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NLP Research Group 9

"That wouldn't be seemly, because our mayor is expected to attend in church on Roundabout Sunday." Roundabout Sunday, so called for certain local reasons which it would be long to explain, followed immediately on the day of the mayor's inauguration. "Would you like to have a Jew partner in your own business?" Mrs. Butler Cornbury should have said nothing to Mr. Tappitt as to any partner in the brewery, Jew or Christian. "I don't want any partner, and what's more, I don't mean to have any." "Mrs. Cornbury is in favour of Luke Rowan; she takes his side," said Mrs. Tappitt, some portion of her courage returning to her as this opportunity opened upon her. Mr. Tappitt turned his head full round and looked upon Mrs. Cornbury with an evil eye. That lady knew that the vote was lost, lost unless she would denounce the man whom Rachel loved; and she determined at once that she would not denounce him. There are many things which such a woman will do to gain such an object. She could smile when Tappitt was offensive; she could smile again when Mrs. Tappitt talked like a kitchenmaid. She could flatter them both, and pretend to talk seriously with them about Jews and her own Church feelings. She could have given up to them Luke Rowan,--if he had stood alone. But she could not give up the girl she had chaperoned, and upon whom, during that chaperoning, her good-will and kindly feelings had fallen. Rachel had pleased her eye, and gratified her sense of feminine nicety. She felt that a word said against Rowan would be a word said also against Rachel; and therefore, throwing her husband over for the nonce, she resolved to sacrifice the vote and stand up for her friend. "Well, yes; I do," said she, meeting Tappitt's eye steadily. She was not going to be looked out of countenance by Mr. Tappitt. "She thinks he'll come back to marry that young woman at Bragg's End," said Mrs. Tappitt; "but I say that he'll never dare to show his face in Baslehurst again." "That young woman is making a great fool of herself," said Tappitt, "if she trusts to a swindler like him." "Perhaps, Mrs. Tappitt," said Mrs. Cornbury, "we needn't mind discussing Miss Ray. It's not good to talk about a young lady in that way, and I'm sure I never said that I thought she was engaged to Mr. Rowan. Had I done so I should have been very wrong, for I know nothing about it. What little I saw of the gentleman I liked;" and as she used the word gentleman she looked Tappitt full in the face; "and for Miss Ray, I've a great regard for her, and think very highly of her. Independently of her acknowledged beauty and pleasant, ladylike manners, she's a very charming girl. About the vote, Mr. Tappitt--; at any rate you'll think of it." But had he not been defied in his own house? And as for her, the mother of those three finely educated girls, had not every word said in Rachel's favour been a dagger planted in her own maternal bosom? Whose courage would not have risen under such provocation? Mrs. Cornbury had got up to go, but the indignant, injured Tappitts resolved mutually, though without concert, that she should be answered. "I'm an honest man, Mrs. Cornbury," said the brewer, "and I like to speak out my mind openly. Mr. Hart is a liberal, and I mean to support my party. Will you tell Mr. Cornbury so with my compliments? It's all nonsense about Jews not being in Parliament. It's not the same as being mayors or churchwardens, or anything like that. I shall vote for Mr. Hart; and, what's more, we shall put him in." "And Mrs. Cornbury, if you have so much regard for Miss Rachel, you'd better advise her to think no more of that young man. He's no good; he's not indeed. If you ask, you'll find he's in debt everywhere." "Swindler!" said Tappitt. "I don't suppose it can be very bad with Miss Rachel yet, for she only saw him about three times,--though she was so intimate with him at our party." Mrs. Butler Cornbury curtseyed and smiled, and got herself out of the room. Mrs. Tappitt, as soon as she remembered herself, rang the bell, and Mr. Tappitt, following her down to the hall door, went through the pretence of putting her into her carriage. "She's a nasty meddlesome woman," said Tappitt, as soon as he got back to his wife. "And how ever she can stand up and say all those things for that girl, passes me!" said Mrs. Tappitt, holding up both her hands. "She was flighty herself, when young; she was, no doubt; and now I suppose she likes others to be the same. If that's what she calls manners, I shouldn't like her to take my girls about." "And him a gentleman!" said Tappitt. "If those are to be our gentlemen I'd sooner have all the Jews out of Jerusalem. But they'll find out their gentleman; they'll find him out! He'll rob that old mother of his before he's done; you mark my words else." Comforting himself with this hope he took himself back to his counting-house. Mrs. Cornbury had smiled as she went, and had carried herself through the whole interview without any sign of temper. Even when declaring that she intended to take Rachel's part open-mouthed, she had spoken in a half-drolling way which had divested her words of any tone of offence. But when she got into her carriage, she was in truth very angry. "I don't believe a word of it," she said to herself; "not a word of it." That in which she professed to herself her own disbelief was the general assertion that Rowan was a swindler, supported by the particular assertion that he had left Baslehurst over head and ears in debt. "I don't believe it." And she resolved that it should be her business to find out whether the accusation were true or false. She knew the ins and outs of Baslehurst life and Baslehurst doings with tolerable accuracy, and was at any rate capable of unravelling such a mystery as that. If the Tappitts in their jealousy were striving to rob Rachel Ray of her husband by spreading false reports, she would encourage Rachel Ray in her love by spreading the truth;--if, as she believed, the truth should speak in Rowan's favour. She would have considerable pleasure in countermining Mr. and Mrs. Tappitt. As to Mr. Tappitt's vote for the election;--that was gone! CHAPTER III. DR. HARFORD. The current of events forced upon Rachel a delay of three or four days in answering her letter, or rather forced upon her that delay in learning whether or no she might answer it; and this was felt by her to be a grievous evil. It had been arranged that she should not write until such writing should have received what might almost be called a parochial sanction, and no idea of acting in opposition to that arrangement ever occurred to her; but the more she thought of it the more she was vexed; and the more she thought of it the more she learned to doubt whether or no her mother was placing her in safe tutelage. During these few weeks a great change came upon the girl's character. When first Mrs. Prime had brought home tidings that Miss Pucker had seen her walking and talking with the young man from the brewery, angry as she had been with her sister, and disgusted as she had been with Miss Pucker, she had acknowledged to herself that such talking and walking were very dangerous, if not very improper, and she had half resolved that there should be no more of them. And when Mrs. Prime had seen her standing at the stile, and had brought home that second report, Rachel, knowing what had occurred at that stile, had then felt sure that she was in danger. At that time, though she had thought much of Luke Rowan, she had not thought of him as a man who could possibly be her husband. She had thought of him as having no right to call her Rachel, because he could not possibly become so. There had been great danger;--there had been conduct which she believed to be improper though she could not tell herself that she had been guilty. In her outlook into the world nothing so beautiful had promised itself to her as having such a man to love her as Luke Rowan. Though her mother was not herself ascetic,--liking tea and buttered toast dearly, and liking also little soft laughter with her child,--she had preached ascetisms till Rachel had learned to think that the world was all either ascetic or reprobate. The Dorcas meetings had become distasteful to her because the women were vulgar; but yet she had half believed herself to be wrong in avoiding the work and the vulgarity together. Idle she had never been. Since a needle had come easy to her hand, and the economies of a household had been made intelligible to her, she had earned her bread and assisted in works of charity. She had read no love stories, and been taught to expect no lover. She was not prepared to deny,--did not deny even to herself,--that it was wrong that she should even like to talk to Luke Rowan. Then came the ball; or, rather, first came the little evening party, which afterwards grew to be a ball. She had been very desirous of going, not for the sake of any pleasure that she promised herself; not for the sake of such pleasure as girls do promise themselves at such gatherings; but because her female pride told her that it was well for her to claim the right of meeting this young man,--well for her to declare that nothing had passed between them which should make her afraid to meet him. That some other hopes had crept in as the evening had come nigh at hand,--hopes of which she had been made aware only by her efforts in repressing them,--may not be denied. She had been accused because of him; and she would show that no such accusation had daunted her. But would he,--would he give occasion for further accusation? She believed he would not; nay, she was sure; at any rate she hoped he would not. She told herself that such was her hope; but had he not noticed her she would have been wretched. We know now in what manner he had noticed her, and we know also whether she had been wretched. She had certainly fled from him. When she left the brewery-house, inducing Mrs. Cornbury to bring her away, she did so in order that she might escape from him. But she ran from him as one runs from some great joy in order that the mind may revel over it in peace. Then, little as she knew it, her love had been given. Her heart was his. She had placed him upon her pinnacle, and was prepared to worship him. She was ready to dress herself in his eyes, to believe that to be good which he thought good, and to repudiate that which he repudiated. When she bowed her head over his breast a day or two afterwards, she could have spoken to him with the full words of passionate love had not maiden fear repressed her. But she had not even bowed her head for him, she had not acknowledged to herself that such love was possible to her, till her mother had consented. That her mother's consent had been wavering, doubtful, expressed without intention of such expression,--so expressed that Mrs. Ray hardly knew that she had expressed it,--was not understood by Rachel. Her mother had consented, and, that consent having been given, Rachel was not now disposed to allow of any steps backwards. She seemed to have learned her rights, or to have assumed that she had rights. Hitherto her obedience to her mother had been pure and simple, although, from the greater force of her character, she had in many things been her mother's leader. But now, though she was ill inclined to rebel, though in this matter of the letter she had obeyed, she was beginning to feel that obedience might become a hardship. She did not say to herself, "They have let me love him, and now they must not put out their hands to hold back my love;" but the current of her feelings ran as though such unspoken words had passed across her mind. She had her rights; and though she did not presume that she could insist on them in opposition to her mother or her mother's advisers, she knew that she would be wronged if those rights were withheld from her. The chief of those rights was the possession of her lover. If he was taken from her she would be as one imprisoned unjustly,--as one robbed by those who should have been his friends,--as one injured, wounded, stricken in the dark, and treacherously mutilated by hands that should have protected him. During these days she was silent, and sat with that look upon her brow which her mother feared. "I could not make Mr. Comfort come any sooner, Rachel," said Mrs. Ray. "No, mamma." "I can see how impatient you are." "I don't know that I'm impatient. I'm sure that I haven't said anything." "If you said anything I shouldn't mind it so much; but I can't bear to see you with that unhappy look. I'm sure I only wish to do what's best. You can't think it right that you should be writing letters to a gentleman without being sure that it is proper." "Oh, mamma, don't talk about it!" "You don't like me to ask your sister; and I'm sure it's natural I should want to ask somebody. He's nearly seventy years old, and he has known you ever since you were born. And then he's a clergyman, and therefore he'll be sure to know what's right. Not that I should have liked to have said a word about it to Mr. Prong, because there's a difference when they come from one doesn't know where." "Pray, mamma, don't. I haven't made any objection to Mr. Comfort. It isn't nice to be talked over in that way by anybody, that's all." "But what was I to do? I'm sure I liked the young man very much. I never knew a young man who took his tea so pleasant. And as for his manners and his way of talking, I had it in my heart to fall in love with him myself. I had indeed. As far as that goes, he's just the young man that I could make a son of." "Dear mamma! my own dearest mamma!" and Rachel, jumping up, threw herself upon her mother's neck. "Stop there. You shan't say another word." "I'm sure I didn't mean to say anything unpleasant." "No, you did not; and I won't be impatient." "Only I can't bear that look. And you know what his mother said,--and Mrs. Tappitt. Not that I care about Mrs. Tappitt; only a person's mother is his mother, and he shouldn't have called her a goose." It must be acknowledged that Rachel's position was not comfortable; and it certainly would not have been improved had she known how many people in Baslehurst were talking about her and Rowan. That Rowan was gone everybody knew; that he had made love to Rachel everybody said; that he never meant to come back any more most professed to believe. Tappitt's tongue was loud in proclaiming his iniquities; and her follies and injuries Mrs. Tappitt whispered into the ears of all her female acquaintances. "I'm sorry for her," Miss Harford said, mildly. Mrs. Tappitt was calling at the rectory, and had made her way in. Mr. Tappitt was an upholder of the old rector, and there was a fellow-townsman's friendship between them. "Oh yes;--very sorry for her," said Mrs. Tappitt. "Very sorry indeed," said Augusta, who was with her mother. "She always seemed to me a pretty, quiet, well-behaved girl," said Miss Harford. "Still waters run deepest, you know, Miss Harford," said Mrs. Tappitt. "I should never have imagined it of her;--never. But she certainly met him half-way." "But we all thought he was respectable, you know," said Miss Harford. Miss Harford was thoroughly good-natured; and though she had never gone half-way herself, and had perhaps lost her chance from having been unable to go any part of the way, she was not disposed to condemn a girl for having been willing to be admired by such a one as Luke Rowan. "Well;--yes; at first we did. He had the name of money, you know, and that goes so far with some girls. We were on our guard,"--and she looked proudly round on Augusta,--"till we should hear what the young man really was. He has thrown off his sheep's clothing now with a vengeance. Mr. Tappitt feels quite ashamed that he should have introduced him to any of the people here; he does indeed." "That may be her misfortune, and not her fault," said Miss Harford, who in defending Rachel was well enough inclined to give up Luke. Indeed, Baslehurst was beginning to have a settled mind that Luke was a wolf. "Oh, quite so," said Mrs. Tappitt. "The poor girl has been very unfortunate no doubt." After that she took her leave of the rectory. On that evening Mr. Comfort dined with Dr. Harford, as did also Butler Cornbury and his wife, and one or two others. The chances of the election formed, of course, the chief subject of conversation both in the drawing-room and at the dinner-table; but in talking of the election they came to talk of Mr. Tappitt, and in talking of Tappitt they came to talk of Luke Rowan. It has already been said that Dr. Harford had been rector of Baslehurst for many years at the period to which this story refers. He had nearly completed half a century of work in that capacity, and had certainly been neither an idle nor an inefficient clergyman. But, now in his old age, he was discontented and disgusted by the changes which had come upon him; and though some bodily strength for further service still remained to him, he had no longer any aptitude for useful work. A man cannot change as men change. Individual men are like the separate links of a rotatory chain. The chain goes on with continuous easy motion as though every part of it were capable of adapting itself to a curve, but not the less is each link as stiff and sturdy as any other piece of wrought iron. Dr. Harford had in his time been an active, popular man,--a man possessing even some liberal tendencies in politics, though a country rector of nearly half a century's standing. In his parish he had been more than a clergyman. He had been a magistrate, and a moving man in municipal affairs. He had been a politician, and though now for many years he had supported the Conservative candidate, he had been loudly in favour of the Reform Bill when Baslehurst was a close borough in the possession of a great duke, who held property hard by. But liberal politics had gone on and had left Dr. Harford high and dry on the standing-ground which he had chosen for himself in the early days of his manhood. And then had come that pestilent act of the legislature under which his parish had been divided. Not that the Act of Parliament itself had been violently condemned by the doctor on its becoming law. I doubt whether he had then thought much of it. But when men calling themselves Commissioners came actually upon him and his, and separated off from him a district of his own town, taking it away altogether from his authority, and giving it over to such inexperienced hands as chance might send thither,--then Dr. Harford became a violent Tory. And my readers must not conceive that this was a question touching his pocket. One might presume that his pocket would be in some degree benefited, seeing that he was saved from the necessity of supplying the spiritual wants of a certain portion of his parish. No shilling was taken from his own income, which, indeed, was by no means excessive. His whole parish gave him barely six hundred a year, out of which he had kept always one, and latterly two curates. It was no question of money in any degree. Sooner than be invaded and mutilated he would have submitted to an order calling upon him to find a third curate,--could any power have given such order. His parish had been invaded and his clerical authority mutilated. He was no longer _totus teres atque rotundus_. The beauty of his life was over, and the contentment of his mind was gone. He knew that it was only left for him to die, spending such days as remained to him in vague prophecies of evil against his devoted country,--a country which had allowed its ancient parochial landmarks to be moved, and its ecclesiastical fastnesses to be invaded! But perhaps hatred of Mr. Prong was the strongest passion of Dr. Harford's heart at the present moment. He had ever hated the dissenting ministers by whom he was surrounded. In Devonshire dissent has waxed strong for many years, and the pastors of the dissenting flocks have been thorns in the side of the Church of England clergymen. Dr. Harford had undergone his full share of suffering from such thorns. But they had caused him no more than a pleasant irritation in comparison with what he endured from the presence of Mr. Prong in Baslehurst. He would sooner have entertained all the dissenting ministers of the South Hams together than have put his legs under the same mahogany with Mr. Prong. Mr. Prong was to him the evil thing! Anathema! He believed all bad things of Mr. Prong with an absolute faith, but without any ground on which such faith should have been formed. He thought that Mr. Prong drank spirits; that he robbed his parishioners;--Dr. Harford would sooner have lost his tongue than have used such a word with reference to those who attended Mr. Prong's chapel;--that he had left a deserted wife on some parish; that he was probably not in truth ordained. There was nothing which Dr. Harford could not believe of Mr. Prong. Now all this was, to say the least of it, a pity, for it disfigured the close of a useful and conscientious life. Dr. Harford of course intended to vote for Mr. Cornbury, but he would not join loudly in condemnation of Mr. Tappitt. Tappitt had stood stanchly by him in all parochial contests regarding the new district. Tappitt opposed the Prong faction at all points. Tappitt as churchwarden had been submissive to the doctor. Church of England principles had always been held at the brewery, and Bungall had been ever in favour with Dr. Harford's predecessor. "He calls himself a Liberal, and always has done," said the doctor. "You can't expect that he should desert his own party." "But a Jew!" said old Mr. Comfort. "Well; why not a Jew?" said the doctor. Whereupon Mr. Comfort, and Butler Cornbury, and Dr. Harford's own curate, young Mr. Calclough, and Captain Byng, an old bachelor, who lived in Baslehurst, all stared at him; as Dr. Harford had intended that they should. "Upon my word," said he, "I don't see the use for caring for that kind of thing any longer; I don't indeed. In the way we are going on now, and for the sort of thing we do, I don't see why Jews shouldn't serve us as well in Parliament as Christians. If I am to have my brains knocked out, I'd sooner have it done by a declared enemy than by one who calls himself my friend." "But our brains are not knocked out yet," said Butler Cornbury. "I don't know anything about yours, but mine are." "I don't think the world's coming to an end yet," said the captain. "Nor do I. I said nothing about the world coming to an end. But if you saw a part of your ship put under the command of a landlubber, who didn't know one side of the vessel from the other, you'd think the world had better come to an end than be carried on in that way." "It's not the same thing, you know," said the captain. "You couldn't divide a ship." "Oh, well; you'll see." "I don't think any Christian should vote for a Jew," said the curate. "A verdict has gone out against them, and what is man that he should reverse it?" "Are you quite sure that you are reversing it by putting them into Parliament?" said Dr. Harford. "May not that be a carrying on of the curse?" "There's consolation in that idea for Butler if he loses his election," said Mr. Comfort. "Parliament isn't what it was," said the doctor. "There's no doubt about that." "And who is to blame?" said Mr. Comfort, who had never supported the Reform Bill as his neighbour had done. "I say nothing about blame. It's natural that things should get worse as they grow older." "Dr. Harford thinks Parliament is worn out," said Butler Cornbury. "And what if I do think so? Have not other things as great fallen and gone into decay? Did not the Roman senate wear out, as you call it? And as for these Jews, of whom you are speaking, what was the curse upon them but the wearing out of their grace and wisdom? I am inclined to think that we are wearing out; only I wish the garment could have lasted my time without showing so many thin places." "Now I believe just the contrary," said the captain. "I don't think we have come to our full growth yet." "Could we lick the French as we did at Trafalgar and Waterloo?" said the doctor. The captain thought a while before he answered, and then spoke with much solemnity. "Yes," said he, "I think we could. And I hope the time will soon come when we may." "We shan't do it if we send Jews to Parliament," said Mr. Comfort. "I must say I think Tappitt wrong," said young Cornbury. "Of course, near as the thing is going, I'm sorry to lose his vote; but I'm not speaking because of that. He has always pretended to hold on to the Church party here, and the Church party has held on to him. His beer is none of the best, and I think he'd have been wise to stick to his old friends." "I don't see the argument about the beer," said the doctor. "He shouldn't provoke his neighbours to look at his faults." "But the Jew's friends would find out that the beer is bad as well as yours." "The truth is," said Cornbury, "that Tappitt thinks he has a personal grievance against me. He's as cross as a bear with a sore head at the present moment, because this young fellow who was to have been his partner has turned against him. There's some love affair, and my wife has been there and made a mess of it. It's hard upon me, for I don't know that I ever saw the young man in my life." "I believe that fellow is a scamp," said the doctor. "I hope not," said Mr. Comfort, thinking of Rachel and her hopes. "We all hope he isn't, of course," said the doctor. "But we can't prevent men being scamps by hoping. There are other scamps in this town in whom, if my hoping would do any good, a very great change would be made."--Everybody present knew that the doctor alluded especially to Mr. Prong, whose condition, however, if the doctor's hopes could have been carried out, would not have been enviable.--"But I fear this fellow Rowan is a scamp, and I think he has treated Tappitt badly. Tappitt told me all about it only this morning." "Audi alteram partem," said Mr. Comfort. "The scamp's party you mean," said the doctor. "I haven't the means of doing that. If in this world we suspend our judgment till we've heard all that can be said on both sides of every question, we should never come to any judgment at all. I hear that he's in debt; I believe he behaved very badly to Tappitt himself, so that Tappitt was forced to use personal violence to defend himself; and he has certainly threatened to open a new brewery here. Now that's bad, as coming from a young man related to the old firm." "I think he should leave the brewery alone," said Mr. Comfort. "Of course he should," said the doctor. "And I hear, moreover, that he is playing a wicked game with a girl in your parish." "I don't know about a wicked game," said the other. "It won't be a wicked game if he marries her." Then Rachel's chances of matrimonial success were discussed with a degree of vigour which must have been felt by her to be highly complimentary, had she been aware of it. But I grieve to say that public opinion, as expressed in Dr. Harford's dining-room, went against Luke Rowan. Mr. Tappitt was not a great man, either as a citizen or as a brewer: he was not one to whom Baslehurst would even rejoice to raise a monument; but such as he was he had been known for many years.

looked

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

"That wouldn't be seemly, because our mayor is expected to attend in church on Roundabout Sunday." Roundabout Sunday, so called for certain local reasons which it would be long to explain, followed immediately on the day of the mayor's inauguration. "Would you like to have a Jew partner in your own business?" Mrs. Butler Cornbury should have said nothing to Mr. Tappitt as to any partner in the brewery, Jew or Christian. "I don't want any partner, and what's more, I don't mean to have any." "Mrs. Cornbury is in favour of Luke Rowan; she takes his side," said Mrs. Tappitt, some portion of her courage returning to her as this opportunity opened upon her. Mr. Tappitt turned his head full round and looked upon Mrs. Cornbury with an evil eye. That lady knew that the vote was lost, lost unless she would denounce the man whom Rachel loved; and she determined at once that she would not denounce him. There are many things which such a woman will do to gain such an object. She could smile when Tappitt was offensive; she could smile again when Mrs. Tappitt talked like a kitchenmaid. She could flatter them both, and pretend to talk seriously with them about Jews and her own Church feelings. She could have given up to them Luke Rowan,--if he had stood alone. But she could not give up the girl she had chaperoned, and upon whom, during that chaperoning, her good-will and kindly feelings had fallen. Rachel had pleased her eye, and gratified her sense of feminine nicety. She felt that a word said against Rowan would be a word said also against Rachel; and therefore, throwing her husband over for the nonce, she resolved to sacrifice the vote and stand up for her friend. "Well, yes; I do," said she, meeting Tappitt's eye steadily. She was not going to be looked out of countenance by Mr. Tappitt. "She thinks he'll come back to marry that young woman at Bragg's End," said Mrs. Tappitt; "but I say that he'll never dare to show his face in Baslehurst again." "That young woman is making a great fool of herself," said Tappitt, "if she trusts to a swindler like him." "Perhaps, Mrs. Tappitt," said Mrs. Cornbury, "we needn't mind discussing Miss Ray. It's not good to talk about a young lady in that way, and I'm sure I never said that I thought she was engaged to Mr. Rowan. Had I done so I should have been very wrong, for I know nothing about it. What little I saw of the gentleman I liked;" and as she used the word gentleman she looked Tappitt full in the face; "and for Miss Ray, I've a great regard for her, and think very highly of her. Independently of her acknowledged beauty and pleasant, ladylike manners, she's a very charming girl. About the vote, Mr. Tappitt--; at any rate you'll think of it." But had he not been defied in his own house? And as for her, the mother of those three finely educated girls, had not every word said in Rachel's favour been a dagger planted in her own maternal bosom? Whose courage would not have risen under such provocation? Mrs. Cornbury had got up to go, but the indignant, injured Tappitts resolved mutually, though without concert, that she should be answered. "I'm an honest man, Mrs. Cornbury," said the brewer, "and I like to speak out my mind openly. Mr. Hart is a liberal, and I mean to support my party. Will you tell Mr. Cornbury so with my compliments? It's all nonsense about Jews not being in Parliament. It's not the same as being mayors or churchwardens, or anything like that. I shall vote for Mr. Hart; and, what's more, we shall put him in." "And Mrs. Cornbury, if you have so much regard for Miss Rachel, you'd better advise her to think no more of that young man. He's no good; he's not indeed. If you ask, you'll find he's in debt everywhere." "Swindler!" said Tappitt. "I don't suppose it can be very bad with Miss Rachel yet, for she only saw him about three times,--though she was so intimate with him at our party." Mrs. Butler Cornbury curtseyed and smiled, and got herself out of the room. Mrs. Tappitt, as soon as she remembered herself, rang the bell, and Mr. Tappitt, following her down to the hall door, went through the pretence of putting her into her carriage. "She's a nasty meddlesome woman," said Tappitt, as soon as he got back to his wife. "And how ever she can stand up and say all those things for that girl, passes me!" said Mrs. Tappitt, holding up both her hands. "She was flighty herself, when young; she was, no doubt; and now I suppose she likes others to be the same. If that's what she calls manners, I shouldn't like her to take my girls about." "And him a gentleman!" said Tappitt. "If those are to be our gentlemen I'd sooner have all the Jews out of Jerusalem. But they'll find out their gentleman; they'll find him out! He'll rob that old mother of his before he's done; you mark my words else." Comforting himself with this hope he took himself back to his counting-house. Mrs. Cornbury had smiled as she went, and had carried herself through the whole interview without any sign of temper. Even when declaring that she intended to take Rachel's part open-mouthed, she had spoken in a half-drolling way which had divested her words of any tone of offence. But when she got into her carriage, she was in truth very angry. "I don't believe a word of it," she said to herself; "not a word of it." That in which she professed to herself her own disbelief was the general assertion that Rowan was a swindler, supported by the particular assertion that he had left Baslehurst over head and ears in debt. "I don't believe it." And she resolved that it should be her business to find out whether the accusation were true or false. She knew the ins and outs of Baslehurst life and Baslehurst doings with tolerable accuracy, and was at any rate capable of unravelling such a mystery as that. If the Tappitts in their jealousy were striving to rob Rachel Ray of her husband by spreading false reports, she would encourage Rachel Ray in her love by spreading the truth;--if, as she believed, the truth should speak in Rowan's favour. She would have considerable pleasure in countermining Mr. and Mrs. Tappitt. As to Mr. Tappitt's vote for the election;--that was gone! CHAPTER III. DR. HARFORD. The current of events forced upon Rachel a delay of three or four days in answering her letter, or rather forced upon her that delay in learning whether or no she might answer it; and this was felt by her to be a grievous evil. It had been arranged that she should not write until such writing should have received what might almost be called a parochial sanction, and no idea of acting in opposition to that arrangement ever occurred to her; but the more she thought of it the more she was vexed; and the more she thought of it the more she learned to doubt whether or no her mother was placing her in safe tutelage. During these few weeks a great change came upon the girl's character. When first Mrs. Prime had brought home tidings that Miss Pucker had seen her walking and talking with the young man from the brewery, angry as she had been with her sister, and disgusted as she had been with Miss Pucker, she had acknowledged to herself that such talking and walking were very dangerous, if not very improper, and she had half resolved that there should be no more of them. And when Mrs. Prime had seen her standing at the stile, and had brought home that second report, Rachel, knowing what had occurred at that stile, had then felt sure that she was in danger. At that time, though she had thought much of Luke Rowan, she had not thought of him as a man who could possibly be her husband. She had thought of him as having no right to call her Rachel, because he could not possibly become so. There had been great danger;--there had been conduct which she believed to be improper though she could not tell herself that she had been guilty. In her outlook into the world nothing so beautiful had promised itself to her as having such a man to love her as Luke Rowan. Though her mother was not herself ascetic,--liking tea and buttered toast dearly, and liking also little soft laughter with her child,--she had preached ascetisms till Rachel had learned to think that the world was all either ascetic or reprobate. The Dorcas meetings had become distasteful to her because the women were vulgar; but yet she had half believed herself to be wrong in avoiding the work and the vulgarity together. Idle she had never been. Since a needle had come easy to her hand, and the economies of a household had been made intelligible to her, she had earned her bread and assisted in works of charity. She had read no love stories, and been taught to expect no lover. She was not prepared to deny,--did not deny even to herself,--that it was wrong that she should even like to talk to Luke Rowan. Then came the ball; or, rather, first came the little evening party, which afterwards grew to be a ball. She had been very desirous of going, not for the sake of any pleasure that she promised herself; not for the sake of such pleasure as girls do promise themselves at such gatherings; but because her female pride told her that it was well for her to claim the right of meeting this young man,--well for her to declare that nothing had passed between them which should make her afraid to meet him. That some other hopes had crept in as the evening had come nigh at hand,--hopes of which she had been made aware only by her efforts in repressing them,--may not be denied. She had been accused because of him; and she would show that no such accusation had daunted her. But would he,--would he give occasion for further accusation? She believed he would not; nay, she was sure; at any rate she hoped he would not. She told herself that such was her hope; but had he not noticed her she would have been wretched. We know now in what manner he had noticed her, and we know also whether she had been wretched. She had certainly fled from him. When she left the brewery-house, inducing Mrs. Cornbury to bring her away, she did so in order that she might escape from him. But she ran from him as one runs from some great joy in order that the mind may revel over it in peace. Then, little as she knew it, her love had been given. Her heart was his. She had placed him upon her pinnacle, and was prepared to worship him. She was ready to dress herself in his eyes, to believe that to be good which he thought good, and to repudiate that which he repudiated. When she bowed her head over his breast a day or two afterwards, she could have spoken to him with the full words of passionate love had not maiden fear repressed her. But she had not even bowed her head for him, she had not acknowledged to herself that such love was possible to her, till her mother had consented. That her mother's consent had been wavering, doubtful, expressed without intention of such expression,--so expressed that Mrs. Ray hardly knew that she had expressed it,--was not understood by Rachel. Her mother had consented, and, that consent having been given, Rachel was not now disposed to allow of any steps backwards. She seemed to have learned her rights, or to have assumed that she had rights. Hitherto her obedience to her mother had been pure and simple, although, from the greater force of her character, she had in many things been her mother's leader. But now, though she was ill inclined to rebel, though in this matter of the letter she had obeyed, she was beginning to feel that obedience might become a hardship. She did not say to herself, "They have let me love him, and now they must not put out their hands to hold back my love;" but the current of her feelings ran as though such unspoken words had passed across her mind. She had her rights; and though she did not presume that she could insist on them in opposition to her mother or her mother's advisers, she knew that she would be wronged if those rights were withheld from her. The chief of those rights was the possession of her lover. If he was taken from her she would be as one imprisoned unjustly,--as one robbed by those who should have been his friends,--as one injured, wounded, stricken in the dark, and treacherously mutilated by hands that should have protected him. During these days she was silent, and sat with that look upon her brow which her mother feared. "I could not make Mr. Comfort come any sooner, Rachel," said Mrs. Ray. "No, mamma." "I can see how impatient you are." "I don't know that I'm impatient. I'm sure that I haven't said anything." "If you said anything I shouldn't mind it so much; but I can't bear to see you with that unhappy look. I'm sure I only wish to do what's best. You can't think it right that you should be writing letters to a gentleman without being sure that it is proper." "Oh, mamma, don't talk about it!" "You don't like me to ask your sister; and I'm sure it's natural I should want to ask somebody. He's nearly seventy years old, and he has known you ever since you were born. And then he's a clergyman, and therefore he'll be sure to know what's right. Not that I should have liked to have said a word about it to Mr. Prong, because there's a difference when they come from one doesn't know where." "Pray, mamma, don't. I haven't made any objection to Mr. Comfort. It isn't nice to be talked over in that way by anybody, that's all." "But what was I to do? I'm sure I liked the young man very much. I never knew a young man who took his tea so pleasant. And as for his manners and his way of talking, I had it in my heart to fall in love with him myself. I had indeed. As far as that goes, he's just the young man that I could make a son of." "Dear mamma! my own dearest mamma!" and Rachel, jumping up, threw herself upon her mother's neck. "Stop there. You shan't say another word." "I'm sure I didn't mean to say anything unpleasant." "No, you did not; and I won't be impatient." "Only I can't bear that look. And you know what his mother said,--and Mrs. Tappitt. Not that I care about Mrs. Tappitt; only a person's mother is his mother, and he shouldn't have called her a goose." It must be acknowledged that Rachel's position was not comfortable; and it certainly would not have been improved had she known how many people in Baslehurst were talking about her and Rowan. That Rowan was gone everybody knew; that he had made love to Rachel everybody said; that he never meant to come back any more most professed to believe. Tappitt's tongue was loud in proclaiming his iniquities; and her follies and injuries Mrs. Tappitt whispered into the ears of all her female acquaintances. "I'm sorry for her," Miss Harford said, mildly. Mrs. Tappitt was calling at the rectory, and had made her way in. Mr. Tappitt was an upholder of the old rector, and there was a fellow-townsman's friendship between them. "Oh yes;--very sorry for her," said Mrs. Tappitt. "Very sorry indeed," said Augusta, who was with her mother. "She always seemed to me a pretty, quiet, well-behaved girl," said Miss Harford. "Still waters run deepest, you know, Miss Harford," said Mrs. Tappitt. "I should never have imagined it of her;--never. But she certainly met him half-way." "But we all thought he was respectable, you know," said Miss Harford. Miss Harford was thoroughly good-natured; and though she had never gone half-way herself, and had perhaps lost her chance from having been unable to go any part of the way, she was not disposed to condemn a girl for having been willing to be admired by such a one as Luke Rowan. "Well;--yes; at first we did. He had the name of money, you know, and that goes so far with some girls. We were on our guard,"--and she looked proudly round on Augusta,--"till we should hear what the young man really was. He has thrown off his sheep's clothing now with a vengeance. Mr. Tappitt feels quite ashamed that he should have introduced him to any of the people here; he does indeed." "That may be her misfortune, and not her fault," said Miss Harford, who in defending Rachel was well enough inclined to give up Luke. Indeed, Baslehurst was beginning to have a settled mind that Luke was a wolf. "Oh, quite so," said Mrs. Tappitt. "The poor girl has been very unfortunate no doubt." After that she took her leave of the rectory. On that evening Mr. Comfort dined with Dr. Harford, as did also Butler Cornbury and his wife, and one or two others. The chances of the election formed, of course, the chief subject of conversation both in the drawing-room and at the dinner-table; but in talking of the election they came to talk of Mr. Tappitt, and in talking of Tappitt they came to talk of Luke Rowan. It has already been said that Dr. Harford had been rector of Baslehurst for many years at the period to which this story refers. He had nearly completed half a century of work in that capacity, and had certainly been neither an idle nor an inefficient clergyman. But, now in his old age, he was discontented and disgusted by the changes which had come upon him; and though some bodily strength for further service still remained to him, he had no longer any aptitude for useful work. A man cannot change as men change. Individual men are like the separate links of a rotatory chain. The chain goes on with continuous easy motion as though every part of it were capable of adapting itself to a curve, but not the less is each link as stiff and sturdy as any other piece of wrought iron. Dr. Harford had in his time been an active, popular man,--a man possessing even some liberal tendencies in politics, though a country rector of nearly half a century's standing. In his parish he had been more than a clergyman. He had been a magistrate, and a moving man in municipal affairs. He had been a politician, and though now for many years he had supported the Conservative candidate, he had been loudly in favour of the Reform Bill when Baslehurst was a close borough in the possession of a great duke, who held property hard by. But liberal politics had gone on and had left Dr. Harford high and dry on the standing-ground which he had chosen for himself in the early days of his manhood. And then had come that pestilent act of the legislature under which his parish had been divided. Not that the Act of Parliament itself had been violently condemned by the doctor on its becoming law. I doubt whether he had then thought much of it. But when men calling themselves Commissioners came actually upon him and his, and separated off from him a district of his own town, taking it away altogether from his authority, and giving it over to such inexperienced hands as chance might send thither,--then Dr. Harford became a violent Tory. And my readers must not conceive that this was a question touching his pocket. One might presume that his pocket would be in some degree benefited, seeing that he was saved from the necessity of supplying the spiritual wants of a certain portion of his parish. No shilling was taken from his own income, which, indeed, was by no means excessive. His whole parish gave him barely six hundred a year, out of which he had kept always one, and latterly two curates. It was no question of money in any degree. Sooner than be invaded and mutilated he would have submitted to an order calling upon him to find a third curate,--could any power have given such order. His parish had been invaded and his clerical authority mutilated. He was no longer _totus teres atque rotundus_. The beauty of his life was over, and the contentment of his mind was gone. He knew that it was only left for him to die, spending such days as remained to him in vague prophecies of evil against his devoted country,--a country which had allowed its ancient parochial landmarks to be moved, and its ecclesiastical fastnesses to be invaded! But perhaps hatred of Mr. Prong was the strongest passion of Dr. Harford's heart at the present moment. He had ever hated the dissenting ministers by whom he was surrounded. In Devonshire dissent has waxed strong for many years, and the pastors of the dissenting flocks have been thorns in the side of the Church of England clergymen. Dr. Harford had undergone his full share of suffering from such thorns. But they had caused him no more than a pleasant irritation in comparison with what he endured from the presence of Mr. Prong in Baslehurst. He would sooner have entertained all the dissenting ministers of the South Hams together than have put his legs under the same mahogany with Mr. Prong. Mr. Prong was to him the evil thing! Anathema! He believed all bad things of Mr. Prong with an absolute faith, but without any ground on which such faith should have been formed. He thought that Mr. Prong drank spirits; that he robbed his parishioners;--Dr. Harford would sooner have lost his tongue than have used such a word with reference to those who attended Mr. Prong's chapel;--that he had left a deserted wife on some parish; that he was probably not in truth ordained. There was nothing which Dr. Harford could not believe of Mr. Prong. Now all this was, to say the least of it, a pity, for it disfigured the close of a useful and conscientious life. Dr. Harford of course intended to vote for Mr. Cornbury, but he would not join loudly in condemnation of Mr. Tappitt. Tappitt had stood stanchly by him in all parochial contests regarding the new district. Tappitt opposed the Prong faction at all points. Tappitt as churchwarden had been submissive to the doctor. Church of England principles had always been held at the brewery, and Bungall had been ever in favour with Dr. Harford's predecessor. "He calls himself a Liberal, and always has done," said the doctor. "You can't expect that he should desert his own party." "But a Jew!" said old Mr. Comfort. "Well; why not a Jew?" said the doctor. Whereupon Mr. Comfort, and Butler Cornbury, and Dr. Harford's own curate, young Mr. Calclough, and Captain Byng, an old bachelor, who lived in Baslehurst, all stared at him; as Dr. Harford had intended that they should. "Upon my word," said he, "I don't see the use for caring for that kind of thing any longer; I don't indeed. In the way we are going on now, and for the sort of thing we do, I don't see why Jews shouldn't serve us as well in Parliament as Christians. If I am to have my brains knocked out, I'd sooner have it done by a declared enemy than by one who calls himself my friend." "But our brains are not knocked out yet," said Butler Cornbury. "I don't know anything about yours, but mine are." "I don't think the world's coming to an end yet," said the captain. "Nor do I. I said nothing about the world coming to an end. But if you saw a part of your ship put under the command of a landlubber, who didn't know one side of the vessel from the other, you'd think the world had better come to an end than be carried on in that way." "It's not the same thing, you know," said the captain. "You couldn't divide a ship." "Oh, well; you'll see." "I don't think any Christian should vote for a Jew," said the curate. "A verdict has gone out against them, and what is man that he should reverse it?" "Are you quite sure that you are reversing it by putting them into Parliament?" said Dr. Harford. "May not that be a carrying on of the curse?" "There's consolation in that idea for Butler if he loses his election," said Mr. Comfort. "Parliament isn't what it was," said the doctor. "There's no doubt about that." "And who is to blame?" said Mr. Comfort, who had never supported the Reform Bill as his neighbour had done. "I say nothing about blame. It's natural that things should get worse as they grow older." "Dr. Harford thinks Parliament is worn out," said Butler Cornbury. "And what if I do think so? Have not other things as great fallen and gone into decay? Did not the Roman senate wear out, as you call it? And as for these Jews, of whom you are speaking, what was the curse upon them but the wearing out of their grace and wisdom? I am inclined to think that we are wearing out; only I wish the garment could have lasted my time without showing so many thin places." "Now I believe just the contrary," said the captain. "I don't think we have come to our full growth yet." "Could we lick the French as we did at Trafalgar and Waterloo?" said the doctor. The captain thought a while before he answered, and then spoke with much solemnity. "Yes," said he, "I think we could. And I hope the time will soon come when we may." "We shan't do it if we send Jews to Parliament," said Mr. Comfort. "I must say I think Tappitt wrong," said young Cornbury. "Of course, near as the thing is going, I'm sorry to lose his vote; but I'm not speaking because of that. He has always pretended to hold on to the Church party here, and the Church party has held on to him. His beer is none of the best, and I think he'd have been wise to stick to his old friends." "I don't see the argument about the beer," said the doctor. "He shouldn't provoke his neighbours to look at his faults." "But the Jew's friends would find out that the beer is bad as well as yours." "The truth is," said Cornbury, "that Tappitt thinks he has a personal grievance against me. He's as cross as a bear with a sore head at the present moment, because this young fellow who was to have been his partner has turned against him. There's some love affair, and my wife has been there and made a mess of it. It's hard upon me, for I don't know that I ever saw the young man in my life." "I believe that fellow is a scamp," said the doctor. "I hope not," said Mr. Comfort, thinking of Rachel and her hopes. "We all hope he isn't, of course," said the doctor. "But we can't prevent men being scamps by hoping. There are other scamps in this town in whom, if my hoping would do any good, a very great change would be made."--Everybody present knew that the doctor alluded especially to Mr. Prong, whose condition, however, if the doctor's hopes could have been carried out, would not have been enviable.--"But I fear this fellow Rowan is a scamp, and I think he has treated Tappitt badly. Tappitt told me all about it only this morning." "Audi alteram partem," said Mr. Comfort. "The scamp's party you mean," said the doctor. "I haven't the means of doing that. If in this world we suspend our judgment till we've heard all that can be said on both sides of every question, we should never come to any judgment at all. I hear that he's in debt; I believe he behaved very badly to Tappitt himself, so that Tappitt was forced to use personal violence to defend himself; and he has certainly threatened to open a new brewery here. Now that's bad, as coming from a young man related to the old firm." "I think he should leave the brewery alone," said Mr. Comfort. "Of course he should," said the doctor. "And I hear, moreover, that he is playing a wicked game with a girl in your parish." "I don't know about a wicked game," said the other. "It won't be a wicked game if he marries her." Then Rachel's chances of matrimonial success were discussed with a degree of vigour which must have been felt by her to be highly complimentary, had she been aware of it. But I grieve to say that public opinion, as expressed in Dr. Harford's dining-room, went against Luke Rowan. Mr. Tappitt was not a great man, either as a citizen or as a brewer: he was not one to whom Baslehurst would even rejoice to raise a monument; but such as he was he had been known for many years.

gentleman

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

"That wouldn't be seemly, because our mayor is expected to attend in church on Roundabout Sunday." Roundabout Sunday, so called for certain local reasons which it would be long to explain, followed immediately on the day of the mayor's inauguration. "Would you like to have a Jew partner in your own business?" Mrs. Butler Cornbury should have said nothing to Mr. Tappitt as to any partner in the brewery, Jew or Christian. "I don't want any partner, and what's more, I don't mean to have any." "Mrs. Cornbury is in favour of Luke Rowan; she takes his side," said Mrs. Tappitt, some portion of her courage returning to her as this opportunity opened upon her. Mr. Tappitt turned his head full round and looked upon Mrs. Cornbury with an evil eye. That lady knew that the vote was lost, lost unless she would denounce the man whom Rachel loved; and she determined at once that she would not denounce him. There are many things which such a woman will do to gain such an object. She could smile when Tappitt was offensive; she could smile again when Mrs. Tappitt talked like a kitchenmaid. She could flatter them both, and pretend to talk seriously with them about Jews and her own Church feelings. She could have given up to them Luke Rowan,--if he had stood alone. But she could not give up the girl she had chaperoned, and upon whom, during that chaperoning, her good-will and kindly feelings had fallen. Rachel had pleased her eye, and gratified her sense of feminine nicety. She felt that a word said against Rowan would be a word said also against Rachel; and therefore, throwing her husband over for the nonce, she resolved to sacrifice the vote and stand up for her friend. "Well, yes; I do," said she, meeting Tappitt's eye steadily. She was not going to be looked out of countenance by Mr. Tappitt. "She thinks he'll come back to marry that young woman at Bragg's End," said Mrs. Tappitt; "but I say that he'll never dare to show his face in Baslehurst again." "That young woman is making a great fool of herself," said Tappitt, "if she trusts to a swindler like him." "Perhaps, Mrs. Tappitt," said Mrs. Cornbury, "we needn't mind discussing Miss Ray. It's not good to talk about a young lady in that way, and I'm sure I never said that I thought she was engaged to Mr. Rowan. Had I done so I should have been very wrong, for I know nothing about it. What little I saw of the gentleman I liked;" and as she used the word gentleman she looked Tappitt full in the face; "and for Miss Ray, I've a great regard for her, and think very highly of her. Independently of her acknowledged beauty and pleasant, ladylike manners, she's a very charming girl. About the vote, Mr. Tappitt--; at any rate you'll think of it." But had he not been defied in his own house? And as for her, the mother of those three finely educated girls, had not every word said in Rachel's favour been a dagger planted in her own maternal bosom? Whose courage would not have risen under such provocation? Mrs. Cornbury had got up to go, but the indignant, injured Tappitts resolved mutually, though without concert, that she should be answered. "I'm an honest man, Mrs. Cornbury," said the brewer, "and I like to speak out my mind openly. Mr. Hart is a liberal, and I mean to support my party. Will you tell Mr. Cornbury so with my compliments? It's all nonsense about Jews not being in Parliament. It's not the same as being mayors or churchwardens, or anything like that. I shall vote for Mr. Hart; and, what's more, we shall put him in." "And Mrs. Cornbury, if you have so much regard for Miss Rachel, you'd better advise her to think no more of that young man. He's no good; he's not indeed. If you ask, you'll find he's in debt everywhere." "Swindler!" said Tappitt. "I don't suppose it can be very bad with Miss Rachel yet, for she only saw him about three times,--though she was so intimate with him at our party." Mrs. Butler Cornbury curtseyed and smiled, and got herself out of the room. Mrs. Tappitt, as soon as she remembered herself, rang the bell, and Mr. Tappitt, following her down to the hall door, went through the pretence of putting her into her carriage. "She's a nasty meddlesome woman," said Tappitt, as soon as he got back to his wife. "And how ever she can stand up and say all those things for that girl, passes me!" said Mrs. Tappitt, holding up both her hands. "She was flighty herself, when young; she was, no doubt; and now I suppose she likes others to be the same. If that's what she calls manners, I shouldn't like her to take my girls about." "And him a gentleman!" said Tappitt. "If those are to be our gentlemen I'd sooner have all the Jews out of Jerusalem. But they'll find out their gentleman; they'll find him out! He'll rob that old mother of his before he's done; you mark my words else." Comforting himself with this hope he took himself back to his counting-house. Mrs. Cornbury had smiled as she went, and had carried herself through the whole interview without any sign of temper. Even when declaring that she intended to take Rachel's part open-mouthed, she had spoken in a half-drolling way which had divested her words of any tone of offence. But when she got into her carriage, she was in truth very angry. "I don't believe a word of it," she said to herself; "not a word of it." That in which she professed to herself her own disbelief was the general assertion that Rowan was a swindler, supported by the particular assertion that he had left Baslehurst over head and ears in debt. "I don't believe it." And she resolved that it should be her business to find out whether the accusation were true or false. She knew the ins and outs of Baslehurst life and Baslehurst doings with tolerable accuracy, and was at any rate capable of unravelling such a mystery as that. If the Tappitts in their jealousy were striving to rob Rachel Ray of her husband by spreading false reports, she would encourage Rachel Ray in her love by spreading the truth;--if, as she believed, the truth should speak in Rowan's favour. She would have considerable pleasure in countermining Mr. and Mrs. Tappitt. As to Mr. Tappitt's vote for the election;--that was gone! CHAPTER III. DR. HARFORD. The current of events forced upon Rachel a delay of three or four days in answering her letter, or rather forced upon her that delay in learning whether or no she might answer it; and this was felt by her to be a grievous evil. It had been arranged that she should not write until such writing should have received what might almost be called a parochial sanction, and no idea of acting in opposition to that arrangement ever occurred to her; but the more she thought of it the more she was vexed; and the more she thought of it the more she learned to doubt whether or no her mother was placing her in safe tutelage. During these few weeks a great change came upon the girl's character. When first Mrs. Prime had brought home tidings that Miss Pucker had seen her walking and talking with the young man from the brewery, angry as she had been with her sister, and disgusted as she had been with Miss Pucker, she had acknowledged to herself that such talking and walking were very dangerous, if not very improper, and she had half resolved that there should be no more of them. And when Mrs. Prime had seen her standing at the stile, and had brought home that second report, Rachel, knowing what had occurred at that stile, had then felt sure that she was in danger. At that time, though she had thought much of Luke Rowan, she had not thought of him as a man who could possibly be her husband. She had thought of him as having no right to call her Rachel, because he could not possibly become so. There had been great danger;--there had been conduct which she believed to be improper though she could not tell herself that she had been guilty. In her outlook into the world nothing so beautiful had promised itself to her as having such a man to love her as Luke Rowan. Though her mother was not herself ascetic,--liking tea and buttered toast dearly, and liking also little soft laughter with her child,--she had preached ascetisms till Rachel had learned to think that the world was all either ascetic or reprobate. The Dorcas meetings had become distasteful to her because the women were vulgar; but yet she had half believed herself to be wrong in avoiding the work and the vulgarity together. Idle she had never been. Since a needle had come easy to her hand, and the economies of a household had been made intelligible to her, she had earned her bread and assisted in works of charity. She had read no love stories, and been taught to expect no lover. She was not prepared to deny,--did not deny even to herself,--that it was wrong that she should even like to talk to Luke Rowan. Then came the ball; or, rather, first came the little evening party, which afterwards grew to be a ball. She had been very desirous of going, not for the sake of any pleasure that she promised herself; not for the sake of such pleasure as girls do promise themselves at such gatherings; but because her female pride told her that it was well for her to claim the right of meeting this young man,--well for her to declare that nothing had passed between them which should make her afraid to meet him. That some other hopes had crept in as the evening had come nigh at hand,--hopes of which she had been made aware only by her efforts in repressing them,--may not be denied. She had been accused because of him; and she would show that no such accusation had daunted her. But would he,--would he give occasion for further accusation? She believed he would not; nay, she was sure; at any rate she hoped he would not. She told herself that such was her hope; but had he not noticed her she would have been wretched. We know now in what manner he had noticed her, and we know also whether she had been wretched. She had certainly fled from him. When she left the brewery-house, inducing Mrs. Cornbury to bring her away, she did so in order that she might escape from him. But she ran from him as one runs from some great joy in order that the mind may revel over it in peace. Then, little as she knew it, her love had been given. Her heart was his. She had placed him upon her pinnacle, and was prepared to worship him. She was ready to dress herself in his eyes, to believe that to be good which he thought good, and to repudiate that which he repudiated. When she bowed her head over his breast a day or two afterwards, she could have spoken to him with the full words of passionate love had not maiden fear repressed her. But she had not even bowed her head for him, she had not acknowledged to herself that such love was possible to her, till her mother had consented. That her mother's consent had been wavering, doubtful, expressed without intention of such expression,--so expressed that Mrs. Ray hardly knew that she had expressed it,--was not understood by Rachel. Her mother had consented, and, that consent having been given, Rachel was not now disposed to allow of any steps backwards. She seemed to have learned her rights, or to have assumed that she had rights. Hitherto her obedience to her mother had been pure and simple, although, from the greater force of her character, she had in many things been her mother's leader. But now, though she was ill inclined to rebel, though in this matter of the letter she had obeyed, she was beginning to feel that obedience might become a hardship. She did not say to herself, "They have let me love him, and now they must not put out their hands to hold back my love;" but the current of her feelings ran as though such unspoken words had passed across her mind. She had her rights; and though she did not presume that she could insist on them in opposition to her mother or her mother's advisers, she knew that she would be wronged if those rights were withheld from her. The chief of those rights was the possession of her lover. If he was taken from her she would be as one imprisoned unjustly,--as one robbed by those who should have been his friends,--as one injured, wounded, stricken in the dark, and treacherously mutilated by hands that should have protected him. During these days she was silent, and sat with that look upon her brow which her mother feared. "I could not make Mr. Comfort come any sooner, Rachel," said Mrs. Ray. "No, mamma." "I can see how impatient you are." "I don't know that I'm impatient. I'm sure that I haven't said anything." "If you said anything I shouldn't mind it so much; but I can't bear to see you with that unhappy look. I'm sure I only wish to do what's best. You can't think it right that you should be writing letters to a gentleman without being sure that it is proper." "Oh, mamma, don't talk about it!" "You don't like me to ask your sister; and I'm sure it's natural I should want to ask somebody. He's nearly seventy years old, and he has known you ever since you were born. And then he's a clergyman, and therefore he'll be sure to know what's right. Not that I should have liked to have said a word about it to Mr. Prong, because there's a difference when they come from one doesn't know where." "Pray, mamma, don't. I haven't made any objection to Mr. Comfort. It isn't nice to be talked over in that way by anybody, that's all." "But what was I to do? I'm sure I liked the young man very much. I never knew a young man who took his tea so pleasant. And as for his manners and his way of talking, I had it in my heart to fall in love with him myself. I had indeed. As far as that goes, he's just the young man that I could make a son of." "Dear mamma! my own dearest mamma!" and Rachel, jumping up, threw herself upon her mother's neck. "Stop there. You shan't say another word." "I'm sure I didn't mean to say anything unpleasant." "No, you did not; and I won't be impatient." "Only I can't bear that look. And you know what his mother said,--and Mrs. Tappitt. Not that I care about Mrs. Tappitt; only a person's mother is his mother, and he shouldn't have called her a goose." It must be acknowledged that Rachel's position was not comfortable; and it certainly would not have been improved had she known how many people in Baslehurst were talking about her and Rowan. That Rowan was gone everybody knew; that he had made love to Rachel everybody said; that he never meant to come back any more most professed to believe. Tappitt's tongue was loud in proclaiming his iniquities; and her follies and injuries Mrs. Tappitt whispered into the ears of all her female acquaintances. "I'm sorry for her," Miss Harford said, mildly. Mrs. Tappitt was calling at the rectory, and had made her way in. Mr. Tappitt was an upholder of the old rector, and there was a fellow-townsman's friendship between them. "Oh yes;--very sorry for her," said Mrs. Tappitt. "Very sorry indeed," said Augusta, who was with her mother. "She always seemed to me a pretty, quiet, well-behaved girl," said Miss Harford. "Still waters run deepest, you know, Miss Harford," said Mrs. Tappitt. "I should never have imagined it of her;--never. But she certainly met him half-way." "But we all thought he was respectable, you know," said Miss Harford. Miss Harford was thoroughly good-natured; and though she had never gone half-way herself, and had perhaps lost her chance from having been unable to go any part of the way, she was not disposed to condemn a girl for having been willing to be admired by such a one as Luke Rowan. "Well;--yes; at first we did. He had the name of money, you know, and that goes so far with some girls. We were on our guard,"--and she looked proudly round on Augusta,--"till we should hear what the young man really was. He has thrown off his sheep's clothing now with a vengeance. Mr. Tappitt feels quite ashamed that he should have introduced him to any of the people here; he does indeed." "That may be her misfortune, and not her fault," said Miss Harford, who in defending Rachel was well enough inclined to give up Luke. Indeed, Baslehurst was beginning to have a settled mind that Luke was a wolf. "Oh, quite so," said Mrs. Tappitt. "The poor girl has been very unfortunate no doubt." After that she took her leave of the rectory. On that evening Mr. Comfort dined with Dr. Harford, as did also Butler Cornbury and his wife, and one or two others. The chances of the election formed, of course, the chief subject of conversation both in the drawing-room and at the dinner-table; but in talking of the election they came to talk of Mr. Tappitt, and in talking of Tappitt they came to talk of Luke Rowan. It has already been said that Dr. Harford had been rector of Baslehurst for many years at the period to which this story refers. He had nearly completed half a century of work in that capacity, and had certainly been neither an idle nor an inefficient clergyman. But, now in his old age, he was discontented and disgusted by the changes which had come upon him; and though some bodily strength for further service still remained to him, he had no longer any aptitude for useful work. A man cannot change as men change. Individual men are like the separate links of a rotatory chain. The chain goes on with continuous easy motion as though every part of it were capable of adapting itself to a curve, but not the less is each link as stiff and sturdy as any other piece of wrought iron. Dr. Harford had in his time been an active, popular man,--a man possessing even some liberal tendencies in politics, though a country rector of nearly half a century's standing. In his parish he had been more than a clergyman. He had been a magistrate, and a moving man in municipal affairs. He had been a politician, and though now for many years he had supported the Conservative candidate, he had been loudly in favour of the Reform Bill when Baslehurst was a close borough in the possession of a great duke, who held property hard by. But liberal politics had gone on and had left Dr. Harford high and dry on the standing-ground which he had chosen for himself in the early days of his manhood. And then had come that pestilent act of the legislature under which his parish had been divided. Not that the Act of Parliament itself had been violently condemned by the doctor on its becoming law. I doubt whether he had then thought much of it. But when men calling themselves Commissioners came actually upon him and his, and separated off from him a district of his own town, taking it away altogether from his authority, and giving it over to such inexperienced hands as chance might send thither,--then Dr. Harford became a violent Tory. And my readers must not conceive that this was a question touching his pocket. One might presume that his pocket would be in some degree benefited, seeing that he was saved from the necessity of supplying the spiritual wants of a certain portion of his parish. No shilling was taken from his own income, which, indeed, was by no means excessive. His whole parish gave him barely six hundred a year, out of which he had kept always one, and latterly two curates. It was no question of money in any degree. Sooner than be invaded and mutilated he would have submitted to an order calling upon him to find a third curate,--could any power have given such order. His parish had been invaded and his clerical authority mutilated. He was no longer _totus teres atque rotundus_. The beauty of his life was over, and the contentment of his mind was gone. He knew that it was only left for him to die, spending such days as remained to him in vague prophecies of evil against his devoted country,--a country which had allowed its ancient parochial landmarks to be moved, and its ecclesiastical fastnesses to be invaded! But perhaps hatred of Mr. Prong was the strongest passion of Dr. Harford's heart at the present moment. He had ever hated the dissenting ministers by whom he was surrounded. In Devonshire dissent has waxed strong for many years, and the pastors of the dissenting flocks have been thorns in the side of the Church of England clergymen. Dr. Harford had undergone his full share of suffering from such thorns. But they had caused him no more than a pleasant irritation in comparison with what he endured from the presence of Mr. Prong in Baslehurst. He would sooner have entertained all the dissenting ministers of the South Hams together than have put his legs under the same mahogany with Mr. Prong. Mr. Prong was to him the evil thing! Anathema! He believed all bad things of Mr. Prong with an absolute faith, but without any ground on which such faith should have been formed. He thought that Mr. Prong drank spirits; that he robbed his parishioners;--Dr. Harford would sooner have lost his tongue than have used such a word with reference to those who attended Mr. Prong's chapel;--that he had left a deserted wife on some parish; that he was probably not in truth ordained. There was nothing which Dr. Harford could not believe of Mr. Prong. Now all this was, to say the least of it, a pity, for it disfigured the close of a useful and conscientious life. Dr. Harford of course intended to vote for Mr. Cornbury, but he would not join loudly in condemnation of Mr. Tappitt. Tappitt had stood stanchly by him in all parochial contests regarding the new district. Tappitt opposed the Prong faction at all points. Tappitt as churchwarden had been submissive to the doctor. Church of England principles had always been held at the brewery, and Bungall had been ever in favour with Dr. Harford's predecessor. "He calls himself a Liberal, and always has done," said the doctor. "You can't expect that he should desert his own party." "But a Jew!" said old Mr. Comfort. "Well; why not a Jew?" said the doctor. Whereupon Mr. Comfort, and Butler Cornbury, and Dr. Harford's own curate, young Mr. Calclough, and Captain Byng, an old bachelor, who lived in Baslehurst, all stared at him; as Dr. Harford had intended that they should. "Upon my word," said he, "I don't see the use for caring for that kind of thing any longer; I don't indeed. In the way we are going on now, and for the sort of thing we do, I don't see why Jews shouldn't serve us as well in Parliament as Christians. If I am to have my brains knocked out, I'd sooner have it done by a declared enemy than by one who calls himself my friend." "But our brains are not knocked out yet," said Butler Cornbury. "I don't know anything about yours, but mine are." "I don't think the world's coming to an end yet," said the captain. "Nor do I. I said nothing about the world coming to an end. But if you saw a part of your ship put under the command of a landlubber, who didn't know one side of the vessel from the other, you'd think the world had better come to an end than be carried on in that way." "It's not the same thing, you know," said the captain. "You couldn't divide a ship." "Oh, well; you'll see." "I don't think any Christian should vote for a Jew," said the curate. "A verdict has gone out against them, and what is man that he should reverse it?" "Are you quite sure that you are reversing it by putting them into Parliament?" said Dr. Harford. "May not that be a carrying on of the curse?" "There's consolation in that idea for Butler if he loses his election," said Mr. Comfort. "Parliament isn't what it was," said the doctor. "There's no doubt about that." "And who is to blame?" said Mr. Comfort, who had never supported the Reform Bill as his neighbour had done. "I say nothing about blame. It's natural that things should get worse as they grow older." "Dr. Harford thinks Parliament is worn out," said Butler Cornbury. "And what if I do think so? Have not other things as great fallen and gone into decay? Did not the Roman senate wear out, as you call it? And as for these Jews, of whom you are speaking, what was the curse upon them but the wearing out of their grace and wisdom? I am inclined to think that we are wearing out; only I wish the garment could have lasted my time without showing so many thin places." "Now I believe just the contrary," said the captain. "I don't think we have come to our full growth yet." "Could we lick the French as we did at Trafalgar and Waterloo?" said the doctor. The captain thought a while before he answered, and then spoke with much solemnity. "Yes," said he, "I think we could. And I hope the time will soon come when we may." "We shan't do it if we send Jews to Parliament," said Mr. Comfort. "I must say I think Tappitt wrong," said young Cornbury. "Of course, near as the thing is going, I'm sorry to lose his vote; but I'm not speaking because of that. He has always pretended to hold on to the Church party here, and the Church party has held on to him. His beer is none of the best, and I think he'd have been wise to stick to his old friends." "I don't see the argument about the beer," said the doctor. "He shouldn't provoke his neighbours to look at his faults." "But the Jew's friends would find out that the beer is bad as well as yours." "The truth is," said Cornbury, "that Tappitt thinks he has a personal grievance against me. He's as cross as a bear with a sore head at the present moment, because this young fellow who was to have been his partner has turned against him. There's some love affair, and my wife has been there and made a mess of it. It's hard upon me, for I don't know that I ever saw the young man in my life." "I believe that fellow is a scamp," said the doctor. "I hope not," said Mr. Comfort, thinking of Rachel and her hopes. "We all hope he isn't, of course," said the doctor. "But we can't prevent men being scamps by hoping. There are other scamps in this town in whom, if my hoping would do any good, a very great change would be made."--Everybody present knew that the doctor alluded especially to Mr. Prong, whose condition, however, if the doctor's hopes could have been carried out, would not have been enviable.--"But I fear this fellow Rowan is a scamp, and I think he has treated Tappitt badly. Tappitt told me all about it only this morning." "Audi alteram partem," said Mr. Comfort. "The scamp's party you mean," said the doctor. "I haven't the means of doing that. If in this world we suspend our judgment till we've heard all that can be said on both sides of every question, we should never come to any judgment at all. I hear that he's in debt; I believe he behaved very badly to Tappitt himself, so that Tappitt was forced to use personal violence to defend himself; and he has certainly threatened to open a new brewery here. Now that's bad, as coming from a young man related to the old firm." "I think he should leave the brewery alone," said Mr. Comfort. "Of course he should," said the doctor. "And I hear, moreover, that he is playing a wicked game with a girl in your parish." "I don't know about a wicked game," said the other. "It won't be a wicked game if he marries her." Then Rachel's chances of matrimonial success were discussed with a degree of vigour which must have been felt by her to be highly complimentary, had she been aware of it. But I grieve to say that public opinion, as expressed in Dr. Harford's dining-room, went against Luke Rowan. Mr. Tappitt was not a great man, either as a citizen or as a brewer: he was not one to whom Baslehurst would even rejoice to raise a monument; but such as he was he had been known for many years.

poutre

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

"That wouldn't be seemly, because our mayor is expected to attend in church on Roundabout Sunday." Roundabout Sunday, so called for certain local reasons which it would be long to explain, followed immediately on the day of the mayor's inauguration. "Would you like to have a Jew partner in your own business?" Mrs. Butler Cornbury should have said nothing to Mr. Tappitt as to any partner in the brewery, Jew or Christian. "I don't want any partner, and what's more, I don't mean to have any." "Mrs. Cornbury is in favour of Luke Rowan; she takes his side," said Mrs. Tappitt, some portion of her courage returning to her as this opportunity opened upon her. Mr. Tappitt turned his head full round and looked upon Mrs. Cornbury with an evil eye. That lady knew that the vote was lost, lost unless she would denounce the man whom Rachel loved; and she determined at once that she would not denounce him. There are many things which such a woman will do to gain such an object. She could smile when Tappitt was offensive; she could smile again when Mrs. Tappitt talked like a kitchenmaid. She could flatter them both, and pretend to talk seriously with them about Jews and her own Church feelings. She could have given up to them Luke Rowan,--if he had stood alone. But she could not give up the girl she had chaperoned, and upon whom, during that chaperoning, her good-will and kindly feelings had fallen. Rachel had pleased her eye, and gratified her sense of feminine nicety. She felt that a word said against Rowan would be a word said also against Rachel; and therefore, throwing her husband over for the nonce, she resolved to sacrifice the vote and stand up for her friend. "Well, yes; I do," said she, meeting Tappitt's eye steadily. She was not going to be looked out of countenance by Mr. Tappitt. "She thinks he'll come back to marry that young woman at Bragg's End," said Mrs. Tappitt; "but I say that he'll never dare to show his face in Baslehurst again." "That young woman is making a great fool of herself," said Tappitt, "if she trusts to a swindler like him." "Perhaps, Mrs. Tappitt," said Mrs. Cornbury, "we needn't mind discussing Miss Ray. It's not good to talk about a young lady in that way, and I'm sure I never said that I thought she was engaged to Mr. Rowan. Had I done so I should have been very wrong, for I know nothing about it. What little I saw of the gentleman I liked;" and as she used the word gentleman she looked Tappitt full in the face; "and for Miss Ray, I've a great regard for her, and think very highly of her. Independently of her acknowledged beauty and pleasant, ladylike manners, she's a very charming girl. About the vote, Mr. Tappitt--; at any rate you'll think of it." But had he not been defied in his own house? And as for her, the mother of those three finely educated girls, had not every word said in Rachel's favour been a dagger planted in her own maternal bosom? Whose courage would not have risen under such provocation? Mrs. Cornbury had got up to go, but the indignant, injured Tappitts resolved mutually, though without concert, that she should be answered. "I'm an honest man, Mrs. Cornbury," said the brewer, "and I like to speak out my mind openly. Mr. Hart is a liberal, and I mean to support my party. Will you tell Mr. Cornbury so with my compliments? It's all nonsense about Jews not being in Parliament. It's not the same as being mayors or churchwardens, or anything like that. I shall vote for Mr. Hart; and, what's more, we shall put him in." "And Mrs. Cornbury, if you have so much regard for Miss Rachel, you'd better advise her to think no more of that young man. He's no good; he's not indeed. If you ask, you'll find he's in debt everywhere." "Swindler!" said Tappitt. "I don't suppose it can be very bad with Miss Rachel yet, for she only saw him about three times,--though she was so intimate with him at our party." Mrs. Butler Cornbury curtseyed and smiled, and got herself out of the room. Mrs. Tappitt, as soon as she remembered herself, rang the bell, and Mr. Tappitt, following her down to the hall door, went through the pretence of putting her into her carriage. "She's a nasty meddlesome woman," said Tappitt, as soon as he got back to his wife. "And how ever she can stand up and say all those things for that girl, passes me!" said Mrs. Tappitt, holding up both her hands. "She was flighty herself, when young; she was, no doubt; and now I suppose she likes others to be the same. If that's what she calls manners, I shouldn't like her to take my girls about." "And him a gentleman!" said Tappitt. "If those are to be our gentlemen I'd sooner have all the Jews out of Jerusalem. But they'll find out their gentleman; they'll find him out! He'll rob that old mother of his before he's done; you mark my words else." Comforting himself with this hope he took himself back to his counting-house. Mrs. Cornbury had smiled as she went, and had carried herself through the whole interview without any sign of temper. Even when declaring that she intended to take Rachel's part open-mouthed, she had spoken in a half-drolling way which had divested her words of any tone of offence. But when she got into her carriage, she was in truth very angry. "I don't believe a word of it," she said to herself; "not a word of it." That in which she professed to herself her own disbelief was the general assertion that Rowan was a swindler, supported by the particular assertion that he had left Baslehurst over head and ears in debt. "I don't believe it." And she resolved that it should be her business to find out whether the accusation were true or false. She knew the ins and outs of Baslehurst life and Baslehurst doings with tolerable accuracy, and was at any rate capable of unravelling such a mystery as that. If the Tappitts in their jealousy were striving to rob Rachel Ray of her husband by spreading false reports, she would encourage Rachel Ray in her love by spreading the truth;--if, as she believed, the truth should speak in Rowan's favour. She would have considerable pleasure in countermining Mr. and Mrs. Tappitt. As to Mr. Tappitt's vote for the election;--that was gone! CHAPTER III. DR. HARFORD. The current of events forced upon Rachel a delay of three or four days in answering her letter, or rather forced upon her that delay in learning whether or no she might answer it; and this was felt by her to be a grievous evil. It had been arranged that she should not write until such writing should have received what might almost be called a parochial sanction, and no idea of acting in opposition to that arrangement ever occurred to her; but the more she thought of it the more she was vexed; and the more she thought of it the more she learned to doubt whether or no her mother was placing her in safe tutelage. During these few weeks a great change came upon the girl's character. When first Mrs. Prime had brought home tidings that Miss Pucker had seen her walking and talking with the young man from the brewery, angry as she had been with her sister, and disgusted as she had been with Miss Pucker, she had acknowledged to herself that such talking and walking were very dangerous, if not very improper, and she had half resolved that there should be no more of them. And when Mrs. Prime had seen her standing at the stile, and had brought home that second report, Rachel, knowing what had occurred at that stile, had then felt sure that she was in danger. At that time, though she had thought much of Luke Rowan, she had not thought of him as a man who could possibly be her husband. She had thought of him as having no right to call her Rachel, because he could not possibly become so. There had been great danger;--there had been conduct which she believed to be improper though she could not tell herself that she had been guilty. In her outlook into the world nothing so beautiful had promised itself to her as having such a man to love her as Luke Rowan. Though her mother was not herself ascetic,--liking tea and buttered toast dearly, and liking also little soft laughter with her child,--she had preached ascetisms till Rachel had learned to think that the world was all either ascetic or reprobate. The Dorcas meetings had become distasteful to her because the women were vulgar; but yet she had half believed herself to be wrong in avoiding the work and the vulgarity together. Idle she had never been. Since a needle had come easy to her hand, and the economies of a household had been made intelligible to her, she had earned her bread and assisted in works of charity. She had read no love stories, and been taught to expect no lover. She was not prepared to deny,--did not deny even to herself,--that it was wrong that she should even like to talk to Luke Rowan. Then came the ball; or, rather, first came the little evening party, which afterwards grew to be a ball. She had been very desirous of going, not for the sake of any pleasure that she promised herself; not for the sake of such pleasure as girls do promise themselves at such gatherings; but because her female pride told her that it was well for her to claim the right of meeting this young man,--well for her to declare that nothing had passed between them which should make her afraid to meet him. That some other hopes had crept in as the evening had come nigh at hand,--hopes of which she had been made aware only by her efforts in repressing them,--may not be denied. She had been accused because of him; and she would show that no such accusation had daunted her. But would he,--would he give occasion for further accusation? She believed he would not; nay, she was sure; at any rate she hoped he would not. She told herself that such was her hope; but had he not noticed her she would have been wretched. We know now in what manner he had noticed her, and we know also whether she had been wretched. She had certainly fled from him. When she left the brewery-house, inducing Mrs. Cornbury to bring her away, she did so in order that she might escape from him. But she ran from him as one runs from some great joy in order that the mind may revel over it in peace. Then, little as she knew it, her love had been given. Her heart was his. She had placed him upon her pinnacle, and was prepared to worship him. She was ready to dress herself in his eyes, to believe that to be good which he thought good, and to repudiate that which he repudiated. When she bowed her head over his breast a day or two afterwards, she could have spoken to him with the full words of passionate love had not maiden fear repressed her. But she had not even bowed her head for him, she had not acknowledged to herself that such love was possible to her, till her mother had consented. That her mother's consent had been wavering, doubtful, expressed without intention of such expression,--so expressed that Mrs. Ray hardly knew that she had expressed it,--was not understood by Rachel. Her mother had consented, and, that consent having been given, Rachel was not now disposed to allow of any steps backwards. She seemed to have learned her rights, or to have assumed that she had rights. Hitherto her obedience to her mother had been pure and simple, although, from the greater force of her character, she had in many things been her mother's leader. But now, though she was ill inclined to rebel, though in this matter of the letter she had obeyed, she was beginning to feel that obedience might become a hardship. She did not say to herself, "They have let me love him, and now they must not put out their hands to hold back my love;" but the current of her feelings ran as though such unspoken words had passed across her mind. She had her rights; and though she did not presume that she could insist on them in opposition to her mother or her mother's advisers, she knew that she would be wronged if those rights were withheld from her. The chief of those rights was the possession of her lover. If he was taken from her she would be as one imprisoned unjustly,--as one robbed by those who should have been his friends,--as one injured, wounded, stricken in the dark, and treacherously mutilated by hands that should have protected him. During these days she was silent, and sat with that look upon her brow which her mother feared. "I could not make Mr. Comfort come any sooner, Rachel," said Mrs. Ray. "No, mamma." "I can see how impatient you are." "I don't know that I'm impatient. I'm sure that I haven't said anything." "If you said anything I shouldn't mind it so much; but I can't bear to see you with that unhappy look. I'm sure I only wish to do what's best. You can't think it right that you should be writing letters to a gentleman without being sure that it is proper." "Oh, mamma, don't talk about it!" "You don't like me to ask your sister; and I'm sure it's natural I should want to ask somebody. He's nearly seventy years old, and he has known you ever since you were born. And then he's a clergyman, and therefore he'll be sure to know what's right. Not that I should have liked to have said a word about it to Mr. Prong, because there's a difference when they come from one doesn't know where." "Pray, mamma, don't. I haven't made any objection to Mr. Comfort. It isn't nice to be talked over in that way by anybody, that's all." "But what was I to do? I'm sure I liked the young man very much. I never knew a young man who took his tea so pleasant. And as for his manners and his way of talking, I had it in my heart to fall in love with him myself. I had indeed. As far as that goes, he's just the young man that I could make a son of." "Dear mamma! my own dearest mamma!" and Rachel, jumping up, threw herself upon her mother's neck. "Stop there. You shan't say another word." "I'm sure I didn't mean to say anything unpleasant." "No, you did not; and I won't be impatient." "Only I can't bear that look. And you know what his mother said,--and Mrs. Tappitt. Not that I care about Mrs. Tappitt; only a person's mother is his mother, and he shouldn't have called her a goose." It must be acknowledged that Rachel's position was not comfortable; and it certainly would not have been improved had she known how many people in Baslehurst were talking about her and Rowan. That Rowan was gone everybody knew; that he had made love to Rachel everybody said; that he never meant to come back any more most professed to believe. Tappitt's tongue was loud in proclaiming his iniquities; and her follies and injuries Mrs. Tappitt whispered into the ears of all her female acquaintances. "I'm sorry for her," Miss Harford said, mildly. Mrs. Tappitt was calling at the rectory, and had made her way in. Mr. Tappitt was an upholder of the old rector, and there was a fellow-townsman's friendship between them. "Oh yes;--very sorry for her," said Mrs. Tappitt. "Very sorry indeed," said Augusta, who was with her mother. "She always seemed to me a pretty, quiet, well-behaved girl," said Miss Harford. "Still waters run deepest, you know, Miss Harford," said Mrs. Tappitt. "I should never have imagined it of her;--never. But she certainly met him half-way." "But we all thought he was respectable, you know," said Miss Harford. Miss Harford was thoroughly good-natured; and though she had never gone half-way herself, and had perhaps lost her chance from having been unable to go any part of the way, she was not disposed to condemn a girl for having been willing to be admired by such a one as Luke Rowan. "Well;--yes; at first we did. He had the name of money, you know, and that goes so far with some girls. We were on our guard,"--and she looked proudly round on Augusta,--"till we should hear what the young man really was. He has thrown off his sheep's clothing now with a vengeance. Mr. Tappitt feels quite ashamed that he should have introduced him to any of the people here; he does indeed." "That may be her misfortune, and not her fault," said Miss Harford, who in defending Rachel was well enough inclined to give up Luke. Indeed, Baslehurst was beginning to have a settled mind that Luke was a wolf. "Oh, quite so," said Mrs. Tappitt. "The poor girl has been very unfortunate no doubt." After that she took her leave of the rectory. On that evening Mr. Comfort dined with Dr. Harford, as did also Butler Cornbury and his wife, and one or two others. The chances of the election formed, of course, the chief subject of conversation both in the drawing-room and at the dinner-table; but in talking of the election they came to talk of Mr. Tappitt, and in talking of Tappitt they came to talk of Luke Rowan. It has already been said that Dr. Harford had been rector of Baslehurst for many years at the period to which this story refers. He had nearly completed half a century of work in that capacity, and had certainly been neither an idle nor an inefficient clergyman. But, now in his old age, he was discontented and disgusted by the changes which had come upon him; and though some bodily strength for further service still remained to him, he had no longer any aptitude for useful work. A man cannot change as men change. Individual men are like the separate links of a rotatory chain. The chain goes on with continuous easy motion as though every part of it were capable of adapting itself to a curve, but not the less is each link as stiff and sturdy as any other piece of wrought iron. Dr. Harford had in his time been an active, popular man,--a man possessing even some liberal tendencies in politics, though a country rector of nearly half a century's standing. In his parish he had been more than a clergyman. He had been a magistrate, and a moving man in municipal affairs. He had been a politician, and though now for many years he had supported the Conservative candidate, he had been loudly in favour of the Reform Bill when Baslehurst was a close borough in the possession of a great duke, who held property hard by. But liberal politics had gone on and had left Dr. Harford high and dry on the standing-ground which he had chosen for himself in the early days of his manhood. And then had come that pestilent act of the legislature under which his parish had been divided. Not that the Act of Parliament itself had been violently condemned by the doctor on its becoming law. I doubt whether he had then thought much of it. But when men calling themselves Commissioners came actually upon him and his, and separated off from him a district of his own town, taking it away altogether from his authority, and giving it over to such inexperienced hands as chance might send thither,--then Dr. Harford became a violent Tory. And my readers must not conceive that this was a question touching his pocket. One might presume that his pocket would be in some degree benefited, seeing that he was saved from the necessity of supplying the spiritual wants of a certain portion of his parish. No shilling was taken from his own income, which, indeed, was by no means excessive. His whole parish gave him barely six hundred a year, out of which he had kept always one, and latterly two curates. It was no question of money in any degree. Sooner than be invaded and mutilated he would have submitted to an order calling upon him to find a third curate,--could any power have given such order. His parish had been invaded and his clerical authority mutilated. He was no longer _totus teres atque rotundus_. The beauty of his life was over, and the contentment of his mind was gone. He knew that it was only left for him to die, spending such days as remained to him in vague prophecies of evil against his devoted country,--a country which had allowed its ancient parochial landmarks to be moved, and its ecclesiastical fastnesses to be invaded! But perhaps hatred of Mr. Prong was the strongest passion of Dr. Harford's heart at the present moment. He had ever hated the dissenting ministers by whom he was surrounded. In Devonshire dissent has waxed strong for many years, and the pastors of the dissenting flocks have been thorns in the side of the Church of England clergymen. Dr. Harford had undergone his full share of suffering from such thorns. But they had caused him no more than a pleasant irritation in comparison with what he endured from the presence of Mr. Prong in Baslehurst. He would sooner have entertained all the dissenting ministers of the South Hams together than have put his legs under the same mahogany with Mr. Prong. Mr. Prong was to him the evil thing! Anathema! He believed all bad things of Mr. Prong with an absolute faith, but without any ground on which such faith should have been formed. He thought that Mr. Prong drank spirits; that he robbed his parishioners;--Dr. Harford would sooner have lost his tongue than have used such a word with reference to those who attended Mr. Prong's chapel;--that he had left a deserted wife on some parish; that he was probably not in truth ordained. There was nothing which Dr. Harford could not believe of Mr. Prong. Now all this was, to say the least of it, a pity, for it disfigured the close of a useful and conscientious life. Dr. Harford of course intended to vote for Mr. Cornbury, but he would not join loudly in condemnation of Mr. Tappitt. Tappitt had stood stanchly by him in all parochial contests regarding the new district. Tappitt opposed the Prong faction at all points. Tappitt as churchwarden had been submissive to the doctor. Church of England principles had always been held at the brewery, and Bungall had been ever in favour with Dr. Harford's predecessor. "He calls himself a Liberal, and always has done," said the doctor. "You can't expect that he should desert his own party." "But a Jew!" said old Mr. Comfort. "Well; why not a Jew?" said the doctor. Whereupon Mr. Comfort, and Butler Cornbury, and Dr. Harford's own curate, young Mr. Calclough, and Captain Byng, an old bachelor, who lived in Baslehurst, all stared at him; as Dr. Harford had intended that they should. "Upon my word," said he, "I don't see the use for caring for that kind of thing any longer; I don't indeed. In the way we are going on now, and for the sort of thing we do, I don't see why Jews shouldn't serve us as well in Parliament as Christians. If I am to have my brains knocked out, I'd sooner have it done by a declared enemy than by one who calls himself my friend." "But our brains are not knocked out yet," said Butler Cornbury. "I don't know anything about yours, but mine are." "I don't think the world's coming to an end yet," said the captain. "Nor do I. I said nothing about the world coming to an end. But if you saw a part of your ship put under the command of a landlubber, who didn't know one side of the vessel from the other, you'd think the world had better come to an end than be carried on in that way." "It's not the same thing, you know," said the captain. "You couldn't divide a ship." "Oh, well; you'll see." "I don't think any Christian should vote for a Jew," said the curate. "A verdict has gone out against them, and what is man that he should reverse it?" "Are you quite sure that you are reversing it by putting them into Parliament?" said Dr. Harford. "May not that be a carrying on of the curse?" "There's consolation in that idea for Butler if he loses his election," said Mr. Comfort. "Parliament isn't what it was," said the doctor. "There's no doubt about that." "And who is to blame?" said Mr. Comfort, who had never supported the Reform Bill as his neighbour had done. "I say nothing about blame. It's natural that things should get worse as they grow older." "Dr. Harford thinks Parliament is worn out," said Butler Cornbury. "And what if I do think so? Have not other things as great fallen and gone into decay? Did not the Roman senate wear out, as you call it? And as for these Jews, of whom you are speaking, what was the curse upon them but the wearing out of their grace and wisdom? I am inclined to think that we are wearing out; only I wish the garment could have lasted my time without showing so many thin places." "Now I believe just the contrary," said the captain. "I don't think we have come to our full growth yet." "Could we lick the French as we did at Trafalgar and Waterloo?" said the doctor. The captain thought a while before he answered, and then spoke with much solemnity. "Yes," said he, "I think we could. And I hope the time will soon come when we may." "We shan't do it if we send Jews to Parliament," said Mr. Comfort. "I must say I think Tappitt wrong," said young Cornbury. "Of course, near as the thing is going, I'm sorry to lose his vote; but I'm not speaking because of that. He has always pretended to hold on to the Church party here, and the Church party has held on to him. His beer is none of the best, and I think he'd have been wise to stick to his old friends." "I don't see the argument about the beer," said the doctor. "He shouldn't provoke his neighbours to look at his faults." "But the Jew's friends would find out that the beer is bad as well as yours." "The truth is," said Cornbury, "that Tappitt thinks he has a personal grievance against me. He's as cross as a bear with a sore head at the present moment, because this young fellow who was to have been his partner has turned against him. There's some love affair, and my wife has been there and made a mess of it. It's hard upon me, for I don't know that I ever saw the young man in my life." "I believe that fellow is a scamp," said the doctor. "I hope not," said Mr. Comfort, thinking of Rachel and her hopes. "We all hope he isn't, of course," said the doctor. "But we can't prevent men being scamps by hoping. There are other scamps in this town in whom, if my hoping would do any good, a very great change would be made."--Everybody present knew that the doctor alluded especially to Mr. Prong, whose condition, however, if the doctor's hopes could have been carried out, would not have been enviable.--"But I fear this fellow Rowan is a scamp, and I think he has treated Tappitt badly. Tappitt told me all about it only this morning." "Audi alteram partem," said Mr. Comfort. "The scamp's party you mean," said the doctor. "I haven't the means of doing that. If in this world we suspend our judgment till we've heard all that can be said on both sides of every question, we should never come to any judgment at all. I hear that he's in debt; I believe he behaved very badly to Tappitt himself, so that Tappitt was forced to use personal violence to defend himself; and he has certainly threatened to open a new brewery here. Now that's bad, as coming from a young man related to the old firm." "I think he should leave the brewery alone," said Mr. Comfort. "Of course he should," said the doctor. "And I hear, moreover, that he is playing a wicked game with a girl in your parish." "I don't know about a wicked game," said the other. "It won't be a wicked game if he marries her." Then Rachel's chances of matrimonial success were discussed with a degree of vigour which must have been felt by her to be highly complimentary, had she been aware of it. But I grieve to say that public opinion, as expressed in Dr. Harford's dining-room, went against Luke Rowan. Mr. Tappitt was not a great man, either as a citizen or as a brewer: he was not one to whom Baslehurst would even rejoice to raise a monument; but such as he was he had been known for many years.

serious

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

"That wouldn't be seemly, because our mayor is expected to attend in church on Roundabout Sunday." Roundabout Sunday, so called for certain local reasons which it would be long to explain, followed immediately on the day of the mayor's inauguration. "Would you like to have a Jew partner in your own business?" Mrs. Butler Cornbury should have said nothing to Mr. Tappitt as to any partner in the brewery, Jew or Christian. "I don't want any partner, and what's more, I don't mean to have any." "Mrs. Cornbury is in favour of Luke Rowan; she takes his side," said Mrs. Tappitt, some portion of her courage returning to her as this opportunity opened upon her. Mr. Tappitt turned his head full round and looked upon Mrs. Cornbury with an evil eye. That lady knew that the vote was lost, lost unless she would denounce the man whom Rachel loved; and she determined at once that she would not denounce him. There are many things which such a woman will do to gain such an object. She could smile when Tappitt was offensive; she could smile again when Mrs. Tappitt talked like a kitchenmaid. She could flatter them both, and pretend to talk seriously with them about Jews and her own Church feelings. She could have given up to them Luke Rowan,--if he had stood alone. But she could not give up the girl she had chaperoned, and upon whom, during that chaperoning, her good-will and kindly feelings had fallen. Rachel had pleased her eye, and gratified her sense of feminine nicety. She felt that a word said against Rowan would be a word said also against Rachel; and therefore, throwing her husband over for the nonce, she resolved to sacrifice the vote and stand up for her friend. "Well, yes; I do," said she, meeting Tappitt's eye steadily. She was not going to be looked out of countenance by Mr. Tappitt. "She thinks he'll come back to marry that young woman at Bragg's End," said Mrs. Tappitt; "but I say that he'll never dare to show his face in Baslehurst again." "That young woman is making a great fool of herself," said Tappitt, "if she trusts to a swindler like him." "Perhaps, Mrs. Tappitt," said Mrs. Cornbury, "we needn't mind discussing Miss Ray. It's not good to talk about a young lady in that way, and I'm sure I never said that I thought she was engaged to Mr. Rowan. Had I done so I should have been very wrong, for I know nothing about it. What little I saw of the gentleman I liked;" and as she used the word gentleman she looked Tappitt full in the face; "and for Miss Ray, I've a great regard for her, and think very highly of her. Independently of her acknowledged beauty and pleasant, ladylike manners, she's a very charming girl. About the vote, Mr. Tappitt--; at any rate you'll think of it." But had he not been defied in his own house? And as for her, the mother of those three finely educated girls, had not every word said in Rachel's favour been a dagger planted in her own maternal bosom? Whose courage would not have risen under such provocation? Mrs. Cornbury had got up to go, but the indignant, injured Tappitts resolved mutually, though without concert, that she should be answered. "I'm an honest man, Mrs. Cornbury," said the brewer, "and I like to speak out my mind openly. Mr. Hart is a liberal, and I mean to support my party. Will you tell Mr. Cornbury so with my compliments? It's all nonsense about Jews not being in Parliament. It's not the same as being mayors or churchwardens, or anything like that. I shall vote for Mr. Hart; and, what's more, we shall put him in." "And Mrs. Cornbury, if you have so much regard for Miss Rachel, you'd better advise her to think no more of that young man. He's no good; he's not indeed. If you ask, you'll find he's in debt everywhere." "Swindler!" said Tappitt. "I don't suppose it can be very bad with Miss Rachel yet, for she only saw him about three times,--though she was so intimate with him at our party." Mrs. Butler Cornbury curtseyed and smiled, and got herself out of the room. Mrs. Tappitt, as soon as she remembered herself, rang the bell, and Mr. Tappitt, following her down to the hall door, went through the pretence of putting her into her carriage. "She's a nasty meddlesome woman," said Tappitt, as soon as he got back to his wife. "And how ever she can stand up and say all those things for that girl, passes me!" said Mrs. Tappitt, holding up both her hands. "She was flighty herself, when young; she was, no doubt; and now I suppose she likes others to be the same. If that's what she calls manners, I shouldn't like her to take my girls about." "And him a gentleman!" said Tappitt. "If those are to be our gentlemen I'd sooner have all the Jews out of Jerusalem. But they'll find out their gentleman; they'll find him out! He'll rob that old mother of his before he's done; you mark my words else." Comforting himself with this hope he took himself back to his counting-house. Mrs. Cornbury had smiled as she went, and had carried herself through the whole interview without any sign of temper. Even when declaring that she intended to take Rachel's part open-mouthed, she had spoken in a half-drolling way which had divested her words of any tone of offence. But when she got into her carriage, she was in truth very angry. "I don't believe a word of it," she said to herself; "not a word of it." That in which she professed to herself her own disbelief was the general assertion that Rowan was a swindler, supported by the particular assertion that he had left Baslehurst over head and ears in debt. "I don't believe it." And she resolved that it should be her business to find out whether the accusation were true or false. She knew the ins and outs of Baslehurst life and Baslehurst doings with tolerable accuracy, and was at any rate capable of unravelling such a mystery as that. If the Tappitts in their jealousy were striving to rob Rachel Ray of her husband by spreading false reports, she would encourage Rachel Ray in her love by spreading the truth;--if, as she believed, the truth should speak in Rowan's favour. She would have considerable pleasure in countermining Mr. and Mrs. Tappitt. As to Mr. Tappitt's vote for the election;--that was gone! CHAPTER III. DR. HARFORD. The current of events forced upon Rachel a delay of three or four days in answering her letter, or rather forced upon her that delay in learning whether or no she might answer it; and this was felt by her to be a grievous evil. It had been arranged that she should not write until such writing should have received what might almost be called a parochial sanction, and no idea of acting in opposition to that arrangement ever occurred to her; but the more she thought of it the more she was vexed; and the more she thought of it the more she learned to doubt whether or no her mother was placing her in safe tutelage. During these few weeks a great change came upon the girl's character. When first Mrs. Prime had brought home tidings that Miss Pucker had seen her walking and talking with the young man from the brewery, angry as she had been with her sister, and disgusted as she had been with Miss Pucker, she had acknowledged to herself that such talking and walking were very dangerous, if not very improper, and she had half resolved that there should be no more of them. And when Mrs. Prime had seen her standing at the stile, and had brought home that second report, Rachel, knowing what had occurred at that stile, had then felt sure that she was in danger. At that time, though she had thought much of Luke Rowan, she had not thought of him as a man who could possibly be her husband. She had thought of him as having no right to call her Rachel, because he could not possibly become so. There had been great danger;--there had been conduct which she believed to be improper though she could not tell herself that she had been guilty. In her outlook into the world nothing so beautiful had promised itself to her as having such a man to love her as Luke Rowan. Though her mother was not herself ascetic,--liking tea and buttered toast dearly, and liking also little soft laughter with her child,--she had preached ascetisms till Rachel had learned to think that the world was all either ascetic or reprobate. The Dorcas meetings had become distasteful to her because the women were vulgar; but yet she had half believed herself to be wrong in avoiding the work and the vulgarity together. Idle she had never been. Since a needle had come easy to her hand, and the economies of a household had been made intelligible to her, she had earned her bread and assisted in works of charity. She had read no love stories, and been taught to expect no lover. She was not prepared to deny,--did not deny even to herself,--that it was wrong that she should even like to talk to Luke Rowan. Then came the ball; or, rather, first came the little evening party, which afterwards grew to be a ball. She had been very desirous of going, not for the sake of any pleasure that she promised herself; not for the sake of such pleasure as girls do promise themselves at such gatherings; but because her female pride told her that it was well for her to claim the right of meeting this young man,--well for her to declare that nothing had passed between them which should make her afraid to meet him. That some other hopes had crept in as the evening had come nigh at hand,--hopes of which she had been made aware only by her efforts in repressing them,--may not be denied. She had been accused because of him; and she would show that no such accusation had daunted her. But would he,--would he give occasion for further accusation? She believed he would not; nay, she was sure; at any rate she hoped he would not. She told herself that such was her hope; but had he not noticed her she would have been wretched. We know now in what manner he had noticed her, and we know also whether she had been wretched. She had certainly fled from him. When she left the brewery-house, inducing Mrs. Cornbury to bring her away, she did so in order that she might escape from him. But she ran from him as one runs from some great joy in order that the mind may revel over it in peace. Then, little as she knew it, her love had been given. Her heart was his. She had placed him upon her pinnacle, and was prepared to worship him. She was ready to dress herself in his eyes, to believe that to be good which he thought good, and to repudiate that which he repudiated. When she bowed her head over his breast a day or two afterwards, she could have spoken to him with the full words of passionate love had not maiden fear repressed her. But she had not even bowed her head for him, she had not acknowledged to herself that such love was possible to her, till her mother had consented. That her mother's consent had been wavering, doubtful, expressed without intention of such expression,--so expressed that Mrs. Ray hardly knew that she had expressed it,--was not understood by Rachel. Her mother had consented, and, that consent having been given, Rachel was not now disposed to allow of any steps backwards. She seemed to have learned her rights, or to have assumed that she had rights. Hitherto her obedience to her mother had been pure and simple, although, from the greater force of her character, she had in many things been her mother's leader. But now, though she was ill inclined to rebel, though in this matter of the letter she had obeyed, she was beginning to feel that obedience might become a hardship. She did not say to herself, "They have let me love him, and now they must not put out their hands to hold back my love;" but the current of her feelings ran as though such unspoken words had passed across her mind. She had her rights; and though she did not presume that she could insist on them in opposition to her mother or her mother's advisers, she knew that she would be wronged if those rights were withheld from her. The chief of those rights was the possession of her lover. If he was taken from her she would be as one imprisoned unjustly,--as one robbed by those who should have been his friends,--as one injured, wounded, stricken in the dark, and treacherously mutilated by hands that should have protected him. During these days she was silent, and sat with that look upon her brow which her mother feared. "I could not make Mr. Comfort come any sooner, Rachel," said Mrs. Ray. "No, mamma." "I can see how impatient you are." "I don't know that I'm impatient. I'm sure that I haven't said anything." "If you said anything I shouldn't mind it so much; but I can't bear to see you with that unhappy look. I'm sure I only wish to do what's best. You can't think it right that you should be writing letters to a gentleman without being sure that it is proper." "Oh, mamma, don't talk about it!" "You don't like me to ask your sister; and I'm sure it's natural I should want to ask somebody. He's nearly seventy years old, and he has known you ever since you were born. And then he's a clergyman, and therefore he'll be sure to know what's right. Not that I should have liked to have said a word about it to Mr. Prong, because there's a difference when they come from one doesn't know where." "Pray, mamma, don't. I haven't made any objection to Mr. Comfort. It isn't nice to be talked over in that way by anybody, that's all." "But what was I to do? I'm sure I liked the young man very much. I never knew a young man who took his tea so pleasant. And as for his manners and his way of talking, I had it in my heart to fall in love with him myself. I had indeed. As far as that goes, he's just the young man that I could make a son of." "Dear mamma! my own dearest mamma!" and Rachel, jumping up, threw herself upon her mother's neck. "Stop there. You shan't say another word." "I'm sure I didn't mean to say anything unpleasant." "No, you did not; and I won't be impatient." "Only I can't bear that look. And you know what his mother said,--and Mrs. Tappitt. Not that I care about Mrs. Tappitt; only a person's mother is his mother, and he shouldn't have called her a goose." It must be acknowledged that Rachel's position was not comfortable; and it certainly would not have been improved had she known how many people in Baslehurst were talking about her and Rowan. That Rowan was gone everybody knew; that he had made love to Rachel everybody said; that he never meant to come back any more most professed to believe. Tappitt's tongue was loud in proclaiming his iniquities; and her follies and injuries Mrs. Tappitt whispered into the ears of all her female acquaintances. "I'm sorry for her," Miss Harford said, mildly. Mrs. Tappitt was calling at the rectory, and had made her way in. Mr. Tappitt was an upholder of the old rector, and there was a fellow-townsman's friendship between them. "Oh yes;--very sorry for her," said Mrs. Tappitt. "Very sorry indeed," said Augusta, who was with her mother. "She always seemed to me a pretty, quiet, well-behaved girl," said Miss Harford. "Still waters run deepest, you know, Miss Harford," said Mrs. Tappitt. "I should never have imagined it of her;--never. But she certainly met him half-way." "But we all thought he was respectable, you know," said Miss Harford. Miss Harford was thoroughly good-natured; and though she had never gone half-way herself, and had perhaps lost her chance from having been unable to go any part of the way, she was not disposed to condemn a girl for having been willing to be admired by such a one as Luke Rowan. "Well;--yes; at first we did. He had the name of money, you know, and that goes so far with some girls. We were on our guard,"--and she looked proudly round on Augusta,--"till we should hear what the young man really was. He has thrown off his sheep's clothing now with a vengeance. Mr. Tappitt feels quite ashamed that he should have introduced him to any of the people here; he does indeed." "That may be her misfortune, and not her fault," said Miss Harford, who in defending Rachel was well enough inclined to give up Luke. Indeed, Baslehurst was beginning to have a settled mind that Luke was a wolf. "Oh, quite so," said Mrs. Tappitt. "The poor girl has been very unfortunate no doubt." After that she took her leave of the rectory. On that evening Mr. Comfort dined with Dr. Harford, as did also Butler Cornbury and his wife, and one or two others. The chances of the election formed, of course, the chief subject of conversation both in the drawing-room and at the dinner-table; but in talking of the election they came to talk of Mr. Tappitt, and in talking of Tappitt they came to talk of Luke Rowan. It has already been said that Dr. Harford had been rector of Baslehurst for many years at the period to which this story refers. He had nearly completed half a century of work in that capacity, and had certainly been neither an idle nor an inefficient clergyman. But, now in his old age, he was discontented and disgusted by the changes which had come upon him; and though some bodily strength for further service still remained to him, he had no longer any aptitude for useful work. A man cannot change as men change. Individual men are like the separate links of a rotatory chain. The chain goes on with continuous easy motion as though every part of it were capable of adapting itself to a curve, but not the less is each link as stiff and sturdy as any other piece of wrought iron. Dr. Harford had in his time been an active, popular man,--a man possessing even some liberal tendencies in politics, though a country rector of nearly half a century's standing. In his parish he had been more than a clergyman. He had been a magistrate, and a moving man in municipal affairs. He had been a politician, and though now for many years he had supported the Conservative candidate, he had been loudly in favour of the Reform Bill when Baslehurst was a close borough in the possession of a great duke, who held property hard by. But liberal politics had gone on and had left Dr. Harford high and dry on the standing-ground which he had chosen for himself in the early days of his manhood. And then had come that pestilent act of the legislature under which his parish had been divided. Not that the Act of Parliament itself had been violently condemned by the doctor on its becoming law. I doubt whether he had then thought much of it. But when men calling themselves Commissioners came actually upon him and his, and separated off from him a district of his own town, taking it away altogether from his authority, and giving it over to such inexperienced hands as chance might send thither,--then Dr. Harford became a violent Tory. And my readers must not conceive that this was a question touching his pocket. One might presume that his pocket would be in some degree benefited, seeing that he was saved from the necessity of supplying the spiritual wants of a certain portion of his parish. No shilling was taken from his own income, which, indeed, was by no means excessive. His whole parish gave him barely six hundred a year, out of which he had kept always one, and latterly two curates. It was no question of money in any degree. Sooner than be invaded and mutilated he would have submitted to an order calling upon him to find a third curate,--could any power have given such order. His parish had been invaded and his clerical authority mutilated. He was no longer _totus teres atque rotundus_. The beauty of his life was over, and the contentment of his mind was gone. He knew that it was only left for him to die, spending such days as remained to him in vague prophecies of evil against his devoted country,--a country which had allowed its ancient parochial landmarks to be moved, and its ecclesiastical fastnesses to be invaded! But perhaps hatred of Mr. Prong was the strongest passion of Dr. Harford's heart at the present moment. He had ever hated the dissenting ministers by whom he was surrounded. In Devonshire dissent has waxed strong for many years, and the pastors of the dissenting flocks have been thorns in the side of the Church of England clergymen. Dr. Harford had undergone his full share of suffering from such thorns. But they had caused him no more than a pleasant irritation in comparison with what he endured from the presence of Mr. Prong in Baslehurst. He would sooner have entertained all the dissenting ministers of the South Hams together than have put his legs under the same mahogany with Mr. Prong. Mr. Prong was to him the evil thing! Anathema! He believed all bad things of Mr. Prong with an absolute faith, but without any ground on which such faith should have been formed. He thought that Mr. Prong drank spirits; that he robbed his parishioners;--Dr. Harford would sooner have lost his tongue than have used such a word with reference to those who attended Mr. Prong's chapel;--that he had left a deserted wife on some parish; that he was probably not in truth ordained. There was nothing which Dr. Harford could not believe of Mr. Prong. Now all this was, to say the least of it, a pity, for it disfigured the close of a useful and conscientious life. Dr. Harford of course intended to vote for Mr. Cornbury, but he would not join loudly in condemnation of Mr. Tappitt. Tappitt had stood stanchly by him in all parochial contests regarding the new district. Tappitt opposed the Prong faction at all points. Tappitt as churchwarden had been submissive to the doctor. Church of England principles had always been held at the brewery, and Bungall had been ever in favour with Dr. Harford's predecessor. "He calls himself a Liberal, and always has done," said the doctor. "You can't expect that he should desert his own party." "But a Jew!" said old Mr. Comfort. "Well; why not a Jew?" said the doctor. Whereupon Mr. Comfort, and Butler Cornbury, and Dr. Harford's own curate, young Mr. Calclough, and Captain Byng, an old bachelor, who lived in Baslehurst, all stared at him; as Dr. Harford had intended that they should. "Upon my word," said he, "I don't see the use for caring for that kind of thing any longer; I don't indeed. In the way we are going on now, and for the sort of thing we do, I don't see why Jews shouldn't serve us as well in Parliament as Christians. If I am to have my brains knocked out, I'd sooner have it done by a declared enemy than by one who calls himself my friend." "But our brains are not knocked out yet," said Butler Cornbury. "I don't know anything about yours, but mine are." "I don't think the world's coming to an end yet," said the captain. "Nor do I. I said nothing about the world coming to an end. But if you saw a part of your ship put under the command of a landlubber, who didn't know one side of the vessel from the other, you'd think the world had better come to an end than be carried on in that way." "It's not the same thing, you know," said the captain. "You couldn't divide a ship." "Oh, well; you'll see." "I don't think any Christian should vote for a Jew," said the curate. "A verdict has gone out against them, and what is man that he should reverse it?" "Are you quite sure that you are reversing it by putting them into Parliament?" said Dr. Harford. "May not that be a carrying on of the curse?" "There's consolation in that idea for Butler if he loses his election," said Mr. Comfort. "Parliament isn't what it was," said the doctor. "There's no doubt about that." "And who is to blame?" said Mr. Comfort, who had never supported the Reform Bill as his neighbour had done. "I say nothing about blame. It's natural that things should get worse as they grow older." "Dr. Harford thinks Parliament is worn out," said Butler Cornbury. "And what if I do think so? Have not other things as great fallen and gone into decay? Did not the Roman senate wear out, as you call it? And as for these Jews, of whom you are speaking, what was the curse upon them but the wearing out of their grace and wisdom? I am inclined to think that we are wearing out; only I wish the garment could have lasted my time without showing so many thin places." "Now I believe just the contrary," said the captain. "I don't think we have come to our full growth yet." "Could we lick the French as we did at Trafalgar and Waterloo?" said the doctor. The captain thought a while before he answered, and then spoke with much solemnity. "Yes," said he, "I think we could. And I hope the time will soon come when we may." "We shan't do it if we send Jews to Parliament," said Mr. Comfort. "I must say I think Tappitt wrong," said young Cornbury. "Of course, near as the thing is going, I'm sorry to lose his vote; but I'm not speaking because of that. He has always pretended to hold on to the Church party here, and the Church party has held on to him. His beer is none of the best, and I think he'd have been wise to stick to his old friends." "I don't see the argument about the beer," said the doctor. "He shouldn't provoke his neighbours to look at his faults." "But the Jew's friends would find out that the beer is bad as well as yours." "The truth is," said Cornbury, "that Tappitt thinks he has a personal grievance against me. He's as cross as a bear with a sore head at the present moment, because this young fellow who was to have been his partner has turned against him. There's some love affair, and my wife has been there and made a mess of it. It's hard upon me, for I don't know that I ever saw the young man in my life." "I believe that fellow is a scamp," said the doctor. "I hope not," said Mr. Comfort, thinking of Rachel and her hopes. "We all hope he isn't, of course," said the doctor. "But we can't prevent men being scamps by hoping. There are other scamps in this town in whom, if my hoping would do any good, a very great change would be made."--Everybody present knew that the doctor alluded especially to Mr. Prong, whose condition, however, if the doctor's hopes could have been carried out, would not have been enviable.--"But I fear this fellow Rowan is a scamp, and I think he has treated Tappitt badly. Tappitt told me all about it only this morning." "Audi alteram partem," said Mr. Comfort. "The scamp's party you mean," said the doctor. "I haven't the means of doing that. If in this world we suspend our judgment till we've heard all that can be said on both sides of every question, we should never come to any judgment at all. I hear that he's in debt; I believe he behaved very badly to Tappitt himself, so that Tappitt was forced to use personal violence to defend himself; and he has certainly threatened to open a new brewery here. Now that's bad, as coming from a young man related to the old firm." "I think he should leave the brewery alone," said Mr. Comfort. "Of course he should," said the doctor. "And I hear, moreover, that he is playing a wicked game with a girl in your parish." "I don't know about a wicked game," said the other. "It won't be a wicked game if he marries her." Then Rachel's chances of matrimonial success were discussed with a degree of vigour which must have been felt by her to be highly complimentary, had she been aware of it. But I grieve to say that public opinion, as expressed in Dr. Harford's dining-room, went against Luke Rowan. Mr. Tappitt was not a great man, either as a citizen or as a brewer: he was not one to whom Baslehurst would even rejoice to raise a monument; but such as he was he had been known for many years.

gesture

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

"That wouldn't be seemly, because our mayor is expected to attend in church on Roundabout Sunday." Roundabout Sunday, so called for certain local reasons which it would be long to explain, followed immediately on the day of the mayor's inauguration. "Would you like to have a Jew partner in your own business?" Mrs. Butler Cornbury should have said nothing to Mr. Tappitt as to any partner in the brewery, Jew or Christian. "I don't want any partner, and what's more, I don't mean to have any." "Mrs. Cornbury is in favour of Luke Rowan; she takes his side," said Mrs. Tappitt, some portion of her courage returning to her as this opportunity opened upon her. Mr. Tappitt turned his head full round and looked upon Mrs. Cornbury with an evil eye. That lady knew that the vote was lost, lost unless she would denounce the man whom Rachel loved; and she determined at once that she would not denounce him. There are many things which such a woman will do to gain such an object. She could smile when Tappitt was offensive; she could smile again when Mrs. Tappitt talked like a kitchenmaid. She could flatter them both, and pretend to talk seriously with them about Jews and her own Church feelings. She could have given up to them Luke Rowan,--if he had stood alone. But she could not give up the girl she had chaperoned, and upon whom, during that chaperoning, her good-will and kindly feelings had fallen. Rachel had pleased her eye, and gratified her sense of feminine nicety. She felt that a word said against Rowan would be a word said also against Rachel; and therefore, throwing her husband over for the nonce, she resolved to sacrifice the vote and stand up for her friend. "Well, yes; I do," said she, meeting Tappitt's eye steadily. She was not going to be looked out of countenance by Mr. Tappitt. "She thinks he'll come back to marry that young woman at Bragg's End," said Mrs. Tappitt; "but I say that he'll never dare to show his face in Baslehurst again." "That young woman is making a great fool of herself," said Tappitt, "if she trusts to a swindler like him." "Perhaps, Mrs. Tappitt," said Mrs. Cornbury, "we needn't mind discussing Miss Ray. It's not good to talk about a young lady in that way, and I'm sure I never said that I thought she was engaged to Mr. Rowan. Had I done so I should have been very wrong, for I know nothing about it. What little I saw of the gentleman I liked;" and as she used the word gentleman she looked Tappitt full in the face; "and for Miss Ray, I've a great regard for her, and think very highly of her. Independently of her acknowledged beauty and pleasant, ladylike manners, she's a very charming girl. About the vote, Mr. Tappitt--; at any rate you'll think of it." But had he not been defied in his own house? And as for her, the mother of those three finely educated girls, had not every word said in Rachel's favour been a dagger planted in her own maternal bosom? Whose courage would not have risen under such provocation? Mrs. Cornbury had got up to go, but the indignant, injured Tappitts resolved mutually, though without concert, that she should be answered. "I'm an honest man, Mrs. Cornbury," said the brewer, "and I like to speak out my mind openly. Mr. Hart is a liberal, and I mean to support my party. Will you tell Mr. Cornbury so with my compliments? It's all nonsense about Jews not being in Parliament. It's not the same as being mayors or churchwardens, or anything like that. I shall vote for Mr. Hart; and, what's more, we shall put him in." "And Mrs. Cornbury, if you have so much regard for Miss Rachel, you'd better advise her to think no more of that young man. He's no good; he's not indeed. If you ask, you'll find he's in debt everywhere." "Swindler!" said Tappitt. "I don't suppose it can be very bad with Miss Rachel yet, for she only saw him about three times,--though she was so intimate with him at our party." Mrs. Butler Cornbury curtseyed and smiled, and got herself out of the room. Mrs. Tappitt, as soon as she remembered herself, rang the bell, and Mr. Tappitt, following her down to the hall door, went through the pretence of putting her into her carriage. "She's a nasty meddlesome woman," said Tappitt, as soon as he got back to his wife. "And how ever she can stand up and say all those things for that girl, passes me!" said Mrs. Tappitt, holding up both her hands. "She was flighty herself, when young; she was, no doubt; and now I suppose she likes others to be the same. If that's what she calls manners, I shouldn't like her to take my girls about." "And him a gentleman!" said Tappitt. "If those are to be our gentlemen I'd sooner have all the Jews out of Jerusalem. But they'll find out their gentleman; they'll find him out! He'll rob that old mother of his before he's done; you mark my words else." Comforting himself with this hope he took himself back to his counting-house. Mrs. Cornbury had smiled as she went, and had carried herself through the whole interview without any sign of temper. Even when declaring that she intended to take Rachel's part open-mouthed, she had spoken in a half-drolling way which had divested her words of any tone of offence. But when she got into her carriage, she was in truth very angry. "I don't believe a word of it," she said to herself; "not a word of it." That in which she professed to herself her own disbelief was the general assertion that Rowan was a swindler, supported by the particular assertion that he had left Baslehurst over head and ears in debt. "I don't believe it." And she resolved that it should be her business to find out whether the accusation were true or false. She knew the ins and outs of Baslehurst life and Baslehurst doings with tolerable accuracy, and was at any rate capable of unravelling such a mystery as that. If the Tappitts in their jealousy were striving to rob Rachel Ray of her husband by spreading false reports, she would encourage Rachel Ray in her love by spreading the truth;--if, as she believed, the truth should speak in Rowan's favour. She would have considerable pleasure in countermining Mr. and Mrs. Tappitt. As to Mr. Tappitt's vote for the election;--that was gone! CHAPTER III. DR. HARFORD. The current of events forced upon Rachel a delay of three or four days in answering her letter, or rather forced upon her that delay in learning whether or no she might answer it; and this was felt by her to be a grievous evil. It had been arranged that she should not write until such writing should have received what might almost be called a parochial sanction, and no idea of acting in opposition to that arrangement ever occurred to her; but the more she thought of it the more she was vexed; and the more she thought of it the more she learned to doubt whether or no her mother was placing her in safe tutelage. During these few weeks a great change came upon the girl's character. When first Mrs. Prime had brought home tidings that Miss Pucker had seen her walking and talking with the young man from the brewery, angry as she had been with her sister, and disgusted as she had been with Miss Pucker, she had acknowledged to herself that such talking and walking were very dangerous, if not very improper, and she had half resolved that there should be no more of them. And when Mrs. Prime had seen her standing at the stile, and had brought home that second report, Rachel, knowing what had occurred at that stile, had then felt sure that she was in danger. At that time, though she had thought much of Luke Rowan, she had not thought of him as a man who could possibly be her husband. She had thought of him as having no right to call her Rachel, because he could not possibly become so. There had been great danger;--there had been conduct which she believed to be improper though she could not tell herself that she had been guilty. In her outlook into the world nothing so beautiful had promised itself to her as having such a man to love her as Luke Rowan. Though her mother was not herself ascetic,--liking tea and buttered toast dearly, and liking also little soft laughter with her child,--she had preached ascetisms till Rachel had learned to think that the world was all either ascetic or reprobate. The Dorcas meetings had become distasteful to her because the women were vulgar; but yet she had half believed herself to be wrong in avoiding the work and the vulgarity together. Idle she had never been. Since a needle had come easy to her hand, and the economies of a household had been made intelligible to her, she had earned her bread and assisted in works of charity. She had read no love stories, and been taught to expect no lover. She was not prepared to deny,--did not deny even to herself,--that it was wrong that she should even like to talk to Luke Rowan. Then came the ball; or, rather, first came the little evening party, which afterwards grew to be a ball. She had been very desirous of going, not for the sake of any pleasure that she promised herself; not for the sake of such pleasure as girls do promise themselves at such gatherings; but because her female pride told her that it was well for her to claim the right of meeting this young man,--well for her to declare that nothing had passed between them which should make her afraid to meet him. That some other hopes had crept in as the evening had come nigh at hand,--hopes of which she had been made aware only by her efforts in repressing them,--may not be denied. She had been accused because of him; and she would show that no such accusation had daunted her. But would he,--would he give occasion for further accusation? She believed he would not; nay, she was sure; at any rate she hoped he would not. She told herself that such was her hope; but had he not noticed her she would have been wretched. We know now in what manner he had noticed her, and we know also whether she had been wretched. She had certainly fled from him. When she left the brewery-house, inducing Mrs. Cornbury to bring her away, she did so in order that she might escape from him. But she ran from him as one runs from some great joy in order that the mind may revel over it in peace. Then, little as she knew it, her love had been given. Her heart was his. She had placed him upon her pinnacle, and was prepared to worship him. She was ready to dress herself in his eyes, to believe that to be good which he thought good, and to repudiate that which he repudiated. When she bowed her head over his breast a day or two afterwards, she could have spoken to him with the full words of passionate love had not maiden fear repressed her. But she had not even bowed her head for him, she had not acknowledged to herself that such love was possible to her, till her mother had consented. That her mother's consent had been wavering, doubtful, expressed without intention of such expression,--so expressed that Mrs. Ray hardly knew that she had expressed it,--was not understood by Rachel. Her mother had consented, and, that consent having been given, Rachel was not now disposed to allow of any steps backwards. She seemed to have learned her rights, or to have assumed that she had rights. Hitherto her obedience to her mother had been pure and simple, although, from the greater force of her character, she had in many things been her mother's leader. But now, though she was ill inclined to rebel, though in this matter of the letter she had obeyed, she was beginning to feel that obedience might become a hardship. She did not say to herself, "They have let me love him, and now they must not put out their hands to hold back my love;" but the current of her feelings ran as though such unspoken words had passed across her mind. She had her rights; and though she did not presume that she could insist on them in opposition to her mother or her mother's advisers, she knew that she would be wronged if those rights were withheld from her. The chief of those rights was the possession of her lover. If he was taken from her she would be as one imprisoned unjustly,--as one robbed by those who should have been his friends,--as one injured, wounded, stricken in the dark, and treacherously mutilated by hands that should have protected him. During these days she was silent, and sat with that look upon her brow which her mother feared. "I could not make Mr. Comfort come any sooner, Rachel," said Mrs. Ray. "No, mamma." "I can see how impatient you are." "I don't know that I'm impatient. I'm sure that I haven't said anything." "If you said anything I shouldn't mind it so much; but I can't bear to see you with that unhappy look. I'm sure I only wish to do what's best. You can't think it right that you should be writing letters to a gentleman without being sure that it is proper." "Oh, mamma, don't talk about it!" "You don't like me to ask your sister; and I'm sure it's natural I should want to ask somebody. He's nearly seventy years old, and he has known you ever since you were born. And then he's a clergyman, and therefore he'll be sure to know what's right. Not that I should have liked to have said a word about it to Mr. Prong, because there's a difference when they come from one doesn't know where." "Pray, mamma, don't. I haven't made any objection to Mr. Comfort. It isn't nice to be talked over in that way by anybody, that's all." "But what was I to do? I'm sure I liked the young man very much. I never knew a young man who took his tea so pleasant. And as for his manners and his way of talking, I had it in my heart to fall in love with him myself. I had indeed. As far as that goes, he's just the young man that I could make a son of." "Dear mamma! my own dearest mamma!" and Rachel, jumping up, threw herself upon her mother's neck. "Stop there. You shan't say another word." "I'm sure I didn't mean to say anything unpleasant." "No, you did not; and I won't be impatient." "Only I can't bear that look. And you know what his mother said,--and Mrs. Tappitt. Not that I care about Mrs. Tappitt; only a person's mother is his mother, and he shouldn't have called her a goose." It must be acknowledged that Rachel's position was not comfortable; and it certainly would not have been improved had she known how many people in Baslehurst were talking about her and Rowan. That Rowan was gone everybody knew; that he had made love to Rachel everybody said; that he never meant to come back any more most professed to believe. Tappitt's tongue was loud in proclaiming his iniquities; and her follies and injuries Mrs. Tappitt whispered into the ears of all her female acquaintances. "I'm sorry for her," Miss Harford said, mildly. Mrs. Tappitt was calling at the rectory, and had made her way in. Mr. Tappitt was an upholder of the old rector, and there was a fellow-townsman's friendship between them. "Oh yes;--very sorry for her," said Mrs. Tappitt. "Very sorry indeed," said Augusta, who was with her mother. "She always seemed to me a pretty, quiet, well-behaved girl," said Miss Harford. "Still waters run deepest, you know, Miss Harford," said Mrs. Tappitt. "I should never have imagined it of her;--never. But she certainly met him half-way." "But we all thought he was respectable, you know," said Miss Harford. Miss Harford was thoroughly good-natured; and though she had never gone half-way herself, and had perhaps lost her chance from having been unable to go any part of the way, she was not disposed to condemn a girl for having been willing to be admired by such a one as Luke Rowan. "Well;--yes; at first we did. He had the name of money, you know, and that goes so far with some girls. We were on our guard,"--and she looked proudly round on Augusta,--"till we should hear what the young man really was. He has thrown off his sheep's clothing now with a vengeance. Mr. Tappitt feels quite ashamed that he should have introduced him to any of the people here; he does indeed." "That may be her misfortune, and not her fault," said Miss Harford, who in defending Rachel was well enough inclined to give up Luke. Indeed, Baslehurst was beginning to have a settled mind that Luke was a wolf. "Oh, quite so," said Mrs. Tappitt. "The poor girl has been very unfortunate no doubt." After that she took her leave of the rectory. On that evening Mr. Comfort dined with Dr. Harford, as did also Butler Cornbury and his wife, and one or two others. The chances of the election formed, of course, the chief subject of conversation both in the drawing-room and at the dinner-table; but in talking of the election they came to talk of Mr. Tappitt, and in talking of Tappitt they came to talk of Luke Rowan. It has already been said that Dr. Harford had been rector of Baslehurst for many years at the period to which this story refers. He had nearly completed half a century of work in that capacity, and had certainly been neither an idle nor an inefficient clergyman. But, now in his old age, he was discontented and disgusted by the changes which had come upon him; and though some bodily strength for further service still remained to him, he had no longer any aptitude for useful work. A man cannot change as men change. Individual men are like the separate links of a rotatory chain. The chain goes on with continuous easy motion as though every part of it were capable of adapting itself to a curve, but not the less is each link as stiff and sturdy as any other piece of wrought iron. Dr. Harford had in his time been an active, popular man,--a man possessing even some liberal tendencies in politics, though a country rector of nearly half a century's standing. In his parish he had been more than a clergyman. He had been a magistrate, and a moving man in municipal affairs. He had been a politician, and though now for many years he had supported the Conservative candidate, he had been loudly in favour of the Reform Bill when Baslehurst was a close borough in the possession of a great duke, who held property hard by. But liberal politics had gone on and had left Dr. Harford high and dry on the standing-ground which he had chosen for himself in the early days of his manhood. And then had come that pestilent act of the legislature under which his parish had been divided. Not that the Act of Parliament itself had been violently condemned by the doctor on its becoming law. I doubt whether he had then thought much of it. But when men calling themselves Commissioners came actually upon him and his, and separated off from him a district of his own town, taking it away altogether from his authority, and giving it over to such inexperienced hands as chance might send thither,--then Dr. Harford became a violent Tory. And my readers must not conceive that this was a question touching his pocket. One might presume that his pocket would be in some degree benefited, seeing that he was saved from the necessity of supplying the spiritual wants of a certain portion of his parish. No shilling was taken from his own income, which, indeed, was by no means excessive. His whole parish gave him barely six hundred a year, out of which he had kept always one, and latterly two curates. It was no question of money in any degree. Sooner than be invaded and mutilated he would have submitted to an order calling upon him to find a third curate,--could any power have given such order. His parish had been invaded and his clerical authority mutilated. He was no longer _totus teres atque rotundus_. The beauty of his life was over, and the contentment of his mind was gone. He knew that it was only left for him to die, spending such days as remained to him in vague prophecies of evil against his devoted country,--a country which had allowed its ancient parochial landmarks to be moved, and its ecclesiastical fastnesses to be invaded! But perhaps hatred of Mr. Prong was the strongest passion of Dr. Harford's heart at the present moment. He had ever hated the dissenting ministers by whom he was surrounded. In Devonshire dissent has waxed strong for many years, and the pastors of the dissenting flocks have been thorns in the side of the Church of England clergymen. Dr. Harford had undergone his full share of suffering from such thorns. But they had caused him no more than a pleasant irritation in comparison with what he endured from the presence of Mr. Prong in Baslehurst. He would sooner have entertained all the dissenting ministers of the South Hams together than have put his legs under the same mahogany with Mr. Prong. Mr. Prong was to him the evil thing! Anathema! He believed all bad things of Mr. Prong with an absolute faith, but without any ground on which such faith should have been formed. He thought that Mr. Prong drank spirits; that he robbed his parishioners;--Dr. Harford would sooner have lost his tongue than have used such a word with reference to those who attended Mr. Prong's chapel;--that he had left a deserted wife on some parish; that he was probably not in truth ordained. There was nothing which Dr. Harford could not believe of Mr. Prong. Now all this was, to say the least of it, a pity, for it disfigured the close of a useful and conscientious life. Dr. Harford of course intended to vote for Mr. Cornbury, but he would not join loudly in condemnation of Mr. Tappitt. Tappitt had stood stanchly by him in all parochial contests regarding the new district. Tappitt opposed the Prong faction at all points. Tappitt as churchwarden had been submissive to the doctor. Church of England principles had always been held at the brewery, and Bungall had been ever in favour with Dr. Harford's predecessor. "He calls himself a Liberal, and always has done," said the doctor. "You can't expect that he should desert his own party." "But a Jew!" said old Mr. Comfort. "Well; why not a Jew?" said the doctor. Whereupon Mr. Comfort, and Butler Cornbury, and Dr. Harford's own curate, young Mr. Calclough, and Captain Byng, an old bachelor, who lived in Baslehurst, all stared at him; as Dr. Harford had intended that they should. "Upon my word," said he, "I don't see the use for caring for that kind of thing any longer; I don't indeed. In the way we are going on now, and for the sort of thing we do, I don't see why Jews shouldn't serve us as well in Parliament as Christians. If I am to have my brains knocked out, I'd sooner have it done by a declared enemy than by one who calls himself my friend." "But our brains are not knocked out yet," said Butler Cornbury. "I don't know anything about yours, but mine are." "I don't think the world's coming to an end yet," said the captain. "Nor do I. I said nothing about the world coming to an end. But if you saw a part of your ship put under the command of a landlubber, who didn't know one side of the vessel from the other, you'd think the world had better come to an end than be carried on in that way." "It's not the same thing, you know," said the captain. "You couldn't divide a ship." "Oh, well; you'll see." "I don't think any Christian should vote for a Jew," said the curate. "A verdict has gone out against them, and what is man that he should reverse it?" "Are you quite sure that you are reversing it by putting them into Parliament?" said Dr. Harford. "May not that be a carrying on of the curse?" "There's consolation in that idea for Butler if he loses his election," said Mr. Comfort. "Parliament isn't what it was," said the doctor. "There's no doubt about that." "And who is to blame?" said Mr. Comfort, who had never supported the Reform Bill as his neighbour had done. "I say nothing about blame. It's natural that things should get worse as they grow older." "Dr. Harford thinks Parliament is worn out," said Butler Cornbury. "And what if I do think so? Have not other things as great fallen and gone into decay? Did not the Roman senate wear out, as you call it? And as for these Jews, of whom you are speaking, what was the curse upon them but the wearing out of their grace and wisdom? I am inclined to think that we are wearing out; only I wish the garment could have lasted my time without showing so many thin places." "Now I believe just the contrary," said the captain. "I don't think we have come to our full growth yet." "Could we lick the French as we did at Trafalgar and Waterloo?" said the doctor. The captain thought a while before he answered, and then spoke with much solemnity. "Yes," said he, "I think we could. And I hope the time will soon come when we may." "We shan't do it if we send Jews to Parliament," said Mr. Comfort. "I must say I think Tappitt wrong," said young Cornbury. "Of course, near as the thing is going, I'm sorry to lose his vote; but I'm not speaking because of that. He has always pretended to hold on to the Church party here, and the Church party has held on to him. His beer is none of the best, and I think he'd have been wise to stick to his old friends." "I don't see the argument about the beer," said the doctor. "He shouldn't provoke his neighbours to look at his faults." "But the Jew's friends would find out that the beer is bad as well as yours." "The truth is," said Cornbury, "that Tappitt thinks he has a personal grievance against me. He's as cross as a bear with a sore head at the present moment, because this young fellow who was to have been his partner has turned against him. There's some love affair, and my wife has been there and made a mess of it. It's hard upon me, for I don't know that I ever saw the young man in my life." "I believe that fellow is a scamp," said the doctor. "I hope not," said Mr. Comfort, thinking of Rachel and her hopes. "We all hope he isn't, of course," said the doctor. "But we can't prevent men being scamps by hoping. There are other scamps in this town in whom, if my hoping would do any good, a very great change would be made."--Everybody present knew that the doctor alluded especially to Mr. Prong, whose condition, however, if the doctor's hopes could have been carried out, would not have been enviable.--"But I fear this fellow Rowan is a scamp, and I think he has treated Tappitt badly. Tappitt told me all about it only this morning." "Audi alteram partem," said Mr. Comfort. "The scamp's party you mean," said the doctor. "I haven't the means of doing that. If in this world we suspend our judgment till we've heard all that can be said on both sides of every question, we should never come to any judgment at all. I hear that he's in debt; I believe he behaved very badly to Tappitt himself, so that Tappitt was forced to use personal violence to defend himself; and he has certainly threatened to open a new brewery here. Now that's bad, as coming from a young man related to the old firm." "I think he should leave the brewery alone," said Mr. Comfort. "Of course he should," said the doctor. "And I hear, moreover, that he is playing a wicked game with a girl in your parish." "I don't know about a wicked game," said the other. "It won't be a wicked game if he marries her." Then Rachel's chances of matrimonial success were discussed with a degree of vigour which must have been felt by her to be highly complimentary, had she been aware of it. But I grieve to say that public opinion, as expressed in Dr. Harford's dining-room, went against Luke Rowan. Mr. Tappitt was not a great man, either as a citizen or as a brewer: he was not one to whom Baslehurst would even rejoice to raise a monument; but such as he was he had been known for many years.

