not think of anything. He felt that he had made some invisible connection with the strange woman. A daze had come over his mind, he had another centre of consciousness. In his breast, or in his bowels, somewhere in his body, there had started another activity. It was as if a strong light were burning there, and he was blind within it, unable to know anything, except that this transfiguration burned between him and her, connecting them, like a secret power. Since she had come to the house he went about in a daze, scarcely seeing even the things he handled, drifting, quiescent, in a state of metamorphosis. He submitted to that which was happening to him, letting go his will, suffering the loss of himself, dormant always on the brink of ecstasy, like a creature evolving to a new birth. She came twice with her child to the farm, but there was this lull between them, an intense calm and passivity like a torpor upon them, so that there was no active change took place. He was almost unaware of the child, yet by his native good humour he gained her confidence, even her affection, setting her on a horse to ride, giving her corn for the fowls. Once he drove the mother and child from Ilkeston, picking them up on the road. The child huddled close to him as if for love, the mother sat very still. There was a vagueness, like a soft mist over all of them, and a silence as if their wills were suspended. Only he saw her hands, ungloved, folded in her lap, and he noticed the wedding-ring on her finger. It excluded him: it was a closed circle. It bound her life, the wedding-ring, it stood for her life in which he could have no part. Nevertheless, beyond all this, there was herself and himself which should meet. As he helped her down from the trap, almost lifting her, he felt he had some right to take her thus between his hands. She belonged as yet to that other, to that which was behind. But he must care for her also. She was too living to be neglected. Sometimes her vagueness, in which he was lost, made him angry, made him rage. But he held himself still as yet. She had no response, no being towards him. It puzzled and enraged him, but he submitted for a long time. Then, from the accumulated troubling of her ignoring him, gradually a fury broke out, destructive, and he wanted to go away, to escape her. It happened she came down to the Marsh with the child whilst he was in this state. Then he stood over against her, strong and heavy in his revolt, and though he said nothing, still she felt his anger and heavy impatience grip hold of her, she was shaken again as out of a torpor. Again her heart stirred with a quick, out-running impulse, she looked at him, at the stranger who was not a gentleman yet who insisted on coming into her life, and the pain of a new birth in herself strung all her veins to a new form. She would have to begin again, to find a new being, a new form, to respond to that blind, insistent figure standing over against her. A shiver, a sickness of new birth passed over her, the flame leaped up him, under his skin. She wanted it, this new life from him, with him, yet she must defend herself against it, for it was a destruction. As he worked alone on the land, or sat up with his ewes at lambing time, the facts and material of his daily life fell away, leaving the kernel of his purpose clean. And then it came upon him that he would marry her and she would be his life. Gradually, even without seeing her, he came to know her. He would have liked to think of her as of something given into his protection, like a child without parents. But it was forbidden him. He had to come down from this pleasant view of the case. She might refuse him. And besides, he was afraid of her. But during the long February nights with the ewes in labour, looking out from the shelter into the flashing stars, he knew he did not belong to himself. He must admit that he was only fragmentary, something incomplete and subject. There were the stars in the dark heaven travelling, the whole host passing by on some eternal voyage. So he sat small and submissive to the greater ordering. Unless she would come to him, he must remain as a nothingness. It was a hard experience. But, after her repeated obliviousness to him, after he had seen so often that he did not exist for her, after he had raged and tried to escape, and said he was good enough by himself, he was a man, and could stand alone, he must, in the starry multiplicity of the night humble himself, and admit and know that without her he was nothing. He was nothing. But with her, he would be real. If she were now walking across the frosty grass near the sheep-shelter, through the fretful bleating of the ewes and lambs, she would bring him completeness and perfection. And if it should be so, that she should come to him! It should be so--it was ordained so. He was a long time resolving definitely to ask her to marry him. And he knew, if he asked her, she must really acquiesce. She must, it could not be otherwise. He had learned a little of her. She was poor, quite alone, and had had a hard time in London, both before and after her husband died. But in Poland she was a lady well born, a landowner's daughter. All these things were only words to him, the fact of her superior birth, the fact that her husband had been a brilliant doctor, the fact that he himself was her inferior in almost every way of distinction. There was an inner reality, a logic of the soul, which connected her with him. One evening in March, when the wind was roaring outside, came the moment to ask her. He had sat with his hands before him, leaning to the fire. And as he watched the fire, he knew almost without thinking that he was going this evening. "Have you got a clean shirt?" he asked Tilly. "You know you've got clean shirts," she said. "Ay,--bring me a white one." Tilly brought down one of the linen shirts he had inherited from his father, putting it before him to air at the fire. She loved him with a dumb, aching love as he sat leaning with his arms on his knees, still and absorbed, unaware of her. Lately, a quivering inclination to cry had come over her, when she did anything for him in his presence. Now her hands trembled as she spread the shirt. He was never shouting and teasing now. The deep stillness there was in the house made her tremble. He went to wash himself. Queer little breaks of consciousness seemed to rise and burst like bubbles out of the depths of his stillness. "It's got to be done," he said as he stooped to take the shirt out of the fender, "it's got to be done, so why balk it?" And as he combed his hair before the mirror on the wall, he retorted to himself, superficially: "The woman's not speechless dumb. She's not clutterin' at the nipple. She's got the right to please herself, and displease whosoever she likes." This streak of common sense carried him a little further. "Did you want anythink?" asked Tilly, suddenly appearing, having heard him speak. She stood watching him comb his fair beard. His eyes were calm and uninterrupted. "Ay," he said, "where have you put the scissors?" She brought them to him, and stood watching as, chin forward, he trimmed his beard. "Don't go an' crop yourself as if you was at a shearin' contest," she said, anxiously. He blew the fine-curled hair quickly off his lips. He put on all clean clothes, folded his stock carefully, and donned his best coat. Then, being ready, as grey twilight was falling, he went across to the orchard to gather the daffodils. The wind was roaring in the apple trees, the yellow flowers swayed violently up and down, he heard even the fine whisper of their spears as he stooped to break the flattened, brittle stems of the flowers. "What's to-do?" shouted a friend who met him as he left the garden gate. "Bit of courtin', like," said Brangwen. And Tilly, in a great state of trepidation and excitement, let the wind whisk her over the field to the big gate, whence she could watch him go. He went up the hill and on towards the vicarage, the wind roaring through the hedges, whilst he tried to shelter his bunch of daffodils by his side. He did not think of anything, only knew that the wind was blowing. Night was falling, the bare trees drummed and whistled. The vicar, he knew, would be in his study, the Polish woman in the kitchen, a comfortable room, with her child. In the darkest of twilight, he went through the gate and down the path where a few daffodils stooped in the wind, and shattered crocuses made a pale, colourless ravel. There was a light streaming on to the bushes at the back from the kitchen window. He began to hesitate. How could he do this? Looking through the window, he saw her seated in the rocking-chair with the child, already in its nightdress, sitting on her knee. The fair head with its wild, fierce hair was drooping towards the fire-warmth, which reflected on the bright cheeks and clear skin of the child, who seemed to be musing, almost like a grown-up person. The mother's face was dark and still, and he saw, with a pang, that she was away back in the life that had been. The child's hair gleamed like spun glass, her face was illuminated till it seemed like wax lit up from the inside. The wind boomed strongly. Mother and child sat motionless, silent, the child staring with vacant dark eyes into the fire, the mother looking into space. The little girl was almost asleep. It was her will which kept her eyes so wide. Suddenly she looked round, troubled, as the wind shook the house, and Brangwen saw the small lips move. The mother began to rock, he heard the slight crunch of the rockers of the chair. Then he heard the low, monotonous murmur of a song in a foreign language. Then a great burst of wind, the mother seemed to have drifted away, the child's eyes were black and dilated. Brangwen looked up at the clouds which packed in great, alarming haste across the dark sky. Then there came the child's high, complaining, yet imperative voice: "Don't sing that stuff, mother; I don't want to hear it." The singing died away. "You will go to bed," said the mother. He saw the clinging protest of the child, the unmoved farawayness of the mother, the clinging, grasping effort of the child. Then suddenly the clear childish challenge: "I want you to tell me a story." The wind blew, the story began, the child nestled against the mother, Brangwen waited outside, suspended, looking at the wild waving of the trees in the wind and the gathering darkness. He had his fate to follow, he lingered there at the threshold. The child crouched distinct and motionless, curled in against her mother, the eyes dark and unblinking among the keen wisps of hair, like a curled-up animal asleep but for the eyes. The mother sat as if in shadow, the story went on as if by itself. Brangwen stood outside seeing the night fall. He did not notice the passage of time. The hand that held the daffodils was fixed and cold. The story came to an end, the mother rose at last, with the child clinging round her neck. She must be strong, to carry so large a child so easily. The little Anna clung round her mother's neck. The fair, strange face of the child looked over the shoulder of the mother, all asleep but the eyes, and these, wide and dark, kept up the resistance and the fight with something unseen. When they were gone, Brangwen stirred for the first time from the place where he stood, and looked round at the night. He wished it were really as beautiful and familiar as it seemed in these few moments of release. Along with the child, he felt a curious strain on him, a suffering, like a fate. The mother came down again, and began folding the child's clothes. He knocked. She opened wondering, a little bit at bay, like a foreigner, uneasy. "Good evening," he said. "I'll just come in a minute." A change went quickly over her face; she was unprepared. She looked down at him as he stood in the light from the window, holding the daffodils, the darkness behind. In his black clothes she again did not know him. She was almost afraid. But he was already stepping on to the threshold, and closing the door behind him. She turned into the kitchen, startled out of herself by this invasion from the night. He took off his hat, and came towards her. Then he stood in the light, in his black clothes and his black stock, hat in one hand and yellow flowers in the other. She stood away, at his mercy, snatched out of herself. She did not know him, only she knew he was a man come for her. She could only see the dark-clad man's figure standing there upon her, and the gripped fist of flowers. She could not see the face and the living eyes. He was watching her, without knowing her, only aware underneath of her presence. "I come to have a word with you," he said, striding forward to the table, laying down his hat and the flowers, which tumbled apart and lay in a loose heap. She had flinched from his advance. She had no will, no being. The wind boomed in the chimney, and he waited. He had disembarrassed his hands. Now he shut his fists. He was aware of her standing

begrudge

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

"Now I call that a delicate compliment!" And Tom, who had not lost his early relish for this sort of refreshment, though he seldom indulged his passion nowadays, because peanuts are considered vulgar, fell to cracking and munching with great satisfaction. "Do you remember the first visit I made at your house, how you gave me peanuts, coming from the depot, and frightened me out of my wits, pretending the coachman was tipsy?" asked Polly. "Of course I do, and how we coasted one day," answered Tom, laughing. "Yes, and the velocipede; you've got the scar of that yet, I see." "I remember how you stood by me while it was sewed up; that was very plucky, Polly." "I was dreadfully afraid, but I remember I wanted to seem very brave, because you'd called me a coward." "Did I? Ought to have been ashamed of myself. I used to rough you shamefully, Polly, and you were so good-natured, you let me do it." "Could n't help myself," laughed Polly. "I did use to think you were an awful boy, but seems to me I rather liked it." "She had so much of it at home, she got used to it," put in Will, pulling the little curl behind Polly's ear. "You boys never teased me as Tom did, that's the reason it amused me, I suppose; novelty hath charms, you know." "Grandma used to lecture Tom for plaguing you, Polly, and he used to say he'd be a tip-top boy, but he was n't," observed Maud, with a venerable air. "Dear old grandma; she did her best, but I'm a bad lot," said Tom, with a shake of the head and a sober face. "It always seems as if she must be up in her rooms, and I can't get used to finding them empty," added Polly, softly. "Father would n't have anything moved, and Tom sits up there sometimes; it makes him feel good, he says," said Maud, who had a talent for betraying trifles which people preferred should not be mentioned in public. "You'd better hurry up your apple, for if it is n't done pretty soon, you'll have to leave it, Pug," said Tom, looking annoyed. "How is Fan?" asked Polly, with tact. "Well, Fan is rather under the weather; says she's dyspeptic, which means cross." "She is cross, but she's sick too, for I found her crying one day, and she said nobody cared about her, and she might as well be dead," added Maud, having turned her apple with tender care. "We must try to cheer her up, among us. If I was n't so busy I'd like to devote myself to her, she has done so much for me," said Polly, gratefully. "I wish you could. I can't understand her, for she acts like a weathercock, and I never know how I'm going to find her. I hate to have her mope so, but, upon my life, I don't know what to do," said Tom; but as he uttered the words, something was suggested by the sight before him. Chairs were few, and Polly had taken half of Will's when they drew round the fire. Now she was leaning against him, in a cosy, confiding way, delightful to behold, while Will's strong arm went round her with a protecting air, which said, as plainly as any words, that this big brother and small sister knew how to love and help one another. It was a pleasant little picture, all the pleasanter for its unconsciousness, and Tom found it both suggestive and agreeable. "Poor old Fan, she don't get much petting; maybe that's what she wants. I'll try it and see, for she stands by me like a trump. If she was a rosy, cosy little woman, like Polly, it would come easier, though," thought Tom, as he meditatively ate his last nut, feeling that fraternal affection could not be very difficult of demonstration, to brothers blessed with pretty, good-tempered sisters. "I told Tom about the bad fellow who blew up the professor, and he said he knew him, slightly; and I was so relieved, because I had a kind of a feeling that it was Tom himself, you and Will laughed so about it." Maud had a queer way of going on with her own thoughts, and suddenly coming out with whatever lay uppermost, regardless of time, place, or company. As this remark fell from her, there was a general smile, and Polly said, with mock solemnity, "It was a sad thing, and I've no doubt that misguided young man is very sorry for it now." "He looked perfectly bowed down with remorse last time I saw him," said Will, regarding Tom with eyes full of fun, for Will was a boy as well as a bookworm, and relished a joke as well as scatter-brained Tom. "He always is remorseful after a scrape, I've understood, for he is n't a very bad fellow, only his spirits are one too many for him, and he is n't as fond of his book as another fellow I know." "I'm afraid he'll he expelled if he don't mind," said Polly, warningly. "Should n't wonder if he was, he's such an unlucky dog," answered Tom, rather soberly. "I hope he'll remember that his friends will be very much disappointed if he is. He might make them so proud and happy; that I guess he will, for he is n't half as thoughtless as he makes himself out," said Polly, looking across at Tom with such friendly eyes that he was quite touched, though of course he did n't show it. "Thank you, Polly; he may pull through, but I have my doubts. Now old man, let us'pud' along; it's getting late for the chicken," he added, relapsing into the graceful diction with which a classical education gifts its fortunate possessor. Taking advantage of the moment while Will was wrestling with his boots in the closet, and Maud was absorbed in packing her apple into a large basket, Polly said to Tom in a low tone, "Thank you very much, for being so kind to Will." "Bless your heart, I have n't done anything; he's such a proud fellow he won't let me," answered Tom. "But you do in many little ways; to-night, for example. Do you think I don't know that the suit of clothes he's just got would have cost a good deal more, if your tailor had n't made them? He's only a boy, and don't understand things yet; but I know your way of helping proud people; so that they don't find it out, and I do thank you, Tom, so much." "Oh, come, Polly, that won't do. What do you know about tailors and college matters?" said Tom, looking as much confused as if she had found him out in something reprehensible. "I don't know much, and that's the reason why I'm grateful for your kindness to Will. I don't care what stories they tell about you, I'm sure, you won't lead him into trouble, but keep him straight, for my sake. You know I've lost one brother, and Will takes Jimmy's place to me now." The tears in Polly's eyes as she said that made Tom vow a tremendous vow within himself to stand by Will through thick and thin, and "keep him straight for Polly's sake"; feeling all the time how ill-fitted he was for such a task. "I'll do my best," he said, heartily, as he pressed the hand Polly gave him, with a look which assured her that he felt the appeal to his honor, and that henceforth the country lad was safe from all the temptations Tom could have offered him. "There! now I shall give that to mamma to take her pills in; it's just what she likes, and it pleases her to be thought of," said Maud, surveying her gift with complacency, as she put on her things. "You're a good little soul, to remember poor mum, said Tom, with an approving nod. "Well, she was so pleased with the grapes you brought her, I thought I 'd try something, and maybe she'd say 'Thank you, darling,' to me too. Do you think she will?" whispered Maud, with the wistful look so often seen on her little plain face. "See if she don't;" and to Maud's great surprise Tom did n't laugh at her project. "Good night, dear; take care of yourself, and keep your muffler round your mouth going over the bridge, or you'll be as hoarse as a crow to-morrow," said Polly, as she kissed her brother, who returned it without looking as if he thought it "girl's nonsense" Then the three piled into the sleigh and drove off, leave Polly nodding on the doorstep. Maud found the drive altogether too short, but was consoled by the promise of a longer one if the sleighing lasted till next Saturday: and when Tom ran up to bid his mother good-by, and give her a hint about Maud's gift, she stayed below to say, at the last minute, in unconscious imitation of Polly. "Good night; take care of yourself, my dear." Tom laughed, and was about to pinch the much enduring little nose; but, as if the words reminded him of something, he gave her a kiss instead, a piece of forbearance which almost took Maud's breath away with surprise and gratification. It was rather a silent drive, for Will obediently kept his muffler up, and Tom fell into a brown study. He was not much given to reflection, but occasionally indulged when something gave him a turn in that direction, and at such times he was as sober and sincere as could be desired. Any one might have lectured him for an hour without doing as much good as that little call and the chat that grew out of it, for, though nothing very wise or witty was said, many things were suggested, and every one knows that persuasive influences are better than any amount of moralizing. Neither Polly nor Will tried to do anything of the sort, and that was the charm of it. Nobody likes to be talked to, but nobody can resist the eloquence of unconscious preaching. With all his thoughtlessness, Tom was quick to see and feel these things, and was not spoilt enough yet to laugh at them. The sight of Will and Polly's simple affection for one another reminded him of a neglected duty so pleasantly, that he could not forget it. Talking of early days made him wish he could go back and start again, doing better. Grandma's name recalled the tender memory that always did him good, and the thought that Polly trusted her dearest brother to his care stirred up a manful desire to deserve the confidence. Tortures would n't have drawn a word of all this from him, but it had its effect, for boys don't leave their hearts and consciences behind them when they enter college, and little things of this sort do much to keep both from being damaged by the four years' scrimmage which begins the battle of life for most of them. CHAPTER XI. NEEDLES AND TONGUES DEAR POLLY, The Sewing Circle meets at our house this P. M. This is in your line, so do come and help me through. I shall depend on you. Yours ever, FAN. "Bad news, my dear?" asked Miss Mills, who had just handed the note to Polly as she came in one noon, a few weeks after Jenny's arrival. Polly told her what it was, adding, "I suppose I ought to go and help Fanny, but I can't say I want to. The girls talk about things I have nothing to do with, and I don't find their gossip very amusing. I'm an outsider, and they only accept me on Fan's account; so I sit in a corner and sew, while they chatter and laugh." "Would n't it be a good chance to say a word for Jenny? She wants work, and these young ladies probably have quantities done somewhere. Jenny does fine work exquisitely, and begins to feel anxious to be earning something. I don't want her to feel dependent and unhappy, and a little well-paid sewing would be all she needs to do nicely. I can get it for her by running round to my friends, but I really have n't the time, till I get the Mullers off. They are paupers here, but out West they can take care of themselves, so I've begged the money to send them, and as soon as I can get them some clothes, off they go. That's the way to help people help themselves," and Miss Mills clashed her big scissors energetically, as she cut out a little red flannel shirt. "I know it is, and I want to help, but I don't know where to begin," said Polly, feeling quite oppressed with the immensity of the work. "We can't any of us do all we would like, but we can do our best for every case that comes to us, and that helps amazingly. Begin with Jenny, my dear; tell those girls about her, and if I'm not much mistaken, you will find them ready to help, for half the time it is n't hardness of heart, but ignorance or thoughtlessness on the part of the rich, that makes them seem so careless of the poor." "To tell the truth, I'm afraid of being laughed at, if I try to talk seriously about such things to the girls," said Polly, frankly. "You believe that'such things' are true? You are sincere in your wish to help better them, and you respect those who work for that end?" "Yes, I do." "Then, my dear, can't you bear a little ridicule for the sake of a good cause? You said yesterday that you were going to make it a principle of your life, to help up your sex as far and as fast as you could. It did my heart good to hear you say it, for I was sure that in time you would keep your word. But, Polly, a principle that can't bear being laughed at, frowned on, and cold-shouldered, is n't worthy of the name." "I want to be strong-minded in the real sense of the word, but I don't like to be called so by people who don't understand my meaning; and I shall be if I try to make the girls think soberly about anything sensible or philanthropic. They call me old-fashioned now, and I'd rather be thought that, though it is n't pleasant, than be set down as a rampant woman's rights reformer," said Polly, in whose memory many laughs, and snubs, and sarcasms still lingered, forgiven but not forgotten. "This love and thought and care for those weaker, poorer, or worse than ourselves, which we call Christian charity, is a very old fashion, my dear. It began eighteen hundred years ago, and only those who honestly follow the beautiful example set us then, learn how to get genuine happiness out of life. I'm not a'rampant woman's rights reformer,'" added Miss Mills, with a smile at Polly's sober face; "but I think that women can do a great deal for each other, if they will only stop fearing what'people will think,' and take a hearty interest in whatever is going to fit their sisters and themselves to deserve and enjoy the rights God gave them. There are so many ways in which this can be done, that I wonder they don't see and improve them. I don't ask you to go and make speeches, only a few have the gift for that, but I do want every girl and woman to feel this duty, and make any little sacrifice of time or feeling that may be asked of them, because there is so much to do, and no one can do it as well as ourselves, if we only think so." "I'll try!" said Polly, influenced more by her desire to keep Miss Mills' good opinion than any love of self-sacrifice for her sex. It was rather a hard thing to ask of a shy, sensitive girl, and the kind old lady knew it, for in spite of the gray hair and withered face, her heart was very young, and her own girlish trials not forgotten. But she knew also that Polly had more influence over others than she herself suspected, simply because of her candid, upright nature; and that while she tried to help others, she was serving herself in a way that would improve heart and soul more than any mere social success she might gain by following the rules of fashionable life, which drill the character out of girls till they are as much alike as pins in a paper, and have about as much true sense and sentiment in their little heads. There was good stuff in Polly, unspoiled as yet, and Miss Mills was only acting out her principle of women helping each other. The wise old lady saw that Polly had reached that point where the girl suddenly blooms into a woman, asking something more substantial than pleasure to satisfy the new aspirations that are born; a time as precious and important to the after-life, as the hour when the apple blossoms fall, and the young fruit waits for the elements to ripen or destroy the harvest. Polly did not know this, and was fortunate in possessing a friend who knew what influences would serve her best, and who could give her what all women should desire to give each other, the example of a sweet, good life, more eloquent and powerful than any words; for this is a right no one can deny us. Polly turned the matter over in her mind as she dressed, while Jenny played waiting maid, little dreaming what this new friend was meaning to do for her, if she dared. "Is it going to be a tea-party, Miss?" asked Jenny, as the black silk went rustling on, to her great admiration, for she considered Polly a beauty. "Well, no, I think it will probably be a lecture," answered Polly, laughing, for Jenny's grateful service and affectionate eyes confirmed the purpose which Miss Mills' little homily had suggested. As she entered the Shaws' parlor an hour or two later, an appalling array of well-dressed girls appeared, each provided with a dainty reticule, basket, or bag, and each tongue going a good deal faster than the needle, while the white fingers stitched sleeves in upside down, put flannel jackets together hind part before, or gobbled button-holes with the best intentions in life. "You are a dear to come so early. Here's a nice place for you between Belle and Miss Perkins, and here's a sweet little dress to make, unless you like something else better," said Fanny, receiving her friend with warmth and placing her where she thought she would enjoy herself. "Thank you, I'll take an unbleached cotton shirt if you have such a thing, for it is likely to be needed before a cambric frock," replied Polly, subsiding into her corner as quickly as possible, for at least six eye-glasses were up, and she did n't enjoy being stared at. Miss Perkins, a grave, cold-looking young lady, with an aristocratic nose, bowed politely, and then went on with her work, which displayed two diamond rings to great advantage. Belle, being of the demonstrative sort, smiled and nodded, drew up her chair, and began a whispered account of Trix's last quarrel with Tom. Polly listened with interest while she sewed diligently, occasionally permitting her eyes to study the elegant intricacies of Miss Perkins' dress, for that young lady sat like a statue, quirking her delicate fingers, and accomplishing about two stitches a minute. In the midst of Belle's story, a more exciting bit of gossip caught her ear, and she plunged into the conversation going on across the table, leaving Polly free to listen and admire the wit, wisdom, and charitable spirit of the accomplished young ladies about her. There was a perfect Babel of tongues, but out of the confusion Polly gathered scraps of fashionable intelligence which somewhat lessened her respect for the dwellers in high places. One fair creature asserted that Joe Somebody took so much champagne at the last German, that he had to be got away, and sent home with two servants. Another divulged the awful fact that Carrie P.'s wedding presents were half of them hired for the occasion. A third circulated a whisper to the effect that though Mrs. Buckminster wore a thousand-dollar cloak, her boys were not allowed but one sheet to their beds. And a fourth young gossip assured the company that a certain person never had offered himself to a certain other person, though the report was industriously spread by interested parties. This latter remark caused such a clamor that Fanny called the meeting to order in a most unparliamentary fashion. "Girls! girls! you really must talk less and sew more, or our society will be disgraced. Do you know our branch sent in less work than any of the others last month, and Mrs. Fitz George said, she did n't see how fifteen young ladies could manage to do so little?" "We don't talk a bit more than the old ladies do. I just wish you could have heard them go on, last time. The way they get so much done, is, they take work home, and make their seamstresses do it, and then they take credit for vast industry," said Belle, who always spoke her mind with charming candor. "That reminds me that mamma says they want as many things as we can make, for it's a hard winter, and the poor are suffering very much. Do any of you wish to take articles home, to do at odd times?" said Fan, who was president of this energetic Dorcas Society. "Mercy, no! It takes all my leisure time to mend my gloves and refresh my dresses," answered Belle. "I think if we meet once a week, it is all that should be expected of us, with our other engagements. Poor people always complain that the winter is a hard one, and never are satisfied," remarked Miss Perkins, making her diamonds sparkle as she sewed buttons on the wrong side of a pink calico apron, which would hardly survive one washing. "Nobody can ask me to do any more, if they remember all I've got to attend to before summer," said Trix, with an important air. "I've got three women hard at work, and want another, but everyone is so busy, and ask such abominable prices, that I'm in despair, and shall have to take hold myself, I'm afraid." "There's a chance for Jane," thought Polly, but had n't courage "to speak out loud in meeting," just then, and resolved to ask Trix for work, in private. "Prices are high, but you forget how much more it costs to live now than it used to do. Mamma never allows us to beat down workwomen, but wishes us to pay them well, and economize in some other way, if we must," said Emma Davenport, a quiet, bright-eyed girl, who was called "odd" among the young ladies, because she dressed simply, when her father was a millionaire. "Just hear that girl talk about economy! I beg your pardon, she's some relation of yours, I believe!" said Belle, in a low tone. "Very distant; but I'm proud of it; for with her, economy does n't mean scrimping in one place to make a show in another. If every one would follow the Davenports' example, workwomen would n't starve, or servants be such a trouble. Emma is the plainest dressed girl in the room, next to me, yet any one can see she is a true gentlewoman," said Polly, warmly. "And you are another," answered Belle, who had always loved Polly, in her scatter-brained way. "Hush! Trix has the floor." "If they spent their wages properly, I should n't mind so much, but they think they must be as fine as anybody, and dress so well that it is hard to tell mistress from maid. Why our cook got a bonnet just like mine (the materials were cheaper, but the effect was the same), and had the impertinence to wear it before my face. I forbid it, and she left, of course, which made papa so cross he would n't give me the camel's hair shawl he promised this year." "It's perfectly shameful!" said Miss Perkins, as Trix paused out of breath. "Servants ought to be made to dress like servants, as they do abroad; then we should have no more trouble," observed Miss Perkins, who had just made the grand tour, and had brought home a French maid. "Perky don't practise as she preaches," whispered Belle to Polly, as Miss P. became absorbed in the chat of her other neighbors. "She pays her chamber girl with old finery; and the other day, when Betsey was out parading in her missis's cast-off purple plush suit, Mr. Curtis thought she was mademoiselle, and bowed to her. He is as blind as a bat, but recognized the dress, and pulled off his hat to it in the most elegant style. Perky adores him, and was mad enough to beat Betsey when she told the story and giggled over it. Betsey is quite as stylish and ever so much prettier than Perky, and she knows it, which is an aggravation." Polly could n't help laughing, but grew sober a minute after, as Trix said, pettishly, "Well, I'm sick of hearing about beggars; I believe half of them are humbugs, and if we let them alone they'd go to work and take care of themselves. There's altogether too much fuss made about charity. I do wish we could be left in peace." "There can't be too much charity!" burst out Polly, forgetting her shyness all at once. "Oh, indeed! Well, I take the liberty to differ from you," returned Trix, putting up her glass, and bestowing upon Polly her most "toploftical stare," as the girls called it. I regret to say that Polly never could talk with or be near Trix without feeling irritated and combative. She tried to conquer this feeling, but she could n't, and when Trix put on airs, Polly felt an intense desire to box her ears. That eye-glass was her especial aversion, for Trix was no more near-sighted than herself, but pretended to be because it was the fashion, and at times used the innocent glass as a weapon with which to put down any one who presumed to set themselves up. The supercilious glance which accompanied her ironically polite speech roused Polly, who answered with sudden color and the kindling of the eyes that always betrayed a perturbed spirit, "I don't think many of us would enjoy that selfish sort of peace, while little children starve, and girls no older than us kill themselves because their dreadful poverty leaves them no choice but sin or death." A sudden lull took place, for, though Polly, did not raise her voice, it was full of indignant emotion, and the most frivolous girl there felt a little thrill of sympathy; for the most utterly fashionable life does not kill the heart out of women, till years of selfish pleasure have passed over their heads. Trix was ashamed of herself; but she felt the same antagonism toward Polly, that Polly did toward her; and, being less generous, took satisfaction in plaguing her. Polly did not know that the secret of this was the fact that Tom often held her up as a model for his fiance to follow, which caused that young lady to dislike her more than ever. "Half the awful stories in the papers are made up for a sensation, and it's absurd to believe them, unless one likes to be harrowed up. I don't; and as for peace, I'm not likely to get much, while I have Tom to look after," said Trix, with an aggravating laugh. Polly's needle snapped in two, but she did not mind it, as she said, with a look that silenced even sharp-tongued Trix, "I can't help believing what my own eyes and ears have seen and heard. You lead such safe and happy lives, you can't imagine the misery that is all round you; but if you could get a glimpse of it, it would make your hearts ache, as it has mine." "Do you suffer from heartache? Some one hinted as much to me, but you looked so well, I could n't believe it." Now that was cruel in Trix, more cruel than any one guessed; but girls' tongues can deal wounds as sharp and sudden as the slender stiletto Spanish women wear in their hair, and Polly turned pale, as those words stabbed her. Belle saw it, and rushed to the rescue with more good-will than wisdom. "Nobody ever accused you of having any heart to ache with. Polly and I are not old enough yet to get tough and cool, and we are still silly enough to pity unhappy people, Tom Shaw especially," added Belle, under her breath. That was a two-edged thrust, for Trix was decidedly an old girl, and Tom was generally regarded as a hapless victim. Trix turned red; but before she could load and fire again, Emma Davenport, who labored under the delusion that this sort of skirmishing was ill-natured, and therefore ill-bred, spoke up in her pleasant way, "Speaking of pitying the poor, I always wonder why it is that we all like to read and cry over their troubles in books, but when we have the real thing before us, we think it is uninteresting and disagreeable." "It's the

doing

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

"Now I call that a delicate compliment!" And Tom, who had not lost his early relish for this sort of refreshment, though he seldom indulged his passion nowadays, because peanuts are considered vulgar, fell to cracking and munching with great satisfaction. "Do you remember the first visit I made at your house, how you gave me peanuts, coming from the depot, and frightened me out of my wits, pretending the coachman was tipsy?" asked Polly. "Of course I do, and how we coasted one day," answered Tom, laughing. "Yes, and the velocipede; you've got the scar of that yet, I see." "I remember how you stood by me while it was sewed up; that was very plucky, Polly." "I was dreadfully afraid, but I remember I wanted to seem very brave, because you'd called me a coward." "Did I? Ought to have been ashamed of myself. I used to rough you shamefully, Polly, and you were so good-natured, you let me do it." "Could n't help myself," laughed Polly. "I did use to think you were an awful boy, but seems to me I rather liked it." "She had so much of it at home, she got used to it," put in Will, pulling the little curl behind Polly's ear. "You boys never teased me as Tom did, that's the reason it amused me, I suppose; novelty hath charms, you know." "Grandma used to lecture Tom for plaguing you, Polly, and he used to say he'd be a tip-top boy, but he was n't," observed Maud, with a venerable air. "Dear old grandma; she did her best, but I'm a bad lot," said Tom, with a shake of the head and a sober face. "It always seems as if she must be up in her rooms, and I can't get used to finding them empty," added Polly, softly. "Father would n't have anything moved, and Tom sits up there sometimes; it makes him feel good, he says," said Maud, who had a talent for betraying trifles which people preferred should not be mentioned in public. "You'd better hurry up your apple, for if it is n't done pretty soon, you'll have to leave it, Pug," said Tom, looking annoyed. "How is Fan?" asked Polly, with tact. "Well, Fan is rather under the weather; says she's dyspeptic, which means cross." "She is cross, but she's sick too, for I found her crying one day, and she said nobody cared about her, and she might as well be dead," added Maud, having turned her apple with tender care. "We must try to cheer her up, among us. If I was n't so busy I'd like to devote myself to her, she has done so much for me," said Polly, gratefully. "I wish you could. I can't understand her, for she acts like a weathercock, and I never know how I'm going to find her. I hate to have her mope so, but, upon my life, I don't know what to do," said Tom; but as he uttered the words, something was suggested by the sight before him. Chairs were few, and Polly had taken half of Will's when they drew round the fire. Now she was leaning against him, in a cosy, confiding way, delightful to behold, while Will's strong arm went round her with a protecting air, which said, as plainly as any words, that this big brother and small sister knew how to love and help one another. It was a pleasant little picture, all the pleasanter for its unconsciousness, and Tom found it both suggestive and agreeable. "Poor old Fan, she don't get much petting; maybe that's what she wants. I'll try it and see, for she stands by me like a trump. If she was a rosy, cosy little woman, like Polly, it would come easier, though," thought Tom, as he meditatively ate his last nut, feeling that fraternal affection could not be very difficult of demonstration, to brothers blessed with pretty, good-tempered sisters. "I told Tom about the bad fellow who blew up the professor, and he said he knew him, slightly; and I was so relieved, because I had a kind of a feeling that it was Tom himself, you and Will laughed so about it." Maud had a queer way of going on with her own thoughts, and suddenly coming out with whatever lay uppermost, regardless of time, place, or company. As this remark fell from her, there was a general smile, and Polly said, with mock solemnity, "It was a sad thing, and I've no doubt that misguided young man is very sorry for it now." "He looked perfectly bowed down with remorse last time I saw him," said Will, regarding Tom with eyes full of fun, for Will was a boy as well as a bookworm, and relished a joke as well as scatter-brained Tom. "He always is remorseful after a scrape, I've understood, for he is n't a very bad fellow, only his spirits are one too many for him, and he is n't as fond of his book as another fellow I know." "I'm afraid he'll he expelled if he don't mind," said Polly, warningly. "Should n't wonder if he was, he's such an unlucky dog," answered Tom, rather soberly. "I hope he'll remember that his friends will be very much disappointed if he is. He might make them so proud and happy; that I guess he will, for he is n't half as thoughtless as he makes himself out," said Polly, looking across at Tom with such friendly eyes that he was quite touched, though of course he did n't show it. "Thank you, Polly; he may pull through, but I have my doubts. Now old man, let us'pud' along; it's getting late for the chicken," he added, relapsing into the graceful diction with which a classical education gifts its fortunate possessor. Taking advantage of the moment while Will was wrestling with his boots in the closet, and Maud was absorbed in packing her apple into a large basket, Polly said to Tom in a low tone, "Thank you very much, for being so kind to Will." "Bless your heart, I have n't done anything; he's such a proud fellow he won't let me," answered Tom. "But you do in many little ways; to-night, for example. Do you think I don't know that the suit of clothes he's just got would have cost a good deal more, if your tailor had n't made them? He's only a boy, and don't understand things yet; but I know your way of helping proud people; so that they don't find it out, and I do thank you, Tom, so much." "Oh, come, Polly, that won't do. What do you know about tailors and college matters?" said Tom, looking as much confused as if she had found him out in something reprehensible. "I don't know much, and that's the reason why I'm grateful for your kindness to Will. I don't care what stories they tell about you, I'm sure, you won't lead him into trouble, but keep him straight, for my sake. You know I've lost one brother, and Will takes Jimmy's place to me now." The tears in Polly's eyes as she said that made Tom vow a tremendous vow within himself to stand by Will through thick and thin, and "keep him straight for Polly's sake"; feeling all the time how ill-fitted he was for such a task. "I'll do my best," he said, heartily, as he pressed the hand Polly gave him, with a look which assured her that he felt the appeal to his honor, and that henceforth the country lad was safe from all the temptations Tom could have offered him. "There! now I shall give that to mamma to take her pills in; it's just what she likes, and it pleases her to be thought of," said Maud, surveying her gift with complacency, as she put on her things. "You're a good little soul, to remember poor mum, said Tom, with an approving nod. "Well, she was so pleased with the grapes you brought her, I thought I 'd try something, and maybe she'd say 'Thank you, darling,' to me too. Do you think she will?" whispered Maud, with the wistful look so often seen on her little plain face. "See if she don't;" and to Maud's great surprise Tom did n't laugh at her project. "Good night, dear; take care of yourself, and keep your muffler round your mouth going over the bridge, or you'll be as hoarse as a crow to-morrow," said Polly, as she kissed her brother, who returned it without looking as if he thought it "girl's nonsense" Then the three piled into the sleigh and drove off, leave Polly nodding on the doorstep. Maud found the drive altogether too short, but was consoled by the promise of a longer one if the sleighing lasted till next Saturday: and when Tom ran up to bid his mother good-by, and give her a hint about Maud's gift, she stayed below to say, at the last minute, in unconscious imitation of Polly. "Good night; take care of yourself, my dear." Tom laughed, and was about to pinch the much enduring little nose; but, as if the words reminded him of something, he gave her a kiss instead, a piece of forbearance which almost took Maud's breath away with surprise and gratification. It was rather a silent drive, for Will obediently kept his muffler up, and Tom fell into a brown study. He was not much given to reflection, but occasionally indulged when something gave him a turn in that direction, and at such times he was as sober and sincere as could be desired. Any one might have lectured him for an hour without doing as much good as that little call and the chat that grew out of it, for, though nothing very wise or witty was said, many things were suggested, and every one knows that persuasive influences are better than any amount of moralizing. Neither Polly nor Will tried to do anything of the sort, and that was the charm of it. Nobody likes to be talked to, but nobody can resist the eloquence of unconscious preaching. With all his thoughtlessness, Tom was quick to see and feel these things, and was not spoilt enough yet to laugh at them. The sight of Will and Polly's simple affection for one another reminded him of a neglected duty so pleasantly, that he could not forget it. Talking of early days made him wish he could go back and start again, doing better. Grandma's name recalled the tender memory that always did him good, and the thought that Polly trusted her dearest brother to his care stirred up a manful desire to deserve the confidence. Tortures would n't have drawn a word of all this from him, but it had its effect, for boys don't leave their hearts and consciences behind them when they enter college, and little things of this sort do much to keep both from being damaged by the four years' scrimmage which begins the battle of life for most of them. CHAPTER XI. NEEDLES AND TONGUES DEAR POLLY, The Sewing Circle meets at our house this P. M. This is in your line, so do come and help me through. I shall depend on you. Yours ever, FAN. "Bad news, my dear?" asked Miss Mills, who had just handed the note to Polly as she came in one noon, a few weeks after Jenny's arrival. Polly told her what it was, adding, "I suppose I ought to go and help Fanny, but I can't say I want to. The girls talk about things I have nothing to do with, and I don't find their gossip very amusing. I'm an outsider, and they only accept me on Fan's account; so I sit in a corner and sew, while they chatter and laugh." "Would n't it be a good chance to say a word for Jenny? She wants work, and these young ladies probably have quantities done somewhere. Jenny does fine work exquisitely, and begins to feel anxious to be earning something. I don't want her to feel dependent and unhappy, and a little well-paid sewing would be all she needs to do nicely. I can get it for her by running round to my friends, but I really have n't the time, till I get the Mullers off. They are paupers here, but out West they can take care of themselves, so I've begged the money to send them, and as soon as I can get them some clothes, off they go. That's the way to help people help themselves," and Miss Mills clashed her big scissors energetically, as she cut out a little red flannel shirt. "I know it is, and I want to help, but I don't know where to begin," said Polly, feeling quite oppressed with the immensity of the work. "We can't any of us do all we would like, but we can do our best for every case that comes to us, and that helps amazingly. Begin with Jenny, my dear; tell those girls about her, and if I'm not much mistaken, you will find them ready to help, for half the time it is n't hardness of heart, but ignorance or thoughtlessness on the part of the rich, that makes them seem so careless of the poor." "To tell the truth, I'm afraid of being laughed at, if I try to talk seriously about such things to the girls," said Polly, frankly. "You believe that'such things' are true? You are sincere in your wish to help better them, and you respect those who work for that end?" "Yes, I do." "Then, my dear, can't you bear a little ridicule for the sake of a good cause? You said yesterday that you were going to make it a principle of your life, to help up your sex as far and as fast as you could. It did my heart good to hear you say it, for I was sure that in time you would keep your word. But, Polly, a principle that can't bear being laughed at, frowned on, and cold-shouldered, is n't worthy of the name." "I want to be strong-minded in the real sense of the word, but I don't like to be called so by people who don't understand my meaning; and I shall be if I try to make the girls think soberly about anything sensible or philanthropic. They call me old-fashioned now, and I'd rather be thought that, though it is n't pleasant, than be set down as a rampant woman's rights reformer," said Polly, in whose memory many laughs, and snubs, and sarcasms still lingered, forgiven but not forgotten. "This love and thought and care for those weaker, poorer, or worse than ourselves, which we call Christian charity, is a very old fashion, my dear. It began eighteen hundred years ago, and only those who honestly follow the beautiful example set us then, learn how to get genuine happiness out of life. I'm not a'rampant woman's rights reformer,'" added Miss Mills, with a smile at Polly's sober face; "but I think that women can do a great deal for each other, if they will only stop fearing what'people will think,' and take a hearty interest in whatever is going to fit their sisters and themselves to deserve and enjoy the rights God gave them. There are so many ways in which this can be done, that I wonder they don't see and improve them. I don't ask you to go and make speeches, only a few have the gift for that, but I do want every girl and woman to feel this duty, and make any little sacrifice of time or feeling that may be asked of them, because there is so much to do, and no one can do it as well as ourselves, if we only think so." "I'll try!" said Polly, influenced more by her desire to keep Miss Mills' good opinion than any love of self-sacrifice for her sex. It was rather a hard thing to ask of a shy, sensitive girl, and the kind old lady knew it, for in spite of the gray hair and withered face, her heart was very young, and her own girlish trials not forgotten. But she knew also that Polly had more influence over others than she herself suspected, simply because of her candid, upright nature; and that while she tried to help others, she was serving herself in a way that would improve heart and soul more than any mere social success she might gain by following the rules of fashionable life, which drill the character out of girls till they are as much alike as pins in a paper, and have about as much true sense and sentiment in their little heads. There was good stuff in Polly, unspoiled as yet, and Miss Mills was only acting out her principle of women helping each other. The wise old lady saw that Polly had reached that point where the girl suddenly blooms into a woman, asking something more substantial than pleasure to satisfy the new aspirations that are born; a time as precious and important to the after-life, as the hour when the apple blossoms fall, and the young fruit waits for the elements to ripen or destroy the harvest. Polly did not know this, and was fortunate in possessing a friend who knew what influences would serve her best, and who could give her what all women should desire to give each other, the example of a sweet, good life, more eloquent and powerful than any words; for this is a right no one can deny us. Polly turned the matter over in her mind as she dressed, while Jenny played waiting maid, little dreaming what this new friend was meaning to do for her, if she dared. "Is it going to be a tea-party, Miss?" asked Jenny, as the black silk went rustling on, to her great admiration, for she considered Polly a beauty. "Well, no, I think it will probably be a lecture," answered Polly, laughing, for Jenny's grateful service and affectionate eyes confirmed the purpose which Miss Mills' little homily had suggested. As she entered the Shaws' parlor an hour or two later, an appalling array of well-dressed girls appeared, each provided with a dainty reticule, basket, or bag, and each tongue going a good deal faster than the needle, while the white fingers stitched sleeves in upside down, put flannel jackets together hind part before, or gobbled button-holes with the best intentions in life. "You are a dear to come so early. Here's a nice place for you between Belle and Miss Perkins, and here's a sweet little dress to make, unless you like something else better," said Fanny, receiving her friend with warmth and placing her where she thought she would enjoy herself. "Thank you, I'll take an unbleached cotton shirt if you have such a thing, for it is likely to be needed before a cambric frock," replied Polly, subsiding into her corner as quickly as possible, for at least six eye-glasses were up, and she did n't enjoy being stared at. Miss Perkins, a grave, cold-looking young lady, with an aristocratic nose, bowed politely, and then went on with her work, which displayed two diamond rings to great advantage. Belle, being of the demonstrative sort, smiled and nodded, drew up her chair, and began a whispered account of Trix's last quarrel with Tom. Polly listened with interest while she sewed diligently, occasionally permitting her eyes to study the elegant intricacies of Miss Perkins' dress, for that young lady sat like a statue, quirking her delicate fingers, and accomplishing about two stitches a minute. In the midst of Belle's story, a more exciting bit of gossip caught her ear, and she plunged into the conversation going on across the table, leaving Polly free to listen and admire the wit, wisdom, and charitable spirit of the accomplished young ladies about her. There was a perfect Babel of tongues, but out of the confusion Polly gathered scraps of fashionable intelligence which somewhat lessened her respect for the dwellers in high places. One fair creature asserted that Joe Somebody took so much champagne at the last German, that he had to be got away, and sent home with two servants. Another divulged the awful fact that Carrie P.'s wedding presents were half of them hired for the occasion. A third circulated a whisper to the effect that though Mrs. Buckminster wore a thousand-dollar cloak, her boys were not allowed but one sheet to their beds. And a fourth young gossip assured the company that a certain person never had offered himself to a certain other person, though the report was industriously spread by interested parties. This latter remark caused such a clamor that Fanny called the meeting to order in a most unparliamentary fashion. "Girls! girls! you really must talk less and sew more, or our society will be disgraced. Do you know our branch sent in less work than any of the others last month, and Mrs. Fitz George said, she did n't see how fifteen young ladies could manage to do so little?" "We don't talk a bit more than the old ladies do. I just wish you could have heard them go on, last time. The way they get so much done, is, they take work home, and make their seamstresses do it, and then they take credit for vast industry," said Belle, who always spoke her mind with charming candor. "That reminds me that mamma says they want as many things as we can make, for it's a hard winter, and the poor are suffering very much. Do any of you wish to take articles home, to do at odd times?" said Fan, who was president of this energetic Dorcas Society. "Mercy, no! It takes all my leisure time to mend my gloves and refresh my dresses," answered Belle. "I think if we meet once a week, it is all that should be expected of us, with our other engagements. Poor people always complain that the winter is a hard one, and never are satisfied," remarked Miss Perkins, making her diamonds sparkle as she sewed buttons on the wrong side of a pink calico apron, which would hardly survive one washing. "Nobody can ask me to do any more, if they remember all I've got to attend to before summer," said Trix, with an important air. "I've got three women hard at work, and want another, but everyone is so busy, and ask such abominable prices, that I'm in despair, and shall have to take hold myself, I'm afraid." "There's a chance for Jane," thought Polly, but had n't courage "to speak out loud in meeting," just then, and resolved to ask Trix for work, in private. "Prices are high, but you forget how much more it costs to live now than it used to do. Mamma never allows us to beat down workwomen, but wishes us to pay them well, and economize in some other way, if we must," said Emma Davenport, a quiet, bright-eyed girl, who was called "odd" among the young ladies, because she dressed simply, when her father was a millionaire. "Just hear that girl talk about economy! I beg your pardon, she's some relation of yours, I believe!" said Belle, in a low tone. "Very distant; but I'm proud of it; for with her, economy does n't mean scrimping in one place to make a show in another. If every one would follow the Davenports' example, workwomen would n't starve, or servants be such a trouble. Emma is the plainest dressed girl in the room, next to me, yet any one can see she is a true gentlewoman," said Polly, warmly. "And you are another," answered Belle, who had always loved Polly, in her scatter-brained way. "Hush! Trix has the floor." "If they spent their wages properly, I should n't mind so much, but they think they must be as fine as anybody, and dress so well that it is hard to tell mistress from maid. Why our cook got a bonnet just like mine (the materials were cheaper, but the effect was the same), and had the impertinence to wear it before my face. I forbid it, and she left, of course, which made papa so cross he would n't give me the camel's hair shawl he promised this year." "It's perfectly shameful!" said Miss Perkins, as Trix paused out of breath. "Servants ought to be made to dress like servants, as they do abroad; then we should have no more trouble," observed Miss Perkins, who had just made the grand tour, and had brought home a French maid. "Perky don't practise as she preaches," whispered Belle to Polly, as Miss P. became absorbed in the chat of her other neighbors. "She pays her chamber girl with old finery; and the other day, when Betsey was out parading in her missis's cast-off purple plush suit, Mr. Curtis thought she was mademoiselle, and bowed to her. He is as blind as a bat, but recognized the dress, and pulled off his hat to it in the most elegant style. Perky adores him, and was mad enough to beat Betsey when she told the story and giggled over it. Betsey is quite as stylish and ever so much prettier than Perky, and she knows it, which is an aggravation." Polly could n't help laughing, but grew sober a minute after, as Trix said, pettishly, "Well, I'm sick of hearing about beggars; I believe half of them are humbugs, and if we let them alone they'd go to work and take care of themselves. There's altogether too much fuss made about charity. I do wish we could be left in peace." "There can't be too much charity!" burst out Polly, forgetting her shyness all at once. "Oh, indeed! Well, I take the liberty to differ from you," returned Trix, putting up her glass, and bestowing upon Polly her most "toploftical stare," as the girls called it. I regret to say that Polly never could talk with or be near Trix without feeling irritated and combative. She tried to conquer this feeling, but she could n't, and when Trix put on airs, Polly felt an intense desire to box her ears. That eye-glass was her especial aversion, for Trix was no more near-sighted than herself, but pretended to be because it was the fashion, and at times used the innocent glass as a weapon with which to put down any one who presumed to set themselves up. The supercilious glance which accompanied her ironically polite speech roused Polly, who answered with sudden color and the kindling of the eyes that always betrayed a perturbed spirit, "I don't think many of us would enjoy that selfish sort of peace, while little children starve, and girls no older than us kill themselves because their dreadful poverty leaves them no choice but sin or death." A sudden lull took place, for, though Polly, did not raise her voice, it was full of indignant emotion, and the most frivolous girl there felt a little thrill of sympathy; for the most utterly fashionable life does not kill the heart out of women, till years of selfish pleasure have passed over their heads. Trix was ashamed of herself; but she felt the same antagonism toward Polly, that Polly did toward her; and, being less generous, took satisfaction in plaguing her. Polly did not know that the secret of this was the fact that Tom often held her up as a model for his fiance to follow, which caused that young lady to dislike her more than ever. "Half the awful stories in the papers are made up for a sensation, and it's absurd to believe them, unless one likes to be harrowed up. I don't; and as for peace, I'm not likely to get much, while I have Tom to look after," said Trix, with an aggravating laugh. Polly's needle snapped in two, but she did not mind it, as she said, with a look that silenced even sharp-tongued Trix, "I can't help believing what my own eyes and ears have seen and heard. You lead such safe and happy lives, you can't imagine the misery that is all round you; but if you could get a glimpse of it, it would make your hearts ache, as it has mine." "Do you suffer from heartache? Some one hinted as much to me, but you looked so well, I could n't believe it." Now that was cruel in Trix, more cruel than any one guessed; but girls' tongues can deal wounds as sharp and sudden as the slender stiletto Spanish women wear in their hair, and Polly turned pale, as those words stabbed her. Belle saw it, and rushed to the rescue with more good-will than wisdom. "Nobody ever accused you of having any heart to ache with. Polly and I are not old enough yet to get tough and cool, and we are still silly enough to pity unhappy people, Tom Shaw especially," added Belle, under her breath. That was a two-edged thrust, for Trix was decidedly an old girl, and Tom was generally regarded as a hapless victim. Trix turned red; but before she could load and fire again, Emma Davenport, who labored under the delusion that this sort of skirmishing was ill-natured, and therefore ill-bred, spoke up in her pleasant way, "Speaking of pitying the poor, I always wonder why it is that we all like to read and cry over their troubles in books, but when we have the real thing before us, we think it is uninteresting and disagreeable." "It's the

hour

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"Now I call that a delicate compliment!" And Tom, who had not lost his early relish for this sort of refreshment, though he seldom indulged his passion nowadays, because peanuts are considered vulgar, fell to cracking and munching with great satisfaction. "Do you remember the first visit I made at your house, how you gave me peanuts, coming from the depot, and frightened me out of my wits, pretending the coachman was tipsy?" asked Polly. "Of course I do, and how we coasted one day," answered Tom, laughing. "Yes, and the velocipede; you've got the scar of that yet, I see." "I remember how you stood by me while it was sewed up; that was very plucky, Polly." "I was dreadfully afraid, but I remember I wanted to seem very brave, because you'd called me a coward." "Did I? Ought to have been ashamed of myself. I used to rough you shamefully, Polly, and you were so good-natured, you let me do it." "Could n't help myself," laughed Polly. "I did use to think you were an awful boy, but seems to me I rather liked it." "She had so much of it at home, she got used to it," put in Will, pulling the little curl behind Polly's ear. "You boys never teased me as Tom did, that's the reason it amused me, I suppose; novelty hath charms, you know." "Grandma used to lecture Tom for plaguing you, Polly, and he used to say he'd be a tip-top boy, but he was n't," observed Maud, with a venerable air. "Dear old grandma; she did her best, but I'm a bad lot," said Tom, with a shake of the head and a sober face. "It always seems as if she must be up in her rooms, and I can't get used to finding them empty," added Polly, softly. "Father would n't have anything moved, and Tom sits up there sometimes; it makes him feel good, he says," said Maud, who had a talent for betraying trifles which people preferred should not be mentioned in public. "You'd better hurry up your apple, for if it is n't done pretty soon, you'll have to leave it, Pug," said Tom, looking annoyed. "How is Fan?" asked Polly, with tact. "Well, Fan is rather under the weather; says she's dyspeptic, which means cross." "She is cross, but she's sick too, for I found her crying one day, and she said nobody cared about her, and she might as well be dead," added Maud, having turned her apple with tender care. "We must try to cheer her up, among us. If I was n't so busy I'd like to devote myself to her, she has done so much for me," said Polly, gratefully. "I wish you could. I can't understand her, for she acts like a weathercock, and I never know how I'm going to find her. I hate to have her mope so, but, upon my life, I don't know what to do," said Tom; but as he uttered the words, something was suggested by the sight before him. Chairs were few, and Polly had taken half of Will's when they drew round the fire. Now she was leaning against him, in a cosy, confiding way, delightful to behold, while Will's strong arm went round her with a protecting air, which said, as plainly as any words, that this big brother and small sister knew how to love and help one another. It was a pleasant little picture, all the pleasanter for its unconsciousness, and Tom found it both suggestive and agreeable. "Poor old Fan, she don't get much petting; maybe that's what she wants. I'll try it and see, for she stands by me like a trump. If she was a rosy, cosy little woman, like Polly, it would come easier, though," thought Tom, as he meditatively ate his last nut, feeling that fraternal affection could not be very difficult of demonstration, to brothers blessed with pretty, good-tempered sisters. "I told Tom about the bad fellow who blew up the professor, and he said he knew him, slightly; and I was so relieved, because I had a kind of a feeling that it was Tom himself, you and Will laughed so about it." Maud had a queer way of going on with her own thoughts, and suddenly coming out with whatever lay uppermost, regardless of time, place, or company. As this remark fell from her, there was a general smile, and Polly said, with mock solemnity, "It was a sad thing, and I've no doubt that misguided young man is very sorry for it now." "He looked perfectly bowed down with remorse last time I saw him," said Will, regarding Tom with eyes full of fun, for Will was a boy as well as a bookworm, and relished a joke as well as scatter-brained Tom. "He always is remorseful after a scrape, I've understood, for he is n't a very bad fellow, only his spirits are one too many for him, and he is n't as fond of his book as another fellow I know." "I'm afraid he'll he expelled if he don't mind," said Polly, warningly. "Should n't wonder if he was, he's such an unlucky dog," answered Tom, rather soberly. "I hope he'll remember that his friends will be very much disappointed if he is. He might make them so proud and happy; that I guess he will, for he is n't half as thoughtless as he makes himself out," said Polly, looking across at Tom with such friendly eyes that he was quite touched, though of course he did n't show it. "Thank you, Polly; he may pull through, but I have my doubts. Now old man, let us'pud' along; it's getting late for the chicken," he added, relapsing into the graceful diction with which a classical education gifts its fortunate possessor. Taking advantage of the moment while Will was wrestling with his boots in the closet, and Maud was absorbed in packing her apple into a large basket, Polly said to Tom in a low tone, "Thank you very much, for being so kind to Will." "Bless your heart, I have n't done anything; he's such a proud fellow he won't let me," answered Tom. "But you do in many little ways; to-night, for example. Do you think I don't know that the suit of clothes he's just got would have cost a good deal more, if your tailor had n't made them? He's only a boy, and don't understand things yet; but I know your way of helping proud people; so that they don't find it out, and I do thank you, Tom, so much." "Oh, come, Polly, that won't do. What do you know about tailors and college matters?" said Tom, looking as much confused as if she had found him out in something reprehensible. "I don't know much, and that's the reason why I'm grateful for your kindness to Will. I don't care what stories they tell about you, I'm sure, you won't lead him into trouble, but keep him straight, for my sake. You know I've lost one brother, and Will takes Jimmy's place to me now." The tears in Polly's eyes as she said that made Tom vow a tremendous vow within himself to stand by Will through thick and thin, and "keep him straight for Polly's sake"; feeling all the time how ill-fitted he was for such a task. "I'll do my best," he said, heartily, as he pressed the hand Polly gave him, with a look which assured her that he felt the appeal to his honor, and that henceforth the country lad was safe from all the temptations Tom could have offered him. "There! now I shall give that to mamma to take her pills in; it's just what she likes, and it pleases her to be thought of," said Maud, surveying her gift with complacency, as she put on her things. "You're a good little soul, to remember poor mum, said Tom, with an approving nod. "Well, she was so pleased with the grapes you brought her, I thought I 'd try something, and maybe she'd say 'Thank you, darling,' to me too. Do you think she will?" whispered Maud, with the wistful look so often seen on her little plain face. "See if she don't;" and to Maud's great surprise Tom did n't laugh at her project. "Good night, dear; take care of yourself, and keep your muffler round your mouth going over the bridge, or you'll be as hoarse as a crow to-morrow," said Polly, as she kissed her brother, who returned it without looking as if he thought it "girl's nonsense" Then the three piled into the sleigh and drove off, leave Polly nodding on the doorstep. Maud found the drive altogether too short, but was consoled by the promise of a longer one if the sleighing lasted till next Saturday: and when Tom ran up to bid his mother good-by, and give her a hint about Maud's gift, she stayed below to say, at the last minute, in unconscious imitation of Polly. "Good night; take care of yourself, my dear." Tom laughed, and was about to pinch the much enduring little nose; but, as if the words reminded him of something, he gave her a kiss instead, a piece of forbearance which almost took Maud's breath away with surprise and gratification. It was rather a silent drive, for Will obediently kept his muffler up, and Tom fell into a brown study. He was not much given to reflection, but occasionally indulged when something gave him a turn in that direction, and at such times he was as sober and sincere as could be desired. Any one might have lectured him for an hour without doing as much good as that little call and the chat that grew out of it, for, though nothing very wise or witty was said, many things were suggested, and every one knows that persuasive influences are better than any amount of moralizing. Neither Polly nor Will tried to do anything of the sort, and that was the charm of it. Nobody likes to be talked to, but nobody can resist the eloquence of unconscious preaching. With all his thoughtlessness, Tom was quick to see and feel these things, and was not spoilt enough yet to laugh at them. The sight of Will and Polly's simple affection for one another reminded him of a neglected duty so pleasantly, that he could not forget it. Talking of early days made him wish he could go back and start again, doing better. Grandma's name recalled the tender memory that always did him good, and the thought that Polly trusted her dearest brother to his care stirred up a manful desire to deserve the confidence. Tortures would n't have drawn a word of all this from him, but it had its effect, for boys don't leave their hearts and consciences behind them when they enter college, and little things of this sort do much to keep both from being damaged by the four years' scrimmage which begins the battle of life for most of them. CHAPTER XI. NEEDLES AND TONGUES DEAR POLLY, The Sewing Circle meets at our house this P. M. This is in your line, so do come and help me through. I shall depend on you. Yours ever, FAN. "Bad news, my dear?" asked Miss Mills, who had just handed the note to Polly as she came in one noon, a few weeks after Jenny's arrival. Polly told her what it was, adding, "I suppose I ought to go and help Fanny, but I can't say I want to. The girls talk about things I have nothing to do with, and I don't find their gossip very amusing. I'm an outsider, and they only accept me on Fan's account; so I sit in a corner and sew, while they chatter and laugh." "Would n't it be a good chance to say a word for Jenny? She wants work, and these young ladies probably have quantities done somewhere. Jenny does fine work exquisitely, and begins to feel anxious to be earning something. I don't want her to feel dependent and unhappy, and a little well-paid sewing would be all she needs to do nicely. I can get it for her by running round to my friends, but I really have n't the time, till I get the Mullers off. They are paupers here, but out West they can take care of themselves, so I've begged the money to send them, and as soon as I can get them some clothes, off they go. That's the way to help people help themselves," and Miss Mills clashed her big scissors energetically, as she cut out a little red flannel shirt. "I know it is, and I want to help, but I don't know where to begin," said Polly, feeling quite oppressed with the immensity of the work. "We can't any of us do all we would like, but we can do our best for every case that comes to us, and that helps amazingly. Begin with Jenny, my dear; tell those girls about her, and if I'm not much mistaken, you will find them ready to help, for half the time it is n't hardness of heart, but ignorance or thoughtlessness on the part of the rich, that makes them seem so careless of the poor." "To tell the truth, I'm afraid of being laughed at, if I try to talk seriously about such things to the girls," said Polly, frankly. "You believe that'such things' are true? You are sincere in your wish to help better them, and you respect those who work for that end?" "Yes, I do." "Then, my dear, can't you bear a little ridicule for the sake of a good cause? You said yesterday that you were going to make it a principle of your life, to help up your sex as far and as fast as you could. It did my heart good to hear you say it, for I was sure that in time you would keep your word. But, Polly, a principle that can't bear being laughed at, frowned on, and cold-shouldered, is n't worthy of the name." "I want to be strong-minded in the real sense of the word, but I don't like to be called so by people who don't understand my meaning; and I shall be if I try to make the girls think soberly about anything sensible or philanthropic. They call me old-fashioned now, and I'd rather be thought that, though it is n't pleasant, than be set down as a rampant woman's rights reformer," said Polly, in whose memory many laughs, and snubs, and sarcasms still lingered, forgiven but not forgotten. "This love and thought and care for those weaker, poorer, or worse than ourselves, which we call Christian charity, is a very old fashion, my dear. It began eighteen hundred years ago, and only those who honestly follow the beautiful example set us then, learn how to get genuine happiness out of life. I'm not a'rampant woman's rights reformer,'" added Miss Mills, with a smile at Polly's sober face; "but I think that women can do a great deal for each other, if they will only stop fearing what'people will think,' and take a hearty interest in whatever is going to fit their sisters and themselves to deserve and enjoy the rights God gave them. There are so many ways in which this can be done, that I wonder they don't see and improve them. I don't ask you to go and make speeches, only a few have the gift for that, but I do want every girl and woman to feel this duty, and make any little sacrifice of time or feeling that may be asked of them, because there is so much to do, and no one can do it as well as ourselves, if we only think so." "I'll try!" said Polly, influenced more by her desire to keep Miss Mills' good opinion than any love of self-sacrifice for her sex. It was rather a hard thing to ask of a shy, sensitive girl, and the kind old lady knew it, for in spite of the gray hair and withered face, her heart was very young, and her own girlish trials not forgotten. But she knew also that Polly had more influence over others than she herself suspected, simply because of her candid, upright nature; and that while she tried to help others, she was serving herself in a way that would improve heart and soul more than any mere social success she might gain by following the rules of fashionable life, which drill the character out of girls till they are as much alike as pins in a paper, and have about as much true sense and sentiment in their little heads. There was good stuff in Polly, unspoiled as yet, and Miss Mills was only acting out her principle of women helping each other. The wise old lady saw that Polly had reached that point where the girl suddenly blooms into a woman, asking something more substantial than pleasure to satisfy the new aspirations that are born; a time as precious and important to the after-life, as the hour when the apple blossoms fall, and the young fruit waits for the elements to ripen or destroy the harvest. Polly did not know this, and was fortunate in possessing a friend who knew what influences would serve her best, and who could give her what all women should desire to give each other, the example of a sweet, good life, more eloquent and powerful than any words; for this is a right no one can deny us. Polly turned the matter over in her mind as she dressed, while Jenny played waiting maid, little dreaming what this new friend was meaning to do for her, if she dared. "Is it going to be a tea-party, Miss?" asked Jenny, as the black silk went rustling on, to her great admiration, for she considered Polly a beauty. "Well, no, I think it will probably be a lecture," answered Polly, laughing, for Jenny's grateful service and affectionate eyes confirmed the purpose which Miss Mills' little homily had suggested. As she entered the Shaws' parlor an hour or two later, an appalling array of well-dressed girls appeared, each provided with a dainty reticule, basket, or bag, and each tongue going a good deal faster than the needle, while the white fingers stitched sleeves in upside down, put flannel jackets together hind part before, or gobbled button-holes with the best intentions in life. "You are a dear to come so early. Here's a nice place for you between Belle and Miss Perkins, and here's a sweet little dress to make, unless you like something else better," said Fanny, receiving her friend with warmth and placing her where she thought she would enjoy herself. "Thank you, I'll take an unbleached cotton shirt if you have such a thing, for it is likely to be needed before a cambric frock," replied Polly, subsiding into her corner as quickly as possible, for at least six eye-glasses were up, and she did n't enjoy being stared at. Miss Perkins, a grave, cold-looking young lady, with an aristocratic nose, bowed politely, and then went on with her work, which displayed two diamond rings to great advantage. Belle, being of the demonstrative sort, smiled and nodded, drew up her chair, and began a whispered account of Trix's last quarrel with Tom. Polly listened with interest while she sewed diligently, occasionally permitting her eyes to study the elegant intricacies of Miss Perkins' dress, for that young lady sat like a statue, quirking her delicate fingers, and accomplishing about two stitches a minute. In the midst of Belle's story, a more exciting bit of gossip caught her ear, and she plunged into the conversation going on across the table, leaving Polly free to listen and admire the wit, wisdom, and charitable spirit of the accomplished young ladies about her. There was a perfect Babel of tongues, but out of the confusion Polly gathered scraps of fashionable intelligence which somewhat lessened her respect for the dwellers in high places. One fair creature asserted that Joe Somebody took so much champagne at the last German, that he had to be got away, and sent home with two servants. Another divulged the awful fact that Carrie P.'s wedding presents were half of them hired for the occasion. A third circulated a whisper to the effect that though Mrs. Buckminster wore a thousand-dollar cloak, her boys were not allowed but one sheet to their beds. And a fourth young gossip assured the company that a certain person never had offered himself to a certain other person, though the report was industriously spread by interested parties. This latter remark caused such a clamor that Fanny called the meeting to order in a most unparliamentary fashion. "Girls! girls! you really must talk less and sew more, or our society will be disgraced. Do you know our branch sent in less work than any of the others last month, and Mrs. Fitz George said, she did n't see how fifteen young ladies could manage to do so little?" "We don't talk a bit more than the old ladies do. I just wish you could have heard them go on, last time. The way they get so much done, is, they take work home, and make their seamstresses do it, and then they take credit for vast industry," said Belle, who always spoke her mind with charming candor. "That reminds me that mamma says they want as many things as we can make, for it's a hard winter, and the poor are suffering very much. Do any of you wish to take articles home, to do at odd times?" said Fan, who was president of this energetic Dorcas Society. "Mercy, no! It takes all my leisure time to mend my gloves and refresh my dresses," answered Belle. "I think if we meet once a week, it is all that should be expected of us, with our other engagements. Poor people always complain that the winter is a hard one, and never are satisfied," remarked Miss Perkins, making her diamonds sparkle as she sewed buttons on the wrong side of a pink calico apron, which would hardly survive one washing. "Nobody can ask me to do any more, if they remember all I've got to attend to before summer," said Trix, with an important air. "I've got three women hard at work, and want another, but everyone is so busy, and ask such abominable prices, that I'm in despair, and shall have to take hold myself, I'm afraid." "There's a chance for Jane," thought Polly, but had n't courage "to speak out loud in meeting," just then, and resolved to ask Trix for work, in private. "Prices are high, but you forget how much more it costs to live now than it used to do. Mamma never allows us to beat down workwomen, but wishes us to pay them well, and economize in some other way, if we must," said Emma Davenport, a quiet, bright-eyed girl, who was called "odd" among the young ladies, because she dressed simply, when her father was a millionaire. "Just hear that girl talk about economy! I beg your pardon, she's some relation of yours, I believe!" said Belle, in a low tone. "Very distant; but I'm proud of it; for with her, economy does n't mean scrimping in one place to make a show in another. If every one would follow the Davenports' example, workwomen would n't starve, or servants be such a trouble. Emma is the plainest dressed girl in the room, next to me, yet any one can see she is a true gentlewoman," said Polly, warmly. "And you are another," answered Belle, who had always loved Polly, in her scatter-brained way. "Hush! Trix has the floor." "If they spent their wages properly, I should n't mind so much, but they think they must be as fine as anybody, and dress so well that it is hard to tell mistress from maid. Why our cook got a bonnet just like mine (the materials were cheaper, but the effect was the same), and had the impertinence to wear it before my face. I forbid it, and she left, of course, which made papa so cross he would n't give me the camel's hair shawl he promised this year." "It's perfectly shameful!" said Miss Perkins, as Trix paused out of breath. "Servants ought to be made to dress like servants, as they do abroad; then we should have no more trouble," observed Miss Perkins, who had just made the grand tour, and had brought home a French maid. "Perky don't practise as she preaches," whispered Belle to Polly, as Miss P. became absorbed in the chat of her other neighbors. "She pays her chamber girl with old finery; and the other day, when Betsey was out parading in her missis's cast-off purple plush suit, Mr. Curtis thought she was mademoiselle, and bowed to her. He is as blind as a bat, but recognized the dress, and pulled off his hat to it in the most elegant style. Perky adores him, and was mad enough to beat Betsey when she told the story and giggled over it. Betsey is quite as stylish and ever so much prettier than Perky, and she knows it, which is an aggravation." Polly could n't help laughing, but grew sober a minute after, as Trix said, pettishly, "Well, I'm sick of hearing about beggars; I believe half of them are humbugs, and if we let them alone they'd go to work and take care of themselves. There's altogether too much fuss made about charity. I do wish we could be left in peace." "There can't be too much charity!" burst out Polly, forgetting her shyness all at once. "Oh, indeed! Well, I take the liberty to differ from you," returned Trix, putting up her glass, and bestowing upon Polly her most "toploftical stare," as the girls called it. I regret to say that Polly never could talk with or be near Trix without feeling irritated and combative. She tried to conquer this feeling, but she could n't, and when Trix put on airs, Polly felt an intense desire to box her ears. That eye-glass was her especial aversion, for Trix was no more near-sighted than herself, but pretended to be because it was the fashion, and at times used the innocent glass as a weapon with which to put down any one who presumed to set themselves up. The supercilious glance which accompanied her ironically polite speech roused Polly, who answered with sudden color and the kindling of the eyes that always betrayed a perturbed spirit, "I don't think many of us would enjoy that selfish sort of peace, while little children starve, and girls no older than us kill themselves because their dreadful poverty leaves them no choice but sin or death." A sudden lull took place, for, though Polly, did not raise her voice, it was full of indignant emotion, and the most frivolous girl there felt a little thrill of sympathy; for the most utterly fashionable life does not kill the heart out of women, till years of selfish pleasure have passed over their heads. Trix was ashamed of herself; but she felt the same antagonism toward Polly, that Polly did toward her; and, being less generous, took satisfaction in plaguing her. Polly did not know that the secret of this was the fact that Tom often held her up as a model for his fiance to follow, which caused that young lady to dislike her more than ever. "Half the awful stories in the papers are made up for a sensation, and it's absurd to believe them, unless one likes to be harrowed up. I don't; and as for peace, I'm not likely to get much, while I have Tom to look after," said Trix, with an aggravating laugh. Polly's needle snapped in two, but she did not mind it, as she said, with a look that silenced even sharp-tongued Trix, "I can't help believing what my own eyes and ears have seen and heard. You lead such safe and happy lives, you can't imagine the misery that is all round you; but if you could get a glimpse of it, it would make your hearts ache, as it has mine." "Do you suffer from heartache? Some one hinted as much to me, but you looked so well, I could n't believe it." Now that was cruel in Trix, more cruel than any one guessed; but girls' tongues can deal wounds as sharp and sudden as the slender stiletto Spanish women wear in their hair, and Polly turned pale, as those words stabbed her. Belle saw it, and rushed to the rescue with more good-will than wisdom. "Nobody ever accused you of having any heart to ache with. Polly and I are not old enough yet to get tough and cool, and we are still silly enough to pity unhappy people, Tom Shaw especially," added Belle, under her breath. That was a two-edged thrust, for Trix was decidedly an old girl, and Tom was generally regarded as a hapless victim. Trix turned red; but before she could load and fire again, Emma Davenport, who labored under the delusion that this sort of skirmishing was ill-natured, and therefore ill-bred, spoke up in her pleasant way, "Speaking of pitying the poor, I always wonder why it is that we all like to read and cry over their troubles in books, but when we have the real thing before us, we think it is uninteresting and disagreeable." "It's the

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"Now I call that a delicate compliment!" And Tom, who had not lost his early relish for this sort of refreshment, though he seldom indulged his passion nowadays, because peanuts are considered vulgar, fell to cracking and munching with great satisfaction. "Do you remember the first visit I made at your house, how you gave me peanuts, coming from the depot, and frightened me out of my wits, pretending the coachman was tipsy?" asked Polly. "Of course I do, and how we coasted one day," answered Tom, laughing. "Yes, and the velocipede; you've got the scar of that yet, I see." "I remember how you stood by me while it was sewed up; that was very plucky, Polly." "I was dreadfully afraid, but I remember I wanted to seem very brave, because you'd called me a coward." "Did I? Ought to have been ashamed of myself. I used to rough you shamefully, Polly, and you were so good-natured, you let me do it." "Could n't help myself," laughed Polly. "I did use to think you were an awful boy, but seems to me I rather liked it." "She had so much of it at home, she got used to it," put in Will, pulling the little curl behind Polly's ear. "You boys never teased me as Tom did, that's the reason it amused me, I suppose; novelty hath charms, you know." "Grandma used to lecture Tom for plaguing you, Polly, and he used to say he'd be a tip-top boy, but he was n't," observed Maud, with a venerable air. "Dear old grandma; she did her best, but I'm a bad lot," said Tom, with a shake of the head and a sober face. "It always seems as if she must be up in her rooms, and I can't get used to finding them empty," added Polly, softly. "Father would n't have anything moved, and Tom sits up there sometimes; it makes him feel good, he says," said Maud, who had a talent for betraying trifles which people preferred should not be mentioned in public. "You'd better hurry up your apple, for if it is n't done pretty soon, you'll have to leave it, Pug," said Tom, looking annoyed. "How is Fan?" asked Polly, with tact. "Well, Fan is rather under the weather; says she's dyspeptic, which means cross." "She is cross, but she's sick too, for I found her crying one day, and she said nobody cared about her, and she might as well be dead," added Maud, having turned her apple with tender care. "We must try to cheer her up, among us. If I was n't so busy I'd like to devote myself to her, she has done so much for me," said Polly, gratefully. "I wish you could. I can't understand her, for she acts like a weathercock, and I never know how I'm going to find her. I hate to have her mope so, but, upon my life, I don't know what to do," said Tom; but as he uttered the words, something was suggested by the sight before him. Chairs were few, and Polly had taken half of Will's when they drew round the fire. Now she was leaning against him, in a cosy, confiding way, delightful to behold, while Will's strong arm went round her with a protecting air, which said, as plainly as any words, that this big brother and small sister knew how to love and help one another. It was a pleasant little picture, all the pleasanter for its unconsciousness, and Tom found it both suggestive and agreeable. "Poor old Fan, she don't get much petting; maybe that's what she wants. I'll try it and see, for she stands by me like a trump. If she was a rosy, cosy little woman, like Polly, it would come easier, though," thought Tom, as he meditatively ate his last nut, feeling that fraternal affection could not be very difficult of demonstration, to brothers blessed with pretty, good-tempered sisters. "I told Tom about the bad fellow who blew up the professor, and he said he knew him, slightly; and I was so relieved, because I had a kind of a feeling that it was Tom himself, you and Will laughed so about it." Maud had a queer way of going on with her own thoughts, and suddenly coming out with whatever lay uppermost, regardless of time, place, or company. As this remark fell from her, there was a general smile, and Polly said, with mock solemnity, "It was a sad thing, and I've no doubt that misguided young man is very sorry for it now." "He looked perfectly bowed down with remorse last time I saw him," said Will, regarding Tom with eyes full of fun, for Will was a boy as well as a bookworm, and relished a joke as well as scatter-brained Tom. "He always is remorseful after a scrape, I've understood, for he is n't a very bad fellow, only his spirits are one too many for him, and he is n't as fond of his book as another fellow I know." "I'm afraid he'll he expelled if he don't mind," said Polly, warningly. "Should n't wonder if he was, he's such an unlucky dog," answered Tom, rather soberly. "I hope he'll remember that his friends will be very much disappointed if he is. He might make them so proud and happy; that I guess he will, for he is n't half as thoughtless as he makes himself out," said Polly, looking across at Tom with such friendly eyes that he was quite touched, though of course he did n't show it. "Thank you, Polly; he may pull through, but I have my doubts. Now old man, let us'pud' along; it's getting late for the chicken," he added, relapsing into the graceful diction with which a classical education gifts its fortunate possessor. Taking advantage of the moment while Will was wrestling with his boots in the closet, and Maud was absorbed in packing her apple into a large basket, Polly said to Tom in a low tone, "Thank you very much, for being so kind to Will." "Bless your heart, I have n't done anything; he's such a proud fellow he won't let me," answered Tom. "But you do in many little ways; to-night, for example. Do you think I don't know that the suit of clothes he's just got would have cost a good deal more, if your tailor had n't made them? He's only a boy, and don't understand things yet; but I know your way of helping proud people; so that they don't find it out, and I do thank you, Tom, so much." "Oh, come, Polly, that won't do. What do you know about tailors and college matters?" said Tom, looking as much confused as if she had found him out in something reprehensible. "I don't know much, and that's the reason why I'm grateful for your kindness to Will. I don't care what stories they tell about you, I'm sure, you won't lead him into trouble, but keep him straight, for my sake. You know I've lost one brother, and Will takes Jimmy's place to me now." The tears in Polly's eyes as she said that made Tom vow a tremendous vow within himself to stand by Will through thick and thin, and "keep him straight for Polly's sake"; feeling all the time how ill-fitted he was for such a task. "I'll do my best," he said, heartily, as he pressed the hand Polly gave him, with a look which assured her that he felt the appeal to his honor, and that henceforth the country lad was safe from all the temptations Tom could have offered him. "There! now I shall give that to mamma to take her pills in; it's just what she likes, and it pleases her to be thought of," said Maud, surveying her gift with complacency, as she put on her things. "You're a good little soul, to remember poor mum, said Tom, with an approving nod. "Well, she was so pleased with the grapes you brought her, I thought I 'd try something, and maybe she'd say 'Thank you, darling,' to me too. Do you think she will?" whispered Maud, with the wistful look so often seen on her little plain face. "See if she don't;" and to Maud's great surprise Tom did n't laugh at her project. "Good night, dear; take care of yourself, and keep your muffler round your mouth going over the bridge, or you'll be as hoarse as a crow to-morrow," said Polly, as she kissed her brother, who returned it without looking as if he thought it "girl's nonsense" Then the three piled into the sleigh and drove off, leave Polly nodding on the doorstep. Maud found the drive altogether too short, but was consoled by the promise of a longer one if the sleighing lasted till next Saturday: and when Tom ran up to bid his mother good-by, and give her a hint about Maud's gift, she stayed below to say, at the last minute, in unconscious imitation of Polly. "Good night; take care of yourself, my dear." Tom laughed, and was about to pinch the much enduring little nose; but, as if the words reminded him of something, he gave her a kiss instead, a piece of forbearance which almost took Maud's breath away with surprise and gratification. It was rather a silent drive, for Will obediently kept his muffler up, and Tom fell into a brown study. He was not much given to reflection, but occasionally indulged when something gave him a turn in that direction, and at such times he was as sober and sincere as could be desired. Any one might have lectured him for an hour without doing as much good as that little call and the chat that grew out of it, for, though nothing very wise or witty was said, many things were suggested, and every one knows that persuasive influences are better than any amount of moralizing. Neither Polly nor Will tried to do anything of the sort, and that was the charm of it. Nobody likes to be talked to, but nobody can resist the eloquence of unconscious preaching. With all his thoughtlessness, Tom was quick to see and feel these things, and was not spoilt enough yet to laugh at them. The sight of Will and Polly's simple affection for one another reminded him of a neglected duty so pleasantly, that he could not forget it. Talking of early days made him wish he could go back and start again, doing better. Grandma's name recalled the tender memory that always did him good, and the thought that Polly trusted her dearest brother to his care stirred up a manful desire to deserve the confidence. Tortures would n't have drawn a word of all this from him, but it had its effect, for boys don't leave their hearts and consciences behind them when they enter college, and little things of this sort do much to keep both from being damaged by the four years' scrimmage which begins the battle of life for most of them. CHAPTER XI. NEEDLES AND TONGUES DEAR POLLY, The Sewing Circle meets at our house this P. M. This is in your line, so do come and help me through. I shall depend on you. Yours ever, FAN. "Bad news, my dear?" asked Miss Mills, who had just handed the note to Polly as she came in one noon, a few weeks after Jenny's arrival. Polly told her what it was, adding, "I suppose I ought to go and help Fanny, but I can't say I want to. The girls talk about things I have nothing to do with, and I don't find their gossip very amusing. I'm an outsider, and they only accept me on Fan's account; so I sit in a corner and sew, while they chatter and laugh." "Would n't it be a good chance to say a word for Jenny? She wants work, and these young ladies probably have quantities done somewhere. Jenny does fine work exquisitely, and begins to feel anxious to be earning something. I don't want her to feel dependent and unhappy, and a little well-paid sewing would be all she needs to do nicely. I can get it for her by running round to my friends, but I really have n't the time, till I get the Mullers off. They are paupers here, but out West they can take care of themselves, so I've begged the money to send them, and as soon as I can get them some clothes, off they go. That's the way to help people help themselves," and Miss Mills clashed her big scissors energetically, as she cut out a little red flannel shirt. "I know it is, and I want to help, but I don't know where to begin," said Polly, feeling quite oppressed with the immensity of the work. "We can't any of us do all we would like, but we can do our best for every case that comes to us, and that helps amazingly. Begin with Jenny, my dear; tell those girls about her, and if I'm not much mistaken, you will find them ready to help, for half the time it is n't hardness of heart, but ignorance or thoughtlessness on the part of the rich, that makes them seem so careless of the poor." "To tell the truth, I'm afraid of being laughed at, if I try to talk seriously about such things to the girls," said Polly, frankly. "You believe that'such things' are true? You are sincere in your wish to help better them, and you respect those who work for that end?" "Yes, I do." "Then, my dear, can't you bear a little ridicule for the sake of a good cause? You said yesterday that you were going to make it a principle of your life, to help up your sex as far and as fast as you could. It did my heart good to hear you say it, for I was sure that in time you would keep your word. But, Polly, a principle that can't bear being laughed at, frowned on, and cold-shouldered, is n't worthy of the name." "I want to be strong-minded in the real sense of the word, but I don't like to be called so by people who don't understand my meaning; and I shall be if I try to make the girls think soberly about anything sensible or philanthropic. They call me old-fashioned now, and I'd rather be thought that, though it is n't pleasant, than be set down as a rampant woman's rights reformer," said Polly, in whose memory many laughs, and snubs, and sarcasms still lingered, forgiven but not forgotten. "This love and thought and care for those weaker, poorer, or worse than ourselves, which we call Christian charity, is a very old fashion, my dear. It began eighteen hundred years ago, and only those who honestly follow the beautiful example set us then, learn how to get genuine happiness out of life. I'm not a'rampant woman's rights reformer,'" added Miss Mills, with a smile at Polly's sober face; "but I think that women can do a great deal for each other, if they will only stop fearing what'people will think,' and take a hearty interest in whatever is going to fit their sisters and themselves to deserve and enjoy the rights God gave them. There are so many ways in which this can be done, that I wonder they don't see and improve them. I don't ask you to go and make speeches, only a few have the gift for that, but I do want every girl and woman to feel this duty, and make any little sacrifice of time or feeling that may be asked of them, because there is so much to do, and no one can do it as well as ourselves, if we only think so." "I'll try!" said Polly, influenced more by her desire to keep Miss Mills' good opinion than any love of self-sacrifice for her sex. It was rather a hard thing to ask of a shy, sensitive girl, and the kind old lady knew it, for in spite of the gray hair and withered face, her heart was very young, and her own girlish trials not forgotten. But she knew also that Polly had more influence over others than she herself suspected, simply because of her candid, upright nature; and that while she tried to help others, she was serving herself in a way that would improve heart and soul more than any mere social success she might gain by following the rules of fashionable life, which drill the character out of girls till they are as much alike as pins in a paper, and have about as much true sense and sentiment in their little heads. There was good stuff in Polly, unspoiled as yet, and Miss Mills was only acting out her principle of women helping each other. The wise old lady saw that Polly had reached that point where the girl suddenly blooms into a woman, asking something more substantial than pleasure to satisfy the new aspirations that are born; a time as precious and important to the after-life, as the hour when the apple blossoms fall, and the young fruit waits for the elements to ripen or destroy the harvest. Polly did not know this, and was fortunate in possessing a friend who knew what influences would serve her best, and who could give her what all women should desire to give each other, the example of a sweet, good life, more eloquent and powerful than any words; for this is a right no one can deny us. Polly turned the matter over in her mind as she dressed, while Jenny played waiting maid, little dreaming what this new friend was meaning to do for her, if she dared. "Is it going to be a tea-party, Miss?" asked Jenny, as the black silk went rustling on, to her great admiration, for she considered Polly a beauty. "Well, no, I think it will probably be a lecture," answered Polly, laughing, for Jenny's grateful service and affectionate eyes confirmed the purpose which Miss Mills' little homily had suggested. As she entered the Shaws' parlor an hour or two later, an appalling array of well-dressed girls appeared, each provided with a dainty reticule, basket, or bag, and each tongue going a good deal faster than the needle, while the white fingers stitched sleeves in upside down, put flannel jackets together hind part before, or gobbled button-holes with the best intentions in life. "You are a dear to come so early. Here's a nice place for you between Belle and Miss Perkins, and here's a sweet little dress to make, unless you like something else better," said Fanny, receiving her friend with warmth and placing her where she thought she would enjoy herself. "Thank you, I'll take an unbleached cotton shirt if you have such a thing, for it is likely to be needed before a cambric frock," replied Polly, subsiding into her corner as quickly as possible, for at least six eye-glasses were up, and she did n't enjoy being stared at. Miss Perkins, a grave, cold-looking young lady, with an aristocratic nose, bowed politely, and then went on with her work, which displayed two diamond rings to great advantage. Belle, being of the demonstrative sort, smiled and nodded, drew up her chair, and began a whispered account of Trix's last quarrel with Tom. Polly listened with interest while she sewed diligently, occasionally permitting her eyes to study the elegant intricacies of Miss Perkins' dress, for that young lady sat like a statue, quirking her delicate fingers, and accomplishing about two stitches a minute. In the midst of Belle's story, a more exciting bit of gossip caught her ear, and she plunged into the conversation going on across the table, leaving Polly free to listen and admire the wit, wisdom, and charitable spirit of the accomplished young ladies about her. There was a perfect Babel of tongues, but out of the confusion Polly gathered scraps of fashionable intelligence which somewhat lessened her respect for the dwellers in high places. One fair creature asserted that Joe Somebody took so much champagne at the last German, that he had to be got away, and sent home with two servants. Another divulged the awful fact that Carrie P.'s wedding presents were half of them hired for the occasion. A third circulated a whisper to the effect that though Mrs. Buckminster wore a thousand-dollar cloak, her boys were not allowed but one sheet to their beds. And a fourth young gossip assured the company that a certain person never had offered himself to a certain other person, though the report was industriously spread by interested parties. This latter remark caused such a clamor that Fanny called the meeting to order in a most unparliamentary fashion. "Girls! girls! you really must talk less and sew more, or our society will be disgraced. Do you know our branch sent in less work than any of the others last month, and Mrs. Fitz George said, she did n't see how fifteen young ladies could manage to do so little?" "We don't talk a bit more than the old ladies do. I just wish you could have heard them go on, last time. The way they get so much done, is, they take work home, and make their seamstresses do it, and then they take credit for vast industry," said Belle, who always spoke her mind with charming candor. "That reminds me that mamma says they want as many things as we can make, for it's a hard winter, and the poor are suffering very much. Do any of you wish to take articles home, to do at odd times?" said Fan, who was president of this energetic Dorcas Society. "Mercy, no! It takes all my leisure time to mend my gloves and refresh my dresses," answered Belle. "I think if we meet once a week, it is all that should be expected of us, with our other engagements. Poor people always complain that the winter is a hard one, and never are satisfied," remarked Miss Perkins, making her diamonds sparkle as she sewed buttons on the wrong side of a pink calico apron, which would hardly survive one washing. "Nobody can ask me to do any more, if they remember all I've got to attend to before summer," said Trix, with an important air. "I've got three women hard at work, and want another, but everyone is so busy, and ask such abominable prices, that I'm in despair, and shall have to take hold myself, I'm afraid." "There's a chance for Jane," thought Polly, but had n't courage "to speak out loud in meeting," just then, and resolved to ask Trix for work, in private. "Prices are high, but you forget how much more it costs to live now than it used to do. Mamma never allows us to beat down workwomen, but wishes us to pay them well, and economize in some other way, if we must," said Emma Davenport, a quiet, bright-eyed girl, who was called "odd" among the young ladies, because she dressed simply, when her father was a millionaire. "Just hear that girl talk about economy! I beg your pardon, she's some relation of yours, I believe!" said Belle, in a low tone. "Very distant; but I'm proud of it; for with her, economy does n't mean scrimping in one place to make a show in another. If every one would follow the Davenports' example, workwomen would n't starve, or servants be such a trouble. Emma is the plainest dressed girl in the room, next to me, yet any one can see she is a true gentlewoman," said Polly, warmly. "And you are another," answered Belle, who had always loved Polly, in her scatter-brained way. "Hush! Trix has the floor." "If they spent their wages properly, I should n't mind so much, but they think they must be as fine as anybody, and dress so well that it is hard to tell mistress from maid. Why our cook got a bonnet just like mine (the materials were cheaper, but the effect was the same), and had the impertinence to wear it before my face. I forbid it, and she left, of course, which made papa so cross he would n't give me the camel's hair shawl he promised this year." "It's perfectly shameful!" said Miss Perkins, as Trix paused out of breath. "Servants ought to be made to dress like servants, as they do abroad; then we should have no more trouble," observed Miss Perkins, who had just made the grand tour, and had brought home a French maid. "Perky don't practise as she preaches," whispered Belle to Polly, as Miss P. became absorbed in the chat of her other neighbors. "She pays her chamber girl with old finery; and the other day, when Betsey was out parading in her missis's cast-off purple plush suit, Mr. Curtis thought she was mademoiselle, and bowed to her. He is as blind as a bat, but recognized the dress, and pulled off his hat to it in the most elegant style. Perky adores him, and was mad enough to beat Betsey when she told the story and giggled over it. Betsey is quite as stylish and ever so much prettier than Perky, and she knows it, which is an aggravation." Polly could n't help laughing, but grew sober a minute after, as Trix said, pettishly, "Well, I'm sick of hearing about beggars; I believe half of them are humbugs, and if we let them alone they'd go to work and take care of themselves. There's altogether too much fuss made about charity. I do wish we could be left in peace." "There can't be too much charity!" burst out Polly, forgetting her shyness all at once. "Oh, indeed! Well, I take the liberty to differ from you," returned Trix, putting up her glass, and bestowing upon Polly her most "toploftical stare," as the girls called it. I regret to say that Polly never could talk with or be near Trix without feeling irritated and combative. She tried to conquer this feeling, but she could n't, and when Trix put on airs, Polly felt an intense desire to box her ears. That eye-glass was her especial aversion, for Trix was no more near-sighted than herself, but pretended to be because it was the fashion, and at times used the innocent glass as a weapon with which to put down any one who presumed to set themselves up. The supercilious glance which accompanied her ironically polite speech roused Polly, who answered with sudden color and the kindling of the eyes that always betrayed a perturbed spirit, "I don't think many of us would enjoy that selfish sort of peace, while little children starve, and girls no older than us kill themselves because their dreadful poverty leaves them no choice but sin or death." A sudden lull took place, for, though Polly, did not raise her voice, it was full of indignant emotion, and the most frivolous girl there felt a little thrill of sympathy; for the most utterly fashionable life does not kill the heart out of women, till years of selfish pleasure have passed over their heads. Trix was ashamed of herself; but she felt the same antagonism toward Polly, that Polly did toward her; and, being less generous, took satisfaction in plaguing her. Polly did not know that the secret of this was the fact that Tom often held her up as a model for his fiance to follow, which caused that young lady to dislike her more than ever. "Half the awful stories in the papers are made up for a sensation, and it's absurd to believe them, unless one likes to be harrowed up. I don't; and as for peace, I'm not likely to get much, while I have Tom to look after," said Trix, with an aggravating laugh. Polly's needle snapped in two, but she did not mind it, as she said, with a look that silenced even sharp-tongued Trix, "I can't help believing what my own eyes and ears have seen and heard. You lead such safe and happy lives, you can't imagine the misery that is all round you; but if you could get a glimpse of it, it would make your hearts ache, as it has mine." "Do you suffer from heartache? Some one hinted as much to me, but you looked so well, I could n't believe it." Now that was cruel in Trix, more cruel than any one guessed; but girls' tongues can deal wounds as sharp and sudden as the slender stiletto Spanish women wear in their hair, and Polly turned pale, as those words stabbed her. Belle saw it, and rushed to the rescue with more good-will than wisdom. "Nobody ever accused you of having any heart to ache with. Polly and I are not old enough yet to get tough and cool, and we are still silly enough to pity unhappy people, Tom Shaw especially," added Belle, under her breath. That was a two-edged thrust, for Trix was decidedly an old girl, and Tom was generally regarded as a hapless victim. Trix turned red; but before she could load and fire again, Emma Davenport, who labored under the delusion that this sort of skirmishing was ill-natured, and therefore ill-bred, spoke up in her pleasant way, "Speaking of pitying the poor, I always wonder why it is that we all like to read and cry over their troubles in books, but when we have the real thing before us, we think it is uninteresting and disagreeable." "It's the

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

"Now I call that a delicate compliment!" And Tom, who had not lost his early relish for this sort of refreshment, though he seldom indulged his passion nowadays, because peanuts are considered vulgar, fell to cracking and munching with great satisfaction. "Do you remember the first visit I made at your house, how you gave me peanuts, coming from the depot, and frightened me out of my wits, pretending the coachman was tipsy?" asked Polly. "Of course I do, and how we coasted one day," answered Tom, laughing. "Yes, and the velocipede; you've got the scar of that yet, I see." "I remember how you stood by me while it was sewed up; that was very plucky, Polly." "I was dreadfully afraid, but I remember I wanted to seem very brave, because you'd called me a coward." "Did I? Ought to have been ashamed of myself. I used to rough you shamefully, Polly, and you were so good-natured, you let me do it." "Could n't help myself," laughed Polly. "I did use to think you were an awful boy, but seems to me I rather liked it." "She had so much of it at home, she got used to it," put in Will, pulling the little curl behind Polly's ear. "You boys never teased me as Tom did, that's the reason it amused me, I suppose; novelty hath charms, you know." "Grandma used to lecture Tom for plaguing you, Polly, and he used to say he'd be a tip-top boy, but he was n't," observed Maud, with a venerable air. "Dear old grandma; she did her best, but I'm a bad lot," said Tom, with a shake of the head and a sober face. "It always seems as if she must be up in her rooms, and I can't get used to finding them empty," added Polly, softly. "Father would n't have anything moved, and Tom sits up there sometimes; it makes him feel good, he says," said Maud, who had a talent for betraying trifles which people preferred should not be mentioned in public. "You'd better hurry up your apple, for if it is n't done pretty soon, you'll have to leave it, Pug," said Tom, looking annoyed. "How is Fan?" asked Polly, with tact. "Well, Fan is rather under the weather; says she's dyspeptic, which means cross." "She is cross, but she's sick too, for I found her crying one day, and she said nobody cared about her, and she might as well be dead," added Maud, having turned her apple with tender care. "We must try to cheer her up, among us. If I was n't so busy I'd like to devote myself to her, she has done so much for me," said Polly, gratefully. "I wish you could. I can't understand her, for she acts like a weathercock, and I never know how I'm going to find her. I hate to have her mope so, but, upon my life, I don't know what to do," said Tom; but as he uttered the words, something was suggested by the sight before him. Chairs were few, and Polly had taken half of Will's when they drew round the fire. Now she was leaning against him, in a cosy, confiding way, delightful to behold, while Will's strong arm went round her with a protecting air, which said, as plainly as any words, that this big brother and small sister knew how to love and help one another. It was a pleasant little picture, all the pleasanter for its unconsciousness, and Tom found it both suggestive and agreeable. "Poor old Fan, she don't get much petting; maybe that's what she wants. I'll try it and see, for she stands by me like a trump. If she was a rosy, cosy little woman, like Polly, it would come easier, though," thought Tom, as he meditatively ate his last nut, feeling that fraternal affection could not be very difficult of demonstration, to brothers blessed with pretty, good-tempered sisters. "I told Tom about the bad fellow who blew up the professor, and he said he knew him, slightly; and I was so relieved, because I had a kind of a feeling that it was Tom himself, you and Will laughed so about it." Maud had a queer way of going on with her own thoughts, and suddenly coming out with whatever lay uppermost, regardless of time, place, or company. As this remark fell from her, there was a general smile, and Polly said, with mock solemnity, "It was a sad thing, and I've no doubt that misguided young man is very sorry for it now." "He looked perfectly bowed down with remorse last time I saw him," said Will, regarding Tom with eyes full of fun, for Will was a boy as well as a bookworm, and relished a joke as well as scatter-brained Tom. "He always is remorseful after a scrape, I've understood, for he is n't a very bad fellow, only his spirits are one too many for him, and he is n't as fond of his book as another fellow I know." "I'm afraid he'll he expelled if he don't mind," said Polly, warningly. "Should n't wonder if he was, he's such an unlucky dog," answered Tom, rather soberly. "I hope he'll remember that his friends will be very much disappointed if he is. He might make them so proud and happy; that I guess he will, for he is n't half as thoughtless as he makes himself out," said Polly, looking across at Tom with such friendly eyes that he was quite touched, though of course he did n't show it. "Thank you, Polly; he may pull through, but I have my doubts. Now old man, let us'pud' along; it's getting late for the chicken," he added, relapsing into the graceful diction with which a classical education gifts its fortunate possessor. Taking advantage of the moment while Will was wrestling with his boots in the closet, and Maud was absorbed in packing her apple into a large basket, Polly said to Tom in a low tone, "Thank you very much, for being so kind to Will." "Bless your heart, I have n't done anything; he's such a proud fellow he won't let me," answered Tom. "But you do in many little ways; to-night, for example. Do you think I don't know that the suit of clothes he's just got would have cost a good deal more, if your tailor had n't made them? He's only a boy, and don't understand things yet; but I know your way of helping proud people; so that they don't find it out, and I do thank you, Tom, so much." "Oh, come, Polly, that won't do. What do you know about tailors and college matters?" said Tom, looking as much confused as if she had found him out in something reprehensible. "I don't know much, and that's the reason why I'm grateful for your kindness to Will. I don't care what stories they tell about you, I'm sure, you won't lead him into trouble, but keep him straight, for my sake. You know I've lost one brother, and Will takes Jimmy's place to me now." The tears in Polly's eyes as she said that made Tom vow a tremendous vow within himself to stand by Will through thick and thin, and "keep him straight for Polly's sake"; feeling all the time how ill-fitted he was for such a task. "I'll do my best," he said, heartily, as he pressed the hand Polly gave him, with a look which assured her that he felt the appeal to his honor, and that henceforth the country lad was safe from all the temptations Tom could have offered him. "There! now I shall give that to mamma to take her pills in; it's just what she likes, and it pleases her to be thought of," said Maud, surveying her gift with complacency, as she put on her things. "You're a good little soul, to remember poor mum, said Tom, with an approving nod. "Well, she was so pleased with the grapes you brought her, I thought I 'd try something, and maybe she'd say 'Thank you, darling,' to me too. Do you think she will?" whispered Maud, with the wistful look so often seen on her little plain face. "See if she don't;" and to Maud's great surprise Tom did n't laugh at her project. "Good night, dear; take care of yourself, and keep your muffler round your mouth going over the bridge, or you'll be as hoarse as a crow to-morrow," said Polly, as she kissed her brother, who returned it without looking as if he thought it "girl's nonsense" Then the three piled into the sleigh and drove off, leave Polly nodding on the doorstep. Maud found the drive altogether too short, but was consoled by the promise of a longer one if the sleighing lasted till next Saturday: and when Tom ran up to bid his mother good-by, and give her a hint about Maud's gift, she stayed below to say, at the last minute, in unconscious imitation of Polly. "Good night; take care of yourself, my dear." Tom laughed, and was about to pinch the much enduring little nose; but, as if the words reminded him of something, he gave her a kiss instead, a piece of forbearance which almost took Maud's breath away with surprise and gratification. It was rather a silent drive, for Will obediently kept his muffler up, and Tom fell into a brown study. He was not much given to reflection, but occasionally indulged when something gave him a turn in that direction, and at such times he was as sober and sincere as could be desired. Any one might have lectured him for an hour without doing as much good as that little call and the chat that grew out of it, for, though nothing very wise or witty was said, many things were suggested, and every one knows that persuasive influences are better than any amount of moralizing. Neither Polly nor Will tried to do anything of the sort, and that was the charm of it. Nobody likes to be talked to, but nobody can resist the eloquence of unconscious preaching. With all his thoughtlessness, Tom was quick to see and feel these things, and was not spoilt enough yet to laugh at them. The sight of Will and Polly's simple affection for one another reminded him of a neglected duty so pleasantly, that he could not forget it. Talking of early days made him wish he could go back and start again, doing better. Grandma's name recalled the tender memory that always did him good, and the thought that Polly trusted her dearest brother to his care stirred up a manful desire to deserve the confidence. Tortures would n't have drawn a word of all this from him, but it had its effect, for boys don't leave their hearts and consciences behind them when they enter college, and little things of this sort do much to keep both from being damaged by the four years' scrimmage which begins the battle of life for most of them. CHAPTER XI. NEEDLES AND TONGUES DEAR POLLY, The Sewing Circle meets at our house this P. M. This is in your line, so do come and help me through. I shall depend on you. Yours ever, FAN. "Bad news, my dear?" asked Miss Mills, who had just handed the note to Polly as she came in one noon, a few weeks after Jenny's arrival. Polly told her what it was, adding, "I suppose I ought to go and help Fanny, but I can't say I want to. The girls talk about things I have nothing to do with, and I don't find their gossip very amusing. I'm an outsider, and they only accept me on Fan's account; so I sit in a corner and sew, while they chatter and laugh." "Would n't it be a good chance to say a word for Jenny? She wants work, and these young ladies probably have quantities done somewhere. Jenny does fine work exquisitely, and begins to feel anxious to be earning something. I don't want her to feel dependent and unhappy, and a little well-paid sewing would be all she needs to do nicely. I can get it for her by running round to my friends, but I really have n't the time, till I get the Mullers off. They are paupers here, but out West they can take care of themselves, so I've begged the money to send them, and as soon as I can get them some clothes, off they go. That's the way to help people help themselves," and Miss Mills clashed her big scissors energetically, as she cut out a little red flannel shirt. "I know it is, and I want to help, but I don't know where to begin," said Polly, feeling quite oppressed with the immensity of the work. "We can't any of us do all we would like, but we can do our best for every case that comes to us, and that helps amazingly. Begin with Jenny, my dear; tell those girls about her, and if I'm not much mistaken, you will find them ready to help, for half the time it is n't hardness of heart, but ignorance or thoughtlessness on the part of the rich, that makes them seem so careless of the poor." "To tell the truth, I'm afraid of being laughed at, if I try to talk seriously about such things to the girls," said Polly, frankly. "You believe that'such things' are true? You are sincere in your wish to help better them, and you respect those who work for that end?" "Yes, I do." "Then, my dear, can't you bear a little ridicule for the sake of a good cause? You said yesterday that you were going to make it a principle of your life, to help up your sex as far and as fast as you could. It did my heart good to hear you say it, for I was sure that in time you would keep your word. But, Polly, a principle that can't bear being laughed at, frowned on, and cold-shouldered, is n't worthy of the name." "I want to be strong-minded in the real sense of the word, but I don't like to be called so by people who don't understand my meaning; and I shall be if I try to make the girls think soberly about anything sensible or philanthropic. They call me old-fashioned now, and I'd rather be thought that, though it is n't pleasant, than be set down as a rampant woman's rights reformer," said Polly, in whose memory many laughs, and snubs, and sarcasms still lingered, forgiven but not forgotten. "This love and thought and care for those weaker, poorer, or worse than ourselves, which we call Christian charity, is a very old fashion, my dear. It began eighteen hundred years ago, and only those who honestly follow the beautiful example set us then, learn how to get genuine happiness out of life. I'm not a'rampant woman's rights reformer,'" added Miss Mills, with a smile at Polly's sober face; "but I think that women can do a great deal for each other, if they will only stop fearing what'people will think,' and take a hearty interest in whatever is going to fit their sisters and themselves to deserve and enjoy the rights God gave them. There are so many ways in which this can be done, that I wonder they don't see and improve them. I don't ask you to go and make speeches, only a few have the gift for that, but I do want every girl and woman to feel this duty, and make any little sacrifice of time or feeling that may be asked of them, because there is so much to do, and no one can do it as well as ourselves, if we only think so." "I'll try!" said Polly, influenced more by her desire to keep Miss Mills' good opinion than any love of self-sacrifice for her sex. It was rather a hard thing to ask of a shy, sensitive girl, and the kind old lady knew it, for in spite of the gray hair and withered face, her heart was very young, and her own girlish trials not forgotten. But she knew also that Polly had more influence over others than she herself suspected, simply because of her candid, upright nature; and that while she tried to help others, she was serving herself in a way that would improve heart and soul more than any mere social success she might gain by following the rules of fashionable life, which drill the character out of girls till they are as much alike as pins in a paper, and have about as much true sense and sentiment in their little heads. There was good stuff in Polly, unspoiled as yet, and Miss Mills was only acting out her principle of women helping each other. The wise old lady saw that Polly had reached that point where the girl suddenly blooms into a woman, asking something more substantial than pleasure to satisfy the new aspirations that are born; a time as precious and important to the after-life, as the hour when the apple blossoms fall, and the young fruit waits for the elements to ripen or destroy the harvest. Polly did not know this, and was fortunate in possessing a friend who knew what influences would serve her best, and who could give her what all women should desire to give each other, the example of a sweet, good life, more eloquent and powerful than any words; for this is a right no one can deny us. Polly turned the matter over in her mind as she dressed, while Jenny played waiting maid, little dreaming what this new friend was meaning to do for her, if she dared. "Is it going to be a tea-party, Miss?" asked Jenny, as the black silk went rustling on, to her great admiration, for she considered Polly a beauty. "Well, no, I think it will probably be a lecture," answered Polly, laughing, for Jenny's grateful service and affectionate eyes confirmed the purpose which Miss Mills' little homily had suggested. As she entered the Shaws' parlor an hour or two later, an appalling array of well-dressed girls appeared, each provided with a dainty reticule, basket, or bag, and each tongue going a good deal faster than the needle, while the white fingers stitched sleeves in upside down, put flannel jackets together hind part before, or gobbled button-holes with the best intentions in life. "You are a dear to come so early. Here's a nice place for you between Belle and Miss Perkins, and here's a sweet little dress to make, unless you like something else better," said Fanny, receiving her friend with warmth and placing her where she thought she would enjoy herself. "Thank you, I'll take an unbleached cotton shirt if you have such a thing, for it is likely to be needed before a cambric frock," replied Polly, subsiding into her corner as quickly as possible, for at least six eye-glasses were up, and she did n't enjoy being stared at. Miss Perkins, a grave, cold-looking young lady, with an aristocratic nose, bowed politely, and then went on with her work, which displayed two diamond rings to great advantage. Belle, being of the demonstrative sort, smiled and nodded, drew up her chair, and began a whispered account of Trix's last quarrel with Tom. Polly listened with interest while she sewed diligently, occasionally permitting her eyes to study the elegant intricacies of Miss Perkins' dress, for that young lady sat like a statue, quirking her delicate fingers, and accomplishing about two stitches a minute. In the midst of Belle's story, a more exciting bit of gossip caught her ear, and she plunged into the conversation going on across the table, leaving Polly free to listen and admire the wit, wisdom, and charitable spirit of the accomplished young ladies about her. There was a perfect Babel of tongues, but out of the confusion Polly gathered scraps of fashionable intelligence which somewhat lessened her respect for the dwellers in high places. One fair creature asserted that Joe Somebody took so much champagne at the last German, that he had to be got away, and sent home with two servants. Another divulged the awful fact that Carrie P.'s wedding presents were half of them hired for the occasion. A third circulated a whisper to the effect that though Mrs. Buckminster wore a thousand-dollar cloak, her boys were not allowed but one sheet to their beds. And a fourth young gossip assured the company that a certain person never had offered himself to a certain other person, though the report was industriously spread by interested parties. This latter remark caused such a clamor that Fanny called the meeting to order in a most unparliamentary fashion. "Girls! girls! you really must talk less and sew more, or our society will be disgraced. Do you know our branch sent in less work than any of the others last month, and Mrs. Fitz George said, she did n't see how fifteen young ladies could manage to do so little?" "We don't talk a bit more than the old ladies do. I just wish you could have heard them go on, last time. The way they get so much done, is, they take work home, and make their seamstresses do it, and then they take credit for vast industry," said Belle, who always spoke her mind with charming candor. "That reminds me that mamma says they want as many things as we can make, for it's a hard winter, and the poor are suffering very much. Do any of you wish to take articles home, to do at odd times?" said Fan, who was president of this energetic Dorcas Society. "Mercy, no! It takes all my leisure time to mend my gloves and refresh my dresses," answered Belle. "I think if we meet once a week, it is all that should be expected of us, with our other engagements. Poor people always complain that the winter is a hard one, and never are satisfied," remarked Miss Perkins, making her diamonds sparkle as she sewed buttons on the wrong side of a pink calico apron, which would hardly survive one washing. "Nobody can ask me to do any more, if they remember all I've got to attend to before summer," said Trix, with an important air. "I've got three women hard at work, and want another, but everyone is so busy, and ask such abominable prices, that I'm in despair, and shall have to take hold myself, I'm afraid." "There's a chance for Jane," thought Polly, but had n't courage "to speak out loud in meeting," just then, and resolved to ask Trix for work, in private. "Prices are high, but you forget how much more it costs to live now than it used to do. Mamma never allows us to beat down workwomen, but wishes us to pay them well, and economize in some other way, if we must," said Emma Davenport, a quiet, bright-eyed girl, who was called "odd" among the young ladies, because she dressed simply, when her father was a millionaire. "Just hear that girl talk about economy! I beg your pardon, she's some relation of yours, I believe!" said Belle, in a low tone. "Very distant; but I'm proud of it; for with her, economy does n't mean scrimping in one place to make a show in another. If every one would follow the Davenports' example, workwomen would n't starve, or servants be such a trouble. Emma is the plainest dressed girl in the room, next to me, yet any one can see she is a true gentlewoman," said Polly, warmly. "And you are another," answered Belle, who had always loved Polly, in her scatter-brained way. "Hush! Trix has the floor." "If they spent their wages properly, I should n't mind so much, but they think they must be as fine as anybody, and dress so well that it is hard to tell mistress from maid. Why our cook got a bonnet just like mine (the materials were cheaper, but the effect was the same), and had the impertinence to wear it before my face. I forbid it, and she left, of course, which made papa so cross he would n't give me the camel's hair shawl he promised this year." "It's perfectly shameful!" said Miss Perkins, as Trix paused out of breath. "Servants ought to be made to dress like servants, as they do abroad; then we should have no more trouble," observed Miss Perkins, who had just made the grand tour, and had brought home a French maid. "Perky don't practise as she preaches," whispered Belle to Polly, as Miss P. became absorbed in the chat of her other neighbors. "She pays her chamber girl with old finery; and the other day, when Betsey was out parading in her missis's cast-off purple plush suit, Mr. Curtis thought she was mademoiselle, and bowed to her. He is as blind as a bat, but recognized the dress, and pulled off his hat to it in the most elegant style. Perky adores him, and was mad enough to beat Betsey when she told the story and giggled over it. Betsey is quite as stylish and ever so much prettier than Perky, and she knows it, which is an aggravation." Polly could n't help laughing, but grew sober a minute after, as Trix said, pettishly, "Well, I'm sick of hearing about beggars; I believe half of them are humbugs, and if we let them alone they'd go to work and take care of themselves. There's altogether too much fuss made about charity. I do wish we could be left in peace." "There can't be too much charity!" burst out Polly, forgetting her shyness all at once. "Oh, indeed! Well, I take the liberty to differ from you," returned Trix, putting up her glass, and bestowing upon Polly her most "toploftical stare," as the girls called it. I regret to say that Polly never could talk with or be near Trix without feeling irritated and combative. She tried to conquer this feeling, but she could n't, and when Trix put on airs, Polly felt an intense desire to box her ears. That eye-glass was her especial aversion, for Trix was no more near-sighted than herself, but pretended to be because it was the fashion, and at times used the innocent glass as a weapon with which to put down any one who presumed to set themselves up. The supercilious glance which accompanied her ironically polite speech roused Polly, who answered with sudden color and the kindling of the eyes that always betrayed a perturbed spirit, "I don't think many of us would enjoy that selfish sort of peace, while little children starve, and girls no older than us kill themselves because their dreadful poverty leaves them no choice but sin or death." A sudden lull took place, for, though Polly, did not raise her voice, it was full of indignant emotion, and the most frivolous girl there felt a little thrill of sympathy; for the most utterly fashionable life does not kill the heart out of women, till years of selfish pleasure have passed over their heads. Trix was ashamed of herself; but she felt the same antagonism toward Polly, that Polly did toward her; and, being less generous, took satisfaction in plaguing her. Polly did not know that the secret of this was the fact that Tom often held her up as a model for his fiance to follow, which caused that young lady to dislike her more than ever. "Half the awful stories in the papers are made up for a sensation, and it's absurd to believe them, unless one likes to be harrowed up. I don't; and as for peace, I'm not likely to get much, while I have Tom to look after," said Trix, with an aggravating laugh. Polly's needle snapped in two, but she did not mind it, as she said, with a look that silenced even sharp-tongued Trix, "I can't help believing what my own eyes and ears have seen and heard. You lead such safe and happy lives, you can't imagine the misery that is all round you; but if you could get a glimpse of it, it would make your hearts ache, as it has mine." "Do you suffer from heartache? Some one hinted as much to me, but you looked so well, I could n't believe it." Now that was cruel in Trix, more cruel than any one guessed; but girls' tongues can deal wounds as sharp and sudden as the slender stiletto Spanish women wear in their hair, and Polly turned pale, as those words stabbed her. Belle saw it, and rushed to the rescue with more good-will than wisdom. "Nobody ever accused you of having any heart to ache with. Polly and I are not old enough yet to get tough and cool, and we are still silly enough to pity unhappy people, Tom Shaw especially," added Belle, under her breath. That was a two-edged thrust, for Trix was decidedly an old girl, and Tom was generally regarded as a hapless victim. Trix turned red; but before she could load and fire again, Emma Davenport, who labored under the delusion that this sort of skirmishing was ill-natured, and therefore ill-bred, spoke up in her pleasant way, "Speaking of pitying the poor, I always wonder why it is that we all like to read and cry over their troubles in books, but when we have the real thing before us, we think it is uninteresting and disagreeable." "It's the