les

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

"That wouldn't be seemly, because our mayor is expected to attend in church on Roundabout Sunday." Roundabout Sunday, so called for certain local reasons which it would be long to explain, followed immediately on the day of the mayor's inauguration. "Would you like to have a Jew partner in your own business?" Mrs. Butler Cornbury should have said nothing to Mr. Tappitt as to any partner in the brewery, Jew or Christian. "I don't want any partner, and what's more, I don't mean to have any." "Mrs. Cornbury is in favour of Luke Rowan; she takes his side," said Mrs. Tappitt, some portion of her courage returning to her as this opportunity opened upon her. Mr. Tappitt turned his head full round and looked upon Mrs. Cornbury with an evil eye. That lady knew that the vote was lost, lost unless she would denounce the man whom Rachel loved; and she determined at once that she would not denounce him. There are many things which such a woman will do to gain such an object. She could smile when Tappitt was offensive; she could smile again when Mrs. Tappitt talked like a kitchenmaid. She could flatter them both, and pretend to talk seriously with them about Jews and her own Church feelings. She could have given up to them Luke Rowan,--if he had stood alone. But she could not give up the girl she had chaperoned, and upon whom, during that chaperoning, her good-will and kindly feelings had fallen. Rachel had pleased her eye, and gratified her sense of feminine nicety. She felt that a word said against Rowan would be a word said also against Rachel; and therefore, throwing her husband over for the nonce, she resolved to sacrifice the vote and stand up for her friend. "Well, yes; I do," said she, meeting Tappitt's eye steadily. She was not going to be looked out of countenance by Mr. Tappitt. "She thinks he'll come back to marry that young woman at Bragg's End," said Mrs. Tappitt; "but I say that he'll never dare to show his face in Baslehurst again." "That young woman is making a great fool of herself," said Tappitt, "if she trusts to a swindler like him." "Perhaps, Mrs. Tappitt," said Mrs. Cornbury, "we needn't mind discussing Miss Ray. It's not good to talk about a young lady in that way, and I'm sure I never said that I thought she was engaged to Mr. Rowan. Had I done so I should have been very wrong, for I know nothing about it. What little I saw of the gentleman I liked;" and as she used the word gentleman she looked Tappitt full in the face; "and for Miss Ray, I've a great regard for her, and think very highly of her. Independently of her acknowledged beauty and pleasant, ladylike manners, she's a very charming girl. About the vote, Mr. Tappitt--; at any rate you'll think of it." But had he not been defied in his own house? And as for her, the mother of those three finely educated girls, had not every word said in Rachel's favour been a dagger planted in her own maternal bosom? Whose courage would not have risen under such provocation? Mrs. Cornbury had got up to go, but the indignant, injured Tappitts resolved mutually, though without concert, that she should be answered. "I'm an honest man, Mrs. Cornbury," said the brewer, "and I like to speak out my mind openly. Mr. Hart is a liberal, and I mean to support my party. Will you tell Mr. Cornbury so with my compliments? It's all nonsense about Jews not being in Parliament. It's not the same as being mayors or churchwardens, or anything like that. I shall vote for Mr. Hart; and, what's more, we shall put him in." "And Mrs. Cornbury, if you have so much regard for Miss Rachel, you'd better advise her to think no more of that young man. He's no good; he's not indeed. If you ask, you'll find he's in debt everywhere." "Swindler!" said Tappitt. "I don't suppose it can be very bad with Miss Rachel yet, for she only saw him about three times,--though she was so intimate with him at our party." Mrs. Butler Cornbury curtseyed and smiled, and got herself out of the room. Mrs. Tappitt, as soon as she remembered herself, rang the bell, and Mr. Tappitt, following her down to the hall door, went through the pretence of putting her into her carriage. "She's a nasty meddlesome woman," said Tappitt, as soon as he got back to his wife. "And how ever she can stand up and say all those things for that girl, passes me!" said Mrs. Tappitt, holding up both her hands. "She was flighty herself, when young; she was, no doubt; and now I suppose she likes others to be the same. If that's what she calls manners, I shouldn't like her to take my girls about." "And him a gentleman!" said Tappitt. "If those are to be our gentlemen I'd sooner have all the Jews out of Jerusalem. But they'll find out their gentleman; they'll find him out! He'll rob that old mother of his before he's done; you mark my words else." Comforting himself with this hope he took himself back to his counting-house. Mrs. Cornbury had smiled as she went, and had carried herself through the whole interview without any sign of temper. Even when declaring that she intended to take Rachel's part open-mouthed, she had spoken in a half-drolling way which had divested her words of any tone of offence. But when she got into her carriage, she was in truth very angry. "I don't believe a word of it," she said to herself; "not a word of it." That in which she professed to herself her own disbelief was the general assertion that Rowan was a swindler, supported by the particular assertion that he had left Baslehurst over head and ears in debt. "I don't believe it." And she resolved that it should be her business to find out whether the accusation were true or false. She knew the ins and outs of Baslehurst life and Baslehurst doings with tolerable accuracy, and was at any rate capable of unravelling such a mystery as that. If the Tappitts in their jealousy were striving to rob Rachel Ray of her husband by spreading false reports, she would encourage Rachel Ray in her love by spreading the truth;--if, as she believed, the truth should speak in Rowan's favour. She would have considerable pleasure in countermining Mr. and Mrs. Tappitt. As to Mr. Tappitt's vote for the election;--that was gone! CHAPTER III. DR. HARFORD. The current of events forced upon Rachel a delay of three or four days in answering her letter, or rather forced upon her that delay in learning whether or no she might answer it; and this was felt by her to be a grievous evil. It had been arranged that she should not write until such writing should have received what might almost be called a parochial sanction, and no idea of acting in opposition to that arrangement ever occurred to her; but the more she thought of it the more she was vexed; and the more she thought of it the more she learned to doubt whether or no her mother was placing her in safe tutelage. During these few weeks a great change came upon the girl's character. When first Mrs. Prime had brought home tidings that Miss Pucker had seen her walking and talking with the young man from the brewery, angry as she had been with her sister, and disgusted as she had been with Miss Pucker, she had acknowledged to herself that such talking and walking were very dangerous, if not very improper, and she had half resolved that there should be no more of them. And when Mrs. Prime had seen her standing at the stile, and had brought home that second report, Rachel, knowing what had occurred at that stile, had then felt sure that she was in danger. At that time, though she had thought much of Luke Rowan, she had not thought of him as a man who could possibly be her husband. She had thought of him as having no right to call her Rachel, because he could not possibly become so. There had been great danger;--there had been conduct which she believed to be improper though she could not tell herself that she had been guilty. In her outlook into the world nothing so beautiful had promised itself to her as having such a man to love her as Luke Rowan. Though her mother was not herself ascetic,--liking tea and buttered toast dearly, and liking also little soft laughter with her child,--she had preached ascetisms till Rachel had learned to think that the world was all either ascetic or reprobate. The Dorcas meetings had become distasteful to her because the women were vulgar; but yet she had half believed herself to be wrong in avoiding the work and the vulgarity together. Idle she had never been. Since a needle had come easy to her hand, and the economies of a household had been made intelligible to her, she had earned her bread and assisted in works of charity. She had read no love stories, and been taught to expect no lover. She was not prepared to deny,--did not deny even to herself,--that it was wrong that she should even like to talk to Luke Rowan. Then came the ball; or, rather, first came the little evening party, which afterwards grew to be a ball. She had been very desirous of going, not for the sake of any pleasure that she promised herself; not for the sake of such pleasure as girls do promise themselves at such gatherings; but because her female pride told her that it was well for her to claim the right of meeting this young man,--well for her to declare that nothing had passed between them which should make her afraid to meet him. That some other hopes had crept in as the evening had come nigh at hand,--hopes of which she had been made aware only by her efforts in repressing them,--may not be denied. She had been accused because of him; and she would show that no such accusation had daunted her. But would he,--would he give occasion for further accusation? She believed he would not; nay, she was sure; at any rate she hoped he would not. She told herself that such was her hope; but had he not noticed her she would have been wretched. We know now in what manner he had noticed her, and we know also whether she had been wretched. She had certainly fled from him. When she left the brewery-house, inducing Mrs. Cornbury to bring her away, she did so in order that she might escape from him. But she ran from him as one runs from some great joy in order that the mind may revel over it in peace. Then, little as she knew it, her love had been given. Her heart was his. She had placed him upon her pinnacle, and was prepared to worship him. She was ready to dress herself in his eyes, to believe that to be good which he thought good, and to repudiate that which he repudiated. When she bowed her head over his breast a day or two afterwards, she could have spoken to him with the full words of passionate love had not maiden fear repressed her. But she had not even bowed her head for him, she had not acknowledged to herself that such love was possible to her, till her mother had consented. That her mother's consent had been wavering, doubtful, expressed without intention of such expression,--so expressed that Mrs. Ray hardly knew that she had expressed it,--was not understood by Rachel. Her mother had consented, and, that consent having been given, Rachel was not now disposed to allow of any steps backwards. She seemed to have learned her rights, or to have assumed that she had rights. Hitherto her obedience to her mother had been pure and simple, although, from the greater force of her character, she had in many things been her mother's leader. But now, though she was ill inclined to rebel, though in this matter of the letter she had obeyed, she was beginning to feel that obedience might become a hardship. She did not say to herself, "They have let me love him, and now they must not put out their hands to hold back my love;" but the current of her feelings ran as though such unspoken words had passed across her mind. She had her rights; and though she did not presume that she could insist on them in opposition to her mother or her mother's advisers, she knew that she would be wronged if those rights were withheld from her. The chief of those rights was the possession of her lover. If he was taken from her she would be as one imprisoned unjustly,--as one robbed by those who should have been his friends,--as one injured, wounded, stricken in the dark, and treacherously mutilated by hands that should have protected him. During these days she was silent, and sat with that look upon her brow which her mother feared. "I could not make Mr. Comfort come any sooner, Rachel," said Mrs. Ray. "No, mamma." "I can see how impatient you are." "I don't know that I'm impatient. I'm sure that I haven't said anything." "If you said anything I shouldn't mind it so much; but I can't bear to see you with that unhappy look. I'm sure I only wish to do what's best. You can't think it right that you should be writing letters to a gentleman without being sure that it is proper." "Oh, mamma, don't talk about it!" "You don't like me to ask your sister; and I'm sure it's natural I should want to ask somebody. He's nearly seventy years old, and he has known you ever since you were born. And then he's a clergyman, and therefore he'll be sure to know what's right. Not that I should have liked to have said a word about it to Mr. Prong, because there's a difference when they come from one doesn't know where." "Pray, mamma, don't. I haven't made any objection to Mr. Comfort. It isn't nice to be talked over in that way by anybody, that's all." "But what was I to do? I'm sure I liked the young man very much. I never knew a young man who took his tea so pleasant. And as for his manners and his way of talking, I had it in my heart to fall in love with him myself. I had indeed. As far as that goes, he's just the young man that I could make a son of." "Dear mamma! my own dearest mamma!" and Rachel, jumping up, threw herself upon her mother's neck. "Stop there. You shan't say another word." "I'm sure I didn't mean to say anything unpleasant." "No, you did not; and I won't be impatient." "Only I can't bear that look. And you know what his mother said,--and Mrs. Tappitt. Not that I care about Mrs. Tappitt; only a person's mother is his mother, and he shouldn't have called her a goose." It must be acknowledged that Rachel's position was not comfortable; and it certainly would not have been improved had she known how many people in Baslehurst were talking about her and Rowan. That Rowan was gone everybody knew; that he had made love to Rachel everybody said; that he never meant to come back any more most professed to believe. Tappitt's tongue was loud in proclaiming his iniquities; and her follies and injuries Mrs. Tappitt whispered into the ears of all her female acquaintances. "I'm sorry for her," Miss Harford said, mildly. Mrs. Tappitt was calling at the rectory, and had made her way in. Mr. Tappitt was an upholder of the old rector, and there was a fellow-townsman's friendship between them. "Oh yes;--very sorry for her," said Mrs. Tappitt. "Very sorry indeed," said Augusta, who was with her mother. "She always seemed to me a pretty, quiet, well-behaved girl," said Miss Harford. "Still waters run deepest, you know, Miss Harford," said Mrs. Tappitt. "I should never have imagined it of her;--never. But she certainly met him half-way." "But we all thought he was respectable, you know," said Miss Harford. Miss Harford was thoroughly good-natured; and though she had never gone half-way herself, and had perhaps lost her chance from having been unable to go any part of the way, she was not disposed to condemn a girl for having been willing to be admired by such a one as Luke Rowan. "Well;--yes; at first we did. He had the name of money, you know, and that goes so far with some girls. We were on our guard,"--and she looked proudly round on Augusta,--"till we should hear what the young man really was. He has thrown off his sheep's clothing now with a vengeance. Mr. Tappitt feels quite ashamed that he should have introduced him to any of the people here; he does indeed." "That may be her misfortune, and not her fault," said Miss Harford, who in defending Rachel was well enough inclined to give up Luke. Indeed, Baslehurst was beginning to have a settled mind that Luke was a wolf. "Oh, quite so," said Mrs. Tappitt. "The poor girl has been very unfortunate no doubt." After that she took her leave of the rectory. On that evening Mr. Comfort dined with Dr. Harford, as did also Butler Cornbury and his wife, and one or two others. The chances of the election formed, of course, the chief subject of conversation both in the drawing-room and at the dinner-table; but in talking of the election they came to talk of Mr. Tappitt, and in talking of Tappitt they came to talk of Luke Rowan. It has already been said that Dr. Harford had been rector of Baslehurst for many years at the period to which this story refers. He had nearly completed half a century of work in that capacity, and had certainly been neither an idle nor an inefficient clergyman. But, now in his old age, he was discontented and disgusted by the changes which had come upon him; and though some bodily strength for further service still remained to him, he had no longer any aptitude for useful work. A man cannot change as men change. Individual men are like the separate links of a rotatory chain. The chain goes on with continuous easy motion as though every part of it were capable of adapting itself to a curve, but not the less is each link as stiff and sturdy as any other piece of wrought iron. Dr. Harford had in his time been an active, popular man,--a man possessing even some liberal tendencies in politics, though a country rector of nearly half a century's standing. In his parish he had been more than a clergyman. He had been a magistrate, and a moving man in municipal affairs. He had been a politician, and though now for many years he had supported the Conservative candidate, he had been loudly in favour of the Reform Bill when Baslehurst was a close borough in the possession of a great duke, who held property hard by. But liberal politics had gone on and had left Dr. Harford high and dry on the standing-ground which he had chosen for himself in the early days of his manhood. And then had come that pestilent act of the legislature under which his parish had been divided. Not that the Act of Parliament itself had been violently condemned by the doctor on its becoming law. I doubt whether he had then thought much of it. But when men calling themselves Commissioners came actually upon him and his, and separated off from him a district of his own town, taking it away altogether from his authority, and giving it over to such inexperienced hands as chance might send thither,--then Dr. Harford became a violent Tory. And my readers must not conceive that this was a question touching his pocket. One might presume that his pocket would be in some degree benefited, seeing that he was saved from the necessity of supplying the spiritual wants of a certain portion of his parish. No shilling was taken from his own income, which, indeed, was by no means excessive. His whole parish gave him barely six hundred a year, out of which he had kept always one, and latterly two curates. It was no question of money in any degree. Sooner than be invaded and mutilated he would have submitted to an order calling upon him to find a third curate,--could any power have given such order. His parish had been invaded and his clerical authority mutilated. He was no longer _totus teres atque rotundus_. The beauty of his life was over, and the contentment of his mind was gone. He knew that it was only left for him to die, spending such days as remained to him in vague prophecies of evil against his devoted country,--a country which had allowed its ancient parochial landmarks to be moved, and its ecclesiastical fastnesses to be invaded! But perhaps hatred of Mr. Prong was the strongest passion of Dr. Harford's heart at the present moment. He had ever hated the dissenting ministers by whom he was surrounded. In Devonshire dissent has waxed strong for many years, and the pastors of the dissenting flocks have been thorns in the side of the Church of England clergymen. Dr. Harford had undergone his full share of suffering from such thorns. But they had caused him no more than a pleasant irritation in comparison with what he endured from the presence of Mr. Prong in Baslehurst. He would sooner have entertained all the dissenting ministers of the South Hams together than have put his legs under the same mahogany with Mr. Prong. Mr. Prong was to him the evil thing! Anathema! He believed all bad things of Mr. Prong with an absolute faith, but without any ground on which such faith should have been formed. He thought that Mr. Prong drank spirits; that he robbed his parishioners;--Dr. Harford would sooner have lost his tongue than have used such a word with reference to those who attended Mr. Prong's chapel;--that he had left a deserted wife on some parish; that he was probably not in truth ordained. There was nothing which Dr. Harford could not believe of Mr. Prong. Now all this was, to say the least of it, a pity, for it disfigured the close of a useful and conscientious life. Dr. Harford of course intended to vote for Mr. Cornbury, but he would not join loudly in condemnation of Mr. Tappitt. Tappitt had stood stanchly by him in all parochial contests regarding the new district. Tappitt opposed the Prong faction at all points. Tappitt as churchwarden had been submissive to the doctor. Church of England principles had always been held at the brewery, and Bungall had been ever in favour with Dr. Harford's predecessor. "He calls himself a Liberal, and always has done," said the doctor. "You can't expect that he should desert his own party." "But a Jew!" said old Mr. Comfort. "Well; why not a Jew?" said the doctor. Whereupon Mr. Comfort, and Butler Cornbury, and Dr. Harford's own curate, young Mr. Calclough, and Captain Byng, an old bachelor, who lived in Baslehurst, all stared at him; as Dr. Harford had intended that they should. "Upon my word," said he, "I don't see the use for caring for that kind of thing any longer; I don't indeed. In the way we are going on now, and for the sort of thing we do, I don't see why Jews shouldn't serve us as well in Parliament as Christians. If I am to have my brains knocked out, I'd sooner have it done by a declared enemy than by one who calls himself my friend." "But our brains are not knocked out yet," said Butler Cornbury. "I don't know anything about yours, but mine are." "I don't think the world's coming to an end yet," said the captain. "Nor do I. I said nothing about the world coming to an end. But if you saw a part of your ship put under the command of a landlubber, who didn't know one side of the vessel from the other, you'd think the world had better come to an end than be carried on in that way." "It's not the same thing, you know," said the captain. "You couldn't divide a ship." "Oh, well; you'll see." "I don't think any Christian should vote for a Jew," said the curate. "A verdict has gone out against them, and what is man that he should reverse it?" "Are you quite sure that you are reversing it by putting them into Parliament?" said Dr. Harford. "May not that be a carrying on of the curse?" "There's consolation in that idea for Butler if he loses his election," said Mr. Comfort. "Parliament isn't what it was," said the doctor. "There's no doubt about that." "And who is to blame?" said Mr. Comfort, who had never supported the Reform Bill as his neighbour had done. "I say nothing about blame. It's natural that things should get worse as they grow older." "Dr. Harford thinks Parliament is worn out," said Butler Cornbury. "And what if I do think so? Have not other things as great fallen and gone into decay? Did not the Roman senate wear out, as you call it? And as for these Jews, of whom you are speaking, what was the curse upon them but the wearing out of their grace and wisdom? I am inclined to think that we are wearing out; only I wish the garment could have lasted my time without showing so many thin places." "Now I believe just the contrary," said the captain. "I don't think we have come to our full growth yet." "Could we lick the French as we did at Trafalgar and Waterloo?" said the doctor. The captain thought a while before he answered, and then spoke with much solemnity. "Yes," said he, "I think we could. And I hope the time will soon come when we may." "We shan't do it if we send Jews to Parliament," said Mr. Comfort. "I must say I think Tappitt wrong," said young Cornbury. "Of course, near as the thing is going, I'm sorry to lose his vote; but I'm not speaking because of that. He has always pretended to hold on to the Church party here, and the Church party has held on to him. His beer is none of the best, and I think he'd have been wise to stick to his old friends." "I don't see the argument about the beer," said the doctor. "He shouldn't provoke his neighbours to look at his faults." "But the Jew's friends would find out that the beer is bad as well as yours." "The truth is," said Cornbury, "that Tappitt thinks he has a personal grievance against me. He's as cross as a bear with a sore head at the present moment, because this young fellow who was to have been his partner has turned against him. There's some love affair, and my wife has been there and made a mess of it. It's hard upon me, for I don't know that I ever saw the young man in my life." "I believe that fellow is a scamp," said the doctor. "I hope not," said Mr. Comfort, thinking of Rachel and her hopes. "We all hope he isn't, of course," said the doctor. "But we can't prevent men being scamps by hoping. There are other scamps in this town in whom, if my hoping would do any good, a very great change would be made."--Everybody present knew that the doctor alluded especially to Mr. Prong, whose condition, however, if the doctor's hopes could have been carried out, would not have been enviable.--"But I fear this fellow Rowan is a scamp, and I think he has treated Tappitt badly. Tappitt told me all about it only this morning." "Audi alteram partem," said Mr. Comfort. "The scamp's party you mean," said the doctor. "I haven't the means of doing that. If in this world we suspend our judgment till we've heard all that can be said on both sides of every question, we should never come to any judgment at all. I hear that he's in debt; I believe he behaved very badly to Tappitt himself, so that Tappitt was forced to use personal violence to defend himself; and he has certainly threatened to open a new brewery here. Now that's bad, as coming from a young man related to the old firm." "I think he should leave the brewery alone," said Mr. Comfort. "Of course he should," said the doctor. "And I hear, moreover, that he is playing a wicked game with a girl in your parish." "I don't know about a wicked game," said the other. "It won't be a wicked game if he marries her." Then Rachel's chances of matrimonial success were discussed with a degree of vigour which must have been felt by her to be highly complimentary, had she been aware of it. But I grieve to say that public opinion, as expressed in Dr. Harford's dining-room, went against Luke Rowan. Mr. Tappitt was not a great man, either as a citizen or as a brewer: he was not one to whom Baslehurst would even rejoice to raise a monument; but such as he was he had been known for many years.

continue

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

"That wouldn't be seemly, because our mayor is expected to attend in church on Roundabout Sunday." Roundabout Sunday, so called for certain local reasons which it would be long to explain, followed immediately on the day of the mayor's inauguration. "Would you like to have a Jew partner in your own business?" Mrs. Butler Cornbury should have said nothing to Mr. Tappitt as to any partner in the brewery, Jew or Christian. "I don't want any partner, and what's more, I don't mean to have any." "Mrs. Cornbury is in favour of Luke Rowan; she takes his side," said Mrs. Tappitt, some portion of her courage returning to her as this opportunity opened upon her. Mr. Tappitt turned his head full round and looked upon Mrs. Cornbury with an evil eye. That lady knew that the vote was lost, lost unless she would denounce the man whom Rachel loved; and she determined at once that she would not denounce him. There are many things which such a woman will do to gain such an object. She could smile when Tappitt was offensive; she could smile again when Mrs. Tappitt talked like a kitchenmaid. She could flatter them both, and pretend to talk seriously with them about Jews and her own Church feelings. She could have given up to them Luke Rowan,--if he had stood alone. But she could not give up the girl she had chaperoned, and upon whom, during that chaperoning, her good-will and kindly feelings had fallen. Rachel had pleased her eye, and gratified her sense of feminine nicety. She felt that a word said against Rowan would be a word said also against Rachel; and therefore, throwing her husband over for the nonce, she resolved to sacrifice the vote and stand up for her friend. "Well, yes; I do," said she, meeting Tappitt's eye steadily. She was not going to be looked out of countenance by Mr. Tappitt. "She thinks he'll come back to marry that young woman at Bragg's End," said Mrs. Tappitt; "but I say that he'll never dare to show his face in Baslehurst again." "That young woman is making a great fool of herself," said Tappitt, "if she trusts to a swindler like him." "Perhaps, Mrs. Tappitt," said Mrs. Cornbury, "we needn't mind discussing Miss Ray. It's not good to talk about a young lady in that way, and I'm sure I never said that I thought she was engaged to Mr. Rowan. Had I done so I should have been very wrong, for I know nothing about it. What little I saw of the gentleman I liked;" and as she used the word gentleman she looked Tappitt full in the face; "and for Miss Ray, I've a great regard for her, and think very highly of her. Independently of her acknowledged beauty and pleasant, ladylike manners, she's a very charming girl. About the vote, Mr. Tappitt--; at any rate you'll think of it." But had he not been defied in his own house? And as for her, the mother of those three finely educated girls, had not every word said in Rachel's favour been a dagger planted in her own maternal bosom? Whose courage would not have risen under such provocation? Mrs. Cornbury had got up to go, but the indignant, injured Tappitts resolved mutually, though without concert, that she should be answered. "I'm an honest man, Mrs. Cornbury," said the brewer, "and I like to speak out my mind openly. Mr. Hart is a liberal, and I mean to support my party. Will you tell Mr. Cornbury so with my compliments? It's all nonsense about Jews not being in Parliament. It's not the same as being mayors or churchwardens, or anything like that. I shall vote for Mr. Hart; and, what's more, we shall put him in." "And Mrs. Cornbury, if you have so much regard for Miss Rachel, you'd better advise her to think no more of that young man. He's no good; he's not indeed. If you ask, you'll find he's in debt everywhere." "Swindler!" said Tappitt. "I don't suppose it can be very bad with Miss Rachel yet, for she only saw him about three times,--though she was so intimate with him at our party." Mrs. Butler Cornbury curtseyed and smiled, and got herself out of the room. Mrs. Tappitt, as soon as she remembered herself, rang the bell, and Mr. Tappitt, following her down to the hall door, went through the pretence of putting her into her carriage. "She's a nasty meddlesome woman," said Tappitt, as soon as he got back to his wife. "And how ever she can stand up and say all those things for that girl, passes me!" said Mrs. Tappitt, holding up both her hands. "She was flighty herself, when young; she was, no doubt; and now I suppose she likes others to be the same. If that's what she calls manners, I shouldn't like her to take my girls about." "And him a gentleman!" said Tappitt. "If those are to be our gentlemen I'd sooner have all the Jews out of Jerusalem. But they'll find out their gentleman; they'll find him out! He'll rob that old mother of his before he's done; you mark my words else." Comforting himself with this hope he took himself back to his counting-house. Mrs. Cornbury had smiled as she went, and had carried herself through the whole interview without any sign of temper. Even when declaring that she intended to take Rachel's part open-mouthed, she had spoken in a half-drolling way which had divested her words of any tone of offence. But when she got into her carriage, she was in truth very angry. "I don't believe a word of it," she said to herself; "not a word of it." That in which she professed to herself her own disbelief was the general assertion that Rowan was a swindler, supported by the particular assertion that he had left Baslehurst over head and ears in debt. "I don't believe it." And she resolved that it should be her business to find out whether the accusation were true or false. She knew the ins and outs of Baslehurst life and Baslehurst doings with tolerable accuracy, and was at any rate capable of unravelling such a mystery as that. If the Tappitts in their jealousy were striving to rob Rachel Ray of her husband by spreading false reports, she would encourage Rachel Ray in her love by spreading the truth;--if, as she believed, the truth should speak in Rowan's favour. She would have considerable pleasure in countermining Mr. and Mrs. Tappitt. As to Mr. Tappitt's vote for the election;--that was gone! CHAPTER III. DR. HARFORD. The current of events forced upon Rachel a delay of three or four days in answering her letter, or rather forced upon her that delay in learning whether or no she might answer it; and this was felt by her to be a grievous evil. It had been arranged that she should not write until such writing should have received what might almost be called a parochial sanction, and no idea of acting in opposition to that arrangement ever occurred to her; but the more she thought of it the more she was vexed; and the more she thought of it the more she learned to doubt whether or no her mother was placing her in safe tutelage. During these few weeks a great change came upon the girl's character. When first Mrs. Prime had brought home tidings that Miss Pucker had seen her walking and talking with the young man from the brewery, angry as she had been with her sister, and disgusted as she had been with Miss Pucker, she had acknowledged to herself that such talking and walking were very dangerous, if not very improper, and she had half resolved that there should be no more of them. And when Mrs. Prime had seen her standing at the stile, and had brought home that second report, Rachel, knowing what had occurred at that stile, had then felt sure that she was in danger. At that time, though she had thought much of Luke Rowan, she had not thought of him as a man who could possibly be her husband. She had thought of him as having no right to call her Rachel, because he could not possibly become so. There had been great danger;--there had been conduct which she believed to be improper though she could not tell herself that she had been guilty. In her outlook into the world nothing so beautiful had promised itself to her as having such a man to love her as Luke Rowan. Though her mother was not herself ascetic,--liking tea and buttered toast dearly, and liking also little soft laughter with her child,--she had preached ascetisms till Rachel had learned to think that the world was all either ascetic or reprobate. The Dorcas meetings had become distasteful to her because the women were vulgar; but yet she had half believed herself to be wrong in avoiding the work and the vulgarity together. Idle she had never been. Since a needle had come easy to her hand, and the economies of a household had been made intelligible to her, she had earned her bread and assisted in works of charity. She had read no love stories, and been taught to expect no lover. She was not prepared to deny,--did not deny even to herself,--that it was wrong that she should even like to talk to Luke Rowan. Then came the ball; or, rather, first came the little evening party, which afterwards grew to be a ball. She had been very desirous of going, not for the sake of any pleasure that she promised herself; not for the sake of such pleasure as girls do promise themselves at such gatherings; but because her female pride told her that it was well for her to claim the right of meeting this young man,--well for her to declare that nothing had passed between them which should make her afraid to meet him. That some other hopes had crept in as the evening had come nigh at hand,--hopes of which she had been made aware only by her efforts in repressing them,--may not be denied. She had been accused because of him; and she would show that no such accusation had daunted her. But would he,--would he give occasion for further accusation? She believed he would not; nay, she was sure; at any rate she hoped he would not. She told herself that such was her hope; but had he not noticed her she would have been wretched. We know now in what manner he had noticed her, and we know also whether she had been wretched. She had certainly fled from him. When she left the brewery-house, inducing Mrs. Cornbury to bring her away, she did so in order that she might escape from him. But she ran from him as one runs from some great joy in order that the mind may revel over it in peace. Then, little as she knew it, her love had been given. Her heart was his. She had placed him upon her pinnacle, and was prepared to worship him. She was ready to dress herself in his eyes, to believe that to be good which he thought good, and to repudiate that which he repudiated. When she bowed her head over his breast a day or two afterwards, she could have spoken to him with the full words of passionate love had not maiden fear repressed her. But she had not even bowed her head for him, she had not acknowledged to herself that such love was possible to her, till her mother had consented. That her mother's consent had been wavering, doubtful, expressed without intention of such expression,--so expressed that Mrs. Ray hardly knew that she had expressed it,--was not understood by Rachel. Her mother had consented, and, that consent having been given, Rachel was not now disposed to allow of any steps backwards. She seemed to have learned her rights, or to have assumed that she had rights. Hitherto her obedience to her mother had been pure and simple, although, from the greater force of her character, she had in many things been her mother's leader. But now, though she was ill inclined to rebel, though in this matter of the letter she had obeyed, she was beginning to feel that obedience might become a hardship. She did not say to herself, "They have let me love him, and now they must not put out their hands to hold back my love;" but the current of her feelings ran as though such unspoken words had passed across her mind. She had her rights; and though she did not presume that she could insist on them in opposition to her mother or her mother's advisers, she knew that she would be wronged if those rights were withheld from her. The chief of those rights was the possession of her lover. If he was taken from her she would be as one imprisoned unjustly,--as one robbed by those who should have been his friends,--as one injured, wounded, stricken in the dark, and treacherously mutilated by hands that should have protected him. During these days she was silent, and sat with that look upon her brow which her mother feared. "I could not make Mr. Comfort come any sooner, Rachel," said Mrs. Ray. "No, mamma." "I can see how impatient you are." "I don't know that I'm impatient. I'm sure that I haven't said anything." "If you said anything I shouldn't mind it so much; but I can't bear to see you with that unhappy look. I'm sure I only wish to do what's best. You can't think it right that you should be writing letters to a gentleman without being sure that it is proper." "Oh, mamma, don't talk about it!" "You don't like me to ask your sister; and I'm sure it's natural I should want to ask somebody. He's nearly seventy years old, and he has known you ever since you were born. And then he's a clergyman, and therefore he'll be sure to know what's right. Not that I should have liked to have said a word about it to Mr. Prong, because there's a difference when they come from one doesn't know where." "Pray, mamma, don't. I haven't made any objection to Mr. Comfort. It isn't nice to be talked over in that way by anybody, that's all." "But what was I to do? I'm sure I liked the young man very much. I never knew a young man who took his tea so pleasant. And as for his manners and his way of talking, I had it in my heart to fall in love with him myself. I had indeed. As far as that goes, he's just the young man that I could make a son of." "Dear mamma! my own dearest mamma!" and Rachel, jumping up, threw herself upon her mother's neck. "Stop there. You shan't say another word." "I'm sure I didn't mean to say anything unpleasant." "No, you did not; and I won't be impatient." "Only I can't bear that look. And you know what his mother said,--and Mrs. Tappitt. Not that I care about Mrs. Tappitt; only a person's mother is his mother, and he shouldn't have called her a goose." It must be acknowledged that Rachel's position was not comfortable; and it certainly would not have been improved had she known how many people in Baslehurst were talking about her and Rowan. That Rowan was gone everybody knew; that he had made love to Rachel everybody said; that he never meant to come back any more most professed to believe. Tappitt's tongue was loud in proclaiming his iniquities; and her follies and injuries Mrs. Tappitt whispered into the ears of all her female acquaintances. "I'm sorry for her," Miss Harford said, mildly. Mrs. Tappitt was calling at the rectory, and had made her way in. Mr. Tappitt was an upholder of the old rector, and there was a fellow-townsman's friendship between them. "Oh yes;--very sorry for her," said Mrs. Tappitt. "Very sorry indeed," said Augusta, who was with her mother. "She always seemed to me a pretty, quiet, well-behaved girl," said Miss Harford. "Still waters run deepest, you know, Miss Harford," said Mrs. Tappitt. "I should never have imagined it of her;--never. But she certainly met him half-way." "But we all thought he was respectable, you know," said Miss Harford. Miss Harford was thoroughly good-natured; and though she had never gone half-way herself, and had perhaps lost her chance from having been unable to go any part of the way, she was not disposed to condemn a girl for having been willing to be admired by such a one as Luke Rowan. "Well;--yes; at first we did. He had the name of money, you know, and that goes so far with some girls. We were on our guard,"--and she looked proudly round on Augusta,--"till we should hear what the young man really was. He has thrown off his sheep's clothing now with a vengeance. Mr. Tappitt feels quite ashamed that he should have introduced him to any of the people here; he does indeed." "That may be her misfortune, and not her fault," said Miss Harford, who in defending Rachel was well enough inclined to give up Luke. Indeed, Baslehurst was beginning to have a settled mind that Luke was a wolf. "Oh, quite so," said Mrs. Tappitt. "The poor girl has been very unfortunate no doubt." After that she took her leave of the rectory. On that evening Mr. Comfort dined with Dr. Harford, as did also Butler Cornbury and his wife, and one or two others. The chances of the election formed, of course, the chief subject of conversation both in the drawing-room and at the dinner-table; but in talking of the election they came to talk of Mr. Tappitt, and in talking of Tappitt they came to talk of Luke Rowan. It has already been said that Dr. Harford had been rector of Baslehurst for many years at the period to which this story refers. He had nearly completed half a century of work in that capacity, and had certainly been neither an idle nor an inefficient clergyman. But, now in his old age, he was discontented and disgusted by the changes which had come upon him; and though some bodily strength for further service still remained to him, he had no longer any aptitude for useful work. A man cannot change as men change. Individual men are like the separate links of a rotatory chain. The chain goes on with continuous easy motion as though every part of it were capable of adapting itself to a curve, but not the less is each link as stiff and sturdy as any other piece of wrought iron. Dr. Harford had in his time been an active, popular man,--a man possessing even some liberal tendencies in politics, though a country rector of nearly half a century's standing. In his parish he had been more than a clergyman. He had been a magistrate, and a moving man in municipal affairs. He had been a politician, and though now for many years he had supported the Conservative candidate, he had been loudly in favour of the Reform Bill when Baslehurst was a close borough in the possession of a great duke, who held property hard by. But liberal politics had gone on and had left Dr. Harford high and dry on the standing-ground which he had chosen for himself in the early days of his manhood. And then had come that pestilent act of the legislature under which his parish had been divided. Not that the Act of Parliament itself had been violently condemned by the doctor on its becoming law. I doubt whether he had then thought much of it. But when men calling themselves Commissioners came actually upon him and his, and separated off from him a district of his own town, taking it away altogether from his authority, and giving it over to such inexperienced hands as chance might send thither,--then Dr. Harford became a violent Tory. And my readers must not conceive that this was a question touching his pocket. One might presume that his pocket would be in some degree benefited, seeing that he was saved from the necessity of supplying the spiritual wants of a certain portion of his parish. No shilling was taken from his own income, which, indeed, was by no means excessive. His whole parish gave him barely six hundred a year, out of which he had kept always one, and latterly two curates. It was no question of money in any degree. Sooner than be invaded and mutilated he would have submitted to an order calling upon him to find a third curate,--could any power have given such order. His parish had been invaded and his clerical authority mutilated. He was no longer _totus teres atque rotundus_. The beauty of his life was over, and the contentment of his mind was gone. He knew that it was only left for him to die, spending such days as remained to him in vague prophecies of evil against his devoted country,--a country which had allowed its ancient parochial landmarks to be moved, and its ecclesiastical fastnesses to be invaded! But perhaps hatred of Mr. Prong was the strongest passion of Dr. Harford's heart at the present moment. He had ever hated the dissenting ministers by whom he was surrounded. In Devonshire dissent has waxed strong for many years, and the pastors of the dissenting flocks have been thorns in the side of the Church of England clergymen. Dr. Harford had undergone his full share of suffering from such thorns. But they had caused him no more than a pleasant irritation in comparison with what he endured from the presence of Mr. Prong in Baslehurst. He would sooner have entertained all the dissenting ministers of the South Hams together than have put his legs under the same mahogany with Mr. Prong. Mr. Prong was to him the evil thing! Anathema! He believed all bad things of Mr. Prong with an absolute faith, but without any ground on which such faith should have been formed. He thought that Mr. Prong drank spirits; that he robbed his parishioners;--Dr. Harford would sooner have lost his tongue than have used such a word with reference to those who attended Mr. Prong's chapel;--that he had left a deserted wife on some parish; that he was probably not in truth ordained. There was nothing which Dr. Harford could not believe of Mr. Prong. Now all this was, to say the least of it, a pity, for it disfigured the close of a useful and conscientious life. Dr. Harford of course intended to vote for Mr. Cornbury, but he would not join loudly in condemnation of Mr. Tappitt. Tappitt had stood stanchly by him in all parochial contests regarding the new district. Tappitt opposed the Prong faction at all points. Tappitt as churchwarden had been submissive to the doctor. Church of England principles had always been held at the brewery, and Bungall had been ever in favour with Dr. Harford's predecessor. "He calls himself a Liberal, and always has done," said the doctor. "You can't expect that he should desert his own party." "But a Jew!" said old Mr. Comfort. "Well; why not a Jew?" said the doctor. Whereupon Mr. Comfort, and Butler Cornbury, and Dr. Harford's own curate, young Mr. Calclough, and Captain Byng, an old bachelor, who lived in Baslehurst, all stared at him; as Dr. Harford had intended that they should. "Upon my word," said he, "I don't see the use for caring for that kind of thing any longer; I don't indeed. In the way we are going on now, and for the sort of thing we do, I don't see why Jews shouldn't serve us as well in Parliament as Christians. If I am to have my brains knocked out, I'd sooner have it done by a declared enemy than by one who calls himself my friend." "But our brains are not knocked out yet," said Butler Cornbury. "I don't know anything about yours, but mine are." "I don't think the world's coming to an end yet," said the captain. "Nor do I. I said nothing about the world coming to an end. But if you saw a part of your ship put under the command of a landlubber, who didn't know one side of the vessel from the other, you'd think the world had better come to an end than be carried on in that way." "It's not the same thing, you know," said the captain. "You couldn't divide a ship." "Oh, well; you'll see." "I don't think any Christian should vote for a Jew," said the curate. "A verdict has gone out against them, and what is man that he should reverse it?" "Are you quite sure that you are reversing it by putting them into Parliament?" said Dr. Harford. "May not that be a carrying on of the curse?" "There's consolation in that idea for Butler if he loses his election," said Mr. Comfort. "Parliament isn't what it was," said the doctor. "There's no doubt about that." "And who is to blame?" said Mr. Comfort, who had never supported the Reform Bill as his neighbour had done. "I say nothing about blame. It's natural that things should get worse as they grow older." "Dr. Harford thinks Parliament is worn out," said Butler Cornbury. "And what if I do think so? Have not other things as great fallen and gone into decay? Did not the Roman senate wear out, as you call it? And as for these Jews, of whom you are speaking, what was the curse upon them but the wearing out of their grace and wisdom? I am inclined to think that we are wearing out; only I wish the garment could have lasted my time without showing so many thin places." "Now I believe just the contrary," said the captain. "I don't think we have come to our full growth yet." "Could we lick the French as we did at Trafalgar and Waterloo?" said the doctor. The captain thought a while before he answered, and then spoke with much solemnity. "Yes," said he, "I think we could. And I hope the time will soon come when we may." "We shan't do it if we send Jews to Parliament," said Mr. Comfort. "I must say I think Tappitt wrong," said young Cornbury. "Of course, near as the thing is going, I'm sorry to lose his vote; but I'm not speaking because of that. He has always pretended to hold on to the Church party here, and the Church party has held on to him. His beer is none of the best, and I think he'd have been wise to stick to his old friends." "I don't see the argument about the beer," said the doctor. "He shouldn't provoke his neighbours to look at his faults." "But the Jew's friends would find out that the beer is bad as well as yours." "The truth is," said Cornbury, "that Tappitt thinks he has a personal grievance against me. He's as cross as a bear with a sore head at the present moment, because this young fellow who was to have been his partner has turned against him. There's some love affair, and my wife has been there and made a mess of it. It's hard upon me, for I don't know that I ever saw the young man in my life." "I believe that fellow is a scamp," said the doctor. "I hope not," said Mr. Comfort, thinking of Rachel and her hopes. "We all hope he isn't, of course," said the doctor. "But we can't prevent men being scamps by hoping. There are other scamps in this town in whom, if my hoping would do any good, a very great change would be made."--Everybody present knew that the doctor alluded especially to Mr. Prong, whose condition, however, if the doctor's hopes could have been carried out, would not have been enviable.--"But I fear this fellow Rowan is a scamp, and I think he has treated Tappitt badly. Tappitt told me all about it only this morning." "Audi alteram partem," said Mr. Comfort. "The scamp's party you mean," said the doctor. "I haven't the means of doing that. If in this world we suspend our judgment till we've heard all that can be said on both sides of every question, we should never come to any judgment at all. I hear that he's in debt; I believe he behaved very badly to Tappitt himself, so that Tappitt was forced to use personal violence to defend himself; and he has certainly threatened to open a new brewery here. Now that's bad, as coming from a young man related to the old firm." "I think he should leave the brewery alone," said Mr. Comfort. "Of course he should," said the doctor. "And I hear, moreover, that he is playing a wicked game with a girl in your parish." "I don't know about a wicked game," said the other. "It won't be a wicked game if he marries her." Then Rachel's chances of matrimonial success were discussed with a degree of vigour which must have been felt by her to be highly complimentary, had she been aware of it. But I grieve to say that public opinion, as expressed in Dr. Harford's dining-room, went against Luke Rowan. Mr. Tappitt was not a great man, either as a citizen or as a brewer: he was not one to whom Baslehurst would even rejoice to raise a monument; but such as he was he had been known for many years.

holding

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

"That wouldn't be seemly, because our mayor is expected to attend in church on Roundabout Sunday." Roundabout Sunday, so called for certain local reasons which it would be long to explain, followed immediately on the day of the mayor's inauguration. "Would you like to have a Jew partner in your own business?" Mrs. Butler Cornbury should have said nothing to Mr. Tappitt as to any partner in the brewery, Jew or Christian. "I don't want any partner, and what's more, I don't mean to have any." "Mrs. Cornbury is in favour of Luke Rowan; she takes his side," said Mrs. Tappitt, some portion of her courage returning to her as this opportunity opened upon her. Mr. Tappitt turned his head full round and looked upon Mrs. Cornbury with an evil eye. That lady knew that the vote was lost, lost unless she would denounce the man whom Rachel loved; and she determined at once that she would not denounce him. There are many things which such a woman will do to gain such an object. She could smile when Tappitt was offensive; she could smile again when Mrs. Tappitt talked like a kitchenmaid. She could flatter them both, and pretend to talk seriously with them about Jews and her own Church feelings. She could have given up to them Luke Rowan,--if he had stood alone. But she could not give up the girl she had chaperoned, and upon whom, during that chaperoning, her good-will and kindly feelings had fallen. Rachel had pleased her eye, and gratified her sense of feminine nicety. She felt that a word said against Rowan would be a word said also against Rachel; and therefore, throwing her husband over for the nonce, she resolved to sacrifice the vote and stand up for her friend. "Well, yes; I do," said she, meeting Tappitt's eye steadily. She was not going to be looked out of countenance by Mr. Tappitt. "She thinks he'll come back to marry that young woman at Bragg's End," said Mrs. Tappitt; "but I say that he'll never dare to show his face in Baslehurst again." "That young woman is making a great fool of herself," said Tappitt, "if she trusts to a swindler like him." "Perhaps, Mrs. Tappitt," said Mrs. Cornbury, "we needn't mind discussing Miss Ray. It's not good to talk about a young lady in that way, and I'm sure I never said that I thought she was engaged to Mr. Rowan. Had I done so I should have been very wrong, for I know nothing about it. What little I saw of the gentleman I liked;" and as she used the word gentleman she looked Tappitt full in the face; "and for Miss Ray, I've a great regard for her, and think very highly of her. Independently of her acknowledged beauty and pleasant, ladylike manners, she's a very charming girl. About the vote, Mr. Tappitt--; at any rate you'll think of it." But had he not been defied in his own house? And as for her, the mother of those three finely educated girls, had not every word said in Rachel's favour been a dagger planted in her own maternal bosom? Whose courage would not have risen under such provocation? Mrs. Cornbury had got up to go, but the indignant, injured Tappitts resolved mutually, though without concert, that she should be answered. "I'm an honest man, Mrs. Cornbury," said the brewer, "and I like to speak out my mind openly. Mr. Hart is a liberal, and I mean to support my party. Will you tell Mr. Cornbury so with my compliments? It's all nonsense about Jews not being in Parliament. It's not the same as being mayors or churchwardens, or anything like that. I shall vote for Mr. Hart; and, what's more, we shall put him in." "And Mrs. Cornbury, if you have so much regard for Miss Rachel, you'd better advise her to think no more of that young man. He's no good; he's not indeed. If you ask, you'll find he's in debt everywhere." "Swindler!" said Tappitt. "I don't suppose it can be very bad with Miss Rachel yet, for she only saw him about three times,--though she was so intimate with him at our party." Mrs. Butler Cornbury curtseyed and smiled, and got herself out of the room. Mrs. Tappitt, as soon as she remembered herself, rang the bell, and Mr. Tappitt, following her down to the hall door, went through the pretence of putting her into her carriage. "She's a nasty meddlesome woman," said Tappitt, as soon as he got back to his wife. "And how ever she can stand up and say all those things for that girl, passes me!" said Mrs. Tappitt, holding up both her hands. "She was flighty herself, when young; she was, no doubt; and now I suppose she likes others to be the same. If that's what she calls manners, I shouldn't like her to take my girls about." "And him a gentleman!" said Tappitt. "If those are to be our gentlemen I'd sooner have all the Jews out of Jerusalem. But they'll find out their gentleman; they'll find him out! He'll rob that old mother of his before he's done; you mark my words else." Comforting himself with this hope he took himself back to his counting-house. Mrs. Cornbury had smiled as she went, and had carried herself through the whole interview without any sign of temper. Even when declaring that she intended to take Rachel's part open-mouthed, she had spoken in a half-drolling way which had divested her words of any tone of offence. But when she got into her carriage, she was in truth very angry. "I don't believe a word of it," she said to herself; "not a word of it." That in which she professed to herself her own disbelief was the general assertion that Rowan was a swindler, supported by the particular assertion that he had left Baslehurst over head and ears in debt. "I don't believe it." And she resolved that it should be her business to find out whether the accusation were true or false. She knew the ins and outs of Baslehurst life and Baslehurst doings with tolerable accuracy, and was at any rate capable of unravelling such a mystery as that. If the Tappitts in their jealousy were striving to rob Rachel Ray of her husband by spreading false reports, she would encourage Rachel Ray in her love by spreading the truth;--if, as she believed, the truth should speak in Rowan's favour. She would have considerable pleasure in countermining Mr. and Mrs. Tappitt. As to Mr. Tappitt's vote for the election;--that was gone! CHAPTER III. DR. HARFORD. The current of events forced upon Rachel a delay of three or four days in answering her letter, or rather forced upon her that delay in learning whether or no she might answer it; and this was felt by her to be a grievous evil. It had been arranged that she should not write until such writing should have received what might almost be called a parochial sanction, and no idea of acting in opposition to that arrangement ever occurred to her; but the more she thought of it the more she was vexed; and the more she thought of it the more she learned to doubt whether or no her mother was placing her in safe tutelage. During these few weeks a great change came upon the girl's character. When first Mrs. Prime had brought home tidings that Miss Pucker had seen her walking and talking with the young man from the brewery, angry as she had been with her sister, and disgusted as she had been with Miss Pucker, she had acknowledged to herself that such talking and walking were very dangerous, if not very improper, and she had half resolved that there should be no more of them. And when Mrs. Prime had seen her standing at the stile, and had brought home that second report, Rachel, knowing what had occurred at that stile, had then felt sure that she was in danger. At that time, though she had thought much of Luke Rowan, she had not thought of him as a man who could possibly be her husband. She had thought of him as having no right to call her Rachel, because he could not possibly become so. There had been great danger;--there had been conduct which she believed to be improper though she could not tell herself that she had been guilty. In her outlook into the world nothing so beautiful had promised itself to her as having such a man to love her as Luke Rowan. Though her mother was not herself ascetic,--liking tea and buttered toast dearly, and liking also little soft laughter with her child,--she had preached ascetisms till Rachel had learned to think that the world was all either ascetic or reprobate. The Dorcas meetings had become distasteful to her because the women were vulgar; but yet she had half believed herself to be wrong in avoiding the work and the vulgarity together. Idle she had never been. Since a needle had come easy to her hand, and the economies of a household had been made intelligible to her, she had earned her bread and assisted in works of charity. She had read no love stories, and been taught to expect no lover. She was not prepared to deny,--did not deny even to herself,--that it was wrong that she should even like to talk to Luke Rowan. Then came the ball; or, rather, first came the little evening party, which afterwards grew to be a ball. She had been very desirous of going, not for the sake of any pleasure that she promised herself; not for the sake of such pleasure as girls do promise themselves at such gatherings; but because her female pride told her that it was well for her to claim the right of meeting this young man,--well for her to declare that nothing had passed between them which should make her afraid to meet him. That some other hopes had crept in as the evening had come nigh at hand,--hopes of which she had been made aware only by her efforts in repressing them,--may not be denied. She had been accused because of him; and she would show that no such accusation had daunted her. But would he,--would he give occasion for further accusation? She believed he would not; nay, she was sure; at any rate she hoped he would not. She told herself that such was her hope; but had he not noticed her she would have been wretched. We know now in what manner he had noticed her, and we know also whether she had been wretched. She had certainly fled from him. When she left the brewery-house, inducing Mrs. Cornbury to bring her away, she did so in order that she might escape from him. But she ran from him as one runs from some great joy in order that the mind may revel over it in peace. Then, little as she knew it, her love had been given. Her heart was his. She had placed him upon her pinnacle, and was prepared to worship him. She was ready to dress herself in his eyes, to believe that to be good which he thought good, and to repudiate that which he repudiated. When she bowed her head over his breast a day or two afterwards, she could have spoken to him with the full words of passionate love had not maiden fear repressed her. But she had not even bowed her head for him, she had not acknowledged to herself that such love was possible to her, till her mother had consented. That her mother's consent had been wavering, doubtful, expressed without intention of such expression,--so expressed that Mrs. Ray hardly knew that she had expressed it,--was not understood by Rachel. Her mother had consented, and, that consent having been given, Rachel was not now disposed to allow of any steps backwards. She seemed to have learned her rights, or to have assumed that she had rights. Hitherto her obedience to her mother had been pure and simple, although, from the greater force of her character, she had in many things been her mother's leader. But now, though she was ill inclined to rebel, though in this matter of the letter she had obeyed, she was beginning to feel that obedience might become a hardship. She did not say to herself, "They have let me love him, and now they must not put out their hands to hold back my love;" but the current of her feelings ran as though such unspoken words had passed across her mind. She had her rights; and though she did not presume that she could insist on them in opposition to her mother or her mother's advisers, she knew that she would be wronged if those rights were withheld from her. The chief of those rights was the possession of her lover. If he was taken from her she would be as one imprisoned unjustly,--as one robbed by those who should have been his friends,--as one injured, wounded, stricken in the dark, and treacherously mutilated by hands that should have protected him. During these days she was silent, and sat with that look upon her brow which her mother feared. "I could not make Mr. Comfort come any sooner, Rachel," said Mrs. Ray. "No, mamma." "I can see how impatient you are." "I don't know that I'm impatient. I'm sure that I haven't said anything." "If you said anything I shouldn't mind it so much; but I can't bear to see you with that unhappy look. I'm sure I only wish to do what's best. You can't think it right that you should be writing letters to a gentleman without being sure that it is proper." "Oh, mamma, don't talk about it!" "You don't like me to ask your sister; and I'm sure it's natural I should want to ask somebody. He's nearly seventy years old, and he has known you ever since you were born. And then he's a clergyman, and therefore he'll be sure to know what's right. Not that I should have liked to have said a word about it to Mr. Prong, because there's a difference when they come from one doesn't know where." "Pray, mamma, don't. I haven't made any objection to Mr. Comfort. It isn't nice to be talked over in that way by anybody, that's all." "But what was I to do? I'm sure I liked the young man very much. I never knew a young man who took his tea so pleasant. And as for his manners and his way of talking, I had it in my heart to fall in love with him myself. I had indeed. As far as that goes, he's just the young man that I could make a son of." "Dear mamma! my own dearest mamma!" and Rachel, jumping up, threw herself upon her mother's neck. "Stop there. You shan't say another word." "I'm sure I didn't mean to say anything unpleasant." "No, you did not; and I won't be impatient." "Only I can't bear that look. And you know what his mother said,--and Mrs. Tappitt. Not that I care about Mrs. Tappitt; only a person's mother is his mother, and he shouldn't have called her a goose." It must be acknowledged that Rachel's position was not comfortable; and it certainly would not have been improved had she known how many people in Baslehurst were talking about her and Rowan. That Rowan was gone everybody knew; that he had made love to Rachel everybody said; that he never meant to come back any more most professed to believe. Tappitt's tongue was loud in proclaiming his iniquities; and her follies and injuries Mrs. Tappitt whispered into the ears of all her female acquaintances. "I'm sorry for her," Miss Harford said, mildly. Mrs. Tappitt was calling at the rectory, and had made her way in. Mr. Tappitt was an upholder of the old rector, and there was a fellow-townsman's friendship between them. "Oh yes;--very sorry for her," said Mrs. Tappitt. "Very sorry indeed," said Augusta, who was with her mother. "She always seemed to me a pretty, quiet, well-behaved girl," said Miss Harford. "Still waters run deepest, you know, Miss Harford," said Mrs. Tappitt. "I should never have imagined it of her;--never. But she certainly met him half-way." "But we all thought he was respectable, you know," said Miss Harford. Miss Harford was thoroughly good-natured; and though she had never gone half-way herself, and had perhaps lost her chance from having been unable to go any part of the way, she was not disposed to condemn a girl for having been willing to be admired by such a one as Luke Rowan. "Well;--yes; at first we did. He had the name of money, you know, and that goes so far with some girls. We were on our guard,"--and she looked proudly round on Augusta,--"till we should hear what the young man really was. He has thrown off his sheep's clothing now with a vengeance. Mr. Tappitt feels quite ashamed that he should have introduced him to any of the people here; he does indeed." "That may be her misfortune, and not her fault," said Miss Harford, who in defending Rachel was well enough inclined to give up Luke. Indeed, Baslehurst was beginning to have a settled mind that Luke was a wolf. "Oh, quite so," said Mrs. Tappitt. "The poor girl has been very unfortunate no doubt." After that she took her leave of the rectory. On that evening Mr. Comfort dined with Dr. Harford, as did also Butler Cornbury and his wife, and one or two others. The chances of the election formed, of course, the chief subject of conversation both in the drawing-room and at the dinner-table; but in talking of the election they came to talk of Mr. Tappitt, and in talking of Tappitt they came to talk of Luke Rowan. It has already been said that Dr. Harford had been rector of Baslehurst for many years at the period to which this story refers. He had nearly completed half a century of work in that capacity, and had certainly been neither an idle nor an inefficient clergyman. But, now in his old age, he was discontented and disgusted by the changes which had come upon him; and though some bodily strength for further service still remained to him, he had no longer any aptitude for useful work. A man cannot change as men change. Individual men are like the separate links of a rotatory chain. The chain goes on with continuous easy motion as though every part of it were capable of adapting itself to a curve, but not the less is each link as stiff and sturdy as any other piece of wrought iron. Dr. Harford had in his time been an active, popular man,--a man possessing even some liberal tendencies in politics, though a country rector of nearly half a century's standing. In his parish he had been more than a clergyman. He had been a magistrate, and a moving man in municipal affairs. He had been a politician, and though now for many years he had supported the Conservative candidate, he had been loudly in favour of the Reform Bill when Baslehurst was a close borough in the possession of a great duke, who held property hard by. But liberal politics had gone on and had left Dr. Harford high and dry on the standing-ground which he had chosen for himself in the early days of his manhood. And then had come that pestilent act of the legislature under which his parish had been divided. Not that the Act of Parliament itself had been violently condemned by the doctor on its becoming law. I doubt whether he had then thought much of it. But when men calling themselves Commissioners came actually upon him and his, and separated off from him a district of his own town, taking it away altogether from his authority, and giving it over to such inexperienced hands as chance might send thither,--then Dr. Harford became a violent Tory. And my readers must not conceive that this was a question touching his pocket. One might presume that his pocket would be in some degree benefited, seeing that he was saved from the necessity of supplying the spiritual wants of a certain portion of his parish. No shilling was taken from his own income, which, indeed, was by no means excessive. His whole parish gave him barely six hundred a year, out of which he had kept always one, and latterly two curates. It was no question of money in any degree. Sooner than be invaded and mutilated he would have submitted to an order calling upon him to find a third curate,--could any power have given such order. His parish had been invaded and his clerical authority mutilated. He was no longer _totus teres atque rotundus_. The beauty of his life was over, and the contentment of his mind was gone. He knew that it was only left for him to die, spending such days as remained to him in vague prophecies of evil against his devoted country,--a country which had allowed its ancient parochial landmarks to be moved, and its ecclesiastical fastnesses to be invaded! But perhaps hatred of Mr. Prong was the strongest passion of Dr. Harford's heart at the present moment. He had ever hated the dissenting ministers by whom he was surrounded. In Devonshire dissent has waxed strong for many years, and the pastors of the dissenting flocks have been thorns in the side of the Church of England clergymen. Dr. Harford had undergone his full share of suffering from such thorns. But they had caused him no more than a pleasant irritation in comparison with what he endured from the presence of Mr. Prong in Baslehurst. He would sooner have entertained all the dissenting ministers of the South Hams together than have put his legs under the same mahogany with Mr. Prong. Mr. Prong was to him the evil thing! Anathema! He believed all bad things of Mr. Prong with an absolute faith, but without any ground on which such faith should have been formed. He thought that Mr. Prong drank spirits; that he robbed his parishioners;--Dr. Harford would sooner have lost his tongue than have used such a word with reference to those who attended Mr. Prong's chapel;--that he had left a deserted wife on some parish; that he was probably not in truth ordained. There was nothing which Dr. Harford could not believe of Mr. Prong. Now all this was, to say the least of it, a pity, for it disfigured the close of a useful and conscientious life. Dr. Harford of course intended to vote for Mr. Cornbury, but he would not join loudly in condemnation of Mr. Tappitt. Tappitt had stood stanchly by him in all parochial contests regarding the new district. Tappitt opposed the Prong faction at all points. Tappitt as churchwarden had been submissive to the doctor. Church of England principles had always been held at the brewery, and Bungall had been ever in favour with Dr. Harford's predecessor. "He calls himself a Liberal, and always has done," said the doctor. "You can't expect that he should desert his own party." "But a Jew!" said old Mr. Comfort. "Well; why not a Jew?" said the doctor. Whereupon Mr. Comfort, and Butler Cornbury, and Dr. Harford's own curate, young Mr. Calclough, and Captain Byng, an old bachelor, who lived in Baslehurst, all stared at him; as Dr. Harford had intended that they should. "Upon my word," said he, "I don't see the use for caring for that kind of thing any longer; I don't indeed. In the way we are going on now, and for the sort of thing we do, I don't see why Jews shouldn't serve us as well in Parliament as Christians. If I am to have my brains knocked out, I'd sooner have it done by a declared enemy than by one who calls himself my friend." "But our brains are not knocked out yet," said Butler Cornbury. "I don't know anything about yours, but mine are." "I don't think the world's coming to an end yet," said the captain. "Nor do I. I said nothing about the world coming to an end. But if you saw a part of your ship put under the command of a landlubber, who didn't know one side of the vessel from the other, you'd think the world had better come to an end than be carried on in that way." "It's not the same thing, you know," said the captain. "You couldn't divide a ship." "Oh, well; you'll see." "I don't think any Christian should vote for a Jew," said the curate. "A verdict has gone out against them, and what is man that he should reverse it?" "Are you quite sure that you are reversing it by putting them into Parliament?" said Dr. Harford. "May not that be a carrying on of the curse?" "There's consolation in that idea for Butler if he loses his election," said Mr. Comfort. "Parliament isn't what it was," said the doctor. "There's no doubt about that." "And who is to blame?" said Mr. Comfort, who had never supported the Reform Bill as his neighbour had done. "I say nothing about blame. It's natural that things should get worse as they grow older." "Dr. Harford thinks Parliament is worn out," said Butler Cornbury. "And what if I do think so? Have not other things as great fallen and gone into decay? Did not the Roman senate wear out, as you call it? And as for these Jews, of whom you are speaking, what was the curse upon them but the wearing out of their grace and wisdom? I am inclined to think that we are wearing out; only I wish the garment could have lasted my time without showing so many thin places." "Now I believe just the contrary," said the captain. "I don't think we have come to our full growth yet." "Could we lick the French as we did at Trafalgar and Waterloo?" said the doctor. The captain thought a while before he answered, and then spoke with much solemnity. "Yes," said he, "I think we could. And I hope the time will soon come when we may." "We shan't do it if we send Jews to Parliament," said Mr. Comfort. "I must say I think Tappitt wrong," said young Cornbury. "Of course, near as the thing is going, I'm sorry to lose his vote; but I'm not speaking because of that. He has always pretended to hold on to the Church party here, and the Church party has held on to him. His beer is none of the best, and I think he'd have been wise to stick to his old friends." "I don't see the argument about the beer," said the doctor. "He shouldn't provoke his neighbours to look at his faults." "But the Jew's friends would find out that the beer is bad as well as yours." "The truth is," said Cornbury, "that Tappitt thinks he has a personal grievance against me. He's as cross as a bear with a sore head at the present moment, because this young fellow who was to have been his partner has turned against him. There's some love affair, and my wife has been there and made a mess of it. It's hard upon me, for I don't know that I ever saw the young man in my life." "I believe that fellow is a scamp," said the doctor. "I hope not," said Mr. Comfort, thinking of Rachel and her hopes. "We all hope he isn't, of course," said the doctor. "But we can't prevent men being scamps by hoping. There are other scamps in this town in whom, if my hoping would do any good, a very great change would be made."--Everybody present knew that the doctor alluded especially to Mr. Prong, whose condition, however, if the doctor's hopes could have been carried out, would not have been enviable.--"But I fear this fellow Rowan is a scamp, and I think he has treated Tappitt badly. Tappitt told me all about it only this morning." "Audi alteram partem," said Mr. Comfort. "The scamp's party you mean," said the doctor. "I haven't the means of doing that. If in this world we suspend our judgment till we've heard all that can be said on both sides of every question, we should never come to any judgment at all. I hear that he's in debt; I believe he behaved very badly to Tappitt himself, so that Tappitt was forced to use personal violence to defend himself; and he has certainly threatened to open a new brewery here. Now that's bad, as coming from a young man related to the old firm." "I think he should leave the brewery alone," said Mr. Comfort. "Of course he should," said the doctor. "And I hear, moreover, that he is playing a wicked game with a girl in your parish." "I don't know about a wicked game," said the other. "It won't be a wicked game if he marries her." Then Rachel's chances of matrimonial success were discussed with a degree of vigour which must have been felt by her to be highly complimentary, had she been aware of it. But I grieve to say that public opinion, as expressed in Dr. Harford's dining-room, went against Luke Rowan. Mr. Tappitt was not a great man, either as a citizen or as a brewer: he was not one to whom Baslehurst would even rejoice to raise a monument; but such as he was he had been known for many years.

swindler

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

"That wouldn't be seemly, because our mayor is expected to attend in church on Roundabout Sunday." Roundabout Sunday, so called for certain local reasons which it would be long to explain, followed immediately on the day of the mayor's inauguration. "Would you like to have a Jew partner in your own business?" Mrs. Butler Cornbury should have said nothing to Mr. Tappitt as to any partner in the brewery, Jew or Christian. "I don't want any partner, and what's more, I don't mean to have any." "Mrs. Cornbury is in favour of Luke Rowan; she takes his side," said Mrs. Tappitt, some portion of her courage returning to her as this opportunity opened upon her. Mr. Tappitt turned his head full round and looked upon Mrs. Cornbury with an evil eye. That lady knew that the vote was lost, lost unless she would denounce the man whom Rachel loved; and she determined at once that she would not denounce him. There are many things which such a woman will do to gain such an object. She could smile when Tappitt was offensive; she could smile again when Mrs. Tappitt talked like a kitchenmaid. She could flatter them both, and pretend to talk seriously with them about Jews and her own Church feelings. She could have given up to them Luke Rowan,--if he had stood alone. But she could not give up the girl she had chaperoned, and upon whom, during that chaperoning, her good-will and kindly feelings had fallen. Rachel had pleased her eye, and gratified her sense of feminine nicety. She felt that a word said against Rowan would be a word said also against Rachel; and therefore, throwing her husband over for the nonce, she resolved to sacrifice the vote and stand up for her friend. "Well, yes; I do," said she, meeting Tappitt's eye steadily. She was not going to be looked out of countenance by Mr. Tappitt. "She thinks he'll come back to marry that young woman at Bragg's End," said Mrs. Tappitt; "but I say that he'll never dare to show his face in Baslehurst again." "That young woman is making a great fool of herself," said Tappitt, "if she trusts to a swindler like him." "Perhaps, Mrs. Tappitt," said Mrs. Cornbury, "we needn't mind discussing Miss Ray. It's not good to talk about a young lady in that way, and I'm sure I never said that I thought she was engaged to Mr. Rowan. Had I done so I should have been very wrong, for I know nothing about it. What little I saw of the gentleman I liked;" and as she used the word gentleman she looked Tappitt full in the face; "and for Miss Ray, I've a great regard for her, and think very highly of her. Independently of her acknowledged beauty and pleasant, ladylike manners, she's a very charming girl. About the vote, Mr. Tappitt--; at any rate you'll think of it." But had he not been defied in his own house? And as for her, the mother of those three finely educated girls, had not every word said in Rachel's favour been a dagger planted in her own maternal bosom? Whose courage would not have risen under such provocation? Mrs. Cornbury had got up to go, but the indignant, injured Tappitts resolved mutually, though without concert, that she should be answered. "I'm an honest man, Mrs. Cornbury," said the brewer, "and I like to speak out my mind openly. Mr. Hart is a liberal, and I mean to support my party. Will you tell Mr. Cornbury so with my compliments? It's all nonsense about Jews not being in Parliament. It's not the same as being mayors or churchwardens, or anything like that. I shall vote for Mr. Hart; and, what's more, we shall put him in." "And Mrs. Cornbury, if you have so much regard for Miss Rachel, you'd better advise her to think no more of that young man. He's no good; he's not indeed. If you ask, you'll find he's in debt everywhere." "Swindler!" said Tappitt. "I don't suppose it can be very bad with Miss Rachel yet, for she only saw him about three times,--though she was so intimate with him at our party." Mrs. Butler Cornbury curtseyed and smiled, and got herself out of the room. Mrs. Tappitt, as soon as she remembered herself, rang the bell, and Mr. Tappitt, following her down to the hall door, went through the pretence of putting her into her carriage. "She's a nasty meddlesome woman," said Tappitt, as soon as he got back to his wife. "And how ever she can stand up and say all those things for that girl, passes me!" said Mrs. Tappitt, holding up both her hands. "She was flighty herself, when young; she was, no doubt; and now I suppose she likes others to be the same. If that's what she calls manners, I shouldn't like her to take my girls about." "And him a gentleman!" said Tappitt. "If those are to be our gentlemen I'd sooner have all the Jews out of Jerusalem. But they'll find out their gentleman; they'll find him out! He'll rob that old mother of his before he's done; you mark my words else." Comforting himself with this hope he took himself back to his counting-house. Mrs. Cornbury had smiled as she went, and had carried herself through the whole interview without any sign of temper. Even when declaring that she intended to take Rachel's part open-mouthed, she had spoken in a half-drolling way which had divested her words of any tone of offence. But when she got into her carriage, she was in truth very angry. "I don't believe a word of it," she said to herself; "not a word of it." That in which she professed to herself her own disbelief was the general assertion that Rowan was a swindler, supported by the particular assertion that he had left Baslehurst over head and ears in debt. "I don't believe it." And she resolved that it should be her business to find out whether the accusation were true or false. She knew the ins and outs of Baslehurst life and Baslehurst doings with tolerable accuracy, and was at any rate capable of unravelling such a mystery as that. If the Tappitts in their jealousy were striving to rob Rachel Ray of her husband by spreading false reports, she would encourage Rachel Ray in her love by spreading the truth;--if, as she believed, the truth should speak in Rowan's favour. She would have considerable pleasure in countermining Mr. and Mrs. Tappitt. As to Mr. Tappitt's vote for the election;--that was gone! CHAPTER III. DR. HARFORD. The current of events forced upon Rachel a delay of three or four days in answering her letter, or rather forced upon her that delay in learning whether or no she might answer it; and this was felt by her to be a grievous evil. It had been arranged that she should not write until such writing should have received what might almost be called a parochial sanction, and no idea of acting in opposition to that arrangement ever occurred to her; but the more she thought of it the more she was vexed; and the more she thought of it the more she learned to doubt whether or no her mother was placing her in safe tutelage. During these few weeks a great change came upon the girl's character. When first Mrs. Prime had brought home tidings that Miss Pucker had seen her walking and talking with the young man from the brewery, angry as she had been with her sister, and disgusted as she had been with Miss Pucker, she had acknowledged to herself that such talking and walking were very dangerous, if not very improper, and she had half resolved that there should be no more of them. And when Mrs. Prime had seen her standing at the stile, and had brought home that second report, Rachel, knowing what had occurred at that stile, had then felt sure that she was in danger. At that time, though she had thought much of Luke Rowan, she had not thought of him as a man who could possibly be her husband. She had thought of him as having no right to call her Rachel, because he could not possibly become so. There had been great danger;--there had been conduct which she believed to be improper though she could not tell herself that she had been guilty. In her outlook into the world nothing so beautiful had promised itself to her as having such a man to love her as Luke Rowan. Though her mother was not herself ascetic,--liking tea and buttered toast dearly, and liking also little soft laughter with her child,--she had preached ascetisms till Rachel had learned to think that the world was all either ascetic or reprobate. The Dorcas meetings had become distasteful to her because the women were vulgar; but yet she had half believed herself to be wrong in avoiding the work and the vulgarity together. Idle she had never been. Since a needle had come easy to her hand, and the economies of a household had been made intelligible to her, she had earned her bread and assisted in works of charity. She had read no love stories, and been taught to expect no lover. She was not prepared to deny,--did not deny even to herself,--that it was wrong that she should even like to talk to Luke Rowan. Then came the ball; or, rather, first came the little evening party, which afterwards grew to be a ball. She had been very desirous of going, not for the sake of any pleasure that she promised herself; not for the sake of such pleasure as girls do promise themselves at such gatherings; but because her female pride told her that it was well for her to claim the right of meeting this young man,--well for her to declare that nothing had passed between them which should make her afraid to meet him. That some other hopes had crept in as the evening had come nigh at hand,--hopes of which she had been made aware only by her efforts in repressing them,--may not be denied. She had been accused because of him; and she would show that no such accusation had daunted her. But would he,--would he give occasion for further accusation? She believed he would not; nay, she was sure; at any rate she hoped he would not. She told herself that such was her hope; but had he not noticed her she would have been wretched. We know now in what manner he had noticed her, and we know also whether she had been wretched. She had certainly fled from him. When she left the brewery-house, inducing Mrs. Cornbury to bring her away, she did so in order that she might escape from him. But she ran from him as one runs from some great joy in order that the mind may revel over it in peace. Then, little as she knew it, her love had been given. Her heart was his. She had placed him upon her pinnacle, and was prepared to worship him. She was ready to dress herself in his eyes, to believe that to be good which he thought good, and to repudiate that which he repudiated. When she bowed her head over his breast a day or two afterwards, she could have spoken to him with the full words of passionate love had not maiden fear repressed her. But she had not even bowed her head for him, she had not acknowledged to herself that such love was possible to her, till her mother had consented. That her mother's consent had been wavering, doubtful, expressed without intention of such expression,--so expressed that Mrs. Ray hardly knew that she had expressed it,--was not understood by Rachel. Her mother had consented, and, that consent having been given, Rachel was not now disposed to allow of any steps backwards. She seemed to have learned her rights, or to have assumed that she had rights. Hitherto her obedience to her mother had been pure and simple, although, from the greater force of her character, she had in many things been her mother's leader. But now, though she was ill inclined to rebel, though in this matter of the letter she had obeyed, she was beginning to feel that obedience might become a hardship. She did not say to herself, "They have let me love him, and now they must not put out their hands to hold back my love;" but the current of her feelings ran as though such unspoken words had passed across her mind. She had her rights; and though she did not presume that she could insist on them in opposition to her mother or her mother's advisers, she knew that she would be wronged if those rights were withheld from her. The chief of those rights was the possession of her lover. If he was taken from her she would be as one imprisoned unjustly,--as one robbed by those who should have been his friends,--as one injured, wounded, stricken in the dark, and treacherously mutilated by hands that should have protected him. During these days she was silent, and sat with that look upon her brow which her mother feared. "I could not make Mr. Comfort come any sooner, Rachel," said Mrs. Ray. "No, mamma." "I can see how impatient you are." "I don't know that I'm impatient. I'm sure that I haven't said anything." "If you said anything I shouldn't mind it so much; but I can't bear to see you with that unhappy look. I'm sure I only wish to do what's best. You can't think it right that you should be writing letters to a gentleman without being sure that it is proper." "Oh, mamma, don't talk about it!" "You don't like me to ask your sister; and I'm sure it's natural I should want to ask somebody. He's nearly seventy years old, and he has known you ever since you were born. And then he's a clergyman, and therefore he'll be sure to know what's right. Not that I should have liked to have said a word about it to Mr. Prong, because there's a difference when they come from one doesn't know where." "Pray, mamma, don't. I haven't made any objection to Mr. Comfort. It isn't nice to be talked over in that way by anybody, that's all." "But what was I to do? I'm sure I liked the young man very much. I never knew a young man who took his tea so pleasant. And as for his manners and his way of talking, I had it in my heart to fall in love with him myself. I had indeed. As far as that goes, he's just the young man that I could make a son of." "Dear mamma! my own dearest mamma!" and Rachel, jumping up, threw herself upon her mother's neck. "Stop there. You shan't say another word." "I'm sure I didn't mean to say anything unpleasant." "No, you did not; and I won't be impatient." "Only I can't bear that look. And you know what his mother said,--and Mrs. Tappitt. Not that I care about Mrs. Tappitt; only a person's mother is his mother, and he shouldn't have called her a goose." It must be acknowledged that Rachel's position was not comfortable; and it certainly would not have been improved had she known how many people in Baslehurst were talking about her and Rowan. That Rowan was gone everybody knew; that he had made love to Rachel everybody said; that he never meant to come back any more most professed to believe. Tappitt's tongue was loud in proclaiming his iniquities; and her follies and injuries Mrs. Tappitt whispered into the ears of all her female acquaintances. "I'm sorry for her," Miss Harford said, mildly. Mrs. Tappitt was calling at the rectory, and had made her way in. Mr. Tappitt was an upholder of the old rector, and there was a fellow-townsman's friendship between them. "Oh yes;--very sorry for her," said Mrs. Tappitt. "Very sorry indeed," said Augusta, who was with her mother. "She always seemed to me a pretty, quiet, well-behaved girl," said Miss Harford. "Still waters run deepest, you know, Miss Harford," said Mrs. Tappitt. "I should never have imagined it of her;--never. But she certainly met him half-way." "But we all thought he was respectable, you know," said Miss Harford. Miss Harford was thoroughly good-natured; and though she had never gone half-way herself, and had perhaps lost her chance from having been unable to go any part of the way, she was not disposed to condemn a girl for having been willing to be admired by such a one as Luke Rowan. "Well;--yes; at first we did. He had the name of money, you know, and that goes so far with some girls. We were on our guard,"--and she looked proudly round on Augusta,--"till we should hear what the young man really was. He has thrown off his sheep's clothing now with a vengeance. Mr. Tappitt feels quite ashamed that he should have introduced him to any of the people here; he does indeed." "That may be her misfortune, and not her fault," said Miss Harford, who in defending Rachel was well enough inclined to give up Luke. Indeed, Baslehurst was beginning to have a settled mind that Luke was a wolf. "Oh, quite so," said Mrs. Tappitt. "The poor girl has been very unfortunate no doubt." After that she took her leave of the rectory. On that evening Mr. Comfort dined with Dr. Harford, as did also Butler Cornbury and his wife, and one or two others. The chances of the election formed, of course, the chief subject of conversation both in the drawing-room and at the dinner-table; but in talking of the election they came to talk of Mr. Tappitt, and in talking of Tappitt they came to talk of Luke Rowan. It has already been said that Dr. Harford had been rector of Baslehurst for many years at the period to which this story refers. He had nearly completed half a century of work in that capacity, and had certainly been neither an idle nor an inefficient clergyman. But, now in his old age, he was discontented and disgusted by the changes which had come upon him; and though some bodily strength for further service still remained to him, he had no longer any aptitude for useful work. A man cannot change as men change. Individual men are like the separate links of a rotatory chain. The chain goes on with continuous easy motion as though every part of it were capable of adapting itself to a curve, but not the less is each link as stiff and sturdy as any other piece of wrought iron. Dr. Harford had in his time been an active, popular man,--a man possessing even some liberal tendencies in politics, though a country rector of nearly half a century's standing. In his parish he had been more than a clergyman. He had been a magistrate, and a moving man in municipal affairs. He had been a politician, and though now for many years he had supported the Conservative candidate, he had been loudly in favour of the Reform Bill when Baslehurst was a close borough in the possession of a great duke, who held property hard by. But liberal politics had gone on and had left Dr. Harford high and dry on the standing-ground which he had chosen for himself in the early days of his manhood. And then had come that pestilent act of the legislature under which his parish had been divided. Not that the Act of Parliament itself had been violently condemned by the doctor on its becoming law. I doubt whether he had then thought much of it. But when men calling themselves Commissioners came actually upon him and his, and separated off from him a district of his own town, taking it away altogether from his authority, and giving it over to such inexperienced hands as chance might send thither,--then Dr. Harford became a violent Tory. And my readers must not conceive that this was a question touching his pocket. One might presume that his pocket would be in some degree benefited, seeing that he was saved from the necessity of supplying the spiritual wants of a certain portion of his parish. No shilling was taken from his own income, which, indeed, was by no means excessive. His whole parish gave him barely six hundred a year, out of which he had kept always one, and latterly two curates. It was no question of money in any degree. Sooner than be invaded and mutilated he would have submitted to an order calling upon him to find a third curate,--could any power have given such order. His parish had been invaded and his clerical authority mutilated. He was no longer _totus teres atque rotundus_. The beauty of his life was over, and the contentment of his mind was gone. He knew that it was only left for him to die, spending such days as remained to him in vague prophecies of evil against his devoted country,--a country which had allowed its ancient parochial landmarks to be moved, and its ecclesiastical fastnesses to be invaded! But perhaps hatred of Mr. Prong was the strongest passion of Dr. Harford's heart at the present moment. He had ever hated the dissenting ministers by whom he was surrounded. In Devonshire dissent has waxed strong for many years, and the pastors of the dissenting flocks have been thorns in the side of the Church of England clergymen. Dr. Harford had undergone his full share of suffering from such thorns. But they had caused him no more than a pleasant irritation in comparison with what he endured from the presence of Mr. Prong in Baslehurst. He would sooner have entertained all the dissenting ministers of the South Hams together than have put his legs under the same mahogany with Mr. Prong. Mr. Prong was to him the evil thing! Anathema! He believed all bad things of Mr. Prong with an absolute faith, but without any ground on which such faith should have been formed. He thought that Mr. Prong drank spirits; that he robbed his parishioners;--Dr. Harford would sooner have lost his tongue than have used such a word with reference to those who attended Mr. Prong's chapel;--that he had left a deserted wife on some parish; that he was probably not in truth ordained. There was nothing which Dr. Harford could not believe of Mr. Prong. Now all this was, to say the least of it, a pity, for it disfigured the close of a useful and conscientious life. Dr. Harford of course intended to vote for Mr. Cornbury, but he would not join loudly in condemnation of Mr. Tappitt. Tappitt had stood stanchly by him in all parochial contests regarding the new district. Tappitt opposed the Prong faction at all points. Tappitt as churchwarden had been submissive to the doctor. Church of England principles had always been held at the brewery, and Bungall had been ever in favour with Dr. Harford's predecessor. "He calls himself a Liberal, and always has done," said the doctor. "You can't expect that he should desert his own party." "But a Jew!" said old Mr. Comfort. "Well; why not a Jew?" said the doctor. Whereupon Mr. Comfort, and Butler Cornbury, and Dr. Harford's own curate, young Mr. Calclough, and Captain Byng, an old bachelor, who lived in Baslehurst, all stared at him; as Dr. Harford had intended that they should. "Upon my word," said he, "I don't see the use for caring for that kind of thing any longer; I don't indeed. In the way we are going on now, and for the sort of thing we do, I don't see why Jews shouldn't serve us as well in Parliament as Christians. If I am to have my brains knocked out, I'd sooner have it done by a declared enemy than by one who calls himself my friend." "But our brains are not knocked out yet," said Butler Cornbury. "I don't know anything about yours, but mine are." "I don't think the world's coming to an end yet," said the captain. "Nor do I. I said nothing about the world coming to an end. But if you saw a part of your ship put under the command of a landlubber, who didn't know one side of the vessel from the other, you'd think the world had better come to an end than be carried on in that way." "It's not the same thing, you know," said the captain. "You couldn't divide a ship." "Oh, well; you'll see." "I don't think any Christian should vote for a Jew," said the curate. "A verdict has gone out against them, and what is man that he should reverse it?" "Are you quite sure that you are reversing it by putting them into Parliament?" said Dr. Harford. "May not that be a carrying on of the curse?" "There's consolation in that idea for Butler if he loses his election," said Mr. Comfort. "Parliament isn't what it was," said the doctor. "There's no doubt about that." "And who is to blame?" said Mr. Comfort, who had never supported the Reform Bill as his neighbour had done. "I say nothing about blame. It's natural that things should get worse as they grow older." "Dr. Harford thinks Parliament is worn out," said Butler Cornbury. "And what if I do think so? Have not other things as great fallen and gone into decay? Did not the Roman senate wear out, as you call it? And as for these Jews, of whom you are speaking, what was the curse upon them but the wearing out of their grace and wisdom? I am inclined to think that we are wearing out; only I wish the garment could have lasted my time without showing so many thin places." "Now I believe just the contrary," said the captain. "I don't think we have come to our full growth yet." "Could we lick the French as we did at Trafalgar and Waterloo?" said the doctor. The captain thought a while before he answered, and then spoke with much solemnity. "Yes," said he, "I think we could. And I hope the time will soon come when we may." "We shan't do it if we send Jews to Parliament," said Mr. Comfort. "I must say I think Tappitt wrong," said young Cornbury. "Of course, near as the thing is going, I'm sorry to lose his vote; but I'm not speaking because of that. He has always pretended to hold on to the Church party here, and the Church party has held on to him. His beer is none of the best, and I think he'd have been wise to stick to his old friends." "I don't see the argument about the beer," said the doctor. "He shouldn't provoke his neighbours to look at his faults." "But the Jew's friends would find out that the beer is bad as well as yours." "The truth is," said Cornbury, "that Tappitt thinks he has a personal grievance against me. He's as cross as a bear with a sore head at the present moment, because this young fellow who was to have been his partner has turned against him. There's some love affair, and my wife has been there and made a mess of it. It's hard upon me, for I don't know that I ever saw the young man in my life." "I believe that fellow is a scamp," said the doctor. "I hope not," said Mr. Comfort, thinking of Rachel and her hopes. "We all hope he isn't, of course," said the doctor. "But we can't prevent men being scamps by hoping. There are other scamps in this town in whom, if my hoping would do any good, a very great change would be made."--Everybody present knew that the doctor alluded especially to Mr. Prong, whose condition, however, if the doctor's hopes could have been carried out, would not have been enviable.--"But I fear this fellow Rowan is a scamp, and I think he has treated Tappitt badly. Tappitt told me all about it only this morning." "Audi alteram partem," said Mr. Comfort. "The scamp's party you mean," said the doctor. "I haven't the means of doing that. If in this world we suspend our judgment till we've heard all that can be said on both sides of every question, we should never come to any judgment at all. I hear that he's in debt; I believe he behaved very badly to Tappitt himself, so that Tappitt was forced to use personal violence to defend himself; and he has certainly threatened to open a new brewery here. Now that's bad, as coming from a young man related to the old firm." "I think he should leave the brewery alone," said Mr. Comfort. "Of course he should," said the doctor. "And I hear, moreover, that he is playing a wicked game with a girl in your parish." "I don't know about a wicked game," said the other. "It won't be a wicked game if he marries her." Then Rachel's chances of matrimonial success were discussed with a degree of vigour which must have been felt by her to be highly complimentary, had she been aware of it. But I grieve to say that public opinion, as expressed in Dr. Harford's dining-room, went against Luke Rowan. Mr. Tappitt was not a great man, either as a citizen or as a brewer: he was not one to whom Baslehurst would even rejoice to raise a monument; but such as he was he had been known for many years.

sunday

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

"That wouldn't be seemly, because our mayor is expected to attend in church on Roundabout Sunday." Roundabout Sunday, so called for certain local reasons which it would be long to explain, followed immediately on the day of the mayor's inauguration. "Would you like to have a Jew partner in your own business?" Mrs. Butler Cornbury should have said nothing to Mr. Tappitt as to any partner in the brewery, Jew or Christian. "I don't want any partner, and what's more, I don't mean to have any." "Mrs. Cornbury is in favour of Luke Rowan; she takes his side," said Mrs. Tappitt, some portion of her courage returning to her as this opportunity opened upon her. Mr. Tappitt turned his head full round and looked upon Mrs. Cornbury with an evil eye. That lady knew that the vote was lost, lost unless she would denounce the man whom Rachel loved; and she determined at once that she would not denounce him. There are many things which such a woman will do to gain such an object. She could smile when Tappitt was offensive; she could smile again when Mrs. Tappitt talked like a kitchenmaid. She could flatter them both, and pretend to talk seriously with them about Jews and her own Church feelings. She could have given up to them Luke Rowan,--if he had stood alone. But she could not give up the girl she had chaperoned, and upon whom, during that chaperoning, her good-will and kindly feelings had fallen. Rachel had pleased her eye, and gratified her sense of feminine nicety. She felt that a word said against Rowan would be a word said also against Rachel; and therefore, throwing her husband over for the nonce, she resolved to sacrifice the vote and stand up for her friend. "Well, yes; I do," said she, meeting Tappitt's eye steadily. She was not going to be looked out of countenance by Mr. Tappitt. "She thinks he'll come back to marry that young woman at Bragg's End," said Mrs. Tappitt; "but I say that he'll never dare to show his face in Baslehurst again." "That young woman is making a great fool of herself," said Tappitt, "if she trusts to a swindler like him." "Perhaps, Mrs. Tappitt," said Mrs. Cornbury, "we needn't mind discussing Miss Ray. It's not good to talk about a young lady in that way, and I'm sure I never said that I thought she was engaged to Mr. Rowan. Had I done so I should have been very wrong, for I know nothing about it. What little I saw of the gentleman I liked;" and as she used the word gentleman she looked Tappitt full in the face; "and for Miss Ray, I've a great regard for her, and think very highly of her. Independently of her acknowledged beauty and pleasant, ladylike manners, she's a very charming girl. About the vote, Mr. Tappitt--; at any rate you'll think of it." But had he not been defied in his own house? And as for her, the mother of those three finely educated girls, had not every word said in Rachel's favour been a dagger planted in her own maternal bosom? Whose courage would not have risen under such provocation? Mrs. Cornbury had got up to go, but the indignant, injured Tappitts resolved mutually, though without concert, that she should be answered. "I'm an honest man, Mrs. Cornbury," said the brewer, "and I like to speak out my mind openly. Mr. Hart is a liberal, and I mean to support my party. Will you tell Mr. Cornbury so with my compliments? It's all nonsense about Jews not being in Parliament. It's not the same as being mayors or churchwardens, or anything like that. I shall vote for Mr. Hart; and, what's more, we shall put him in." "And Mrs. Cornbury, if you have so much regard for Miss Rachel, you'd better advise her to think no more of that young man. He's no good; he's not indeed. If you ask, you'll find he's in debt everywhere." "Swindler!" said Tappitt. "I don't suppose it can be very bad with Miss Rachel yet, for she only saw him about three times,--though she was so intimate with him at our party." Mrs. Butler Cornbury curtseyed and smiled, and got herself out of the room. Mrs. Tappitt, as soon as she remembered herself, rang the bell, and Mr. Tappitt, following her down to the hall door, went through the pretence of putting her into her carriage. "She's a nasty meddlesome woman," said Tappitt, as soon as he got back to his wife. "And how ever she can stand up and say all those things for that girl, passes me!" said Mrs. Tappitt, holding up both her hands. "She was flighty herself, when young; she was, no doubt; and now I suppose she likes others to be the same. If that's what she calls manners, I shouldn't like her to take my girls about." "And him a gentleman!" said Tappitt. "If those are to be our gentlemen I'd sooner have all the Jews out of Jerusalem. But they'll find out their gentleman; they'll find him out! He'll rob that old mother of his before he's done; you mark my words else." Comforting himself with this hope he took himself back to his counting-house. Mrs. Cornbury had smiled as she went, and had carried herself through the whole interview without any sign of temper. Even when declaring that she intended to take Rachel's part open-mouthed, she had spoken in a half-drolling way which had divested her words of any tone of offence. But when she got into her carriage, she was in truth very angry. "I don't believe a word of it," she said to herself; "not a word of it." That in which she professed to herself her own disbelief was the general assertion that Rowan was a swindler, supported by the particular assertion that he had left Baslehurst over head and ears in debt. "I don't believe it." And she resolved that it should be her business to find out whether the accusation were true or false. She knew the ins and outs of Baslehurst life and Baslehurst doings with tolerable accuracy, and was at any rate capable of unravelling such a mystery as that. If the Tappitts in their jealousy were striving to rob Rachel Ray of her husband by spreading false reports, she would encourage Rachel Ray in her love by spreading the truth;--if, as she believed, the truth should speak in Rowan's favour. She would have considerable pleasure in countermining Mr. and Mrs. Tappitt. As to Mr. Tappitt's vote for the election;--that was gone! CHAPTER III. DR. HARFORD. The current of events forced upon Rachel a delay of three or four days in answering her letter, or rather forced upon her that delay in learning whether or no she might answer it; and this was felt by her to be a grievous evil. It had been arranged that she should not write until such writing should have received what might almost be called a parochial sanction, and no idea of acting in opposition to that arrangement ever occurred to her; but the more she thought of it the more she was vexed; and the more she thought of it the more she learned to doubt whether or no her mother was placing her in safe tutelage. During these few weeks a great change came upon the girl's character. When first Mrs. Prime had brought home tidings that Miss Pucker had seen her walking and talking with the young man from the brewery, angry as she had been with her sister, and disgusted as she had been with Miss Pucker, she had acknowledged to herself that such talking and walking were very dangerous, if not very improper, and she had half resolved that there should be no more of them. And when Mrs. Prime had seen her standing at the stile, and had brought home that second report, Rachel, knowing what had occurred at that stile, had then felt sure that she was in danger. At that time, though she had thought much of Luke Rowan, she had not thought of him as a man who could possibly be her husband. She had thought of him as having no right to call her Rachel, because he could not possibly become so. There had been great danger;--there had been conduct which she believed to be improper though she could not tell herself that she had been guilty. In her outlook into the world nothing so beautiful had promised itself to her as having such a man to love her as Luke Rowan. Though her mother was not herself ascetic,--liking tea and buttered toast dearly, and liking also little soft laughter with her child,--she had preached ascetisms till Rachel had learned to think that the world was all either ascetic or reprobate. The Dorcas meetings had become distasteful to her because the women were vulgar; but yet she had half believed herself to be wrong in avoiding the work and the vulgarity together. Idle she had never been. Since a needle had come easy to her hand, and the economies of a household had been made intelligible to her, she had earned her bread and assisted in works of charity. She had read no love stories, and been taught to expect no lover. She was not prepared to deny,--did not deny even to herself,--that it was wrong that she should even like to talk to Luke Rowan. Then came the ball; or, rather, first came the little evening party, which afterwards grew to be a ball. She had been very desirous of going, not for the sake of any pleasure that she promised herself; not for the sake of such pleasure as girls do promise themselves at such gatherings; but because her female pride told her that it was well for her to claim the right of meeting this young man,--well for her to declare that nothing had passed between them which should make her afraid to meet him. That some other hopes had crept in as the evening had come nigh at hand,--hopes of which she had been made aware only by her efforts in repressing them,--may not be denied. She had been accused because of him; and she would show that no such accusation had daunted her. But would he,--would he give occasion for further accusation? She believed he would not; nay, she was sure; at any rate she hoped he would not. She told herself that such was her hope; but had he not noticed her she would have been wretched. We know now in what manner he had noticed her, and we know also whether she had been wretched. She had certainly fled from him. When she left the brewery-house, inducing Mrs. Cornbury to bring her away, she did so in order that she might escape from him. But she ran from him as one runs from some great joy in order that the mind may revel over it in peace. Then, little as she knew it, her love had been given. Her heart was his. She had placed him upon her pinnacle, and was prepared to worship him. She was ready to dress herself in his eyes, to believe that to be good which he thought good, and to repudiate that which he repudiated. When she bowed her head over his breast a day or two afterwards, she could have spoken to him with the full words of passionate love had not maiden fear repressed her. But she had not even bowed her head for him, she had not acknowledged to herself that such love was possible to her, till her mother had consented. That her mother's consent had been wavering, doubtful, expressed without intention of such expression,--so expressed that Mrs. Ray hardly knew that she had expressed it,--was not understood by Rachel. Her mother had consented, and, that consent having been given, Rachel was not now disposed to allow of any steps backwards. She seemed to have learned her rights, or to have assumed that she had rights. Hitherto her obedience to her mother had been pure and simple, although, from the greater force of her character, she had in many things been her mother's leader. But now, though she was ill inclined to rebel, though in this matter of the letter she had obeyed, she was beginning to feel that obedience might become a hardship. She did not say to herself, "They have let me love him, and now they must not put out their hands to hold back my love;" but the current of her feelings ran as though such unspoken words had passed across her mind. She had her rights; and though she did not presume that she could insist on them in opposition to her mother or her mother's advisers, she knew that she would be wronged if those rights were withheld from her. The chief of those rights was the possession of her lover. If he was taken from her she would be as one imprisoned unjustly,--as one robbed by those who should have been his friends,--as one injured, wounded, stricken in the dark, and treacherously mutilated by hands that should have protected him. During these days she was silent, and sat with that look upon her brow which her mother feared. "I could not make Mr. Comfort come any sooner, Rachel," said Mrs. Ray. "No, mamma." "I can see how impatient you are." "I don't know that I'm impatient. I'm sure that I haven't said anything." "If you said anything I shouldn't mind it so much; but I can't bear to see you with that unhappy look. I'm sure I only wish to do what's best. You can't think it right that you should be writing letters to a gentleman without being sure that it is proper." "Oh, mamma, don't talk about it!" "You don't like me to ask your sister; and I'm sure it's natural I should want to ask somebody. He's nearly seventy years old, and he has known you ever since you were born. And then he's a clergyman, and therefore he'll be sure to know what's right. Not that I should have liked to have said a word about it to Mr. Prong, because there's a difference when they come from one doesn't know where." "Pray, mamma, don't. I haven't made any objection to Mr. Comfort. It isn't nice to be talked over in that way by anybody, that's all." "But what was I to do? I'm sure I liked the young man very much. I never knew a young man who took his tea so pleasant. And as for his manners and his way of talking, I had it in my heart to fall in love with him myself. I had indeed. As far as that goes, he's just the young man that I could make a son of." "Dear mamma! my own dearest mamma!" and Rachel, jumping up, threw herself upon her mother's neck. "Stop there. You shan't say another word." "I'm sure I didn't mean to say anything unpleasant." "No, you did not; and I won't be impatient." "Only I can't bear that look. And you know what his mother said,--and Mrs. Tappitt. Not that I care about Mrs. Tappitt; only a person's mother is his mother, and he shouldn't have called her a goose." It must be acknowledged that Rachel's position was not comfortable; and it certainly would not have been improved had she known how many people in Baslehurst were talking about her and Rowan. That Rowan was gone everybody knew; that he had made love to Rachel everybody said; that he never meant to come back any more most professed to believe. Tappitt's tongue was loud in proclaiming his iniquities; and her follies and injuries Mrs. Tappitt whispered into the ears of all her female acquaintances. "I'm sorry for her," Miss Harford said, mildly. Mrs. Tappitt was calling at the rectory, and had made her way in. Mr. Tappitt was an upholder of the old rector, and there was a fellow-townsman's friendship between them. "Oh yes;--very sorry for her," said Mrs. Tappitt. "Very sorry indeed," said Augusta, who was with her mother. "She always seemed to me a pretty, quiet, well-behaved girl," said Miss Harford. "Still waters run deepest, you know, Miss Harford," said Mrs. Tappitt. "I should never have imagined it of her;--never. But she certainly met him half-way." "But we all thought he was respectable, you know," said Miss Harford. Miss Harford was thoroughly good-natured; and though she had never gone half-way herself, and had perhaps lost her chance from having been unable to go any part of the way, she was not disposed to condemn a girl for having been willing to be admired by such a one as Luke Rowan. "Well;--yes; at first we did. He had the name of money, you know, and that goes so far with some girls. We were on our guard,"--and she looked proudly round on Augusta,--"till we should hear what the young man really was. He has thrown off his sheep's clothing now with a vengeance. Mr. Tappitt feels quite ashamed that he should have introduced him to any of the people here; he does indeed." "That may be her misfortune, and not her fault," said Miss Harford, who in defending Rachel was well enough inclined to give up Luke. Indeed, Baslehurst was beginning to have a settled mind that Luke was a wolf. "Oh, quite so," said Mrs. Tappitt. "The poor girl has been very unfortunate no doubt." After that she took her leave of the rectory. On that evening Mr. Comfort dined with Dr. Harford, as did also Butler Cornbury and his wife, and one or two others. The chances of the election formed, of course, the chief subject of conversation both in the drawing-room and at the dinner-table; but in talking of the election they came to talk of Mr. Tappitt, and in talking of Tappitt they came to talk of Luke Rowan. It has already been said that Dr. Harford had been rector of Baslehurst for many years at the period to which this story refers. He had nearly completed half a century of work in that capacity, and had certainly been neither an idle nor an inefficient clergyman. But, now in his old age, he was discontented and disgusted by the changes which had come upon him; and though some bodily strength for further service still remained to him, he had no longer any aptitude for useful work. A man cannot change as men change. Individual men are like the separate links of a rotatory chain. The chain goes on with continuous easy motion as though every part of it were capable of adapting itself to a curve, but not the less is each link as stiff and sturdy as any other piece of wrought iron. Dr. Harford had in his time been an active, popular man,--a man possessing even some liberal tendencies in politics, though a country rector of nearly half a century's standing. In his parish he had been more than a clergyman. He had been a magistrate, and a moving man in municipal affairs. He had been a politician, and though now for many years he had supported the Conservative candidate, he had been loudly in favour of the Reform Bill when Baslehurst was a close borough in the possession of a great duke, who held property hard by. But liberal politics had gone on and had left Dr. Harford high and dry on the standing-ground which he had chosen for himself in the early days of his manhood. And then had come that pestilent act of the legislature under which his parish had been divided. Not that the Act of Parliament itself had been violently condemned by the doctor on its becoming law. I doubt whether he had then thought much of it. But when men calling themselves Commissioners came actually upon him and his, and separated off from him a district of his own town, taking it away altogether from his authority, and giving it over to such inexperienced hands as chance might send thither,--then Dr. Harford became a violent Tory. And my readers must not conceive that this was a question touching his pocket. One might presume that his pocket would be in some degree benefited, seeing that he was saved from the necessity of supplying the spiritual wants of a certain portion of his parish. No shilling was taken from his own income, which, indeed, was by no means excessive. His whole parish gave him barely six hundred a year, out of which he had kept always one, and latterly two curates. It was no question of money in any degree. Sooner than be invaded and mutilated he would have submitted to an order calling upon him to find a third curate,--could any power have given such order. His parish had been invaded and his clerical authority mutilated. He was no longer _totus teres atque rotundus_. The beauty of his life was over, and the contentment of his mind was gone. He knew that it was only left for him to die, spending such days as remained to him in vague prophecies of evil against his devoted country,--a country which had allowed its ancient parochial landmarks to be moved, and its ecclesiastical fastnesses to be invaded! But perhaps hatred of Mr. Prong was the strongest passion of Dr. Harford's heart at the present moment. He had ever hated the dissenting ministers by whom he was surrounded. In Devonshire dissent has waxed strong for many years, and the pastors of the dissenting flocks have been thorns in the side of the Church of England clergymen. Dr. Harford had undergone his full share of suffering from such thorns. But they had caused him no more than a pleasant irritation in comparison with what he endured from the presence of Mr. Prong in Baslehurst. He would sooner have entertained all the dissenting ministers of the South Hams together than have put his legs under the same mahogany with Mr. Prong. Mr. Prong was to him the evil thing! Anathema! He believed all bad things of Mr. Prong with an absolute faith, but without any ground on which such faith should have been formed. He thought that Mr. Prong drank spirits; that he robbed his parishioners;--Dr. Harford would sooner have lost his tongue than have used such a word with reference to those who attended Mr. Prong's chapel;--that he had left a deserted wife on some parish; that he was probably not in truth ordained. There was nothing which Dr. Harford could not believe of Mr. Prong. Now all this was, to say the least of it, a pity, for it disfigured the close of a useful and conscientious life. Dr. Harford of course intended to vote for Mr. Cornbury, but he would not join loudly in condemnation of Mr. Tappitt. Tappitt had stood stanchly by him in all parochial contests regarding the new district. Tappitt opposed the Prong faction at all points. Tappitt as churchwarden had been submissive to the doctor. Church of England principles had always been held at the brewery, and Bungall had been ever in favour with Dr. Harford's predecessor. "He calls himself a Liberal, and always has done," said the doctor. "You can't expect that he should desert his own party." "But a Jew!" said old Mr. Comfort. "Well; why not a Jew?" said the doctor. Whereupon Mr. Comfort, and Butler Cornbury, and Dr. Harford's own curate, young Mr. Calclough, and Captain Byng, an old bachelor, who lived in Baslehurst, all stared at him; as Dr. Harford had intended that they should. "Upon my word," said he, "I don't see the use for caring for that kind of thing any longer; I don't indeed. In the way we are going on now, and for the sort of thing we do, I don't see why Jews shouldn't serve us as well in Parliament as Christians. If I am to have my brains knocked out, I'd sooner have it done by a declared enemy than by one who calls himself my friend." "But our brains are not knocked out yet," said Butler Cornbury. "I don't know anything about yours, but mine are." "I don't think the world's coming to an end yet," said the captain. "Nor do I. I said nothing about the world coming to an end. But if you saw a part of your ship put under the command of a landlubber, who didn't know one side of the vessel from the other, you'd think the world had better come to an end than be carried on in that way." "It's not the same thing, you know," said the captain. "You couldn't divide a ship." "Oh, well; you'll see." "I don't think any Christian should vote for a Jew," said the curate. "A verdict has gone out against them, and what is man that he should reverse it?" "Are you quite sure that you are reversing it by putting them into Parliament?" said Dr. Harford. "May not that be a carrying on of the curse?" "There's consolation in that idea for Butler if he loses his election," said Mr. Comfort. "Parliament isn't what it was," said the doctor. "There's no doubt about that." "And who is to blame?" said Mr. Comfort, who had never supported the Reform Bill as his neighbour had done. "I say nothing about blame. It's natural that things should get worse as they grow older." "Dr. Harford thinks Parliament is worn out," said Butler Cornbury. "And what if I do think so? Have not other things as great fallen and gone into decay? Did not the Roman senate wear out, as you call it? And as for these Jews, of whom you are speaking, what was the curse upon them but the wearing out of their grace and wisdom? I am inclined to think that we are wearing out; only I wish the garment could have lasted my time without showing so many thin places." "Now I believe just the contrary," said the captain. "I don't think we have come to our full growth yet." "Could we lick the French as we did at Trafalgar and Waterloo?" said the doctor. The captain thought a while before he answered, and then spoke with much solemnity. "Yes," said he, "I think we could. And I hope the time will soon come when we may." "We shan't do it if we send Jews to Parliament," said Mr. Comfort. "I must say I think Tappitt wrong," said young Cornbury. "Of course, near as the thing is going, I'm sorry to lose his vote; but I'm not speaking because of that. He has always pretended to hold on to the Church party here, and the Church party has held on to him. His beer is none of the best, and I think he'd have been wise to stick to his old friends." "I don't see the argument about the beer," said the doctor. "He shouldn't provoke his neighbours to look at his faults." "But the Jew's friends would find out that the beer is bad as well as yours." "The truth is," said Cornbury, "that Tappitt thinks he has a personal grievance against me. He's as cross as a bear with a sore head at the present moment, because this young fellow who was to have been his partner has turned against him. There's some love affair, and my wife has been there and made a mess of it. It's hard upon me, for I don't know that I ever saw the young man in my life." "I believe that fellow is a scamp," said the doctor. "I hope not," said Mr. Comfort, thinking of Rachel and her hopes. "We all hope he isn't, of course," said the doctor. "But we can't prevent men being scamps by hoping. There are other scamps in this town in whom, if my hoping would do any good, a very great change would be made."--Everybody present knew that the doctor alluded especially to Mr. Prong, whose condition, however, if the doctor's hopes could have been carried out, would not have been enviable.--"But I fear this fellow Rowan is a scamp, and I think he has treated Tappitt badly. Tappitt told me all about it only this morning." "Audi alteram partem," said Mr. Comfort. "The scamp's party you mean," said the doctor. "I haven't the means of doing that. If in this world we suspend our judgment till we've heard all that can be said on both sides of every question, we should never come to any judgment at all. I hear that he's in debt; I believe he behaved very badly to Tappitt himself, so that Tappitt was forced to use personal violence to defend himself; and he has certainly threatened to open a new brewery here. Now that's bad, as coming from a young man related to the old firm." "I think he should leave the brewery alone," said Mr. Comfort. "Of course he should," said the doctor. "And I hear, moreover, that he is playing a wicked game with a girl in your parish." "I don't know about a wicked game," said the other. "It won't be a wicked game if he marries her." Then Rachel's chances of matrimonial success were discussed with a degree of vigour which must have been felt by her to be highly complimentary, had she been aware of it. But I grieve to say that public opinion, as expressed in Dr. Harford's dining-room, went against Luke Rowan. Mr. Tappitt was not a great man, either as a citizen or as a brewer: he was not one to whom Baslehurst would even rejoice to raise a monument; but such as he was he had been known for many years.

soothe

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

"That wouldn't be seemly, because our mayor is expected to attend in church on Roundabout Sunday." Roundabout Sunday, so called for certain local reasons which it would be long to explain, followed immediately on the day of the mayor's inauguration. "Would you like to have a Jew partner in your own business?" Mrs. Butler Cornbury should have said nothing to Mr. Tappitt as to any partner in the brewery, Jew or Christian. "I don't want any partner, and what's more, I don't mean to have any." "Mrs. Cornbury is in favour of Luke Rowan; she takes his side," said Mrs. Tappitt, some portion of her courage returning to her as this opportunity opened upon her. Mr. Tappitt turned his head full round and looked upon Mrs. Cornbury with an evil eye. That lady knew that the vote was lost, lost unless she would denounce the man whom Rachel loved; and she determined at once that she would not denounce him. There are many things which such a woman will do to gain such an object. She could smile when Tappitt was offensive; she could smile again when Mrs. Tappitt talked like a kitchenmaid. She could flatter them both, and pretend to talk seriously with them about Jews and her own Church feelings. She could have given up to them Luke Rowan,--if he had stood alone. But she could not give up the girl she had chaperoned, and upon whom, during that chaperoning, her good-will and kindly feelings had fallen. Rachel had pleased her eye, and gratified her sense of feminine nicety. She felt that a word said against Rowan would be a word said also against Rachel; and therefore, throwing her husband over for the nonce, she resolved to sacrifice the vote and stand up for her friend. "Well, yes; I do," said she, meeting Tappitt's eye steadily. She was not going to be looked out of countenance by Mr. Tappitt. "She thinks he'll come back to marry that young woman at Bragg's End," said Mrs. Tappitt; "but I say that he'll never dare to show his face in Baslehurst again." "That young woman is making a great fool of herself," said Tappitt, "if she trusts to a swindler like him." "Perhaps, Mrs. Tappitt," said Mrs. Cornbury, "we needn't mind discussing Miss Ray. It's not good to talk about a young lady in that way, and I'm sure I never said that I thought she was engaged to Mr. Rowan. Had I done so I should have been very wrong, for I know nothing about it. What little I saw of the gentleman I liked;" and as she used the word gentleman she looked Tappitt full in the face; "and for Miss Ray, I've a great regard for her, and think very highly of her. Independently of her acknowledged beauty and pleasant, ladylike manners, she's a very charming girl. About the vote, Mr. Tappitt--; at any rate you'll think of it." But had he not been defied in his own house? And as for her, the mother of those three finely educated girls, had not every word said in Rachel's favour been a dagger planted in her own maternal bosom? Whose courage would not have risen under such provocation? Mrs. Cornbury had got up to go, but the indignant, injured Tappitts resolved mutually, though without concert, that she should be answered. "I'm an honest man, Mrs. Cornbury," said the brewer, "and I like to speak out my mind openly. Mr. Hart is a liberal, and I mean to support my party. Will you tell Mr. Cornbury so with my compliments? It's all nonsense about Jews not being in Parliament. It's not the same as being mayors or churchwardens, or anything like that. I shall vote for Mr. Hart; and, what's more, we shall put him in." "And Mrs. Cornbury, if you have so much regard for Miss Rachel, you'd better advise her to think no more of that young man. He's no good; he's not indeed. If you ask, you'll find he's in debt everywhere." "Swindler!" said Tappitt. "I don't suppose it can be very bad with Miss Rachel yet, for she only saw him about three times,--though she was so intimate with him at our party." Mrs. Butler Cornbury curtseyed and smiled, and got herself out of the room. Mrs. Tappitt, as soon as she remembered herself, rang the bell, and Mr. Tappitt, following her down to the hall door, went through the pretence of putting her into her carriage. "She's a nasty meddlesome woman," said Tappitt, as soon as he got back to his wife. "And how ever she can stand up and say all those things for that girl, passes me!" said Mrs. Tappitt, holding up both her hands. "She was flighty herself, when young; she was, no doubt; and now I suppose she likes others to be the same. If that's what she calls manners, I shouldn't like her to take my girls about." "And him a gentleman!" said Tappitt. "If those are to be our gentlemen I'd sooner have all the Jews out of Jerusalem. But they'll find out their gentleman; they'll find him out! He'll rob that old mother of his before he's done; you mark my words else." Comforting himself with this hope he took himself back to his counting-house. Mrs. Cornbury had smiled as she went, and had carried herself through the whole interview without any sign of temper. Even when declaring that she intended to take Rachel's part open-mouthed, she had spoken in a half-drolling way which had divested her words of any tone of offence. But when she got into her carriage, she was in truth very angry. "I don't believe a word of it," she said to herself; "not a word of it." That in which she professed to herself her own disbelief was the general assertion that Rowan was a swindler, supported by the particular assertion that he had left Baslehurst over head and ears in debt. "I don't believe it." And she resolved that it should be her business to find out whether the accusation were true or false. She knew the ins and outs of Baslehurst life and Baslehurst doings with tolerable accuracy, and was at any rate capable of unravelling such a mystery as that. If the Tappitts in their jealousy were striving to rob Rachel Ray of her husband by spreading false reports, she would encourage Rachel Ray in her love by spreading the truth;--if, as she believed, the truth should speak in Rowan's favour. She would have considerable pleasure in countermining Mr. and Mrs. Tappitt. As to Mr. Tappitt's vote for the election;--that was gone! CHAPTER III. DR. HARFORD. The current of events forced upon Rachel a delay of three or four days in answering her letter, or rather forced upon her that delay in learning whether or no she might answer it; and this was felt by her to be a grievous evil. It had been arranged that she should not write until such writing should have received what might almost be called a parochial sanction, and no idea of acting in opposition to that arrangement ever occurred to her; but the more she thought of it the more she was vexed; and the more she thought of it the more she learned to doubt whether or no her mother was placing her in safe tutelage. During these few weeks a great change came upon the girl's character. When first Mrs. Prime had brought home tidings that Miss Pucker had seen her walking and talking with the young man from the brewery, angry as she had been with her sister, and disgusted as she had been with Miss Pucker, she had acknowledged to herself that such talking and walking were very dangerous, if not very improper, and she had half resolved that there should be no more of them. And when Mrs. Prime had seen her standing at the stile, and had brought home that second report, Rachel, knowing what had occurred at that stile, had then felt sure that she was in danger. At that time, though she had thought much of Luke Rowan, she had not thought of him as a man who could possibly be her husband. She had thought of him as having no right to call her Rachel, because he could not possibly become so. There had been great danger;--there had been conduct which she believed to be improper though she could not tell herself that she had been guilty. In her outlook into the world nothing so beautiful had promised itself to her as having such a man to love her as Luke Rowan. Though her mother was not herself ascetic,--liking tea and buttered toast dearly, and liking also little soft laughter with her child,--she had preached ascetisms till Rachel had learned to think that the world was all either ascetic or reprobate. The Dorcas meetings had become distasteful to her because the women were vulgar; but yet she had half believed herself to be wrong in avoiding the work and the vulgarity together. Idle she had never been. Since a needle had come easy to her hand, and the economies of a household had been made intelligible to her, she had earned her bread and assisted in works of charity. She had read no love stories, and been taught to expect no lover. She was not prepared to deny,--did not deny even to herself,--that it was wrong that she should even like to talk to Luke Rowan. Then came the ball; or, rather, first came the little evening party, which afterwards grew to be a ball. She had been very desirous of going, not for the sake of any pleasure that she promised herself; not for the sake of such pleasure as girls do promise themselves at such gatherings; but because her female pride told her that it was well for her to claim the right of meeting this young man,--well for her to declare that nothing had passed between them which should make her afraid to meet him. That some other hopes had crept in as the evening had come nigh at hand,--hopes of which she had been made aware only by her efforts in repressing them,--may not be denied. She had been accused because of him; and she would show that no such accusation had daunted her. But would he,--would he give occasion for further accusation? She believed he would not; nay, she was sure; at any rate she hoped he would not. She told herself that such was her hope; but had he not noticed her she would have been wretched. We know now in what manner he had noticed her, and we know also whether she had been wretched. She had certainly fled from him. When she left the brewery-house, inducing Mrs. Cornbury to bring her away, she did so in order that she might escape from him. But she ran from him as one runs from some great joy in order that the mind may revel over it in peace. Then, little as she knew it, her love had been given. Her heart was his. She had placed him upon her pinnacle, and was prepared to worship him. She was ready to dress herself in his eyes, to believe that to be good which he thought good, and to repudiate that which he repudiated. When she bowed her head over his breast a day or two afterwards, she could have spoken to him with the full words of passionate love had not maiden fear repressed her. But she had not even bowed her head for him, she had not acknowledged to herself that such love was possible to her, till her mother had consented. That her mother's consent had been wavering, doubtful, expressed without intention of such expression,--so expressed that Mrs. Ray hardly knew that she had expressed it,--was not understood by Rachel. Her mother had consented, and, that consent having been given, Rachel was not now disposed to allow of any steps backwards. She seemed to have learned her rights, or to have assumed that she had rights. Hitherto her obedience to her mother had been pure and simple, although, from the greater force of her character, she had in many things been her mother's leader. But now, though she was ill inclined to rebel, though in this matter of the letter she had obeyed, she was beginning to feel that obedience might become a hardship. She did not say to herself, "They have let me love him, and now they must not put out their hands to hold back my love;" but the current of her feelings ran as though such unspoken words had passed across her mind. She had her rights; and though she did not presume that she could insist on them in opposition to her mother or her mother's advisers, she knew that she would be wronged if those rights were withheld from her. The chief of those rights was the possession of her lover. If he was taken from her she would be as one imprisoned unjustly,--as one robbed by those who should have been his friends,--as one injured, wounded, stricken in the dark, and treacherously mutilated by hands that should have protected him. During these days she was silent, and sat with that look upon her brow which her mother feared. "I could not make Mr. Comfort come any sooner, Rachel," said Mrs. Ray. "No, mamma." "I can see how impatient you are." "I don't know that I'm impatient. I'm sure that I haven't said anything." "If you said anything I shouldn't mind it so much; but I can't bear to see you with that unhappy look. I'm sure I only wish to do what's best. You can't think it right that you should be writing letters to a gentleman without being sure that it is proper." "Oh, mamma, don't talk about it!" "You don't like me to ask your sister; and I'm sure it's natural I should want to ask somebody. He's nearly seventy years old, and he has known you ever since you were born. And then he's a clergyman, and therefore he'll be sure to know what's right. Not that I should have liked to have said a word about it to Mr. Prong, because there's a difference when they come from one doesn't know where." "Pray, mamma, don't. I haven't made any objection to Mr. Comfort. It isn't nice to be talked over in that way by anybody, that's all." "But what was I to do? I'm sure I liked the young man very much. I never knew a young man who took his tea so pleasant. And as for his manners and his way of talking, I had it in my heart to fall in love with him myself. I had indeed. As far as that goes, he's just the young man that I could make a son of." "Dear mamma! my own dearest mamma!" and Rachel, jumping up, threw herself upon her mother's neck. "Stop there. You shan't say another word." "I'm sure I didn't mean to say anything unpleasant." "No, you did not; and I won't be impatient." "Only I can't bear that look. And you know what his mother said,--and Mrs. Tappitt. Not that I care about Mrs. Tappitt; only a person's mother is his mother, and he shouldn't have called her a goose." It must be acknowledged that Rachel's position was not comfortable; and it certainly would not have been improved had she known how many people in Baslehurst were talking about her and Rowan. That Rowan was gone everybody knew; that he had made love to Rachel everybody said; that he never meant to come back any more most professed to believe. Tappitt's tongue was loud in proclaiming his iniquities; and her follies and injuries Mrs. Tappitt whispered into the ears of all her female acquaintances. "I'm sorry for her," Miss Harford said, mildly. Mrs. Tappitt was calling at the rectory, and had made her way in. Mr. Tappitt was an upholder of the old rector, and there was a fellow-townsman's friendship between them. "Oh yes;--very sorry for her," said Mrs. Tappitt. "Very sorry indeed," said Augusta, who was with her mother. "She always seemed to me a pretty, quiet, well-behaved girl," said Miss Harford. "Still waters run deepest, you know, Miss Harford," said Mrs. Tappitt. "I should never have imagined it of her;--never. But she certainly met him half-way." "But we all thought he was respectable, you know," said Miss Harford. Miss Harford was thoroughly good-natured; and though she had never gone half-way herself, and had perhaps lost her chance from having been unable to go any part of the way, she was not disposed to condemn a girl for having been willing to be admired by such a one as Luke Rowan. "Well;--yes; at first we did. He had the name of money, you know, and that goes so far with some girls. We were on our guard,"--and she looked proudly round on Augusta,--"till we should hear what the young man really was. He has thrown off his sheep's clothing now with a vengeance. Mr. Tappitt feels quite ashamed that he should have introduced him to any of the people here; he does indeed." "That may be her misfortune, and not her fault," said Miss Harford, who in defending Rachel was well enough inclined to give up Luke. Indeed, Baslehurst was beginning to have a settled mind that Luke was a wolf. "Oh, quite so," said Mrs. Tappitt. "The poor girl has been very unfortunate no doubt." After that she took her leave of the rectory. On that evening Mr. Comfort dined with Dr. Harford, as did also Butler Cornbury and his wife, and one or two others. The chances of the election formed, of course, the chief subject of conversation both in the drawing-room and at the dinner-table; but in talking of the election they came to talk of Mr. Tappitt, and in talking of Tappitt they came to talk of Luke Rowan. It has already been said that Dr. Harford had been rector of Baslehurst for many years at the period to which this story refers. He had nearly completed half a century of work in that capacity, and had certainly been neither an idle nor an inefficient clergyman. But, now in his old age, he was discontented and disgusted by the changes which had come upon him; and though some bodily strength for further service still remained to him, he had no longer any aptitude for useful work. A man cannot change as men change. Individual men are like the separate links of a rotatory chain. The chain goes on with continuous easy motion as though every part of it were capable of adapting itself to a curve, but not the less is each link as stiff and sturdy as any other piece of wrought iron. Dr. Harford had in his time been an active, popular man,--a man possessing even some liberal tendencies in politics, though a country rector of nearly half a century's standing. In his parish he had been more than a clergyman. He had been a magistrate, and a moving man in municipal affairs. He had been a politician, and though now for many years he had supported the Conservative candidate, he had been loudly in favour of the Reform Bill when Baslehurst was a close borough in the possession of a great duke, who held property hard by. But liberal politics had gone on and had left Dr. Harford high and dry on the standing-ground which he had chosen for himself in the early days of his manhood. And then had come that pestilent act of the legislature under which his parish had been divided. Not that the Act of Parliament itself had been violently condemned by the doctor on its becoming law. I doubt whether he had then thought much of it. But when men calling themselves Commissioners came actually upon him and his, and separated off from him a district of his own town, taking it away altogether from his authority, and giving it over to such inexperienced hands as chance might send thither,--then Dr. Harford became a violent Tory. And my readers must not conceive that this was a question touching his pocket. One might presume that his pocket would be in some degree benefited, seeing that he was saved from the necessity of supplying the spiritual wants of a certain portion of his parish. No shilling was taken from his own income, which, indeed, was by no means excessive. His whole parish gave him barely six hundred a year, out of which he had kept always one, and latterly two curates. It was no question of money in any degree. Sooner than be invaded and mutilated he would have submitted to an order calling upon him to find a third curate,--could any power have given such order. His parish had been invaded and his clerical authority mutilated. He was no longer _totus teres atque rotundus_. The beauty of his life was over, and the contentment of his mind was gone. He knew that it was only left for him to die, spending such days as remained to him in vague prophecies of evil against his devoted country,--a country which had allowed its ancient parochial landmarks to be moved, and its ecclesiastical fastnesses to be invaded! But perhaps hatred of Mr. Prong was the strongest passion of Dr. Harford's heart at the present moment. He had ever hated the dissenting ministers by whom he was surrounded. In Devonshire dissent has waxed strong for many years, and the pastors of the dissenting flocks have been thorns in the side of the Church of England clergymen. Dr. Harford had undergone his full share of suffering from such thorns. But they had caused him no more than a pleasant irritation in comparison with what he endured from the presence of Mr. Prong in Baslehurst. He would sooner have entertained all the dissenting ministers of the South Hams together than have put his legs under the same mahogany with Mr. Prong. Mr. Prong was to him the evil thing! Anathema! He believed all bad things of Mr. Prong with an absolute faith, but without any ground on which such faith should have been formed. He thought that Mr. Prong drank spirits; that he robbed his parishioners;--Dr. Harford would sooner have lost his tongue than have used such a word with reference to those who attended Mr. Prong's chapel;--that he had left a deserted wife on some parish; that he was probably not in truth ordained. There was nothing which Dr. Harford could not believe of Mr. Prong. Now all this was, to say the least of it, a pity, for it disfigured the close of a useful and conscientious life. Dr. Harford of course intended to vote for Mr. Cornbury, but he would not join loudly in condemnation of Mr. Tappitt. Tappitt had stood stanchly by him in all parochial contests regarding the new district. Tappitt opposed the Prong faction at all points. Tappitt as churchwarden had been submissive to the doctor. Church of England principles had always been held at the brewery, and Bungall had been ever in favour with Dr. Harford's predecessor. "He calls himself a Liberal, and always has done," said the doctor. "You can't expect that he should desert his own party." "But a Jew!" said old Mr. Comfort. "Well; why not a Jew?" said the doctor. Whereupon Mr. Comfort, and Butler Cornbury, and Dr. Harford's own curate, young Mr. Calclough, and Captain Byng, an old bachelor, who lived in Baslehurst, all stared at him; as Dr. Harford had intended that they should. "Upon my word," said he, "I don't see the use for caring for that kind of thing any longer; I don't indeed. In the way we are going on now, and for the sort of thing we do, I don't see why Jews shouldn't serve us as well in Parliament as Christians. If I am to have my brains knocked out, I'd sooner have it done by a declared enemy than by one who calls himself my friend." "But our brains are not knocked out yet," said Butler Cornbury. "I don't know anything about yours, but mine are." "I don't think the world's coming to an end yet," said the captain. "Nor do I. I said nothing about the world coming to an end. But if you saw a part of your ship put under the command of a landlubber, who didn't know one side of the vessel from the other, you'd think the world had better come to an end than be carried on in that way." "It's not the same thing, you know," said the captain. "You couldn't divide a ship." "Oh, well; you'll see." "I don't think any Christian should vote for a Jew," said the curate. "A verdict has gone out against them, and what is man that he should reverse it?" "Are you quite sure that you are reversing it by putting them into Parliament?" said Dr. Harford. "May not that be a carrying on of the curse?" "There's consolation in that idea for Butler if he loses his election," said Mr. Comfort. "Parliament isn't what it was," said the doctor. "There's no doubt about that." "And who is to blame?" said Mr. Comfort, who had never supported the Reform Bill as his neighbour had done. "I say nothing about blame. It's natural that things should get worse as they grow older." "Dr. Harford thinks Parliament is worn out," said Butler Cornbury. "And what if I do think so? Have not other things as great fallen and gone into decay? Did not the Roman senate wear out, as you call it? And as for these Jews, of whom you are speaking, what was the curse upon them but the wearing out of their grace and wisdom? I am inclined to think that we are wearing out; only I wish the garment could have lasted my time without showing so many thin places." "Now I believe just the contrary," said the captain. "I don't think we have come to our full growth yet." "Could we lick the French as we did at Trafalgar and Waterloo?" said the doctor. The captain thought a while before he answered, and then spoke with much solemnity. "Yes," said he, "I think we could. And I hope the time will soon come when we may." "We shan't do it if we send Jews to Parliament," said Mr. Comfort. "I must say I think Tappitt wrong," said young Cornbury. "Of course, near as the thing is going, I'm sorry to lose his vote; but I'm not speaking because of that. He has always pretended to hold on to the Church party here, and the Church party has held on to him. His beer is none of the best, and I think he'd have been wise to stick to his old friends." "I don't see the argument about the beer," said the doctor. "He shouldn't provoke his neighbours to look at his faults." "But the Jew's friends would find out that the beer is bad as well as yours." "The truth is," said Cornbury, "that Tappitt thinks he has a personal grievance against me. He's as cross as a bear with a sore head at the present moment, because this young fellow who was to have been his partner has turned against him. There's some love affair, and my wife has been there and made a mess of it. It's hard upon me, for I don't know that I ever saw the young man in my life." "I believe that fellow is a scamp," said the doctor. "I hope not," said Mr. Comfort, thinking of Rachel and her hopes. "We all hope he isn't, of course," said the doctor. "But we can't prevent men being scamps by hoping. There are other scamps in this town in whom, if my hoping would do any good, a very great change would be made."--Everybody present knew that the doctor alluded especially to Mr. Prong, whose condition, however, if the doctor's hopes could have been carried out, would not have been enviable.--"But I fear this fellow Rowan is a scamp, and I think he has treated Tappitt badly. Tappitt told me all about it only this morning." "Audi alteram partem," said Mr. Comfort. "The scamp's party you mean," said the doctor. "I haven't the means of doing that. If in this world we suspend our judgment till we've heard all that can be said on both sides of every question, we should never come to any judgment at all. I hear that he's in debt; I believe he behaved very badly to Tappitt himself, so that Tappitt was forced to use personal violence to defend himself; and he has certainly threatened to open a new brewery here. Now that's bad, as coming from a young man related to the old firm." "I think he should leave the brewery alone," said Mr. Comfort. "Of course he should," said the doctor. "And I hear, moreover, that he is playing a wicked game with a girl in your parish." "I don't know about a wicked game," said the other. "It won't be a wicked game if he marries her." Then Rachel's chances of matrimonial success were discussed with a degree of vigour which must have been felt by her to be highly complimentary, had she been aware of it. But I grieve to say that public opinion, as expressed in Dr. Harford's dining-room, went against Luke Rowan. Mr. Tappitt was not a great man, either as a citizen or as a brewer: he was not one to whom Baslehurst would even rejoice to raise a monument; but such as he was he had been known for many years.