leaning

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

"Now I call that a delicate compliment!" And Tom, who had not lost his early relish for this sort of refreshment, though he seldom indulged his passion nowadays, because peanuts are considered vulgar, fell to cracking and munching with great satisfaction. "Do you remember the first visit I made at your house, how you gave me peanuts, coming from the depot, and frightened me out of my wits, pretending the coachman was tipsy?" asked Polly. "Of course I do, and how we coasted one day," answered Tom, laughing. "Yes, and the velocipede; you've got the scar of that yet, I see." "I remember how you stood by me while it was sewed up; that was very plucky, Polly." "I was dreadfully afraid, but I remember I wanted to seem very brave, because you'd called me a coward." "Did I? Ought to have been ashamed of myself. I used to rough you shamefully, Polly, and you were so good-natured, you let me do it." "Could n't help myself," laughed Polly. "I did use to think you were an awful boy, but seems to me I rather liked it." "She had so much of it at home, she got used to it," put in Will, pulling the little curl behind Polly's ear. "You boys never teased me as Tom did, that's the reason it amused me, I suppose; novelty hath charms, you know." "Grandma used to lecture Tom for plaguing you, Polly, and he used to say he'd be a tip-top boy, but he was n't," observed Maud, with a venerable air. "Dear old grandma; she did her best, but I'm a bad lot," said Tom, with a shake of the head and a sober face. "It always seems as if she must be up in her rooms, and I can't get used to finding them empty," added Polly, softly. "Father would n't have anything moved, and Tom sits up there sometimes; it makes him feel good, he says," said Maud, who had a talent for betraying trifles which people preferred should not be mentioned in public. "You'd better hurry up your apple, for if it is n't done pretty soon, you'll have to leave it, Pug," said Tom, looking annoyed. "How is Fan?" asked Polly, with tact. "Well, Fan is rather under the weather; says she's dyspeptic, which means cross." "She is cross, but she's sick too, for I found her crying one day, and she said nobody cared about her, and she might as well be dead," added Maud, having turned her apple with tender care. "We must try to cheer her up, among us. If I was n't so busy I'd like to devote myself to her, she has done so much for me," said Polly, gratefully. "I wish you could. I can't understand her, for she acts like a weathercock, and I never know how I'm going to find her. I hate to have her mope so, but, upon my life, I don't know what to do," said Tom; but as he uttered the words, something was suggested by the sight before him. Chairs were few, and Polly had taken half of Will's when they drew round the fire. Now she was leaning against him, in a cosy, confiding way, delightful to behold, while Will's strong arm went round her with a protecting air, which said, as plainly as any words, that this big brother and small sister knew how to love and help one another. It was a pleasant little picture, all the pleasanter for its unconsciousness, and Tom found it both suggestive and agreeable. "Poor old Fan, she don't get much petting; maybe that's what she wants. I'll try it and see, for she stands by me like a trump. If she was a rosy, cosy little woman, like Polly, it would come easier, though," thought Tom, as he meditatively ate his last nut, feeling that fraternal affection could not be very difficult of demonstration, to brothers blessed with pretty, good-tempered sisters. "I told Tom about the bad fellow who blew up the professor, and he said he knew him, slightly; and I was so relieved, because I had a kind of a feeling that it was Tom himself, you and Will laughed so about it." Maud had a queer way of going on with her own thoughts, and suddenly coming out with whatever lay uppermost, regardless of time, place, or company. As this remark fell from her, there was a general smile, and Polly said, with mock solemnity, "It was a sad thing, and I've no doubt that misguided young man is very sorry for it now." "He looked perfectly bowed down with remorse last time I saw him," said Will, regarding Tom with eyes full of fun, for Will was a boy as well as a bookworm, and relished a joke as well as scatter-brained Tom. "He always is remorseful after a scrape, I've understood, for he is n't a very bad fellow, only his spirits are one too many for him, and he is n't as fond of his book as another fellow I know." "I'm afraid he'll he expelled if he don't mind," said Polly, warningly. "Should n't wonder if he was, he's such an unlucky dog," answered Tom, rather soberly. "I hope he'll remember that his friends will be very much disappointed if he is. He might make them so proud and happy; that I guess he will, for he is n't half as thoughtless as he makes himself out," said Polly, looking across at Tom with such friendly eyes that he was quite touched, though of course he did n't show it. "Thank you, Polly; he may pull through, but I have my doubts. Now old man, let us'pud' along; it's getting late for the chicken," he added, relapsing into the graceful diction with which a classical education gifts its fortunate possessor. Taking advantage of the moment while Will was wrestling with his boots in the closet, and Maud was absorbed in packing her apple into a large basket, Polly said to Tom in a low tone, "Thank you very much, for being so kind to Will." "Bless your heart, I have n't done anything; he's such a proud fellow he won't let me," answered Tom. "But you do in many little ways; to-night, for example. Do you think I don't know that the suit of clothes he's just got would have cost a good deal more, if your tailor had n't made them? He's only a boy, and don't understand things yet; but I know your way of helping proud people; so that they don't find it out, and I do thank you, Tom, so much." "Oh, come, Polly, that won't do. What do you know about tailors and college matters?" said Tom, looking as much confused as if she had found him out in something reprehensible. "I don't know much, and that's the reason why I'm grateful for your kindness to Will. I don't care what stories they tell about you, I'm sure, you won't lead him into trouble, but keep him straight, for my sake. You know I've lost one brother, and Will takes Jimmy's place to me now." The tears in Polly's eyes as she said that made Tom vow a tremendous vow within himself to stand by Will through thick and thin, and "keep him straight for Polly's sake"; feeling all the time how ill-fitted he was for such a task. "I'll do my best," he said, heartily, as he pressed the hand Polly gave him, with a look which assured her that he felt the appeal to his honor, and that henceforth the country lad was safe from all the temptations Tom could have offered him. "There! now I shall give that to mamma to take her pills in; it's just what she likes, and it pleases her to be thought of," said Maud, surveying her gift with complacency, as she put on her things. "You're a good little soul, to remember poor mum, said Tom, with an approving nod. "Well, she was so pleased with the grapes you brought her, I thought I 'd try something, and maybe she'd say 'Thank you, darling,' to me too. Do you think she will?" whispered Maud, with the wistful look so often seen on her little plain face. "See if she don't;" and to Maud's great surprise Tom did n't laugh at her project. "Good night, dear; take care of yourself, and keep your muffler round your mouth going over the bridge, or you'll be as hoarse as a crow to-morrow," said Polly, as she kissed her brother, who returned it without looking as if he thought it "girl's nonsense" Then the three piled into the sleigh and drove off, leave Polly nodding on the doorstep. Maud found the drive altogether too short, but was consoled by the promise of a longer one if the sleighing lasted till next Saturday: and when Tom ran up to bid his mother good-by, and give her a hint about Maud's gift, she stayed below to say, at the last minute, in unconscious imitation of Polly. "Good night; take care of yourself, my dear." Tom laughed, and was about to pinch the much enduring little nose; but, as if the words reminded him of something, he gave her a kiss instead, a piece of forbearance which almost took Maud's breath away with surprise and gratification. It was rather a silent drive, for Will obediently kept his muffler up, and Tom fell into a brown study. He was not much given to reflection, but occasionally indulged when something gave him a turn in that direction, and at such times he was as sober and sincere as could be desired. Any one might have lectured him for an hour without doing as much good as that little call and the chat that grew out of it, for, though nothing very wise or witty was said, many things were suggested, and every one knows that persuasive influences are better than any amount of moralizing. Neither Polly nor Will tried to do anything of the sort, and that was the charm of it. Nobody likes to be talked to, but nobody can resist the eloquence of unconscious preaching. With all his thoughtlessness, Tom was quick to see and feel these things, and was not spoilt enough yet to laugh at them. The sight of Will and Polly's simple affection for one another reminded him of a neglected duty so pleasantly, that he could not forget it. Talking of early days made him wish he could go back and start again, doing better. Grandma's name recalled the tender memory that always did him good, and the thought that Polly trusted her dearest brother to his care stirred up a manful desire to deserve the confidence. Tortures would n't have drawn a word of all this from him, but it had its effect, for boys don't leave their hearts and consciences behind them when they enter college, and little things of this sort do much to keep both from being damaged by the four years' scrimmage which begins the battle of life for most of them. CHAPTER XI. NEEDLES AND TONGUES DEAR POLLY, The Sewing Circle meets at our house this P. M. This is in your line, so do come and help me through. I shall depend on you. Yours ever, FAN. "Bad news, my dear?" asked Miss Mills, who had just handed the note to Polly as she came in one noon, a few weeks after Jenny's arrival. Polly told her what it was, adding, "I suppose I ought to go and help Fanny, but I can't say I want to. The girls talk about things I have nothing to do with, and I don't find their gossip very amusing. I'm an outsider, and they only accept me on Fan's account; so I sit in a corner and sew, while they chatter and laugh." "Would n't it be a good chance to say a word for Jenny? She wants work, and these young ladies probably have quantities done somewhere. Jenny does fine work exquisitely, and begins to feel anxious to be earning something. I don't want her to feel dependent and unhappy, and a little well-paid sewing would be all she needs to do nicely. I can get it for her by running round to my friends, but I really have n't the time, till I get the Mullers off. They are paupers here, but out West they can take care of themselves, so I've begged the money to send them, and as soon as I can get them some clothes, off they go. That's the way to help people help themselves," and Miss Mills clashed her big scissors energetically, as she cut out a little red flannel shirt. "I know it is, and I want to help, but I don't know where to begin," said Polly, feeling quite oppressed with the immensity of the work. "We can't any of us do all we would like, but we can do our best for every case that comes to us, and that helps amazingly. Begin with Jenny, my dear; tell those girls about her, and if I'm not much mistaken, you will find them ready to help, for half the time it is n't hardness of heart, but ignorance or thoughtlessness on the part of the rich, that makes them seem so careless of the poor." "To tell the truth, I'm afraid of being laughed at, if I try to talk seriously about such things to the girls," said Polly, frankly. "You believe that'such things' are true? You are sincere in your wish to help better them, and you respect those who work for that end?" "Yes, I do." "Then, my dear, can't you bear a little ridicule for the sake of a good cause? You said yesterday that you were going to make it a principle of your life, to help up your sex as far and as fast as you could. It did my heart good to hear you say it, for I was sure that in time you would keep your word. But, Polly, a principle that can't bear being laughed at, frowned on, and cold-shouldered, is n't worthy of the name." "I want to be strong-minded in the real sense of the word, but I don't like to be called so by people who don't understand my meaning; and I shall be if I try to make the girls think soberly about anything sensible or philanthropic. They call me old-fashioned now, and I'd rather be thought that, though it is n't pleasant, than be set down as a rampant woman's rights reformer," said Polly, in whose memory many laughs, and snubs, and sarcasms still lingered, forgiven but not forgotten. "This love and thought and care for those weaker, poorer, or worse than ourselves, which we call Christian charity, is a very old fashion, my dear. It began eighteen hundred years ago, and only those who honestly follow the beautiful example set us then, learn how to get genuine happiness out of life. I'm not a'rampant woman's rights reformer,'" added Miss Mills, with a smile at Polly's sober face; "but I think that women can do a great deal for each other, if they will only stop fearing what'people will think,' and take a hearty interest in whatever is going to fit their sisters and themselves to deserve and enjoy the rights God gave them. There are so many ways in which this can be done, that I wonder they don't see and improve them. I don't ask you to go and make speeches, only a few have the gift for that, but I do want every girl and woman to feel this duty, and make any little sacrifice of time or feeling that may be asked of them, because there is so much to do, and no one can do it as well as ourselves, if we only think so." "I'll try!" said Polly, influenced more by her desire to keep Miss Mills' good opinion than any love of self-sacrifice for her sex. It was rather a hard thing to ask of a shy, sensitive girl, and the kind old lady knew it, for in spite of the gray hair and withered face, her heart was very young, and her own girlish trials not forgotten. But she knew also that Polly had more influence over others than she herself suspected, simply because of her candid, upright nature; and that while she tried to help others, she was serving herself in a way that would improve heart and soul more than any mere social success she might gain by following the rules of fashionable life, which drill the character out of girls till they are as much alike as pins in a paper, and have about as much true sense and sentiment in their little heads. There was good stuff in Polly, unspoiled as yet, and Miss Mills was only acting out her principle of women helping each other. The wise old lady saw that Polly had reached that point where the girl suddenly blooms into a woman, asking something more substantial than pleasure to satisfy the new aspirations that are born; a time as precious and important to the after-life, as the hour when the apple blossoms fall, and the young fruit waits for the elements to ripen or destroy the harvest. Polly did not know this, and was fortunate in possessing a friend who knew what influences would serve her best, and who could give her what all women should desire to give each other, the example of a sweet, good life, more eloquent and powerful than any words; for this is a right no one can deny us. Polly turned the matter over in her mind as she dressed, while Jenny played waiting maid, little dreaming what this new friend was meaning to do for her, if she dared. "Is it going to be a tea-party, Miss?" asked Jenny, as the black silk went rustling on, to her great admiration, for she considered Polly a beauty. "Well, no, I think it will probably be a lecture," answered Polly, laughing, for Jenny's grateful service and affectionate eyes confirmed the purpose which Miss Mills' little homily had suggested. As she entered the Shaws' parlor an hour or two later, an appalling array of well-dressed girls appeared, each provided with a dainty reticule, basket, or bag, and each tongue going a good deal faster than the needle, while the white fingers stitched sleeves in upside down, put flannel jackets together hind part before, or gobbled button-holes with the best intentions in life. "You are a dear to come so early. Here's a nice place for you between Belle and Miss Perkins, and here's a sweet little dress to make, unless you like something else better," said Fanny, receiving her friend with warmth and placing her where she thought she would enjoy herself. "Thank you, I'll take an unbleached cotton shirt if you have such a thing, for it is likely to be needed before a cambric frock," replied Polly, subsiding into her corner as quickly as possible, for at least six eye-glasses were up, and she did n't enjoy being stared at. Miss Perkins, a grave, cold-looking young lady, with an aristocratic nose, bowed politely, and then went on with her work, which displayed two diamond rings to great advantage. Belle, being of the demonstrative sort, smiled and nodded, drew up her chair, and began a whispered account of Trix's last quarrel with Tom. Polly listened with interest while she sewed diligently, occasionally permitting her eyes to study the elegant intricacies of Miss Perkins' dress, for that young lady sat like a statue, quirking her delicate fingers, and accomplishing about two stitches a minute. In the midst of Belle's story, a more exciting bit of gossip caught her ear, and she plunged into the conversation going on across the table, leaving Polly free to listen and admire the wit, wisdom, and charitable spirit of the accomplished young ladies about her. There was a perfect Babel of tongues, but out of the confusion Polly gathered scraps of fashionable intelligence which somewhat lessened her respect for the dwellers in high places. One fair creature asserted that Joe Somebody took so much champagne at the last German, that he had to be got away, and sent home with two servants. Another divulged the awful fact that Carrie P.'s wedding presents were half of them hired for the occasion. A third circulated a whisper to the effect that though Mrs. Buckminster wore a thousand-dollar cloak, her boys were not allowed but one sheet to their beds. And a fourth young gossip assured the company that a certain person never had offered himself to a certain other person, though the report was industriously spread by interested parties. This latter remark caused such a clamor that Fanny called the meeting to order in a most unparliamentary fashion. "Girls! girls! you really must talk less and sew more, or our society will be disgraced. Do you know our branch sent in less work than any of the others last month, and Mrs. Fitz George said, she did n't see how fifteen young ladies could manage to do so little?" "We don't talk a bit more than the old ladies do. I just wish you could have heard them go on, last time. The way they get so much done, is, they take work home, and make their seamstresses do it, and then they take credit for vast industry," said Belle, who always spoke her mind with charming candor. "That reminds me that mamma says they want as many things as we can make, for it's a hard winter, and the poor are suffering very much. Do any of you wish to take articles home, to do at odd times?" said Fan, who was president of this energetic Dorcas Society. "Mercy, no! It takes all my leisure time to mend my gloves and refresh my dresses," answered Belle. "I think if we meet once a week, it is all that should be expected of us, with our other engagements. Poor people always complain that the winter is a hard one, and never are satisfied," remarked Miss Perkins, making her diamonds sparkle as she sewed buttons on the wrong side of a pink calico apron, which would hardly survive one washing. "Nobody can ask me to do any more, if they remember all I've got to attend to before summer," said Trix, with an important air. "I've got three women hard at work, and want another, but everyone is so busy, and ask such abominable prices, that I'm in despair, and shall have to take hold myself, I'm afraid." "There's a chance for Jane," thought Polly, but had n't courage "to speak out loud in meeting," just then, and resolved to ask Trix for work, in private. "Prices are high, but you forget how much more it costs to live now than it used to do. Mamma never allows us to beat down workwomen, but wishes us to pay them well, and economize in some other way, if we must," said Emma Davenport, a quiet, bright-eyed girl, who was called "odd" among the young ladies, because she dressed simply, when her father was a millionaire. "Just hear that girl talk about economy! I beg your pardon, she's some relation of yours, I believe!" said Belle, in a low tone. "Very distant; but I'm proud of it; for with her, economy does n't mean scrimping in one place to make a show in another. If every one would follow the Davenports' example, workwomen would n't starve, or servants be such a trouble. Emma is the plainest dressed girl in the room, next to me, yet any one can see she is a true gentlewoman," said Polly, warmly. "And you are another," answered Belle, who had always loved Polly, in her scatter-brained way. "Hush! Trix has the floor." "If they spent their wages properly, I should n't mind so much, but they think they must be as fine as anybody, and dress so well that it is hard to tell mistress from maid. Why our cook got a bonnet just like mine (the materials were cheaper, but the effect was the same), and had the impertinence to wear it before my face. I forbid it, and she left, of course, which made papa so cross he would n't give me the camel's hair shawl he promised this year." "It's perfectly shameful!" said Miss Perkins, as Trix paused out of breath. "Servants ought to be made to dress like servants, as they do abroad; then we should have no more trouble," observed Miss Perkins, who had just made the grand tour, and had brought home a French maid. "Perky don't practise as she preaches," whispered Belle to Polly, as Miss P. became absorbed in the chat of her other neighbors. "She pays her chamber girl with old finery; and the other day, when Betsey was out parading in her missis's cast-off purple plush suit, Mr. Curtis thought she was mademoiselle, and bowed to her. He is as blind as a bat, but recognized the dress, and pulled off his hat to it in the most elegant style. Perky adores him, and was mad enough to beat Betsey when she told the story and giggled over it. Betsey is quite as stylish and ever so much prettier than Perky, and she knows it, which is an aggravation." Polly could n't help laughing, but grew sober a minute after, as Trix said, pettishly, "Well, I'm sick of hearing about beggars; I believe half of them are humbugs, and if we let them alone they'd go to work and take care of themselves. There's altogether too much fuss made about charity. I do wish we could be left in peace." "There can't be too much charity!" burst out Polly, forgetting her shyness all at once. "Oh, indeed! Well, I take the liberty to differ from you," returned Trix, putting up her glass, and bestowing upon Polly her most "toploftical stare," as the girls called it. I regret to say that Polly never could talk with or be near Trix without feeling irritated and combative. She tried to conquer this feeling, but she could n't, and when Trix put on airs, Polly felt an intense desire to box her ears. That eye-glass was her especial aversion, for Trix was no more near-sighted than herself, but pretended to be because it was the fashion, and at times used the innocent glass as a weapon with which to put down any one who presumed to set themselves up. The supercilious glance which accompanied her ironically polite speech roused Polly, who answered with sudden color and the kindling of the eyes that always betrayed a perturbed spirit, "I don't think many of us would enjoy that selfish sort of peace, while little children starve, and girls no older than us kill themselves because their dreadful poverty leaves them no choice but sin or death." A sudden lull took place, for, though Polly, did not raise her voice, it was full of indignant emotion, and the most frivolous girl there felt a little thrill of sympathy; for the most utterly fashionable life does not kill the heart out of women, till years of selfish pleasure have passed over their heads. Trix was ashamed of herself; but she felt the same antagonism toward Polly, that Polly did toward her; and, being less generous, took satisfaction in plaguing her. Polly did not know that the secret of this was the fact that Tom often held her up as a model for his fiance to follow, which caused that young lady to dislike her more than ever. "Half the awful stories in the papers are made up for a sensation, and it's absurd to believe them, unless one likes to be harrowed up. I don't; and as for peace, I'm not likely to get much, while I have Tom to look after," said Trix, with an aggravating laugh. Polly's needle snapped in two, but she did not mind it, as she said, with a look that silenced even sharp-tongued Trix, "I can't help believing what my own eyes and ears have seen and heard. You lead such safe and happy lives, you can't imagine the misery that is all round you; but if you could get a glimpse of it, it would make your hearts ache, as it has mine." "Do you suffer from heartache? Some one hinted as much to me, but you looked so well, I could n't believe it." Now that was cruel in Trix, more cruel than any one guessed; but girls' tongues can deal wounds as sharp and sudden as the slender stiletto Spanish women wear in their hair, and Polly turned pale, as those words stabbed her. Belle saw it, and rushed to the rescue with more good-will than wisdom. "Nobody ever accused you of having any heart to ache with. Polly and I are not old enough yet to get tough and cool, and we are still silly enough to pity unhappy people, Tom Shaw especially," added Belle, under her breath. That was a two-edged thrust, for Trix was decidedly an old girl, and Tom was generally regarded as a hapless victim. Trix turned red; but before she could load and fire again, Emma Davenport, who labored under the delusion that this sort of skirmishing was ill-natured, and therefore ill-bred, spoke up in her pleasant way, "Speaking of pitying the poor, I always wonder why it is that we all like to read and cry over their troubles in books, but when we have the real thing before us, we think it is uninteresting and disagreeable." "It's the

devout

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

"Now I call that a delicate compliment!" And Tom, who had not lost his early relish for this sort of refreshment, though he seldom indulged his passion nowadays, because peanuts are considered vulgar, fell to cracking and munching with great satisfaction. "Do you remember the first visit I made at your house, how you gave me peanuts, coming from the depot, and frightened me out of my wits, pretending the coachman was tipsy?" asked Polly. "Of course I do, and how we coasted one day," answered Tom, laughing. "Yes, and the velocipede; you've got the scar of that yet, I see." "I remember how you stood by me while it was sewed up; that was very plucky, Polly." "I was dreadfully afraid, but I remember I wanted to seem very brave, because you'd called me a coward." "Did I? Ought to have been ashamed of myself. I used to rough you shamefully, Polly, and you were so good-natured, you let me do it." "Could n't help myself," laughed Polly. "I did use to think you were an awful boy, but seems to me I rather liked it." "She had so much of it at home, she got used to it," put in Will, pulling the little curl behind Polly's ear. "You boys never teased me as Tom did, that's the reason it amused me, I suppose; novelty hath charms, you know." "Grandma used to lecture Tom for plaguing you, Polly, and he used to say he'd be a tip-top boy, but he was n't," observed Maud, with a venerable air. "Dear old grandma; she did her best, but I'm a bad lot," said Tom, with a shake of the head and a sober face. "It always seems as if she must be up in her rooms, and I can't get used to finding them empty," added Polly, softly. "Father would n't have anything moved, and Tom sits up there sometimes; it makes him feel good, he says," said Maud, who had a talent for betraying trifles which people preferred should not be mentioned in public. "You'd better hurry up your apple, for if it is n't done pretty soon, you'll have to leave it, Pug," said Tom, looking annoyed. "How is Fan?" asked Polly, with tact. "Well, Fan is rather under the weather; says she's dyspeptic, which means cross." "She is cross, but she's sick too, for I found her crying one day, and she said nobody cared about her, and she might as well be dead," added Maud, having turned her apple with tender care. "We must try to cheer her up, among us. If I was n't so busy I'd like to devote myself to her, she has done so much for me," said Polly, gratefully. "I wish you could. I can't understand her, for she acts like a weathercock, and I never know how I'm going to find her. I hate to have her mope so, but, upon my life, I don't know what to do," said Tom; but as he uttered the words, something was suggested by the sight before him. Chairs were few, and Polly had taken half of Will's when they drew round the fire. Now she was leaning against him, in a cosy, confiding way, delightful to behold, while Will's strong arm went round her with a protecting air, which said, as plainly as any words, that this big brother and small sister knew how to love and help one another. It was a pleasant little picture, all the pleasanter for its unconsciousness, and Tom found it both suggestive and agreeable. "Poor old Fan, she don't get much petting; maybe that's what she wants. I'll try it and see, for she stands by me like a trump. If she was a rosy, cosy little woman, like Polly, it would come easier, though," thought Tom, as he meditatively ate his last nut, feeling that fraternal affection could not be very difficult of demonstration, to brothers blessed with pretty, good-tempered sisters. "I told Tom about the bad fellow who blew up the professor, and he said he knew him, slightly; and I was so relieved, because I had a kind of a feeling that it was Tom himself, you and Will laughed so about it." Maud had a queer way of going on with her own thoughts, and suddenly coming out with whatever lay uppermost, regardless of time, place, or company. As this remark fell from her, there was a general smile, and Polly said, with mock solemnity, "It was a sad thing, and I've no doubt that misguided young man is very sorry for it now." "He looked perfectly bowed down with remorse last time I saw him," said Will, regarding Tom with eyes full of fun, for Will was a boy as well as a bookworm, and relished a joke as well as scatter-brained Tom. "He always is remorseful after a scrape, I've understood, for he is n't a very bad fellow, only his spirits are one too many for him, and he is n't as fond of his book as another fellow I know." "I'm afraid he'll he expelled if he don't mind," said Polly, warningly. "Should n't wonder if he was, he's such an unlucky dog," answered Tom, rather soberly. "I hope he'll remember that his friends will be very much disappointed if he is. He might make them so proud and happy; that I guess he will, for he is n't half as thoughtless as he makes himself out," said Polly, looking across at Tom with such friendly eyes that he was quite touched, though of course he did n't show it. "Thank you, Polly; he may pull through, but I have my doubts. Now old man, let us'pud' along; it's getting late for the chicken," he added, relapsing into the graceful diction with which a classical education gifts its fortunate possessor. Taking advantage of the moment while Will was wrestling with his boots in the closet, and Maud was absorbed in packing her apple into a large basket, Polly said to Tom in a low tone, "Thank you very much, for being so kind to Will." "Bless your heart, I have n't done anything; he's such a proud fellow he won't let me," answered Tom. "But you do in many little ways; to-night, for example. Do you think I don't know that the suit of clothes he's just got would have cost a good deal more, if your tailor had n't made them? He's only a boy, and don't understand things yet; but I know your way of helping proud people; so that they don't find it out, and I do thank you, Tom, so much." "Oh, come, Polly, that won't do. What do you know about tailors and college matters?" said Tom, looking as much confused as if she had found him out in something reprehensible. "I don't know much, and that's the reason why I'm grateful for your kindness to Will. I don't care what stories they tell about you, I'm sure, you won't lead him into trouble, but keep him straight, for my sake. You know I've lost one brother, and Will takes Jimmy's place to me now." The tears in Polly's eyes as she said that made Tom vow a tremendous vow within himself to stand by Will through thick and thin, and "keep him straight for Polly's sake"; feeling all the time how ill-fitted he was for such a task. "I'll do my best," he said, heartily, as he pressed the hand Polly gave him, with a look which assured her that he felt the appeal to his honor, and that henceforth the country lad was safe from all the temptations Tom could have offered him. "There! now I shall give that to mamma to take her pills in; it's just what she likes, and it pleases her to be thought of," said Maud, surveying her gift with complacency, as she put on her things. "You're a good little soul, to remember poor mum, said Tom, with an approving nod. "Well, she was so pleased with the grapes you brought her, I thought I 'd try something, and maybe she'd say 'Thank you, darling,' to me too. Do you think she will?" whispered Maud, with the wistful look so often seen on her little plain face. "See if she don't;" and to Maud's great surprise Tom did n't laugh at her project. "Good night, dear; take care of yourself, and keep your muffler round your mouth going over the bridge, or you'll be as hoarse as a crow to-morrow," said Polly, as she kissed her brother, who returned it without looking as if he thought it "girl's nonsense" Then the three piled into the sleigh and drove off, leave Polly nodding on the doorstep. Maud found the drive altogether too short, but was consoled by the promise of a longer one if the sleighing lasted till next Saturday: and when Tom ran up to bid his mother good-by, and give her a hint about Maud's gift, she stayed below to say, at the last minute, in unconscious imitation of Polly. "Good night; take care of yourself, my dear." Tom laughed, and was about to pinch the much enduring little nose; but, as if the words reminded him of something, he gave her a kiss instead, a piece of forbearance which almost took Maud's breath away with surprise and gratification. It was rather a silent drive, for Will obediently kept his muffler up, and Tom fell into a brown study. He was not much given to reflection, but occasionally indulged when something gave him a turn in that direction, and at such times he was as sober and sincere as could be desired. Any one might have lectured him for an hour without doing as much good as that little call and the chat that grew out of it, for, though nothing very wise or witty was said, many things were suggested, and every one knows that persuasive influences are better than any amount of moralizing. Neither Polly nor Will tried to do anything of the sort, and that was the charm of it. Nobody likes to be talked to, but nobody can resist the eloquence of unconscious preaching. With all his thoughtlessness, Tom was quick to see and feel these things, and was not spoilt enough yet to laugh at them. The sight of Will and Polly's simple affection for one another reminded him of a neglected duty so pleasantly, that he could not forget it. Talking of early days made him wish he could go back and start again, doing better. Grandma's name recalled the tender memory that always did him good, and the thought that Polly trusted her dearest brother to his care stirred up a manful desire to deserve the confidence. Tortures would n't have drawn a word of all this from him, but it had its effect, for boys don't leave their hearts and consciences behind them when they enter college, and little things of this sort do much to keep both from being damaged by the four years' scrimmage which begins the battle of life for most of them. CHAPTER XI. NEEDLES AND TONGUES DEAR POLLY, The Sewing Circle meets at our house this P. M. This is in your line, so do come and help me through. I shall depend on you. Yours ever, FAN. "Bad news, my dear?" asked Miss Mills, who had just handed the note to Polly as she came in one noon, a few weeks after Jenny's arrival. Polly told her what it was, adding, "I suppose I ought to go and help Fanny, but I can't say I want to. The girls talk about things I have nothing to do with, and I don't find their gossip very amusing. I'm an outsider, and they only accept me on Fan's account; so I sit in a corner and sew, while they chatter and laugh." "Would n't it be a good chance to say a word for Jenny? She wants work, and these young ladies probably have quantities done somewhere. Jenny does fine work exquisitely, and begins to feel anxious to be earning something. I don't want her to feel dependent and unhappy, and a little well-paid sewing would be all she needs to do nicely. I can get it for her by running round to my friends, but I really have n't the time, till I get the Mullers off. They are paupers here, but out West they can take care of themselves, so I've begged the money to send them, and as soon as I can get them some clothes, off they go. That's the way to help people help themselves," and Miss Mills clashed her big scissors energetically, as she cut out a little red flannel shirt. "I know it is, and I want to help, but I don't know where to begin," said Polly, feeling quite oppressed with the immensity of the work. "We can't any of us do all we would like, but we can do our best for every case that comes to us, and that helps amazingly. Begin with Jenny, my dear; tell those girls about her, and if I'm not much mistaken, you will find them ready to help, for half the time it is n't hardness of heart, but ignorance or thoughtlessness on the part of the rich, that makes them seem so careless of the poor." "To tell the truth, I'm afraid of being laughed at, if I try to talk seriously about such things to the girls," said Polly, frankly. "You believe that'such things' are true? You are sincere in your wish to help better them, and you respect those who work for that end?" "Yes, I do." "Then, my dear, can't you bear a little ridicule for the sake of a good cause? You said yesterday that you were going to make it a principle of your life, to help up your sex as far and as fast as you could. It did my heart good to hear you say it, for I was sure that in time you would keep your word. But, Polly, a principle that can't bear being laughed at, frowned on, and cold-shouldered, is n't worthy of the name." "I want to be strong-minded in the real sense of the word, but I don't like to be called so by people who don't understand my meaning; and I shall be if I try to make the girls think soberly about anything sensible or philanthropic. They call me old-fashioned now, and I'd rather be thought that, though it is n't pleasant, than be set down as a rampant woman's rights reformer," said Polly, in whose memory many laughs, and snubs, and sarcasms still lingered, forgiven but not forgotten. "This love and thought and care for those weaker, poorer, or worse than ourselves, which we call Christian charity, is a very old fashion, my dear. It began eighteen hundred years ago, and only those who honestly follow the beautiful example set us then, learn how to get genuine happiness out of life. I'm not a'rampant woman's rights reformer,'" added Miss Mills, with a smile at Polly's sober face; "but I think that women can do a great deal for each other, if they will only stop fearing what'people will think,' and take a hearty interest in whatever is going to fit their sisters and themselves to deserve and enjoy the rights God gave them. There are so many ways in which this can be done, that I wonder they don't see and improve them. I don't ask you to go and make speeches, only a few have the gift for that, but I do want every girl and woman to feel this duty, and make any little sacrifice of time or feeling that may be asked of them, because there is so much to do, and no one can do it as well as ourselves, if we only think so." "I'll try!" said Polly, influenced more by her desire to keep Miss Mills' good opinion than any love of self-sacrifice for her sex. It was rather a hard thing to ask of a shy, sensitive girl, and the kind old lady knew it, for in spite of the gray hair and withered face, her heart was very young, and her own girlish trials not forgotten. But she knew also that Polly had more influence over others than she herself suspected, simply because of her candid, upright nature; and that while she tried to help others, she was serving herself in a way that would improve heart and soul more than any mere social success she might gain by following the rules of fashionable life, which drill the character out of girls till they are as much alike as pins in a paper, and have about as much true sense and sentiment in their little heads. There was good stuff in Polly, unspoiled as yet, and Miss Mills was only acting out her principle of women helping each other. The wise old lady saw that Polly had reached that point where the girl suddenly blooms into a woman, asking something more substantial than pleasure to satisfy the new aspirations that are born; a time as precious and important to the after-life, as the hour when the apple blossoms fall, and the young fruit waits for the elements to ripen or destroy the harvest. Polly did not know this, and was fortunate in possessing a friend who knew what influences would serve her best, and who could give her what all women should desire to give each other, the example of a sweet, good life, more eloquent and powerful than any words; for this is a right no one can deny us. Polly turned the matter over in her mind as she dressed, while Jenny played waiting maid, little dreaming what this new friend was meaning to do for her, if she dared. "Is it going to be a tea-party, Miss?" asked Jenny, as the black silk went rustling on, to her great admiration, for she considered Polly a beauty. "Well, no, I think it will probably be a lecture," answered Polly, laughing, for Jenny's grateful service and affectionate eyes confirmed the purpose which Miss Mills' little homily had suggested. As she entered the Shaws' parlor an hour or two later, an appalling array of well-dressed girls appeared, each provided with a dainty reticule, basket, or bag, and each tongue going a good deal faster than the needle, while the white fingers stitched sleeves in upside down, put flannel jackets together hind part before, or gobbled button-holes with the best intentions in life. "You are a dear to come so early. Here's a nice place for you between Belle and Miss Perkins, and here's a sweet little dress to make, unless you like something else better," said Fanny, receiving her friend with warmth and placing her where she thought she would enjoy herself. "Thank you, I'll take an unbleached cotton shirt if you have such a thing, for it is likely to be needed before a cambric frock," replied Polly, subsiding into her corner as quickly as possible, for at least six eye-glasses were up, and she did n't enjoy being stared at. Miss Perkins, a grave, cold-looking young lady, with an aristocratic nose, bowed politely, and then went on with her work, which displayed two diamond rings to great advantage. Belle, being of the demonstrative sort, smiled and nodded, drew up her chair, and began a whispered account of Trix's last quarrel with Tom. Polly listened with interest while she sewed diligently, occasionally permitting her eyes to study the elegant intricacies of Miss Perkins' dress, for that young lady sat like a statue, quirking her delicate fingers, and accomplishing about two stitches a minute. In the midst of Belle's story, a more exciting bit of gossip caught her ear, and she plunged into the conversation going on across the table, leaving Polly free to listen and admire the wit, wisdom, and charitable spirit of the accomplished young ladies about her. There was a perfect Babel of tongues, but out of the confusion Polly gathered scraps of fashionable intelligence which somewhat lessened her respect for the dwellers in high places. One fair creature asserted that Joe Somebody took so much champagne at the last German, that he had to be got away, and sent home with two servants. Another divulged the awful fact that Carrie P.'s wedding presents were half of them hired for the occasion. A third circulated a whisper to the effect that though Mrs. Buckminster wore a thousand-dollar cloak, her boys were not allowed but one sheet to their beds. And a fourth young gossip assured the company that a certain person never had offered himself to a certain other person, though the report was industriously spread by interested parties. This latter remark caused such a clamor that Fanny called the meeting to order in a most unparliamentary fashion. "Girls! girls! you really must talk less and sew more, or our society will be disgraced. Do you know our branch sent in less work than any of the others last month, and Mrs. Fitz George said, she did n't see how fifteen young ladies could manage to do so little?" "We don't talk a bit more than the old ladies do. I just wish you could have heard them go on, last time. The way they get so much done, is, they take work home, and make their seamstresses do it, and then they take credit for vast industry," said Belle, who always spoke her mind with charming candor. "That reminds me that mamma says they want as many things as we can make, for it's a hard winter, and the poor are suffering very much. Do any of you wish to take articles home, to do at odd times?" said Fan, who was president of this energetic Dorcas Society. "Mercy, no! It takes all my leisure time to mend my gloves and refresh my dresses," answered Belle. "I think if we meet once a week, it is all that should be expected of us, with our other engagements. Poor people always complain that the winter is a hard one, and never are satisfied," remarked Miss Perkins, making her diamonds sparkle as she sewed buttons on the wrong side of a pink calico apron, which would hardly survive one washing. "Nobody can ask me to do any more, if they remember all I've got to attend to before summer," said Trix, with an important air. "I've got three women hard at work, and want another, but everyone is so busy, and ask such abominable prices, that I'm in despair, and shall have to take hold myself, I'm afraid." "There's a chance for Jane," thought Polly, but had n't courage "to speak out loud in meeting," just then, and resolved to ask Trix for work, in private. "Prices are high, but you forget how much more it costs to live now than it used to do. Mamma never allows us to beat down workwomen, but wishes us to pay them well, and economize in some other way, if we must," said Emma Davenport, a quiet, bright-eyed girl, who was called "odd" among the young ladies, because she dressed simply, when her father was a millionaire. "Just hear that girl talk about economy! I beg your pardon, she's some relation of yours, I believe!" said Belle, in a low tone. "Very distant; but I'm proud of it; for with her, economy does n't mean scrimping in one place to make a show in another. If every one would follow the Davenports' example, workwomen would n't starve, or servants be such a trouble. Emma is the plainest dressed girl in the room, next to me, yet any one can see she is a true gentlewoman," said Polly, warmly. "And you are another," answered Belle, who had always loved Polly, in her scatter-brained way. "Hush! Trix has the floor." "If they spent their wages properly, I should n't mind so much, but they think they must be as fine as anybody, and dress so well that it is hard to tell mistress from maid. Why our cook got a bonnet just like mine (the materials were cheaper, but the effect was the same), and had the impertinence to wear it before my face. I forbid it, and she left, of course, which made papa so cross he would n't give me the camel's hair shawl he promised this year." "It's perfectly shameful!" said Miss Perkins, as Trix paused out of breath. "Servants ought to be made to dress like servants, as they do abroad; then we should have no more trouble," observed Miss Perkins, who had just made the grand tour, and had brought home a French maid. "Perky don't practise as she preaches," whispered Belle to Polly, as Miss P. became absorbed in the chat of her other neighbors. "She pays her chamber girl with old finery; and the other day, when Betsey was out parading in her missis's cast-off purple plush suit, Mr. Curtis thought she was mademoiselle, and bowed to her. He is as blind as a bat, but recognized the dress, and pulled off his hat to it in the most elegant style. Perky adores him, and was mad enough to beat Betsey when she told the story and giggled over it. Betsey is quite as stylish and ever so much prettier than Perky, and she knows it, which is an aggravation." Polly could n't help laughing, but grew sober a minute after, as Trix said, pettishly, "Well, I'm sick of hearing about beggars; I believe half of them are humbugs, and if we let them alone they'd go to work and take care of themselves. There's altogether too much fuss made about charity. I do wish we could be left in peace." "There can't be too much charity!" burst out Polly, forgetting her shyness all at once. "Oh, indeed! Well, I take the liberty to differ from you," returned Trix, putting up her glass, and bestowing upon Polly her most "toploftical stare," as the girls called it. I regret to say that Polly never could talk with or be near Trix without feeling irritated and combative. She tried to conquer this feeling, but she could n't, and when Trix put on airs, Polly felt an intense desire to box her ears. That eye-glass was her especial aversion, for Trix was no more near-sighted than herself, but pretended to be because it was the fashion, and at times used the innocent glass as a weapon with which to put down any one who presumed to set themselves up. The supercilious glance which accompanied her ironically polite speech roused Polly, who answered with sudden color and the kindling of the eyes that always betrayed a perturbed spirit, "I don't think many of us would enjoy that selfish sort of peace, while little children starve, and girls no older than us kill themselves because their dreadful poverty leaves them no choice but sin or death." A sudden lull took place, for, though Polly, did not raise her voice, it was full of indignant emotion, and the most frivolous girl there felt a little thrill of sympathy; for the most utterly fashionable life does not kill the heart out of women, till years of selfish pleasure have passed over their heads. Trix was ashamed of herself; but she felt the same antagonism toward Polly, that Polly did toward her; and, being less generous, took satisfaction in plaguing her. Polly did not know that the secret of this was the fact that Tom often held her up as a model for his fiance to follow, which caused that young lady to dislike her more than ever. "Half the awful stories in the papers are made up for a sensation, and it's absurd to believe them, unless one likes to be harrowed up. I don't; and as for peace, I'm not likely to get much, while I have Tom to look after," said Trix, with an aggravating laugh. Polly's needle snapped in two, but she did not mind it, as she said, with a look that silenced even sharp-tongued Trix, "I can't help believing what my own eyes and ears have seen and heard. You lead such safe and happy lives, you can't imagine the misery that is all round you; but if you could get a glimpse of it, it would make your hearts ache, as it has mine." "Do you suffer from heartache? Some one hinted as much to me, but you looked so well, I could n't believe it." Now that was cruel in Trix, more cruel than any one guessed; but girls' tongues can deal wounds as sharp and sudden as the slender stiletto Spanish women wear in their hair, and Polly turned pale, as those words stabbed her. Belle saw it, and rushed to the rescue with more good-will than wisdom. "Nobody ever accused you of having any heart to ache with. Polly and I are not old enough yet to get tough and cool, and we are still silly enough to pity unhappy people, Tom Shaw especially," added Belle, under her breath. That was a two-edged thrust, for Trix was decidedly an old girl, and Tom was generally regarded as a hapless victim. Trix turned red; but before she could load and fire again, Emma Davenport, who labored under the delusion that this sort of skirmishing was ill-natured, and therefore ill-bred, spoke up in her pleasant way, "Speaking of pitying the poor, I always wonder why it is that we all like to read and cry over their troubles in books, but when we have the real thing before us, we think it is uninteresting and disagreeable." "It's the

says

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

"Now I call that a delicate compliment!" And Tom, who had not lost his early relish for this sort of refreshment, though he seldom indulged his passion nowadays, because peanuts are considered vulgar, fell to cracking and munching with great satisfaction. "Do you remember the first visit I made at your house, how you gave me peanuts, coming from the depot, and frightened me out of my wits, pretending the coachman was tipsy?" asked Polly. "Of course I do, and how we coasted one day," answered Tom, laughing. "Yes, and the velocipede; you've got the scar of that yet, I see." "I remember how you stood by me while it was sewed up; that was very plucky, Polly." "I was dreadfully afraid, but I remember I wanted to seem very brave, because you'd called me a coward." "Did I? Ought to have been ashamed of myself. I used to rough you shamefully, Polly, and you were so good-natured, you let me do it." "Could n't help myself," laughed Polly. "I did use to think you were an awful boy, but seems to me I rather liked it." "She had so much of it at home, she got used to it," put in Will, pulling the little curl behind Polly's ear. "You boys never teased me as Tom did, that's the reason it amused me, I suppose; novelty hath charms, you know." "Grandma used to lecture Tom for plaguing you, Polly, and he used to say he'd be a tip-top boy, but he was n't," observed Maud, with a venerable air. "Dear old grandma; she did her best, but I'm a bad lot," said Tom, with a shake of the head and a sober face. "It always seems as if she must be up in her rooms, and I can't get used to finding them empty," added Polly, softly. "Father would n't have anything moved, and Tom sits up there sometimes; it makes him feel good, he says," said Maud, who had a talent for betraying trifles which people preferred should not be mentioned in public. "You'd better hurry up your apple, for if it is n't done pretty soon, you'll have to leave it, Pug," said Tom, looking annoyed. "How is Fan?" asked Polly, with tact. "Well, Fan is rather under the weather; says she's dyspeptic, which means cross." "She is cross, but she's sick too, for I found her crying one day, and she said nobody cared about her, and she might as well be dead," added Maud, having turned her apple with tender care. "We must try to cheer her up, among us. If I was n't so busy I'd like to devote myself to her, she has done so much for me," said Polly, gratefully. "I wish you could. I can't understand her, for she acts like a weathercock, and I never know how I'm going to find her. I hate to have her mope so, but, upon my life, I don't know what to do," said Tom; but as he uttered the words, something was suggested by the sight before him. Chairs were few, and Polly had taken half of Will's when they drew round the fire. Now she was leaning against him, in a cosy, confiding way, delightful to behold, while Will's strong arm went round her with a protecting air, which said, as plainly as any words, that this big brother and small sister knew how to love and help one another. It was a pleasant little picture, all the pleasanter for its unconsciousness, and Tom found it both suggestive and agreeable. "Poor old Fan, she don't get much petting; maybe that's what she wants. I'll try it and see, for she stands by me like a trump. If she was a rosy, cosy little woman, like Polly, it would come easier, though," thought Tom, as he meditatively ate his last nut, feeling that fraternal affection could not be very difficult of demonstration, to brothers blessed with pretty, good-tempered sisters. "I told Tom about the bad fellow who blew up the professor, and he said he knew him, slightly; and I was so relieved, because I had a kind of a feeling that it was Tom himself, you and Will laughed so about it." Maud had a queer way of going on with her own thoughts, and suddenly coming out with whatever lay uppermost, regardless of time, place, or company. As this remark fell from her, there was a general smile, and Polly said, with mock solemnity, "It was a sad thing, and I've no doubt that misguided young man is very sorry for it now." "He looked perfectly bowed down with remorse last time I saw him," said Will, regarding Tom with eyes full of fun, for Will was a boy as well as a bookworm, and relished a joke as well as scatter-brained Tom. "He always is remorseful after a scrape, I've understood, for he is n't a very bad fellow, only his spirits are one too many for him, and he is n't as fond of his book as another fellow I know." "I'm afraid he'll he expelled if he don't mind," said Polly, warningly. "Should n't wonder if he was, he's such an unlucky dog," answered Tom, rather soberly. "I hope he'll remember that his friends will be very much disappointed if he is. He might make them so proud and happy; that I guess he will, for he is n't half as thoughtless as he makes himself out," said Polly, looking across at Tom with such friendly eyes that he was quite touched, though of course he did n't show it. "Thank you, Polly; he may pull through, but I have my doubts. Now old man, let us'pud' along; it's getting late for the chicken," he added, relapsing into the graceful diction with which a classical education gifts its fortunate possessor. Taking advantage of the moment while Will was wrestling with his boots in the closet, and Maud was absorbed in packing her apple into a large basket, Polly said to Tom in a low tone, "Thank you very much, for being so kind to Will." "Bless your heart, I have n't done anything; he's such a proud fellow he won't let me," answered Tom. "But you do in many little ways; to-night, for example. Do you think I don't know that the suit of clothes he's just got would have cost a good deal more, if your tailor had n't made them? He's only a boy, and don't understand things yet; but I know your way of helping proud people; so that they don't find it out, and I do thank you, Tom, so much." "Oh, come, Polly, that won't do. What do you know about tailors and college matters?" said Tom, looking as much confused as if she had found him out in something reprehensible. "I don't know much, and that's the reason why I'm grateful for your kindness to Will. I don't care what stories they tell about you, I'm sure, you won't lead him into trouble, but keep him straight, for my sake. You know I've lost one brother, and Will takes Jimmy's place to me now." The tears in Polly's eyes as she said that made Tom vow a tremendous vow within himself to stand by Will through thick and thin, and "keep him straight for Polly's sake"; feeling all the time how ill-fitted he was for such a task. "I'll do my best," he said, heartily, as he pressed the hand Polly gave him, with a look which assured her that he felt the appeal to his honor, and that henceforth the country lad was safe from all the temptations Tom could have offered him. "There! now I shall give that to mamma to take her pills in; it's just what she likes, and it pleases her to be thought of," said Maud, surveying her gift with complacency, as she put on her things. "You're a good little soul, to remember poor mum, said Tom, with an approving nod. "Well, she was so pleased with the grapes you brought her, I thought I 'd try something, and maybe she'd say 'Thank you, darling,' to me too. Do you think she will?" whispered Maud, with the wistful look so often seen on her little plain face. "See if she don't;" and to Maud's great surprise Tom did n't laugh at her project. "Good night, dear; take care of yourself, and keep your muffler round your mouth going over the bridge, or you'll be as hoarse as a crow to-morrow," said Polly, as she kissed her brother, who returned it without looking as if he thought it "girl's nonsense" Then the three piled into the sleigh and drove off, leave Polly nodding on the doorstep. Maud found the drive altogether too short, but was consoled by the promise of a longer one if the sleighing lasted till next Saturday: and when Tom ran up to bid his mother good-by, and give her a hint about Maud's gift, she stayed below to say, at the last minute, in unconscious imitation of Polly. "Good night; take care of yourself, my dear." Tom laughed, and was about to pinch the much enduring little nose; but, as if the words reminded him of something, he gave her a kiss instead, a piece of forbearance which almost took Maud's breath away with surprise and gratification. It was rather a silent drive, for Will obediently kept his muffler up, and Tom fell into a brown study. He was not much given to reflection, but occasionally indulged when something gave him a turn in that direction, and at such times he was as sober and sincere as could be desired. Any one might have lectured him for an hour without doing as much good as that little call and the chat that grew out of it, for, though nothing very wise or witty was said, many things were suggested, and every one knows that persuasive influences are better than any amount of moralizing. Neither Polly nor Will tried to do anything of the sort, and that was the charm of it. Nobody likes to be talked to, but nobody can resist the eloquence of unconscious preaching. With all his thoughtlessness, Tom was quick to see and feel these things, and was not spoilt enough yet to laugh at them. The sight of Will and Polly's simple affection for one another reminded him of a neglected duty so pleasantly, that he could not forget it. Talking of early days made him wish he could go back and start again, doing better. Grandma's name recalled the tender memory that always did him good, and the thought that Polly trusted her dearest brother to his care stirred up a manful desire to deserve the confidence. Tortures would n't have drawn a word of all this from him, but it had its effect, for boys don't leave their hearts and consciences behind them when they enter college, and little things of this sort do much to keep both from being damaged by the four years' scrimmage which begins the battle of life for most of them. CHAPTER XI. NEEDLES AND TONGUES DEAR POLLY, The Sewing Circle meets at our house this P. M. This is in your line, so do come and help me through. I shall depend on you. Yours ever, FAN. "Bad news, my dear?" asked Miss Mills, who had just handed the note to Polly as she came in one noon, a few weeks after Jenny's arrival. Polly told her what it was, adding, "I suppose I ought to go and help Fanny, but I can't say I want to. The girls talk about things I have nothing to do with, and I don't find their gossip very amusing. I'm an outsider, and they only accept me on Fan's account; so I sit in a corner and sew, while they chatter and laugh." "Would n't it be a good chance to say a word for Jenny? She wants work, and these young ladies probably have quantities done somewhere. Jenny does fine work exquisitely, and begins to feel anxious to be earning something. I don't want her to feel dependent and unhappy, and a little well-paid sewing would be all she needs to do nicely. I can get it for her by running round to my friends, but I really have n't the time, till I get the Mullers off. They are paupers here, but out West they can take care of themselves, so I've begged the money to send them, and as soon as I can get them some clothes, off they go. That's the way to help people help themselves," and Miss Mills clashed her big scissors energetically, as she cut out a little red flannel shirt. "I know it is, and I want to help, but I don't know where to begin," said Polly, feeling quite oppressed with the immensity of the work. "We can't any of us do all we would like, but we can do our best for every case that comes to us, and that helps amazingly. Begin with Jenny, my dear; tell those girls about her, and if I'm not much mistaken, you will find them ready to help, for half the time it is n't hardness of heart, but ignorance or thoughtlessness on the part of the rich, that makes them seem so careless of the poor." "To tell the truth, I'm afraid of being laughed at, if I try to talk seriously about such things to the girls," said Polly, frankly. "You believe that'such things' are true? You are sincere in your wish to help better them, and you respect those who work for that end?" "Yes, I do." "Then, my dear, can't you bear a little ridicule for the sake of a good cause? You said yesterday that you were going to make it a principle of your life, to help up your sex as far and as fast as you could. It did my heart good to hear you say it, for I was sure that in time you would keep your word. But, Polly, a principle that can't bear being laughed at, frowned on, and cold-shouldered, is n't worthy of the name." "I want to be strong-minded in the real sense of the word, but I don't like to be called so by people who don't understand my meaning; and I shall be if I try to make the girls think soberly about anything sensible or philanthropic. They call me old-fashioned now, and I'd rather be thought that, though it is n't pleasant, than be set down as a rampant woman's rights reformer," said Polly, in whose memory many laughs, and snubs, and sarcasms still lingered, forgiven but not forgotten. "This love and thought and care for those weaker, poorer, or worse than ourselves, which we call Christian charity, is a very old fashion, my dear. It began eighteen hundred years ago, and only those who honestly follow the beautiful example set us then, learn how to get genuine happiness out of life. I'm not a'rampant woman's rights reformer,'" added Miss Mills, with a smile at Polly's sober face; "but I think that women can do a great deal for each other, if they will only stop fearing what'people will think,' and take a hearty interest in whatever is going to fit their sisters and themselves to deserve and enjoy the rights God gave them. There are so many ways in which this can be done, that I wonder they don't see and improve them. I don't ask you to go and make speeches, only a few have the gift for that, but I do want every girl and woman to feel this duty, and make any little sacrifice of time or feeling that may be asked of them, because there is so much to do, and no one can do it as well as ourselves, if we only think so." "I'll try!" said Polly, influenced more by her desire to keep Miss Mills' good opinion than any love of self-sacrifice for her sex. It was rather a hard thing to ask of a shy, sensitive girl, and the kind old lady knew it, for in spite of the gray hair and withered face, her heart was very young, and her own girlish trials not forgotten. But she knew also that Polly had more influence over others than she herself suspected, simply because of her candid, upright nature; and that while she tried to help others, she was serving herself in a way that would improve heart and soul more than any mere social success she might gain by following the rules of fashionable life, which drill the character out of girls till they are as much alike as pins in a paper, and have about as much true sense and sentiment in their little heads. There was good stuff in Polly, unspoiled as yet, and Miss Mills was only acting out her principle of women helping each other. The wise old lady saw that Polly had reached that point where the girl suddenly blooms into a woman, asking something more substantial than pleasure to satisfy the new aspirations that are born; a time as precious and important to the after-life, as the hour when the apple blossoms fall, and the young fruit waits for the elements to ripen or destroy the harvest. Polly did not know this, and was fortunate in possessing a friend who knew what influences would serve her best, and who could give her what all women should desire to give each other, the example of a sweet, good life, more eloquent and powerful than any words; for this is a right no one can deny us. Polly turned the matter over in her mind as she dressed, while Jenny played waiting maid, little dreaming what this new friend was meaning to do for her, if she dared. "Is it going to be a tea-party, Miss?" asked Jenny, as the black silk went rustling on, to her great admiration, for she considered Polly a beauty. "Well, no, I think it will probably be a lecture," answered Polly, laughing, for Jenny's grateful service and affectionate eyes confirmed the purpose which Miss Mills' little homily had suggested. As she entered the Shaws' parlor an hour or two later, an appalling array of well-dressed girls appeared, each provided with a dainty reticule, basket, or bag, and each tongue going a good deal faster than the needle, while the white fingers stitched sleeves in upside down, put flannel jackets together hind part before, or gobbled button-holes with the best intentions in life. "You are a dear to come so early. Here's a nice place for you between Belle and Miss Perkins, and here's a sweet little dress to make, unless you like something else better," said Fanny, receiving her friend with warmth and placing her where she thought she would enjoy herself. "Thank you, I'll take an unbleached cotton shirt if you have such a thing, for it is likely to be needed before a cambric frock," replied Polly, subsiding into her corner as quickly as possible, for at least six eye-glasses were up, and she did n't enjoy being stared at. Miss Perkins, a grave, cold-looking young lady, with an aristocratic nose, bowed politely, and then went on with her work, which displayed two diamond rings to great advantage. Belle, being of the demonstrative sort, smiled and nodded, drew up her chair, and began a whispered account of Trix's last quarrel with Tom. Polly listened with interest while she sewed diligently, occasionally permitting her eyes to study the elegant intricacies of Miss Perkins' dress, for that young lady sat like a statue, quirking her delicate fingers, and accomplishing about two stitches a minute. In the midst of Belle's story, a more exciting bit of gossip caught her ear, and she plunged into the conversation going on across the table, leaving Polly free to listen and admire the wit, wisdom, and charitable spirit of the accomplished young ladies about her. There was a perfect Babel of tongues, but out of the confusion Polly gathered scraps of fashionable intelligence which somewhat lessened her respect for the dwellers in high places. One fair creature asserted that Joe Somebody took so much champagne at the last German, that he had to be got away, and sent home with two servants. Another divulged the awful fact that Carrie P.'s wedding presents were half of them hired for the occasion. A third circulated a whisper to the effect that though Mrs. Buckminster wore a thousand-dollar cloak, her boys were not allowed but one sheet to their beds. And a fourth young gossip assured the company that a certain person never had offered himself to a certain other person, though the report was industriously spread by interested parties. This latter remark caused such a clamor that Fanny called the meeting to order in a most unparliamentary fashion. "Girls! girls! you really must talk less and sew more, or our society will be disgraced. Do you know our branch sent in less work than any of the others last month, and Mrs. Fitz George said, she did n't see how fifteen young ladies could manage to do so little?" "We don't talk a bit more than the old ladies do. I just wish you could have heard them go on, last time. The way they get so much done, is, they take work home, and make their seamstresses do it, and then they take credit for vast industry," said Belle, who always spoke her mind with charming candor. "That reminds me that mamma says they want as many things as we can make, for it's a hard winter, and the poor are suffering very much. Do any of you wish to take articles home, to do at odd times?" said Fan, who was president of this energetic Dorcas Society. "Mercy, no! It takes all my leisure time to mend my gloves and refresh my dresses," answered Belle. "I think if we meet once a week, it is all that should be expected of us, with our other engagements. Poor people always complain that the winter is a hard one, and never are satisfied," remarked Miss Perkins, making her diamonds sparkle as she sewed buttons on the wrong side of a pink calico apron, which would hardly survive one washing. "Nobody can ask me to do any more, if they remember all I've got to attend to before summer," said Trix, with an important air. "I've got three women hard at work, and want another, but everyone is so busy, and ask such abominable prices, that I'm in despair, and shall have to take hold myself, I'm afraid." "There's a chance for Jane," thought Polly, but had n't courage "to speak out loud in meeting," just then, and resolved to ask Trix for work, in private. "Prices are high, but you forget how much more it costs to live now than it used to do. Mamma never allows us to beat down workwomen, but wishes us to pay them well, and economize in some other way, if we must," said Emma Davenport, a quiet, bright-eyed girl, who was called "odd" among the young ladies, because she dressed simply, when her father was a millionaire. "Just hear that girl talk about economy! I beg your pardon, she's some relation of yours, I believe!" said Belle, in a low tone. "Very distant; but I'm proud of it; for with her, economy does n't mean scrimping in one place to make a show in another. If every one would follow the Davenports' example, workwomen would n't starve, or servants be such a trouble. Emma is the plainest dressed girl in the room, next to me, yet any one can see she is a true gentlewoman," said Polly, warmly. "And you are another," answered Belle, who had always loved Polly, in her scatter-brained way. "Hush! Trix has the floor." "If they spent their wages properly, I should n't mind so much, but they think they must be as fine as anybody, and dress so well that it is hard to tell mistress from maid. Why our cook got a bonnet just like mine (the materials were cheaper, but the effect was the same), and had the impertinence to wear it before my face. I forbid it, and she left, of course, which made papa so cross he would n't give me the camel's hair shawl he promised this year." "It's perfectly shameful!" said Miss Perkins, as Trix paused out of breath. "Servants ought to be made to dress like servants, as they do abroad; then we should have no more trouble," observed Miss Perkins, who had just made the grand tour, and had brought home a French maid. "Perky don't practise as she preaches," whispered Belle to Polly, as Miss P. became absorbed in the chat of her other neighbors. "She pays her chamber girl with old finery; and the other day, when Betsey was out parading in her missis's cast-off purple plush suit, Mr. Curtis thought she was mademoiselle, and bowed to her. He is as blind as a bat, but recognized the dress, and pulled off his hat to it in the most elegant style. Perky adores him, and was mad enough to beat Betsey when she told the story and giggled over it. Betsey is quite as stylish and ever so much prettier than Perky, and she knows it, which is an aggravation." Polly could n't help laughing, but grew sober a minute after, as Trix said, pettishly, "Well, I'm sick of hearing about beggars; I believe half of them are humbugs, and if we let them alone they'd go to work and take care of themselves. There's altogether too much fuss made about charity. I do wish we could be left in peace." "There can't be too much charity!" burst out Polly, forgetting her shyness all at once. "Oh, indeed! Well, I take the liberty to differ from you," returned Trix, putting up her glass, and bestowing upon Polly her most "toploftical stare," as the girls called it. I regret to say that Polly never could talk with or be near Trix without feeling irritated and combative. She tried to conquer this feeling, but she could n't, and when Trix put on airs, Polly felt an intense desire to box her ears. That eye-glass was her especial aversion, for Trix was no more near-sighted than herself, but pretended to be because it was the fashion, and at times used the innocent glass as a weapon with which to put down any one who presumed to set themselves up. The supercilious glance which accompanied her ironically polite speech roused Polly, who answered with sudden color and the kindling of the eyes that always betrayed a perturbed spirit, "I don't think many of us would enjoy that selfish sort of peace, while little children starve, and girls no older than us kill themselves because their dreadful poverty leaves them no choice but sin or death." A sudden lull took place, for, though Polly, did not raise her voice, it was full of indignant emotion, and the most frivolous girl there felt a little thrill of sympathy; for the most utterly fashionable life does not kill the heart out of women, till years of selfish pleasure have passed over their heads. Trix was ashamed of herself; but she felt the same antagonism toward Polly, that Polly did toward her; and, being less generous, took satisfaction in plaguing her. Polly did not know that the secret of this was the fact that Tom often held her up as a model for his fiance to follow, which caused that young lady to dislike her more than ever. "Half the awful stories in the papers are made up for a sensation, and it's absurd to believe them, unless one likes to be harrowed up. I don't; and as for peace, I'm not likely to get much, while I have Tom to look after," said Trix, with an aggravating laugh. Polly's needle snapped in two, but she did not mind it, as she said, with a look that silenced even sharp-tongued Trix, "I can't help believing what my own eyes and ears have seen and heard. You lead such safe and happy lives, you can't imagine the misery that is all round you; but if you could get a glimpse of it, it would make your hearts ache, as it has mine." "Do you suffer from heartache? Some one hinted as much to me, but you looked so well, I could n't believe it." Now that was cruel in Trix, more cruel than any one guessed; but girls' tongues can deal wounds as sharp and sudden as the slender stiletto Spanish women wear in their hair, and Polly turned pale, as those words stabbed her. Belle saw it, and rushed to the rescue with more good-will than wisdom. "Nobody ever accused you of having any heart to ache with. Polly and I are not old enough yet to get tough and cool, and we are still silly enough to pity unhappy people, Tom Shaw especially," added Belle, under her breath. That was a two-edged thrust, for Trix was decidedly an old girl, and Tom was generally regarded as a hapless victim. Trix turned red; but before she could load and fire again, Emma Davenport, who labored under the delusion that this sort of skirmishing was ill-natured, and therefore ill-bred, spoke up in her pleasant way, "Speaking of pitying the poor, I always wonder why it is that we all like to read and cry over their troubles in books, but when we have the real thing before us, we think it is uninteresting and disagreeable." "It's the

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"Now I call that a delicate compliment!" And Tom, who had not lost his early relish for this sort of refreshment, though he seldom indulged his passion nowadays, because peanuts are considered vulgar, fell to cracking and munching with great satisfaction. "Do you remember the first visit I made at your house, how you gave me peanuts, coming from the depot, and frightened me out of my wits, pretending the coachman was tipsy?" asked Polly. "Of course I do, and how we coasted one day," answered Tom, laughing. "Yes, and the velocipede; you've got the scar of that yet, I see." "I remember how you stood by me while it was sewed up; that was very plucky, Polly." "I was dreadfully afraid, but I remember I wanted to seem very brave, because you'd called me a coward." "Did I? Ought to have been ashamed of myself. I used to rough you shamefully, Polly, and you were so good-natured, you let me do it." "Could n't help myself," laughed Polly. "I did use to think you were an awful boy, but seems to me I rather liked it." "She had so much of it at home, she got used to it," put in Will, pulling the little curl behind Polly's ear. "You boys never teased me as Tom did, that's the reason it amused me, I suppose; novelty hath charms, you know." "Grandma used to lecture Tom for plaguing you, Polly, and he used to say he'd be a tip-top boy, but he was n't," observed Maud, with a venerable air. "Dear old grandma; she did her best, but I'm a bad lot," said Tom, with a shake of the head and a sober face. "It always seems as if she must be up in her rooms, and I can't get used to finding them empty," added Polly, softly. "Father would n't have anything moved, and Tom sits up there sometimes; it makes him feel good, he says," said Maud, who had a talent for betraying trifles which people preferred should not be mentioned in public. "You'd better hurry up your apple, for if it is n't done pretty soon, you'll have to leave it, Pug," said Tom, looking annoyed. "How is Fan?" asked Polly, with tact. "Well, Fan is rather under the weather; says she's dyspeptic, which means cross." "She is cross, but she's sick too, for I found her crying one day, and she said nobody cared about her, and she might as well be dead," added Maud, having turned her apple with tender care. "We must try to cheer her up, among us. If I was n't so busy I'd like to devote myself to her, she has done so much for me," said Polly, gratefully. "I wish you could. I can't understand her, for she acts like a weathercock, and I never know how I'm going to find her. I hate to have her mope so, but, upon my life, I don't know what to do," said Tom; but as he uttered the words, something was suggested by the sight before him. Chairs were few, and Polly had taken half of Will's when they drew round the fire. Now she was leaning against him, in a cosy, confiding way, delightful to behold, while Will's strong arm went round her with a protecting air, which said, as plainly as any words, that this big brother and small sister knew how to love and help one another. It was a pleasant little picture, all the pleasanter for its unconsciousness, and Tom found it both suggestive and agreeable. "Poor old Fan, she don't get much petting; maybe that's what she wants. I'll try it and see, for she stands by me like a trump. If she was a rosy, cosy little woman, like Polly, it would come easier, though," thought Tom, as he meditatively ate his last nut, feeling that fraternal affection could not be very difficult of demonstration, to brothers blessed with pretty, good-tempered sisters. "I told Tom about the bad fellow who blew up the professor, and he said he knew him, slightly; and I was so relieved, because I had a kind of a feeling that it was Tom himself, you and Will laughed so about it." Maud had a queer way of going on with her own thoughts, and suddenly coming out with whatever lay uppermost, regardless of time, place, or company. As this remark fell from her, there was a general smile, and Polly said, with mock solemnity, "It was a sad thing, and I've no doubt that misguided young man is very sorry for it now." "He looked perfectly bowed down with remorse last time I saw him," said Will, regarding Tom with eyes full of fun, for Will was a boy as well as a bookworm, and relished a joke as well as scatter-brained Tom. "He always is remorseful after a scrape, I've understood, for he is n't a very bad fellow, only his spirits are one too many for him, and he is n't as fond of his book as another fellow I know." "I'm afraid he'll he expelled if he don't mind," said Polly, warningly. "Should n't wonder if he was, he's such an unlucky dog," answered Tom, rather soberly. "I hope he'll remember that his friends will be very much disappointed if he is. He might make them so proud and happy; that I guess he will, for he is n't half as thoughtless as he makes himself out," said Polly, looking across at Tom with such friendly eyes that he was quite touched, though of course he did n't show it. "Thank you, Polly; he may pull through, but I have my doubts. Now old man, let us'pud' along; it's getting late for the chicken," he added, relapsing into the graceful diction with which a classical education gifts its fortunate possessor. Taking advantage of the moment while Will was wrestling with his boots in the closet, and Maud was absorbed in packing her apple into a large basket, Polly said to Tom in a low tone, "Thank you very much, for being so kind to Will." "Bless your heart, I have n't done anything; he's such a proud fellow he won't let me," answered Tom. "But you do in many little ways; to-night, for example. Do you think I don't know that the suit of clothes he's just got would have cost a good deal more, if your tailor had n't made them? He's only a boy, and don't understand things yet; but I know your way of helping proud people; so that they don't find it out, and I do thank you, Tom, so much." "Oh, come, Polly, that won't do. What do you know about tailors and college matters?" said Tom, looking as much confused as if she had found him out in something reprehensible. "I don't know much, and that's the reason why I'm grateful for your kindness to Will. I don't care what stories they tell about you, I'm sure, you won't lead him into trouble, but keep him straight, for my sake. You know I've lost one brother, and Will takes Jimmy's place to me now." The tears in Polly's eyes as she said that made Tom vow a tremendous vow within himself to stand by Will through thick and thin, and "keep him straight for Polly's sake"; feeling all the time how ill-fitted he was for such a task. "I'll do my best," he said, heartily, as he pressed the hand Polly gave him, with a look which assured her that he felt the appeal to his honor, and that henceforth the country lad was safe from all the temptations Tom could have offered him. "There! now I shall give that to mamma to take her pills in; it's just what she likes, and it pleases her to be thought of," said Maud, surveying her gift with complacency, as she put on her things. "You're a good little soul, to remember poor mum, said Tom, with an approving nod. "Well, she was so pleased with the grapes you brought her, I thought I 'd try something, and maybe she'd say 'Thank you, darling,' to me too. Do you think she will?" whispered Maud, with the wistful look so often seen on her little plain face. "See if she don't;" and to Maud's great surprise Tom did n't laugh at her project. "Good night, dear; take care of yourself, and keep your muffler round your mouth going over the bridge, or you'll be as hoarse as a crow to-morrow," said Polly, as she kissed her brother, who returned it without looking as if he thought it "girl's nonsense" Then the three piled into the sleigh and drove off, leave Polly nodding on the doorstep. Maud found the drive altogether too short, but was consoled by the promise of a longer one if the sleighing lasted till next Saturday: and when Tom ran up to bid his mother good-by, and give her a hint about Maud's gift, she stayed below to say, at the last minute, in unconscious imitation of Polly. "Good night; take care of yourself, my dear." Tom laughed, and was about to pinch the much enduring little nose; but, as if the words reminded him of something, he gave her a kiss instead, a piece of forbearance which almost took Maud's breath away with surprise and gratification. It was rather a silent drive, for Will obediently kept his muffler up, and Tom fell into a brown study. He was not much given to reflection, but occasionally indulged when something gave him a turn in that direction, and at such times he was as sober and sincere as could be desired. Any one might have lectured him for an hour without doing as much good as that little call and the chat that grew out of it, for, though nothing very wise or witty was said, many things were suggested, and every one knows that persuasive influences are better than any amount of moralizing. Neither Polly nor Will tried to do anything of the sort, and that was the charm of it. Nobody likes to be talked to, but nobody can resist the eloquence of unconscious preaching. With all his thoughtlessness, Tom was quick to see and feel these things, and was not spoilt enough yet to laugh at them. The sight of Will and Polly's simple affection for one another reminded him of a neglected duty so pleasantly, that he could not forget it. Talking of early days made him wish he could go back and start again, doing better. Grandma's name recalled the tender memory that always did him good, and the thought that Polly trusted her dearest brother to his care stirred up a manful desire to deserve the confidence. Tortures would n't have drawn a word of all this from him, but it had its effect, for boys don't leave their hearts and consciences behind them when they enter college, and little things of this sort do much to keep both from being damaged by the four years' scrimmage which begins the battle of life for most of them. CHAPTER XI. NEEDLES AND TONGUES DEAR POLLY, The Sewing Circle meets at our house this P. M. This is in your line, so do come and help me through. I shall depend on you. Yours ever, FAN. "Bad news, my dear?" asked Miss Mills, who had just handed the note to Polly as she came in one noon, a few weeks after Jenny's arrival. Polly told her what it was, adding, "I suppose I ought to go and help Fanny, but I can't say I want to. The girls talk about things I have nothing to do with, and I don't find their gossip very amusing. I'm an outsider, and they only accept me on Fan's account; so I sit in a corner and sew, while they chatter and laugh." "Would n't it be a good chance to say a word for Jenny? She wants work, and these young ladies probably have quantities done somewhere. Jenny does fine work exquisitely, and begins to feel anxious to be earning something. I don't want her to feel dependent and unhappy, and a little well-paid sewing would be all she needs to do nicely. I can get it for her by running round to my friends, but I really have n't the time, till I get the Mullers off. They are paupers here, but out West they can take care of themselves, so I've begged the money to send them, and as soon as I can get them some clothes, off they go. That's the way to help people help themselves," and Miss Mills clashed her big scissors energetically, as she cut out a little red flannel shirt. "I know it is, and I want to help, but I don't know where to begin," said Polly, feeling quite oppressed with the immensity of the work. "We can't any of us do all we would like, but we can do our best for every case that comes to us, and that helps amazingly. Begin with Jenny, my dear; tell those girls about her, and if I'm not much mistaken, you will find them ready to help, for half the time it is n't hardness of heart, but ignorance or thoughtlessness on the part of the rich, that makes them seem so careless of the poor." "To tell the truth, I'm afraid of being laughed at, if I try to talk seriously about such things to the girls," said Polly, frankly. "You believe that'such things' are true? You are sincere in your wish to help better them, and you respect those who work for that end?" "Yes, I do." "Then, my dear, can't you bear a little ridicule for the sake of a good cause? You said yesterday that you were going to make it a principle of your life, to help up your sex as far and as fast as you could. It did my heart good to hear you say it, for I was sure that in time you would keep your word. But, Polly, a principle that can't bear being laughed at, frowned on, and cold-shouldered, is n't worthy of the name." "I want to be strong-minded in the real sense of the word, but I don't like to be called so by people who don't understand my meaning; and I shall be if I try to make the girls think soberly about anything sensible or philanthropic. They call me old-fashioned now, and I'd rather be thought that, though it is n't pleasant, than be set down as a rampant woman's rights reformer," said Polly, in whose memory many laughs, and snubs, and sarcasms still lingered, forgiven but not forgotten. "This love and thought and care for those weaker, poorer, or worse than ourselves, which we call Christian charity, is a very old fashion, my dear. It began eighteen hundred years ago, and only those who honestly follow the beautiful example set us then, learn how to get genuine happiness out of life. I'm not a'rampant woman's rights reformer,'" added Miss Mills, with a smile at Polly's sober face; "but I think that women can do a great deal for each other, if they will only stop fearing what'people will think,' and take a hearty interest in whatever is going to fit their sisters and themselves to deserve and enjoy the rights God gave them. There are so many ways in which this can be done, that I wonder they don't see and improve them. I don't ask you to go and make speeches, only a few have the gift for that, but I do want every girl and woman to feel this duty, and make any little sacrifice of time or feeling that may be asked of them, because there is so much to do, and no one can do it as well as ourselves, if we only think so." "I'll try!" said Polly, influenced more by her desire to keep Miss Mills' good opinion than any love of self-sacrifice for her sex. It was rather a hard thing to ask of a shy, sensitive girl, and the kind old lady knew it, for in spite of the gray hair and withered face, her heart was very young, and her own girlish trials not forgotten. But she knew also that Polly had more influence over others than she herself suspected, simply because of her candid, upright nature; and that while she tried to help others, she was serving herself in a way that would improve heart and soul more than any mere social success she might gain by following the rules of fashionable life, which drill the character out of girls till they are as much alike as pins in a paper, and have about as much true sense and sentiment in their little heads. There was good stuff in Polly, unspoiled as yet, and Miss Mills was only acting out her principle of women helping each other. The wise old lady saw that Polly had reached that point where the girl suddenly blooms into a woman, asking something more substantial than pleasure to satisfy the new aspirations that are born; a time as precious and important to the after-life, as the hour when the apple blossoms fall, and the young fruit waits for the elements to ripen or destroy the harvest. Polly did not know this, and was fortunate in possessing a friend who knew what influences would serve her best, and who could give her what all women should desire to give each other, the example of a sweet, good life, more eloquent and powerful than any words; for this is a right no one can deny us. Polly turned the matter over in her mind as she dressed, while Jenny played waiting maid, little dreaming what this new friend was meaning to do for her, if she dared. "Is it going to be a tea-party, Miss?" asked Jenny, as the black silk went rustling on, to her great admiration, for she considered Polly a beauty. "Well, no, I think it will probably be a lecture," answered Polly, laughing, for Jenny's grateful service and affectionate eyes confirmed the purpose which Miss Mills' little homily had suggested. As she entered the Shaws' parlor an hour or two later, an appalling array of well-dressed girls appeared, each provided with a dainty reticule, basket, or bag, and each tongue going a good deal faster than the needle, while the white fingers stitched sleeves in upside down, put flannel jackets together hind part before, or gobbled button-holes with the best intentions in life. "You are a dear to come so early. Here's a nice place for you between Belle and Miss Perkins, and here's a sweet little dress to make, unless you like something else better," said Fanny, receiving her friend with warmth and placing her where she thought she would enjoy herself. "Thank you, I'll take an unbleached cotton shirt if you have such a thing, for it is likely to be needed before a cambric frock," replied Polly, subsiding into her corner as quickly as possible, for at least six eye-glasses were up, and she did n't enjoy being stared at. Miss Perkins, a grave, cold-looking young lady, with an aristocratic nose, bowed politely, and then went on with her work, which displayed two diamond rings to great advantage. Belle, being of the demonstrative sort, smiled and nodded, drew up her chair, and began a whispered account of Trix's last quarrel with Tom. Polly listened with interest while she sewed diligently, occasionally permitting her eyes to study the elegant intricacies of Miss Perkins' dress, for that young lady sat like a statue, quirking her delicate fingers, and accomplishing about two stitches a minute. In the midst of Belle's story, a more exciting bit of gossip caught her ear, and she plunged into the conversation going on across the table, leaving Polly free to listen and admire the wit, wisdom, and charitable spirit of the accomplished young ladies about her. There was a perfect Babel of tongues, but out of the confusion Polly gathered scraps of fashionable intelligence which somewhat lessened her respect for the dwellers in high places. One fair creature asserted that Joe Somebody took so much champagne at the last German, that he had to be got away, and sent home with two servants. Another divulged the awful fact that Carrie P.'s wedding presents were half of them hired for the occasion. A third circulated a whisper to the effect that though Mrs. Buckminster wore a thousand-dollar cloak, her boys were not allowed but one sheet to their beds. And a fourth young gossip assured the company that a certain person never had offered himself to a certain other person, though the report was industriously spread by interested parties. This latter remark caused such a clamor that Fanny called the meeting to order in a most unparliamentary fashion. "Girls! girls! you really must talk less and sew more, or our society will be disgraced. Do you know our branch sent in less work than any of the others last month, and Mrs. Fitz George said, she did n't see how fifteen young ladies could manage to do so little?" "We don't talk a bit more than the old ladies do. I just wish you could have heard them go on, last time. The way they get so much done, is, they take work home, and make their seamstresses do it, and then they take credit for vast industry," said Belle, who always spoke her mind with charming candor. "That reminds me that mamma says they want as many things as we can make, for it's a hard winter, and the poor are suffering very much. Do any of you wish to take articles home, to do at odd times?" said Fan, who was president of this energetic Dorcas Society. "Mercy, no! It takes all my leisure time to mend my gloves and refresh my dresses," answered Belle. "I think if we meet once a week, it is all that should be expected of us, with our other engagements. Poor people always complain that the winter is a hard one, and never are satisfied," remarked Miss Perkins, making her diamonds sparkle as she sewed buttons on the wrong side of a pink calico apron, which would hardly survive one washing. "Nobody can ask me to do any more, if they remember all I've got to attend to before summer," said Trix, with an important air. "I've got three women hard at work, and want another, but everyone is so busy, and ask such abominable prices, that I'm in despair, and shall have to take hold myself, I'm afraid." "There's a chance for Jane," thought Polly, but had n't courage "to speak out loud in meeting," just then, and resolved to ask Trix for work, in private. "Prices are high, but you forget how much more it costs to live now than it used to do. Mamma never allows us to beat down workwomen, but wishes us to pay them well, and economize in some other way, if we must," said Emma Davenport, a quiet, bright-eyed girl, who was called "odd" among the young ladies, because she dressed simply, when her father was a millionaire. "Just hear that girl talk about economy! I beg your pardon, she's some relation of yours, I believe!" said Belle, in a low tone. "Very distant; but I'm proud of it; for with her, economy does n't mean scrimping in one place to make a show in another. If every one would follow the Davenports' example, workwomen would n't starve, or servants be such a trouble. Emma is the plainest dressed girl in the room, next to me, yet any one can see she is a true gentlewoman," said Polly, warmly. "And you are another," answered Belle, who had always loved Polly, in her scatter-brained way. "Hush! Trix has the floor." "If they spent their wages properly, I should n't mind so much, but they think they must be as fine as anybody, and dress so well that it is hard to tell mistress from maid. Why our cook got a bonnet just like mine (the materials were cheaper, but the effect was the same), and had the impertinence to wear it before my face. I forbid it, and she left, of course, which made papa so cross he would n't give me the camel's hair shawl he promised this year." "It's perfectly shameful!" said Miss Perkins, as Trix paused out of breath. "Servants ought to be made to dress like servants, as they do abroad; then we should have no more trouble," observed Miss Perkins, who had just made the grand tour, and had brought home a French maid. "Perky don't practise as she preaches," whispered Belle to Polly, as Miss P. became absorbed in the chat of her other neighbors. "She pays her chamber girl with old finery; and the other day, when Betsey was out parading in her missis's cast-off purple plush suit, Mr. Curtis thought she was mademoiselle, and bowed to her. He is as blind as a bat, but recognized the dress, and pulled off his hat to it in the most elegant style. Perky adores him, and was mad enough to beat Betsey when she told the story and giggled over it. Betsey is quite as stylish and ever so much prettier than Perky, and she knows it, which is an aggravation." Polly could n't help laughing, but grew sober a minute after, as Trix said, pettishly, "Well, I'm sick of hearing about beggars; I believe half of them are humbugs, and if we let them alone they'd go to work and take care of themselves. There's altogether too much fuss made about charity. I do wish we could be left in peace." "There can't be too much charity!" burst out Polly, forgetting her shyness all at once. "Oh, indeed! Well, I take the liberty to differ from you," returned Trix, putting up her glass, and bestowing upon Polly her most "toploftical stare," as the girls called it. I regret to say that Polly never could talk with or be near Trix without feeling irritated and combative. She tried to conquer this feeling, but she could n't, and when Trix put on airs, Polly felt an intense desire to box her ears. That eye-glass was her especial aversion, for Trix was no more near-sighted than herself, but pretended to be because it was the fashion, and at times used the innocent glass as a weapon with which to put down any one who presumed to set themselves up. The supercilious glance which accompanied her ironically polite speech roused Polly, who answered with sudden color and the kindling of the eyes that always betrayed a perturbed spirit, "I don't think many of us would enjoy that selfish sort of peace, while little children starve, and girls no older than us kill themselves because their dreadful poverty leaves them no choice but sin or death." A sudden lull took place, for, though Polly, did not raise her voice, it was full of indignant emotion, and the most frivolous girl there felt a little thrill of sympathy; for the most utterly fashionable life does not kill the heart out of women, till years of selfish pleasure have passed over their heads. Trix was ashamed of herself; but she felt the same antagonism toward Polly, that Polly did toward her; and, being less generous, took satisfaction in plaguing her. Polly did not know that the secret of this was the fact that Tom often held her up as a model for his fiance to follow, which caused that young lady to dislike her more than ever. "Half the awful stories in the papers are made up for a sensation, and it's absurd to believe them, unless one likes to be harrowed up. I don't; and as for peace, I'm not likely to get much, while I have Tom to look after," said Trix, with an aggravating laugh. Polly's needle snapped in two, but she did not mind it, as she said, with a look that silenced even sharp-tongued Trix, "I can't help believing what my own eyes and ears have seen and heard. You lead such safe and happy lives, you can't imagine the misery that is all round you; but if you could get a glimpse of it, it would make your hearts ache, as it has mine." "Do you suffer from heartache? Some one hinted as much to me, but you looked so well, I could n't believe it." Now that was cruel in Trix, more cruel than any one guessed; but girls' tongues can deal wounds as sharp and sudden as the slender stiletto Spanish women wear in their hair, and Polly turned pale, as those words stabbed her. Belle saw it, and rushed to the rescue with more good-will than wisdom. "Nobody ever accused you of having any heart to ache with. Polly and I are not old enough yet to get tough and cool, and we are still silly enough to pity unhappy people, Tom Shaw especially," added Belle, under her breath. That was a two-edged thrust, for Trix was decidedly an old girl, and Tom was generally regarded as a hapless victim. Trix turned red; but before she could load and fire again, Emma Davenport, who labored under the delusion that this sort of skirmishing was ill-natured, and therefore ill-bred, spoke up in her pleasant way, "Speaking of pitying the poor, I always wonder why it is that we all like to read and cry over their troubles in books, but when we have the real thing before us, we think it is uninteresting and disagreeable." "It's the

wise

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

"Now I call that a delicate compliment!" And Tom, who had not lost his early relish for this sort of refreshment, though he seldom indulged his passion nowadays, because peanuts are considered vulgar, fell to cracking and munching with great satisfaction. "Do you remember the first visit I made at your house, how you gave me peanuts, coming from the depot, and frightened me out of my wits, pretending the coachman was tipsy?" asked Polly. "Of course I do, and how we coasted one day," answered Tom, laughing. "Yes, and the velocipede; you've got the scar of that yet, I see." "I remember how you stood by me while it was sewed up; that was very plucky, Polly." "I was dreadfully afraid, but I remember I wanted to seem very brave, because you'd called me a coward." "Did I? Ought to have been ashamed of myself. I used to rough you shamefully, Polly, and you were so good-natured, you let me do it." "Could n't help myself," laughed Polly. "I did use to think you were an awful boy, but seems to me I rather liked it." "She had so much of it at home, she got used to it," put in Will, pulling the little curl behind Polly's ear. "You boys never teased me as Tom did, that's the reason it amused me, I suppose; novelty hath charms, you know." "Grandma used to lecture Tom for plaguing you, Polly, and he used to say he'd be a tip-top boy, but he was n't," observed Maud, with a venerable air. "Dear old grandma; she did her best, but I'm a bad lot," said Tom, with a shake of the head and a sober face. "It always seems as if she must be up in her rooms, and I can't get used to finding them empty," added Polly, softly. "Father would n't have anything moved, and Tom sits up there sometimes; it makes him feel good, he says," said Maud, who had a talent for betraying trifles which people preferred should not be mentioned in public. "You'd better hurry up your apple, for if it is n't done pretty soon, you'll have to leave it, Pug," said Tom, looking annoyed. "How is Fan?" asked Polly, with tact. "Well, Fan is rather under the weather; says she's dyspeptic, which means cross." "She is cross, but she's sick too, for I found her crying one day, and she said nobody cared about her, and she might as well be dead," added Maud, having turned her apple with tender care. "We must try to cheer her up, among us. If I was n't so busy I'd like to devote myself to her, she has done so much for me," said Polly, gratefully. "I wish you could. I can't understand her, for she acts like a weathercock, and I never know how I'm going to find her. I hate to have her mope so, but, upon my life, I don't know what to do," said Tom; but as he uttered the words, something was suggested by the sight before him. Chairs were few, and Polly had taken half of Will's when they drew round the fire. Now she was leaning against him, in a cosy, confiding way, delightful to behold, while Will's strong arm went round her with a protecting air, which said, as plainly as any words, that this big brother and small sister knew how to love and help one another. It was a pleasant little picture, all the pleasanter for its unconsciousness, and Tom found it both suggestive and agreeable. "Poor old Fan, she don't get much petting; maybe that's what she wants. I'll try it and see, for she stands by me like a trump. If she was a rosy, cosy little woman, like Polly, it would come easier, though," thought Tom, as he meditatively ate his last nut, feeling that fraternal affection could not be very difficult of demonstration, to brothers blessed with pretty, good-tempered sisters. "I told Tom about the bad fellow who blew up the professor, and he said he knew him, slightly; and I was so relieved, because I had a kind of a feeling that it was Tom himself, you and Will laughed so about it." Maud had a queer way of going on with her own thoughts, and suddenly coming out with whatever lay uppermost, regardless of time, place, or company. As this remark fell from her, there was a general smile, and Polly said, with mock solemnity, "It was a sad thing, and I've no doubt that misguided young man is very sorry for it now." "He looked perfectly bowed down with remorse last time I saw him," said Will, regarding Tom with eyes full of fun, for Will was a boy as well as a bookworm, and relished a joke as well as scatter-brained Tom. "He always is remorseful after a scrape, I've understood, for he is n't a very bad fellow, only his spirits are one too many for him, and he is n't as fond of his book as another fellow I know." "I'm afraid he'll he expelled if he don't mind," said Polly, warningly. "Should n't wonder if he was, he's such an unlucky dog," answered Tom, rather soberly. "I hope he'll remember that his friends will be very much disappointed if he is. He might make them so proud and happy; that I guess he will, for he is n't half as thoughtless as he makes himself out," said Polly, looking across at Tom with such friendly eyes that he was quite touched, though of course he did n't show it. "Thank you, Polly; he may pull through, but I have my doubts. Now old man, let us'pud' along; it's getting late for the chicken," he added, relapsing into the graceful diction with which a classical education gifts its fortunate possessor. Taking advantage of the moment while Will was wrestling with his boots in the closet, and Maud was absorbed in packing her apple into a large basket, Polly said to Tom in a low tone, "Thank you very much, for being so kind to Will." "Bless your heart, I have n't done anything; he's such a proud fellow he won't let me," answered Tom. "But you do in many little ways; to-night, for example. Do you think I don't know that the suit of clothes he's just got would have cost a good deal more, if your tailor had n't made them? He's only a boy, and don't understand things yet; but I know your way of helping proud people; so that they don't find it out, and I do thank you, Tom, so much." "Oh, come, Polly, that won't do. What do you know about tailors and college matters?" said Tom, looking as much confused as if she had found him out in something reprehensible. "I don't know much, and that's the reason why I'm grateful for your kindness to Will. I don't care what stories they tell about you, I'm sure, you won't lead him into trouble, but keep him straight, for my sake. You know I've lost one brother, and Will takes Jimmy's place to me now." The tears in Polly's eyes as she said that made Tom vow a tremendous vow within himself to stand by Will through thick and thin, and "keep him straight for Polly's sake"; feeling all the time how ill-fitted he was for such a task. "I'll do my best," he said, heartily, as he pressed the hand Polly gave him, with a look which assured her that he felt the appeal to his honor, and that henceforth the country lad was safe from all the temptations Tom could have offered him. "There! now I shall give that to mamma to take her pills in; it's just what she likes, and it pleases her to be thought of," said Maud, surveying her gift with complacency, as she put on her things. "You're a good little soul, to remember poor mum, said Tom, with an approving nod. "Well, she was so pleased with the grapes you brought her, I thought I 'd try something, and maybe she'd say 'Thank you, darling,' to me too. Do you think she will?" whispered Maud, with the wistful look so often seen on her little plain face. "See if she don't;" and to Maud's great surprise Tom did n't laugh at her project. "Good night, dear; take care of yourself, and keep your muffler round your mouth going over the bridge, or you'll be as hoarse as a crow to-morrow," said Polly, as she kissed her brother, who returned it without looking as if he thought it "girl's nonsense" Then the three piled into the sleigh and drove off, leave Polly nodding on the doorstep. Maud found the drive altogether too short, but was consoled by the promise of a longer one if the sleighing lasted till next Saturday: and when Tom ran up to bid his mother good-by, and give her a hint about Maud's gift, she stayed below to say, at the last minute, in unconscious imitation of Polly. "Good night; take care of yourself, my dear." Tom laughed, and was about to pinch the much enduring little nose; but, as if the words reminded him of something, he gave her a kiss instead, a piece of forbearance which almost took Maud's breath away with surprise and gratification. It was rather a silent drive, for Will obediently kept his muffler up, and Tom fell into a brown study. He was not much given to reflection, but occasionally indulged when something gave him a turn in that direction, and at such times he was as sober and sincere as could be desired. Any one might have lectured him for an hour without doing as much good as that little call and the chat that grew out of it, for, though nothing very wise or witty was said, many things were suggested, and every one knows that persuasive influences are better than any amount of moralizing. Neither Polly nor Will tried to do anything of the sort, and that was the charm of it. Nobody likes to be talked to, but nobody can resist the eloquence of unconscious preaching. With all his thoughtlessness, Tom was quick to see and feel these things, and was not spoilt enough yet to laugh at them. The sight of Will and Polly's simple affection for one another reminded him of a neglected duty so pleasantly, that he could not forget it. Talking of early days made him wish he could go back and start again, doing better. Grandma's name recalled the tender memory that always did him good, and the thought that Polly trusted her dearest brother to his care stirred up a manful desire to deserve the confidence. Tortures would n't have drawn a word of all this from him, but it had its effect, for boys don't leave their hearts and consciences behind them when they enter college, and little things of this sort do much to keep both from being damaged by the four years' scrimmage which begins the battle of life for most of them. CHAPTER XI. NEEDLES AND TONGUES DEAR POLLY, The Sewing Circle meets at our house this P. M. This is in your line, so do come and help me through. I shall depend on you. Yours ever, FAN. "Bad news, my dear?" asked Miss Mills, who had just handed the note to Polly as she came in one noon, a few weeks after Jenny's arrival. Polly told her what it was, adding, "I suppose I ought to go and help Fanny, but I can't say I want to. The girls talk about things I have nothing to do with, and I don't find their gossip very amusing. I'm an outsider, and they only accept me on Fan's account; so I sit in a corner and sew, while they chatter and laugh." "Would n't it be a good chance to say a word for Jenny? She wants work, and these young ladies probably have quantities done somewhere. Jenny does fine work exquisitely, and begins to feel anxious to be earning something. I don't want her to feel dependent and unhappy, and a little well-paid sewing would be all she needs to do nicely. I can get it for her by running round to my friends, but I really have n't the time, till I get the Mullers off. They are paupers here, but out West they can take care of themselves, so I've begged the money to send them, and as soon as I can get them some clothes, off they go. That's the way to help people help themselves," and Miss Mills clashed her big scissors energetically, as she cut out a little red flannel shirt. "I know it is, and I want to help, but I don't know where to begin," said Polly, feeling quite oppressed with the immensity of the work. "We can't any of us do all we would like, but we can do our best for every case that comes to us, and that helps amazingly. Begin with Jenny, my dear; tell those girls about her, and if I'm not much mistaken, you will find them ready to help, for half the time it is n't hardness of heart, but ignorance or thoughtlessness on the part of the rich, that makes them seem so careless of the poor." "To tell the truth, I'm afraid of being laughed at, if I try to talk seriously about such things to the girls," said Polly, frankly. "You believe that'such things' are true? You are sincere in your wish to help better them, and you respect those who work for that end?" "Yes, I do." "Then, my dear, can't you bear a little ridicule for the sake of a good cause? You said yesterday that you were going to make it a principle of your life, to help up your sex as far and as fast as you could. It did my heart good to hear you say it, for I was sure that in time you would keep your word. But, Polly, a principle that can't bear being laughed at, frowned on, and cold-shouldered, is n't worthy of the name." "I want to be strong-minded in the real sense of the word, but I don't like to be called so by people who don't understand my meaning; and I shall be if I try to make the girls think soberly about anything sensible or philanthropic. They call me old-fashioned now, and I'd rather be thought that, though it is n't pleasant, than be set down as a rampant woman's rights reformer," said Polly, in whose memory many laughs, and snubs, and sarcasms still lingered, forgiven but not forgotten. "This love and thought and care for those weaker, poorer, or worse than ourselves, which we call Christian charity, is a very old fashion, my dear. It began eighteen hundred years ago, and only those who honestly follow the beautiful example set us then, learn how to get genuine happiness out of life. I'm not a'rampant woman's rights reformer,'" added Miss Mills, with a smile at Polly's sober face; "but I think that women can do a great deal for each other, if they will only stop fearing what'people will think,' and take a hearty interest in whatever is going to fit their sisters and themselves to deserve and enjoy the rights God gave them. There are so many ways in which this can be done, that I wonder they don't see and improve them. I don't ask you to go and make speeches, only a few have the gift for that, but I do want every girl and woman to feel this duty, and make any little sacrifice of time or feeling that may be asked of them, because there is so much to do, and no one can do it as well as ourselves, if we only think so." "I'll try!" said Polly, influenced more by her desire to keep Miss Mills' good opinion than any love of self-sacrifice for her sex. It was rather a hard thing to ask of a shy, sensitive girl, and the kind old lady knew it, for in spite of the gray hair and withered face, her heart was very young, and her own girlish trials not forgotten. But she knew also that Polly had more influence over others than she herself suspected, simply because of her candid, upright nature; and that while she tried to help others, she was serving herself in a way that would improve heart and soul more than any mere social success she might gain by following the rules of fashionable life, which drill the character out of girls till they are as much alike as pins in a paper, and have about as much true sense and sentiment in their little heads. There was good stuff in Polly, unspoiled as yet, and Miss Mills was only acting out her principle of women helping each other. The wise old lady saw that Polly had reached that point where the girl suddenly blooms into a woman, asking something more substantial than pleasure to satisfy the new aspirations that are born; a time as precious and important to the after-life, as the hour when the apple blossoms fall, and the young fruit waits for the elements to ripen or destroy the harvest. Polly did not know this, and was fortunate in possessing a friend who knew what influences would serve her best, and who could give her what all women should desire to give each other, the example of a sweet, good life, more eloquent and powerful than any words; for this is a right no one can deny us. Polly turned the matter over in her mind as she dressed, while Jenny played waiting maid, little dreaming what this new friend was meaning to do for her, if she dared. "Is it going to be a tea-party, Miss?" asked Jenny, as the black silk went rustling on, to her great admiration, for she considered Polly a beauty. "Well, no, I think it will probably be a lecture," answered Polly, laughing, for Jenny's grateful service and affectionate eyes confirmed the purpose which Miss Mills' little homily had suggested. As she entered the Shaws' parlor an hour or two later, an appalling array of well-dressed girls appeared, each provided with a dainty reticule, basket, or bag, and each tongue going a good deal faster than the needle, while the white fingers stitched sleeves in upside down, put flannel jackets together hind part before, or gobbled button-holes with the best intentions in life. "You are a dear to come so early. Here's a nice place for you between Belle and Miss Perkins, and here's a sweet little dress to make, unless you like something else better," said Fanny, receiving her friend with warmth and placing her where she thought she would enjoy herself. "Thank you, I'll take an unbleached cotton shirt if you have such a thing, for it is likely to be needed before a cambric frock," replied Polly, subsiding into her corner as quickly as possible, for at least six eye-glasses were up, and she did n't enjoy being stared at. Miss Perkins, a grave, cold-looking young lady, with an aristocratic nose, bowed politely, and then went on with her work, which displayed two diamond rings to great advantage. Belle, being of the demonstrative sort, smiled and nodded, drew up her chair, and began a whispered account of Trix's last quarrel with Tom. Polly listened with interest while she sewed diligently, occasionally permitting her eyes to study the elegant intricacies of Miss Perkins' dress, for that young lady sat like a statue, quirking her delicate fingers, and accomplishing about two stitches a minute. In the midst of Belle's story, a more exciting bit of gossip caught her ear, and she plunged into the conversation going on across the table, leaving Polly free to listen and admire the wit, wisdom, and charitable spirit of the accomplished young ladies about her. There was a perfect Babel of tongues, but out of the confusion Polly gathered scraps of fashionable intelligence which somewhat lessened her respect for the dwellers in high places. One fair creature asserted that Joe Somebody took so much champagne at the last German, that he had to be got away, and sent home with two servants. Another divulged the awful fact that Carrie P.'s wedding presents were half of them hired for the occasion. A third circulated a whisper to the effect that though Mrs. Buckminster wore a thousand-dollar cloak, her boys were not allowed but one sheet to their beds. And a fourth young gossip assured the company that a certain person never had offered himself to a certain other person, though the report was industriously spread by interested parties. This latter remark caused such a clamor that Fanny called the meeting to order in a most unparliamentary fashion. "Girls! girls! you really must talk less and sew more, or our society will be disgraced. Do you know our branch sent in less work than any of the others last month, and Mrs. Fitz George said, she did n't see how fifteen young ladies could manage to do so little?" "We don't talk a bit more than the old ladies do. I just wish you could have heard them go on, last time. The way they get so much done, is, they take work home, and make their seamstresses do it, and then they take credit for vast industry," said Belle, who always spoke her mind with charming candor. "That reminds me that mamma says they want as many things as we can make, for it's a hard winter, and the poor are suffering very much. Do any of you wish to take articles home, to do at odd times?" said Fan, who was president of this energetic Dorcas Society. "Mercy, no! It takes all my leisure time to mend my gloves and refresh my dresses," answered Belle. "I think if we meet once a week, it is all that should be expected of us, with our other engagements. Poor people always complain that the winter is a hard one, and never are satisfied," remarked Miss Perkins, making her diamonds sparkle as she sewed buttons on the wrong side of a pink calico apron, which would hardly survive one washing. "Nobody can ask me to do any more, if they remember all I've got to attend to before summer," said Trix, with an important air. "I've got three women hard at work, and want another, but everyone is so busy, and ask such abominable prices, that I'm in despair, and shall have to take hold myself, I'm afraid." "There's a chance for Jane," thought Polly, but had n't courage "to speak out loud in meeting," just then, and resolved to ask Trix for work, in private. "Prices are high, but you forget how much more it costs to live now than it used to do. Mamma never allows us to beat down workwomen, but wishes us to pay them well, and economize in some other way, if we must," said Emma Davenport, a quiet, bright-eyed girl, who was called "odd" among the young ladies, because she dressed simply, when her father was a millionaire. "Just hear that girl talk about economy! I beg your pardon, she's some relation of yours, I believe!" said Belle, in a low tone. "Very distant; but I'm proud of it; for with her, economy does n't mean scrimping in one place to make a show in another. If every one would follow the Davenports' example, workwomen would n't starve, or servants be such a trouble. Emma is the plainest dressed girl in the room, next to me, yet any one can see she is a true gentlewoman," said Polly, warmly. "And you are another," answered Belle, who had always loved Polly, in her scatter-brained way. "Hush! Trix has the floor." "If they spent their wages properly, I should n't mind so much, but they think they must be as fine as anybody, and dress so well that it is hard to tell mistress from maid. Why our cook got a bonnet just like mine (the materials were cheaper, but the effect was the same), and had the impertinence to wear it before my face. I forbid it, and she left, of course, which made papa so cross he would n't give me the camel's hair shawl he promised this year." "It's perfectly shameful!" said Miss Perkins, as Trix paused out of breath. "Servants ought to be made to dress like servants, as they do abroad; then we should have no more trouble," observed Miss Perkins, who had just made the grand tour, and had brought home a French maid. "Perky don't practise as she preaches," whispered Belle to Polly, as Miss P. became absorbed in the chat of her other neighbors. "She pays her chamber girl with old finery; and the other day, when Betsey was out parading in her missis's cast-off purple plush suit, Mr. Curtis thought she was mademoiselle, and bowed to her. He is as blind as a bat, but recognized the dress, and pulled off his hat to it in the most elegant style. Perky adores him, and was mad enough to beat Betsey when she told the story and giggled over it. Betsey is quite as stylish and ever so much prettier than Perky, and she knows it, which is an aggravation." Polly could n't help laughing, but grew sober a minute after, as Trix said, pettishly, "Well, I'm sick of hearing about beggars; I believe half of them are humbugs, and if we let them alone they'd go to work and take care of themselves. There's altogether too much fuss made about charity. I do wish we could be left in peace." "There can't be too much charity!" burst out Polly, forgetting her shyness all at once. "Oh, indeed! Well, I take the liberty to differ from you," returned Trix, putting up her glass, and bestowing upon Polly her most "toploftical stare," as the girls called it. I regret to say that Polly never could talk with or be near Trix without feeling irritated and combative. She tried to conquer this feeling, but she could n't, and when Trix put on airs, Polly felt an intense desire to box her ears. That eye-glass was her especial aversion, for Trix was no more near-sighted than herself, but pretended to be because it was the fashion, and at times used the innocent glass as a weapon with which to put down any one who presumed to set themselves up. The supercilious glance which accompanied her ironically polite speech roused Polly, who answered with sudden color and the kindling of the eyes that always betrayed a perturbed spirit, "I don't think many of us would enjoy that selfish sort of peace, while little children starve, and girls no older than us kill themselves because their dreadful poverty leaves them no choice but sin or death." A sudden lull took place, for, though Polly, did not raise her voice, it was full of indignant emotion, and the most frivolous girl there felt a little thrill of sympathy; for the most utterly fashionable life does not kill the heart out of women, till years of selfish pleasure have passed over their heads. Trix was ashamed of herself; but she felt the same antagonism toward Polly, that Polly did toward her; and, being less generous, took satisfaction in plaguing her. Polly did not know that the secret of this was the fact that Tom often held her up as a model for his fiance to follow, which caused that young lady to dislike her more than ever. "Half the awful stories in the papers are made up for a sensation, and it's absurd to believe them, unless one likes to be harrowed up. I don't; and as for peace, I'm not likely to get much, while I have Tom to look after," said Trix, with an aggravating laugh. Polly's needle snapped in two, but she did not mind it, as she said, with a look that silenced even sharp-tongued Trix, "I can't help believing what my own eyes and ears have seen and heard. You lead such safe and happy lives, you can't imagine the misery that is all round you; but if you could get a glimpse of it, it would make your hearts ache, as it has mine." "Do you suffer from heartache? Some one hinted as much to me, but you looked so well, I could n't believe it." Now that was cruel in Trix, more cruel than any one guessed; but girls' tongues can deal wounds as sharp and sudden as the slender stiletto Spanish women wear in their hair, and Polly turned pale, as those words stabbed her. Belle saw it, and rushed to the rescue with more good-will than wisdom. "Nobody ever accused you of having any heart to ache with. Polly and I are not old enough yet to get tough and cool, and we are still silly enough to pity unhappy people, Tom Shaw especially," added Belle, under her breath. That was a two-edged thrust, for Trix was decidedly an old girl, and Tom was generally regarded as a hapless victim. Trix turned red; but before she could load and fire again, Emma Davenport, who labored under the delusion that this sort of skirmishing was ill-natured, and therefore ill-bred, spoke up in her pleasant way, "Speaking of pitying the poor, I always wonder why it is that we all like to read and cry over their troubles in books, but when we have the real thing before us, we think it is uninteresting and disagreeable." "It's the