wifely

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

"That wouldn't be seemly, because our mayor is expected to attend in church on Roundabout Sunday." Roundabout Sunday, so called for certain local reasons which it would be long to explain, followed immediately on the day of the mayor's inauguration. "Would you like to have a Jew partner in your own business?" Mrs. Butler Cornbury should have said nothing to Mr. Tappitt as to any partner in the brewery, Jew or Christian. "I don't want any partner, and what's more, I don't mean to have any." "Mrs. Cornbury is in favour of Luke Rowan; she takes his side," said Mrs. Tappitt, some portion of her courage returning to her as this opportunity opened upon her. Mr. Tappitt turned his head full round and looked upon Mrs. Cornbury with an evil eye. That lady knew that the vote was lost, lost unless she would denounce the man whom Rachel loved; and she determined at once that she would not denounce him. There are many things which such a woman will do to gain such an object. She could smile when Tappitt was offensive; she could smile again when Mrs. Tappitt talked like a kitchenmaid. She could flatter them both, and pretend to talk seriously with them about Jews and her own Church feelings. She could have given up to them Luke Rowan,--if he had stood alone. But she could not give up the girl she had chaperoned, and upon whom, during that chaperoning, her good-will and kindly feelings had fallen. Rachel had pleased her eye, and gratified her sense of feminine nicety. She felt that a word said against Rowan would be a word said also against Rachel; and therefore, throwing her husband over for the nonce, she resolved to sacrifice the vote and stand up for her friend. "Well, yes; I do," said she, meeting Tappitt's eye steadily. She was not going to be looked out of countenance by Mr. Tappitt. "She thinks he'll come back to marry that young woman at Bragg's End," said Mrs. Tappitt; "but I say that he'll never dare to show his face in Baslehurst again." "That young woman is making a great fool of herself," said Tappitt, "if she trusts to a swindler like him." "Perhaps, Mrs. Tappitt," said Mrs. Cornbury, "we needn't mind discussing Miss Ray. It's not good to talk about a young lady in that way, and I'm sure I never said that I thought she was engaged to Mr. Rowan. Had I done so I should have been very wrong, for I know nothing about it. What little I saw of the gentleman I liked;" and as she used the word gentleman she looked Tappitt full in the face; "and for Miss Ray, I've a great regard for her, and think very highly of her. Independently of her acknowledged beauty and pleasant, ladylike manners, she's a very charming girl. About the vote, Mr. Tappitt--; at any rate you'll think of it." But had he not been defied in his own house? And as for her, the mother of those three finely educated girls, had not every word said in Rachel's favour been a dagger planted in her own maternal bosom? Whose courage would not have risen under such provocation? Mrs. Cornbury had got up to go, but the indignant, injured Tappitts resolved mutually, though without concert, that she should be answered. "I'm an honest man, Mrs. Cornbury," said the brewer, "and I like to speak out my mind openly. Mr. Hart is a liberal, and I mean to support my party. Will you tell Mr. Cornbury so with my compliments? It's all nonsense about Jews not being in Parliament. It's not the same as being mayors or churchwardens, or anything like that. I shall vote for Mr. Hart; and, what's more, we shall put him in." "And Mrs. Cornbury, if you have so much regard for Miss Rachel, you'd better advise her to think no more of that young man. He's no good; he's not indeed. If you ask, you'll find he's in debt everywhere." "Swindler!" said Tappitt. "I don't suppose it can be very bad with Miss Rachel yet, for she only saw him about three times,--though she was so intimate with him at our party." Mrs. Butler Cornbury curtseyed and smiled, and got herself out of the room. Mrs. Tappitt, as soon as she remembered herself, rang the bell, and Mr. Tappitt, following her down to the hall door, went through the pretence of putting her into her carriage. "She's a nasty meddlesome woman," said Tappitt, as soon as he got back to his wife. "And how ever she can stand up and say all those things for that girl, passes me!" said Mrs. Tappitt, holding up both her hands. "She was flighty herself, when young; she was, no doubt; and now I suppose she likes others to be the same. If that's what she calls manners, I shouldn't like her to take my girls about." "And him a gentleman!" said Tappitt. "If those are to be our gentlemen I'd sooner have all the Jews out of Jerusalem. But they'll find out their gentleman; they'll find him out! He'll rob that old mother of his before he's done; you mark my words else." Comforting himself with this hope he took himself back to his counting-house. Mrs. Cornbury had smiled as she went, and had carried herself through the whole interview without any sign of temper. Even when declaring that she intended to take Rachel's part open-mouthed, she had spoken in a half-drolling way which had divested her words of any tone of offence. But when she got into her carriage, she was in truth very angry. "I don't believe a word of it," she said to herself; "not a word of it." That in which she professed to herself her own disbelief was the general assertion that Rowan was a swindler, supported by the particular assertion that he had left Baslehurst over head and ears in debt. "I don't believe it." And she resolved that it should be her business to find out whether the accusation were true or false. She knew the ins and outs of Baslehurst life and Baslehurst doings with tolerable accuracy, and was at any rate capable of unravelling such a mystery as that. If the Tappitts in their jealousy were striving to rob Rachel Ray of her husband by spreading false reports, she would encourage Rachel Ray in her love by spreading the truth;--if, as she believed, the truth should speak in Rowan's favour. She would have considerable pleasure in countermining Mr. and Mrs. Tappitt. As to Mr. Tappitt's vote for the election;--that was gone! CHAPTER III. DR. HARFORD. The current of events forced upon Rachel a delay of three or four days in answering her letter, or rather forced upon her that delay in learning whether or no she might answer it; and this was felt by her to be a grievous evil. It had been arranged that she should not write until such writing should have received what might almost be called a parochial sanction, and no idea of acting in opposition to that arrangement ever occurred to her; but the more she thought of it the more she was vexed; and the more she thought of it the more she learned to doubt whether or no her mother was placing her in safe tutelage. During these few weeks a great change came upon the girl's character. When first Mrs. Prime had brought home tidings that Miss Pucker had seen her walking and talking with the young man from the brewery, angry as she had been with her sister, and disgusted as she had been with Miss Pucker, she had acknowledged to herself that such talking and walking were very dangerous, if not very improper, and she had half resolved that there should be no more of them. And when Mrs. Prime had seen her standing at the stile, and had brought home that second report, Rachel, knowing what had occurred at that stile, had then felt sure that she was in danger. At that time, though she had thought much of Luke Rowan, she had not thought of him as a man who could possibly be her husband. She had thought of him as having no right to call her Rachel, because he could not possibly become so. There had been great danger;--there had been conduct which she believed to be improper though she could not tell herself that she had been guilty. In her outlook into the world nothing so beautiful had promised itself to her as having such a man to love her as Luke Rowan. Though her mother was not herself ascetic,--liking tea and buttered toast dearly, and liking also little soft laughter with her child,--she had preached ascetisms till Rachel had learned to think that the world was all either ascetic or reprobate. The Dorcas meetings had become distasteful to her because the women were vulgar; but yet she had half believed herself to be wrong in avoiding the work and the vulgarity together. Idle she had never been. Since a needle had come easy to her hand, and the economies of a household had been made intelligible to her, she had earned her bread and assisted in works of charity. She had read no love stories, and been taught to expect no lover. She was not prepared to deny,--did not deny even to herself,--that it was wrong that she should even like to talk to Luke Rowan. Then came the ball; or, rather, first came the little evening party, which afterwards grew to be a ball. She had been very desirous of going, not for the sake of any pleasure that she promised herself; not for the sake of such pleasure as girls do promise themselves at such gatherings; but because her female pride told her that it was well for her to claim the right of meeting this young man,--well for her to declare that nothing had passed between them which should make her afraid to meet him. That some other hopes had crept in as the evening had come nigh at hand,--hopes of which she had been made aware only by her efforts in repressing them,--may not be denied. She had been accused because of him; and she would show that no such accusation had daunted her. But would he,--would he give occasion for further accusation? She believed he would not; nay, she was sure; at any rate she hoped he would not. She told herself that such was her hope; but had he not noticed her she would have been wretched. We know now in what manner he had noticed her, and we know also whether she had been wretched. She had certainly fled from him. When she left the brewery-house, inducing Mrs. Cornbury to bring her away, she did so in order that she might escape from him. But she ran from him as one runs from some great joy in order that the mind may revel over it in peace. Then, little as she knew it, her love had been given. Her heart was his. She had placed him upon her pinnacle, and was prepared to worship him. She was ready to dress herself in his eyes, to believe that to be good which he thought good, and to repudiate that which he repudiated. When she bowed her head over his breast a day or two afterwards, she could have spoken to him with the full words of passionate love had not maiden fear repressed her. But she had not even bowed her head for him, she had not acknowledged to herself that such love was possible to her, till her mother had consented. That her mother's consent had been wavering, doubtful, expressed without intention of such expression,--so expressed that Mrs. Ray hardly knew that she had expressed it,--was not understood by Rachel. Her mother had consented, and, that consent having been given, Rachel was not now disposed to allow of any steps backwards. She seemed to have learned her rights, or to have assumed that she had rights. Hitherto her obedience to her mother had been pure and simple, although, from the greater force of her character, she had in many things been her mother's leader. But now, though she was ill inclined to rebel, though in this matter of the letter she had obeyed, she was beginning to feel that obedience might become a hardship. She did not say to herself, "They have let me love him, and now they must not put out their hands to hold back my love;" but the current of her feelings ran as though such unspoken words had passed across her mind. She had her rights; and though she did not presume that she could insist on them in opposition to her mother or her mother's advisers, she knew that she would be wronged if those rights were withheld from her. The chief of those rights was the possession of her lover. If he was taken from her she would be as one imprisoned unjustly,--as one robbed by those who should have been his friends,--as one injured, wounded, stricken in the dark, and treacherously mutilated by hands that should have protected him. During these days she was silent, and sat with that look upon her brow which her mother feared. "I could not make Mr. Comfort come any sooner, Rachel," said Mrs. Ray. "No, mamma." "I can see how impatient you are." "I don't know that I'm impatient. I'm sure that I haven't said anything." "If you said anything I shouldn't mind it so much; but I can't bear to see you with that unhappy look. I'm sure I only wish to do what's best. You can't think it right that you should be writing letters to a gentleman without being sure that it is proper." "Oh, mamma, don't talk about it!" "You don't like me to ask your sister; and I'm sure it's natural I should want to ask somebody. He's nearly seventy years old, and he has known you ever since you were born. And then he's a clergyman, and therefore he'll be sure to know what's right. Not that I should have liked to have said a word about it to Mr. Prong, because there's a difference when they come from one doesn't know where." "Pray, mamma, don't. I haven't made any objection to Mr. Comfort. It isn't nice to be talked over in that way by anybody, that's all." "But what was I to do? I'm sure I liked the young man very much. I never knew a young man who took his tea so pleasant. And as for his manners and his way of talking, I had it in my heart to fall in love with him myself. I had indeed. As far as that goes, he's just the young man that I could make a son of." "Dear mamma! my own dearest mamma!" and Rachel, jumping up, threw herself upon her mother's neck. "Stop there. You shan't say another word." "I'm sure I didn't mean to say anything unpleasant." "No, you did not; and I won't be impatient." "Only I can't bear that look. And you know what his mother said,--and Mrs. Tappitt. Not that I care about Mrs. Tappitt; only a person's mother is his mother, and he shouldn't have called her a goose." It must be acknowledged that Rachel's position was not comfortable; and it certainly would not have been improved had she known how many people in Baslehurst were talking about her and Rowan. That Rowan was gone everybody knew; that he had made love to Rachel everybody said; that he never meant to come back any more most professed to believe. Tappitt's tongue was loud in proclaiming his iniquities; and her follies and injuries Mrs. Tappitt whispered into the ears of all her female acquaintances. "I'm sorry for her," Miss Harford said, mildly. Mrs. Tappitt was calling at the rectory, and had made her way in. Mr. Tappitt was an upholder of the old rector, and there was a fellow-townsman's friendship between them. "Oh yes;--very sorry for her," said Mrs. Tappitt. "Very sorry indeed," said Augusta, who was with her mother. "She always seemed to me a pretty, quiet, well-behaved girl," said Miss Harford. "Still waters run deepest, you know, Miss Harford," said Mrs. Tappitt. "I should never have imagined it of her;--never. But she certainly met him half-way." "But we all thought he was respectable, you know," said Miss Harford. Miss Harford was thoroughly good-natured; and though she had never gone half-way herself, and had perhaps lost her chance from having been unable to go any part of the way, she was not disposed to condemn a girl for having been willing to be admired by such a one as Luke Rowan. "Well;--yes; at first we did. He had the name of money, you know, and that goes so far with some girls. We were on our guard,"--and she looked proudly round on Augusta,--"till we should hear what the young man really was. He has thrown off his sheep's clothing now with a vengeance. Mr. Tappitt feels quite ashamed that he should have introduced him to any of the people here; he does indeed." "That may be her misfortune, and not her fault," said Miss Harford, who in defending Rachel was well enough inclined to give up Luke. Indeed, Baslehurst was beginning to have a settled mind that Luke was a wolf. "Oh, quite so," said Mrs. Tappitt. "The poor girl has been very unfortunate no doubt." After that she took her leave of the rectory. On that evening Mr. Comfort dined with Dr. Harford, as did also Butler Cornbury and his wife, and one or two others. The chances of the election formed, of course, the chief subject of conversation both in the drawing-room and at the dinner-table; but in talking of the election they came to talk of Mr. Tappitt, and in talking of Tappitt they came to talk of Luke Rowan. It has already been said that Dr. Harford had been rector of Baslehurst for many years at the period to which this story refers. He had nearly completed half a century of work in that capacity, and had certainly been neither an idle nor an inefficient clergyman. But, now in his old age, he was discontented and disgusted by the changes which had come upon him; and though some bodily strength for further service still remained to him, he had no longer any aptitude for useful work. A man cannot change as men change. Individual men are like the separate links of a rotatory chain. The chain goes on with continuous easy motion as though every part of it were capable of adapting itself to a curve, but not the less is each link as stiff and sturdy as any other piece of wrought iron. Dr. Harford had in his time been an active, popular man,--a man possessing even some liberal tendencies in politics, though a country rector of nearly half a century's standing. In his parish he had been more than a clergyman. He had been a magistrate, and a moving man in municipal affairs. He had been a politician, and though now for many years he had supported the Conservative candidate, he had been loudly in favour of the Reform Bill when Baslehurst was a close borough in the possession of a great duke, who held property hard by. But liberal politics had gone on and had left Dr. Harford high and dry on the standing-ground which he had chosen for himself in the early days of his manhood. And then had come that pestilent act of the legislature under which his parish had been divided. Not that the Act of Parliament itself had been violently condemned by the doctor on its becoming law. I doubt whether he had then thought much of it. But when men calling themselves Commissioners came actually upon him and his, and separated off from him a district of his own town, taking it away altogether from his authority, and giving it over to such inexperienced hands as chance might send thither,--then Dr. Harford became a violent Tory. And my readers must not conceive that this was a question touching his pocket. One might presume that his pocket would be in some degree benefited, seeing that he was saved from the necessity of supplying the spiritual wants of a certain portion of his parish. No shilling was taken from his own income, which, indeed, was by no means excessive. His whole parish gave him barely six hundred a year, out of which he had kept always one, and latterly two curates. It was no question of money in any degree. Sooner than be invaded and mutilated he would have submitted to an order calling upon him to find a third curate,--could any power have given such order. His parish had been invaded and his clerical authority mutilated. He was no longer _totus teres atque rotundus_. The beauty of his life was over, and the contentment of his mind was gone. He knew that it was only left for him to die, spending such days as remained to him in vague prophecies of evil against his devoted country,--a country which had allowed its ancient parochial landmarks to be moved, and its ecclesiastical fastnesses to be invaded! But perhaps hatred of Mr. Prong was the strongest passion of Dr. Harford's heart at the present moment. He had ever hated the dissenting ministers by whom he was surrounded. In Devonshire dissent has waxed strong for many years, and the pastors of the dissenting flocks have been thorns in the side of the Church of England clergymen. Dr. Harford had undergone his full share of suffering from such thorns. But they had caused him no more than a pleasant irritation in comparison with what he endured from the presence of Mr. Prong in Baslehurst. He would sooner have entertained all the dissenting ministers of the South Hams together than have put his legs under the same mahogany with Mr. Prong. Mr. Prong was to him the evil thing! Anathema! He believed all bad things of Mr. Prong with an absolute faith, but without any ground on which such faith should have been formed. He thought that Mr. Prong drank spirits; that he robbed his parishioners;--Dr. Harford would sooner have lost his tongue than have used such a word with reference to those who attended Mr. Prong's chapel;--that he had left a deserted wife on some parish; that he was probably not in truth ordained. There was nothing which Dr. Harford could not believe of Mr. Prong. Now all this was, to say the least of it, a pity, for it disfigured the close of a useful and conscientious life. Dr. Harford of course intended to vote for Mr. Cornbury, but he would not join loudly in condemnation of Mr. Tappitt. Tappitt had stood stanchly by him in all parochial contests regarding the new district. Tappitt opposed the Prong faction at all points. Tappitt as churchwarden had been submissive to the doctor. Church of England principles had always been held at the brewery, and Bungall had been ever in favour with Dr. Harford's predecessor. "He calls himself a Liberal, and always has done," said the doctor. "You can't expect that he should desert his own party." "But a Jew!" said old Mr. Comfort. "Well; why not a Jew?" said the doctor. Whereupon Mr. Comfort, and Butler Cornbury, and Dr. Harford's own curate, young Mr. Calclough, and Captain Byng, an old bachelor, who lived in Baslehurst, all stared at him; as Dr. Harford had intended that they should. "Upon my word," said he, "I don't see the use for caring for that kind of thing any longer; I don't indeed. In the way we are going on now, and for the sort of thing we do, I don't see why Jews shouldn't serve us as well in Parliament as Christians. If I am to have my brains knocked out, I'd sooner have it done by a declared enemy than by one who calls himself my friend." "But our brains are not knocked out yet," said Butler Cornbury. "I don't know anything about yours, but mine are." "I don't think the world's coming to an end yet," said the captain. "Nor do I. I said nothing about the world coming to an end. But if you saw a part of your ship put under the command of a landlubber, who didn't know one side of the vessel from the other, you'd think the world had better come to an end than be carried on in that way." "It's not the same thing, you know," said the captain. "You couldn't divide a ship." "Oh, well; you'll see." "I don't think any Christian should vote for a Jew," said the curate. "A verdict has gone out against them, and what is man that he should reverse it?" "Are you quite sure that you are reversing it by putting them into Parliament?" said Dr. Harford. "May not that be a carrying on of the curse?" "There's consolation in that idea for Butler if he loses his election," said Mr. Comfort. "Parliament isn't what it was," said the doctor. "There's no doubt about that." "And who is to blame?" said Mr. Comfort, who had never supported the Reform Bill as his neighbour had done. "I say nothing about blame. It's natural that things should get worse as they grow older." "Dr. Harford thinks Parliament is worn out," said Butler Cornbury. "And what if I do think so? Have not other things as great fallen and gone into decay? Did not the Roman senate wear out, as you call it? And as for these Jews, of whom you are speaking, what was the curse upon them but the wearing out of their grace and wisdom? I am inclined to think that we are wearing out; only I wish the garment could have lasted my time without showing so many thin places." "Now I believe just the contrary," said the captain. "I don't think we have come to our full growth yet." "Could we lick the French as we did at Trafalgar and Waterloo?" said the doctor. The captain thought a while before he answered, and then spoke with much solemnity. "Yes," said he, "I think we could. And I hope the time will soon come when we may." "We shan't do it if we send Jews to Parliament," said Mr. Comfort. "I must say I think Tappitt wrong," said young Cornbury. "Of course, near as the thing is going, I'm sorry to lose his vote; but I'm not speaking because of that. He has always pretended to hold on to the Church party here, and the Church party has held on to him. His beer is none of the best, and I think he'd have been wise to stick to his old friends." "I don't see the argument about the beer," said the doctor. "He shouldn't provoke his neighbours to look at his faults." "But the Jew's friends would find out that the beer is bad as well as yours." "The truth is," said Cornbury, "that Tappitt thinks he has a personal grievance against me. He's as cross as a bear with a sore head at the present moment, because this young fellow who was to have been his partner has turned against him. There's some love affair, and my wife has been there and made a mess of it. It's hard upon me, for I don't know that I ever saw the young man in my life." "I believe that fellow is a scamp," said the doctor. "I hope not," said Mr. Comfort, thinking of Rachel and her hopes. "We all hope he isn't, of course," said the doctor. "But we can't prevent men being scamps by hoping. There are other scamps in this town in whom, if my hoping would do any good, a very great change would be made."--Everybody present knew that the doctor alluded especially to Mr. Prong, whose condition, however, if the doctor's hopes could have been carried out, would not have been enviable.--"But I fear this fellow Rowan is a scamp, and I think he has treated Tappitt badly. Tappitt told me all about it only this morning." "Audi alteram partem," said Mr. Comfort. "The scamp's party you mean," said the doctor. "I haven't the means of doing that. If in this world we suspend our judgment till we've heard all that can be said on both sides of every question, we should never come to any judgment at all. I hear that he's in debt; I believe he behaved very badly to Tappitt himself, so that Tappitt was forced to use personal violence to defend himself; and he has certainly threatened to open a new brewery here. Now that's bad, as coming from a young man related to the old firm." "I think he should leave the brewery alone," said Mr. Comfort. "Of course he should," said the doctor. "And I hear, moreover, that he is playing a wicked game with a girl in your parish." "I don't know about a wicked game," said the other. "It won't be a wicked game if he marries her." Then Rachel's chances of matrimonial success were discussed with a degree of vigour which must have been felt by her to be highly complimentary, had she been aware of it. But I grieve to say that public opinion, as expressed in Dr. Harford's dining-room, went against Luke Rowan. Mr. Tappitt was not a great man, either as a citizen or as a brewer: he was not one to whom Baslehurst would even rejoice to raise a monument; but such as he was he had been known for many years.

three

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

"That wouldn't be seemly, because our mayor is expected to attend in church on Roundabout Sunday." Roundabout Sunday, so called for certain local reasons which it would be long to explain, followed immediately on the day of the mayor's inauguration. "Would you like to have a Jew partner in your own business?" Mrs. Butler Cornbury should have said nothing to Mr. Tappitt as to any partner in the brewery, Jew or Christian. "I don't want any partner, and what's more, I don't mean to have any." "Mrs. Cornbury is in favour of Luke Rowan; she takes his side," said Mrs. Tappitt, some portion of her courage returning to her as this opportunity opened upon her. Mr. Tappitt turned his head full round and looked upon Mrs. Cornbury with an evil eye. That lady knew that the vote was lost, lost unless she would denounce the man whom Rachel loved; and she determined at once that she would not denounce him. There are many things which such a woman will do to gain such an object. She could smile when Tappitt was offensive; she could smile again when Mrs. Tappitt talked like a kitchenmaid. She could flatter them both, and pretend to talk seriously with them about Jews and her own Church feelings. She could have given up to them Luke Rowan,--if he had stood alone. But she could not give up the girl she had chaperoned, and upon whom, during that chaperoning, her good-will and kindly feelings had fallen. Rachel had pleased her eye, and gratified her sense of feminine nicety. She felt that a word said against Rowan would be a word said also against Rachel; and therefore, throwing her husband over for the nonce, she resolved to sacrifice the vote and stand up for her friend. "Well, yes; I do," said she, meeting Tappitt's eye steadily. She was not going to be looked out of countenance by Mr. Tappitt. "She thinks he'll come back to marry that young woman at Bragg's End," said Mrs. Tappitt; "but I say that he'll never dare to show his face in Baslehurst again." "That young woman is making a great fool of herself," said Tappitt, "if she trusts to a swindler like him." "Perhaps, Mrs. Tappitt," said Mrs. Cornbury, "we needn't mind discussing Miss Ray. It's not good to talk about a young lady in that way, and I'm sure I never said that I thought she was engaged to Mr. Rowan. Had I done so I should have been very wrong, for I know nothing about it. What little I saw of the gentleman I liked;" and as she used the word gentleman she looked Tappitt full in the face; "and for Miss Ray, I've a great regard for her, and think very highly of her. Independently of her acknowledged beauty and pleasant, ladylike manners, she's a very charming girl. About the vote, Mr. Tappitt--; at any rate you'll think of it." But had he not been defied in his own house? And as for her, the mother of those three finely educated girls, had not every word said in Rachel's favour been a dagger planted in her own maternal bosom? Whose courage would not have risen under such provocation? Mrs. Cornbury had got up to go, but the indignant, injured Tappitts resolved mutually, though without concert, that she should be answered. "I'm an honest man, Mrs. Cornbury," said the brewer, "and I like to speak out my mind openly. Mr. Hart is a liberal, and I mean to support my party. Will you tell Mr. Cornbury so with my compliments? It's all nonsense about Jews not being in Parliament. It's not the same as being mayors or churchwardens, or anything like that. I shall vote for Mr. Hart; and, what's more, we shall put him in." "And Mrs. Cornbury, if you have so much regard for Miss Rachel, you'd better advise her to think no more of that young man. He's no good; he's not indeed. If you ask, you'll find he's in debt everywhere." "Swindler!" said Tappitt. "I don't suppose it can be very bad with Miss Rachel yet, for she only saw him about three times,--though she was so intimate with him at our party." Mrs. Butler Cornbury curtseyed and smiled, and got herself out of the room. Mrs. Tappitt, as soon as she remembered herself, rang the bell, and Mr. Tappitt, following her down to the hall door, went through the pretence of putting her into her carriage. "She's a nasty meddlesome woman," said Tappitt, as soon as he got back to his wife. "And how ever she can stand up and say all those things for that girl, passes me!" said Mrs. Tappitt, holding up both her hands. "She was flighty herself, when young; she was, no doubt; and now I suppose she likes others to be the same. If that's what she calls manners, I shouldn't like her to take my girls about." "And him a gentleman!" said Tappitt. "If those are to be our gentlemen I'd sooner have all the Jews out of Jerusalem. But they'll find out their gentleman; they'll find him out! He'll rob that old mother of his before he's done; you mark my words else." Comforting himself with this hope he took himself back to his counting-house. Mrs. Cornbury had smiled as she went, and had carried herself through the whole interview without any sign of temper. Even when declaring that she intended to take Rachel's part open-mouthed, she had spoken in a half-drolling way which had divested her words of any tone of offence. But when she got into her carriage, she was in truth very angry. "I don't believe a word of it," she said to herself; "not a word of it." That in which she professed to herself her own disbelief was the general assertion that Rowan was a swindler, supported by the particular assertion that he had left Baslehurst over head and ears in debt. "I don't believe it." And she resolved that it should be her business to find out whether the accusation were true or false. She knew the ins and outs of Baslehurst life and Baslehurst doings with tolerable accuracy, and was at any rate capable of unravelling such a mystery as that. If the Tappitts in their jealousy were striving to rob Rachel Ray of her husband by spreading false reports, she would encourage Rachel Ray in her love by spreading the truth;--if, as she believed, the truth should speak in Rowan's favour. She would have considerable pleasure in countermining Mr. and Mrs. Tappitt. As to Mr. Tappitt's vote for the election;--that was gone! CHAPTER III. DR. HARFORD. The current of events forced upon Rachel a delay of three or four days in answering her letter, or rather forced upon her that delay in learning whether or no she might answer it; and this was felt by her to be a grievous evil. It had been arranged that she should not write until such writing should have received what might almost be called a parochial sanction, and no idea of acting in opposition to that arrangement ever occurred to her; but the more she thought of it the more she was vexed; and the more she thought of it the more she learned to doubt whether or no her mother was placing her in safe tutelage. During these few weeks a great change came upon the girl's character. When first Mrs. Prime had brought home tidings that Miss Pucker had seen her walking and talking with the young man from the brewery, angry as she had been with her sister, and disgusted as she had been with Miss Pucker, she had acknowledged to herself that such talking and walking were very dangerous, if not very improper, and she had half resolved that there should be no more of them. And when Mrs. Prime had seen her standing at the stile, and had brought home that second report, Rachel, knowing what had occurred at that stile, had then felt sure that she was in danger. At that time, though she had thought much of Luke Rowan, she had not thought of him as a man who could possibly be her husband. She had thought of him as having no right to call her Rachel, because he could not possibly become so. There had been great danger;--there had been conduct which she believed to be improper though she could not tell herself that she had been guilty. In her outlook into the world nothing so beautiful had promised itself to her as having such a man to love her as Luke Rowan. Though her mother was not herself ascetic,--liking tea and buttered toast dearly, and liking also little soft laughter with her child,--she had preached ascetisms till Rachel had learned to think that the world was all either ascetic or reprobate. The Dorcas meetings had become distasteful to her because the women were vulgar; but yet she had half believed herself to be wrong in avoiding the work and the vulgarity together. Idle she had never been. Since a needle had come easy to her hand, and the economies of a household had been made intelligible to her, she had earned her bread and assisted in works of charity. She had read no love stories, and been taught to expect no lover. She was not prepared to deny,--did not deny even to herself,--that it was wrong that she should even like to talk to Luke Rowan. Then came the ball; or, rather, first came the little evening party, which afterwards grew to be a ball. She had been very desirous of going, not for the sake of any pleasure that she promised herself; not for the sake of such pleasure as girls do promise themselves at such gatherings; but because her female pride told her that it was well for her to claim the right of meeting this young man,--well for her to declare that nothing had passed between them which should make her afraid to meet him. That some other hopes had crept in as the evening had come nigh at hand,--hopes of which she had been made aware only by her efforts in repressing them,--may not be denied. She had been accused because of him; and she would show that no such accusation had daunted her. But would he,--would he give occasion for further accusation? She believed he would not; nay, she was sure; at any rate she hoped he would not. She told herself that such was her hope; but had he not noticed her she would have been wretched. We know now in what manner he had noticed her, and we know also whether she had been wretched. She had certainly fled from him. When she left the brewery-house, inducing Mrs. Cornbury to bring her away, she did so in order that she might escape from him. But she ran from him as one runs from some great joy in order that the mind may revel over it in peace. Then, little as she knew it, her love had been given. Her heart was his. She had placed him upon her pinnacle, and was prepared to worship him. She was ready to dress herself in his eyes, to believe that to be good which he thought good, and to repudiate that which he repudiated. When she bowed her head over his breast a day or two afterwards, she could have spoken to him with the full words of passionate love had not maiden fear repressed her. But she had not even bowed her head for him, she had not acknowledged to herself that such love was possible to her, till her mother had consented. That her mother's consent had been wavering, doubtful, expressed without intention of such expression,--so expressed that Mrs. Ray hardly knew that she had expressed it,--was not understood by Rachel. Her mother had consented, and, that consent having been given, Rachel was not now disposed to allow of any steps backwards. She seemed to have learned her rights, or to have assumed that she had rights. Hitherto her obedience to her mother had been pure and simple, although, from the greater force of her character, she had in many things been her mother's leader. But now, though she was ill inclined to rebel, though in this matter of the letter she had obeyed, she was beginning to feel that obedience might become a hardship. She did not say to herself, "They have let me love him, and now they must not put out their hands to hold back my love;" but the current of her feelings ran as though such unspoken words had passed across her mind. She had her rights; and though she did not presume that she could insist on them in opposition to her mother or her mother's advisers, she knew that she would be wronged if those rights were withheld from her. The chief of those rights was the possession of her lover. If he was taken from her she would be as one imprisoned unjustly,--as one robbed by those who should have been his friends,--as one injured, wounded, stricken in the dark, and treacherously mutilated by hands that should have protected him. During these days she was silent, and sat with that look upon her brow which her mother feared. "I could not make Mr. Comfort come any sooner, Rachel," said Mrs. Ray. "No, mamma." "I can see how impatient you are." "I don't know that I'm impatient. I'm sure that I haven't said anything." "If you said anything I shouldn't mind it so much; but I can't bear to see you with that unhappy look. I'm sure I only wish to do what's best. You can't think it right that you should be writing letters to a gentleman without being sure that it is proper." "Oh, mamma, don't talk about it!" "You don't like me to ask your sister; and I'm sure it's natural I should want to ask somebody. He's nearly seventy years old, and he has known you ever since you were born. And then he's a clergyman, and therefore he'll be sure to know what's right. Not that I should have liked to have said a word about it to Mr. Prong, because there's a difference when they come from one doesn't know where." "Pray, mamma, don't. I haven't made any objection to Mr. Comfort. It isn't nice to be talked over in that way by anybody, that's all." "But what was I to do? I'm sure I liked the young man very much. I never knew a young man who took his tea so pleasant. And as for his manners and his way of talking, I had it in my heart to fall in love with him myself. I had indeed. As far as that goes, he's just the young man that I could make a son of." "Dear mamma! my own dearest mamma!" and Rachel, jumping up, threw herself upon her mother's neck. "Stop there. You shan't say another word." "I'm sure I didn't mean to say anything unpleasant." "No, you did not; and I won't be impatient." "Only I can't bear that look. And you know what his mother said,--and Mrs. Tappitt. Not that I care about Mrs. Tappitt; only a person's mother is his mother, and he shouldn't have called her a goose." It must be acknowledged that Rachel's position was not comfortable; and it certainly would not have been improved had she known how many people in Baslehurst were talking about her and Rowan. That Rowan was gone everybody knew; that he had made love to Rachel everybody said; that he never meant to come back any more most professed to believe. Tappitt's tongue was loud in proclaiming his iniquities; and her follies and injuries Mrs. Tappitt whispered into the ears of all her female acquaintances. "I'm sorry for her," Miss Harford said, mildly. Mrs. Tappitt was calling at the rectory, and had made her way in. Mr. Tappitt was an upholder of the old rector, and there was a fellow-townsman's friendship between them. "Oh yes;--very sorry for her," said Mrs. Tappitt. "Very sorry indeed," said Augusta, who was with her mother. "She always seemed to me a pretty, quiet, well-behaved girl," said Miss Harford. "Still waters run deepest, you know, Miss Harford," said Mrs. Tappitt. "I should never have imagined it of her;--never. But she certainly met him half-way." "But we all thought he was respectable, you know," said Miss Harford. Miss Harford was thoroughly good-natured; and though she had never gone half-way herself, and had perhaps lost her chance from having been unable to go any part of the way, she was not disposed to condemn a girl for having been willing to be admired by such a one as Luke Rowan. "Well;--yes; at first we did. He had the name of money, you know, and that goes so far with some girls. We were on our guard,"--and she looked proudly round on Augusta,--"till we should hear what the young man really was. He has thrown off his sheep's clothing now with a vengeance. Mr. Tappitt feels quite ashamed that he should have introduced him to any of the people here; he does indeed." "That may be her misfortune, and not her fault," said Miss Harford, who in defending Rachel was well enough inclined to give up Luke. Indeed, Baslehurst was beginning to have a settled mind that Luke was a wolf. "Oh, quite so," said Mrs. Tappitt. "The poor girl has been very unfortunate no doubt." After that she took her leave of the rectory. On that evening Mr. Comfort dined with Dr. Harford, as did also Butler Cornbury and his wife, and one or two others. The chances of the election formed, of course, the chief subject of conversation both in the drawing-room and at the dinner-table; but in talking of the election they came to talk of Mr. Tappitt, and in talking of Tappitt they came to talk of Luke Rowan. It has already been said that Dr. Harford had been rector of Baslehurst for many years at the period to which this story refers. He had nearly completed half a century of work in that capacity, and had certainly been neither an idle nor an inefficient clergyman. But, now in his old age, he was discontented and disgusted by the changes which had come upon him; and though some bodily strength for further service still remained to him, he had no longer any aptitude for useful work. A man cannot change as men change. Individual men are like the separate links of a rotatory chain. The chain goes on with continuous easy motion as though every part of it were capable of adapting itself to a curve, but not the less is each link as stiff and sturdy as any other piece of wrought iron. Dr. Harford had in his time been an active, popular man,--a man possessing even some liberal tendencies in politics, though a country rector of nearly half a century's standing. In his parish he had been more than a clergyman. He had been a magistrate, and a moving man in municipal affairs. He had been a politician, and though now for many years he had supported the Conservative candidate, he had been loudly in favour of the Reform Bill when Baslehurst was a close borough in the possession of a great duke, who held property hard by. But liberal politics had gone on and had left Dr. Harford high and dry on the standing-ground which he had chosen for himself in the early days of his manhood. And then had come that pestilent act of the legislature under which his parish had been divided. Not that the Act of Parliament itself had been violently condemned by the doctor on its becoming law. I doubt whether he had then thought much of it. But when men calling themselves Commissioners came actually upon him and his, and separated off from him a district of his own town, taking it away altogether from his authority, and giving it over to such inexperienced hands as chance might send thither,--then Dr. Harford became a violent Tory. And my readers must not conceive that this was a question touching his pocket. One might presume that his pocket would be in some degree benefited, seeing that he was saved from the necessity of supplying the spiritual wants of a certain portion of his parish. No shilling was taken from his own income, which, indeed, was by no means excessive. His whole parish gave him barely six hundred a year, out of which he had kept always one, and latterly two curates. It was no question of money in any degree. Sooner than be invaded and mutilated he would have submitted to an order calling upon him to find a third curate,--could any power have given such order. His parish had been invaded and his clerical authority mutilated. He was no longer _totus teres atque rotundus_. The beauty of his life was over, and the contentment of his mind was gone. He knew that it was only left for him to die, spending such days as remained to him in vague prophecies of evil against his devoted country,--a country which had allowed its ancient parochial landmarks to be moved, and its ecclesiastical fastnesses to be invaded! But perhaps hatred of Mr. Prong was the strongest passion of Dr. Harford's heart at the present moment. He had ever hated the dissenting ministers by whom he was surrounded. In Devonshire dissent has waxed strong for many years, and the pastors of the dissenting flocks have been thorns in the side of the Church of England clergymen. Dr. Harford had undergone his full share of suffering from such thorns. But they had caused him no more than a pleasant irritation in comparison with what he endured from the presence of Mr. Prong in Baslehurst. He would sooner have entertained all the dissenting ministers of the South Hams together than have put his legs under the same mahogany with Mr. Prong. Mr. Prong was to him the evil thing! Anathema! He believed all bad things of Mr. Prong with an absolute faith, but without any ground on which such faith should have been formed. He thought that Mr. Prong drank spirits; that he robbed his parishioners;--Dr. Harford would sooner have lost his tongue than have used such a word with reference to those who attended Mr. Prong's chapel;--that he had left a deserted wife on some parish; that he was probably not in truth ordained. There was nothing which Dr. Harford could not believe of Mr. Prong. Now all this was, to say the least of it, a pity, for it disfigured the close of a useful and conscientious life. Dr. Harford of course intended to vote for Mr. Cornbury, but he would not join loudly in condemnation of Mr. Tappitt. Tappitt had stood stanchly by him in all parochial contests regarding the new district. Tappitt opposed the Prong faction at all points. Tappitt as churchwarden had been submissive to the doctor. Church of England principles had always been held at the brewery, and Bungall had been ever in favour with Dr. Harford's predecessor. "He calls himself a Liberal, and always has done," said the doctor. "You can't expect that he should desert his own party." "But a Jew!" said old Mr. Comfort. "Well; why not a Jew?" said the doctor. Whereupon Mr. Comfort, and Butler Cornbury, and Dr. Harford's own curate, young Mr. Calclough, and Captain Byng, an old bachelor, who lived in Baslehurst, all stared at him; as Dr. Harford had intended that they should. "Upon my word," said he, "I don't see the use for caring for that kind of thing any longer; I don't indeed. In the way we are going on now, and for the sort of thing we do, I don't see why Jews shouldn't serve us as well in Parliament as Christians. If I am to have my brains knocked out, I'd sooner have it done by a declared enemy than by one who calls himself my friend." "But our brains are not knocked out yet," said Butler Cornbury. "I don't know anything about yours, but mine are." "I don't think the world's coming to an end yet," said the captain. "Nor do I. I said nothing about the world coming to an end. But if you saw a part of your ship put under the command of a landlubber, who didn't know one side of the vessel from the other, you'd think the world had better come to an end than be carried on in that way." "It's not the same thing, you know," said the captain. "You couldn't divide a ship." "Oh, well; you'll see." "I don't think any Christian should vote for a Jew," said the curate. "A verdict has gone out against them, and what is man that he should reverse it?" "Are you quite sure that you are reversing it by putting them into Parliament?" said Dr. Harford. "May not that be a carrying on of the curse?" "There's consolation in that idea for Butler if he loses his election," said Mr. Comfort. "Parliament isn't what it was," said the doctor. "There's no doubt about that." "And who is to blame?" said Mr. Comfort, who had never supported the Reform Bill as his neighbour had done. "I say nothing about blame. It's natural that things should get worse as they grow older." "Dr. Harford thinks Parliament is worn out," said Butler Cornbury. "And what if I do think so? Have not other things as great fallen and gone into decay? Did not the Roman senate wear out, as you call it? And as for these Jews, of whom you are speaking, what was the curse upon them but the wearing out of their grace and wisdom? I am inclined to think that we are wearing out; only I wish the garment could have lasted my time without showing so many thin places." "Now I believe just the contrary," said the captain. "I don't think we have come to our full growth yet." "Could we lick the French as we did at Trafalgar and Waterloo?" said the doctor. The captain thought a while before he answered, and then spoke with much solemnity. "Yes," said he, "I think we could. And I hope the time will soon come when we may." "We shan't do it if we send Jews to Parliament," said Mr. Comfort. "I must say I think Tappitt wrong," said young Cornbury. "Of course, near as the thing is going, I'm sorry to lose his vote; but I'm not speaking because of that. He has always pretended to hold on to the Church party here, and the Church party has held on to him. His beer is none of the best, and I think he'd have been wise to stick to his old friends." "I don't see the argument about the beer," said the doctor. "He shouldn't provoke his neighbours to look at his faults." "But the Jew's friends would find out that the beer is bad as well as yours." "The truth is," said Cornbury, "that Tappitt thinks he has a personal grievance against me. He's as cross as a bear with a sore head at the present moment, because this young fellow who was to have been his partner has turned against him. There's some love affair, and my wife has been there and made a mess of it. It's hard upon me, for I don't know that I ever saw the young man in my life." "I believe that fellow is a scamp," said the doctor. "I hope not," said Mr. Comfort, thinking of Rachel and her hopes. "We all hope he isn't, of course," said the doctor. "But we can't prevent men being scamps by hoping. There are other scamps in this town in whom, if my hoping would do any good, a very great change would be made."--Everybody present knew that the doctor alluded especially to Mr. Prong, whose condition, however, if the doctor's hopes could have been carried out, would not have been enviable.--"But I fear this fellow Rowan is a scamp, and I think he has treated Tappitt badly. Tappitt told me all about it only this morning." "Audi alteram partem," said Mr. Comfort. "The scamp's party you mean," said the doctor. "I haven't the means of doing that. If in this world we suspend our judgment till we've heard all that can be said on both sides of every question, we should never come to any judgment at all. I hear that he's in debt; I believe he behaved very badly to Tappitt himself, so that Tappitt was forced to use personal violence to defend himself; and he has certainly threatened to open a new brewery here. Now that's bad, as coming from a young man related to the old firm." "I think he should leave the brewery alone," said Mr. Comfort. "Of course he should," said the doctor. "And I hear, moreover, that he is playing a wicked game with a girl in your parish." "I don't know about a wicked game," said the other. "It won't be a wicked game if he marries her." Then Rachel's chances of matrimonial success were discussed with a degree of vigour which must have been felt by her to be highly complimentary, had she been aware of it. But I grieve to say that public opinion, as expressed in Dr. Harford's dining-room, went against Luke Rowan. Mr. Tappitt was not a great man, either as a citizen or as a brewer: he was not one to whom Baslehurst would even rejoice to raise a monument; but such as he was he had been known for many years.

ainsi

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

"That wouldn't be seemly, because our mayor is expected to attend in church on Roundabout Sunday." Roundabout Sunday, so called for certain local reasons which it would be long to explain, followed immediately on the day of the mayor's inauguration. "Would you like to have a Jew partner in your own business?" Mrs. Butler Cornbury should have said nothing to Mr. Tappitt as to any partner in the brewery, Jew or Christian. "I don't want any partner, and what's more, I don't mean to have any." "Mrs. Cornbury is in favour of Luke Rowan; she takes his side," said Mrs. Tappitt, some portion of her courage returning to her as this opportunity opened upon her. Mr. Tappitt turned his head full round and looked upon Mrs. Cornbury with an evil eye. That lady knew that the vote was lost, lost unless she would denounce the man whom Rachel loved; and she determined at once that she would not denounce him. There are many things which such a woman will do to gain such an object. She could smile when Tappitt was offensive; she could smile again when Mrs. Tappitt talked like a kitchenmaid. She could flatter them both, and pretend to talk seriously with them about Jews and her own Church feelings. She could have given up to them Luke Rowan,--if he had stood alone. But she could not give up the girl she had chaperoned, and upon whom, during that chaperoning, her good-will and kindly feelings had fallen. Rachel had pleased her eye, and gratified her sense of feminine nicety. She felt that a word said against Rowan would be a word said also against Rachel; and therefore, throwing her husband over for the nonce, she resolved to sacrifice the vote and stand up for her friend. "Well, yes; I do," said she, meeting Tappitt's eye steadily. She was not going to be looked out of countenance by Mr. Tappitt. "She thinks he'll come back to marry that young woman at Bragg's End," said Mrs. Tappitt; "but I say that he'll never dare to show his face in Baslehurst again." "That young woman is making a great fool of herself," said Tappitt, "if she trusts to a swindler like him." "Perhaps, Mrs. Tappitt," said Mrs. Cornbury, "we needn't mind discussing Miss Ray. It's not good to talk about a young lady in that way, and I'm sure I never said that I thought she was engaged to Mr. Rowan. Had I done so I should have been very wrong, for I know nothing about it. What little I saw of the gentleman I liked;" and as she used the word gentleman she looked Tappitt full in the face; "and for Miss Ray, I've a great regard for her, and think very highly of her. Independently of her acknowledged beauty and pleasant, ladylike manners, she's a very charming girl. About the vote, Mr. Tappitt--; at any rate you'll think of it." But had he not been defied in his own house? And as for her, the mother of those three finely educated girls, had not every word said in Rachel's favour been a dagger planted in her own maternal bosom? Whose courage would not have risen under such provocation? Mrs. Cornbury had got up to go, but the indignant, injured Tappitts resolved mutually, though without concert, that she should be answered. "I'm an honest man, Mrs. Cornbury," said the brewer, "and I like to speak out my mind openly. Mr. Hart is a liberal, and I mean to support my party. Will you tell Mr. Cornbury so with my compliments? It's all nonsense about Jews not being in Parliament. It's not the same as being mayors or churchwardens, or anything like that. I shall vote for Mr. Hart; and, what's more, we shall put him in." "And Mrs. Cornbury, if you have so much regard for Miss Rachel, you'd better advise her to think no more of that young man. He's no good; he's not indeed. If you ask, you'll find he's in debt everywhere." "Swindler!" said Tappitt. "I don't suppose it can be very bad with Miss Rachel yet, for she only saw him about three times,--though she was so intimate with him at our party." Mrs. Butler Cornbury curtseyed and smiled, and got herself out of the room. Mrs. Tappitt, as soon as she remembered herself, rang the bell, and Mr. Tappitt, following her down to the hall door, went through the pretence of putting her into her carriage. "She's a nasty meddlesome woman," said Tappitt, as soon as he got back to his wife. "And how ever she can stand up and say all those things for that girl, passes me!" said Mrs. Tappitt, holding up both her hands. "She was flighty herself, when young; she was, no doubt; and now I suppose she likes others to be the same. If that's what she calls manners, I shouldn't like her to take my girls about." "And him a gentleman!" said Tappitt. "If those are to be our gentlemen I'd sooner have all the Jews out of Jerusalem. But they'll find out their gentleman; they'll find him out! He'll rob that old mother of his before he's done; you mark my words else." Comforting himself with this hope he took himself back to his counting-house. Mrs. Cornbury had smiled as she went, and had carried herself through the whole interview without any sign of temper. Even when declaring that she intended to take Rachel's part open-mouthed, she had spoken in a half-drolling way which had divested her words of any tone of offence. But when she got into her carriage, she was in truth very angry. "I don't believe a word of it," she said to herself; "not a word of it." That in which she professed to herself her own disbelief was the general assertion that Rowan was a swindler, supported by the particular assertion that he had left Baslehurst over head and ears in debt. "I don't believe it." And she resolved that it should be her business to find out whether the accusation were true or false. She knew the ins and outs of Baslehurst life and Baslehurst doings with tolerable accuracy, and was at any rate capable of unravelling such a mystery as that. If the Tappitts in their jealousy were striving to rob Rachel Ray of her husband by spreading false reports, she would encourage Rachel Ray in her love by spreading the truth;--if, as she believed, the truth should speak in Rowan's favour. She would have considerable pleasure in countermining Mr. and Mrs. Tappitt. As to Mr. Tappitt's vote for the election;--that was gone! CHAPTER III. DR. HARFORD. The current of events forced upon Rachel a delay of three or four days in answering her letter, or rather forced upon her that delay in learning whether or no she might answer it; and this was felt by her to be a grievous evil. It had been arranged that she should not write until such writing should have received what might almost be called a parochial sanction, and no idea of acting in opposition to that arrangement ever occurred to her; but the more she thought of it the more she was vexed; and the more she thought of it the more she learned to doubt whether or no her mother was placing her in safe tutelage. During these few weeks a great change came upon the girl's character. When first Mrs. Prime had brought home tidings that Miss Pucker had seen her walking and talking with the young man from the brewery, angry as she had been with her sister, and disgusted as she had been with Miss Pucker, she had acknowledged to herself that such talking and walking were very dangerous, if not very improper, and she had half resolved that there should be no more of them. And when Mrs. Prime had seen her standing at the stile, and had brought home that second report, Rachel, knowing what had occurred at that stile, had then felt sure that she was in danger. At that time, though she had thought much of Luke Rowan, she had not thought of him as a man who could possibly be her husband. She had thought of him as having no right to call her Rachel, because he could not possibly become so. There had been great danger;--there had been conduct which she believed to be improper though she could not tell herself that she had been guilty. In her outlook into the world nothing so beautiful had promised itself to her as having such a man to love her as Luke Rowan. Though her mother was not herself ascetic,--liking tea and buttered toast dearly, and liking also little soft laughter with her child,--she had preached ascetisms till Rachel had learned to think that the world was all either ascetic or reprobate. The Dorcas meetings had become distasteful to her because the women were vulgar; but yet she had half believed herself to be wrong in avoiding the work and the vulgarity together. Idle she had never been. Since a needle had come easy to her hand, and the economies of a household had been made intelligible to her, she had earned her bread and assisted in works of charity. She had read no love stories, and been taught to expect no lover. She was not prepared to deny,--did not deny even to herself,--that it was wrong that she should even like to talk to Luke Rowan. Then came the ball; or, rather, first came the little evening party, which afterwards grew to be a ball. She had been very desirous of going, not for the sake of any pleasure that she promised herself; not for the sake of such pleasure as girls do promise themselves at such gatherings; but because her female pride told her that it was well for her to claim the right of meeting this young man,--well for her to declare that nothing had passed between them which should make her afraid to meet him. That some other hopes had crept in as the evening had come nigh at hand,--hopes of which she had been made aware only by her efforts in repressing them,--may not be denied. She had been accused because of him; and she would show that no such accusation had daunted her. But would he,--would he give occasion for further accusation? She believed he would not; nay, she was sure; at any rate she hoped he would not. She told herself that such was her hope; but had he not noticed her she would have been wretched. We know now in what manner he had noticed her, and we know also whether she had been wretched. She had certainly fled from him. When she left the brewery-house, inducing Mrs. Cornbury to bring her away, she did so in order that she might escape from him. But she ran from him as one runs from some great joy in order that the mind may revel over it in peace. Then, little as she knew it, her love had been given. Her heart was his. She had placed him upon her pinnacle, and was prepared to worship him. She was ready to dress herself in his eyes, to believe that to be good which he thought good, and to repudiate that which he repudiated. When she bowed her head over his breast a day or two afterwards, she could have spoken to him with the full words of passionate love had not maiden fear repressed her. But she had not even bowed her head for him, she had not acknowledged to herself that such love was possible to her, till her mother had consented. That her mother's consent had been wavering, doubtful, expressed without intention of such expression,--so expressed that Mrs. Ray hardly knew that she had expressed it,--was not understood by Rachel. Her mother had consented, and, that consent having been given, Rachel was not now disposed to allow of any steps backwards. She seemed to have learned her rights, or to have assumed that she had rights. Hitherto her obedience to her mother had been pure and simple, although, from the greater force of her character, she had in many things been her mother's leader. But now, though she was ill inclined to rebel, though in this matter of the letter she had obeyed, she was beginning to feel that obedience might become a hardship. She did not say to herself, "They have let me love him, and now they must not put out their hands to hold back my love;" but the current of her feelings ran as though such unspoken words had passed across her mind. She had her rights; and though she did not presume that she could insist on them in opposition to her mother or her mother's advisers, she knew that she would be wronged if those rights were withheld from her. The chief of those rights was the possession of her lover. If he was taken from her she would be as one imprisoned unjustly,--as one robbed by those who should have been his friends,--as one injured, wounded, stricken in the dark, and treacherously mutilated by hands that should have protected him. During these days she was silent, and sat with that look upon her brow which her mother feared. "I could not make Mr. Comfort come any sooner, Rachel," said Mrs. Ray. "No, mamma." "I can see how impatient you are." "I don't know that I'm impatient. I'm sure that I haven't said anything." "If you said anything I shouldn't mind it so much; but I can't bear to see you with that unhappy look. I'm sure I only wish to do what's best. You can't think it right that you should be writing letters to a gentleman without being sure that it is proper." "Oh, mamma, don't talk about it!" "You don't like me to ask your sister; and I'm sure it's natural I should want to ask somebody. He's nearly seventy years old, and he has known you ever since you were born. And then he's a clergyman, and therefore he'll be sure to know what's right. Not that I should have liked to have said a word about it to Mr. Prong, because there's a difference when they come from one doesn't know where." "Pray, mamma, don't. I haven't made any objection to Mr. Comfort. It isn't nice to be talked over in that way by anybody, that's all." "But what was I to do? I'm sure I liked the young man very much. I never knew a young man who took his tea so pleasant. And as for his manners and his way of talking, I had it in my heart to fall in love with him myself. I had indeed. As far as that goes, he's just the young man that I could make a son of." "Dear mamma! my own dearest mamma!" and Rachel, jumping up, threw herself upon her mother's neck. "Stop there. You shan't say another word." "I'm sure I didn't mean to say anything unpleasant." "No, you did not; and I won't be impatient." "Only I can't bear that look. And you know what his mother said,--and Mrs. Tappitt. Not that I care about Mrs. Tappitt; only a person's mother is his mother, and he shouldn't have called her a goose." It must be acknowledged that Rachel's position was not comfortable; and it certainly would not have been improved had she known how many people in Baslehurst were talking about her and Rowan. That Rowan was gone everybody knew; that he had made love to Rachel everybody said; that he never meant to come back any more most professed to believe. Tappitt's tongue was loud in proclaiming his iniquities; and her follies and injuries Mrs. Tappitt whispered into the ears of all her female acquaintances. "I'm sorry for her," Miss Harford said, mildly. Mrs. Tappitt was calling at the rectory, and had made her way in. Mr. Tappitt was an upholder of the old rector, and there was a fellow-townsman's friendship between them. "Oh yes;--very sorry for her," said Mrs. Tappitt. "Very sorry indeed," said Augusta, who was with her mother. "She always seemed to me a pretty, quiet, well-behaved girl," said Miss Harford. "Still waters run deepest, you know, Miss Harford," said Mrs. Tappitt. "I should never have imagined it of her;--never. But she certainly met him half-way." "But we all thought he was respectable, you know," said Miss Harford. Miss Harford was thoroughly good-natured; and though she had never gone half-way herself, and had perhaps lost her chance from having been unable to go any part of the way, she was not disposed to condemn a girl for having been willing to be admired by such a one as Luke Rowan. "Well;--yes; at first we did. He had the name of money, you know, and that goes so far with some girls. We were on our guard,"--and she looked proudly round on Augusta,--"till we should hear what the young man really was. He has thrown off his sheep's clothing now with a vengeance. Mr. Tappitt feels quite ashamed that he should have introduced him to any of the people here; he does indeed." "That may be her misfortune, and not her fault," said Miss Harford, who in defending Rachel was well enough inclined to give up Luke. Indeed, Baslehurst was beginning to have a settled mind that Luke was a wolf. "Oh, quite so," said Mrs. Tappitt. "The poor girl has been very unfortunate no doubt." After that she took her leave of the rectory. On that evening Mr. Comfort dined with Dr. Harford, as did also Butler Cornbury and his wife, and one or two others. The chances of the election formed, of course, the chief subject of conversation both in the drawing-room and at the dinner-table; but in talking of the election they came to talk of Mr. Tappitt, and in talking of Tappitt they came to talk of Luke Rowan. It has already been said that Dr. Harford had been rector of Baslehurst for many years at the period to which this story refers. He had nearly completed half a century of work in that capacity, and had certainly been neither an idle nor an inefficient clergyman. But, now in his old age, he was discontented and disgusted by the changes which had come upon him; and though some bodily strength for further service still remained to him, he had no longer any aptitude for useful work. A man cannot change as men change. Individual men are like the separate links of a rotatory chain. The chain goes on with continuous easy motion as though every part of it were capable of adapting itself to a curve, but not the less is each link as stiff and sturdy as any other piece of wrought iron. Dr. Harford had in his time been an active, popular man,--a man possessing even some liberal tendencies in politics, though a country rector of nearly half a century's standing. In his parish he had been more than a clergyman. He had been a magistrate, and a moving man in municipal affairs. He had been a politician, and though now for many years he had supported the Conservative candidate, he had been loudly in favour of the Reform Bill when Baslehurst was a close borough in the possession of a great duke, who held property hard by. But liberal politics had gone on and had left Dr. Harford high and dry on the standing-ground which he had chosen for himself in the early days of his manhood. And then had come that pestilent act of the legislature under which his parish had been divided. Not that the Act of Parliament itself had been violently condemned by the doctor on its becoming law. I doubt whether he had then thought much of it. But when men calling themselves Commissioners came actually upon him and his, and separated off from him a district of his own town, taking it away altogether from his authority, and giving it over to such inexperienced hands as chance might send thither,--then Dr. Harford became a violent Tory. And my readers must not conceive that this was a question touching his pocket. One might presume that his pocket would be in some degree benefited, seeing that he was saved from the necessity of supplying the spiritual wants of a certain portion of his parish. No shilling was taken from his own income, which, indeed, was by no means excessive. His whole parish gave him barely six hundred a year, out of which he had kept always one, and latterly two curates. It was no question of money in any degree. Sooner than be invaded and mutilated he would have submitted to an order calling upon him to find a third curate,--could any power have given such order. His parish had been invaded and his clerical authority mutilated. He was no longer _totus teres atque rotundus_. The beauty of his life was over, and the contentment of his mind was gone. He knew that it was only left for him to die, spending such days as remained to him in vague prophecies of evil against his devoted country,--a country which had allowed its ancient parochial landmarks to be moved, and its ecclesiastical fastnesses to be invaded! But perhaps hatred of Mr. Prong was the strongest passion of Dr. Harford's heart at the present moment. He had ever hated the dissenting ministers by whom he was surrounded. In Devonshire dissent has waxed strong for many years, and the pastors of the dissenting flocks have been thorns in the side of the Church of England clergymen. Dr. Harford had undergone his full share of suffering from such thorns. But they had caused him no more than a pleasant irritation in comparison with what he endured from the presence of Mr. Prong in Baslehurst. He would sooner have entertained all the dissenting ministers of the South Hams together than have put his legs under the same mahogany with Mr. Prong. Mr. Prong was to him the evil thing! Anathema! He believed all bad things of Mr. Prong with an absolute faith, but without any ground on which such faith should have been formed. He thought that Mr. Prong drank spirits; that he robbed his parishioners;--Dr. Harford would sooner have lost his tongue than have used such a word with reference to those who attended Mr. Prong's chapel;--that he had left a deserted wife on some parish; that he was probably not in truth ordained. There was nothing which Dr. Harford could not believe of Mr. Prong. Now all this was, to say the least of it, a pity, for it disfigured the close of a useful and conscientious life. Dr. Harford of course intended to vote for Mr. Cornbury, but he would not join loudly in condemnation of Mr. Tappitt. Tappitt had stood stanchly by him in all parochial contests regarding the new district. Tappitt opposed the Prong faction at all points. Tappitt as churchwarden had been submissive to the doctor. Church of England principles had always been held at the brewery, and Bungall had been ever in favour with Dr. Harford's predecessor. "He calls himself a Liberal, and always has done," said the doctor. "You can't expect that he should desert his own party." "But a Jew!" said old Mr. Comfort. "Well; why not a Jew?" said the doctor. Whereupon Mr. Comfort, and Butler Cornbury, and Dr. Harford's own curate, young Mr. Calclough, and Captain Byng, an old bachelor, who lived in Baslehurst, all stared at him; as Dr. Harford had intended that they should. "Upon my word," said he, "I don't see the use for caring for that kind of thing any longer; I don't indeed. In the way we are going on now, and for the sort of thing we do, I don't see why Jews shouldn't serve us as well in Parliament as Christians. If I am to have my brains knocked out, I'd sooner have it done by a declared enemy than by one who calls himself my friend." "But our brains are not knocked out yet," said Butler Cornbury. "I don't know anything about yours, but mine are." "I don't think the world's coming to an end yet," said the captain. "Nor do I. I said nothing about the world coming to an end. But if you saw a part of your ship put under the command of a landlubber, who didn't know one side of the vessel from the other, you'd think the world had better come to an end than be carried on in that way." "It's not the same thing, you know," said the captain. "You couldn't divide a ship." "Oh, well; you'll see." "I don't think any Christian should vote for a Jew," said the curate. "A verdict has gone out against them, and what is man that he should reverse it?" "Are you quite sure that you are reversing it by putting them into Parliament?" said Dr. Harford. "May not that be a carrying on of the curse?" "There's consolation in that idea for Butler if he loses his election," said Mr. Comfort. "Parliament isn't what it was," said the doctor. "There's no doubt about that." "And who is to blame?" said Mr. Comfort, who had never supported the Reform Bill as his neighbour had done. "I say nothing about blame. It's natural that things should get worse as they grow older." "Dr. Harford thinks Parliament is worn out," said Butler Cornbury. "And what if I do think so? Have not other things as great fallen and gone into decay? Did not the Roman senate wear out, as you call it? And as for these Jews, of whom you are speaking, what was the curse upon them but the wearing out of their grace and wisdom? I am inclined to think that we are wearing out; only I wish the garment could have lasted my time without showing so many thin places." "Now I believe just the contrary," said the captain. "I don't think we have come to our full growth yet." "Could we lick the French as we did at Trafalgar and Waterloo?" said the doctor. The captain thought a while before he answered, and then spoke with much solemnity. "Yes," said he, "I think we could. And I hope the time will soon come when we may." "We shan't do it if we send Jews to Parliament," said Mr. Comfort. "I must say I think Tappitt wrong," said young Cornbury. "Of course, near as the thing is going, I'm sorry to lose his vote; but I'm not speaking because of that. He has always pretended to hold on to the Church party here, and the Church party has held on to him. His beer is none of the best, and I think he'd have been wise to stick to his old friends." "I don't see the argument about the beer," said the doctor. "He shouldn't provoke his neighbours to look at his faults." "But the Jew's friends would find out that the beer is bad as well as yours." "The truth is," said Cornbury, "that Tappitt thinks he has a personal grievance against me. He's as cross as a bear with a sore head at the present moment, because this young fellow who was to have been his partner has turned against him. There's some love affair, and my wife has been there and made a mess of it. It's hard upon me, for I don't know that I ever saw the young man in my life." "I believe that fellow is a scamp," said the doctor. "I hope not," said Mr. Comfort, thinking of Rachel and her hopes. "We all hope he isn't, of course," said the doctor. "But we can't prevent men being scamps by hoping. There are other scamps in this town in whom, if my hoping would do any good, a very great change would be made."--Everybody present knew that the doctor alluded especially to Mr. Prong, whose condition, however, if the doctor's hopes could have been carried out, would not have been enviable.--"But I fear this fellow Rowan is a scamp, and I think he has treated Tappitt badly. Tappitt told me all about it only this morning." "Audi alteram partem," said Mr. Comfort. "The scamp's party you mean," said the doctor. "I haven't the means of doing that. If in this world we suspend our judgment till we've heard all that can be said on both sides of every question, we should never come to any judgment at all. I hear that he's in debt; I believe he behaved very badly to Tappitt himself, so that Tappitt was forced to use personal violence to defend himself; and he has certainly threatened to open a new brewery here. Now that's bad, as coming from a young man related to the old firm." "I think he should leave the brewery alone," said Mr. Comfort. "Of course he should," said the doctor. "And I hear, moreover, that he is playing a wicked game with a girl in your parish." "I don't know about a wicked game," said the other. "It won't be a wicked game if he marries her." Then Rachel's chances of matrimonial success were discussed with a degree of vigour which must have been felt by her to be highly complimentary, had she been aware of it. But I grieve to say that public opinion, as expressed in Dr. Harford's dining-room, went against Luke Rowan. Mr. Tappitt was not a great man, either as a citizen or as a brewer: he was not one to whom Baslehurst would even rejoice to raise a monument; but such as he was he had been known for many years.

veste

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

"That wouldn't be seemly, because our mayor is expected to attend in church on Roundabout Sunday." Roundabout Sunday, so called for certain local reasons which it would be long to explain, followed immediately on the day of the mayor's inauguration. "Would you like to have a Jew partner in your own business?" Mrs. Butler Cornbury should have said nothing to Mr. Tappitt as to any partner in the brewery, Jew or Christian. "I don't want any partner, and what's more, I don't mean to have any." "Mrs. Cornbury is in favour of Luke Rowan; she takes his side," said Mrs. Tappitt, some portion of her courage returning to her as this opportunity opened upon her. Mr. Tappitt turned his head full round and looked upon Mrs. Cornbury with an evil eye. That lady knew that the vote was lost, lost unless she would denounce the man whom Rachel loved; and she determined at once that she would not denounce him. There are many things which such a woman will do to gain such an object. She could smile when Tappitt was offensive; she could smile again when Mrs. Tappitt talked like a kitchenmaid. She could flatter them both, and pretend to talk seriously with them about Jews and her own Church feelings. She could have given up to them Luke Rowan,--if he had stood alone. But she could not give up the girl she had chaperoned, and upon whom, during that chaperoning, her good-will and kindly feelings had fallen. Rachel had pleased her eye, and gratified her sense of feminine nicety. She felt that a word said against Rowan would be a word said also against Rachel; and therefore, throwing her husband over for the nonce, she resolved to sacrifice the vote and stand up for her friend. "Well, yes; I do," said she, meeting Tappitt's eye steadily. She was not going to be looked out of countenance by Mr. Tappitt. "She thinks he'll come back to marry that young woman at Bragg's End," said Mrs. Tappitt; "but I say that he'll never dare to show his face in Baslehurst again." "That young woman is making a great fool of herself," said Tappitt, "if she trusts to a swindler like him." "Perhaps, Mrs. Tappitt," said Mrs. Cornbury, "we needn't mind discussing Miss Ray. It's not good to talk about a young lady in that way, and I'm sure I never said that I thought she was engaged to Mr. Rowan. Had I done so I should have been very wrong, for I know nothing about it. What little I saw of the gentleman I liked;" and as she used the word gentleman she looked Tappitt full in the face; "and for Miss Ray, I've a great regard for her, and think very highly of her. Independently of her acknowledged beauty and pleasant, ladylike manners, she's a very charming girl. About the vote, Mr. Tappitt--; at any rate you'll think of it." But had he not been defied in his own house? And as for her, the mother of those three finely educated girls, had not every word said in Rachel's favour been a dagger planted in her own maternal bosom? Whose courage would not have risen under such provocation? Mrs. Cornbury had got up to go, but the indignant, injured Tappitts resolved mutually, though without concert, that she should be answered. "I'm an honest man, Mrs. Cornbury," said the brewer, "and I like to speak out my mind openly. Mr. Hart is a liberal, and I mean to support my party. Will you tell Mr. Cornbury so with my compliments? It's all nonsense about Jews not being in Parliament. It's not the same as being mayors or churchwardens, or anything like that. I shall vote for Mr. Hart; and, what's more, we shall put him in." "And Mrs. Cornbury, if you have so much regard for Miss Rachel, you'd better advise her to think no more of that young man. He's no good; he's not indeed. If you ask, you'll find he's in debt everywhere." "Swindler!" said Tappitt. "I don't suppose it can be very bad with Miss Rachel yet, for she only saw him about three times,--though she was so intimate with him at our party." Mrs. Butler Cornbury curtseyed and smiled, and got herself out of the room. Mrs. Tappitt, as soon as she remembered herself, rang the bell, and Mr. Tappitt, following her down to the hall door, went through the pretence of putting her into her carriage. "She's a nasty meddlesome woman," said Tappitt, as soon as he got back to his wife. "And how ever she can stand up and say all those things for that girl, passes me!" said Mrs. Tappitt, holding up both her hands. "She was flighty herself, when young; she was, no doubt; and now I suppose she likes others to be the same. If that's what she calls manners, I shouldn't like her to take my girls about." "And him a gentleman!" said Tappitt. "If those are to be our gentlemen I'd sooner have all the Jews out of Jerusalem. But they'll find out their gentleman; they'll find him out! He'll rob that old mother of his before he's done; you mark my words else." Comforting himself with this hope he took himself back to his counting-house. Mrs. Cornbury had smiled as she went, and had carried herself through the whole interview without any sign of temper. Even when declaring that she intended to take Rachel's part open-mouthed, she had spoken in a half-drolling way which had divested her words of any tone of offence. But when she got into her carriage, she was in truth very angry. "I don't believe a word of it," she said to herself; "not a word of it." That in which she professed to herself her own disbelief was the general assertion that Rowan was a swindler, supported by the particular assertion that he had left Baslehurst over head and ears in debt. "I don't believe it." And she resolved that it should be her business to find out whether the accusation were true or false. She knew the ins and outs of Baslehurst life and Baslehurst doings with tolerable accuracy, and was at any rate capable of unravelling such a mystery as that. If the Tappitts in their jealousy were striving to rob Rachel Ray of her husband by spreading false reports, she would encourage Rachel Ray in her love by spreading the truth;--if, as she believed, the truth should speak in Rowan's favour. She would have considerable pleasure in countermining Mr. and Mrs. Tappitt. As to Mr. Tappitt's vote for the election;--that was gone! CHAPTER III. DR. HARFORD. The current of events forced upon Rachel a delay of three or four days in answering her letter, or rather forced upon her that delay in learning whether or no she might answer it; and this was felt by her to be a grievous evil. It had been arranged that she should not write until such writing should have received what might almost be called a parochial sanction, and no idea of acting in opposition to that arrangement ever occurred to her; but the more she thought of it the more she was vexed; and the more she thought of it the more she learned to doubt whether or no her mother was placing her in safe tutelage. During these few weeks a great change came upon the girl's character. When first Mrs. Prime had brought home tidings that Miss Pucker had seen her walking and talking with the young man from the brewery, angry as she had been with her sister, and disgusted as she had been with Miss Pucker, she had acknowledged to herself that such talking and walking were very dangerous, if not very improper, and she had half resolved that there should be no more of them. And when Mrs. Prime had seen her standing at the stile, and had brought home that second report, Rachel, knowing what had occurred at that stile, had then felt sure that she was in danger. At that time, though she had thought much of Luke Rowan, she had not thought of him as a man who could possibly be her husband. She had thought of him as having no right to call her Rachel, because he could not possibly become so. There had been great danger;--there had been conduct which she believed to be improper though she could not tell herself that she had been guilty. In her outlook into the world nothing so beautiful had promised itself to her as having such a man to love her as Luke Rowan. Though her mother was not herself ascetic,--liking tea and buttered toast dearly, and liking also little soft laughter with her child,--she had preached ascetisms till Rachel had learned to think that the world was all either ascetic or reprobate. The Dorcas meetings had become distasteful to her because the women were vulgar; but yet she had half believed herself to be wrong in avoiding the work and the vulgarity together. Idle she had never been. Since a needle had come easy to her hand, and the economies of a household had been made intelligible to her, she had earned her bread and assisted in works of charity. She had read no love stories, and been taught to expect no lover. She was not prepared to deny,--did not deny even to herself,--that it was wrong that she should even like to talk to Luke Rowan. Then came the ball; or, rather, first came the little evening party, which afterwards grew to be a ball. She had been very desirous of going, not for the sake of any pleasure that she promised herself; not for the sake of such pleasure as girls do promise themselves at such gatherings; but because her female pride told her that it was well for her to claim the right of meeting this young man,--well for her to declare that nothing had passed between them which should make her afraid to meet him. That some other hopes had crept in as the evening had come nigh at hand,--hopes of which she had been made aware only by her efforts in repressing them,--may not be denied. She had been accused because of him; and she would show that no such accusation had daunted her. But would he,--would he give occasion for further accusation? She believed he would not; nay, she was sure; at any rate she hoped he would not. She told herself that such was her hope; but had he not noticed her she would have been wretched. We know now in what manner he had noticed her, and we know also whether she had been wretched. She had certainly fled from him. When she left the brewery-house, inducing Mrs. Cornbury to bring her away, she did so in order that she might escape from him. But she ran from him as one runs from some great joy in order that the mind may revel over it in peace. Then, little as she knew it, her love had been given. Her heart was his. She had placed him upon her pinnacle, and was prepared to worship him. She was ready to dress herself in his eyes, to believe that to be good which he thought good, and to repudiate that which he repudiated. When she bowed her head over his breast a day or two afterwards, she could have spoken to him with the full words of passionate love had not maiden fear repressed her. But she had not even bowed her head for him, she had not acknowledged to herself that such love was possible to her, till her mother had consented. That her mother's consent had been wavering, doubtful, expressed without intention of such expression,--so expressed that Mrs. Ray hardly knew that she had expressed it,--was not understood by Rachel. Her mother had consented, and, that consent having been given, Rachel was not now disposed to allow of any steps backwards. She seemed to have learned her rights, or to have assumed that she had rights. Hitherto her obedience to her mother had been pure and simple, although, from the greater force of her character, she had in many things been her mother's leader. But now, though she was ill inclined to rebel, though in this matter of the letter she had obeyed, she was beginning to feel that obedience might become a hardship. She did not say to herself, "They have let me love him, and now they must not put out their hands to hold back my love;" but the current of her feelings ran as though such unspoken words had passed across her mind. She had her rights; and though she did not presume that she could insist on them in opposition to her mother or her mother's advisers, she knew that she would be wronged if those rights were withheld from her. The chief of those rights was the possession of her lover. If he was taken from her she would be as one imprisoned unjustly,--as one robbed by those who should have been his friends,--as one injured, wounded, stricken in the dark, and treacherously mutilated by hands that should have protected him. During these days she was silent, and sat with that look upon her brow which her mother feared. "I could not make Mr. Comfort come any sooner, Rachel," said Mrs. Ray. "No, mamma." "I can see how impatient you are." "I don't know that I'm impatient. I'm sure that I haven't said anything." "If you said anything I shouldn't mind it so much; but I can't bear to see you with that unhappy look. I'm sure I only wish to do what's best. You can't think it right that you should be writing letters to a gentleman without being sure that it is proper." "Oh, mamma, don't talk about it!" "You don't like me to ask your sister; and I'm sure it's natural I should want to ask somebody. He's nearly seventy years old, and he has known you ever since you were born. And then he's a clergyman, and therefore he'll be sure to know what's right. Not that I should have liked to have said a word about it to Mr. Prong, because there's a difference when they come from one doesn't know where." "Pray, mamma, don't. I haven't made any objection to Mr. Comfort. It isn't nice to be talked over in that way by anybody, that's all." "But what was I to do? I'm sure I liked the young man very much. I never knew a young man who took his tea so pleasant. And as for his manners and his way of talking, I had it in my heart to fall in love with him myself. I had indeed. As far as that goes, he's just the young man that I could make a son of." "Dear mamma! my own dearest mamma!" and Rachel, jumping up, threw herself upon her mother's neck. "Stop there. You shan't say another word." "I'm sure I didn't mean to say anything unpleasant." "No, you did not; and I won't be impatient." "Only I can't bear that look. And you know what his mother said,--and Mrs. Tappitt. Not that I care about Mrs. Tappitt; only a person's mother is his mother, and he shouldn't have called her a goose." It must be acknowledged that Rachel's position was not comfortable; and it certainly would not have been improved had she known how many people in Baslehurst were talking about her and Rowan. That Rowan was gone everybody knew; that he had made love to Rachel everybody said; that he never meant to come back any more most professed to believe. Tappitt's tongue was loud in proclaiming his iniquities; and her follies and injuries Mrs. Tappitt whispered into the ears of all her female acquaintances. "I'm sorry for her," Miss Harford said, mildly. Mrs. Tappitt was calling at the rectory, and had made her way in. Mr. Tappitt was an upholder of the old rector, and there was a fellow-townsman's friendship between them. "Oh yes;--very sorry for her," said Mrs. Tappitt. "Very sorry indeed," said Augusta, who was with her mother. "She always seemed to me a pretty, quiet, well-behaved girl," said Miss Harford. "Still waters run deepest, you know, Miss Harford," said Mrs. Tappitt. "I should never have imagined it of her;--never. But she certainly met him half-way." "But we all thought he was respectable, you know," said Miss Harford. Miss Harford was thoroughly good-natured; and though she had never gone half-way herself, and had perhaps lost her chance from having been unable to go any part of the way, she was not disposed to condemn a girl for having been willing to be admired by such a one as Luke Rowan. "Well;--yes; at first we did. He had the name of money, you know, and that goes so far with some girls. We were on our guard,"--and she looked proudly round on Augusta,--"till we should hear what the young man really was. He has thrown off his sheep's clothing now with a vengeance. Mr. Tappitt feels quite ashamed that he should have introduced him to any of the people here; he does indeed." "That may be her misfortune, and not her fault," said Miss Harford, who in defending Rachel was well enough inclined to give up Luke. Indeed, Baslehurst was beginning to have a settled mind that Luke was a wolf. "Oh, quite so," said Mrs. Tappitt. "The poor girl has been very unfortunate no doubt." After that she took her leave of the rectory. On that evening Mr. Comfort dined with Dr. Harford, as did also Butler Cornbury and his wife, and one or two others. The chances of the election formed, of course, the chief subject of conversation both in the drawing-room and at the dinner-table; but in talking of the election they came to talk of Mr. Tappitt, and in talking of Tappitt they came to talk of Luke Rowan. It has already been said that Dr. Harford had been rector of Baslehurst for many years at the period to which this story refers. He had nearly completed half a century of work in that capacity, and had certainly been neither an idle nor an inefficient clergyman. But, now in his old age, he was discontented and disgusted by the changes which had come upon him; and though some bodily strength for further service still remained to him, he had no longer any aptitude for useful work. A man cannot change as men change. Individual men are like the separate links of a rotatory chain. The chain goes on with continuous easy motion as though every part of it were capable of adapting itself to a curve, but not the less is each link as stiff and sturdy as any other piece of wrought iron. Dr. Harford had in his time been an active, popular man,--a man possessing even some liberal tendencies in politics, though a country rector of nearly half a century's standing. In his parish he had been more than a clergyman. He had been a magistrate, and a moving man in municipal affairs. He had been a politician, and though now for many years he had supported the Conservative candidate, he had been loudly in favour of the Reform Bill when Baslehurst was a close borough in the possession of a great duke, who held property hard by. But liberal politics had gone on and had left Dr. Harford high and dry on the standing-ground which he had chosen for himself in the early days of his manhood. And then had come that pestilent act of the legislature under which his parish had been divided. Not that the Act of Parliament itself had been violently condemned by the doctor on its becoming law. I doubt whether he had then thought much of it. But when men calling themselves Commissioners came actually upon him and his, and separated off from him a district of his own town, taking it away altogether from his authority, and giving it over to such inexperienced hands as chance might send thither,--then Dr. Harford became a violent Tory. And my readers must not conceive that this was a question touching his pocket. One might presume that his pocket would be in some degree benefited, seeing that he was saved from the necessity of supplying the spiritual wants of a certain portion of his parish. No shilling was taken from his own income, which, indeed, was by no means excessive. His whole parish gave him barely six hundred a year, out of which he had kept always one, and latterly two curates. It was no question of money in any degree. Sooner than be invaded and mutilated he would have submitted to an order calling upon him to find a third curate,--could any power have given such order. His parish had been invaded and his clerical authority mutilated. He was no longer _totus teres atque rotundus_. The beauty of his life was over, and the contentment of his mind was gone. He knew that it was only left for him to die, spending such days as remained to him in vague prophecies of evil against his devoted country,--a country which had allowed its ancient parochial landmarks to be moved, and its ecclesiastical fastnesses to be invaded! But perhaps hatred of Mr. Prong was the strongest passion of Dr. Harford's heart at the present moment. He had ever hated the dissenting ministers by whom he was surrounded. In Devonshire dissent has waxed strong for many years, and the pastors of the dissenting flocks have been thorns in the side of the Church of England clergymen. Dr. Harford had undergone his full share of suffering from such thorns. But they had caused him no more than a pleasant irritation in comparison with what he endured from the presence of Mr. Prong in Baslehurst. He would sooner have entertained all the dissenting ministers of the South Hams together than have put his legs under the same mahogany with Mr. Prong. Mr. Prong was to him the evil thing! Anathema! He believed all bad things of Mr. Prong with an absolute faith, but without any ground on which such faith should have been formed. He thought that Mr. Prong drank spirits; that he robbed his parishioners;--Dr. Harford would sooner have lost his tongue than have used such a word with reference to those who attended Mr. Prong's chapel;--that he had left a deserted wife on some parish; that he was probably not in truth ordained. There was nothing which Dr. Harford could not believe of Mr. Prong. Now all this was, to say the least of it, a pity, for it disfigured the close of a useful and conscientious life. Dr. Harford of course intended to vote for Mr. Cornbury, but he would not join loudly in condemnation of Mr. Tappitt. Tappitt had stood stanchly by him in all parochial contests regarding the new district. Tappitt opposed the Prong faction at all points. Tappitt as churchwarden had been submissive to the doctor. Church of England principles had always been held at the brewery, and Bungall had been ever in favour with Dr. Harford's predecessor. "He calls himself a Liberal, and always has done," said the doctor. "You can't expect that he should desert his own party." "But a Jew!" said old Mr. Comfort. "Well; why not a Jew?" said the doctor. Whereupon Mr. Comfort, and Butler Cornbury, and Dr. Harford's own curate, young Mr. Calclough, and Captain Byng, an old bachelor, who lived in Baslehurst, all stared at him; as Dr. Harford had intended that they should. "Upon my word," said he, "I don't see the use for caring for that kind of thing any longer; I don't indeed. In the way we are going on now, and for the sort of thing we do, I don't see why Jews shouldn't serve us as well in Parliament as Christians. If I am to have my brains knocked out, I'd sooner have it done by a declared enemy than by one who calls himself my friend." "But our brains are not knocked out yet," said Butler Cornbury. "I don't know anything about yours, but mine are." "I don't think the world's coming to an end yet," said the captain. "Nor do I. I said nothing about the world coming to an end. But if you saw a part of your ship put under the command of a landlubber, who didn't know one side of the vessel from the other, you'd think the world had better come to an end than be carried on in that way." "It's not the same thing, you know," said the captain. "You couldn't divide a ship." "Oh, well; you'll see." "I don't think any Christian should vote for a Jew," said the curate. "A verdict has gone out against them, and what is man that he should reverse it?" "Are you quite sure that you are reversing it by putting them into Parliament?" said Dr. Harford. "May not that be a carrying on of the curse?" "There's consolation in that idea for Butler if he loses his election," said Mr. Comfort. "Parliament isn't what it was," said the doctor. "There's no doubt about that." "And who is to blame?" said Mr. Comfort, who had never supported the Reform Bill as his neighbour had done. "I say nothing about blame. It's natural that things should get worse as they grow older." "Dr. Harford thinks Parliament is worn out," said Butler Cornbury. "And what if I do think so? Have not other things as great fallen and gone into decay? Did not the Roman senate wear out, as you call it? And as for these Jews, of whom you are speaking, what was the curse upon them but the wearing out of their grace and wisdom? I am inclined to think that we are wearing out; only I wish the garment could have lasted my time without showing so many thin places." "Now I believe just the contrary," said the captain. "I don't think we have come to our full growth yet." "Could we lick the French as we did at Trafalgar and Waterloo?" said the doctor. The captain thought a while before he answered, and then spoke with much solemnity. "Yes," said he, "I think we could. And I hope the time will soon come when we may." "We shan't do it if we send Jews to Parliament," said Mr. Comfort. "I must say I think Tappitt wrong," said young Cornbury. "Of course, near as the thing is going, I'm sorry to lose his vote; but I'm not speaking because of that. He has always pretended to hold on to the Church party here, and the Church party has held on to him. His beer is none of the best, and I think he'd have been wise to stick to his old friends." "I don't see the argument about the beer," said the doctor. "He shouldn't provoke his neighbours to look at his faults." "But the Jew's friends would find out that the beer is bad as well as yours." "The truth is," said Cornbury, "that Tappitt thinks he has a personal grievance against me. He's as cross as a bear with a sore head at the present moment, because this young fellow who was to have been his partner has turned against him. There's some love affair, and my wife has been there and made a mess of it. It's hard upon me, for I don't know that I ever saw the young man in my life." "I believe that fellow is a scamp," said the doctor. "I hope not," said Mr. Comfort, thinking of Rachel and her hopes. "We all hope he isn't, of course," said the doctor. "But we can't prevent men being scamps by hoping. There are other scamps in this town in whom, if my hoping would do any good, a very great change would be made."--Everybody present knew that the doctor alluded especially to Mr. Prong, whose condition, however, if the doctor's hopes could have been carried out, would not have been enviable.--"But I fear this fellow Rowan is a scamp, and I think he has treated Tappitt badly. Tappitt told me all about it only this morning." "Audi alteram partem," said Mr. Comfort. "The scamp's party you mean," said the doctor. "I haven't the means of doing that. If in this world we suspend our judgment till we've heard all that can be said on both sides of every question, we should never come to any judgment at all. I hear that he's in debt; I believe he behaved very badly to Tappitt himself, so that Tappitt was forced to use personal violence to defend himself; and he has certainly threatened to open a new brewery here. Now that's bad, as coming from a young man related to the old firm." "I think he should leave the brewery alone," said Mr. Comfort. "Of course he should," said the doctor. "And I hear, moreover, that he is playing a wicked game with a girl in your parish." "I don't know about a wicked game," said the other. "It won't be a wicked game if he marries her." Then Rachel's chances of matrimonial success were discussed with a degree of vigour which must have been felt by her to be highly complimentary, had she been aware of it. But I grieve to say that public opinion, as expressed in Dr. Harford's dining-room, went against Luke Rowan. Mr. Tappitt was not a great man, either as a citizen or as a brewer: he was not one to whom Baslehurst would even rejoice to raise a monument; but such as he was he had been known for many years.

temper

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

"That wouldn't be seemly, because our mayor is expected to attend in church on Roundabout Sunday." Roundabout Sunday, so called for certain local reasons which it would be long to explain, followed immediately on the day of the mayor's inauguration. "Would you like to have a Jew partner in your own business?" Mrs. Butler Cornbury should have said nothing to Mr. Tappitt as to any partner in the brewery, Jew or Christian. "I don't want any partner, and what's more, I don't mean to have any." "Mrs. Cornbury is in favour of Luke Rowan; she takes his side," said Mrs. Tappitt, some portion of her courage returning to her as this opportunity opened upon her. Mr. Tappitt turned his head full round and looked upon Mrs. Cornbury with an evil eye. That lady knew that the vote was lost, lost unless she would denounce the man whom Rachel loved; and she determined at once that she would not denounce him. There are many things which such a woman will do to gain such an object. She could smile when Tappitt was offensive; she could smile again when Mrs. Tappitt talked like a kitchenmaid. She could flatter them both, and pretend to talk seriously with them about Jews and her own Church feelings. She could have given up to them Luke Rowan,--if he had stood alone. But she could not give up the girl she had chaperoned, and upon whom, during that chaperoning, her good-will and kindly feelings had fallen. Rachel had pleased her eye, and gratified her sense of feminine nicety. She felt that a word said against Rowan would be a word said also against Rachel; and therefore, throwing her husband over for the nonce, she resolved to sacrifice the vote and stand up for her friend. "Well, yes; I do," said she, meeting Tappitt's eye steadily. She was not going to be looked out of countenance by Mr. Tappitt. "She thinks he'll come back to marry that young woman at Bragg's End," said Mrs. Tappitt; "but I say that he'll never dare to show his face in Baslehurst again." "That young woman is making a great fool of herself," said Tappitt, "if she trusts to a swindler like him." "Perhaps, Mrs. Tappitt," said Mrs. Cornbury, "we needn't mind discussing Miss Ray. It's not good to talk about a young lady in that way, and I'm sure I never said that I thought she was engaged to Mr. Rowan. Had I done so I should have been very wrong, for I know nothing about it. What little I saw of the gentleman I liked;" and as she used the word gentleman she looked Tappitt full in the face; "and for Miss Ray, I've a great regard for her, and think very highly of her. Independently of her acknowledged beauty and pleasant, ladylike manners, she's a very charming girl. About the vote, Mr. Tappitt--; at any rate you'll think of it." But had he not been defied in his own house? And as for her, the mother of those three finely educated girls, had not every word said in Rachel's favour been a dagger planted in her own maternal bosom? Whose courage would not have risen under such provocation? Mrs. Cornbury had got up to go, but the indignant, injured Tappitts resolved mutually, though without concert, that she should be answered. "I'm an honest man, Mrs. Cornbury," said the brewer, "and I like to speak out my mind openly. Mr. Hart is a liberal, and I mean to support my party. Will you tell Mr. Cornbury so with my compliments? It's all nonsense about Jews not being in Parliament. It's not the same as being mayors or churchwardens, or anything like that. I shall vote for Mr. Hart; and, what's more, we shall put him in." "And Mrs. Cornbury, if you have so much regard for Miss Rachel, you'd better advise her to think no more of that young man. He's no good; he's not indeed. If you ask, you'll find he's in debt everywhere." "Swindler!" said Tappitt. "I don't suppose it can be very bad with Miss Rachel yet, for she only saw him about three times,--though she was so intimate with him at our party." Mrs. Butler Cornbury curtseyed and smiled, and got herself out of the room. Mrs. Tappitt, as soon as she remembered herself, rang the bell, and Mr. Tappitt, following her down to the hall door, went through the pretence of putting her into her carriage. "She's a nasty meddlesome woman," said Tappitt, as soon as he got back to his wife. "And how ever she can stand up and say all those things for that girl, passes me!" said Mrs. Tappitt, holding up both her hands. "She was flighty herself, when young; she was, no doubt; and now I suppose she likes others to be the same. If that's what she calls manners, I shouldn't like her to take my girls about." "And him a gentleman!" said Tappitt. "If those are to be our gentlemen I'd sooner have all the Jews out of Jerusalem. But they'll find out their gentleman; they'll find him out! He'll rob that old mother of his before he's done; you mark my words else." Comforting himself with this hope he took himself back to his counting-house. Mrs. Cornbury had smiled as she went, and had carried herself through the whole interview without any sign of temper. Even when declaring that she intended to take Rachel's part open-mouthed, she had spoken in a half-drolling way which had divested her words of any tone of offence. But when she got into her carriage, she was in truth very angry. "I don't believe a word of it," she said to herself; "not a word of it." That in which she professed to herself her own disbelief was the general assertion that Rowan was a swindler, supported by the particular assertion that he had left Baslehurst over head and ears in debt. "I don't believe it." And she resolved that it should be her business to find out whether the accusation were true or false. She knew the ins and outs of Baslehurst life and Baslehurst doings with tolerable accuracy, and was at any rate capable of unravelling such a mystery as that. If the Tappitts in their jealousy were striving to rob Rachel Ray of her husband by spreading false reports, she would encourage Rachel Ray in her love by spreading the truth;--if, as she believed, the truth should speak in Rowan's favour. She would have considerable pleasure in countermining Mr. and Mrs. Tappitt. As to Mr. Tappitt's vote for the election;--that was gone! CHAPTER III. DR. HARFORD. The current of events forced upon Rachel a delay of three or four days in answering her letter, or rather forced upon her that delay in learning whether or no she might answer it; and this was felt by her to be a grievous evil. It had been arranged that she should not write until such writing should have received what might almost be called a parochial sanction, and no idea of acting in opposition to that arrangement ever occurred to her; but the more she thought of it the more she was vexed; and the more she thought of it the more she learned to doubt whether or no her mother was placing her in safe tutelage. During these few weeks a great change came upon the girl's character. When first Mrs. Prime had brought home tidings that Miss Pucker had seen her walking and talking with the young man from the brewery, angry as she had been with her sister, and disgusted as she had been with Miss Pucker, she had acknowledged to herself that such talking and walking were very dangerous, if not very improper, and she had half resolved that there should be no more of them. And when Mrs. Prime had seen her standing at the stile, and had brought home that second report, Rachel, knowing what had occurred at that stile, had then felt sure that she was in danger. At that time, though she had thought much of Luke Rowan, she had not thought of him as a man who could possibly be her husband. She had thought of him as having no right to call her Rachel, because he could not possibly become so. There had been great danger;--there had been conduct which she believed to be improper though she could not tell herself that she had been guilty. In her outlook into the world nothing so beautiful had promised itself to her as having such a man to love her as Luke Rowan. Though her mother was not herself ascetic,--liking tea and buttered toast dearly, and liking also little soft laughter with her child,--she had preached ascetisms till Rachel had learned to think that the world was all either ascetic or reprobate. The Dorcas meetings had become distasteful to her because the women were vulgar; but yet she had half believed herself to be wrong in avoiding the work and the vulgarity together. Idle she had never been. Since a needle had come easy to her hand, and the economies of a household had been made intelligible to her, she had earned her bread and assisted in works of charity. She had read no love stories, and been taught to expect no lover. She was not prepared to deny,--did not deny even to herself,--that it was wrong that she should even like to talk to Luke Rowan. Then came the ball; or, rather, first came the little evening party, which afterwards grew to be a ball. She had been very desirous of going, not for the sake of any pleasure that she promised herself; not for the sake of such pleasure as girls do promise themselves at such gatherings; but because her female pride told her that it was well for her to claim the right of meeting this young man,--well for her to declare that nothing had passed between them which should make her afraid to meet him. That some other hopes had crept in as the evening had come nigh at hand,--hopes of which she had been made aware only by her efforts in repressing them,--may not be denied. She had been accused because of him; and she would show that no such accusation had daunted her. But would he,--would he give occasion for further accusation? She believed he would not; nay, she was sure; at any rate she hoped he would not. She told herself that such was her hope; but had he not noticed her she would have been wretched. We know now in what manner he had noticed her, and we know also whether she had been wretched. She had certainly fled from him. When she left the brewery-house, inducing Mrs. Cornbury to bring her away, she did so in order that she might escape from him. But she ran from him as one runs from some great joy in order that the mind may revel over it in peace. Then, little as she knew it, her love had been given. Her heart was his. She had placed him upon her pinnacle, and was prepared to worship him. She was ready to dress herself in his eyes, to believe that to be good which he thought good, and to repudiate that which he repudiated. When she bowed her head over his breast a day or two afterwards, she could have spoken to him with the full words of passionate love had not maiden fear repressed her. But she had not even bowed her head for him, she had not acknowledged to herself that such love was possible to her, till her mother had consented. That her mother's consent had been wavering, doubtful, expressed without intention of such expression,--so expressed that Mrs. Ray hardly knew that she had expressed it,--was not understood by Rachel. Her mother had consented, and, that consent having been given, Rachel was not now disposed to allow of any steps backwards. She seemed to have learned her rights, or to have assumed that she had rights. Hitherto her obedience to her mother had been pure and simple, although, from the greater force of her character, she had in many things been her mother's leader. But now, though she was ill inclined to rebel, though in this matter of the letter she had obeyed, she was beginning to feel that obedience might become a hardship. She did not say to herself, "They have let me love him, and now they must not put out their hands to hold back my love;" but the current of her feelings ran as though such unspoken words had passed across her mind. She had her rights; and though she did not presume that she could insist on them in opposition to her mother or her mother's advisers, she knew that she would be wronged if those rights were withheld from her. The chief of those rights was the possession of her lover. If he was taken from her she would be as one imprisoned unjustly,--as one robbed by those who should have been his friends,--as one injured, wounded, stricken in the dark, and treacherously mutilated by hands that should have protected him. During these days she was silent, and sat with that look upon her brow which her mother feared. "I could not make Mr. Comfort come any sooner, Rachel," said Mrs. Ray. "No, mamma." "I can see how impatient you are." "I don't know that I'm impatient. I'm sure that I haven't said anything." "If you said anything I shouldn't mind it so much; but I can't bear to see you with that unhappy look. I'm sure I only wish to do what's best. You can't think it right that you should be writing letters to a gentleman without being sure that it is proper." "Oh, mamma, don't talk about it!" "You don't like me to ask your sister; and I'm sure it's natural I should want to ask somebody. He's nearly seventy years old, and he has known you ever since you were born. And then he's a clergyman, and therefore he'll be sure to know what's right. Not that I should have liked to have said a word about it to Mr. Prong, because there's a difference when they come from one doesn't know where." "Pray, mamma, don't. I haven't made any objection to Mr. Comfort. It isn't nice to be talked over in that way by anybody, that's all." "But what was I to do? I'm sure I liked the young man very much. I never knew a young man who took his tea so pleasant. And as for his manners and his way of talking, I had it in my heart to fall in love with him myself. I had indeed. As far as that goes, he's just the young man that I could make a son of." "Dear mamma! my own dearest mamma!" and Rachel, jumping up, threw herself upon her mother's neck. "Stop there. You shan't say another word." "I'm sure I didn't mean to say anything unpleasant." "No, you did not; and I won't be impatient." "Only I can't bear that look. And you know what his mother said,--and Mrs. Tappitt. Not that I care about Mrs. Tappitt; only a person's mother is his mother, and he shouldn't have called her a goose." It must be acknowledged that Rachel's position was not comfortable; and it certainly would not have been improved had she known how many people in Baslehurst were talking about her and Rowan. That Rowan was gone everybody knew; that he had made love to Rachel everybody said; that he never meant to come back any more most professed to believe. Tappitt's tongue was loud in proclaiming his iniquities; and her follies and injuries Mrs. Tappitt whispered into the ears of all her female acquaintances. "I'm sorry for her," Miss Harford said, mildly. Mrs. Tappitt was calling at the rectory, and had made her way in. Mr. Tappitt was an upholder of the old rector, and there was a fellow-townsman's friendship between them. "Oh yes;--very sorry for her," said Mrs. Tappitt. "Very sorry indeed," said Augusta, who was with her mother. "She always seemed to me a pretty, quiet, well-behaved girl," said Miss Harford. "Still waters run deepest, you know, Miss Harford," said Mrs. Tappitt. "I should never have imagined it of her;--never. But she certainly met him half-way." "But we all thought he was respectable, you know," said Miss Harford. Miss Harford was thoroughly good-natured; and though she had never gone half-way herself, and had perhaps lost her chance from having been unable to go any part of the way, she was not disposed to condemn a girl for having been willing to be admired by such a one as Luke Rowan. "Well;--yes; at first we did. He had the name of money, you know, and that goes so far with some girls. We were on our guard,"--and she looked proudly round on Augusta,--"till we should hear what the young man really was. He has thrown off his sheep's clothing now with a vengeance. Mr. Tappitt feels quite ashamed that he should have introduced him to any of the people here; he does indeed." "That may be her misfortune, and not her fault," said Miss Harford, who in defending Rachel was well enough inclined to give up Luke. Indeed, Baslehurst was beginning to have a settled mind that Luke was a wolf. "Oh, quite so," said Mrs. Tappitt. "The poor girl has been very unfortunate no doubt." After that she took her leave of the rectory. On that evening Mr. Comfort dined with Dr. Harford, as did also Butler Cornbury and his wife, and one or two others. The chances of the election formed, of course, the chief subject of conversation both in the drawing-room and at the dinner-table; but in talking of the election they came to talk of Mr. Tappitt, and in talking of Tappitt they came to talk of Luke Rowan. It has already been said that Dr. Harford had been rector of Baslehurst for many years at the period to which this story refers. He had nearly completed half a century of work in that capacity, and had certainly been neither an idle nor an inefficient clergyman. But, now in his old age, he was discontented and disgusted by the changes which had come upon him; and though some bodily strength for further service still remained to him, he had no longer any aptitude for useful work. A man cannot change as men change. Individual men are like the separate links of a rotatory chain. The chain goes on with continuous easy motion as though every part of it were capable of adapting itself to a curve, but not the less is each link as stiff and sturdy as any other piece of wrought iron. Dr. Harford had in his time been an active, popular man,--a man possessing even some liberal tendencies in politics, though a country rector of nearly half a century's standing. In his parish he had been more than a clergyman. He had been a magistrate, and a moving man in municipal affairs. He had been a politician, and though now for many years he had supported the Conservative candidate, he had been loudly in favour of the Reform Bill when Baslehurst was a close borough in the possession of a great duke, who held property hard by. But liberal politics had gone on and had left Dr. Harford high and dry on the standing-ground which he had chosen for himself in the early days of his manhood. And then had come that pestilent act of the legislature under which his parish had been divided. Not that the Act of Parliament itself had been violently condemned by the doctor on its becoming law. I doubt whether he had then thought much of it. But when men calling themselves Commissioners came actually upon him and his, and separated off from him a district of his own town, taking it away altogether from his authority, and giving it over to such inexperienced hands as chance might send thither,--then Dr. Harford became a violent Tory. And my readers must not conceive that this was a question touching his pocket. One might presume that his pocket would be in some degree benefited, seeing that he was saved from the necessity of supplying the spiritual wants of a certain portion of his parish. No shilling was taken from his own income, which, indeed, was by no means excessive. His whole parish gave him barely six hundred a year, out of which he had kept always one, and latterly two curates. It was no question of money in any degree. Sooner than be invaded and mutilated he would have submitted to an order calling upon him to find a third curate,--could any power have given such order. His parish had been invaded and his clerical authority mutilated. He was no longer _totus teres atque rotundus_. The beauty of his life was over, and the contentment of his mind was gone. He knew that it was only left for him to die, spending such days as remained to him in vague prophecies of evil against his devoted country,--a country which had allowed its ancient parochial landmarks to be moved, and its ecclesiastical fastnesses to be invaded! But perhaps hatred of Mr. Prong was the strongest passion of Dr. Harford's heart at the present moment. He had ever hated the dissenting ministers by whom he was surrounded. In Devonshire dissent has waxed strong for many years, and the pastors of the dissenting flocks have been thorns in the side of the Church of England clergymen. Dr. Harford had undergone his full share of suffering from such thorns. But they had caused him no more than a pleasant irritation in comparison with what he endured from the presence of Mr. Prong in Baslehurst. He would sooner have entertained all the dissenting ministers of the South Hams together than have put his legs under the same mahogany with Mr. Prong. Mr. Prong was to him the evil thing! Anathema! He believed all bad things of Mr. Prong with an absolute faith, but without any ground on which such faith should have been formed. He thought that Mr. Prong drank spirits; that he robbed his parishioners;--Dr. Harford would sooner have lost his tongue than have used such a word with reference to those who attended Mr. Prong's chapel;--that he had left a deserted wife on some parish; that he was probably not in truth ordained. There was nothing which Dr. Harford could not believe of Mr. Prong. Now all this was, to say the least of it, a pity, for it disfigured the close of a useful and conscientious life. Dr. Harford of course intended to vote for Mr. Cornbury, but he would not join loudly in condemnation of Mr. Tappitt. Tappitt had stood stanchly by him in all parochial contests regarding the new district. Tappitt opposed the Prong faction at all points. Tappitt as churchwarden had been submissive to the doctor. Church of England principles had always been held at the brewery, and Bungall had been ever in favour with Dr. Harford's predecessor. "He calls himself a Liberal, and always has done," said the doctor. "You can't expect that he should desert his own party." "But a Jew!" said old Mr. Comfort. "Well; why not a Jew?" said the doctor. Whereupon Mr. Comfort, and Butler Cornbury, and Dr. Harford's own curate, young Mr. Calclough, and Captain Byng, an old bachelor, who lived in Baslehurst, all stared at him; as Dr. Harford had intended that they should. "Upon my word," said he, "I don't see the use for caring for that kind of thing any longer; I don't indeed. In the way we are going on now, and for the sort of thing we do, I don't see why Jews shouldn't serve us as well in Parliament as Christians. If I am to have my brains knocked out, I'd sooner have it done by a declared enemy than by one who calls himself my friend." "But our brains are not knocked out yet," said Butler Cornbury. "I don't know anything about yours, but mine are." "I don't think the world's coming to an end yet," said the captain. "Nor do I. I said nothing about the world coming to an end. But if you saw a part of your ship put under the command of a landlubber, who didn't know one side of the vessel from the other, you'd think the world had better come to an end than be carried on in that way." "It's not the same thing, you know," said the captain. "You couldn't divide a ship." "Oh, well; you'll see." "I don't think any Christian should vote for a Jew," said the curate. "A verdict has gone out against them, and what is man that he should reverse it?" "Are you quite sure that you are reversing it by putting them into Parliament?" said Dr. Harford. "May not that be a carrying on of the curse?" "There's consolation in that idea for Butler if he loses his election," said Mr. Comfort. "Parliament isn't what it was," said the doctor. "There's no doubt about that." "And who is to blame?" said Mr. Comfort, who had never supported the Reform Bill as his neighbour had done. "I say nothing about blame. It's natural that things should get worse as they grow older." "Dr. Harford thinks Parliament is worn out," said Butler Cornbury. "And what if I do think so? Have not other things as great fallen and gone into decay? Did not the Roman senate wear out, as you call it? And as for these Jews, of whom you are speaking, what was the curse upon them but the wearing out of their grace and wisdom? I am inclined to think that we are wearing out; only I wish the garment could have lasted my time without showing so many thin places." "Now I believe just the contrary," said the captain. "I don't think we have come to our full growth yet." "Could we lick the French as we did at Trafalgar and Waterloo?" said the doctor. The captain thought a while before he answered, and then spoke with much solemnity. "Yes," said he, "I think we could. And I hope the time will soon come when we may." "We shan't do it if we send Jews to Parliament," said Mr. Comfort. "I must say I think Tappitt wrong," said young Cornbury. "Of course, near as the thing is going, I'm sorry to lose his vote; but I'm not speaking because of that. He has always pretended to hold on to the Church party here, and the Church party has held on to him. His beer is none of the best, and I think he'd have been wise to stick to his old friends." "I don't see the argument about the beer," said the doctor. "He shouldn't provoke his neighbours to look at his faults." "But the Jew's friends would find out that the beer is bad as well as yours." "The truth is," said Cornbury, "that Tappitt thinks he has a personal grievance against me. He's as cross as a bear with a sore head at the present moment, because this young fellow who was to have been his partner has turned against him. There's some love affair, and my wife has been there and made a mess of it. It's hard upon me, for I don't know that I ever saw the young man in my life." "I believe that fellow is a scamp," said the doctor. "I hope not," said Mr. Comfort, thinking of Rachel and her hopes. "We all hope he isn't, of course," said the doctor. "But we can't prevent men being scamps by hoping. There are other scamps in this town in whom, if my hoping would do any good, a very great change would be made."--Everybody present knew that the doctor alluded especially to Mr. Prong, whose condition, however, if the doctor's hopes could have been carried out, would not have been enviable.--"But I fear this fellow Rowan is a scamp, and I think he has treated Tappitt badly. Tappitt told me all about it only this morning." "Audi alteram partem," said Mr. Comfort. "The scamp's party you mean," said the doctor. "I haven't the means of doing that. If in this world we suspend our judgment till we've heard all that can be said on both sides of every question, we should never come to any judgment at all. I hear that he's in debt; I believe he behaved very badly to Tappitt himself, so that Tappitt was forced to use personal violence to defend himself; and he has certainly threatened to open a new brewery here. Now that's bad, as coming from a young man related to the old firm." "I think he should leave the brewery alone," said Mr. Comfort. "Of course he should," said the doctor. "And I hear, moreover, that he is playing a wicked game with a girl in your parish." "I don't know about a wicked game," said the other. "It won't be a wicked game if he marries her." Then Rachel's chances of matrimonial success were discussed with a degree of vigour which must have been felt by her to be highly complimentary, had she been aware of it. But I grieve to say that public opinion, as expressed in Dr. Harford's dining-room, went against Luke Rowan. Mr. Tappitt was not a great man, either as a citizen or as a brewer: he was not one to whom Baslehurst would even rejoice to raise a monument; but such as he was he had been known for many years.

like

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

"That wouldn't be seemly, because our mayor is expected to attend in church on Roundabout Sunday." Roundabout Sunday, so called for certain local reasons which it would be long to explain, followed immediately on the day of the mayor's inauguration. "Would you like to have a Jew partner in your own business?" Mrs. Butler Cornbury should have said nothing to Mr. Tappitt as to any partner in the brewery, Jew or Christian. "I don't want any partner, and what's more, I don't mean to have any." "Mrs. Cornbury is in favour of Luke Rowan; she takes his side," said Mrs. Tappitt, some portion of her courage returning to her as this opportunity opened upon her. Mr. Tappitt turned his head full round and looked upon Mrs. Cornbury with an evil eye. That lady knew that the vote was lost, lost unless she would denounce the man whom Rachel loved; and she determined at once that she would not denounce him. There are many things which such a woman will do to gain such an object. She could smile when Tappitt was offensive; she could smile again when Mrs. Tappitt talked like a kitchenmaid. She could flatter them both, and pretend to talk seriously with them about Jews and her own Church feelings. She could have given up to them Luke Rowan,--if he had stood alone. But she could not give up the girl she had chaperoned, and upon whom, during that chaperoning, her good-will and kindly feelings had fallen. Rachel had pleased her eye, and gratified her sense of feminine nicety. She felt that a word said against Rowan would be a word said also against Rachel; and therefore, throwing her husband over for the nonce, she resolved to sacrifice the vote and stand up for her friend. "Well, yes; I do," said she, meeting Tappitt's eye steadily. She was not going to be looked out of countenance by Mr. Tappitt. "She thinks he'll come back to marry that young woman at Bragg's End," said Mrs. Tappitt; "but I say that he'll never dare to show his face in Baslehurst again." "That young woman is making a great fool of herself," said Tappitt, "if she trusts to a swindler like him." "Perhaps, Mrs. Tappitt," said Mrs. Cornbury, "we needn't mind discussing Miss Ray. It's not good to talk about a young lady in that way, and I'm sure I never said that I thought she was engaged to Mr. Rowan. Had I done so I should have been very wrong, for I know nothing about it. What little I saw of the gentleman I liked;" and as she used the word gentleman she looked Tappitt full in the face; "and for Miss Ray, I've a great regard for her, and think very highly of her. Independently of her acknowledged beauty and pleasant, ladylike manners, she's a very charming girl. About the vote, Mr. Tappitt--; at any rate you'll think of it." But had he not been defied in his own house? And as for her, the mother of those three finely educated girls, had not every word said in Rachel's favour been a dagger planted in her own maternal bosom? Whose courage would not have risen under such provocation? Mrs. Cornbury had got up to go, but the indignant, injured Tappitts resolved mutually, though without concert, that she should be answered. "I'm an honest man, Mrs. Cornbury," said the brewer, "and I like to speak out my mind openly. Mr. Hart is a liberal, and I mean to support my party. Will you tell Mr. Cornbury so with my compliments? It's all nonsense about Jews not being in Parliament. It's not the same as being mayors or churchwardens, or anything like that. I shall vote for Mr. Hart; and, what's more, we shall put him in." "And Mrs. Cornbury, if you have so much regard for Miss Rachel, you'd better advise her to think no more of that young man. He's no good; he's not indeed. If you ask, you'll find he's in debt everywhere." "Swindler!" said Tappitt. "I don't suppose it can be very bad with Miss Rachel yet, for she only saw him about three times,--though she was so intimate with him at our party." Mrs. Butler Cornbury curtseyed and smiled, and got herself out of the room. Mrs. Tappitt, as soon as she remembered herself, rang the bell, and Mr. Tappitt, following her down to the hall door, went through the pretence of putting her into her carriage. "She's a nasty meddlesome woman," said Tappitt, as soon as he got back to his wife. "And how ever she can stand up and say all those things for that girl, passes me!" said Mrs. Tappitt, holding up both her hands. "She was flighty herself, when young; she was, no doubt; and now I suppose she likes others to be the same. If that's what she calls manners, I shouldn't like her to take my girls about." "And him a gentleman!" said Tappitt. "If those are to be our gentlemen I'd sooner have all the Jews out of Jerusalem. But they'll find out their gentleman; they'll find him out! He'll rob that old mother of his before he's done; you mark my words else." Comforting himself with this hope he took himself back to his counting-house. Mrs. Cornbury had smiled as she went, and had carried herself through the whole interview without any sign of temper. Even when declaring that she intended to take Rachel's part open-mouthed, she had spoken in a half-drolling way which had divested her words of any tone of offence. But when she got into her carriage, she was in truth very angry. "I don't believe a word of it," she said to herself; "not a word of it." That in which she professed to herself her own disbelief was the general assertion that Rowan was a swindler, supported by the particular assertion that he had left Baslehurst over head and ears in debt. "I don't believe it." And she resolved that it should be her business to find out whether the accusation were true or false. She knew the ins and outs of Baslehurst life and Baslehurst doings with tolerable accuracy, and was at any rate capable of unravelling such a mystery as that. If the Tappitts in their jealousy were striving to rob Rachel Ray of her husband by spreading false reports, she would encourage Rachel Ray in her love by spreading the truth;--if, as she believed, the truth should speak in Rowan's favour. She would have considerable pleasure in countermining Mr. and Mrs. Tappitt. As to Mr. Tappitt's vote for the election;--that was gone! CHAPTER III. DR. HARFORD. The current of events forced upon Rachel a delay of three or four days in answering her letter, or rather forced upon her that delay in learning whether or no she might answer it; and this was felt by her to be a grievous evil. It had been arranged that she should not write until such writing should have received what might almost be called a parochial sanction, and no idea of acting in opposition to that arrangement ever occurred to her; but the more she thought of it the more she was vexed; and the more she thought of it the more she learned to doubt whether or no her mother was placing her in safe tutelage. During these few weeks a great change came upon the girl's character. When first Mrs. Prime had brought home tidings that Miss Pucker had seen her walking and talking with the young man from the brewery, angry as she had been with her sister, and disgusted as she had been with Miss Pucker, she had acknowledged to herself that such talking and walking were very dangerous, if not very improper, and she had half resolved that there should be no more of them. And when Mrs. Prime had seen her standing at the stile, and had brought home that second report, Rachel, knowing what had occurred at that stile, had then felt sure that she was in danger. At that time, though she had thought much of Luke Rowan, she had not thought of him as a man who could possibly be her husband. She had thought of him as having no right to call her Rachel, because he could not possibly become so. There had been great danger;--there had been conduct which she believed to be improper though she could not tell herself that she had been guilty. In her outlook into the world nothing so beautiful had promised itself to her as having such a man to love her as Luke Rowan. Though her mother was not herself ascetic,--liking tea and buttered toast dearly, and liking also little soft laughter with her child,--she had preached ascetisms till Rachel had learned to think that the world was all either ascetic or reprobate. The Dorcas meetings had become distasteful to her because the women were vulgar; but yet she had half believed herself to be wrong in avoiding the work and the vulgarity together. Idle she had never been. Since a needle had come easy to her hand, and the economies of a household had been made intelligible to her, she had earned her bread and assisted in works of charity. She had read no love stories, and been taught to expect no lover. She was not prepared to deny,--did not deny even to herself,--that it was wrong that she should even like to talk to Luke Rowan. Then came the ball; or, rather, first came the little evening party, which afterwards grew to be a ball. She had been very desirous of going, not for the sake of any pleasure that she promised herself; not for the sake of such pleasure as girls do promise themselves at such gatherings; but because her female pride told her that it was well for her to claim the right of meeting this young man,--well for her to declare that nothing had passed between them which should make her afraid to meet him. That some other hopes had crept in as the evening had come nigh at hand,--hopes of which she had been made aware only by her efforts in repressing them,--may not be denied. She had been accused because of him; and she would show that no such accusation had daunted her. But would he,--would he give occasion for further accusation? She believed he would not; nay, she was sure; at any rate she hoped he would not. She told herself that such was her hope; but had he not noticed her she would have been wretched. We know now in what manner he had noticed her, and we know also whether she had been wretched. She had certainly fled from him. When she left the brewery-house, inducing Mrs. Cornbury to bring her away, she did so in order that she might escape from him. But she ran from him as one runs from some great joy in order that the mind may revel over it in peace. Then, little as she knew it, her love had been given. Her heart was his. She had placed him upon her pinnacle, and was prepared to worship him. She was ready to dress herself in his eyes, to believe that to be good which he thought good, and to repudiate that which he repudiated. When she bowed her head over his breast a day or two afterwards, she could have spoken to him with the full words of passionate love had not maiden fear repressed her. But she had not even bowed her head for him, she had not acknowledged to herself that such love was possible to her, till her mother had consented. That her mother's consent had been wavering, doubtful, expressed without intention of such expression,--so expressed that Mrs. Ray hardly knew that she had expressed it,--was not understood by Rachel. Her mother had consented, and, that consent having been given, Rachel was not now disposed to allow of any steps backwards. She seemed to have learned her rights, or to have assumed that she had rights. Hitherto her obedience to her mother had been pure and simple, although, from the greater force of her character, she had in many things been her mother's leader. But now, though she was ill inclined to rebel, though in this matter of the letter she had obeyed, she was beginning to feel that obedience might become a hardship. She did not say to herself, "They have let me love him, and now they must not put out their hands to hold back my love;" but the current of her feelings ran as though such unspoken words had passed across her mind. She had her rights; and though she did not presume that she could insist on them in opposition to her mother or her mother's advisers, she knew that she would be wronged if those rights were withheld from her. The chief of those rights was the possession of her lover. If he was taken from her she would be as one imprisoned unjustly,--as one robbed by those who should have been his friends,--as one injured, wounded, stricken in the dark, and treacherously mutilated by hands that should have protected him. During these days she was silent, and sat with that look upon her brow which her mother feared. "I could not make Mr. Comfort come any sooner, Rachel," said Mrs. Ray. "No, mamma." "I can see how impatient you are." "I don't know that I'm impatient. I'm sure that I haven't said anything." "If you said anything I shouldn't mind it so much; but I can't bear to see you with that unhappy look. I'm sure I only wish to do what's best. You can't think it right that you should be writing letters to a gentleman without being sure that it is proper." "Oh, mamma, don't talk about it!" "You don't like me to ask your sister; and I'm sure it's natural I should want to ask somebody. He's nearly seventy years old, and he has known you ever since you were born. And then he's a clergyman, and therefore he'll be sure to know what's right. Not that I should have liked to have said a word about it to Mr. Prong, because there's a difference when they come from one doesn't know where." "Pray, mamma, don't. I haven't made any objection to Mr. Comfort. It isn't nice to be talked over in that way by anybody, that's all." "But what was I to do? I'm sure I liked the young man very much. I never knew a young man who took his tea so pleasant. And as for his manners and his way of talking, I had it in my heart to fall in love with him myself. I had indeed. As far as that goes, he's just the young man that I could make a son of." "Dear mamma! my own dearest mamma!" and Rachel, jumping up, threw herself upon her mother's neck. "Stop there. You shan't say another word." "I'm sure I didn't mean to say anything unpleasant." "No, you did not; and I won't be impatient." "Only I can't bear that look. And you know what his mother said,--and Mrs. Tappitt. Not that I care about Mrs. Tappitt; only a person's mother is his mother, and he shouldn't have called her a goose." It must be acknowledged that Rachel's position was not comfortable; and it certainly would not have been improved had she known how many people in Baslehurst were talking about her and Rowan. That Rowan was gone everybody knew; that he had made love to Rachel everybody said; that he never meant to come back any more most professed to believe. Tappitt's tongue was loud in proclaiming his iniquities; and her follies and injuries Mrs. Tappitt whispered into the ears of all her female acquaintances. "I'm sorry for her," Miss Harford said, mildly. Mrs. Tappitt was calling at the rectory, and had made her way in. Mr. Tappitt was an upholder of the old rector, and there was a fellow-townsman's friendship between them. "Oh yes;--very sorry for her," said Mrs. Tappitt. "Very sorry indeed," said Augusta, who was with her mother. "She always seemed to me a pretty, quiet, well-behaved girl," said Miss Harford. "Still waters run deepest, you know, Miss Harford," said Mrs. Tappitt. "I should never have imagined it of her;--never. But she certainly met him half-way." "But we all thought he was respectable, you know," said Miss Harford. Miss Harford was thoroughly good-natured; and though she had never gone half-way herself, and had perhaps lost her chance from having been unable to go any part of the way, she was not disposed to condemn a girl for having been willing to be admired by such a one as Luke Rowan. "Well;--yes; at first we did. He had the name of money, you know, and that goes so far with some girls. We were on our guard,"--and she looked proudly round on Augusta,--"till we should hear what the young man really was. He has thrown off his sheep's clothing now with a vengeance. Mr. Tappitt feels quite ashamed that he should have introduced him to any of the people here; he does indeed." "That may be her misfortune, and not her fault," said Miss Harford, who in defending Rachel was well enough inclined to give up Luke. Indeed, Baslehurst was beginning to have a settled mind that Luke was a wolf. "Oh, quite so," said Mrs. Tappitt. "The poor girl has been very unfortunate no doubt." After that she took her leave of the rectory. On that evening Mr. Comfort dined with Dr. Harford, as did also Butler Cornbury and his wife, and one or two others. The chances of the election formed, of course, the chief subject of conversation both in the drawing-room and at the dinner-table; but in talking of the election they came to talk of Mr. Tappitt, and in talking of Tappitt they came to talk of Luke Rowan. It has already been said that Dr. Harford had been rector of Baslehurst for many years at the period to which this story refers. He had nearly completed half a century of work in that capacity, and had certainly been neither an idle nor an inefficient clergyman. But, now in his old age, he was discontented and disgusted by the changes which had come upon him; and though some bodily strength for further service still remained to him, he had no longer any aptitude for useful work. A man cannot change as men change. Individual men are like the separate links of a rotatory chain. The chain goes on with continuous easy motion as though every part of it were capable of adapting itself to a curve, but not the less is each link as stiff and sturdy as any other piece of wrought iron. Dr. Harford had in his time been an active, popular man,--a man possessing even some liberal tendencies in politics, though a country rector of nearly half a century's standing. In his parish he had been more than a clergyman. He had been a magistrate, and a moving man in municipal affairs. He had been a politician, and though now for many years he had supported the Conservative candidate, he had been loudly in favour of the Reform Bill when Baslehurst was a close borough in the possession of a great duke, who held property hard by. But liberal politics had gone on and had left Dr. Harford high and dry on the standing-ground which he had chosen for himself in the early days of his manhood. And then had come that pestilent act of the legislature under which his parish had been divided. Not that the Act of Parliament itself had been violently condemned by the doctor on its becoming law. I doubt whether he had then thought much of it. But when men calling themselves Commissioners came actually upon him and his, and separated off from him a district of his own town, taking it away altogether from his authority, and giving it over to such inexperienced hands as chance might send thither,--then Dr. Harford became a violent Tory. And my readers must not conceive that this was a question touching his pocket. One might presume that his pocket would be in some degree benefited, seeing that he was saved from the necessity of supplying the spiritual wants of a certain portion of his parish. No shilling was taken from his own income, which, indeed, was by no means excessive. His whole parish gave him barely six hundred a year, out of which he had kept always one, and latterly two curates. It was no question of money in any degree. Sooner than be invaded and mutilated he would have submitted to an order calling upon him to find a third curate,--could any power have given such order. His parish had been invaded and his clerical authority mutilated. He was no longer _totus teres atque rotundus_. The beauty of his life was over, and the contentment of his mind was gone. He knew that it was only left for him to die, spending such days as remained to him in vague prophecies of evil against his devoted country,--a country which had allowed its ancient parochial landmarks to be moved, and its ecclesiastical fastnesses to be invaded! But perhaps hatred of Mr. Prong was the strongest passion of Dr. Harford's heart at the present moment. He had ever hated the dissenting ministers by whom he was surrounded. In Devonshire dissent has waxed strong for many years, and the pastors of the dissenting flocks have been thorns in the side of the Church of England clergymen. Dr. Harford had undergone his full share of suffering from such thorns. But they had caused him no more than a pleasant irritation in comparison with what he endured from the presence of Mr. Prong in Baslehurst. He would sooner have entertained all the dissenting ministers of the South Hams together than have put his legs under the same mahogany with Mr. Prong. Mr. Prong was to him the evil thing! Anathema! He believed all bad things of Mr. Prong with an absolute faith, but without any ground on which such faith should have been formed. He thought that Mr. Prong drank spirits; that he robbed his parishioners;--Dr. Harford would sooner have lost his tongue than have used such a word with reference to those who attended Mr. Prong's chapel;--that he had left a deserted wife on some parish; that he was probably not in truth ordained. There was nothing which Dr. Harford could not believe of Mr. Prong. Now all this was, to say the least of it, a pity, for it disfigured the close of a useful and conscientious life. Dr. Harford of course intended to vote for Mr. Cornbury, but he would not join loudly in condemnation of Mr. Tappitt. Tappitt had stood stanchly by him in all parochial contests regarding the new district. Tappitt opposed the Prong faction at all points. Tappitt as churchwarden had been submissive to the doctor. Church of England principles had always been held at the brewery, and Bungall had been ever in favour with Dr. Harford's predecessor. "He calls himself a Liberal, and always has done," said the doctor. "You can't expect that he should desert his own party." "But a Jew!" said old Mr. Comfort. "Well; why not a Jew?" said the doctor. Whereupon Mr. Comfort, and Butler Cornbury, and Dr. Harford's own curate, young Mr. Calclough, and Captain Byng, an old bachelor, who lived in Baslehurst, all stared at him; as Dr. Harford had intended that they should. "Upon my word," said he, "I don't see the use for caring for that kind of thing any longer; I don't indeed. In the way we are going on now, and for the sort of thing we do, I don't see why Jews shouldn't serve us as well in Parliament as Christians. If I am to have my brains knocked out, I'd sooner have it done by a declared enemy than by one who calls himself my friend." "But our brains are not knocked out yet," said Butler Cornbury. "I don't know anything about yours, but mine are." "I don't think the world's coming to an end yet," said the captain. "Nor do I. I said nothing about the world coming to an end. But if you saw a part of your ship put under the command of a landlubber, who didn't know one side of the vessel from the other, you'd think the world had better come to an end than be carried on in that way." "It's not the same thing, you know," said the captain. "You couldn't divide a ship." "Oh, well; you'll see." "I don't think any Christian should vote for a Jew," said the curate. "A verdict has gone out against them, and what is man that he should reverse it?" "Are you quite sure that you are reversing it by putting them into Parliament?" said Dr. Harford. "May not that be a carrying on of the curse?" "There's consolation in that idea for Butler if he loses his election," said Mr. Comfort. "Parliament isn't what it was," said the doctor. "There's no doubt about that." "And who is to blame?" said Mr. Comfort, who had never supported the Reform Bill as his neighbour had done. "I say nothing about blame. It's natural that things should get worse as they grow older." "Dr. Harford thinks Parliament is worn out," said Butler Cornbury. "And what if I do think so? Have not other things as great fallen and gone into decay? Did not the Roman senate wear out, as you call it? And as for these Jews, of whom you are speaking, what was the curse upon them but the wearing out of their grace and wisdom? I am inclined to think that we are wearing out; only I wish the garment could have lasted my time without showing so many thin places." "Now I believe just the contrary," said the captain. "I don't think we have come to our full growth yet." "Could we lick the French as we did at Trafalgar and Waterloo?" said the doctor. The captain thought a while before he answered, and then spoke with much solemnity. "Yes," said he, "I think we could. And I hope the time will soon come when we may." "We shan't do it if we send Jews to Parliament," said Mr. Comfort. "I must say I think Tappitt wrong," said young Cornbury. "Of course, near as the thing is going, I'm sorry to lose his vote; but I'm not speaking because of that. He has always pretended to hold on to the Church party here, and the Church party has held on to him. His beer is none of the best, and I think he'd have been wise to stick to his old friends." "I don't see the argument about the beer," said the doctor. "He shouldn't provoke his neighbours to look at his faults." "But the Jew's friends would find out that the beer is bad as well as yours." "The truth is," said Cornbury, "that Tappitt thinks he has a personal grievance against me. He's as cross as a bear with a sore head at the present moment, because this young fellow who was to have been his partner has turned against him. There's some love affair, and my wife has been there and made a mess of it. It's hard upon me, for I don't know that I ever saw the young man in my life." "I believe that fellow is a scamp," said the doctor. "I hope not," said Mr. Comfort, thinking of Rachel and her hopes. "We all hope he isn't, of course," said the doctor. "But we can't prevent men being scamps by hoping. There are other scamps in this town in whom, if my hoping would do any good, a very great change would be made."--Everybody present knew that the doctor alluded especially to Mr. Prong, whose condition, however, if the doctor's hopes could have been carried out, would not have been enviable.--"But I fear this fellow Rowan is a scamp, and I think he has treated Tappitt badly. Tappitt told me all about it only this morning." "Audi alteram partem," said Mr. Comfort. "The scamp's party you mean," said the doctor. "I haven't the means of doing that. If in this world we suspend our judgment till we've heard all that can be said on both sides of every question, we should never come to any judgment at all. I hear that he's in debt; I believe he behaved very badly to Tappitt himself, so that Tappitt was forced to use personal violence to defend himself; and he has certainly threatened to open a new brewery here. Now that's bad, as coming from a young man related to the old firm." "I think he should leave the brewery alone," said Mr. Comfort. "Of course he should," said the doctor. "And I hear, moreover, that he is playing a wicked game with a girl in your parish." "I don't know about a wicked game," said the other. "It won't be a wicked game if he marries her." Then Rachel's chances of matrimonial success were discussed with a degree of vigour which must have been felt by her to be highly complimentary, had she been aware of it. But I grieve to say that public opinion, as expressed in Dr. Harford's dining-room, went against Luke Rowan. Mr. Tappitt was not a great man, either as a citizen or as a brewer: he was not one to whom Baslehurst would even rejoice to raise a monument; but such as he was he had been known for many years.

restlessness

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

"That wouldn't be seemly, because our mayor is expected to attend in church on Roundabout Sunday." Roundabout Sunday, so called for certain local reasons which it would be long to explain, followed immediately on the day of the mayor's inauguration. "Would you like to have a Jew partner in your own business?" Mrs. Butler Cornbury should have said nothing to Mr. Tappitt as to any partner in the brewery, Jew or Christian. "I don't want any partner, and what's more, I don't mean to have any." "Mrs. Cornbury is in favour of Luke Rowan; she takes his side," said Mrs. Tappitt, some portion of her courage returning to her as this opportunity opened upon her. Mr. Tappitt turned his head full round and looked upon Mrs. Cornbury with an evil eye. That lady knew that the vote was lost, lost unless she would denounce the man whom Rachel loved; and she determined at once that she would not denounce him. There are many things which such a woman will do to gain such an object. She could smile when Tappitt was offensive; she could smile again when Mrs. Tappitt talked like a kitchenmaid. She could flatter them both, and pretend to talk seriously with them about Jews and her own Church feelings. She could have given up to them Luke Rowan,--if he had stood alone. But she could not give up the girl she had chaperoned, and upon whom, during that chaperoning, her good-will and kindly feelings had fallen. Rachel had pleased her eye, and gratified her sense of feminine nicety. She felt that a word said against Rowan would be a word said also against Rachel; and therefore, throwing her husband over for the nonce, she resolved to sacrifice the vote and stand up for her friend. "Well, yes; I do," said she, meeting Tappitt's eye steadily. She was not going to be looked out of countenance by Mr. Tappitt. "She thinks he'll come back to marry that young woman at Bragg's End," said Mrs. Tappitt; "but I say that he'll never dare to show his face in Baslehurst again." "That young woman is making a great fool of herself," said Tappitt, "if she trusts to a swindler like him." "Perhaps, Mrs. Tappitt," said Mrs. Cornbury, "we needn't mind discussing Miss Ray. It's not good to talk about a young lady in that way, and I'm sure I never said that I thought she was engaged to Mr. Rowan. Had I done so I should have been very wrong, for I know nothing about it. What little I saw of the gentleman I liked;" and as she used the word gentleman she looked Tappitt full in the face; "and for Miss Ray, I've a great regard for her, and think very highly of her. Independently of her acknowledged beauty and pleasant, ladylike manners, she's a very charming girl. About the vote, Mr. Tappitt--; at any rate you'll think of it." But had he not been defied in his own house? And as for her, the mother of those three finely educated girls, had not every word said in Rachel's favour been a dagger planted in her own maternal bosom? Whose courage would not have risen under such provocation? Mrs. Cornbury had got up to go, but the indignant, injured Tappitts resolved mutually, though without concert, that she should be answered. "I'm an honest man, Mrs. Cornbury," said the brewer, "and I like to speak out my mind openly. Mr. Hart is a liberal, and I mean to support my party. Will you tell Mr. Cornbury so with my compliments? It's all nonsense about Jews not being in Parliament. It's not the same as being mayors or churchwardens, or anything like that. I shall vote for Mr. Hart; and, what's more, we shall put him in." "And Mrs. Cornbury, if you have so much regard for Miss Rachel, you'd better advise her to think no more of that young man. He's no good; he's not indeed. If you ask, you'll find he's in debt everywhere." "Swindler!" said Tappitt. "I don't suppose it can be very bad with Miss Rachel yet, for she only saw him about three times,--though she was so intimate with him at our party." Mrs. Butler Cornbury curtseyed and smiled, and got herself out of the room. Mrs. Tappitt, as soon as she remembered herself, rang the bell, and Mr. Tappitt, following her down to the hall door, went through the pretence of putting her into her carriage. "She's a nasty meddlesome woman," said Tappitt, as soon as he got back to his wife. "And how ever she can stand up and say all those things for that girl, passes me!" said Mrs. Tappitt, holding up both her hands. "She was flighty herself, when young; she was, no doubt; and now I suppose she likes others to be the same. If that's what she calls manners, I shouldn't like her to take my girls about." "And him a gentleman!" said Tappitt. "If those are to be our gentlemen I'd sooner have all the Jews out of Jerusalem. But they'll find out their gentleman; they'll find him out! He'll rob that old mother of his before he's done; you mark my words else." Comforting himself with this hope he took himself back to his counting-house. Mrs. Cornbury had smiled as she went, and had carried herself through the whole interview without any sign of temper. Even when declaring that she intended to take Rachel's part open-mouthed, she had spoken in a half-drolling way which had divested her words of any tone of offence. But when she got into her carriage, she was in truth very angry. "I don't believe a word of it," she said to herself; "not a word of it." That in which she professed to herself her own disbelief was the general assertion that Rowan was a swindler, supported by the particular assertion that he had left Baslehurst over head and ears in debt. "I don't believe it." And she resolved that it should be her business to find out whether the accusation were true or false. She knew the ins and outs of Baslehurst life and Baslehurst doings with tolerable accuracy, and was at any rate capable of unravelling such a mystery as that. If the Tappitts in their jealousy were striving to rob Rachel Ray of her husband by spreading false reports, she would encourage Rachel Ray in her love by spreading the truth;--if, as she believed, the truth should speak in Rowan's favour. She would have considerable pleasure in countermining Mr. and Mrs. Tappitt. As to Mr. Tappitt's vote for the election;--that was gone! CHAPTER III. DR. HARFORD. The current of events forced upon Rachel a delay of three or four days in answering her letter, or rather forced upon her that delay in learning whether or no she might answer it; and this was felt by her to be a grievous evil. It had been arranged that she should not write until such writing should have received what might almost be called a parochial sanction, and no idea of acting in opposition to that arrangement ever occurred to her; but the more she thought of it the more she was vexed; and the more she thought of it the more she learned to doubt whether or no her mother was placing her in safe tutelage. During these few weeks a great change came upon the girl's character. When first Mrs. Prime had brought home tidings that Miss Pucker had seen her walking and talking with the young man from the brewery, angry as she had been with her sister, and disgusted as she had been with Miss Pucker, she had acknowledged to herself that such talking and walking were very dangerous, if not very improper, and she had half resolved that there should be no more of them. And when Mrs. Prime had seen her standing at the stile, and had brought home that second report, Rachel, knowing what had occurred at that stile, had then felt sure that she was in danger. At that time, though she had thought much of Luke Rowan, she had not thought of him as a man who could possibly be her husband. She had thought of him as having no right to call her Rachel, because he could not possibly become so. There had been great danger;--there had been conduct which she believed to be improper though she could not tell herself that she had been guilty. In her outlook into the world nothing so beautiful had promised itself to her as having such a man to love her as Luke Rowan. Though her mother was not herself ascetic,--liking tea and buttered toast dearly, and liking also little soft laughter with her child,--she had preached ascetisms till Rachel had learned to think that the world was all either ascetic or reprobate. The Dorcas meetings had become distasteful to her because the women were vulgar; but yet she had half believed herself to be wrong in avoiding the work and the vulgarity together. Idle she had never been. Since a needle had come easy to her hand, and the economies of a household had been made intelligible to her, she had earned her bread and assisted in works of charity. She had read no love stories, and been taught to expect no lover. She was not prepared to deny,--did not deny even to herself,--that it was wrong that she should even like to talk to Luke Rowan. Then came the ball; or, rather, first came the little evening party, which afterwards grew to be a ball. She had been very desirous of going, not for the sake of any pleasure that she promised herself; not for the sake of such pleasure as girls do promise themselves at such gatherings; but because her female pride told her that it was well for her to claim the right of meeting this young man,--well for her to declare that nothing had passed between them which should make her afraid to meet him. That some other hopes had crept in as the evening had come nigh at hand,--hopes of which she had been made aware only by her efforts in repressing them,--may not be denied. She had been accused because of him; and she would show that no such accusation had daunted her. But would he,--would he give occasion for further accusation? She believed he would not; nay, she was sure; at any rate she hoped he would not. She told herself that such was her hope; but had he not noticed her she would have been wretched. We know now in what manner he had noticed her, and we know also whether she had been wretched. She had certainly fled from him. When she left the brewery-house, inducing Mrs. Cornbury to bring her away, she did so in order that she might escape from him. But she ran from him as one runs from some great joy in order that the mind may revel over it in peace. Then, little as she knew it, her love had been given. Her heart was his. She had placed him upon her pinnacle, and was prepared to worship him. She was ready to dress herself in his eyes, to believe that to be good which he thought good, and to repudiate that which he repudiated. When she bowed her head over his breast a day or two afterwards, she could have spoken to him with the full words of passionate love had not maiden fear repressed her. But she had not even bowed her head for him, she had not acknowledged to herself that such love was possible to her, till her mother had consented. That her mother's consent had been wavering, doubtful, expressed without intention of such expression,--so expressed that Mrs. Ray hardly knew that she had expressed it,--was not understood by Rachel. Her mother had consented, and, that consent having been given, Rachel was not now disposed to allow of any steps backwards. She seemed to have learned her rights, or to have assumed that she had rights. Hitherto her obedience to her mother had been pure and simple, although, from the greater force of her character, she had in many things been her mother's leader. But now, though she was ill inclined to rebel, though in this matter of the letter she had obeyed, she was beginning to feel that obedience might become a hardship. She did not say to herself, "They have let me love him, and now they must not put out their hands to hold back my love;" but the current of her feelings ran as though such unspoken words had passed across her mind. She had her rights; and though she did not presume that she could insist on them in opposition to her mother or her mother's advisers, she knew that she would be wronged if those rights were withheld from her. The chief of those rights was the possession of her lover. If he was taken from her she would be as one imprisoned unjustly,--as one robbed by those who should have been his friends,--as one injured, wounded, stricken in the dark, and treacherously mutilated by hands that should have protected him. During these days she was silent, and sat with that look upon her brow which her mother feared. "I could not make Mr. Comfort come any sooner, Rachel," said Mrs. Ray. "No, mamma." "I can see how impatient you are." "I don't know that I'm impatient. I'm sure that I haven't said anything." "If you said anything I shouldn't mind it so much; but I can't bear to see you with that unhappy look. I'm sure I only wish to do what's best. You can't think it right that you should be writing letters to a gentleman without being sure that it is proper." "Oh, mamma, don't talk about it!" "You don't like me to ask your sister; and I'm sure it's natural I should want to ask somebody. He's nearly seventy years old, and he has known you ever since you were born. And then he's a clergyman, and therefore he'll be sure to know what's right. Not that I should have liked to have said a word about it to Mr. Prong, because there's a difference when they come from one doesn't know where." "Pray, mamma, don't. I haven't made any objection to Mr. Comfort. It isn't nice to be talked over in that way by anybody, that's all." "But what was I to do? I'm sure I liked the young man very much. I never knew a young man who took his tea so pleasant. And as for his manners and his way of talking, I had it in my heart to fall in love with him myself. I had indeed. As far as that goes, he's just the young man that I could make a son of." "Dear mamma! my own dearest mamma!" and Rachel, jumping up, threw herself upon her mother's neck. "Stop there. You shan't say another word." "I'm sure I didn't mean to say anything unpleasant." "No, you did not; and I won't be impatient." "Only I can't bear that look. And you know what his mother said,--and Mrs. Tappitt. Not that I care about Mrs. Tappitt; only a person's mother is his mother, and he shouldn't have called her a goose." It must be acknowledged that Rachel's position was not comfortable; and it certainly would not have been improved had she known how many people in Baslehurst were talking about her and Rowan. That Rowan was gone everybody knew; that he had made love to Rachel everybody said; that he never meant to come back any more most professed to believe. Tappitt's tongue was loud in proclaiming his iniquities; and her follies and injuries Mrs. Tappitt whispered into the ears of all her female acquaintances. "I'm sorry for her," Miss Harford said, mildly. Mrs. Tappitt was calling at the rectory, and had made her way in. Mr. Tappitt was an upholder of the old rector, and there was a fellow-townsman's friendship between them. "Oh yes;--very sorry for her," said Mrs. Tappitt. "Very sorry indeed," said Augusta, who was with her mother. "She always seemed to me a pretty, quiet, well-behaved girl," said Miss Harford. "Still waters run deepest, you know, Miss Harford," said Mrs. Tappitt. "I should never have imagined it of her;--never. But she certainly met him half-way." "But we all thought he was respectable, you know," said Miss Harford. Miss Harford was thoroughly good-natured; and though she had never gone half-way herself, and had perhaps lost her chance from having been unable to go any part of the way, she was not disposed to condemn a girl for having been willing to be admired by such a one as Luke Rowan. "Well;--yes; at first we did. He had the name of money, you know, and that goes so far with some girls. We were on our guard,"--and she looked proudly round on Augusta,--"till we should hear what the young man really was. He has thrown off his sheep's clothing now with a vengeance. Mr. Tappitt feels quite ashamed that he should have introduced him to any of the people here; he does indeed." "That may be her misfortune, and not her fault," said Miss Harford, who in defending Rachel was well enough inclined to give up Luke. Indeed, Baslehurst was beginning to have a settled mind that Luke was a wolf. "Oh, quite so," said Mrs. Tappitt. "The poor girl has been very unfortunate no doubt." After that she took her leave of the rectory. On that evening Mr. Comfort dined with Dr. Harford, as did also Butler Cornbury and his wife, and one or two others. The chances of the election formed, of course, the chief subject of conversation both in the drawing-room and at the dinner-table; but in talking of the election they came to talk of Mr. Tappitt, and in talking of Tappitt they came to talk of Luke Rowan. It has already been said that Dr. Harford had been rector of Baslehurst for many years at the period to which this story refers. He had nearly completed half a century of work in that capacity, and had certainly been neither an idle nor an inefficient clergyman. But, now in his old age, he was discontented and disgusted by the changes which had come upon him; and though some bodily strength for further service still remained to him, he had no longer any aptitude for useful work. A man cannot change as men change. Individual men are like the separate links of a rotatory chain. The chain goes on with continuous easy motion as though every part of it were capable of adapting itself to a curve, but not the less is each link as stiff and sturdy as any other piece of wrought iron. Dr. Harford had in his time been an active, popular man,--a man possessing even some liberal tendencies in politics, though a country rector of nearly half a century's standing. In his parish he had been more than a clergyman. He had been a magistrate, and a moving man in municipal affairs. He had been a politician, and though now for many years he had supported the Conservative candidate, he had been loudly in favour of the Reform Bill when Baslehurst was a close borough in the possession of a great duke, who held property hard by. But liberal politics had gone on and had left Dr. Harford high and dry on the standing-ground which he had chosen for himself in the early days of his manhood. And then had come that pestilent act of the legislature under which his parish had been divided. Not that the Act of Parliament itself had been violently condemned by the doctor on its becoming law. I doubt whether he had then thought much of it. But when men calling themselves Commissioners came actually upon him and his, and separated off from him a district of his own town, taking it away altogether from his authority, and giving it over to such inexperienced hands as chance might send thither,--then Dr. Harford became a violent Tory. And my readers must not conceive that this was a question touching his pocket. One might presume that his pocket would be in some degree benefited, seeing that he was saved from the necessity of supplying the spiritual wants of a certain portion of his parish. No shilling was taken from his own income, which, indeed, was by no means excessive. His whole parish gave him barely six hundred a year, out of which he had kept always one, and latterly two curates. It was no question of money in any degree. Sooner than be invaded and mutilated he would have submitted to an order calling upon him to find a third curate,--could any power have given such order. His parish had been invaded and his clerical authority mutilated. He was no longer _totus teres atque rotundus_. The beauty of his life was over, and the contentment of his mind was gone. He knew that it was only left for him to die, spending such days as remained to him in vague prophecies of evil against his devoted country,--a country which had allowed its ancient parochial landmarks to be moved, and its ecclesiastical fastnesses to be invaded! But perhaps hatred of Mr. Prong was the strongest passion of Dr. Harford's heart at the present moment. He had ever hated the dissenting ministers by whom he was surrounded. In Devonshire dissent has waxed strong for many years, and the pastors of the dissenting flocks have been thorns in the side of the Church of England clergymen. Dr. Harford had undergone his full share of suffering from such thorns. But they had caused him no more than a pleasant irritation in comparison with what he endured from the presence of Mr. Prong in Baslehurst. He would sooner have entertained all the dissenting ministers of the South Hams together than have put his legs under the same mahogany with Mr. Prong. Mr. Prong was to him the evil thing! Anathema! He believed all bad things of Mr. Prong with an absolute faith, but without any ground on which such faith should have been formed. He thought that Mr. Prong drank spirits; that he robbed his parishioners;--Dr. Harford would sooner have lost his tongue than have used such a word with reference to those who attended Mr. Prong's chapel;--that he had left a deserted wife on some parish; that he was probably not in truth ordained. There was nothing which Dr. Harford could not believe of Mr. Prong. Now all this was, to say the least of it, a pity, for it disfigured the close of a useful and conscientious life. Dr. Harford of course intended to vote for Mr. Cornbury, but he would not join loudly in condemnation of Mr. Tappitt. Tappitt had stood stanchly by him in all parochial contests regarding the new district. Tappitt opposed the Prong faction at all points. Tappitt as churchwarden had been submissive to the doctor. Church of England principles had always been held at the brewery, and Bungall had been ever in favour with Dr. Harford's predecessor. "He calls himself a Liberal, and always has done," said the doctor. "You can't expect that he should desert his own party." "But a Jew!" said old Mr. Comfort. "Well; why not a Jew?" said the doctor. Whereupon Mr. Comfort, and Butler Cornbury, and Dr. Harford's own curate, young Mr. Calclough, and Captain Byng, an old bachelor, who lived in Baslehurst, all stared at him; as Dr. Harford had intended that they should. "Upon my word," said he, "I don't see the use for caring for that kind of thing any longer; I don't indeed. In the way we are going on now, and for the sort of thing we do, I don't see why Jews shouldn't serve us as well in Parliament as Christians. If I am to have my brains knocked out, I'd sooner have it done by a declared enemy than by one who calls himself my friend." "But our brains are not knocked out yet," said Butler Cornbury. "I don't know anything about yours, but mine are." "I don't think the world's coming to an end yet," said the captain. "Nor do I. I said nothing about the world coming to an end. But if you saw a part of your ship put under the command of a landlubber, who didn't know one side of the vessel from the other, you'd think the world had better come to an end than be carried on in that way." "It's not the same thing, you know," said the captain. "You couldn't divide a ship." "Oh, well; you'll see." "I don't think any Christian should vote for a Jew," said the curate. "A verdict has gone out against them, and what is man that he should reverse it?" "Are you quite sure that you are reversing it by putting them into Parliament?" said Dr. Harford. "May not that be a carrying on of the curse?" "There's consolation in that idea for Butler if he loses his election," said Mr. Comfort. "Parliament isn't what it was," said the doctor. "There's no doubt about that." "And who is to blame?" said Mr. Comfort, who had never supported the Reform Bill as his neighbour had done. "I say nothing about blame. It's natural that things should get worse as they grow older." "Dr. Harford thinks Parliament is worn out," said Butler Cornbury. "And what if I do think so? Have not other things as great fallen and gone into decay? Did not the Roman senate wear out, as you call it? And as for these Jews, of whom you are speaking, what was the curse upon them but the wearing out of their grace and wisdom? I am inclined to think that we are wearing out; only I wish the garment could have lasted my time without showing so many thin places." "Now I believe just the contrary," said the captain. "I don't think we have come to our full growth yet." "Could we lick the French as we did at Trafalgar and Waterloo?" said the doctor. The captain thought a while before he answered, and then spoke with much solemnity. "Yes," said he, "I think we could. And I hope the time will soon come when we may." "We shan't do it if we send Jews to Parliament," said Mr. Comfort. "I must say I think Tappitt wrong," said young Cornbury. "Of course, near as the thing is going, I'm sorry to lose his vote; but I'm not speaking because of that. He has always pretended to hold on to the Church party here, and the Church party has held on to him. His beer is none of the best, and I think he'd have been wise to stick to his old friends." "I don't see the argument about the beer," said the doctor. "He shouldn't provoke his neighbours to look at his faults." "But the Jew's friends would find out that the beer is bad as well as yours." "The truth is," said Cornbury, "that Tappitt thinks he has a personal grievance against me. He's as cross as a bear with a sore head at the present moment, because this young fellow who was to have been his partner has turned against him. There's some love affair, and my wife has been there and made a mess of it. It's hard upon me, for I don't know that I ever saw the young man in my life." "I believe that fellow is a scamp," said the doctor. "I hope not," said Mr. Comfort, thinking of Rachel and her hopes. "We all hope he isn't, of course," said the doctor. "But we can't prevent men being scamps by hoping. There are other scamps in this town in whom, if my hoping would do any good, a very great change would be made."--Everybody present knew that the doctor alluded especially to Mr. Prong, whose condition, however, if the doctor's hopes could have been carried out, would not have been enviable.--"But I fear this fellow Rowan is a scamp, and I think he has treated Tappitt badly. Tappitt told me all about it only this morning." "Audi alteram partem," said Mr. Comfort. "The scamp's party you mean," said the doctor. "I haven't the means of doing that. If in this world we suspend our judgment till we've heard all that can be said on both sides of every question, we should never come to any judgment at all. I hear that he's in debt; I believe he behaved very badly to Tappitt himself, so that Tappitt was forced to use personal violence to defend himself; and he has certainly threatened to open a new brewery here. Now that's bad, as coming from a young man related to the old firm." "I think he should leave the brewery alone," said Mr. Comfort. "Of course he should," said the doctor. "And I hear, moreover, that he is playing a wicked game with a girl in your parish." "I don't know about a wicked game," said the other. "It won't be a wicked game if he marries her." Then Rachel's chances of matrimonial success were discussed with a degree of vigour which must have been felt by her to be highly complimentary, had she been aware of it. But I grieve to say that public opinion, as expressed in Dr. Harford's dining-room, went against Luke Rowan. Mr. Tappitt was not a great man, either as a citizen or as a brewer: he was not one to whom Baslehurst would even rejoice to raise a monument; but such as he was he had been known for many years.

eye

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

"That wouldn't be seemly, because our mayor is expected to attend in church on Roundabout Sunday." Roundabout Sunday, so called for certain local reasons which it would be long to explain, followed immediately on the day of the mayor's inauguration. "Would you like to have a Jew partner in your own business?" Mrs. Butler Cornbury should have said nothing to Mr. Tappitt as to any partner in the brewery, Jew or Christian. "I don't want any partner, and what's more, I don't mean to have any." "Mrs. Cornbury is in favour of Luke Rowan; she takes his side," said Mrs. Tappitt, some portion of her courage returning to her as this opportunity opened upon her. Mr. Tappitt turned his head full round and looked upon Mrs. Cornbury with an evil eye. That lady knew that the vote was lost, lost unless she would denounce the man whom Rachel loved; and she determined at once that she would not denounce him. There are many things which such a woman will do to gain such an object. She could smile when Tappitt was offensive; she could smile again when Mrs. Tappitt talked like a kitchenmaid. She could flatter them both, and pretend to talk seriously with them about Jews and her own Church feelings. She could have given up to them Luke Rowan,--if he had stood alone. But she could not give up the girl she had chaperoned, and upon whom, during that chaperoning, her good-will and kindly feelings had fallen. Rachel had pleased her eye, and gratified her sense of feminine nicety. She felt that a word said against Rowan would be a word said also against Rachel; and therefore, throwing her husband over for the nonce, she resolved to sacrifice the vote and stand up for her friend. "Well, yes; I do," said she, meeting Tappitt's eye steadily. She was not going to be looked out of countenance by Mr. Tappitt. "She thinks he'll come back to marry that young woman at Bragg's End," said Mrs. Tappitt; "but I say that he'll never dare to show his face in Baslehurst again." "That young woman is making a great fool of herself," said Tappitt, "if she trusts to a swindler like him." "Perhaps, Mrs. Tappitt," said Mrs. Cornbury, "we needn't mind discussing Miss Ray. It's not good to talk about a young lady in that way, and I'm sure I never said that I thought she was engaged to Mr. Rowan. Had I done so I should have been very wrong, for I know nothing about it. What little I saw of the gentleman I liked;" and as she used the word gentleman she looked Tappitt full in the face; "and for Miss Ray, I've a great regard for her, and think very highly of her. Independently of her acknowledged beauty and pleasant, ladylike manners, she's a very charming girl. About the vote, Mr. Tappitt--; at any rate you'll think of it." But had he not been defied in his own house? And as for her, the mother of those three finely educated girls, had not every word said in Rachel's favour been a dagger planted in her own maternal bosom? Whose courage would not have risen under such provocation? Mrs. Cornbury had got up to go, but the indignant, injured Tappitts resolved mutually, though without concert, that she should be answered. "I'm an honest man, Mrs. Cornbury," said the brewer, "and I like to speak out my mind openly. Mr. Hart is a liberal, and I mean to support my party. Will you tell Mr. Cornbury so with my compliments? It's all nonsense about Jews not being in Parliament. It's not the same as being mayors or churchwardens, or anything like that. I shall vote for Mr. Hart; and, what's more, we shall put him in." "And Mrs. Cornbury, if you have so much regard for Miss Rachel, you'd better advise her to think no more of that young man. He's no good; he's not indeed. If you ask, you'll find he's in debt everywhere." "Swindler!" said Tappitt. "I don't suppose it can be very bad with Miss Rachel yet, for she only saw him about three times,--though she was so intimate with him at our party." Mrs. Butler Cornbury curtseyed and smiled, and got herself out of the room. Mrs. Tappitt, as soon as she remembered herself, rang the bell, and Mr. Tappitt, following her down to the hall door, went through the pretence of putting her into her carriage. "She's a nasty meddlesome woman," said Tappitt, as soon as he got back to his wife. "And how ever she can stand up and say all those things for that girl, passes me!" said Mrs. Tappitt, holding up both her hands. "She was flighty herself, when young; she was, no doubt; and now I suppose she likes others to be the same. If that's what she calls manners, I shouldn't like her to take my girls about." "And him a gentleman!" said Tappitt. "If those are to be our gentlemen I'd sooner have all the Jews out of Jerusalem. But they'll find out their gentleman; they'll find him out! He'll rob that old mother of his before he's done; you mark my words else." Comforting himself with this hope he took himself back to his counting-house. Mrs. Cornbury had smiled as she went, and had carried herself through the whole interview without any sign of temper. Even when declaring that she intended to take Rachel's part open-mouthed, she had spoken in a half-drolling way which had divested her words of any tone of offence. But when she got into her carriage, she was in truth very angry. "I don't believe a word of it," she said to herself; "not a word of it." That in which she professed to herself her own disbelief was the general assertion that Rowan was a swindler, supported by the particular assertion that he had left Baslehurst over head and ears in debt. "I don't believe it." And she resolved that it should be her business to find out whether the accusation were true or false. She knew the ins and outs of Baslehurst life and Baslehurst doings with tolerable accuracy, and was at any rate capable of unravelling such a mystery as that. If the Tappitts in their jealousy were striving to rob Rachel Ray of her husband by spreading false reports, she would encourage Rachel Ray in her love by spreading the truth;--if, as she believed, the truth should speak in Rowan's favour. She would have considerable pleasure in countermining Mr. and Mrs. Tappitt. As to Mr. Tappitt's vote for the election;--that was gone! CHAPTER III. DR. HARFORD. The current of events forced upon Rachel a delay of three or four days in answering her letter, or rather forced upon her that delay in learning whether or no she might answer it; and this was felt by her to be a grievous evil. It had been arranged that she should not write until such writing should have received what might almost be called a parochial sanction, and no idea of acting in opposition to that arrangement ever occurred to her; but the more she thought of it the more she was vexed; and the more she thought of it the more she learned to doubt whether or no her mother was placing her in safe tutelage. During these few weeks a great change came upon the girl's character. When first Mrs. Prime had brought home tidings that Miss Pucker had seen her walking and talking with the young man from the brewery, angry as she had been with her sister, and disgusted as she had been with Miss Pucker, she had acknowledged to herself that such talking and walking were very dangerous, if not very improper, and she had half resolved that there should be no more of them. And when Mrs. Prime had seen her standing at the stile, and had brought home that second report, Rachel, knowing what had occurred at that stile, had then felt sure that she was in danger. At that time, though she had thought much of Luke Rowan, she had not thought of him as a man who could possibly be her husband. She had thought of him as having no right to call her Rachel, because he could not possibly become so. There had been great danger;--there had been conduct which she believed to be improper though she could not tell herself that she had been guilty. In her outlook into the world nothing so beautiful had promised itself to her as having such a man to love her as Luke Rowan. Though her mother was not herself ascetic,--liking tea and buttered toast dearly, and liking also little soft laughter with her child,--she had preached ascetisms till Rachel had learned to think that the world was all either ascetic or reprobate. The Dorcas meetings had become distasteful to her because the women were vulgar; but yet she had half believed herself to be wrong in avoiding the work and the vulgarity together. Idle she had never been. Since a needle had come easy to her hand, and the economies of a household had been made intelligible to her, she had earned her bread and assisted in works of charity. She had read no love stories, and been taught to expect no lover. She was not prepared to deny,--did not deny even to herself,--that it was wrong that she should even like to talk to Luke Rowan. Then came the ball; or, rather, first came the little evening party, which afterwards grew to be a ball. She had been very desirous of going, not for the sake of any pleasure that she promised herself; not for the sake of such pleasure as girls do promise themselves at such gatherings; but because her female pride told her that it was well for her to claim the right of meeting this young man,--well for her to declare that nothing had passed between them which should make her afraid to meet him. That some other hopes had crept in as the evening had come nigh at hand,--hopes of which she had been made aware only by her efforts in repressing them,--may not be denied. She had been accused because of him; and she would show that no such accusation had daunted her. But would he,--would he give occasion for further accusation? She believed he would not; nay, she was sure; at any rate she hoped he would not. She told herself that such was her hope; but had he not noticed her she would have been wretched. We know now in what manner he had noticed her, and we know also whether she had been wretched. She had certainly fled from him. When she left the brewery-house, inducing Mrs. Cornbury to bring her away, she did so in order that she might escape from him. But she ran from him as one runs from some great joy in order that the mind may revel over it in peace. Then, little as she knew it, her love had been given. Her heart was his. She had placed him upon her pinnacle, and was prepared to worship him. She was ready to dress herself in his eyes, to believe that to be good which he thought good, and to repudiate that which he repudiated. When she bowed her head over his breast a day or two afterwards, she could have spoken to him with the full words of passionate love had not maiden fear repressed her. But she had not even bowed her head for him, she had not acknowledged to herself that such love was possible to her, till her mother had consented. That her mother's consent had been wavering, doubtful, expressed without intention of such expression,--so expressed that Mrs. Ray hardly knew that she had expressed it,--was not understood by Rachel. Her mother had consented, and, that consent having been given, Rachel was not now disposed to allow of any steps backwards. She seemed to have learned her rights, or to have assumed that she had rights. Hitherto her obedience to her mother had been pure and simple, although, from the greater force of her character, she had in many things been her mother's leader. But now, though she was ill inclined to rebel, though in this matter of the letter she had obeyed, she was beginning to feel that obedience might become a hardship. She did not say to herself, "They have let me love him, and now they must not put out their hands to hold back my love;" but the current of her feelings ran as though such unspoken words had passed across her mind. She had her rights; and though she did not presume that she could insist on them in opposition to her mother or her mother's advisers, she knew that she would be wronged if those rights were withheld from her. The chief of those rights was the possession of her lover. If he was taken from her she would be as one imprisoned unjustly,--as one robbed by those who should have been his friends,--as one injured, wounded, stricken in the dark, and treacherously mutilated by hands that should have protected him. During these days she was silent, and sat with that look upon her brow which her mother feared. "I could not make Mr. Comfort come any sooner, Rachel," said Mrs. Ray. "No, mamma." "I can see how impatient you are." "I don't know that I'm impatient. I'm sure that I haven't said anything." "If you said anything I shouldn't mind it so much; but I can't bear to see you with that unhappy look. I'm sure I only wish to do what's best. You can't think it right that you should be writing letters to a gentleman without being sure that it is proper." "Oh, mamma, don't talk about it!" "You don't like me to ask your sister; and I'm sure it's natural I should want to ask somebody. He's nearly seventy years old, and he has known you ever since you were born. And then he's a clergyman, and therefore he'll be sure to know what's right. Not that I should have liked to have said a word about it to Mr. Prong, because there's a difference when they come from one doesn't know where." "Pray, mamma, don't. I haven't made any objection to Mr. Comfort. It isn't nice to be talked over in that way by anybody, that's all." "But what was I to do? I'm sure I liked the young man very much. I never knew a young man who took his tea so pleasant. And as for his manners and his way of talking, I had it in my heart to fall in love with him myself. I had indeed. As far as that goes, he's just the young man that I could make a son of." "Dear mamma! my own dearest mamma!" and Rachel, jumping up, threw herself upon her mother's neck. "Stop there. You shan't say another word." "I'm sure I didn't mean to say anything unpleasant." "No, you did not; and I won't be impatient." "Only I can't bear that look. And you know what his mother said,--and Mrs. Tappitt. Not that I care about Mrs. Tappitt; only a person's mother is his mother, and he shouldn't have called her a goose." It must be acknowledged that Rachel's position was not comfortable; and it certainly would not have been improved had she known how many people in Baslehurst were talking about her and Rowan. That Rowan was gone everybody knew; that he had made love to Rachel everybody said; that he never meant to come back any more most professed to believe. Tappitt's tongue was loud in proclaiming his iniquities; and her follies and injuries Mrs. Tappitt whispered into the ears of all her female acquaintances. "I'm sorry for her," Miss Harford said, mildly. Mrs. Tappitt was calling at the rectory, and had made her way in. Mr. Tappitt was an upholder of the old rector, and there was a fellow-townsman's friendship between them. "Oh yes;--very sorry for her," said Mrs. Tappitt. "Very sorry indeed," said Augusta, who was with her mother. "She always seemed to me a pretty, quiet, well-behaved girl," said Miss Harford. "Still waters run deepest, you know, Miss Harford," said Mrs. Tappitt. "I should never have imagined it of her;--never. But she certainly met him half-way." "But we all thought he was respectable, you know," said Miss Harford. Miss Harford was thoroughly good-natured; and though she had never gone half-way herself, and had perhaps lost her chance from having been unable to go any part of the way, she was not disposed to condemn a girl for having been willing to be admired by such a one as Luke Rowan. "Well;--yes; at first we did. He had the name of money, you know, and that goes so far with some girls. We were on our guard,"--and she looked proudly round on Augusta,--"till we should hear what the young man really was. He has thrown off his sheep's clothing now with a vengeance. Mr. Tappitt feels quite ashamed that he should have introduced him to any of the people here; he does indeed." "That may be her misfortune, and not her fault," said Miss Harford, who in defending Rachel was well enough inclined to give up Luke. Indeed, Baslehurst was beginning to have a settled mind that Luke was a wolf. "Oh, quite so," said Mrs. Tappitt. "The poor girl has been very unfortunate no doubt." After that she took her leave of the rectory. On that evening Mr. Comfort dined with Dr. Harford, as did also Butler Cornbury and his wife, and one or two others. The chances of the election formed, of course, the chief subject of conversation both in the drawing-room and at the dinner-table; but in talking of the election they came to talk of Mr. Tappitt, and in talking of Tappitt they came to talk of Luke Rowan. It has already been said that Dr. Harford had been rector of Baslehurst for many years at the period to which this story refers. He had nearly completed half a century of work in that capacity, and had certainly been neither an idle nor an inefficient clergyman. But, now in his old age, he was discontented and disgusted by the changes which had come upon him; and though some bodily strength for further service still remained to him, he had no longer any aptitude for useful work. A man cannot change as men change. Individual men are like the separate links of a rotatory chain. The chain goes on with continuous easy motion as though every part of it were capable of adapting itself to a curve, but not the less is each link as stiff and sturdy as any other piece of wrought iron. Dr. Harford had in his time been an active, popular man,--a man possessing even some liberal tendencies in politics, though a country rector of nearly half a century's standing. In his parish he had been more than a clergyman. He had been a magistrate, and a moving man in municipal affairs. He had been a politician, and though now for many years he had supported the Conservative candidate, he had been loudly in favour of the Reform Bill when Baslehurst was a close borough in the possession of a great duke, who held property hard by. But liberal politics had gone on and had left Dr. Harford high and dry on the standing-ground which he had chosen for himself in the early days of his manhood. And then had come that pestilent act of the legislature under which his parish had been divided. Not that the Act of Parliament itself had been violently condemned by the doctor on its becoming law. I doubt whether he had then thought much of it. But when men calling themselves Commissioners came actually upon him and his, and separated off from him a district of his own town, taking it away altogether from his authority, and giving it over to such inexperienced hands as chance might send thither,--then Dr. Harford became a violent Tory. And my readers must not conceive that this was a question touching his pocket. One might presume that his pocket would be in some degree benefited, seeing that he was saved from the necessity of supplying the spiritual wants of a certain portion of his parish. No shilling was taken from his own income, which, indeed, was by no means excessive. His whole parish gave him barely six hundred a year, out of which he had kept always one, and latterly two curates. It was no question of money in any degree. Sooner than be invaded and mutilated he would have submitted to an order calling upon him to find a third curate,--could any power have given such order. His parish had been invaded and his clerical authority mutilated. He was no longer _totus teres atque rotundus_. The beauty of his life was over, and the contentment of his mind was gone. He knew that it was only left for him to die, spending such days as remained to him in vague prophecies of evil against his devoted country,--a country which had allowed its ancient parochial landmarks to be moved, and its ecclesiastical fastnesses to be invaded! But perhaps hatred of Mr. Prong was the strongest passion of Dr. Harford's heart at the present moment. He had ever hated the dissenting ministers by whom he was surrounded. In Devonshire dissent has waxed strong for many years, and the pastors of the dissenting flocks have been thorns in the side of the Church of England clergymen. Dr. Harford had undergone his full share of suffering from such thorns. But they had caused him no more than a pleasant irritation in comparison with what he endured from the presence of Mr. Prong in Baslehurst. He would sooner have entertained all the dissenting ministers of the South Hams together than have put his legs under the same mahogany with Mr. Prong. Mr. Prong was to him the evil thing! Anathema! He believed all bad things of Mr. Prong with an absolute faith, but without any ground on which such faith should have been formed. He thought that Mr. Prong drank spirits; that he robbed his parishioners;--Dr. Harford would sooner have lost his tongue than have used such a word with reference to those who attended Mr. Prong's chapel;--that he had left a deserted wife on some parish; that he was probably not in truth ordained. There was nothing which Dr. Harford could not believe of Mr. Prong. Now all this was, to say the least of it, a pity, for it disfigured the close of a useful and conscientious life. Dr. Harford of course intended to vote for Mr. Cornbury, but he would not join loudly in condemnation of Mr. Tappitt. Tappitt had stood stanchly by him in all parochial contests regarding the new district. Tappitt opposed the Prong faction at all points. Tappitt as churchwarden had been submissive to the doctor. Church of England principles had always been held at the brewery, and Bungall had been ever in favour with Dr. Harford's predecessor. "He calls himself a Liberal, and always has done," said the doctor. "You can't expect that he should desert his own party." "But a Jew!" said old Mr. Comfort. "Well; why not a Jew?" said the doctor. Whereupon Mr. Comfort, and Butler Cornbury, and Dr. Harford's own curate, young Mr. Calclough, and Captain Byng, an old bachelor, who lived in Baslehurst, all stared at him; as Dr. Harford had intended that they should. "Upon my word," said he, "I don't see the use for caring for that kind of thing any longer; I don't indeed. In the way we are going on now, and for the sort of thing we do, I don't see why Jews shouldn't serve us as well in Parliament as Christians. If I am to have my brains knocked out, I'd sooner have it done by a declared enemy than by one who calls himself my friend." "But our brains are not knocked out yet," said Butler Cornbury. "I don't know anything about yours, but mine are." "I don't think the world's coming to an end yet," said the captain. "Nor do I. I said nothing about the world coming to an end. But if you saw a part of your ship put under the command of a landlubber, who didn't know one side of the vessel from the other, you'd think the world had better come to an end than be carried on in that way." "It's not the same thing, you know," said the captain. "You couldn't divide a ship." "Oh, well; you'll see." "I don't think any Christian should vote for a Jew," said the curate. "A verdict has gone out against them, and what is man that he should reverse it?" "Are you quite sure that you are reversing it by putting them into Parliament?" said Dr. Harford. "May not that be a carrying on of the curse?" "There's consolation in that idea for Butler if he loses his election," said Mr. Comfort. "Parliament isn't what it was," said the doctor. "There's no doubt about that." "And who is to blame?" said Mr. Comfort, who had never supported the Reform Bill as his neighbour had done. "I say nothing about blame. It's natural that things should get worse as they grow older." "Dr. Harford thinks Parliament is worn out," said Butler Cornbury. "And what if I do think so? Have not other things as great fallen and gone into decay? Did not the Roman senate wear out, as you call it? And as for these Jews, of whom you are speaking, what was the curse upon them but the wearing out of their grace and wisdom? I am inclined to think that we are wearing out; only I wish the garment could have lasted my time without showing so many thin places." "Now I believe just the contrary," said the captain. "I don't think we have come to our full growth yet." "Could we lick the French as we did at Trafalgar and Waterloo?" said the doctor. The captain thought a while before he answered, and then spoke with much solemnity. "Yes," said he, "I think we could. And I hope the time will soon come when we may." "We shan't do it if we send Jews to Parliament," said Mr. Comfort. "I must say I think Tappitt wrong," said young Cornbury. "Of course, near as the thing is going, I'm sorry to lose his vote; but I'm not speaking because of that. He has always pretended to hold on to the Church party here, and the Church party has held on to him. His beer is none of the best, and I think he'd have been wise to stick to his old friends." "I don't see the argument about the beer," said the doctor. "He shouldn't provoke his neighbours to look at his faults." "But the Jew's friends would find out that the beer is bad as well as yours." "The truth is," said Cornbury, "that Tappitt thinks he has a personal grievance against me. He's as cross as a bear with a sore head at the present moment, because this young fellow who was to have been his partner has turned against him. There's some love affair, and my wife has been there and made a mess of it. It's hard upon me, for I don't know that I ever saw the young man in my life." "I believe that fellow is a scamp," said the doctor. "I hope not," said Mr. Comfort, thinking of Rachel and her hopes. "We all hope he isn't, of course," said the doctor. "But we can't prevent men being scamps by hoping. There are other scamps in this town in whom, if my hoping would do any good, a very great change would be made."--Everybody present knew that the doctor alluded especially to Mr. Prong, whose condition, however, if the doctor's hopes could have been carried out, would not have been enviable.--"But I fear this fellow Rowan is a scamp, and I think he has treated Tappitt badly. Tappitt told me all about it only this morning." "Audi alteram partem," said Mr. Comfort. "The scamp's party you mean," said the doctor. "I haven't the means of doing that. If in this world we suspend our judgment till we've heard all that can be said on both sides of every question, we should never come to any judgment at all. I hear that he's in debt; I believe he behaved very badly to Tappitt himself, so that Tappitt was forced to use personal violence to defend himself; and he has certainly threatened to open a new brewery here. Now that's bad, as coming from a young man related to the old firm." "I think he should leave the brewery alone," said Mr. Comfort. "Of course he should," said the doctor. "And I hear, moreover, that he is playing a wicked game with a girl in your parish." "I don't know about a wicked game," said the other. "It won't be a wicked game if he marries her." Then Rachel's chances of matrimonial success were discussed with a degree of vigour which must have been felt by her to be highly complimentary, had she been aware of it. But I grieve to say that public opinion, as expressed in Dr. Harford's dining-room, went against Luke Rowan. Mr. Tappitt was not a great man, either as a citizen or as a brewer: he was not one to whom Baslehurst would even rejoice to raise a monument; but such as he was he had been known for many years.

partner

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

"Well, it's like this ... only the ghost doesn't like me to talk about his business." "Indeed?" sneered Richard. "But this is a matter that concerns myself alone ... Well, it was in Box Five one evening, I found a letter addressed to myself, a sort of note written in red ink. I needn't read the letter to you sir; I know it by heart, and I shall never forget it if I live to be a hundred!" And Mme. Giry, drawing herself up, recited the letter with touching eloquence: MADAM: 1825. Mlle. Menetrier, leader of the ballet, became Marquise de Cussy. 1832. Mlle. Marie Taglioni, a dancer, became Comtesse Gilbert des Voisins. 1846. La Sota, a dancer, married a brother of the King of Spain. 1847. Lola Montes, a dancer, became the morganatic wife of King Louis of Bavaria and was created Countess of Landsfeld. 1848. Mlle. Maria, a dancer, became Baronne d'Herneville. 1870. Theresa Hessier, a dancer, married Dom Fernando, brother to the King of Portugal. Richard and Moncharmin listened to the old woman, who, as she proceeded with the enumeration of these glorious nuptials, swelled out, took courage and, at last, in a voice bursting with pride, flung out the last sentence of the prophetic letter: 1885. Meg Giry, Empress! Exhausted by this supreme effort, the box-keeper fell into a chair, saying: "Gentlemen, the letter was signed, 'Opera Ghost.' I had heard much of the ghost, but only half believed in him. From the day when he declared that my little Meg, the flesh of my flesh, the fruit of my womb, would be empress, I believed in him altogether." And really it was not necessary to make a long study of Mme. Giry's excited features to understand what could be got out of that fine intellect with the two words "ghost" and "empress." But who pulled the strings of that extraordinary puppet? That was the question. "You have never seen him; he speaks to you and you believe all he says?" asked Moncharmin. "Yes. To begin with, I owe it to him that my little Meg was promoted to be the leader of a row. I said to the ghost, 'If she is to be empress in 1885, there is no time to lose; she must become a leader at once.' He said, 'Look upon it as done.' And he had only a word to say to M. Poligny and the thing was done." "So you see that M. Poligny saw him!" "No, not any more than I did; but he heard him. The ghost said a word in his ear, you know, on the evening when he left Box Five, looking so dreadfully pale." Moncharmin heaved a sigh. "What a business!" he groaned. "Ah!" said Mme. Giry. "I always thought there were secrets between the ghost and M. Poligny. Anything that the ghost asked M. Poligny to do M. Poligny did. M. Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "You hear, Richard: Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "Yes, yes, I hear!" said Richard. "M. Poligny is a friend of the ghost; and, as Mme. Giry is a friend of M. Poligny, there we are! ... But I don't care a hang about M. Poligny," he added roughly. "The only person whose fate really interests me is Mme. Giry... Mme. Giry, do you know what is in this envelope?" "Why, of course not," she said. "Well, look." Mine. Giry looked into the envelope with a lackluster eye, which soon recovered its brilliancy. "Thousand-franc notes!" she cried. "Yes, Mme. Giry, thousand-franc notes! And you knew it!" "I, sir? I? ... I swear ..." "Don't swear, Mme. Giry! ... And now I will tell you the second reason why I sent for you. Mme. Giry, I am going to have you arrested." The two black feathers on the dingy bonnet, which usually affected the attitude of two notes of interrogation, changed into two notes of exclamation; as for the bonnet itself, it swayed in menace on the old lady's tempestuous chignon. Surprise, indignation, protest and dismay were furthermore displayed by little Meg's mother in a sort of extravagant movement of offended virtue, half bound, half slide, that brought her right under the nose of M. Richard, who could not help pushing back his chair. "HAVE ME ARRESTED!" The mouth that spoke those words seemed to spit the three teeth that were left to it into Richard's face. M. Richard behaved like a hero. He retreated no farther. His threatening forefinger seemed already to be pointing out the keeper of Box Five to the absent magistrates. "I am going to have you arrested, Mme. Giry, as a thief!" "Say that again!" And Mme. Giry caught Mr. Manager Richard a mighty box on the ear, before Mr. Manager Moncharmin had time to intervene. But it was not the withered hand of the angry old beldame that fell on the managerial ear, but the envelope itself, the cause of all the trouble, the magic envelope that opened with the blow, scattering the bank-notes, which escaped in a fantastic whirl of giant butterflies. The two managers gave a shout, and the same thought made them both go on their knees, feverishly, picking up and hurriedly examining the precious scraps of paper. "Are they still genuine, Moncharmin?" "Are they still genuine, Richard?" "Yes, they are still genuine!" Above their heads, Mme. Giry's three teeth were clashing in a noisy contest, full of hideous interjections. But all that could be clearly distinguished was this LEIT-MOTIF: "I, a thief! ... I, a thief, I?" She choked with rage. She shouted: "I never heard of such a thing!" And, suddenly, she darted up to Richard again. "In any case," she yelped, "you, M. Richard, ought to know better than I where the twenty thousand francs went to!" "I?" asked Richard, astounded. "And how should I know?" Moncharmin, looking severe and dissatisfied, at once insisted that the good lady should explain herself. "What does this mean, Mme. Giry?" he asked. "And why do you say that M. Richard ought to know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to?" As for Richard, who felt himself turning red under Moncharmin's eyes, he took Mme. Giry by the wrist and shook it violently. In a voice growling and rolling like thunder, he roared: "Why should I know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to? Why? Answer me!" "Because they went into your pocket!" gasped the old woman, looking at him as if he were the devil incarnate. Richard would have rushed upon Mme. Giry, if Moncharmin had not stayed his avenging hand and hastened to ask her, more gently: "How can you suspect my partner, M. Richard, of putting twenty-thousand francs in his pocket?" "I never said that," declared Mme. Giry, "seeing that it was myself who put the twenty-thousand francs into M. Richard's pocket." And she added, under her voice, "There! It's out! ... And may the ghost forgive me!" Richard began bellowing anew, but Moncharmin authoritatively ordered him to be silent. "Allow me! Allow me! Let the woman explain herself. Let me question her." And he added: "It is really astonishing that you should take up such a tone! ... We are on the verge of clearing up the whole mystery. And you're in a rage! ... You're wrong to behave like that... I'm enjoying myself immensely." Mme. Giry, like the martyr that she was, raised her head, her face beaming with faith in her own innocence. "You tell me there were twenty-thousand francs in the envelope which I put into M. Richard's pocket; but I tell you again that I knew nothing about it ... Nor M. Richard either, for that matter!" "Aha!" said Richard, suddenly assuming a swaggering air which Moncharmin did not like. "I knew nothing either! You put twenty-thousand francs in my pocket and I knew nothing either! I am very glad to hear it, Mme. Giry!" "Yes," the terrible dame agreed, "yes, it's true. We neither of us knew anything. But you, you must have ended by finding out!" Richard would certainly have swallowed Mme. Giry alive, if Moncharmin had not been there! But Moncharmin protected her. He resumed his questions: "What sort of envelope did you put in M. Richard's pocket? It was not the one which we gave you, the one which you took to Box Five before our eyes; and yet that was the one which contained the twenty-thousand francs." "I beg your pardon. The envelope which M. le Directeur gave me was the one which I slipped into M. le Directeur's pocket," explained Mme. Giry. "The one which I took to the ghost's box was another envelope, just like it, which the ghost gave me beforehand and which I hid up my sleeve." So saying, Mme. Giry took from her sleeve an envelope ready prepared and similarly addressed to that containing the twenty-thousand francs. The managers took it from her. They examined it and saw that it was fastened with seals stamped with their own managerial seal. They opened it. It contained twenty Bank of St. Farce notes like those which had so much astounded them the month before. "How simple!" said Richard. "How simple!" repeated Moncharmin. And he continued with his eyes fixed upon Mme. Giry, as though trying to hypnotize her. "So it was the ghost who gave you this envelope and told you to substitute it for the one which we gave you? And it was the ghost who told you to put the other into M. Richard's pocket?" "Yes, it was the ghost." "Then would you mind giving us a specimen of your little talents? Here is the envelope. Act as though we knew nothing." "As you please, gentlemen." Mme. Giry took the envelope with the twenty notes inside it and made for the door. She was on the point of going out when the two managers rushed at her: "Oh, no! Oh, no! We're not going to be 'done' a second time! Once bitten, twice shy!" "I beg your pardon, gentlemen," said the old woman, in self-excuse, "you told me to act as though you knew nothing ... Well, if you knew nothing, I should go away with your envelope!" "And then how would you slip it into my pocket?" argued Richard, whom Moncharmin fixed with his left eye, while keeping his right on Mme. Giry: a proceeding likely to strain his sight, but Moncharmin was prepared to go to any length to discover the truth. "I am to slip it into your pocket when you least expect it, sir. You know that I always take a little turn behind the scenes, in the course of the evening, and I often go with my daughter to the ballet-foyer, which I am entitled to do, as her mother; I bring her her shoes, when the ballet is about to begin ... in fact, I come and go as I please ... The subscribers come and go too... So do you, sir ... There are lots of people about ... I go behind you and slip the envelope into the tail-pocket of your dress-coat ... There's no witchcraft about that!" "No witchcraft!" growled Richard, rolling his eyes like Jupiter Tonans. "No witchcraft! Why, I've just caught you in a lie, you old witch!" Mme. Giry bristled, with her three teeth sticking out of her mouth. "And why, may I ask?" "Because I spent that evening watching Box Five and the sham envelope which you put there. I did not go to the ballet-foyer for a second." "No, sir, and I did not give you the envelope that evening, but at the next performance ... on the evening when the under-secretary of state for fine arts ..." At these words, M. Richard suddenly interrupted Mme. Giry: "Yes, that's true, I remember now! The under-secretary went behind the scenes. He asked for me. I went down to the ballet-foyer for a moment. I was on the foyer steps ... The under-secretary and his chief clerk were in the foyer itself. I suddenly turned around ... you had passed behind me, Mme. Giry ... You seemed to push against me ... Oh, I can see you still, I can see you still!" "Yes, that's it, sir, that's it. I had just finished my little business. That pocket of yours, sir, is very handy!" And Mme. Giry once more suited the action to the word, She passed behind M. Richard and, so nimbly that Moncharmin himself was impressed by it, slipped the envelope into the pocket of one of the tails of M. Richard's dress-coat. "Of course!" exclaimed Richard, looking a little pale. "It's very clever of O. G. The problem which he had to solve was this: how to do away with any dangerous intermediary between the man who gives the twenty-thousand francs and the man who receives it. And by far the best thing he could hit upon was to come and take the money from my pocket without my noticing it, as I myself did not know that it was there. It's wonderful!" "Oh, wonderful, no doubt!" Moncharmin agreed. "Only, you forget, Richard, that I provided ten-thousand francs of the twenty and that nobody put anything in my pocket!" [1] Flash notes drawn on the "Bank of St. Farce" in France correspond with those drawn on the "Bank of Engraving" in England.--Translator's Note. Chapter XVII The Safety-Pin Again Moncharmin's last phrase so dearly expressed the suspicion in which he now held his partner that it was bound to cause a stormy explanation, at the end of which it was agreed that Richard should yield to all Moncharmin's wishes, with the object of helping him to discover the miscreant who was victimizing them. This brings us to the interval after the Garden Act, with the strange conduct observed by M. Remy and those curious lapses from the dignity that might be expected of the managers. It was arranged between Richard and Moncharmin, first, that Richard should repeat the exact movements which he had made on the night of the disappearance of the first twenty-thousand francs; and, second, that Moncharmin should not for an instant lose sight of Richard's coat-tail pocket, into which Mme. Giry was to slip the twenty-thousand francs. M. Richard went and placed himself at the identical spot where he had stood when he bowed to the under-secretary for fine arts. M. Moncharmin took up his position a few steps behind him. Mme. Giry passed, rubbed up against M. Richard, got rid of her twenty-thousand francs in the manager's coat-tail pocket and disappeared ... Or rather she was conjured away. In accordance with the instructions received from Moncharmin a few minutes earlier, Mercier took the good lady to the acting-manager's office and turned the key on her, thus making it impossible for her to communicate with her ghost. Meanwhile, M. Richard was bending and bowing and scraping and walking backward, just as if he had that high and mighty minister, the under-secretary for fine arts, before him. Only, though these marks of politeness would have created no astonishment if the under-secretary of state had really been in front of M. Richard, they caused an easily comprehensible amazement to the spectators of this very natural but quite inexplicable scene when M. Richard had no body in front of him. M. Richard bowed ... to nobody; bent his back ... before nobody; and walked backward ... before nobody ... And, a few steps behind him, M. Moncharmin did the same thing that he was doing in addition to pushing away M. Remy and begging M. de La Borderie, the ambassador, and the manager of the Credit Central "not to touch M. le Directeur." Moncharmin, who had his own ideas, did not want Richard to come to him presently, when the twenty-thousand francs were gone, and say: "Perhaps it was the ambassador ... or the manager of the Credit Central ... or Remy." The more so as, at the time of the first scene, as Richard himself admitted, Richard had met nobody in that part of the theater after Mme. Giry had brushed up against him... Having begun by walking backward in order to bow, Richard continued to do so from prudence, until he reached the passage leading to the offices of the management. In this way, he was constantly watched by Moncharmin from behind and himself kept an eye on any one approaching from the front. Once more, this novel method of walking behind the scenes, adopted by the managers of our National Academy of Music, attracted attention; but the managers themselves thought of nothing but their twenty-thousand francs. On reaching the half-dark passage, Richard said to Moncharmin, in a low voice: "I am sure that nobody has touched me ... You had now better keep at some distance from me and watch me till I come to door of the office: it is better not to arouse suspicion and we can see anything that happens." But Moncharmin replied. "No, Richard, no! You walk ahead and I'll walk immediately behind you! I won't leave you by a step!" "But, in that case," exclaimed Richard, "they will never steal our twenty-thousand francs!" "I should hope not, indeed!" declared Moncharmin. "Then what we are doing is absurd!" "We are doing exactly what we did last time ... Last time, I joined you as you were leaving the stage and followed close behind you down this passage." "That's true!" sighed Richard, shaking his head and passively obeying Moncharmin. Two minutes later, the joint managers locked themselves into their office. Moncharmin himself put the key in his pocket: "We remained locked up like this, last time," he said, "until you left the Opera to go home." "That's so. No one came and disturbed us, I suppose?" "No one." "Then," said Richard, who was trying to collect his memory, "then I must certainly have been robbed on my way home from the Opera." "No," said Moncharmin in a drier tone than ever, "no, that's impossible. For I dropped you in my cab. The twenty-thousand francs disappeared at your place: there's not a shadow of a doubt about that." "It's incredible!" protested Richard. "I am sure of my servants ... and if one of them had done it, he would have disappeared since." Moncharmin shrugged his shoulders, as though to say that he did not wish to enter into details, and Richard began to think that Moncharmin was treating him in a very insupportable fashion. "Moncharmin, I've had enough of this!" "Richard, I've had too much of it!" "Do you dare to suspect me?" "Yes, of a silly joke." "One doesn't joke with twenty-thousand francs." "That's what I think," declared Moncharmin, unfolding a newspaper and ostentatiously studying its contents. "What are you doing?" asked Richard. "Are you going to read the paper next?" "Yes, Richard, until I take you home." "Like last time?" "Yes, like last time." Richard snatched the paper from Moncharmin's hands. Moncharmin stood up, more irritated than ever, and found himself faced by an exasperated Richard, who, crossing his arms on his chest, said: "Look here, I'm thinking of this, I'M THINKING OF WHAT I MIGHT THINK if, like last time, after my spending the evening alone with you, you brought me home and if, at the moment of parting, I perceived that twenty-thousand francs had disappeared from my coat-pocket ... like last time." "And what might you think?" asked Moncharmin, crimson with rage. "I might think that, as you hadn't left me by a foot's breadth and as, by your own wish, you were the only one to approach me, like last time, I might think that, if that twenty-thousand francs was no longer in my pocket, it stood a very good chance of being in yours!" Moncharmin leaped up at the suggestion. "Oh!" he shouted. "A safety-pin!" "What do you want a safety-pin for?" "To fasten you up with! ... A safety-pin! ... A safety-pin!" "You want to fasten me with a safety-pin?" "Yes, to fasten you to the twenty-thousand francs! Then, whether it's here, or on the drive from here to your place, or at your place, you will feel the hand that pulls at your pocket and you will see if it's mine! Oh, so you're suspecting me now, are you? A safety-pin!" And that was the moment when Moncharmin opened the door on the passage and shouted: "A safety-pin! ... somebody give me a safety-pin!" And we also know how, at the same moment, Remy, who had no safety-pin, was received by Moncharmin, while a boy procured the pin so eagerly longed for. And what happened was this: Moncharmin first locked the door again. Then he knelt down behind Richard's back. "I hope," he said, "that the notes are still there?" "So do I," said Richard. "The real ones?" asked Moncharmin, resolved not to be "had" this time. "Look for yourself," said Richard. "I refuse to touch them." Moncharmin took the envelope from Richard's pocket and drew out the bank-notes with a trembling hand, for, this time, in order frequently to make sure of the presence of the notes, he had not sealed the envelope nor even fastened it. He felt reassured on finding that they were all there and quite genuine. He put them back in the tail-pocket and pinned them with great care. Then he sat down behind Richard's coat-tails and kept his eyes fixed on them, while Richard, sitting at his writing-table, did not stir. "A little patience, Richard," said Moncharmin. "We have only a few minutes to wait ... The clock will soon strike twelve. Last time, we left at the last stroke of twelve." "Oh, I shall have all the patience necessary!" The time passed, slow, heavy, mysterious, stifling. Richard tried to laugh. "I shall end by believing in the omnipotence of the ghost," he said. "Just now, don't you find something uncomfortable, disquieting, alarming in the atmosphere of this room?" "You're quite right," said Moncharmin, who was really impressed. "The ghost!" continued Richard, in a low voice, as though fearing lest he should be overheard by invisible ears. "The ghost! Suppose, all the same, it were a ghost who puts the magic envelopes on the table ... who talks in Box Five ... who killed Joseph Buquet ... who unhooked the chandelier ... and who robs us! For, after all, after all, after all, there is no one here except you and me, and, if the notes disappear and neither you nor I have anything to do with it, well, we shall have to believe in the ghost ... in the ghost." At that moment, the clock on the mantlepiece gave its warning click and the first stroke of twelve struck. The two managers shuddered. The perspiration streamed from their foreheads. The twelfth stroke sounded strangely in their ears. When the clock stopped, they gave a sigh and rose from their chairs. "I think we can go now," said Moncharmin. "I think so," Richard a agreed. "Before we go, do you mind if I look in your pocket?" "But, of course, Moncharmin, YOU MUST! ... Well?" he asked, as Moncharmin was feeling at the pocket. "Well, I can feel the pin." "Of course, as you said, we can't be robbed without noticing it." But Moncharmin, whose hands were still fumbling, bellowed: "I can feel the pin, but I can't feel the notes!" "Come, no joking, Moncharmin! ... This isn't the time for it." "Well, feel for yourself." Richard tore off his coat. The two managers turned the pocket inside out. THE POCKET WAS EMPTY. And the curious thing was that the pin remained, stuck in the same place. Richard and Moncharmin turned pale. There was no longer any doubt about the witchcraft. "The ghost!" muttered Moncharmin. But Richard suddenly sprang upon his partner. "No one but you has touched my pocket! Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ... Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ..." "On my soul," sighed Moncharmin, who was ready to swoon, "on my soul, I swear that I haven't got it!" Then somebody knocked at the door. Moncharmin opened it automatically, seemed hardly to recognize Mercier, his business-manager, exchanged a few words with him, without knowing what he was saying and, with an unconscious movement, put the safety-pin, for which he had no further use, into the hands of his bewildered subordinate ... Chapter XVIII The Commissary, The Viscount and the Persian The first words of the commissary of police, on entering the managers' office, were to ask after the missing prima donna. "Is Christine Daae here?" "Christine Daae here?" echoed Richard. "No. Why?" As for Moncharmin, he had not the strength left to utter a word. Richard repeated, for the commissary and the compact crowd which had followed him into the office observed an impressive silence. "Why do you ask if Christine Daae is here, M. LE COMMISSAIRE?" "Because she has to be found," declared the commissary of police solemnly. "What do you mean, she has to be found? Has she disappeared?" "In the middle of the performance!" "In the middle of the performance? This is extraordinary!" "Isn't it? And what is quite as extraordinary is that you should first learn it from me!" "Yes," said Richard, taking his head in his hands and muttering. "What is this new business? Oh, it's enough to make a man send in his resignation!" And he pulled a few hairs out of his mustache without even knowing what he was doing. "So she ... so she disappeared in the middle of the performance?" he repeated. "Yes, she was carried off in the Prison Act, at the moment when she was invoking the aid of the angels; but I doubt if she was carried off by an angel." "And I am sure that she was!" Everybody looked round. A young man, pale and trembling with excitement, repeated: "I am sure of it!" "Sure of what?" asked Mifroid. "That Christine Daae was carried off by an angel, M. LE COMMISSAIRE and I can tell you his name." "Aha, M. le Vicomte de Chagny! So you maintain that Christine Daae was carried off by an angel: an angel of the Opera, no doubt?" "Yes, monsieur, by an angel of the Opera; and I will tell you where he lives ... when we are alone." "You are right, monsieur." And the commissary of police, inviting Raoul to take a chair, cleared the room of all the rest, excepting the managers. Then Raoul spoke: "M. le Commissaire, the angel is called Erik, he lives in the Opera and he is the Angel of Music!" "The Angel of Music! Really! That is very curious! ... The Angel of Music!" And, turning to the managers, M. Mifroid asked, "Have you an Angel of Music on the premises, gentlemen?" Richard and Moncharmin shook their heads, without even speaking. "Oh," said the viscount, "those gentlemen have heard of the Opera ghost. Well, I am in a position to state that the Opera ghost and the Angel of Music are one and the same person; and his real name is Erik." M. Mifroid rose and looked at Raoul attentively. "I beg your pardon, monsieur but is it your intention to make fun of the law? And, if not, what is all this about the Opera ghost?" "I say that these gentlemen have heard of him." "Gentlemen, it appears that you know the Opera ghost?" Richard rose, with the remaining hairs of his mustache in his hand. "No, M. Commissary, no, we do not know him, but we wish that we did, for this very evening he has robbed us of twenty-thousand francs!" And Richard turned a terrible look on Moncharmin, which seemed to say: "Give me back the twenty-thousand francs, or I'll tell the whole story." Moncharmin understood what he meant, for, with a distracted gesture, he said: "Oh, tell everything and have done with it!" As for Mifroid, he looked at the managers and at Raoul by turns and wondered whether he had strayed into a lunatic asylum. He passed his hand through his hair. "A ghost," he said, "who, on the same evening, carries off an opera-singer and steals twenty-thousand francs is a ghost who must have his hands very full! If you don't mind, we will take the questions in order. The singer first, the twenty-thousand francs after. Come, M. de Chagny, let us try to talk seriously. You believe that Mlle. Christine Daae has been carried off by an individual called Erik. Do you know this person? Have you seen him?" "Yes." "Where?" "In a church yard." M. Mifroid gave a start, began to scrutinize Raoul again and said: "Of course! ... That's where ghosts usually hang out! ... And what were you doing in that churchyard?" "Monsieur," said Raoul, "I can quite understand how absurd my replies must seem to you. But I beg you to believe that I am in full possession of my faculties. The safety of the person dearest to me in the world is at stake. I should like to convince you in a few words, for time is pressing and every minute is valuable. Unfortunately, if I do not tell you the strangest story that ever was from the beginning, you will not believe me. I will tell you all I know about the Opera ghost, M. Commissary. Alas, I do not know much! ..." "Never mind, go on, go on!" exclaimed Richard and Moncharmin, suddenly greatly interested. Unfortunately for their hopes of learning some detail that could put them on the track of their hoaxer, they were soon compelled to accept the fact that M. Raoul de Chagny had completely lost his head. All that story about Perros-Guirec, death's heads and enchanted violins, could only have taken birth in the disordered brain of a youth mad with love. It was evident, also, that

leader

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

"Well, it's like this ... only the ghost doesn't like me to talk about his business." "Indeed?" sneered Richard. "But this is a matter that concerns myself alone ... Well, it was in Box Five one evening, I found a letter addressed to myself, a sort of note written in red ink. I needn't read the letter to you sir; I know it by heart, and I shall never forget it if I live to be a hundred!" And Mme. Giry, drawing herself up, recited the letter with touching eloquence: MADAM: 1825. Mlle. Menetrier, leader of the ballet, became Marquise de Cussy. 1832. Mlle. Marie Taglioni, a dancer, became Comtesse Gilbert des Voisins. 1846. La Sota, a dancer, married a brother of the King of Spain. 1847. Lola Montes, a dancer, became the morganatic wife of King Louis of Bavaria and was created Countess of Landsfeld. 1848. Mlle. Maria, a dancer, became Baronne d'Herneville. 1870. Theresa Hessier, a dancer, married Dom Fernando, brother to the King of Portugal. Richard and Moncharmin listened to the old woman, who, as she proceeded with the enumeration of these glorious nuptials, swelled out, took courage and, at last, in a voice bursting with pride, flung out the last sentence of the prophetic letter: 1885. Meg Giry, Empress! Exhausted by this supreme effort, the box-keeper fell into a chair, saying: "Gentlemen, the letter was signed, 'Opera Ghost.' I had heard much of the ghost, but only half believed in him. From the day when he declared that my little Meg, the flesh of my flesh, the fruit of my womb, would be empress, I believed in him altogether." And really it was not necessary to make a long study of Mme. Giry's excited features to understand what could be got out of that fine intellect with the two words "ghost" and "empress." But who pulled the strings of that extraordinary puppet? That was the question. "You have never seen him; he speaks to you and you believe all he says?" asked Moncharmin. "Yes. To begin with, I owe it to him that my little Meg was promoted to be the leader of a row. I said to the ghost, 'If she is to be empress in 1885, there is no time to lose; she must become a leader at once.' He said, 'Look upon it as done.' And he had only a word to say to M. Poligny and the thing was done." "So you see that M. Poligny saw him!" "No, not any more than I did; but he heard him. The ghost said a word in his ear, you know, on the evening when he left Box Five, looking so dreadfully pale." Moncharmin heaved a sigh. "What a business!" he groaned. "Ah!" said Mme. Giry. "I always thought there were secrets between the ghost and M. Poligny. Anything that the ghost asked M. Poligny to do M. Poligny did. M. Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "You hear, Richard: Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "Yes, yes, I hear!" said Richard. "M. Poligny is a friend of the ghost; and, as Mme. Giry is a friend of M. Poligny, there we are! ... But I don't care a hang about M. Poligny," he added roughly. "The only person whose fate really interests me is Mme. Giry... Mme. Giry, do you know what is in this envelope?" "Why, of course not," she said. "Well, look." Mine. Giry looked into the envelope with a lackluster eye, which soon recovered its brilliancy. "Thousand-franc notes!" she cried. "Yes, Mme. Giry, thousand-franc notes! And you knew it!" "I, sir? I? ... I swear ..." "Don't swear, Mme. Giry! ... And now I will tell you the second reason why I sent for you. Mme. Giry, I am going to have you arrested." The two black feathers on the dingy bonnet, which usually affected the attitude of two notes of interrogation, changed into two notes of exclamation; as for the bonnet itself, it swayed in menace on the old lady's tempestuous chignon. Surprise, indignation, protest and dismay were furthermore displayed by little Meg's mother in a sort of extravagant movement of offended virtue, half bound, half slide, that brought her right under the nose of M. Richard, who could not help pushing back his chair. "HAVE ME ARRESTED!" The mouth that spoke those words seemed to spit the three teeth that were left to it into Richard's face. M. Richard behaved like a hero. He retreated no farther. His threatening forefinger seemed already to be pointing out the keeper of Box Five to the absent magistrates. "I am going to have you arrested, Mme. Giry, as a thief!" "Say that again!" And Mme. Giry caught Mr. Manager Richard a mighty box on the ear, before Mr. Manager Moncharmin had time to intervene. But it was not the withered hand of the angry old beldame that fell on the managerial ear, but the envelope itself, the cause of all the trouble, the magic envelope that opened with the blow, scattering the bank-notes, which escaped in a fantastic whirl of giant butterflies. The two managers gave a shout, and the same thought made them both go on their knees, feverishly, picking up and hurriedly examining the precious scraps of paper. "Are they still genuine, Moncharmin?" "Are they still genuine, Richard?" "Yes, they are still genuine!" Above their heads, Mme. Giry's three teeth were clashing in a noisy contest, full of hideous interjections. But all that could be clearly distinguished was this LEIT-MOTIF: "I, a thief! ... I, a thief, I?" She choked with rage. She shouted: "I never heard of such a thing!" And, suddenly, she darted up to Richard again. "In any case," she yelped, "you, M. Richard, ought to know better than I where the twenty thousand francs went to!" "I?" asked Richard, astounded. "And how should I know?" Moncharmin, looking severe and dissatisfied, at once insisted that the good lady should explain herself. "What does this mean, Mme. Giry?" he asked. "And why do you say that M. Richard ought to know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to?" As for Richard, who felt himself turning red under Moncharmin's eyes, he took Mme. Giry by the wrist and shook it violently. In a voice growling and rolling like thunder, he roared: "Why should I know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to? Why? Answer me!" "Because they went into your pocket!" gasped the old woman, looking at him as if he were the devil incarnate. Richard would have rushed upon Mme. Giry, if Moncharmin had not stayed his avenging hand and hastened to ask her, more gently: "How can you suspect my partner, M. Richard, of putting twenty-thousand francs in his pocket?" "I never said that," declared Mme. Giry, "seeing that it was myself who put the twenty-thousand francs into M. Richard's pocket." And she added, under her voice, "There! It's out! ... And may the ghost forgive me!" Richard began bellowing anew, but Moncharmin authoritatively ordered him to be silent. "Allow me! Allow me! Let the woman explain herself. Let me question her." And he added: "It is really astonishing that you should take up such a tone! ... We are on the verge of clearing up the whole mystery. And you're in a rage! ... You're wrong to behave like that... I'm enjoying myself immensely." Mme. Giry, like the martyr that she was, raised her head, her face beaming with faith in her own innocence. "You tell me there were twenty-thousand francs in the envelope which I put into M. Richard's pocket; but I tell you again that I knew nothing about it ... Nor M. Richard either, for that matter!" "Aha!" said Richard, suddenly assuming a swaggering air which Moncharmin did not like. "I knew nothing either! You put twenty-thousand francs in my pocket and I knew nothing either! I am very glad to hear it, Mme. Giry!" "Yes," the terrible dame agreed, "yes, it's true. We neither of us knew anything. But you, you must have ended by finding out!" Richard would certainly have swallowed Mme. Giry alive, if Moncharmin had not been there! But Moncharmin protected her. He resumed his questions: "What sort of envelope did you put in M. Richard's pocket? It was not the one which we gave you, the one which you took to Box Five before our eyes; and yet that was the one which contained the twenty-thousand francs." "I beg your pardon. The envelope which M. le Directeur gave me was the one which I slipped into M. le Directeur's pocket," explained Mme. Giry. "The one which I took to the ghost's box was another envelope, just like it, which the ghost gave me beforehand and which I hid up my sleeve." So saying, Mme. Giry took from her sleeve an envelope ready prepared and similarly addressed to that containing the twenty-thousand francs. The managers took it from her. They examined it and saw that it was fastened with seals stamped with their own managerial seal. They opened it. It contained twenty Bank of St. Farce notes like those which had so much astounded them the month before. "How simple!" said Richard. "How simple!" repeated Moncharmin. And he continued with his eyes fixed upon Mme. Giry, as though trying to hypnotize her. "So it was the ghost who gave you this envelope and told you to substitute it for the one which we gave you? And it was the ghost who told you to put the other into M. Richard's pocket?" "Yes, it was the ghost." "Then would you mind giving us a specimen of your little talents? Here is the envelope. Act as though we knew nothing." "As you please, gentlemen." Mme. Giry took the envelope with the twenty notes inside it and made for the door. She was on the point of going out when the two managers rushed at her: "Oh, no! Oh, no! We're not going to be 'done' a second time! Once bitten, twice shy!" "I beg your pardon, gentlemen," said the old woman, in self-excuse, "you told me to act as though you knew nothing ... Well, if you knew nothing, I should go away with your envelope!" "And then how would you slip it into my pocket?" argued Richard, whom Moncharmin fixed with his left eye, while keeping his right on Mme. Giry: a proceeding likely to strain his sight, but Moncharmin was prepared to go to any length to discover the truth. "I am to slip it into your pocket when you least expect it, sir. You know that I always take a little turn behind the scenes, in the course of the evening, and I often go with my daughter to the ballet-foyer, which I am entitled to do, as her mother; I bring her her shoes, when the ballet is about to begin ... in fact, I come and go as I please ... The subscribers come and go too... So do you, sir ... There are lots of people about ... I go behind you and slip the envelope into the tail-pocket of your dress-coat ... There's no witchcraft about that!" "No witchcraft!" growled Richard, rolling his eyes like Jupiter Tonans. "No witchcraft! Why, I've just caught you in a lie, you old witch!" Mme. Giry bristled, with her three teeth sticking out of her mouth. "And why, may I ask?" "Because I spent that evening watching Box Five and the sham envelope which you put there. I did not go to the ballet-foyer for a second." "No, sir, and I did not give you the envelope that evening, but at the next performance ... on the evening when the under-secretary of state for fine arts ..." At these words, M. Richard suddenly interrupted Mme. Giry: "Yes, that's true, I remember now! The under-secretary went behind the scenes. He asked for me. I went down to the ballet-foyer for a moment. I was on the foyer steps ... The under-secretary and his chief clerk were in the foyer itself. I suddenly turned around ... you had passed behind me, Mme. Giry ... You seemed to push against me ... Oh, I can see you still, I can see you still!" "Yes, that's it, sir, that's it. I had just finished my little business. That pocket of yours, sir, is very handy!" And Mme. Giry once more suited the action to the word, She passed behind M. Richard and, so nimbly that Moncharmin himself was impressed by it, slipped the envelope into the pocket of one of the tails of M. Richard's dress-coat. "Of course!" exclaimed Richard, looking a little pale. "It's very clever of O. G. The problem which he had to solve was this: how to do away with any dangerous intermediary between the man who gives the twenty-thousand francs and the man who receives it. And by far the best thing he could hit upon was to come and take the money from my pocket without my noticing it, as I myself did not know that it was there. It's wonderful!" "Oh, wonderful, no doubt!" Moncharmin agreed. "Only, you forget, Richard, that I provided ten-thousand francs of the twenty and that nobody put anything in my pocket!" [1] Flash notes drawn on the "Bank of St. Farce" in France correspond with those drawn on the "Bank of Engraving" in England.--Translator's Note. Chapter XVII The Safety-Pin Again Moncharmin's last phrase so dearly expressed the suspicion in which he now held his partner that it was bound to cause a stormy explanation, at the end of which it was agreed that Richard should yield to all Moncharmin's wishes, with the object of helping him to discover the miscreant who was victimizing them. This brings us to the interval after the Garden Act, with the strange conduct observed by M. Remy and those curious lapses from the dignity that might be expected of the managers. It was arranged between Richard and Moncharmin, first, that Richard should repeat the exact movements which he had made on the night of the disappearance of the first twenty-thousand francs; and, second, that Moncharmin should not for an instant lose sight of Richard's coat-tail pocket, into which Mme. Giry was to slip the twenty-thousand francs. M. Richard went and placed himself at the identical spot where he had stood when he bowed to the under-secretary for fine arts. M. Moncharmin took up his position a few steps behind him. Mme. Giry passed, rubbed up against M. Richard, got rid of her twenty-thousand francs in the manager's coat-tail pocket and disappeared ... Or rather she was conjured away. In accordance with the instructions received from Moncharmin a few minutes earlier, Mercier took the good lady to the acting-manager's office and turned the key on her, thus making it impossible for her to communicate with her ghost. Meanwhile, M. Richard was bending and bowing and scraping and walking backward, just as if he had that high and mighty minister, the under-secretary for fine arts, before him. Only, though these marks of politeness would have created no astonishment if the under-secretary of state had really been in front of M. Richard, they caused an easily comprehensible amazement to the spectators of this very natural but quite inexplicable scene when M. Richard had no body in front of him. M. Richard bowed ... to nobody; bent his back ... before nobody; and walked backward ... before nobody ... And, a few steps behind him, M. Moncharmin did the same thing that he was doing in addition to pushing away M. Remy and begging M. de La Borderie, the ambassador, and the manager of the Credit Central "not to touch M. le Directeur." Moncharmin, who had his own ideas, did not want Richard to come to him presently, when the twenty-thousand francs were gone, and say: "Perhaps it was the ambassador ... or the manager of the Credit Central ... or Remy." The more so as, at the time of the first scene, as Richard himself admitted, Richard had met nobody in that part of the theater after Mme. Giry had brushed up against him... Having begun by walking backward in order to bow, Richard continued to do so from prudence, until he reached the passage leading to the offices of the management. In this way, he was constantly watched by Moncharmin from behind and himself kept an eye on any one approaching from the front. Once more, this novel method of walking behind the scenes, adopted by the managers of our National Academy of Music, attracted attention; but the managers themselves thought of nothing but their twenty-thousand francs. On reaching the half-dark passage, Richard said to Moncharmin, in a low voice: "I am sure that nobody has touched me ... You had now better keep at some distance from me and watch me till I come to door of the office: it is better not to arouse suspicion and we can see anything that happens." But Moncharmin replied. "No, Richard, no! You walk ahead and I'll walk immediately behind you! I won't leave you by a step!" "But, in that case," exclaimed Richard, "they will never steal our twenty-thousand francs!" "I should hope not, indeed!" declared Moncharmin. "Then what we are doing is absurd!" "We are doing exactly what we did last time ... Last time, I joined you as you were leaving the stage and followed close behind you down this passage." "That's true!" sighed Richard, shaking his head and passively obeying Moncharmin. Two minutes later, the joint managers locked themselves into their office. Moncharmin himself put the key in his pocket: "We remained locked up like this, last time," he said, "until you left the Opera to go home." "That's so. No one came and disturbed us, I suppose?" "No one." "Then," said Richard, who was trying to collect his memory, "then I must certainly have been robbed on my way home from the Opera." "No," said Moncharmin in a drier tone than ever, "no, that's impossible. For I dropped you in my cab. The twenty-thousand francs disappeared at your place: there's not a shadow of a doubt about that." "It's incredible!" protested Richard. "I am sure of my servants ... and if one of them had done it, he would have disappeared since." Moncharmin shrugged his shoulders, as though to say that he did not wish to enter into details, and Richard began to think that Moncharmin was treating him in a very insupportable fashion. "Moncharmin, I've had enough of this!" "Richard, I've had too much of it!" "Do you dare to suspect me?" "Yes, of a silly joke." "One doesn't joke with twenty-thousand francs." "That's what I think," declared Moncharmin, unfolding a newspaper and ostentatiously studying its contents. "What are you doing?" asked Richard. "Are you going to read the paper next?" "Yes, Richard, until I take you home." "Like last time?" "Yes, like last time." Richard snatched the paper from Moncharmin's hands. Moncharmin stood up, more irritated than ever, and found himself faced by an exasperated Richard, who, crossing his arms on his chest, said: "Look here, I'm thinking of this, I'M THINKING OF WHAT I MIGHT THINK if, like last time, after my spending the evening alone with you, you brought me home and if, at the moment of parting, I perceived that twenty-thousand francs had disappeared from my coat-pocket ... like last time." "And what might you think?" asked Moncharmin, crimson with rage. "I might think that, as you hadn't left me by a foot's breadth and as, by your own wish, you were the only one to approach me, like last time, I might think that, if that twenty-thousand francs was no longer in my pocket, it stood a very good chance of being in yours!" Moncharmin leaped up at the suggestion. "Oh!" he shouted. "A safety-pin!" "What do you want a safety-pin for?" "To fasten you up with! ... A safety-pin! ... A safety-pin!" "You want to fasten me with a safety-pin?" "Yes, to fasten you to the twenty-thousand francs! Then, whether it's here, or on the drive from here to your place, or at your place, you will feel the hand that pulls at your pocket and you will see if it's mine! Oh, so you're suspecting me now, are you? A safety-pin!" And that was the moment when Moncharmin opened the door on the passage and shouted: "A safety-pin! ... somebody give me a safety-pin!" And we also know how, at the same moment, Remy, who had no safety-pin, was received by Moncharmin, while a boy procured the pin so eagerly longed for. And what happened was this: Moncharmin first locked the door again. Then he knelt down behind Richard's back. "I hope," he said, "that the notes are still there?" "So do I," said Richard. "The real ones?" asked Moncharmin, resolved not to be "had" this time. "Look for yourself," said Richard. "I refuse to touch them." Moncharmin took the envelope from Richard's pocket and drew out the bank-notes with a trembling hand, for, this time, in order frequently to make sure of the presence of the notes, he had not sealed the envelope nor even fastened it. He felt reassured on finding that they were all there and quite genuine. He put them back in the tail-pocket and pinned them with great care. Then he sat down behind Richard's coat-tails and kept his eyes fixed on them, while Richard, sitting at his writing-table, did not stir. "A little patience, Richard," said Moncharmin. "We have only a few minutes to wait ... The clock will soon strike twelve. Last time, we left at the last stroke of twelve." "Oh, I shall have all the patience necessary!" The time passed, slow, heavy, mysterious, stifling. Richard tried to laugh. "I shall end by believing in the omnipotence of the ghost," he said. "Just now, don't you find something uncomfortable, disquieting, alarming in the atmosphere of this room?" "You're quite right," said Moncharmin, who was really impressed. "The ghost!" continued Richard, in a low voice, as though fearing lest he should be overheard by invisible ears. "The ghost! Suppose, all the same, it were a ghost who puts the magic envelopes on the table ... who talks in Box Five ... who killed Joseph Buquet ... who unhooked the chandelier ... and who robs us! For, after all, after all, after all, there is no one here except you and me, and, if the notes disappear and neither you nor I have anything to do with it, well, we shall have to believe in the ghost ... in the ghost." At that moment, the clock on the mantlepiece gave its warning click and the first stroke of twelve struck. The two managers shuddered. The perspiration streamed from their foreheads. The twelfth stroke sounded strangely in their ears. When the clock stopped, they gave a sigh and rose from their chairs. "I think we can go now," said Moncharmin. "I think so," Richard a agreed. "Before we go, do you mind if I look in your pocket?" "But, of course, Moncharmin, YOU MUST! ... Well?" he asked, as Moncharmin was feeling at the pocket. "Well, I can feel the pin." "Of course, as you said, we can't be robbed without noticing it." But Moncharmin, whose hands were still fumbling, bellowed: "I can feel the pin, but I can't feel the notes!" "Come, no joking, Moncharmin! ... This isn't the time for it." "Well, feel for yourself." Richard tore off his coat. The two managers turned the pocket inside out. THE POCKET WAS EMPTY. And the curious thing was that the pin remained, stuck in the same place. Richard and Moncharmin turned pale. There was no longer any doubt about the witchcraft. "The ghost!" muttered Moncharmin. But Richard suddenly sprang upon his partner. "No one but you has touched my pocket! Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ... Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ..." "On my soul," sighed Moncharmin, who was ready to swoon, "on my soul, I swear that I haven't got it!" Then somebody knocked at the door. Moncharmin opened it automatically, seemed hardly to recognize Mercier, his business-manager, exchanged a few words with him, without knowing what he was saying and, with an unconscious movement, put the safety-pin, for which he had no further use, into the hands of his bewildered subordinate ... Chapter XVIII The Commissary, The Viscount and the Persian The first words of the commissary of police, on entering the managers' office, were to ask after the missing prima donna. "Is Christine Daae here?" "Christine Daae here?" echoed Richard. "No. Why?" As for Moncharmin, he had not the strength left to utter a word. Richard repeated, for the commissary and the compact crowd which had followed him into the office observed an impressive silence. "Why do you ask if Christine Daae is here, M. LE COMMISSAIRE?" "Because she has to be found," declared the commissary of police solemnly. "What do you mean, she has to be found? Has she disappeared?" "In the middle of the performance!" "In the middle of the performance? This is extraordinary!" "Isn't it? And what is quite as extraordinary is that you should first learn it from me!" "Yes," said Richard, taking his head in his hands and muttering. "What is this new business? Oh, it's enough to make a man send in his resignation!" And he pulled a few hairs out of his mustache without even knowing what he was doing. "So she ... so she disappeared in the middle of the performance?" he repeated. "Yes, she was carried off in the Prison Act, at the moment when she was invoking the aid of the angels; but I doubt if she was carried off by an angel." "And I am sure that she was!" Everybody looked round. A young man, pale and trembling with excitement, repeated: "I am sure of it!" "Sure of what?" asked Mifroid. "That Christine Daae was carried off by an angel, M. LE COMMISSAIRE and I can tell you his name." "Aha, M. le Vicomte de Chagny! So you maintain that Christine Daae was carried off by an angel: an angel of the Opera, no doubt?" "Yes, monsieur, by an angel of the Opera; and I will tell you where he lives ... when we are alone." "You are right, monsieur." And the commissary of police, inviting Raoul to take a chair, cleared the room of all the rest, excepting the managers. Then Raoul spoke: "M. le Commissaire, the angel is called Erik, he lives in the Opera and he is the Angel of Music!" "The Angel of Music! Really! That is very curious! ... The Angel of Music!" And, turning to the managers, M. Mifroid asked, "Have you an Angel of Music on the premises, gentlemen?" Richard and Moncharmin shook their heads, without even speaking. "Oh," said the viscount, "those gentlemen have heard of the Opera ghost. Well, I am in a position to state that the Opera ghost and the Angel of Music are one and the same person; and his real name is Erik." M. Mifroid rose and looked at Raoul attentively. "I beg your pardon, monsieur but is it your intention to make fun of the law? And, if not, what is all this about the Opera ghost?" "I say that these gentlemen have heard of him." "Gentlemen, it appears that you know the Opera ghost?" Richard rose, with the remaining hairs of his mustache in his hand. "No, M. Commissary, no, we do not know him, but we wish that we did, for this very evening he has robbed us of twenty-thousand francs!" And Richard turned a terrible look on Moncharmin, which seemed to say: "Give me back the twenty-thousand francs, or I'll tell the whole story." Moncharmin understood what he meant, for, with a distracted gesture, he said: "Oh, tell everything and have done with it!" As for Mifroid, he looked at the managers and at Raoul by turns and wondered whether he had strayed into a lunatic asylum. He passed his hand through his hair. "A ghost," he said, "who, on the same evening, carries off an opera-singer and steals twenty-thousand francs is a ghost who must have his hands very full! If you don't mind, we will take the questions in order. The singer first, the twenty-thousand francs after. Come, M. de Chagny, let us try to talk seriously. You believe that Mlle. Christine Daae has been carried off by an individual called Erik. Do you know this person? Have you seen him?" "Yes." "Where?" "In a church yard." M. Mifroid gave a start, began to scrutinize Raoul again and said: "Of course! ... That's where ghosts usually hang out! ... And what were you doing in that churchyard?" "Monsieur," said Raoul, "I can quite understand how absurd my replies must seem to you. But I beg you to believe that I am in full possession of my faculties. The safety of the person dearest to me in the world is at stake. I should like to convince you in a few words, for time is pressing and every minute is valuable. Unfortunately, if I do not tell you the strangest story that ever was from the beginning, you will not believe me. I will tell you all I know about the Opera ghost, M. Commissary. Alas, I do not know much! ..." "Never mind, go on, go on!" exclaimed Richard and Moncharmin, suddenly greatly interested. Unfortunately for their hopes of learning some detail that could put them on the track of their hoaxer, they were soon compelled to accept the fact that M. Raoul de Chagny had completely lost his head. All that story about Perros-Guirec, death's heads and enchanted violins, could only have taken birth in the disordered brain of a youth mad with love. It was evident, also, that

friend

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

"Well, it's like this ... only the ghost doesn't like me to talk about his business." "Indeed?" sneered Richard. "But this is a matter that concerns myself alone ... Well, it was in Box Five one evening, I found a letter addressed to myself, a sort of note written in red ink. I needn't read the letter to you sir; I know it by heart, and I shall never forget it if I live to be a hundred!" And Mme. Giry, drawing herself up, recited the letter with touching eloquence: MADAM: 1825. Mlle. Menetrier, leader of the ballet, became Marquise de Cussy. 1832. Mlle. Marie Taglioni, a dancer, became Comtesse Gilbert des Voisins. 1846. La Sota, a dancer, married a brother of the King of Spain. 1847. Lola Montes, a dancer, became the morganatic wife of King Louis of Bavaria and was created Countess of Landsfeld. 1848. Mlle. Maria, a dancer, became Baronne d'Herneville. 1870. Theresa Hessier, a dancer, married Dom Fernando, brother to the King of Portugal. Richard and Moncharmin listened to the old woman, who, as she proceeded with the enumeration of these glorious nuptials, swelled out, took courage and, at last, in a voice bursting with pride, flung out the last sentence of the prophetic letter: 1885. Meg Giry, Empress! Exhausted by this supreme effort, the box-keeper fell into a chair, saying: "Gentlemen, the letter was signed, 'Opera Ghost.' I had heard much of the ghost, but only half believed in him. From the day when he declared that my little Meg, the flesh of my flesh, the fruit of my womb, would be empress, I believed in him altogether." And really it was not necessary to make a long study of Mme. Giry's excited features to understand what could be got out of that fine intellect with the two words "ghost" and "empress." But who pulled the strings of that extraordinary puppet? That was the question. "You have never seen him; he speaks to you and you believe all he says?" asked Moncharmin. "Yes. To begin with, I owe it to him that my little Meg was promoted to be the leader of a row. I said to the ghost, 'If she is to be empress in 1885, there is no time to lose; she must become a leader at once.' He said, 'Look upon it as done.' And he had only a word to say to M. Poligny and the thing was done." "So you see that M. Poligny saw him!" "No, not any more than I did; but he heard him. The ghost said a word in his ear, you know, on the evening when he left Box Five, looking so dreadfully pale." Moncharmin heaved a sigh. "What a business!" he groaned. "Ah!" said Mme. Giry. "I always thought there were secrets between the ghost and M. Poligny. Anything that the ghost asked M. Poligny to do M. Poligny did. M. Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "You hear, Richard: Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "Yes, yes, I hear!" said Richard. "M. Poligny is a friend of the ghost; and, as Mme. Giry is a friend of M. Poligny, there we are! ... But I don't care a hang about M. Poligny," he added roughly. "The only person whose fate really interests me is Mme. Giry... Mme. Giry, do you know what is in this envelope?" "Why, of course not," she said. "Well, look." Mine. Giry looked into the envelope with a lackluster eye, which soon recovered its brilliancy. "Thousand-franc notes!" she cried. "Yes, Mme. Giry, thousand-franc notes! And you knew it!" "I, sir? I? ... I swear ..." "Don't swear, Mme. Giry! ... And now I will tell you the second reason why I sent for you. Mme. Giry, I am going to have you arrested." The two black feathers on the dingy bonnet, which usually affected the attitude of two notes of interrogation, changed into two notes of exclamation; as for the bonnet itself, it swayed in menace on the old lady's tempestuous chignon. Surprise, indignation, protest and dismay were furthermore displayed by little Meg's mother in a sort of extravagant movement of offended virtue, half bound, half slide, that brought her right under the nose of M. Richard, who could not help pushing back his chair. "HAVE ME ARRESTED!" The mouth that spoke those words seemed to spit the three teeth that were left to it into Richard's face. M. Richard behaved like a hero. He retreated no farther. His threatening forefinger seemed already to be pointing out the keeper of Box Five to the absent magistrates. "I am going to have you arrested, Mme. Giry, as a thief!" "Say that again!" And Mme. Giry caught Mr. Manager Richard a mighty box on the ear, before Mr. Manager Moncharmin had time to intervene. But it was not the withered hand of the angry old beldame that fell on the managerial ear, but the envelope itself, the cause of all the trouble, the magic envelope that opened with the blow, scattering the bank-notes, which escaped in a fantastic whirl of giant butterflies. The two managers gave a shout, and the same thought made them both go on their knees, feverishly, picking up and hurriedly examining the precious scraps of paper. "Are they still genuine, Moncharmin?" "Are they still genuine, Richard?" "Yes, they are still genuine!" Above their heads, Mme. Giry's three teeth were clashing in a noisy contest, full of hideous interjections. But all that could be clearly distinguished was this LEIT-MOTIF: "I, a thief! ... I, a thief, I?" She choked with rage. She shouted: "I never heard of such a thing!" And, suddenly, she darted up to Richard again. "In any case," she yelped, "you, M. Richard, ought to know better than I where the twenty thousand francs went to!" "I?" asked Richard, astounded. "And how should I know?" Moncharmin, looking severe and dissatisfied, at once insisted that the good lady should explain herself. "What does this mean, Mme. Giry?" he asked. "And why do you say that M. Richard ought to know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to?" As for Richard, who felt himself turning red under Moncharmin's eyes, he took Mme. Giry by the wrist and shook it violently. In a voice growling and rolling like thunder, he roared: "Why should I know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to? Why? Answer me!" "Because they went into your pocket!" gasped the old woman, looking at him as if he were the devil incarnate. Richard would have rushed upon Mme. Giry, if Moncharmin had not stayed his avenging hand and hastened to ask her, more gently: "How can you suspect my partner, M. Richard, of putting twenty-thousand francs in his pocket?" "I never said that," declared Mme. Giry, "seeing that it was myself who put the twenty-thousand francs into M. Richard's pocket." And she added, under her voice, "There! It's out! ... And may the ghost forgive me!" Richard began bellowing anew, but Moncharmin authoritatively ordered him to be silent. "Allow me! Allow me! Let the woman explain herself. Let me question her." And he added: "It is really astonishing that you should take up such a tone! ... We are on the verge of clearing up the whole mystery. And you're in a rage! ... You're wrong to behave like that... I'm enjoying myself immensely." Mme. Giry, like the martyr that she was, raised her head, her face beaming with faith in her own innocence. "You tell me there were twenty-thousand francs in the envelope which I put into M. Richard's pocket; but I tell you again that I knew nothing about it ... Nor M. Richard either, for that matter!" "Aha!" said Richard, suddenly assuming a swaggering air which Moncharmin did not like. "I knew nothing either! You put twenty-thousand francs in my pocket and I knew nothing either! I am very glad to hear it, Mme. Giry!" "Yes," the terrible dame agreed, "yes, it's true. We neither of us knew anything. But you, you must have ended by finding out!" Richard would certainly have swallowed Mme. Giry alive, if Moncharmin had not been there! But Moncharmin protected her. He resumed his questions: "What sort of envelope did you put in M. Richard's pocket? It was not the one which we gave you, the one which you took to Box Five before our eyes; and yet that was the one which contained the twenty-thousand francs." "I beg your pardon. The envelope which M. le Directeur gave me was the one which I slipped into M. le Directeur's pocket," explained Mme. Giry. "The one which I took to the ghost's box was another envelope, just like it, which the ghost gave me beforehand and which I hid up my sleeve." So saying, Mme. Giry took from her sleeve an envelope ready prepared and similarly addressed to that containing the twenty-thousand francs. The managers took it from her. They examined it and saw that it was fastened with seals stamped with their own managerial seal. They opened it. It contained twenty Bank of St. Farce notes like those which had so much astounded them the month before. "How simple!" said Richard. "How simple!" repeated Moncharmin. And he continued with his eyes fixed upon Mme. Giry, as though trying to hypnotize her. "So it was the ghost who gave you this envelope and told you to substitute it for the one which we gave you? And it was the ghost who told you to put the other into M. Richard's pocket?" "Yes, it was the ghost." "Then would you mind giving us a specimen of your little talents? Here is the envelope. Act as though we knew nothing." "As you please, gentlemen." Mme. Giry took the envelope with the twenty notes inside it and made for the door. She was on the point of going out when the two managers rushed at her: "Oh, no! Oh, no! We're not going to be 'done' a second time! Once bitten, twice shy!" "I beg your pardon, gentlemen," said the old woman, in self-excuse, "you told me to act as though you knew nothing ... Well, if you knew nothing, I should go away with your envelope!" "And then how would you slip it into my pocket?" argued Richard, whom Moncharmin fixed with his left eye, while keeping his right on Mme. Giry: a proceeding likely to strain his sight, but Moncharmin was prepared to go to any length to discover the truth. "I am to slip it into your pocket when you least expect it, sir. You know that I always take a little turn behind the scenes, in the course of the evening, and I often go with my daughter to the ballet-foyer, which I am entitled to do, as her mother; I bring her her shoes, when the ballet is about to begin ... in fact, I come and go as I please ... The subscribers come and go too... So do you, sir ... There are lots of people about ... I go behind you and slip the envelope into the tail-pocket of your dress-coat ... There's no witchcraft about that!" "No witchcraft!" growled Richard, rolling his eyes like Jupiter Tonans. "No witchcraft! Why, I've just caught you in a lie, you old witch!" Mme. Giry bristled, with her three teeth sticking out of her mouth. "And why, may I ask?" "Because I spent that evening watching Box Five and the sham envelope which you put there. I did not go to the ballet-foyer for a second." "No, sir, and I did not give you the envelope that evening, but at the next performance ... on the evening when the under-secretary of state for fine arts ..." At these words, M. Richard suddenly interrupted Mme. Giry: "Yes, that's true, I remember now! The under-secretary went behind the scenes. He asked for me. I went down to the ballet-foyer for a moment. I was on the foyer steps ... The under-secretary and his chief clerk were in the foyer itself. I suddenly turned around ... you had passed behind me, Mme. Giry ... You seemed to push against me ... Oh, I can see you still, I can see you still!" "Yes, that's it, sir, that's it. I had just finished my little business. That pocket of yours, sir, is very handy!" And Mme. Giry once more suited the action to the word, She passed behind M. Richard and, so nimbly that Moncharmin himself was impressed by it, slipped the envelope into the pocket of one of the tails of M. Richard's dress-coat. "Of course!" exclaimed Richard, looking a little pale. "It's very clever of O. G. The problem which he had to solve was this: how to do away with any dangerous intermediary between the man who gives the twenty-thousand francs and the man who receives it. And by far the best thing he could hit upon was to come and take the money from my pocket without my noticing it, as I myself did not know that it was there. It's wonderful!" "Oh, wonderful, no doubt!" Moncharmin agreed. "Only, you forget, Richard, that I provided ten-thousand francs of the twenty and that nobody put anything in my pocket!" [1] Flash notes drawn on the "Bank of St. Farce" in France correspond with those drawn on the "Bank of Engraving" in England.--Translator's Note. Chapter XVII The Safety-Pin Again Moncharmin's last phrase so dearly expressed the suspicion in which he now held his partner that it was bound to cause a stormy explanation, at the end of which it was agreed that Richard should yield to all Moncharmin's wishes, with the object of helping him to discover the miscreant who was victimizing them. This brings us to the interval after the Garden Act, with the strange conduct observed by M. Remy and those curious lapses from the dignity that might be expected of the managers. It was arranged between Richard and Moncharmin, first, that Richard should repeat the exact movements which he had made on the night of the disappearance of the first twenty-thousand francs; and, second, that Moncharmin should not for an instant lose sight of Richard's coat-tail pocket, into which Mme. Giry was to slip the twenty-thousand francs. M. Richard went and placed himself at the identical spot where he had stood when he bowed to the under-secretary for fine arts. M. Moncharmin took up his position a few steps behind him. Mme. Giry passed, rubbed up against M. Richard, got rid of her twenty-thousand francs in the manager's coat-tail pocket and disappeared ... Or rather she was conjured away. In accordance with the instructions received from Moncharmin a few minutes earlier, Mercier took the good lady to the acting-manager's office and turned the key on her, thus making it impossible for her to communicate with her ghost. Meanwhile, M. Richard was bending and bowing and scraping and walking backward, just as if he had that high and mighty minister, the under-secretary for fine arts, before him. Only, though these marks of politeness would have created no astonishment if the under-secretary of state had really been in front of M. Richard, they caused an easily comprehensible amazement to the spectators of this very natural but quite inexplicable scene when M. Richard had no body in front of him. M. Richard bowed ... to nobody; bent his back ... before nobody; and walked backward ... before nobody ... And, a few steps behind him, M. Moncharmin did the same thing that he was doing in addition to pushing away M. Remy and begging M. de La Borderie, the ambassador, and the manager of the Credit Central "not to touch M. le Directeur." Moncharmin, who had his own ideas, did not want Richard to come to him presently, when the twenty-thousand francs were gone, and say: "Perhaps it was the ambassador ... or the manager of the Credit Central ... or Remy." The more so as, at the time of the first scene, as Richard himself admitted, Richard had met nobody in that part of the theater after Mme. Giry had brushed up against him... Having begun by walking backward in order to bow, Richard continued to do so from prudence, until he reached the passage leading to the offices of the management. In this way, he was constantly watched by Moncharmin from behind and himself kept an eye on any one approaching from the front. Once more, this novel method of walking behind the scenes, adopted by the managers of our National Academy of Music, attracted attention; but the managers themselves thought of nothing but their twenty-thousand francs. On reaching the half-dark passage, Richard said to Moncharmin, in a low voice: "I am sure that nobody has touched me ... You had now better keep at some distance from me and watch me till I come to door of the office: it is better not to arouse suspicion and we can see anything that happens." But Moncharmin replied. "No, Richard, no! You walk ahead and I'll walk immediately behind you! I won't leave you by a step!" "But, in that case," exclaimed Richard, "they will never steal our twenty-thousand francs!" "I should hope not, indeed!" declared Moncharmin. "Then what we are doing is absurd!" "We are doing exactly what we did last time ... Last time, I joined you as you were leaving the stage and followed close behind you down this passage." "That's true!" sighed Richard, shaking his head and passively obeying Moncharmin. Two minutes later, the joint managers locked themselves into their office. Moncharmin himself put the key in his pocket: "We remained locked up like this, last time," he said, "until you left the Opera to go home." "That's so. No one came and disturbed us, I suppose?" "No one." "Then," said Richard, who was trying to collect his memory, "then I must certainly have been robbed on my way home from the Opera." "No," said Moncharmin in a drier tone than ever, "no, that's impossible. For I dropped you in my cab. The twenty-thousand francs disappeared at your place: there's not a shadow of a doubt about that." "It's incredible!" protested Richard. "I am sure of my servants ... and if one of them had done it, he would have disappeared since." Moncharmin shrugged his shoulders, as though to say that he did not wish to enter into details, and Richard began to think that Moncharmin was treating him in a very insupportable fashion. "Moncharmin, I've had enough of this!" "Richard, I've had too much of it!" "Do you dare to suspect me?" "Yes, of a silly joke." "One doesn't joke with twenty-thousand francs." "That's what I think," declared Moncharmin, unfolding a newspaper and ostentatiously studying its contents. "What are you doing?" asked Richard. "Are you going to read the paper next?" "Yes, Richard, until I take you home." "Like last time?" "Yes, like last time." Richard snatched the paper from Moncharmin's hands. Moncharmin stood up, more irritated than ever, and found himself faced by an exasperated Richard, who, crossing his arms on his chest, said: "Look here, I'm thinking of this, I'M THINKING OF WHAT I MIGHT THINK if, like last time, after my spending the evening alone with you, you brought me home and if, at the moment of parting, I perceived that twenty-thousand francs had disappeared from my coat-pocket ... like last time." "And what might you think?" asked Moncharmin, crimson with rage. "I might think that, as you hadn't left me by a foot's breadth and as, by your own wish, you were the only one to approach me, like last time, I might think that, if that twenty-thousand francs was no longer in my pocket, it stood a very good chance of being in yours!" Moncharmin leaped up at the suggestion. "Oh!" he shouted. "A safety-pin!" "What do you want a safety-pin for?" "To fasten you up with! ... A safety-pin! ... A safety-pin!" "You want to fasten me with a safety-pin?" "Yes, to fasten you to the twenty-thousand francs! Then, whether it's here, or on the drive from here to your place, or at your place, you will feel the hand that pulls at your pocket and you will see if it's mine! Oh, so you're suspecting me now, are you? A safety-pin!" And that was the moment when Moncharmin opened the door on the passage and shouted: "A safety-pin! ... somebody give me a safety-pin!" And we also know how, at the same moment, Remy, who had no safety-pin, was received by Moncharmin, while a boy procured the pin so eagerly longed for. And what happened was this: Moncharmin first locked the door again. Then he knelt down behind Richard's back. "I hope," he said, "that the notes are still there?" "So do I," said Richard. "The real ones?" asked Moncharmin, resolved not to be "had" this time. "Look for yourself," said Richard. "I refuse to touch them." Moncharmin took the envelope from Richard's pocket and drew out the bank-notes with a trembling hand, for, this time, in order frequently to make sure of the presence of the notes, he had not sealed the envelope nor even fastened it. He felt reassured on finding that they were all there and quite genuine. He put them back in the tail-pocket and pinned them with great care. Then he sat down behind Richard's coat-tails and kept his eyes fixed on them, while Richard, sitting at his writing-table, did not stir. "A little patience, Richard," said Moncharmin. "We have only a few minutes to wait ... The clock will soon strike twelve. Last time, we left at the last stroke of twelve." "Oh, I shall have all the patience necessary!" The time passed, slow, heavy, mysterious, stifling. Richard tried to laugh. "I shall end by believing in the omnipotence of the ghost," he said. "Just now, don't you find something uncomfortable, disquieting, alarming in the atmosphere of this room?" "You're quite right," said Moncharmin, who was really impressed. "The ghost!" continued Richard, in a low voice, as though fearing lest he should be overheard by invisible ears. "The ghost! Suppose, all the same, it were a ghost who puts the magic envelopes on the table ... who talks in Box Five ... who killed Joseph Buquet ... who unhooked the chandelier ... and who robs us! For, after all, after all, after all, there is no one here except you and me, and, if the notes disappear and neither you nor I have anything to do with it, well, we shall have to believe in the ghost ... in the ghost." At that moment, the clock on the mantlepiece gave its warning click and the first stroke of twelve struck. The two managers shuddered. The perspiration streamed from their foreheads. The twelfth stroke sounded strangely in their ears. When the clock stopped, they gave a sigh and rose from their chairs. "I think we can go now," said Moncharmin. "I think so," Richard a agreed. "Before we go, do you mind if I look in your pocket?" "But, of course, Moncharmin, YOU MUST! ... Well?" he asked, as Moncharmin was feeling at the pocket. "Well, I can feel the pin." "Of course, as you said, we can't be robbed without noticing it." But Moncharmin, whose hands were still fumbling, bellowed: "I can feel the pin, but I can't feel the notes!" "Come, no joking, Moncharmin! ... This isn't the time for it." "Well, feel for yourself." Richard tore off his coat. The two managers turned the pocket inside out. THE POCKET WAS EMPTY. And the curious thing was that the pin remained, stuck in the same place. Richard and Moncharmin turned pale. There was no longer any doubt about the witchcraft. "The ghost!" muttered Moncharmin. But Richard suddenly sprang upon his partner. "No one but you has touched my pocket! Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ... Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ..." "On my soul," sighed Moncharmin, who was ready to swoon, "on my soul, I swear that I haven't got it!" Then somebody knocked at the door. Moncharmin opened it automatically, seemed hardly to recognize Mercier, his business-manager, exchanged a few words with him, without knowing what he was saying and, with an unconscious movement, put the safety-pin, for which he had no further use, into the hands of his bewildered subordinate ... Chapter XVIII The Commissary, The Viscount and the Persian The first words of the commissary of police, on entering the managers' office, were to ask after the missing prima donna. "Is Christine Daae here?" "Christine Daae here?" echoed Richard. "No. Why?" As for Moncharmin, he had not the strength left to utter a word. Richard repeated, for the commissary and the compact crowd which had followed him into the office observed an impressive silence. "Why do you ask if Christine Daae is here, M. LE COMMISSAIRE?" "Because she has to be found," declared the commissary of police solemnly. "What do you mean, she has to be found? Has she disappeared?" "In the middle of the performance!" "In the middle of the performance? This is extraordinary!" "Isn't it? And what is quite as extraordinary is that you should first learn it from me!" "Yes," said Richard, taking his head in his hands and muttering. "What is this new business? Oh, it's enough to make a man send in his resignation!" And he pulled a few hairs out of his mustache without even knowing what he was doing. "So she ... so she disappeared in the middle of the performance?" he repeated. "Yes, she was carried off in the Prison Act, at the moment when she was invoking the aid of the angels; but I doubt if she was carried off by an angel." "And I am sure that she was!" Everybody looked round. A young man, pale and trembling with excitement, repeated: "I am sure of it!" "Sure of what?" asked Mifroid. "That Christine Daae was carried off by an angel, M. LE COMMISSAIRE and I can tell you his name." "Aha, M. le Vicomte de Chagny! So you maintain that Christine Daae was carried off by an angel: an angel of the Opera, no doubt?" "Yes, monsieur, by an angel of the Opera; and I will tell you where he lives ... when we are alone." "You are right, monsieur." And the commissary of police, inviting Raoul to take a chair, cleared the room of all the rest, excepting the managers. Then Raoul spoke: "M. le Commissaire, the angel is called Erik, he lives in the Opera and he is the Angel of Music!" "The Angel of Music! Really! That is very curious! ... The Angel of Music!" And, turning to the managers, M. Mifroid asked, "Have you an Angel of Music on the premises, gentlemen?" Richard and Moncharmin shook their heads, without even speaking. "Oh," said the viscount, "those gentlemen have heard of the Opera ghost. Well, I am in a position to state that the Opera ghost and the Angel of Music are one and the same person; and his real name is Erik." M. Mifroid rose and looked at Raoul attentively. "I beg your pardon, monsieur but is it your intention to make fun of the law? And, if not, what is all this about the Opera ghost?" "I say that these gentlemen have heard of him." "Gentlemen, it appears that you know the Opera ghost?" Richard rose, with the remaining hairs of his mustache in his hand. "No, M. Commissary, no, we do not know him, but we wish that we did, for this very evening he has robbed us of twenty-thousand francs!" And Richard turned a terrible look on Moncharmin, which seemed to say: "Give me back the twenty-thousand francs, or I'll tell the whole story." Moncharmin understood what he meant, for, with a distracted gesture, he said: "Oh, tell everything and have done with it!" As for Mifroid, he looked at the managers and at Raoul by turns and wondered whether he had strayed into a lunatic asylum. He passed his hand through his hair. "A ghost," he said, "who, on the same evening, carries off an opera-singer and steals twenty-thousand francs is a ghost who must have his hands very full! If you don't mind, we will take the questions in order. The singer first, the twenty-thousand francs after. Come, M. de Chagny, let us try to talk seriously. You believe that Mlle. Christine Daae has been carried off by an individual called Erik. Do you know this person? Have you seen him?" "Yes." "Where?" "In a church yard." M. Mifroid gave a start, began to scrutinize Raoul again and said: "Of course! ... That's where ghosts usually hang out! ... And what were you doing in that churchyard?" "Monsieur," said Raoul, "I can quite understand how absurd my replies must seem to you. But I beg you to believe that I am in full possession of my faculties. The safety of the person dearest to me in the world is at stake. I should like to convince you in a few words, for time is pressing and every minute is valuable. Unfortunately, if I do not tell you the strangest story that ever was from the beginning, you will not believe me. I will tell you all I know about the Opera ghost, M. Commissary. Alas, I do not know much! ..." "Never mind, go on, go on!" exclaimed Richard and Moncharmin, suddenly greatly interested. Unfortunately for their hopes of learning some detail that could put them on the track of their hoaxer, they were soon compelled to accept the fact that M. Raoul de Chagny had completely lost his head. All that story about Perros-Guirec, death's heads and enchanted violins, could only have taken birth in the disordered brain of a youth mad with love. It was evident, also, that

mr.