person

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

"Now I call that a delicate compliment!" And Tom, who had not lost his early relish for this sort of refreshment, though he seldom indulged his passion nowadays, because peanuts are considered vulgar, fell to cracking and munching with great satisfaction. "Do you remember the first visit I made at your house, how you gave me peanuts, coming from the depot, and frightened me out of my wits, pretending the coachman was tipsy?" asked Polly. "Of course I do, and how we coasted one day," answered Tom, laughing. "Yes, and the velocipede; you've got the scar of that yet, I see." "I remember how you stood by me while it was sewed up; that was very plucky, Polly." "I was dreadfully afraid, but I remember I wanted to seem very brave, because you'd called me a coward." "Did I? Ought to have been ashamed of myself. I used to rough you shamefully, Polly, and you were so good-natured, you let me do it." "Could n't help myself," laughed Polly. "I did use to think you were an awful boy, but seems to me I rather liked it." "She had so much of it at home, she got used to it," put in Will, pulling the little curl behind Polly's ear. "You boys never teased me as Tom did, that's the reason it amused me, I suppose; novelty hath charms, you know." "Grandma used to lecture Tom for plaguing you, Polly, and he used to say he'd be a tip-top boy, but he was n't," observed Maud, with a venerable air. "Dear old grandma; she did her best, but I'm a bad lot," said Tom, with a shake of the head and a sober face. "It always seems as if she must be up in her rooms, and I can't get used to finding them empty," added Polly, softly. "Father would n't have anything moved, and Tom sits up there sometimes; it makes him feel good, he says," said Maud, who had a talent for betraying trifles which people preferred should not be mentioned in public. "You'd better hurry up your apple, for if it is n't done pretty soon, you'll have to leave it, Pug," said Tom, looking annoyed. "How is Fan?" asked Polly, with tact. "Well, Fan is rather under the weather; says she's dyspeptic, which means cross." "She is cross, but she's sick too, for I found her crying one day, and she said nobody cared about her, and she might as well be dead," added Maud, having turned her apple with tender care. "We must try to cheer her up, among us. If I was n't so busy I'd like to devote myself to her, she has done so much for me," said Polly, gratefully. "I wish you could. I can't understand her, for she acts like a weathercock, and I never know how I'm going to find her. I hate to have her mope so, but, upon my life, I don't know what to do," said Tom; but as he uttered the words, something was suggested by the sight before him. Chairs were few, and Polly had taken half of Will's when they drew round the fire. Now she was leaning against him, in a cosy, confiding way, delightful to behold, while Will's strong arm went round her with a protecting air, which said, as plainly as any words, that this big brother and small sister knew how to love and help one another. It was a pleasant little picture, all the pleasanter for its unconsciousness, and Tom found it both suggestive and agreeable. "Poor old Fan, she don't get much petting; maybe that's what she wants. I'll try it and see, for she stands by me like a trump. If she was a rosy, cosy little woman, like Polly, it would come easier, though," thought Tom, as he meditatively ate his last nut, feeling that fraternal affection could not be very difficult of demonstration, to brothers blessed with pretty, good-tempered sisters. "I told Tom about the bad fellow who blew up the professor, and he said he knew him, slightly; and I was so relieved, because I had a kind of a feeling that it was Tom himself, you and Will laughed so about it." Maud had a queer way of going on with her own thoughts, and suddenly coming out with whatever lay uppermost, regardless of time, place, or company. As this remark fell from her, there was a general smile, and Polly said, with mock solemnity, "It was a sad thing, and I've no doubt that misguided young man is very sorry for it now." "He looked perfectly bowed down with remorse last time I saw him," said Will, regarding Tom with eyes full of fun, for Will was a boy as well as a bookworm, and relished a joke as well as scatter-brained Tom. "He always is remorseful after a scrape, I've understood, for he is n't a very bad fellow, only his spirits are one too many for him, and he is n't as fond of his book as another fellow I know." "I'm afraid he'll he expelled if he don't mind," said Polly, warningly. "Should n't wonder if he was, he's such an unlucky dog," answered Tom, rather soberly. "I hope he'll remember that his friends will be very much disappointed if he is. He might make them so proud and happy; that I guess he will, for he is n't half as thoughtless as he makes himself out," said Polly, looking across at Tom with such friendly eyes that he was quite touched, though of course he did n't show it. "Thank you, Polly; he may pull through, but I have my doubts. Now old man, let us'pud' along; it's getting late for the chicken," he added, relapsing into the graceful diction with which a classical education gifts its fortunate possessor. Taking advantage of the moment while Will was wrestling with his boots in the closet, and Maud was absorbed in packing her apple into a large basket, Polly said to Tom in a low tone, "Thank you very much, for being so kind to Will." "Bless your heart, I have n't done anything; he's such a proud fellow he won't let me," answered Tom. "But you do in many little ways; to-night, for example. Do you think I don't know that the suit of clothes he's just got would have cost a good deal more, if your tailor had n't made them? He's only a boy, and don't understand things yet; but I know your way of helping proud people; so that they don't find it out, and I do thank you, Tom, so much." "Oh, come, Polly, that won't do. What do you know about tailors and college matters?" said Tom, looking as much confused as if she had found him out in something reprehensible. "I don't know much, and that's the reason why I'm grateful for your kindness to Will. I don't care what stories they tell about you, I'm sure, you won't lead him into trouble, but keep him straight, for my sake. You know I've lost one brother, and Will takes Jimmy's place to me now." The tears in Polly's eyes as she said that made Tom vow a tremendous vow within himself to stand by Will through thick and thin, and "keep him straight for Polly's sake"; feeling all the time how ill-fitted he was for such a task. "I'll do my best," he said, heartily, as he pressed the hand Polly gave him, with a look which assured her that he felt the appeal to his honor, and that henceforth the country lad was safe from all the temptations Tom could have offered him. "There! now I shall give that to mamma to take her pills in; it's just what she likes, and it pleases her to be thought of," said Maud, surveying her gift with complacency, as she put on her things. "You're a good little soul, to remember poor mum, said Tom, with an approving nod. "Well, she was so pleased with the grapes you brought her, I thought I 'd try something, and maybe she'd say 'Thank you, darling,' to me too. Do you think she will?" whispered Maud, with the wistful look so often seen on her little plain face. "See if she don't;" and to Maud's great surprise Tom did n't laugh at her project. "Good night, dear; take care of yourself, and keep your muffler round your mouth going over the bridge, or you'll be as hoarse as a crow to-morrow," said Polly, as she kissed her brother, who returned it without looking as if he thought it "girl's nonsense" Then the three piled into the sleigh and drove off, leave Polly nodding on the doorstep. Maud found the drive altogether too short, but was consoled by the promise of a longer one if the sleighing lasted till next Saturday: and when Tom ran up to bid his mother good-by, and give her a hint about Maud's gift, she stayed below to say, at the last minute, in unconscious imitation of Polly. "Good night; take care of yourself, my dear." Tom laughed, and was about to pinch the much enduring little nose; but, as if the words reminded him of something, he gave her a kiss instead, a piece of forbearance which almost took Maud's breath away with surprise and gratification. It was rather a silent drive, for Will obediently kept his muffler up, and Tom fell into a brown study. He was not much given to reflection, but occasionally indulged when something gave him a turn in that direction, and at such times he was as sober and sincere as could be desired. Any one might have lectured him for an hour without doing as much good as that little call and the chat that grew out of it, for, though nothing very wise or witty was said, many things were suggested, and every one knows that persuasive influences are better than any amount of moralizing. Neither Polly nor Will tried to do anything of the sort, and that was the charm of it. Nobody likes to be talked to, but nobody can resist the eloquence of unconscious preaching. With all his thoughtlessness, Tom was quick to see and feel these things, and was not spoilt enough yet to laugh at them. The sight of Will and Polly's simple affection for one another reminded him of a neglected duty so pleasantly, that he could not forget it. Talking of early days made him wish he could go back and start again, doing better. Grandma's name recalled the tender memory that always did him good, and the thought that Polly trusted her dearest brother to his care stirred up a manful desire to deserve the confidence. Tortures would n't have drawn a word of all this from him, but it had its effect, for boys don't leave their hearts and consciences behind them when they enter college, and little things of this sort do much to keep both from being damaged by the four years' scrimmage which begins the battle of life for most of them. CHAPTER XI. NEEDLES AND TONGUES DEAR POLLY, The Sewing Circle meets at our house this P. M. This is in your line, so do come and help me through. I shall depend on you. Yours ever, FAN. "Bad news, my dear?" asked Miss Mills, who had just handed the note to Polly as she came in one noon, a few weeks after Jenny's arrival. Polly told her what it was, adding, "I suppose I ought to go and help Fanny, but I can't say I want to. The girls talk about things I have nothing to do with, and I don't find their gossip very amusing. I'm an outsider, and they only accept me on Fan's account; so I sit in a corner and sew, while they chatter and laugh." "Would n't it be a good chance to say a word for Jenny? She wants work, and these young ladies probably have quantities done somewhere. Jenny does fine work exquisitely, and begins to feel anxious to be earning something. I don't want her to feel dependent and unhappy, and a little well-paid sewing would be all she needs to do nicely. I can get it for her by running round to my friends, but I really have n't the time, till I get the Mullers off. They are paupers here, but out West they can take care of themselves, so I've begged the money to send them, and as soon as I can get them some clothes, off they go. That's the way to help people help themselves," and Miss Mills clashed her big scissors energetically, as she cut out a little red flannel shirt. "I know it is, and I want to help, but I don't know where to begin," said Polly, feeling quite oppressed with the immensity of the work. "We can't any of us do all we would like, but we can do our best for every case that comes to us, and that helps amazingly. Begin with Jenny, my dear; tell those girls about her, and if I'm not much mistaken, you will find them ready to help, for half the time it is n't hardness of heart, but ignorance or thoughtlessness on the part of the rich, that makes them seem so careless of the poor." "To tell the truth, I'm afraid of being laughed at, if I try to talk seriously about such things to the girls," said Polly, frankly. "You believe that'such things' are true? You are sincere in your wish to help better them, and you respect those who work for that end?" "Yes, I do." "Then, my dear, can't you bear a little ridicule for the sake of a good cause? You said yesterday that you were going to make it a principle of your life, to help up your sex as far and as fast as you could. It did my heart good to hear you say it, for I was sure that in time you would keep your word. But, Polly, a principle that can't bear being laughed at, frowned on, and cold-shouldered, is n't worthy of the name." "I want to be strong-minded in the real sense of the word, but I don't like to be called so by people who don't understand my meaning; and I shall be if I try to make the girls think soberly about anything sensible or philanthropic. They call me old-fashioned now, and I'd rather be thought that, though it is n't pleasant, than be set down as a rampant woman's rights reformer," said Polly, in whose memory many laughs, and snubs, and sarcasms still lingered, forgiven but not forgotten. "This love and thought and care for those weaker, poorer, or worse than ourselves, which we call Christian charity, is a very old fashion, my dear. It began eighteen hundred years ago, and only those who honestly follow the beautiful example set us then, learn how to get genuine happiness out of life. I'm not a'rampant woman's rights reformer,'" added Miss Mills, with a smile at Polly's sober face; "but I think that women can do a great deal for each other, if they will only stop fearing what'people will think,' and take a hearty interest in whatever is going to fit their sisters and themselves to deserve and enjoy the rights God gave them. There are so many ways in which this can be done, that I wonder they don't see and improve them. I don't ask you to go and make speeches, only a few have the gift for that, but I do want every girl and woman to feel this duty, and make any little sacrifice of time or feeling that may be asked of them, because there is so much to do, and no one can do it as well as ourselves, if we only think so." "I'll try!" said Polly, influenced more by her desire to keep Miss Mills' good opinion than any love of self-sacrifice for her sex. It was rather a hard thing to ask of a shy, sensitive girl, and the kind old lady knew it, for in spite of the gray hair and withered face, her heart was very young, and her own girlish trials not forgotten. But she knew also that Polly had more influence over others than she herself suspected, simply because of her candid, upright nature; and that while she tried to help others, she was serving herself in a way that would improve heart and soul more than any mere social success she might gain by following the rules of fashionable life, which drill the character out of girls till they are as much alike as pins in a paper, and have about as much true sense and sentiment in their little heads. There was good stuff in Polly, unspoiled as yet, and Miss Mills was only acting out her principle of women helping each other. The wise old lady saw that Polly had reached that point where the girl suddenly blooms into a woman, asking something more substantial than pleasure to satisfy the new aspirations that are born; a time as precious and important to the after-life, as the hour when the apple blossoms fall, and the young fruit waits for the elements to ripen or destroy the harvest. Polly did not know this, and was fortunate in possessing a friend who knew what influences would serve her best, and who could give her what all women should desire to give each other, the example of a sweet, good life, more eloquent and powerful than any words; for this is a right no one can deny us. Polly turned the matter over in her mind as she dressed, while Jenny played waiting maid, little dreaming what this new friend was meaning to do for her, if she dared. "Is it going to be a tea-party, Miss?" asked Jenny, as the black silk went rustling on, to her great admiration, for she considered Polly a beauty. "Well, no, I think it will probably be a lecture," answered Polly, laughing, for Jenny's grateful service and affectionate eyes confirmed the purpose which Miss Mills' little homily had suggested. As she entered the Shaws' parlor an hour or two later, an appalling array of well-dressed girls appeared, each provided with a dainty reticule, basket, or bag, and each tongue going a good deal faster than the needle, while the white fingers stitched sleeves in upside down, put flannel jackets together hind part before, or gobbled button-holes with the best intentions in life. "You are a dear to come so early. Here's a nice place for you between Belle and Miss Perkins, and here's a sweet little dress to make, unless you like something else better," said Fanny, receiving her friend with warmth and placing her where she thought she would enjoy herself. "Thank you, I'll take an unbleached cotton shirt if you have such a thing, for it is likely to be needed before a cambric frock," replied Polly, subsiding into her corner as quickly as possible, for at least six eye-glasses were up, and she did n't enjoy being stared at. Miss Perkins, a grave, cold-looking young lady, with an aristocratic nose, bowed politely, and then went on with her work, which displayed two diamond rings to great advantage. Belle, being of the demonstrative sort, smiled and nodded, drew up her chair, and began a whispered account of Trix's last quarrel with Tom. Polly listened with interest while she sewed diligently, occasionally permitting her eyes to study the elegant intricacies of Miss Perkins' dress, for that young lady sat like a statue, quirking her delicate fingers, and accomplishing about two stitches a minute. In the midst of Belle's story, a more exciting bit of gossip caught her ear, and she plunged into the conversation going on across the table, leaving Polly free to listen and admire the wit, wisdom, and charitable spirit of the accomplished young ladies about her. There was a perfect Babel of tongues, but out of the confusion Polly gathered scraps of fashionable intelligence which somewhat lessened her respect for the dwellers in high places. One fair creature asserted that Joe Somebody took so much champagne at the last German, that he had to be got away, and sent home with two servants. Another divulged the awful fact that Carrie P.'s wedding presents were half of them hired for the occasion. A third circulated a whisper to the effect that though Mrs. Buckminster wore a thousand-dollar cloak, her boys were not allowed but one sheet to their beds. And a fourth young gossip assured the company that a certain person never had offered himself to a certain other person, though the report was industriously spread by interested parties. This latter remark caused such a clamor that Fanny called the meeting to order in a most unparliamentary fashion. "Girls! girls! you really must talk less and sew more, or our society will be disgraced. Do you know our branch sent in less work than any of the others last month, and Mrs. Fitz George said, she did n't see how fifteen young ladies could manage to do so little?" "We don't talk a bit more than the old ladies do. I just wish you could have heard them go on, last time. The way they get so much done, is, they take work home, and make their seamstresses do it, and then they take credit for vast industry," said Belle, who always spoke her mind with charming candor. "That reminds me that mamma says they want as many things as we can make, for it's a hard winter, and the poor are suffering very much. Do any of you wish to take articles home, to do at odd times?" said Fan, who was president of this energetic Dorcas Society. "Mercy, no! It takes all my leisure time to mend my gloves and refresh my dresses," answered Belle. "I think if we meet once a week, it is all that should be expected of us, with our other engagements. Poor people always complain that the winter is a hard one, and never are satisfied," remarked Miss Perkins, making her diamonds sparkle as she sewed buttons on the wrong side of a pink calico apron, which would hardly survive one washing. "Nobody can ask me to do any more, if they remember all I've got to attend to before summer," said Trix, with an important air. "I've got three women hard at work, and want another, but everyone is so busy, and ask such abominable prices, that I'm in despair, and shall have to take hold myself, I'm afraid." "There's a chance for Jane," thought Polly, but had n't courage "to speak out loud in meeting," just then, and resolved to ask Trix for work, in private. "Prices are high, but you forget how much more it costs to live now than it used to do. Mamma never allows us to beat down workwomen, but wishes us to pay them well, and economize in some other way, if we must," said Emma Davenport, a quiet, bright-eyed girl, who was called "odd" among the young ladies, because she dressed simply, when her father was a millionaire. "Just hear that girl talk about economy! I beg your pardon, she's some relation of yours, I believe!" said Belle, in a low tone. "Very distant; but I'm proud of it; for with her, economy does n't mean scrimping in one place to make a show in another. If every one would follow the Davenports' example, workwomen would n't starve, or servants be such a trouble. Emma is the plainest dressed girl in the room, next to me, yet any one can see she is a true gentlewoman," said Polly, warmly. "And you are another," answered Belle, who had always loved Polly, in her scatter-brained way. "Hush! Trix has the floor." "If they spent their wages properly, I should n't mind so much, but they think they must be as fine as anybody, and dress so well that it is hard to tell mistress from maid. Why our cook got a bonnet just like mine (the materials were cheaper, but the effect was the same), and had the impertinence to wear it before my face. I forbid it, and she left, of course, which made papa so cross he would n't give me the camel's hair shawl he promised this year." "It's perfectly shameful!" said Miss Perkins, as Trix paused out of breath. "Servants ought to be made to dress like servants, as they do abroad; then we should have no more trouble," observed Miss Perkins, who had just made the grand tour, and had brought home a French maid. "Perky don't practise as she preaches," whispered Belle to Polly, as Miss P. became absorbed in the chat of her other neighbors. "She pays her chamber girl with old finery; and the other day, when Betsey was out parading in her missis's cast-off purple plush suit, Mr. Curtis thought she was mademoiselle, and bowed to her. He is as blind as a bat, but recognized the dress, and pulled off his hat to it in the most elegant style. Perky adores him, and was mad enough to beat Betsey when she told the story and giggled over it. Betsey is quite as stylish and ever so much prettier than Perky, and she knows it, which is an aggravation." Polly could n't help laughing, but grew sober a minute after, as Trix said, pettishly, "Well, I'm sick of hearing about beggars; I believe half of them are humbugs, and if we let them alone they'd go to work and take care of themselves. There's altogether too much fuss made about charity. I do wish we could be left in peace." "There can't be too much charity!" burst out Polly, forgetting her shyness all at once. "Oh, indeed! Well, I take the liberty to differ from you," returned Trix, putting up her glass, and bestowing upon Polly her most "toploftical stare," as the girls called it. I regret to say that Polly never could talk with or be near Trix without feeling irritated and combative. She tried to conquer this feeling, but she could n't, and when Trix put on airs, Polly felt an intense desire to box her ears. That eye-glass was her especial aversion, for Trix was no more near-sighted than herself, but pretended to be because it was the fashion, and at times used the innocent glass as a weapon with which to put down any one who presumed to set themselves up. The supercilious glance which accompanied her ironically polite speech roused Polly, who answered with sudden color and the kindling of the eyes that always betrayed a perturbed spirit, "I don't think many of us would enjoy that selfish sort of peace, while little children starve, and girls no older than us kill themselves because their dreadful poverty leaves them no choice but sin or death." A sudden lull took place, for, though Polly, did not raise her voice, it was full of indignant emotion, and the most frivolous girl there felt a little thrill of sympathy; for the most utterly fashionable life does not kill the heart out of women, till years of selfish pleasure have passed over their heads. Trix was ashamed of herself; but she felt the same antagonism toward Polly, that Polly did toward her; and, being less generous, took satisfaction in plaguing her. Polly did not know that the secret of this was the fact that Tom often held her up as a model for his fiance to follow, which caused that young lady to dislike her more than ever. "Half the awful stories in the papers are made up for a sensation, and it's absurd to believe them, unless one likes to be harrowed up. I don't; and as for peace, I'm not likely to get much, while I have Tom to look after," said Trix, with an aggravating laugh. Polly's needle snapped in two, but she did not mind it, as she said, with a look that silenced even sharp-tongued Trix, "I can't help believing what my own eyes and ears have seen and heard. You lead such safe and happy lives, you can't imagine the misery that is all round you; but if you could get a glimpse of it, it would make your hearts ache, as it has mine." "Do you suffer from heartache? Some one hinted as much to me, but you looked so well, I could n't believe it." Now that was cruel in Trix, more cruel than any one guessed; but girls' tongues can deal wounds as sharp and sudden as the slender stiletto Spanish women wear in their hair, and Polly turned pale, as those words stabbed her. Belle saw it, and rushed to the rescue with more good-will than wisdom. "Nobody ever accused you of having any heart to ache with. Polly and I are not old enough yet to get tough and cool, and we are still silly enough to pity unhappy people, Tom Shaw especially," added Belle, under her breath. That was a two-edged thrust, for Trix was decidedly an old girl, and Tom was generally regarded as a hapless victim. Trix turned red; but before she could load and fire again, Emma Davenport, who labored under the delusion that this sort of skirmishing was ill-natured, and therefore ill-bred, spoke up in her pleasant way, "Speaking of pitying the poor, I always wonder why it is that we all like to read and cry over their troubles in books, but when we have the real thing before us, we think it is uninteresting and disagreeable." "It's the

beauty

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

"Now I call that a delicate compliment!" And Tom, who had not lost his early relish for this sort of refreshment, though he seldom indulged his passion nowadays, because peanuts are considered vulgar, fell to cracking and munching with great satisfaction. "Do you remember the first visit I made at your house, how you gave me peanuts, coming from the depot, and frightened me out of my wits, pretending the coachman was tipsy?" asked Polly. "Of course I do, and how we coasted one day," answered Tom, laughing. "Yes, and the velocipede; you've got the scar of that yet, I see." "I remember how you stood by me while it was sewed up; that was very plucky, Polly." "I was dreadfully afraid, but I remember I wanted to seem very brave, because you'd called me a coward." "Did I? Ought to have been ashamed of myself. I used to rough you shamefully, Polly, and you were so good-natured, you let me do it." "Could n't help myself," laughed Polly. "I did use to think you were an awful boy, but seems to me I rather liked it." "She had so much of it at home, she got used to it," put in Will, pulling the little curl behind Polly's ear. "You boys never teased me as Tom did, that's the reason it amused me, I suppose; novelty hath charms, you know." "Grandma used to lecture Tom for plaguing you, Polly, and he used to say he'd be a tip-top boy, but he was n't," observed Maud, with a venerable air. "Dear old grandma; she did her best, but I'm a bad lot," said Tom, with a shake of the head and a sober face. "It always seems as if she must be up in her rooms, and I can't get used to finding them empty," added Polly, softly. "Father would n't have anything moved, and Tom sits up there sometimes; it makes him feel good, he says," said Maud, who had a talent for betraying trifles which people preferred should not be mentioned in public. "You'd better hurry up your apple, for if it is n't done pretty soon, you'll have to leave it, Pug," said Tom, looking annoyed. "How is Fan?" asked Polly, with tact. "Well, Fan is rather under the weather; says she's dyspeptic, which means cross." "She is cross, but she's sick too, for I found her crying one day, and she said nobody cared about her, and she might as well be dead," added Maud, having turned her apple with tender care. "We must try to cheer her up, among us. If I was n't so busy I'd like to devote myself to her, she has done so much for me," said Polly, gratefully. "I wish you could. I can't understand her, for she acts like a weathercock, and I never know how I'm going to find her. I hate to have her mope so, but, upon my life, I don't know what to do," said Tom; but as he uttered the words, something was suggested by the sight before him. Chairs were few, and Polly had taken half of Will's when they drew round the fire. Now she was leaning against him, in a cosy, confiding way, delightful to behold, while Will's strong arm went round her with a protecting air, which said, as plainly as any words, that this big brother and small sister knew how to love and help one another. It was a pleasant little picture, all the pleasanter for its unconsciousness, and Tom found it both suggestive and agreeable. "Poor old Fan, she don't get much petting; maybe that's what she wants. I'll try it and see, for she stands by me like a trump. If she was a rosy, cosy little woman, like Polly, it would come easier, though," thought Tom, as he meditatively ate his last nut, feeling that fraternal affection could not be very difficult of demonstration, to brothers blessed with pretty, good-tempered sisters. "I told Tom about the bad fellow who blew up the professor, and he said he knew him, slightly; and I was so relieved, because I had a kind of a feeling that it was Tom himself, you and Will laughed so about it." Maud had a queer way of going on with her own thoughts, and suddenly coming out with whatever lay uppermost, regardless of time, place, or company. As this remark fell from her, there was a general smile, and Polly said, with mock solemnity, "It was a sad thing, and I've no doubt that misguided young man is very sorry for it now." "He looked perfectly bowed down with remorse last time I saw him," said Will, regarding Tom with eyes full of fun, for Will was a boy as well as a bookworm, and relished a joke as well as scatter-brained Tom. "He always is remorseful after a scrape, I've understood, for he is n't a very bad fellow, only his spirits are one too many for him, and he is n't as fond of his book as another fellow I know." "I'm afraid he'll he expelled if he don't mind," said Polly, warningly. "Should n't wonder if he was, he's such an unlucky dog," answered Tom, rather soberly. "I hope he'll remember that his friends will be very much disappointed if he is. He might make them so proud and happy; that I guess he will, for he is n't half as thoughtless as he makes himself out," said Polly, looking across at Tom with such friendly eyes that he was quite touched, though of course he did n't show it. "Thank you, Polly; he may pull through, but I have my doubts. Now old man, let us'pud' along; it's getting late for the chicken," he added, relapsing into the graceful diction with which a classical education gifts its fortunate possessor. Taking advantage of the moment while Will was wrestling with his boots in the closet, and Maud was absorbed in packing her apple into a large basket, Polly said to Tom in a low tone, "Thank you very much, for being so kind to Will." "Bless your heart, I have n't done anything; he's such a proud fellow he won't let me," answered Tom. "But you do in many little ways; to-night, for example. Do you think I don't know that the suit of clothes he's just got would have cost a good deal more, if your tailor had n't made them? He's only a boy, and don't understand things yet; but I know your way of helping proud people; so that they don't find it out, and I do thank you, Tom, so much." "Oh, come, Polly, that won't do. What do you know about tailors and college matters?" said Tom, looking as much confused as if she had found him out in something reprehensible. "I don't know much, and that's the reason why I'm grateful for your kindness to Will. I don't care what stories they tell about you, I'm sure, you won't lead him into trouble, but keep him straight, for my sake. You know I've lost one brother, and Will takes Jimmy's place to me now." The tears in Polly's eyes as she said that made Tom vow a tremendous vow within himself to stand by Will through thick and thin, and "keep him straight for Polly's sake"; feeling all the time how ill-fitted he was for such a task. "I'll do my best," he said, heartily, as he pressed the hand Polly gave him, with a look which assured her that he felt the appeal to his honor, and that henceforth the country lad was safe from all the temptations Tom could have offered him. "There! now I shall give that to mamma to take her pills in; it's just what she likes, and it pleases her to be thought of," said Maud, surveying her gift with complacency, as she put on her things. "You're a good little soul, to remember poor mum, said Tom, with an approving nod. "Well, she was so pleased with the grapes you brought her, I thought I 'd try something, and maybe she'd say 'Thank you, darling,' to me too. Do you think she will?" whispered Maud, with the wistful look so often seen on her little plain face. "See if she don't;" and to Maud's great surprise Tom did n't laugh at her project. "Good night, dear; take care of yourself, and keep your muffler round your mouth going over the bridge, or you'll be as hoarse as a crow to-morrow," said Polly, as she kissed her brother, who returned it without looking as if he thought it "girl's nonsense" Then the three piled into the sleigh and drove off, leave Polly nodding on the doorstep. Maud found the drive altogether too short, but was consoled by the promise of a longer one if the sleighing lasted till next Saturday: and when Tom ran up to bid his mother good-by, and give her a hint about Maud's gift, she stayed below to say, at the last minute, in unconscious imitation of Polly. "Good night; take care of yourself, my dear." Tom laughed, and was about to pinch the much enduring little nose; but, as if the words reminded him of something, he gave her a kiss instead, a piece of forbearance which almost took Maud's breath away with surprise and gratification. It was rather a silent drive, for Will obediently kept his muffler up, and Tom fell into a brown study. He was not much given to reflection, but occasionally indulged when something gave him a turn in that direction, and at such times he was as sober and sincere as could be desired. Any one might have lectured him for an hour without doing as much good as that little call and the chat that grew out of it, for, though nothing very wise or witty was said, many things were suggested, and every one knows that persuasive influences are better than any amount of moralizing. Neither Polly nor Will tried to do anything of the sort, and that was the charm of it. Nobody likes to be talked to, but nobody can resist the eloquence of unconscious preaching. With all his thoughtlessness, Tom was quick to see and feel these things, and was not spoilt enough yet to laugh at them. The sight of Will and Polly's simple affection for one another reminded him of a neglected duty so pleasantly, that he could not forget it. Talking of early days made him wish he could go back and start again, doing better. Grandma's name recalled the tender memory that always did him good, and the thought that Polly trusted her dearest brother to his care stirred up a manful desire to deserve the confidence. Tortures would n't have drawn a word of all this from him, but it had its effect, for boys don't leave their hearts and consciences behind them when they enter college, and little things of this sort do much to keep both from being damaged by the four years' scrimmage which begins the battle of life for most of them. CHAPTER XI. NEEDLES AND TONGUES DEAR POLLY, The Sewing Circle meets at our house this P. M. This is in your line, so do come and help me through. I shall depend on you. Yours ever, FAN. "Bad news, my dear?" asked Miss Mills, who had just handed the note to Polly as she came in one noon, a few weeks after Jenny's arrival. Polly told her what it was, adding, "I suppose I ought to go and help Fanny, but I can't say I want to. The girls talk about things I have nothing to do with, and I don't find their gossip very amusing. I'm an outsider, and they only accept me on Fan's account; so I sit in a corner and sew, while they chatter and laugh." "Would n't it be a good chance to say a word for Jenny? She wants work, and these young ladies probably have quantities done somewhere. Jenny does fine work exquisitely, and begins to feel anxious to be earning something. I don't want her to feel dependent and unhappy, and a little well-paid sewing would be all she needs to do nicely. I can get it for her by running round to my friends, but I really have n't the time, till I get the Mullers off. They are paupers here, but out West they can take care of themselves, so I've begged the money to send them, and as soon as I can get them some clothes, off they go. That's the way to help people help themselves," and Miss Mills clashed her big scissors energetically, as she cut out a little red flannel shirt. "I know it is, and I want to help, but I don't know where to begin," said Polly, feeling quite oppressed with the immensity of the work. "We can't any of us do all we would like, but we can do our best for every case that comes to us, and that helps amazingly. Begin with Jenny, my dear; tell those girls about her, and if I'm not much mistaken, you will find them ready to help, for half the time it is n't hardness of heart, but ignorance or thoughtlessness on the part of the rich, that makes them seem so careless of the poor." "To tell the truth, I'm afraid of being laughed at, if I try to talk seriously about such things to the girls," said Polly, frankly. "You believe that'such things' are true? You are sincere in your wish to help better them, and you respect those who work for that end?" "Yes, I do." "Then, my dear, can't you bear a little ridicule for the sake of a good cause? You said yesterday that you were going to make it a principle of your life, to help up your sex as far and as fast as you could. It did my heart good to hear you say it, for I was sure that in time you would keep your word. But, Polly, a principle that can't bear being laughed at, frowned on, and cold-shouldered, is n't worthy of the name." "I want to be strong-minded in the real sense of the word, but I don't like to be called so by people who don't understand my meaning; and I shall be if I try to make the girls think soberly about anything sensible or philanthropic. They call me old-fashioned now, and I'd rather be thought that, though it is n't pleasant, than be set down as a rampant woman's rights reformer," said Polly, in whose memory many laughs, and snubs, and sarcasms still lingered, forgiven but not forgotten. "This love and thought and care for those weaker, poorer, or worse than ourselves, which we call Christian charity, is a very old fashion, my dear. It began eighteen hundred years ago, and only those who honestly follow the beautiful example set us then, learn how to get genuine happiness out of life. I'm not a'rampant woman's rights reformer,'" added Miss Mills, with a smile at Polly's sober face; "but I think that women can do a great deal for each other, if they will only stop fearing what'people will think,' and take a hearty interest in whatever is going to fit their sisters and themselves to deserve and enjoy the rights God gave them. There are so many ways in which this can be done, that I wonder they don't see and improve them. I don't ask you to go and make speeches, only a few have the gift for that, but I do want every girl and woman to feel this duty, and make any little sacrifice of time or feeling that may be asked of them, because there is so much to do, and no one can do it as well as ourselves, if we only think so." "I'll try!" said Polly, influenced more by her desire to keep Miss Mills' good opinion than any love of self-sacrifice for her sex. It was rather a hard thing to ask of a shy, sensitive girl, and the kind old lady knew it, for in spite of the gray hair and withered face, her heart was very young, and her own girlish trials not forgotten. But she knew also that Polly had more influence over others than she herself suspected, simply because of her candid, upright nature; and that while she tried to help others, she was serving herself in a way that would improve heart and soul more than any mere social success she might gain by following the rules of fashionable life, which drill the character out of girls till they are as much alike as pins in a paper, and have about as much true sense and sentiment in their little heads. There was good stuff in Polly, unspoiled as yet, and Miss Mills was only acting out her principle of women helping each other. The wise old lady saw that Polly had reached that point where the girl suddenly blooms into a woman, asking something more substantial than pleasure to satisfy the new aspirations that are born; a time as precious and important to the after-life, as the hour when the apple blossoms fall, and the young fruit waits for the elements to ripen or destroy the harvest. Polly did not know this, and was fortunate in possessing a friend who knew what influences would serve her best, and who could give her what all women should desire to give each other, the example of a sweet, good life, more eloquent and powerful than any words; for this is a right no one can deny us. Polly turned the matter over in her mind as she dressed, while Jenny played waiting maid, little dreaming what this new friend was meaning to do for her, if she dared. "Is it going to be a tea-party, Miss?" asked Jenny, as the black silk went rustling on, to her great admiration, for she considered Polly a beauty. "Well, no, I think it will probably be a lecture," answered Polly, laughing, for Jenny's grateful service and affectionate eyes confirmed the purpose which Miss Mills' little homily had suggested. As she entered the Shaws' parlor an hour or two later, an appalling array of well-dressed girls appeared, each provided with a dainty reticule, basket, or bag, and each tongue going a good deal faster than the needle, while the white fingers stitched sleeves in upside down, put flannel jackets together hind part before, or gobbled button-holes with the best intentions in life. "You are a dear to come so early. Here's a nice place for you between Belle and Miss Perkins, and here's a sweet little dress to make, unless you like something else better," said Fanny, receiving her friend with warmth and placing her where she thought she would enjoy herself. "Thank you, I'll take an unbleached cotton shirt if you have such a thing, for it is likely to be needed before a cambric frock," replied Polly, subsiding into her corner as quickly as possible, for at least six eye-glasses were up, and she did n't enjoy being stared at. Miss Perkins, a grave, cold-looking young lady, with an aristocratic nose, bowed politely, and then went on with her work, which displayed two diamond rings to great advantage. Belle, being of the demonstrative sort, smiled and nodded, drew up her chair, and began a whispered account of Trix's last quarrel with Tom. Polly listened with interest while she sewed diligently, occasionally permitting her eyes to study the elegant intricacies of Miss Perkins' dress, for that young lady sat like a statue, quirking her delicate fingers, and accomplishing about two stitches a minute. In the midst of Belle's story, a more exciting bit of gossip caught her ear, and she plunged into the conversation going on across the table, leaving Polly free to listen and admire the wit, wisdom, and charitable spirit of the accomplished young ladies about her. There was a perfect Babel of tongues, but out of the confusion Polly gathered scraps of fashionable intelligence which somewhat lessened her respect for the dwellers in high places. One fair creature asserted that Joe Somebody took so much champagne at the last German, that he had to be got away, and sent home with two servants. Another divulged the awful fact that Carrie P.'s wedding presents were half of them hired for the occasion. A third circulated a whisper to the effect that though Mrs. Buckminster wore a thousand-dollar cloak, her boys were not allowed but one sheet to their beds. And a fourth young gossip assured the company that a certain person never had offered himself to a certain other person, though the report was industriously spread by interested parties. This latter remark caused such a clamor that Fanny called the meeting to order in a most unparliamentary fashion. "Girls! girls! you really must talk less and sew more, or our society will be disgraced. Do you know our branch sent in less work than any of the others last month, and Mrs. Fitz George said, she did n't see how fifteen young ladies could manage to do so little?" "We don't talk a bit more than the old ladies do. I just wish you could have heard them go on, last time. The way they get so much done, is, they take work home, and make their seamstresses do it, and then they take credit for vast industry," said Belle, who always spoke her mind with charming candor. "That reminds me that mamma says they want as many things as we can make, for it's a hard winter, and the poor are suffering very much. Do any of you wish to take articles home, to do at odd times?" said Fan, who was president of this energetic Dorcas Society. "Mercy, no! It takes all my leisure time to mend my gloves and refresh my dresses," answered Belle. "I think if we meet once a week, it is all that should be expected of us, with our other engagements. Poor people always complain that the winter is a hard one, and never are satisfied," remarked Miss Perkins, making her diamonds sparkle as she sewed buttons on the wrong side of a pink calico apron, which would hardly survive one washing. "Nobody can ask me to do any more, if they remember all I've got to attend to before summer," said Trix, with an important air. "I've got three women hard at work, and want another, but everyone is so busy, and ask such abominable prices, that I'm in despair, and shall have to take hold myself, I'm afraid." "There's a chance for Jane," thought Polly, but had n't courage "to speak out loud in meeting," just then, and resolved to ask Trix for work, in private. "Prices are high, but you forget how much more it costs to live now than it used to do. Mamma never allows us to beat down workwomen, but wishes us to pay them well, and economize in some other way, if we must," said Emma Davenport, a quiet, bright-eyed girl, who was called "odd" among the young ladies, because she dressed simply, when her father was a millionaire. "Just hear that girl talk about economy! I beg your pardon, she's some relation of yours, I believe!" said Belle, in a low tone. "Very distant; but I'm proud of it; for with her, economy does n't mean scrimping in one place to make a show in another. If every one would follow the Davenports' example, workwomen would n't starve, or servants be such a trouble. Emma is the plainest dressed girl in the room, next to me, yet any one can see she is a true gentlewoman," said Polly, warmly. "And you are another," answered Belle, who had always loved Polly, in her scatter-brained way. "Hush! Trix has the floor." "If they spent their wages properly, I should n't mind so much, but they think they must be as fine as anybody, and dress so well that it is hard to tell mistress from maid. Why our cook got a bonnet just like mine (the materials were cheaper, but the effect was the same), and had the impertinence to wear it before my face. I forbid it, and she left, of course, which made papa so cross he would n't give me the camel's hair shawl he promised this year." "It's perfectly shameful!" said Miss Perkins, as Trix paused out of breath. "Servants ought to be made to dress like servants, as they do abroad; then we should have no more trouble," observed Miss Perkins, who had just made the grand tour, and had brought home a French maid. "Perky don't practise as she preaches," whispered Belle to Polly, as Miss P. became absorbed in the chat of her other neighbors. "She pays her chamber girl with old finery; and the other day, when Betsey was out parading in her missis's cast-off purple plush suit, Mr. Curtis thought she was mademoiselle, and bowed to her. He is as blind as a bat, but recognized the dress, and pulled off his hat to it in the most elegant style. Perky adores him, and was mad enough to beat Betsey when she told the story and giggled over it. Betsey is quite as stylish and ever so much prettier than Perky, and she knows it, which is an aggravation." Polly could n't help laughing, but grew sober a minute after, as Trix said, pettishly, "Well, I'm sick of hearing about beggars; I believe half of them are humbugs, and if we let them alone they'd go to work and take care of themselves. There's altogether too much fuss made about charity. I do wish we could be left in peace." "There can't be too much charity!" burst out Polly, forgetting her shyness all at once. "Oh, indeed! Well, I take the liberty to differ from you," returned Trix, putting up her glass, and bestowing upon Polly her most "toploftical stare," as the girls called it. I regret to say that Polly never could talk with or be near Trix without feeling irritated and combative. She tried to conquer this feeling, but she could n't, and when Trix put on airs, Polly felt an intense desire to box her ears. That eye-glass was her especial aversion, for Trix was no more near-sighted than herself, but pretended to be because it was the fashion, and at times used the innocent glass as a weapon with which to put down any one who presumed to set themselves up. The supercilious glance which accompanied her ironically polite speech roused Polly, who answered with sudden color and the kindling of the eyes that always betrayed a perturbed spirit, "I don't think many of us would enjoy that selfish sort of peace, while little children starve, and girls no older than us kill themselves because their dreadful poverty leaves them no choice but sin or death." A sudden lull took place, for, though Polly, did not raise her voice, it was full of indignant emotion, and the most frivolous girl there felt a little thrill of sympathy; for the most utterly fashionable life does not kill the heart out of women, till years of selfish pleasure have passed over their heads. Trix was ashamed of herself; but she felt the same antagonism toward Polly, that Polly did toward her; and, being less generous, took satisfaction in plaguing her. Polly did not know that the secret of this was the fact that Tom often held her up as a model for his fiance to follow, which caused that young lady to dislike her more than ever. "Half the awful stories in the papers are made up for a sensation, and it's absurd to believe them, unless one likes to be harrowed up. I don't; and as for peace, I'm not likely to get much, while I have Tom to look after," said Trix, with an aggravating laugh. Polly's needle snapped in two, but she did not mind it, as she said, with a look that silenced even sharp-tongued Trix, "I can't help believing what my own eyes and ears have seen and heard. You lead such safe and happy lives, you can't imagine the misery that is all round you; but if you could get a glimpse of it, it would make your hearts ache, as it has mine." "Do you suffer from heartache? Some one hinted as much to me, but you looked so well, I could n't believe it." Now that was cruel in Trix, more cruel than any one guessed; but girls' tongues can deal wounds as sharp and sudden as the slender stiletto Spanish women wear in their hair, and Polly turned pale, as those words stabbed her. Belle saw it, and rushed to the rescue with more good-will than wisdom. "Nobody ever accused you of having any heart to ache with. Polly and I are not old enough yet to get tough and cool, and we are still silly enough to pity unhappy people, Tom Shaw especially," added Belle, under her breath. That was a two-edged thrust, for Trix was decidedly an old girl, and Tom was generally regarded as a hapless victim. Trix turned red; but before she could load and fire again, Emma Davenport, who labored under the delusion that this sort of skirmishing was ill-natured, and therefore ill-bred, spoke up in her pleasant way, "Speaking of pitying the poor, I always wonder why it is that we all like to read and cry over their troubles in books, but when we have the real thing before us, we think it is uninteresting and disagreeable." "It's the