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"Well, it's like this ... only the ghost doesn't like me to talk about his business." "Indeed?" sneered Richard. "But this is a matter that concerns myself alone ... Well, it was in Box Five one evening, I found a letter addressed to myself, a sort of note written in red ink. I needn't read the letter to you sir; I know it by heart, and I shall never forget it if I live to be a hundred!" And Mme. Giry, drawing herself up, recited the letter with touching eloquence: MADAM: 1825. Mlle. Menetrier, leader of the ballet, became Marquise de Cussy. 1832. Mlle. Marie Taglioni, a dancer, became Comtesse Gilbert des Voisins. 1846. La Sota, a dancer, married a brother of the King of Spain. 1847. Lola Montes, a dancer, became the morganatic wife of King Louis of Bavaria and was created Countess of Landsfeld. 1848. Mlle. Maria, a dancer, became Baronne d'Herneville. 1870. Theresa Hessier, a dancer, married Dom Fernando, brother to the King of Portugal. Richard and Moncharmin listened to the old woman, who, as she proceeded with the enumeration of these glorious nuptials, swelled out, took courage and, at last, in a voice bursting with pride, flung out the last sentence of the prophetic letter: 1885. Meg Giry, Empress! Exhausted by this supreme effort, the box-keeper fell into a chair, saying: "Gentlemen, the letter was signed, 'Opera Ghost.' I had heard much of the ghost, but only half believed in him. From the day when he declared that my little Meg, the flesh of my flesh, the fruit of my womb, would be empress, I believed in him altogether." And really it was not necessary to make a long study of Mme. Giry's excited features to understand what could be got out of that fine intellect with the two words "ghost" and "empress." But who pulled the strings of that extraordinary puppet? That was the question. "You have never seen him; he speaks to you and you believe all he says?" asked Moncharmin. "Yes. To begin with, I owe it to him that my little Meg was promoted to be the leader of a row. I said to the ghost, 'If she is to be empress in 1885, there is no time to lose; she must become a leader at once.' He said, 'Look upon it as done.' And he had only a word to say to M. Poligny and the thing was done." "So you see that M. Poligny saw him!" "No, not any more than I did; but he heard him. The ghost said a word in his ear, you know, on the evening when he left Box Five, looking so dreadfully pale." Moncharmin heaved a sigh. "What a business!" he groaned. "Ah!" said Mme. Giry. "I always thought there were secrets between the ghost and M. Poligny. Anything that the ghost asked M. Poligny to do M. Poligny did. M. Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "You hear, Richard: Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "Yes, yes, I hear!" said Richard. "M. Poligny is a friend of the ghost; and, as Mme. Giry is a friend of M. Poligny, there we are! ... But I don't care a hang about M. Poligny," he added roughly. "The only person whose fate really interests me is Mme. Giry... Mme. Giry, do you know what is in this envelope?" "Why, of course not," she said. "Well, look." Mine. Giry looked into the envelope with a lackluster eye, which soon recovered its brilliancy. "Thousand-franc notes!" she cried. "Yes, Mme. Giry, thousand-franc notes! And you knew it!" "I, sir? I? ... I swear ..." "Don't swear, Mme. Giry! ... And now I will tell you the second reason why I sent for you. Mme. Giry, I am going to have you arrested." The two black feathers on the dingy bonnet, which usually affected the attitude of two notes of interrogation, changed into two notes of exclamation; as for the bonnet itself, it swayed in menace on the old lady's tempestuous chignon. Surprise, indignation, protest and dismay were furthermore displayed by little Meg's mother in a sort of extravagant movement of offended virtue, half bound, half slide, that brought her right under the nose of M. Richard, who could not help pushing back his chair. "HAVE ME ARRESTED!" The mouth that spoke those words seemed to spit the three teeth that were left to it into Richard's face. M. Richard behaved like a hero. He retreated no farther. His threatening forefinger seemed already to be pointing out the keeper of Box Five to the absent magistrates. "I am going to have you arrested, Mme. Giry, as a thief!" "Say that again!" And Mme. Giry caught Mr. Manager Richard a mighty box on the ear, before Mr. Manager Moncharmin had time to intervene. But it was not the withered hand of the angry old beldame that fell on the managerial ear, but the envelope itself, the cause of all the trouble, the magic envelope that opened with the blow, scattering the bank-notes, which escaped in a fantastic whirl of giant butterflies. The two managers gave a shout, and the same thought made them both go on their knees, feverishly, picking up and hurriedly examining the precious scraps of paper. "Are they still genuine, Moncharmin?" "Are they still genuine, Richard?" "Yes, they are still genuine!" Above their heads, Mme. Giry's three teeth were clashing in a noisy contest, full of hideous interjections. But all that could be clearly distinguished was this LEIT-MOTIF: "I, a thief! ... I, a thief, I?" She choked with rage. She shouted: "I never heard of such a thing!" And, suddenly, she darted up to Richard again. "In any case," she yelped, "you, M. Richard, ought to know better than I where the twenty thousand francs went to!" "I?" asked Richard, astounded. "And how should I know?" Moncharmin, looking severe and dissatisfied, at once insisted that the good lady should explain herself. "What does this mean, Mme. Giry?" he asked. "And why do you say that M. Richard ought to know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to?" As for Richard, who felt himself turning red under Moncharmin's eyes, he took Mme. Giry by the wrist and shook it violently. In a voice growling and rolling like thunder, he roared: "Why should I know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to? Why? Answer me!" "Because they went into your pocket!" gasped the old woman, looking at him as if he were the devil incarnate. Richard would have rushed upon Mme. Giry, if Moncharmin had not stayed his avenging hand and hastened to ask her, more gently: "How can you suspect my partner, M. Richard, of putting twenty-thousand francs in his pocket?" "I never said that," declared Mme. Giry, "seeing that it was myself who put the twenty-thousand francs into M. Richard's pocket." And she added, under her voice, "There! It's out! ... And may the ghost forgive me!" Richard began bellowing anew, but Moncharmin authoritatively ordered him to be silent. "Allow me! Allow me! Let the woman explain herself. Let me question her." And he added: "It is really astonishing that you should take up such a tone! ... We are on the verge of clearing up the whole mystery. And you're in a rage! ... You're wrong to behave like that... I'm enjoying myself immensely." Mme. Giry, like the martyr that she was, raised her head, her face beaming with faith in her own innocence. "You tell me there were twenty-thousand francs in the envelope which I put into M. Richard's pocket; but I tell you again that I knew nothing about it ... Nor M. Richard either, for that matter!" "Aha!" said Richard, suddenly assuming a swaggering air which Moncharmin did not like. "I knew nothing either! You put twenty-thousand francs in my pocket and I knew nothing either! I am very glad to hear it, Mme. Giry!" "Yes," the terrible dame agreed, "yes, it's true. We neither of us knew anything. But you, you must have ended by finding out!" Richard would certainly have swallowed Mme. Giry alive, if Moncharmin had not been there! But Moncharmin protected her. He resumed his questions: "What sort of envelope did you put in M. Richard's pocket? It was not the one which we gave you, the one which you took to Box Five before our eyes; and yet that was the one which contained the twenty-thousand francs." "I beg your pardon. The envelope which M. le Directeur gave me was the one which I slipped into M. le Directeur's pocket," explained Mme. Giry. "The one which I took to the ghost's box was another envelope, just like it, which the ghost gave me beforehand and which I hid up my sleeve." So saying, Mme. Giry took from her sleeve an envelope ready prepared and similarly addressed to that containing the twenty-thousand francs. The managers took it from her. They examined it and saw that it was fastened with seals stamped with their own managerial seal. They opened it. It contained twenty Bank of St. Farce notes like those which had so much astounded them the month before. "How simple!" said Richard. "How simple!" repeated Moncharmin. And he continued with his eyes fixed upon Mme. Giry, as though trying to hypnotize her. "So it was the ghost who gave you this envelope and told you to substitute it for the one which we gave you? And it was the ghost who told you to put the other into M. Richard's pocket?" "Yes, it was the ghost." "Then would you mind giving us a specimen of your little talents? Here is the envelope. Act as though we knew nothing." "As you please, gentlemen." Mme. Giry took the envelope with the twenty notes inside it and made for the door. She was on the point of going out when the two managers rushed at her: "Oh, no! Oh, no! We're not going to be 'done' a second time! Once bitten, twice shy!" "I beg your pardon, gentlemen," said the old woman, in self-excuse, "you told me to act as though you knew nothing ... Well, if you knew nothing, I should go away with your envelope!" "And then how would you slip it into my pocket?" argued Richard, whom Moncharmin fixed with his left eye, while keeping his right on Mme. Giry: a proceeding likely to strain his sight, but Moncharmin was prepared to go to any length to discover the truth. "I am to slip it into your pocket when you least expect it, sir. You know that I always take a little turn behind the scenes, in the course of the evening, and I often go with my daughter to the ballet-foyer, which I am entitled to do, as her mother; I bring her her shoes, when the ballet is about to begin ... in fact, I come and go as I please ... The subscribers come and go too... So do you, sir ... There are lots of people about ... I go behind you and slip the envelope into the tail-pocket of your dress-coat ... There's no witchcraft about that!" "No witchcraft!" growled Richard, rolling his eyes like Jupiter Tonans. "No witchcraft! Why, I've just caught you in a lie, you old witch!" Mme. Giry bristled, with her three teeth sticking out of her mouth. "And why, may I ask?" "Because I spent that evening watching Box Five and the sham envelope which you put there. I did not go to the ballet-foyer for a second." "No, sir, and I did not give you the envelope that evening, but at the next performance ... on the evening when the under-secretary of state for fine arts ..." At these words, M. Richard suddenly interrupted Mme. Giry: "Yes, that's true, I remember now! The under-secretary went behind the scenes. He asked for me. I went down to the ballet-foyer for a moment. I was on the foyer steps ... The under-secretary and his chief clerk were in the foyer itself. I suddenly turned around ... you had passed behind me, Mme. Giry ... You seemed to push against me ... Oh, I can see you still, I can see you still!" "Yes, that's it, sir, that's it. I had just finished my little business. That pocket of yours, sir, is very handy!" And Mme. Giry once more suited the action to the word, She passed behind M. Richard and, so nimbly that Moncharmin himself was impressed by it, slipped the envelope into the pocket of one of the tails of M. Richard's dress-coat. "Of course!" exclaimed Richard, looking a little pale. "It's very clever of O. G. The problem which he had to solve was this: how to do away with any dangerous intermediary between the man who gives the twenty-thousand francs and the man who receives it. And by far the best thing he could hit upon was to come and take the money from my pocket without my noticing it, as I myself did not know that it was there. It's wonderful!" "Oh, wonderful, no doubt!" Moncharmin agreed. "Only, you forget, Richard, that I provided ten-thousand francs of the twenty and that nobody put anything in my pocket!" [1] Flash notes drawn on the "Bank of St. Farce" in France correspond with those drawn on the "Bank of Engraving" in England.--Translator's Note. Chapter XVII The Safety-Pin Again Moncharmin's last phrase so dearly expressed the suspicion in which he now held his partner that it was bound to cause a stormy explanation, at the end of which it was agreed that Richard should yield to all Moncharmin's wishes, with the object of helping him to discover the miscreant who was victimizing them. This brings us to the interval after the Garden Act, with the strange conduct observed by M. Remy and those curious lapses from the dignity that might be expected of the managers. It was arranged between Richard and Moncharmin, first, that Richard should repeat the exact movements which he had made on the night of the disappearance of the first twenty-thousand francs; and, second, that Moncharmin should not for an instant lose sight of Richard's coat-tail pocket, into which Mme. Giry was to slip the twenty-thousand francs. M. Richard went and placed himself at the identical spot where he had stood when he bowed to the under-secretary for fine arts. M. Moncharmin took up his position a few steps behind him. Mme. Giry passed, rubbed up against M. Richard, got rid of her twenty-thousand francs in the manager's coat-tail pocket and disappeared ... Or rather she was conjured away. In accordance with the instructions received from Moncharmin a few minutes earlier, Mercier took the good lady to the acting-manager's office and turned the key on her, thus making it impossible for her to communicate with her ghost. Meanwhile, M. Richard was bending and bowing and scraping and walking backward, just as if he had that high and mighty minister, the under-secretary for fine arts, before him. Only, though these marks of politeness would have created no astonishment if the under-secretary of state had really been in front of M. Richard, they caused an easily comprehensible amazement to the spectators of this very natural but quite inexplicable scene when M. Richard had no body in front of him. M. Richard bowed ... to nobody; bent his back ... before nobody; and walked backward ... before nobody ... And, a few steps behind him, M. Moncharmin did the same thing that he was doing in addition to pushing away M. Remy and begging M. de La Borderie, the ambassador, and the manager of the Credit Central "not to touch M. le Directeur." Moncharmin, who had his own ideas, did not want Richard to come to him presently, when the twenty-thousand francs were gone, and say: "Perhaps it was the ambassador ... or the manager of the Credit Central ... or Remy." The more so as, at the time of the first scene, as Richard himself admitted, Richard had met nobody in that part of the theater after Mme. Giry had brushed up against him... Having begun by walking backward in order to bow, Richard continued to do so from prudence, until he reached the passage leading to the offices of the management. In this way, he was constantly watched by Moncharmin from behind and himself kept an eye on any one approaching from the front. Once more, this novel method of walking behind the scenes, adopted by the managers of our National Academy of Music, attracted attention; but the managers themselves thought of nothing but their twenty-thousand francs. On reaching the half-dark passage, Richard said to Moncharmin, in a low voice: "I am sure that nobody has touched me ... You had now better keep at some distance from me and watch me till I come to door of the office: it is better not to arouse suspicion and we can see anything that happens." But Moncharmin replied. "No, Richard, no! You walk ahead and I'll walk immediately behind you! I won't leave you by a step!" "But, in that case," exclaimed Richard, "they will never steal our twenty-thousand francs!" "I should hope not, indeed!" declared Moncharmin. "Then what we are doing is absurd!" "We are doing exactly what we did last time ... Last time, I joined you as you were leaving the stage and followed close behind you down this passage." "That's true!" sighed Richard, shaking his head and passively obeying Moncharmin. Two minutes later, the joint managers locked themselves into their office. Moncharmin himself put the key in his pocket: "We remained locked up like this, last time," he said, "until you left the Opera to go home." "That's so. No one came and disturbed us, I suppose?" "No one." "Then," said Richard, who was trying to collect his memory, "then I must certainly have been robbed on my way home from the Opera." "No," said Moncharmin in a drier tone than ever, "no, that's impossible. For I dropped you in my cab. The twenty-thousand francs disappeared at your place: there's not a shadow of a doubt about that." "It's incredible!" protested Richard. "I am sure of my servants ... and if one of them had done it, he would have disappeared since." Moncharmin shrugged his shoulders, as though to say that he did not wish to enter into details, and Richard began to think that Moncharmin was treating him in a very insupportable fashion. "Moncharmin, I've had enough of this!" "Richard, I've had too much of it!" "Do you dare to suspect me?" "Yes, of a silly joke." "One doesn't joke with twenty-thousand francs." "That's what I think," declared Moncharmin, unfolding a newspaper and ostentatiously studying its contents. "What are you doing?" asked Richard. "Are you going to read the paper next?" "Yes, Richard, until I take you home." "Like last time?" "Yes, like last time." Richard snatched the paper from Moncharmin's hands. Moncharmin stood up, more irritated than ever, and found himself faced by an exasperated Richard, who, crossing his arms on his chest, said: "Look here, I'm thinking of this, I'M THINKING OF WHAT I MIGHT THINK if, like last time, after my spending the evening alone with you, you brought me home and if, at the moment of parting, I perceived that twenty-thousand francs had disappeared from my coat-pocket ... like last time." "And what might you think?" asked Moncharmin, crimson with rage. "I might think that, as you hadn't left me by a foot's breadth and as, by your own wish, you were the only one to approach me, like last time, I might think that, if that twenty-thousand francs was no longer in my pocket, it stood a very good chance of being in yours!" Moncharmin leaped up at the suggestion. "Oh!" he shouted. "A safety-pin!" "What do you want a safety-pin for?" "To fasten you up with! ... A safety-pin! ... A safety-pin!" "You want to fasten me with a safety-pin?" "Yes, to fasten you to the twenty-thousand francs! Then, whether it's here, or on the drive from here to your place, or at your place, you will feel the hand that pulls at your pocket and you will see if it's mine! Oh, so you're suspecting me now, are you? A safety-pin!" And that was the moment when Moncharmin opened the door on the passage and shouted: "A safety-pin! ... somebody give me a safety-pin!" And we also know how, at the same moment, Remy, who had no safety-pin, was received by Moncharmin, while a boy procured the pin so eagerly longed for. And what happened was this: Moncharmin first locked the door again. Then he knelt down behind Richard's back. "I hope," he said, "that the notes are still there?" "So do I," said Richard. "The real ones?" asked Moncharmin, resolved not to be "had" this time. "Look for yourself," said Richard. "I refuse to touch them." Moncharmin took the envelope from Richard's pocket and drew out the bank-notes with a trembling hand, for, this time, in order frequently to make sure of the presence of the notes, he had not sealed the envelope nor even fastened it. He felt reassured on finding that they were all there and quite genuine. He put them back in the tail-pocket and pinned them with great care. Then he sat down behind Richard's coat-tails and kept his eyes fixed on them, while Richard, sitting at his writing-table, did not stir. "A little patience, Richard," said Moncharmin. "We have only a few minutes to wait ... The clock will soon strike twelve. Last time, we left at the last stroke of twelve." "Oh, I shall have all the patience necessary!" The time passed, slow, heavy, mysterious, stifling. Richard tried to laugh. "I shall end by believing in the omnipotence of the ghost," he said. "Just now, don't you find something uncomfortable, disquieting, alarming in the atmosphere of this room?" "You're quite right," said Moncharmin, who was really impressed. "The ghost!" continued Richard, in a low voice, as though fearing lest he should be overheard by invisible ears. "The ghost! Suppose, all the same, it were a ghost who puts the magic envelopes on the table ... who talks in Box Five ... who killed Joseph Buquet ... who unhooked the chandelier ... and who robs us! For, after all, after all, after all, there is no one here except you and me, and, if the notes disappear and neither you nor I have anything to do with it, well, we shall have to believe in the ghost ... in the ghost." At that moment, the clock on the mantlepiece gave its warning click and the first stroke of twelve struck. The two managers shuddered. The perspiration streamed from their foreheads. The twelfth stroke sounded strangely in their ears. When the clock stopped, they gave a sigh and rose from their chairs. "I think we can go now," said Moncharmin. "I think so," Richard a agreed. "Before we go, do you mind if I look in your pocket?" "But, of course, Moncharmin, YOU MUST! ... Well?" he asked, as Moncharmin was feeling at the pocket. "Well, I can feel the pin." "Of course, as you said, we can't be robbed without noticing it." But Moncharmin, whose hands were still fumbling, bellowed: "I can feel the pin, but I can't feel the notes!" "Come, no joking, Moncharmin! ... This isn't the time for it." "Well, feel for yourself." Richard tore off his coat. The two managers turned the pocket inside out. THE POCKET WAS EMPTY. And the curious thing was that the pin remained, stuck in the same place. Richard and Moncharmin turned pale. There was no longer any doubt about the witchcraft. "The ghost!" muttered Moncharmin. But Richard suddenly sprang upon his partner. "No one but you has touched my pocket! Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ... Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ..." "On my soul," sighed Moncharmin, who was ready to swoon, "on my soul, I swear that I haven't got it!" Then somebody knocked at the door. Moncharmin opened it automatically, seemed hardly to recognize Mercier, his business-manager, exchanged a few words with him, without knowing what he was saying and, with an unconscious movement, put the safety-pin, for which he had no further use, into the hands of his bewildered subordinate ... Chapter XVIII The Commissary, The Viscount and the Persian The first words of the commissary of police, on entering the managers' office, were to ask after the missing prima donna. "Is Christine Daae here?" "Christine Daae here?" echoed Richard. "No. Why?" As for Moncharmin, he had not the strength left to utter a word. Richard repeated, for the commissary and the compact crowd which had followed him into the office observed an impressive silence. "Why do you ask if Christine Daae is here, M. LE COMMISSAIRE?" "Because she has to be found," declared the commissary of police solemnly. "What do you mean, she has to be found? Has she disappeared?" "In the middle of the performance!" "In the middle of the performance? This is extraordinary!" "Isn't it? And what is quite as extraordinary is that you should first learn it from me!" "Yes," said Richard, taking his head in his hands and muttering. "What is this new business? Oh, it's enough to make a man send in his resignation!" And he pulled a few hairs out of his mustache without even knowing what he was doing. "So she ... so she disappeared in the middle of the performance?" he repeated. "Yes, she was carried off in the Prison Act, at the moment when she was invoking the aid of the angels; but I doubt if she was carried off by an angel." "And I am sure that she was!" Everybody looked round. A young man, pale and trembling with excitement, repeated: "I am sure of it!" "Sure of what?" asked Mifroid. "That Christine Daae was carried off by an angel, M. LE COMMISSAIRE and I can tell you his name." "Aha, M. le Vicomte de Chagny! So you maintain that Christine Daae was carried off by an angel: an angel of the Opera, no doubt?" "Yes, monsieur, by an angel of the Opera; and I will tell you where he lives ... when we are alone." "You are right, monsieur." And the commissary of police, inviting Raoul to take a chair, cleared the room of all the rest, excepting the managers. Then Raoul spoke: "M. le Commissaire, the angel is called Erik, he lives in the Opera and he is the Angel of Music!" "The Angel of Music! Really! That is very curious! ... The Angel of Music!" And, turning to the managers, M. Mifroid asked, "Have you an Angel of Music on the premises, gentlemen?" Richard and Moncharmin shook their heads, without even speaking. "Oh," said the viscount, "those gentlemen have heard of the Opera ghost. Well, I am in a position to state that the Opera ghost and the Angel of Music are one and the same person; and his real name is Erik." M. Mifroid rose and looked at Raoul attentively. "I beg your pardon, monsieur but is it your intention to make fun of the law? And, if not, what is all this about the Opera ghost?" "I say that these gentlemen have heard of him." "Gentlemen, it appears that you know the Opera ghost?" Richard rose, with the remaining hairs of his mustache in his hand. "No, M. Commissary, no, we do not know him, but we wish that we did, for this very evening he has robbed us of twenty-thousand francs!" And Richard turned a terrible look on Moncharmin, which seemed to say: "Give me back the twenty-thousand francs, or I'll tell the whole story." Moncharmin understood what he meant, for, with a distracted gesture, he said: "Oh, tell everything and have done with it!" As for Mifroid, he looked at the managers and at Raoul by turns and wondered whether he had strayed into a lunatic asylum. He passed his hand through his hair. "A ghost," he said, "who, on the same evening, carries off an opera-singer and steals twenty-thousand francs is a ghost who must have his hands very full! If you don't mind, we will take the questions in order. The singer first, the twenty-thousand francs after. Come, M. de Chagny, let us try to talk seriously. You believe that Mlle. Christine Daae has been carried off by an individual called Erik. Do you know this person? Have you seen him?" "Yes." "Where?" "In a church yard." M. Mifroid gave a start, began to scrutinize Raoul again and said: "Of course! ... That's where ghosts usually hang out! ... And what were you doing in that churchyard?" "Monsieur," said Raoul, "I can quite understand how absurd my replies must seem to you. But I beg you to believe that I am in full possession of my faculties. The safety of the person dearest to me in the world is at stake. I should like to convince you in a few words, for time is pressing and every minute is valuable. Unfortunately, if I do not tell you the strangest story that ever was from the beginning, you will not believe me. I will tell you all I know about the Opera ghost, M. Commissary. Alas, I do not know much! ..." "Never mind, go on, go on!" exclaimed Richard and Moncharmin, suddenly greatly interested. Unfortunately for their hopes of learning some detail that could put them on the track of their hoaxer, they were soon compelled to accept the fact that M. Raoul de Chagny had completely lost his head. All that story about Perros-Guirec, death's heads and enchanted violins, could only have taken birth in the disordered brain of a youth mad with love. It was evident, also, that

could

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

"Well, it's like this ... only the ghost doesn't like me to talk about his business." "Indeed?" sneered Richard. "But this is a matter that concerns myself alone ... Well, it was in Box Five one evening, I found a letter addressed to myself, a sort of note written in red ink. I needn't read the letter to you sir; I know it by heart, and I shall never forget it if I live to be a hundred!" And Mme. Giry, drawing herself up, recited the letter with touching eloquence: MADAM: 1825. Mlle. Menetrier, leader of the ballet, became Marquise de Cussy. 1832. Mlle. Marie Taglioni, a dancer, became Comtesse Gilbert des Voisins. 1846. La Sota, a dancer, married a brother of the King of Spain. 1847. Lola Montes, a dancer, became the morganatic wife of King Louis of Bavaria and was created Countess of Landsfeld. 1848. Mlle. Maria, a dancer, became Baronne d'Herneville. 1870. Theresa Hessier, a dancer, married Dom Fernando, brother to the King of Portugal. Richard and Moncharmin listened to the old woman, who, as she proceeded with the enumeration of these glorious nuptials, swelled out, took courage and, at last, in a voice bursting with pride, flung out the last sentence of the prophetic letter: 1885. Meg Giry, Empress! Exhausted by this supreme effort, the box-keeper fell into a chair, saying: "Gentlemen, the letter was signed, 'Opera Ghost.' I had heard much of the ghost, but only half believed in him. From the day when he declared that my little Meg, the flesh of my flesh, the fruit of my womb, would be empress, I believed in him altogether." And really it was not necessary to make a long study of Mme. Giry's excited features to understand what could be got out of that fine intellect with the two words "ghost" and "empress." But who pulled the strings of that extraordinary puppet? That was the question. "You have never seen him; he speaks to you and you believe all he says?" asked Moncharmin. "Yes. To begin with, I owe it to him that my little Meg was promoted to be the leader of a row. I said to the ghost, 'If she is to be empress in 1885, there is no time to lose; she must become a leader at once.' He said, 'Look upon it as done.' And he had only a word to say to M. Poligny and the thing was done." "So you see that M. Poligny saw him!" "No, not any more than I did; but he heard him. The ghost said a word in his ear, you know, on the evening when he left Box Five, looking so dreadfully pale." Moncharmin heaved a sigh. "What a business!" he groaned. "Ah!" said Mme. Giry. "I always thought there were secrets between the ghost and M. Poligny. Anything that the ghost asked M. Poligny to do M. Poligny did. M. Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "You hear, Richard: Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "Yes, yes, I hear!" said Richard. "M. Poligny is a friend of the ghost; and, as Mme. Giry is a friend of M. Poligny, there we are! ... But I don't care a hang about M. Poligny," he added roughly. "The only person whose fate really interests me is Mme. Giry... Mme. Giry, do you know what is in this envelope?" "Why, of course not," she said. "Well, look." Mine. Giry looked into the envelope with a lackluster eye, which soon recovered its brilliancy. "Thousand-franc notes!" she cried. "Yes, Mme. Giry, thousand-franc notes! And you knew it!" "I, sir? I? ... I swear ..." "Don't swear, Mme. Giry! ... And now I will tell you the second reason why I sent for you. Mme. Giry, I am going to have you arrested." The two black feathers on the dingy bonnet, which usually affected the attitude of two notes of interrogation, changed into two notes of exclamation; as for the bonnet itself, it swayed in menace on the old lady's tempestuous chignon. Surprise, indignation, protest and dismay were furthermore displayed by little Meg's mother in a sort of extravagant movement of offended virtue, half bound, half slide, that brought her right under the nose of M. Richard, who could not help pushing back his chair. "HAVE ME ARRESTED!" The mouth that spoke those words seemed to spit the three teeth that were left to it into Richard's face. M. Richard behaved like a hero. He retreated no farther. His threatening forefinger seemed already to be pointing out the keeper of Box Five to the absent magistrates. "I am going to have you arrested, Mme. Giry, as a thief!" "Say that again!" And Mme. Giry caught Mr. Manager Richard a mighty box on the ear, before Mr. Manager Moncharmin had time to intervene. But it was not the withered hand of the angry old beldame that fell on the managerial ear, but the envelope itself, the cause of all the trouble, the magic envelope that opened with the blow, scattering the bank-notes, which escaped in a fantastic whirl of giant butterflies. The two managers gave a shout, and the same thought made them both go on their knees, feverishly, picking up and hurriedly examining the precious scraps of paper. "Are they still genuine, Moncharmin?" "Are they still genuine, Richard?" "Yes, they are still genuine!" Above their heads, Mme. Giry's three teeth were clashing in a noisy contest, full of hideous interjections. But all that could be clearly distinguished was this LEIT-MOTIF: "I, a thief! ... I, a thief, I?" She choked with rage. She shouted: "I never heard of such a thing!" And, suddenly, she darted up to Richard again. "In any case," she yelped, "you, M. Richard, ought to know better than I where the twenty thousand francs went to!" "I?" asked Richard, astounded. "And how should I know?" Moncharmin, looking severe and dissatisfied, at once insisted that the good lady should explain herself. "What does this mean, Mme. Giry?" he asked. "And why do you say that M. Richard ought to know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to?" As for Richard, who felt himself turning red under Moncharmin's eyes, he took Mme. Giry by the wrist and shook it violently. In a voice growling and rolling like thunder, he roared: "Why should I know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to? Why? Answer me!" "Because they went into your pocket!" gasped the old woman, looking at him as if he were the devil incarnate. Richard would have rushed upon Mme. Giry, if Moncharmin had not stayed his avenging hand and hastened to ask her, more gently: "How can you suspect my partner, M. Richard, of putting twenty-thousand francs in his pocket?" "I never said that," declared Mme. Giry, "seeing that it was myself who put the twenty-thousand francs into M. Richard's pocket." And she added, under her voice, "There! It's out! ... And may the ghost forgive me!" Richard began bellowing anew, but Moncharmin authoritatively ordered him to be silent. "Allow me! Allow me! Let the woman explain herself. Let me question her." And he added: "It is really astonishing that you should take up such a tone! ... We are on the verge of clearing up the whole mystery. And you're in a rage! ... You're wrong to behave like that... I'm enjoying myself immensely." Mme. Giry, like the martyr that she was, raised her head, her face beaming with faith in her own innocence. "You tell me there were twenty-thousand francs in the envelope which I put into M. Richard's pocket; but I tell you again that I knew nothing about it ... Nor M. Richard either, for that matter!" "Aha!" said Richard, suddenly assuming a swaggering air which Moncharmin did not like. "I knew nothing either! You put twenty-thousand francs in my pocket and I knew nothing either! I am very glad to hear it, Mme. Giry!" "Yes," the terrible dame agreed, "yes, it's true. We neither of us knew anything. But you, you must have ended by finding out!" Richard would certainly have swallowed Mme. Giry alive, if Moncharmin had not been there! But Moncharmin protected her. He resumed his questions: "What sort of envelope did you put in M. Richard's pocket? It was not the one which we gave you, the one which you took to Box Five before our eyes; and yet that was the one which contained the twenty-thousand francs." "I beg your pardon. The envelope which M. le Directeur gave me was the one which I slipped into M. le Directeur's pocket," explained Mme. Giry. "The one which I took to the ghost's box was another envelope, just like it, which the ghost gave me beforehand and which I hid up my sleeve." So saying, Mme. Giry took from her sleeve an envelope ready prepared and similarly addressed to that containing the twenty-thousand francs. The managers took it from her. They examined it and saw that it was fastened with seals stamped with their own managerial seal. They opened it. It contained twenty Bank of St. Farce notes like those which had so much astounded them the month before. "How simple!" said Richard. "How simple!" repeated Moncharmin. And he continued with his eyes fixed upon Mme. Giry, as though trying to hypnotize her. "So it was the ghost who gave you this envelope and told you to substitute it for the one which we gave you? And it was the ghost who told you to put the other into M. Richard's pocket?" "Yes, it was the ghost." "Then would you mind giving us a specimen of your little talents? Here is the envelope. Act as though we knew nothing." "As you please, gentlemen." Mme. Giry took the envelope with the twenty notes inside it and made for the door. She was on the point of going out when the two managers rushed at her: "Oh, no! Oh, no! We're not going to be 'done' a second time! Once bitten, twice shy!" "I beg your pardon, gentlemen," said the old woman, in self-excuse, "you told me to act as though you knew nothing ... Well, if you knew nothing, I should go away with your envelope!" "And then how would you slip it into my pocket?" argued Richard, whom Moncharmin fixed with his left eye, while keeping his right on Mme. Giry: a proceeding likely to strain his sight, but Moncharmin was prepared to go to any length to discover the truth. "I am to slip it into your pocket when you least expect it, sir. You know that I always take a little turn behind the scenes, in the course of the evening, and I often go with my daughter to the ballet-foyer, which I am entitled to do, as her mother; I bring her her shoes, when the ballet is about to begin ... in fact, I come and go as I please ... The subscribers come and go too... So do you, sir ... There are lots of people about ... I go behind you and slip the envelope into the tail-pocket of your dress-coat ... There's no witchcraft about that!" "No witchcraft!" growled Richard, rolling his eyes like Jupiter Tonans. "No witchcraft! Why, I've just caught you in a lie, you old witch!" Mme. Giry bristled, with her three teeth sticking out of her mouth. "And why, may I ask?" "Because I spent that evening watching Box Five and the sham envelope which you put there. I did not go to the ballet-foyer for a second." "No, sir, and I did not give you the envelope that evening, but at the next performance ... on the evening when the under-secretary of state for fine arts ..." At these words, M. Richard suddenly interrupted Mme. Giry: "Yes, that's true, I remember now! The under-secretary went behind the scenes. He asked for me. I went down to the ballet-foyer for a moment. I was on the foyer steps ... The under-secretary and his chief clerk were in the foyer itself. I suddenly turned around ... you had passed behind me, Mme. Giry ... You seemed to push against me ... Oh, I can see you still, I can see you still!" "Yes, that's it, sir, that's it. I had just finished my little business. That pocket of yours, sir, is very handy!" And Mme. Giry once more suited the action to the word, She passed behind M. Richard and, so nimbly that Moncharmin himself was impressed by it, slipped the envelope into the pocket of one of the tails of M. Richard's dress-coat. "Of course!" exclaimed Richard, looking a little pale. "It's very clever of O. G. The problem which he had to solve was this: how to do away with any dangerous intermediary between the man who gives the twenty-thousand francs and the man who receives it. And by far the best thing he could hit upon was to come and take the money from my pocket without my noticing it, as I myself did not know that it was there. It's wonderful!" "Oh, wonderful, no doubt!" Moncharmin agreed. "Only, you forget, Richard, that I provided ten-thousand francs of the twenty and that nobody put anything in my pocket!" [1] Flash notes drawn on the "Bank of St. Farce" in France correspond with those drawn on the "Bank of Engraving" in England.--Translator's Note. Chapter XVII The Safety-Pin Again Moncharmin's last phrase so dearly expressed the suspicion in which he now held his partner that it was bound to cause a stormy explanation, at the end of which it was agreed that Richard should yield to all Moncharmin's wishes, with the object of helping him to discover the miscreant who was victimizing them. This brings us to the interval after the Garden Act, with the strange conduct observed by M. Remy and those curious lapses from the dignity that might be expected of the managers. It was arranged between Richard and Moncharmin, first, that Richard should repeat the exact movements which he had made on the night of the disappearance of the first twenty-thousand francs; and, second, that Moncharmin should not for an instant lose sight of Richard's coat-tail pocket, into which Mme. Giry was to slip the twenty-thousand francs. M. Richard went and placed himself at the identical spot where he had stood when he bowed to the under-secretary for fine arts. M. Moncharmin took up his position a few steps behind him. Mme. Giry passed, rubbed up against M. Richard, got rid of her twenty-thousand francs in the manager's coat-tail pocket and disappeared ... Or rather she was conjured away. In accordance with the instructions received from Moncharmin a few minutes earlier, Mercier took the good lady to the acting-manager's office and turned the key on her, thus making it impossible for her to communicate with her ghost. Meanwhile, M. Richard was bending and bowing and scraping and walking backward, just as if he had that high and mighty minister, the under-secretary for fine arts, before him. Only, though these marks of politeness would have created no astonishment if the under-secretary of state had really been in front of M. Richard, they caused an easily comprehensible amazement to the spectators of this very natural but quite inexplicable scene when M. Richard had no body in front of him. M. Richard bowed ... to nobody; bent his back ... before nobody; and walked backward ... before nobody ... And, a few steps behind him, M. Moncharmin did the same thing that he was doing in addition to pushing away M. Remy and begging M. de La Borderie, the ambassador, and the manager of the Credit Central "not to touch M. le Directeur." Moncharmin, who had his own ideas, did not want Richard to come to him presently, when the twenty-thousand francs were gone, and say: "Perhaps it was the ambassador ... or the manager of the Credit Central ... or Remy." The more so as, at the time of the first scene, as Richard himself admitted, Richard had met nobody in that part of the theater after Mme. Giry had brushed up against him... Having begun by walking backward in order to bow, Richard continued to do so from prudence, until he reached the passage leading to the offices of the management. In this way, he was constantly watched by Moncharmin from behind and himself kept an eye on any one approaching from the front. Once more, this novel method of walking behind the scenes, adopted by the managers of our National Academy of Music, attracted attention; but the managers themselves thought of nothing but their twenty-thousand francs. On reaching the half-dark passage, Richard said to Moncharmin, in a low voice: "I am sure that nobody has touched me ... You had now better keep at some distance from me and watch me till I come to door of the office: it is better not to arouse suspicion and we can see anything that happens." But Moncharmin replied. "No, Richard, no! You walk ahead and I'll walk immediately behind you! I won't leave you by a step!" "But, in that case," exclaimed Richard, "they will never steal our twenty-thousand francs!" "I should hope not, indeed!" declared Moncharmin. "Then what we are doing is absurd!" "We are doing exactly what we did last time ... Last time, I joined you as you were leaving the stage and followed close behind you down this passage." "That's true!" sighed Richard, shaking his head and passively obeying Moncharmin. Two minutes later, the joint managers locked themselves into their office. Moncharmin himself put the key in his pocket: "We remained locked up like this, last time," he said, "until you left the Opera to go home." "That's so. No one came and disturbed us, I suppose?" "No one." "Then," said Richard, who was trying to collect his memory, "then I must certainly have been robbed on my way home from the Opera." "No," said Moncharmin in a drier tone than ever, "no, that's impossible. For I dropped you in my cab. The twenty-thousand francs disappeared at your place: there's not a shadow of a doubt about that." "It's incredible!" protested Richard. "I am sure of my servants ... and if one of them had done it, he would have disappeared since." Moncharmin shrugged his shoulders, as though to say that he did not wish to enter into details, and Richard began to think that Moncharmin was treating him in a very insupportable fashion. "Moncharmin, I've had enough of this!" "Richard, I've had too much of it!" "Do you dare to suspect me?" "Yes, of a silly joke." "One doesn't joke with twenty-thousand francs." "That's what I think," declared Moncharmin, unfolding a newspaper and ostentatiously studying its contents. "What are you doing?" asked Richard. "Are you going to read the paper next?" "Yes, Richard, until I take you home." "Like last time?" "Yes, like last time." Richard snatched the paper from Moncharmin's hands. Moncharmin stood up, more irritated than ever, and found himself faced by an exasperated Richard, who, crossing his arms on his chest, said: "Look here, I'm thinking of this, I'M THINKING OF WHAT I MIGHT THINK if, like last time, after my spending the evening alone with you, you brought me home and if, at the moment of parting, I perceived that twenty-thousand francs had disappeared from my coat-pocket ... like last time." "And what might you think?" asked Moncharmin, crimson with rage. "I might think that, as you hadn't left me by a foot's breadth and as, by your own wish, you were the only one to approach me, like last time, I might think that, if that twenty-thousand francs was no longer in my pocket, it stood a very good chance of being in yours!" Moncharmin leaped up at the suggestion. "Oh!" he shouted. "A safety-pin!" "What do you want a safety-pin for?" "To fasten you up with! ... A safety-pin! ... A safety-pin!" "You want to fasten me with a safety-pin?" "Yes, to fasten you to the twenty-thousand francs! Then, whether it's here, or on the drive from here to your place, or at your place, you will feel the hand that pulls at your pocket and you will see if it's mine! Oh, so you're suspecting me now, are you? A safety-pin!" And that was the moment when Moncharmin opened the door on the passage and shouted: "A safety-pin! ... somebody give me a safety-pin!" And we also know how, at the same moment, Remy, who had no safety-pin, was received by Moncharmin, while a boy procured the pin so eagerly longed for. And what happened was this: Moncharmin first locked the door again. Then he knelt down behind Richard's back. "I hope," he said, "that the notes are still there?" "So do I," said Richard. "The real ones?" asked Moncharmin, resolved not to be "had" this time. "Look for yourself," said Richard. "I refuse to touch them." Moncharmin took the envelope from Richard's pocket and drew out the bank-notes with a trembling hand, for, this time, in order frequently to make sure of the presence of the notes, he had not sealed the envelope nor even fastened it. He felt reassured on finding that they were all there and quite genuine. He put them back in the tail-pocket and pinned them with great care. Then he sat down behind Richard's coat-tails and kept his eyes fixed on them, while Richard, sitting at his writing-table, did not stir. "A little patience, Richard," said Moncharmin. "We have only a few minutes to wait ... The clock will soon strike twelve. Last time, we left at the last stroke of twelve." "Oh, I shall have all the patience necessary!" The time passed, slow, heavy, mysterious, stifling. Richard tried to laugh. "I shall end by believing in the omnipotence of the ghost," he said. "Just now, don't you find something uncomfortable, disquieting, alarming in the atmosphere of this room?" "You're quite right," said Moncharmin, who was really impressed. "The ghost!" continued Richard, in a low voice, as though fearing lest he should be overheard by invisible ears. "The ghost! Suppose, all the same, it were a ghost who puts the magic envelopes on the table ... who talks in Box Five ... who killed Joseph Buquet ... who unhooked the chandelier ... and who robs us! For, after all, after all, after all, there is no one here except you and me, and, if the notes disappear and neither you nor I have anything to do with it, well, we shall have to believe in the ghost ... in the ghost." At that moment, the clock on the mantlepiece gave its warning click and the first stroke of twelve struck. The two managers shuddered. The perspiration streamed from their foreheads. The twelfth stroke sounded strangely in their ears. When the clock stopped, they gave a sigh and rose from their chairs. "I think we can go now," said Moncharmin. "I think so," Richard a agreed. "Before we go, do you mind if I look in your pocket?" "But, of course, Moncharmin, YOU MUST! ... Well?" he asked, as Moncharmin was feeling at the pocket. "Well, I can feel the pin." "Of course, as you said, we can't be robbed without noticing it." But Moncharmin, whose hands were still fumbling, bellowed: "I can feel the pin, but I can't feel the notes!" "Come, no joking, Moncharmin! ... This isn't the time for it." "Well, feel for yourself." Richard tore off his coat. The two managers turned the pocket inside out. THE POCKET WAS EMPTY. And the curious thing was that the pin remained, stuck in the same place. Richard and Moncharmin turned pale. There was no longer any doubt about the witchcraft. "The ghost!" muttered Moncharmin. But Richard suddenly sprang upon his partner. "No one but you has touched my pocket! Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ... Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ..." "On my soul," sighed Moncharmin, who was ready to swoon, "on my soul, I swear that I haven't got it!" Then somebody knocked at the door. Moncharmin opened it automatically, seemed hardly to recognize Mercier, his business-manager, exchanged a few words with him, without knowing what he was saying and, with an unconscious movement, put the safety-pin, for which he had no further use, into the hands of his bewildered subordinate ... Chapter XVIII The Commissary, The Viscount and the Persian The first words of the commissary of police, on entering the managers' office, were to ask after the missing prima donna. "Is Christine Daae here?" "Christine Daae here?" echoed Richard. "No. Why?" As for Moncharmin, he had not the strength left to utter a word. Richard repeated, for the commissary and the compact crowd which had followed him into the office observed an impressive silence. "Why do you ask if Christine Daae is here, M. LE COMMISSAIRE?" "Because she has to be found," declared the commissary of police solemnly. "What do you mean, she has to be found? Has she disappeared?" "In the middle of the performance!" "In the middle of the performance? This is extraordinary!" "Isn't it? And what is quite as extraordinary is that you should first learn it from me!" "Yes," said Richard, taking his head in his hands and muttering. "What is this new business? Oh, it's enough to make a man send in his resignation!" And he pulled a few hairs out of his mustache without even knowing what he was doing. "So she ... so she disappeared in the middle of the performance?" he repeated. "Yes, she was carried off in the Prison Act, at the moment when she was invoking the aid of the angels; but I doubt if she was carried off by an angel." "And I am sure that she was!" Everybody looked round. A young man, pale and trembling with excitement, repeated: "I am sure of it!" "Sure of what?" asked Mifroid. "That Christine Daae was carried off by an angel, M. LE COMMISSAIRE and I can tell you his name." "Aha, M. le Vicomte de Chagny! So you maintain that Christine Daae was carried off by an angel: an angel of the Opera, no doubt?" "Yes, monsieur, by an angel of the Opera; and I will tell you where he lives ... when we are alone." "You are right, monsieur." And the commissary of police, inviting Raoul to take a chair, cleared the room of all the rest, excepting the managers. Then Raoul spoke: "M. le Commissaire, the angel is called Erik, he lives in the Opera and he is the Angel of Music!" "The Angel of Music! Really! That is very curious! ... The Angel of Music!" And, turning to the managers, M. Mifroid asked, "Have you an Angel of Music on the premises, gentlemen?" Richard and Moncharmin shook their heads, without even speaking. "Oh," said the viscount, "those gentlemen have heard of the Opera ghost. Well, I am in a position to state that the Opera ghost and the Angel of Music are one and the same person; and his real name is Erik." M. Mifroid rose and looked at Raoul attentively. "I beg your pardon, monsieur but is it your intention to make fun of the law? And, if not, what is all this about the Opera ghost?" "I say that these gentlemen have heard of him." "Gentlemen, it appears that you know the Opera ghost?" Richard rose, with the remaining hairs of his mustache in his hand. "No, M. Commissary, no, we do not know him, but we wish that we did, for this very evening he has robbed us of twenty-thousand francs!" And Richard turned a terrible look on Moncharmin, which seemed to say: "Give me back the twenty-thousand francs, or I'll tell the whole story." Moncharmin understood what he meant, for, with a distracted gesture, he said: "Oh, tell everything and have done with it!" As for Mifroid, he looked at the managers and at Raoul by turns and wondered whether he had strayed into a lunatic asylum. He passed his hand through his hair. "A ghost," he said, "who, on the same evening, carries off an opera-singer and steals twenty-thousand francs is a ghost who must have his hands very full! If you don't mind, we will take the questions in order. The singer first, the twenty-thousand francs after. Come, M. de Chagny, let us try to talk seriously. You believe that Mlle. Christine Daae has been carried off by an individual called Erik. Do you know this person? Have you seen him?" "Yes." "Where?" "In a church yard." M. Mifroid gave a start, began to scrutinize Raoul again and said: "Of course! ... That's where ghosts usually hang out! ... And what were you doing in that churchyard?" "Monsieur," said Raoul, "I can quite understand how absurd my replies must seem to you. But I beg you to believe that I am in full possession of my faculties. The safety of the person dearest to me in the world is at stake. I should like to convince you in a few words, for time is pressing and every minute is valuable. Unfortunately, if I do not tell you the strangest story that ever was from the beginning, you will not believe me. I will tell you all I know about the Opera ghost, M. Commissary. Alas, I do not know much! ..." "Never mind, go on, go on!" exclaimed Richard and Moncharmin, suddenly greatly interested. Unfortunately for their hopes of learning some detail that could put them on the track of their hoaxer, they were soon compelled to accept the fact that M. Raoul de Chagny had completely lost his head. All that story about Perros-Guirec, death's heads and enchanted violins, could only have taken birth in the disordered brain of a youth mad with love. It was evident, also, that

arrested

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

"Well, it's like this ... only the ghost doesn't like me to talk about his business." "Indeed?" sneered Richard. "But this is a matter that concerns myself alone ... Well, it was in Box Five one evening, I found a letter addressed to myself, a sort of note written in red ink. I needn't read the letter to you sir; I know it by heart, and I shall never forget it if I live to be a hundred!" And Mme. Giry, drawing herself up, recited the letter with touching eloquence: MADAM: 1825. Mlle. Menetrier, leader of the ballet, became Marquise de Cussy. 1832. Mlle. Marie Taglioni, a dancer, became Comtesse Gilbert des Voisins. 1846. La Sota, a dancer, married a brother of the King of Spain. 1847. Lola Montes, a dancer, became the morganatic wife of King Louis of Bavaria and was created Countess of Landsfeld. 1848. Mlle. Maria, a dancer, became Baronne d'Herneville. 1870. Theresa Hessier, a dancer, married Dom Fernando, brother to the King of Portugal. Richard and Moncharmin listened to the old woman, who, as she proceeded with the enumeration of these glorious nuptials, swelled out, took courage and, at last, in a voice bursting with pride, flung out the last sentence of the prophetic letter: 1885. Meg Giry, Empress! Exhausted by this supreme effort, the box-keeper fell into a chair, saying: "Gentlemen, the letter was signed, 'Opera Ghost.' I had heard much of the ghost, but only half believed in him. From the day when he declared that my little Meg, the flesh of my flesh, the fruit of my womb, would be empress, I believed in him altogether." And really it was not necessary to make a long study of Mme. Giry's excited features to understand what could be got out of that fine intellect with the two words "ghost" and "empress." But who pulled the strings of that extraordinary puppet? That was the question. "You have never seen him; he speaks to you and you believe all he says?" asked Moncharmin. "Yes. To begin with, I owe it to him that my little Meg was promoted to be the leader of a row. I said to the ghost, 'If she is to be empress in 1885, there is no time to lose; she must become a leader at once.' He said, 'Look upon it as done.' And he had only a word to say to M. Poligny and the thing was done." "So you see that M. Poligny saw him!" "No, not any more than I did; but he heard him. The ghost said a word in his ear, you know, on the evening when he left Box Five, looking so dreadfully pale." Moncharmin heaved a sigh. "What a business!" he groaned. "Ah!" said Mme. Giry. "I always thought there were secrets between the ghost and M. Poligny. Anything that the ghost asked M. Poligny to do M. Poligny did. M. Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "You hear, Richard: Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "Yes, yes, I hear!" said Richard. "M. Poligny is a friend of the ghost; and, as Mme. Giry is a friend of M. Poligny, there we are! ... But I don't care a hang about M. Poligny," he added roughly. "The only person whose fate really interests me is Mme. Giry... Mme. Giry, do you know what is in this envelope?" "Why, of course not," she said. "Well, look." Mine. Giry looked into the envelope with a lackluster eye, which soon recovered its brilliancy. "Thousand-franc notes!" she cried. "Yes, Mme. Giry, thousand-franc notes! And you knew it!" "I, sir? I? ... I swear ..." "Don't swear, Mme. Giry! ... And now I will tell you the second reason why I sent for you. Mme. Giry, I am going to have you arrested." The two black feathers on the dingy bonnet, which usually affected the attitude of two notes of interrogation, changed into two notes of exclamation; as for the bonnet itself, it swayed in menace on the old lady's tempestuous chignon. Surprise, indignation, protest and dismay were furthermore displayed by little Meg's mother in a sort of extravagant movement of offended virtue, half bound, half slide, that brought her right under the nose of M. Richard, who could not help pushing back his chair. "HAVE ME ARRESTED!" The mouth that spoke those words seemed to spit the three teeth that were left to it into Richard's face. M. Richard behaved like a hero. He retreated no farther. His threatening forefinger seemed already to be pointing out the keeper of Box Five to the absent magistrates. "I am going to have you arrested, Mme. Giry, as a thief!" "Say that again!" And Mme. Giry caught Mr. Manager Richard a mighty box on the ear, before Mr. Manager Moncharmin had time to intervene. But it was not the withered hand of the angry old beldame that fell on the managerial ear, but the envelope itself, the cause of all the trouble, the magic envelope that opened with the blow, scattering the bank-notes, which escaped in a fantastic whirl of giant butterflies. The two managers gave a shout, and the same thought made them both go on their knees, feverishly, picking up and hurriedly examining the precious scraps of paper. "Are they still genuine, Moncharmin?" "Are they still genuine, Richard?" "Yes, they are still genuine!" Above their heads, Mme. Giry's three teeth were clashing in a noisy contest, full of hideous interjections. But all that could be clearly distinguished was this LEIT-MOTIF: "I, a thief! ... I, a thief, I?" She choked with rage. She shouted: "I never heard of such a thing!" And, suddenly, she darted up to Richard again. "In any case," she yelped, "you, M. Richard, ought to know better than I where the twenty thousand francs went to!" "I?" asked Richard, astounded. "And how should I know?" Moncharmin, looking severe and dissatisfied, at once insisted that the good lady should explain herself. "What does this mean, Mme. Giry?" he asked. "And why do you say that M. Richard ought to know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to?" As for Richard, who felt himself turning red under Moncharmin's eyes, he took Mme. Giry by the wrist and shook it violently. In a voice growling and rolling like thunder, he roared: "Why should I know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to? Why? Answer me!" "Because they went into your pocket!" gasped the old woman, looking at him as if he were the devil incarnate. Richard would have rushed upon Mme. Giry, if Moncharmin had not stayed his avenging hand and hastened to ask her, more gently: "How can you suspect my partner, M. Richard, of putting twenty-thousand francs in his pocket?" "I never said that," declared Mme. Giry, "seeing that it was myself who put the twenty-thousand francs into M. Richard's pocket." And she added, under her voice, "There! It's out! ... And may the ghost forgive me!" Richard began bellowing anew, but Moncharmin authoritatively ordered him to be silent. "Allow me! Allow me! Let the woman explain herself. Let me question her." And he added: "It is really astonishing that you should take up such a tone! ... We are on the verge of clearing up the whole mystery. And you're in a rage! ... You're wrong to behave like that... I'm enjoying myself immensely." Mme. Giry, like the martyr that she was, raised her head, her face beaming with faith in her own innocence. "You tell me there were twenty-thousand francs in the envelope which I put into M. Richard's pocket; but I tell you again that I knew nothing about it ... Nor M. Richard either, for that matter!" "Aha!" said Richard, suddenly assuming a swaggering air which Moncharmin did not like. "I knew nothing either! You put twenty-thousand francs in my pocket and I knew nothing either! I am very glad to hear it, Mme. Giry!" "Yes," the terrible dame agreed, "yes, it's true. We neither of us knew anything. But you, you must have ended by finding out!" Richard would certainly have swallowed Mme. Giry alive, if Moncharmin had not been there! But Moncharmin protected her. He resumed his questions: "What sort of envelope did you put in M. Richard's pocket? It was not the one which we gave you, the one which you took to Box Five before our eyes; and yet that was the one which contained the twenty-thousand francs." "I beg your pardon. The envelope which M. le Directeur gave me was the one which I slipped into M. le Directeur's pocket," explained Mme. Giry. "The one which I took to the ghost's box was another envelope, just like it, which the ghost gave me beforehand and which I hid up my sleeve." So saying, Mme. Giry took from her sleeve an envelope ready prepared and similarly addressed to that containing the twenty-thousand francs. The managers took it from her. They examined it and saw that it was fastened with seals stamped with their own managerial seal. They opened it. It contained twenty Bank of St. Farce notes like those which had so much astounded them the month before. "How simple!" said Richard. "How simple!" repeated Moncharmin. And he continued with his eyes fixed upon Mme. Giry, as though trying to hypnotize her. "So it was the ghost who gave you this envelope and told you to substitute it for the one which we gave you? And it was the ghost who told you to put the other into M. Richard's pocket?" "Yes, it was the ghost." "Then would you mind giving us a specimen of your little talents? Here is the envelope. Act as though we knew nothing." "As you please, gentlemen." Mme. Giry took the envelope with the twenty notes inside it and made for the door. She was on the point of going out when the two managers rushed at her: "Oh, no! Oh, no! We're not going to be 'done' a second time! Once bitten, twice shy!" "I beg your pardon, gentlemen," said the old woman, in self-excuse, "you told me to act as though you knew nothing ... Well, if you knew nothing, I should go away with your envelope!" "And then how would you slip it into my pocket?" argued Richard, whom Moncharmin fixed with his left eye, while keeping his right on Mme. Giry: a proceeding likely to strain his sight, but Moncharmin was prepared to go to any length to discover the truth. "I am to slip it into your pocket when you least expect it, sir. You know that I always take a little turn behind the scenes, in the course of the evening, and I often go with my daughter to the ballet-foyer, which I am entitled to do, as her mother; I bring her her shoes, when the ballet is about to begin ... in fact, I come and go as I please ... The subscribers come and go too... So do you, sir ... There are lots of people about ... I go behind you and slip the envelope into the tail-pocket of your dress-coat ... There's no witchcraft about that!" "No witchcraft!" growled Richard, rolling his eyes like Jupiter Tonans. "No witchcraft! Why, I've just caught you in a lie, you old witch!" Mme. Giry bristled, with her three teeth sticking out of her mouth. "And why, may I ask?" "Because I spent that evening watching Box Five and the sham envelope which you put there. I did not go to the ballet-foyer for a second." "No, sir, and I did not give you the envelope that evening, but at the next performance ... on the evening when the under-secretary of state for fine arts ..." At these words, M. Richard suddenly interrupted Mme. Giry: "Yes, that's true, I remember now! The under-secretary went behind the scenes. He asked for me. I went down to the ballet-foyer for a moment. I was on the foyer steps ... The under-secretary and his chief clerk were in the foyer itself. I suddenly turned around ... you had passed behind me, Mme. Giry ... You seemed to push against me ... Oh, I can see you still, I can see you still!" "Yes, that's it, sir, that's it. I had just finished my little business. That pocket of yours, sir, is very handy!" And Mme. Giry once more suited the action to the word, She passed behind M. Richard and, so nimbly that Moncharmin himself was impressed by it, slipped the envelope into the pocket of one of the tails of M. Richard's dress-coat. "Of course!" exclaimed Richard, looking a little pale. "It's very clever of O. G. The problem which he had to solve was this: how to do away with any dangerous intermediary between the man who gives the twenty-thousand francs and the man who receives it. And by far the best thing he could hit upon was to come and take the money from my pocket without my noticing it, as I myself did not know that it was there. It's wonderful!" "Oh, wonderful, no doubt!" Moncharmin agreed. "Only, you forget, Richard, that I provided ten-thousand francs of the twenty and that nobody put anything in my pocket!" [1] Flash notes drawn on the "Bank of St. Farce" in France correspond with those drawn on the "Bank of Engraving" in England.--Translator's Note. Chapter XVII The Safety-Pin Again Moncharmin's last phrase so dearly expressed the suspicion in which he now held his partner that it was bound to cause a stormy explanation, at the end of which it was agreed that Richard should yield to all Moncharmin's wishes, with the object of helping him to discover the miscreant who was victimizing them. This brings us to the interval after the Garden Act, with the strange conduct observed by M. Remy and those curious lapses from the dignity that might be expected of the managers. It was arranged between Richard and Moncharmin, first, that Richard should repeat the exact movements which he had made on the night of the disappearance of the first twenty-thousand francs; and, second, that Moncharmin should not for an instant lose sight of Richard's coat-tail pocket, into which Mme. Giry was to slip the twenty-thousand francs. M. Richard went and placed himself at the identical spot where he had stood when he bowed to the under-secretary for fine arts. M. Moncharmin took up his position a few steps behind him. Mme. Giry passed, rubbed up against M. Richard, got rid of her twenty-thousand francs in the manager's coat-tail pocket and disappeared ... Or rather she was conjured away. In accordance with the instructions received from Moncharmin a few minutes earlier, Mercier took the good lady to the acting-manager's office and turned the key on her, thus making it impossible for her to communicate with her ghost. Meanwhile, M. Richard was bending and bowing and scraping and walking backward, just as if he had that high and mighty minister, the under-secretary for fine arts, before him. Only, though these marks of politeness would have created no astonishment if the under-secretary of state had really been in front of M. Richard, they caused an easily comprehensible amazement to the spectators of this very natural but quite inexplicable scene when M. Richard had no body in front of him. M. Richard bowed ... to nobody; bent his back ... before nobody; and walked backward ... before nobody ... And, a few steps behind him, M. Moncharmin did the same thing that he was doing in addition to pushing away M. Remy and begging M. de La Borderie, the ambassador, and the manager of the Credit Central "not to touch M. le Directeur." Moncharmin, who had his own ideas, did not want Richard to come to him presently, when the twenty-thousand francs were gone, and say: "Perhaps it was the ambassador ... or the manager of the Credit Central ... or Remy." The more so as, at the time of the first scene, as Richard himself admitted, Richard had met nobody in that part of the theater after Mme. Giry had brushed up against him... Having begun by walking backward in order to bow, Richard continued to do so from prudence, until he reached the passage leading to the offices of the management. In this way, he was constantly watched by Moncharmin from behind and himself kept an eye on any one approaching from the front. Once more, this novel method of walking behind the scenes, adopted by the managers of our National Academy of Music, attracted attention; but the managers themselves thought of nothing but their twenty-thousand francs. On reaching the half-dark passage, Richard said to Moncharmin, in a low voice: "I am sure that nobody has touched me ... You had now better keep at some distance from me and watch me till I come to door of the office: it is better not to arouse suspicion and we can see anything that happens." But Moncharmin replied. "No, Richard, no! You walk ahead and I'll walk immediately behind you! I won't leave you by a step!" "But, in that case," exclaimed Richard, "they will never steal our twenty-thousand francs!" "I should hope not, indeed!" declared Moncharmin. "Then what we are doing is absurd!" "We are doing exactly what we did last time ... Last time, I joined you as you were leaving the stage and followed close behind you down this passage." "That's true!" sighed Richard, shaking his head and passively obeying Moncharmin. Two minutes later, the joint managers locked themselves into their office. Moncharmin himself put the key in his pocket: "We remained locked up like this, last time," he said, "until you left the Opera to go home." "That's so. No one came and disturbed us, I suppose?" "No one." "Then," said Richard, who was trying to collect his memory, "then I must certainly have been robbed on my way home from the Opera." "No," said Moncharmin in a drier tone than ever, "no, that's impossible. For I dropped you in my cab. The twenty-thousand francs disappeared at your place: there's not a shadow of a doubt about that." "It's incredible!" protested Richard. "I am sure of my servants ... and if one of them had done it, he would have disappeared since." Moncharmin shrugged his shoulders, as though to say that he did not wish to enter into details, and Richard began to think that Moncharmin was treating him in a very insupportable fashion. "Moncharmin, I've had enough of this!" "Richard, I've had too much of it!" "Do you dare to suspect me?" "Yes, of a silly joke." "One doesn't joke with twenty-thousand francs." "That's what I think," declared Moncharmin, unfolding a newspaper and ostentatiously studying its contents. "What are you doing?" asked Richard. "Are you going to read the paper next?" "Yes, Richard, until I take you home." "Like last time?" "Yes, like last time." Richard snatched the paper from Moncharmin's hands. Moncharmin stood up, more irritated than ever, and found himself faced by an exasperated Richard, who, crossing his arms on his chest, said: "Look here, I'm thinking of this, I'M THINKING OF WHAT I MIGHT THINK if, like last time, after my spending the evening alone with you, you brought me home and if, at the moment of parting, I perceived that twenty-thousand francs had disappeared from my coat-pocket ... like last time." "And what might you think?" asked Moncharmin, crimson with rage. "I might think that, as you hadn't left me by a foot's breadth and as, by your own wish, you were the only one to approach me, like last time, I might think that, if that twenty-thousand francs was no longer in my pocket, it stood a very good chance of being in yours!" Moncharmin leaped up at the suggestion. "Oh!" he shouted. "A safety-pin!" "What do you want a safety-pin for?" "To fasten you up with! ... A safety-pin! ... A safety-pin!" "You want to fasten me with a safety-pin?" "Yes, to fasten you to the twenty-thousand francs! Then, whether it's here, or on the drive from here to your place, or at your place, you will feel the hand that pulls at your pocket and you will see if it's mine! Oh, so you're suspecting me now, are you? A safety-pin!" And that was the moment when Moncharmin opened the door on the passage and shouted: "A safety-pin! ... somebody give me a safety-pin!" And we also know how, at the same moment, Remy, who had no safety-pin, was received by Moncharmin, while a boy procured the pin so eagerly longed for. And what happened was this: Moncharmin first locked the door again. Then he knelt down behind Richard's back. "I hope," he said, "that the notes are still there?" "So do I," said Richard. "The real ones?" asked Moncharmin, resolved not to be "had" this time. "Look for yourself," said Richard. "I refuse to touch them." Moncharmin took the envelope from Richard's pocket and drew out the bank-notes with a trembling hand, for, this time, in order frequently to make sure of the presence of the notes, he had not sealed the envelope nor even fastened it. He felt reassured on finding that they were all there and quite genuine. He put them back in the tail-pocket and pinned them with great care. Then he sat down behind Richard's coat-tails and kept his eyes fixed on them, while Richard, sitting at his writing-table, did not stir. "A little patience, Richard," said Moncharmin. "We have only a few minutes to wait ... The clock will soon strike twelve. Last time, we left at the last stroke of twelve." "Oh, I shall have all the patience necessary!" The time passed, slow, heavy, mysterious, stifling. Richard tried to laugh. "I shall end by believing in the omnipotence of the ghost," he said. "Just now, don't you find something uncomfortable, disquieting, alarming in the atmosphere of this room?" "You're quite right," said Moncharmin, who was really impressed. "The ghost!" continued Richard, in a low voice, as though fearing lest he should be overheard by invisible ears. "The ghost! Suppose, all the same, it were a ghost who puts the magic envelopes on the table ... who talks in Box Five ... who killed Joseph Buquet ... who unhooked the chandelier ... and who robs us! For, after all, after all, after all, there is no one here except you and me, and, if the notes disappear and neither you nor I have anything to do with it, well, we shall have to believe in the ghost ... in the ghost." At that moment, the clock on the mantlepiece gave its warning click and the first stroke of twelve struck. The two managers shuddered. The perspiration streamed from their foreheads. The twelfth stroke sounded strangely in their ears. When the clock stopped, they gave a sigh and rose from their chairs. "I think we can go now," said Moncharmin. "I think so," Richard a agreed. "Before we go, do you mind if I look in your pocket?" "But, of course, Moncharmin, YOU MUST! ... Well?" he asked, as Moncharmin was feeling at the pocket. "Well, I can feel the pin." "Of course, as you said, we can't be robbed without noticing it." But Moncharmin, whose hands were still fumbling, bellowed: "I can feel the pin, but I can't feel the notes!" "Come, no joking, Moncharmin! ... This isn't the time for it." "Well, feel for yourself." Richard tore off his coat. The two managers turned the pocket inside out. THE POCKET WAS EMPTY. And the curious thing was that the pin remained, stuck in the same place. Richard and Moncharmin turned pale. There was no longer any doubt about the witchcraft. "The ghost!" muttered Moncharmin. But Richard suddenly sprang upon his partner. "No one but you has touched my pocket! Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ... Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ..." "On my soul," sighed Moncharmin, who was ready to swoon, "on my soul, I swear that I haven't got it!" Then somebody knocked at the door. Moncharmin opened it automatically, seemed hardly to recognize Mercier, his business-manager, exchanged a few words with him, without knowing what he was saying and, with an unconscious movement, put the safety-pin, for which he had no further use, into the hands of his bewildered subordinate ... Chapter XVIII The Commissary, The Viscount and the Persian The first words of the commissary of police, on entering the managers' office, were to ask after the missing prima donna. "Is Christine Daae here?" "Christine Daae here?" echoed Richard. "No. Why?" As for Moncharmin, he had not the strength left to utter a word. Richard repeated, for the commissary and the compact crowd which had followed him into the office observed an impressive silence. "Why do you ask if Christine Daae is here, M. LE COMMISSAIRE?" "Because she has to be found," declared the commissary of police solemnly. "What do you mean, she has to be found? Has she disappeared?" "In the middle of the performance!" "In the middle of the performance? This is extraordinary!" "Isn't it? And what is quite as extraordinary is that you should first learn it from me!" "Yes," said Richard, taking his head in his hands and muttering. "What is this new business? Oh, it's enough to make a man send in his resignation!" And he pulled a few hairs out of his mustache without even knowing what he was doing. "So she ... so she disappeared in the middle of the performance?" he repeated. "Yes, she was carried off in the Prison Act, at the moment when she was invoking the aid of the angels; but I doubt if she was carried off by an angel." "And I am sure that she was!" Everybody looked round. A young man, pale and trembling with excitement, repeated: "I am sure of it!" "Sure of what?" asked Mifroid. "That Christine Daae was carried off by an angel, M. LE COMMISSAIRE and I can tell you his name." "Aha, M. le Vicomte de Chagny! So you maintain that Christine Daae was carried off by an angel: an angel of the Opera, no doubt?" "Yes, monsieur, by an angel of the Opera; and I will tell you where he lives ... when we are alone." "You are right, monsieur." And the commissary of police, inviting Raoul to take a chair, cleared the room of all the rest, excepting the managers. Then Raoul spoke: "M. le Commissaire, the angel is called Erik, he lives in the Opera and he is the Angel of Music!" "The Angel of Music! Really! That is very curious! ... The Angel of Music!" And, turning to the managers, M. Mifroid asked, "Have you an Angel of Music on the premises, gentlemen?" Richard and Moncharmin shook their heads, without even speaking. "Oh," said the viscount, "those gentlemen have heard of the Opera ghost. Well, I am in a position to state that the Opera ghost and the Angel of Music are one and the same person; and his real name is Erik." M. Mifroid rose and looked at Raoul attentively. "I beg your pardon, monsieur but is it your intention to make fun of the law? And, if not, what is all this about the Opera ghost?" "I say that these gentlemen have heard of him." "Gentlemen, it appears that you know the Opera ghost?" Richard rose, with the remaining hairs of his mustache in his hand. "No, M. Commissary, no, we do not know him, but we wish that we did, for this very evening he has robbed us of twenty-thousand francs!" And Richard turned a terrible look on Moncharmin, which seemed to say: "Give me back the twenty-thousand francs, or I'll tell the whole story." Moncharmin understood what he meant, for, with a distracted gesture, he said: "Oh, tell everything and have done with it!" As for Mifroid, he looked at the managers and at Raoul by turns and wondered whether he had strayed into a lunatic asylum. He passed his hand through his hair. "A ghost," he said, "who, on the same evening, carries off an opera-singer and steals twenty-thousand francs is a ghost who must have his hands very full! If you don't mind, we will take the questions in order. The singer first, the twenty-thousand francs after. Come, M. de Chagny, let us try to talk seriously. You believe that Mlle. Christine Daae has been carried off by an individual called Erik. Do you know this person? Have you seen him?" "Yes." "Where?" "In a church yard." M. Mifroid gave a start, began to scrutinize Raoul again and said: "Of course! ... That's where ghosts usually hang out! ... And what were you doing in that churchyard?" "Monsieur," said Raoul, "I can quite understand how absurd my replies must seem to you. But I beg you to believe that I am in full possession of my faculties. The safety of the person dearest to me in the world is at stake. I should like to convince you in a few words, for time is pressing and every minute is valuable. Unfortunately, if I do not tell you the strangest story that ever was from the beginning, you will not believe me. I will tell you all I know about the Opera ghost, M. Commissary. Alas, I do not know much! ..." "Never mind, go on, go on!" exclaimed Richard and Moncharmin, suddenly greatly interested. Unfortunately for their hopes of learning some detail that could put them on the track of their hoaxer, they were soon compelled to accept the fact that M. Raoul de Chagny had completely lost his head. All that story about Perros-Guirec, death's heads and enchanted violins, could only have taken birth in the disordered brain of a youth mad with love. It was evident, also, that

ought

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

"Well, it's like this ... only the ghost doesn't like me to talk about his business." "Indeed?" sneered Richard. "But this is a matter that concerns myself alone ... Well, it was in Box Five one evening, I found a letter addressed to myself, a sort of note written in red ink. I needn't read the letter to you sir; I know it by heart, and I shall never forget it if I live to be a hundred!" And Mme. Giry, drawing herself up, recited the letter with touching eloquence: MADAM: 1825. Mlle. Menetrier, leader of the ballet, became Marquise de Cussy. 1832. Mlle. Marie Taglioni, a dancer, became Comtesse Gilbert des Voisins. 1846. La Sota, a dancer, married a brother of the King of Spain. 1847. Lola Montes, a dancer, became the morganatic wife of King Louis of Bavaria and was created Countess of Landsfeld. 1848. Mlle. Maria, a dancer, became Baronne d'Herneville. 1870. Theresa Hessier, a dancer, married Dom Fernando, brother to the King of Portugal. Richard and Moncharmin listened to the old woman, who, as she proceeded with the enumeration of these glorious nuptials, swelled out, took courage and, at last, in a voice bursting with pride, flung out the last sentence of the prophetic letter: 1885. Meg Giry, Empress! Exhausted by this supreme effort, the box-keeper fell into a chair, saying: "Gentlemen, the letter was signed, 'Opera Ghost.' I had heard much of the ghost, but only half believed in him. From the day when he declared that my little Meg, the flesh of my flesh, the fruit of my womb, would be empress, I believed in him altogether." And really it was not necessary to make a long study of Mme. Giry's excited features to understand what could be got out of that fine intellect with the two words "ghost" and "empress." But who pulled the strings of that extraordinary puppet? That was the question. "You have never seen him; he speaks to you and you believe all he says?" asked Moncharmin. "Yes. To begin with, I owe it to him that my little Meg was promoted to be the leader of a row. I said to the ghost, 'If she is to be empress in 1885, there is no time to lose; she must become a leader at once.' He said, 'Look upon it as done.' And he had only a word to say to M. Poligny and the thing was done." "So you see that M. Poligny saw him!" "No, not any more than I did; but he heard him. The ghost said a word in his ear, you know, on the evening when he left Box Five, looking so dreadfully pale." Moncharmin heaved a sigh. "What a business!" he groaned. "Ah!" said Mme. Giry. "I always thought there were secrets between the ghost and M. Poligny. Anything that the ghost asked M. Poligny to do M. Poligny did. M. Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "You hear, Richard: Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "Yes, yes, I hear!" said Richard. "M. Poligny is a friend of the ghost; and, as Mme. Giry is a friend of M. Poligny, there we are! ... But I don't care a hang about M. Poligny," he added roughly. "The only person whose fate really interests me is Mme. Giry... Mme. Giry, do you know what is in this envelope?" "Why, of course not," she said. "Well, look." Mine. Giry looked into the envelope with a lackluster eye, which soon recovered its brilliancy. "Thousand-franc notes!" she cried. "Yes, Mme. Giry, thousand-franc notes! And you knew it!" "I, sir? I? ... I swear ..." "Don't swear, Mme. Giry! ... And now I will tell you the second reason why I sent for you. Mme. Giry, I am going to have you arrested." The two black feathers on the dingy bonnet, which usually affected the attitude of two notes of interrogation, changed into two notes of exclamation; as for the bonnet itself, it swayed in menace on the old lady's tempestuous chignon. Surprise, indignation, protest and dismay were furthermore displayed by little Meg's mother in a sort of extravagant movement of offended virtue, half bound, half slide, that brought her right under the nose of M. Richard, who could not help pushing back his chair. "HAVE ME ARRESTED!" The mouth that spoke those words seemed to spit the three teeth that were left to it into Richard's face. M. Richard behaved like a hero. He retreated no farther. His threatening forefinger seemed already to be pointing out the keeper of Box Five to the absent magistrates. "I am going to have you arrested, Mme. Giry, as a thief!" "Say that again!" And Mme. Giry caught Mr. Manager Richard a mighty box on the ear, before Mr. Manager Moncharmin had time to intervene. But it was not the withered hand of the angry old beldame that fell on the managerial ear, but the envelope itself, the cause of all the trouble, the magic envelope that opened with the blow, scattering the bank-notes, which escaped in a fantastic whirl of giant butterflies. The two managers gave a shout, and the same thought made them both go on their knees, feverishly, picking up and hurriedly examining the precious scraps of paper. "Are they still genuine, Moncharmin?" "Are they still genuine, Richard?" "Yes, they are still genuine!" Above their heads, Mme. Giry's three teeth were clashing in a noisy contest, full of hideous interjections. But all that could be clearly distinguished was this LEIT-MOTIF: "I, a thief! ... I, a thief, I?" She choked with rage. She shouted: "I never heard of such a thing!" And, suddenly, she darted up to Richard again. "In any case," she yelped, "you, M. Richard, ought to know better than I where the twenty thousand francs went to!" "I?" asked Richard, astounded. "And how should I know?" Moncharmin, looking severe and dissatisfied, at once insisted that the good lady should explain herself. "What does this mean, Mme. Giry?" he asked. "And why do you say that M. Richard ought to know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to?" As for Richard, who felt himself turning red under Moncharmin's eyes, he took Mme. Giry by the wrist and shook it violently. In a voice growling and rolling like thunder, he roared: "Why should I know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to? Why? Answer me!" "Because they went into your pocket!" gasped the old woman, looking at him as if he were the devil incarnate. Richard would have rushed upon Mme. Giry, if Moncharmin had not stayed his avenging hand and hastened to ask her, more gently: "How can you suspect my partner, M. Richard, of putting twenty-thousand francs in his pocket?" "I never said that," declared Mme. Giry, "seeing that it was myself who put the twenty-thousand francs into M. Richard's pocket." And she added, under her voice, "There! It's out! ... And may the ghost forgive me!" Richard began bellowing anew, but Moncharmin authoritatively ordered him to be silent. "Allow me! Allow me! Let the woman explain herself. Let me question her." And he added: "It is really astonishing that you should take up such a tone! ... We are on the verge of clearing up the whole mystery. And you're in a rage! ... You're wrong to behave like that... I'm enjoying myself immensely." Mme. Giry, like the martyr that she was, raised her head, her face beaming with faith in her own innocence. "You tell me there were twenty-thousand francs in the envelope which I put into M. Richard's pocket; but I tell you again that I knew nothing about it ... Nor M. Richard either, for that matter!" "Aha!" said Richard, suddenly assuming a swaggering air which Moncharmin did not like. "I knew nothing either! You put twenty-thousand francs in my pocket and I knew nothing either! I am very glad to hear it, Mme. Giry!" "Yes," the terrible dame agreed, "yes, it's true. We neither of us knew anything. But you, you must have ended by finding out!" Richard would certainly have swallowed Mme. Giry alive, if Moncharmin had not been there! But Moncharmin protected her. He resumed his questions: "What sort of envelope did you put in M. Richard's pocket? It was not the one which we gave you, the one which you took to Box Five before our eyes; and yet that was the one which contained the twenty-thousand francs." "I beg your pardon. The envelope which M. le Directeur gave me was the one which I slipped into M. le Directeur's pocket," explained Mme. Giry. "The one which I took to the ghost's box was another envelope, just like it, which the ghost gave me beforehand and which I hid up my sleeve." So saying, Mme. Giry took from her sleeve an envelope ready prepared and similarly addressed to that containing the twenty-thousand francs. The managers took it from her. They examined it and saw that it was fastened with seals stamped with their own managerial seal. They opened it. It contained twenty Bank of St. Farce notes like those which had so much astounded them the month before. "How simple!" said Richard. "How simple!" repeated Moncharmin. And he continued with his eyes fixed upon Mme. Giry, as though trying to hypnotize her. "So it was the ghost who gave you this envelope and told you to substitute it for the one which we gave you? And it was the ghost who told you to put the other into M. Richard's pocket?" "Yes, it was the ghost." "Then would you mind giving us a specimen of your little talents? Here is the envelope. Act as though we knew nothing." "As you please, gentlemen." Mme. Giry took the envelope with the twenty notes inside it and made for the door. She was on the point of going out when the two managers rushed at her: "Oh, no! Oh, no! We're not going to be 'done' a second time! Once bitten, twice shy!" "I beg your pardon, gentlemen," said the old woman, in self-excuse, "you told me to act as though you knew nothing ... Well, if you knew nothing, I should go away with your envelope!" "And then how would you slip it into my pocket?" argued Richard, whom Moncharmin fixed with his left eye, while keeping his right on Mme. Giry: a proceeding likely to strain his sight, but Moncharmin was prepared to go to any length to discover the truth. "I am to slip it into your pocket when you least expect it, sir. You know that I always take a little turn behind the scenes, in the course of the evening, and I often go with my daughter to the ballet-foyer, which I am entitled to do, as her mother; I bring her her shoes, when the ballet is about to begin ... in fact, I come and go as I please ... The subscribers come and go too... So do you, sir ... There are lots of people about ... I go behind you and slip the envelope into the tail-pocket of your dress-coat ... There's no witchcraft about that!" "No witchcraft!" growled Richard, rolling his eyes like Jupiter Tonans. "No witchcraft! Why, I've just caught you in a lie, you old witch!" Mme. Giry bristled, with her three teeth sticking out of her mouth. "And why, may I ask?" "Because I spent that evening watching Box Five and the sham envelope which you put there. I did not go to the ballet-foyer for a second." "No, sir, and I did not give you the envelope that evening, but at the next performance ... on the evening when the under-secretary of state for fine arts ..." At these words, M. Richard suddenly interrupted Mme. Giry: "Yes, that's true, I remember now! The under-secretary went behind the scenes. He asked for me. I went down to the ballet-foyer for a moment. I was on the foyer steps ... The under-secretary and his chief clerk were in the foyer itself. I suddenly turned around ... you had passed behind me, Mme. Giry ... You seemed to push against me ... Oh, I can see you still, I can see you still!" "Yes, that's it, sir, that's it. I had just finished my little business. That pocket of yours, sir, is very handy!" And Mme. Giry once more suited the action to the word, She passed behind M. Richard and, so nimbly that Moncharmin himself was impressed by it, slipped the envelope into the pocket of one of the tails of M. Richard's dress-coat. "Of course!" exclaimed Richard, looking a little pale. "It's very clever of O. G. The problem which he had to solve was this: how to do away with any dangerous intermediary between the man who gives the twenty-thousand francs and the man who receives it. And by far the best thing he could hit upon was to come and take the money from my pocket without my noticing it, as I myself did not know that it was there. It's wonderful!" "Oh, wonderful, no doubt!" Moncharmin agreed. "Only, you forget, Richard, that I provided ten-thousand francs of the twenty and that nobody put anything in my pocket!" [1] Flash notes drawn on the "Bank of St. Farce" in France correspond with those drawn on the "Bank of Engraving" in England.--Translator's Note. Chapter XVII The Safety-Pin Again Moncharmin's last phrase so dearly expressed the suspicion in which he now held his partner that it was bound to cause a stormy explanation, at the end of which it was agreed that Richard should yield to all Moncharmin's wishes, with the object of helping him to discover the miscreant who was victimizing them. This brings us to the interval after the Garden Act, with the strange conduct observed by M. Remy and those curious lapses from the dignity that might be expected of the managers. It was arranged between Richard and Moncharmin, first, that Richard should repeat the exact movements which he had made on the night of the disappearance of the first twenty-thousand francs; and, second, that Moncharmin should not for an instant lose sight of Richard's coat-tail pocket, into which Mme. Giry was to slip the twenty-thousand francs. M. Richard went and placed himself at the identical spot where he had stood when he bowed to the under-secretary for fine arts. M. Moncharmin took up his position a few steps behind him. Mme. Giry passed, rubbed up against M. Richard, got rid of her twenty-thousand francs in the manager's coat-tail pocket and disappeared ... Or rather she was conjured away. In accordance with the instructions received from Moncharmin a few minutes earlier, Mercier took the good lady to the acting-manager's office and turned the key on her, thus making it impossible for her to communicate with her ghost. Meanwhile, M. Richard was bending and bowing and scraping and walking backward, just as if he had that high and mighty minister, the under-secretary for fine arts, before him. Only, though these marks of politeness would have created no astonishment if the under-secretary of state had really been in front of M. Richard, they caused an easily comprehensible amazement to the spectators of this very natural but quite inexplicable scene when M. Richard had no body in front of him. M. Richard bowed ... to nobody; bent his back ... before nobody; and walked backward ... before nobody ... And, a few steps behind him, M. Moncharmin did the same thing that he was doing in addition to pushing away M. Remy and begging M. de La Borderie, the ambassador, and the manager of the Credit Central "not to touch M. le Directeur." Moncharmin, who had his own ideas, did not want Richard to come to him presently, when the twenty-thousand francs were gone, and say: "Perhaps it was the ambassador ... or the manager of the Credit Central ... or Remy." The more so as, at the time of the first scene, as Richard himself admitted, Richard had met nobody in that part of the theater after Mme. Giry had brushed up against him... Having begun by walking backward in order to bow, Richard continued to do so from prudence, until he reached the passage leading to the offices of the management. In this way, he was constantly watched by Moncharmin from behind and himself kept an eye on any one approaching from the front. Once more, this novel method of walking behind the scenes, adopted by the managers of our National Academy of Music, attracted attention; but the managers themselves thought of nothing but their twenty-thousand francs. On reaching the half-dark passage, Richard said to Moncharmin, in a low voice: "I am sure that nobody has touched me ... You had now better keep at some distance from me and watch me till I come to door of the office: it is better not to arouse suspicion and we can see anything that happens." But Moncharmin replied. "No, Richard, no! You walk ahead and I'll walk immediately behind you! I won't leave you by a step!" "But, in that case," exclaimed Richard, "they will never steal our twenty-thousand francs!" "I should hope not, indeed!" declared Moncharmin. "Then what we are doing is absurd!" "We are doing exactly what we did last time ... Last time, I joined you as you were leaving the stage and followed close behind you down this passage." "That's true!" sighed Richard, shaking his head and passively obeying Moncharmin. Two minutes later, the joint managers locked themselves into their office. Moncharmin himself put the key in his pocket: "We remained locked up like this, last time," he said, "until you left the Opera to go home." "That's so. No one came and disturbed us, I suppose?" "No one." "Then," said Richard, who was trying to collect his memory, "then I must certainly have been robbed on my way home from the Opera." "No," said Moncharmin in a drier tone than ever, "no, that's impossible. For I dropped you in my cab. The twenty-thousand francs disappeared at your place: there's not a shadow of a doubt about that." "It's incredible!" protested Richard. "I am sure of my servants ... and if one of them had done it, he would have disappeared since." Moncharmin shrugged his shoulders, as though to say that he did not wish to enter into details, and Richard began to think that Moncharmin was treating him in a very insupportable fashion. "Moncharmin, I've had enough of this!" "Richard, I've had too much of it!" "Do you dare to suspect me?" "Yes, of a silly joke." "One doesn't joke with twenty-thousand francs." "That's what I think," declared Moncharmin, unfolding a newspaper and ostentatiously studying its contents. "What are you doing?" asked Richard. "Are you going to read the paper next?" "Yes, Richard, until I take you home." "Like last time?" "Yes, like last time." Richard snatched the paper from Moncharmin's hands. Moncharmin stood up, more irritated than ever, and found himself faced by an exasperated Richard, who, crossing his arms on his chest, said: "Look here, I'm thinking of this, I'M THINKING OF WHAT I MIGHT THINK if, like last time, after my spending the evening alone with you, you brought me home and if, at the moment of parting, I perceived that twenty-thousand francs had disappeared from my coat-pocket ... like last time." "And what might you think?" asked Moncharmin, crimson with rage. "I might think that, as you hadn't left me by a foot's breadth and as, by your own wish, you were the only one to approach me, like last time, I might think that, if that twenty-thousand francs was no longer in my pocket, it stood a very good chance of being in yours!" Moncharmin leaped up at the suggestion. "Oh!" he shouted. "A safety-pin!" "What do you want a safety-pin for?" "To fasten you up with! ... A safety-pin! ... A safety-pin!" "You want to fasten me with a safety-pin?" "Yes, to fasten you to the twenty-thousand francs! Then, whether it's here, or on the drive from here to your place, or at your place, you will feel the hand that pulls at your pocket and you will see if it's mine! Oh, so you're suspecting me now, are you? A safety-pin!" And that was the moment when Moncharmin opened the door on the passage and shouted: "A safety-pin! ... somebody give me a safety-pin!" And we also know how, at the same moment, Remy, who had no safety-pin, was received by Moncharmin, while a boy procured the pin so eagerly longed for. And what happened was this: Moncharmin first locked the door again. Then he knelt down behind Richard's back. "I hope," he said, "that the notes are still there?" "So do I," said Richard. "The real ones?" asked Moncharmin, resolved not to be "had" this time. "Look for yourself," said Richard. "I refuse to touch them." Moncharmin took the envelope from Richard's pocket and drew out the bank-notes with a trembling hand, for, this time, in order frequently to make sure of the presence of the notes, he had not sealed the envelope nor even fastened it. He felt reassured on finding that they were all there and quite genuine. He put them back in the tail-pocket and pinned them with great care. Then he sat down behind Richard's coat-tails and kept his eyes fixed on them, while Richard, sitting at his writing-table, did not stir. "A little patience, Richard," said Moncharmin. "We have only a few minutes to wait ... The clock will soon strike twelve. Last time, we left at the last stroke of twelve." "Oh, I shall have all the patience necessary!" The time passed, slow, heavy, mysterious, stifling. Richard tried to laugh. "I shall end by believing in the omnipotence of the ghost," he said. "Just now, don't you find something uncomfortable, disquieting, alarming in the atmosphere of this room?" "You're quite right," said Moncharmin, who was really impressed. "The ghost!" continued Richard, in a low voice, as though fearing lest he should be overheard by invisible ears. "The ghost! Suppose, all the same, it were a ghost who puts the magic envelopes on the table ... who talks in Box Five ... who killed Joseph Buquet ... who unhooked the chandelier ... and who robs us! For, after all, after all, after all, there is no one here except you and me, and, if the notes disappear and neither you nor I have anything to do with it, well, we shall have to believe in the ghost ... in the ghost." At that moment, the clock on the mantlepiece gave its warning click and the first stroke of twelve struck. The two managers shuddered. The perspiration streamed from their foreheads. The twelfth stroke sounded strangely in their ears. When the clock stopped, they gave a sigh and rose from their chairs. "I think we can go now," said Moncharmin. "I think so," Richard a agreed. "Before we go, do you mind if I look in your pocket?" "But, of course, Moncharmin, YOU MUST! ... Well?" he asked, as Moncharmin was feeling at the pocket. "Well, I can feel the pin." "Of course, as you said, we can't be robbed without noticing it." But Moncharmin, whose hands were still fumbling, bellowed: "I can feel the pin, but I can't feel the notes!" "Come, no joking, Moncharmin! ... This isn't the time for it." "Well, feel for yourself." Richard tore off his coat. The two managers turned the pocket inside out. THE POCKET WAS EMPTY. And the curious thing was that the pin remained, stuck in the same place. Richard and Moncharmin turned pale. There was no longer any doubt about the witchcraft. "The ghost!" muttered Moncharmin. But Richard suddenly sprang upon his partner. "No one but you has touched my pocket! Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ... Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ..." "On my soul," sighed Moncharmin, who was ready to swoon, "on my soul, I swear that I haven't got it!" Then somebody knocked at the door. Moncharmin opened it automatically, seemed hardly to recognize Mercier, his business-manager, exchanged a few words with him, without knowing what he was saying and, with an unconscious movement, put the safety-pin, for which he had no further use, into the hands of his bewildered subordinate ... Chapter XVIII The Commissary, The Viscount and the Persian The first words of the commissary of police, on entering the managers' office, were to ask after the missing prima donna. "Is Christine Daae here?" "Christine Daae here?" echoed Richard. "No. Why?" As for Moncharmin, he had not the strength left to utter a word. Richard repeated, for the commissary and the compact crowd which had followed him into the office observed an impressive silence. "Why do you ask if Christine Daae is here, M. LE COMMISSAIRE?" "Because she has to be found," declared the commissary of police solemnly. "What do you mean, she has to be found? Has she disappeared?" "In the middle of the performance!" "In the middle of the performance? This is extraordinary!" "Isn't it? And what is quite as extraordinary is that you should first learn it from me!" "Yes," said Richard, taking his head in his hands and muttering. "What is this new business? Oh, it's enough to make a man send in his resignation!" And he pulled a few hairs out of his mustache without even knowing what he was doing. "So she ... so she disappeared in the middle of the performance?" he repeated. "Yes, she was carried off in the Prison Act, at the moment when she was invoking the aid of the angels; but I doubt if she was carried off by an angel." "And I am sure that she was!" Everybody looked round. A young man, pale and trembling with excitement, repeated: "I am sure of it!" "Sure of what?" asked Mifroid. "That Christine Daae was carried off by an angel, M. LE COMMISSAIRE and I can tell you his name." "Aha, M. le Vicomte de Chagny! So you maintain that Christine Daae was carried off by an angel: an angel of the Opera, no doubt?" "Yes, monsieur, by an angel of the Opera; and I will tell you where he lives ... when we are alone." "You are right, monsieur." And the commissary of police, inviting Raoul to take a chair, cleared the room of all the rest, excepting the managers. Then Raoul spoke: "M. le Commissaire, the angel is called Erik, he lives in the Opera and he is the Angel of Music!" "The Angel of Music! Really! That is very curious! ... The Angel of Music!" And, turning to the managers, M. Mifroid asked, "Have you an Angel of Music on the premises, gentlemen?" Richard and Moncharmin shook their heads, without even speaking. "Oh," said the viscount, "those gentlemen have heard of the Opera ghost. Well, I am in a position to state that the Opera ghost and the Angel of Music are one and the same person; and his real name is Erik." M. Mifroid rose and looked at Raoul attentively. "I beg your pardon, monsieur but is it your intention to make fun of the law? And, if not, what is all this about the Opera ghost?" "I say that these gentlemen have heard of him." "Gentlemen, it appears that you know the Opera ghost?" Richard rose, with the remaining hairs of his mustache in his hand. "No, M. Commissary, no, we do not know him, but we wish that we did, for this very evening he has robbed us of twenty-thousand francs!" And Richard turned a terrible look on Moncharmin, which seemed to say: "Give me back the twenty-thousand francs, or I'll tell the whole story." Moncharmin understood what he meant, for, with a distracted gesture, he said: "Oh, tell everything and have done with it!" As for Mifroid, he looked at the managers and at Raoul by turns and wondered whether he had strayed into a lunatic asylum. He passed his hand through his hair. "A ghost," he said, "who, on the same evening, carries off an opera-singer and steals twenty-thousand francs is a ghost who must have his hands very full! If you don't mind, we will take the questions in order. The singer first, the twenty-thousand francs after. Come, M. de Chagny, let us try to talk seriously. You believe that Mlle. Christine Daae has been carried off by an individual called Erik. Do you know this person? Have you seen him?" "Yes." "Where?" "In a church yard." M. Mifroid gave a start, began to scrutinize Raoul again and said: "Of course! ... That's where ghosts usually hang out! ... And what were you doing in that churchyard?" "Monsieur," said Raoul, "I can quite understand how absurd my replies must seem to you. But I beg you to believe that I am in full possession of my faculties. The safety of the person dearest to me in the world is at stake. I should like to convince you in a few words, for time is pressing and every minute is valuable. Unfortunately, if I do not tell you the strangest story that ever was from the beginning, you will not believe me. I will tell you all I know about the Opera ghost, M. Commissary. Alas, I do not know much! ..." "Never mind, go on, go on!" exclaimed Richard and Moncharmin, suddenly greatly interested. Unfortunately for their hopes of learning some detail that could put them on the track of their hoaxer, they were soon compelled to accept the fact that M. Raoul de Chagny had completely lost his head. All that story about Perros-Guirec, death's heads and enchanted violins, could only have taken birth in the disordered brain of a youth mad with love. It was evident, also, that

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"Well, it's like this ... only the ghost doesn't like me to talk about his business." "Indeed?" sneered Richard. "But this is a matter that concerns myself alone ... Well, it was in Box Five one evening, I found a letter addressed to myself, a sort of note written in red ink. I needn't read the letter to you sir; I know it by heart, and I shall never forget it if I live to be a hundred!" And Mme. Giry, drawing herself up, recited the letter with touching eloquence: MADAM: 1825. Mlle. Menetrier, leader of the ballet, became Marquise de Cussy. 1832. Mlle. Marie Taglioni, a dancer, became Comtesse Gilbert des Voisins. 1846. La Sota, a dancer, married a brother of the King of Spain. 1847. Lola Montes, a dancer, became the morganatic wife of King Louis of Bavaria and was created Countess of Landsfeld. 1848. Mlle. Maria, a dancer, became Baronne d'Herneville. 1870. Theresa Hessier, a dancer, married Dom Fernando, brother to the King of Portugal. Richard and Moncharmin listened to the old woman, who, as she proceeded with the enumeration of these glorious nuptials, swelled out, took courage and, at last, in a voice bursting with pride, flung out the last sentence of the prophetic letter: 1885. Meg Giry, Empress! Exhausted by this supreme effort, the box-keeper fell into a chair, saying: "Gentlemen, the letter was signed, 'Opera Ghost.' I had heard much of the ghost, but only half believed in him. From the day when he declared that my little Meg, the flesh of my flesh, the fruit of my womb, would be empress, I believed in him altogether." And really it was not necessary to make a long study of Mme. Giry's excited features to understand what could be got out of that fine intellect with the two words "ghost" and "empress." But who pulled the strings of that extraordinary puppet? That was the question. "You have never seen him; he speaks to you and you believe all he says?" asked Moncharmin. "Yes. To begin with, I owe it to him that my little Meg was promoted to be the leader of a row. I said to the ghost, 'If she is to be empress in 1885, there is no time to lose; she must become a leader at once.' He said, 'Look upon it as done.' And he had only a word to say to M. Poligny and the thing was done." "So you see that M. Poligny saw him!" "No, not any more than I did; but he heard him. The ghost said a word in his ear, you know, on the evening when he left Box Five, looking so dreadfully pale." Moncharmin heaved a sigh. "What a business!" he groaned. "Ah!" said Mme. Giry. "I always thought there were secrets between the ghost and M. Poligny. Anything that the ghost asked M. Poligny to do M. Poligny did. M. Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "You hear, Richard: Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "Yes, yes, I hear!" said Richard. "M. Poligny is a friend of the ghost; and, as Mme. Giry is a friend of M. Poligny, there we are! ... But I don't care a hang about M. Poligny," he added roughly. "The only person whose fate really interests me is Mme. Giry... Mme. Giry, do you know what is in this envelope?" "Why, of course not," she said. "Well, look." Mine. Giry looked into the envelope with a lackluster eye, which soon recovered its brilliancy. "Thousand-franc notes!" she cried. "Yes, Mme. Giry, thousand-franc notes! And you knew it!" "I, sir? I? ... I swear ..." "Don't swear, Mme. Giry! ... And now I will tell you the second reason why I sent for you. Mme. Giry, I am going to have you arrested." The two black feathers on the dingy bonnet, which usually affected the attitude of two notes of interrogation, changed into two notes of exclamation; as for the bonnet itself, it swayed in menace on the old lady's tempestuous chignon. Surprise, indignation, protest and dismay were furthermore displayed by little Meg's mother in a sort of extravagant movement of offended virtue, half bound, half slide, that brought her right under the nose of M. Richard, who could not help pushing back his chair. "HAVE ME ARRESTED!" The mouth that spoke those words seemed to spit the three teeth that were left to it into Richard's face. M. Richard behaved like a hero. He retreated no farther. His threatening forefinger seemed already to be pointing out the keeper of Box Five to the absent magistrates. "I am going to have you arrested, Mme. Giry, as a thief!" "Say that again!" And Mme. Giry caught Mr. Manager Richard a mighty box on the ear, before Mr. Manager Moncharmin had time to intervene. But it was not the withered hand of the angry old beldame that fell on the managerial ear, but the envelope itself, the cause of all the trouble, the magic envelope that opened with the blow, scattering the bank-notes, which escaped in a fantastic whirl of giant butterflies. The two managers gave a shout, and the same thought made them both go on their knees, feverishly, picking up and hurriedly examining the precious scraps of paper. "Are they still genuine, Moncharmin?" "Are they still genuine, Richard?" "Yes, they are still genuine!" Above their heads, Mme. Giry's three teeth were clashing in a noisy contest, full of hideous interjections. But all that could be clearly distinguished was this LEIT-MOTIF: "I, a thief! ... I, a thief, I?" She choked with rage. She shouted: "I never heard of such a thing!" And, suddenly, she darted up to Richard again. "In any case," she yelped, "you, M. Richard, ought to know better than I where the twenty thousand francs went to!" "I?" asked Richard, astounded. "And how should I know?" Moncharmin, looking severe and dissatisfied, at once insisted that the good lady should explain herself. "What does this mean, Mme. Giry?" he asked. "And why do you say that M. Richard ought to know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to?" As for Richard, who felt himself turning red under Moncharmin's eyes, he took Mme. Giry by the wrist and shook it violently. In a voice growling and rolling like thunder, he roared: "Why should I know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to? Why? Answer me!" "Because they went into your pocket!" gasped the old woman, looking at him as if he were the devil incarnate. Richard would have rushed upon Mme. Giry, if Moncharmin had not stayed his avenging hand and hastened to ask her, more gently: "How can you suspect my partner, M. Richard, of putting twenty-thousand francs in his pocket?" "I never said that," declared Mme. Giry, "seeing that it was myself who put the twenty-thousand francs into M. Richard's pocket." And she added, under her voice, "There! It's out! ... And may the ghost forgive me!" Richard began bellowing anew, but Moncharmin authoritatively ordered him to be silent. "Allow me! Allow me! Let the woman explain herself. Let me question her." And he added: "It is really astonishing that you should take up such a tone! ... We are on the verge of clearing up the whole mystery. And you're in a rage! ... You're wrong to behave like that... I'm enjoying myself immensely." Mme. Giry, like the martyr that she was, raised her head, her face beaming with faith in her own innocence. "You tell me there were twenty-thousand francs in the envelope which I put into M. Richard's pocket; but I tell you again that I knew nothing about it ... Nor M. Richard either, for that matter!" "Aha!" said Richard, suddenly assuming a swaggering air which Moncharmin did not like. "I knew nothing either! You put twenty-thousand francs in my pocket and I knew nothing either! I am very glad to hear it, Mme. Giry!" "Yes," the terrible dame agreed, "yes, it's true. We neither of us knew anything. But you, you must have ended by finding out!" Richard would certainly have swallowed Mme. Giry alive, if Moncharmin had not been there! But Moncharmin protected her. He resumed his questions: "What sort of envelope did you put in M. Richard's pocket? It was not the one which we gave you, the one which you took to Box Five before our eyes; and yet that was the one which contained the twenty-thousand francs." "I beg your pardon. The envelope which M. le Directeur gave me was the one which I slipped into M. le Directeur's pocket," explained Mme. Giry. "The one which I took to the ghost's box was another envelope, just like it, which the ghost gave me beforehand and which I hid up my sleeve." So saying, Mme. Giry took from her sleeve an envelope ready prepared and similarly addressed to that containing the twenty-thousand francs. The managers took it from her. They examined it and saw that it was fastened with seals stamped with their own managerial seal. They opened it. It contained twenty Bank of St. Farce notes like those which had so much astounded them the month before. "How simple!" said Richard. "How simple!" repeated Moncharmin. And he continued with his eyes fixed upon Mme. Giry, as though trying to hypnotize her. "So it was the ghost who gave you this envelope and told you to substitute it for the one which we gave you? And it was the ghost who told you to put the other into M. Richard's pocket?" "Yes, it was the ghost." "Then would you mind giving us a specimen of your little talents? Here is the envelope. Act as though we knew nothing." "As you please, gentlemen." Mme. Giry took the envelope with the twenty notes inside it and made for the door. She was on the point of going out when the two managers rushed at her: "Oh, no! Oh, no! We're not going to be 'done' a second time! Once bitten, twice shy!" "I beg your pardon, gentlemen," said the old woman, in self-excuse, "you told me to act as though you knew nothing ... Well, if you knew nothing, I should go away with your envelope!" "And then how would you slip it into my pocket?" argued Richard, whom Moncharmin fixed with his left eye, while keeping his right on Mme. Giry: a proceeding likely to strain his sight, but Moncharmin was prepared to go to any length to discover the truth. "I am to slip it into your pocket when you least expect it, sir. You know that I always take a little turn behind the scenes, in the course of the evening, and I often go with my daughter to the ballet-foyer, which I am entitled to do, as her mother; I bring her her shoes, when the ballet is about to begin ... in fact, I come and go as I please ... The subscribers come and go too... So do you, sir ... There are lots of people about ... I go behind you and slip the envelope into the tail-pocket of your dress-coat ... There's no witchcraft about that!" "No witchcraft!" growled Richard, rolling his eyes like Jupiter Tonans. "No witchcraft! Why, I've just caught you in a lie, you old witch!" Mme. Giry bristled, with her three teeth sticking out of her mouth. "And why, may I ask?" "Because I spent that evening watching Box Five and the sham envelope which you put there. I did not go to the ballet-foyer for a second." "No, sir, and I did not give you the envelope that evening, but at the next performance ... on the evening when the under-secretary of state for fine arts ..." At these words, M. Richard suddenly interrupted Mme. Giry: "Yes, that's true, I remember now! The under-secretary went behind the scenes. He asked for me. I went down to the ballet-foyer for a moment. I was on the foyer steps ... The under-secretary and his chief clerk were in the foyer itself. I suddenly turned around ... you had passed behind me, Mme. Giry ... You seemed to push against me ... Oh, I can see you still, I can see you still!" "Yes, that's it, sir, that's it. I had just finished my little business. That pocket of yours, sir, is very handy!" And Mme. Giry once more suited the action to the word, She passed behind M. Richard and, so nimbly that Moncharmin himself was impressed by it, slipped the envelope into the pocket of one of the tails of M. Richard's dress-coat. "Of course!" exclaimed Richard, looking a little pale. "It's very clever of O. G. The problem which he had to solve was this: how to do away with any dangerous intermediary between the man who gives the twenty-thousand francs and the man who receives it. And by far the best thing he could hit upon was to come and take the money from my pocket without my noticing it, as I myself did not know that it was there. It's wonderful!" "Oh, wonderful, no doubt!" Moncharmin agreed. "Only, you forget, Richard, that I provided ten-thousand francs of the twenty and that nobody put anything in my pocket!" [1] Flash notes drawn on the "Bank of St. Farce" in France correspond with those drawn on the "Bank of Engraving" in England.--Translator's Note. Chapter XVII The Safety-Pin Again Moncharmin's last phrase so dearly expressed the suspicion in which he now held his partner that it was bound to cause a stormy explanation, at the end of which it was agreed that Richard should yield to all Moncharmin's wishes, with the object of helping him to discover the miscreant who was victimizing them. This brings us to the interval after the Garden Act, with the strange conduct observed by M. Remy and those curious lapses from the dignity that might be expected of the managers. It was arranged between Richard and Moncharmin, first, that Richard should repeat the exact movements which he had made on the night of the disappearance of the first twenty-thousand francs; and, second, that Moncharmin should not for an instant lose sight of Richard's coat-tail pocket, into which Mme. Giry was to slip the twenty-thousand francs. M. Richard went and placed himself at the identical spot where he had stood when he bowed to the under-secretary for fine arts. M. Moncharmin took up his position a few steps behind him. Mme. Giry passed, rubbed up against M. Richard, got rid of her twenty-thousand francs in the manager's coat-tail pocket and disappeared ... Or rather she was conjured away. In accordance with the instructions received from Moncharmin a few minutes earlier, Mercier took the good lady to the acting-manager's office and turned the key on her, thus making it impossible for her to communicate with her ghost. Meanwhile, M. Richard was bending and bowing and scraping and walking backward, just as if he had that high and mighty minister, the under-secretary for fine arts, before him. Only, though these marks of politeness would have created no astonishment if the under-secretary of state had really been in front of M. Richard, they caused an easily comprehensible amazement to the spectators of this very natural but quite inexplicable scene when M. Richard had no body in front of him. M. Richard bowed ... to nobody; bent his back ... before nobody; and walked backward ... before nobody ... And, a few steps behind him, M. Moncharmin did the same thing that he was doing in addition to pushing away M. Remy and begging M. de La Borderie, the ambassador, and the manager of the Credit Central "not to touch M. le Directeur." Moncharmin, who had his own ideas, did not want Richard to come to him presently, when the twenty-thousand francs were gone, and say: "Perhaps it was the ambassador ... or the manager of the Credit Central ... or Remy." The more so as, at the time of the first scene, as Richard himself admitted, Richard had met nobody in that part of the theater after Mme. Giry had brushed up against him... Having begun by walking backward in order to bow, Richard continued to do so from prudence, until he reached the passage leading to the offices of the management. In this way, he was constantly watched by Moncharmin from behind and himself kept an eye on any one approaching from the front. Once more, this novel method of walking behind the scenes, adopted by the managers of our National Academy of Music, attracted attention; but the managers themselves thought of nothing but their twenty-thousand francs. On reaching the half-dark passage, Richard said to Moncharmin, in a low voice: "I am sure that nobody has touched me ... You had now better keep at some distance from me and watch me till I come to door of the office: it is better not to arouse suspicion and we can see anything that happens." But Moncharmin replied. "No, Richard, no! You walk ahead and I'll walk immediately behind you! I won't leave you by a step!" "But, in that case," exclaimed Richard, "they will never steal our twenty-thousand francs!" "I should hope not, indeed!" declared Moncharmin. "Then what we are doing is absurd!" "We are doing exactly what we did last time ... Last time, I joined you as you were leaving the stage and followed close behind you down this passage." "That's true!" sighed Richard, shaking his head and passively obeying Moncharmin. Two minutes later, the joint managers locked themselves into their office. Moncharmin himself put the key in his pocket: "We remained locked up like this, last time," he said, "until you left the Opera to go home." "That's so. No one came and disturbed us, I suppose?" "No one." "Then," said Richard, who was trying to collect his memory, "then I must certainly have been robbed on my way home from the Opera." "No," said Moncharmin in a drier tone than ever, "no, that's impossible. For I dropped you in my cab. The twenty-thousand francs disappeared at your place: there's not a shadow of a doubt about that." "It's incredible!" protested Richard. "I am sure of my servants ... and if one of them had done it, he would have disappeared since." Moncharmin shrugged his shoulders, as though to say that he did not wish to enter into details, and Richard began to think that Moncharmin was treating him in a very insupportable fashion. "Moncharmin, I've had enough of this!" "Richard, I've had too much of it!" "Do you dare to suspect me?" "Yes, of a silly joke." "One doesn't joke with twenty-thousand francs." "That's what I think," declared Moncharmin, unfolding a newspaper and ostentatiously studying its contents. "What are you doing?" asked Richard. "Are you going to read the paper next?" "Yes, Richard, until I take you home." "Like last time?" "Yes, like last time." Richard snatched the paper from Moncharmin's hands. Moncharmin stood up, more irritated than ever, and found himself faced by an exasperated Richard, who, crossing his arms on his chest, said: "Look here, I'm thinking of this, I'M THINKING OF WHAT I MIGHT THINK if, like last time, after my spending the evening alone with you, you brought me home and if, at the moment of parting, I perceived that twenty-thousand francs had disappeared from my coat-pocket ... like last time." "And what might you think?" asked Moncharmin, crimson with rage. "I might think that, as you hadn't left me by a foot's breadth and as, by your own wish, you were the only one to approach me, like last time, I might think that, if that twenty-thousand francs was no longer in my pocket, it stood a very good chance of being in yours!" Moncharmin leaped up at the suggestion. "Oh!" he shouted. "A safety-pin!" "What do you want a safety-pin for?" "To fasten you up with! ... A safety-pin! ... A safety-pin!" "You want to fasten me with a safety-pin?" "Yes, to fasten you to the twenty-thousand francs! Then, whether it's here, or on the drive from here to your place, or at your place, you will feel the hand that pulls at your pocket and you will see if it's mine! Oh, so you're suspecting me now, are you? A safety-pin!" And that was the moment when Moncharmin opened the door on the passage and shouted: "A safety-pin! ... somebody give me a safety-pin!" And we also know how, at the same moment, Remy, who had no safety-pin, was received by Moncharmin, while a boy procured the pin so eagerly longed for. And what happened was this: Moncharmin first locked the door again. Then he knelt down behind Richard's back. "I hope," he said, "that the notes are still there?" "So do I," said Richard. "The real ones?" asked Moncharmin, resolved not to be "had" this time. "Look for yourself," said Richard. "I refuse to touch them." Moncharmin took the envelope from Richard's pocket and drew out the bank-notes with a trembling hand, for, this time, in order frequently to make sure of the presence of the notes, he had not sealed the envelope nor even fastened it. He felt reassured on finding that they were all there and quite genuine. He put them back in the tail-pocket and pinned them with great care. Then he sat down behind Richard's coat-tails and kept his eyes fixed on them, while Richard, sitting at his writing-table, did not stir. "A little patience, Richard," said Moncharmin. "We have only a few minutes to wait ... The clock will soon strike twelve. Last time, we left at the last stroke of twelve." "Oh, I shall have all the patience necessary!" The time passed, slow, heavy, mysterious, stifling. Richard tried to laugh. "I shall end by believing in the omnipotence of the ghost," he said. "Just now, don't you find something uncomfortable, disquieting, alarming in the atmosphere of this room?" "You're quite right," said Moncharmin, who was really impressed. "The ghost!" continued Richard, in a low voice, as though fearing lest he should be overheard by invisible ears. "The ghost! Suppose, all the same, it were a ghost who puts the magic envelopes on the table ... who talks in Box Five ... who killed Joseph Buquet ... who unhooked the chandelier ... and who robs us! For, after all, after all, after all, there is no one here except you and me, and, if the notes disappear and neither you nor I have anything to do with it, well, we shall have to believe in the ghost ... in the ghost." At that moment, the clock on the mantlepiece gave its warning click and the first stroke of twelve struck. The two managers shuddered. The perspiration streamed from their foreheads. The twelfth stroke sounded strangely in their ears. When the clock stopped, they gave a sigh and rose from their chairs. "I think we can go now," said Moncharmin. "I think so," Richard a agreed. "Before we go, do you mind if I look in your pocket?" "But, of course, Moncharmin, YOU MUST! ... Well?" he asked, as Moncharmin was feeling at the pocket. "Well, I can feel the pin." "Of course, as you said, we can't be robbed without noticing it." But Moncharmin, whose hands were still fumbling, bellowed: "I can feel the pin, but I can't feel the notes!" "Come, no joking, Moncharmin! ... This isn't the time for it." "Well, feel for yourself." Richard tore off his coat. The two managers turned the pocket inside out. THE POCKET WAS EMPTY. And the curious thing was that the pin remained, stuck in the same place. Richard and Moncharmin turned pale. There was no longer any doubt about the witchcraft. "The ghost!" muttered Moncharmin. But Richard suddenly sprang upon his partner. "No one but you has touched my pocket! Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ... Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ..." "On my soul," sighed Moncharmin, who was ready to swoon, "on my soul, I swear that I haven't got it!" Then somebody knocked at the door. Moncharmin opened it automatically, seemed hardly to recognize Mercier, his business-manager, exchanged a few words with him, without knowing what he was saying and, with an unconscious movement, put the safety-pin, for which he had no further use, into the hands of his bewildered subordinate ... Chapter XVIII The Commissary, The Viscount and the Persian The first words of the commissary of police, on entering the managers' office, were to ask after the missing prima donna. "Is Christine Daae here?" "Christine Daae here?" echoed Richard. "No. Why?" As for Moncharmin, he had not the strength left to utter a word. Richard repeated, for the commissary and the compact crowd which had followed him into the office observed an impressive silence. "Why do you ask if Christine Daae is here, M. LE COMMISSAIRE?" "Because she has to be found," declared the commissary of police solemnly. "What do you mean, she has to be found? Has she disappeared?" "In the middle of the performance!" "In the middle of the performance? This is extraordinary!" "Isn't it? And what is quite as extraordinary is that you should first learn it from me!" "Yes," said Richard, taking his head in his hands and muttering. "What is this new business? Oh, it's enough to make a man send in his resignation!" And he pulled a few hairs out of his mustache without even knowing what he was doing. "So she ... so she disappeared in the middle of the performance?" he repeated. "Yes, she was carried off in the Prison Act, at the moment when she was invoking the aid of the angels; but I doubt if she was carried off by an angel." "And I am sure that she was!" Everybody looked round. A young man, pale and trembling with excitement, repeated: "I am sure of it!" "Sure of what?" asked Mifroid. "That Christine Daae was carried off by an angel, M. LE COMMISSAIRE and I can tell you his name." "Aha, M. le Vicomte de Chagny! So you maintain that Christine Daae was carried off by an angel: an angel of the Opera, no doubt?" "Yes, monsieur, by an angel of the Opera; and I will tell you where he lives ... when we are alone." "You are right, monsieur." And the commissary of police, inviting Raoul to take a chair, cleared the room of all the rest, excepting the managers. Then Raoul spoke: "M. le Commissaire, the angel is called Erik, he lives in the Opera and he is the Angel of Music!" "The Angel of Music! Really! That is very curious! ... The Angel of Music!" And, turning to the managers, M. Mifroid asked, "Have you an Angel of Music on the premises, gentlemen?" Richard and Moncharmin shook their heads, without even speaking. "Oh," said the viscount, "those gentlemen have heard of the Opera ghost. Well, I am in a position to state that the Opera ghost and the Angel of Music are one and the same person; and his real name is Erik." M. Mifroid rose and looked at Raoul attentively. "I beg your pardon, monsieur but is it your intention to make fun of the law? And, if not, what is all this about the Opera ghost?" "I say that these gentlemen have heard of him." "Gentlemen, it appears that you know the Opera ghost?" Richard rose, with the remaining hairs of his mustache in his hand. "No, M. Commissary, no, we do not know him, but we wish that we did, for this very evening he has robbed us of twenty-thousand francs!" And Richard turned a terrible look on Moncharmin, which seemed to say: "Give me back the twenty-thousand francs, or I'll tell the whole story." Moncharmin understood what he meant, for, with a distracted gesture, he said: "Oh, tell everything and have done with it!" As for Mifroid, he looked at the managers and at Raoul by turns and wondered whether he had strayed into a lunatic asylum. He passed his hand through his hair. "A ghost," he said, "who, on the same evening, carries off an opera-singer and steals twenty-thousand francs is a ghost who must have his hands very full! If you don't mind, we will take the questions in order. The singer first, the twenty-thousand francs after. Come, M. de Chagny, let us try to talk seriously. You believe that Mlle. Christine Daae has been carried off by an individual called Erik. Do you know this person? Have you seen him?" "Yes." "Where?" "In a church yard." M. Mifroid gave a start, began to scrutinize Raoul again and said: "Of course! ... That's where ghosts usually hang out! ... And what were you doing in that churchyard?" "Monsieur," said Raoul, "I can quite understand how absurd my replies must seem to you. But I beg you to believe that I am in full possession of my faculties. The safety of the person dearest to me in the world is at stake. I should like to convince you in a few words, for time is pressing and every minute is valuable. Unfortunately, if I do not tell you the strangest story that ever was from the beginning, you will not believe me. I will tell you all I know about the Opera ghost, M. Commissary. Alas, I do not know much! ..." "Never mind, go on, go on!" exclaimed Richard and Moncharmin, suddenly greatly interested. Unfortunately for their hopes of learning some detail that could put them on the track of their hoaxer, they were soon compelled to accept the fact that M. Raoul de Chagny had completely lost his head. All that story about Perros-Guirec, death's heads and enchanted violins, could only have taken birth in the disordered brain of a youth mad with love. It was evident, also, that

keeper

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

"Well, it's like this ... only the ghost doesn't like me to talk about his business." "Indeed?" sneered Richard. "But this is a matter that concerns myself alone ... Well, it was in Box Five one evening, I found a letter addressed to myself, a sort of note written in red ink. I needn't read the letter to you sir; I know it by heart, and I shall never forget it if I live to be a hundred!" And Mme. Giry, drawing herself up, recited the letter with touching eloquence: MADAM: 1825. Mlle. Menetrier, leader of the ballet, became Marquise de Cussy. 1832. Mlle. Marie Taglioni, a dancer, became Comtesse Gilbert des Voisins. 1846. La Sota, a dancer, married a brother of the King of Spain. 1847. Lola Montes, a dancer, became the morganatic wife of King Louis of Bavaria and was created Countess of Landsfeld. 1848. Mlle. Maria, a dancer, became Baronne d'Herneville. 1870. Theresa Hessier, a dancer, married Dom Fernando, brother to the King of Portugal. Richard and Moncharmin listened to the old woman, who, as she proceeded with the enumeration of these glorious nuptials, swelled out, took courage and, at last, in a voice bursting with pride, flung out the last sentence of the prophetic letter: 1885. Meg Giry, Empress! Exhausted by this supreme effort, the box-keeper fell into a chair, saying: "Gentlemen, the letter was signed, 'Opera Ghost.' I had heard much of the ghost, but only half believed in him. From the day when he declared that my little Meg, the flesh of my flesh, the fruit of my womb, would be empress, I believed in him altogether." And really it was not necessary to make a long study of Mme. Giry's excited features to understand what could be got out of that fine intellect with the two words "ghost" and "empress." But who pulled the strings of that extraordinary puppet? That was the question. "You have never seen him; he speaks to you and you believe all he says?" asked Moncharmin. "Yes. To begin with, I owe it to him that my little Meg was promoted to be the leader of a row. I said to the ghost, 'If she is to be empress in 1885, there is no time to lose; she must become a leader at once.' He said, 'Look upon it as done.' And he had only a word to say to M. Poligny and the thing was done." "So you see that M. Poligny saw him!" "No, not any more than I did; but he heard him. The ghost said a word in his ear, you know, on the evening when he left Box Five, looking so dreadfully pale." Moncharmin heaved a sigh. "What a business!" he groaned. "Ah!" said Mme. Giry. "I always thought there were secrets between the ghost and M. Poligny. Anything that the ghost asked M. Poligny to do M. Poligny did. M. Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "You hear, Richard: Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "Yes, yes, I hear!" said Richard. "M. Poligny is a friend of the ghost; and, as Mme. Giry is a friend of M. Poligny, there we are! ... But I don't care a hang about M. Poligny," he added roughly. "The only person whose fate really interests me is Mme. Giry... Mme. Giry, do you know what is in this envelope?" "Why, of course not," she said. "Well, look." Mine. Giry looked into the envelope with a lackluster eye, which soon recovered its brilliancy. "Thousand-franc notes!" she cried. "Yes, Mme. Giry, thousand-franc notes! And you knew it!" "I, sir? I? ... I swear ..." "Don't swear, Mme. Giry! ... And now I will tell you the second reason why I sent for you. Mme. Giry, I am going to have you arrested." The two black feathers on the dingy bonnet, which usually affected the attitude of two notes of interrogation, changed into two notes of exclamation; as for the bonnet itself, it swayed in menace on the old lady's tempestuous chignon. Surprise, indignation, protest and dismay were furthermore displayed by little Meg's mother in a sort of extravagant movement of offended virtue, half bound, half slide, that brought her right under the nose of M. Richard, who could not help pushing back his chair. "HAVE ME ARRESTED!" The mouth that spoke those words seemed to spit the three teeth that were left to it into Richard's face. M. Richard behaved like a hero. He retreated no farther. His threatening forefinger seemed already to be pointing out the keeper of Box Five to the absent magistrates. "I am going to have you arrested, Mme. Giry, as a thief!" "Say that again!" And Mme. Giry caught Mr. Manager Richard a mighty box on the ear, before Mr. Manager Moncharmin had time to intervene. But it was not the withered hand of the angry old beldame that fell on the managerial ear, but the envelope itself, the cause of all the trouble, the magic envelope that opened with the blow, scattering the bank-notes, which escaped in a fantastic whirl of giant butterflies. The two managers gave a shout, and the same thought made them both go on their knees, feverishly, picking up and hurriedly examining the precious scraps of paper. "Are they still genuine, Moncharmin?" "Are they still genuine, Richard?" "Yes, they are still genuine!" Above their heads, Mme. Giry's three teeth were clashing in a noisy contest, full of hideous interjections. But all that could be clearly distinguished was this LEIT-MOTIF: "I, a thief! ... I, a thief, I?" She choked with rage. She shouted: "I never heard of such a thing!" And, suddenly, she darted up to Richard again. "In any case," she yelped, "you, M. Richard, ought to know better than I where the twenty thousand francs went to!" "I?" asked Richard, astounded. "And how should I know?" Moncharmin, looking severe and dissatisfied, at once insisted that the good lady should explain herself. "What does this mean, Mme. Giry?" he asked. "And why do you say that M. Richard ought to know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to?" As for Richard, who felt himself turning red under Moncharmin's eyes, he took Mme. Giry by the wrist and shook it violently. In a voice growling and rolling like thunder, he roared: "Why should I know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to? Why? Answer me!" "Because they went into your pocket!" gasped the old woman, looking at him as if he were the devil incarnate. Richard would have rushed upon Mme. Giry, if Moncharmin had not stayed his avenging hand and hastened to ask her, more gently: "How can you suspect my partner, M. Richard, of putting twenty-thousand francs in his pocket?" "I never said that," declared Mme. Giry, "seeing that it was myself who put the twenty-thousand francs into M. Richard's pocket." And she added, under her voice, "There! It's out! ... And may the ghost forgive me!" Richard began bellowing anew, but Moncharmin authoritatively ordered him to be silent. "Allow me! Allow me! Let the woman explain herself. Let me question her." And he added: "It is really astonishing that you should take up such a tone! ... We are on the verge of clearing up the whole mystery. And you're in a rage! ... You're wrong to behave like that... I'm enjoying myself immensely." Mme. Giry, like the martyr that she was, raised her head, her face beaming with faith in her own innocence. "You tell me there were twenty-thousand francs in the envelope which I put into M. Richard's pocket; but I tell you again that I knew nothing about it ... Nor M. Richard either, for that matter!" "Aha!" said Richard, suddenly assuming a swaggering air which Moncharmin did not like. "I knew nothing either! You put twenty-thousand francs in my pocket and I knew nothing either! I am very glad to hear it, Mme. Giry!" "Yes," the terrible dame agreed, "yes, it's true. We neither of us knew anything. But you, you must have ended by finding out!" Richard would certainly have swallowed Mme. Giry alive, if Moncharmin had not been there! But Moncharmin protected her. He resumed his questions: "What sort of envelope did you put in M. Richard's pocket? It was not the one which we gave you, the one which you took to Box Five before our eyes; and yet that was the one which contained the twenty-thousand francs." "I beg your pardon. The envelope which M. le Directeur gave me was the one which I slipped into M. le Directeur's pocket," explained Mme. Giry. "The one which I took to the ghost's box was another envelope, just like it, which the ghost gave me beforehand and which I hid up my sleeve." So saying, Mme. Giry took from her sleeve an envelope ready prepared and similarly addressed to that containing the twenty-thousand francs. The managers took it from her. They examined it and saw that it was fastened with seals stamped with their own managerial seal. They opened it. It contained twenty Bank of St. Farce notes like those which had so much astounded them the month before. "How simple!" said Richard. "How simple!" repeated Moncharmin. And he continued with his eyes fixed upon Mme. Giry, as though trying to hypnotize her. "So it was the ghost who gave you this envelope and told you to substitute it for the one which we gave you? And it was the ghost who told you to put the other into M. Richard's pocket?" "Yes, it was the ghost." "Then would you mind giving us a specimen of your little talents? Here is the envelope. Act as though we knew nothing." "As you please, gentlemen." Mme. Giry took the envelope with the twenty notes inside it and made for the door. She was on the point of going out when the two managers rushed at her: "Oh, no! Oh, no! We're not going to be 'done' a second time! Once bitten, twice shy!" "I beg your pardon, gentlemen," said the old woman, in self-excuse, "you told me to act as though you knew nothing ... Well, if you knew nothing, I should go away with your envelope!" "And then how would you slip it into my pocket?" argued Richard, whom Moncharmin fixed with his left eye, while keeping his right on Mme. Giry: a proceeding likely to strain his sight, but Moncharmin was prepared to go to any length to discover the truth. "I am to slip it into your pocket when you least expect it, sir. You know that I always take a little turn behind the scenes, in the course of the evening, and I often go with my daughter to the ballet-foyer, which I am entitled to do, as her mother; I bring her her shoes, when the ballet is about to begin ... in fact, I come and go as I please ... The subscribers come and go too... So do you, sir ... There are lots of people about ... I go behind you and slip the envelope into the tail-pocket of your dress-coat ... There's no witchcraft about that!" "No witchcraft!" growled Richard, rolling his eyes like Jupiter Tonans. "No witchcraft! Why, I've just caught you in a lie, you old witch!" Mme. Giry bristled, with her three teeth sticking out of her mouth. "And why, may I ask?" "Because I spent that evening watching Box Five and the sham envelope which you put there. I did not go to the ballet-foyer for a second." "No, sir, and I did not give you the envelope that evening, but at the next performance ... on the evening when the under-secretary of state for fine arts ..." At these words, M. Richard suddenly interrupted Mme. Giry: "Yes, that's true, I remember now! The under-secretary went behind the scenes. He asked for me. I went down to the ballet-foyer for a moment. I was on the foyer steps ... The under-secretary and his chief clerk were in the foyer itself. I suddenly turned around ... you had passed behind me, Mme. Giry ... You seemed to push against me ... Oh, I can see you still, I can see you still!" "Yes, that's it, sir, that's it. I had just finished my little business. That pocket of yours, sir, is very handy!" And Mme. Giry once more suited the action to the word, She passed behind M. Richard and, so nimbly that Moncharmin himself was impressed by it, slipped the envelope into the pocket of one of the tails of M. Richard's dress-coat. "Of course!" exclaimed Richard, looking a little pale. "It's very clever of O. G. The problem which he had to solve was this: how to do away with any dangerous intermediary between the man who gives the twenty-thousand francs and the man who receives it. And by far the best thing he could hit upon was to come and take the money from my pocket without my noticing it, as I myself did not know that it was there. It's wonderful!" "Oh, wonderful, no doubt!" Moncharmin agreed. "Only, you forget, Richard, that I provided ten-thousand francs of the twenty and that nobody put anything in my pocket!" [1] Flash notes drawn on the "Bank of St. Farce" in France correspond with those drawn on the "Bank of Engraving" in England.--Translator's Note. Chapter XVII The Safety-Pin Again Moncharmin's last phrase so dearly expressed the suspicion in which he now held his partner that it was bound to cause a stormy explanation, at the end of which it was agreed that Richard should yield to all Moncharmin's wishes, with the object of helping him to discover the miscreant who was victimizing them. This brings us to the interval after the Garden Act, with the strange conduct observed by M. Remy and those curious lapses from the dignity that might be expected of the managers. It was arranged between Richard and Moncharmin, first, that Richard should repeat the exact movements which he had made on the night of the disappearance of the first twenty-thousand francs; and, second, that Moncharmin should not for an instant lose sight of Richard's coat-tail pocket, into which Mme. Giry was to slip the twenty-thousand francs. M. Richard went and placed himself at the identical spot where he had stood when he bowed to the under-secretary for fine arts. M. Moncharmin took up his position a few steps behind him. Mme. Giry passed, rubbed up against M. Richard, got rid of her twenty-thousand francs in the manager's coat-tail pocket and disappeared ... Or rather she was conjured away. In accordance with the instructions received from Moncharmin a few minutes earlier, Mercier took the good lady to the acting-manager's office and turned the key on her, thus making it impossible for her to communicate with her ghost. Meanwhile, M. Richard was bending and bowing and scraping and walking backward, just as if he had that high and mighty minister, the under-secretary for fine arts, before him. Only, though these marks of politeness would have created no astonishment if the under-secretary of state had really been in front of M. Richard, they caused an easily comprehensible amazement to the spectators of this very natural but quite inexplicable scene when M. Richard had no body in front of him. M. Richard bowed ... to nobody; bent his back ... before nobody; and walked backward ... before nobody ... And, a few steps behind him, M. Moncharmin did the same thing that he was doing in addition to pushing away M. Remy and begging M. de La Borderie, the ambassador, and the manager of the Credit Central "not to touch M. le Directeur." Moncharmin, who had his own ideas, did not want Richard to come to him presently, when the twenty-thousand francs were gone, and say: "Perhaps it was the ambassador ... or the manager of the Credit Central ... or Remy." The more so as, at the time of the first scene, as Richard himself admitted, Richard had met nobody in that part of the theater after Mme. Giry had brushed up against him... Having begun by walking backward in order to bow, Richard continued to do so from prudence, until he reached the passage leading to the offices of the management. In this way, he was constantly watched by Moncharmin from behind and himself kept an eye on any one approaching from the front. Once more, this novel method of walking behind the scenes, adopted by the managers of our National Academy of Music, attracted attention; but the managers themselves thought of nothing but their twenty-thousand francs. On reaching the half-dark passage, Richard said to Moncharmin, in a low voice: "I am sure that nobody has touched me ... You had now better keep at some distance from me and watch me till I come to door of the office: it is better not to arouse suspicion and we can see anything that happens." But Moncharmin replied. "No, Richard, no! You walk ahead and I'll walk immediately behind you! I won't leave you by a step!" "But, in that case," exclaimed Richard, "they will never steal our twenty-thousand francs!" "I should hope not, indeed!" declared Moncharmin. "Then what we are doing is absurd!" "We are doing exactly what we did last time ... Last time, I joined you as you were leaving the stage and followed close behind you down this passage." "That's true!" sighed Richard, shaking his head and passively obeying Moncharmin. Two minutes later, the joint managers locked themselves into their office. Moncharmin himself put the key in his pocket: "We remained locked up like this, last time," he said, "until you left the Opera to go home." "That's so. No one came and disturbed us, I suppose?" "No one." "Then," said Richard, who was trying to collect his memory, "then I must certainly have been robbed on my way home from the Opera." "No," said Moncharmin in a drier tone than ever, "no, that's impossible. For I dropped you in my cab. The twenty-thousand francs disappeared at your place: there's not a shadow of a doubt about that." "It's incredible!" protested Richard. "I am sure of my servants ... and if one of them had done it, he would have disappeared since." Moncharmin shrugged his shoulders, as though to say that he did not wish to enter into details, and Richard began to think that Moncharmin was treating him in a very insupportable fashion. "Moncharmin, I've had enough of this!" "Richard, I've had too much of it!" "Do you dare to suspect me?" "Yes, of a silly joke." "One doesn't joke with twenty-thousand francs." "That's what I think," declared Moncharmin, unfolding a newspaper and ostentatiously studying its contents. "What are you doing?" asked Richard. "Are you going to read the paper next?" "Yes, Richard, until I take you home." "Like last time?" "Yes, like last time." Richard snatched the paper from Moncharmin's hands. Moncharmin stood up, more irritated than ever, and found himself faced by an exasperated Richard, who, crossing his arms on his chest, said: "Look here, I'm thinking of this, I'M THINKING OF WHAT I MIGHT THINK if, like last time, after my spending the evening alone with you, you brought me home and if, at the moment of parting, I perceived that twenty-thousand francs had disappeared from my coat-pocket ... like last time." "And what might you think?" asked Moncharmin, crimson with rage. "I might think that, as you hadn't left me by a foot's breadth and as, by your own wish, you were the only one to approach me, like last time, I might think that, if that twenty-thousand francs was no longer in my pocket, it stood a very good chance of being in yours!" Moncharmin leaped up at the suggestion. "Oh!" he shouted. "A safety-pin!" "What do you want a safety-pin for?" "To fasten you up with! ... A safety-pin! ... A safety-pin!" "You want to fasten me with a safety-pin?" "Yes, to fasten you to the twenty-thousand francs! Then, whether it's here, or on the drive from here to your place, or at your place, you will feel the hand that pulls at your pocket and you will see if it's mine! Oh, so you're suspecting me now, are you? A safety-pin!" And that was the moment when Moncharmin opened the door on the passage and shouted: "A safety-pin! ... somebody give me a safety-pin!" And we also know how, at the same moment, Remy, who had no safety-pin, was received by Moncharmin, while a boy procured the pin so eagerly longed for. And what happened was this: Moncharmin first locked the door again. Then he knelt down behind Richard's back. "I hope," he said, "that the notes are still there?" "So do I," said Richard. "The real ones?" asked Moncharmin, resolved not to be "had" this time. "Look for yourself," said Richard. "I refuse to touch them." Moncharmin took the envelope from Richard's pocket and drew out the bank-notes with a trembling hand, for, this time, in order frequently to make sure of the presence of the notes, he had not sealed the envelope nor even fastened it. He felt reassured on finding that they were all there and quite genuine. He put them back in the tail-pocket and pinned them with great care. Then he sat down behind Richard's coat-tails and kept his eyes fixed on them, while Richard, sitting at his writing-table, did not stir. "A little patience, Richard," said Moncharmin. "We have only a few minutes to wait ... The clock will soon strike twelve. Last time, we left at the last stroke of twelve." "Oh, I shall have all the patience necessary!" The time passed, slow, heavy, mysterious, stifling. Richard tried to laugh. "I shall end by believing in the omnipotence of the ghost," he said. "Just now, don't you find something uncomfortable, disquieting, alarming in the atmosphere of this room?" "You're quite right," said Moncharmin, who was really impressed. "The ghost!" continued Richard, in a low voice, as though fearing lest he should be overheard by invisible ears. "The ghost! Suppose, all the same, it were a ghost who puts the magic envelopes on the table ... who talks in Box Five ... who killed Joseph Buquet ... who unhooked the chandelier ... and who robs us! For, after all, after all, after all, there is no one here except you and me, and, if the notes disappear and neither you nor I have anything to do with it, well, we shall have to believe in the ghost ... in the ghost." At that moment, the clock on the mantlepiece gave its warning click and the first stroke of twelve struck. The two managers shuddered. The perspiration streamed from their foreheads. The twelfth stroke sounded strangely in their ears. When the clock stopped, they gave a sigh and rose from their chairs. "I think we can go now," said Moncharmin. "I think so," Richard a agreed. "Before we go, do you mind if I look in your pocket?" "But, of course, Moncharmin, YOU MUST! ... Well?" he asked, as Moncharmin was feeling at the pocket. "Well, I can feel the pin." "Of course, as you said, we can't be robbed without noticing it." But Moncharmin, whose hands were still fumbling, bellowed: "I can feel the pin, but I can't feel the notes!" "Come, no joking, Moncharmin! ... This isn't the time for it." "Well, feel for yourself." Richard tore off his coat. The two managers turned the pocket inside out. THE POCKET WAS EMPTY. And the curious thing was that the pin remained, stuck in the same place. Richard and Moncharmin turned pale. There was no longer any doubt about the witchcraft. "The ghost!" muttered Moncharmin. But Richard suddenly sprang upon his partner. "No one but you has touched my pocket! Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ... Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ..." "On my soul," sighed Moncharmin, who was ready to swoon, "on my soul, I swear that I haven't got it!" Then somebody knocked at the door. Moncharmin opened it automatically, seemed hardly to recognize Mercier, his business-manager, exchanged a few words with him, without knowing what he was saying and, with an unconscious movement, put the safety-pin, for which he had no further use, into the hands of his bewildered subordinate ... Chapter XVIII The Commissary, The Viscount and the Persian The first words of the commissary of police, on entering the managers' office, were to ask after the missing prima donna. "Is Christine Daae here?" "Christine Daae here?" echoed Richard. "No. Why?" As for Moncharmin, he had not the strength left to utter a word. Richard repeated, for the commissary and the compact crowd which had followed him into the office observed an impressive silence. "Why do you ask if Christine Daae is here, M. LE COMMISSAIRE?" "Because she has to be found," declared the commissary of police solemnly. "What do you mean, she has to be found? Has she disappeared?" "In the middle of the performance!" "In the middle of the performance? This is extraordinary!" "Isn't it? And what is quite as extraordinary is that you should first learn it from me!" "Yes," said Richard, taking his head in his hands and muttering. "What is this new business? Oh, it's enough to make a man send in his resignation!" And he pulled a few hairs out of his mustache without even knowing what he was doing. "So she ... so she disappeared in the middle of the performance?" he repeated. "Yes, she was carried off in the Prison Act, at the moment when she was invoking the aid of the angels; but I doubt if she was carried off by an angel." "And I am sure that she was!" Everybody looked round. A young man, pale and trembling with excitement, repeated: "I am sure of it!" "Sure of what?" asked Mifroid. "That Christine Daae was carried off by an angel, M. LE COMMISSAIRE and I can tell you his name." "Aha, M. le Vicomte de Chagny! So you maintain that Christine Daae was carried off by an angel: an angel of the Opera, no doubt?" "Yes, monsieur, by an angel of the Opera; and I will tell you where he lives ... when we are alone." "You are right, monsieur." And the commissary of police, inviting Raoul to take a chair, cleared the room of all the rest, excepting the managers. Then Raoul spoke: "M. le Commissaire, the angel is called Erik, he lives in the Opera and he is the Angel of Music!" "The Angel of Music! Really! That is very curious! ... The Angel of Music!" And, turning to the managers, M. Mifroid asked, "Have you an Angel of Music on the premises, gentlemen?" Richard and Moncharmin shook their heads, without even speaking. "Oh," said the viscount, "those gentlemen have heard of the Opera ghost. Well, I am in a position to state that the Opera ghost and the Angel of Music are one and the same person; and his real name is Erik." M. Mifroid rose and looked at Raoul attentively. "I beg your pardon, monsieur but is it your intention to make fun of the law? And, if not, what is all this about the Opera ghost?" "I say that these gentlemen have heard of him." "Gentlemen, it appears that you know the Opera ghost?" Richard rose, with the remaining hairs of his mustache in his hand. "No, M. Commissary, no, we do not know him, but we wish that we did, for this very evening he has robbed us of twenty-thousand francs!" And Richard turned a terrible look on Moncharmin, which seemed to say: "Give me back the twenty-thousand francs, or I'll tell the whole story." Moncharmin understood what he meant, for, with a distracted gesture, he said: "Oh, tell everything and have done with it!" As for Mifroid, he looked at the managers and at Raoul by turns and wondered whether he had strayed into a lunatic asylum. He passed his hand through his hair. "A ghost," he said, "who, on the same evening, carries off an opera-singer and steals twenty-thousand francs is a ghost who must have his hands very full! If you don't mind, we will take the questions in order. The singer first, the twenty-thousand francs after. Come, M. de Chagny, let us try to talk seriously. You believe that Mlle. Christine Daae has been carried off by an individual called Erik. Do you know this person? Have you seen him?" "Yes." "Where?" "In a church yard." M. Mifroid gave a start, began to scrutinize Raoul again and said: "Of course! ... That's where ghosts usually hang out! ... And what were you doing in that churchyard?" "Monsieur," said Raoul, "I can quite understand how absurd my replies must seem to you. But I beg you to believe that I am in full possession of my faculties. The safety of the person dearest to me in the world is at stake. I should like to convince you in a few words, for time is pressing and every minute is valuable. Unfortunately, if I do not tell you the strangest story that ever was from the beginning, you will not believe me. I will tell you all I know about the Opera ghost, M. Commissary. Alas, I do not know much! ..." "Never mind, go on, go on!" exclaimed Richard and Moncharmin, suddenly greatly interested. Unfortunately for their hopes of learning some detail that could put them on the track of their hoaxer, they were soon compelled to accept the fact that M. Raoul de Chagny had completely lost his head. All that story about Perros-Guirec, death's heads and enchanted violins, could only have taken birth in the disordered brain of a youth mad with love. It was evident, also, that

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"Well, it's like this ... only the ghost doesn't like me to talk about his business." "Indeed?" sneered Richard. "But this is a matter that concerns myself alone ... Well, it was in Box Five one evening, I found a letter addressed to myself, a sort of note written in red ink. I needn't read the letter to you sir; I know it by heart, and I shall never forget it if I live to be a hundred!" And Mme. Giry, drawing herself up, recited the letter with touching eloquence: MADAM: 1825. Mlle. Menetrier, leader of the ballet, became Marquise de Cussy. 1832. Mlle. Marie Taglioni, a dancer, became Comtesse Gilbert des Voisins. 1846. La Sota, a dancer, married a brother of the King of Spain. 1847. Lola Montes, a dancer, became the morganatic wife of King Louis of Bavaria and was created Countess of Landsfeld. 1848. Mlle. Maria, a dancer, became Baronne d'Herneville. 1870. Theresa Hessier, a dancer, married Dom Fernando, brother to the King of Portugal. Richard and Moncharmin listened to the old woman, who, as she proceeded with the enumeration of these glorious nuptials, swelled out, took courage and, at last, in a voice bursting with pride, flung out the last sentence of the prophetic letter: 1885. Meg Giry, Empress! Exhausted by this supreme effort, the box-keeper fell into a chair, saying: "Gentlemen, the letter was signed, 'Opera Ghost.' I had heard much of the ghost, but only half believed in him. From the day when he declared that my little Meg, the flesh of my flesh, the fruit of my womb, would be empress, I believed in him altogether." And really it was not necessary to make a long study of Mme. Giry's excited features to understand what could be got out of that fine intellect with the two words "ghost" and "empress." But who pulled the strings of that extraordinary puppet? That was the question. "You have never seen him; he speaks to you and you believe all he says?" asked Moncharmin. "Yes. To begin with, I owe it to him that my little Meg was promoted to be the leader of a row. I said to the ghost, 'If she is to be empress in 1885, there is no time to lose; she must become a leader at once.' He said, 'Look upon it as done.' And he had only a word to say to M. Poligny and the thing was done." "So you see that M. Poligny saw him!" "No, not any more than I did; but he heard him. The ghost said a word in his ear, you know, on the evening when he left Box Five, looking so dreadfully pale." Moncharmin heaved a sigh. "What a business!" he groaned. "Ah!" said Mme. Giry. "I always thought there were secrets between the ghost and M. Poligny. Anything that the ghost asked M. Poligny to do M. Poligny did. M. Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "You hear, Richard: Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "Yes, yes, I hear!" said Richard. "M. Poligny is a friend of the ghost; and, as Mme. Giry is a friend of M. Poligny, there we are! ... But I don't care a hang about M. Poligny," he added roughly. "The only person whose fate really interests me is Mme. Giry... Mme. Giry, do you know what is in this envelope?" "Why, of course not," she said. "Well, look." Mine. Giry looked into the envelope with a lackluster eye, which soon recovered its brilliancy. "Thousand-franc notes!" she cried. "Yes, Mme. Giry, thousand-franc notes! And you knew it!" "I, sir? I? ... I swear ..." "Don't swear, Mme. Giry! ... And now I will tell you the second reason why I sent for you. Mme. Giry, I am going to have you arrested." The two black feathers on the dingy bonnet, which usually affected the attitude of two notes of interrogation, changed into two notes of exclamation; as for the bonnet itself, it swayed in menace on the old lady's tempestuous chignon. Surprise, indignation, protest and dismay were furthermore displayed by little Meg's mother in a sort of extravagant movement of offended virtue, half bound, half slide, that brought her right under the nose of M. Richard, who could not help pushing back his chair. "HAVE ME ARRESTED!" The mouth that spoke those words seemed to spit the three teeth that were left to it into Richard's face. M. Richard behaved like a hero. He retreated no farther. His threatening forefinger seemed already to be pointing out the keeper of Box Five to the absent magistrates. "I am going to have you arrested, Mme. Giry, as a thief!" "Say that again!" And Mme. Giry caught Mr. Manager Richard a mighty box on the ear, before Mr. Manager Moncharmin had time to intervene. But it was not the withered hand of the angry old beldame that fell on the managerial ear, but the envelope itself, the cause of all the trouble, the magic envelope that opened with the blow, scattering the bank-notes, which escaped in a fantastic whirl of giant butterflies. The two managers gave a shout, and the same thought made them both go on their knees, feverishly, picking up and hurriedly examining the precious scraps of paper. "Are they still genuine, Moncharmin?" "Are they still genuine, Richard?" "Yes, they are still genuine!" Above their heads, Mme. Giry's three teeth were clashing in a noisy contest, full of hideous interjections. But all that could be clearly distinguished was this LEIT-MOTIF: "I, a thief! ... I, a thief, I?" She choked with rage. She shouted: "I never heard of such a thing!" And, suddenly, she darted up to Richard again. "In any case," she yelped, "you, M. Richard, ought to know better than I where the twenty thousand francs went to!" "I?" asked Richard, astounded. "And how should I know?" Moncharmin, looking severe and dissatisfied, at once insisted that the good lady should explain herself. "What does this mean, Mme. Giry?" he asked. "And why do you say that M. Richard ought to know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to?" As for Richard, who felt himself turning red under Moncharmin's eyes, he took Mme. Giry by the wrist and shook it violently. In a voice growling and rolling like thunder, he roared: "Why should I know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to? Why? Answer me!" "Because they went into your pocket!" gasped the old woman, looking at him as if he were the devil incarnate. Richard would have rushed upon Mme. Giry, if Moncharmin had not stayed his avenging hand and hastened to ask her, more gently: "How can you suspect my partner, M. Richard, of putting twenty-thousand francs in his pocket?" "I never said that," declared Mme. Giry, "seeing that it was myself who put the twenty-thousand francs into M. Richard's pocket." And she added, under her voice, "There! It's out! ... And may the ghost forgive me!" Richard began bellowing anew, but Moncharmin authoritatively ordered him to be silent. "Allow me! Allow me! Let the woman explain herself. Let me question her." And he added: "It is really astonishing that you should take up such a tone! ... We are on the verge of clearing up the whole mystery. And you're in a rage! ... You're wrong to behave like that... I'm enjoying myself immensely." Mme. Giry, like the martyr that she was, raised her head, her face beaming with faith in her own innocence. "You tell me there were twenty-thousand francs in the envelope which I put into M. Richard's pocket; but I tell you again that I knew nothing about it ... Nor M. Richard either, for that matter!" "Aha!" said Richard, suddenly assuming a swaggering air which Moncharmin did not like. "I knew nothing either! You put twenty-thousand francs in my pocket and I knew nothing either! I am very glad to hear it, Mme. Giry!" "Yes," the terrible dame agreed, "yes, it's true. We neither of us knew anything. But you, you must have ended by finding out!" Richard would certainly have swallowed Mme. Giry alive, if Moncharmin had not been there! But Moncharmin protected her. He resumed his questions: "What sort of envelope did you put in M. Richard's pocket? It was not the one which we gave you, the one which you took to Box Five before our eyes; and yet that was the one which contained the twenty-thousand francs." "I beg your pardon. The envelope which M. le Directeur gave me was the one which I slipped into M. le Directeur's pocket," explained Mme. Giry. "The one which I took to the ghost's box was another envelope, just like it, which the ghost gave me beforehand and which I hid up my sleeve." So saying, Mme. Giry took from her sleeve an envelope ready prepared and similarly addressed to that containing the twenty-thousand francs. The managers took it from her. They examined it and saw that it was fastened with seals stamped with their own managerial seal. They opened it. It contained twenty Bank of St. Farce notes like those which had so much astounded them the month before. "How simple!" said Richard. "How simple!" repeated Moncharmin. And he continued with his eyes fixed upon Mme. Giry, as though trying to hypnotize her. "So it was the ghost who gave you this envelope and told you to substitute it for the one which we gave you? And it was the ghost who told you to put the other into M. Richard's pocket?" "Yes, it was the ghost." "Then would you mind giving us a specimen of your little talents? Here is the envelope. Act as though we knew nothing." "As you please, gentlemen." Mme. Giry took the envelope with the twenty notes inside it and made for the door. She was on the point of going out when the two managers rushed at her: "Oh, no! Oh, no! We're not going to be 'done' a second time! Once bitten, twice shy!" "I beg your pardon, gentlemen," said the old woman, in self-excuse, "you told me to act as though you knew nothing ... Well, if you knew nothing, I should go away with your envelope!" "And then how would you slip it into my pocket?" argued Richard, whom Moncharmin fixed with his left eye, while keeping his right on Mme. Giry: a proceeding likely to strain his sight, but Moncharmin was prepared to go to any length to discover the truth. "I am to slip it into your pocket when you least expect it, sir. You know that I always take a little turn behind the scenes, in the course of the evening, and I often go with my daughter to the ballet-foyer, which I am entitled to do, as her mother; I bring her her shoes, when the ballet is about to begin ... in fact, I come and go as I please ... The subscribers come and go too... So do you, sir ... There are lots of people about ... I go behind you and slip the envelope into the tail-pocket of your dress-coat ... There's no witchcraft about that!" "No witchcraft!" growled Richard, rolling his eyes like Jupiter Tonans. "No witchcraft! Why, I've just caught you in a lie, you old witch!" Mme. Giry bristled, with her three teeth sticking out of her mouth. "And why, may I ask?" "Because I spent that evening watching Box Five and the sham envelope which you put there. I did not go to the ballet-foyer for a second." "No, sir, and I did not give you the envelope that evening, but at the next performance ... on the evening when the under-secretary of state for fine arts ..." At these words, M. Richard suddenly interrupted Mme. Giry: "Yes, that's true, I remember now! The under-secretary went behind the scenes. He asked for me. I went down to the ballet-foyer for a moment. I was on the foyer steps ... The under-secretary and his chief clerk were in the foyer itself. I suddenly turned around ... you had passed behind me, Mme. Giry ... You seemed to push against me ... Oh, I can see you still, I can see you still!" "Yes, that's it, sir, that's it. I had just finished my little business. That pocket of yours, sir, is very handy!" And Mme. Giry once more suited the action to the word, She passed behind M. Richard and, so nimbly that Moncharmin himself was impressed by it, slipped the envelope into the pocket of one of the tails of M. Richard's dress-coat. "Of course!" exclaimed Richard, looking a little pale. "It's very clever of O. G. The problem which he had to solve was this: how to do away with any dangerous intermediary between the man who gives the twenty-thousand francs and the man who receives it. And by far the best thing he could hit upon was to come and take the money from my pocket without my noticing it, as I myself did not know that it was there. It's wonderful!" "Oh, wonderful, no doubt!" Moncharmin agreed. "Only, you forget, Richard, that I provided ten-thousand francs of the twenty and that nobody put anything in my pocket!" [1] Flash notes drawn on the "Bank of St. Farce" in France correspond with those drawn on the "Bank of Engraving" in England.--Translator's Note. Chapter XVII The Safety-Pin Again Moncharmin's last phrase so dearly expressed the suspicion in which he now held his partner that it was bound to cause a stormy explanation, at the end of which it was agreed that Richard should yield to all Moncharmin's wishes, with the object of helping him to discover the miscreant who was victimizing them. This brings us to the interval after the Garden Act, with the strange conduct observed by M. Remy and those curious lapses from the dignity that might be expected of the managers. It was arranged between Richard and Moncharmin, first, that Richard should repeat the exact movements which he had made on the night of the disappearance of the first twenty-thousand francs; and, second, that Moncharmin should not for an instant lose sight of Richard's coat-tail pocket, into which Mme. Giry was to slip the twenty-thousand francs. M. Richard went and placed himself at the identical spot where he had stood when he bowed to the under-secretary for fine arts. M. Moncharmin took up his position a few steps behind him. Mme. Giry passed, rubbed up against M. Richard, got rid of her twenty-thousand francs in the manager's coat-tail pocket and disappeared ... Or rather she was conjured away. In accordance with the instructions received from Moncharmin a few minutes earlier, Mercier took the good lady to the acting-manager's office and turned the key on her, thus making it impossible for her to communicate with her ghost. Meanwhile, M. Richard was bending and bowing and scraping and walking backward, just as if he had that high and mighty minister, the under-secretary for fine arts, before him. Only, though these marks of politeness would have created no astonishment if the under-secretary of state had really been in front of M. Richard, they caused an easily comprehensible amazement to the spectators of this very natural but quite inexplicable scene when M. Richard had no body in front of him. M. Richard bowed ... to nobody; bent his back ... before nobody; and walked backward ... before nobody ... And, a few steps behind him, M. Moncharmin did the same thing that he was doing in addition to pushing away M. Remy and begging M. de La Borderie, the ambassador, and the manager of the Credit Central "not to touch M. le Directeur." Moncharmin, who had his own ideas, did not want Richard to come to him presently, when the twenty-thousand francs were gone, and say: "Perhaps it was the ambassador ... or the manager of the Credit Central ... or Remy." The more so as, at the time of the first scene, as Richard himself admitted, Richard had met nobody in that part of the theater after Mme. Giry had brushed up against him... Having begun by walking backward in order to bow, Richard continued to do so from prudence, until he reached the passage leading to the offices of the management. In this way, he was constantly watched by Moncharmin from behind and himself kept an eye on any one approaching from the front. Once more, this novel method of walking behind the scenes, adopted by the managers of our National Academy of Music, attracted attention; but the managers themselves thought of nothing but their twenty-thousand francs. On reaching the half-dark passage, Richard said to Moncharmin, in a low voice: "I am sure that nobody has touched me ... You had now better keep at some distance from me and watch me till I come to door of the office: it is better not to arouse suspicion and we can see anything that happens." But Moncharmin replied. "No, Richard, no! You walk ahead and I'll walk immediately behind you! I won't leave you by a step!" "But, in that case," exclaimed Richard, "they will never steal our twenty-thousand francs!" "I should hope not, indeed!" declared Moncharmin. "Then what we are doing is absurd!" "We are doing exactly what we did last time ... Last time, I joined you as you were leaving the stage and followed close behind you down this passage." "That's true!" sighed Richard, shaking his head and passively obeying Moncharmin. Two minutes later, the joint managers locked themselves into their office. Moncharmin himself put the key in his pocket: "We remained locked up like this, last time," he said, "until you left the Opera to go home." "That's so. No one came and disturbed us, I suppose?" "No one." "Then," said Richard, who was trying to collect his memory, "then I must certainly have been robbed on my way home from the Opera." "No," said Moncharmin in a drier tone than ever, "no, that's impossible. For I dropped you in my cab. The twenty-thousand francs disappeared at your place: there's not a shadow of a doubt about that." "It's incredible!" protested Richard. "I am sure of my servants ... and if one of them had done it, he would have disappeared since." Moncharmin shrugged his shoulders, as though to say that he did not wish to enter into details, and Richard began to think that Moncharmin was treating him in a very insupportable fashion. "Moncharmin, I've had enough of this!" "Richard, I've had too much of it!" "Do you dare to suspect me?" "Yes, of a silly joke." "One doesn't joke with twenty-thousand francs." "That's what I think," declared Moncharmin, unfolding a newspaper and ostentatiously studying its contents. "What are you doing?" asked Richard. "Are you going to read the paper next?" "Yes, Richard, until I take you home." "Like last time?" "Yes, like last time." Richard snatched the paper from Moncharmin's hands. Moncharmin stood up, more irritated than ever, and found himself faced by an exasperated Richard, who, crossing his arms on his chest, said: "Look here, I'm thinking of this, I'M THINKING OF WHAT I MIGHT THINK if, like last time, after my spending the evening alone with you, you brought me home and if, at the moment of parting, I perceived that twenty-thousand francs had disappeared from my coat-pocket ... like last time." "And what might you think?" asked Moncharmin, crimson with rage. "I might think that, as you hadn't left me by a foot's breadth and as, by your own wish, you were the only one to approach me, like last time, I might think that, if that twenty-thousand francs was no longer in my pocket, it stood a very good chance of being in yours!" Moncharmin leaped up at the suggestion. "Oh!" he shouted. "A safety-pin!" "What do you want a safety-pin for?" "To fasten you up with! ... A safety-pin! ... A safety-pin!" "You want to fasten me with a safety-pin?" "Yes, to fasten you to the twenty-thousand francs! Then, whether it's here, or on the drive from here to your place, or at your place, you will feel the hand that pulls at your pocket and you will see if it's mine! Oh, so you're suspecting me now, are you? A safety-pin!" And that was the moment when Moncharmin opened the door on the passage and shouted: "A safety-pin! ... somebody give me a safety-pin!" And we also know how, at the same moment, Remy, who had no safety-pin, was received by Moncharmin, while a boy procured the pin so eagerly longed for. And what happened was this: Moncharmin first locked the door again. Then he knelt down behind Richard's back. "I hope," he said, "that the notes are still there?" "So do I," said Richard. "The real ones?" asked Moncharmin, resolved not to be "had" this time. "Look for yourself," said Richard. "I refuse to touch them." Moncharmin took the envelope from Richard's pocket and drew out the bank-notes with a trembling hand, for, this time, in order frequently to make sure of the presence of the notes, he had not sealed the envelope nor even fastened it. He felt reassured on finding that they were all there and quite genuine. He put them back in the tail-pocket and pinned them with great care. Then he sat down behind Richard's coat-tails and kept his eyes fixed on them, while Richard, sitting at his writing-table, did not stir. "A little patience, Richard," said Moncharmin. "We have only a few minutes to wait ... The clock will soon strike twelve. Last time, we left at the last stroke of twelve." "Oh, I shall have all the patience necessary!" The time passed, slow, heavy, mysterious, stifling. Richard tried to laugh. "I shall end by believing in the omnipotence of the ghost," he said. "Just now, don't you find something uncomfortable, disquieting, alarming in the atmosphere of this room?" "You're quite right," said Moncharmin, who was really impressed. "The ghost!" continued Richard, in a low voice, as though fearing lest he should be overheard by invisible ears. "The ghost! Suppose, all the same, it were a ghost who puts the magic envelopes on the table ... who talks in Box Five ... who killed Joseph Buquet ... who unhooked the chandelier ... and who robs us! For, after all, after all, after all, there is no one here except you and me, and, if the notes disappear and neither you nor I have anything to do with it, well, we shall have to believe in the ghost ... in the ghost." At that moment, the clock on the mantlepiece gave its warning click and the first stroke of twelve struck. The two managers shuddered. The perspiration streamed from their foreheads. The twelfth stroke sounded strangely in their ears. When the clock stopped, they gave a sigh and rose from their chairs. "I think we can go now," said Moncharmin. "I think so," Richard a agreed. "Before we go, do you mind if I look in your pocket?" "But, of course, Moncharmin, YOU MUST! ... Well?" he asked, as Moncharmin was feeling at the pocket. "Well, I can feel the pin." "Of course, as you said, we can't be robbed without noticing it." But Moncharmin, whose hands were still fumbling, bellowed: "I can feel the pin, but I can't feel the notes!" "Come, no joking, Moncharmin! ... This isn't the time for it." "Well, feel for yourself." Richard tore off his coat. The two managers turned the pocket inside out. THE POCKET WAS EMPTY. And the curious thing was that the pin remained, stuck in the same place. Richard and Moncharmin turned pale. There was no longer any doubt about the witchcraft. "The ghost!" muttered Moncharmin. But Richard suddenly sprang upon his partner. "No one but you has touched my pocket! Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ... Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ..." "On my soul," sighed Moncharmin, who was ready to swoon, "on my soul, I swear that I haven't got it!" Then somebody knocked at the door. Moncharmin opened it automatically, seemed hardly to recognize Mercier, his business-manager, exchanged a few words with him, without knowing what he was saying and, with an unconscious movement, put the safety-pin, for which he had no further use, into the hands of his bewildered subordinate ... Chapter XVIII The Commissary, The Viscount and the Persian The first words of the commissary of police, on entering the managers' office, were to ask after the missing prima donna. "Is Christine Daae here?" "Christine Daae here?" echoed Richard. "No. Why?" As for Moncharmin, he had not the strength left to utter a word. Richard repeated, for the commissary and the compact crowd which had followed him into the office observed an impressive silence. "Why do you ask if Christine Daae is here, M. LE COMMISSAIRE?" "Because she has to be found," declared the commissary of police solemnly. "What do you mean, she has to be found? Has she disappeared?" "In the middle of the performance!" "In the middle of the performance? This is extraordinary!" "Isn't it? And what is quite as extraordinary is that you should first learn it from me!" "Yes," said Richard, taking his head in his hands and muttering. "What is this new business? Oh, it's enough to make a man send in his resignation!" And he pulled a few hairs out of his mustache without even knowing what he was doing. "So she ... so she disappeared in the middle of the performance?" he repeated. "Yes, she was carried off in the Prison Act, at the moment when she was invoking the aid of the angels; but I doubt if she was carried off by an angel." "And I am sure that she was!" Everybody looked round. A young man, pale and trembling with excitement, repeated: "I am sure of it!" "Sure of what?" asked Mifroid. "That Christine Daae was carried off by an angel, M. LE COMMISSAIRE and I can tell you his name." "Aha, M. le Vicomte de Chagny! So you maintain that Christine Daae was carried off by an angel: an angel of the Opera, no doubt?" "Yes, monsieur, by an angel of the Opera; and I will tell you where he lives ... when we are alone." "You are right, monsieur." And the commissary of police, inviting Raoul to take a chair, cleared the room of all the rest, excepting the managers. Then Raoul spoke: "M. le Commissaire, the angel is called Erik, he lives in the Opera and he is the Angel of Music!" "The Angel of Music! Really! That is very curious! ... The Angel of Music!" And, turning to the managers, M. Mifroid asked, "Have you an Angel of Music on the premises, gentlemen?" Richard and Moncharmin shook their heads, without even speaking. "Oh," said the viscount, "those gentlemen have heard of the Opera ghost. Well, I am in a position to state that the Opera ghost and the Angel of Music are one and the same person; and his real name is Erik." M. Mifroid rose and looked at Raoul attentively. "I beg your pardon, monsieur but is it your intention to make fun of the law? And, if not, what is all this about the Opera ghost?" "I say that these gentlemen have heard of him." "Gentlemen, it appears that you know the Opera ghost?" Richard rose, with the remaining hairs of his mustache in his hand. "No, M. Commissary, no, we do not know him, but we wish that we did, for this very evening he has robbed us of twenty-thousand francs!" And Richard turned a terrible look on Moncharmin, which seemed to say: "Give me back the twenty-thousand francs, or I'll tell the whole story." Moncharmin understood what he meant, for, with a distracted gesture, he said: "Oh, tell everything and have done with it!" As for Mifroid, he looked at the managers and at Raoul by turns and wondered whether he had strayed into a lunatic asylum. He passed his hand through his hair. "A ghost," he said, "who, on the same evening, carries off an opera-singer and steals twenty-thousand francs is a ghost who must have his hands very full! If you don't mind, we will take the questions in order. The singer first, the twenty-thousand francs after. Come, M. de Chagny, let us try to talk seriously. You believe that Mlle. Christine Daae has been carried off by an individual called Erik. Do you know this person? Have you seen him?" "Yes." "Where?" "In a church yard." M. Mifroid gave a start, began to scrutinize Raoul again and said: "Of course! ... That's where ghosts usually hang out! ... And what were you doing in that churchyard?" "Monsieur," said Raoul, "I can quite understand how absurd my replies must seem to you. But I beg you to believe that I am in full possession of my faculties. The safety of the person dearest to me in the world is at stake. I should like to convince you in a few words, for time is pressing and every minute is valuable. Unfortunately, if I do not tell you the strangest story that ever was from the beginning, you will not believe me. I will tell you all I know about the Opera ghost, M. Commissary. Alas, I do not know much! ..." "Never mind, go on, go on!" exclaimed Richard and Moncharmin, suddenly greatly interested. Unfortunately for their hopes of learning some detail that could put them on the track of their hoaxer, they were soon compelled to accept the fact that M. Raoul de Chagny had completely lost his head. All that story about Perros-Guirec, death's heads and enchanted violins, could only have taken birth in the disordered brain of a youth mad with love. It was evident, also, that

become

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

"Well, it's like this ... only the ghost doesn't like me to talk about his business." "Indeed?" sneered Richard. "But this is a matter that concerns myself alone ... Well, it was in Box Five one evening, I found a letter addressed to myself, a sort of note written in red ink. I needn't read the letter to you sir; I know it by heart, and I shall never forget it if I live to be a hundred!" And Mme. Giry, drawing herself up, recited the letter with touching eloquence: MADAM: 1825. Mlle. Menetrier, leader of the ballet, became Marquise de Cussy. 1832. Mlle. Marie Taglioni, a dancer, became Comtesse Gilbert des Voisins. 1846. La Sota, a dancer, married a brother of the King of Spain. 1847. Lola Montes, a dancer, became the morganatic wife of King Louis of Bavaria and was created Countess of Landsfeld. 1848. Mlle. Maria, a dancer, became Baronne d'Herneville. 1870. Theresa Hessier, a dancer, married Dom Fernando, brother to the King of Portugal. Richard and Moncharmin listened to the old woman, who, as she proceeded with the enumeration of these glorious nuptials, swelled out, took courage and, at last, in a voice bursting with pride, flung out the last sentence of the prophetic letter: 1885. Meg Giry, Empress! Exhausted by this supreme effort, the box-keeper fell into a chair, saying: "Gentlemen, the letter was signed, 'Opera Ghost.' I had heard much of the ghost, but only half believed in him. From the day when he declared that my little Meg, the flesh of my flesh, the fruit of my womb, would be empress, I believed in him altogether." And really it was not necessary to make a long study of Mme. Giry's excited features to understand what could be got out of that fine intellect with the two words "ghost" and "empress." But who pulled the strings of that extraordinary puppet? That was the question. "You have never seen him; he speaks to you and you believe all he says?" asked Moncharmin. "Yes. To begin with, I owe it to him that my little Meg was promoted to be the leader of a row. I said to the ghost, 'If she is to be empress in 1885, there is no time to lose; she must become a leader at once.' He said, 'Look upon it as done.' And he had only a word to say to M. Poligny and the thing was done." "So you see that M. Poligny saw him!" "No, not any more than I did; but he heard him. The ghost said a word in his ear, you know, on the evening when he left Box Five, looking so dreadfully pale." Moncharmin heaved a sigh. "What a business!" he groaned. "Ah!" said Mme. Giry. "I always thought there were secrets between the ghost and M. Poligny. Anything that the ghost asked M. Poligny to do M. Poligny did. M. Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "You hear, Richard: Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "Yes, yes, I hear!" said Richard. "M. Poligny is a friend of the ghost; and, as Mme. Giry is a friend of M. Poligny, there we are! ... But I don't care a hang about M. Poligny," he added roughly. "The only person whose fate really interests me is Mme. Giry... Mme. Giry, do you know what is in this envelope?" "Why, of course not," she said. "Well, look." Mine. Giry looked into the envelope with a lackluster eye, which soon recovered its brilliancy. "Thousand-franc notes!" she cried. "Yes, Mme. Giry, thousand-franc notes! And you knew it!" "I, sir? I? ... I swear ..." "Don't swear, Mme. Giry! ... And now I will tell you the second reason why I sent for you. Mme. Giry, I am going to have you arrested." The two black feathers on the dingy bonnet, which usually affected the attitude of two notes of interrogation, changed into two notes of exclamation; as for the bonnet itself, it swayed in menace on the old lady's tempestuous chignon. Surprise, indignation, protest and dismay were furthermore displayed by little Meg's mother in a sort of extravagant movement of offended virtue, half bound, half slide, that brought her right under the nose of M. Richard, who could not help pushing back his chair. "HAVE ME ARRESTED!" The mouth that spoke those words seemed to spit the three teeth that were left to it into Richard's face. M. Richard behaved like a hero. He retreated no farther. His threatening forefinger seemed already to be pointing out the keeper of Box Five to the absent magistrates. "I am going to have you arrested, Mme. Giry, as a thief!" "Say that again!" And Mme. Giry caught Mr. Manager Richard a mighty box on the ear, before Mr. Manager Moncharmin had time to intervene. But it was not the withered hand of the angry old beldame that fell on the managerial ear, but the envelope itself, the cause of all the trouble, the magic envelope that opened with the blow, scattering the bank-notes, which escaped in a fantastic whirl of giant butterflies. The two managers gave a shout, and the same thought made them both go on their knees, feverishly, picking up and hurriedly examining the precious scraps of paper. "Are they still genuine, Moncharmin?" "Are they still genuine, Richard?" "Yes, they are still genuine!" Above their heads, Mme. Giry's three teeth were clashing in a noisy contest, full of hideous interjections. But all that could be clearly distinguished was this LEIT-MOTIF: "I, a thief! ... I, a thief, I?" She choked with rage. She shouted: "I never heard of such a thing!" And, suddenly, she darted up to Richard again. "In any case," she yelped, "you, M. Richard, ought to know better than I where the twenty thousand francs went to!" "I?" asked Richard, astounded. "And how should I know?" Moncharmin, looking severe and dissatisfied, at once insisted that the good lady should explain herself. "What does this mean, Mme. Giry?" he asked. "And why do you say that M. Richard ought to know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to?" As for Richard, who felt himself turning red under Moncharmin's eyes, he took Mme. Giry by the wrist and shook it violently. In a voice growling and rolling like thunder, he roared: "Why should I know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to? Why? Answer me!" "Because they went into your pocket!" gasped the old woman, looking at him as if he were the devil incarnate. Richard would have rushed upon Mme. Giry, if Moncharmin had not stayed his avenging hand and hastened to ask her, more gently: "How can you suspect my partner, M. Richard, of putting twenty-thousand francs in his pocket?" "I never said that," declared Mme. Giry, "seeing that it was myself who put the twenty-thousand francs into M. Richard's pocket." And she added, under her voice, "There! It's out! ... And may the ghost forgive me!" Richard began bellowing anew, but Moncharmin authoritatively ordered him to be silent. "Allow me! Allow me! Let the woman explain herself. Let me question her." And he added: "It is really astonishing that you should take up such a tone! ... We are on the verge of clearing up the whole mystery. And you're in a rage! ... You're wrong to behave like that... I'm enjoying myself immensely." Mme. Giry, like the martyr that she was, raised her head, her face beaming with faith in her own innocence. "You tell me there were twenty-thousand francs in the envelope which I put into M. Richard's pocket; but I tell you again that I knew nothing about it ... Nor M. Richard either, for that matter!" "Aha!" said Richard, suddenly assuming a swaggering air which Moncharmin did not like. "I knew nothing either! You put twenty-thousand francs in my pocket and I knew nothing either! I am very glad to hear it, Mme. Giry!" "Yes," the terrible dame agreed, "yes, it's true. We neither of us knew anything. But you, you must have ended by finding out!" Richard would certainly have swallowed Mme. Giry alive, if Moncharmin had not been there! But Moncharmin protected her. He resumed his questions: "What sort of envelope did you put in M. Richard's pocket? It was not the one which we gave you, the one which you took to Box Five before our eyes; and yet that was the one which contained the twenty-thousand francs." "I beg your pardon. The envelope which M. le Directeur gave me was the one which I slipped into M. le Directeur's pocket," explained Mme. Giry. "The one which I took to the ghost's box was another envelope, just like it, which the ghost gave me beforehand and which I hid up my sleeve." So saying, Mme. Giry took from her sleeve an envelope ready prepared and similarly addressed to that containing the twenty-thousand francs. The managers took it from her. They examined it and saw that it was fastened with seals stamped with their own managerial seal. They opened it. It contained twenty Bank of St. Farce notes like those which had so much astounded them the month before. "How simple!" said Richard. "How simple!" repeated Moncharmin. And he continued with his eyes fixed upon Mme. Giry, as though trying to hypnotize her. "So it was the ghost who gave you this envelope and told you to substitute it for the one which we gave you? And it was the ghost who told you to put the other into M. Richard's pocket?" "Yes, it was the ghost." "Then would you mind giving us a specimen of your little talents? Here is the envelope. Act as though we knew nothing." "As you please, gentlemen." Mme. Giry took the envelope with the twenty notes inside it and made for the door. She was on the point of going out when the two managers rushed at her: "Oh, no! Oh, no! We're not going to be 'done' a second time! Once bitten, twice shy!" "I beg your pardon, gentlemen," said the old woman, in self-excuse, "you told me to act as though you knew nothing ... Well, if you knew nothing, I should go away with your envelope!" "And then how would you slip it into my pocket?" argued Richard, whom Moncharmin fixed with his left eye, while keeping his right on Mme. Giry: a proceeding likely to strain his sight, but Moncharmin was prepared to go to any length to discover the truth. "I am to slip it into your pocket when you least expect it, sir. You know that I always take a little turn behind the scenes, in the course of the evening, and I often go with my daughter to the ballet-foyer, which I am entitled to do, as her mother; I bring her her shoes, when the ballet is about to begin ... in fact, I come and go as I please ... The subscribers come and go too... So do you, sir ... There are lots of people about ... I go behind you and slip the envelope into the tail-pocket of your dress-coat ... There's no witchcraft about that!" "No witchcraft!" growled Richard, rolling his eyes like Jupiter Tonans. "No witchcraft! Why, I've just caught you in a lie, you old witch!" Mme. Giry bristled, with her three teeth sticking out of her mouth. "And why, may I ask?" "Because I spent that evening watching Box Five and the sham envelope which you put there. I did not go to the ballet-foyer for a second." "No, sir, and I did not give you the envelope that evening, but at the next performance ... on the evening when the under-secretary of state for fine arts ..." At these words, M. Richard suddenly interrupted Mme. Giry: "Yes, that's true, I remember now! The under-secretary went behind the scenes. He asked for me. I went down to the ballet-foyer for a moment. I was on the foyer steps ... The under-secretary and his chief clerk were in the foyer itself. I suddenly turned around ... you had passed behind me, Mme. Giry ... You seemed to push against me ... Oh, I can see you still, I can see you still!" "Yes, that's it, sir, that's it. I had just finished my little business. That pocket of yours, sir, is very handy!" And Mme. Giry once more suited the action to the word, She passed behind M. Richard and, so nimbly that Moncharmin himself was impressed by it, slipped the envelope into the pocket of one of the tails of M. Richard's dress-coat. "Of course!" exclaimed Richard, looking a little pale. "It's very clever of O. G. The problem which he had to solve was this: how to do away with any dangerous intermediary between the man who gives the twenty-thousand francs and the man who receives it. And by far the best thing he could hit upon was to come and take the money from my pocket without my noticing it, as I myself did not know that it was there. It's wonderful!" "Oh, wonderful, no doubt!" Moncharmin agreed. "Only, you forget, Richard, that I provided ten-thousand francs of the twenty and that nobody put anything in my pocket!" [1] Flash notes drawn on the "Bank of St. Farce" in France correspond with those drawn on the "Bank of Engraving" in England.--Translator's Note. Chapter XVII The Safety-Pin Again Moncharmin's last phrase so dearly expressed the suspicion in which he now held his partner that it was bound to cause a stormy explanation, at the end of which it was agreed that Richard should yield to all Moncharmin's wishes, with the object of helping him to discover the miscreant who was victimizing them. This brings us to the interval after the Garden Act, with the strange conduct observed by M. Remy and those curious lapses from the dignity that might be expected of the managers. It was arranged between Richard and Moncharmin, first, that Richard should repeat the exact movements which he had made on the night of the disappearance of the first twenty-thousand francs; and, second, that Moncharmin should not for an instant lose sight of Richard's coat-tail pocket, into which Mme. Giry was to slip the twenty-thousand francs. M. Richard went and placed himself at the identical spot where he had stood when he bowed to the under-secretary for fine arts. M. Moncharmin took up his position a few steps behind him. Mme. Giry passed, rubbed up against M. Richard, got rid of her twenty-thousand francs in the manager's coat-tail pocket and disappeared ... Or rather she was conjured away. In accordance with the instructions received from Moncharmin a few minutes earlier, Mercier took the good lady to the acting-manager's office and turned the key on her, thus making it impossible for her to communicate with her ghost. Meanwhile, M. Richard was bending and bowing and scraping and walking backward, just as if he had that high and mighty minister, the under-secretary for fine arts, before him. Only, though these marks of politeness would have created no astonishment if the under-secretary of state had really been in front of M. Richard, they caused an easily comprehensible amazement to the spectators of this very natural but quite inexplicable scene when M. Richard had no body in front of him. M. Richard bowed ... to nobody; bent his back ... before nobody; and walked backward ... before nobody ... And, a few steps behind him, M. Moncharmin did the same thing that he was doing in addition to pushing away M. Remy and begging M. de La Borderie, the ambassador, and the manager of the Credit Central "not to touch M. le Directeur." Moncharmin, who had his own ideas, did not want Richard to come to him presently, when the twenty-thousand francs were gone, and say: "Perhaps it was the ambassador ... or the manager of the Credit Central ... or Remy." The more so as, at the time of the first scene, as Richard himself admitted, Richard had met nobody in that part of the theater after Mme. Giry had brushed up against him... Having begun by walking backward in order to bow, Richard continued to do so from prudence, until he reached the passage leading to the offices of the management. In this way, he was constantly watched by Moncharmin from behind and himself kept an eye on any one approaching from the front. Once more, this novel method of walking behind the scenes, adopted by the managers of our National Academy of Music, attracted attention; but the managers themselves thought of nothing but their twenty-thousand francs. On reaching the half-dark passage, Richard said to Moncharmin, in a low voice: "I am sure that nobody has touched me ... You had now better keep at some distance from me and watch me till I come to door of the office: it is better not to arouse suspicion and we can see anything that happens." But Moncharmin replied. "No, Richard, no! You walk ahead and I'll walk immediately behind you! I won't leave you by a step!" "But, in that case," exclaimed Richard, "they will never steal our twenty-thousand francs!" "I should hope not, indeed!" declared Moncharmin. "Then what we are doing is absurd!" "We are doing exactly what we did last time ... Last time, I joined you as you were leaving the stage and followed close behind you down this passage." "That's true!" sighed Richard, shaking his head and passively obeying Moncharmin. Two minutes later, the joint managers locked themselves into their office. Moncharmin himself put the key in his pocket: "We remained locked up like this, last time," he said, "until you left the Opera to go home." "That's so. No one came and disturbed us, I suppose?" "No one." "Then," said Richard, who was trying to collect his memory, "then I must certainly have been robbed on my way home from the Opera." "No," said Moncharmin in a drier tone than ever, "no, that's impossible. For I dropped you in my cab. The twenty-thousand francs disappeared at your place: there's not a shadow of a doubt about that." "It's incredible!" protested Richard. "I am sure of my servants ... and if one of them had done it, he would have disappeared since." Moncharmin shrugged his shoulders, as though to say that he did not wish to enter into details, and Richard began to think that Moncharmin was treating him in a very insupportable fashion. "Moncharmin, I've had enough of this!" "Richard, I've had too much of it!" "Do you dare to suspect me?" "Yes, of a silly joke." "One doesn't joke with twenty-thousand francs." "That's what I think," declared Moncharmin, unfolding a newspaper and ostentatiously studying its contents. "What are you doing?" asked Richard. "Are you going to read the paper next?" "Yes, Richard, until I take you home." "Like last time?" "Yes, like last time." Richard snatched the paper from Moncharmin's hands. Moncharmin stood up, more irritated than ever, and found himself faced by an exasperated Richard, who, crossing his arms on his chest, said: "Look here, I'm thinking of this, I'M THINKING OF WHAT I MIGHT THINK if, like last time, after my spending the evening alone with you, you brought me home and if, at the moment of parting, I perceived that twenty-thousand francs had disappeared from my coat-pocket ... like last time." "And what might you think?" asked Moncharmin, crimson with rage. "I might think that, as you hadn't left me by a foot's breadth and as, by your own wish, you were the only one to approach me, like last time, I might think that, if that twenty-thousand francs was no longer in my pocket, it stood a very good chance of being in yours!" Moncharmin leaped up at the suggestion. "Oh!" he shouted. "A safety-pin!" "What do you want a safety-pin for?" "To fasten you up with! ... A safety-pin! ... A safety-pin!" "You want to fasten me with a safety-pin?" "Yes, to fasten you to the twenty-thousand francs! Then, whether it's here, or on the drive from here to your place, or at your place, you will feel the hand that pulls at your pocket and you will see if it's mine! Oh, so you're suspecting me now, are you? A safety-pin!" And that was the moment when Moncharmin opened the door on the passage and shouted: "A safety-pin! ... somebody give me a safety-pin!" And we also know how, at the same moment, Remy, who had no safety-pin, was received by Moncharmin, while a boy procured the pin so eagerly longed for. And what happened was this: Moncharmin first locked the door again. Then he knelt down behind Richard's back. "I hope," he said, "that the notes are still there?" "So do I," said Richard. "The real ones?" asked Moncharmin, resolved not to be "had" this time. "Look for yourself," said Richard. "I refuse to touch them." Moncharmin took the envelope from Richard's pocket and drew out the bank-notes with a trembling hand, for, this time, in order frequently to make sure of the presence of the notes, he had not sealed the envelope nor even fastened it. He felt reassured on finding that they were all there and quite genuine. He put them back in the tail-pocket and pinned them with great care. Then he sat down behind Richard's coat-tails and kept his eyes fixed on them, while Richard, sitting at his writing-table, did not stir. "A little patience, Richard," said Moncharmin. "We have only a few minutes to wait ... The clock will soon strike twelve. Last time, we left at the last stroke of twelve." "Oh, I shall have all the patience necessary!" The time passed, slow, heavy, mysterious, stifling. Richard tried to laugh. "I shall end by believing in the omnipotence of the ghost," he said. "Just now, don't you find something uncomfortable, disquieting, alarming in the atmosphere of this room?" "You're quite right," said Moncharmin, who was really impressed. "The ghost!" continued Richard, in a low voice, as though fearing lest he should be overheard by invisible ears. "The ghost! Suppose, all the same, it were a ghost who puts the magic envelopes on the table ... who talks in Box Five ... who killed Joseph Buquet ... who unhooked the chandelier ... and who robs us! For, after all, after all, after all, there is no one here except you and me, and, if the notes disappear and neither you nor I have anything to do with it, well, we shall have to believe in the ghost ... in the ghost." At that moment, the clock on the mantlepiece gave its warning click and the first stroke of twelve struck. The two managers shuddered. The perspiration streamed from their foreheads. The twelfth stroke sounded strangely in their ears. When the clock stopped, they gave a sigh and rose from their chairs. "I think we can go now," said Moncharmin. "I think so," Richard a agreed. "Before we go, do you mind if I look in your pocket?" "But, of course, Moncharmin, YOU MUST! ... Well?" he asked, as Moncharmin was feeling at the pocket. "Well, I can feel the pin." "Of course, as you said, we can't be robbed without noticing it." But Moncharmin, whose hands were still fumbling, bellowed: "I can feel the pin, but I can't feel the notes!" "Come, no joking, Moncharmin! ... This isn't the time for it." "Well, feel for yourself." Richard tore off his coat. The two managers turned the pocket inside out. THE POCKET WAS EMPTY. And the curious thing was that the pin remained, stuck in the same place. Richard and Moncharmin turned pale. There was no longer any doubt about the witchcraft. "The ghost!" muttered Moncharmin. But Richard suddenly sprang upon his partner. "No one but you has touched my pocket! Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ... Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ..." "On my soul," sighed Moncharmin, who was ready to swoon, "on my soul, I swear that I haven't got it!" Then somebody knocked at the door. Moncharmin opened it automatically, seemed hardly to recognize Mercier, his business-manager, exchanged a few words with him, without knowing what he was saying and, with an unconscious movement, put the safety-pin, for which he had no further use, into the hands of his bewildered subordinate ... Chapter XVIII The Commissary, The Viscount and the Persian The first words of the commissary of police, on entering the managers' office, were to ask after the missing prima donna. "Is Christine Daae here?" "Christine Daae here?" echoed Richard. "No. Why?" As for Moncharmin, he had not the strength left to utter a word. Richard repeated, for the commissary and the compact crowd which had followed him into the office observed an impressive silence. "Why do you ask if Christine Daae is here, M. LE COMMISSAIRE?" "Because she has to be found," declared the commissary of police solemnly. "What do you mean, she has to be found? Has she disappeared?" "In the middle of the performance!" "In the middle of the performance? This is extraordinary!" "Isn't it? And what is quite as extraordinary is that you should first learn it from me!" "Yes," said Richard, taking his head in his hands and muttering. "What is this new business? Oh, it's enough to make a man send in his resignation!" And he pulled a few hairs out of his mustache without even knowing what he was doing. "So she ... so she disappeared in the middle of the performance?" he repeated. "Yes, she was carried off in the Prison Act, at the moment when she was invoking the aid of the angels; but I doubt if she was carried off by an angel." "And I am sure that she was!" Everybody looked round. A young man, pale and trembling with excitement, repeated: "I am sure of it!" "Sure of what?" asked Mifroid. "That Christine Daae was carried off by an angel, M. LE COMMISSAIRE and I can tell you his name." "Aha, M. le Vicomte de Chagny! So you maintain that Christine Daae was carried off by an angel: an angel of the Opera, no doubt?" "Yes, monsieur, by an angel of the Opera; and I will tell you where he lives ... when we are alone." "You are right, monsieur." And the commissary of police, inviting Raoul to take a chair, cleared the room of all the rest, excepting the managers. Then Raoul spoke: "M. le Commissaire, the angel is called Erik, he lives in the Opera and he is the Angel of Music!" "The Angel of Music! Really! That is very curious! ... The Angel of Music!" And, turning to the managers, M. Mifroid asked, "Have you an Angel of Music on the premises, gentlemen?" Richard and Moncharmin shook their heads, without even speaking. "Oh," said the viscount, "those gentlemen have heard of the Opera ghost. Well, I am in a position to state that the Opera ghost and the Angel of Music are one and the same person; and his real name is Erik." M. Mifroid rose and looked at Raoul attentively. "I beg your pardon, monsieur but is it your intention to make fun of the law? And, if not, what is all this about the Opera ghost?" "I say that these gentlemen have heard of him." "Gentlemen, it appears that you know the Opera ghost?" Richard rose, with the remaining hairs of his mustache in his hand. "No, M. Commissary, no, we do not know him, but we wish that we did, for this very evening he has robbed us of twenty-thousand francs!" And Richard turned a terrible look on Moncharmin, which seemed to say: "Give me back the twenty-thousand francs, or I'll tell the whole story." Moncharmin understood what he meant, for, with a distracted gesture, he said: "Oh, tell everything and have done with it!" As for Mifroid, he looked at the managers and at Raoul by turns and wondered whether he had strayed into a lunatic asylum. He passed his hand through his hair. "A ghost," he said, "who, on the same evening, carries off an opera-singer and steals twenty-thousand francs is a ghost who must have his hands very full! If you don't mind, we will take the questions in order. The singer first, the twenty-thousand francs after. Come, M. de Chagny, let us try to talk seriously. You believe that Mlle. Christine Daae has been carried off by an individual called Erik. Do you know this person? Have you seen him?" "Yes." "Where?" "In a church yard." M. Mifroid gave a start, began to scrutinize Raoul again and said: "Of course! ... That's where ghosts usually hang out! ... And what were you doing in that churchyard?" "Monsieur," said Raoul, "I can quite understand how absurd my replies must seem to you. But I beg you to believe that I am in full possession of my faculties. The safety of the person dearest to me in the world is at stake. I should like to convince you in a few words, for time is pressing and every minute is valuable. Unfortunately, if I do not tell you the strangest story that ever was from the beginning, you will not believe me. I will tell you all I know about the Opera ghost, M. Commissary. Alas, I do not know much! ..." "Never mind, go on, go on!" exclaimed Richard and Moncharmin, suddenly greatly interested. Unfortunately for their hopes of learning some detail that could put them on the track of their hoaxer, they were soon compelled to accept the fact that M. Raoul de Chagny had completely lost his head. All that story about Perros-Guirec, death's heads and enchanted violins, could only have taken birth in the disordered brain of a youth mad with love. It was evident, also, that

ear

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

"Well, it's like this ... only the ghost doesn't like me to talk about his business." "Indeed?" sneered Richard. "But this is a matter that concerns myself alone ... Well, it was in Box Five one evening, I found a letter addressed to myself, a sort of note written in red ink. I needn't read the letter to you sir; I know it by heart, and I shall never forget it if I live to be a hundred!" And Mme. Giry, drawing herself up, recited the letter with touching eloquence: MADAM: 1825. Mlle. Menetrier, leader of the ballet, became Marquise de Cussy. 1832. Mlle. Marie Taglioni, a dancer, became Comtesse Gilbert des Voisins. 1846. La Sota, a dancer, married a brother of the King of Spain. 1847. Lola Montes, a dancer, became the morganatic wife of King Louis of Bavaria and was created Countess of Landsfeld. 1848. Mlle. Maria, a dancer, became Baronne d'Herneville. 1870. Theresa Hessier, a dancer, married Dom Fernando, brother to the King of Portugal. Richard and Moncharmin listened to the old woman, who, as she proceeded with the enumeration of these glorious nuptials, swelled out, took courage and, at last, in a voice bursting with pride, flung out the last sentence of the prophetic letter: 1885. Meg Giry, Empress! Exhausted by this supreme effort, the box-keeper fell into a chair, saying: "Gentlemen, the letter was signed, 'Opera Ghost.' I had heard much of the ghost, but only half believed in him. From the day when he declared that my little Meg, the flesh of my flesh, the fruit of my womb, would be empress, I believed in him altogether." And really it was not necessary to make a long study of Mme. Giry's excited features to understand what could be got out of that fine intellect with the two words "ghost" and "empress." But who pulled the strings of that extraordinary puppet? That was the question. "You have never seen him; he speaks to you and you believe all he says?" asked Moncharmin. "Yes. To begin with, I owe it to him that my little Meg was promoted to be the leader of a row. I said to the ghost, 'If she is to be empress in 1885, there is no time to lose; she must become a leader at once.' He said, 'Look upon it as done.' And he had only a word to say to M. Poligny and the thing was done." "So you see that M. Poligny saw him!" "No, not any more than I did; but he heard him. The ghost said a word in his ear, you know, on the evening when he left Box Five, looking so dreadfully pale." Moncharmin heaved a sigh. "What a business!" he groaned. "Ah!" said Mme. Giry. "I always thought there were secrets between the ghost and M. Poligny. Anything that the ghost asked M. Poligny to do M. Poligny did. M. Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "You hear, Richard: Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "Yes, yes, I hear!" said Richard. "M. Poligny is a friend of the ghost; and, as Mme. Giry is a friend of M. Poligny, there we are! ... But I don't care a hang about M. Poligny," he added roughly. "The only person whose fate really interests me is Mme. Giry... Mme. Giry, do you know what is in this envelope?" "Why, of course not," she said. "Well, look." Mine. Giry looked into the envelope with a lackluster eye, which soon recovered its brilliancy. "Thousand-franc notes!" she cried. "Yes, Mme. Giry, thousand-franc notes! And you knew it!" "I, sir? I? ... I swear ..." "Don't swear, Mme. Giry! ... And now I will tell you the second reason why I sent for you. Mme. Giry, I am going to have you arrested." The two black feathers on the dingy bonnet, which usually affected the attitude of two notes of interrogation, changed into two notes of exclamation; as for the bonnet itself, it swayed in menace on the old lady's tempestuous chignon. Surprise, indignation, protest and dismay were furthermore displayed by little Meg's mother in a sort of extravagant movement of offended virtue, half bound, half slide, that brought her right under the nose of M. Richard, who could not help pushing back his chair. "HAVE ME ARRESTED!" The mouth that spoke those words seemed to spit the three teeth that were left to it into Richard's face. M. Richard behaved like a hero. He retreated no farther. His threatening forefinger seemed already to be pointing out the keeper of Box Five to the absent magistrates. "I am going to have you arrested, Mme. Giry, as a thief!" "Say that again!" And Mme. Giry caught Mr. Manager Richard a mighty box on the ear, before Mr. Manager Moncharmin had time to intervene. But it was not the withered hand of the angry old beldame that fell on the managerial ear, but the envelope itself, the cause of all the trouble, the magic envelope that opened with the blow, scattering the bank-notes, which escaped in a fantastic whirl of giant butterflies. The two managers gave a shout, and the same thought made them both go on their knees, feverishly, picking up and hurriedly examining the precious scraps of paper. "Are they still genuine, Moncharmin?" "Are they still genuine, Richard?" "Yes, they are still genuine!" Above their heads, Mme. Giry's three teeth were clashing in a noisy contest, full of hideous interjections. But all that could be clearly distinguished was this LEIT-MOTIF: "I, a thief! ... I, a thief, I?" She choked with rage. She shouted: "I never heard of such a thing!" And, suddenly, she darted up to Richard again. "In any case," she yelped, "you, M. Richard, ought to know better than I where the twenty thousand francs went to!" "I?" asked Richard, astounded. "And how should I know?" Moncharmin, looking severe and dissatisfied, at once insisted that the good lady should explain herself. "What does this mean, Mme. Giry?" he asked. "And why do you say that M. Richard ought to know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to?" As for Richard, who felt himself turning red under Moncharmin's eyes, he took Mme. Giry by the wrist and shook it violently. In a voice growling and rolling like thunder, he roared: "Why should I know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to? Why? Answer me!" "Because they went into your pocket!" gasped the old woman, looking at him as if he were the devil incarnate. Richard would have rushed upon Mme. Giry, if Moncharmin had not stayed his avenging hand and hastened to ask her, more gently: "How can you suspect my partner, M. Richard, of putting twenty-thousand francs in his pocket?" "I never said that," declared Mme. Giry, "seeing that it was myself who put the twenty-thousand francs into M. Richard's pocket." And she added, under her voice, "There! It's out! ... And may the ghost forgive me!" Richard began bellowing anew, but Moncharmin authoritatively ordered him to be silent. "Allow me! Allow me! Let the woman explain herself. Let me question her." And he added: "It is really astonishing that you should take up such a tone! ... We are on the verge of clearing up the whole mystery. And you're in a rage! ... You're wrong to behave like that... I'm enjoying myself immensely." Mme. Giry, like the martyr that she was, raised her head, her face beaming with faith in her own innocence. "You tell me there were twenty-thousand francs in the envelope which I put into M. Richard's pocket; but I tell you again that I knew nothing about it ... Nor M. Richard either, for that matter!" "Aha!" said Richard, suddenly assuming a swaggering air which Moncharmin did not like. "I knew nothing either! You put twenty-thousand francs in my pocket and I knew nothing either! I am very glad to hear it, Mme. Giry!" "Yes," the terrible dame agreed, "yes, it's true. We neither of us knew anything. But you, you must have ended by finding out!" Richard would certainly have swallowed Mme. Giry alive, if Moncharmin had not been there! But Moncharmin protected her. He resumed his questions: "What sort of envelope did you put in M. Richard's pocket? It was not the one which we gave you, the one which you took to Box Five before our eyes; and yet that was the one which contained the twenty-thousand francs." "I beg your pardon. The envelope which M. le Directeur gave me was the one which I slipped into M. le Directeur's pocket," explained Mme. Giry. "The one which I took to the ghost's box was another envelope, just like it, which the ghost gave me beforehand and which I hid up my sleeve." So saying, Mme. Giry took from her sleeve an envelope ready prepared and similarly addressed to that containing the twenty-thousand francs. The managers took it from her. They examined it and saw that it was fastened with seals stamped with their own managerial seal. They opened it. It contained twenty Bank of St. Farce notes like those which had so much astounded them the month before. "How simple!" said Richard. "How simple!" repeated Moncharmin. And he continued with his eyes fixed upon Mme. Giry, as though trying to hypnotize her. "So it was the ghost who gave you this envelope and told you to substitute it for the one which we gave you? And it was the ghost who told you to put the other into M. Richard's pocket?" "Yes, it was the ghost." "Then would you mind giving us a specimen of your little talents? Here is the envelope. Act as though we knew nothing." "As you please, gentlemen." Mme. Giry took the envelope with the twenty notes inside it and made for the door. She was on the point of going out when the two managers rushed at her: "Oh, no! Oh, no! We're not going to be 'done' a second time! Once bitten, twice shy!" "I beg your pardon, gentlemen," said the old woman, in self-excuse, "you told me to act as though you knew nothing ... Well, if you knew nothing, I should go away with your envelope!" "And then how would you slip it into my pocket?" argued Richard, whom Moncharmin fixed with his left eye, while keeping his right on Mme. Giry: a proceeding likely to strain his sight, but Moncharmin was prepared to go to any length to discover the truth. "I am to slip it into your pocket when you least expect it, sir. You know that I always take a little turn behind the scenes, in the course of the evening, and I often go with my daughter to the ballet-foyer, which I am entitled to do, as her mother; I bring her her shoes, when the ballet is about to begin ... in fact, I come and go as I please ... The subscribers come and go too... So do you, sir ... There are lots of people about ... I go behind you and slip the envelope into the tail-pocket of your dress-coat ... There's no witchcraft about that!" "No witchcraft!" growled Richard, rolling his eyes like Jupiter Tonans. "No witchcraft! Why, I've just caught you in a lie, you old witch!" Mme. Giry bristled, with her three teeth sticking out of her mouth. "And why, may I ask?" "Because I spent that evening watching Box Five and the sham envelope which you put there. I did not go to the ballet-foyer for a second." "No, sir, and I did not give you the envelope that evening, but at the next performance ... on the evening when the under-secretary of state for fine arts ..." At these words, M. Richard suddenly interrupted Mme. Giry: "Yes, that's true, I remember now! The under-secretary went behind the scenes. He asked for me. I went down to the ballet-foyer for a moment. I was on the foyer steps ... The under-secretary and his chief clerk were in the foyer itself. I suddenly turned around ... you had passed behind me, Mme. Giry ... You seemed to push against me ... Oh, I can see you still, I can see you still!" "Yes, that's it, sir, that's it. I had just finished my little business. That pocket of yours, sir, is very handy!" And Mme. Giry once more suited the action to the word, She passed behind M. Richard and, so nimbly that Moncharmin himself was impressed by it, slipped the envelope into the pocket of one of the tails of M. Richard's dress-coat. "Of course!" exclaimed Richard, looking a little pale. "It's very clever of O. G. The problem which he had to solve was this: how to do away with any dangerous intermediary between the man who gives the twenty-thousand francs and the man who receives it. And by far the best thing he could hit upon was to come and take the money from my pocket without my noticing it, as I myself did not know that it was there. It's wonderful!" "Oh, wonderful, no doubt!" Moncharmin agreed. "Only, you forget, Richard, that I provided ten-thousand francs of the twenty and that nobody put anything in my pocket!" [1] Flash notes drawn on the "Bank of St. Farce" in France correspond with those drawn on the "Bank of Engraving" in England.--Translator's Note. Chapter XVII The Safety-Pin Again Moncharmin's last phrase so dearly expressed the suspicion in which he now held his partner that it was bound to cause a stormy explanation, at the end of which it was agreed that Richard should yield to all Moncharmin's wishes, with the object of helping him to discover the miscreant who was victimizing them. This brings us to the interval after the Garden Act, with the strange conduct observed by M. Remy and those curious lapses from the dignity that might be expected of the managers. It was arranged between Richard and Moncharmin, first, that Richard should repeat the exact movements which he had made on the night of the disappearance of the first twenty-thousand francs; and, second, that Moncharmin should not for an instant lose sight of Richard's coat-tail pocket, into which Mme. Giry was to slip the twenty-thousand francs. M. Richard went and placed himself at the identical spot where he had stood when he bowed to the under-secretary for fine arts. M. Moncharmin took up his position a few steps behind him. Mme. Giry passed, rubbed up against M. Richard, got rid of her twenty-thousand francs in the manager's coat-tail pocket and disappeared ... Or rather she was conjured away. In accordance with the instructions received from Moncharmin a few minutes earlier, Mercier took the good lady to the acting-manager's office and turned the key on her, thus making it impossible for her to communicate with her ghost. Meanwhile, M. Richard was bending and bowing and scraping and walking backward, just as if he had that high and mighty minister, the under-secretary for fine arts, before him. Only, though these marks of politeness would have created no astonishment if the under-secretary of state had really been in front of M. Richard, they caused an easily comprehensible amazement to the spectators of this very natural but quite inexplicable scene when M. Richard had no body in front of him. M. Richard bowed ... to nobody; bent his back ... before nobody; and walked backward ... before nobody ... And, a few steps behind him, M. Moncharmin did the same thing that he was doing in addition to pushing away M. Remy and begging M. de La Borderie, the ambassador, and the manager of the Credit Central "not to touch M. le Directeur." Moncharmin, who had his own ideas, did not want Richard to come to him presently, when the twenty-thousand francs were gone, and say: "Perhaps it was the ambassador ... or the manager of the Credit Central ... or Remy." The more so as, at the time of the first scene, as Richard himself admitted, Richard had met nobody in that part of the theater after Mme. Giry had brushed up against him... Having begun by walking backward in order to bow, Richard continued to do so from prudence, until he reached the passage leading to the offices of the management. In this way, he was constantly watched by Moncharmin from behind and himself kept an eye on any one approaching from the front. Once more, this novel method of walking behind the scenes, adopted by the managers of our National Academy of Music, attracted attention; but the managers themselves thought of nothing but their twenty-thousand francs. On reaching the half-dark passage, Richard said to Moncharmin, in a low voice: "I am sure that nobody has touched me ... You had now better keep at some distance from me and watch me till I come to door of the office: it is better not to arouse suspicion and we can see anything that happens." But Moncharmin replied. "No, Richard, no! You walk ahead and I'll walk immediately behind you! I won't leave you by a step!" "But, in that case," exclaimed Richard, "they will never steal our twenty-thousand francs!" "I should hope not, indeed!" declared Moncharmin. "Then what we are doing is absurd!" "We are doing exactly what we did last time ... Last time, I joined you as you were leaving the stage and followed close behind you down this passage." "That's true!" sighed Richard, shaking his head and passively obeying Moncharmin. Two minutes later, the joint managers locked themselves into their office. Moncharmin himself put the key in his pocket: "We remained locked up like this, last time," he said, "until you left the Opera to go home." "That's so. No one came and disturbed us, I suppose?" "No one." "Then," said Richard, who was trying to collect his memory, "then I must certainly have been robbed on my way home from the Opera." "No," said Moncharmin in a drier tone than ever, "no, that's impossible. For I dropped you in my cab. The twenty-thousand francs disappeared at your place: there's not a shadow of a doubt about that." "It's incredible!" protested Richard. "I am sure of my servants ... and if one of them had done it, he would have disappeared since." Moncharmin shrugged his shoulders, as though to say that he did not wish to enter into details, and Richard began to think that Moncharmin was treating him in a very insupportable fashion. "Moncharmin, I've had enough of this!" "Richard, I've had too much of it!" "Do you dare to suspect me?" "Yes, of a silly joke." "One doesn't joke with twenty-thousand francs." "That's what I think," declared Moncharmin, unfolding a newspaper and ostentatiously studying its contents. "What are you doing?" asked Richard. "Are you going to read the paper next?" "Yes, Richard, until I take you home." "Like last time?" "Yes, like last time." Richard snatched the paper from Moncharmin's hands. Moncharmin stood up, more irritated than ever, and found himself faced by an exasperated Richard, who, crossing his arms on his chest, said: "Look here, I'm thinking of this, I'M THINKING OF WHAT I MIGHT THINK if, like last time, after my spending the evening alone with you, you brought me home and if, at the moment of parting, I perceived that twenty-thousand francs had disappeared from my coat-pocket ... like last time." "And what might you think?" asked Moncharmin, crimson with rage. "I might think that, as you hadn't left me by a foot's breadth and as, by your own wish, you were the only one to approach me, like last time, I might think that, if that twenty-thousand francs was no longer in my pocket, it stood a very good chance of being in yours!" Moncharmin leaped up at the suggestion. "Oh!" he shouted. "A safety-pin!" "What do you want a safety-pin for?" "To fasten you up with! ... A safety-pin! ... A safety-pin!" "You want to fasten me with a safety-pin?" "Yes, to fasten you to the twenty-thousand francs! Then, whether it's here, or on the drive from here to your place, or at your place, you will feel the hand that pulls at your pocket and you will see if it's mine! Oh, so you're suspecting me now, are you? A safety-pin!" And that was the moment when Moncharmin opened the door on the passage and shouted: "A safety-pin! ... somebody give me a safety-pin!" And we also know how, at the same moment, Remy, who had no safety-pin, was received by Moncharmin, while a boy procured the pin so eagerly longed for. And what happened was this: Moncharmin first locked the door again. Then he knelt down behind Richard's back. "I hope," he said, "that the notes are still there?" "So do I," said Richard. "The real ones?" asked Moncharmin, resolved not to be "had" this time. "Look for yourself," said Richard. "I refuse to touch them." Moncharmin took the envelope from Richard's pocket and drew out the bank-notes with a trembling hand, for, this time, in order frequently to make sure of the presence of the notes, he had not sealed the envelope nor even fastened it. He felt reassured on finding that they were all there and quite genuine. He put them back in the tail-pocket and pinned them with great care. Then he sat down behind Richard's coat-tails and kept his eyes fixed on them, while Richard, sitting at his writing-table, did not stir. "A little patience, Richard," said Moncharmin. "We have only a few minutes to wait ... The clock will soon strike twelve. Last time, we left at the last stroke of twelve." "Oh, I shall have all the patience necessary!" The time passed, slow, heavy, mysterious, stifling. Richard tried to laugh. "I shall end by believing in the omnipotence of the ghost," he said. "Just now, don't you find something uncomfortable, disquieting, alarming in the atmosphere of this room?" "You're quite right," said Moncharmin, who was really impressed. "The ghost!" continued Richard, in a low voice, as though fearing lest he should be overheard by invisible ears. "The ghost! Suppose, all the same, it were a ghost who puts the magic envelopes on the table ... who talks in Box Five ... who killed Joseph Buquet ... who unhooked the chandelier ... and who robs us! For, after all, after all, after all, there is no one here except you and me, and, if the notes disappear and neither you nor I have anything to do with it, well, we shall have to believe in the ghost ... in the ghost." At that moment, the clock on the mantlepiece gave its warning click and the first stroke of twelve struck. The two managers shuddered. The perspiration streamed from their foreheads. The twelfth stroke sounded strangely in their ears. When the clock stopped, they gave a sigh and rose from their chairs. "I think we can go now," said Moncharmin. "I think so," Richard a agreed. "Before we go, do you mind if I look in your pocket?" "But, of course, Moncharmin, YOU MUST! ... Well?" he asked, as Moncharmin was feeling at the pocket. "Well, I can feel the pin." "Of course, as you said, we can't be robbed without noticing it." But Moncharmin, whose hands were still fumbling, bellowed: "I can feel the pin, but I can't feel the notes!" "Come, no joking, Moncharmin! ... This isn't the time for it." "Well, feel for yourself." Richard tore off his coat. The two managers turned the pocket inside out. THE POCKET WAS EMPTY. And the curious thing was that the pin remained, stuck in the same place. Richard and Moncharmin turned pale. There was no longer any doubt about the witchcraft. "The ghost!" muttered Moncharmin. But Richard suddenly sprang upon his partner. "No one but you has touched my pocket! Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ... Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ..." "On my soul," sighed Moncharmin, who was ready to swoon, "on my soul, I swear that I haven't got it!" Then somebody knocked at the door. Moncharmin opened it automatically, seemed hardly to recognize Mercier, his business-manager, exchanged a few words with him, without knowing what he was saying and, with an unconscious movement, put the safety-pin, for which he had no further use, into the hands of his bewildered subordinate ... Chapter XVIII The Commissary, The Viscount and the Persian The first words of the commissary of police, on entering the managers' office, were to ask after the missing prima donna. "Is Christine Daae here?" "Christine Daae here?" echoed Richard. "No. Why?" As for Moncharmin, he had not the strength left to utter a word. Richard repeated, for the commissary and the compact crowd which had followed him into the office observed an impressive silence. "Why do you ask if Christine Daae is here, M. LE COMMISSAIRE?" "Because she has to be found," declared the commissary of police solemnly. "What do you mean, she has to be found? Has she disappeared?" "In the middle of the performance!" "In the middle of the performance? This is extraordinary!" "Isn't it? And what is quite as extraordinary is that you should first learn it from me!" "Yes," said Richard, taking his head in his hands and muttering. "What is this new business? Oh, it's enough to make a man send in his resignation!" And he pulled a few hairs out of his mustache without even knowing what he was doing. "So she ... so she disappeared in the middle of the performance?" he repeated. "Yes, she was carried off in the Prison Act, at the moment when she was invoking the aid of the angels; but I doubt if she was carried off by an angel." "And I am sure that she was!" Everybody looked round. A young man, pale and trembling with excitement, repeated: "I am sure of it!" "Sure of what?" asked Mifroid. "That Christine Daae was carried off by an angel, M. LE COMMISSAIRE and I can tell you his name." "Aha, M. le Vicomte de Chagny! So you maintain that Christine Daae was carried off by an angel: an angel of the Opera, no doubt?" "Yes, monsieur, by an angel of the Opera; and I will tell you where he lives ... when we are alone." "You are right, monsieur." And the commissary of police, inviting Raoul to take a chair, cleared the room of all the rest, excepting the managers. Then Raoul spoke: "M. le Commissaire, the angel is called Erik, he lives in the Opera and he is the Angel of Music!" "The Angel of Music! Really! That is very curious! ... The Angel of Music!" And, turning to the managers, M. Mifroid asked, "Have you an Angel of Music on the premises, gentlemen?" Richard and Moncharmin shook their heads, without even speaking. "Oh," said the viscount, "those gentlemen have heard of the Opera ghost. Well, I am in a position to state that the Opera ghost and the Angel of Music are one and the same person; and his real name is Erik." M. Mifroid rose and looked at Raoul attentively. "I beg your pardon, monsieur but is it your intention to make fun of the law? And, if not, what is all this about the Opera ghost?" "I say that these gentlemen have heard of him." "Gentlemen, it appears that you know the Opera ghost?" Richard rose, with the remaining hairs of his mustache in his hand. "No, M. Commissary, no, we do not know him, but we wish that we did, for this very evening he has robbed us of twenty-thousand francs!" And Richard turned a terrible look on Moncharmin, which seemed to say: "Give me back the twenty-thousand francs, or I'll tell the whole story." Moncharmin understood what he meant, for, with a distracted gesture, he said: "Oh, tell everything and have done with it!" As for Mifroid, he looked at the managers and at Raoul by turns and wondered whether he had strayed into a lunatic asylum. He passed his hand through his hair. "A ghost," he said, "who, on the same evening, carries off an opera-singer and steals twenty-thousand francs is a ghost who must have his hands very full! If you don't mind, we will take the questions in order. The singer first, the twenty-thousand francs after. Come, M. de Chagny, let us try to talk seriously. You believe that Mlle. Christine Daae has been carried off by an individual called Erik. Do you know this person? Have you seen him?" "Yes." "Where?" "In a church yard." M. Mifroid gave a start, began to scrutinize Raoul again and said: "Of course! ... That's where ghosts usually hang out! ... And what were you doing in that churchyard?" "Monsieur," said Raoul, "I can quite understand how absurd my replies must seem to you. But I beg you to believe that I am in full possession of my faculties. The safety of the person dearest to me in the world is at stake. I should like to convince you in a few words, for time is pressing and every minute is valuable. Unfortunately, if I do not tell you the strangest story that ever was from the beginning, you will not believe me. I will tell you all I know about the Opera ghost, M. Commissary. Alas, I do not know much! ..." "Never mind, go on, go on!" exclaimed Richard and Moncharmin, suddenly greatly interested. Unfortunately for their hopes of learning some detail that could put them on the track of their hoaxer, they were soon compelled to accept the fact that M. Raoul de Chagny had completely lost his head. All that story about Perros-Guirec, death's heads and enchanted violins, could only have taken birth in the disordered brain of a youth mad with love. It was evident, also, that

certaine

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

"Well, it's like this ... only the ghost doesn't like me to talk about his business." "Indeed?" sneered Richard. "But this is a matter that concerns myself alone ... Well, it was in Box Five one evening, I found a letter addressed to myself, a sort of note written in red ink. I needn't read the letter to you sir; I know it by heart, and I shall never forget it if I live to be a hundred!" And Mme. Giry, drawing herself up, recited the letter with touching eloquence: MADAM: 1825. Mlle. Menetrier, leader of the ballet, became Marquise de Cussy. 1832. Mlle. Marie Taglioni, a dancer, became Comtesse Gilbert des Voisins. 1846. La Sota, a dancer, married a brother of the King of Spain. 1847. Lola Montes, a dancer, became the morganatic wife of King Louis of Bavaria and was created Countess of Landsfeld. 1848. Mlle. Maria, a dancer, became Baronne d'Herneville. 1870. Theresa Hessier, a dancer, married Dom Fernando, brother to the King of Portugal. Richard and Moncharmin listened to the old woman, who, as she proceeded with the enumeration of these glorious nuptials, swelled out, took courage and, at last, in a voice bursting with pride, flung out the last sentence of the prophetic letter: 1885. Meg Giry, Empress! Exhausted by this supreme effort, the box-keeper fell into a chair, saying: "Gentlemen, the letter was signed, 'Opera Ghost.' I had heard much of the ghost, but only half believed in him. From the day when he declared that my little Meg, the flesh of my flesh, the fruit of my womb, would be empress, I believed in him altogether." And really it was not necessary to make a long study of Mme. Giry's excited features to understand what could be got out of that fine intellect with the two words "ghost" and "empress." But who pulled the strings of that extraordinary puppet? That was the question. "You have never seen him; he speaks to you and you believe all he says?" asked Moncharmin. "Yes. To begin with, I owe it to him that my little Meg was promoted to be the leader of a row. I said to the ghost, 'If she is to be empress in 1885, there is no time to lose; she must become a leader at once.' He said, 'Look upon it as done.' And he had only a word to say to M. Poligny and the thing was done." "So you see that M. Poligny saw him!" "No, not any more than I did; but he heard him. The ghost said a word in his ear, you know, on the evening when he left Box Five, looking so dreadfully pale." Moncharmin heaved a sigh. "What a business!" he groaned. "Ah!" said Mme. Giry. "I always thought there were secrets between the ghost and M. Poligny. Anything that the ghost asked M. Poligny to do M. Poligny did. M. Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "You hear, Richard: Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "Yes, yes, I hear!" said Richard. "M. Poligny is a friend of the ghost; and, as Mme. Giry is a friend of M. Poligny, there we are! ... But I don't care a hang about M. Poligny," he added roughly. "The only person whose fate really interests me is Mme. Giry... Mme. Giry, do you know what is in this envelope?" "Why, of course not," she said. "Well, look." Mine. Giry looked into the envelope with a lackluster eye, which soon recovered its brilliancy. "Thousand-franc notes!" she cried. "Yes, Mme. Giry, thousand-franc notes! And you knew it!" "I, sir? I? ... I swear ..." "Don't swear, Mme. Giry! ... And now I will tell you the second reason why I sent for you. Mme. Giry, I am going to have you arrested." The two black feathers on the dingy bonnet, which usually affected the attitude of two notes of interrogation, changed into two notes of exclamation; as for the bonnet itself, it swayed in menace on the old lady's tempestuous chignon. Surprise, indignation, protest and dismay were furthermore displayed by little Meg's mother in a sort of extravagant movement of offended virtue, half bound, half slide, that brought her right under the nose of M. Richard, who could not help pushing back his chair. "HAVE ME ARRESTED!" The mouth that spoke those words seemed to spit the three teeth that were left to it into Richard's face. M. Richard behaved like a hero. He retreated no farther. His threatening forefinger seemed already to be pointing out the keeper of Box Five to the absent magistrates. "I am going to have you arrested, Mme. Giry, as a thief!" "Say that again!" And Mme. Giry caught Mr. Manager Richard a mighty box on the ear, before Mr. Manager Moncharmin had time to intervene. But it was not the withered hand of the angry old beldame that fell on the managerial ear, but the envelope itself, the cause of all the trouble, the magic envelope that opened with the blow, scattering the bank-notes, which escaped in a fantastic whirl of giant butterflies. The two managers gave a shout, and the same thought made them both go on their knees, feverishly, picking up and hurriedly examining the precious scraps of paper. "Are they still genuine, Moncharmin?" "Are they still genuine, Richard?" "Yes, they are still genuine!" Above their heads, Mme. Giry's three teeth were clashing in a noisy contest, full of hideous interjections. But all that could be clearly distinguished was this LEIT-MOTIF: "I, a thief! ... I, a thief, I?" She choked with rage. She shouted: "I never heard of such a thing!" And, suddenly, she darted up to Richard again. "In any case," she yelped, "you, M. Richard, ought to know better than I where the twenty thousand francs went to!" "I?" asked Richard, astounded. "And how should I know?" Moncharmin, looking severe and dissatisfied, at once insisted that the good lady should explain herself. "What does this mean, Mme. Giry?" he asked. "And why do you say that M. Richard ought to know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to?" As for Richard, who felt himself turning red under Moncharmin's eyes, he took Mme. Giry by the wrist and shook it violently. In a voice growling and rolling like thunder, he roared: "Why should I know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to? Why? Answer me!" "Because they went into your pocket!" gasped the old woman, looking at him as if he were the devil incarnate. Richard would have rushed upon Mme. Giry, if Moncharmin had not stayed his avenging hand and hastened to ask her, more gently: "How can you suspect my partner, M. Richard, of putting twenty-thousand francs in his pocket?" "I never said that," declared Mme. Giry, "seeing that it was myself who put the twenty-thousand francs into M. Richard's pocket." And she added, under her voice, "There! It's out! ... And may the ghost forgive me!" Richard began bellowing anew, but Moncharmin authoritatively ordered him to be silent. "Allow me! Allow me! Let the woman explain herself. Let me question her." And he added: "It is really astonishing that you should take up such a tone! ... We are on the verge of clearing up the whole mystery. And you're in a rage! ... You're wrong to behave like that... I'm enjoying myself immensely." Mme. Giry, like the martyr that she was, raised her head, her face beaming with faith in her own innocence. "You tell me there were twenty-thousand francs in the envelope which I put into M. Richard's pocket; but I tell you again that I knew nothing about it ... Nor M. Richard either, for that matter!" "Aha!" said Richard, suddenly assuming a swaggering air which Moncharmin did not like. "I knew nothing either! You put twenty-thousand francs in my pocket and I knew nothing either! I am very glad to hear it, Mme. Giry!" "Yes," the terrible dame agreed, "yes, it's true. We neither of us knew anything. But you, you must have ended by finding out!" Richard would certainly have swallowed Mme. Giry alive, if Moncharmin had not been there! But Moncharmin protected her. He resumed his questions: "What sort of envelope did you put in M. Richard's pocket? It was not the one which we gave you, the one which you took to Box Five before our eyes; and yet that was the one which contained the twenty-thousand francs." "I beg your pardon. The envelope which M. le Directeur gave me was the one which I slipped into M. le Directeur's pocket," explained Mme. Giry. "The one which I took to the ghost's box was another envelope, just like it, which the ghost gave me beforehand and which I hid up my sleeve." So saying, Mme. Giry took from her sleeve an envelope ready prepared and similarly addressed to that containing the twenty-thousand francs. The managers took it from her. They examined it and saw that it was fastened with seals stamped with their own managerial seal. They opened it. It contained twenty Bank of St. Farce notes like those which had so much astounded them the month before. "How simple!" said Richard. "How simple!" repeated Moncharmin. And he continued with his eyes fixed upon Mme. Giry, as though trying to hypnotize her. "So it was the ghost who gave you this envelope and told you to substitute it for the one which we gave you? And it was the ghost who told you to put the other into M. Richard's pocket?" "Yes, it was the ghost." "Then would you mind giving us a specimen of your little talents? Here is the envelope. Act as though we knew nothing." "As you please, gentlemen." Mme. Giry took the envelope with the twenty notes inside it and made for the door. She was on the point of going out when the two managers rushed at her: "Oh, no! Oh, no! We're not going to be 'done' a second time! Once bitten, twice shy!" "I beg your pardon, gentlemen," said the old woman, in self-excuse, "you told me to act as though you knew nothing ... Well, if you knew nothing, I should go away with your envelope!" "And then how would you slip it into my pocket?" argued Richard, whom Moncharmin fixed with his left eye, while keeping his right on Mme. Giry: a proceeding likely to strain his sight, but Moncharmin was prepared to go to any length to discover the truth. "I am to slip it into your pocket when you least expect it, sir. You know that I always take a little turn behind the scenes, in the course of the evening, and I often go with my daughter to the ballet-foyer, which I am entitled to do, as her mother; I bring her her shoes, when the ballet is about to begin ... in fact, I come and go as I please ... The subscribers come and go too... So do you, sir ... There are lots of people about ... I go behind you and slip the envelope into the tail-pocket of your dress-coat ... There's no witchcraft about that!" "No witchcraft!" growled Richard, rolling his eyes like Jupiter Tonans. "No witchcraft! Why, I've just caught you in a lie, you old witch!" Mme. Giry bristled, with her three teeth sticking out of her mouth. "And why, may I ask?" "Because I spent that evening watching Box Five and the sham envelope which you put there. I did not go to the ballet-foyer for a second." "No, sir, and I did not give you the envelope that evening, but at the next performance ... on the evening when the under-secretary of state for fine arts ..." At these words, M. Richard suddenly interrupted Mme. Giry: "Yes, that's true, I remember now! The under-secretary went behind the scenes. He asked for me. I went down to the ballet-foyer for a moment. I was on the foyer steps ... The under-secretary and his chief clerk were in the foyer itself. I suddenly turned around ... you had passed behind me, Mme. Giry ... You seemed to push against me ... Oh, I can see you still, I can see you still!" "Yes, that's it, sir, that's it. I had just finished my little business. That pocket of yours, sir, is very handy!" And Mme. Giry once more suited the action to the word, She passed behind M. Richard and, so nimbly that Moncharmin himself was impressed by it, slipped the envelope into the pocket of one of the tails of M. Richard's dress-coat. "Of course!" exclaimed Richard, looking a little pale. "It's very clever of O. G. The problem which he had to solve was this: how to do away with any dangerous intermediary between the man who gives the twenty-thousand francs and the man who receives it. And by far the best thing he could hit upon was to come and take the money from my pocket without my noticing it, as I myself did not know that it was there. It's wonderful!" "Oh, wonderful, no doubt!" Moncharmin agreed. "Only, you forget, Richard, that I provided ten-thousand francs of the twenty and that nobody put anything in my pocket!" [1] Flash notes drawn on the "Bank of St. Farce" in France correspond with those drawn on the "Bank of Engraving" in England.--Translator's Note. Chapter XVII The Safety-Pin Again Moncharmin's last phrase so dearly expressed the suspicion in which he now held his partner that it was bound to cause a stormy explanation, at the end of which it was agreed that Richard should yield to all Moncharmin's wishes, with the object of helping him to discover the miscreant who was victimizing them. This brings us to the interval after the Garden Act, with the strange conduct observed by M. Remy and those curious lapses from the dignity that might be expected of the managers. It was arranged between Richard and Moncharmin, first, that Richard should repeat the exact movements which he had made on the night of the disappearance of the first twenty-thousand francs; and, second, that Moncharmin should not for an instant lose sight of Richard's coat-tail pocket, into which Mme. Giry was to slip the twenty-thousand francs. M. Richard went and placed himself at the identical spot where he had stood when he bowed to the under-secretary for fine arts. M. Moncharmin took up his position a few steps behind him. Mme. Giry passed, rubbed up against M. Richard, got rid of her twenty-thousand francs in the manager's coat-tail pocket and disappeared ... Or rather she was conjured away. In accordance with the instructions received from Moncharmin a few minutes earlier, Mercier took the good lady to the acting-manager's office and turned the key on her, thus making it impossible for her to communicate with her ghost. Meanwhile, M. Richard was bending and bowing and scraping and walking backward, just as if he had that high and mighty minister, the under-secretary for fine arts, before him. Only, though these marks of politeness would have created no astonishment if the under-secretary of state had really been in front of M. Richard, they caused an easily comprehensible amazement to the spectators of this very natural but quite inexplicable scene when M. Richard had no body in front of him. M. Richard bowed ... to nobody; bent his back ... before nobody; and walked backward ... before nobody ... And, a few steps behind him, M. Moncharmin did the same thing that he was doing in addition to pushing away M. Remy and begging M. de La Borderie, the ambassador, and the manager of the Credit Central "not to touch M. le Directeur." Moncharmin, who had his own ideas, did not want Richard to come to him presently, when the twenty-thousand francs were gone, and say: "Perhaps it was the ambassador ... or the manager of the Credit Central ... or Remy." The more so as, at the time of the first scene, as Richard himself admitted, Richard had met nobody in that part of the theater after Mme. Giry had brushed up against him... Having begun by walking backward in order to bow, Richard continued to do so from prudence, until he reached the passage leading to the offices of the management. In this way, he was constantly watched by Moncharmin from behind and himself kept an eye on any one approaching from the front. Once more, this novel method of walking behind the scenes, adopted by the managers of our National Academy of Music, attracted attention; but the managers themselves thought of nothing but their twenty-thousand francs. On reaching the half-dark passage, Richard said to Moncharmin, in a low voice: "I am sure that nobody has touched me ... You had now better keep at some distance from me and watch me till I come to door of the office: it is better not to arouse suspicion and we can see anything that happens." But Moncharmin replied. "No, Richard, no! You walk ahead and I'll walk immediately behind you! I won't leave you by a step!" "But, in that case," exclaimed Richard, "they will never steal our twenty-thousand francs!" "I should hope not, indeed!" declared Moncharmin. "Then what we are doing is absurd!" "We are doing exactly what we did last time ... Last time, I joined you as you were leaving the stage and followed close behind you down this passage." "That's true!" sighed Richard, shaking his head and passively obeying Moncharmin. Two minutes later, the joint managers locked themselves into their office. Moncharmin himself put the key in his pocket: "We remained locked up like this, last time," he said, "until you left the Opera to go home." "That's so. No one came and disturbed us, I suppose?" "No one." "Then," said Richard, who was trying to collect his memory, "then I must certainly have been robbed on my way home from the Opera." "No," said Moncharmin in a drier tone than ever, "no, that's impossible. For I dropped you in my cab. The twenty-thousand francs disappeared at your place: there's not a shadow of a doubt about that." "It's incredible!" protested Richard. "I am sure of my servants ... and if one of them had done it, he would have disappeared since." Moncharmin shrugged his shoulders, as though to say that he did not wish to enter into details, and Richard began to think that Moncharmin was treating him in a very insupportable fashion. "Moncharmin, I've had enough of this!" "Richard, I've had too much of it!" "Do you dare to suspect me?" "Yes, of a silly joke." "One doesn't joke with twenty-thousand francs." "That's what I think," declared Moncharmin, unfolding a newspaper and ostentatiously studying its contents. "What are you doing?" asked Richard. "Are you going to read the paper next?" "Yes, Richard, until I take you home." "Like last time?" "Yes, like last time." Richard snatched the paper from Moncharmin's hands. Moncharmin stood up, more irritated than ever, and found himself faced by an exasperated Richard, who, crossing his arms on his chest, said: "Look here, I'm thinking of this, I'M THINKING OF WHAT I MIGHT THINK if, like last time, after my spending the evening alone with you, you brought me home and if, at the moment of parting, I perceived that twenty-thousand francs had disappeared from my coat-pocket ... like last time." "And what might you think?" asked Moncharmin, crimson with rage. "I might think that, as you hadn't left me by a foot's breadth and as, by your own wish, you were the only one to approach me, like last time, I might think that, if that twenty-thousand francs was no longer in my pocket, it stood a very good chance of being in yours!" Moncharmin leaped up at the suggestion. "Oh!" he shouted. "A safety-pin!" "What do you want a safety-pin for?" "To fasten you up with! ... A safety-pin! ... A safety-pin!" "You want to fasten me with a safety-pin?" "Yes, to fasten you to the twenty-thousand francs! Then, whether it's here, or on the drive from here to your place, or at your place, you will feel the hand that pulls at your pocket and you will see if it's mine! Oh, so you're suspecting me now, are you? A safety-pin!" And that was the moment when Moncharmin opened the door on the passage and shouted: "A safety-pin! ... somebody give me a safety-pin!" And we also know how, at the same moment, Remy, who had no safety-pin, was received by Moncharmin, while a boy procured the pin so eagerly longed for. And what happened was this: Moncharmin first locked the door again. Then he knelt down behind Richard's back. "I hope," he said, "that the notes are still there?" "So do I," said Richard. "The real ones?" asked Moncharmin, resolved not to be "had" this time. "Look for yourself," said Richard. "I refuse to touch them." Moncharmin took the envelope from Richard's pocket and drew out the bank-notes with a trembling hand, for, this time, in order frequently to make sure of the presence of the notes, he had not sealed the envelope nor even fastened it. He felt reassured on finding that they were all there and quite genuine. He put them back in the tail-pocket and pinned them with great care. Then he sat down behind Richard's coat-tails and kept his eyes fixed on them, while Richard, sitting at his writing-table, did not stir. "A little patience, Richard," said Moncharmin. "We have only a few minutes to wait ... The clock will soon strike twelve. Last time, we left at the last stroke of twelve." "Oh, I shall have all the patience necessary!" The time passed, slow, heavy, mysterious, stifling. Richard tried to laugh. "I shall end by believing in the omnipotence of the ghost," he said. "Just now, don't you find something uncomfortable, disquieting, alarming in the atmosphere of this room?" "You're quite right," said Moncharmin, who was really impressed. "The ghost!" continued Richard, in a low voice, as though fearing lest he should be overheard by invisible ears. "The ghost! Suppose, all the same, it were a ghost who puts the magic envelopes on the table ... who talks in Box Five ... who killed Joseph Buquet ... who unhooked the chandelier ... and who robs us! For, after all, after all, after all, there is no one here except you and me, and, if the notes disappear and neither you nor I have anything to do with it, well, we shall have to believe in the ghost ... in the ghost." At that moment, the clock on the mantlepiece gave its warning click and the first stroke of twelve struck. The two managers shuddered. The perspiration streamed from their foreheads. The twelfth stroke sounded strangely in their ears. When the clock stopped, they gave a sigh and rose from their chairs. "I think we can go now," said Moncharmin. "I think so," Richard a agreed. "Before we go, do you mind if I look in your pocket?" "But, of course, Moncharmin, YOU MUST! ... Well?" he asked, as Moncharmin was feeling at the pocket. "Well, I can feel the pin." "Of course, as you said, we can't be robbed without noticing it." But Moncharmin, whose hands were still fumbling, bellowed: "I can feel the pin, but I can't feel the notes!" "Come, no joking, Moncharmin! ... This isn't the time for it." "Well, feel for yourself." Richard tore off his coat. The two managers turned the pocket inside out. THE POCKET WAS EMPTY. And the curious thing was that the pin remained, stuck in the same place. Richard and Moncharmin turned pale. There was no longer any doubt about the witchcraft. "The ghost!" muttered Moncharmin. But Richard suddenly sprang upon his partner. "No one but you has touched my pocket! Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ... Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ..." "On my soul," sighed Moncharmin, who was ready to swoon, "on my soul, I swear that I haven't got it!" Then somebody knocked at the door. Moncharmin opened it automatically, seemed hardly to recognize Mercier, his business-manager, exchanged a few words with him, without knowing what he was saying and, with an unconscious movement, put the safety-pin, for which he had no further use, into the hands of his bewildered subordinate ... Chapter XVIII The Commissary, The Viscount and the Persian The first words of the commissary of police, on entering the managers' office, were to ask after the missing prima donna. "Is Christine Daae here?" "Christine Daae here?" echoed Richard. "No. Why?" As for Moncharmin, he had not the strength left to utter a word. Richard repeated, for the commissary and the compact crowd which had followed him into the office observed an impressive silence. "Why do you ask if Christine Daae is here, M. LE COMMISSAIRE?" "Because she has to be found," declared the commissary of police solemnly. "What do you mean, she has to be found? Has she disappeared?" "In the middle of the performance!" "In the middle of the performance? This is extraordinary!" "Isn't it? And what is quite as extraordinary is that you should first learn it from me!" "Yes," said Richard, taking his head in his hands and muttering. "What is this new business? Oh, it's enough to make a man send in his resignation!" And he pulled a few hairs out of his mustache without even knowing what he was doing. "So she ... so she disappeared in the middle of the performance?" he repeated. "Yes, she was carried off in the Prison Act, at the moment when she was invoking the aid of the angels; but I doubt if she was carried off by an angel." "And I am sure that she was!" Everybody looked round. A young man, pale and trembling with excitement, repeated: "I am sure of it!" "Sure of what?" asked Mifroid. "That Christine Daae was carried off by an angel, M. LE COMMISSAIRE and I can tell you his name." "Aha, M. le Vicomte de Chagny! So you maintain that Christine Daae was carried off by an angel: an angel of the Opera, no doubt?" "Yes, monsieur, by an angel of the Opera; and I will tell you where he lives ... when we are alone." "You are right, monsieur." And the commissary of police, inviting Raoul to take a chair, cleared the room of all the rest, excepting the managers. Then Raoul spoke: "M. le Commissaire, the angel is called Erik, he lives in the Opera and he is the Angel of Music!" "The Angel of Music! Really! That is very curious! ... The Angel of Music!" And, turning to the managers, M. Mifroid asked, "Have you an Angel of Music on the premises, gentlemen?" Richard and Moncharmin shook their heads, without even speaking. "Oh," said the viscount, "those gentlemen have heard of the Opera ghost. Well, I am in a position to state that the Opera ghost and the Angel of Music are one and the same person; and his real name is Erik." M. Mifroid rose and looked at Raoul attentively. "I beg your pardon, monsieur but is it your intention to make fun of the law? And, if not, what is all this about the Opera ghost?" "I say that these gentlemen have heard of him." "Gentlemen, it appears that you know the Opera ghost?" Richard rose, with the remaining hairs of his mustache in his hand. "No, M. Commissary, no, we do not know him, but we wish that we did, for this very evening he has robbed us of twenty-thousand francs!" And Richard turned a terrible look on Moncharmin, which seemed to say: "Give me back the twenty-thousand francs, or I'll tell the whole story." Moncharmin understood what he meant, for, with a distracted gesture, he said: "Oh, tell everything and have done with it!" As for Mifroid, he looked at the managers and at Raoul by turns and wondered whether he had strayed into a lunatic asylum. He passed his hand through his hair. "A ghost," he said, "who, on the same evening, carries off an opera-singer and steals twenty-thousand francs is a ghost who must have his hands very full! If you don't mind, we will take the questions in order. The singer first, the twenty-thousand francs after. Come, M. de Chagny, let us try to talk seriously. You believe that Mlle. Christine Daae has been carried off by an individual called Erik. Do you know this person? Have you seen him?" "Yes." "Where?" "In a church yard." M. Mifroid gave a start, began to scrutinize Raoul again and said: "Of course! ... That's where ghosts usually hang out! ... And what were you doing in that churchyard?" "Monsieur," said Raoul, "I can quite understand how absurd my replies must seem to you. But I beg you to believe that I am in full possession of my faculties. The safety of the person dearest to me in the world is at stake. I should like to convince you in a few words, for time is pressing and every minute is valuable. Unfortunately, if I do not tell you the strangest story that ever was from the beginning, you will not believe me. I will tell you all I know about the Opera ghost, M. Commissary. Alas, I do not know much! ..." "Never mind, go on, go on!" exclaimed Richard and Moncharmin, suddenly greatly interested. Unfortunately for their hopes of learning some detail that could put them on the track of their hoaxer, they were soon compelled to accept the fact that M. Raoul de Chagny had completely lost his head. All that story about Perros-Guirec, death's heads and enchanted violins, could only have taken birth in the disordered brain of a youth mad with love. It was evident, also, that

d'autres

How many times the word 'd'autres' appears in the text?

"Well, it's like this ... only the ghost doesn't like me to talk about his business." "Indeed?" sneered Richard. "But this is a matter that concerns myself alone ... Well, it was in Box Five one evening, I found a letter addressed to myself, a sort of note written in red ink. I needn't read the letter to you sir; I know it by heart, and I shall never forget it if I live to be a hundred!" And Mme. Giry, drawing herself up, recited the letter with touching eloquence: MADAM: 1825. Mlle. Menetrier, leader of the ballet, became Marquise de Cussy. 1832. Mlle. Marie Taglioni, a dancer, became Comtesse Gilbert des Voisins. 1846. La Sota, a dancer, married a brother of the King of Spain. 1847. Lola Montes, a dancer, became the morganatic wife of King Louis of Bavaria and was created Countess of Landsfeld. 1848. Mlle. Maria, a dancer, became Baronne d'Herneville. 1870. Theresa Hessier, a dancer, married Dom Fernando, brother to the King of Portugal. Richard and Moncharmin listened to the old woman, who, as she proceeded with the enumeration of these glorious nuptials, swelled out, took courage and, at last, in a voice bursting with pride, flung out the last sentence of the prophetic letter: 1885. Meg Giry, Empress! Exhausted by this supreme effort, the box-keeper fell into a chair, saying: "Gentlemen, the letter was signed, 'Opera Ghost.' I had heard much of the ghost, but only half believed in him. From the day when he declared that my little Meg, the flesh of my flesh, the fruit of my womb, would be empress, I believed in him altogether." And really it was not necessary to make a long study of Mme. Giry's excited features to understand what could be got out of that fine intellect with the two words "ghost" and "empress." But who pulled the strings of that extraordinary puppet? That was the question. "You have never seen him; he speaks to you and you believe all he says?" asked Moncharmin. "Yes. To begin with, I owe it to him that my little Meg was promoted to be the leader of a row. I said to the ghost, 'If she is to be empress in 1885, there is no time to lose; she must become a leader at once.' He said, 'Look upon it as done.' And he had only a word to say to M. Poligny and the thing was done." "So you see that M. Poligny saw him!" "No, not any more than I did; but he heard him. The ghost said a word in his ear, you know, on the evening when he left Box Five, looking so dreadfully pale." Moncharmin heaved a sigh. "What a business!" he groaned. "Ah!" said Mme. Giry. "I always thought there were secrets between the ghost and M. Poligny. Anything that the ghost asked M. Poligny to do M. Poligny did. M. Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "You hear, Richard: Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "Yes, yes, I hear!" said Richard. "M. Poligny is a friend of the ghost; and, as Mme. Giry is a friend of M. Poligny, there we are! ... But I don't care a hang about M. Poligny," he added roughly. "The only person whose fate really interests me is Mme. Giry... Mme. Giry, do you know what is in this envelope?" "Why, of course not," she said. "Well, look." Mine. Giry looked into the envelope with a lackluster eye, which soon recovered its brilliancy. "Thousand-franc notes!" she cried. "Yes, Mme. Giry, thousand-franc notes! And you knew it!" "I, sir? I? ... I swear ..." "Don't swear, Mme. Giry! ... And now I will tell you the second reason why I sent for you. Mme. Giry, I am going to have you arrested." The two black feathers on the dingy bonnet, which usually affected the attitude of two notes of interrogation, changed into two notes of exclamation; as for the bonnet itself, it swayed in menace on the old lady's tempestuous chignon. Surprise, indignation, protest and dismay were furthermore displayed by little Meg's mother in a sort of extravagant movement of offended virtue, half bound, half slide, that brought her right under the nose of M. Richard, who could not help pushing back his chair. "HAVE ME ARRESTED!" The mouth that spoke those words seemed to spit the three teeth that were left to it into Richard's face. M. Richard behaved like a hero. He retreated no farther. His threatening forefinger seemed already to be pointing out the keeper of Box Five to the absent magistrates. "I am going to have you arrested, Mme. Giry, as a thief!" "Say that again!" And Mme. Giry caught Mr. Manager Richard a mighty box on the ear, before Mr. Manager Moncharmin had time to intervene. But it was not the withered hand of the angry old beldame that fell on the managerial ear, but the envelope itself, the cause of all the trouble, the magic envelope that opened with the blow, scattering the bank-notes, which escaped in a fantastic whirl of giant butterflies. The two managers gave a shout, and the same thought made them both go on their knees, feverishly, picking up and hurriedly examining the precious scraps of paper. "Are they still genuine, Moncharmin?" "Are they still genuine, Richard?" "Yes, they are still genuine!" Above their heads, Mme. Giry's three teeth were clashing in a noisy contest, full of hideous interjections. But all that could be clearly distinguished was this LEIT-MOTIF: "I, a thief! ... I, a thief, I?" She choked with rage. She shouted: "I never heard of such a thing!" And, suddenly, she darted up to Richard again. "In any case," she yelped, "you, M. Richard, ought to know better than I where the twenty thousand francs went to!" "I?" asked Richard, astounded. "And how should I know?" Moncharmin, looking severe and dissatisfied, at once insisted that the good lady should explain herself. "What does this mean, Mme. Giry?" he asked. "And why do you say that M. Richard ought to know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to?" As for Richard, who felt himself turning red under Moncharmin's eyes, he took Mme. Giry by the wrist and shook it violently. In a voice growling and rolling like thunder, he roared: "Why should I know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to? Why? Answer me!" "Because they went into your pocket!" gasped the old woman, looking at him as if he were the devil incarnate. Richard would have rushed upon Mme. Giry, if Moncharmin had not stayed his avenging hand and hastened to ask her, more gently: "How can you suspect my partner, M. Richard, of putting twenty-thousand francs in his pocket?" "I never said that," declared Mme. Giry, "seeing that it was myself who put the twenty-thousand francs into M. Richard's pocket." And she added, under her voice, "There! It's out! ... And may the ghost forgive me!" Richard began bellowing anew, but Moncharmin authoritatively ordered him to be silent. "Allow me! Allow me! Let the woman explain herself. Let me question her." And he added: "It is really astonishing that you should take up such a tone! ... We are on the verge of clearing up the whole mystery. And you're in a rage! ... You're wrong to behave like that... I'm enjoying myself immensely." Mme. Giry, like the martyr that she was, raised her head, her face beaming with faith in her own innocence. "You tell me there were twenty-thousand francs in the envelope which I put into M. Richard's pocket; but I tell you again that I knew nothing about it ... Nor M. Richard either, for that matter!" "Aha!" said Richard, suddenly assuming a swaggering air which Moncharmin did not like. "I knew nothing either! You put twenty-thousand francs in my pocket and I knew nothing either! I am very glad to hear it, Mme. Giry!" "Yes," the terrible dame agreed, "yes, it's true. We neither of us knew anything. But you, you must have ended by finding out!" Richard would certainly have swallowed Mme. Giry alive, if Moncharmin had not been there! But Moncharmin protected her. He resumed his questions: "What sort of envelope did you put in M. Richard's pocket? It was not the one which we gave you, the one which you took to Box Five before our eyes; and yet that was the one which contained the twenty-thousand francs." "I beg your pardon. The envelope which M. le Directeur gave me was the one which I slipped into M. le Directeur's pocket," explained Mme. Giry. "The one which I took to the ghost's box was another envelope, just like it, which the ghost gave me beforehand and which I hid up my sleeve." So saying, Mme. Giry took from her sleeve an envelope ready prepared and similarly addressed to that containing the twenty-thousand francs. The managers took it from her. They examined it and saw that it was fastened with seals stamped with their own managerial seal. They opened it. It contained twenty Bank of St. Farce notes like those which had so much astounded them the month before. "How simple!" said Richard. "How simple!" repeated Moncharmin. And he continued with his eyes fixed upon Mme. Giry, as though trying to hypnotize her. "So it was the ghost who gave you this envelope and told you to substitute it for the one which we gave you? And it was the ghost who told you to put the other into M. Richard's pocket?" "Yes, it was the ghost." "Then would you mind giving us a specimen of your little talents? Here is the envelope. Act as though we knew nothing." "As you please, gentlemen." Mme. Giry took the envelope with the twenty notes inside it and made for the door. She was on the point of going out when the two managers rushed at her: "Oh, no! Oh, no! We're not going to be 'done' a second time! Once bitten, twice shy!" "I beg your pardon, gentlemen," said the old woman, in self-excuse, "you told me to act as though you knew nothing ... Well, if you knew nothing, I should go away with your envelope!" "And then how would you slip it into my pocket?" argued Richard, whom Moncharmin fixed with his left eye, while keeping his right on Mme. Giry: a proceeding likely to strain his sight, but Moncharmin was prepared to go to any length to discover the truth. "I am to slip it into your pocket when you least expect it, sir. You know that I always take a little turn behind the scenes, in the course of the evening, and I often go with my daughter to the ballet-foyer, which I am entitled to do, as her mother; I bring her her shoes, when the ballet is about to begin ... in fact, I come and go as I please ... The subscribers come and go too... So do you, sir ... There are lots of people about ... I go behind you and slip the envelope into the tail-pocket of your dress-coat ... There's no witchcraft about that!" "No witchcraft!" growled Richard, rolling his eyes like Jupiter Tonans. "No witchcraft! Why, I've just caught you in a lie, you old witch!" Mme. Giry bristled, with her three teeth sticking out of her mouth. "And why, may I ask?" "Because I spent that evening watching Box Five and the sham envelope which you put there. I did not go to the ballet-foyer for a second." "No, sir, and I did not give you the envelope that evening, but at the next performance ... on the evening when the under-secretary of state for fine arts ..." At these words, M. Richard suddenly interrupted Mme. Giry: "Yes, that's true, I remember now! The under-secretary went behind the scenes. He asked for me. I went down to the ballet-foyer for a moment. I was on the foyer steps ... The under-secretary and his chief clerk were in the foyer itself. I suddenly turned around ... you had passed behind me, Mme. Giry ... You seemed to push against me ... Oh, I can see you still, I can see you still!" "Yes, that's it, sir, that's it. I had just finished my little business. That pocket of yours, sir, is very handy!" And Mme. Giry once more suited the action to the word, She passed behind M. Richard and, so nimbly that Moncharmin himself was impressed by it, slipped the envelope into the pocket of one of the tails of M. Richard's dress-coat. "Of course!" exclaimed Richard, looking a little pale. "It's very clever of O. G. The problem which he had to solve was this: how to do away with any dangerous intermediary between the man who gives the twenty-thousand francs and the man who receives it. And by far the best thing he could hit upon was to come and take the money from my pocket without my noticing it, as I myself did not know that it was there. It's wonderful!" "Oh, wonderful, no doubt!" Moncharmin agreed. "Only, you forget, Richard, that I provided ten-thousand francs of the twenty and that nobody put anything in my pocket!" [1] Flash notes drawn on the "Bank of St. Farce" in France correspond with those drawn on the "Bank of Engraving" in England.--Translator's Note. Chapter XVII The Safety-Pin Again Moncharmin's last phrase so dearly expressed the suspicion in which he now held his partner that it was bound to cause a stormy explanation, at the end of which it was agreed that Richard should yield to all Moncharmin's wishes, with the object of helping him to discover the miscreant who was victimizing them. This brings us to the interval after the Garden Act, with the strange conduct observed by M. Remy and those curious lapses from the dignity that might be expected of the managers. It was arranged between Richard and Moncharmin, first, that Richard should repeat the exact movements which he had made on the night of the disappearance of the first twenty-thousand francs; and, second, that Moncharmin should not for an instant lose sight of Richard's coat-tail pocket, into which Mme. Giry was to slip the twenty-thousand francs. M. Richard went and placed himself at the identical spot where he had stood when he bowed to the under-secretary for fine arts. M. Moncharmin took up his position a few steps behind him. Mme. Giry passed, rubbed up against M. Richard, got rid of her twenty-thousand francs in the manager's coat-tail pocket and disappeared ... Or rather she was conjured away. In accordance with the instructions received from Moncharmin a few minutes earlier, Mercier took the good lady to the acting-manager's office and turned the key on her, thus making it impossible for her to communicate with her ghost. Meanwhile, M. Richard was bending and bowing and scraping and walking backward, just as if he had that high and mighty minister, the under-secretary for fine arts, before him. Only, though these marks of politeness would have created no astonishment if the under-secretary of state had really been in front of M. Richard, they caused an easily comprehensible amazement to the spectators of this very natural but quite inexplicable scene when M. Richard had no body in front of him. M. Richard bowed ... to nobody; bent his back ... before nobody; and walked backward ... before nobody ... And, a few steps behind him, M. Moncharmin did the same thing that he was doing in addition to pushing away M. Remy and begging M. de La Borderie, the ambassador, and the manager of the Credit Central "not to touch M. le Directeur." Moncharmin, who had his own ideas, did not want Richard to come to him presently, when the twenty-thousand francs were gone, and say: "Perhaps it was the ambassador ... or the manager of the Credit Central ... or Remy." The more so as, at the time of the first scene, as Richard himself admitted, Richard had met nobody in that part of the theater after Mme. Giry had brushed up against him... Having begun by walking backward in order to bow, Richard continued to do so from prudence, until he reached the passage leading to the offices of the management. In this way, he was constantly watched by Moncharmin from behind and himself kept an eye on any one approaching from the front. Once more, this novel method of walking behind the scenes, adopted by the managers of our National Academy of Music, attracted attention; but the managers themselves thought of nothing but their twenty-thousand francs. On reaching the half-dark passage, Richard said to Moncharmin, in a low voice: "I am sure that nobody has touched me ... You had now better keep at some distance from me and watch me till I come to door of the office: it is better not to arouse suspicion and we can see anything that happens." But Moncharmin replied. "No, Richard, no! You walk ahead and I'll walk immediately behind you! I won't leave you by a step!" "But, in that case," exclaimed Richard, "they will never steal our twenty-thousand francs!" "I should hope not, indeed!" declared Moncharmin. "Then what we are doing is absurd!" "We are doing exactly what we did last time ... Last time, I joined you as you were leaving the stage and followed close behind you down this passage." "That's true!" sighed Richard, shaking his head and passively obeying Moncharmin. Two minutes later, the joint managers locked themselves into their office. Moncharmin himself put the key in his pocket: "We remained locked up like this, last time," he said, "until you left the Opera to go home." "That's so. No one came and disturbed us, I suppose?" "No one." "Then," said Richard, who was trying to collect his memory, "then I must certainly have been robbed on my way home from the Opera." "No," said Moncharmin in a drier tone than ever, "no, that's impossible. For I dropped you in my cab. The twenty-thousand francs disappeared at your place: there's not a shadow of a doubt about that." "It's incredible!" protested Richard. "I am sure of my servants ... and if one of them had done it, he would have disappeared since." Moncharmin shrugged his shoulders, as though to say that he did not wish to enter into details, and Richard began to think that Moncharmin was treating him in a very insupportable fashion. "Moncharmin, I've had enough of this!" "Richard, I've had too much of it!" "Do you dare to suspect me?" "Yes, of a silly joke." "One doesn't joke with twenty-thousand francs." "That's what I think," declared Moncharmin, unfolding a newspaper and ostentatiously studying its contents. "What are you doing?" asked Richard. "Are you going to read the paper next?" "Yes, Richard, until I take you home." "Like last time?" "Yes, like last time." Richard snatched the paper from Moncharmin's hands. Moncharmin stood up, more irritated than ever, and found himself faced by an exasperated Richard, who, crossing his arms on his chest, said: "Look here, I'm thinking of this, I'M THINKING OF WHAT I MIGHT THINK if, like last time, after my spending the evening alone with you, you brought me home and if, at the moment of parting, I perceived that twenty-thousand francs had disappeared from my coat-pocket ... like last time." "And what might you think?" asked Moncharmin, crimson with rage. "I might think that, as you hadn't left me by a foot's breadth and as, by your own wish, you were the only one to approach me, like last time, I might think that, if that twenty-thousand francs was no longer in my pocket, it stood a very good chance of being in yours!" Moncharmin leaped up at the suggestion. "Oh!" he shouted. "A safety-pin!" "What do you want a safety-pin for?" "To fasten you up with! ... A safety-pin! ... A safety-pin!" "You want to fasten me with a safety-pin?" "Yes, to fasten you to the twenty-thousand francs! Then, whether it's here, or on the drive from here to your place, or at your place, you will feel the hand that pulls at your pocket and you will see if it's mine! Oh, so you're suspecting me now, are you? A safety-pin!" And that was the moment when Moncharmin opened the door on the passage and shouted: "A safety-pin! ... somebody give me a safety-pin!" And we also know how, at the same moment, Remy, who had no safety-pin, was received by Moncharmin, while a boy procured the pin so eagerly longed for. And what happened was this: Moncharmin first locked the door again. Then he knelt down behind Richard's back. "I hope," he said, "that the notes are still there?" "So do I," said Richard. "The real ones?" asked Moncharmin, resolved not to be "had" this time. "Look for yourself," said Richard. "I refuse to touch them." Moncharmin took the envelope from Richard's pocket and drew out the bank-notes with a trembling hand, for, this time, in order frequently to make sure of the presence of the notes, he had not sealed the envelope nor even fastened it. He felt reassured on finding that they were all there and quite genuine. He put them back in the tail-pocket and pinned them with great care. Then he sat down behind Richard's coat-tails and kept his eyes fixed on them, while Richard, sitting at his writing-table, did not stir. "A little patience, Richard," said Moncharmin. "We have only a few minutes to wait ... The clock will soon strike twelve. Last time, we left at the last stroke of twelve." "Oh, I shall have all the patience necessary!" The time passed, slow, heavy, mysterious, stifling. Richard tried to laugh. "I shall end by believing in the omnipotence of the ghost," he said. "Just now, don't you find something uncomfortable, disquieting, alarming in the atmosphere of this room?" "You're quite right," said Moncharmin, who was really impressed. "The ghost!" continued Richard, in a low voice, as though fearing lest he should be overheard by invisible ears. "The ghost! Suppose, all the same, it were a ghost who puts the magic envelopes on the table ... who talks in Box Five ... who killed Joseph Buquet ... who unhooked the chandelier ... and who robs us! For, after all, after all, after all, there is no one here except you and me, and, if the notes disappear and neither you nor I have anything to do with it, well, we shall have to believe in the ghost ... in the ghost." At that moment, the clock on the mantlepiece gave its warning click and the first stroke of twelve struck. The two managers shuddered. The perspiration streamed from their foreheads. The twelfth stroke sounded strangely in their ears. When the clock stopped, they gave a sigh and rose from their chairs. "I think we can go now," said Moncharmin. "I think so," Richard a agreed. "Before we go, do you mind if I look in your pocket?" "But, of course, Moncharmin, YOU MUST! ... Well?" he asked, as Moncharmin was feeling at the pocket. "Well, I can feel the pin." "Of course, as you said, we can't be robbed without noticing it." But Moncharmin, whose hands were still fumbling, bellowed: "I can feel the pin, but I can't feel the notes!" "Come, no joking, Moncharmin! ... This isn't the time for it." "Well, feel for yourself." Richard tore off his coat. The two managers turned the pocket inside out. THE POCKET WAS EMPTY. And the curious thing was that the pin remained, stuck in the same place. Richard and Moncharmin turned pale. There was no longer any doubt about the witchcraft. "The ghost!" muttered Moncharmin. But Richard suddenly sprang upon his partner. "No one but you has touched my pocket! Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ... Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ..." "On my soul," sighed Moncharmin, who was ready to swoon, "on my soul, I swear that I haven't got it!" Then somebody knocked at the door. Moncharmin opened it automatically, seemed hardly to recognize Mercier, his business-manager, exchanged a few words with him, without knowing what he was saying and, with an unconscious movement, put the safety-pin, for which he had no further use, into the hands of his bewildered subordinate ... Chapter XVIII The Commissary, The Viscount and the Persian The first words of the commissary of police, on entering the managers' office, were to ask after the missing prima donna. "Is Christine Daae here?" "Christine Daae here?" echoed Richard. "No. Why?" As for Moncharmin, he had not the strength left to utter a word. Richard repeated, for the commissary and the compact crowd which had followed him into the office observed an impressive silence. "Why do you ask if Christine Daae is here, M. LE COMMISSAIRE?" "Because she has to be found," declared the commissary of police solemnly. "What do you mean, she has to be found? Has she disappeared?" "In the middle of the performance!" "In the middle of the performance? This is extraordinary!" "Isn't it? And what is quite as extraordinary is that you should first learn it from me!" "Yes," said Richard, taking his head in his hands and muttering. "What is this new business? Oh, it's enough to make a man send in his resignation!" And he pulled a few hairs out of his mustache without even knowing what he was doing. "So she ... so she disappeared in the middle of the performance?" he repeated. "Yes, she was carried off in the Prison Act, at the moment when she was invoking the aid of the angels; but I doubt if she was carried off by an angel." "And I am sure that she was!" Everybody looked round. A young man, pale and trembling with excitement, repeated: "I am sure of it!" "Sure of what?" asked Mifroid. "That Christine Daae was carried off by an angel, M. LE COMMISSAIRE and I can tell you his name." "Aha, M. le Vicomte de Chagny! So you maintain that Christine Daae was carried off by an angel: an angel of the Opera, no doubt?" "Yes, monsieur, by an angel of the Opera; and I will tell you where he lives ... when we are alone." "You are right, monsieur." And the commissary of police, inviting Raoul to take a chair, cleared the room of all the rest, excepting the managers. Then Raoul spoke: "M. le Commissaire, the angel is called Erik, he lives in the Opera and he is the Angel of Music!" "The Angel of Music! Really! That is very curious! ... The Angel of Music!" And, turning to the managers, M. Mifroid asked, "Have you an Angel of Music on the premises, gentlemen?" Richard and Moncharmin shook their heads, without even speaking. "Oh," said the viscount, "those gentlemen have heard of the Opera ghost. Well, I am in a position to state that the Opera ghost and the Angel of Music are one and the same person; and his real name is Erik." M. Mifroid rose and looked at Raoul attentively. "I beg your pardon, monsieur but is it your intention to make fun of the law? And, if not, what is all this about the Opera ghost?" "I say that these gentlemen have heard of him." "Gentlemen, it appears that you know the Opera ghost?" Richard rose, with the remaining hairs of his mustache in his hand. "No, M. Commissary, no, we do not know him, but we wish that we did, for this very evening he has robbed us of twenty-thousand francs!" And Richard turned a terrible look on Moncharmin, which seemed to say: "Give me back the twenty-thousand francs, or I'll tell the whole story." Moncharmin understood what he meant, for, with a distracted gesture, he said: "Oh, tell everything and have done with it!" As for Mifroid, he looked at the managers and at Raoul by turns and wondered whether he had strayed into a lunatic asylum. He passed his hand through his hair. "A ghost," he said, "who, on the same evening, carries off an opera-singer and steals twenty-thousand francs is a ghost who must have his hands very full! If you don't mind, we will take the questions in order. The singer first, the twenty-thousand francs after. Come, M. de Chagny, let us try to talk seriously. You believe that Mlle. Christine Daae has been carried off by an individual called Erik. Do you know this person? Have you seen him?" "Yes." "Where?" "In a church yard." M. Mifroid gave a start, began to scrutinize Raoul again and said: "Of course! ... That's where ghosts usually hang out! ... And what were you doing in that churchyard?" "Monsieur," said Raoul, "I can quite understand how absurd my replies must seem to you. But I beg you to believe that I am in full possession of my faculties. The safety of the person dearest to me in the world is at stake. I should like to convince you in a few words, for time is pressing and every minute is valuable. Unfortunately, if I do not tell you the strangest story that ever was from the beginning, you will not believe me. I will tell you all I know about the Opera ghost, M. Commissary. Alas, I do not know much! ..." "Never mind, go on, go on!" exclaimed Richard and Moncharmin, suddenly greatly interested. Unfortunately for their hopes of learning some detail that could put them on the track of their hoaxer, they were soon compelled to accept the fact that M. Raoul de Chagny had completely lost his head. All that story about Perros-Guirec, death's heads and enchanted violins, could only have taken birth in the disordered brain of a youth mad with love. It was evident, also, that

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"Well, it's like this ... only the ghost doesn't like me to talk about his business." "Indeed?" sneered Richard. "But this is a matter that concerns myself alone ... Well, it was in Box Five one evening, I found a letter addressed to myself, a sort of note written in red ink. I needn't read the letter to you sir; I know it by heart, and I shall never forget it if I live to be a hundred!" And Mme. Giry, drawing herself up, recited the letter with touching eloquence: MADAM: 1825. Mlle. Menetrier, leader of the ballet, became Marquise de Cussy. 1832. Mlle. Marie Taglioni, a dancer, became Comtesse Gilbert des Voisins. 1846. La Sota, a dancer, married a brother of the King of Spain. 1847. Lola Montes, a dancer, became the morganatic wife of King Louis of Bavaria and was created Countess of Landsfeld. 1848. Mlle. Maria, a dancer, became Baronne d'Herneville. 1870. Theresa Hessier, a dancer, married Dom Fernando, brother to the King of Portugal. Richard and Moncharmin listened to the old woman, who, as she proceeded with the enumeration of these glorious nuptials, swelled out, took courage and, at last, in a voice bursting with pride, flung out the last sentence of the prophetic letter: 1885. Meg Giry, Empress! Exhausted by this supreme effort, the box-keeper fell into a chair, saying: "Gentlemen, the letter was signed, 'Opera Ghost.' I had heard much of the ghost, but only half believed in him. From the day when he declared that my little Meg, the flesh of my flesh, the fruit of my womb, would be empress, I believed in him altogether." And really it was not necessary to make a long study of Mme. Giry's excited features to understand what could be got out of that fine intellect with the two words "ghost" and "empress." But who pulled the strings of that extraordinary puppet? That was the question. "You have never seen him; he speaks to you and you believe all he says?" asked Moncharmin. "Yes. To begin with, I owe it to him that my little Meg was promoted to be the leader of a row. I said to the ghost, 'If she is to be empress in 1885, there is no time to lose; she must become a leader at once.' He said, 'Look upon it as done.' And he had only a word to say to M. Poligny and the thing was done." "So you see that M. Poligny saw him!" "No, not any more than I did; but he heard him. The ghost said a word in his ear, you know, on the evening when he left Box Five, looking so dreadfully pale." Moncharmin heaved a sigh. "What a business!" he groaned. "Ah!" said Mme. Giry. "I always thought there were secrets between the ghost and M. Poligny. Anything that the ghost asked M. Poligny to do M. Poligny did. M. Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "You hear, Richard: Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "Yes, yes, I hear!" said Richard. "M. Poligny is a friend of the ghost; and, as Mme. Giry is a friend of M. Poligny, there we are! ... But I don't care a hang about M. Poligny," he added roughly. "The only person whose fate really interests me is Mme. Giry... Mme. Giry, do you know what is in this envelope?" "Why, of course not," she said. "Well, look." Mine. Giry looked into the envelope with a lackluster eye, which soon recovered its brilliancy. "Thousand-franc notes!" she cried. "Yes, Mme. Giry, thousand-franc notes! And you knew it!" "I, sir? I? ... I swear ..." "Don't swear, Mme. Giry! ... And now I will tell you the second reason why I sent for you. Mme. Giry, I am going to have you arrested." The two black feathers on the dingy bonnet, which usually affected the attitude of two notes of interrogation, changed into two notes of exclamation; as for the bonnet itself, it swayed in menace on the old lady's tempestuous chignon. Surprise, indignation, protest and dismay were furthermore displayed by little Meg's mother in a sort of extravagant movement of offended virtue, half bound, half slide, that brought her right under the nose of M. Richard, who could not help pushing back his chair. "HAVE ME ARRESTED!" The mouth that spoke those words seemed to spit the three teeth that were left to it into Richard's face. M. Richard behaved like a hero. He retreated no farther. His threatening forefinger seemed already to be pointing out the keeper of Box Five to the absent magistrates. "I am going to have you arrested, Mme. Giry, as a thief!" "Say that again!" And Mme. Giry caught Mr. Manager Richard a mighty box on the ear, before Mr. Manager Moncharmin had time to intervene. But it was not the withered hand of the angry old beldame that fell on the managerial ear, but the envelope itself, the cause of all the trouble, the magic envelope that opened with the blow, scattering the bank-notes, which escaped in a fantastic whirl of giant butterflies. The two managers gave a shout, and the same thought made them both go on their knees, feverishly, picking up and hurriedly examining the precious scraps of paper. "Are they still genuine, Moncharmin?" "Are they still genuine, Richard?" "Yes, they are still genuine!" Above their heads, Mme. Giry's three teeth were clashing in a noisy contest, full of hideous interjections. But all that could be clearly distinguished was this LEIT-MOTIF: "I, a thief! ... I, a thief, I?" She choked with rage. She shouted: "I never heard of such a thing!" And, suddenly, she darted up to Richard again. "In any case," she yelped, "you, M. Richard, ought to know better than I where the twenty thousand francs went to!" "I?" asked Richard, astounded. "And how should I know?" Moncharmin, looking severe and dissatisfied, at once insisted that the good lady should explain herself. "What does this mean, Mme. Giry?" he asked. "And why do you say that M. Richard ought to know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to?" As for Richard, who felt himself turning red under Moncharmin's eyes, he took Mme. Giry by the wrist and shook it violently. In a voice growling and rolling like thunder, he roared: "Why should I know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to? Why? Answer me!" "Because they went into your pocket!" gasped the old woman, looking at him as if he were the devil incarnate. Richard would have rushed upon Mme. Giry, if Moncharmin had not stayed his avenging hand and hastened to ask her, more gently: "How can you suspect my partner, M. Richard, of putting twenty-thousand francs in his pocket?" "I never said that," declared Mme. Giry, "seeing that it was myself who put the twenty-thousand francs into M. Richard's pocket." And she added, under her voice, "There! It's out! ... And may the ghost forgive me!" Richard began bellowing anew, but Moncharmin authoritatively ordered him to be silent. "Allow me! Allow me! Let the woman explain herself. Let me question her." And he added: "It is really astonishing that you should take up such a tone! ... We are on the verge of clearing up the whole mystery. And you're in a rage! ... You're wrong to behave like that... I'm enjoying myself immensely." Mme. Giry, like the martyr that she was, raised her head, her face beaming with faith in her own innocence. "You tell me there were twenty-thousand francs in the envelope which I put into M. Richard's pocket; but I tell you again that I knew nothing about it ... Nor M. Richard either, for that matter!" "Aha!" said Richard, suddenly assuming a swaggering air which Moncharmin did not like. "I knew nothing either! You put twenty-thousand francs in my pocket and I knew nothing either! I am very glad to hear it, Mme. Giry!" "Yes," the terrible dame agreed, "yes, it's true. We neither of us knew anything. But you, you must have ended by finding out!" Richard would certainly have swallowed Mme. Giry alive, if Moncharmin had not been there! But Moncharmin protected her. He resumed his questions: "What sort of envelope did you put in M. Richard's pocket? It was not the one which we gave you, the one which you took to Box Five before our eyes; and yet that was the one which contained the twenty-thousand francs." "I beg your pardon. The envelope which M. le Directeur gave me was the one which I slipped into M. le Directeur's pocket," explained Mme. Giry. "The one which I took to the ghost's box was another envelope, just like it, which the ghost gave me beforehand and which I hid up my sleeve." So saying, Mme. Giry took from her sleeve an envelope ready prepared and similarly addressed to that containing the twenty-thousand francs. The managers took it from her. They examined it and saw that it was fastened with seals stamped with their own managerial seal. They opened it. It contained twenty Bank of St. Farce notes like those which had so much astounded them the month before. "How simple!" said Richard. "How simple!" repeated Moncharmin. And he continued with his eyes fixed upon Mme. Giry, as though trying to hypnotize her. "So it was the ghost who gave you this envelope and told you to substitute it for the one which we gave you? And it was the ghost who told you to put the other into M. Richard's pocket?" "Yes, it was the ghost." "Then would you mind giving us a specimen of your little talents? Here is the envelope. Act as though we knew nothing." "As you please, gentlemen." Mme. Giry took the envelope with the twenty notes inside it and made for the door. She was on the point of going out when the two managers rushed at her: "Oh, no! Oh, no! We're not going to be 'done' a second time! Once bitten, twice shy!" "I beg your pardon, gentlemen," said the old woman, in self-excuse, "you told me to act as though you knew nothing ... Well, if you knew nothing, I should go away with your envelope!" "And then how would you slip it into my pocket?" argued Richard, whom Moncharmin fixed with his left eye, while keeping his right on Mme. Giry: a proceeding likely to strain his sight, but Moncharmin was prepared to go to any length to discover the truth. "I am to slip it into your pocket when you least expect it, sir. You know that I always take a little turn behind the scenes, in the course of the evening, and I often go with my daughter to the ballet-foyer, which I am entitled to do, as her mother; I bring her her shoes, when the ballet is about to begin ... in fact, I come and go as I please ... The subscribers come and go too... So do you, sir ... There are lots of people about ... I go behind you and slip the envelope into the tail-pocket of your dress-coat ... There's no witchcraft about that!" "No witchcraft!" growled Richard, rolling his eyes like Jupiter Tonans. "No witchcraft! Why, I've just caught you in a lie, you old witch!" Mme. Giry bristled, with her three teeth sticking out of her mouth. "And why, may I ask?" "Because I spent that evening watching Box Five and the sham envelope which you put there. I did not go to the ballet-foyer for a second." "No, sir, and I did not give you the envelope that evening, but at the next performance ... on the evening when the under-secretary of state for fine arts ..." At these words, M. Richard suddenly interrupted Mme. Giry: "Yes, that's true, I remember now! The under-secretary went behind the scenes. He asked for me. I went down to the ballet-foyer for a moment. I was on the foyer steps ... The under-secretary and his chief clerk were in the foyer itself. I suddenly turned around ... you had passed behind me, Mme. Giry ... You seemed to push against me ... Oh, I can see you still, I can see you still!" "Yes, that's it, sir, that's it. I had just finished my little business. That pocket of yours, sir, is very handy!" And Mme. Giry once more suited the action to the word, She passed behind M. Richard and, so nimbly that Moncharmin himself was impressed by it, slipped the envelope into the pocket of one of the tails of M. Richard's dress-coat. "Of course!" exclaimed Richard, looking a little pale. "It's very clever of O. G. The problem which he had to solve was this: how to do away with any dangerous intermediary between the man who gives the twenty-thousand francs and the man who receives it. And by far the best thing he could hit upon was to come and take the money from my pocket without my noticing it, as I myself did not know that it was there. It's wonderful!" "Oh, wonderful, no doubt!" Moncharmin agreed. "Only, you forget, Richard, that I provided ten-thousand francs of the twenty and that nobody put anything in my pocket!" [1] Flash notes drawn on the "Bank of St. Farce" in France correspond with those drawn on the "Bank of Engraving" in England.--Translator's Note. Chapter XVII The Safety-Pin Again Moncharmin's last phrase so dearly expressed the suspicion in which he now held his partner that it was bound to cause a stormy explanation, at the end of which it was agreed that Richard should yield to all Moncharmin's wishes, with the object of helping him to discover the miscreant who was victimizing them. This brings us to the interval after the Garden Act, with the strange conduct observed by M. Remy and those curious lapses from the dignity that might be expected of the managers. It was arranged between Richard and Moncharmin, first, that Richard should repeat the exact movements which he had made on the night of the disappearance of the first twenty-thousand francs; and, second, that Moncharmin should not for an instant lose sight of Richard's coat-tail pocket, into which Mme. Giry was to slip the twenty-thousand francs. M. Richard went and placed himself at the identical spot where he had stood when he bowed to the under-secretary for fine arts. M. Moncharmin took up his position a few steps behind him. Mme. Giry passed, rubbed up against M. Richard, got rid of her twenty-thousand francs in the manager's coat-tail pocket and disappeared ... Or rather she was conjured away. In accordance with the instructions received from Moncharmin a few minutes earlier, Mercier took the good lady to the acting-manager's office and turned the key on her, thus making it impossible for her to communicate with her ghost. Meanwhile, M. Richard was bending and bowing and scraping and walking backward, just as if he had that high and mighty minister, the under-secretary for fine arts, before him. Only, though these marks of politeness would have created no astonishment if the under-secretary of state had really been in front of M. Richard, they caused an easily comprehensible amazement to the spectators of this very natural but quite inexplicable scene when M. Richard had no body in front of him. M. Richard bowed ... to nobody; bent his back ... before nobody; and walked backward ... before nobody ... And, a few steps behind him, M. Moncharmin did the same thing that he was doing in addition to pushing away M. Remy and begging M. de La Borderie, the ambassador, and the manager of the Credit Central "not to touch M. le Directeur." Moncharmin, who had his own ideas, did not want Richard to come to him presently, when the twenty-thousand francs were gone, and say: "Perhaps it was the ambassador ... or the manager of the Credit Central ... or Remy." The more so as, at the time of the first scene, as Richard himself admitted, Richard had met nobody in that part of the theater after Mme. Giry had brushed up against him... Having begun by walking backward in order to bow, Richard continued to do so from prudence, until he reached the passage leading to the offices of the management. In this way, he was constantly watched by Moncharmin from behind and himself kept an eye on any one approaching from the front. Once more, this novel method of walking behind the scenes, adopted by the managers of our National Academy of Music, attracted attention; but the managers themselves thought of nothing but their twenty-thousand francs. On reaching the half-dark passage, Richard said to Moncharmin, in a low voice: "I am sure that nobody has touched me ... You had now better keep at some distance from me and watch me till I come to door of the office: it is better not to arouse suspicion and we can see anything that happens." But Moncharmin replied. "No, Richard, no! You walk ahead and I'll walk immediately behind you! I won't leave you by a step!" "But, in that case," exclaimed Richard, "they will never steal our twenty-thousand francs!" "I should hope not, indeed!" declared Moncharmin. "Then what we are doing is absurd!" "We are doing exactly what we did last time ... Last time, I joined you as you were leaving the stage and followed close behind you down this passage." "That's true!" sighed Richard, shaking his head and passively obeying Moncharmin. Two minutes later, the joint managers locked themselves into their office. Moncharmin himself put the key in his pocket: "We remained locked up like this, last time," he said, "until you left the Opera to go home." "That's so. No one came and disturbed us, I suppose?" "No one." "Then," said Richard, who was trying to collect his memory, "then I must certainly have been robbed on my way home from the Opera." "No," said Moncharmin in a drier tone than ever, "no, that's impossible. For I dropped you in my cab. The twenty-thousand francs disappeared at your place: there's not a shadow of a doubt about that." "It's incredible!" protested Richard. "I am sure of my servants ... and if one of them had done it, he would have disappeared since." Moncharmin shrugged his shoulders, as though to say that he did not wish to enter into details, and Richard began to think that Moncharmin was treating him in a very insupportable fashion. "Moncharmin, I've had enough of this!" "Richard, I've had too much of it!" "Do you dare to suspect me?" "Yes, of a silly joke." "One doesn't joke with twenty-thousand francs." "That's what I think," declared Moncharmin, unfolding a newspaper and ostentatiously studying its contents. "What are you doing?" asked Richard. "Are you going to read the paper next?" "Yes, Richard, until I take you home." "Like last time?" "Yes, like last time." Richard snatched the paper from Moncharmin's hands. Moncharmin stood up, more irritated than ever, and found himself faced by an exasperated Richard, who, crossing his arms on his chest, said: "Look here, I'm thinking of this, I'M THINKING OF WHAT I MIGHT THINK if, like last time, after my spending the evening alone with you, you brought me home and if, at the moment of parting, I perceived that twenty-thousand francs had disappeared from my coat-pocket ... like last time." "And what might you think?" asked Moncharmin, crimson with rage. "I might think that, as you hadn't left me by a foot's breadth and as, by your own wish, you were the only one to approach me, like last time, I might think that, if that twenty-thousand francs was no longer in my pocket, it stood a very good chance of being in yours!" Moncharmin leaped up at the suggestion. "Oh!" he shouted. "A safety-pin!" "What do you want a safety-pin for?" "To fasten you up with! ... A safety-pin! ... A safety-pin!" "You want to fasten me with a safety-pin?" "Yes, to fasten you to the twenty-thousand francs! Then, whether it's here, or on the drive from here to your place, or at your place, you will feel the hand that pulls at your pocket and you will see if it's mine! Oh, so you're suspecting me now, are you? A safety-pin!" And that was the moment when Moncharmin opened the door on the passage and shouted: "A safety-pin! ... somebody give me a safety-pin!" And we also know how, at the same moment, Remy, who had no safety-pin, was received by Moncharmin, while a boy procured the pin so eagerly longed for. And what happened was this: Moncharmin first locked the door again. Then he knelt down behind Richard's back. "I hope," he said, "that the notes are still there?" "So do I," said Richard. "The real ones?" asked Moncharmin, resolved not to be "had" this time. "Look for yourself," said Richard. "I refuse to touch them." Moncharmin took the envelope from Richard's pocket and drew out the bank-notes with a trembling hand, for, this time, in order frequently to make sure of the presence of the notes, he had not sealed the envelope nor even fastened it. He felt reassured on finding that they were all there and quite genuine. He put them back in the tail-pocket and pinned them with great care. Then he sat down behind Richard's coat-tails and kept his eyes fixed on them, while Richard, sitting at his writing-table, did not stir. "A little patience, Richard," said Moncharmin. "We have only a few minutes to wait ... The clock will soon strike twelve. Last time, we left at the last stroke of twelve." "Oh, I shall have all the patience necessary!" The time passed, slow, heavy, mysterious, stifling. Richard tried to laugh. "I shall end by believing in the omnipotence of the ghost," he said. "Just now, don't you find something uncomfortable, disquieting, alarming in the atmosphere of this room?" "You're quite right," said Moncharmin, who was really impressed. "The ghost!" continued Richard, in a low voice, as though fearing lest he should be overheard by invisible ears. "The ghost! Suppose, all the same, it were a ghost who puts the magic envelopes on the table ... who talks in Box Five ... who killed Joseph Buquet ... who unhooked the chandelier ... and who robs us! For, after all, after all, after all, there is no one here except you and me, and, if the notes disappear and neither you nor I have anything to do with it, well, we shall have to believe in the ghost ... in the ghost." At that moment, the clock on the mantlepiece gave its warning click and the first stroke of twelve struck. The two managers shuddered. The perspiration streamed from their foreheads. The twelfth stroke sounded strangely in their ears. When the clock stopped, they gave a sigh and rose from their chairs. "I think we can go now," said Moncharmin. "I think so," Richard a agreed. "Before we go, do you mind if I look in your pocket?" "But, of course, Moncharmin, YOU MUST! ... Well?" he asked, as Moncharmin was feeling at the pocket. "Well, I can feel the pin." "Of course, as you said, we can't be robbed without noticing it." But Moncharmin, whose hands were still fumbling, bellowed: "I can feel the pin, but I can't feel the notes!" "Come, no joking, Moncharmin! ... This isn't the time for it." "Well, feel for yourself." Richard tore off his coat. The two managers turned the pocket inside out. THE POCKET WAS EMPTY. And the curious thing was that the pin remained, stuck in the same place. Richard and Moncharmin turned pale. There was no longer any doubt about the witchcraft. "The ghost!" muttered Moncharmin. But Richard suddenly sprang upon his partner. "No one but you has touched my pocket! Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ... Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ..." "On my soul," sighed Moncharmin, who was ready to swoon, "on my soul, I swear that I haven't got it!" Then somebody knocked at the door. Moncharmin opened it automatically, seemed hardly to recognize Mercier, his business-manager, exchanged a few words with him, without knowing what he was saying and, with an unconscious movement, put the safety-pin, for which he had no further use, into the hands of his bewildered subordinate ... Chapter XVIII The Commissary, The Viscount and the Persian The first words of the commissary of police, on entering the managers' office, were to ask after the missing prima donna. "Is Christine Daae here?" "Christine Daae here?" echoed Richard. "No. Why?" As for Moncharmin, he had not the strength left to utter a word. Richard repeated, for the commissary and the compact crowd which had followed him into the office observed an impressive silence. "Why do you ask if Christine Daae is here, M. LE COMMISSAIRE?" "Because she has to be found," declared the commissary of police solemnly. "What do you mean, she has to be found? Has she disappeared?" "In the middle of the performance!" "In the middle of the performance? This is extraordinary!" "Isn't it? And what is quite as extraordinary is that you should first learn it from me!" "Yes," said Richard, taking his head in his hands and muttering. "What is this new business? Oh, it's enough to make a man send in his resignation!" And he pulled a few hairs out of his mustache without even knowing what he was doing. "So she ... so she disappeared in the middle of the performance?" he repeated. "Yes, she was carried off in the Prison Act, at the moment when she was invoking the aid of the angels; but I doubt if she was carried off by an angel." "And I am sure that she was!" Everybody looked round. A young man, pale and trembling with excitement, repeated: "I am sure of it!" "Sure of what?" asked Mifroid. "That Christine Daae was carried off by an angel, M. LE COMMISSAIRE and I can tell you his name." "Aha, M. le Vicomte de Chagny! So you maintain that Christine Daae was carried off by an angel: an angel of the Opera, no doubt?" "Yes, monsieur, by an angel of the Opera; and I will tell you where he lives ... when we are alone." "You are right, monsieur." And the commissary of police, inviting Raoul to take a chair, cleared the room of all the rest, excepting the managers. Then Raoul spoke: "M. le Commissaire, the angel is called Erik, he lives in the Opera and he is the Angel of Music!" "The Angel of Music! Really! That is very curious! ... The Angel of Music!" And, turning to the managers, M. Mifroid asked, "Have you an Angel of Music on the premises, gentlemen?" Richard and Moncharmin shook their heads, without even speaking. "Oh," said the viscount, "those gentlemen have heard of the Opera ghost. Well, I am in a position to state that the Opera ghost and the Angel of Music are one and the same person; and his real name is Erik." M. Mifroid rose and looked at Raoul attentively. "I beg your pardon, monsieur but is it your intention to make fun of the law? And, if not, what is all this about the Opera ghost?" "I say that these gentlemen have heard of him." "Gentlemen, it appears that you know the Opera ghost?" Richard rose, with the remaining hairs of his mustache in his hand. "No, M. Commissary, no, we do not know him, but we wish that we did, for this very evening he has robbed us of twenty-thousand francs!" And Richard turned a terrible look on Moncharmin, which seemed to say: "Give me back the twenty-thousand francs, or I'll tell the whole story." Moncharmin understood what he meant, for, with a distracted gesture, he said: "Oh, tell everything and have done with it!" As for Mifroid, he looked at the managers and at Raoul by turns and wondered whether he had strayed into a lunatic asylum. He passed his hand through his hair. "A ghost," he said, "who, on the same evening, carries off an opera-singer and steals twenty-thousand francs is a ghost who must have his hands very full! If you don't mind, we will take the questions in order. The singer first, the twenty-thousand francs after. Come, M. de Chagny, let us try to talk seriously. You believe that Mlle. Christine Daae has been carried off by an individual called Erik. Do you know this person? Have you seen him?" "Yes." "Where?" "In a church yard." M. Mifroid gave a start, began to scrutinize Raoul again and said: "Of course! ... That's where ghosts usually hang out! ... And what were you doing in that churchyard?" "Monsieur," said Raoul, "I can quite understand how absurd my replies must seem to you. But I beg you to believe that I am in full possession of my faculties. The safety of the person dearest to me in the world is at stake. I should like to convince you in a few words, for time is pressing and every minute is valuable. Unfortunately, if I do not tell you the strangest story that ever was from the beginning, you will not believe me. I will tell you all I know about the Opera ghost, M. Commissary. Alas, I do not know much! ..." "Never mind, go on, go on!" exclaimed Richard and Moncharmin, suddenly greatly interested. Unfortunately for their hopes of learning some detail that could put them on the track of their hoaxer, they were soon compelled to accept the fact that M. Raoul de Chagny had completely lost his head. All that story about Perros-Guirec, death's heads and enchanted violins, could only have taken birth in the disordered brain of a youth mad with love. It was evident, also, that