nice

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

"Now I call that a delicate compliment!" And Tom, who had not lost his early relish for this sort of refreshment, though he seldom indulged his passion nowadays, because peanuts are considered vulgar, fell to cracking and munching with great satisfaction. "Do you remember the first visit I made at your house, how you gave me peanuts, coming from the depot, and frightened me out of my wits, pretending the coachman was tipsy?" asked Polly. "Of course I do, and how we coasted one day," answered Tom, laughing. "Yes, and the velocipede; you've got the scar of that yet, I see." "I remember how you stood by me while it was sewed up; that was very plucky, Polly." "I was dreadfully afraid, but I remember I wanted to seem very brave, because you'd called me a coward." "Did I? Ought to have been ashamed of myself. I used to rough you shamefully, Polly, and you were so good-natured, you let me do it." "Could n't help myself," laughed Polly. "I did use to think you were an awful boy, but seems to me I rather liked it." "She had so much of it at home, she got used to it," put in Will, pulling the little curl behind Polly's ear. "You boys never teased me as Tom did, that's the reason it amused me, I suppose; novelty hath charms, you know." "Grandma used to lecture Tom for plaguing you, Polly, and he used to say he'd be a tip-top boy, but he was n't," observed Maud, with a venerable air. "Dear old grandma; she did her best, but I'm a bad lot," said Tom, with a shake of the head and a sober face. "It always seems as if she must be up in her rooms, and I can't get used to finding them empty," added Polly, softly. "Father would n't have anything moved, and Tom sits up there sometimes; it makes him feel good, he says," said Maud, who had a talent for betraying trifles which people preferred should not be mentioned in public. "You'd better hurry up your apple, for if it is n't done pretty soon, you'll have to leave it, Pug," said Tom, looking annoyed. "How is Fan?" asked Polly, with tact. "Well, Fan is rather under the weather; says she's dyspeptic, which means cross." "She is cross, but she's sick too, for I found her crying one day, and she said nobody cared about her, and she might as well be dead," added Maud, having turned her apple with tender care. "We must try to cheer her up, among us. If I was n't so busy I'd like to devote myself to her, she has done so much for me," said Polly, gratefully. "I wish you could. I can't understand her, for she acts like a weathercock, and I never know how I'm going to find her. I hate to have her mope so, but, upon my life, I don't know what to do," said Tom; but as he uttered the words, something was suggested by the sight before him. Chairs were few, and Polly had taken half of Will's when they drew round the fire. Now she was leaning against him, in a cosy, confiding way, delightful to behold, while Will's strong arm went round her with a protecting air, which said, as plainly as any words, that this big brother and small sister knew how to love and help one another. It was a pleasant little picture, all the pleasanter for its unconsciousness, and Tom found it both suggestive and agreeable. "Poor old Fan, she don't get much petting; maybe that's what she wants. I'll try it and see, for she stands by me like a trump. If she was a rosy, cosy little woman, like Polly, it would come easier, though," thought Tom, as he meditatively ate his last nut, feeling that fraternal affection could not be very difficult of demonstration, to brothers blessed with pretty, good-tempered sisters. "I told Tom about the bad fellow who blew up the professor, and he said he knew him, slightly; and I was so relieved, because I had a kind of a feeling that it was Tom himself, you and Will laughed so about it." Maud had a queer way of going on with her own thoughts, and suddenly coming out with whatever lay uppermost, regardless of time, place, or company. As this remark fell from her, there was a general smile, and Polly said, with mock solemnity, "It was a sad thing, and I've no doubt that misguided young man is very sorry for it now." "He looked perfectly bowed down with remorse last time I saw him," said Will, regarding Tom with eyes full of fun, for Will was a boy as well as a bookworm, and relished a joke as well as scatter-brained Tom. "He always is remorseful after a scrape, I've understood, for he is n't a very bad fellow, only his spirits are one too many for him, and he is n't as fond of his book as another fellow I know." "I'm afraid he'll he expelled if he don't mind," said Polly, warningly. "Should n't wonder if he was, he's such an unlucky dog," answered Tom, rather soberly. "I hope he'll remember that his friends will be very much disappointed if he is. He might make them so proud and happy; that I guess he will, for he is n't half as thoughtless as he makes himself out," said Polly, looking across at Tom with such friendly eyes that he was quite touched, though of course he did n't show it. "Thank you, Polly; he may pull through, but I have my doubts. Now old man, let us'pud' along; it's getting late for the chicken," he added, relapsing into the graceful diction with which a classical education gifts its fortunate possessor. Taking advantage of the moment while Will was wrestling with his boots in the closet, and Maud was absorbed in packing her apple into a large basket, Polly said to Tom in a low tone, "Thank you very much, for being so kind to Will." "Bless your heart, I have n't done anything; he's such a proud fellow he won't let me," answered Tom. "But you do in many little ways; to-night, for example. Do you think I don't know that the suit of clothes he's just got would have cost a good deal more, if your tailor had n't made them? He's only a boy, and don't understand things yet; but I know your way of helping proud people; so that they don't find it out, and I do thank you, Tom, so much." "Oh, come, Polly, that won't do. What do you know about tailors and college matters?" said Tom, looking as much confused as if she had found him out in something reprehensible. "I don't know much, and that's the reason why I'm grateful for your kindness to Will. I don't care what stories they tell about you, I'm sure, you won't lead him into trouble, but keep him straight, for my sake. You know I've lost one brother, and Will takes Jimmy's place to me now." The tears in Polly's eyes as she said that made Tom vow a tremendous vow within himself to stand by Will through thick and thin, and "keep him straight for Polly's sake"; feeling all the time how ill-fitted he was for such a task. "I'll do my best," he said, heartily, as he pressed the hand Polly gave him, with a look which assured her that he felt the appeal to his honor, and that henceforth the country lad was safe from all the temptations Tom could have offered him. "There! now I shall give that to mamma to take her pills in; it's just what she likes, and it pleases her to be thought of," said Maud, surveying her gift with complacency, as she put on her things. "You're a good little soul, to remember poor mum, said Tom, with an approving nod. "Well, she was so pleased with the grapes you brought her, I thought I 'd try something, and maybe she'd say 'Thank you, darling,' to me too. Do you think she will?" whispered Maud, with the wistful look so often seen on her little plain face. "See if she don't;" and to Maud's great surprise Tom did n't laugh at her project. "Good night, dear; take care of yourself, and keep your muffler round your mouth going over the bridge, or you'll be as hoarse as a crow to-morrow," said Polly, as she kissed her brother, who returned it without looking as if he thought it "girl's nonsense" Then the three piled into the sleigh and drove off, leave Polly nodding on the doorstep. Maud found the drive altogether too short, but was consoled by the promise of a longer one if the sleighing lasted till next Saturday: and when Tom ran up to bid his mother good-by, and give her a hint about Maud's gift, she stayed below to say, at the last minute, in unconscious imitation of Polly. "Good night; take care of yourself, my dear." Tom laughed, and was about to pinch the much enduring little nose; but, as if the words reminded him of something, he gave her a kiss instead, a piece of forbearance which almost took Maud's breath away with surprise and gratification. It was rather a silent drive, for Will obediently kept his muffler up, and Tom fell into a brown study. He was not much given to reflection, but occasionally indulged when something gave him a turn in that direction, and at such times he was as sober and sincere as could be desired. Any one might have lectured him for an hour without doing as much good as that little call and the chat that grew out of it, for, though nothing very wise or witty was said, many things were suggested, and every one knows that persuasive influences are better than any amount of moralizing. Neither Polly nor Will tried to do anything of the sort, and that was the charm of it. Nobody likes to be talked to, but nobody can resist the eloquence of unconscious preaching. With all his thoughtlessness, Tom was quick to see and feel these things, and was not spoilt enough yet to laugh at them. The sight of Will and Polly's simple affection for one another reminded him of a neglected duty so pleasantly, that he could not forget it. Talking of early days made him wish he could go back and start again, doing better. Grandma's name recalled the tender memory that always did him good, and the thought that Polly trusted her dearest brother to his care stirred up a manful desire to deserve the confidence. Tortures would n't have drawn a word of all this from him, but it had its effect, for boys don't leave their hearts and consciences behind them when they enter college, and little things of this sort do much to keep both from being damaged by the four years' scrimmage which begins the battle of life for most of them. CHAPTER XI. NEEDLES AND TONGUES DEAR POLLY, The Sewing Circle meets at our house this P. M. This is in your line, so do come and help me through. I shall depend on you. Yours ever, FAN. "Bad news, my dear?" asked Miss Mills, who had just handed the note to Polly as she came in one noon, a few weeks after Jenny's arrival. Polly told her what it was, adding, "I suppose I ought to go and help Fanny, but I can't say I want to. The girls talk about things I have nothing to do with, and I don't find their gossip very amusing. I'm an outsider, and they only accept me on Fan's account; so I sit in a corner and sew, while they chatter and laugh." "Would n't it be a good chance to say a word for Jenny? She wants work, and these young ladies probably have quantities done somewhere. Jenny does fine work exquisitely, and begins to feel anxious to be earning something. I don't want her to feel dependent and unhappy, and a little well-paid sewing would be all she needs to do nicely. I can get it for her by running round to my friends, but I really have n't the time, till I get the Mullers off. They are paupers here, but out West they can take care of themselves, so I've begged the money to send them, and as soon as I can get them some clothes, off they go. That's the way to help people help themselves," and Miss Mills clashed her big scissors energetically, as she cut out a little red flannel shirt. "I know it is, and I want to help, but I don't know where to begin," said Polly, feeling quite oppressed with the immensity of the work. "We can't any of us do all we would like, but we can do our best for every case that comes to us, and that helps amazingly. Begin with Jenny, my dear; tell those girls about her, and if I'm not much mistaken, you will find them ready to help, for half the time it is n't hardness of heart, but ignorance or thoughtlessness on the part of the rich, that makes them seem so careless of the poor." "To tell the truth, I'm afraid of being laughed at, if I try to talk seriously about such things to the girls," said Polly, frankly. "You believe that'such things' are true? You are sincere in your wish to help better them, and you respect those who work for that end?" "Yes, I do." "Then, my dear, can't you bear a little ridicule for the sake of a good cause? You said yesterday that you were going to make it a principle of your life, to help up your sex as far and as fast as you could. It did my heart good to hear you say it, for I was sure that in time you would keep your word. But, Polly, a principle that can't bear being laughed at, frowned on, and cold-shouldered, is n't worthy of the name." "I want to be strong-minded in the real sense of the word, but I don't like to be called so by people who don't understand my meaning; and I shall be if I try to make the girls think soberly about anything sensible or philanthropic. They call me old-fashioned now, and I'd rather be thought that, though it is n't pleasant, than be set down as a rampant woman's rights reformer," said Polly, in whose memory many laughs, and snubs, and sarcasms still lingered, forgiven but not forgotten. "This love and thought and care for those weaker, poorer, or worse than ourselves, which we call Christian charity, is a very old fashion, my dear. It began eighteen hundred years ago, and only those who honestly follow the beautiful example set us then, learn how to get genuine happiness out of life. I'm not a'rampant woman's rights reformer,'" added Miss Mills, with a smile at Polly's sober face; "but I think that women can do a great deal for each other, if they will only stop fearing what'people will think,' and take a hearty interest in whatever is going to fit their sisters and themselves to deserve and enjoy the rights God gave them. There are so many ways in which this can be done, that I wonder they don't see and improve them. I don't ask you to go and make speeches, only a few have the gift for that, but I do want every girl and woman to feel this duty, and make any little sacrifice of time or feeling that may be asked of them, because there is so much to do, and no one can do it as well as ourselves, if we only think so." "I'll try!" said Polly, influenced more by her desire to keep Miss Mills' good opinion than any love of self-sacrifice for her sex. It was rather a hard thing to ask of a shy, sensitive girl, and the kind old lady knew it, for in spite of the gray hair and withered face, her heart was very young, and her own girlish trials not forgotten. But she knew also that Polly had more influence over others than she herself suspected, simply because of her candid, upright nature; and that while she tried to help others, she was serving herself in a way that would improve heart and soul more than any mere social success she might gain by following the rules of fashionable life, which drill the character out of girls till they are as much alike as pins in a paper, and have about as much true sense and sentiment in their little heads. There was good stuff in Polly, unspoiled as yet, and Miss Mills was only acting out her principle of women helping each other. The wise old lady saw that Polly had reached that point where the girl suddenly blooms into a woman, asking something more substantial than pleasure to satisfy the new aspirations that are born; a time as precious and important to the after-life, as the hour when the apple blossoms fall, and the young fruit waits for the elements to ripen or destroy the harvest. Polly did not know this, and was fortunate in possessing a friend who knew what influences would serve her best, and who could give her what all women should desire to give each other, the example of a sweet, good life, more eloquent and powerful than any words; for this is a right no one can deny us. Polly turned the matter over in her mind as she dressed, while Jenny played waiting maid, little dreaming what this new friend was meaning to do for her, if she dared. "Is it going to be a tea-party, Miss?" asked Jenny, as the black silk went rustling on, to her great admiration, for she considered Polly a beauty. "Well, no, I think it will probably be a lecture," answered Polly, laughing, for Jenny's grateful service and affectionate eyes confirmed the purpose which Miss Mills' little homily had suggested. As she entered the Shaws' parlor an hour or two later, an appalling array of well-dressed girls appeared, each provided with a dainty reticule, basket, or bag, and each tongue going a good deal faster than the needle, while the white fingers stitched sleeves in upside down, put flannel jackets together hind part before, or gobbled button-holes with the best intentions in life. "You are a dear to come so early. Here's a nice place for you between Belle and Miss Perkins, and here's a sweet little dress to make, unless you like something else better," said Fanny, receiving her friend with warmth and placing her where she thought she would enjoy herself. "Thank you, I'll take an unbleached cotton shirt if you have such a thing, for it is likely to be needed before a cambric frock," replied Polly, subsiding into her corner as quickly as possible, for at least six eye-glasses were up, and she did n't enjoy being stared at. Miss Perkins, a grave, cold-looking young lady, with an aristocratic nose, bowed politely, and then went on with her work, which displayed two diamond rings to great advantage. Belle, being of the demonstrative sort, smiled and nodded, drew up her chair, and began a whispered account of Trix's last quarrel with Tom. Polly listened with interest while she sewed diligently, occasionally permitting her eyes to study the elegant intricacies of Miss Perkins' dress, for that young lady sat like a statue, quirking her delicate fingers, and accomplishing about two stitches a minute. In the midst of Belle's story, a more exciting bit of gossip caught her ear, and she plunged into the conversation going on across the table, leaving Polly free to listen and admire the wit, wisdom, and charitable spirit of the accomplished young ladies about her. There was a perfect Babel of tongues, but out of the confusion Polly gathered scraps of fashionable intelligence which somewhat lessened her respect for the dwellers in high places. One fair creature asserted that Joe Somebody took so much champagne at the last German, that he had to be got away, and sent home with two servants. Another divulged the awful fact that Carrie P.'s wedding presents were half of them hired for the occasion. A third circulated a whisper to the effect that though Mrs. Buckminster wore a thousand-dollar cloak, her boys were not allowed but one sheet to their beds. And a fourth young gossip assured the company that a certain person never had offered himself to a certain other person, though the report was industriously spread by interested parties. This latter remark caused such a clamor that Fanny called the meeting to order in a most unparliamentary fashion. "Girls! girls! you really must talk less and sew more, or our society will be disgraced. Do you know our branch sent in less work than any of the others last month, and Mrs. Fitz George said, she did n't see how fifteen young ladies could manage to do so little?" "We don't talk a bit more than the old ladies do. I just wish you could have heard them go on, last time. The way they get so much done, is, they take work home, and make their seamstresses do it, and then they take credit for vast industry," said Belle, who always spoke her mind with charming candor. "That reminds me that mamma says they want as many things as we can make, for it's a hard winter, and the poor are suffering very much. Do any of you wish to take articles home, to do at odd times?" said Fan, who was president of this energetic Dorcas Society. "Mercy, no! It takes all my leisure time to mend my gloves and refresh my dresses," answered Belle. "I think if we meet once a week, it is all that should be expected of us, with our other engagements. Poor people always complain that the winter is a hard one, and never are satisfied," remarked Miss Perkins, making her diamonds sparkle as she sewed buttons on the wrong side of a pink calico apron, which would hardly survive one washing. "Nobody can ask me to do any more, if they remember all I've got to attend to before summer," said Trix, with an important air. "I've got three women hard at work, and want another, but everyone is so busy, and ask such abominable prices, that I'm in despair, and shall have to take hold myself, I'm afraid." "There's a chance for Jane," thought Polly, but had n't courage "to speak out loud in meeting," just then, and resolved to ask Trix for work, in private. "Prices are high, but you forget how much more it costs to live now than it used to do. Mamma never allows us to beat down workwomen, but wishes us to pay them well, and economize in some other way, if we must," said Emma Davenport, a quiet, bright-eyed girl, who was called "odd" among the young ladies, because she dressed simply, when her father was a millionaire. "Just hear that girl talk about economy! I beg your pardon, she's some relation of yours, I believe!" said Belle, in a low tone. "Very distant; but I'm proud of it; for with her, economy does n't mean scrimping in one place to make a show in another. If every one would follow the Davenports' example, workwomen would n't starve, or servants be such a trouble. Emma is the plainest dressed girl in the room, next to me, yet any one can see she is a true gentlewoman," said Polly, warmly. "And you are another," answered Belle, who had always loved Polly, in her scatter-brained way. "Hush! Trix has the floor." "If they spent their wages properly, I should n't mind so much, but they think they must be as fine as anybody, and dress so well that it is hard to tell mistress from maid. Why our cook got a bonnet just like mine (the materials were cheaper, but the effect was the same), and had the impertinence to wear it before my face. I forbid it, and she left, of course, which made papa so cross he would n't give me the camel's hair shawl he promised this year." "It's perfectly shameful!" said Miss Perkins, as Trix paused out of breath. "Servants ought to be made to dress like servants, as they do abroad; then we should have no more trouble," observed Miss Perkins, who had just made the grand tour, and had brought home a French maid. "Perky don't practise as she preaches," whispered Belle to Polly, as Miss P. became absorbed in the chat of her other neighbors. "She pays her chamber girl with old finery; and the other day, when Betsey was out parading in her missis's cast-off purple plush suit, Mr. Curtis thought she was mademoiselle, and bowed to her. He is as blind as a bat, but recognized the dress, and pulled off his hat to it in the most elegant style. Perky adores him, and was mad enough to beat Betsey when she told the story and giggled over it. Betsey is quite as stylish and ever so much prettier than Perky, and she knows it, which is an aggravation." Polly could n't help laughing, but grew sober a minute after, as Trix said, pettishly, "Well, I'm sick of hearing about beggars; I believe half of them are humbugs, and if we let them alone they'd go to work and take care of themselves. There's altogether too much fuss made about charity. I do wish we could be left in peace." "There can't be too much charity!" burst out Polly, forgetting her shyness all at once. "Oh, indeed! Well, I take the liberty to differ from you," returned Trix, putting up her glass, and bestowing upon Polly her most "toploftical stare," as the girls called it. I regret to say that Polly never could talk with or be near Trix without feeling irritated and combative. She tried to conquer this feeling, but she could n't, and when Trix put on airs, Polly felt an intense desire to box her ears. That eye-glass was her especial aversion, for Trix was no more near-sighted than herself, but pretended to be because it was the fashion, and at times used the innocent glass as a weapon with which to put down any one who presumed to set themselves up. The supercilious glance which accompanied her ironically polite speech roused Polly, who answered with sudden color and the kindling of the eyes that always betrayed a perturbed spirit, "I don't think many of us would enjoy that selfish sort of peace, while little children starve, and girls no older than us kill themselves because their dreadful poverty leaves them no choice but sin or death." A sudden lull took place, for, though Polly, did not raise her voice, it was full of indignant emotion, and the most frivolous girl there felt a little thrill of sympathy; for the most utterly fashionable life does not kill the heart out of women, till years of selfish pleasure have passed over their heads. Trix was ashamed of herself; but she felt the same antagonism toward Polly, that Polly did toward her; and, being less generous, took satisfaction in plaguing her. Polly did not know that the secret of this was the fact that Tom often held her up as a model for his fiance to follow, which caused that young lady to dislike her more than ever. "Half the awful stories in the papers are made up for a sensation, and it's absurd to believe them, unless one likes to be harrowed up. I don't; and as for peace, I'm not likely to get much, while I have Tom to look after," said Trix, with an aggravating laugh. Polly's needle snapped in two, but she did not mind it, as she said, with a look that silenced even sharp-tongued Trix, "I can't help believing what my own eyes and ears have seen and heard. You lead such safe and happy lives, you can't imagine the misery that is all round you; but if you could get a glimpse of it, it would make your hearts ache, as it has mine." "Do you suffer from heartache? Some one hinted as much to me, but you looked so well, I could n't believe it." Now that was cruel in Trix, more cruel than any one guessed; but girls' tongues can deal wounds as sharp and sudden as the slender stiletto Spanish women wear in their hair, and Polly turned pale, as those words stabbed her. Belle saw it, and rushed to the rescue with more good-will than wisdom. "Nobody ever accused you of having any heart to ache with. Polly and I are not old enough yet to get tough and cool, and we are still silly enough to pity unhappy people, Tom Shaw especially," added Belle, under her breath. That was a two-edged thrust, for Trix was decidedly an old girl, and Tom was generally regarded as a hapless victim. Trix turned red; but before she could load and fire again, Emma Davenport, who labored under the delusion that this sort of skirmishing was ill-natured, and therefore ill-bred, spoke up in her pleasant way, "Speaking of pitying the poor, I always wonder why it is that we all like to read and cry over their troubles in books, but when we have the real thing before us, we think it is uninteresting and disagreeable." "It's the

tremendous

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

"Now I call that a delicate compliment!" And Tom, who had not lost his early relish for this sort of refreshment, though he seldom indulged his passion nowadays, because peanuts are considered vulgar, fell to cracking and munching with great satisfaction. "Do you remember the first visit I made at your house, how you gave me peanuts, coming from the depot, and frightened me out of my wits, pretending the coachman was tipsy?" asked Polly. "Of course I do, and how we coasted one day," answered Tom, laughing. "Yes, and the velocipede; you've got the scar of that yet, I see." "I remember how you stood by me while it was sewed up; that was very plucky, Polly." "I was dreadfully afraid, but I remember I wanted to seem very brave, because you'd called me a coward." "Did I? Ought to have been ashamed of myself. I used to rough you shamefully, Polly, and you were so good-natured, you let me do it." "Could n't help myself," laughed Polly. "I did use to think you were an awful boy, but seems to me I rather liked it." "She had so much of it at home, she got used to it," put in Will, pulling the little curl behind Polly's ear. "You boys never teased me as Tom did, that's the reason it amused me, I suppose; novelty hath charms, you know." "Grandma used to lecture Tom for plaguing you, Polly, and he used to say he'd be a tip-top boy, but he was n't," observed Maud, with a venerable air. "Dear old grandma; she did her best, but I'm a bad lot," said Tom, with a shake of the head and a sober face. "It always seems as if she must be up in her rooms, and I can't get used to finding them empty," added Polly, softly. "Father would n't have anything moved, and Tom sits up there sometimes; it makes him feel good, he says," said Maud, who had a talent for betraying trifles which people preferred should not be mentioned in public. "You'd better hurry up your apple, for if it is n't done pretty soon, you'll have to leave it, Pug," said Tom, looking annoyed. "How is Fan?" asked Polly, with tact. "Well, Fan is rather under the weather; says she's dyspeptic, which means cross." "She is cross, but she's sick too, for I found her crying one day, and she said nobody cared about her, and she might as well be dead," added Maud, having turned her apple with tender care. "We must try to cheer her up, among us. If I was n't so busy I'd like to devote myself to her, she has done so much for me," said Polly, gratefully. "I wish you could. I can't understand her, for she acts like a weathercock, and I never know how I'm going to find her. I hate to have her mope so, but, upon my life, I don't know what to do," said Tom; but as he uttered the words, something was suggested by the sight before him. Chairs were few, and Polly had taken half of Will's when they drew round the fire. Now she was leaning against him, in a cosy, confiding way, delightful to behold, while Will's strong arm went round her with a protecting air, which said, as plainly as any words, that this big brother and small sister knew how to love and help one another. It was a pleasant little picture, all the pleasanter for its unconsciousness, and Tom found it both suggestive and agreeable. "Poor old Fan, she don't get much petting; maybe that's what she wants. I'll try it and see, for she stands by me like a trump. If she was a rosy, cosy little woman, like Polly, it would come easier, though," thought Tom, as he meditatively ate his last nut, feeling that fraternal affection could not be very difficult of demonstration, to brothers blessed with pretty, good-tempered sisters. "I told Tom about the bad fellow who blew up the professor, and he said he knew him, slightly; and I was so relieved, because I had a kind of a feeling that it was Tom himself, you and Will laughed so about it." Maud had a queer way of going on with her own thoughts, and suddenly coming out with whatever lay uppermost, regardless of time, place, or company. As this remark fell from her, there was a general smile, and Polly said, with mock solemnity, "It was a sad thing, and I've no doubt that misguided young man is very sorry for it now." "He looked perfectly bowed down with remorse last time I saw him," said Will, regarding Tom with eyes full of fun, for Will was a boy as well as a bookworm, and relished a joke as well as scatter-brained Tom. "He always is remorseful after a scrape, I've understood, for he is n't a very bad fellow, only his spirits are one too many for him, and he is n't as fond of his book as another fellow I know." "I'm afraid he'll he expelled if he don't mind," said Polly, warningly. "Should n't wonder if he was, he's such an unlucky dog," answered Tom, rather soberly. "I hope he'll remember that his friends will be very much disappointed if he is. He might make them so proud and happy; that I guess he will, for he is n't half as thoughtless as he makes himself out," said Polly, looking across at Tom with such friendly eyes that he was quite touched, though of course he did n't show it. "Thank you, Polly; he may pull through, but I have my doubts. Now old man, let us'pud' along; it's getting late for the chicken," he added, relapsing into the graceful diction with which a classical education gifts its fortunate possessor. Taking advantage of the moment while Will was wrestling with his boots in the closet, and Maud was absorbed in packing her apple into a large basket, Polly said to Tom in a low tone, "Thank you very much, for being so kind to Will." "Bless your heart, I have n't done anything; he's such a proud fellow he won't let me," answered Tom. "But you do in many little ways; to-night, for example. Do you think I don't know that the suit of clothes he's just got would have cost a good deal more, if your tailor had n't made them? He's only a boy, and don't understand things yet; but I know your way of helping proud people; so that they don't find it out, and I do thank you, Tom, so much." "Oh, come, Polly, that won't do. What do you know about tailors and college matters?" said Tom, looking as much confused as if she had found him out in something reprehensible. "I don't know much, and that's the reason why I'm grateful for your kindness to Will. I don't care what stories they tell about you, I'm sure, you won't lead him into trouble, but keep him straight, for my sake. You know I've lost one brother, and Will takes Jimmy's place to me now." The tears in Polly's eyes as she said that made Tom vow a tremendous vow within himself to stand by Will through thick and thin, and "keep him straight for Polly's sake"; feeling all the time how ill-fitted he was for such a task. "I'll do my best," he said, heartily, as he pressed the hand Polly gave him, with a look which assured her that he felt the appeal to his honor, and that henceforth the country lad was safe from all the temptations Tom could have offered him. "There! now I shall give that to mamma to take her pills in; it's just what she likes, and it pleases her to be thought of," said Maud, surveying her gift with complacency, as she put on her things. "You're a good little soul, to remember poor mum, said Tom, with an approving nod. "Well, she was so pleased with the grapes you brought her, I thought I 'd try something, and maybe she'd say 'Thank you, darling,' to me too. Do you think she will?" whispered Maud, with the wistful look so often seen on her little plain face. "See if she don't;" and to Maud's great surprise Tom did n't laugh at her project. "Good night, dear; take care of yourself, and keep your muffler round your mouth going over the bridge, or you'll be as hoarse as a crow to-morrow," said Polly, as she kissed her brother, who returned it without looking as if he thought it "girl's nonsense" Then the three piled into the sleigh and drove off, leave Polly nodding on the doorstep. Maud found the drive altogether too short, but was consoled by the promise of a longer one if the sleighing lasted till next Saturday: and when Tom ran up to bid his mother good-by, and give her a hint about Maud's gift, she stayed below to say, at the last minute, in unconscious imitation of Polly. "Good night; take care of yourself, my dear." Tom laughed, and was about to pinch the much enduring little nose; but, as if the words reminded him of something, he gave her a kiss instead, a piece of forbearance which almost took Maud's breath away with surprise and gratification. It was rather a silent drive, for Will obediently kept his muffler up, and Tom fell into a brown study. He was not much given to reflection, but occasionally indulged when something gave him a turn in that direction, and at such times he was as sober and sincere as could be desired. Any one might have lectured him for an hour without doing as much good as that little call and the chat that grew out of it, for, though nothing very wise or witty was said, many things were suggested, and every one knows that persuasive influences are better than any amount of moralizing. Neither Polly nor Will tried to do anything of the sort, and that was the charm of it. Nobody likes to be talked to, but nobody can resist the eloquence of unconscious preaching. With all his thoughtlessness, Tom was quick to see and feel these things, and was not spoilt enough yet to laugh at them. The sight of Will and Polly's simple affection for one another reminded him of a neglected duty so pleasantly, that he could not forget it. Talking of early days made him wish he could go back and start again, doing better. Grandma's name recalled the tender memory that always did him good, and the thought that Polly trusted her dearest brother to his care stirred up a manful desire to deserve the confidence. Tortures would n't have drawn a word of all this from him, but it had its effect, for boys don't leave their hearts and consciences behind them when they enter college, and little things of this sort do much to keep both from being damaged by the four years' scrimmage which begins the battle of life for most of them. CHAPTER XI. NEEDLES AND TONGUES DEAR POLLY, The Sewing Circle meets at our house this P. M. This is in your line, so do come and help me through. I shall depend on you. Yours ever, FAN. "Bad news, my dear?" asked Miss Mills, who had just handed the note to Polly as she came in one noon, a few weeks after Jenny's arrival. Polly told her what it was, adding, "I suppose I ought to go and help Fanny, but I can't say I want to. The girls talk about things I have nothing to do with, and I don't find their gossip very amusing. I'm an outsider, and they only accept me on Fan's account; so I sit in a corner and sew, while they chatter and laugh." "Would n't it be a good chance to say a word for Jenny? She wants work, and these young ladies probably have quantities done somewhere. Jenny does fine work exquisitely, and begins to feel anxious to be earning something. I don't want her to feel dependent and unhappy, and a little well-paid sewing would be all she needs to do nicely. I can get it for her by running round to my friends, but I really have n't the time, till I get the Mullers off. They are paupers here, but out West they can take care of themselves, so I've begged the money to send them, and as soon as I can get them some clothes, off they go. That's the way to help people help themselves," and Miss Mills clashed her big scissors energetically, as she cut out a little red flannel shirt. "I know it is, and I want to help, but I don't know where to begin," said Polly, feeling quite oppressed with the immensity of the work. "We can't any of us do all we would like, but we can do our best for every case that comes to us, and that helps amazingly. Begin with Jenny, my dear; tell those girls about her, and if I'm not much mistaken, you will find them ready to help, for half the time it is n't hardness of heart, but ignorance or thoughtlessness on the part of the rich, that makes them seem so careless of the poor." "To tell the truth, I'm afraid of being laughed at, if I try to talk seriously about such things to the girls," said Polly, frankly. "You believe that'such things' are true? You are sincere in your wish to help better them, and you respect those who work for that end?" "Yes, I do." "Then, my dear, can't you bear a little ridicule for the sake of a good cause? You said yesterday that you were going to make it a principle of your life, to help up your sex as far and as fast as you could. It did my heart good to hear you say it, for I was sure that in time you would keep your word. But, Polly, a principle that can't bear being laughed at, frowned on, and cold-shouldered, is n't worthy of the name." "I want to be strong-minded in the real sense of the word, but I don't like to be called so by people who don't understand my meaning; and I shall be if I try to make the girls think soberly about anything sensible or philanthropic. They call me old-fashioned now, and I'd rather be thought that, though it is n't pleasant, than be set down as a rampant woman's rights reformer," said Polly, in whose memory many laughs, and snubs, and sarcasms still lingered, forgiven but not forgotten. "This love and thought and care for those weaker, poorer, or worse than ourselves, which we call Christian charity, is a very old fashion, my dear. It began eighteen hundred years ago, and only those who honestly follow the beautiful example set us then, learn how to get genuine happiness out of life. I'm not a'rampant woman's rights reformer,'" added Miss Mills, with a smile at Polly's sober face; "but I think that women can do a great deal for each other, if they will only stop fearing what'people will think,' and take a hearty interest in whatever is going to fit their sisters and themselves to deserve and enjoy the rights God gave them. There are so many ways in which this can be done, that I wonder they don't see and improve them. I don't ask you to go and make speeches, only a few have the gift for that, but I do want every girl and woman to feel this duty, and make any little sacrifice of time or feeling that may be asked of them, because there is so much to do, and no one can do it as well as ourselves, if we only think so." "I'll try!" said Polly, influenced more by her desire to keep Miss Mills' good opinion than any love of self-sacrifice for her sex. It was rather a hard thing to ask of a shy, sensitive girl, and the kind old lady knew it, for in spite of the gray hair and withered face, her heart was very young, and her own girlish trials not forgotten. But she knew also that Polly had more influence over others than she herself suspected, simply because of her candid, upright nature; and that while she tried to help others, she was serving herself in a way that would improve heart and soul more than any mere social success she might gain by following the rules of fashionable life, which drill the character out of girls till they are as much alike as pins in a paper, and have about as much true sense and sentiment in their little heads. There was good stuff in Polly, unspoiled as yet, and Miss Mills was only acting out her principle of women helping each other. The wise old lady saw that Polly had reached that point where the girl suddenly blooms into a woman, asking something more substantial than pleasure to satisfy the new aspirations that are born; a time as precious and important to the after-life, as the hour when the apple blossoms fall, and the young fruit waits for the elements to ripen or destroy the harvest. Polly did not know this, and was fortunate in possessing a friend who knew what influences would serve her best, and who could give her what all women should desire to give each other, the example of a sweet, good life, more eloquent and powerful than any words; for this is a right no one can deny us. Polly turned the matter over in her mind as she dressed, while Jenny played waiting maid, little dreaming what this new friend was meaning to do for her, if she dared. "Is it going to be a tea-party, Miss?" asked Jenny, as the black silk went rustling on, to her great admiration, for she considered Polly a beauty. "Well, no, I think it will probably be a lecture," answered Polly, laughing, for Jenny's grateful service and affectionate eyes confirmed the purpose which Miss Mills' little homily had suggested. As she entered the Shaws' parlor an hour or two later, an appalling array of well-dressed girls appeared, each provided with a dainty reticule, basket, or bag, and each tongue going a good deal faster than the needle, while the white fingers stitched sleeves in upside down, put flannel jackets together hind part before, or gobbled button-holes with the best intentions in life. "You are a dear to come so early. Here's a nice place for you between Belle and Miss Perkins, and here's a sweet little dress to make, unless you like something else better," said Fanny, receiving her friend with warmth and placing her where she thought she would enjoy herself. "Thank you, I'll take an unbleached cotton shirt if you have such a thing, for it is likely to be needed before a cambric frock," replied Polly, subsiding into her corner as quickly as possible, for at least six eye-glasses were up, and she did n't enjoy being stared at. Miss Perkins, a grave, cold-looking young lady, with an aristocratic nose, bowed politely, and then went on with her work, which displayed two diamond rings to great advantage. Belle, being of the demonstrative sort, smiled and nodded, drew up her chair, and began a whispered account of Trix's last quarrel with Tom. Polly listened with interest while she sewed diligently, occasionally permitting her eyes to study the elegant intricacies of Miss Perkins' dress, for that young lady sat like a statue, quirking her delicate fingers, and accomplishing about two stitches a minute. In the midst of Belle's story, a more exciting bit of gossip caught her ear, and she plunged into the conversation going on across the table, leaving Polly free to listen and admire the wit, wisdom, and charitable spirit of the accomplished young ladies about her. There was a perfect Babel of tongues, but out of the confusion Polly gathered scraps of fashionable intelligence which somewhat lessened her respect for the dwellers in high places. One fair creature asserted that Joe Somebody took so much champagne at the last German, that he had to be got away, and sent home with two servants. Another divulged the awful fact that Carrie P.'s wedding presents were half of them hired for the occasion. A third circulated a whisper to the effect that though Mrs. Buckminster wore a thousand-dollar cloak, her boys were not allowed but one sheet to their beds. And a fourth young gossip assured the company that a certain person never had offered himself to a certain other person, though the report was industriously spread by interested parties. This latter remark caused such a clamor that Fanny called the meeting to order in a most unparliamentary fashion. "Girls! girls! you really must talk less and sew more, or our society will be disgraced. Do you know our branch sent in less work than any of the others last month, and Mrs. Fitz George said, she did n't see how fifteen young ladies could manage to do so little?" "We don't talk a bit more than the old ladies do. I just wish you could have heard them go on, last time. The way they get so much done, is, they take work home, and make their seamstresses do it, and then they take credit for vast industry," said Belle, who always spoke her mind with charming candor. "That reminds me that mamma says they want as many things as we can make, for it's a hard winter, and the poor are suffering very much. Do any of you wish to take articles home, to do at odd times?" said Fan, who was president of this energetic Dorcas Society. "Mercy, no! It takes all my leisure time to mend my gloves and refresh my dresses," answered Belle. "I think if we meet once a week, it is all that should be expected of us, with our other engagements. Poor people always complain that the winter is a hard one, and never are satisfied," remarked Miss Perkins, making her diamonds sparkle as she sewed buttons on the wrong side of a pink calico apron, which would hardly survive one washing. "Nobody can ask me to do any more, if they remember all I've got to attend to before summer," said Trix, with an important air. "I've got three women hard at work, and want another, but everyone is so busy, and ask such abominable prices, that I'm in despair, and shall have to take hold myself, I'm afraid." "There's a chance for Jane," thought Polly, but had n't courage "to speak out loud in meeting," just then, and resolved to ask Trix for work, in private. "Prices are high, but you forget how much more it costs to live now than it used to do. Mamma never allows us to beat down workwomen, but wishes us to pay them well, and economize in some other way, if we must," said Emma Davenport, a quiet, bright-eyed girl, who was called "odd" among the young ladies, because she dressed simply, when her father was a millionaire. "Just hear that girl talk about economy! I beg your pardon, she's some relation of yours, I believe!" said Belle, in a low tone. "Very distant; but I'm proud of it; for with her, economy does n't mean scrimping in one place to make a show in another. If every one would follow the Davenports' example, workwomen would n't starve, or servants be such a trouble. Emma is the plainest dressed girl in the room, next to me, yet any one can see she is a true gentlewoman," said Polly, warmly. "And you are another," answered Belle, who had always loved Polly, in her scatter-brained way. "Hush! Trix has the floor." "If they spent their wages properly, I should n't mind so much, but they think they must be as fine as anybody, and dress so well that it is hard to tell mistress from maid. Why our cook got a bonnet just like mine (the materials were cheaper, but the effect was the same), and had the impertinence to wear it before my face. I forbid it, and she left, of course, which made papa so cross he would n't give me the camel's hair shawl he promised this year." "It's perfectly shameful!" said Miss Perkins, as Trix paused out of breath. "Servants ought to be made to dress like servants, as they do abroad; then we should have no more trouble," observed Miss Perkins, who had just made the grand tour, and had brought home a French maid. "Perky don't practise as she preaches," whispered Belle to Polly, as Miss P. became absorbed in the chat of her other neighbors. "She pays her chamber girl with old finery; and the other day, when Betsey was out parading in her missis's cast-off purple plush suit, Mr. Curtis thought she was mademoiselle, and bowed to her. He is as blind as a bat, but recognized the dress, and pulled off his hat to it in the most elegant style. Perky adores him, and was mad enough to beat Betsey when she told the story and giggled over it. Betsey is quite as stylish and ever so much prettier than Perky, and she knows it, which is an aggravation." Polly could n't help laughing, but grew sober a minute after, as Trix said, pettishly, "Well, I'm sick of hearing about beggars; I believe half of them are humbugs, and if we let them alone they'd go to work and take care of themselves. There's altogether too much fuss made about charity. I do wish we could be left in peace." "There can't be too much charity!" burst out Polly, forgetting her shyness all at once. "Oh, indeed! Well, I take the liberty to differ from you," returned Trix, putting up her glass, and bestowing upon Polly her most "toploftical stare," as the girls called it. I regret to say that Polly never could talk with or be near Trix without feeling irritated and combative. She tried to conquer this feeling, but she could n't, and when Trix put on airs, Polly felt an intense desire to box her ears. That eye-glass was her especial aversion, for Trix was no more near-sighted than herself, but pretended to be because it was the fashion, and at times used the innocent glass as a weapon with which to put down any one who presumed to set themselves up. The supercilious glance which accompanied her ironically polite speech roused Polly, who answered with sudden color and the kindling of the eyes that always betrayed a perturbed spirit, "I don't think many of us would enjoy that selfish sort of peace, while little children starve, and girls no older than us kill themselves because their dreadful poverty leaves them no choice but sin or death." A sudden lull took place, for, though Polly, did not raise her voice, it was full of indignant emotion, and the most frivolous girl there felt a little thrill of sympathy; for the most utterly fashionable life does not kill the heart out of women, till years of selfish pleasure have passed over their heads. Trix was ashamed of herself; but she felt the same antagonism toward Polly, that Polly did toward her; and, being less generous, took satisfaction in plaguing her. Polly did not know that the secret of this was the fact that Tom often held her up as a model for his fiance to follow, which caused that young lady to dislike her more than ever. "Half the awful stories in the papers are made up for a sensation, and it's absurd to believe them, unless one likes to be harrowed up. I don't; and as for peace, I'm not likely to get much, while I have Tom to look after," said Trix, with an aggravating laugh. Polly's needle snapped in two, but she did not mind it, as she said, with a look that silenced even sharp-tongued Trix, "I can't help believing what my own eyes and ears have seen and heard. You lead such safe and happy lives, you can't imagine the misery that is all round you; but if you could get a glimpse of it, it would make your hearts ache, as it has mine." "Do you suffer from heartache? Some one hinted as much to me, but you looked so well, I could n't believe it." Now that was cruel in Trix, more cruel than any one guessed; but girls' tongues can deal wounds as sharp and sudden as the slender stiletto Spanish women wear in their hair, and Polly turned pale, as those words stabbed her. Belle saw it, and rushed to the rescue with more good-will than wisdom. "Nobody ever accused you of having any heart to ache with. Polly and I are not old enough yet to get tough and cool, and we are still silly enough to pity unhappy people, Tom Shaw especially," added Belle, under her breath. That was a two-edged thrust, for Trix was decidedly an old girl, and Tom was generally regarded as a hapless victim. Trix turned red; but before she could load and fire again, Emma Davenport, who labored under the delusion that this sort of skirmishing was ill-natured, and therefore ill-bred, spoke up in her pleasant way, "Speaking of pitying the poor, I always wonder why it is that we all like to read and cry over their troubles in books, but when we have the real thing before us, we think it is uninteresting and disagreeable." "It's the

prices

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

"Now I call that a delicate compliment!" And Tom, who had not lost his early relish for this sort of refreshment, though he seldom indulged his passion nowadays, because peanuts are considered vulgar, fell to cracking and munching with great satisfaction. "Do you remember the first visit I made at your house, how you gave me peanuts, coming from the depot, and frightened me out of my wits, pretending the coachman was tipsy?" asked Polly. "Of course I do, and how we coasted one day," answered Tom, laughing. "Yes, and the velocipede; you've got the scar of that yet, I see." "I remember how you stood by me while it was sewed up; that was very plucky, Polly." "I was dreadfully afraid, but I remember I wanted to seem very brave, because you'd called me a coward." "Did I? Ought to have been ashamed of myself. I used to rough you shamefully, Polly, and you were so good-natured, you let me do it." "Could n't help myself," laughed Polly. "I did use to think you were an awful boy, but seems to me I rather liked it." "She had so much of it at home, she got used to it," put in Will, pulling the little curl behind Polly's ear. "You boys never teased me as Tom did, that's the reason it amused me, I suppose; novelty hath charms, you know." "Grandma used to lecture Tom for plaguing you, Polly, and he used to say he'd be a tip-top boy, but he was n't," observed Maud, with a venerable air. "Dear old grandma; she did her best, but I'm a bad lot," said Tom, with a shake of the head and a sober face. "It always seems as if she must be up in her rooms, and I can't get used to finding them empty," added Polly, softly. "Father would n't have anything moved, and Tom sits up there sometimes; it makes him feel good, he says," said Maud, who had a talent for betraying trifles which people preferred should not be mentioned in public. "You'd better hurry up your apple, for if it is n't done pretty soon, you'll have to leave it, Pug," said Tom, looking annoyed. "How is Fan?" asked Polly, with tact. "Well, Fan is rather under the weather; says she's dyspeptic, which means cross." "She is cross, but she's sick too, for I found her crying one day, and she said nobody cared about her, and she might as well be dead," added Maud, having turned her apple with tender care. "We must try to cheer her up, among us. If I was n't so busy I'd like to devote myself to her, she has done so much for me," said Polly, gratefully. "I wish you could. I can't understand her, for she acts like a weathercock, and I never know how I'm going to find her. I hate to have her mope so, but, upon my life, I don't know what to do," said Tom; but as he uttered the words, something was suggested by the sight before him. Chairs were few, and Polly had taken half of Will's when they drew round the fire. Now she was leaning against him, in a cosy, confiding way, delightful to behold, while Will's strong arm went round her with a protecting air, which said, as plainly as any words, that this big brother and small sister knew how to love and help one another. It was a pleasant little picture, all the pleasanter for its unconsciousness, and Tom found it both suggestive and agreeable. "Poor old Fan, she don't get much petting; maybe that's what she wants. I'll try it and see, for she stands by me like a trump. If she was a rosy, cosy little woman, like Polly, it would come easier, though," thought Tom, as he meditatively ate his last nut, feeling that fraternal affection could not be very difficult of demonstration, to brothers blessed with pretty, good-tempered sisters. "I told Tom about the bad fellow who blew up the professor, and he said he knew him, slightly; and I was so relieved, because I had a kind of a feeling that it was Tom himself, you and Will laughed so about it." Maud had a queer way of going on with her own thoughts, and suddenly coming out with whatever lay uppermost, regardless of time, place, or company. As this remark fell from her, there was a general smile, and Polly said, with mock solemnity, "It was a sad thing, and I've no doubt that misguided young man is very sorry for it now." "He looked perfectly bowed down with remorse last time I saw him," said Will, regarding Tom with eyes full of fun, for Will was a boy as well as a bookworm, and relished a joke as well as scatter-brained Tom. "He always is remorseful after a scrape, I've understood, for he is n't a very bad fellow, only his spirits are one too many for him, and he is n't as fond of his book as another fellow I know." "I'm afraid he'll he expelled if he don't mind," said Polly, warningly. "Should n't wonder if he was, he's such an unlucky dog," answered Tom, rather soberly. "I hope he'll remember that his friends will be very much disappointed if he is. He might make them so proud and happy; that I guess he will, for he is n't half as thoughtless as he makes himself out," said Polly, looking across at Tom with such friendly eyes that he was quite touched, though of course he did n't show it. "Thank you, Polly; he may pull through, but I have my doubts. Now old man, let us'pud' along; it's getting late for the chicken," he added, relapsing into the graceful diction with which a classical education gifts its fortunate possessor. Taking advantage of the moment while Will was wrestling with his boots in the closet, and Maud was absorbed in packing her apple into a large basket, Polly said to Tom in a low tone, "Thank you very much, for being so kind to Will." "Bless your heart, I have n't done anything; he's such a proud fellow he won't let me," answered Tom. "But you do in many little ways; to-night, for example. Do you think I don't know that the suit of clothes he's just got would have cost a good deal more, if your tailor had n't made them? He's only a boy, and don't understand things yet; but I know your way of helping proud people; so that they don't find it out, and I do thank you, Tom, so much." "Oh, come, Polly, that won't do. What do you know about tailors and college matters?" said Tom, looking as much confused as if she had found him out in something reprehensible. "I don't know much, and that's the reason why I'm grateful for your kindness to Will. I don't care what stories they tell about you, I'm sure, you won't lead him into trouble, but keep him straight, for my sake. You know I've lost one brother, and Will takes Jimmy's place to me now." The tears in Polly's eyes as she said that made Tom vow a tremendous vow within himself to stand by Will through thick and thin, and "keep him straight for Polly's sake"; feeling all the time how ill-fitted he was for such a task. "I'll do my best," he said, heartily, as he pressed the hand Polly gave him, with a look which assured her that he felt the appeal to his honor, and that henceforth the country lad was safe from all the temptations Tom could have offered him. "There! now I shall give that to mamma to take her pills in; it's just what she likes, and it pleases her to be thought of," said Maud, surveying her gift with complacency, as she put on her things. "You're a good little soul, to remember poor mum, said Tom, with an approving nod. "Well, she was so pleased with the grapes you brought her, I thought I 'd try something, and maybe she'd say 'Thank you, darling,' to me too. Do you think she will?" whispered Maud, with the wistful look so often seen on her little plain face. "See if she don't;" and to Maud's great surprise Tom did n't laugh at her project. "Good night, dear; take care of yourself, and keep your muffler round your mouth going over the bridge, or you'll be as hoarse as a crow to-morrow," said Polly, as she kissed her brother, who returned it without looking as if he thought it "girl's nonsense" Then the three piled into the sleigh and drove off, leave Polly nodding on the doorstep. Maud found the drive altogether too short, but was consoled by the promise of a longer one if the sleighing lasted till next Saturday: and when Tom ran up to bid his mother good-by, and give her a hint about Maud's gift, she stayed below to say, at the last minute, in unconscious imitation of Polly. "Good night; take care of yourself, my dear." Tom laughed, and was about to pinch the much enduring little nose; but, as if the words reminded him of something, he gave her a kiss instead, a piece of forbearance which almost took Maud's breath away with surprise and gratification. It was rather a silent drive, for Will obediently kept his muffler up, and Tom fell into a brown study. He was not much given to reflection, but occasionally indulged when something gave him a turn in that direction, and at such times he was as sober and sincere as could be desired. Any one might have lectured him for an hour without doing as much good as that little call and the chat that grew out of it, for, though nothing very wise or witty was said, many things were suggested, and every one knows that persuasive influences are better than any amount of moralizing. Neither Polly nor Will tried to do anything of the sort, and that was the charm of it. Nobody likes to be talked to, but nobody can resist the eloquence of unconscious preaching. With all his thoughtlessness, Tom was quick to see and feel these things, and was not spoilt enough yet to laugh at them. The sight of Will and Polly's simple affection for one another reminded him of a neglected duty so pleasantly, that he could not forget it. Talking of early days made him wish he could go back and start again, doing better. Grandma's name recalled the tender memory that always did him good, and the thought that Polly trusted her dearest brother to his care stirred up a manful desire to deserve the confidence. Tortures would n't have drawn a word of all this from him, but it had its effect, for boys don't leave their hearts and consciences behind them when they enter college, and little things of this sort do much to keep both from being damaged by the four years' scrimmage which begins the battle of life for most of them. CHAPTER XI. NEEDLES AND TONGUES DEAR POLLY, The Sewing Circle meets at our house this P. M. This is in your line, so do come and help me through. I shall depend on you. Yours ever, FAN. "Bad news, my dear?" asked Miss Mills, who had just handed the note to Polly as she came in one noon, a few weeks after Jenny's arrival. Polly told her what it was, adding, "I suppose I ought to go and help Fanny, but I can't say I want to. The girls talk about things I have nothing to do with, and I don't find their gossip very amusing. I'm an outsider, and they only accept me on Fan's account; so I sit in a corner and sew, while they chatter and laugh." "Would n't it be a good chance to say a word for Jenny? She wants work, and these young ladies probably have quantities done somewhere. Jenny does fine work exquisitely, and begins to feel anxious to be earning something. I don't want her to feel dependent and unhappy, and a little well-paid sewing would be all she needs to do nicely. I can get it for her by running round to my friends, but I really have n't the time, till I get the Mullers off. They are paupers here, but out West they can take care of themselves, so I've begged the money to send them, and as soon as I can get them some clothes, off they go. That's the way to help people help themselves," and Miss Mills clashed her big scissors energetically, as she cut out a little red flannel shirt. "I know it is, and I want to help, but I don't know where to begin," said Polly, feeling quite oppressed with the immensity of the work. "We can't any of us do all we would like, but we can do our best for every case that comes to us, and that helps amazingly. Begin with Jenny, my dear; tell those girls about her, and if I'm not much mistaken, you will find them ready to help, for half the time it is n't hardness of heart, but ignorance or thoughtlessness on the part of the rich, that makes them seem so careless of the poor." "To tell the truth, I'm afraid of being laughed at, if I try to talk seriously about such things to the girls," said Polly, frankly. "You believe that'such things' are true? You are sincere in your wish to help better them, and you respect those who work for that end?" "Yes, I do." "Then, my dear, can't you bear a little ridicule for the sake of a good cause? You said yesterday that you were going to make it a principle of your life, to help up your sex as far and as fast as you could. It did my heart good to hear you say it, for I was sure that in time you would keep your word. But, Polly, a principle that can't bear being laughed at, frowned on, and cold-shouldered, is n't worthy of the name." "I want to be strong-minded in the real sense of the word, but I don't like to be called so by people who don't understand my meaning; and I shall be if I try to make the girls think soberly about anything sensible or philanthropic. They call me old-fashioned now, and I'd rather be thought that, though it is n't pleasant, than be set down as a rampant woman's rights reformer," said Polly, in whose memory many laughs, and snubs, and sarcasms still lingered, forgiven but not forgotten. "This love and thought and care for those weaker, poorer, or worse than ourselves, which we call Christian charity, is a very old fashion, my dear. It began eighteen hundred years ago, and only those who honestly follow the beautiful example set us then, learn how to get genuine happiness out of life. I'm not a'rampant woman's rights reformer,'" added Miss Mills, with a smile at Polly's sober face; "but I think that women can do a great deal for each other, if they will only stop fearing what'people will think,' and take a hearty interest in whatever is going to fit their sisters and themselves to deserve and enjoy the rights God gave them. There are so many ways in which this can be done, that I wonder they don't see and improve them. I don't ask you to go and make speeches, only a few have the gift for that, but I do want every girl and woman to feel this duty, and make any little sacrifice of time or feeling that may be asked of them, because there is so much to do, and no one can do it as well as ourselves, if we only think so." "I'll try!" said Polly, influenced more by her desire to keep Miss Mills' good opinion than any love of self-sacrifice for her sex. It was rather a hard thing to ask of a shy, sensitive girl, and the kind old lady knew it, for in spite of the gray hair and withered face, her heart was very young, and her own girlish trials not forgotten. But she knew also that Polly had more influence over others than she herself suspected, simply because of her candid, upright nature; and that while she tried to help others, she was serving herself in a way that would improve heart and soul more than any mere social success she might gain by following the rules of fashionable life, which drill the character out of girls till they are as much alike as pins in a paper, and have about as much true sense and sentiment in their little heads. There was good stuff in Polly, unspoiled as yet, and Miss Mills was only acting out her principle of women helping each other. The wise old lady saw that Polly had reached that point where the girl suddenly blooms into a woman, asking something more substantial than pleasure to satisfy the new aspirations that are born; a time as precious and important to the after-life, as the hour when the apple blossoms fall, and the young fruit waits for the elements to ripen or destroy the harvest. Polly did not know this, and was fortunate in possessing a friend who knew what influences would serve her best, and who could give her what all women should desire to give each other, the example of a sweet, good life, more eloquent and powerful than any words; for this is a right no one can deny us. Polly turned the matter over in her mind as she dressed, while Jenny played waiting maid, little dreaming what this new friend was meaning to do for her, if she dared. "Is it going to be a tea-party, Miss?" asked Jenny, as the black silk went rustling on, to her great admiration, for she considered Polly a beauty. "Well, no, I think it will probably be a lecture," answered Polly, laughing, for Jenny's grateful service and affectionate eyes confirmed the purpose which Miss Mills' little homily had suggested. As she entered the Shaws' parlor an hour or two later, an appalling array of well-dressed girls appeared, each provided with a dainty reticule, basket, or bag, and each tongue going a good deal faster than the needle, while the white fingers stitched sleeves in upside down, put flannel jackets together hind part before, or gobbled button-holes with the best intentions in life. "You are a dear to come so early. Here's a nice place for you between Belle and Miss Perkins, and here's a sweet little dress to make, unless you like something else better," said Fanny, receiving her friend with warmth and placing her where she thought she would enjoy herself. "Thank you, I'll take an unbleached cotton shirt if you have such a thing, for it is likely to be needed before a cambric frock," replied Polly, subsiding into her corner as quickly as possible, for at least six eye-glasses were up, and she did n't enjoy being stared at. Miss Perkins, a grave, cold-looking young lady, with an aristocratic nose, bowed politely, and then went on with her work, which displayed two diamond rings to great advantage. Belle, being of the demonstrative sort, smiled and nodded, drew up her chair, and began a whispered account of Trix's last quarrel with Tom. Polly listened with interest while she sewed diligently, occasionally permitting her eyes to study the elegant intricacies of Miss Perkins' dress, for that young lady sat like a statue, quirking her delicate fingers, and accomplishing about two stitches a minute. In the midst of Belle's story, a more exciting bit of gossip caught her ear, and she plunged into the conversation going on across the table, leaving Polly free to listen and admire the wit, wisdom, and charitable spirit of the accomplished young ladies about her. There was a perfect Babel of tongues, but out of the confusion Polly gathered scraps of fashionable intelligence which somewhat lessened her respect for the dwellers in high places. One fair creature asserted that Joe Somebody took so much champagne at the last German, that he had to be got away, and sent home with two servants. Another divulged the awful fact that Carrie P.'s wedding presents were half of them hired for the occasion. A third circulated a whisper to the effect that though Mrs. Buckminster wore a thousand-dollar cloak, her boys were not allowed but one sheet to their beds. And a fourth young gossip assured the company that a certain person never had offered himself to a certain other person, though the report was industriously spread by interested parties. This latter remark caused such a clamor that Fanny called the meeting to order in a most unparliamentary fashion. "Girls! girls! you really must talk less and sew more, or our society will be disgraced. Do you know our branch sent in less work than any of the others last month, and Mrs. Fitz George said, she did n't see how fifteen young ladies could manage to do so little?" "We don't talk a bit more than the old ladies do. I just wish you could have heard them go on, last time. The way they get so much done, is, they take work home, and make their seamstresses do it, and then they take credit for vast industry," said Belle, who always spoke her mind with charming candor. "That reminds me that mamma says they want as many things as we can make, for it's a hard winter, and the poor are suffering very much. Do any of you wish to take articles home, to do at odd times?" said Fan, who was president of this energetic Dorcas Society. "Mercy, no! It takes all my leisure time to mend my gloves and refresh my dresses," answered Belle. "I think if we meet once a week, it is all that should be expected of us, with our other engagements. Poor people always complain that the winter is a hard one, and never are satisfied," remarked Miss Perkins, making her diamonds sparkle as she sewed buttons on the wrong side of a pink calico apron, which would hardly survive one washing. "Nobody can ask me to do any more, if they remember all I've got to attend to before summer," said Trix, with an important air. "I've got three women hard at work, and want another, but everyone is so busy, and ask such abominable prices, that I'm in despair, and shall have to take hold myself, I'm afraid." "There's a chance for Jane," thought Polly, but had n't courage "to speak out loud in meeting," just then, and resolved to ask Trix for work, in private. "Prices are high, but you forget how much more it costs to live now than it used to do. Mamma never allows us to beat down workwomen, but wishes us to pay them well, and economize in some other way, if we must," said Emma Davenport, a quiet, bright-eyed girl, who was called "odd" among the young ladies, because she dressed simply, when her father was a millionaire. "Just hear that girl talk about economy! I beg your pardon, she's some relation of yours, I believe!" said Belle, in a low tone. "Very distant; but I'm proud of it; for with her, economy does n't mean scrimping in one place to make a show in another. If every one would follow the Davenports' example, workwomen would n't starve, or servants be such a trouble. Emma is the plainest dressed girl in the room, next to me, yet any one can see she is a true gentlewoman," said Polly, warmly. "And you are another," answered Belle, who had always loved Polly, in her scatter-brained way. "Hush! Trix has the floor." "If they spent their wages properly, I should n't mind so much, but they think they must be as fine as anybody, and dress so well that it is hard to tell mistress from maid. Why our cook got a bonnet just like mine (the materials were cheaper, but the effect was the same), and had the impertinence to wear it before my face. I forbid it, and she left, of course, which made papa so cross he would n't give me the camel's hair shawl he promised this year." "It's perfectly shameful!" said Miss Perkins, as Trix paused out of breath. "Servants ought to be made to dress like servants, as they do abroad; then we should have no more trouble," observed Miss Perkins, who had just made the grand tour, and had brought home a French maid. "Perky don't practise as she preaches," whispered Belle to Polly, as Miss P. became absorbed in the chat of her other neighbors. "She pays her chamber girl with old finery; and the other day, when Betsey was out parading in her missis's cast-off purple plush suit, Mr. Curtis thought she was mademoiselle, and bowed to her. He is as blind as a bat, but recognized the dress, and pulled off his hat to it in the most elegant style. Perky adores him, and was mad enough to beat Betsey when she told the story and giggled over it. Betsey is quite as stylish and ever so much prettier than Perky, and she knows it, which is an aggravation." Polly could n't help laughing, but grew sober a minute after, as Trix said, pettishly, "Well, I'm sick of hearing about beggars; I believe half of them are humbugs, and if we let them alone they'd go to work and take care of themselves. There's altogether too much fuss made about charity. I do wish we could be left in peace." "There can't be too much charity!" burst out Polly, forgetting her shyness all at once. "Oh, indeed! Well, I take the liberty to differ from you," returned Trix, putting up her glass, and bestowing upon Polly her most "toploftical stare," as the girls called it. I regret to say that Polly never could talk with or be near Trix without feeling irritated and combative. She tried to conquer this feeling, but she could n't, and when Trix put on airs, Polly felt an intense desire to box her ears. That eye-glass was her especial aversion, for Trix was no more near-sighted than herself, but pretended to be because it was the fashion, and at times used the innocent glass as a weapon with which to put down any one who presumed to set themselves up. The supercilious glance which accompanied her ironically polite speech roused Polly, who answered with sudden color and the kindling of the eyes that always betrayed a perturbed spirit, "I don't think many of us would enjoy that selfish sort of peace, while little children starve, and girls no older than us kill themselves because their dreadful poverty leaves them no choice but sin or death." A sudden lull took place, for, though Polly, did not raise her voice, it was full of indignant emotion, and the most frivolous girl there felt a little thrill of sympathy; for the most utterly fashionable life does not kill the heart out of women, till years of selfish pleasure have passed over their heads. Trix was ashamed of herself; but she felt the same antagonism toward Polly, that Polly did toward her; and, being less generous, took satisfaction in plaguing her. Polly did not know that the secret of this was the fact that Tom often held her up as a model for his fiance to follow, which caused that young lady to dislike her more than ever. "Half the awful stories in the papers are made up for a sensation, and it's absurd to believe them, unless one likes to be harrowed up. I don't; and as for peace, I'm not likely to get much, while I have Tom to look after," said Trix, with an aggravating laugh. Polly's needle snapped in two, but she did not mind it, as she said, with a look that silenced even sharp-tongued Trix, "I can't help believing what my own eyes and ears have seen and heard. You lead such safe and happy lives, you can't imagine the misery that is all round you; but if you could get a glimpse of it, it would make your hearts ache, as it has mine." "Do you suffer from heartache? Some one hinted as much to me, but you looked so well, I could n't believe it." Now that was cruel in Trix, more cruel than any one guessed; but girls' tongues can deal wounds as sharp and sudden as the slender stiletto Spanish women wear in their hair, and Polly turned pale, as those words stabbed her. Belle saw it, and rushed to the rescue with more good-will than wisdom. "Nobody ever accused you of having any heart to ache with. Polly and I are not old enough yet to get tough and cool, and we are still silly enough to pity unhappy people, Tom Shaw especially," added Belle, under her breath. That was a two-edged thrust, for Trix was decidedly an old girl, and Tom was generally regarded as a hapless victim. Trix turned red; but before she could load and fire again, Emma Davenport, who labored under the delusion that this sort of skirmishing was ill-natured, and therefore ill-bred, spoke up in her pleasant way, "Speaking of pitying the poor, I always wonder why it is that we all like to read and cry over their troubles in books, but when we have the real thing before us, we think it is uninteresting and disagreeable." "It's the