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"Well, it's like this ... only the ghost doesn't like me to talk about his business." "Indeed?" sneered Richard. "But this is a matter that concerns myself alone ... Well, it was in Box Five one evening, I found a letter addressed to myself, a sort of note written in red ink. I needn't read the letter to you sir; I know it by heart, and I shall never forget it if I live to be a hundred!" And Mme. Giry, drawing herself up, recited the letter with touching eloquence: MADAM: 1825. Mlle. Menetrier, leader of the ballet, became Marquise de Cussy. 1832. Mlle. Marie Taglioni, a dancer, became Comtesse Gilbert des Voisins. 1846. La Sota, a dancer, married a brother of the King of Spain. 1847. Lola Montes, a dancer, became the morganatic wife of King Louis of Bavaria and was created Countess of Landsfeld. 1848. Mlle. Maria, a dancer, became Baronne d'Herneville. 1870. Theresa Hessier, a dancer, married Dom Fernando, brother to the King of Portugal. Richard and Moncharmin listened to the old woman, who, as she proceeded with the enumeration of these glorious nuptials, swelled out, took courage and, at last, in a voice bursting with pride, flung out the last sentence of the prophetic letter: 1885. Meg Giry, Empress! Exhausted by this supreme effort, the box-keeper fell into a chair, saying: "Gentlemen, the letter was signed, 'Opera Ghost.' I had heard much of the ghost, but only half believed in him. From the day when he declared that my little Meg, the flesh of my flesh, the fruit of my womb, would be empress, I believed in him altogether." And really it was not necessary to make a long study of Mme. Giry's excited features to understand what could be got out of that fine intellect with the two words "ghost" and "empress." But who pulled the strings of that extraordinary puppet? That was the question. "You have never seen him; he speaks to you and you believe all he says?" asked Moncharmin. "Yes. To begin with, I owe it to him that my little Meg was promoted to be the leader of a row. I said to the ghost, 'If she is to be empress in 1885, there is no time to lose; she must become a leader at once.' He said, 'Look upon it as done.' And he had only a word to say to M. Poligny and the thing was done." "So you see that M. Poligny saw him!" "No, not any more than I did; but he heard him. The ghost said a word in his ear, you know, on the evening when he left Box Five, looking so dreadfully pale." Moncharmin heaved a sigh. "What a business!" he groaned. "Ah!" said Mme. Giry. "I always thought there were secrets between the ghost and M. Poligny. Anything that the ghost asked M. Poligny to do M. Poligny did. M. Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "You hear, Richard: Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "Yes, yes, I hear!" said Richard. "M. Poligny is a friend of the ghost; and, as Mme. Giry is a friend of M. Poligny, there we are! ... But I don't care a hang about M. Poligny," he added roughly. "The only person whose fate really interests me is Mme. Giry... Mme. Giry, do you know what is in this envelope?" "Why, of course not," she said. "Well, look." Mine. Giry looked into the envelope with a lackluster eye, which soon recovered its brilliancy. "Thousand-franc notes!" she cried. "Yes, Mme. Giry, thousand-franc notes! And you knew it!" "I, sir? I? ... I swear ..." "Don't swear, Mme. Giry! ... And now I will tell you the second reason why I sent for you. Mme. Giry, I am going to have you arrested." The two black feathers on the dingy bonnet, which usually affected the attitude of two notes of interrogation, changed into two notes of exclamation; as for the bonnet itself, it swayed in menace on the old lady's tempestuous chignon. Surprise, indignation, protest and dismay were furthermore displayed by little Meg's mother in a sort of extravagant movement of offended virtue, half bound, half slide, that brought her right under the nose of M. Richard, who could not help pushing back his chair. "HAVE ME ARRESTED!" The mouth that spoke those words seemed to spit the three teeth that were left to it into Richard's face. M. Richard behaved like a hero. He retreated no farther. His threatening forefinger seemed already to be pointing out the keeper of Box Five to the absent magistrates. "I am going to have you arrested, Mme. Giry, as a thief!" "Say that again!" And Mme. Giry caught Mr. Manager Richard a mighty box on the ear, before Mr. Manager Moncharmin had time to intervene. But it was not the withered hand of the angry old beldame that fell on the managerial ear, but the envelope itself, the cause of all the trouble, the magic envelope that opened with the blow, scattering the bank-notes, which escaped in a fantastic whirl of giant butterflies. The two managers gave a shout, and the same thought made them both go on their knees, feverishly, picking up and hurriedly examining the precious scraps of paper. "Are they still genuine, Moncharmin?" "Are they still genuine, Richard?" "Yes, they are still genuine!" Above their heads, Mme. Giry's three teeth were clashing in a noisy contest, full of hideous interjections. But all that could be clearly distinguished was this LEIT-MOTIF: "I, a thief! ... I, a thief, I?" She choked with rage. She shouted: "I never heard of such a thing!" And, suddenly, she darted up to Richard again. "In any case," she yelped, "you, M. Richard, ought to know better than I where the twenty thousand francs went to!" "I?" asked Richard, astounded. "And how should I know?" Moncharmin, looking severe and dissatisfied, at once insisted that the good lady should explain herself. "What does this mean, Mme. Giry?" he asked. "And why do you say that M. Richard ought to know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to?" As for Richard, who felt himself turning red under Moncharmin's eyes, he took Mme. Giry by the wrist and shook it violently. In a voice growling and rolling like thunder, he roared: "Why should I know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to? Why? Answer me!" "Because they went into your pocket!" gasped the old woman, looking at him as if he were the devil incarnate. Richard would have rushed upon Mme. Giry, if Moncharmin had not stayed his avenging hand and hastened to ask her, more gently: "How can you suspect my partner, M. Richard, of putting twenty-thousand francs in his pocket?" "I never said that," declared Mme. Giry, "seeing that it was myself who put the twenty-thousand francs into M. Richard's pocket." And she added, under her voice, "There! It's out! ... And may the ghost forgive me!" Richard began bellowing anew, but Moncharmin authoritatively ordered him to be silent. "Allow me! Allow me! Let the woman explain herself. Let me question her." And he added: "It is really astonishing that you should take up such a tone! ... We are on the verge of clearing up the whole mystery. And you're in a rage! ... You're wrong to behave like that... I'm enjoying myself immensely." Mme. Giry, like the martyr that she was, raised her head, her face beaming with faith in her own innocence. "You tell me there were twenty-thousand francs in the envelope which I put into M. Richard's pocket; but I tell you again that I knew nothing about it ... Nor M. Richard either, for that matter!" "Aha!" said Richard, suddenly assuming a swaggering air which Moncharmin did not like. "I knew nothing either! You put twenty-thousand francs in my pocket and I knew nothing either! I am very glad to hear it, Mme. Giry!" "Yes," the terrible dame agreed, "yes, it's true. We neither of us knew anything. But you, you must have ended by finding out!" Richard would certainly have swallowed Mme. Giry alive, if Moncharmin had not been there! But Moncharmin protected her. He resumed his questions: "What sort of envelope did you put in M. Richard's pocket? It was not the one which we gave you, the one which you took to Box Five before our eyes; and yet that was the one which contained the twenty-thousand francs." "I beg your pardon. The envelope which M. le Directeur gave me was the one which I slipped into M. le Directeur's pocket," explained Mme. Giry. "The one which I took to the ghost's box was another envelope, just like it, which the ghost gave me beforehand and which I hid up my sleeve." So saying, Mme. Giry took from her sleeve an envelope ready prepared and similarly addressed to that containing the twenty-thousand francs. The managers took it from her. They examined it and saw that it was fastened with seals stamped with their own managerial seal. They opened it. It contained twenty Bank of St. Farce notes like those which had so much astounded them the month before. "How simple!" said Richard. "How simple!" repeated Moncharmin. And he continued with his eyes fixed upon Mme. Giry, as though trying to hypnotize her. "So it was the ghost who gave you this envelope and told you to substitute it for the one which we gave you? And it was the ghost who told you to put the other into M. Richard's pocket?" "Yes, it was the ghost." "Then would you mind giving us a specimen of your little talents? Here is the envelope. Act as though we knew nothing." "As you please, gentlemen." Mme. Giry took the envelope with the twenty notes inside it and made for the door. She was on the point of going out when the two managers rushed at her: "Oh, no! Oh, no! We're not going to be 'done' a second time! Once bitten, twice shy!" "I beg your pardon, gentlemen," said the old woman, in self-excuse, "you told me to act as though you knew nothing ... Well, if you knew nothing, I should go away with your envelope!" "And then how would you slip it into my pocket?" argued Richard, whom Moncharmin fixed with his left eye, while keeping his right on Mme. Giry: a proceeding likely to strain his sight, but Moncharmin was prepared to go to any length to discover the truth. "I am to slip it into your pocket when you least expect it, sir. You know that I always take a little turn behind the scenes, in the course of the evening, and I often go with my daughter to the ballet-foyer, which I am entitled to do, as her mother; I bring her her shoes, when the ballet is about to begin ... in fact, I come and go as I please ... The subscribers come and go too... So do you, sir ... There are lots of people about ... I go behind you and slip the envelope into the tail-pocket of your dress-coat ... There's no witchcraft about that!" "No witchcraft!" growled Richard, rolling his eyes like Jupiter Tonans. "No witchcraft! Why, I've just caught you in a lie, you old witch!" Mme. Giry bristled, with her three teeth sticking out of her mouth. "And why, may I ask?" "Because I spent that evening watching Box Five and the sham envelope which you put there. I did not go to the ballet-foyer for a second." "No, sir, and I did not give you the envelope that evening, but at the next performance ... on the evening when the under-secretary of state for fine arts ..." At these words, M. Richard suddenly interrupted Mme. Giry: "Yes, that's true, I remember now! The under-secretary went behind the scenes. He asked for me. I went down to the ballet-foyer for a moment. I was on the foyer steps ... The under-secretary and his chief clerk were in the foyer itself. I suddenly turned around ... you had passed behind me, Mme. Giry ... You seemed to push against me ... Oh, I can see you still, I can see you still!" "Yes, that's it, sir, that's it. I had just finished my little business. That pocket of yours, sir, is very handy!" And Mme. Giry once more suited the action to the word, She passed behind M. Richard and, so nimbly that Moncharmin himself was impressed by it, slipped the envelope into the pocket of one of the tails of M. Richard's dress-coat. "Of course!" exclaimed Richard, looking a little pale. "It's very clever of O. G. The problem which he had to solve was this: how to do away with any dangerous intermediary between the man who gives the twenty-thousand francs and the man who receives it. And by far the best thing he could hit upon was to come and take the money from my pocket without my noticing it, as I myself did not know that it was there. It's wonderful!" "Oh, wonderful, no doubt!" Moncharmin agreed. "Only, you forget, Richard, that I provided ten-thousand francs of the twenty and that nobody put anything in my pocket!" [1] Flash notes drawn on the "Bank of St. Farce" in France correspond with those drawn on the "Bank of Engraving" in England.--Translator's Note. Chapter XVII The Safety-Pin Again Moncharmin's last phrase so dearly expressed the suspicion in which he now held his partner that it was bound to cause a stormy explanation, at the end of which it was agreed that Richard should yield to all Moncharmin's wishes, with the object of helping him to discover the miscreant who was victimizing them. This brings us to the interval after the Garden Act, with the strange conduct observed by M. Remy and those curious lapses from the dignity that might be expected of the managers. It was arranged between Richard and Moncharmin, first, that Richard should repeat the exact movements which he had made on the night of the disappearance of the first twenty-thousand francs; and, second, that Moncharmin should not for an instant lose sight of Richard's coat-tail pocket, into which Mme. Giry was to slip the twenty-thousand francs. M. Richard went and placed himself at the identical spot where he had stood when he bowed to the under-secretary for fine arts. M. Moncharmin took up his position a few steps behind him. Mme. Giry passed, rubbed up against M. Richard, got rid of her twenty-thousand francs in the manager's coat-tail pocket and disappeared ... Or rather she was conjured away. In accordance with the instructions received from Moncharmin a few minutes earlier, Mercier took the good lady to the acting-manager's office and turned the key on her, thus making it impossible for her to communicate with her ghost. Meanwhile, M. Richard was bending and bowing and scraping and walking backward, just as if he had that high and mighty minister, the under-secretary for fine arts, before him. Only, though these marks of politeness would have created no astonishment if the under-secretary of state had really been in front of M. Richard, they caused an easily comprehensible amazement to the spectators of this very natural but quite inexplicable scene when M. Richard had no body in front of him. M. Richard bowed ... to nobody; bent his back ... before nobody; and walked backward ... before nobody ... And, a few steps behind him, M. Moncharmin did the same thing that he was doing in addition to pushing away M. Remy and begging M. de La Borderie, the ambassador, and the manager of the Credit Central "not to touch M. le Directeur." Moncharmin, who had his own ideas, did not want Richard to come to him presently, when the twenty-thousand francs were gone, and say: "Perhaps it was the ambassador ... or the manager of the Credit Central ... or Remy." The more so as, at the time of the first scene, as Richard himself admitted, Richard had met nobody in that part of the theater after Mme. Giry had brushed up against him... Having begun by walking backward in order to bow, Richard continued to do so from prudence, until he reached the passage leading to the offices of the management. In this way, he was constantly watched by Moncharmin from behind and himself kept an eye on any one approaching from the front. Once more, this novel method of walking behind the scenes, adopted by the managers of our National Academy of Music, attracted attention; but the managers themselves thought of nothing but their twenty-thousand francs. On reaching the half-dark passage, Richard said to Moncharmin, in a low voice: "I am sure that nobody has touched me ... You had now better keep at some distance from me and watch me till I come to door of the office: it is better not to arouse suspicion and we can see anything that happens." But Moncharmin replied. "No, Richard, no! You walk ahead and I'll walk immediately behind you! I won't leave you by a step!" "But, in that case," exclaimed Richard, "they will never steal our twenty-thousand francs!" "I should hope not, indeed!" declared Moncharmin. "Then what we are doing is absurd!" "We are doing exactly what we did last time ... Last time, I joined you as you were leaving the stage and followed close behind you down this passage." "That's true!" sighed Richard, shaking his head and passively obeying Moncharmin. Two minutes later, the joint managers locked themselves into their office. Moncharmin himself put the key in his pocket: "We remained locked up like this, last time," he said, "until you left the Opera to go home." "That's so. No one came and disturbed us, I suppose?" "No one." "Then," said Richard, who was trying to collect his memory, "then I must certainly have been robbed on my way home from the Opera." "No," said Moncharmin in a drier tone than ever, "no, that's impossible. For I dropped you in my cab. The twenty-thousand francs disappeared at your place: there's not a shadow of a doubt about that." "It's incredible!" protested Richard. "I am sure of my servants ... and if one of them had done it, he would have disappeared since." Moncharmin shrugged his shoulders, as though to say that he did not wish to enter into details, and Richard began to think that Moncharmin was treating him in a very insupportable fashion. "Moncharmin, I've had enough of this!" "Richard, I've had too much of it!" "Do you dare to suspect me?" "Yes, of a silly joke." "One doesn't joke with twenty-thousand francs." "That's what I think," declared Moncharmin, unfolding a newspaper and ostentatiously studying its contents. "What are you doing?" asked Richard. "Are you going to read the paper next?" "Yes, Richard, until I take you home." "Like last time?" "Yes, like last time." Richard snatched the paper from Moncharmin's hands. Moncharmin stood up, more irritated than ever, and found himself faced by an exasperated Richard, who, crossing his arms on his chest, said: "Look here, I'm thinking of this, I'M THINKING OF WHAT I MIGHT THINK if, like last time, after my spending the evening alone with you, you brought me home and if, at the moment of parting, I perceived that twenty-thousand francs had disappeared from my coat-pocket ... like last time." "And what might you think?" asked Moncharmin, crimson with rage. "I might think that, as you hadn't left me by a foot's breadth and as, by your own wish, you were the only one to approach me, like last time, I might think that, if that twenty-thousand francs was no longer in my pocket, it stood a very good chance of being in yours!" Moncharmin leaped up at the suggestion. "Oh!" he shouted. "A safety-pin!" "What do you want a safety-pin for?" "To fasten you up with! ... A safety-pin! ... A safety-pin!" "You want to fasten me with a safety-pin?" "Yes, to fasten you to the twenty-thousand francs! Then, whether it's here, or on the drive from here to your place, or at your place, you will feel the hand that pulls at your pocket and you will see if it's mine! Oh, so you're suspecting me now, are you? A safety-pin!" And that was the moment when Moncharmin opened the door on the passage and shouted: "A safety-pin! ... somebody give me a safety-pin!" And we also know how, at the same moment, Remy, who had no safety-pin, was received by Moncharmin, while a boy procured the pin so eagerly longed for. And what happened was this: Moncharmin first locked the door again. Then he knelt down behind Richard's back. "I hope," he said, "that the notes are still there?" "So do I," said Richard. "The real ones?" asked Moncharmin, resolved not to be "had" this time. "Look for yourself," said Richard. "I refuse to touch them." Moncharmin took the envelope from Richard's pocket and drew out the bank-notes with a trembling hand, for, this time, in order frequently to make sure of the presence of the notes, he had not sealed the envelope nor even fastened it. He felt reassured on finding that they were all there and quite genuine. He put them back in the tail-pocket and pinned them with great care. Then he sat down behind Richard's coat-tails and kept his eyes fixed on them, while Richard, sitting at his writing-table, did not stir. "A little patience, Richard," said Moncharmin. "We have only a few minutes to wait ... The clock will soon strike twelve. Last time, we left at the last stroke of twelve." "Oh, I shall have all the patience necessary!" The time passed, slow, heavy, mysterious, stifling. Richard tried to laugh. "I shall end by believing in the omnipotence of the ghost," he said. "Just now, don't you find something uncomfortable, disquieting, alarming in the atmosphere of this room?" "You're quite right," said Moncharmin, who was really impressed. "The ghost!" continued Richard, in a low voice, as though fearing lest he should be overheard by invisible ears. "The ghost! Suppose, all the same, it were a ghost who puts the magic envelopes on the table ... who talks in Box Five ... who killed Joseph Buquet ... who unhooked the chandelier ... and who robs us! For, after all, after all, after all, there is no one here except you and me, and, if the notes disappear and neither you nor I have anything to do with it, well, we shall have to believe in the ghost ... in the ghost." At that moment, the clock on the mantlepiece gave its warning click and the first stroke of twelve struck. The two managers shuddered. The perspiration streamed from their foreheads. The twelfth stroke sounded strangely in their ears. When the clock stopped, they gave a sigh and rose from their chairs. "I think we can go now," said Moncharmin. "I think so," Richard a agreed. "Before we go, do you mind if I look in your pocket?" "But, of course, Moncharmin, YOU MUST! ... Well?" he asked, as Moncharmin was feeling at the pocket. "Well, I can feel the pin." "Of course, as you said, we can't be robbed without noticing it." But Moncharmin, whose hands were still fumbling, bellowed: "I can feel the pin, but I can't feel the notes!" "Come, no joking, Moncharmin! ... This isn't the time for it." "Well, feel for yourself." Richard tore off his coat. The two managers turned the pocket inside out. THE POCKET WAS EMPTY. And the curious thing was that the pin remained, stuck in the same place. Richard and Moncharmin turned pale. There was no longer any doubt about the witchcraft. "The ghost!" muttered Moncharmin. But Richard suddenly sprang upon his partner. "No one but you has touched my pocket! Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ... Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ..." "On my soul," sighed Moncharmin, who was ready to swoon, "on my soul, I swear that I haven't got it!" Then somebody knocked at the door. Moncharmin opened it automatically, seemed hardly to recognize Mercier, his business-manager, exchanged a few words with him, without knowing what he was saying and, with an unconscious movement, put the safety-pin, for which he had no further use, into the hands of his bewildered subordinate ... Chapter XVIII The Commissary, The Viscount and the Persian The first words of the commissary of police, on entering the managers' office, were to ask after the missing prima donna. "Is Christine Daae here?" "Christine Daae here?" echoed Richard. "No. Why?" As for Moncharmin, he had not the strength left to utter a word. Richard repeated, for the commissary and the compact crowd which had followed him into the office observed an impressive silence. "Why do you ask if Christine Daae is here, M. LE COMMISSAIRE?" "Because she has to be found," declared the commissary of police solemnly. "What do you mean, she has to be found? Has she disappeared?" "In the middle of the performance!" "In the middle of the performance? This is extraordinary!" "Isn't it? And what is quite as extraordinary is that you should first learn it from me!" "Yes," said Richard, taking his head in his hands and muttering. "What is this new business? Oh, it's enough to make a man send in his resignation!" And he pulled a few hairs out of his mustache without even knowing what he was doing. "So she ... so she disappeared in the middle of the performance?" he repeated. "Yes, she was carried off in the Prison Act, at the moment when she was invoking the aid of the angels; but I doubt if she was carried off by an angel." "And I am sure that she was!" Everybody looked round. A young man, pale and trembling with excitement, repeated: "I am sure of it!" "Sure of what?" asked Mifroid. "That Christine Daae was carried off by an angel, M. LE COMMISSAIRE and I can tell you his name." "Aha, M. le Vicomte de Chagny! So you maintain that Christine Daae was carried off by an angel: an angel of the Opera, no doubt?" "Yes, monsieur, by an angel of the Opera; and I will tell you where he lives ... when we are alone." "You are right, monsieur." And the commissary of police, inviting Raoul to take a chair, cleared the room of all the rest, excepting the managers. Then Raoul spoke: "M. le Commissaire, the angel is called Erik, he lives in the Opera and he is the Angel of Music!" "The Angel of Music! Really! That is very curious! ... The Angel of Music!" And, turning to the managers, M. Mifroid asked, "Have you an Angel of Music on the premises, gentlemen?" Richard and Moncharmin shook their heads, without even speaking. "Oh," said the viscount, "those gentlemen have heard of the Opera ghost. Well, I am in a position to state that the Opera ghost and the Angel of Music are one and the same person; and his real name is Erik." M. Mifroid rose and looked at Raoul attentively. "I beg your pardon, monsieur but is it your intention to make fun of the law? And, if not, what is all this about the Opera ghost?" "I say that these gentlemen have heard of him." "Gentlemen, it appears that you know the Opera ghost?" Richard rose, with the remaining hairs of his mustache in his hand. "No, M. Commissary, no, we do not know him, but we wish that we did, for this very evening he has robbed us of twenty-thousand francs!" And Richard turned a terrible look on Moncharmin, which seemed to say: "Give me back the twenty-thousand francs, or I'll tell the whole story." Moncharmin understood what he meant, for, with a distracted gesture, he said: "Oh, tell everything and have done with it!" As for Mifroid, he looked at the managers and at Raoul by turns and wondered whether he had strayed into a lunatic asylum. He passed his hand through his hair. "A ghost," he said, "who, on the same evening, carries off an opera-singer and steals twenty-thousand francs is a ghost who must have his hands very full! If you don't mind, we will take the questions in order. The singer first, the twenty-thousand francs after. Come, M. de Chagny, let us try to talk seriously. You believe that Mlle. Christine Daae has been carried off by an individual called Erik. Do you know this person? Have you seen him?" "Yes." "Where?" "In a church yard." M. Mifroid gave a start, began to scrutinize Raoul again and said: "Of course! ... That's where ghosts usually hang out! ... And what were you doing in that churchyard?" "Monsieur," said Raoul, "I can quite understand how absurd my replies must seem to you. But I beg you to believe that I am in full possession of my faculties. The safety of the person dearest to me in the world is at stake. I should like to convince you in a few words, for time is pressing and every minute is valuable. Unfortunately, if I do not tell you the strangest story that ever was from the beginning, you will not believe me. I will tell you all I know about the Opera ghost, M. Commissary. Alas, I do not know much! ..." "Never mind, go on, go on!" exclaimed Richard and Moncharmin, suddenly greatly interested. Unfortunately for their hopes of learning some detail that could put them on the track of their hoaxer, they were soon compelled to accept the fact that M. Raoul de Chagny had completely lost his head. All that story about Perros-Guirec, death's heads and enchanted violins, could only have taken birth in the disordered brain of a youth mad with love. It was evident, also, that

genuine

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

"Well, it's like this ... only the ghost doesn't like me to talk about his business." "Indeed?" sneered Richard. "But this is a matter that concerns myself alone ... Well, it was in Box Five one evening, I found a letter addressed to myself, a sort of note written in red ink. I needn't read the letter to you sir; I know it by heart, and I shall never forget it if I live to be a hundred!" And Mme. Giry, drawing herself up, recited the letter with touching eloquence: MADAM: 1825. Mlle. Menetrier, leader of the ballet, became Marquise de Cussy. 1832. Mlle. Marie Taglioni, a dancer, became Comtesse Gilbert des Voisins. 1846. La Sota, a dancer, married a brother of the King of Spain. 1847. Lola Montes, a dancer, became the morganatic wife of King Louis of Bavaria and was created Countess of Landsfeld. 1848. Mlle. Maria, a dancer, became Baronne d'Herneville. 1870. Theresa Hessier, a dancer, married Dom Fernando, brother to the King of Portugal. Richard and Moncharmin listened to the old woman, who, as she proceeded with the enumeration of these glorious nuptials, swelled out, took courage and, at last, in a voice bursting with pride, flung out the last sentence of the prophetic letter: 1885. Meg Giry, Empress! Exhausted by this supreme effort, the box-keeper fell into a chair, saying: "Gentlemen, the letter was signed, 'Opera Ghost.' I had heard much of the ghost, but only half believed in him. From the day when he declared that my little Meg, the flesh of my flesh, the fruit of my womb, would be empress, I believed in him altogether." And really it was not necessary to make a long study of Mme. Giry's excited features to understand what could be got out of that fine intellect with the two words "ghost" and "empress." But who pulled the strings of that extraordinary puppet? That was the question. "You have never seen him; he speaks to you and you believe all he says?" asked Moncharmin. "Yes. To begin with, I owe it to him that my little Meg was promoted to be the leader of a row. I said to the ghost, 'If she is to be empress in 1885, there is no time to lose; she must become a leader at once.' He said, 'Look upon it as done.' And he had only a word to say to M. Poligny and the thing was done." "So you see that M. Poligny saw him!" "No, not any more than I did; but he heard him. The ghost said a word in his ear, you know, on the evening when he left Box Five, looking so dreadfully pale." Moncharmin heaved a sigh. "What a business!" he groaned. "Ah!" said Mme. Giry. "I always thought there were secrets between the ghost and M. Poligny. Anything that the ghost asked M. Poligny to do M. Poligny did. M. Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "You hear, Richard: Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "Yes, yes, I hear!" said Richard. "M. Poligny is a friend of the ghost; and, as Mme. Giry is a friend of M. Poligny, there we are! ... But I don't care a hang about M. Poligny," he added roughly. "The only person whose fate really interests me is Mme. Giry... Mme. Giry, do you know what is in this envelope?" "Why, of course not," she said. "Well, look." Mine. Giry looked into the envelope with a lackluster eye, which soon recovered its brilliancy. "Thousand-franc notes!" she cried. "Yes, Mme. Giry, thousand-franc notes! And you knew it!" "I, sir? I? ... I swear ..." "Don't swear, Mme. Giry! ... And now I will tell you the second reason why I sent for you. Mme. Giry, I am going to have you arrested." The two black feathers on the dingy bonnet, which usually affected the attitude of two notes of interrogation, changed into two notes of exclamation; as for the bonnet itself, it swayed in menace on the old lady's tempestuous chignon. Surprise, indignation, protest and dismay were furthermore displayed by little Meg's mother in a sort of extravagant movement of offended virtue, half bound, half slide, that brought her right under the nose of M. Richard, who could not help pushing back his chair. "HAVE ME ARRESTED!" The mouth that spoke those words seemed to spit the three teeth that were left to it into Richard's face. M. Richard behaved like a hero. He retreated no farther. His threatening forefinger seemed already to be pointing out the keeper of Box Five to the absent magistrates. "I am going to have you arrested, Mme. Giry, as a thief!" "Say that again!" And Mme. Giry caught Mr. Manager Richard a mighty box on the ear, before Mr. Manager Moncharmin had time to intervene. But it was not the withered hand of the angry old beldame that fell on the managerial ear, but the envelope itself, the cause of all the trouble, the magic envelope that opened with the blow, scattering the bank-notes, which escaped in a fantastic whirl of giant butterflies. The two managers gave a shout, and the same thought made them both go on their knees, feverishly, picking up and hurriedly examining the precious scraps of paper. "Are they still genuine, Moncharmin?" "Are they still genuine, Richard?" "Yes, they are still genuine!" Above their heads, Mme. Giry's three teeth were clashing in a noisy contest, full of hideous interjections. But all that could be clearly distinguished was this LEIT-MOTIF: "I, a thief! ... I, a thief, I?" She choked with rage. She shouted: "I never heard of such a thing!" And, suddenly, she darted up to Richard again. "In any case," she yelped, "you, M. Richard, ought to know better than I where the twenty thousand francs went to!" "I?" asked Richard, astounded. "And how should I know?" Moncharmin, looking severe and dissatisfied, at once insisted that the good lady should explain herself. "What does this mean, Mme. Giry?" he asked. "And why do you say that M. Richard ought to know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to?" As for Richard, who felt himself turning red under Moncharmin's eyes, he took Mme. Giry by the wrist and shook it violently. In a voice growling and rolling like thunder, he roared: "Why should I know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to? Why? Answer me!" "Because they went into your pocket!" gasped the old woman, looking at him as if he were the devil incarnate. Richard would have rushed upon Mme. Giry, if Moncharmin had not stayed his avenging hand and hastened to ask her, more gently: "How can you suspect my partner, M. Richard, of putting twenty-thousand francs in his pocket?" "I never said that," declared Mme. Giry, "seeing that it was myself who put the twenty-thousand francs into M. Richard's pocket." And she added, under her voice, "There! It's out! ... And may the ghost forgive me!" Richard began bellowing anew, but Moncharmin authoritatively ordered him to be silent. "Allow me! Allow me! Let the woman explain herself. Let me question her." And he added: "It is really astonishing that you should take up such a tone! ... We are on the verge of clearing up the whole mystery. And you're in a rage! ... You're wrong to behave like that... I'm enjoying myself immensely." Mme. Giry, like the martyr that she was, raised her head, her face beaming with faith in her own innocence. "You tell me there were twenty-thousand francs in the envelope which I put into M. Richard's pocket; but I tell you again that I knew nothing about it ... Nor M. Richard either, for that matter!" "Aha!" said Richard, suddenly assuming a swaggering air which Moncharmin did not like. "I knew nothing either! You put twenty-thousand francs in my pocket and I knew nothing either! I am very glad to hear it, Mme. Giry!" "Yes," the terrible dame agreed, "yes, it's true. We neither of us knew anything. But you, you must have ended by finding out!" Richard would certainly have swallowed Mme. Giry alive, if Moncharmin had not been there! But Moncharmin protected her. He resumed his questions: "What sort of envelope did you put in M. Richard's pocket? It was not the one which we gave you, the one which you took to Box Five before our eyes; and yet that was the one which contained the twenty-thousand francs." "I beg your pardon. The envelope which M. le Directeur gave me was the one which I slipped into M. le Directeur's pocket," explained Mme. Giry. "The one which I took to the ghost's box was another envelope, just like it, which the ghost gave me beforehand and which I hid up my sleeve." So saying, Mme. Giry took from her sleeve an envelope ready prepared and similarly addressed to that containing the twenty-thousand francs. The managers took it from her. They examined it and saw that it was fastened with seals stamped with their own managerial seal. They opened it. It contained twenty Bank of St. Farce notes like those which had so much astounded them the month before. "How simple!" said Richard. "How simple!" repeated Moncharmin. And he continued with his eyes fixed upon Mme. Giry, as though trying to hypnotize her. "So it was the ghost who gave you this envelope and told you to substitute it for the one which we gave you? And it was the ghost who told you to put the other into M. Richard's pocket?" "Yes, it was the ghost." "Then would you mind giving us a specimen of your little talents? Here is the envelope. Act as though we knew nothing." "As you please, gentlemen." Mme. Giry took the envelope with the twenty notes inside it and made for the door. She was on the point of going out when the two managers rushed at her: "Oh, no! Oh, no! We're not going to be 'done' a second time! Once bitten, twice shy!" "I beg your pardon, gentlemen," said the old woman, in self-excuse, "you told me to act as though you knew nothing ... Well, if you knew nothing, I should go away with your envelope!" "And then how would you slip it into my pocket?" argued Richard, whom Moncharmin fixed with his left eye, while keeping his right on Mme. Giry: a proceeding likely to strain his sight, but Moncharmin was prepared to go to any length to discover the truth. "I am to slip it into your pocket when you least expect it, sir. You know that I always take a little turn behind the scenes, in the course of the evening, and I often go with my daughter to the ballet-foyer, which I am entitled to do, as her mother; I bring her her shoes, when the ballet is about to begin ... in fact, I come and go as I please ... The subscribers come and go too... So do you, sir ... There are lots of people about ... I go behind you and slip the envelope into the tail-pocket of your dress-coat ... There's no witchcraft about that!" "No witchcraft!" growled Richard, rolling his eyes like Jupiter Tonans. "No witchcraft! Why, I've just caught you in a lie, you old witch!" Mme. Giry bristled, with her three teeth sticking out of her mouth. "And why, may I ask?" "Because I spent that evening watching Box Five and the sham envelope which you put there. I did not go to the ballet-foyer for a second." "No, sir, and I did not give you the envelope that evening, but at the next performance ... on the evening when the under-secretary of state for fine arts ..." At these words, M. Richard suddenly interrupted Mme. Giry: "Yes, that's true, I remember now! The under-secretary went behind the scenes. He asked for me. I went down to the ballet-foyer for a moment. I was on the foyer steps ... The under-secretary and his chief clerk were in the foyer itself. I suddenly turned around ... you had passed behind me, Mme. Giry ... You seemed to push against me ... Oh, I can see you still, I can see you still!" "Yes, that's it, sir, that's it. I had just finished my little business. That pocket of yours, sir, is very handy!" And Mme. Giry once more suited the action to the word, She passed behind M. Richard and, so nimbly that Moncharmin himself was impressed by it, slipped the envelope into the pocket of one of the tails of M. Richard's dress-coat. "Of course!" exclaimed Richard, looking a little pale. "It's very clever of O. G. The problem which he had to solve was this: how to do away with any dangerous intermediary between the man who gives the twenty-thousand francs and the man who receives it. And by far the best thing he could hit upon was to come and take the money from my pocket without my noticing it, as I myself did not know that it was there. It's wonderful!" "Oh, wonderful, no doubt!" Moncharmin agreed. "Only, you forget, Richard, that I provided ten-thousand francs of the twenty and that nobody put anything in my pocket!" [1] Flash notes drawn on the "Bank of St. Farce" in France correspond with those drawn on the "Bank of Engraving" in England.--Translator's Note. Chapter XVII The Safety-Pin Again Moncharmin's last phrase so dearly expressed the suspicion in which he now held his partner that it was bound to cause a stormy explanation, at the end of which it was agreed that Richard should yield to all Moncharmin's wishes, with the object of helping him to discover the miscreant who was victimizing them. This brings us to the interval after the Garden Act, with the strange conduct observed by M. Remy and those curious lapses from the dignity that might be expected of the managers. It was arranged between Richard and Moncharmin, first, that Richard should repeat the exact movements which he had made on the night of the disappearance of the first twenty-thousand francs; and, second, that Moncharmin should not for an instant lose sight of Richard's coat-tail pocket, into which Mme. Giry was to slip the twenty-thousand francs. M. Richard went and placed himself at the identical spot where he had stood when he bowed to the under-secretary for fine arts. M. Moncharmin took up his position a few steps behind him. Mme. Giry passed, rubbed up against M. Richard, got rid of her twenty-thousand francs in the manager's coat-tail pocket and disappeared ... Or rather she was conjured away. In accordance with the instructions received from Moncharmin a few minutes earlier, Mercier took the good lady to the acting-manager's office and turned the key on her, thus making it impossible for her to communicate with her ghost. Meanwhile, M. Richard was bending and bowing and scraping and walking backward, just as if he had that high and mighty minister, the under-secretary for fine arts, before him. Only, though these marks of politeness would have created no astonishment if the under-secretary of state had really been in front of M. Richard, they caused an easily comprehensible amazement to the spectators of this very natural but quite inexplicable scene when M. Richard had no body in front of him. M. Richard bowed ... to nobody; bent his back ... before nobody; and walked backward ... before nobody ... And, a few steps behind him, M. Moncharmin did the same thing that he was doing in addition to pushing away M. Remy and begging M. de La Borderie, the ambassador, and the manager of the Credit Central "not to touch M. le Directeur." Moncharmin, who had his own ideas, did not want Richard to come to him presently, when the twenty-thousand francs were gone, and say: "Perhaps it was the ambassador ... or the manager of the Credit Central ... or Remy." The more so as, at the time of the first scene, as Richard himself admitted, Richard had met nobody in that part of the theater after Mme. Giry had brushed up against him... Having begun by walking backward in order to bow, Richard continued to do so from prudence, until he reached the passage leading to the offices of the management. In this way, he was constantly watched by Moncharmin from behind and himself kept an eye on any one approaching from the front. Once more, this novel method of walking behind the scenes, adopted by the managers of our National Academy of Music, attracted attention; but the managers themselves thought of nothing but their twenty-thousand francs. On reaching the half-dark passage, Richard said to Moncharmin, in a low voice: "I am sure that nobody has touched me ... You had now better keep at some distance from me and watch me till I come to door of the office: it is better not to arouse suspicion and we can see anything that happens." But Moncharmin replied. "No, Richard, no! You walk ahead and I'll walk immediately behind you! I won't leave you by a step!" "But, in that case," exclaimed Richard, "they will never steal our twenty-thousand francs!" "I should hope not, indeed!" declared Moncharmin. "Then what we are doing is absurd!" "We are doing exactly what we did last time ... Last time, I joined you as you were leaving the stage and followed close behind you down this passage." "That's true!" sighed Richard, shaking his head and passively obeying Moncharmin. Two minutes later, the joint managers locked themselves into their office. Moncharmin himself put the key in his pocket: "We remained locked up like this, last time," he said, "until you left the Opera to go home." "That's so. No one came and disturbed us, I suppose?" "No one." "Then," said Richard, who was trying to collect his memory, "then I must certainly have been robbed on my way home from the Opera." "No," said Moncharmin in a drier tone than ever, "no, that's impossible. For I dropped you in my cab. The twenty-thousand francs disappeared at your place: there's not a shadow of a doubt about that." "It's incredible!" protested Richard. "I am sure of my servants ... and if one of them had done it, he would have disappeared since." Moncharmin shrugged his shoulders, as though to say that he did not wish to enter into details, and Richard began to think that Moncharmin was treating him in a very insupportable fashion. "Moncharmin, I've had enough of this!" "Richard, I've had too much of it!" "Do you dare to suspect me?" "Yes, of a silly joke." "One doesn't joke with twenty-thousand francs." "That's what I think," declared Moncharmin, unfolding a newspaper and ostentatiously studying its contents. "What are you doing?" asked Richard. "Are you going to read the paper next?" "Yes, Richard, until I take you home." "Like last time?" "Yes, like last time." Richard snatched the paper from Moncharmin's hands. Moncharmin stood up, more irritated than ever, and found himself faced by an exasperated Richard, who, crossing his arms on his chest, said: "Look here, I'm thinking of this, I'M THINKING OF WHAT I MIGHT THINK if, like last time, after my spending the evening alone with you, you brought me home and if, at the moment of parting, I perceived that twenty-thousand francs had disappeared from my coat-pocket ... like last time." "And what might you think?" asked Moncharmin, crimson with rage. "I might think that, as you hadn't left me by a foot's breadth and as, by your own wish, you were the only one to approach me, like last time, I might think that, if that twenty-thousand francs was no longer in my pocket, it stood a very good chance of being in yours!" Moncharmin leaped up at the suggestion. "Oh!" he shouted. "A safety-pin!" "What do you want a safety-pin for?" "To fasten you up with! ... A safety-pin! ... A safety-pin!" "You want to fasten me with a safety-pin?" "Yes, to fasten you to the twenty-thousand francs! Then, whether it's here, or on the drive from here to your place, or at your place, you will feel the hand that pulls at your pocket and you will see if it's mine! Oh, so you're suspecting me now, are you? A safety-pin!" And that was the moment when Moncharmin opened the door on the passage and shouted: "A safety-pin! ... somebody give me a safety-pin!" And we also know how, at the same moment, Remy, who had no safety-pin, was received by Moncharmin, while a boy procured the pin so eagerly longed for. And what happened was this: Moncharmin first locked the door again. Then he knelt down behind Richard's back. "I hope," he said, "that the notes are still there?" "So do I," said Richard. "The real ones?" asked Moncharmin, resolved not to be "had" this time. "Look for yourself," said Richard. "I refuse to touch them." Moncharmin took the envelope from Richard's pocket and drew out the bank-notes with a trembling hand, for, this time, in order frequently to make sure of the presence of the notes, he had not sealed the envelope nor even fastened it. He felt reassured on finding that they were all there and quite genuine. He put them back in the tail-pocket and pinned them with great care. Then he sat down behind Richard's coat-tails and kept his eyes fixed on them, while Richard, sitting at his writing-table, did not stir. "A little patience, Richard," said Moncharmin. "We have only a few minutes to wait ... The clock will soon strike twelve. Last time, we left at the last stroke of twelve." "Oh, I shall have all the patience necessary!" The time passed, slow, heavy, mysterious, stifling. Richard tried to laugh. "I shall end by believing in the omnipotence of the ghost," he said. "Just now, don't you find something uncomfortable, disquieting, alarming in the atmosphere of this room?" "You're quite right," said Moncharmin, who was really impressed. "The ghost!" continued Richard, in a low voice, as though fearing lest he should be overheard by invisible ears. "The ghost! Suppose, all the same, it were a ghost who puts the magic envelopes on the table ... who talks in Box Five ... who killed Joseph Buquet ... who unhooked the chandelier ... and who robs us! For, after all, after all, after all, there is no one here except you and me, and, if the notes disappear and neither you nor I have anything to do with it, well, we shall have to believe in the ghost ... in the ghost." At that moment, the clock on the mantlepiece gave its warning click and the first stroke of twelve struck. The two managers shuddered. The perspiration streamed from their foreheads. The twelfth stroke sounded strangely in their ears. When the clock stopped, they gave a sigh and rose from their chairs. "I think we can go now," said Moncharmin. "I think so," Richard a agreed. "Before we go, do you mind if I look in your pocket?" "But, of course, Moncharmin, YOU MUST! ... Well?" he asked, as Moncharmin was feeling at the pocket. "Well, I can feel the pin." "Of course, as you said, we can't be robbed without noticing it." But Moncharmin, whose hands were still fumbling, bellowed: "I can feel the pin, but I can't feel the notes!" "Come, no joking, Moncharmin! ... This isn't the time for it." "Well, feel for yourself." Richard tore off his coat. The two managers turned the pocket inside out. THE POCKET WAS EMPTY. And the curious thing was that the pin remained, stuck in the same place. Richard and Moncharmin turned pale. There was no longer any doubt about the witchcraft. "The ghost!" muttered Moncharmin. But Richard suddenly sprang upon his partner. "No one but you has touched my pocket! Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ... Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ..." "On my soul," sighed Moncharmin, who was ready to swoon, "on my soul, I swear that I haven't got it!" Then somebody knocked at the door. Moncharmin opened it automatically, seemed hardly to recognize Mercier, his business-manager, exchanged a few words with him, without knowing what he was saying and, with an unconscious movement, put the safety-pin, for which he had no further use, into the hands of his bewildered subordinate ... Chapter XVIII The Commissary, The Viscount and the Persian The first words of the commissary of police, on entering the managers' office, were to ask after the missing prima donna. "Is Christine Daae here?" "Christine Daae here?" echoed Richard. "No. Why?" As for Moncharmin, he had not the strength left to utter a word. Richard repeated, for the commissary and the compact crowd which had followed him into the office observed an impressive silence. "Why do you ask if Christine Daae is here, M. LE COMMISSAIRE?" "Because she has to be found," declared the commissary of police solemnly. "What do you mean, she has to be found? Has she disappeared?" "In the middle of the performance!" "In the middle of the performance? This is extraordinary!" "Isn't it? And what is quite as extraordinary is that you should first learn it from me!" "Yes," said Richard, taking his head in his hands and muttering. "What is this new business? Oh, it's enough to make a man send in his resignation!" And he pulled a few hairs out of his mustache without even knowing what he was doing. "So she ... so she disappeared in the middle of the performance?" he repeated. "Yes, she was carried off in the Prison Act, at the moment when she was invoking the aid of the angels; but I doubt if she was carried off by an angel." "And I am sure that she was!" Everybody looked round. A young man, pale and trembling with excitement, repeated: "I am sure of it!" "Sure of what?" asked Mifroid. "That Christine Daae was carried off by an angel, M. LE COMMISSAIRE and I can tell you his name." "Aha, M. le Vicomte de Chagny! So you maintain that Christine Daae was carried off by an angel: an angel of the Opera, no doubt?" "Yes, monsieur, by an angel of the Opera; and I will tell you where he lives ... when we are alone." "You are right, monsieur." And the commissary of police, inviting Raoul to take a chair, cleared the room of all the rest, excepting the managers. Then Raoul spoke: "M. le Commissaire, the angel is called Erik, he lives in the Opera and he is the Angel of Music!" "The Angel of Music! Really! That is very curious! ... The Angel of Music!" And, turning to the managers, M. Mifroid asked, "Have you an Angel of Music on the premises, gentlemen?" Richard and Moncharmin shook their heads, without even speaking. "Oh," said the viscount, "those gentlemen have heard of the Opera ghost. Well, I am in a position to state that the Opera ghost and the Angel of Music are one and the same person; and his real name is Erik." M. Mifroid rose and looked at Raoul attentively. "I beg your pardon, monsieur but is it your intention to make fun of the law? And, if not, what is all this about the Opera ghost?" "I say that these gentlemen have heard of him." "Gentlemen, it appears that you know the Opera ghost?" Richard rose, with the remaining hairs of his mustache in his hand. "No, M. Commissary, no, we do not know him, but we wish that we did, for this very evening he has robbed us of twenty-thousand francs!" And Richard turned a terrible look on Moncharmin, which seemed to say: "Give me back the twenty-thousand francs, or I'll tell the whole story." Moncharmin understood what he meant, for, with a distracted gesture, he said: "Oh, tell everything and have done with it!" As for Mifroid, he looked at the managers and at Raoul by turns and wondered whether he had strayed into a lunatic asylum. He passed his hand through his hair. "A ghost," he said, "who, on the same evening, carries off an opera-singer and steals twenty-thousand francs is a ghost who must have his hands very full! If you don't mind, we will take the questions in order. The singer first, the twenty-thousand francs after. Come, M. de Chagny, let us try to talk seriously. You believe that Mlle. Christine Daae has been carried off by an individual called Erik. Do you know this person? Have you seen him?" "Yes." "Where?" "In a church yard." M. Mifroid gave a start, began to scrutinize Raoul again and said: "Of course! ... That's where ghosts usually hang out! ... And what were you doing in that churchyard?" "Monsieur," said Raoul, "I can quite understand how absurd my replies must seem to you. But I beg you to believe that I am in full possession of my faculties. The safety of the person dearest to me in the world is at stake. I should like to convince you in a few words, for time is pressing and every minute is valuable. Unfortunately, if I do not tell you the strangest story that ever was from the beginning, you will not believe me. I will tell you all I know about the Opera ghost, M. Commissary. Alas, I do not know much! ..." "Never mind, go on, go on!" exclaimed Richard and Moncharmin, suddenly greatly interested. Unfortunately for their hopes of learning some detail that could put them on the track of their hoaxer, they were soon compelled to accept the fact that M. Raoul de Chagny had completely lost his head. All that story about Perros-Guirec, death's heads and enchanted violins, could only have taken birth in the disordered brain of a youth mad with love. It was evident, also, that

thief

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

"Well, it's like this ... only the ghost doesn't like me to talk about his business." "Indeed?" sneered Richard. "But this is a matter that concerns myself alone ... Well, it was in Box Five one evening, I found a letter addressed to myself, a sort of note written in red ink. I needn't read the letter to you sir; I know it by heart, and I shall never forget it if I live to be a hundred!" And Mme. Giry, drawing herself up, recited the letter with touching eloquence: MADAM: 1825. Mlle. Menetrier, leader of the ballet, became Marquise de Cussy. 1832. Mlle. Marie Taglioni, a dancer, became Comtesse Gilbert des Voisins. 1846. La Sota, a dancer, married a brother of the King of Spain. 1847. Lola Montes, a dancer, became the morganatic wife of King Louis of Bavaria and was created Countess of Landsfeld. 1848. Mlle. Maria, a dancer, became Baronne d'Herneville. 1870. Theresa Hessier, a dancer, married Dom Fernando, brother to the King of Portugal. Richard and Moncharmin listened to the old woman, who, as she proceeded with the enumeration of these glorious nuptials, swelled out, took courage and, at last, in a voice bursting with pride, flung out the last sentence of the prophetic letter: 1885. Meg Giry, Empress! Exhausted by this supreme effort, the box-keeper fell into a chair, saying: "Gentlemen, the letter was signed, 'Opera Ghost.' I had heard much of the ghost, but only half believed in him. From the day when he declared that my little Meg, the flesh of my flesh, the fruit of my womb, would be empress, I believed in him altogether." And really it was not necessary to make a long study of Mme. Giry's excited features to understand what could be got out of that fine intellect with the two words "ghost" and "empress." But who pulled the strings of that extraordinary puppet? That was the question. "You have never seen him; he speaks to you and you believe all he says?" asked Moncharmin. "Yes. To begin with, I owe it to him that my little Meg was promoted to be the leader of a row. I said to the ghost, 'If she is to be empress in 1885, there is no time to lose; she must become a leader at once.' He said, 'Look upon it as done.' And he had only a word to say to M. Poligny and the thing was done." "So you see that M. Poligny saw him!" "No, not any more than I did; but he heard him. The ghost said a word in his ear, you know, on the evening when he left Box Five, looking so dreadfully pale." Moncharmin heaved a sigh. "What a business!" he groaned. "Ah!" said Mme. Giry. "I always thought there were secrets between the ghost and M. Poligny. Anything that the ghost asked M. Poligny to do M. Poligny did. M. Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "You hear, Richard: Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "Yes, yes, I hear!" said Richard. "M. Poligny is a friend of the ghost; and, as Mme. Giry is a friend of M. Poligny, there we are! ... But I don't care a hang about M. Poligny," he added roughly. "The only person whose fate really interests me is Mme. Giry... Mme. Giry, do you know what is in this envelope?" "Why, of course not," she said. "Well, look." Mine. Giry looked into the envelope with a lackluster eye, which soon recovered its brilliancy. "Thousand-franc notes!" she cried. "Yes, Mme. Giry, thousand-franc notes! And you knew it!" "I, sir? I? ... I swear ..." "Don't swear, Mme. Giry! ... And now I will tell you the second reason why I sent for you. Mme. Giry, I am going to have you arrested." The two black feathers on the dingy bonnet, which usually affected the attitude of two notes of interrogation, changed into two notes of exclamation; as for the bonnet itself, it swayed in menace on the old lady's tempestuous chignon. Surprise, indignation, protest and dismay were furthermore displayed by little Meg's mother in a sort of extravagant movement of offended virtue, half bound, half slide, that brought her right under the nose of M. Richard, who could not help pushing back his chair. "HAVE ME ARRESTED!" The mouth that spoke those words seemed to spit the three teeth that were left to it into Richard's face. M. Richard behaved like a hero. He retreated no farther. His threatening forefinger seemed already to be pointing out the keeper of Box Five to the absent magistrates. "I am going to have you arrested, Mme. Giry, as a thief!" "Say that again!" And Mme. Giry caught Mr. Manager Richard a mighty box on the ear, before Mr. Manager Moncharmin had time to intervene. But it was not the withered hand of the angry old beldame that fell on the managerial ear, but the envelope itself, the cause of all the trouble, the magic envelope that opened with the blow, scattering the bank-notes, which escaped in a fantastic whirl of giant butterflies. The two managers gave a shout, and the same thought made them both go on their knees, feverishly, picking up and hurriedly examining the precious scraps of paper. "Are they still genuine, Moncharmin?" "Are they still genuine, Richard?" "Yes, they are still genuine!" Above their heads, Mme. Giry's three teeth were clashing in a noisy contest, full of hideous interjections. But all that could be clearly distinguished was this LEIT-MOTIF: "I, a thief! ... I, a thief, I?" She choked with rage. She shouted: "I never heard of such a thing!" And, suddenly, she darted up to Richard again. "In any case," she yelped, "you, M. Richard, ought to know better than I where the twenty thousand francs went to!" "I?" asked Richard, astounded. "And how should I know?" Moncharmin, looking severe and dissatisfied, at once insisted that the good lady should explain herself. "What does this mean, Mme. Giry?" he asked. "And why do you say that M. Richard ought to know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to?" As for Richard, who felt himself turning red under Moncharmin's eyes, he took Mme. Giry by the wrist and shook it violently. In a voice growling and rolling like thunder, he roared: "Why should I know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to? Why? Answer me!" "Because they went into your pocket!" gasped the old woman, looking at him as if he were the devil incarnate. Richard would have rushed upon Mme. Giry, if Moncharmin had not stayed his avenging hand and hastened to ask her, more gently: "How can you suspect my partner, M. Richard, of putting twenty-thousand francs in his pocket?" "I never said that," declared Mme. Giry, "seeing that it was myself who put the twenty-thousand francs into M. Richard's pocket." And she added, under her voice, "There! It's out! ... And may the ghost forgive me!" Richard began bellowing anew, but Moncharmin authoritatively ordered him to be silent. "Allow me! Allow me! Let the woman explain herself. Let me question her." And he added: "It is really astonishing that you should take up such a tone! ... We are on the verge of clearing up the whole mystery. And you're in a rage! ... You're wrong to behave like that... I'm enjoying myself immensely." Mme. Giry, like the martyr that she was, raised her head, her face beaming with faith in her own innocence. "You tell me there were twenty-thousand francs in the envelope which I put into M. Richard's pocket; but I tell you again that I knew nothing about it ... Nor M. Richard either, for that matter!" "Aha!" said Richard, suddenly assuming a swaggering air which Moncharmin did not like. "I knew nothing either! You put twenty-thousand francs in my pocket and I knew nothing either! I am very glad to hear it, Mme. Giry!" "Yes," the terrible dame agreed, "yes, it's true. We neither of us knew anything. But you, you must have ended by finding out!" Richard would certainly have swallowed Mme. Giry alive, if Moncharmin had not been there! But Moncharmin protected her. He resumed his questions: "What sort of envelope did you put in M. Richard's pocket? It was not the one which we gave you, the one which you took to Box Five before our eyes; and yet that was the one which contained the twenty-thousand francs." "I beg your pardon. The envelope which M. le Directeur gave me was the one which I slipped into M. le Directeur's pocket," explained Mme. Giry. "The one which I took to the ghost's box was another envelope, just like it, which the ghost gave me beforehand and which I hid up my sleeve." So saying, Mme. Giry took from her sleeve an envelope ready prepared and similarly addressed to that containing the twenty-thousand francs. The managers took it from her. They examined it and saw that it was fastened with seals stamped with their own managerial seal. They opened it. It contained twenty Bank of St. Farce notes like those which had so much astounded them the month before. "How simple!" said Richard. "How simple!" repeated Moncharmin. And he continued with his eyes fixed upon Mme. Giry, as though trying to hypnotize her. "So it was the ghost who gave you this envelope and told you to substitute it for the one which we gave you? And it was the ghost who told you to put the other into M. Richard's pocket?" "Yes, it was the ghost." "Then would you mind giving us a specimen of your little talents? Here is the envelope. Act as though we knew nothing." "As you please, gentlemen." Mme. Giry took the envelope with the twenty notes inside it and made for the door. She was on the point of going out when the two managers rushed at her: "Oh, no! Oh, no! We're not going to be 'done' a second time! Once bitten, twice shy!" "I beg your pardon, gentlemen," said the old woman, in self-excuse, "you told me to act as though you knew nothing ... Well, if you knew nothing, I should go away with your envelope!" "And then how would you slip it into my pocket?" argued Richard, whom Moncharmin fixed with his left eye, while keeping his right on Mme. Giry: a proceeding likely to strain his sight, but Moncharmin was prepared to go to any length to discover the truth. "I am to slip it into your pocket when you least expect it, sir. You know that I always take a little turn behind the scenes, in the course of the evening, and I often go with my daughter to the ballet-foyer, which I am entitled to do, as her mother; I bring her her shoes, when the ballet is about to begin ... in fact, I come and go as I please ... The subscribers come and go too... So do you, sir ... There are lots of people about ... I go behind you and slip the envelope into the tail-pocket of your dress-coat ... There's no witchcraft about that!" "No witchcraft!" growled Richard, rolling his eyes like Jupiter Tonans. "No witchcraft! Why, I've just caught you in a lie, you old witch!" Mme. Giry bristled, with her three teeth sticking out of her mouth. "And why, may I ask?" "Because I spent that evening watching Box Five and the sham envelope which you put there. I did not go to the ballet-foyer for a second." "No, sir, and I did not give you the envelope that evening, but at the next performance ... on the evening when the under-secretary of state for fine arts ..." At these words, M. Richard suddenly interrupted Mme. Giry: "Yes, that's true, I remember now! The under-secretary went behind the scenes. He asked for me. I went down to the ballet-foyer for a moment. I was on the foyer steps ... The under-secretary and his chief clerk were in the foyer itself. I suddenly turned around ... you had passed behind me, Mme. Giry ... You seemed to push against me ... Oh, I can see you still, I can see you still!" "Yes, that's it, sir, that's it. I had just finished my little business. That pocket of yours, sir, is very handy!" And Mme. Giry once more suited the action to the word, She passed behind M. Richard and, so nimbly that Moncharmin himself was impressed by it, slipped the envelope into the pocket of one of the tails of M. Richard's dress-coat. "Of course!" exclaimed Richard, looking a little pale. "It's very clever of O. G. The problem which he had to solve was this: how to do away with any dangerous intermediary between the man who gives the twenty-thousand francs and the man who receives it. And by far the best thing he could hit upon was to come and take the money from my pocket without my noticing it, as I myself did not know that it was there. It's wonderful!" "Oh, wonderful, no doubt!" Moncharmin agreed. "Only, you forget, Richard, that I provided ten-thousand francs of the twenty and that nobody put anything in my pocket!" [1] Flash notes drawn on the "Bank of St. Farce" in France correspond with those drawn on the "Bank of Engraving" in England.--Translator's Note. Chapter XVII The Safety-Pin Again Moncharmin's last phrase so dearly expressed the suspicion in which he now held his partner that it was bound to cause a stormy explanation, at the end of which it was agreed that Richard should yield to all Moncharmin's wishes, with the object of helping him to discover the miscreant who was victimizing them. This brings us to the interval after the Garden Act, with the strange conduct observed by M. Remy and those curious lapses from the dignity that might be expected of the managers. It was arranged between Richard and Moncharmin, first, that Richard should repeat the exact movements which he had made on the night of the disappearance of the first twenty-thousand francs; and, second, that Moncharmin should not for an instant lose sight of Richard's coat-tail pocket, into which Mme. Giry was to slip the twenty-thousand francs. M. Richard went and placed himself at the identical spot where he had stood when he bowed to the under-secretary for fine arts. M. Moncharmin took up his position a few steps behind him. Mme. Giry passed, rubbed up against M. Richard, got rid of her twenty-thousand francs in the manager's coat-tail pocket and disappeared ... Or rather she was conjured away. In accordance with the instructions received from Moncharmin a few minutes earlier, Mercier took the good lady to the acting-manager's office and turned the key on her, thus making it impossible for her to communicate with her ghost. Meanwhile, M. Richard was bending and bowing and scraping and walking backward, just as if he had that high and mighty minister, the under-secretary for fine arts, before him. Only, though these marks of politeness would have created no astonishment if the under-secretary of state had really been in front of M. Richard, they caused an easily comprehensible amazement to the spectators of this very natural but quite inexplicable scene when M. Richard had no body in front of him. M. Richard bowed ... to nobody; bent his back ... before nobody; and walked backward ... before nobody ... And, a few steps behind him, M. Moncharmin did the same thing that he was doing in addition to pushing away M. Remy and begging M. de La Borderie, the ambassador, and the manager of the Credit Central "not to touch M. le Directeur." Moncharmin, who had his own ideas, did not want Richard to come to him presently, when the twenty-thousand francs were gone, and say: "Perhaps it was the ambassador ... or the manager of the Credit Central ... or Remy." The more so as, at the time of the first scene, as Richard himself admitted, Richard had met nobody in that part of the theater after Mme. Giry had brushed up against him... Having begun by walking backward in order to bow, Richard continued to do so from prudence, until he reached the passage leading to the offices of the management. In this way, he was constantly watched by Moncharmin from behind and himself kept an eye on any one approaching from the front. Once more, this novel method of walking behind the scenes, adopted by the managers of our National Academy of Music, attracted attention; but the managers themselves thought of nothing but their twenty-thousand francs. On reaching the half-dark passage, Richard said to Moncharmin, in a low voice: "I am sure that nobody has touched me ... You had now better keep at some distance from me and watch me till I come to door of the office: it is better not to arouse suspicion and we can see anything that happens." But Moncharmin replied. "No, Richard, no! You walk ahead and I'll walk immediately behind you! I won't leave you by a step!" "But, in that case," exclaimed Richard, "they will never steal our twenty-thousand francs!" "I should hope not, indeed!" declared Moncharmin. "Then what we are doing is absurd!" "We are doing exactly what we did last time ... Last time, I joined you as you were leaving the stage and followed close behind you down this passage." "That's true!" sighed Richard, shaking his head and passively obeying Moncharmin. Two minutes later, the joint managers locked themselves into their office. Moncharmin himself put the key in his pocket: "We remained locked up like this, last time," he said, "until you left the Opera to go home." "That's so. No one came and disturbed us, I suppose?" "No one." "Then," said Richard, who was trying to collect his memory, "then I must certainly have been robbed on my way home from the Opera." "No," said Moncharmin in a drier tone than ever, "no, that's impossible. For I dropped you in my cab. The twenty-thousand francs disappeared at your place: there's not a shadow of a doubt about that." "It's incredible!" protested Richard. "I am sure of my servants ... and if one of them had done it, he would have disappeared since." Moncharmin shrugged his shoulders, as though to say that he did not wish to enter into details, and Richard began to think that Moncharmin was treating him in a very insupportable fashion. "Moncharmin, I've had enough of this!" "Richard, I've had too much of it!" "Do you dare to suspect me?" "Yes, of a silly joke." "One doesn't joke with twenty-thousand francs." "That's what I think," declared Moncharmin, unfolding a newspaper and ostentatiously studying its contents. "What are you doing?" asked Richard. "Are you going to read the paper next?" "Yes, Richard, until I take you home." "Like last time?" "Yes, like last time." Richard snatched the paper from Moncharmin's hands. Moncharmin stood up, more irritated than ever, and found himself faced by an exasperated Richard, who, crossing his arms on his chest, said: "Look here, I'm thinking of this, I'M THINKING OF WHAT I MIGHT THINK if, like last time, after my spending the evening alone with you, you brought me home and if, at the moment of parting, I perceived that twenty-thousand francs had disappeared from my coat-pocket ... like last time." "And what might you think?" asked Moncharmin, crimson with rage. "I might think that, as you hadn't left me by a foot's breadth and as, by your own wish, you were the only one to approach me, like last time, I might think that, if that twenty-thousand francs was no longer in my pocket, it stood a very good chance of being in yours!" Moncharmin leaped up at the suggestion. "Oh!" he shouted. "A safety-pin!" "What do you want a safety-pin for?" "To fasten you up with! ... A safety-pin! ... A safety-pin!" "You want to fasten me with a safety-pin?" "Yes, to fasten you to the twenty-thousand francs! Then, whether it's here, or on the drive from here to your place, or at your place, you will feel the hand that pulls at your pocket and you will see if it's mine! Oh, so you're suspecting me now, are you? A safety-pin!" And that was the moment when Moncharmin opened the door on the passage and shouted: "A safety-pin! ... somebody give me a safety-pin!" And we also know how, at the same moment, Remy, who had no safety-pin, was received by Moncharmin, while a boy procured the pin so eagerly longed for. And what happened was this: Moncharmin first locked the door again. Then he knelt down behind Richard's back. "I hope," he said, "that the notes are still there?" "So do I," said Richard. "The real ones?" asked Moncharmin, resolved not to be "had" this time. "Look for yourself," said Richard. "I refuse to touch them." Moncharmin took the envelope from Richard's pocket and drew out the bank-notes with a trembling hand, for, this time, in order frequently to make sure of the presence of the notes, he had not sealed the envelope nor even fastened it. He felt reassured on finding that they were all there and quite genuine. He put them back in the tail-pocket and pinned them with great care. Then he sat down behind Richard's coat-tails and kept his eyes fixed on them, while Richard, sitting at his writing-table, did not stir. "A little patience, Richard," said Moncharmin. "We have only a few minutes to wait ... The clock will soon strike twelve. Last time, we left at the last stroke of twelve." "Oh, I shall have all the patience necessary!" The time passed, slow, heavy, mysterious, stifling. Richard tried to laugh. "I shall end by believing in the omnipotence of the ghost," he said. "Just now, don't you find something uncomfortable, disquieting, alarming in the atmosphere of this room?" "You're quite right," said Moncharmin, who was really impressed. "The ghost!" continued Richard, in a low voice, as though fearing lest he should be overheard by invisible ears. "The ghost! Suppose, all the same, it were a ghost who puts the magic envelopes on the table ... who talks in Box Five ... who killed Joseph Buquet ... who unhooked the chandelier ... and who robs us! For, after all, after all, after all, there is no one here except you and me, and, if the notes disappear and neither you nor I have anything to do with it, well, we shall have to believe in the ghost ... in the ghost." At that moment, the clock on the mantlepiece gave its warning click and the first stroke of twelve struck. The two managers shuddered. The perspiration streamed from their foreheads. The twelfth stroke sounded strangely in their ears. When the clock stopped, they gave a sigh and rose from their chairs. "I think we can go now," said Moncharmin. "I think so," Richard a agreed. "Before we go, do you mind if I look in your pocket?" "But, of course, Moncharmin, YOU MUST! ... Well?" he asked, as Moncharmin was feeling at the pocket. "Well, I can feel the pin." "Of course, as you said, we can't be robbed without noticing it." But Moncharmin, whose hands were still fumbling, bellowed: "I can feel the pin, but I can't feel the notes!" "Come, no joking, Moncharmin! ... This isn't the time for it." "Well, feel for yourself." Richard tore off his coat. The two managers turned the pocket inside out. THE POCKET WAS EMPTY. And the curious thing was that the pin remained, stuck in the same place. Richard and Moncharmin turned pale. There was no longer any doubt about the witchcraft. "The ghost!" muttered Moncharmin. But Richard suddenly sprang upon his partner. "No one but you has touched my pocket! Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ... Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ..." "On my soul," sighed Moncharmin, who was ready to swoon, "on my soul, I swear that I haven't got it!" Then somebody knocked at the door. Moncharmin opened it automatically, seemed hardly to recognize Mercier, his business-manager, exchanged a few words with him, without knowing what he was saying and, with an unconscious movement, put the safety-pin, for which he had no further use, into the hands of his bewildered subordinate ... Chapter XVIII The Commissary, The Viscount and the Persian The first words of the commissary of police, on entering the managers' office, were to ask after the missing prima donna. "Is Christine Daae here?" "Christine Daae here?" echoed Richard. "No. Why?" As for Moncharmin, he had not the strength left to utter a word. Richard repeated, for the commissary and the compact crowd which had followed him into the office observed an impressive silence. "Why do you ask if Christine Daae is here, M. LE COMMISSAIRE?" "Because she has to be found," declared the commissary of police solemnly. "What do you mean, she has to be found? Has she disappeared?" "In the middle of the performance!" "In the middle of the performance? This is extraordinary!" "Isn't it? And what is quite as extraordinary is that you should first learn it from me!" "Yes," said Richard, taking his head in his hands and muttering. "What is this new business? Oh, it's enough to make a man send in his resignation!" And he pulled a few hairs out of his mustache without even knowing what he was doing. "So she ... so she disappeared in the middle of the performance?" he repeated. "Yes, she was carried off in the Prison Act, at the moment when she was invoking the aid of the angels; but I doubt if she was carried off by an angel." "And I am sure that she was!" Everybody looked round. A young man, pale and trembling with excitement, repeated: "I am sure of it!" "Sure of what?" asked Mifroid. "That Christine Daae was carried off by an angel, M. LE COMMISSAIRE and I can tell you his name." "Aha, M. le Vicomte de Chagny! So you maintain that Christine Daae was carried off by an angel: an angel of the Opera, no doubt?" "Yes, monsieur, by an angel of the Opera; and I will tell you where he lives ... when we are alone." "You are right, monsieur." And the commissary of police, inviting Raoul to take a chair, cleared the room of all the rest, excepting the managers. Then Raoul spoke: "M. le Commissaire, the angel is called Erik, he lives in the Opera and he is the Angel of Music!" "The Angel of Music! Really! That is very curious! ... The Angel of Music!" And, turning to the managers, M. Mifroid asked, "Have you an Angel of Music on the premises, gentlemen?" Richard and Moncharmin shook their heads, without even speaking. "Oh," said the viscount, "those gentlemen have heard of the Opera ghost. Well, I am in a position to state that the Opera ghost and the Angel of Music are one and the same person; and his real name is Erik." M. Mifroid rose and looked at Raoul attentively. "I beg your pardon, monsieur but is it your intention to make fun of the law? And, if not, what is all this about the Opera ghost?" "I say that these gentlemen have heard of him." "Gentlemen, it appears that you know the Opera ghost?" Richard rose, with the remaining hairs of his mustache in his hand. "No, M. Commissary, no, we do not know him, but we wish that we did, for this very evening he has robbed us of twenty-thousand francs!" And Richard turned a terrible look on Moncharmin, which seemed to say: "Give me back the twenty-thousand francs, or I'll tell the whole story." Moncharmin understood what he meant, for, with a distracted gesture, he said: "Oh, tell everything and have done with it!" As for Mifroid, he looked at the managers and at Raoul by turns and wondered whether he had strayed into a lunatic asylum. He passed his hand through his hair. "A ghost," he said, "who, on the same evening, carries off an opera-singer and steals twenty-thousand francs is a ghost who must have his hands very full! If you don't mind, we will take the questions in order. The singer first, the twenty-thousand francs after. Come, M. de Chagny, let us try to talk seriously. You believe that Mlle. Christine Daae has been carried off by an individual called Erik. Do you know this person? Have you seen him?" "Yes." "Where?" "In a church yard." M. Mifroid gave a start, began to scrutinize Raoul again and said: "Of course! ... That's where ghosts usually hang out! ... And what were you doing in that churchyard?" "Monsieur," said Raoul, "I can quite understand how absurd my replies must seem to you. But I beg you to believe that I am in full possession of my faculties. The safety of the person dearest to me in the world is at stake. I should like to convince you in a few words, for time is pressing and every minute is valuable. Unfortunately, if I do not tell you the strangest story that ever was from the beginning, you will not believe me. I will tell you all I know about the Opera ghost, M. Commissary. Alas, I do not know much! ..." "Never mind, go on, go on!" exclaimed Richard and Moncharmin, suddenly greatly interested. Unfortunately for their hopes of learning some detail that could put them on the track of their hoaxer, they were soon compelled to accept the fact that M. Raoul de Chagny had completely lost his head. All that story about Perros-Guirec, death's heads and enchanted violins, could only have taken birth in the disordered brain of a youth mad with love. It was evident, also, that

graciousness

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

"Well, it's like this ... only the ghost doesn't like me to talk about his business." "Indeed?" sneered Richard. "But this is a matter that concerns myself alone ... Well, it was in Box Five one evening, I found a letter addressed to myself, a sort of note written in red ink. I needn't read the letter to you sir; I know it by heart, and I shall never forget it if I live to be a hundred!" And Mme. Giry, drawing herself up, recited the letter with touching eloquence: MADAM: 1825. Mlle. Menetrier, leader of the ballet, became Marquise de Cussy. 1832. Mlle. Marie Taglioni, a dancer, became Comtesse Gilbert des Voisins. 1846. La Sota, a dancer, married a brother of the King of Spain. 1847. Lola Montes, a dancer, became the morganatic wife of King Louis of Bavaria and was created Countess of Landsfeld. 1848. Mlle. Maria, a dancer, became Baronne d'Herneville. 1870. Theresa Hessier, a dancer, married Dom Fernando, brother to the King of Portugal. Richard and Moncharmin listened to the old woman, who, as she proceeded with the enumeration of these glorious nuptials, swelled out, took courage and, at last, in a voice bursting with pride, flung out the last sentence of the prophetic letter: 1885. Meg Giry, Empress! Exhausted by this supreme effort, the box-keeper fell into a chair, saying: "Gentlemen, the letter was signed, 'Opera Ghost.' I had heard much of the ghost, but only half believed in him. From the day when he declared that my little Meg, the flesh of my flesh, the fruit of my womb, would be empress, I believed in him altogether." And really it was not necessary to make a long study of Mme. Giry's excited features to understand what could be got out of that fine intellect with the two words "ghost" and "empress." But who pulled the strings of that extraordinary puppet? That was the question. "You have never seen him; he speaks to you and you believe all he says?" asked Moncharmin. "Yes. To begin with, I owe it to him that my little Meg was promoted to be the leader of a row. I said to the ghost, 'If she is to be empress in 1885, there is no time to lose; she must become a leader at once.' He said, 'Look upon it as done.' And he had only a word to say to M. Poligny and the thing was done." "So you see that M. Poligny saw him!" "No, not any more than I did; but he heard him. The ghost said a word in his ear, you know, on the evening when he left Box Five, looking so dreadfully pale." Moncharmin heaved a sigh. "What a business!" he groaned. "Ah!" said Mme. Giry. "I always thought there were secrets between the ghost and M. Poligny. Anything that the ghost asked M. Poligny to do M. Poligny did. M. Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "You hear, Richard: Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "Yes, yes, I hear!" said Richard. "M. Poligny is a friend of the ghost; and, as Mme. Giry is a friend of M. Poligny, there we are! ... But I don't care a hang about M. Poligny," he added roughly. "The only person whose fate really interests me is Mme. Giry... Mme. Giry, do you know what is in this envelope?" "Why, of course not," she said. "Well, look." Mine. Giry looked into the envelope with a lackluster eye, which soon recovered its brilliancy. "Thousand-franc notes!" she cried. "Yes, Mme. Giry, thousand-franc notes! And you knew it!" "I, sir? I? ... I swear ..." "Don't swear, Mme. Giry! ... And now I will tell you the second reason why I sent for you. Mme. Giry, I am going to have you arrested." The two black feathers on the dingy bonnet, which usually affected the attitude of two notes of interrogation, changed into two notes of exclamation; as for the bonnet itself, it swayed in menace on the old lady's tempestuous chignon. Surprise, indignation, protest and dismay were furthermore displayed by little Meg's mother in a sort of extravagant movement of offended virtue, half bound, half slide, that brought her right under the nose of M. Richard, who could not help pushing back his chair. "HAVE ME ARRESTED!" The mouth that spoke those words seemed to spit the three teeth that were left to it into Richard's face. M. Richard behaved like a hero. He retreated no farther. His threatening forefinger seemed already to be pointing out the keeper of Box Five to the absent magistrates. "I am going to have you arrested, Mme. Giry, as a thief!" "Say that again!" And Mme. Giry caught Mr. Manager Richard a mighty box on the ear, before Mr. Manager Moncharmin had time to intervene. But it was not the withered hand of the angry old beldame that fell on the managerial ear, but the envelope itself, the cause of all the trouble, the magic envelope that opened with the blow, scattering the bank-notes, which escaped in a fantastic whirl of giant butterflies. The two managers gave a shout, and the same thought made them both go on their knees, feverishly, picking up and hurriedly examining the precious scraps of paper. "Are they still genuine, Moncharmin?" "Are they still genuine, Richard?" "Yes, they are still genuine!" Above their heads, Mme. Giry's three teeth were clashing in a noisy contest, full of hideous interjections. But all that could be clearly distinguished was this LEIT-MOTIF: "I, a thief! ... I, a thief, I?" She choked with rage. She shouted: "I never heard of such a thing!" And, suddenly, she darted up to Richard again. "In any case," she yelped, "you, M. Richard, ought to know better than I where the twenty thousand francs went to!" "I?" asked Richard, astounded. "And how should I know?" Moncharmin, looking severe and dissatisfied, at once insisted that the good lady should explain herself. "What does this mean, Mme. Giry?" he asked. "And why do you say that M. Richard ought to know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to?" As for Richard, who felt himself turning red under Moncharmin's eyes, he took Mme. Giry by the wrist and shook it violently. In a voice growling and rolling like thunder, he roared: "Why should I know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to? Why? Answer me!" "Because they went into your pocket!" gasped the old woman, looking at him as if he were the devil incarnate. Richard would have rushed upon Mme. Giry, if Moncharmin had not stayed his avenging hand and hastened to ask her, more gently: "How can you suspect my partner, M. Richard, of putting twenty-thousand francs in his pocket?" "I never said that," declared Mme. Giry, "seeing that it was myself who put the twenty-thousand francs into M. Richard's pocket." And she added, under her voice, "There! It's out! ... And may the ghost forgive me!" Richard began bellowing anew, but Moncharmin authoritatively ordered him to be silent. "Allow me! Allow me! Let the woman explain herself. Let me question her." And he added: "It is really astonishing that you should take up such a tone! ... We are on the verge of clearing up the whole mystery. And you're in a rage! ... You're wrong to behave like that... I'm enjoying myself immensely." Mme. Giry, like the martyr that she was, raised her head, her face beaming with faith in her own innocence. "You tell me there were twenty-thousand francs in the envelope which I put into M. Richard's pocket; but I tell you again that I knew nothing about it ... Nor M. Richard either, for that matter!" "Aha!" said Richard, suddenly assuming a swaggering air which Moncharmin did not like. "I knew nothing either! You put twenty-thousand francs in my pocket and I knew nothing either! I am very glad to hear it, Mme. Giry!" "Yes," the terrible dame agreed, "yes, it's true. We neither of us knew anything. But you, you must have ended by finding out!" Richard would certainly have swallowed Mme. Giry alive, if Moncharmin had not been there! But Moncharmin protected her. He resumed his questions: "What sort of envelope did you put in M. Richard's pocket? It was not the one which we gave you, the one which you took to Box Five before our eyes; and yet that was the one which contained the twenty-thousand francs." "I beg your pardon. The envelope which M. le Directeur gave me was the one which I slipped into M. le Directeur's pocket," explained Mme. Giry. "The one which I took to the ghost's box was another envelope, just like it, which the ghost gave me beforehand and which I hid up my sleeve." So saying, Mme. Giry took from her sleeve an envelope ready prepared and similarly addressed to that containing the twenty-thousand francs. The managers took it from her. They examined it and saw that it was fastened with seals stamped with their own managerial seal. They opened it. It contained twenty Bank of St. Farce notes like those which had so much astounded them the month before. "How simple!" said Richard. "How simple!" repeated Moncharmin. And he continued with his eyes fixed upon Mme. Giry, as though trying to hypnotize her. "So it was the ghost who gave you this envelope and told you to substitute it for the one which we gave you? And it was the ghost who told you to put the other into M. Richard's pocket?" "Yes, it was the ghost." "Then would you mind giving us a specimen of your little talents? Here is the envelope. Act as though we knew nothing." "As you please, gentlemen." Mme. Giry took the envelope with the twenty notes inside it and made for the door. She was on the point of going out when the two managers rushed at her: "Oh, no! Oh, no! We're not going to be 'done' a second time! Once bitten, twice shy!" "I beg your pardon, gentlemen," said the old woman, in self-excuse, "you told me to act as though you knew nothing ... Well, if you knew nothing, I should go away with your envelope!" "And then how would you slip it into my pocket?" argued Richard, whom Moncharmin fixed with his left eye, while keeping his right on Mme. Giry: a proceeding likely to strain his sight, but Moncharmin was prepared to go to any length to discover the truth. "I am to slip it into your pocket when you least expect it, sir. You know that I always take a little turn behind the scenes, in the course of the evening, and I often go with my daughter to the ballet-foyer, which I am entitled to do, as her mother; I bring her her shoes, when the ballet is about to begin ... in fact, I come and go as I please ... The subscribers come and go too... So do you, sir ... There are lots of people about ... I go behind you and slip the envelope into the tail-pocket of your dress-coat ... There's no witchcraft about that!" "No witchcraft!" growled Richard, rolling his eyes like Jupiter Tonans. "No witchcraft! Why, I've just caught you in a lie, you old witch!" Mme. Giry bristled, with her three teeth sticking out of her mouth. "And why, may I ask?" "Because I spent that evening watching Box Five and the sham envelope which you put there. I did not go to the ballet-foyer for a second." "No, sir, and I did not give you the envelope that evening, but at the next performance ... on the evening when the under-secretary of state for fine arts ..." At these words, M. Richard suddenly interrupted Mme. Giry: "Yes, that's true, I remember now! The under-secretary went behind the scenes. He asked for me. I went down to the ballet-foyer for a moment. I was on the foyer steps ... The under-secretary and his chief clerk were in the foyer itself. I suddenly turned around ... you had passed behind me, Mme. Giry ... You seemed to push against me ... Oh, I can see you still, I can see you still!" "Yes, that's it, sir, that's it. I had just finished my little business. That pocket of yours, sir, is very handy!" And Mme. Giry once more suited the action to the word, She passed behind M. Richard and, so nimbly that Moncharmin himself was impressed by it, slipped the envelope into the pocket of one of the tails of M. Richard's dress-coat. "Of course!" exclaimed Richard, looking a little pale. "It's very clever of O. G. The problem which he had to solve was this: how to do away with any dangerous intermediary between the man who gives the twenty-thousand francs and the man who receives it. And by far the best thing he could hit upon was to come and take the money from my pocket without my noticing it, as I myself did not know that it was there. It's wonderful!" "Oh, wonderful, no doubt!" Moncharmin agreed. "Only, you forget, Richard, that I provided ten-thousand francs of the twenty and that nobody put anything in my pocket!" [1] Flash notes drawn on the "Bank of St. Farce" in France correspond with those drawn on the "Bank of Engraving" in England.--Translator's Note. Chapter XVII The Safety-Pin Again Moncharmin's last phrase so dearly expressed the suspicion in which he now held his partner that it was bound to cause a stormy explanation, at the end of which it was agreed that Richard should yield to all Moncharmin's wishes, with the object of helping him to discover the miscreant who was victimizing them. This brings us to the interval after the Garden Act, with the strange conduct observed by M. Remy and those curious lapses from the dignity that might be expected of the managers. It was arranged between Richard and Moncharmin, first, that Richard should repeat the exact movements which he had made on the night of the disappearance of the first twenty-thousand francs; and, second, that Moncharmin should not for an instant lose sight of Richard's coat-tail pocket, into which Mme. Giry was to slip the twenty-thousand francs. M. Richard went and placed himself at the identical spot where he had stood when he bowed to the under-secretary for fine arts. M. Moncharmin took up his position a few steps behind him. Mme. Giry passed, rubbed up against M. Richard, got rid of her twenty-thousand francs in the manager's coat-tail pocket and disappeared ... Or rather she was conjured away. In accordance with the instructions received from Moncharmin a few minutes earlier, Mercier took the good lady to the acting-manager's office and turned the key on her, thus making it impossible for her to communicate with her ghost. Meanwhile, M. Richard was bending and bowing and scraping and walking backward, just as if he had that high and mighty minister, the under-secretary for fine arts, before him. Only, though these marks of politeness would have created no astonishment if the under-secretary of state had really been in front of M. Richard, they caused an easily comprehensible amazement to the spectators of this very natural but quite inexplicable scene when M. Richard had no body in front of him. M. Richard bowed ... to nobody; bent his back ... before nobody; and walked backward ... before nobody ... And, a few steps behind him, M. Moncharmin did the same thing that he was doing in addition to pushing away M. Remy and begging M. de La Borderie, the ambassador, and the manager of the Credit Central "not to touch M. le Directeur." Moncharmin, who had his own ideas, did not want Richard to come to him presently, when the twenty-thousand francs were gone, and say: "Perhaps it was the ambassador ... or the manager of the Credit Central ... or Remy." The more so as, at the time of the first scene, as Richard himself admitted, Richard had met nobody in that part of the theater after Mme. Giry had brushed up against him... Having begun by walking backward in order to bow, Richard continued to do so from prudence, until he reached the passage leading to the offices of the management. In this way, he was constantly watched by Moncharmin from behind and himself kept an eye on any one approaching from the front. Once more, this novel method of walking behind the scenes, adopted by the managers of our National Academy of Music, attracted attention; but the managers themselves thought of nothing but their twenty-thousand francs. On reaching the half-dark passage, Richard said to Moncharmin, in a low voice: "I am sure that nobody has touched me ... You had now better keep at some distance from me and watch me till I come to door of the office: it is better not to arouse suspicion and we can see anything that happens." But Moncharmin replied. "No, Richard, no! You walk ahead and I'll walk immediately behind you! I won't leave you by a step!" "But, in that case," exclaimed Richard, "they will never steal our twenty-thousand francs!" "I should hope not, indeed!" declared Moncharmin. "Then what we are doing is absurd!" "We are doing exactly what we did last time ... Last time, I joined you as you were leaving the stage and followed close behind you down this passage." "That's true!" sighed Richard, shaking his head and passively obeying Moncharmin. Two minutes later, the joint managers locked themselves into their office. Moncharmin himself put the key in his pocket: "We remained locked up like this, last time," he said, "until you left the Opera to go home." "That's so. No one came and disturbed us, I suppose?" "No one." "Then," said Richard, who was trying to collect his memory, "then I must certainly have been robbed on my way home from the Opera." "No," said Moncharmin in a drier tone than ever, "no, that's impossible. For I dropped you in my cab. The twenty-thousand francs disappeared at your place: there's not a shadow of a doubt about that." "It's incredible!" protested Richard. "I am sure of my servants ... and if one of them had done it, he would have disappeared since." Moncharmin shrugged his shoulders, as though to say that he did not wish to enter into details, and Richard began to think that Moncharmin was treating him in a very insupportable fashion. "Moncharmin, I've had enough of this!" "Richard, I've had too much of it!" "Do you dare to suspect me?" "Yes, of a silly joke." "One doesn't joke with twenty-thousand francs." "That's what I think," declared Moncharmin, unfolding a newspaper and ostentatiously studying its contents. "What are you doing?" asked Richard. "Are you going to read the paper next?" "Yes, Richard, until I take you home." "Like last time?" "Yes, like last time." Richard snatched the paper from Moncharmin's hands. Moncharmin stood up, more irritated than ever, and found himself faced by an exasperated Richard, who, crossing his arms on his chest, said: "Look here, I'm thinking of this, I'M THINKING OF WHAT I MIGHT THINK if, like last time, after my spending the evening alone with you, you brought me home and if, at the moment of parting, I perceived that twenty-thousand francs had disappeared from my coat-pocket ... like last time." "And what might you think?" asked Moncharmin, crimson with rage. "I might think that, as you hadn't left me by a foot's breadth and as, by your own wish, you were the only one to approach me, like last time, I might think that, if that twenty-thousand francs was no longer in my pocket, it stood a very good chance of being in yours!" Moncharmin leaped up at the suggestion. "Oh!" he shouted. "A safety-pin!" "What do you want a safety-pin for?" "To fasten you up with! ... A safety-pin! ... A safety-pin!" "You want to fasten me with a safety-pin?" "Yes, to fasten you to the twenty-thousand francs! Then, whether it's here, or on the drive from here to your place, or at your place, you will feel the hand that pulls at your pocket and you will see if it's mine! Oh, so you're suspecting me now, are you? A safety-pin!" And that was the moment when Moncharmin opened the door on the passage and shouted: "A safety-pin! ... somebody give me a safety-pin!" And we also know how, at the same moment, Remy, who had no safety-pin, was received by Moncharmin, while a boy procured the pin so eagerly longed for. And what happened was this: Moncharmin first locked the door again. Then he knelt down behind Richard's back. "I hope," he said, "that the notes are still there?" "So do I," said Richard. "The real ones?" asked Moncharmin, resolved not to be "had" this time. "Look for yourself," said Richard. "I refuse to touch them." Moncharmin took the envelope from Richard's pocket and drew out the bank-notes with a trembling hand, for, this time, in order frequently to make sure of the presence of the notes, he had not sealed the envelope nor even fastened it. He felt reassured on finding that they were all there and quite genuine. He put them back in the tail-pocket and pinned them with great care. Then he sat down behind Richard's coat-tails and kept his eyes fixed on them, while Richard, sitting at his writing-table, did not stir. "A little patience, Richard," said Moncharmin. "We have only a few minutes to wait ... The clock will soon strike twelve. Last time, we left at the last stroke of twelve." "Oh, I shall have all the patience necessary!" The time passed, slow, heavy, mysterious, stifling. Richard tried to laugh. "I shall end by believing in the omnipotence of the ghost," he said. "Just now, don't you find something uncomfortable, disquieting, alarming in the atmosphere of this room?" "You're quite right," said Moncharmin, who was really impressed. "The ghost!" continued Richard, in a low voice, as though fearing lest he should be overheard by invisible ears. "The ghost! Suppose, all the same, it were a ghost who puts the magic envelopes on the table ... who talks in Box Five ... who killed Joseph Buquet ... who unhooked the chandelier ... and who robs us! For, after all, after all, after all, there is no one here except you and me, and, if the notes disappear and neither you nor I have anything to do with it, well, we shall have to believe in the ghost ... in the ghost." At that moment, the clock on the mantlepiece gave its warning click and the first stroke of twelve struck. The two managers shuddered. The perspiration streamed from their foreheads. The twelfth stroke sounded strangely in their ears. When the clock stopped, they gave a sigh and rose from their chairs. "I think we can go now," said Moncharmin. "I think so," Richard a agreed. "Before we go, do you mind if I look in your pocket?" "But, of course, Moncharmin, YOU MUST! ... Well?" he asked, as Moncharmin was feeling at the pocket. "Well, I can feel the pin." "Of course, as you said, we can't be robbed without noticing it." But Moncharmin, whose hands were still fumbling, bellowed: "I can feel the pin, but I can't feel the notes!" "Come, no joking, Moncharmin! ... This isn't the time for it." "Well, feel for yourself." Richard tore off his coat. The two managers turned the pocket inside out. THE POCKET WAS EMPTY. And the curious thing was that the pin remained, stuck in the same place. Richard and Moncharmin turned pale. There was no longer any doubt about the witchcraft. "The ghost!" muttered Moncharmin. But Richard suddenly sprang upon his partner. "No one but you has touched my pocket! Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ... Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ..." "On my soul," sighed Moncharmin, who was ready to swoon, "on my soul, I swear that I haven't got it!" Then somebody knocked at the door. Moncharmin opened it automatically, seemed hardly to recognize Mercier, his business-manager, exchanged a few words with him, without knowing what he was saying and, with an unconscious movement, put the safety-pin, for which he had no further use, into the hands of his bewildered subordinate ... Chapter XVIII The Commissary, The Viscount and the Persian The first words of the commissary of police, on entering the managers' office, were to ask after the missing prima donna. "Is Christine Daae here?" "Christine Daae here?" echoed Richard. "No. Why?" As for Moncharmin, he had not the strength left to utter a word. Richard repeated, for the commissary and the compact crowd which had followed him into the office observed an impressive silence. "Why do you ask if Christine Daae is here, M. LE COMMISSAIRE?" "Because she has to be found," declared the commissary of police solemnly. "What do you mean, she has to be found? Has she disappeared?" "In the middle of the performance!" "In the middle of the performance? This is extraordinary!" "Isn't it? And what is quite as extraordinary is that you should first learn it from me!" "Yes," said Richard, taking his head in his hands and muttering. "What is this new business? Oh, it's enough to make a man send in his resignation!" And he pulled a few hairs out of his mustache without even knowing what he was doing. "So she ... so she disappeared in the middle of the performance?" he repeated. "Yes, she was carried off in the Prison Act, at the moment when she was invoking the aid of the angels; but I doubt if she was carried off by an angel." "And I am sure that she was!" Everybody looked round. A young man, pale and trembling with excitement, repeated: "I am sure of it!" "Sure of what?" asked Mifroid. "That Christine Daae was carried off by an angel, M. LE COMMISSAIRE and I can tell you his name." "Aha, M. le Vicomte de Chagny! So you maintain that Christine Daae was carried off by an angel: an angel of the Opera, no doubt?" "Yes, monsieur, by an angel of the Opera; and I will tell you where he lives ... when we are alone." "You are right, monsieur." And the commissary of police, inviting Raoul to take a chair, cleared the room of all the rest, excepting the managers. Then Raoul spoke: "M. le Commissaire, the angel is called Erik, he lives in the Opera and he is the Angel of Music!" "The Angel of Music! Really! That is very curious! ... The Angel of Music!" And, turning to the managers, M. Mifroid asked, "Have you an Angel of Music on the premises, gentlemen?" Richard and Moncharmin shook their heads, without even speaking. "Oh," said the viscount, "those gentlemen have heard of the Opera ghost. Well, I am in a position to state that the Opera ghost and the Angel of Music are one and the same person; and his real name is Erik." M. Mifroid rose and looked at Raoul attentively. "I beg your pardon, monsieur but is it your intention to make fun of the law? And, if not, what is all this about the Opera ghost?" "I say that these gentlemen have heard of him." "Gentlemen, it appears that you know the Opera ghost?" Richard rose, with the remaining hairs of his mustache in his hand. "No, M. Commissary, no, we do not know him, but we wish that we did, for this very evening he has robbed us of twenty-thousand francs!" And Richard turned a terrible look on Moncharmin, which seemed to say: "Give me back the twenty-thousand francs, or I'll tell the whole story." Moncharmin understood what he meant, for, with a distracted gesture, he said: "Oh, tell everything and have done with it!" As for Mifroid, he looked at the managers and at Raoul by turns and wondered whether he had strayed into a lunatic asylum. He passed his hand through his hair. "A ghost," he said, "who, on the same evening, carries off an opera-singer and steals twenty-thousand francs is a ghost who must have his hands very full! If you don't mind, we will take the questions in order. The singer first, the twenty-thousand francs after. Come, M. de Chagny, let us try to talk seriously. You believe that Mlle. Christine Daae has been carried off by an individual called Erik. Do you know this person? Have you seen him?" "Yes." "Where?" "In a church yard." M. Mifroid gave a start, began to scrutinize Raoul again and said: "Of course! ... That's where ghosts usually hang out! ... And what were you doing in that churchyard?" "Monsieur," said Raoul, "I can quite understand how absurd my replies must seem to you. But I beg you to believe that I am in full possession of my faculties. The safety of the person dearest to me in the world is at stake. I should like to convince you in a few words, for time is pressing and every minute is valuable. Unfortunately, if I do not tell you the strangest story that ever was from the beginning, you will not believe me. I will tell you all I know about the Opera ghost, M. Commissary. Alas, I do not know much! ..." "Never mind, go on, go on!" exclaimed Richard and Moncharmin, suddenly greatly interested. Unfortunately for their hopes of learning some detail that could put them on the track of their hoaxer, they were soon compelled to accept the fact that M. Raoul de Chagny had completely lost his head. All that story about Perros-Guirec, death's heads and enchanted violins, could only have taken birth in the disordered brain of a youth mad with love. It was evident, also, that

ability

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"Well, it's like this ... only the ghost doesn't like me to talk about his business." "Indeed?" sneered Richard. "But this is a matter that concerns myself alone ... Well, it was in Box Five one evening, I found a letter addressed to myself, a sort of note written in red ink. I needn't read the letter to you sir; I know it by heart, and I shall never forget it if I live to be a hundred!" And Mme. Giry, drawing herself up, recited the letter with touching eloquence: MADAM: 1825. Mlle. Menetrier, leader of the ballet, became Marquise de Cussy. 1832. Mlle. Marie Taglioni, a dancer, became Comtesse Gilbert des Voisins. 1846. La Sota, a dancer, married a brother of the King of Spain. 1847. Lola Montes, a dancer, became the morganatic wife of King Louis of Bavaria and was created Countess of Landsfeld. 1848. Mlle. Maria, a dancer, became Baronne d'Herneville. 1870. Theresa Hessier, a dancer, married Dom Fernando, brother to the King of Portugal. Richard and Moncharmin listened to the old woman, who, as she proceeded with the enumeration of these glorious nuptials, swelled out, took courage and, at last, in a voice bursting with pride, flung out the last sentence of the prophetic letter: 1885. Meg Giry, Empress! Exhausted by this supreme effort, the box-keeper fell into a chair, saying: "Gentlemen, the letter was signed, 'Opera Ghost.' I had heard much of the ghost, but only half believed in him. From the day when he declared that my little Meg, the flesh of my flesh, the fruit of my womb, would be empress, I believed in him altogether." And really it was not necessary to make a long study of Mme. Giry's excited features to understand what could be got out of that fine intellect with the two words "ghost" and "empress." But who pulled the strings of that extraordinary puppet? That was the question. "You have never seen him; he speaks to you and you believe all he says?" asked Moncharmin. "Yes. To begin with, I owe it to him that my little Meg was promoted to be the leader of a row. I said to the ghost, 'If she is to be empress in 1885, there is no time to lose; she must become a leader at once.' He said, 'Look upon it as done.' And he had only a word to say to M. Poligny and the thing was done." "So you see that M. Poligny saw him!" "No, not any more than I did; but he heard him. The ghost said a word in his ear, you know, on the evening when he left Box Five, looking so dreadfully pale." Moncharmin heaved a sigh. "What a business!" he groaned. "Ah!" said Mme. Giry. "I always thought there were secrets between the ghost and M. Poligny. Anything that the ghost asked M. Poligny to do M. Poligny did. M. Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "You hear, Richard: Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "Yes, yes, I hear!" said Richard. "M. Poligny is a friend of the ghost; and, as Mme. Giry is a friend of M. Poligny, there we are! ... But I don't care a hang about M. Poligny," he added roughly. "The only person whose fate really interests me is Mme. Giry... Mme. Giry, do you know what is in this envelope?" "Why, of course not," she said. "Well, look." Mine. Giry looked into the envelope with a lackluster eye, which soon recovered its brilliancy. "Thousand-franc notes!" she cried. "Yes, Mme. Giry, thousand-franc notes! And you knew it!" "I, sir? I? ... I swear ..." "Don't swear, Mme. Giry! ... And now I will tell you the second reason why I sent for you. Mme. Giry, I am going to have you arrested." The two black feathers on the dingy bonnet, which usually affected the attitude of two notes of interrogation, changed into two notes of exclamation; as for the bonnet itself, it swayed in menace on the old lady's tempestuous chignon. Surprise, indignation, protest and dismay were furthermore displayed by little Meg's mother in a sort of extravagant movement of offended virtue, half bound, half slide, that brought her right under the nose of M. Richard, who could not help pushing back his chair. "HAVE ME ARRESTED!" The mouth that spoke those words seemed to spit the three teeth that were left to it into Richard's face. M. Richard behaved like a hero. He retreated no farther. His threatening forefinger seemed already to be pointing out the keeper of Box Five to the absent magistrates. "I am going to have you arrested, Mme. Giry, as a thief!" "Say that again!" And Mme. Giry caught Mr. Manager Richard a mighty box on the ear, before Mr. Manager Moncharmin had time to intervene. But it was not the withered hand of the angry old beldame that fell on the managerial ear, but the envelope itself, the cause of all the trouble, the magic envelope that opened with the blow, scattering the bank-notes, which escaped in a fantastic whirl of giant butterflies. The two managers gave a shout, and the same thought made them both go on their knees, feverishly, picking up and hurriedly examining the precious scraps of paper. "Are they still genuine, Moncharmin?" "Are they still genuine, Richard?" "Yes, they are still genuine!" Above their heads, Mme. Giry's three teeth were clashing in a noisy contest, full of hideous interjections. But all that could be clearly distinguished was this LEIT-MOTIF: "I, a thief! ... I, a thief, I?" She choked with rage. She shouted: "I never heard of such a thing!" And, suddenly, she darted up to Richard again. "In any case," she yelped, "you, M. Richard, ought to know better than I where the twenty thousand francs went to!" "I?" asked Richard, astounded. "And how should I know?" Moncharmin, looking severe and dissatisfied, at once insisted that the good lady should explain herself. "What does this mean, Mme. Giry?" he asked. "And why do you say that M. Richard ought to know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to?" As for Richard, who felt himself turning red under Moncharmin's eyes, he took Mme. Giry by the wrist and shook it violently. In a voice growling and rolling like thunder, he roared: "Why should I know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to? Why? Answer me!" "Because they went into your pocket!" gasped the old woman, looking at him as if he were the devil incarnate. Richard would have rushed upon Mme. Giry, if Moncharmin had not stayed his avenging hand and hastened to ask her, more gently: "How can you suspect my partner, M. Richard, of putting twenty-thousand francs in his pocket?" "I never said that," declared Mme. Giry, "seeing that it was myself who put the twenty-thousand francs into M. Richard's pocket." And she added, under her voice, "There! It's out! ... And may the ghost forgive me!" Richard began bellowing anew, but Moncharmin authoritatively ordered him to be silent. "Allow me! Allow me! Let the woman explain herself. Let me question her." And he added: "It is really astonishing that you should take up such a tone! ... We are on the verge of clearing up the whole mystery. And you're in a rage! ... You're wrong to behave like that... I'm enjoying myself immensely." Mme. Giry, like the martyr that she was, raised her head, her face beaming with faith in her own innocence. "You tell me there were twenty-thousand francs in the envelope which I put into M. Richard's pocket; but I tell you again that I knew nothing about it ... Nor M. Richard either, for that matter!" "Aha!" said Richard, suddenly assuming a swaggering air which Moncharmin did not like. "I knew nothing either! You put twenty-thousand francs in my pocket and I knew nothing either! I am very glad to hear it, Mme. Giry!" "Yes," the terrible dame agreed, "yes, it's true. We neither of us knew anything. But you, you must have ended by finding out!" Richard would certainly have swallowed Mme. Giry alive, if Moncharmin had not been there! But Moncharmin protected her. He resumed his questions: "What sort of envelope did you put in M. Richard's pocket? It was not the one which we gave you, the one which you took to Box Five before our eyes; and yet that was the one which contained the twenty-thousand francs." "I beg your pardon. The envelope which M. le Directeur gave me was the one which I slipped into M. le Directeur's pocket," explained Mme. Giry. "The one which I took to the ghost's box was another envelope, just like it, which the ghost gave me beforehand and which I hid up my sleeve." So saying, Mme. Giry took from her sleeve an envelope ready prepared and similarly addressed to that containing the twenty-thousand francs. The managers took it from her. They examined it and saw that it was fastened with seals stamped with their own managerial seal. They opened it. It contained twenty Bank of St. Farce notes like those which had so much astounded them the month before. "How simple!" said Richard. "How simple!" repeated Moncharmin. And he continued with his eyes fixed upon Mme. Giry, as though trying to hypnotize her. "So it was the ghost who gave you this envelope and told you to substitute it for the one which we gave you? And it was the ghost who told you to put the other into M. Richard's pocket?" "Yes, it was the ghost." "Then would you mind giving us a specimen of your little talents? Here is the envelope. Act as though we knew nothing." "As you please, gentlemen." Mme. Giry took the envelope with the twenty notes inside it and made for the door. She was on the point of going out when the two managers rushed at her: "Oh, no! Oh, no! We're not going to be 'done' a second time! Once bitten, twice shy!" "I beg your pardon, gentlemen," said the old woman, in self-excuse, "you told me to act as though you knew nothing ... Well, if you knew nothing, I should go away with your envelope!" "And then how would you slip it into my pocket?" argued Richard, whom Moncharmin fixed with his left eye, while keeping his right on Mme. Giry: a proceeding likely to strain his sight, but Moncharmin was prepared to go to any length to discover the truth. "I am to slip it into your pocket when you least expect it, sir. You know that I always take a little turn behind the scenes, in the course of the evening, and I often go with my daughter to the ballet-foyer, which I am entitled to do, as her mother; I bring her her shoes, when the ballet is about to begin ... in fact, I come and go as I please ... The subscribers come and go too... So do you, sir ... There are lots of people about ... I go behind you and slip the envelope into the tail-pocket of your dress-coat ... There's no witchcraft about that!" "No witchcraft!" growled Richard, rolling his eyes like Jupiter Tonans. "No witchcraft! Why, I've just caught you in a lie, you old witch!" Mme. Giry bristled, with her three teeth sticking out of her mouth. "And why, may I ask?" "Because I spent that evening watching Box Five and the sham envelope which you put there. I did not go to the ballet-foyer for a second." "No, sir, and I did not give you the envelope that evening, but at the next performance ... on the evening when the under-secretary of state for fine arts ..." At these words, M. Richard suddenly interrupted Mme. Giry: "Yes, that's true, I remember now! The under-secretary went behind the scenes. He asked for me. I went down to the ballet-foyer for a moment. I was on the foyer steps ... The under-secretary and his chief clerk were in the foyer itself. I suddenly turned around ... you had passed behind me, Mme. Giry ... You seemed to push against me ... Oh, I can see you still, I can see you still!" "Yes, that's it, sir, that's it. I had just finished my little business. That pocket of yours, sir, is very handy!" And Mme. Giry once more suited the action to the word, She passed behind M. Richard and, so nimbly that Moncharmin himself was impressed by it, slipped the envelope into the pocket of one of the tails of M. Richard's dress-coat. "Of course!" exclaimed Richard, looking a little pale. "It's very clever of O. G. The problem which he had to solve was this: how to do away with any dangerous intermediary between the man who gives the twenty-thousand francs and the man who receives it. And by far the best thing he could hit upon was to come and take the money from my pocket without my noticing it, as I myself did not know that it was there. It's wonderful!" "Oh, wonderful, no doubt!" Moncharmin agreed. "Only, you forget, Richard, that I provided ten-thousand francs of the twenty and that nobody put anything in my pocket!" [1] Flash notes drawn on the "Bank of St. Farce" in France correspond with those drawn on the "Bank of Engraving" in England.--Translator's Note. Chapter XVII The Safety-Pin Again Moncharmin's last phrase so dearly expressed the suspicion in which he now held his partner that it was bound to cause a stormy explanation, at the end of which it was agreed that Richard should yield to all Moncharmin's wishes, with the object of helping him to discover the miscreant who was victimizing them. This brings us to the interval after the Garden Act, with the strange conduct observed by M. Remy and those curious lapses from the dignity that might be expected of the managers. It was arranged between Richard and Moncharmin, first, that Richard should repeat the exact movements which he had made on the night of the disappearance of the first twenty-thousand francs; and, second, that Moncharmin should not for an instant lose sight of Richard's coat-tail pocket, into which Mme. Giry was to slip the twenty-thousand francs. M. Richard went and placed himself at the identical spot where he had stood when he bowed to the under-secretary for fine arts. M. Moncharmin took up his position a few steps behind him. Mme. Giry passed, rubbed up against M. Richard, got rid of her twenty-thousand francs in the manager's coat-tail pocket and disappeared ... Or rather she was conjured away. In accordance with the instructions received from Moncharmin a few minutes earlier, Mercier took the good lady to the acting-manager's office and turned the key on her, thus making it impossible for her to communicate with her ghost. Meanwhile, M. Richard was bending and bowing and scraping and walking backward, just as if he had that high and mighty minister, the under-secretary for fine arts, before him. Only, though these marks of politeness would have created no astonishment if the under-secretary of state had really been in front of M. Richard, they caused an easily comprehensible amazement to the spectators of this very natural but quite inexplicable scene when M. Richard had no body in front of him. M. Richard bowed ... to nobody; bent his back ... before nobody; and walked backward ... before nobody ... And, a few steps behind him, M. Moncharmin did the same thing that he was doing in addition to pushing away M. Remy and begging M. de La Borderie, the ambassador, and the manager of the Credit Central "not to touch M. le Directeur." Moncharmin, who had his own ideas, did not want Richard to come to him presently, when the twenty-thousand francs were gone, and say: "Perhaps it was the ambassador ... or the manager of the Credit Central ... or Remy." The more so as, at the time of the first scene, as Richard himself admitted, Richard had met nobody in that part of the theater after Mme. Giry had brushed up against him... Having begun by walking backward in order to bow, Richard continued to do so from prudence, until he reached the passage leading to the offices of the management. In this way, he was constantly watched by Moncharmin from behind and himself kept an eye on any one approaching from the front. Once more, this novel method of walking behind the scenes, adopted by the managers of our National Academy of Music, attracted attention; but the managers themselves thought of nothing but their twenty-thousand francs. On reaching the half-dark passage, Richard said to Moncharmin, in a low voice: "I am sure that nobody has touched me ... You had now better keep at some distance from me and watch me till I come to door of the office: it is better not to arouse suspicion and we can see anything that happens." But Moncharmin replied. "No, Richard, no! You walk ahead and I'll walk immediately behind you! I won't leave you by a step!" "But, in that case," exclaimed Richard, "they will never steal our twenty-thousand francs!" "I should hope not, indeed!" declared Moncharmin. "Then what we are doing is absurd!" "We are doing exactly what we did last time ... Last time, I joined you as you were leaving the stage and followed close behind you down this passage." "That's true!" sighed Richard, shaking his head and passively obeying Moncharmin. Two minutes later, the joint managers locked themselves into their office. Moncharmin himself put the key in his pocket: "We remained locked up like this, last time," he said, "until you left the Opera to go home." "That's so. No one came and disturbed us, I suppose?" "No one." "Then," said Richard, who was trying to collect his memory, "then I must certainly have been robbed on my way home from the Opera." "No," said Moncharmin in a drier tone than ever, "no, that's impossible. For I dropped you in my cab. The twenty-thousand francs disappeared at your place: there's not a shadow of a doubt about that." "It's incredible!" protested Richard. "I am sure of my servants ... and if one of them had done it, he would have disappeared since." Moncharmin shrugged his shoulders, as though to say that he did not wish to enter into details, and Richard began to think that Moncharmin was treating him in a very insupportable fashion. "Moncharmin, I've had enough of this!" "Richard, I've had too much of it!" "Do you dare to suspect me?" "Yes, of a silly joke." "One doesn't joke with twenty-thousand francs." "That's what I think," declared Moncharmin, unfolding a newspaper and ostentatiously studying its contents. "What are you doing?" asked Richard. "Are you going to read the paper next?" "Yes, Richard, until I take you home." "Like last time?" "Yes, like last time." Richard snatched the paper from Moncharmin's hands. Moncharmin stood up, more irritated than ever, and found himself faced by an exasperated Richard, who, crossing his arms on his chest, said: "Look here, I'm thinking of this, I'M THINKING OF WHAT I MIGHT THINK if, like last time, after my spending the evening alone with you, you brought me home and if, at the moment of parting, I perceived that twenty-thousand francs had disappeared from my coat-pocket ... like last time." "And what might you think?" asked Moncharmin, crimson with rage. "I might think that, as you hadn't left me by a foot's breadth and as, by your own wish, you were the only one to approach me, like last time, I might think that, if that twenty-thousand francs was no longer in my pocket, it stood a very good chance of being in yours!" Moncharmin leaped up at the suggestion. "Oh!" he shouted. "A safety-pin!" "What do you want a safety-pin for?" "To fasten you up with! ... A safety-pin! ... A safety-pin!" "You want to fasten me with a safety-pin?" "Yes, to fasten you to the twenty-thousand francs! Then, whether it's here, or on the drive from here to your place, or at your place, you will feel the hand that pulls at your pocket and you will see if it's mine! Oh, so you're suspecting me now, are you? A safety-pin!" And that was the moment when Moncharmin opened the door on the passage and shouted: "A safety-pin! ... somebody give me a safety-pin!" And we also know how, at the same moment, Remy, who had no safety-pin, was received by Moncharmin, while a boy procured the pin so eagerly longed for. And what happened was this: Moncharmin first locked the door again. Then he knelt down behind Richard's back. "I hope," he said, "that the notes are still there?" "So do I," said Richard. "The real ones?" asked Moncharmin, resolved not to be "had" this time. "Look for yourself," said Richard. "I refuse to touch them." Moncharmin took the envelope from Richard's pocket and drew out the bank-notes with a trembling hand, for, this time, in order frequently to make sure of the presence of the notes, he had not sealed the envelope nor even fastened it. He felt reassured on finding that they were all there and quite genuine. He put them back in the tail-pocket and pinned them with great care. Then he sat down behind Richard's coat-tails and kept his eyes fixed on them, while Richard, sitting at his writing-table, did not stir. "A little patience, Richard," said Moncharmin. "We have only a few minutes to wait ... The clock will soon strike twelve. Last time, we left at the last stroke of twelve." "Oh, I shall have all the patience necessary!" The time passed, slow, heavy, mysterious, stifling. Richard tried to laugh. "I shall end by believing in the omnipotence of the ghost," he said. "Just now, don't you find something uncomfortable, disquieting, alarming in the atmosphere of this room?" "You're quite right," said Moncharmin, who was really impressed. "The ghost!" continued Richard, in a low voice, as though fearing lest he should be overheard by invisible ears. "The ghost! Suppose, all the same, it were a ghost who puts the magic envelopes on the table ... who talks in Box Five ... who killed Joseph Buquet ... who unhooked the chandelier ... and who robs us! For, after all, after all, after all, there is no one here except you and me, and, if the notes disappear and neither you nor I have anything to do with it, well, we shall have to believe in the ghost ... in the ghost." At that moment, the clock on the mantlepiece gave its warning click and the first stroke of twelve struck. The two managers shuddered. The perspiration streamed from their foreheads. The twelfth stroke sounded strangely in their ears. When the clock stopped, they gave a sigh and rose from their chairs. "I think we can go now," said Moncharmin. "I think so," Richard a agreed. "Before we go, do you mind if I look in your pocket?" "But, of course, Moncharmin, YOU MUST! ... Well?" he asked, as Moncharmin was feeling at the pocket. "Well, I can feel the pin." "Of course, as you said, we can't be robbed without noticing it." But Moncharmin, whose hands were still fumbling, bellowed: "I can feel the pin, but I can't feel the notes!" "Come, no joking, Moncharmin! ... This isn't the time for it." "Well, feel for yourself." Richard tore off his coat. The two managers turned the pocket inside out. THE POCKET WAS EMPTY. And the curious thing was that the pin remained, stuck in the same place. Richard and Moncharmin turned pale. There was no longer any doubt about the witchcraft. "The ghost!" muttered Moncharmin. But Richard suddenly sprang upon his partner. "No one but you has touched my pocket! Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ... Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ..." "On my soul," sighed Moncharmin, who was ready to swoon, "on my soul, I swear that I haven't got it!" Then somebody knocked at the door. Moncharmin opened it automatically, seemed hardly to recognize Mercier, his business-manager, exchanged a few words with him, without knowing what he was saying and, with an unconscious movement, put the safety-pin, for which he had no further use, into the hands of his bewildered subordinate ... Chapter XVIII The Commissary, The Viscount and the Persian The first words of the commissary of police, on entering the managers' office, were to ask after the missing prima donna. "Is Christine Daae here?" "Christine Daae here?" echoed Richard. "No. Why?" As for Moncharmin, he had not the strength left to utter a word. Richard repeated, for the commissary and the compact crowd which had followed him into the office observed an impressive silence. "Why do you ask if Christine Daae is here, M. LE COMMISSAIRE?" "Because she has to be found," declared the commissary of police solemnly. "What do you mean, she has to be found? Has she disappeared?" "In the middle of the performance!" "In the middle of the performance? This is extraordinary!" "Isn't it? And what is quite as extraordinary is that you should first learn it from me!" "Yes," said Richard, taking his head in his hands and muttering. "What is this new business? Oh, it's enough to make a man send in his resignation!" And he pulled a few hairs out of his mustache without even knowing what he was doing. "So she ... so she disappeared in the middle of the performance?" he repeated. "Yes, she was carried off in the Prison Act, at the moment when she was invoking the aid of the angels; but I doubt if she was carried off by an angel." "And I am sure that she was!" Everybody looked round. A young man, pale and trembling with excitement, repeated: "I am sure of it!" "Sure of what?" asked Mifroid. "That Christine Daae was carried off by an angel, M. LE COMMISSAIRE and I can tell you his name." "Aha, M. le Vicomte de Chagny! So you maintain that Christine Daae was carried off by an angel: an angel of the Opera, no doubt?" "Yes, monsieur, by an angel of the Opera; and I will tell you where he lives ... when we are alone." "You are right, monsieur." And the commissary of police, inviting Raoul to take a chair, cleared the room of all the rest, excepting the managers. Then Raoul spoke: "M. le Commissaire, the angel is called Erik, he lives in the Opera and he is the Angel of Music!" "The Angel of Music! Really! That is very curious! ... The Angel of Music!" And, turning to the managers, M. Mifroid asked, "Have you an Angel of Music on the premises, gentlemen?" Richard and Moncharmin shook their heads, without even speaking. "Oh," said the viscount, "those gentlemen have heard of the Opera ghost. Well, I am in a position to state that the Opera ghost and the Angel of Music are one and the same person; and his real name is Erik." M. Mifroid rose and looked at Raoul attentively. "I beg your pardon, monsieur but is it your intention to make fun of the law? And, if not, what is all this about the Opera ghost?" "I say that these gentlemen have heard of him." "Gentlemen, it appears that you know the Opera ghost?" Richard rose, with the remaining hairs of his mustache in his hand. "No, M. Commissary, no, we do not know him, but we wish that we did, for this very evening he has robbed us of twenty-thousand francs!" And Richard turned a terrible look on Moncharmin, which seemed to say: "Give me back the twenty-thousand francs, or I'll tell the whole story." Moncharmin understood what he meant, for, with a distracted gesture, he said: "Oh, tell everything and have done with it!" As for Mifroid, he looked at the managers and at Raoul by turns and wondered whether he had strayed into a lunatic asylum. He passed his hand through his hair. "A ghost," he said, "who, on the same evening, carries off an opera-singer and steals twenty-thousand francs is a ghost who must have his hands very full! If you don't mind, we will take the questions in order. The singer first, the twenty-thousand francs after. Come, M. de Chagny, let us try to talk seriously. You believe that Mlle. Christine Daae has been carried off by an individual called Erik. Do you know this person? Have you seen him?" "Yes." "Where?" "In a church yard." M. Mifroid gave a start, began to scrutinize Raoul again and said: "Of course! ... That's where ghosts usually hang out! ... And what were you doing in that churchyard?" "Monsieur," said Raoul, "I can quite understand how absurd my replies must seem to you. But I beg you to believe that I am in full possession of my faculties. The safety of the person dearest to me in the world is at stake. I should like to convince you in a few words, for time is pressing and every minute is valuable. Unfortunately, if I do not tell you the strangest story that ever was from the beginning, you will not believe me. I will tell you all I know about the Opera ghost, M. Commissary. Alas, I do not know much! ..." "Never mind, go on, go on!" exclaimed Richard and Moncharmin, suddenly greatly interested. Unfortunately for their hopes of learning some detail that could put them on the track of their hoaxer, they were soon compelled to accept the fact that M. Raoul de Chagny had completely lost his head. All that story about Perros-Guirec, death's heads and enchanted violins, could only have taken birth in the disordered brain of a youth mad with love. It was evident, also, that