reign

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

"Now I call that a delicate compliment!" And Tom, who had not lost his early relish for this sort of refreshment, though he seldom indulged his passion nowadays, because peanuts are considered vulgar, fell to cracking and munching with great satisfaction. "Do you remember the first visit I made at your house, how you gave me peanuts, coming from the depot, and frightened me out of my wits, pretending the coachman was tipsy?" asked Polly. "Of course I do, and how we coasted one day," answered Tom, laughing. "Yes, and the velocipede; you've got the scar of that yet, I see." "I remember how you stood by me while it was sewed up; that was very plucky, Polly." "I was dreadfully afraid, but I remember I wanted to seem very brave, because you'd called me a coward." "Did I? Ought to have been ashamed of myself. I used to rough you shamefully, Polly, and you were so good-natured, you let me do it." "Could n't help myself," laughed Polly. "I did use to think you were an awful boy, but seems to me I rather liked it." "She had so much of it at home, she got used to it," put in Will, pulling the little curl behind Polly's ear. "You boys never teased me as Tom did, that's the reason it amused me, I suppose; novelty hath charms, you know." "Grandma used to lecture Tom for plaguing you, Polly, and he used to say he'd be a tip-top boy, but he was n't," observed Maud, with a venerable air. "Dear old grandma; she did her best, but I'm a bad lot," said Tom, with a shake of the head and a sober face. "It always seems as if she must be up in her rooms, and I can't get used to finding them empty," added Polly, softly. "Father would n't have anything moved, and Tom sits up there sometimes; it makes him feel good, he says," said Maud, who had a talent for betraying trifles which people preferred should not be mentioned in public. "You'd better hurry up your apple, for if it is n't done pretty soon, you'll have to leave it, Pug," said Tom, looking annoyed. "How is Fan?" asked Polly, with tact. "Well, Fan is rather under the weather; says she's dyspeptic, which means cross." "She is cross, but she's sick too, for I found her crying one day, and she said nobody cared about her, and she might as well be dead," added Maud, having turned her apple with tender care. "We must try to cheer her up, among us. If I was n't so busy I'd like to devote myself to her, she has done so much for me," said Polly, gratefully. "I wish you could. I can't understand her, for she acts like a weathercock, and I never know how I'm going to find her. I hate to have her mope so, but, upon my life, I don't know what to do," said Tom; but as he uttered the words, something was suggested by the sight before him. Chairs were few, and Polly had taken half of Will's when they drew round the fire. Now she was leaning against him, in a cosy, confiding way, delightful to behold, while Will's strong arm went round her with a protecting air, which said, as plainly as any words, that this big brother and small sister knew how to love and help one another. It was a pleasant little picture, all the pleasanter for its unconsciousness, and Tom found it both suggestive and agreeable. "Poor old Fan, she don't get much petting; maybe that's what she wants. I'll try it and see, for she stands by me like a trump. If she was a rosy, cosy little woman, like Polly, it would come easier, though," thought Tom, as he meditatively ate his last nut, feeling that fraternal affection could not be very difficult of demonstration, to brothers blessed with pretty, good-tempered sisters. "I told Tom about the bad fellow who blew up the professor, and he said he knew him, slightly; and I was so relieved, because I had a kind of a feeling that it was Tom himself, you and Will laughed so about it." Maud had a queer way of going on with her own thoughts, and suddenly coming out with whatever lay uppermost, regardless of time, place, or company. As this remark fell from her, there was a general smile, and Polly said, with mock solemnity, "It was a sad thing, and I've no doubt that misguided young man is very sorry for it now." "He looked perfectly bowed down with remorse last time I saw him," said Will, regarding Tom with eyes full of fun, for Will was a boy as well as a bookworm, and relished a joke as well as scatter-brained Tom. "He always is remorseful after a scrape, I've understood, for he is n't a very bad fellow, only his spirits are one too many for him, and he is n't as fond of his book as another fellow I know." "I'm afraid he'll he expelled if he don't mind," said Polly, warningly. "Should n't wonder if he was, he's such an unlucky dog," answered Tom, rather soberly. "I hope he'll remember that his friends will be very much disappointed if he is. He might make them so proud and happy; that I guess he will, for he is n't half as thoughtless as he makes himself out," said Polly, looking across at Tom with such friendly eyes that he was quite touched, though of course he did n't show it. "Thank you, Polly; he may pull through, but I have my doubts. Now old man, let us'pud' along; it's getting late for the chicken," he added, relapsing into the graceful diction with which a classical education gifts its fortunate possessor. Taking advantage of the moment while Will was wrestling with his boots in the closet, and Maud was absorbed in packing her apple into a large basket, Polly said to Tom in a low tone, "Thank you very much, for being so kind to Will." "Bless your heart, I have n't done anything; he's such a proud fellow he won't let me," answered Tom. "But you do in many little ways; to-night, for example. Do you think I don't know that the suit of clothes he's just got would have cost a good deal more, if your tailor had n't made them? He's only a boy, and don't understand things yet; but I know your way of helping proud people; so that they don't find it out, and I do thank you, Tom, so much." "Oh, come, Polly, that won't do. What do you know about tailors and college matters?" said Tom, looking as much confused as if she had found him out in something reprehensible. "I don't know much, and that's the reason why I'm grateful for your kindness to Will. I don't care what stories they tell about you, I'm sure, you won't lead him into trouble, but keep him straight, for my sake. You know I've lost one brother, and Will takes Jimmy's place to me now." The tears in Polly's eyes as she said that made Tom vow a tremendous vow within himself to stand by Will through thick and thin, and "keep him straight for Polly's sake"; feeling all the time how ill-fitted he was for such a task. "I'll do my best," he said, heartily, as he pressed the hand Polly gave him, with a look which assured her that he felt the appeal to his honor, and that henceforth the country lad was safe from all the temptations Tom could have offered him. "There! now I shall give that to mamma to take her pills in; it's just what she likes, and it pleases her to be thought of," said Maud, surveying her gift with complacency, as she put on her things. "You're a good little soul, to remember poor mum, said Tom, with an approving nod. "Well, she was so pleased with the grapes you brought her, I thought I 'd try something, and maybe she'd say 'Thank you, darling,' to me too. Do you think she will?" whispered Maud, with the wistful look so often seen on her little plain face. "See if she don't;" and to Maud's great surprise Tom did n't laugh at her project. "Good night, dear; take care of yourself, and keep your muffler round your mouth going over the bridge, or you'll be as hoarse as a crow to-morrow," said Polly, as she kissed her brother, who returned it without looking as if he thought it "girl's nonsense" Then the three piled into the sleigh and drove off, leave Polly nodding on the doorstep. Maud found the drive altogether too short, but was consoled by the promise of a longer one if the sleighing lasted till next Saturday: and when Tom ran up to bid his mother good-by, and give her a hint about Maud's gift, she stayed below to say, at the last minute, in unconscious imitation of Polly. "Good night; take care of yourself, my dear." Tom laughed, and was about to pinch the much enduring little nose; but, as if the words reminded him of something, he gave her a kiss instead, a piece of forbearance which almost took Maud's breath away with surprise and gratification. It was rather a silent drive, for Will obediently kept his muffler up, and Tom fell into a brown study. He was not much given to reflection, but occasionally indulged when something gave him a turn in that direction, and at such times he was as sober and sincere as could be desired. Any one might have lectured him for an hour without doing as much good as that little call and the chat that grew out of it, for, though nothing very wise or witty was said, many things were suggested, and every one knows that persuasive influences are better than any amount of moralizing. Neither Polly nor Will tried to do anything of the sort, and that was the charm of it. Nobody likes to be talked to, but nobody can resist the eloquence of unconscious preaching. With all his thoughtlessness, Tom was quick to see and feel these things, and was not spoilt enough yet to laugh at them. The sight of Will and Polly's simple affection for one another reminded him of a neglected duty so pleasantly, that he could not forget it. Talking of early days made him wish he could go back and start again, doing better. Grandma's name recalled the tender memory that always did him good, and the thought that Polly trusted her dearest brother to his care stirred up a manful desire to deserve the confidence. Tortures would n't have drawn a word of all this from him, but it had its effect, for boys don't leave their hearts and consciences behind them when they enter college, and little things of this sort do much to keep both from being damaged by the four years' scrimmage which begins the battle of life for most of them. CHAPTER XI. NEEDLES AND TONGUES DEAR POLLY, The Sewing Circle meets at our house this P. M. This is in your line, so do come and help me through. I shall depend on you. Yours ever, FAN. "Bad news, my dear?" asked Miss Mills, who had just handed the note to Polly as she came in one noon, a few weeks after Jenny's arrival. Polly told her what it was, adding, "I suppose I ought to go and help Fanny, but I can't say I want to. The girls talk about things I have nothing to do with, and I don't find their gossip very amusing. I'm an outsider, and they only accept me on Fan's account; so I sit in a corner and sew, while they chatter and laugh." "Would n't it be a good chance to say a word for Jenny? She wants work, and these young ladies probably have quantities done somewhere. Jenny does fine work exquisitely, and begins to feel anxious to be earning something. I don't want her to feel dependent and unhappy, and a little well-paid sewing would be all she needs to do nicely. I can get it for her by running round to my friends, but I really have n't the time, till I get the Mullers off. They are paupers here, but out West they can take care of themselves, so I've begged the money to send them, and as soon as I can get them some clothes, off they go. That's the way to help people help themselves," and Miss Mills clashed her big scissors energetically, as she cut out a little red flannel shirt. "I know it is, and I want to help, but I don't know where to begin," said Polly, feeling quite oppressed with the immensity of the work. "We can't any of us do all we would like, but we can do our best for every case that comes to us, and that helps amazingly. Begin with Jenny, my dear; tell those girls about her, and if I'm not much mistaken, you will find them ready to help, for half the time it is n't hardness of heart, but ignorance or thoughtlessness on the part of the rich, that makes them seem so careless of the poor." "To tell the truth, I'm afraid of being laughed at, if I try to talk seriously about such things to the girls," said Polly, frankly. "You believe that'such things' are true? You are sincere in your wish to help better them, and you respect those who work for that end?" "Yes, I do." "Then, my dear, can't you bear a little ridicule for the sake of a good cause? You said yesterday that you were going to make it a principle of your life, to help up your sex as far and as fast as you could. It did my heart good to hear you say it, for I was sure that in time you would keep your word. But, Polly, a principle that can't bear being laughed at, frowned on, and cold-shouldered, is n't worthy of the name." "I want to be strong-minded in the real sense of the word, but I don't like to be called so by people who don't understand my meaning; and I shall be if I try to make the girls think soberly about anything sensible or philanthropic. They call me old-fashioned now, and I'd rather be thought that, though it is n't pleasant, than be set down as a rampant woman's rights reformer," said Polly, in whose memory many laughs, and snubs, and sarcasms still lingered, forgiven but not forgotten. "This love and thought and care for those weaker, poorer, or worse than ourselves, which we call Christian charity, is a very old fashion, my dear. It began eighteen hundred years ago, and only those who honestly follow the beautiful example set us then, learn how to get genuine happiness out of life. I'm not a'rampant woman's rights reformer,'" added Miss Mills, with a smile at Polly's sober face; "but I think that women can do a great deal for each other, if they will only stop fearing what'people will think,' and take a hearty interest in whatever is going to fit their sisters and themselves to deserve and enjoy the rights God gave them. There are so many ways in which this can be done, that I wonder they don't see and improve them. I don't ask you to go and make speeches, only a few have the gift for that, but I do want every girl and woman to feel this duty, and make any little sacrifice of time or feeling that may be asked of them, because there is so much to do, and no one can do it as well as ourselves, if we only think so." "I'll try!" said Polly, influenced more by her desire to keep Miss Mills' good opinion than any love of self-sacrifice for her sex. It was rather a hard thing to ask of a shy, sensitive girl, and the kind old lady knew it, for in spite of the gray hair and withered face, her heart was very young, and her own girlish trials not forgotten. But she knew also that Polly had more influence over others than she herself suspected, simply because of her candid, upright nature; and that while she tried to help others, she was serving herself in a way that would improve heart and soul more than any mere social success she might gain by following the rules of fashionable life, which drill the character out of girls till they are as much alike as pins in a paper, and have about as much true sense and sentiment in their little heads. There was good stuff in Polly, unspoiled as yet, and Miss Mills was only acting out her principle of women helping each other. The wise old lady saw that Polly had reached that point where the girl suddenly blooms into a woman, asking something more substantial than pleasure to satisfy the new aspirations that are born; a time as precious and important to the after-life, as the hour when the apple blossoms fall, and the young fruit waits for the elements to ripen or destroy the harvest. Polly did not know this, and was fortunate in possessing a friend who knew what influences would serve her best, and who could give her what all women should desire to give each other, the example of a sweet, good life, more eloquent and powerful than any words; for this is a right no one can deny us. Polly turned the matter over in her mind as she dressed, while Jenny played waiting maid, little dreaming what this new friend was meaning to do for her, if she dared. "Is it going to be a tea-party, Miss?" asked Jenny, as the black silk went rustling on, to her great admiration, for she considered Polly a beauty. "Well, no, I think it will probably be a lecture," answered Polly, laughing, for Jenny's grateful service and affectionate eyes confirmed the purpose which Miss Mills' little homily had suggested. As she entered the Shaws' parlor an hour or two later, an appalling array of well-dressed girls appeared, each provided with a dainty reticule, basket, or bag, and each tongue going a good deal faster than the needle, while the white fingers stitched sleeves in upside down, put flannel jackets together hind part before, or gobbled button-holes with the best intentions in life. "You are a dear to come so early. Here's a nice place for you between Belle and Miss Perkins, and here's a sweet little dress to make, unless you like something else better," said Fanny, receiving her friend with warmth and placing her where she thought she would enjoy herself. "Thank you, I'll take an unbleached cotton shirt if you have such a thing, for it is likely to be needed before a cambric frock," replied Polly, subsiding into her corner as quickly as possible, for at least six eye-glasses were up, and she did n't enjoy being stared at. Miss Perkins, a grave, cold-looking young lady, with an aristocratic nose, bowed politely, and then went on with her work, which displayed two diamond rings to great advantage. Belle, being of the demonstrative sort, smiled and nodded, drew up her chair, and began a whispered account of Trix's last quarrel with Tom. Polly listened with interest while she sewed diligently, occasionally permitting her eyes to study the elegant intricacies of Miss Perkins' dress, for that young lady sat like a statue, quirking her delicate fingers, and accomplishing about two stitches a minute. In the midst of Belle's story, a more exciting bit of gossip caught her ear, and she plunged into the conversation going on across the table, leaving Polly free to listen and admire the wit, wisdom, and charitable spirit of the accomplished young ladies about her. There was a perfect Babel of tongues, but out of the confusion Polly gathered scraps of fashionable intelligence which somewhat lessened her respect for the dwellers in high places. One fair creature asserted that Joe Somebody took so much champagne at the last German, that he had to be got away, and sent home with two servants. Another divulged the awful fact that Carrie P.'s wedding presents were half of them hired for the occasion. A third circulated a whisper to the effect that though Mrs. Buckminster wore a thousand-dollar cloak, her boys were not allowed but one sheet to their beds. And a fourth young gossip assured the company that a certain person never had offered himself to a certain other person, though the report was industriously spread by interested parties. This latter remark caused such a clamor that Fanny called the meeting to order in a most unparliamentary fashion. "Girls! girls! you really must talk less and sew more, or our society will be disgraced. Do you know our branch sent in less work than any of the others last month, and Mrs. Fitz George said, she did n't see how fifteen young ladies could manage to do so little?" "We don't talk a bit more than the old ladies do. I just wish you could have heard them go on, last time. The way they get so much done, is, they take work home, and make their seamstresses do it, and then they take credit for vast industry," said Belle, who always spoke her mind with charming candor. "That reminds me that mamma says they want as many things as we can make, for it's a hard winter, and the poor are suffering very much. Do any of you wish to take articles home, to do at odd times?" said Fan, who was president of this energetic Dorcas Society. "Mercy, no! It takes all my leisure time to mend my gloves and refresh my dresses," answered Belle. "I think if we meet once a week, it is all that should be expected of us, with our other engagements. Poor people always complain that the winter is a hard one, and never are satisfied," remarked Miss Perkins, making her diamonds sparkle as she sewed buttons on the wrong side of a pink calico apron, which would hardly survive one washing. "Nobody can ask me to do any more, if they remember all I've got to attend to before summer," said Trix, with an important air. "I've got three women hard at work, and want another, but everyone is so busy, and ask such abominable prices, that I'm in despair, and shall have to take hold myself, I'm afraid." "There's a chance for Jane," thought Polly, but had n't courage "to speak out loud in meeting," just then, and resolved to ask Trix for work, in private. "Prices are high, but you forget how much more it costs to live now than it used to do. Mamma never allows us to beat down workwomen, but wishes us to pay them well, and economize in some other way, if we must," said Emma Davenport, a quiet, bright-eyed girl, who was called "odd" among the young ladies, because she dressed simply, when her father was a millionaire. "Just hear that girl talk about economy! I beg your pardon, she's some relation of yours, I believe!" said Belle, in a low tone. "Very distant; but I'm proud of it; for with her, economy does n't mean scrimping in one place to make a show in another. If every one would follow the Davenports' example, workwomen would n't starve, or servants be such a trouble. Emma is the plainest dressed girl in the room, next to me, yet any one can see she is a true gentlewoman," said Polly, warmly. "And you are another," answered Belle, who had always loved Polly, in her scatter-brained way. "Hush! Trix has the floor." "If they spent their wages properly, I should n't mind so much, but they think they must be as fine as anybody, and dress so well that it is hard to tell mistress from maid. Why our cook got a bonnet just like mine (the materials were cheaper, but the effect was the same), and had the impertinence to wear it before my face. I forbid it, and she left, of course, which made papa so cross he would n't give me the camel's hair shawl he promised this year." "It's perfectly shameful!" said Miss Perkins, as Trix paused out of breath. "Servants ought to be made to dress like servants, as they do abroad; then we should have no more trouble," observed Miss Perkins, who had just made the grand tour, and had brought home a French maid. "Perky don't practise as she preaches," whispered Belle to Polly, as Miss P. became absorbed in the chat of her other neighbors. "She pays her chamber girl with old finery; and the other day, when Betsey was out parading in her missis's cast-off purple plush suit, Mr. Curtis thought she was mademoiselle, and bowed to her. He is as blind as a bat, but recognized the dress, and pulled off his hat to it in the most elegant style. Perky adores him, and was mad enough to beat Betsey when she told the story and giggled over it. Betsey is quite as stylish and ever so much prettier than Perky, and she knows it, which is an aggravation." Polly could n't help laughing, but grew sober a minute after, as Trix said, pettishly, "Well, I'm sick of hearing about beggars; I believe half of them are humbugs, and if we let them alone they'd go to work and take care of themselves. There's altogether too much fuss made about charity. I do wish we could be left in peace." "There can't be too much charity!" burst out Polly, forgetting her shyness all at once. "Oh, indeed! Well, I take the liberty to differ from you," returned Trix, putting up her glass, and bestowing upon Polly her most "toploftical stare," as the girls called it. I regret to say that Polly never could talk with or be near Trix without feeling irritated and combative. She tried to conquer this feeling, but she could n't, and when Trix put on airs, Polly felt an intense desire to box her ears. That eye-glass was her especial aversion, for Trix was no more near-sighted than herself, but pretended to be because it was the fashion, and at times used the innocent glass as a weapon with which to put down any one who presumed to set themselves up. The supercilious glance which accompanied her ironically polite speech roused Polly, who answered with sudden color and the kindling of the eyes that always betrayed a perturbed spirit, "I don't think many of us would enjoy that selfish sort of peace, while little children starve, and girls no older than us kill themselves because their dreadful poverty leaves them no choice but sin or death." A sudden lull took place, for, though Polly, did not raise her voice, it was full of indignant emotion, and the most frivolous girl there felt a little thrill of sympathy; for the most utterly fashionable life does not kill the heart out of women, till years of selfish pleasure have passed over their heads. Trix was ashamed of herself; but she felt the same antagonism toward Polly, that Polly did toward her; and, being less generous, took satisfaction in plaguing her. Polly did not know that the secret of this was the fact that Tom often held her up as a model for his fiance to follow, which caused that young lady to dislike her more than ever. "Half the awful stories in the papers are made up for a sensation, and it's absurd to believe them, unless one likes to be harrowed up. I don't; and as for peace, I'm not likely to get much, while I have Tom to look after," said Trix, with an aggravating laugh. Polly's needle snapped in two, but she did not mind it, as she said, with a look that silenced even sharp-tongued Trix, "I can't help believing what my own eyes and ears have seen and heard. You lead such safe and happy lives, you can't imagine the misery that is all round you; but if you could get a glimpse of it, it would make your hearts ache, as it has mine." "Do you suffer from heartache? Some one hinted as much to me, but you looked so well, I could n't believe it." Now that was cruel in Trix, more cruel than any one guessed; but girls' tongues can deal wounds as sharp and sudden as the slender stiletto Spanish women wear in their hair, and Polly turned pale, as those words stabbed her. Belle saw it, and rushed to the rescue with more good-will than wisdom. "Nobody ever accused you of having any heart to ache with. Polly and I are not old enough yet to get tough and cool, and we are still silly enough to pity unhappy people, Tom Shaw especially," added Belle, under her breath. That was a two-edged thrust, for Trix was decidedly an old girl, and Tom was generally regarded as a hapless victim. Trix turned red; but before she could load and fire again, Emma Davenport, who labored under the delusion that this sort of skirmishing was ill-natured, and therefore ill-bred, spoke up in her pleasant way, "Speaking of pitying the poor, I always wonder why it is that we all like to read and cry over their troubles in books, but when we have the real thing before us, we think it is uninteresting and disagreeable." "It's the

guess

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

"Now I call that a delicate compliment!" And Tom, who had not lost his early relish for this sort of refreshment, though he seldom indulged his passion nowadays, because peanuts are considered vulgar, fell to cracking and munching with great satisfaction. "Do you remember the first visit I made at your house, how you gave me peanuts, coming from the depot, and frightened me out of my wits, pretending the coachman was tipsy?" asked Polly. "Of course I do, and how we coasted one day," answered Tom, laughing. "Yes, and the velocipede; you've got the scar of that yet, I see." "I remember how you stood by me while it was sewed up; that was very plucky, Polly." "I was dreadfully afraid, but I remember I wanted to seem very brave, because you'd called me a coward." "Did I? Ought to have been ashamed of myself. I used to rough you shamefully, Polly, and you were so good-natured, you let me do it." "Could n't help myself," laughed Polly. "I did use to think you were an awful boy, but seems to me I rather liked it." "She had so much of it at home, she got used to it," put in Will, pulling the little curl behind Polly's ear. "You boys never teased me as Tom did, that's the reason it amused me, I suppose; novelty hath charms, you know." "Grandma used to lecture Tom for plaguing you, Polly, and he used to say he'd be a tip-top boy, but he was n't," observed Maud, with a venerable air. "Dear old grandma; she did her best, but I'm a bad lot," said Tom, with a shake of the head and a sober face. "It always seems as if she must be up in her rooms, and I can't get used to finding them empty," added Polly, softly. "Father would n't have anything moved, and Tom sits up there sometimes; it makes him feel good, he says," said Maud, who had a talent for betraying trifles which people preferred should not be mentioned in public. "You'd better hurry up your apple, for if it is n't done pretty soon, you'll have to leave it, Pug," said Tom, looking annoyed. "How is Fan?" asked Polly, with tact. "Well, Fan is rather under the weather; says she's dyspeptic, which means cross." "She is cross, but she's sick too, for I found her crying one day, and she said nobody cared about her, and she might as well be dead," added Maud, having turned her apple with tender care. "We must try to cheer her up, among us. If I was n't so busy I'd like to devote myself to her, she has done so much for me," said Polly, gratefully. "I wish you could. I can't understand her, for she acts like a weathercock, and I never know how I'm going to find her. I hate to have her mope so, but, upon my life, I don't know what to do," said Tom; but as he uttered the words, something was suggested by the sight before him. Chairs were few, and Polly had taken half of Will's when they drew round the fire. Now she was leaning against him, in a cosy, confiding way, delightful to behold, while Will's strong arm went round her with a protecting air, which said, as plainly as any words, that this big brother and small sister knew how to love and help one another. It was a pleasant little picture, all the pleasanter for its unconsciousness, and Tom found it both suggestive and agreeable. "Poor old Fan, she don't get much petting; maybe that's what she wants. I'll try it and see, for she stands by me like a trump. If she was a rosy, cosy little woman, like Polly, it would come easier, though," thought Tom, as he meditatively ate his last nut, feeling that fraternal affection could not be very difficult of demonstration, to brothers blessed with pretty, good-tempered sisters. "I told Tom about the bad fellow who blew up the professor, and he said he knew him, slightly; and I was so relieved, because I had a kind of a feeling that it was Tom himself, you and Will laughed so about it." Maud had a queer way of going on with her own thoughts, and suddenly coming out with whatever lay uppermost, regardless of time, place, or company. As this remark fell from her, there was a general smile, and Polly said, with mock solemnity, "It was a sad thing, and I've no doubt that misguided young man is very sorry for it now." "He looked perfectly bowed down with remorse last time I saw him," said Will, regarding Tom with eyes full of fun, for Will was a boy as well as a bookworm, and relished a joke as well as scatter-brained Tom. "He always is remorseful after a scrape, I've understood, for he is n't a very bad fellow, only his spirits are one too many for him, and he is n't as fond of his book as another fellow I know." "I'm afraid he'll he expelled if he don't mind," said Polly, warningly. "Should n't wonder if he was, he's such an unlucky dog," answered Tom, rather soberly. "I hope he'll remember that his friends will be very much disappointed if he is. He might make them so proud and happy; that I guess he will, for he is n't half as thoughtless as he makes himself out," said Polly, looking across at Tom with such friendly eyes that he was quite touched, though of course he did n't show it. "Thank you, Polly; he may pull through, but I have my doubts. Now old man, let us'pud' along; it's getting late for the chicken," he added, relapsing into the graceful diction with which a classical education gifts its fortunate possessor. Taking advantage of the moment while Will was wrestling with his boots in the closet, and Maud was absorbed in packing her apple into a large basket, Polly said to Tom in a low tone, "Thank you very much, for being so kind to Will." "Bless your heart, I have n't done anything; he's such a proud fellow he won't let me," answered Tom. "But you do in many little ways; to-night, for example. Do you think I don't know that the suit of clothes he's just got would have cost a good deal more, if your tailor had n't made them? He's only a boy, and don't understand things yet; but I know your way of helping proud people; so that they don't find it out, and I do thank you, Tom, so much." "Oh, come, Polly, that won't do. What do you know about tailors and college matters?" said Tom, looking as much confused as if she had found him out in something reprehensible. "I don't know much, and that's the reason why I'm grateful for your kindness to Will. I don't care what stories they tell about you, I'm sure, you won't lead him into trouble, but keep him straight, for my sake. You know I've lost one brother, and Will takes Jimmy's place to me now." The tears in Polly's eyes as she said that made Tom vow a tremendous vow within himself to stand by Will through thick and thin, and "keep him straight for Polly's sake"; feeling all the time how ill-fitted he was for such a task. "I'll do my best," he said, heartily, as he pressed the hand Polly gave him, with a look which assured her that he felt the appeal to his honor, and that henceforth the country lad was safe from all the temptations Tom could have offered him. "There! now I shall give that to mamma to take her pills in; it's just what she likes, and it pleases her to be thought of," said Maud, surveying her gift with complacency, as she put on her things. "You're a good little soul, to remember poor mum, said Tom, with an approving nod. "Well, she was so pleased with the grapes you brought her, I thought I 'd try something, and maybe she'd say 'Thank you, darling,' to me too. Do you think she will?" whispered Maud, with the wistful look so often seen on her little plain face. "See if she don't;" and to Maud's great surprise Tom did n't laugh at her project. "Good night, dear; take care of yourself, and keep your muffler round your mouth going over the bridge, or you'll be as hoarse as a crow to-morrow," said Polly, as she kissed her brother, who returned it without looking as if he thought it "girl's nonsense" Then the three piled into the sleigh and drove off, leave Polly nodding on the doorstep. Maud found the drive altogether too short, but was consoled by the promise of a longer one if the sleighing lasted till next Saturday: and when Tom ran up to bid his mother good-by, and give her a hint about Maud's gift, she stayed below to say, at the last minute, in unconscious imitation of Polly. "Good night; take care of yourself, my dear." Tom laughed, and was about to pinch the much enduring little nose; but, as if the words reminded him of something, he gave her a kiss instead, a piece of forbearance which almost took Maud's breath away with surprise and gratification. It was rather a silent drive, for Will obediently kept his muffler up, and Tom fell into a brown study. He was not much given to reflection, but occasionally indulged when something gave him a turn in that direction, and at such times he was as sober and sincere as could be desired. Any one might have lectured him for an hour without doing as much good as that little call and the chat that grew out of it, for, though nothing very wise or witty was said, many things were suggested, and every one knows that persuasive influences are better than any amount of moralizing. Neither Polly nor Will tried to do anything of the sort, and that was the charm of it. Nobody likes to be talked to, but nobody can resist the eloquence of unconscious preaching. With all his thoughtlessness, Tom was quick to see and feel these things, and was not spoilt enough yet to laugh at them. The sight of Will and Polly's simple affection for one another reminded him of a neglected duty so pleasantly, that he could not forget it. Talking of early days made him wish he could go back and start again, doing better. Grandma's name recalled the tender memory that always did him good, and the thought that Polly trusted her dearest brother to his care stirred up a manful desire to deserve the confidence. Tortures would n't have drawn a word of all this from him, but it had its effect, for boys don't leave their hearts and consciences behind them when they enter college, and little things of this sort do much to keep both from being damaged by the four years' scrimmage which begins the battle of life for most of them. CHAPTER XI. NEEDLES AND TONGUES DEAR POLLY, The Sewing Circle meets at our house this P. M. This is in your line, so do come and help me through. I shall depend on you. Yours ever, FAN. "Bad news, my dear?" asked Miss Mills, who had just handed the note to Polly as she came in one noon, a few weeks after Jenny's arrival. Polly told her what it was, adding, "I suppose I ought to go and help Fanny, but I can't say I want to. The girls talk about things I have nothing to do with, and I don't find their gossip very amusing. I'm an outsider, and they only accept me on Fan's account; so I sit in a corner and sew, while they chatter and laugh." "Would n't it be a good chance to say a word for Jenny? She wants work, and these young ladies probably have quantities done somewhere. Jenny does fine work exquisitely, and begins to feel anxious to be earning something. I don't want her to feel dependent and unhappy, and a little well-paid sewing would be all she needs to do nicely. I can get it for her by running round to my friends, but I really have n't the time, till I get the Mullers off. They are paupers here, but out West they can take care of themselves, so I've begged the money to send them, and as soon as I can get them some clothes, off they go. That's the way to help people help themselves," and Miss Mills clashed her big scissors energetically, as she cut out a little red flannel shirt. "I know it is, and I want to help, but I don't know where to begin," said Polly, feeling quite oppressed with the immensity of the work. "We can't any of us do all we would like, but we can do our best for every case that comes to us, and that helps amazingly. Begin with Jenny, my dear; tell those girls about her, and if I'm not much mistaken, you will find them ready to help, for half the time it is n't hardness of heart, but ignorance or thoughtlessness on the part of the rich, that makes them seem so careless of the poor." "To tell the truth, I'm afraid of being laughed at, if I try to talk seriously about such things to the girls," said Polly, frankly. "You believe that'such things' are true? You are sincere in your wish to help better them, and you respect those who work for that end?" "Yes, I do." "Then, my dear, can't you bear a little ridicule for the sake of a good cause? You said yesterday that you were going to make it a principle of your life, to help up your sex as far and as fast as you could. It did my heart good to hear you say it, for I was sure that in time you would keep your word. But, Polly, a principle that can't bear being laughed at, frowned on, and cold-shouldered, is n't worthy of the name." "I want to be strong-minded in the real sense of the word, but I don't like to be called so by people who don't understand my meaning; and I shall be if I try to make the girls think soberly about anything sensible or philanthropic. They call me old-fashioned now, and I'd rather be thought that, though it is n't pleasant, than be set down as a rampant woman's rights reformer," said Polly, in whose memory many laughs, and snubs, and sarcasms still lingered, forgiven but not forgotten. "This love and thought and care for those weaker, poorer, or worse than ourselves, which we call Christian charity, is a very old fashion, my dear. It began eighteen hundred years ago, and only those who honestly follow the beautiful example set us then, learn how to get genuine happiness out of life. I'm not a'rampant woman's rights reformer,'" added Miss Mills, with a smile at Polly's sober face; "but I think that women can do a great deal for each other, if they will only stop fearing what'people will think,' and take a hearty interest in whatever is going to fit their sisters and themselves to deserve and enjoy the rights God gave them. There are so many ways in which this can be done, that I wonder they don't see and improve them. I don't ask you to go and make speeches, only a few have the gift for that, but I do want every girl and woman to feel this duty, and make any little sacrifice of time or feeling that may be asked of them, because there is so much to do, and no one can do it as well as ourselves, if we only think so." "I'll try!" said Polly, influenced more by her desire to keep Miss Mills' good opinion than any love of self-sacrifice for her sex. It was rather a hard thing to ask of a shy, sensitive girl, and the kind old lady knew it, for in spite of the gray hair and withered face, her heart was very young, and her own girlish trials not forgotten. But she knew also that Polly had more influence over others than she herself suspected, simply because of her candid, upright nature; and that while she tried to help others, she was serving herself in a way that would improve heart and soul more than any mere social success she might gain by following the rules of fashionable life, which drill the character out of girls till they are as much alike as pins in a paper, and have about as much true sense and sentiment in their little heads. There was good stuff in Polly, unspoiled as yet, and Miss Mills was only acting out her principle of women helping each other. The wise old lady saw that Polly had reached that point where the girl suddenly blooms into a woman, asking something more substantial than pleasure to satisfy the new aspirations that are born; a time as precious and important to the after-life, as the hour when the apple blossoms fall, and the young fruit waits for the elements to ripen or destroy the harvest. Polly did not know this, and was fortunate in possessing a friend who knew what influences would serve her best, and who could give her what all women should desire to give each other, the example of a sweet, good life, more eloquent and powerful than any words; for this is a right no one can deny us. Polly turned the matter over in her mind as she dressed, while Jenny played waiting maid, little dreaming what this new friend was meaning to do for her, if she dared. "Is it going to be a tea-party, Miss?" asked Jenny, as the black silk went rustling on, to her great admiration, for she considered Polly a beauty. "Well, no, I think it will probably be a lecture," answered Polly, laughing, for Jenny's grateful service and affectionate eyes confirmed the purpose which Miss Mills' little homily had suggested. As she entered the Shaws' parlor an hour or two later, an appalling array of well-dressed girls appeared, each provided with a dainty reticule, basket, or bag, and each tongue going a good deal faster than the needle, while the white fingers stitched sleeves in upside down, put flannel jackets together hind part before, or gobbled button-holes with the best intentions in life. "You are a dear to come so early. Here's a nice place for you between Belle and Miss Perkins, and here's a sweet little dress to make, unless you like something else better," said Fanny, receiving her friend with warmth and placing her where she thought she would enjoy herself. "Thank you, I'll take an unbleached cotton shirt if you have such a thing, for it is likely to be needed before a cambric frock," replied Polly, subsiding into her corner as quickly as possible, for at least six eye-glasses were up, and she did n't enjoy being stared at. Miss Perkins, a grave, cold-looking young lady, with an aristocratic nose, bowed politely, and then went on with her work, which displayed two diamond rings to great advantage. Belle, being of the demonstrative sort, smiled and nodded, drew up her chair, and began a whispered account of Trix's last quarrel with Tom. Polly listened with interest while she sewed diligently, occasionally permitting her eyes to study the elegant intricacies of Miss Perkins' dress, for that young lady sat like a statue, quirking her delicate fingers, and accomplishing about two stitches a minute. In the midst of Belle's story, a more exciting bit of gossip caught her ear, and she plunged into the conversation going on across the table, leaving Polly free to listen and admire the wit, wisdom, and charitable spirit of the accomplished young ladies about her. There was a perfect Babel of tongues, but out of the confusion Polly gathered scraps of fashionable intelligence which somewhat lessened her respect for the dwellers in high places. One fair creature asserted that Joe Somebody took so much champagne at the last German, that he had to be got away, and sent home with two servants. Another divulged the awful fact that Carrie P.'s wedding presents were half of them hired for the occasion. A third circulated a whisper to the effect that though Mrs. Buckminster wore a thousand-dollar cloak, her boys were not allowed but one sheet to their beds. And a fourth young gossip assured the company that a certain person never had offered himself to a certain other person, though the report was industriously spread by interested parties. This latter remark caused such a clamor that Fanny called the meeting to order in a most unparliamentary fashion. "Girls! girls! you really must talk less and sew more, or our society will be disgraced. Do you know our branch sent in less work than any of the others last month, and Mrs. Fitz George said, she did n't see how fifteen young ladies could manage to do so little?" "We don't talk a bit more than the old ladies do. I just wish you could have heard them go on, last time. The way they get so much done, is, they take work home, and make their seamstresses do it, and then they take credit for vast industry," said Belle, who always spoke her mind with charming candor. "That reminds me that mamma says they want as many things as we can make, for it's a hard winter, and the poor are suffering very much. Do any of you wish to take articles home, to do at odd times?" said Fan, who was president of this energetic Dorcas Society. "Mercy, no! It takes all my leisure time to mend my gloves and refresh my dresses," answered Belle. "I think if we meet once a week, it is all that should be expected of us, with our other engagements. Poor people always complain that the winter is a hard one, and never are satisfied," remarked Miss Perkins, making her diamonds sparkle as she sewed buttons on the wrong side of a pink calico apron, which would hardly survive one washing. "Nobody can ask me to do any more, if they remember all I've got to attend to before summer," said Trix, with an important air. "I've got three women hard at work, and want another, but everyone is so busy, and ask such abominable prices, that I'm in despair, and shall have to take hold myself, I'm afraid." "There's a chance for Jane," thought Polly, but had n't courage "to speak out loud in meeting," just then, and resolved to ask Trix for work, in private. "Prices are high, but you forget how much more it costs to live now than it used to do. Mamma never allows us to beat down workwomen, but wishes us to pay them well, and economize in some other way, if we must," said Emma Davenport, a quiet, bright-eyed girl, who was called "odd" among the young ladies, because she dressed simply, when her father was a millionaire. "Just hear that girl talk about economy! I beg your pardon, she's some relation of yours, I believe!" said Belle, in a low tone. "Very distant; but I'm proud of it; for with her, economy does n't mean scrimping in one place to make a show in another. If every one would follow the Davenports' example, workwomen would n't starve, or servants be such a trouble. Emma is the plainest dressed girl in the room, next to me, yet any one can see she is a true gentlewoman," said Polly, warmly. "And you are another," answered Belle, who had always loved Polly, in her scatter-brained way. "Hush! Trix has the floor." "If they spent their wages properly, I should n't mind so much, but they think they must be as fine as anybody, and dress so well that it is hard to tell mistress from maid. Why our cook got a bonnet just like mine (the materials were cheaper, but the effect was the same), and had the impertinence to wear it before my face. I forbid it, and she left, of course, which made papa so cross he would n't give me the camel's hair shawl he promised this year." "It's perfectly shameful!" said Miss Perkins, as Trix paused out of breath. "Servants ought to be made to dress like servants, as they do abroad; then we should have no more trouble," observed Miss Perkins, who had just made the grand tour, and had brought home a French maid. "Perky don't practise as she preaches," whispered Belle to Polly, as Miss P. became absorbed in the chat of her other neighbors. "She pays her chamber girl with old finery; and the other day, when Betsey was out parading in her missis's cast-off purple plush suit, Mr. Curtis thought she was mademoiselle, and bowed to her. He is as blind as a bat, but recognized the dress, and pulled off his hat to it in the most elegant style. Perky adores him, and was mad enough to beat Betsey when she told the story and giggled over it. Betsey is quite as stylish and ever so much prettier than Perky, and she knows it, which is an aggravation." Polly could n't help laughing, but grew sober a minute after, as Trix said, pettishly, "Well, I'm sick of hearing about beggars; I believe half of them are humbugs, and if we let them alone they'd go to work and take care of themselves. There's altogether too much fuss made about charity. I do wish we could be left in peace." "There can't be too much charity!" burst out Polly, forgetting her shyness all at once. "Oh, indeed! Well, I take the liberty to differ from you," returned Trix, putting up her glass, and bestowing upon Polly her most "toploftical stare," as the girls called it. I regret to say that Polly never could talk with or be near Trix without feeling irritated and combative. She tried to conquer this feeling, but she could n't, and when Trix put on airs, Polly felt an intense desire to box her ears. That eye-glass was her especial aversion, for Trix was no more near-sighted than herself, but pretended to be because it was the fashion, and at times used the innocent glass as a weapon with which to put down any one who presumed to set themselves up. The supercilious glance which accompanied her ironically polite speech roused Polly, who answered with sudden color and the kindling of the eyes that always betrayed a perturbed spirit, "I don't think many of us would enjoy that selfish sort of peace, while little children starve, and girls no older than us kill themselves because their dreadful poverty leaves them no choice but sin or death." A sudden lull took place, for, though Polly, did not raise her voice, it was full of indignant emotion, and the most frivolous girl there felt a little thrill of sympathy; for the most utterly fashionable life does not kill the heart out of women, till years of selfish pleasure have passed over their heads. Trix was ashamed of herself; but she felt the same antagonism toward Polly, that Polly did toward her; and, being less generous, took satisfaction in plaguing her. Polly did not know that the secret of this was the fact that Tom often held her up as a model for his fiance to follow, which caused that young lady to dislike her more than ever. "Half the awful stories in the papers are made up for a sensation, and it's absurd to believe them, unless one likes to be harrowed up. I don't; and as for peace, I'm not likely to get much, while I have Tom to look after," said Trix, with an aggravating laugh. Polly's needle snapped in two, but she did not mind it, as she said, with a look that silenced even sharp-tongued Trix, "I can't help believing what my own eyes and ears have seen and heard. You lead such safe and happy lives, you can't imagine the misery that is all round you; but if you could get a glimpse of it, it would make your hearts ache, as it has mine." "Do you suffer from heartache? Some one hinted as much to me, but you looked so well, I could n't believe it." Now that was cruel in Trix, more cruel than any one guessed; but girls' tongues can deal wounds as sharp and sudden as the slender stiletto Spanish women wear in their hair, and Polly turned pale, as those words stabbed her. Belle saw it, and rushed to the rescue with more good-will than wisdom. "Nobody ever accused you of having any heart to ache with. Polly and I are not old enough yet to get tough and cool, and we are still silly enough to pity unhappy people, Tom Shaw especially," added Belle, under her breath. That was a two-edged thrust, for Trix was decidedly an old girl, and Tom was generally regarded as a hapless victim. Trix turned red; but before she could load and fire again, Emma Davenport, who labored under the delusion that this sort of skirmishing was ill-natured, and therefore ill-bred, spoke up in her pleasant way, "Speaking of pitying the poor, I always wonder why it is that we all like to read and cry over their troubles in books, but when we have the real thing before us, we think it is uninteresting and disagreeable." "It's the

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"Now I call that a delicate compliment!" And Tom, who had not lost his early relish for this sort of refreshment, though he seldom indulged his passion nowadays, because peanuts are considered vulgar, fell to cracking and munching with great satisfaction. "Do you remember the first visit I made at your house, how you gave me peanuts, coming from the depot, and frightened me out of my wits, pretending the coachman was tipsy?" asked Polly. "Of course I do, and how we coasted one day," answered Tom, laughing. "Yes, and the velocipede; you've got the scar of that yet, I see." "I remember how you stood by me while it was sewed up; that was very plucky, Polly." "I was dreadfully afraid, but I remember I wanted to seem very brave, because you'd called me a coward." "Did I? Ought to have been ashamed of myself. I used to rough you shamefully, Polly, and you were so good-natured, you let me do it." "Could n't help myself," laughed Polly. "I did use to think you were an awful boy, but seems to me I rather liked it." "She had so much of it at home, she got used to it," put in Will, pulling the little curl behind Polly's ear. "You boys never teased me as Tom did, that's the reason it amused me, I suppose; novelty hath charms, you know." "Grandma used to lecture Tom for plaguing you, Polly, and he used to say he'd be a tip-top boy, but he was n't," observed Maud, with a venerable air. "Dear old grandma; she did her best, but I'm a bad lot," said Tom, with a shake of the head and a sober face. "It always seems as if she must be up in her rooms, and I can't get used to finding them empty," added Polly, softly. "Father would n't have anything moved, and Tom sits up there sometimes; it makes him feel good, he says," said Maud, who had a talent for betraying trifles which people preferred should not be mentioned in public. "You'd better hurry up your apple, for if it is n't done pretty soon, you'll have to leave it, Pug," said Tom, looking annoyed. "How is Fan?" asked Polly, with tact. "Well, Fan is rather under the weather; says she's dyspeptic, which means cross." "She is cross, but she's sick too, for I found her crying one day, and she said nobody cared about her, and she might as well be dead," added Maud, having turned her apple with tender care. "We must try to cheer her up, among us. If I was n't so busy I'd like to devote myself to her, she has done so much for me," said Polly, gratefully. "I wish you could. I can't understand her, for she acts like a weathercock, and I never know how I'm going to find her. I hate to have her mope so, but, upon my life, I don't know what to do," said Tom; but as he uttered the words, something was suggested by the sight before him. Chairs were few, and Polly had taken half of Will's when they drew round the fire. Now she was leaning against him, in a cosy, confiding way, delightful to behold, while Will's strong arm went round her with a protecting air, which said, as plainly as any words, that this big brother and small sister knew how to love and help one another. It was a pleasant little picture, all the pleasanter for its unconsciousness, and Tom found it both suggestive and agreeable. "Poor old Fan, she don't get much petting; maybe that's what she wants. I'll try it and see, for she stands by me like a trump. If she was a rosy, cosy little woman, like Polly, it would come easier, though," thought Tom, as he meditatively ate his last nut, feeling that fraternal affection could not be very difficult of demonstration, to brothers blessed with pretty, good-tempered sisters. "I told Tom about the bad fellow who blew up the professor, and he said he knew him, slightly; and I was so relieved, because I had a kind of a feeling that it was Tom himself, you and Will laughed so about it." Maud had a queer way of going on with her own thoughts, and suddenly coming out with whatever lay uppermost, regardless of time, place, or company. As this remark fell from her, there was a general smile, and Polly said, with mock solemnity, "It was a sad thing, and I've no doubt that misguided young man is very sorry for it now." "He looked perfectly bowed down with remorse last time I saw him," said Will, regarding Tom with eyes full of fun, for Will was a boy as well as a bookworm, and relished a joke as well as scatter-brained Tom. "He always is remorseful after a scrape, I've understood, for he is n't a very bad fellow, only his spirits are one too many for him, and he is n't as fond of his book as another fellow I know." "I'm afraid he'll he expelled if he don't mind," said Polly, warningly. "Should n't wonder if he was, he's such an unlucky dog," answered Tom, rather soberly. "I hope he'll remember that his friends will be very much disappointed if he is. He might make them so proud and happy; that I guess he will, for he is n't half as thoughtless as he makes himself out," said Polly, looking across at Tom with such friendly eyes that he was quite touched, though of course he did n't show it. "Thank you, Polly; he may pull through, but I have my doubts. Now old man, let us'pud' along; it's getting late for the chicken," he added, relapsing into the graceful diction with which a classical education gifts its fortunate possessor. Taking advantage of the moment while Will was wrestling with his boots in the closet, and Maud was absorbed in packing her apple into a large basket, Polly said to Tom in a low tone, "Thank you very much, for being so kind to Will." "Bless your heart, I have n't done anything; he's such a proud fellow he won't let me," answered Tom. "But you do in many little ways; to-night, for example. Do you think I don't know that the suit of clothes he's just got would have cost a good deal more, if your tailor had n't made them? He's only a boy, and don't understand things yet; but I know your way of helping proud people; so that they don't find it out, and I do thank you, Tom, so much." "Oh, come, Polly, that won't do. What do you know about tailors and college matters?" said Tom, looking as much confused as if she had found him out in something reprehensible. "I don't know much, and that's the reason why I'm grateful for your kindness to Will. I don't care what stories they tell about you, I'm sure, you won't lead him into trouble, but keep him straight, for my sake. You know I've lost one brother, and Will takes Jimmy's place to me now." The tears in Polly's eyes as she said that made Tom vow a tremendous vow within himself to stand by Will through thick and thin, and "keep him straight for Polly's sake"; feeling all the time how ill-fitted he was for such a task. "I'll do my best," he said, heartily, as he pressed the hand Polly gave him, with a look which assured her that he felt the appeal to his honor, and that henceforth the country lad was safe from all the temptations Tom could have offered him. "There! now I shall give that to mamma to take her pills in; it's just what she likes, and it pleases her to be thought of," said Maud, surveying her gift with complacency, as she put on her things. "You're a good little soul, to remember poor mum, said Tom, with an approving nod. "Well, she was so pleased with the grapes you brought her, I thought I 'd try something, and maybe she'd say 'Thank you, darling,' to me too. Do you think she will?" whispered Maud, with the wistful look so often seen on her little plain face. "See if she don't;" and to Maud's great surprise Tom did n't laugh at her project. "Good night, dear; take care of yourself, and keep your muffler round your mouth going over the bridge, or you'll be as hoarse as a crow to-morrow," said Polly, as she kissed her brother, who returned it without looking as if he thought it "girl's nonsense" Then the three piled into the sleigh and drove off, leave Polly nodding on the doorstep. Maud found the drive altogether too short, but was consoled by the promise of a longer one if the sleighing lasted till next Saturday: and when Tom ran up to bid his mother good-by, and give her a hint about Maud's gift, she stayed below to say, at the last minute, in unconscious imitation of Polly. "Good night; take care of yourself, my dear." Tom laughed, and was about to pinch the much enduring little nose; but, as if the words reminded him of something, he gave her a kiss instead, a piece of forbearance which almost took Maud's breath away with surprise and gratification. It was rather a silent drive, for Will obediently kept his muffler up, and Tom fell into a brown study. He was not much given to reflection, but occasionally indulged when something gave him a turn in that direction, and at such times he was as sober and sincere as could be desired. Any one might have lectured him for an hour without doing as much good as that little call and the chat that grew out of it, for, though nothing very wise or witty was said, many things were suggested, and every one knows that persuasive influences are better than any amount of moralizing. Neither Polly nor Will tried to do anything of the sort, and that was the charm of it. Nobody likes to be talked to, but nobody can resist the eloquence of unconscious preaching. With all his thoughtlessness, Tom was quick to see and feel these things, and was not spoilt enough yet to laugh at them. The sight of Will and Polly's simple affection for one another reminded him of a neglected duty so pleasantly, that he could not forget it. Talking of early days made him wish he could go back and start again, doing better. Grandma's name recalled the tender memory that always did him good, and the thought that Polly trusted her dearest brother to his care stirred up a manful desire to deserve the confidence. Tortures would n't have drawn a word of all this from him, but it had its effect, for boys don't leave their hearts and consciences behind them when they enter college, and little things of this sort do much to keep both from being damaged by the four years' scrimmage which begins the battle of life for most of them. CHAPTER XI. NEEDLES AND TONGUES DEAR POLLY, The Sewing Circle meets at our house this P. M. This is in your line, so do come and help me through. I shall depend on you. Yours ever, FAN. "Bad news, my dear?" asked Miss Mills, who had just handed the note to Polly as she came in one noon, a few weeks after Jenny's arrival. Polly told her what it was, adding, "I suppose I ought to go and help Fanny, but I can't say I want to. The girls talk about things I have nothing to do with, and I don't find their gossip very amusing. I'm an outsider, and they only accept me on Fan's account; so I sit in a corner and sew, while they chatter and laugh." "Would n't it be a good chance to say a word for Jenny? She wants work, and these young ladies probably have quantities done somewhere. Jenny does fine work exquisitely, and begins to feel anxious to be earning something. I don't want her to feel dependent and unhappy, and a little well-paid sewing would be all she needs to do nicely. I can get it for her by running round to my friends, but I really have n't the time, till I get the Mullers off. They are paupers here, but out West they can take care of themselves, so I've begged the money to send them, and as soon as I can get them some clothes, off they go. That's the way to help people help themselves," and Miss Mills clashed her big scissors energetically, as she cut out a little red flannel shirt. "I know it is, and I want to help, but I don't know where to begin," said Polly, feeling quite oppressed with the immensity of the work. "We can't any of us do all we would like, but we can do our best for every case that comes to us, and that helps amazingly. Begin with Jenny, my dear; tell those girls about her, and if I'm not much mistaken, you will find them ready to help, for half the time it is n't hardness of heart, but ignorance or thoughtlessness on the part of the rich, that makes them seem so careless of the poor." "To tell the truth, I'm afraid of being laughed at, if I try to talk seriously about such things to the girls," said Polly, frankly. "You believe that'such things' are true? You are sincere in your wish to help better them, and you respect those who work for that end?" "Yes, I do." "Then, my dear, can't you bear a little ridicule for the sake of a good cause? You said yesterday that you were going to make it a principle of your life, to help up your sex as far and as fast as you could. It did my heart good to hear you say it, for I was sure that in time you would keep your word. But, Polly, a principle that can't bear being laughed at, frowned on, and cold-shouldered, is n't worthy of the name." "I want to be strong-minded in the real sense of the word, but I don't like to be called so by people who don't understand my meaning; and I shall be if I try to make the girls think soberly about anything sensible or philanthropic. They call me old-fashioned now, and I'd rather be thought that, though it is n't pleasant, than be set down as a rampant woman's rights reformer," said Polly, in whose memory many laughs, and snubs, and sarcasms still lingered, forgiven but not forgotten. "This love and thought and care for those weaker, poorer, or worse than ourselves, which we call Christian charity, is a very old fashion, my dear. It began eighteen hundred years ago, and only those who honestly follow the beautiful example set us then, learn how to get genuine happiness out of life. I'm not a'rampant woman's rights reformer,'" added Miss Mills, with a smile at Polly's sober face; "but I think that women can do a great deal for each other, if they will only stop fearing what'people will think,' and take a hearty interest in whatever is going to fit their sisters and themselves to deserve and enjoy the rights God gave them. There are so many ways in which this can be done, that I wonder they don't see and improve them. I don't ask you to go and make speeches, only a few have the gift for that, but I do want every girl and woman to feel this duty, and make any little sacrifice of time or feeling that may be asked of them, because there is so much to do, and no one can do it as well as ourselves, if we only think so." "I'll try!" said Polly, influenced more by her desire to keep Miss Mills' good opinion than any love of self-sacrifice for her sex. It was rather a hard thing to ask of a shy, sensitive girl, and the kind old lady knew it, for in spite of the gray hair and withered face, her heart was very young, and her own girlish trials not forgotten. But she knew also that Polly had more influence over others than she herself suspected, simply because of her candid, upright nature; and that while she tried to help others, she was serving herself in a way that would improve heart and soul more than any mere social success she might gain by following the rules of fashionable life, which drill the character out of girls till they are as much alike as pins in a paper, and have about as much true sense and sentiment in their little heads. There was good stuff in Polly, unspoiled as yet, and Miss Mills was only acting out her principle of women helping each other. The wise old lady saw that Polly had reached that point where the girl suddenly blooms into a woman, asking something more substantial than pleasure to satisfy the new aspirations that are born; a time as precious and important to the after-life, as the hour when the apple blossoms fall, and the young fruit waits for the elements to ripen or destroy the harvest. Polly did not know this, and was fortunate in possessing a friend who knew what influences would serve her best, and who could give her what all women should desire to give each other, the example of a sweet, good life, more eloquent and powerful than any words; for this is a right no one can deny us. Polly turned the matter over in her mind as she dressed, while Jenny played waiting maid, little dreaming what this new friend was meaning to do for her, if she dared. "Is it going to be a tea-party, Miss?" asked Jenny, as the black silk went rustling on, to her great admiration, for she considered Polly a beauty. "Well, no, I think it will probably be a lecture," answered Polly, laughing, for Jenny's grateful service and affectionate eyes confirmed the purpose which Miss Mills' little homily had suggested. As she entered the Shaws' parlor an hour or two later, an appalling array of well-dressed girls appeared, each provided with a dainty reticule, basket, or bag, and each tongue going a good deal faster than the needle, while the white fingers stitched sleeves in upside down, put flannel jackets together hind part before, or gobbled button-holes with the best intentions in life. "You are a dear to come so early. Here's a nice place for you between Belle and Miss Perkins, and here's a sweet little dress to make, unless you like something else better," said Fanny, receiving her friend with warmth and placing her where she thought she would enjoy herself. "Thank you, I'll take an unbleached cotton shirt if you have such a thing, for it is likely to be needed before a cambric frock," replied Polly, subsiding into her corner as quickly as possible, for at least six eye-glasses were up, and she did n't enjoy being stared at. Miss Perkins, a grave, cold-looking young lady, with an aristocratic nose, bowed politely, and then went on with her work, which displayed two diamond rings to great advantage. Belle, being of the demonstrative sort, smiled and nodded, drew up her chair, and began a whispered account of Trix's last quarrel with Tom. Polly listened with interest while she sewed diligently, occasionally permitting her eyes to study the elegant intricacies of Miss Perkins' dress, for that young lady sat like a statue, quirking her delicate fingers, and accomplishing about two stitches a minute. In the midst of Belle's story, a more exciting bit of gossip caught her ear, and she plunged into the conversation going on across the table, leaving Polly free to listen and admire the wit, wisdom, and charitable spirit of the accomplished young ladies about her. There was a perfect Babel of tongues, but out of the confusion Polly gathered scraps of fashionable intelligence which somewhat lessened her respect for the dwellers in high places. One fair creature asserted that Joe Somebody took so much champagne at the last German, that he had to be got away, and sent home with two servants. Another divulged the awful fact that Carrie P.'s wedding presents were half of them hired for the occasion. A third circulated a whisper to the effect that though Mrs. Buckminster wore a thousand-dollar cloak, her boys were not allowed but one sheet to their beds. And a fourth young gossip assured the company that a certain person never had offered himself to a certain other person, though the report was industriously spread by interested parties. This latter remark caused such a clamor that Fanny called the meeting to order in a most unparliamentary fashion. "Girls! girls! you really must talk less and sew more, or our society will be disgraced. Do you know our branch sent in less work than any of the others last month, and Mrs. Fitz George said, she did n't see how fifteen young ladies could manage to do so little?" "We don't talk a bit more than the old ladies do. I just wish you could have heard them go on, last time. The way they get so much done, is, they take work home, and make their seamstresses do it, and then they take credit for vast industry," said Belle, who always spoke her mind with charming candor. "That reminds me that mamma says they want as many things as we can make, for it's a hard winter, and the poor are suffering very much. Do any of you wish to take articles home, to do at odd times?" said Fan, who was president of this energetic Dorcas Society. "Mercy, no! It takes all my leisure time to mend my gloves and refresh my dresses," answered Belle. "I think if we meet once a week, it is all that should be expected of us, with our other engagements. Poor people always complain that the winter is a hard one, and never are satisfied," remarked Miss Perkins, making her diamonds sparkle as she sewed buttons on the wrong side of a pink calico apron, which would hardly survive one washing. "Nobody can ask me to do any more, if they remember all I've got to attend to before summer," said Trix, with an important air. "I've got three women hard at work, and want another, but everyone is so busy, and ask such abominable prices, that I'm in despair, and shall have to take hold myself, I'm afraid." "There's a chance for Jane," thought Polly, but had n't courage "to speak out loud in meeting," just then, and resolved to ask Trix for work, in private. "Prices are high, but you forget how much more it costs to live now than it used to do. Mamma never allows us to beat down workwomen, but wishes us to pay them well, and economize in some other way, if we must," said Emma Davenport, a quiet, bright-eyed girl, who was called "odd" among the young ladies, because she dressed simply, when her father was a millionaire. "Just hear that girl talk about economy! I beg your pardon, she's some relation of yours, I believe!" said Belle, in a low tone. "Very distant; but I'm proud of it; for with her, economy does n't mean scrimping in one place to make a show in another. If every one would follow the Davenports' example, workwomen would n't starve, or servants be such a trouble. Emma is the plainest dressed girl in the room, next to me, yet any one can see she is a true gentlewoman," said Polly, warmly. "And you are another," answered Belle, who had always loved Polly, in her scatter-brained way. "Hush! Trix has the floor." "If they spent their wages properly, I should n't mind so much, but they think they must be as fine as anybody, and dress so well that it is hard to tell mistress from maid. Why our cook got a bonnet just like mine (the materials were cheaper, but the effect was the same), and had the impertinence to wear it before my face. I forbid it, and she left, of course, which made papa so cross he would n't give me the camel's hair shawl he promised this year." "It's perfectly shameful!" said Miss Perkins, as Trix paused out of breath. "Servants ought to be made to dress like servants, as they do abroad; then we should have no more trouble," observed Miss Perkins, who had just made the grand tour, and had brought home a French maid. "Perky don't practise as she preaches," whispered Belle to Polly, as Miss P. became absorbed in the chat of her other neighbors. "She pays her chamber girl with old finery; and the other day, when Betsey was out parading in her missis's cast-off purple plush suit, Mr. Curtis thought she was mademoiselle, and bowed to her. He is as blind as a bat, but recognized the dress, and pulled off his hat to it in the most elegant style. Perky adores him, and was mad enough to beat Betsey when she told the story and giggled over it. Betsey is quite as stylish and ever so much prettier than Perky, and she knows it, which is an aggravation." Polly could n't help laughing, but grew sober a minute after, as Trix said, pettishly, "Well, I'm sick of hearing about beggars; I believe half of them are humbugs, and if we let them alone they'd go to work and take care of themselves. There's altogether too much fuss made about charity. I do wish we could be left in peace." "There can't be too much charity!" burst out Polly, forgetting her shyness all at once. "Oh, indeed! Well, I take the liberty to differ from you," returned Trix, putting up her glass, and bestowing upon Polly her most "toploftical stare," as the girls called it. I regret to say that Polly never could talk with or be near Trix without feeling irritated and combative. She tried to conquer this feeling, but she could n't, and when Trix put on airs, Polly felt an intense desire to box her ears. That eye-glass was her especial aversion, for Trix was no more near-sighted than herself, but pretended to be because it was the fashion, and at times used the innocent glass as a weapon with which to put down any one who presumed to set themselves up. The supercilious glance which accompanied her ironically polite speech roused Polly, who answered with sudden color and the kindling of the eyes that always betrayed a perturbed spirit, "I don't think many of us would enjoy that selfish sort of peace, while little children starve, and girls no older than us kill themselves because their dreadful poverty leaves them no choice but sin or death." A sudden lull took place, for, though Polly, did not raise her voice, it was full of indignant emotion, and the most frivolous girl there felt a little thrill of sympathy; for the most utterly fashionable life does not kill the heart out of women, till years of selfish pleasure have passed over their heads. Trix was ashamed of herself; but she felt the same antagonism toward Polly, that Polly did toward her; and, being less generous, took satisfaction in plaguing her. Polly did not know that the secret of this was the fact that Tom often held her up as a model for his fiance to follow, which caused that young lady to dislike her more than ever. "Half the awful stories in the papers are made up for a sensation, and it's absurd to believe them, unless one likes to be harrowed up. I don't; and as for peace, I'm not likely to get much, while I have Tom to look after," said Trix, with an aggravating laugh. Polly's needle snapped in two, but she did not mind it, as she said, with a look that silenced even sharp-tongued Trix, "I can't help believing what my own eyes and ears have seen and heard. You lead such safe and happy lives, you can't imagine the misery that is all round you; but if you could get a glimpse of it, it would make your hearts ache, as it has mine." "Do you suffer from heartache? Some one hinted as much to me, but you looked so well, I could n't believe it." Now that was cruel in Trix, more cruel than any one guessed; but girls' tongues can deal wounds as sharp and sudden as the slender stiletto Spanish women wear in their hair, and Polly turned pale, as those words stabbed her. Belle saw it, and rushed to the rescue with more good-will than wisdom. "Nobody ever accused you of having any heart to ache with. Polly and I are not old enough yet to get tough and cool, and we are still silly enough to pity unhappy people, Tom Shaw especially," added Belle, under her breath. That was a two-edged thrust, for Trix was decidedly an old girl, and Tom was generally regarded as a hapless victim. Trix turned red; but before she could load and fire again, Emma Davenport, who labored under the delusion that this sort of skirmishing was ill-natured, and therefore ill-bred, spoke up in her pleasant way, "Speaking of pitying the poor, I always wonder why it is that we all like to read and cry over their troubles in books, but when we have the real thing before us, we think it is uninteresting and disagreeable." "It's the

reminded

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

"Now I call that a delicate compliment!" And Tom, who had not lost his early relish for this sort of refreshment, though he seldom indulged his passion nowadays, because peanuts are considered vulgar, fell to cracking and munching with great satisfaction. "Do you remember the first visit I made at your house, how you gave me peanuts, coming from the depot, and frightened me out of my wits, pretending the coachman was tipsy?" asked Polly. "Of course I do, and how we coasted one day," answered Tom, laughing. "Yes, and the velocipede; you've got the scar of that yet, I see." "I remember how you stood by me while it was sewed up; that was very plucky, Polly." "I was dreadfully afraid, but I remember I wanted to seem very brave, because you'd called me a coward." "Did I? Ought to have been ashamed of myself. I used to rough you shamefully, Polly, and you were so good-natured, you let me do it." "Could n't help myself," laughed Polly. "I did use to think you were an awful boy, but seems to me I rather liked it." "She had so much of it at home, she got used to it," put in Will, pulling the little curl behind Polly's ear. "You boys never teased me as Tom did, that's the reason it amused me, I suppose; novelty hath charms, you know." "Grandma used to lecture Tom for plaguing you, Polly, and he used to say he'd be a tip-top boy, but he was n't," observed Maud, with a venerable air. "Dear old grandma; she did her best, but I'm a bad lot," said Tom, with a shake of the head and a sober face. "It always seems as if she must be up in her rooms, and I can't get used to finding them empty," added Polly, softly. "Father would n't have anything moved, and Tom sits up there sometimes; it makes him feel good, he says," said Maud, who had a talent for betraying trifles which people preferred should not be mentioned in public. "You'd better hurry up your apple, for if it is n't done pretty soon, you'll have to leave it, Pug," said Tom, looking annoyed. "How is Fan?" asked Polly, with tact. "Well, Fan is rather under the weather; says she's dyspeptic, which means cross." "She is cross, but she's sick too, for I found her crying one day, and she said nobody cared about her, and she might as well be dead," added Maud, having turned her apple with tender care. "We must try to cheer her up, among us. If I was n't so busy I'd like to devote myself to her, she has done so much for me," said Polly, gratefully. "I wish you could. I can't understand her, for she acts like a weathercock, and I never know how I'm going to find her. I hate to have her mope so, but, upon my life, I don't know what to do," said Tom; but as he uttered the words, something was suggested by the sight before him. Chairs were few, and Polly had taken half of Will's when they drew round the fire. Now she was leaning against him, in a cosy, confiding way, delightful to behold, while Will's strong arm went round her with a protecting air, which said, as plainly as any words, that this big brother and small sister knew how to love and help one another. It was a pleasant little picture, all the pleasanter for its unconsciousness, and Tom found it both suggestive and agreeable. "Poor old Fan, she don't get much petting; maybe that's what she wants. I'll try it and see, for she stands by me like a trump. If she was a rosy, cosy little woman, like Polly, it would come easier, though," thought Tom, as he meditatively ate his last nut, feeling that fraternal affection could not be very difficult of demonstration, to brothers blessed with pretty, good-tempered sisters. "I told Tom about the bad fellow who blew up the professor, and he said he knew him, slightly; and I was so relieved, because I had a kind of a feeling that it was Tom himself, you and Will laughed so about it." Maud had a queer way of going on with her own thoughts, and suddenly coming out with whatever lay uppermost, regardless of time, place, or company. As this remark fell from her, there was a general smile, and Polly said, with mock solemnity, "It was a sad thing, and I've no doubt that misguided young man is very sorry for it now." "He looked perfectly bowed down with remorse last time I saw him," said Will, regarding Tom with eyes full of fun, for Will was a boy as well as a bookworm, and relished a joke as well as scatter-brained Tom. "He always is remorseful after a scrape, I've understood, for he is n't a very bad fellow, only his spirits are one too many for him, and he is n't as fond of his book as another fellow I know." "I'm afraid he'll he expelled if he don't mind," said Polly, warningly. "Should n't wonder if he was, he's such an unlucky dog," answered Tom, rather soberly. "I hope he'll remember that his friends will be very much disappointed if he is. He might make them so proud and happy; that I guess he will, for he is n't half as thoughtless as he makes himself out," said Polly, looking across at Tom with such friendly eyes that he was quite touched, though of course he did n't show it. "Thank you, Polly; he may pull through, but I have my doubts. Now old man, let us'pud' along; it's getting late for the chicken," he added, relapsing into the graceful diction with which a classical education gifts its fortunate possessor. Taking advantage of the moment while Will was wrestling with his boots in the closet, and Maud was absorbed in packing her apple into a large basket, Polly said to Tom in a low tone, "Thank you very much, for being so kind to Will." "Bless your heart, I have n't done anything; he's such a proud fellow he won't let me," answered Tom. "But you do in many little ways; to-night, for example. Do you think I don't know that the suit of clothes he's just got would have cost a good deal more, if your tailor had n't made them? He's only a boy, and don't understand things yet; but I know your way of helping proud people; so that they don't find it out, and I do thank you, Tom, so much." "Oh, come, Polly, that won't do. What do you know about tailors and college matters?" said Tom, looking as much confused as if she had found him out in something reprehensible. "I don't know much, and that's the reason why I'm grateful for your kindness to Will. I don't care what stories they tell about you, I'm sure, you won't lead him into trouble, but keep him straight, for my sake. You know I've lost one brother, and Will takes Jimmy's place to me now." The tears in Polly's eyes as she said that made Tom vow a tremendous vow within himself to stand by Will through thick and thin, and "keep him straight for Polly's sake"; feeling all the time how ill-fitted he was for such a task. "I'll do my best," he said, heartily, as he pressed the hand Polly gave him, with a look which assured her that he felt the appeal to his honor, and that henceforth the country lad was safe from all the temptations Tom could have offered him. "There! now I shall give that to mamma to take her pills in; it's just what she likes, and it pleases her to be thought of," said Maud, surveying her gift with complacency, as she put on her things. "You're a good little soul, to remember poor mum, said Tom, with an approving nod. "Well, she was so pleased with the grapes you brought her, I thought I 'd try something, and maybe she'd say 'Thank you, darling,' to me too. Do you think she will?" whispered Maud, with the wistful look so often seen on her little plain face. "See if she don't;" and to Maud's great surprise Tom did n't laugh at her project. "Good night, dear; take care of yourself, and keep your muffler round your mouth going over the bridge, or you'll be as hoarse as a crow to-morrow," said Polly, as she kissed her brother, who returned it without looking as if he thought it "girl's nonsense" Then the three piled into the sleigh and drove off, leave Polly nodding on the doorstep. Maud found the drive altogether too short, but was consoled by the promise of a longer one if the sleighing lasted till next Saturday: and when Tom ran up to bid his mother good-by, and give her a hint about Maud's gift, she stayed below to say, at the last minute, in unconscious imitation of Polly. "Good night; take care of yourself, my dear." Tom laughed, and was about to pinch the much enduring little nose; but, as if the words reminded him of something, he gave her a kiss instead, a piece of forbearance which almost took Maud's breath away with surprise and gratification. It was rather a silent drive, for Will obediently kept his muffler up, and Tom fell into a brown study. He was not much given to reflection, but occasionally indulged when something gave him a turn in that direction, and at such times he was as sober and sincere as could be desired. Any one might have lectured him for an hour without doing as much good as that little call and the chat that grew out of it, for, though nothing very wise or witty was said, many things were suggested, and every one knows that persuasive influences are better than any amount of moralizing. Neither Polly nor Will tried to do anything of the sort, and that was the charm of it. Nobody likes to be talked to, but nobody can resist the eloquence of unconscious preaching. With all his thoughtlessness, Tom was quick to see and feel these things, and was not spoilt enough yet to laugh at them. The sight of Will and Polly's simple affection for one another reminded him of a neglected duty so pleasantly, that he could not forget it. Talking of early days made him wish he could go back and start again, doing better. Grandma's name recalled the tender memory that always did him good, and the thought that Polly trusted her dearest brother to his care stirred up a manful desire to deserve the confidence. Tortures would n't have drawn a word of all this from him, but it had its effect, for boys don't leave their hearts and consciences behind them when they enter college, and little things of this sort do much to keep both from being damaged by the four years' scrimmage which begins the battle of life for most of them. CHAPTER XI. NEEDLES AND TONGUES DEAR POLLY, The Sewing Circle meets at our house this P. M. This is in your line, so do come and help me through. I shall depend on you. Yours ever, FAN. "Bad news, my dear?" asked Miss Mills, who had just handed the note to Polly as she came in one noon, a few weeks after Jenny's arrival. Polly told her what it was, adding, "I suppose I ought to go and help Fanny, but I can't say I want to. The girls talk about things I have nothing to do with, and I don't find their gossip very amusing. I'm an outsider, and they only accept me on Fan's account; so I sit in a corner and sew, while they chatter and laugh." "Would n't it be a good chance to say a word for Jenny? She wants work, and these young ladies probably have quantities done somewhere. Jenny does fine work exquisitely, and begins to feel anxious to be earning something. I don't want her to feel dependent and unhappy, and a little well-paid sewing would be all she needs to do nicely. I can get it for her by running round to my friends, but I really have n't the time, till I get the Mullers off. They are paupers here, but out West they can take care of themselves, so I've begged the money to send them, and as soon as I can get them some clothes, off they go. That's the way to help people help themselves," and Miss Mills clashed her big scissors energetically, as she cut out a little red flannel shirt. "I know it is, and I want to help, but I don't know where to begin," said Polly, feeling quite oppressed with the immensity of the work. "We can't any of us do all we would like, but we can do our best for every case that comes to us, and that helps amazingly. Begin with Jenny, my dear; tell those girls about her, and if I'm not much mistaken, you will find them ready to help, for half the time it is n't hardness of heart, but ignorance or thoughtlessness on the part of the rich, that makes them seem so careless of the poor." "To tell the truth, I'm afraid of being laughed at, if I try to talk seriously about such things to the girls," said Polly, frankly. "You believe that'such things' are true? You are sincere in your wish to help better them, and you respect those who work for that end?" "Yes, I do." "Then, my dear, can't you bear a little ridicule for the sake of a good cause? You said yesterday that you were going to make it a principle of your life, to help up your sex as far and as fast as you could. It did my heart good to hear you say it, for I was sure that in time you would keep your word. But, Polly, a principle that can't bear being laughed at, frowned on, and cold-shouldered, is n't worthy of the name." "I want to be strong-minded in the real sense of the word, but I don't like to be called so by people who don't understand my meaning; and I shall be if I try to make the girls think soberly about anything sensible or philanthropic. They call me old-fashioned now, and I'd rather be thought that, though it is n't pleasant, than be set down as a rampant woman's rights reformer," said Polly, in whose memory many laughs, and snubs, and sarcasms still lingered, forgiven but not forgotten. "This love and thought and care for those weaker, poorer, or worse than ourselves, which we call Christian charity, is a very old fashion, my dear. It began eighteen hundred years ago, and only those who honestly follow the beautiful example set us then, learn how to get genuine happiness out of life. I'm not a'rampant woman's rights reformer,'" added Miss Mills, with a smile at Polly's sober face; "but I think that women can do a great deal for each other, if they will only stop fearing what'people will think,' and take a hearty interest in whatever is going to fit their sisters and themselves to deserve and enjoy the rights God gave them. There are so many ways in which this can be done, that I wonder they don't see and improve them. I don't ask you to go and make speeches, only a few have the gift for that, but I do want every girl and woman to feel this duty, and make any little sacrifice of time or feeling that may be asked of them, because there is so much to do, and no one can do it as well as ourselves, if we only think so." "I'll try!" said Polly, influenced more by her desire to keep Miss Mills' good opinion than any love of self-sacrifice for her sex. It was rather a hard thing to ask of a shy, sensitive girl, and the kind old lady knew it, for in spite of the gray hair and withered face, her heart was very young, and her own girlish trials not forgotten. But she knew also that Polly had more influence over others than she herself suspected, simply because of her candid, upright nature; and that while she tried to help others, she was serving herself in a way that would improve heart and soul more than any mere social success she might gain by following the rules of fashionable life, which drill the character out of girls till they are as much alike as pins in a paper, and have about as much true sense and sentiment in their little heads. There was good stuff in Polly, unspoiled as yet, and Miss Mills was only acting out her principle of women helping each other. The wise old lady saw that Polly had reached that point where the girl suddenly blooms into a woman, asking something more substantial than pleasure to satisfy the new aspirations that are born; a time as precious and important to the after-life, as the hour when the apple blossoms fall, and the young fruit waits for the elements to ripen or destroy the harvest. Polly did not know this, and was fortunate in possessing a friend who knew what influences would serve her best, and who could give her what all women should desire to give each other, the example of a sweet, good life, more eloquent and powerful than any words; for this is a right no one can deny us. Polly turned the matter over in her mind as she dressed, while Jenny played waiting maid, little dreaming what this new friend was meaning to do for her, if she dared. "Is it going to be a tea-party, Miss?" asked Jenny, as the black silk went rustling on, to her great admiration, for she considered Polly a beauty. "Well, no, I think it will probably be a lecture," answered Polly, laughing, for Jenny's grateful service and affectionate eyes confirmed the purpose which Miss Mills' little homily had suggested. As she entered the Shaws' parlor an hour or two later, an appalling array of well-dressed girls appeared, each provided with a dainty reticule, basket, or bag, and each tongue going a good deal faster than the needle, while the white fingers stitched sleeves in upside down, put flannel jackets together hind part before, or gobbled button-holes with the best intentions in life. "You are a dear to come so early. Here's a nice place for you between Belle and Miss Perkins, and here's a sweet little dress to make, unless you like something else better," said Fanny, receiving her friend with warmth and placing her where she thought she would enjoy herself. "Thank you, I'll take an unbleached cotton shirt if you have such a thing, for it is likely to be needed before a cambric frock," replied Polly, subsiding into her corner as quickly as possible, for at least six eye-glasses were up, and she did n't enjoy being stared at. Miss Perkins, a grave, cold-looking young lady, with an aristocratic nose, bowed politely, and then went on with her work, which displayed two diamond rings to great advantage. Belle, being of the demonstrative sort, smiled and nodded, drew up her chair, and began a whispered account of Trix's last quarrel with Tom. Polly listened with interest while she sewed diligently, occasionally permitting her eyes to study the elegant intricacies of Miss Perkins' dress, for that young lady sat like a statue, quirking her delicate fingers, and accomplishing about two stitches a minute. In the midst of Belle's story, a more exciting bit of gossip caught her ear, and she plunged into the conversation going on across the table, leaving Polly free to listen and admire the wit, wisdom, and charitable spirit of the accomplished young ladies about her. There was a perfect Babel of tongues, but out of the confusion Polly gathered scraps of fashionable intelligence which somewhat lessened her respect for the dwellers in high places. One fair creature asserted that Joe Somebody took so much champagne at the last German, that he had to be got away, and sent home with two servants. Another divulged the awful fact that Carrie P.'s wedding presents were half of them hired for the occasion. A third circulated a whisper to the effect that though Mrs. Buckminster wore a thousand-dollar cloak, her boys were not allowed but one sheet to their beds. And a fourth young gossip assured the company that a certain person never had offered himself to a certain other person, though the report was industriously spread by interested parties. This latter remark caused such a clamor that Fanny called the meeting to order in a most unparliamentary fashion. "Girls! girls! you really must talk less and sew more, or our society will be disgraced. Do you know our branch sent in less work than any of the others last month, and Mrs. Fitz George said, she did n't see how fifteen young ladies could manage to do so little?" "We don't talk a bit more than the old ladies do. I just wish you could have heard them go on, last time. The way they get so much done, is, they take work home, and make their seamstresses do it, and then they take credit for vast industry," said Belle, who always spoke her mind with charming candor. "That reminds me that mamma says they want as many things as we can make, for it's a hard winter, and the poor are suffering very much. Do any of you wish to take articles home, to do at odd times?" said Fan, who was president of this energetic Dorcas Society. "Mercy, no! It takes all my leisure time to mend my gloves and refresh my dresses," answered Belle. "I think if we meet once a week, it is all that should be expected of us, with our other engagements. Poor people always complain that the winter is a hard one, and never are satisfied," remarked Miss Perkins, making her diamonds sparkle as she sewed buttons on the wrong side of a pink calico apron, which would hardly survive one washing. "Nobody can ask me to do any more, if they remember all I've got to attend to before summer," said Trix, with an important air. "I've got three women hard at work, and want another, but everyone is so busy, and ask such abominable prices, that I'm in despair, and shall have to take hold myself, I'm afraid." "There's a chance for Jane," thought Polly, but had n't courage "to speak out loud in meeting," just then, and resolved to ask Trix for work, in private. "Prices are high, but you forget how much more it costs to live now than it used to do. Mamma never allows us to beat down workwomen, but wishes us to pay them well, and economize in some other way, if we must," said Emma Davenport, a quiet, bright-eyed girl, who was called "odd" among the young ladies, because she dressed simply, when her father was a millionaire. "Just hear that girl talk about economy! I beg your pardon, she's some relation of yours, I believe!" said Belle, in a low tone. "Very distant; but I'm proud of it; for with her, economy does n't mean scrimping in one place to make a show in another. If every one would follow the Davenports' example, workwomen would n't starve, or servants be such a trouble. Emma is the plainest dressed girl in the room, next to me, yet any one can see she is a true gentlewoman," said Polly, warmly. "And you are another," answered Belle, who had always loved Polly, in her scatter-brained way. "Hush! Trix has the floor." "If they spent their wages properly, I should n't mind so much, but they think they must be as fine as anybody, and dress so well that it is hard to tell mistress from maid. Why our cook got a bonnet just like mine (the materials were cheaper, but the effect was the same), and had the impertinence to wear it before my face. I forbid it, and she left, of course, which made papa so cross he would n't give me the camel's hair shawl he promised this year." "It's perfectly shameful!" said Miss Perkins, as Trix paused out of breath. "Servants ought to be made to dress like servants, as they do abroad; then we should have no more trouble," observed Miss Perkins, who had just made the grand tour, and had brought home a French maid. "Perky don't practise as she preaches," whispered Belle to Polly, as Miss P. became absorbed in the chat of her other neighbors. "She pays her chamber girl with old finery; and the other day, when Betsey was out parading in her missis's cast-off purple plush suit, Mr. Curtis thought she was mademoiselle, and bowed to her. He is as blind as a bat, but recognized the dress, and pulled off his hat to it in the most elegant style. Perky adores him, and was mad enough to beat Betsey when she told the story and giggled over it. Betsey is quite as stylish and ever so much prettier than Perky, and she knows it, which is an aggravation." Polly could n't help laughing, but grew sober a minute after, as Trix said, pettishly, "Well, I'm sick of hearing about beggars; I believe half of them are humbugs, and if we let them alone they'd go to work and take care of themselves. There's altogether too much fuss made about charity. I do wish we could be left in peace." "There can't be too much charity!" burst out Polly, forgetting her shyness all at once. "Oh, indeed! Well, I take the liberty to differ from you," returned Trix, putting up her glass, and bestowing upon Polly her most "toploftical stare," as the girls called it. I regret to say that Polly never could talk with or be near Trix without feeling irritated and combative. She tried to conquer this feeling, but she could n't, and when Trix put on airs, Polly felt an intense desire to box her ears. That eye-glass was her especial aversion, for Trix was no more near-sighted than herself, but pretended to be because it was the fashion, and at times used the innocent glass as a weapon with which to put down any one who presumed to set themselves up. The supercilious glance which accompanied her ironically polite speech roused Polly, who answered with sudden color and the kindling of the eyes that always betrayed a perturbed spirit, "I don't think many of us would enjoy that selfish sort of peace, while little children starve, and girls no older than us kill themselves because their dreadful poverty leaves them no choice but sin or death." A sudden lull took place, for, though Polly, did not raise her voice, it was full of indignant emotion, and the most frivolous girl there felt a little thrill of sympathy; for the most utterly fashionable life does not kill the heart out of women, till years of selfish pleasure have passed over their heads. Trix was ashamed of herself; but she felt the same antagonism toward Polly, that Polly did toward her; and, being less generous, took satisfaction in plaguing her. Polly did not know that the secret of this was the fact that Tom often held her up as a model for his fiance to follow, which caused that young lady to dislike her more than ever. "Half the awful stories in the papers are made up for a sensation, and it's absurd to believe them, unless one likes to be harrowed up. I don't; and as for peace, I'm not likely to get much, while I have Tom to look after," said Trix, with an aggravating laugh. Polly's needle snapped in two, but she did not mind it, as she said, with a look that silenced even sharp-tongued Trix, "I can't help believing what my own eyes and ears have seen and heard. You lead such safe and happy lives, you can't imagine the misery that is all round you; but if you could get a glimpse of it, it would make your hearts ache, as it has mine." "Do you suffer from heartache? Some one hinted as much to me, but you looked so well, I could n't believe it." Now that was cruel in Trix, more cruel than any one guessed; but girls' tongues can deal wounds as sharp and sudden as the slender stiletto Spanish women wear in their hair, and Polly turned pale, as those words stabbed her. Belle saw it, and rushed to the rescue with more good-will than wisdom. "Nobody ever accused you of having any heart to ache with. Polly and I are not old enough yet to get tough and cool, and we are still silly enough to pity unhappy people, Tom Shaw especially," added Belle, under her breath. That was a two-edged thrust, for Trix was decidedly an old girl, and Tom was generally regarded as a hapless victim. Trix turned red; but before she could load and fire again, Emma Davenport, who labored under the delusion that this sort of skirmishing was ill-natured, and therefore ill-bred, spoke up in her pleasant way, "Speaking of pitying the poor, I always wonder why it is that we all like to read and cry over their troubles in books, but when we have the real thing before us, we think it is uninteresting and disagreeable." "It's the

understand

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"Now I call that a delicate compliment!" And Tom, who had not lost his early relish for this sort of refreshment, though he seldom indulged his passion nowadays, because peanuts are considered vulgar, fell to cracking and munching with great satisfaction. "Do you remember the first visit I made at your house, how you gave me peanuts, coming from the depot, and frightened me out of my wits, pretending the coachman was tipsy?" asked Polly. "Of course I do, and how we coasted one day," answered Tom, laughing. "Yes, and the velocipede; you've got the scar of that yet, I see." "I remember how you stood by me while it was sewed up; that was very plucky, Polly." "I was dreadfully afraid, but I remember I wanted to seem very brave, because you'd called me a coward." "Did I? Ought to have been ashamed of myself. I used to rough you shamefully, Polly, and you were so good-natured, you let me do it." "Could n't help myself," laughed Polly. "I did use to think you were an awful boy, but seems to me I rather liked it." "She had so much of it at home, she got used to it," put in Will, pulling the little curl behind Polly's ear. "You boys never teased me as Tom did, that's the reason it amused me, I suppose; novelty hath charms, you know." "Grandma used to lecture Tom for plaguing you, Polly, and he used to say he'd be a tip-top boy, but he was n't," observed Maud, with a venerable air. "Dear old grandma; she did her best, but I'm a bad lot," said Tom, with a shake of the head and a sober face. "It always seems as if she must be up in her rooms, and I can't get used to finding them empty," added Polly, softly. "Father would n't have anything moved, and Tom sits up there sometimes; it makes him feel good, he says," said Maud, who had a talent for betraying trifles which people preferred should not be mentioned in public. "You'd better hurry up your apple, for if it is n't done pretty soon, you'll have to leave it, Pug," said Tom, looking annoyed. "How is Fan?" asked Polly, with tact. "Well, Fan is rather under the weather; says she's dyspeptic, which means cross." "She is cross, but she's sick too, for I found her crying one day, and she said nobody cared about her, and she might as well be dead," added Maud, having turned her apple with tender care. "We must try to cheer her up, among us. If I was n't so busy I'd like to devote myself to her, she has done so much for me," said Polly, gratefully. "I wish you could. I can't understand her, for she acts like a weathercock, and I never know how I'm going to find her. I hate to have her mope so, but, upon my life, I don't know what to do," said Tom; but as he uttered the words, something was suggested by the sight before him. Chairs were few, and Polly had taken half of Will's when they drew round the fire. Now she was leaning against him, in a cosy, confiding way, delightful to behold, while Will's strong arm went round her with a protecting air, which said, as plainly as any words, that this big brother and small sister knew how to love and help one another. It was a pleasant little picture, all the pleasanter for its unconsciousness, and Tom found it both suggestive and agreeable. "Poor old Fan, she don't get much petting; maybe that's what she wants. I'll try it and see, for she stands by me like a trump. If she was a rosy, cosy little woman, like Polly, it would come easier, though," thought Tom, as he meditatively ate his last nut, feeling that fraternal affection could not be very difficult of demonstration, to brothers blessed with pretty, good-tempered sisters. "I told Tom about the bad fellow who blew up the professor, and he said he knew him, slightly; and I was so relieved, because I had a kind of a feeling that it was Tom himself, you and Will laughed so about it." Maud had a queer way of going on with her own thoughts, and suddenly coming out with whatever lay uppermost, regardless of time, place, or company. As this remark fell from her, there was a general smile, and Polly said, with mock solemnity, "It was a sad thing, and I've no doubt that misguided young man is very sorry for it now." "He looked perfectly bowed down with remorse last time I saw him," said Will, regarding Tom with eyes full of fun, for Will was a boy as well as a bookworm, and relished a joke as well as scatter-brained Tom. "He always is remorseful after a scrape, I've understood, for he is n't a very bad fellow, only his spirits are one too many for him, and he is n't as fond of his book as another fellow I know." "I'm afraid he'll he expelled if he don't mind," said Polly, warningly. "Should n't wonder if he was, he's such an unlucky dog," answered Tom, rather soberly. "I hope he'll remember that his friends will be very much disappointed if he is. He might make them so proud and happy; that I guess he will, for he is n't half as thoughtless as he makes himself out," said Polly, looking across at Tom with such friendly eyes that he was quite touched, though of course he did n't show it. "Thank you, Polly; he may pull through, but I have my doubts. Now old man, let us'pud' along; it's getting late for the chicken," he added, relapsing into the graceful diction with which a classical education gifts its fortunate possessor. Taking advantage of the moment while Will was wrestling with his boots in the closet, and Maud was absorbed in packing her apple into a large basket, Polly said to Tom in a low tone, "Thank you very much, for being so kind to Will." "Bless your heart, I have n't done anything; he's such a proud fellow he won't let me," answered Tom. "But you do in many little ways; to-night, for example. Do you think I don't know that the suit of clothes he's just got would have cost a good deal more, if your tailor had n't made them? He's only a boy, and don't understand things yet; but I know your way of helping proud people; so that they don't find it out, and I do thank you, Tom, so much." "Oh, come, Polly, that won't do. What do you know about tailors and college matters?" said Tom, looking as much confused as if she had found him out in something reprehensible. "I don't know much, and that's the reason why I'm grateful for your kindness to Will. I don't care what stories they tell about you, I'm sure, you won't lead him into trouble, but keep him straight, for my sake. You know I've lost one brother, and Will takes Jimmy's place to me now." The tears in Polly's eyes as she said that made Tom vow a tremendous vow within himself to stand by Will through thick and thin, and "keep him straight for Polly's sake"; feeling all the time how ill-fitted he was for such a task. "I'll do my best," he said, heartily, as he pressed the hand Polly gave him, with a look which assured her that he felt the appeal to his honor, and that henceforth the country lad was safe from all the temptations Tom could have offered him. "There! now I shall give that to mamma to take her pills in; it's just what she likes, and it pleases her to be thought of," said Maud, surveying her gift with complacency, as she put on her things. "You're a good little soul, to remember poor mum, said Tom, with an approving nod. "Well, she was so pleased with the grapes you brought her, I thought I 'd try something, and maybe she'd say 'Thank you, darling,' to me too. Do you think she will?" whispered Maud, with the wistful look so often seen on her little plain face. "See if she don't;" and to Maud's great surprise Tom did n't laugh at her project. "Good night, dear; take care of yourself, and keep your muffler round your mouth going over the bridge, or you'll be as hoarse as a crow to-morrow," said Polly, as she kissed her brother, who returned it without looking as if he thought it "girl's nonsense" Then the three piled into the sleigh and drove off, leave Polly nodding on the doorstep. Maud found the drive altogether too short, but was consoled by the promise of a longer one if the sleighing lasted till next Saturday: and when Tom ran up to bid his mother good-by, and give her a hint about Maud's gift, she stayed below to say, at the last minute, in unconscious imitation of Polly. "Good night; take care of yourself, my dear." Tom laughed, and was about to pinch the much enduring little nose; but, as if the words reminded him of something, he gave her a kiss instead, a piece of forbearance which almost took Maud's breath away with surprise and gratification. It was rather a silent drive, for Will obediently kept his muffler up, and Tom fell into a brown study. He was not much given to reflection, but occasionally indulged when something gave him a turn in that direction, and at such times he was as sober and sincere as could be desired. Any one might have lectured him for an hour without doing as much good as that little call and the chat that grew out of it, for, though nothing very wise or witty was said, many things were suggested, and every one knows that persuasive influences are better than any amount of moralizing. Neither Polly nor Will tried to do anything of the sort, and that was the charm of it. Nobody likes to be talked to, but nobody can resist the eloquence of unconscious preaching. With all his thoughtlessness, Tom was quick to see and feel these things, and was not spoilt enough yet to laugh at them. The sight of Will and Polly's simple affection for one another reminded him of a neglected duty so pleasantly, that he could not forget it. Talking of early days made him wish he could go back and start again, doing better. Grandma's name recalled the tender memory that always did him good, and the thought that Polly trusted her dearest brother to his care stirred up a manful desire to deserve the confidence. Tortures would n't have drawn a word of all this from him, but it had its effect, for boys don't leave their hearts and consciences behind them when they enter college, and little things of this sort do much to keep both from being damaged by the four years' scrimmage which begins the battle of life for most of them. CHAPTER XI. NEEDLES AND TONGUES DEAR POLLY, The Sewing Circle meets at our house this P. M. This is in your line, so do come and help me through. I shall depend on you. Yours ever, FAN. "Bad news, my dear?" asked Miss Mills, who had just handed the note to Polly as she came in one noon, a few weeks after Jenny's arrival. Polly told her what it was, adding, "I suppose I ought to go and help Fanny, but I can't say I want to. The girls talk about things I have nothing to do with, and I don't find their gossip very amusing. I'm an outsider, and they only accept me on Fan's account; so I sit in a corner and sew, while they chatter and laugh." "Would n't it be a good chance to say a word for Jenny? She wants work, and these young ladies probably have quantities done somewhere. Jenny does fine work exquisitely, and begins to feel anxious to be earning something. I don't want her to feel dependent and unhappy, and a little well-paid sewing would be all she needs to do nicely. I can get it for her by running round to my friends, but I really have n't the time, till I get the Mullers off. They are paupers here, but out West they can take care of themselves, so I've begged the money to send them, and as soon as I can get them some clothes, off they go. That's the way to help people help themselves," and Miss Mills clashed her big scissors energetically, as she cut out a little red flannel shirt. "I know it is, and I want to help, but I don't know where to begin," said Polly, feeling quite oppressed with the immensity of the work. "We can't any of us do all we would like, but we can do our best for every case that comes to us, and that helps amazingly. Begin with Jenny, my dear; tell those girls about her, and if I'm not much mistaken, you will find them ready to help, for half the time it is n't hardness of heart, but ignorance or thoughtlessness on the part of the rich, that makes them seem so careless of the poor." "To tell the truth, I'm afraid of being laughed at, if I try to talk seriously about such things to the girls," said Polly, frankly. "You believe that'such things' are true? You are sincere in your wish to help better them, and you respect those who work for that end?" "Yes, I do." "Then, my dear, can't you bear a little ridicule for the sake of a good cause? You said yesterday that you were going to make it a principle of your life, to help up your sex as far and as fast as you could. It did my heart good to hear you say it, for I was sure that in time you would keep your word. But, Polly, a principle that can't bear being laughed at, frowned on, and cold-shouldered, is n't worthy of the name." "I want to be strong-minded in the real sense of the word, but I don't like to be called so by people who don't understand my meaning; and I shall be if I try to make the girls think soberly about anything sensible or philanthropic. They call me old-fashioned now, and I'd rather be thought that, though it is n't pleasant, than be set down as a rampant woman's rights reformer," said Polly, in whose memory many laughs, and snubs, and sarcasms still lingered, forgiven but not forgotten. "This love and thought and care for those weaker, poorer, or worse than ourselves, which we call Christian charity, is a very old fashion, my dear. It began eighteen hundred years ago, and only those who honestly follow the beautiful example set us then, learn how to get genuine happiness out of life. I'm not a'rampant woman's rights reformer,'" added Miss Mills, with a smile at Polly's sober face; "but I think that women can do a great deal for each other, if they will only stop fearing what'people will think,' and take a hearty interest in whatever is going to fit their sisters and themselves to deserve and enjoy the rights God gave them. There are so many ways in which this can be done, that I wonder they don't see and improve them. I don't ask you to go and make speeches, only a few have the gift for that, but I do want every girl and woman to feel this duty, and make any little sacrifice of time or feeling that may be asked of them, because there is so much to do, and no one can do it as well as ourselves, if we only think so." "I'll try!" said Polly, influenced more by her desire to keep Miss Mills' good opinion than any love of self-sacrifice for her sex. It was rather a hard thing to ask of a shy, sensitive girl, and the kind old lady knew it, for in spite of the gray hair and withered face, her heart was very young, and her own girlish trials not forgotten. But she knew also that Polly had more influence over others than she herself suspected, simply because of her candid, upright nature; and that while she tried to help others, she was serving herself in a way that would improve heart and soul more than any mere social success she might gain by following the rules of fashionable life, which drill the character out of girls till they are as much alike as pins in a paper, and have about as much true sense and sentiment in their little heads. There was good stuff in Polly, unspoiled as yet, and Miss Mills was only acting out her principle of women helping each other. The wise old lady saw that Polly had reached that point where the girl suddenly blooms into a woman, asking something more substantial than pleasure to satisfy the new aspirations that are born; a time as precious and important to the after-life, as the hour when the apple blossoms fall, and the young fruit waits for the elements to ripen or destroy the harvest. Polly did not know this, and was fortunate in possessing a friend who knew what influences would serve her best, and who could give her what all women should desire to give each other, the example of a sweet, good life, more eloquent and powerful than any words; for this is a right no one can deny us. Polly turned the matter over in her mind as she dressed, while Jenny played waiting maid, little dreaming what this new friend was meaning to do for her, if she dared. "Is it going to be a tea-party, Miss?" asked Jenny, as the black silk went rustling on, to her great admiration, for she considered Polly a beauty. "Well, no, I think it will probably be a lecture," answered Polly, laughing, for Jenny's grateful service and affectionate eyes confirmed the purpose which Miss Mills' little homily had suggested. As she entered the Shaws' parlor an hour or two later, an appalling array of well-dressed girls appeared, each provided with a dainty reticule, basket, or bag, and each tongue going a good deal faster than the needle, while the white fingers stitched sleeves in upside down, put flannel jackets together hind part before, or gobbled button-holes with the best intentions in life. "You are a dear to come so early. Here's a nice place for you between Belle and Miss Perkins, and here's a sweet little dress to make, unless you like something else better," said Fanny, receiving her friend with warmth and placing her where she thought she would enjoy herself. "Thank you, I'll take an unbleached cotton shirt if you have such a thing, for it is likely to be needed before a cambric frock," replied Polly, subsiding into her corner as quickly as possible, for at least six eye-glasses were up, and she did n't enjoy being stared at. Miss Perkins, a grave, cold-looking young lady, with an aristocratic nose, bowed politely, and then went on with her work, which displayed two diamond rings to great advantage. Belle, being of the demonstrative sort, smiled and nodded, drew up her chair, and began a whispered account of Trix's last quarrel with Tom. Polly listened with interest while she sewed diligently, occasionally permitting her eyes to study the elegant intricacies of Miss Perkins' dress, for that young lady sat like a statue, quirking her delicate fingers, and accomplishing about two stitches a minute. In the midst of Belle's story, a more exciting bit of gossip caught her ear, and she plunged into the conversation going on across the table, leaving Polly free to listen and admire the wit, wisdom, and charitable spirit of the accomplished young ladies about her. There was a perfect Babel of tongues, but out of the confusion Polly gathered scraps of fashionable intelligence which somewhat lessened her respect for the dwellers in high places. One fair creature asserted that Joe Somebody took so much champagne at the last German, that he had to be got away, and sent home with two servants. Another divulged the awful fact that Carrie P.'s wedding presents were half of them hired for the occasion. A third circulated a whisper to the effect that though Mrs. Buckminster wore a thousand-dollar cloak, her boys were not allowed but one sheet to their beds. And a fourth young gossip assured the company that a certain person never had offered himself to a certain other person, though the report was industriously spread by interested parties. This latter remark caused such a clamor that Fanny called the meeting to order in a most unparliamentary fashion. "Girls! girls! you really must talk less and sew more, or our society will be disgraced. Do you know our branch sent in less work than any of the others last month, and Mrs. Fitz George said, she did n't see how fifteen young ladies could manage to do so little?" "We don't talk a bit more than the old ladies do. I just wish you could have heard them go on, last time. The way they get so much done, is, they take work home, and make their seamstresses do it, and then they take credit for vast industry," said Belle, who always spoke her mind with charming candor. "That reminds me that mamma says they want as many things as we can make, for it's a hard winter, and the poor are suffering very much. Do any of you wish to take articles home, to do at odd times?" said Fan, who was president of this energetic Dorcas Society. "Mercy, no! It takes all my leisure time to mend my gloves and refresh my dresses," answered Belle. "I think if we meet once a week, it is all that should be expected of us, with our other engagements. Poor people always complain that the winter is a hard one, and never are satisfied," remarked Miss Perkins, making her diamonds sparkle as she sewed buttons on the wrong side of a pink calico apron, which would hardly survive one washing. "Nobody can ask me to do any more, if they remember all I've got to attend to before summer," said Trix, with an important air. "I've got three women hard at work, and want another, but everyone is so busy, and ask such abominable prices, that I'm in despair, and shall have to take hold myself, I'm afraid." "There's a chance for Jane," thought Polly, but had n't courage "to speak out loud in meeting," just then, and resolved to ask Trix for work, in private. "Prices are high, but you forget how much more it costs to live now than it used to do. Mamma never allows us to beat down workwomen, but wishes us to pay them well, and economize in some other way, if we must," said Emma Davenport, a quiet, bright-eyed girl, who was called "odd" among the young ladies, because she dressed simply, when her father was a millionaire. "Just hear that girl talk about economy! I beg your pardon, she's some relation of yours, I believe!" said Belle, in a low tone. "Very distant; but I'm proud of it; for with her, economy does n't mean scrimping in one place to make a show in another. If every one would follow the Davenports' example, workwomen would n't starve, or servants be such a trouble. Emma is the plainest dressed girl in the room, next to me, yet any one can see she is a true gentlewoman," said Polly, warmly. "And you are another," answered Belle, who had always loved Polly, in her scatter-brained way. "Hush! Trix has the floor." "If they spent their wages properly, I should n't mind so much, but they think they must be as fine as anybody, and dress so well that it is hard to tell mistress from maid. Why our cook got a bonnet just like mine (the materials were cheaper, but the effect was the same), and had the impertinence to wear it before my face. I forbid it, and she left, of course, which made papa so cross he would n't give me the camel's hair shawl he promised this year." "It's perfectly shameful!" said Miss Perkins, as Trix paused out of breath. "Servants ought to be made to dress like servants, as they do abroad; then we should have no more trouble," observed Miss Perkins, who had just made the grand tour, and had brought home a French maid. "Perky don't practise as she preaches," whispered Belle to Polly, as Miss P. became absorbed in the chat of her other neighbors. "She pays her chamber girl with old finery; and the other day, when Betsey was out parading in her missis's cast-off purple plush suit, Mr. Curtis thought she was mademoiselle, and bowed to her. He is as blind as a bat, but recognized the dress, and pulled off his hat to it in the most elegant style. Perky adores him, and was mad enough to beat Betsey when she told the story and giggled over it. Betsey is quite as stylish and ever so much prettier than Perky, and she knows it, which is an aggravation." Polly could n't help laughing, but grew sober a minute after, as Trix said, pettishly, "Well, I'm sick of hearing about beggars; I believe half of them are humbugs, and if we let them alone they'd go to work and take care of themselves. There's altogether too much fuss made about charity. I do wish we could be left in peace." "There can't be too much charity!" burst out Polly, forgetting her shyness all at once. "Oh, indeed! Well, I take the liberty to differ from you," returned Trix, putting up her glass, and bestowing upon Polly her most "toploftical stare," as the girls called it. I regret to say that Polly never could talk with or be near Trix without feeling irritated and combative. She tried to conquer this feeling, but she could n't, and when Trix put on airs, Polly felt an intense desire to box her ears. That eye-glass was her especial aversion, for Trix was no more near-sighted than herself, but pretended to be because it was the fashion, and at times used the innocent glass as a weapon with which to put down any one who presumed to set themselves up. The supercilious glance which accompanied her ironically polite speech roused Polly, who answered with sudden color and the kindling of the eyes that always betrayed a perturbed spirit, "I don't think many of us would enjoy that selfish sort of peace, while little children starve, and girls no older than us kill themselves because their dreadful poverty leaves them no choice but sin or death." A sudden lull took place, for, though Polly, did not raise her voice, it was full of indignant emotion, and the most frivolous girl there felt a little thrill of sympathy; for the most utterly fashionable life does not kill the heart out of women, till years of selfish pleasure have passed over their heads. Trix was ashamed of herself; but she felt the same antagonism toward Polly, that Polly did toward her; and, being less generous, took satisfaction in plaguing her. Polly did not know that the secret of this was the fact that Tom often held her up as a model for his fiance to follow, which caused that young lady to dislike her more than ever. "Half the awful stories in the papers are made up for a sensation, and it's absurd to believe them, unless one likes to be harrowed up. I don't; and as for peace, I'm not likely to get much, while I have Tom to look after," said Trix, with an aggravating laugh. Polly's needle snapped in two, but she did not mind it, as she said, with a look that silenced even sharp-tongued Trix, "I can't help believing what my own eyes and ears have seen and heard. You lead such safe and happy lives, you can't imagine the misery that is all round you; but if you could get a glimpse of it, it would make your hearts ache, as it has mine." "Do you suffer from heartache? Some one hinted as much to me, but you looked so well, I could n't believe it." Now that was cruel in Trix, more cruel than any one guessed; but girls' tongues can deal wounds as sharp and sudden as the slender stiletto Spanish women wear in their hair, and Polly turned pale, as those words stabbed her. Belle saw it, and rushed to the rescue with more good-will than wisdom. "Nobody ever accused you of having any heart to ache with. Polly and I are not old enough yet to get tough and cool, and we are still silly enough to pity unhappy people, Tom Shaw especially," added Belle, under her breath. That was a two-edged thrust, for Trix was decidedly an old girl, and Tom was generally regarded as a hapless victim. Trix turned red; but before she could load and fire again, Emma Davenport, who labored under the delusion that this sort of skirmishing was ill-natured, and therefore ill-bred, spoke up in her pleasant way, "Speaking of pitying the poor, I always wonder why it is that we all like to read and cry over their troubles in books, but when we have the real thing before us, we think it is uninteresting and disagreeable." "It's the

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