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"friend and well-wisher" over the telephone. The other said something in German in a hoarse whisper. Having studied that language in college, Aubrey caught only two words--Thur and Schlussel, which he knew meant door and key. "Very well," said the first voice. "That will be all right, but we must act to-night. The damned thing must be finished to-morrow. Your idiotic stupidity--" Again followed some gargling in German, in a rapid undertone too fluent for Aubrey's grasp. The latch of the alley gate clicked once more, and his hand was on his revolver; but in a moment the two had passed on down the alley. The young advertising agent stood against the fence in silent horror, his heart bumping heavily. His hands were clammy, his feet seemed to have grown larger and taken root. What damnable complot was this? A sultry wave of anger passed over him. This bland, slick, talkative bookseller, was he arranging some blackmailing scheme to kidnap the girl and wring blood-money out of her father? And in league with Germans, too, the scoundrel! What an asinine thing for old Chapman to send an unprotected girl over here into the wilds of Brooklyn . . . and in the meantime, what was he to do? Patrol the back yard all night? No, the friend and well-wisher had said "We must find some other way." Besides, Aubrey remembered something having been said about the old terrier sleeping in the kitchen. He felt sure Bock would not let any German in at night without raising the roof. Probably the best way would be to watch the front of the shop. In miserable perplexity he waited several minutes until the two Germans would be well out of earshot. Then he unbolted the gate and stole up the alley on tiptoe, in the opposite direction. It led into Wordsworth Avenue just behind Weintraub's drug store, over the rear of which hung the great girders and trestles of the "L" station, a kind of Swiss chalet straddling the street on stilts. He thought it prudent to make a detour, so he turned east on Wordsworth Avenue until he reached Whittier Street, then sauntered easily down Whittier for a block, spying sharply for evidences of pursuit. Brooklyn was putting out its lights for the night, and all was quiet. He turned into Hazlitt Street and so back onto Gissing, noticing now that the Haunted Bookshop lights were off. It was nearly eleven o'clock: the last audience was filing out of the movie theatre, where two workmen were already perched on ladders taking down the Tarzan electric light sign, to substitute the illuminated lettering for the next feature. After some debate he decided that the best thing to do was to return to his room at Mrs. Schiller's, from which he could keep a sharp watch on the front door of the bookshop. By good fortune there was a lamp post almost directly in front of Mifflin's house, which cast plenty of light on the little sunken area before the door. With his opera glasses he could see from his bedroom whatever went on. As he crossed the street he cast his eyes upward at the facade of Mrs. Schiller's house. Two windows in the fourth storey were lit, and the gas burned minutely in the downstairs hall, elsewhere all was dark. And then, as he glanced at the window of his own chamber, where the curtain was still tucked back behind the pane, he noticed a curious thing. A small point of rosy light glowed, faded, and glowed again by the window. Someone was smoking a cigar in his room. Aubrey continued walking in even stride, as though he had seen nothing. Returning down the street, on the opposite side, he verified his first glance. The light was still there, and he judged himself not far out in assuming the smoker to be the friend and well-wisher or one of his gang. He had suspected the other man in the alley of being Weintraub, but he could not be sure. A cautious glance through the window of the drug store revealed Weintraub at his prescription counter. Aubrey determined to get even with the guttural gentleman who was waiting for him, certainly with no affectionate intent. He thanked the good fortune that had led him to stick the book cover in his overcoat pocket when leaving Mrs. Schiller's. Evidently, for reasons unknown, someone was very anxious to get hold of it. An idea occurred to him as he passed the little florist's shop, which was just closing. He entered and bought a dozen white carnations, and then, as if by an afterthought, asked "Have you any wire?" The florist produced a spool of the slender, tough wire that is sometimes used to nip the buds of expensive roses, to prevent them from blossoming too quickly. "Let me have about eight feet," said Aubrey. "I need some to-night and I guess the hardware stores are all closed." With this he returned to Mrs. Schiller's, picking his way carefully and close to the houses so as to be out of sight from the upstairs windows. He climbed the steps and unlatched the door with bated breath. It was half-past eleven, and he wondered how long he would have to wait for the well-wisher to descend. He could not help chuckling as he made his preparations, remembering an occasion at college somewhat similar in setting though far less serious in purpose. First he took off his shoes, laying them carefully to one side where he could find them again in a hurry. Then, choosing a banister about six feet from the bottom of the stairs he attached one end of the wire tightly to its base and spread the slack in a large loop over two of the stair treads. The remaining end of the wire he passed out through the banisters, twisting it into a small loop so that he could pull it easily. Then he turned out the hall gas and sat down in the dark to wait events. He sat for a long time, in some nervousness lest the pug dog might come prowling and find him. He was startled by a lady in a dressing gown--perhaps Mrs. J. F. Smith--who emerged from a ground-floor room passed very close to him in the dark, and muttered upstairs. He twitched his noose out of the way just in time. Presently, however, his patience was rewarded. He heard a door squeak above, and then the groaning of the staircase as someone descended slowly. He relaid his trap and waited, smiling to himself. A clock somewhere in the house was chiming twelve as the man came groping down the last flight, feeling his way in the dark. Aubrey heard him swearing under his breath. At the precise moment, when both his victim's feet were within the loop, Aubrey gave the wire a gigantic tug. The man fell like a safe, crashing against the banisters and landing in a sprawl on the floor. It was a terrific fall, and shook the house. He lay there groaning and cursing. Barely retaining his laughter, Aubrey struck a match and held it over the sprawling figure. The man lay with his face twisted against one out-spread arm, but the beard was unmistakable. It was the assistant chef again, and he seemed partly unconscious. "Burnt hair is a grand restorative," said Aubrey to himself, and applied the match to the bush of beard. He singed off a couple of inches of it with intense delight, and laid his carnations on the head of the stricken one. Then, hearing stirrings in the basement, he gathered up his wire and shoes and fled upstairs. He gained his room roaring with inward mirth, but entered cautiously, fearing some trap. Save for a strong tincture of cigar smoke, everything seemed correct. Listening at his door he heard Mrs. Schiller exclaiming shrilly in the hall, assisted by yappings from the pug. Doors upstairs were opened, and questions were called out. He heard guttural groans from the bearded one, mingled with oaths and some angry remark about having fallen downstairs. The pug, frenzied with excitement, yelled insanely. A female voice--possibly Mrs. J. F. Smith--cried out "What's that smell of burning?" Someone else said, "They're burning feathers under his nose to bring him to." "Yes, Hun's feathers," chuckled Aubrey to himself. He locked his door, and sat down by the window with his opera glasses. Chapter IX Again the Narrative is Retarded Roger had spent a quiet evening in the bookshop. Sitting at his desk under a fog of tobacco, he had honestly intended to do some writing on the twelfth chapter of his great work on bookselling. This chapter was to be an (alas, entirely conjectural) "Address Delivered by a Bookseller on Being Conferred the Honorary Degree of Doctor of Letters by a Leading University," and it presented so many alluring possibilities that Roger's mind always wandered from the paper into entranced visions of his imagined scene. He loved to build up in fancy the flattering details of that fine ceremony when bookselling would at last be properly recognized as one of the learned professions. He could see the great auditorium, filled with cultivated people: men with Emersonian profiles, ladies whispering behind their fluttering programmes. He could see the academic beadle, proctor, dean (or whatever he is, Roger was a little doubtful) pronouncing the august words of presentation-- A man who, in season and out of season, forgetting private gain for public weal, has laboured with Promethean and sacrificial ardour to instil the love of reasonable letters into countless thousands; to whom, and to whose colleagues, amid the perishable caducity of human affairs, is largely due the pullulation of literary taste; in honouring whom we seek to honour the noble and self-effacing profession of which he is so representative a member---- Then he could see the modest bookseller, somewhat clammy in his extremities and lost within his academic robe and hood, nervously fidgeting his mortar-board, haled forward by ushers, and tottering rubescent before the chancellor, provost, president (or whoever it might be) who hands out the diploma. Then (in Roger's vision) he could see the garlanded bibliopole turning to the expectant audience, giving his trailing gown a deft rearward kick as the ladies do on the stage, and uttering, without hesitation or embarrassment, with due interpolation of graceful pleasantry, that learned and unlaboured discourse on the delights of bookishness that he had often dreamed of. Then he could see the ensuing reception: the distinguished savants crowding round; the plates of macaroons, the cups of untasted tea; the ladies twittering, "Now there's something I want to ask you--why are there so many statues to generals, admirals, parsons, doctors, statesmen, scientists, artists, and authors, but no statues to booksellers?" Contemplation of this glittering scene always lured Roger into fantastic dreams. Ever since he had travelled country roads, some years before, selling books from a van drawn by a fat white horse, he had nourished a secret hope of some day founding a Parnassus on Wheels Corporation which would own a fleet of these vans and send them out into the rural byways where bookstores are unknown. He loved to imagine a great map of New York State, with the daily location of each travelling Parnassus marked by a coloured pin. He dreamed of himself, sitting in some vast central warehouse of second-hand books, poring over his map like a military chief of staff and forwarding cases of literary ammunition to various bases where his vans would re-stock. His idea was that his travelling salesmen could be recruited largely from college professors, parsons, and newspaper men, who were weary of their thankless tasks, and would welcome an opportunity to get out on the road. One of his hopes was that he might interest Mr. Chapman in this superb scheme, and he had a vision of the day when the shares of the Parnassus on Wheels Corporation would pay a handsome dividend and be much sought after by serious investors. These thoughts turned his mind toward his brother-in-law Andrew McGill, the author of several engaging books on the joys of country living, who dwells at the Sabine Farm in the green elbow of a Connecticut valley. The original Parnassus, a quaint old blue wagon in which Roger had lived and journeyed and sold books over several thousand miles of country roads in the days before his marriage, was now housed in Andrew's barn. Peg, his fat white horse, had lodging there also. It occurred to Roger that he owed Andrew a letter, and putting aside his notes for the bookseller's collegiate oration, he began to write: THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 163 Gissing Street, Brooklyn, November 30, 1918. MY DEAR ANDREW: It is scandalous not to have thanked you sooner for the annual cask of cider, which has given us even more than the customary pleasure. This has been an autumn when I have been hard put to it to keep up with my own thoughts, and I've written no letters at all. Like everyone else I am thinking constantly of this new peace that has marvellously come upon us. I trust we may have statesmen who will be able to turn it to the benefit of humanity. I wish there could be an international peace conference of booksellers, for (you will smile at this) my own conviction is that the future happiness of the world depends in no small measure on them and on the librarians. I wonder what a German bookseller is like? I've been reading The Education of Henry Adams and wish he might have lived long enough to give us his thoughts on the War. I fear it would have bowled him over. He thought that this is not a world "that sensitive and timid natures can regard without a shudder." What would he have said of the four-year shambles we have watched with sickened hearts? You remember my favourite poem--old George Herbert's Church Porch--where he says-- By all means use sometimes to be alone; Salute thyself; see what thy soul doth wear; Dare to look in thy chest, for 'tis thine own, And tumble up and down what thou find'st there-- Well, I've been tumbling my thoughts up and down a good deal. Melancholy, I suppose, is the curse of the thinking classes; but I confess my soul wears a great uneasiness these days! The sudden and amazing turnover in human affairs, dramatic beyond anything in history, already seems to be taken as a matter of course. My great fear is that humanity will forget the atrocious sufferings of the war, which have never been told. I am hoping and praying that men like Philip Gibbs may tell us what they really saw. You will not agree with me on what I am about to say, for I know you as a stubborn Republican; but I thank fortune that Wilson is going to the Peace Conference. I've been mulling over one of my favourite books--it lies beside me as I write--Cromwell's Letters and Speeches, edited by Carlyle, with what Carlyle amusingly calls "Elucidations." (Carlyle is not very good at "elucidating" anything!) I have heard somewhere or other that this is one of Wilson's favourite books, and indeed, there is much of the Cromwell in him. With what a grim, covenanting zeal he took up the sword when at last it was forced into his hand! And I have been thinking that what he will say to the Peace Conference will smack strongly of what old Oliver used to say to Parliament in 1657 and 1658--"If we will have Peace without a worm in it, lay we foundations of Justice and Righteousness." What makes Wilson so irritating to the unthoughtful is that he operates exclusively upon reason, not upon passion. He contradicts Kipling's famous lines, which apply to most men-- Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act. In this instance, I think, Reason is going to win. I feel the whole current of the world setting in that direction. It's quaint to think of old Woodrow, a kind of Cromwell-Wordsworth, going over to do his bit among the diplomatic shell-craters. What I'm waiting for is the day when he'll get back into private life and write a book about it. There's a job, if you like, for a man who might reasonably be supposed to be pretty tired in body and soul! When that book comes out I'll spend the rest of my life in selling it. I ask nothing better! Speaking of Wordsworth, I've often wondered whether Woodrow hasn't got some poems concealed somewhere among his papers! I've always imagined that he may have written poems on the sly. And by the way, you needn't make fun of me for being so devoted to George Herbert. Do you realize that two of the most familiar quotations in our language come from his pen, viz.: Wouldst thou both eat thy cake, and have it? and Dare to be true: nothing can need a ly; A fault, which needs it most, grows two thereby. Forgive this tedious sermon! My mind has been so tumbled up and down this autumn that I am in a queer state of mingled melancholy and exaltation. You know how much I live in and for books. Well, I have a curious feeling, a kind of premonition that there are great books coming out of this welter of human hopes and anguishes, perhaps A book in which the tempest-shaken soul of the race will speak out as it never has before. The Bible, you know, is rather a disappointment: it has never done for humanity what it should have done. I wonder why? Walt Whitman is going to do a great deal, but he is not quite what I mean. There is something coming--I don't know just what! I thank God I am a bookseller, trafficking in the dreams and beauties and curiosities of humanity rather than some mere huckster of merchandise. But how helpless we all are when we try to tell what goes on within us! I found this in one of Lafcadio Hearn's letters the other day--I marked the passage for you Baudelaire has a touching poem about an albatross, which you would like--describing the poet's soul superb in its own free azure--but helpless, insulted, ugly, clumsy when striving to walk on common earth--or rather, on a deck, where sailors torment it with tobacco pipes, etc. You can imagine what evenings I have here among my shelves, now the long dark nights are come! Of course until ten o'clock, when I shut up shop, I am constantly interrupted--as I have been during this letter, once to sell a copy of Helen's Babies and once to sell The Ballad of Reading Gaol, so you can see how varied are my clients' tastes! But later on, after we have had our evening cocoa and Helen has gone to bed, I prowl about the place, dipping into this and that, fuddling myself with speculation. How clear and bright the stream of the mind flows in those late hours, after all the sediment and floating trash of the day has drained off! Sometimes I seem to coast the very shore of Beauty or Truth, and hear the surf breaking on those shining sands. Then some offshore wind of weariness or prejudice bears me away again. Have you ever come across Andreyev's Confessions of a Little Man During Great Days? One of the honest books of the War. The Little Man ends his confession thus-- My anger has left me, my sadness returned, and once more the tears flow. Whom can I curse, whom can I judge, when we are all alike unfortunate? Suffering is universal; hands are outstretched to each other, and when they touch . . . the great solution will come. My heart is aglow, and I stretch out my hand and cry, "Come, let us join hands! I love you, I love you!" And of course, as soon as one puts one's self in that frame of mind someone comes along and picks your pocket. . . . I suppose we must teach ourselves to be too proud to mind having our pockets picked! Did it ever occur to you that the world is really governed by BOOKS? The course of this country in the War, for instance, has been largely determined by the books Wilson has read since he first began to think! If we could have a list of the principal books he has read since the War began, how interesting it would be. Here's something I'm just copying out to put up on my bulletin board for my customers to ponder. It was written by Charles Sorley, a young Englishman who was killed in France in 1915. He was only twenty years old-- TO GERMANY You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed, And no man claimed the conquest of your land. But gropers both through fields of thought confined We stumble and we do not understand. You only saw your future bigly planned, And we, the tapering paths of our own mind, And in each other's dearest ways we stand, And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind. When it is peace, then we may view again With new-won eyes each other's truer form And wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warm We'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain, When it is peace. But until peace, the storm The darkness and the thunder and the rain. Isn't that noble? You see what I am dumbly groping for--some way of thinking about the War that will make it seem (to future ages) a purification for humanity rather than a mere blackness of stinking cinders and tortured flesh and men shot to ribbons in marshes of blood and sewage. Out of such unspeakable desolation men MUST rise to some new conception of national neighbourhood. I hear so much apprehension that Germany won't be punished sufficiently for her crime. But how can any punishment be devised or imposed for such a huge panorama of sorrow? I think she has already punished herself horribly, and will continue to do so. My prayer is that what we have gone through will startle the world into some new realization of the sanctity of life--all life, animal as well as human. Don't you find that a visit to a zoo can humble and astound you with all that amazing and grotesque variety of living energy? What is it that we find in every form of life? Desire of some sort--some unexplained motive power that impels even the smallest insect on its queer travels. You must have watched some infinitesimal red spider on a fence rail, bustling along--why and whither? Who knows? And when you come to man, what a chaos of hungers and impulses keep thrusting him through his cycle of quaint tasks! And in every human heart you find some sorrow, some frustration, some lurking pang. I often think of Lafcadio Hearn's story of his Japanese cook. Hearn was talking of the Japanese habit of not showing their emotions on their faces. His cook was a smiling, healthy, agreeable-looking young fellow whose face was always cheerful. Then one day, by chance, Hearn happened to look through a hole in the wall and saw his cook alone. His face was not the same face. It was thin and drawn and showed strange lines worn by old hardships or sufferings. Hearn thought to himself, "He will look just like that when he is dead." He went into the kitchen to see him, and instantly the cook was all changed, young and happy again. Never again did Hearn see that face of trouble; but he knew the man wore it when he was alone. Don't you think there is a kind of parable there for the race as a whole? Have you ever met a man without wondering what shining sorrows he hides from the world, what contrast between vision and accomplishment torments him? Behind every smiling mask is there not some cryptic grimace of pain? Henry Adams puts it tersely. He says the human mind appears suddenly and inexplicably out of some unknown and unimaginable void. It passes half its known life in the mental chaos of sleep. Even when awake it is a victim of its own ill-adjustment, of disease, of age, of external suggestion, of nature's compulsions; it doubts its own sensations and trusts only in instruments and averages. After sixty years or so of growing astonishment the mind wakes to find itself looking blankly into the void of death. And, as Adams says, that it should profess itself pleased by this performance is all that the highest rules of good breeding can ask. That the mind should actually be satisfied would prove that it exists only as idiocy! I hope that you will write to tell me along what curves your mind is moving. For my own part I feel that we are on the verge of amazing things. Long ago I fell back on books as the only permanent consolers. They are the one stainless and unimpeachable achievement of the human race. It saddens me to think that I shall have to die with thousands of books unread that would have given me noble and unblemished happiness. I will tell you a secret. I have never read King Lear, and have purposely refrained from doing so. If I were ever very ill I would only need to say to myself "You can't die yet, you haven't read Lear." That would bring me round, I know it would. You see, books are the answer to all our perplexities! Henry Adams grinds his teeth at his inability to understand the universe. The best he can do is to suggest a "law of acceleration," which seems to mean that Nature is hustling man along at an ever-increasing rate so that he will either solve all her problems or else die of fever in the effort. But Adams' candid portrait of a mind grappling helplessly with its riddles is so triumphantly delightful that one forgets the futility of the struggle in the accuracy of the picture. Man is unconquerable because he can make even his helplessness so entertaining. His motto seems to be "Even though He slay me, yet will I make fun of Him!" Yes, books are man's supreme triumph, for they gather up and transmit all other triumphs. As Walter de la Mare writes, "How uncomprehendingly must an angel from heaven smile on a poor human sitting engrossed in a romance: angled upon his hams, motionless in his chair, spectacles on nose, his two feet as close together as the flukes of a merman's tail, only his strange eyes stirring in his time-worn face." Well, I've been scribbling away all this time and haven't given you any news whatever. Helen came back the other day from a visit to Boston where she enjoyed herself greatly. To-night she has gone out to the movies with a young protegee of ours, Miss Titania Chapman, an engaging damsel whom we have taken in as an apprentice bookseller. It's a quaint idea, done at the request of her father, Mr. Chapman, the proprietor of Chapman's Daintybits which you see advertised everywhere. He is a great booklover, and is very eager to have the zeal transmitted to his daughter. So you can imagine my glee to have a neophyte of my own to preach books at! Also it will enable me to get away from the shop a little more. I had a telephone call from Philadelphia this afternoon asking me to go over there on Monday evening to make an estimate of the value of a private collection that is to be sold. I was rather flattered because I can't imagine how they got hold of my name. Forgive this long, incoherent scrawl. How did you like Erewhon? It's pretty near closing time and I must say grace over the day's accounts. Yours ever, ROGER MIFFLIN. Chapter X Roger Raids the Ice-Box Roger had just put Carlyle's Cromwell back in its proper place in the History alcove when Helen and Titania returned from the movies. Bock, who had been dozing under his master's chair, rose politely and wagged a deferential tail. "I do think Bock has the darlingest manners," said Titania. "Yes," said Helen, "it's really a marvel that his wagging muscles aren't all worn out, he has abused them so." "Well," said Roger, "did you have a good time?" "An adorable time!" cried Titania, with a face and voice so sparkling that two musty habitues of the shop popped their heads out of the alcoves marked ESSAYS and THEOLOGY and peered in amazement. One of these even went so far as to purchase the copy of Leigh Hunt's Wishing Cap Papers he had been munching through, in order to have an excuse to approach the group and satisfy his bewildered eyes. When Miss Chapman took the book and wrapped it up for him, his astonishment was made complete. Unconscious that she was actually creating business, Titania resumed. "We met your friend Mr. Gilbert on the street," she said, "and he went to the movies with us. He says he's coming in on Monday to fix the furnace while you're away." "Well," said Roger, "these advertising agencies are certainly enterprising, aren't they? Think of sending a man over to attend to my furnace, just on the slim chance of getting my advertising account." "Did you have a quiet evening?" said Helen. "I spent most of the time writing to Andrew," said Roger. "One amusing thing happened, though. I actually sold that copy of Philip Dru." "No!" cried Helen. "A fact," said Roger. "A man

store

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

"friend and well-wisher" over the telephone. The other said something in German in a hoarse whisper. Having studied that language in college, Aubrey caught only two words--Thur and Schlussel, which he knew meant door and key. "Very well," said the first voice. "That will be all right, but we must act to-night. The damned thing must be finished to-morrow. Your idiotic stupidity--" Again followed some gargling in German, in a rapid undertone too fluent for Aubrey's grasp. The latch of the alley gate clicked once more, and his hand was on his revolver; but in a moment the two had passed on down the alley. The young advertising agent stood against the fence in silent horror, his heart bumping heavily. His hands were clammy, his feet seemed to have grown larger and taken root. What damnable complot was this? A sultry wave of anger passed over him. This bland, slick, talkative bookseller, was he arranging some blackmailing scheme to kidnap the girl and wring blood-money out of her father? And in league with Germans, too, the scoundrel! What an asinine thing for old Chapman to send an unprotected girl over here into the wilds of Brooklyn . . . and in the meantime, what was he to do? Patrol the back yard all night? No, the friend and well-wisher had said "We must find some other way." Besides, Aubrey remembered something having been said about the old terrier sleeping in the kitchen. He felt sure Bock would not let any German in at night without raising the roof. Probably the best way would be to watch the front of the shop. In miserable perplexity he waited several minutes until the two Germans would be well out of earshot. Then he unbolted the gate and stole up the alley on tiptoe, in the opposite direction. It led into Wordsworth Avenue just behind Weintraub's drug store, over the rear of which hung the great girders and trestles of the "L" station, a kind of Swiss chalet straddling the street on stilts. He thought it prudent to make a detour, so he turned east on Wordsworth Avenue until he reached Whittier Street, then sauntered easily down Whittier for a block, spying sharply for evidences of pursuit. Brooklyn was putting out its lights for the night, and all was quiet. He turned into Hazlitt Street and so back onto Gissing, noticing now that the Haunted Bookshop lights were off. It was nearly eleven o'clock: the last audience was filing out of the movie theatre, where two workmen were already perched on ladders taking down the Tarzan electric light sign, to substitute the illuminated lettering for the next feature. After some debate he decided that the best thing to do was to return to his room at Mrs. Schiller's, from which he could keep a sharp watch on the front door of the bookshop. By good fortune there was a lamp post almost directly in front of Mifflin's house, which cast plenty of light on the little sunken area before the door. With his opera glasses he could see from his bedroom whatever went on. As he crossed the street he cast his eyes upward at the facade of Mrs. Schiller's house. Two windows in the fourth storey were lit, and the gas burned minutely in the downstairs hall, elsewhere all was dark. And then, as he glanced at the window of his own chamber, where the curtain was still tucked back behind the pane, he noticed a curious thing. A small point of rosy light glowed, faded, and glowed again by the window. Someone was smoking a cigar in his room. Aubrey continued walking in even stride, as though he had seen nothing. Returning down the street, on the opposite side, he verified his first glance. The light was still there, and he judged himself not far out in assuming the smoker to be the friend and well-wisher or one of his gang. He had suspected the other man in the alley of being Weintraub, but he could not be sure. A cautious glance through the window of the drug store revealed Weintraub at his prescription counter. Aubrey determined to get even with the guttural gentleman who was waiting for him, certainly with no affectionate intent. He thanked the good fortune that had led him to stick the book cover in his overcoat pocket when leaving Mrs. Schiller's. Evidently, for reasons unknown, someone was very anxious to get hold of it. An idea occurred to him as he passed the little florist's shop, which was just closing. He entered and bought a dozen white carnations, and then, as if by an afterthought, asked "Have you any wire?" The florist produced a spool of the slender, tough wire that is sometimes used to nip the buds of expensive roses, to prevent them from blossoming too quickly. "Let me have about eight feet," said Aubrey. "I need some to-night and I guess the hardware stores are all closed." With this he returned to Mrs. Schiller's, picking his way carefully and close to the houses so as to be out of sight from the upstairs windows. He climbed the steps and unlatched the door with bated breath. It was half-past eleven, and he wondered how long he would have to wait for the well-wisher to descend. He could not help chuckling as he made his preparations, remembering an occasion at college somewhat similar in setting though far less serious in purpose. First he took off his shoes, laying them carefully to one side where he could find them again in a hurry. Then, choosing a banister about six feet from the bottom of the stairs he attached one end of the wire tightly to its base and spread the slack in a large loop over two of the stair treads. The remaining end of the wire he passed out through the banisters, twisting it into a small loop so that he could pull it easily. Then he turned out the hall gas and sat down in the dark to wait events. He sat for a long time, in some nervousness lest the pug dog might come prowling and find him. He was startled by a lady in a dressing gown--perhaps Mrs. J. F. Smith--who emerged from a ground-floor room passed very close to him in the dark, and muttered upstairs. He twitched his noose out of the way just in time. Presently, however, his patience was rewarded. He heard a door squeak above, and then the groaning of the staircase as someone descended slowly. He relaid his trap and waited, smiling to himself. A clock somewhere in the house was chiming twelve as the man came groping down the last flight, feeling his way in the dark. Aubrey heard him swearing under his breath. At the precise moment, when both his victim's feet were within the loop, Aubrey gave the wire a gigantic tug. The man fell like a safe, crashing against the banisters and landing in a sprawl on the floor. It was a terrific fall, and shook the house. He lay there groaning and cursing. Barely retaining his laughter, Aubrey struck a match and held it over the sprawling figure. The man lay with his face twisted against one out-spread arm, but the beard was unmistakable. It was the assistant chef again, and he seemed partly unconscious. "Burnt hair is a grand restorative," said Aubrey to himself, and applied the match to the bush of beard. He singed off a couple of inches of it with intense delight, and laid his carnations on the head of the stricken one. Then, hearing stirrings in the basement, he gathered up his wire and shoes and fled upstairs. He gained his room roaring with inward mirth, but entered cautiously, fearing some trap. Save for a strong tincture of cigar smoke, everything seemed correct. Listening at his door he heard Mrs. Schiller exclaiming shrilly in the hall, assisted by yappings from the pug. Doors upstairs were opened, and questions were called out. He heard guttural groans from the bearded one, mingled with oaths and some angry remark about having fallen downstairs. The pug, frenzied with excitement, yelled insanely. A female voice--possibly Mrs. J. F. Smith--cried out "What's that smell of burning?" Someone else said, "They're burning feathers under his nose to bring him to." "Yes, Hun's feathers," chuckled Aubrey to himself. He locked his door, and sat down by the window with his opera glasses. Chapter IX Again the Narrative is Retarded Roger had spent a quiet evening in the bookshop. Sitting at his desk under a fog of tobacco, he had honestly intended to do some writing on the twelfth chapter of his great work on bookselling. This chapter was to be an (alas, entirely conjectural) "Address Delivered by a Bookseller on Being Conferred the Honorary Degree of Doctor of Letters by a Leading University," and it presented so many alluring possibilities that Roger's mind always wandered from the paper into entranced visions of his imagined scene. He loved to build up in fancy the flattering details of that fine ceremony when bookselling would at last be properly recognized as one of the learned professions. He could see the great auditorium, filled with cultivated people: men with Emersonian profiles, ladies whispering behind their fluttering programmes. He could see the academic beadle, proctor, dean (or whatever he is, Roger was a little doubtful) pronouncing the august words of presentation-- A man who, in season and out of season, forgetting private gain for public weal, has laboured with Promethean and sacrificial ardour to instil the love of reasonable letters into countless thousands; to whom, and to whose colleagues, amid the perishable caducity of human affairs, is largely due the pullulation of literary taste; in honouring whom we seek to honour the noble and self-effacing profession of which he is so representative a member---- Then he could see the modest bookseller, somewhat clammy in his extremities and lost within his academic robe and hood, nervously fidgeting his mortar-board, haled forward by ushers, and tottering rubescent before the chancellor, provost, president (or whoever it might be) who hands out the diploma. Then (in Roger's vision) he could see the garlanded bibliopole turning to the expectant audience, giving his trailing gown a deft rearward kick as the ladies do on the stage, and uttering, without hesitation or embarrassment, with due interpolation of graceful pleasantry, that learned and unlaboured discourse on the delights of bookishness that he had often dreamed of. Then he could see the ensuing reception: the distinguished savants crowding round; the plates of macaroons, the cups of untasted tea; the ladies twittering, "Now there's something I want to ask you--why are there so many statues to generals, admirals, parsons, doctors, statesmen, scientists, artists, and authors, but no statues to booksellers?" Contemplation of this glittering scene always lured Roger into fantastic dreams. Ever since he had travelled country roads, some years before, selling books from a van drawn by a fat white horse, he had nourished a secret hope of some day founding a Parnassus on Wheels Corporation which would own a fleet of these vans and send them out into the rural byways where bookstores are unknown. He loved to imagine a great map of New York State, with the daily location of each travelling Parnassus marked by a coloured pin. He dreamed of himself, sitting in some vast central warehouse of second-hand books, poring over his map like a military chief of staff and forwarding cases of literary ammunition to various bases where his vans would re-stock. His idea was that his travelling salesmen could be recruited largely from college professors, parsons, and newspaper men, who were weary of their thankless tasks, and would welcome an opportunity to get out on the road. One of his hopes was that he might interest Mr. Chapman in this superb scheme, and he had a vision of the day when the shares of the Parnassus on Wheels Corporation would pay a handsome dividend and be much sought after by serious investors. These thoughts turned his mind toward his brother-in-law Andrew McGill, the author of several engaging books on the joys of country living, who dwells at the Sabine Farm in the green elbow of a Connecticut valley. The original Parnassus, a quaint old blue wagon in which Roger had lived and journeyed and sold books over several thousand miles of country roads in the days before his marriage, was now housed in Andrew's barn. Peg, his fat white horse, had lodging there also. It occurred to Roger that he owed Andrew a letter, and putting aside his notes for the bookseller's collegiate oration, he began to write: THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 163 Gissing Street, Brooklyn, November 30, 1918. MY DEAR ANDREW: It is scandalous not to have thanked you sooner for the annual cask of cider, which has given us even more than the customary pleasure. This has been an autumn when I have been hard put to it to keep up with my own thoughts, and I've written no letters at all. Like everyone else I am thinking constantly of this new peace that has marvellously come upon us. I trust we may have statesmen who will be able to turn it to the benefit of humanity. I wish there could be an international peace conference of booksellers, for (you will smile at this) my own conviction is that the future happiness of the world depends in no small measure on them and on the librarians. I wonder what a German bookseller is like? I've been reading The Education of Henry Adams and wish he might have lived long enough to give us his thoughts on the War. I fear it would have bowled him over. He thought that this is not a world "that sensitive and timid natures can regard without a shudder." What would he have said of the four-year shambles we have watched with sickened hearts? You remember my favourite poem--old George Herbert's Church Porch--where he says-- By all means use sometimes to be alone; Salute thyself; see what thy soul doth wear; Dare to look in thy chest, for 'tis thine own, And tumble up and down what thou find'st there-- Well, I've been tumbling my thoughts up and down a good deal. Melancholy, I suppose, is the curse of the thinking classes; but I confess my soul wears a great uneasiness these days! The sudden and amazing turnover in human affairs, dramatic beyond anything in history, already seems to be taken as a matter of course. My great fear is that humanity will forget the atrocious sufferings of the war, which have never been told. I am hoping and praying that men like Philip Gibbs may tell us what they really saw. You will not agree with me on what I am about to say, for I know you as a stubborn Republican; but I thank fortune that Wilson is going to the Peace Conference. I've been mulling over one of my favourite books--it lies beside me as I write--Cromwell's Letters and Speeches, edited by Carlyle, with what Carlyle amusingly calls "Elucidations." (Carlyle is not very good at "elucidating" anything!) I have heard somewhere or other that this is one of Wilson's favourite books, and indeed, there is much of the Cromwell in him. With what a grim, covenanting zeal he took up the sword when at last it was forced into his hand! And I have been thinking that what he will say to the Peace Conference will smack strongly of what old Oliver used to say to Parliament in 1657 and 1658--"If we will have Peace without a worm in it, lay we foundations of Justice and Righteousness." What makes Wilson so irritating to the unthoughtful is that he operates exclusively upon reason, not upon passion. He contradicts Kipling's famous lines, which apply to most men-- Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act. In this instance, I think, Reason is going to win. I feel the whole current of the world setting in that direction. It's quaint to think of old Woodrow, a kind of Cromwell-Wordsworth, going over to do his bit among the diplomatic shell-craters. What I'm waiting for is the day when he'll get back into private life and write a book about it. There's a job, if you like, for a man who might reasonably be supposed to be pretty tired in body and soul! When that book comes out I'll spend the rest of my life in selling it. I ask nothing better! Speaking of Wordsworth, I've often wondered whether Woodrow hasn't got some poems concealed somewhere among his papers! I've always imagined that he may have written poems on the sly. And by the way, you needn't make fun of me for being so devoted to George Herbert. Do you realize that two of the most familiar quotations in our language come from his pen, viz.: Wouldst thou both eat thy cake, and have it? and Dare to be true: nothing can need a ly; A fault, which needs it most, grows two thereby. Forgive this tedious sermon! My mind has been so tumbled up and down this autumn that I am in a queer state of mingled melancholy and exaltation. You know how much I live in and for books. Well, I have a curious feeling, a kind of premonition that there are great books coming out of this welter of human hopes and anguishes, perhaps A book in which the tempest-shaken soul of the race will speak out as it never has before. The Bible, you know, is rather a disappointment: it has never done for humanity what it should have done. I wonder why? Walt Whitman is going to do a great deal, but he is not quite what I mean. There is something coming--I don't know just what! I thank God I am a bookseller, trafficking in the dreams and beauties and curiosities of humanity rather than some mere huckster of merchandise. But how helpless we all are when we try to tell what goes on within us! I found this in one of Lafcadio Hearn's letters the other day--I marked the passage for you Baudelaire has a touching poem about an albatross, which you would like--describing the poet's soul superb in its own free azure--but helpless, insulted, ugly, clumsy when striving to walk on common earth--or rather, on a deck, where sailors torment it with tobacco pipes, etc. You can imagine what evenings I have here among my shelves, now the long dark nights are come! Of course until ten o'clock, when I shut up shop, I am constantly interrupted--as I have been during this letter, once to sell a copy of Helen's Babies and once to sell The Ballad of Reading Gaol, so you can see how varied are my clients' tastes! But later on, after we have had our evening cocoa and Helen has gone to bed, I prowl about the place, dipping into this and that, fuddling myself with speculation. How clear and bright the stream of the mind flows in those late hours, after all the sediment and floating trash of the day has drained off! Sometimes I seem to coast the very shore of Beauty or Truth, and hear the surf breaking on those shining sands. Then some offshore wind of weariness or prejudice bears me away again. Have you ever come across Andreyev's Confessions of a Little Man During Great Days? One of the honest books of the War. The Little Man ends his confession thus-- My anger has left me, my sadness returned, and once more the tears flow. Whom can I curse, whom can I judge, when we are all alike unfortunate? Suffering is universal; hands are outstretched to each other, and when they touch . . . the great solution will come. My heart is aglow, and I stretch out my hand and cry, "Come, let us join hands! I love you, I love you!" And of course, as soon as one puts one's self in that frame of mind someone comes along and picks your pocket. . . . I suppose we must teach ourselves to be too proud to mind having our pockets picked! Did it ever occur to you that the world is really governed by BOOKS? The course of this country in the War, for instance, has been largely determined by the books Wilson has read since he first began to think! If we could have a list of the principal books he has read since the War began, how interesting it would be. Here's something I'm just copying out to put up on my bulletin board for my customers to ponder. It was written by Charles Sorley, a young Englishman who was killed in France in 1915. He was only twenty years old-- TO GERMANY You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed, And no man claimed the conquest of your land. But gropers both through fields of thought confined We stumble and we do not understand. You only saw your future bigly planned, And we, the tapering paths of our own mind, And in each other's dearest ways we stand, And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind. When it is peace, then we may view again With new-won eyes each other's truer form And wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warm We'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain, When it is peace. But until peace, the storm The darkness and the thunder and the rain. Isn't that noble? You see what I am dumbly groping for--some way of thinking about the War that will make it seem (to future ages) a purification for humanity rather than a mere blackness of stinking cinders and tortured flesh and men shot to ribbons in marshes of blood and sewage. Out of such unspeakable desolation men MUST rise to some new conception of national neighbourhood. I hear so much apprehension that Germany won't be punished sufficiently for her crime. But how can any punishment be devised or imposed for such a huge panorama of sorrow? I think she has already punished herself horribly, and will continue to do so. My prayer is that what we have gone through will startle the world into some new realization of the sanctity of life--all life, animal as well as human. Don't you find that a visit to a zoo can humble and astound you with all that amazing and grotesque variety of living energy? What is it that we find in every form of life? Desire of some sort--some unexplained motive power that impels even the smallest insect on its queer travels. You must have watched some infinitesimal red spider on a fence rail, bustling along--why and whither? Who knows? And when you come to man, what a chaos of hungers and impulses keep thrusting him through his cycle of quaint tasks! And in every human heart you find some sorrow, some frustration, some lurking pang. I often think of Lafcadio Hearn's story of his Japanese cook. Hearn was talking of the Japanese habit of not showing their emotions on their faces. His cook was a smiling, healthy, agreeable-looking young fellow whose face was always cheerful. Then one day, by chance, Hearn happened to look through a hole in the wall and saw his cook alone. His face was not the same face. It was thin and drawn and showed strange lines worn by old hardships or sufferings. Hearn thought to himself, "He will look just like that when he is dead." He went into the kitchen to see him, and instantly the cook was all changed, young and happy again. Never again did Hearn see that face of trouble; but he knew the man wore it when he was alone. Don't you think there is a kind of parable there for the race as a whole? Have you ever met a man without wondering what shining sorrows he hides from the world, what contrast between vision and accomplishment torments him? Behind every smiling mask is there not some cryptic grimace of pain? Henry Adams puts it tersely. He says the human mind appears suddenly and inexplicably out of some unknown and unimaginable void. It passes half its known life in the mental chaos of sleep. Even when awake it is a victim of its own ill-adjustment, of disease, of age, of external suggestion, of nature's compulsions; it doubts its own sensations and trusts only in instruments and averages. After sixty years or so of growing astonishment the mind wakes to find itself looking blankly into the void of death. And, as Adams says, that it should profess itself pleased by this performance is all that the highest rules of good breeding can ask. That the mind should actually be satisfied would prove that it exists only as idiocy! I hope that you will write to tell me along what curves your mind is moving. For my own part I feel that we are on the verge of amazing things. Long ago I fell back on books as the only permanent consolers. They are the one stainless and unimpeachable achievement of the human race. It saddens me to think that I shall have to die with thousands of books unread that would have given me noble and unblemished happiness. I will tell you a secret. I have never read King Lear, and have purposely refrained from doing so. If I were ever very ill I would only need to say to myself "You can't die yet, you haven't read Lear." That would bring me round, I know it would. You see, books are the answer to all our perplexities! Henry Adams grinds his teeth at his inability to understand the universe. The best he can do is to suggest a "law of acceleration," which seems to mean that Nature is hustling man along at an ever-increasing rate so that he will either solve all her problems or else die of fever in the effort. But Adams' candid portrait of a mind grappling helplessly with its riddles is so triumphantly delightful that one forgets the futility of the struggle in the accuracy of the picture. Man is unconquerable because he can make even his helplessness so entertaining. His motto seems to be "Even though He slay me, yet will I make fun of Him!" Yes, books are man's supreme triumph, for they gather up and transmit all other triumphs. As Walter de la Mare writes, "How uncomprehendingly must an angel from heaven smile on a poor human sitting engrossed in a romance: angled upon his hams, motionless in his chair, spectacles on nose, his two feet as close together as the flukes of a merman's tail, only his strange eyes stirring in his time-worn face." Well, I've been scribbling away all this time and haven't given you any news whatever. Helen came back the other day from a visit to Boston where she enjoyed herself greatly. To-night she has gone out to the movies with a young protegee of ours, Miss Titania Chapman, an engaging damsel whom we have taken in as an apprentice bookseller. It's a quaint idea, done at the request of her father, Mr. Chapman, the proprietor of Chapman's Daintybits which you see advertised everywhere. He is a great booklover, and is very eager to have the zeal transmitted to his daughter. So you can imagine my glee to have a neophyte of my own to preach books at! Also it will enable me to get away from the shop a little more. I had a telephone call from Philadelphia this afternoon asking me to go over there on Monday evening to make an estimate of the value of a private collection that is to be sold. I was rather flattered because I can't imagine how they got hold of my name. Forgive this long, incoherent scrawl. How did you like Erewhon? It's pretty near closing time and I must say grace over the day's accounts. Yours ever, ROGER MIFFLIN. Chapter X Roger Raids the Ice-Box Roger had just put Carlyle's Cromwell back in its proper place in the History alcove when Helen and Titania returned from the movies. Bock, who had been dozing under his master's chair, rose politely and wagged a deferential tail. "I do think Bock has the darlingest manners," said Titania. "Yes," said Helen, "it's really a marvel that his wagging muscles aren't all worn out, he has abused them so." "Well," said Roger, "did you have a good time?" "An adorable time!" cried Titania, with a face and voice so sparkling that two musty habitues of the shop popped their heads out of the alcoves marked ESSAYS and THEOLOGY and peered in amazement. One of these even went so far as to purchase the copy of Leigh Hunt's Wishing Cap Papers he had been munching through, in order to have an excuse to approach the group and satisfy his bewildered eyes. When Miss Chapman took the book and wrapped it up for him, his astonishment was made complete. Unconscious that she was actually creating business, Titania resumed. "We met your friend Mr. Gilbert on the street," she said, "and he went to the movies with us. He says he's coming in on Monday to fix the furnace while you're away." "Well," said Roger, "these advertising agencies are certainly enterprising, aren't they? Think of sending a man over to attend to my furnace, just on the slim chance of getting my advertising account." "Did you have a quiet evening?" said Helen. "I spent most of the time writing to Andrew," said Roger. "One amusing thing happened, though. I actually sold that copy of Philip Dru." "No!" cried Helen. "A fact," said Roger. "A man

front

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

"friend and well-wisher" over the telephone. The other said something in German in a hoarse whisper. Having studied that language in college, Aubrey caught only two words--Thur and Schlussel, which he knew meant door and key. "Very well," said the first voice. "That will be all right, but we must act to-night. The damned thing must be finished to-morrow. Your idiotic stupidity--" Again followed some gargling in German, in a rapid undertone too fluent for Aubrey's grasp. The latch of the alley gate clicked once more, and his hand was on his revolver; but in a moment the two had passed on down the alley. The young advertising agent stood against the fence in silent horror, his heart bumping heavily. His hands were clammy, his feet seemed to have grown larger and taken root. What damnable complot was this? A sultry wave of anger passed over him. This bland, slick, talkative bookseller, was he arranging some blackmailing scheme to kidnap the girl and wring blood-money out of her father? And in league with Germans, too, the scoundrel! What an asinine thing for old Chapman to send an unprotected girl over here into the wilds of Brooklyn . . . and in the meantime, what was he to do? Patrol the back yard all night? No, the friend and well-wisher had said "We must find some other way." Besides, Aubrey remembered something having been said about the old terrier sleeping in the kitchen. He felt sure Bock would not let any German in at night without raising the roof. Probably the best way would be to watch the front of the shop. In miserable perplexity he waited several minutes until the two Germans would be well out of earshot. Then he unbolted the gate and stole up the alley on tiptoe, in the opposite direction. It led into Wordsworth Avenue just behind Weintraub's drug store, over the rear of which hung the great girders and trestles of the "L" station, a kind of Swiss chalet straddling the street on stilts. He thought it prudent to make a detour, so he turned east on Wordsworth Avenue until he reached Whittier Street, then sauntered easily down Whittier for a block, spying sharply for evidences of pursuit. Brooklyn was putting out its lights for the night, and all was quiet. He turned into Hazlitt Street and so back onto Gissing, noticing now that the Haunted Bookshop lights were off. It was nearly eleven o'clock: the last audience was filing out of the movie theatre, where two workmen were already perched on ladders taking down the Tarzan electric light sign, to substitute the illuminated lettering for the next feature. After some debate he decided that the best thing to do was to return to his room at Mrs. Schiller's, from which he could keep a sharp watch on the front door of the bookshop. By good fortune there was a lamp post almost directly in front of Mifflin's house, which cast plenty of light on the little sunken area before the door. With his opera glasses he could see from his bedroom whatever went on. As he crossed the street he cast his eyes upward at the facade of Mrs. Schiller's house. Two windows in the fourth storey were lit, and the gas burned minutely in the downstairs hall, elsewhere all was dark. And then, as he glanced at the window of his own chamber, where the curtain was still tucked back behind the pane, he noticed a curious thing. A small point of rosy light glowed, faded, and glowed again by the window. Someone was smoking a cigar in his room. Aubrey continued walking in even stride, as though he had seen nothing. Returning down the street, on the opposite side, he verified his first glance. The light was still there, and he judged himself not far out in assuming the smoker to be the friend and well-wisher or one of his gang. He had suspected the other man in the alley of being Weintraub, but he could not be sure. A cautious glance through the window of the drug store revealed Weintraub at his prescription counter. Aubrey determined to get even with the guttural gentleman who was waiting for him, certainly with no affectionate intent. He thanked the good fortune that had led him to stick the book cover in his overcoat pocket when leaving Mrs. Schiller's. Evidently, for reasons unknown, someone was very anxious to get hold of it. An idea occurred to him as he passed the little florist's shop, which was just closing. He entered and bought a dozen white carnations, and then, as if by an afterthought, asked "Have you any wire?" The florist produced a spool of the slender, tough wire that is sometimes used to nip the buds of expensive roses, to prevent them from blossoming too quickly. "Let me have about eight feet," said Aubrey. "I need some to-night and I guess the hardware stores are all closed." With this he returned to Mrs. Schiller's, picking his way carefully and close to the houses so as to be out of sight from the upstairs windows. He climbed the steps and unlatched the door with bated breath. It was half-past eleven, and he wondered how long he would have to wait for the well-wisher to descend. He could not help chuckling as he made his preparations, remembering an occasion at college somewhat similar in setting though far less serious in purpose. First he took off his shoes, laying them carefully to one side where he could find them again in a hurry. Then, choosing a banister about six feet from the bottom of the stairs he attached one end of the wire tightly to its base and spread the slack in a large loop over two of the stair treads. The remaining end of the wire he passed out through the banisters, twisting it into a small loop so that he could pull it easily. Then he turned out the hall gas and sat down in the dark to wait events. He sat for a long time, in some nervousness lest the pug dog might come prowling and find him. He was startled by a lady in a dressing gown--perhaps Mrs. J. F. Smith--who emerged from a ground-floor room passed very close to him in the dark, and muttered upstairs. He twitched his noose out of the way just in time. Presently, however, his patience was rewarded. He heard a door squeak above, and then the groaning of the staircase as someone descended slowly. He relaid his trap and waited, smiling to himself. A clock somewhere in the house was chiming twelve as the man came groping down the last flight, feeling his way in the dark. Aubrey heard him swearing under his breath. At the precise moment, when both his victim's feet were within the loop, Aubrey gave the wire a gigantic tug. The man fell like a safe, crashing against the banisters and landing in a sprawl on the floor. It was a terrific fall, and shook the house. He lay there groaning and cursing. Barely retaining his laughter, Aubrey struck a match and held it over the sprawling figure. The man lay with his face twisted against one out-spread arm, but the beard was unmistakable. It was the assistant chef again, and he seemed partly unconscious. "Burnt hair is a grand restorative," said Aubrey to himself, and applied the match to the bush of beard. He singed off a couple of inches of it with intense delight, and laid his carnations on the head of the stricken one. Then, hearing stirrings in the basement, he gathered up his wire and shoes and fled upstairs. He gained his room roaring with inward mirth, but entered cautiously, fearing some trap. Save for a strong tincture of cigar smoke, everything seemed correct. Listening at his door he heard Mrs. Schiller exclaiming shrilly in the hall, assisted by yappings from the pug. Doors upstairs were opened, and questions were called out. He heard guttural groans from the bearded one, mingled with oaths and some angry remark about having fallen downstairs. The pug, frenzied with excitement, yelled insanely. A female voice--possibly Mrs. J. F. Smith--cried out "What's that smell of burning?" Someone else said, "They're burning feathers under his nose to bring him to." "Yes, Hun's feathers," chuckled Aubrey to himself. He locked his door, and sat down by the window with his opera glasses. Chapter IX Again the Narrative is Retarded Roger had spent a quiet evening in the bookshop. Sitting at his desk under a fog of tobacco, he had honestly intended to do some writing on the twelfth chapter of his great work on bookselling. This chapter was to be an (alas, entirely conjectural) "Address Delivered by a Bookseller on Being Conferred the Honorary Degree of Doctor of Letters by a Leading University," and it presented so many alluring possibilities that Roger's mind always wandered from the paper into entranced visions of his imagined scene. He loved to build up in fancy the flattering details of that fine ceremony when bookselling would at last be properly recognized as one of the learned professions. He could see the great auditorium, filled with cultivated people: men with Emersonian profiles, ladies whispering behind their fluttering programmes. He could see the academic beadle, proctor, dean (or whatever he is, Roger was a little doubtful) pronouncing the august words of presentation-- A man who, in season and out of season, forgetting private gain for public weal, has laboured with Promethean and sacrificial ardour to instil the love of reasonable letters into countless thousands; to whom, and to whose colleagues, amid the perishable caducity of human affairs, is largely due the pullulation of literary taste; in honouring whom we seek to honour the noble and self-effacing profession of which he is so representative a member---- Then he could see the modest bookseller, somewhat clammy in his extremities and lost within his academic robe and hood, nervously fidgeting his mortar-board, haled forward by ushers, and tottering rubescent before the chancellor, provost, president (or whoever it might be) who hands out the diploma. Then (in Roger's vision) he could see the garlanded bibliopole turning to the expectant audience, giving his trailing gown a deft rearward kick as the ladies do on the stage, and uttering, without hesitation or embarrassment, with due interpolation of graceful pleasantry, that learned and unlaboured discourse on the delights of bookishness that he had often dreamed of. Then he could see the ensuing reception: the distinguished savants crowding round; the plates of macaroons, the cups of untasted tea; the ladies twittering, "Now there's something I want to ask you--why are there so many statues to generals, admirals, parsons, doctors, statesmen, scientists, artists, and authors, but no statues to booksellers?" Contemplation of this glittering scene always lured Roger into fantastic dreams. Ever since he had travelled country roads, some years before, selling books from a van drawn by a fat white horse, he had nourished a secret hope of some day founding a Parnassus on Wheels Corporation which would own a fleet of these vans and send them out into the rural byways where bookstores are unknown. He loved to imagine a great map of New York State, with the daily location of each travelling Parnassus marked by a coloured pin. He dreamed of himself, sitting in some vast central warehouse of second-hand books, poring over his map like a military chief of staff and forwarding cases of literary ammunition to various bases where his vans would re-stock. His idea was that his travelling salesmen could be recruited largely from college professors, parsons, and newspaper men, who were weary of their thankless tasks, and would welcome an opportunity to get out on the road. One of his hopes was that he might interest Mr. Chapman in this superb scheme, and he had a vision of the day when the shares of the Parnassus on Wheels Corporation would pay a handsome dividend and be much sought after by serious investors. These thoughts turned his mind toward his brother-in-law Andrew McGill, the author of several engaging books on the joys of country living, who dwells at the Sabine Farm in the green elbow of a Connecticut valley. The original Parnassus, a quaint old blue wagon in which Roger had lived and journeyed and sold books over several thousand miles of country roads in the days before his marriage, was now housed in Andrew's barn. Peg, his fat white horse, had lodging there also. It occurred to Roger that he owed Andrew a letter, and putting aside his notes for the bookseller's collegiate oration, he began to write: THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 163 Gissing Street, Brooklyn, November 30, 1918. MY DEAR ANDREW: It is scandalous not to have thanked you sooner for the annual cask of cider, which has given us even more than the customary pleasure. This has been an autumn when I have been hard put to it to keep up with my own thoughts, and I've written no letters at all. Like everyone else I am thinking constantly of this new peace that has marvellously come upon us. I trust we may have statesmen who will be able to turn it to the benefit of humanity. I wish there could be an international peace conference of booksellers, for (you will smile at this) my own conviction is that the future happiness of the world depends in no small measure on them and on the librarians. I wonder what a German bookseller is like? I've been reading The Education of Henry Adams and wish he might have lived long enough to give us his thoughts on the War. I fear it would have bowled him over. He thought that this is not a world "that sensitive and timid natures can regard without a shudder." What would he have said of the four-year shambles we have watched with sickened hearts? You remember my favourite poem--old George Herbert's Church Porch--where he says-- By all means use sometimes to be alone; Salute thyself; see what thy soul doth wear; Dare to look in thy chest, for 'tis thine own, And tumble up and down what thou find'st there-- Well, I've been tumbling my thoughts up and down a good deal. Melancholy, I suppose, is the curse of the thinking classes; but I confess my soul wears a great uneasiness these days! The sudden and amazing turnover in human affairs, dramatic beyond anything in history, already seems to be taken as a matter of course. My great fear is that humanity will forget the atrocious sufferings of the war, which have never been told. I am hoping and praying that men like Philip Gibbs may tell us what they really saw. You will not agree with me on what I am about to say, for I know you as a stubborn Republican; but I thank fortune that Wilson is going to the Peace Conference. I've been mulling over one of my favourite books--it lies beside me as I write--Cromwell's Letters and Speeches, edited by Carlyle, with what Carlyle amusingly calls "Elucidations." (Carlyle is not very good at "elucidating" anything!) I have heard somewhere or other that this is one of Wilson's favourite books, and indeed, there is much of the Cromwell in him. With what a grim, covenanting zeal he took up the sword when at last it was forced into his hand! And I have been thinking that what he will say to the Peace Conference will smack strongly of what old Oliver used to say to Parliament in 1657 and 1658--"If we will have Peace without a worm in it, lay we foundations of Justice and Righteousness." What makes Wilson so irritating to the unthoughtful is that he operates exclusively upon reason, not upon passion. He contradicts Kipling's famous lines, which apply to most men-- Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act. In this instance, I think, Reason is going to win. I feel the whole current of the world setting in that direction. It's quaint to think of old Woodrow, a kind of Cromwell-Wordsworth, going over to do his bit among the diplomatic shell-craters. What I'm waiting for is the day when he'll get back into private life and write a book about it. There's a job, if you like, for a man who might reasonably be supposed to be pretty tired in body and soul! When that book comes out I'll spend the rest of my life in selling it. I ask nothing better! Speaking of Wordsworth, I've often wondered whether Woodrow hasn't got some poems concealed somewhere among his papers! I've always imagined that he may have written poems on the sly. And by the way, you needn't make fun of me for being so devoted to George Herbert. Do you realize that two of the most familiar quotations in our language come from his pen, viz.: Wouldst thou both eat thy cake, and have it? and Dare to be true: nothing can need a ly; A fault, which needs it most, grows two thereby. Forgive this tedious sermon! My mind has been so tumbled up and down this autumn that I am in a queer state of mingled melancholy and exaltation. You know how much I live in and for books. Well, I have a curious feeling, a kind of premonition that there are great books coming out of this welter of human hopes and anguishes, perhaps A book in which the tempest-shaken soul of the race will speak out as it never has before. The Bible, you know, is rather a disappointment: it has never done for humanity what it should have done. I wonder why? Walt Whitman is going to do a great deal, but he is not quite what I mean. There is something coming--I don't know just what! I thank God I am a bookseller, trafficking in the dreams and beauties and curiosities of humanity rather than some mere huckster of merchandise. But how helpless we all are when we try to tell what goes on within us! I found this in one of Lafcadio Hearn's letters the other day--I marked the passage for you Baudelaire has a touching poem about an albatross, which you would like--describing the poet's soul superb in its own free azure--but helpless, insulted, ugly, clumsy when striving to walk on common earth--or rather, on a deck, where sailors torment it with tobacco pipes, etc. You can imagine what evenings I have here among my shelves, now the long dark nights are come! Of course until ten o'clock, when I shut up shop, I am constantly interrupted--as I have been during this letter, once to sell a copy of Helen's Babies and once to sell The Ballad of Reading Gaol, so you can see how varied are my clients' tastes! But later on, after we have had our evening cocoa and Helen has gone to bed, I prowl about the place, dipping into this and that, fuddling myself with speculation. How clear and bright the stream of the mind flows in those late hours, after all the sediment and floating trash of the day has drained off! Sometimes I seem to coast the very shore of Beauty or Truth, and hear the surf breaking on those shining sands. Then some offshore wind of weariness or prejudice bears me away again. Have you ever come across Andreyev's Confessions of a Little Man During Great Days? One of the honest books of the War. The Little Man ends his confession thus-- My anger has left me, my sadness returned, and once more the tears flow. Whom can I curse, whom can I judge, when we are all alike unfortunate? Suffering is universal; hands are outstretched to each other, and when they touch . . . the great solution will come. My heart is aglow, and I stretch out my hand and cry, "Come, let us join hands! I love you, I love you!" And of course, as soon as one puts one's self in that frame of mind someone comes along and picks your pocket. . . . I suppose we must teach ourselves to be too proud to mind having our pockets picked! Did it ever occur to you that the world is really governed by BOOKS? The course of this country in the War, for instance, has been largely determined by the books Wilson has read since he first began to think! If we could have a list of the principal books he has read since the War began, how interesting it would be. Here's something I'm just copying out to put up on my bulletin board for my customers to ponder. It was written by Charles Sorley, a young Englishman who was killed in France in 1915. He was only twenty years old-- TO GERMANY You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed, And no man claimed the conquest of your land. But gropers both through fields of thought confined We stumble and we do not understand. You only saw your future bigly planned, And we, the tapering paths of our own mind, And in each other's dearest ways we stand, And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind. When it is peace, then we may view again With new-won eyes each other's truer form And wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warm We'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain, When it is peace. But until peace, the storm The darkness and the thunder and the rain. Isn't that noble? You see what I am dumbly groping for--some way of thinking about the War that will make it seem (to future ages) a purification for humanity rather than a mere blackness of stinking cinders and tortured flesh and men shot to ribbons in marshes of blood and sewage. Out of such unspeakable desolation men MUST rise to some new conception of national neighbourhood. I hear so much apprehension that Germany won't be punished sufficiently for her crime. But how can any punishment be devised or imposed for such a huge panorama of sorrow? I think she has already punished herself horribly, and will continue to do so. My prayer is that what we have gone through will startle the world into some new realization of the sanctity of life--all life, animal as well as human. Don't you find that a visit to a zoo can humble and astound you with all that amazing and grotesque variety of living energy? What is it that we find in every form of life? Desire of some sort--some unexplained motive power that impels even the smallest insect on its queer travels. You must have watched some infinitesimal red spider on a fence rail, bustling along--why and whither? Who knows? And when you come to man, what a chaos of hungers and impulses keep thrusting him through his cycle of quaint tasks! And in every human heart you find some sorrow, some frustration, some lurking pang. I often think of Lafcadio Hearn's story of his Japanese cook. Hearn was talking of the Japanese habit of not showing their emotions on their faces. His cook was a smiling, healthy, agreeable-looking young fellow whose face was always cheerful. Then one day, by chance, Hearn happened to look through a hole in the wall and saw his cook alone. His face was not the same face. It was thin and drawn and showed strange lines worn by old hardships or sufferings. Hearn thought to himself, "He will look just like that when he is dead." He went into the kitchen to see him, and instantly the cook was all changed, young and happy again. Never again did Hearn see that face of trouble; but he knew the man wore it when he was alone. Don't you think there is a kind of parable there for the race as a whole? Have you ever met a man without wondering what shining sorrows he hides from the world, what contrast between vision and accomplishment torments him? Behind every smiling mask is there not some cryptic grimace of pain? Henry Adams puts it tersely. He says the human mind appears suddenly and inexplicably out of some unknown and unimaginable void. It passes half its known life in the mental chaos of sleep. Even when awake it is a victim of its own ill-adjustment, of disease, of age, of external suggestion, of nature's compulsions; it doubts its own sensations and trusts only in instruments and averages. After sixty years or so of growing astonishment the mind wakes to find itself looking blankly into the void of death. And, as Adams says, that it should profess itself pleased by this performance is all that the highest rules of good breeding can ask. That the mind should actually be satisfied would prove that it exists only as idiocy! I hope that you will write to tell me along what curves your mind is moving. For my own part I feel that we are on the verge of amazing things. Long ago I fell back on books as the only permanent consolers. They are the one stainless and unimpeachable achievement of the human race. It saddens me to think that I shall have to die with thousands of books unread that would have given me noble and unblemished happiness. I will tell you a secret. I have never read King Lear, and have purposely refrained from doing so. If I were ever very ill I would only need to say to myself "You can't die yet, you haven't read Lear." That would bring me round, I know it would. You see, books are the answer to all our perplexities! Henry Adams grinds his teeth at his inability to understand the universe. The best he can do is to suggest a "law of acceleration," which seems to mean that Nature is hustling man along at an ever-increasing rate so that he will either solve all her problems or else die of fever in the effort. But Adams' candid portrait of a mind grappling helplessly with its riddles is so triumphantly delightful that one forgets the futility of the struggle in the accuracy of the picture. Man is unconquerable because he can make even his helplessness so entertaining. His motto seems to be "Even though He slay me, yet will I make fun of Him!" Yes, books are man's supreme triumph, for they gather up and transmit all other triumphs. As Walter de la Mare writes, "How uncomprehendingly must an angel from heaven smile on a poor human sitting engrossed in a romance: angled upon his hams, motionless in his chair, spectacles on nose, his two feet as close together as the flukes of a merman's tail, only his strange eyes stirring in his time-worn face." Well, I've been scribbling away all this time and haven't given you any news whatever. Helen came back the other day from a visit to Boston where she enjoyed herself greatly. To-night she has gone out to the movies with a young protegee of ours, Miss Titania Chapman, an engaging damsel whom we have taken in as an apprentice bookseller. It's a quaint idea, done at the request of her father, Mr. Chapman, the proprietor of Chapman's Daintybits which you see advertised everywhere. He is a great booklover, and is very eager to have the zeal transmitted to his daughter. So you can imagine my glee to have a neophyte of my own to preach books at! Also it will enable me to get away from the shop a little more. I had a telephone call from Philadelphia this afternoon asking me to go over there on Monday evening to make an estimate of the value of a private collection that is to be sold. I was rather flattered because I can't imagine how they got hold of my name. Forgive this long, incoherent scrawl. How did you like Erewhon? It's pretty near closing time and I must say grace over the day's accounts. Yours ever, ROGER MIFFLIN. Chapter X Roger Raids the Ice-Box Roger had just put Carlyle's Cromwell back in its proper place in the History alcove when Helen and Titania returned from the movies. Bock, who had been dozing under his master's chair, rose politely and wagged a deferential tail. "I do think Bock has the darlingest manners," said Titania. "Yes," said Helen, "it's really a marvel that his wagging muscles aren't all worn out, he has abused them so." "Well," said Roger, "did you have a good time?" "An adorable time!" cried Titania, with a face and voice so sparkling that two musty habitues of the shop popped their heads out of the alcoves marked ESSAYS and THEOLOGY and peered in amazement. One of these even went so far as to purchase the copy of Leigh Hunt's Wishing Cap Papers he had been munching through, in order to have an excuse to approach the group and satisfy his bewildered eyes. When Miss Chapman took the book and wrapped it up for him, his astonishment was made complete. Unconscious that she was actually creating business, Titania resumed. "We met your friend Mr. Gilbert on the street," she said, "and he went to the movies with us. He says he's coming in on Monday to fix the furnace while you're away." "Well," said Roger, "these advertising agencies are certainly enterprising, aren't they? Think of sending a man over to attend to my furnace, just on the slim chance of getting my advertising account." "Did you have a quiet evening?" said Helen. "I spent most of the time writing to Andrew," said Roger. "One amusing thing happened, though. I actually sold that copy of Philip Dru." "No!" cried Helen. "A fact," said Roger. "A man

waited

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

"friend and well-wisher" over the telephone. The other said something in German in a hoarse whisper. Having studied that language in college, Aubrey caught only two words--Thur and Schlussel, which he knew meant door and key. "Very well," said the first voice. "That will be all right, but we must act to-night. The damned thing must be finished to-morrow. Your idiotic stupidity--" Again followed some gargling in German, in a rapid undertone too fluent for Aubrey's grasp. The latch of the alley gate clicked once more, and his hand was on his revolver; but in a moment the two had passed on down the alley. The young advertising agent stood against the fence in silent horror, his heart bumping heavily. His hands were clammy, his feet seemed to have grown larger and taken root. What damnable complot was this? A sultry wave of anger passed over him. This bland, slick, talkative bookseller, was he arranging some blackmailing scheme to kidnap the girl and wring blood-money out of her father? And in league with Germans, too, the scoundrel! What an asinine thing for old Chapman to send an unprotected girl over here into the wilds of Brooklyn . . . and in the meantime, what was he to do? Patrol the back yard all night? No, the friend and well-wisher had said "We must find some other way." Besides, Aubrey remembered something having been said about the old terrier sleeping in the kitchen. He felt sure Bock would not let any German in at night without raising the roof. Probably the best way would be to watch the front of the shop. In miserable perplexity he waited several minutes until the two Germans would be well out of earshot. Then he unbolted the gate and stole up the alley on tiptoe, in the opposite direction. It led into Wordsworth Avenue just behind Weintraub's drug store, over the rear of which hung the great girders and trestles of the "L" station, a kind of Swiss chalet straddling the street on stilts. He thought it prudent to make a detour, so he turned east on Wordsworth Avenue until he reached Whittier Street, then sauntered easily down Whittier for a block, spying sharply for evidences of pursuit. Brooklyn was putting out its lights for the night, and all was quiet. He turned into Hazlitt Street and so back onto Gissing, noticing now that the Haunted Bookshop lights were off. It was nearly eleven o'clock: the last audience was filing out of the movie theatre, where two workmen were already perched on ladders taking down the Tarzan electric light sign, to substitute the illuminated lettering for the next feature. After some debate he decided that the best thing to do was to return to his room at Mrs. Schiller's, from which he could keep a sharp watch on the front door of the bookshop. By good fortune there was a lamp post almost directly in front of Mifflin's house, which cast plenty of light on the little sunken area before the door. With his opera glasses he could see from his bedroom whatever went on. As he crossed the street he cast his eyes upward at the facade of Mrs. Schiller's house. Two windows in the fourth storey were lit, and the gas burned minutely in the downstairs hall, elsewhere all was dark. And then, as he glanced at the window of his own chamber, where the curtain was still tucked back behind the pane, he noticed a curious thing. A small point of rosy light glowed, faded, and glowed again by the window. Someone was smoking a cigar in his room. Aubrey continued walking in even stride, as though he had seen nothing. Returning down the street, on the opposite side, he verified his first glance. The light was still there, and he judged himself not far out in assuming the smoker to be the friend and well-wisher or one of his gang. He had suspected the other man in the alley of being Weintraub, but he could not be sure. A cautious glance through the window of the drug store revealed Weintraub at his prescription counter. Aubrey determined to get even with the guttural gentleman who was waiting for him, certainly with no affectionate intent. He thanked the good fortune that had led him to stick the book cover in his overcoat pocket when leaving Mrs. Schiller's. Evidently, for reasons unknown, someone was very anxious to get hold of it. An idea occurred to him as he passed the little florist's shop, which was just closing. He entered and bought a dozen white carnations, and then, as if by an afterthought, asked "Have you any wire?" The florist produced a spool of the slender, tough wire that is sometimes used to nip the buds of expensive roses, to prevent them from blossoming too quickly. "Let me have about eight feet," said Aubrey. "I need some to-night and I guess the hardware stores are all closed." With this he returned to Mrs. Schiller's, picking his way carefully and close to the houses so as to be out of sight from the upstairs windows. He climbed the steps and unlatched the door with bated breath. It was half-past eleven, and he wondered how long he would have to wait for the well-wisher to descend. He could not help chuckling as he made his preparations, remembering an occasion at college somewhat similar in setting though far less serious in purpose. First he took off his shoes, laying them carefully to one side where he could find them again in a hurry. Then, choosing a banister about six feet from the bottom of the stairs he attached one end of the wire tightly to its base and spread the slack in a large loop over two of the stair treads. The remaining end of the wire he passed out through the banisters, twisting it into a small loop so that he could pull it easily. Then he turned out the hall gas and sat down in the dark to wait events. He sat for a long time, in some nervousness lest the pug dog might come prowling and find him. He was startled by a lady in a dressing gown--perhaps Mrs. J. F. Smith--who emerged from a ground-floor room passed very close to him in the dark, and muttered upstairs. He twitched his noose out of the way just in time. Presently, however, his patience was rewarded. He heard a door squeak above, and then the groaning of the staircase as someone descended slowly. He relaid his trap and waited, smiling to himself. A clock somewhere in the house was chiming twelve as the man came groping down the last flight, feeling his way in the dark. Aubrey heard him swearing under his breath. At the precise moment, when both his victim's feet were within the loop, Aubrey gave the wire a gigantic tug. The man fell like a safe, crashing against the banisters and landing in a sprawl on the floor. It was a terrific fall, and shook the house. He lay there groaning and cursing. Barely retaining his laughter, Aubrey struck a match and held it over the sprawling figure. The man lay with his face twisted against one out-spread arm, but the beard was unmistakable. It was the assistant chef again, and he seemed partly unconscious. "Burnt hair is a grand restorative," said Aubrey to himself, and applied the match to the bush of beard. He singed off a couple of inches of it with intense delight, and laid his carnations on the head of the stricken one. Then, hearing stirrings in the basement, he gathered up his wire and shoes and fled upstairs. He gained his room roaring with inward mirth, but entered cautiously, fearing some trap. Save for a strong tincture of cigar smoke, everything seemed correct. Listening at his door he heard Mrs. Schiller exclaiming shrilly in the hall, assisted by yappings from the pug. Doors upstairs were opened, and questions were called out. He heard guttural groans from the bearded one, mingled with oaths and some angry remark about having fallen downstairs. The pug, frenzied with excitement, yelled insanely. A female voice--possibly Mrs. J. F. Smith--cried out "What's that smell of burning?" Someone else said, "They're burning feathers under his nose to bring him to." "Yes, Hun's feathers," chuckled Aubrey to himself. He locked his door, and sat down by the window with his opera glasses. Chapter IX Again the Narrative is Retarded Roger had spent a quiet evening in the bookshop. Sitting at his desk under a fog of tobacco, he had honestly intended to do some writing on the twelfth chapter of his great work on bookselling. This chapter was to be an (alas, entirely conjectural) "Address Delivered by a Bookseller on Being Conferred the Honorary Degree of Doctor of Letters by a Leading University," and it presented so many alluring possibilities that Roger's mind always wandered from the paper into entranced visions of his imagined scene. He loved to build up in fancy the flattering details of that fine ceremony when bookselling would at last be properly recognized as one of the learned professions. He could see the great auditorium, filled with cultivated people: men with Emersonian profiles, ladies whispering behind their fluttering programmes. He could see the academic beadle, proctor, dean (or whatever he is, Roger was a little doubtful) pronouncing the august words of presentation-- A man who, in season and out of season, forgetting private gain for public weal, has laboured with Promethean and sacrificial ardour to instil the love of reasonable letters into countless thousands; to whom, and to whose colleagues, amid the perishable caducity of human affairs, is largely due the pullulation of literary taste; in honouring whom we seek to honour the noble and self-effacing profession of which he is so representative a member---- Then he could see the modest bookseller, somewhat clammy in his extremities and lost within his academic robe and hood, nervously fidgeting his mortar-board, haled forward by ushers, and tottering rubescent before the chancellor, provost, president (or whoever it might be) who hands out the diploma. Then (in Roger's vision) he could see the garlanded bibliopole turning to the expectant audience, giving his trailing gown a deft rearward kick as the ladies do on the stage, and uttering, without hesitation or embarrassment, with due interpolation of graceful pleasantry, that learned and unlaboured discourse on the delights of bookishness that he had often dreamed of. Then he could see the ensuing reception: the distinguished savants crowding round; the plates of macaroons, the cups of untasted tea; the ladies twittering, "Now there's something I want to ask you--why are there so many statues to generals, admirals, parsons, doctors, statesmen, scientists, artists, and authors, but no statues to booksellers?" Contemplation of this glittering scene always lured Roger into fantastic dreams. Ever since he had travelled country roads, some years before, selling books from a van drawn by a fat white horse, he had nourished a secret hope of some day founding a Parnassus on Wheels Corporation which would own a fleet of these vans and send them out into the rural byways where bookstores are unknown. He loved to imagine a great map of New York State, with the daily location of each travelling Parnassus marked by a coloured pin. He dreamed of himself, sitting in some vast central warehouse of second-hand books, poring over his map like a military chief of staff and forwarding cases of literary ammunition to various bases where his vans would re-stock. His idea was that his travelling salesmen could be recruited largely from college professors, parsons, and newspaper men, who were weary of their thankless tasks, and would welcome an opportunity to get out on the road. One of his hopes was that he might interest Mr. Chapman in this superb scheme, and he had a vision of the day when the shares of the Parnassus on Wheels Corporation would pay a handsome dividend and be much sought after by serious investors. These thoughts turned his mind toward his brother-in-law Andrew McGill, the author of several engaging books on the joys of country living, who dwells at the Sabine Farm in the green elbow of a Connecticut valley. The original Parnassus, a quaint old blue wagon in which Roger had lived and journeyed and sold books over several thousand miles of country roads in the days before his marriage, was now housed in Andrew's barn. Peg, his fat white horse, had lodging there also. It occurred to Roger that he owed Andrew a letter, and putting aside his notes for the bookseller's collegiate oration, he began to write: THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 163 Gissing Street, Brooklyn, November 30, 1918. MY DEAR ANDREW: It is scandalous not to have thanked you sooner for the annual cask of cider, which has given us even more than the customary pleasure. This has been an autumn when I have been hard put to it to keep up with my own thoughts, and I've written no letters at all. Like everyone else I am thinking constantly of this new peace that has marvellously come upon us. I trust we may have statesmen who will be able to turn it to the benefit of humanity. I wish there could be an international peace conference of booksellers, for (you will smile at this) my own conviction is that the future happiness of the world depends in no small measure on them and on the librarians. I wonder what a German bookseller is like? I've been reading The Education of Henry Adams and wish he might have lived long enough to give us his thoughts on the War. I fear it would have bowled him over. He thought that this is not a world "that sensitive and timid natures can regard without a shudder." What would he have said of the four-year shambles we have watched with sickened hearts? You remember my favourite poem--old George Herbert's Church Porch--where he says-- By all means use sometimes to be alone; Salute thyself; see what thy soul doth wear; Dare to look in thy chest, for 'tis thine own, And tumble up and down what thou find'st there-- Well, I've been tumbling my thoughts up and down a good deal. Melancholy, I suppose, is the curse of the thinking classes; but I confess my soul wears a great uneasiness these days! The sudden and amazing turnover in human affairs, dramatic beyond anything in history, already seems to be taken as a matter of course. My great fear is that humanity will forget the atrocious sufferings of the war, which have never been told. I am hoping and praying that men like Philip Gibbs may tell us what they really saw. You will not agree with me on what I am about to say, for I know you as a stubborn Republican; but I thank fortune that Wilson is going to the Peace Conference. I've been mulling over one of my favourite books--it lies beside me as I write--Cromwell's Letters and Speeches, edited by Carlyle, with what Carlyle amusingly calls "Elucidations." (Carlyle is not very good at "elucidating" anything!) I have heard somewhere or other that this is one of Wilson's favourite books, and indeed, there is much of the Cromwell in him. With what a grim, covenanting zeal he took up the sword when at last it was forced into his hand! And I have been thinking that what he will say to the Peace Conference will smack strongly of what old Oliver used to say to Parliament in 1657 and 1658--"If we will have Peace without a worm in it, lay we foundations of Justice and Righteousness." What makes Wilson so irritating to the unthoughtful is that he operates exclusively upon reason, not upon passion. He contradicts Kipling's famous lines, which apply to most men-- Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act. In this instance, I think, Reason is going to win. I feel the whole current of the world setting in that direction. It's quaint to think of old Woodrow, a kind of Cromwell-Wordsworth, going over to do his bit among the diplomatic shell-craters. What I'm waiting for is the day when he'll get back into private life and write a book about it. There's a job, if you like, for a man who might reasonably be supposed to be pretty tired in body and soul! When that book comes out I'll spend the rest of my life in selling it. I ask nothing better! Speaking of Wordsworth, I've often wondered whether Woodrow hasn't got some poems concealed somewhere among his papers! I've always imagined that he may have written poems on the sly. And by the way, you needn't make fun of me for being so devoted to George Herbert. Do you realize that two of the most familiar quotations in our language come from his pen, viz.: Wouldst thou both eat thy cake, and have it? and Dare to be true: nothing can need a ly; A fault, which needs it most, grows two thereby. Forgive this tedious sermon! My mind has been so tumbled up and down this autumn that I am in a queer state of mingled melancholy and exaltation. You know how much I live in and for books. Well, I have a curious feeling, a kind of premonition that there are great books coming out of this welter of human hopes and anguishes, perhaps A book in which the tempest-shaken soul of the race will speak out as it never has before. The Bible, you know, is rather a disappointment: it has never done for humanity what it should have done. I wonder why? Walt Whitman is going to do a great deal, but he is not quite what I mean. There is something coming--I don't know just what! I thank God I am a bookseller, trafficking in the dreams and beauties and curiosities of humanity rather than some mere huckster of merchandise. But how helpless we all are when we try to tell what goes on within us! I found this in one of Lafcadio Hearn's letters the other day--I marked the passage for you Baudelaire has a touching poem about an albatross, which you would like--describing the poet's soul superb in its own free azure--but helpless, insulted, ugly, clumsy when striving to walk on common earth--or rather, on a deck, where sailors torment it with tobacco pipes, etc. You can imagine what evenings I have here among my shelves, now the long dark nights are come! Of course until ten o'clock, when I shut up shop, I am constantly interrupted--as I have been during this letter, once to sell a copy of Helen's Babies and once to sell The Ballad of Reading Gaol, so you can see how varied are my clients' tastes! But later on, after we have had our evening cocoa and Helen has gone to bed, I prowl about the place, dipping into this and that, fuddling myself with speculation. How clear and bright the stream of the mind flows in those late hours, after all the sediment and floating trash of the day has drained off! Sometimes I seem to coast the very shore of Beauty or Truth, and hear the surf breaking on those shining sands. Then some offshore wind of weariness or prejudice bears me away again. Have you ever come across Andreyev's Confessions of a Little Man During Great Days? One of the honest books of the War. The Little Man ends his confession thus-- My anger has left me, my sadness returned, and once more the tears flow. Whom can I curse, whom can I judge, when we are all alike unfortunate? Suffering is universal; hands are outstretched to each other, and when they touch . . . the great solution will come. My heart is aglow, and I stretch out my hand and cry, "Come, let us join hands! I love you, I love you!" And of course, as soon as one puts one's self in that frame of mind someone comes along and picks your pocket. . . . I suppose we must teach ourselves to be too proud to mind having our pockets picked! Did it ever occur to you that the world is really governed by BOOKS? The course of this country in the War, for instance, has been largely determined by the books Wilson has read since he first began to think! If we could have a list of the principal books he has read since the War began, how interesting it would be. Here's something I'm just copying out to put up on my bulletin board for my customers to ponder. It was written by Charles Sorley, a young Englishman who was killed in France in 1915. He was only twenty years old-- TO GERMANY You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed, And no man claimed the conquest of your land. But gropers both through fields of thought confined We stumble and we do not understand. You only saw your future bigly planned, And we, the tapering paths of our own mind, And in each other's dearest ways we stand, And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind. When it is peace, then we may view again With new-won eyes each other's truer form And wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warm We'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain, When it is peace. But until peace, the storm The darkness and the thunder and the rain. Isn't that noble? You see what I am dumbly groping for--some way of thinking about the War that will make it seem (to future ages) a purification for humanity rather than a mere blackness of stinking cinders and tortured flesh and men shot to ribbons in marshes of blood and sewage. Out of such unspeakable desolation men MUST rise to some new conception of national neighbourhood. I hear so much apprehension that Germany won't be punished sufficiently for her crime. But how can any punishment be devised or imposed for such a huge panorama of sorrow? I think she has already punished herself horribly, and will continue to do so. My prayer is that what we have gone through will startle the world into some new realization of the sanctity of life--all life, animal as well as human. Don't you find that a visit to a zoo can humble and astound you with all that amazing and grotesque variety of living energy? What is it that we find in every form of life? Desire of some sort--some unexplained motive power that impels even the smallest insect on its queer travels. You must have watched some infinitesimal red spider on a fence rail, bustling along--why and whither? Who knows? And when you come to man, what a chaos of hungers and impulses keep thrusting him through his cycle of quaint tasks! And in every human heart you find some sorrow, some frustration, some lurking pang. I often think of Lafcadio Hearn's story of his Japanese cook. Hearn was talking of the Japanese habit of not showing their emotions on their faces. His cook was a smiling, healthy, agreeable-looking young fellow whose face was always cheerful. Then one day, by chance, Hearn happened to look through a hole in the wall and saw his cook alone. His face was not the same face. It was thin and drawn and showed strange lines worn by old hardships or sufferings. Hearn thought to himself, "He will look just like that when he is dead." He went into the kitchen to see him, and instantly the cook was all changed, young and happy again. Never again did Hearn see that face of trouble; but he knew the man wore it when he was alone. Don't you think there is a kind of parable there for the race as a whole? Have you ever met a man without wondering what shining sorrows he hides from the world, what contrast between vision and accomplishment torments him? Behind every smiling mask is there not some cryptic grimace of pain? Henry Adams puts it tersely. He says the human mind appears suddenly and inexplicably out of some unknown and unimaginable void. It passes half its known life in the mental chaos of sleep. Even when awake it is a victim of its own ill-adjustment, of disease, of age, of external suggestion, of nature's compulsions; it doubts its own sensations and trusts only in instruments and averages. After sixty years or so of growing astonishment the mind wakes to find itself looking blankly into the void of death. And, as Adams says, that it should profess itself pleased by this performance is all that the highest rules of good breeding can ask. That the mind should actually be satisfied would prove that it exists only as idiocy! I hope that you will write to tell me along what curves your mind is moving. For my own part I feel that we are on the verge of amazing things. Long ago I fell back on books as the only permanent consolers. They are the one stainless and unimpeachable achievement of the human race. It saddens me to think that I shall have to die with thousands of books unread that would have given me noble and unblemished happiness. I will tell you a secret. I have never read King Lear, and have purposely refrained from doing so. If I were ever very ill I would only need to say to myself "You can't die yet, you haven't read Lear." That would bring me round, I know it would. You see, books are the answer to all our perplexities! Henry Adams grinds his teeth at his inability to understand the universe. The best he can do is to suggest a "law of acceleration," which seems to mean that Nature is hustling man along at an ever-increasing rate so that he will either solve all her problems or else die of fever in the effort. But Adams' candid portrait of a mind grappling helplessly with its riddles is so triumphantly delightful that one forgets the futility of the struggle in the accuracy of the picture. Man is unconquerable because he can make even his helplessness so entertaining. His motto seems to be "Even though He slay me, yet will I make fun of Him!" Yes, books are man's supreme triumph, for they gather up and transmit all other triumphs. As Walter de la Mare writes, "How uncomprehendingly must an angel from heaven smile on a poor human sitting engrossed in a romance: angled upon his hams, motionless in his chair, spectacles on nose, his two feet as close together as the flukes of a merman's tail, only his strange eyes stirring in his time-worn face." Well, I've been scribbling away all this time and haven't given you any news whatever. Helen came back the other day from a visit to Boston where she enjoyed herself greatly. To-night she has gone out to the movies with a young protegee of ours, Miss Titania Chapman, an engaging damsel whom we have taken in as an apprentice bookseller. It's a quaint idea, done at the request of her father, Mr. Chapman, the proprietor of Chapman's Daintybits which you see advertised everywhere. He is a great booklover, and is very eager to have the zeal transmitted to his daughter. So you can imagine my glee to have a neophyte of my own to preach books at! Also it will enable me to get away from the shop a little more. I had a telephone call from Philadelphia this afternoon asking me to go over there on Monday evening to make an estimate of the value of a private collection that is to be sold. I was rather flattered because I can't imagine how they got hold of my name. Forgive this long, incoherent scrawl. How did you like Erewhon? It's pretty near closing time and I must say grace over the day's accounts. Yours ever, ROGER MIFFLIN. Chapter X Roger Raids the Ice-Box Roger had just put Carlyle's Cromwell back in its proper place in the History alcove when Helen and Titania returned from the movies. Bock, who had been dozing under his master's chair, rose politely and wagged a deferential tail. "I do think Bock has the darlingest manners," said Titania. "Yes," said Helen, "it's really a marvel that his wagging muscles aren't all worn out, he has abused them so." "Well," said Roger, "did you have a good time?" "An adorable time!" cried Titania, with a face and voice so sparkling that two musty habitues of the shop popped their heads out of the alcoves marked ESSAYS and THEOLOGY and peered in amazement. One of these even went so far as to purchase the copy of Leigh Hunt's Wishing Cap Papers he had been munching through, in order to have an excuse to approach the group and satisfy his bewildered eyes. When Miss Chapman took the book and wrapped it up for him, his astonishment was made complete. Unconscious that she was actually creating business, Titania resumed. "We met your friend Mr. Gilbert on the street," she said, "and he went to the movies with us. He says he's coming in on Monday to fix the furnace while you're away." "Well," said Roger, "these advertising agencies are certainly enterprising, aren't they? Think of sending a man over to attend to my furnace, just on the slim chance of getting my advertising account." "Did you have a quiet evening?" said Helen. "I spent most of the time writing to Andrew," said Roger. "One amusing thing happened, though. I actually sold that copy of Philip Dru." "No!" cried Helen. "A fact," said Roger. "A man

rolling

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

"friend and well-wisher" over the telephone. The other said something in German in a hoarse whisper. Having studied that language in college, Aubrey caught only two words--Thur and Schlussel, which he knew meant door and key. "Very well," said the first voice. "That will be all right, but we must act to-night. The damned thing must be finished to-morrow. Your idiotic stupidity--" Again followed some gargling in German, in a rapid undertone too fluent for Aubrey's grasp. The latch of the alley gate clicked once more, and his hand was on his revolver; but in a moment the two had passed on down the alley. The young advertising agent stood against the fence in silent horror, his heart bumping heavily. His hands were clammy, his feet seemed to have grown larger and taken root. What damnable complot was this? A sultry wave of anger passed over him. This bland, slick, talkative bookseller, was he arranging some blackmailing scheme to kidnap the girl and wring blood-money out of her father? And in league with Germans, too, the scoundrel! What an asinine thing for old Chapman to send an unprotected girl over here into the wilds of Brooklyn . . . and in the meantime, what was he to do? Patrol the back yard all night? No, the friend and well-wisher had said "We must find some other way." Besides, Aubrey remembered something having been said about the old terrier sleeping in the kitchen. He felt sure Bock would not let any German in at night without raising the roof. Probably the best way would be to watch the front of the shop. In miserable perplexity he waited several minutes until the two Germans would be well out of earshot. Then he unbolted the gate and stole up the alley on tiptoe, in the opposite direction. It led into Wordsworth Avenue just behind Weintraub's drug store, over the rear of which hung the great girders and trestles of the "L" station, a kind of Swiss chalet straddling the street on stilts. He thought it prudent to make a detour, so he turned east on Wordsworth Avenue until he reached Whittier Street, then sauntered easily down Whittier for a block, spying sharply for evidences of pursuit. Brooklyn was putting out its lights for the night, and all was quiet. He turned into Hazlitt Street and so back onto Gissing, noticing now that the Haunted Bookshop lights were off. It was nearly eleven o'clock: the last audience was filing out of the movie theatre, where two workmen were already perched on ladders taking down the Tarzan electric light sign, to substitute the illuminated lettering for the next feature. After some debate he decided that the best thing to do was to return to his room at Mrs. Schiller's, from which he could keep a sharp watch on the front door of the bookshop. By good fortune there was a lamp post almost directly in front of Mifflin's house, which cast plenty of light on the little sunken area before the door. With his opera glasses he could see from his bedroom whatever went on. As he crossed the street he cast his eyes upward at the facade of Mrs. Schiller's house. Two windows in the fourth storey were lit, and the gas burned minutely in the downstairs hall, elsewhere all was dark. And then, as he glanced at the window of his own chamber, where the curtain was still tucked back behind the pane, he noticed a curious thing. A small point of rosy light glowed, faded, and glowed again by the window. Someone was smoking a cigar in his room. Aubrey continued walking in even stride, as though he had seen nothing. Returning down the street, on the opposite side, he verified his first glance. The light was still there, and he judged himself not far out in assuming the smoker to be the friend and well-wisher or one of his gang. He had suspected the other man in the alley of being Weintraub, but he could not be sure. A cautious glance through the window of the drug store revealed Weintraub at his prescription counter. Aubrey determined to get even with the guttural gentleman who was waiting for him, certainly with no affectionate intent. He thanked the good fortune that had led him to stick the book cover in his overcoat pocket when leaving Mrs. Schiller's. Evidently, for reasons unknown, someone was very anxious to get hold of it. An idea occurred to him as he passed the little florist's shop, which was just closing. He entered and bought a dozen white carnations, and then, as if by an afterthought, asked "Have you any wire?" The florist produced a spool of the slender, tough wire that is sometimes used to nip the buds of expensive roses, to prevent them from blossoming too quickly. "Let me have about eight feet," said Aubrey. "I need some to-night and I guess the hardware stores are all closed." With this he returned to Mrs. Schiller's, picking his way carefully and close to the houses so as to be out of sight from the upstairs windows. He climbed the steps and unlatched the door with bated breath. It was half-past eleven, and he wondered how long he would have to wait for the well-wisher to descend. He could not help chuckling as he made his preparations, remembering an occasion at college somewhat similar in setting though far less serious in purpose. First he took off his shoes, laying them carefully to one side where he could find them again in a hurry. Then, choosing a banister about six feet from the bottom of the stairs he attached one end of the wire tightly to its base and spread the slack in a large loop over two of the stair treads. The remaining end of the wire he passed out through the banisters, twisting it into a small loop so that he could pull it easily. Then he turned out the hall gas and sat down in the dark to wait events. He sat for a long time, in some nervousness lest the pug dog might come prowling and find him. He was startled by a lady in a dressing gown--perhaps Mrs. J. F. Smith--who emerged from a ground-floor room passed very close to him in the dark, and muttered upstairs. He twitched his noose out of the way just in time. Presently, however, his patience was rewarded. He heard a door squeak above, and then the groaning of the staircase as someone descended slowly. He relaid his trap and waited, smiling to himself. A clock somewhere in the house was chiming twelve as the man came groping down the last flight, feeling his way in the dark. Aubrey heard him swearing under his breath. At the precise moment, when both his victim's feet were within the loop, Aubrey gave the wire a gigantic tug. The man fell like a safe, crashing against the banisters and landing in a sprawl on the floor. It was a terrific fall, and shook the house. He lay there groaning and cursing. Barely retaining his laughter, Aubrey struck a match and held it over the sprawling figure. The man lay with his face twisted against one out-spread arm, but the beard was unmistakable. It was the assistant chef again, and he seemed partly unconscious. "Burnt hair is a grand restorative," said Aubrey to himself, and applied the match to the bush of beard. He singed off a couple of inches of it with intense delight, and laid his carnations on the head of the stricken one. Then, hearing stirrings in the basement, he gathered up his wire and shoes and fled upstairs. He gained his room roaring with inward mirth, but entered cautiously, fearing some trap. Save for a strong tincture of cigar smoke, everything seemed correct. Listening at his door he heard Mrs. Schiller exclaiming shrilly in the hall, assisted by yappings from the pug. Doors upstairs were opened, and questions were called out. He heard guttural groans from the bearded one, mingled with oaths and some angry remark about having fallen downstairs. The pug, frenzied with excitement, yelled insanely. A female voice--possibly Mrs. J. F. Smith--cried out "What's that smell of burning?" Someone else said, "They're burning feathers under his nose to bring him to." "Yes, Hun's feathers," chuckled Aubrey to himself. He locked his door, and sat down by the window with his opera glasses. Chapter IX Again the Narrative is Retarded Roger had spent a quiet evening in the bookshop. Sitting at his desk under a fog of tobacco, he had honestly intended to do some writing on the twelfth chapter of his great work on bookselling. This chapter was to be an (alas, entirely conjectural) "Address Delivered by a Bookseller on Being Conferred the Honorary Degree of Doctor of Letters by a Leading University," and it presented so many alluring possibilities that Roger's mind always wandered from the paper into entranced visions of his imagined scene. He loved to build up in fancy the flattering details of that fine ceremony when bookselling would at last be properly recognized as one of the learned professions. He could see the great auditorium, filled with cultivated people: men with Emersonian profiles, ladies whispering behind their fluttering programmes. He could see the academic beadle, proctor, dean (or whatever he is, Roger was a little doubtful) pronouncing the august words of presentation-- A man who, in season and out of season, forgetting private gain for public weal, has laboured with Promethean and sacrificial ardour to instil the love of reasonable letters into countless thousands; to whom, and to whose colleagues, amid the perishable caducity of human affairs, is largely due the pullulation of literary taste; in honouring whom we seek to honour the noble and self-effacing profession of which he is so representative a member---- Then he could see the modest bookseller, somewhat clammy in his extremities and lost within his academic robe and hood, nervously fidgeting his mortar-board, haled forward by ushers, and tottering rubescent before the chancellor, provost, president (or whoever it might be) who hands out the diploma. Then (in Roger's vision) he could see the garlanded bibliopole turning to the expectant audience, giving his trailing gown a deft rearward kick as the ladies do on the stage, and uttering, without hesitation or embarrassment, with due interpolation of graceful pleasantry, that learned and unlaboured discourse on the delights of bookishness that he had often dreamed of. Then he could see the ensuing reception: the distinguished savants crowding round; the plates of macaroons, the cups of untasted tea; the ladies twittering, "Now there's something I want to ask you--why are there so many statues to generals, admirals, parsons, doctors, statesmen, scientists, artists, and authors, but no statues to booksellers?" Contemplation of this glittering scene always lured Roger into fantastic dreams. Ever since he had travelled country roads, some years before, selling books from a van drawn by a fat white horse, he had nourished a secret hope of some day founding a Parnassus on Wheels Corporation which would own a fleet of these vans and send them out into the rural byways where bookstores are unknown. He loved to imagine a great map of New York State, with the daily location of each travelling Parnassus marked by a coloured pin. He dreamed of himself, sitting in some vast central warehouse of second-hand books, poring over his map like a military chief of staff and forwarding cases of literary ammunition to various bases where his vans would re-stock. His idea was that his travelling salesmen could be recruited largely from college professors, parsons, and newspaper men, who were weary of their thankless tasks, and would welcome an opportunity to get out on the road. One of his hopes was that he might interest Mr. Chapman in this superb scheme, and he had a vision of the day when the shares of the Parnassus on Wheels Corporation would pay a handsome dividend and be much sought after by serious investors. These thoughts turned his mind toward his brother-in-law Andrew McGill, the author of several engaging books on the joys of country living, who dwells at the Sabine Farm in the green elbow of a Connecticut valley. The original Parnassus, a quaint old blue wagon in which Roger had lived and journeyed and sold books over several thousand miles of country roads in the days before his marriage, was now housed in Andrew's barn. Peg, his fat white horse, had lodging there also. It occurred to Roger that he owed Andrew a letter, and putting aside his notes for the bookseller's collegiate oration, he began to write: THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 163 Gissing Street, Brooklyn, November 30, 1918. MY DEAR ANDREW: It is scandalous not to have thanked you sooner for the annual cask of cider, which has given us even more than the customary pleasure. This has been an autumn when I have been hard put to it to keep up with my own thoughts, and I've written no letters at all. Like everyone else I am thinking constantly of this new peace that has marvellously come upon us. I trust we may have statesmen who will be able to turn it to the benefit of humanity. I wish there could be an international peace conference of booksellers, for (you will smile at this) my own conviction is that the future happiness of the world depends in no small measure on them and on the librarians. I wonder what a German bookseller is like? I've been reading The Education of Henry Adams and wish he might have lived long enough to give us his thoughts on the War. I fear it would have bowled him over. He thought that this is not a world "that sensitive and timid natures can regard without a shudder." What would he have said of the four-year shambles we have watched with sickened hearts? You remember my favourite poem--old George Herbert's Church Porch--where he says-- By all means use sometimes to be alone; Salute thyself; see what thy soul doth wear; Dare to look in thy chest, for 'tis thine own, And tumble up and down what thou find'st there-- Well, I've been tumbling my thoughts up and down a good deal. Melancholy, I suppose, is the curse of the thinking classes; but I confess my soul wears a great uneasiness these days! The sudden and amazing turnover in human affairs, dramatic beyond anything in history, already seems to be taken as a matter of course. My great fear is that humanity will forget the atrocious sufferings of the war, which have never been told. I am hoping and praying that men like Philip Gibbs may tell us what they really saw. You will not agree with me on what I am about to say, for I know you as a stubborn Republican; but I thank fortune that Wilson is going to the Peace Conference. I've been mulling over one of my favourite books--it lies beside me as I write--Cromwell's Letters and Speeches, edited by Carlyle, with what Carlyle amusingly calls "Elucidations." (Carlyle is not very good at "elucidating" anything!) I have heard somewhere or other that this is one of Wilson's favourite books, and indeed, there is much of the Cromwell in him. With what a grim, covenanting zeal he took up the sword when at last it was forced into his hand! And I have been thinking that what he will say to the Peace Conference will smack strongly of what old Oliver used to say to Parliament in 1657 and 1658--"If we will have Peace without a worm in it, lay we foundations of Justice and Righteousness." What makes Wilson so irritating to the unthoughtful is that he operates exclusively upon reason, not upon passion. He contradicts Kipling's famous lines, which apply to most men-- Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act. In this instance, I think, Reason is going to win. I feel the whole current of the world setting in that direction. It's quaint to think of old Woodrow, a kind of Cromwell-Wordsworth, going over to do his bit among the diplomatic shell-craters. What I'm waiting for is the day when he'll get back into private life and write a book about it. There's a job, if you like, for a man who might reasonably be supposed to be pretty tired in body and soul! When that book comes out I'll spend the rest of my life in selling it. I ask nothing better! Speaking of Wordsworth, I've often wondered whether Woodrow hasn't got some poems concealed somewhere among his papers! I've always imagined that he may have written poems on the sly. And by the way, you needn't make fun of me for being so devoted to George Herbert. Do you realize that two of the most familiar quotations in our language come from his pen, viz.: Wouldst thou both eat thy cake, and have it? and Dare to be true: nothing can need a ly; A fault, which needs it most, grows two thereby. Forgive this tedious sermon! My mind has been so tumbled up and down this autumn that I am in a queer state of mingled melancholy and exaltation. You know how much I live in and for books. Well, I have a curious feeling, a kind of premonition that there are great books coming out of this welter of human hopes and anguishes, perhaps A book in which the tempest-shaken soul of the race will speak out as it never has before. The Bible, you know, is rather a disappointment: it has never done for humanity what it should have done. I wonder why? Walt Whitman is going to do a great deal, but he is not quite what I mean. There is something coming--I don't know just what! I thank God I am a bookseller, trafficking in the dreams and beauties and curiosities of humanity rather than some mere huckster of merchandise. But how helpless we all are when we try to tell what goes on within us! I found this in one of Lafcadio Hearn's letters the other day--I marked the passage for you Baudelaire has a touching poem about an albatross, which you would like--describing the poet's soul superb in its own free azure--but helpless, insulted, ugly, clumsy when striving to walk on common earth--or rather, on a deck, where sailors torment it with tobacco pipes, etc. You can imagine what evenings I have here among my shelves, now the long dark nights are come! Of course until ten o'clock, when I shut up shop, I am constantly interrupted--as I have been during this letter, once to sell a copy of Helen's Babies and once to sell The Ballad of Reading Gaol, so you can see how varied are my clients' tastes! But later on, after we have had our evening cocoa and Helen has gone to bed, I prowl about the place, dipping into this and that, fuddling myself with speculation. How clear and bright the stream of the mind flows in those late hours, after all the sediment and floating trash of the day has drained off! Sometimes I seem to coast the very shore of Beauty or Truth, and hear the surf breaking on those shining sands. Then some offshore wind of weariness or prejudice bears me away again. Have you ever come across Andreyev's Confessions of a Little Man During Great Days? One of the honest books of the War. The Little Man ends his confession thus-- My anger has left me, my sadness returned, and once more the tears flow. Whom can I curse, whom can I judge, when we are all alike unfortunate? Suffering is universal; hands are outstretched to each other, and when they touch . . . the great solution will come. My heart is aglow, and I stretch out my hand and cry, "Come, let us join hands! I love you, I love you!" And of course, as soon as one puts one's self in that frame of mind someone comes along and picks your pocket. . . . I suppose we must teach ourselves to be too proud to mind having our pockets picked! Did it ever occur to you that the world is really governed by BOOKS? The course of this country in the War, for instance, has been largely determined by the books Wilson has read since he first began to think! If we could have a list of the principal books he has read since the War began, how interesting it would be. Here's something I'm just copying out to put up on my bulletin board for my customers to ponder. It was written by Charles Sorley, a young Englishman who was killed in France in 1915. He was only twenty years old-- TO GERMANY You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed, And no man claimed the conquest of your land. But gropers both through fields of thought confined We stumble and we do not understand. You only saw your future bigly planned, And we, the tapering paths of our own mind, And in each other's dearest ways we stand, And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind. When it is peace, then we may view again With new-won eyes each other's truer form And wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warm We'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain, When it is peace. But until peace, the storm The darkness and the thunder and the rain. Isn't that noble? You see what I am dumbly groping for--some way of thinking about the War that will make it seem (to future ages) a purification for humanity rather than a mere blackness of stinking cinders and tortured flesh and men shot to ribbons in marshes of blood and sewage. Out of such unspeakable desolation men MUST rise to some new conception of national neighbourhood. I hear so much apprehension that Germany won't be punished sufficiently for her crime. But how can any punishment be devised or imposed for such a huge panorama of sorrow? I think she has already punished herself horribly, and will continue to do so. My prayer is that what we have gone through will startle the world into some new realization of the sanctity of life--all life, animal as well as human. Don't you find that a visit to a zoo can humble and astound you with all that amazing and grotesque variety of living energy? What is it that we find in every form of life? Desire of some sort--some unexplained motive power that impels even the smallest insect on its queer travels. You must have watched some infinitesimal red spider on a fence rail, bustling along--why and whither? Who knows? And when you come to man, what a chaos of hungers and impulses keep thrusting him through his cycle of quaint tasks! And in every human heart you find some sorrow, some frustration, some lurking pang. I often think of Lafcadio Hearn's story of his Japanese cook. Hearn was talking of the Japanese habit of not showing their emotions on their faces. His cook was a smiling, healthy, agreeable-looking young fellow whose face was always cheerful. Then one day, by chance, Hearn happened to look through a hole in the wall and saw his cook alone. His face was not the same face. It was thin and drawn and showed strange lines worn by old hardships or sufferings. Hearn thought to himself, "He will look just like that when he is dead." He went into the kitchen to see him, and instantly the cook was all changed, young and happy again. Never again did Hearn see that face of trouble; but he knew the man wore it when he was alone. Don't you think there is a kind of parable there for the race as a whole? Have you ever met a man without wondering what shining sorrows he hides from the world, what contrast between vision and accomplishment torments him? Behind every smiling mask is there not some cryptic grimace of pain? Henry Adams puts it tersely. He says the human mind appears suddenly and inexplicably out of some unknown and unimaginable void. It passes half its known life in the mental chaos of sleep. Even when awake it is a victim of its own ill-adjustment, of disease, of age, of external suggestion, of nature's compulsions; it doubts its own sensations and trusts only in instruments and averages. After sixty years or so of growing astonishment the mind wakes to find itself looking blankly into the void of death. And, as Adams says, that it should profess itself pleased by this performance is all that the highest rules of good breeding can ask. That the mind should actually be satisfied would prove that it exists only as idiocy! I hope that you will write to tell me along what curves your mind is moving. For my own part I feel that we are on the verge of amazing things. Long ago I fell back on books as the only permanent consolers. They are the one stainless and unimpeachable achievement of the human race. It saddens me to think that I shall have to die with thousands of books unread that would have given me noble and unblemished happiness. I will tell you a secret. I have never read King Lear, and have purposely refrained from doing so. If I were ever very ill I would only need to say to myself "You can't die yet, you haven't read Lear." That would bring me round, I know it would. You see, books are the answer to all our perplexities! Henry Adams grinds his teeth at his inability to understand the universe. The best he can do is to suggest a "law of acceleration," which seems to mean that Nature is hustling man along at an ever-increasing rate so that he will either solve all her problems or else die of fever in the effort. But Adams' candid portrait of a mind grappling helplessly with its riddles is so triumphantly delightful that one forgets the futility of the struggle in the accuracy of the picture. Man is unconquerable because he can make even his helplessness so entertaining. His motto seems to be "Even though He slay me, yet will I make fun of Him!" Yes, books are man's supreme triumph, for they gather up and transmit all other triumphs. As Walter de la Mare writes, "How uncomprehendingly must an angel from heaven smile on a poor human sitting engrossed in a romance: angled upon his hams, motionless in his chair, spectacles on nose, his two feet as close together as the flukes of a merman's tail, only his strange eyes stirring in his time-worn face." Well, I've been scribbling away all this time and haven't given you any news whatever. Helen came back the other day from a visit to Boston where she enjoyed herself greatly. To-night she has gone out to the movies with a young protegee of ours, Miss Titania Chapman, an engaging damsel whom we have taken in as an apprentice bookseller. It's a quaint idea, done at the request of her father, Mr. Chapman, the proprietor of Chapman's Daintybits which you see advertised everywhere. He is a great booklover, and is very eager to have the zeal transmitted to his daughter. So you can imagine my glee to have a neophyte of my own to preach books at! Also it will enable me to get away from the shop a little more. I had a telephone call from Philadelphia this afternoon asking me to go over there on Monday evening to make an estimate of the value of a private collection that is to be sold. I was rather flattered because I can't imagine how they got hold of my name. Forgive this long, incoherent scrawl. How did you like Erewhon? It's pretty near closing time and I must say grace over the day's accounts. Yours ever, ROGER MIFFLIN. Chapter X Roger Raids the Ice-Box Roger had just put Carlyle's Cromwell back in its proper place in the History alcove when Helen and Titania returned from the movies. Bock, who had been dozing under his master's chair, rose politely and wagged a deferential tail. "I do think Bock has the darlingest manners," said Titania. "Yes," said Helen, "it's really a marvel that his wagging muscles aren't all worn out, he has abused them so." "Well," said Roger, "did you have a good time?" "An adorable time!" cried Titania, with a face and voice so sparkling that two musty habitues of the shop popped their heads out of the alcoves marked ESSAYS and THEOLOGY and peered in amazement. One of these even went so far as to purchase the copy of Leigh Hunt's Wishing Cap Papers he had been munching through, in order to have an excuse to approach the group and satisfy his bewildered eyes. When Miss Chapman took the book and wrapped it up for him, his astonishment was made complete. Unconscious that she was actually creating business, Titania resumed. "We met your friend Mr. Gilbert on the street," she said, "and he went to the movies with us. He says he's coming in on Monday to fix the furnace while you're away." "Well," said Roger, "these advertising agencies are certainly enterprising, aren't they? Think of sending a man over to attend to my furnace, just on the slim chance of getting my advertising account." "Did you have a quiet evening?" said Helen. "I spent most of the time writing to Andrew," said Roger. "One amusing thing happened, though. I actually sold that copy of Philip Dru." "No!" cried Helen. "A fact," said Roger. "A man

merely

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

"friend and well-wisher" over the telephone. The other said something in German in a hoarse whisper. Having studied that language in college, Aubrey caught only two words--Thur and Schlussel, which he knew meant door and key. "Very well," said the first voice. "That will be all right, but we must act to-night. The damned thing must be finished to-morrow. Your idiotic stupidity--" Again followed some gargling in German, in a rapid undertone too fluent for Aubrey's grasp. The latch of the alley gate clicked once more, and his hand was on his revolver; but in a moment the two had passed on down the alley. The young advertising agent stood against the fence in silent horror, his heart bumping heavily. His hands were clammy, his feet seemed to have grown larger and taken root. What damnable complot was this? A sultry wave of anger passed over him. This bland, slick, talkative bookseller, was he arranging some blackmailing scheme to kidnap the girl and wring blood-money out of her father? And in league with Germans, too, the scoundrel! What an asinine thing for old Chapman to send an unprotected girl over here into the wilds of Brooklyn . . . and in the meantime, what was he to do? Patrol the back yard all night? No, the friend and well-wisher had said "We must find some other way." Besides, Aubrey remembered something having been said about the old terrier sleeping in the kitchen. He felt sure Bock would not let any German in at night without raising the roof. Probably the best way would be to watch the front of the shop. In miserable perplexity he waited several minutes until the two Germans would be well out of earshot. Then he unbolted the gate and stole up the alley on tiptoe, in the opposite direction. It led into Wordsworth Avenue just behind Weintraub's drug store, over the rear of which hung the great girders and trestles of the "L" station, a kind of Swiss chalet straddling the street on stilts. He thought it prudent to make a detour, so he turned east on Wordsworth Avenue until he reached Whittier Street, then sauntered easily down Whittier for a block, spying sharply for evidences of pursuit. Brooklyn was putting out its lights for the night, and all was quiet. He turned into Hazlitt Street and so back onto Gissing, noticing now that the Haunted Bookshop lights were off. It was nearly eleven o'clock: the last audience was filing out of the movie theatre, where two workmen were already perched on ladders taking down the Tarzan electric light sign, to substitute the illuminated lettering for the next feature. After some debate he decided that the best thing to do was to return to his room at Mrs. Schiller's, from which he could keep a sharp watch on the front door of the bookshop. By good fortune there was a lamp post almost directly in front of Mifflin's house, which cast plenty of light on the little sunken area before the door. With his opera glasses he could see from his bedroom whatever went on. As he crossed the street he cast his eyes upward at the facade of Mrs. Schiller's house. Two windows in the fourth storey were lit, and the gas burned minutely in the downstairs hall, elsewhere all was dark. And then, as he glanced at the window of his own chamber, where the curtain was still tucked back behind the pane, he noticed a curious thing. A small point of rosy light glowed, faded, and glowed again by the window. Someone was smoking a cigar in his room. Aubrey continued walking in even stride, as though he had seen nothing. Returning down the street, on the opposite side, he verified his first glance. The light was still there, and he judged himself not far out in assuming the smoker to be the friend and well-wisher or one of his gang. He had suspected the other man in the alley of being Weintraub, but he could not be sure. A cautious glance through the window of the drug store revealed Weintraub at his prescription counter. Aubrey determined to get even with the guttural gentleman who was waiting for him, certainly with no affectionate intent. He thanked the good fortune that had led him to stick the book cover in his overcoat pocket when leaving Mrs. Schiller's. Evidently, for reasons unknown, someone was very anxious to get hold of it. An idea occurred to him as he passed the little florist's shop, which was just closing. He entered and bought a dozen white carnations, and then, as if by an afterthought, asked "Have you any wire?" The florist produced a spool of the slender, tough wire that is sometimes used to nip the buds of expensive roses, to prevent them from blossoming too quickly. "Let me have about eight feet," said Aubrey. "I need some to-night and I guess the hardware stores are all closed." With this he returned to Mrs. Schiller's, picking his way carefully and close to the houses so as to be out of sight from the upstairs windows. He climbed the steps and unlatched the door with bated breath. It was half-past eleven, and he wondered how long he would have to wait for the well-wisher to descend. He could not help chuckling as he made his preparations, remembering an occasion at college somewhat similar in setting though far less serious in purpose. First he took off his shoes, laying them carefully to one side where he could find them again in a hurry. Then, choosing a banister about six feet from the bottom of the stairs he attached one end of the wire tightly to its base and spread the slack in a large loop over two of the stair treads. The remaining end of the wire he passed out through the banisters, twisting it into a small loop so that he could pull it easily. Then he turned out the hall gas and sat down in the dark to wait events. He sat for a long time, in some nervousness lest the pug dog might come prowling and find him. He was startled by a lady in a dressing gown--perhaps Mrs. J. F. Smith--who emerged from a ground-floor room passed very close to him in the dark, and muttered upstairs. He twitched his noose out of the way just in time. Presently, however, his patience was rewarded. He heard a door squeak above, and then the groaning of the staircase as someone descended slowly. He relaid his trap and waited, smiling to himself. A clock somewhere in the house was chiming twelve as the man came groping down the last flight, feeling his way in the dark. Aubrey heard him swearing under his breath. At the precise moment, when both his victim's feet were within the loop, Aubrey gave the wire a gigantic tug. The man fell like a safe, crashing against the banisters and landing in a sprawl on the floor. It was a terrific fall, and shook the house. He lay there groaning and cursing. Barely retaining his laughter, Aubrey struck a match and held it over the sprawling figure. The man lay with his face twisted against one out-spread arm, but the beard was unmistakable. It was the assistant chef again, and he seemed partly unconscious. "Burnt hair is a grand restorative," said Aubrey to himself, and applied the match to the bush of beard. He singed off a couple of inches of it with intense delight, and laid his carnations on the head of the stricken one. Then, hearing stirrings in the basement, he gathered up his wire and shoes and fled upstairs. He gained his room roaring with inward mirth, but entered cautiously, fearing some trap. Save for a strong tincture of cigar smoke, everything seemed correct. Listening at his door he heard Mrs. Schiller exclaiming shrilly in the hall, assisted by yappings from the pug. Doors upstairs were opened, and questions were called out. He heard guttural groans from the bearded one, mingled with oaths and some angry remark about having fallen downstairs. The pug, frenzied with excitement, yelled insanely. A female voice--possibly Mrs. J. F. Smith--cried out "What's that smell of burning?" Someone else said, "They're burning feathers under his nose to bring him to." "Yes, Hun's feathers," chuckled Aubrey to himself. He locked his door, and sat down by the window with his opera glasses. Chapter IX Again the Narrative is Retarded Roger had spent a quiet evening in the bookshop. Sitting at his desk under a fog of tobacco, he had honestly intended to do some writing on the twelfth chapter of his great work on bookselling. This chapter was to be an (alas, entirely conjectural) "Address Delivered by a Bookseller on Being Conferred the Honorary Degree of Doctor of Letters by a Leading University," and it presented so many alluring possibilities that Roger's mind always wandered from the paper into entranced visions of his imagined scene. He loved to build up in fancy the flattering details of that fine ceremony when bookselling would at last be properly recognized as one of the learned professions. He could see the great auditorium, filled with cultivated people: men with Emersonian profiles, ladies whispering behind their fluttering programmes. He could see the academic beadle, proctor, dean (or whatever he is, Roger was a little doubtful) pronouncing the august words of presentation-- A man who, in season and out of season, forgetting private gain for public weal, has laboured with Promethean and sacrificial ardour to instil the love of reasonable letters into countless thousands; to whom, and to whose colleagues, amid the perishable caducity of human affairs, is largely due the pullulation of literary taste; in honouring whom we seek to honour the noble and self-effacing profession of which he is so representative a member---- Then he could see the modest bookseller, somewhat clammy in his extremities and lost within his academic robe and hood, nervously fidgeting his mortar-board, haled forward by ushers, and tottering rubescent before the chancellor, provost, president (or whoever it might be) who hands out the diploma. Then (in Roger's vision) he could see the garlanded bibliopole turning to the expectant audience, giving his trailing gown a deft rearward kick as the ladies do on the stage, and uttering, without hesitation or embarrassment, with due interpolation of graceful pleasantry, that learned and unlaboured discourse on the delights of bookishness that he had often dreamed of. Then he could see the ensuing reception: the distinguished savants crowding round; the plates of macaroons, the cups of untasted tea; the ladies twittering, "Now there's something I want to ask you--why are there so many statues to generals, admirals, parsons, doctors, statesmen, scientists, artists, and authors, but no statues to booksellers?" Contemplation of this glittering scene always lured Roger into fantastic dreams. Ever since he had travelled country roads, some years before, selling books from a van drawn by a fat white horse, he had nourished a secret hope of some day founding a Parnassus on Wheels Corporation which would own a fleet of these vans and send them out into the rural byways where bookstores are unknown. He loved to imagine a great map of New York State, with the daily location of each travelling Parnassus marked by a coloured pin. He dreamed of himself, sitting in some vast central warehouse of second-hand books, poring over his map like a military chief of staff and forwarding cases of literary ammunition to various bases where his vans would re-stock. His idea was that his travelling salesmen could be recruited largely from college professors, parsons, and newspaper men, who were weary of their thankless tasks, and would welcome an opportunity to get out on the road. One of his hopes was that he might interest Mr. Chapman in this superb scheme, and he had a vision of the day when the shares of the Parnassus on Wheels Corporation would pay a handsome dividend and be much sought after by serious investors. These thoughts turned his mind toward his brother-in-law Andrew McGill, the author of several engaging books on the joys of country living, who dwells at the Sabine Farm in the green elbow of a Connecticut valley. The original Parnassus, a quaint old blue wagon in which Roger had lived and journeyed and sold books over several thousand miles of country roads in the days before his marriage, was now housed in Andrew's barn. Peg, his fat white horse, had lodging there also. It occurred to Roger that he owed Andrew a letter, and putting aside his notes for the bookseller's collegiate oration, he began to write: THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 163 Gissing Street, Brooklyn, November 30, 1918. MY DEAR ANDREW: It is scandalous not to have thanked you sooner for the annual cask of cider, which has given us even more than the customary pleasure. This has been an autumn when I have been hard put to it to keep up with my own thoughts, and I've written no letters at all. Like everyone else I am thinking constantly of this new peace that has marvellously come upon us. I trust we may have statesmen who will be able to turn it to the benefit of humanity. I wish there could be an international peace conference of booksellers, for (you will smile at this) my own conviction is that the future happiness of the world depends in no small measure on them and on the librarians. I wonder what a German bookseller is like? I've been reading The Education of Henry Adams and wish he might have lived long enough to give us his thoughts on the War. I fear it would have bowled him over. He thought that this is not a world "that sensitive and timid natures can regard without a shudder." What would he have said of the four-year shambles we have watched with sickened hearts? You remember my favourite poem--old George Herbert's Church Porch--where he says-- By all means use sometimes to be alone; Salute thyself; see what thy soul doth wear; Dare to look in thy chest, for 'tis thine own, And tumble up and down what thou find'st there-- Well, I've been tumbling my thoughts up and down a good deal. Melancholy, I suppose, is the curse of the thinking classes; but I confess my soul wears a great uneasiness these days! The sudden and amazing turnover in human affairs, dramatic beyond anything in history, already seems to be taken as a matter of course. My great fear is that humanity will forget the atrocious sufferings of the war, which have never been told. I am hoping and praying that men like Philip Gibbs may tell us what they really saw. You will not agree with me on what I am about to say, for I know you as a stubborn Republican; but I thank fortune that Wilson is going to the Peace Conference. I've been mulling over one of my favourite books--it lies beside me as I write--Cromwell's Letters and Speeches, edited by Carlyle, with what Carlyle amusingly calls "Elucidations." (Carlyle is not very good at "elucidating" anything!) I have heard somewhere or other that this is one of Wilson's favourite books, and indeed, there is much of the Cromwell in him. With what a grim, covenanting zeal he took up the sword when at last it was forced into his hand! And I have been thinking that what he will say to the Peace Conference will smack strongly of what old Oliver used to say to Parliament in 1657 and 1658--"If we will have Peace without a worm in it, lay we foundations of Justice and Righteousness." What makes Wilson so irritating to the unthoughtful is that he operates exclusively upon reason, not upon passion. He contradicts Kipling's famous lines, which apply to most men-- Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act. In this instance, I think, Reason is going to win. I feel the whole current of the world setting in that direction. It's quaint to think of old Woodrow, a kind of Cromwell-Wordsworth, going over to do his bit among the diplomatic shell-craters. What I'm waiting for is the day when he'll get back into private life and write a book about it. There's a job, if you like, for a man who might reasonably be supposed to be pretty tired in body and soul! When that book comes out I'll spend the rest of my life in selling it. I ask nothing better! Speaking of Wordsworth, I've often wondered whether Woodrow hasn't got some poems concealed somewhere among his papers! I've always imagined that he may have written poems on the sly. And by the way, you needn't make fun of me for being so devoted to George Herbert. Do you realize that two of the most familiar quotations in our language come from his pen, viz.: Wouldst thou both eat thy cake, and have it? and Dare to be true: nothing can need a ly; A fault, which needs it most, grows two thereby. Forgive this tedious sermon! My mind has been so tumbled up and down this autumn that I am in a queer state of mingled melancholy and exaltation. You know how much I live in and for books. Well, I have a curious feeling, a kind of premonition that there are great books coming out of this welter of human hopes and anguishes, perhaps A book in which the tempest-shaken soul of the race will speak out as it never has before. The Bible, you know, is rather a disappointment: it has never done for humanity what it should have done. I wonder why? Walt Whitman is going to do a great deal, but he is not quite what I mean. There is something coming--I don't know just what! I thank God I am a bookseller, trafficking in the dreams and beauties and curiosities of humanity rather than some mere huckster of merchandise. But how helpless we all are when we try to tell what goes on within us! I found this in one of Lafcadio Hearn's letters the other day--I marked the passage for you Baudelaire has a touching poem about an albatross, which you would like--describing the poet's soul superb in its own free azure--but helpless, insulted, ugly, clumsy when striving to walk on common earth--or rather, on a deck, where sailors torment it with tobacco pipes, etc. You can imagine what evenings I have here among my shelves, now the long dark nights are come! Of course until ten o'clock, when I shut up shop, I am constantly interrupted--as I have been during this letter, once to sell a copy of Helen's Babies and once to sell The Ballad of Reading Gaol, so you can see how varied are my clients' tastes! But later on, after we have had our evening cocoa and Helen has gone to bed, I prowl about the place, dipping into this and that, fuddling myself with speculation. How clear and bright the stream of the mind flows in those late hours, after all the sediment and floating trash of the day has drained off! Sometimes I seem to coast the very shore of Beauty or Truth, and hear the surf breaking on those shining sands. Then some offshore wind of weariness or prejudice bears me away again. Have you ever come across Andreyev's Confessions of a Little Man During Great Days? One of the honest books of the War. The Little Man ends his confession thus-- My anger has left me, my sadness returned, and once more the tears flow. Whom can I curse, whom can I judge, when we are all alike unfortunate? Suffering is universal; hands are outstretched to each other, and when they touch . . . the great solution will come. My heart is aglow, and I stretch out my hand and cry, "Come, let us join hands! I love you, I love you!" And of course, as soon as one puts one's self in that frame of mind someone comes along and picks your pocket. . . . I suppose we must teach ourselves to be too proud to mind having our pockets picked! Did it ever occur to you that the world is really governed by BOOKS? The course of this country in the War, for instance, has been largely determined by the books Wilson has read since he first began to think! If we could have a list of the principal books he has read since the War began, how interesting it would be. Here's something I'm just copying out to put up on my bulletin board for my customers to ponder. It was written by Charles Sorley, a young Englishman who was killed in France in 1915. He was only twenty years old-- TO GERMANY You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed, And no man claimed the conquest of your land. But gropers both through fields of thought confined We stumble and we do not understand. You only saw your future bigly planned, And we, the tapering paths of our own mind, And in each other's dearest ways we stand, And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind. When it is peace, then we may view again With new-won eyes each other's truer form And wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warm We'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain, When it is peace. But until peace, the storm The darkness and the thunder and the rain. Isn't that noble? You see what I am dumbly groping for--some way of thinking about the War that will make it seem (to future ages) a purification for humanity rather than a mere blackness of stinking cinders and tortured flesh and men shot to ribbons in marshes of blood and sewage. Out of such unspeakable desolation men MUST rise to some new conception of national neighbourhood. I hear so much apprehension that Germany won't be punished sufficiently for her crime. But how can any punishment be devised or imposed for such a huge panorama of sorrow? I think she has already punished herself horribly, and will continue to do so. My prayer is that what we have gone through will startle the world into some new realization of the sanctity of life--all life, animal as well as human. Don't you find that a visit to a zoo can humble and astound you with all that amazing and grotesque variety of living energy? What is it that we find in every form of life? Desire of some sort--some unexplained motive power that impels even the smallest insect on its queer travels. You must have watched some infinitesimal red spider on a fence rail, bustling along--why and whither? Who knows? And when you come to man, what a chaos of hungers and impulses keep thrusting him through his cycle of quaint tasks! And in every human heart you find some sorrow, some frustration, some lurking pang. I often think of Lafcadio Hearn's story of his Japanese cook. Hearn was talking of the Japanese habit of not showing their emotions on their faces. His cook was a smiling, healthy, agreeable-looking young fellow whose face was always cheerful. Then one day, by chance, Hearn happened to look through a hole in the wall and saw his cook alone. His face was not the same face. It was thin and drawn and showed strange lines worn by old hardships or sufferings. Hearn thought to himself, "He will look just like that when he is dead." He went into the kitchen to see him, and instantly the cook was all changed, young and happy again. Never again did Hearn see that face of trouble; but he knew the man wore it when he was alone. Don't you think there is a kind of parable there for the race as a whole? Have you ever met a man without wondering what shining sorrows he hides from the world, what contrast between vision and accomplishment torments him? Behind every smiling mask is there not some cryptic grimace of pain? Henry Adams puts it tersely. He says the human mind appears suddenly and inexplicably out of some unknown and unimaginable void. It passes half its known life in the mental chaos of sleep. Even when awake it is a victim of its own ill-adjustment, of disease, of age, of external suggestion, of nature's compulsions; it doubts its own sensations and trusts only in instruments and averages. After sixty years or so of growing astonishment the mind wakes to find itself looking blankly into the void of death. And, as Adams says, that it should profess itself pleased by this performance is all that the highest rules of good breeding can ask. That the mind should actually be satisfied would prove that it exists only as idiocy! I hope that you will write to tell me along what curves your mind is moving. For my own part I feel that we are on the verge of amazing things. Long ago I fell back on books as the only permanent consolers. They are the one stainless and unimpeachable achievement of the human race. It saddens me to think that I shall have to die with thousands of books unread that would have given me noble and unblemished happiness. I will tell you a secret. I have never read King Lear, and have purposely refrained from doing so. If I were ever very ill I would only need to say to myself "You can't die yet, you haven't read Lear." That would bring me round, I know it would. You see, books are the answer to all our perplexities! Henry Adams grinds his teeth at his inability to understand the universe. The best he can do is to suggest a "law of acceleration," which seems to mean that Nature is hustling man along at an ever-increasing rate so that he will either solve all her problems or else die of fever in the effort. But Adams' candid portrait of a mind grappling helplessly with its riddles is so triumphantly delightful that one forgets the futility of the struggle in the accuracy of the picture. Man is unconquerable because he can make even his helplessness so entertaining. His motto seems to be "Even though He slay me, yet will I make fun of Him!" Yes, books are man's supreme triumph, for they gather up and transmit all other triumphs. As Walter de la Mare writes, "How uncomprehendingly must an angel from heaven smile on a poor human sitting engrossed in a romance: angled upon his hams, motionless in his chair, spectacles on nose, his two feet as close together as the flukes of a merman's tail, only his strange eyes stirring in his time-worn face." Well, I've been scribbling away all this time and haven't given you any news whatever. Helen came back the other day from a visit to Boston where she enjoyed herself greatly. To-night she has gone out to the movies with a young protegee of ours, Miss Titania Chapman, an engaging damsel whom we have taken in as an apprentice bookseller. It's a quaint idea, done at the request of her father, Mr. Chapman, the proprietor of Chapman's Daintybits which you see advertised everywhere. He is a great booklover, and is very eager to have the zeal transmitted to his daughter. So you can imagine my glee to have a neophyte of my own to preach books at! Also it will enable me to get away from the shop a little more. I had a telephone call from Philadelphia this afternoon asking me to go over there on Monday evening to make an estimate of the value of a private collection that is to be sold. I was rather flattered because I can't imagine how they got hold of my name. Forgive this long, incoherent scrawl. How did you like Erewhon? It's pretty near closing time and I must say grace over the day's accounts. Yours ever, ROGER MIFFLIN. Chapter X Roger Raids the Ice-Box Roger had just put Carlyle's Cromwell back in its proper place in the History alcove when Helen and Titania returned from the movies. Bock, who had been dozing under his master's chair, rose politely and wagged a deferential tail. "I do think Bock has the darlingest manners," said Titania. "Yes," said Helen, "it's really a marvel that his wagging muscles aren't all worn out, he has abused them so." "Well," said Roger, "did you have a good time?" "An adorable time!" cried Titania, with a face and voice so sparkling that two musty habitues of the shop popped their heads out of the alcoves marked ESSAYS and THEOLOGY and peered in amazement. One of these even went so far as to purchase the copy of Leigh Hunt's Wishing Cap Papers he had been munching through, in order to have an excuse to approach the group and satisfy his bewildered eyes. When Miss Chapman took the book and wrapped it up for him, his astonishment was made complete. Unconscious that she was actually creating business, Titania resumed. "We met your friend Mr. Gilbert on the street," she said, "and he went to the movies with us. He says he's coming in on Monday to fix the furnace while you're away." "Well," said Roger, "these advertising agencies are certainly enterprising, aren't they? Think of sending a man over to attend to my furnace, just on the slim chance of getting my advertising account." "Did you have a quiet evening?" said Helen. "I spent most of the time writing to Andrew," said Roger. "One amusing thing happened, though. I actually sold that copy of Philip Dru." "No!" cried Helen. "A fact," said Roger. "A man

germans

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

"friend and well-wisher" over the telephone. The other said something in German in a hoarse whisper. Having studied that language in college, Aubrey caught only two words--Thur and Schlussel, which he knew meant door and key. "Very well," said the first voice. "That will be all right, but we must act to-night. The damned thing must be finished to-morrow. Your idiotic stupidity--" Again followed some gargling in German, in a rapid undertone too fluent for Aubrey's grasp. The latch of the alley gate clicked once more, and his hand was on his revolver; but in a moment the two had passed on down the alley. The young advertising agent stood against the fence in silent horror, his heart bumping heavily. His hands were clammy, his feet seemed to have grown larger and taken root. What damnable complot was this? A sultry wave of anger passed over him. This bland, slick, talkative bookseller, was he arranging some blackmailing scheme to kidnap the girl and wring blood-money out of her father? And in league with Germans, too, the scoundrel! What an asinine thing for old Chapman to send an unprotected girl over here into the wilds of Brooklyn . . . and in the meantime, what was he to do? Patrol the back yard all night? No, the friend and well-wisher had said "We must find some other way." Besides, Aubrey remembered something having been said about the old terrier sleeping in the kitchen. He felt sure Bock would not let any German in at night without raising the roof. Probably the best way would be to watch the front of the shop. In miserable perplexity he waited several minutes until the two Germans would be well out of earshot. Then he unbolted the gate and stole up the alley on tiptoe, in the opposite direction. It led into Wordsworth Avenue just behind Weintraub's drug store, over the rear of which hung the great girders and trestles of the "L" station, a kind of Swiss chalet straddling the street on stilts. He thought it prudent to make a detour, so he turned east on Wordsworth Avenue until he reached Whittier Street, then sauntered easily down Whittier for a block, spying sharply for evidences of pursuit. Brooklyn was putting out its lights for the night, and all was quiet. He turned into Hazlitt Street and so back onto Gissing, noticing now that the Haunted Bookshop lights were off. It was nearly eleven o'clock: the last audience was filing out of the movie theatre, where two workmen were already perched on ladders taking down the Tarzan electric light sign, to substitute the illuminated lettering for the next feature. After some debate he decided that the best thing to do was to return to his room at Mrs. Schiller's, from which he could keep a sharp watch on the front door of the bookshop. By good fortune there was a lamp post almost directly in front of Mifflin's house, which cast plenty of light on the little sunken area before the door. With his opera glasses he could see from his bedroom whatever went on. As he crossed the street he cast his eyes upward at the facade of Mrs. Schiller's house. Two windows in the fourth storey were lit, and the gas burned minutely in the downstairs hall, elsewhere all was dark. And then, as he glanced at the window of his own chamber, where the curtain was still tucked back behind the pane, he noticed a curious thing. A small point of rosy light glowed, faded, and glowed again by the window. Someone was smoking a cigar in his room. Aubrey continued walking in even stride, as though he had seen nothing. Returning down the street, on the opposite side, he verified his first glance. The light was still there, and he judged himself not far out in assuming the smoker to be the friend and well-wisher or one of his gang. He had suspected the other man in the alley of being Weintraub, but he could not be sure. A cautious glance through the window of the drug store revealed Weintraub at his prescription counter. Aubrey determined to get even with the guttural gentleman who was waiting for him, certainly with no affectionate intent. He thanked the good fortune that had led him to stick the book cover in his overcoat pocket when leaving Mrs. Schiller's. Evidently, for reasons unknown, someone was very anxious to get hold of it. An idea occurred to him as he passed the little florist's shop, which was just closing. He entered and bought a dozen white carnations, and then, as if by an afterthought, asked "Have you any wire?" The florist produced a spool of the slender, tough wire that is sometimes used to nip the buds of expensive roses, to prevent them from blossoming too quickly. "Let me have about eight feet," said Aubrey. "I need some to-night and I guess the hardware stores are all closed." With this he returned to Mrs. Schiller's, picking his way carefully and close to the houses so as to be out of sight from the upstairs windows. He climbed the steps and unlatched the door with bated breath. It was half-past eleven, and he wondered how long he would have to wait for the well-wisher to descend. He could not help chuckling as he made his preparations, remembering an occasion at college somewhat similar in setting though far less serious in purpose. First he took off his shoes, laying them carefully to one side where he could find them again in a hurry. Then, choosing a banister about six feet from the bottom of the stairs he attached one end of the wire tightly to its base and spread the slack in a large loop over two of the stair treads. The remaining end of the wire he passed out through the banisters, twisting it into a small loop so that he could pull it easily. Then he turned out the hall gas and sat down in the dark to wait events. He sat for a long time, in some nervousness lest the pug dog might come prowling and find him. He was startled by a lady in a dressing gown--perhaps Mrs. J. F. Smith--who emerged from a ground-floor room passed very close to him in the dark, and muttered upstairs. He twitched his noose out of the way just in time. Presently, however, his patience was rewarded. He heard a door squeak above, and then the groaning of the staircase as someone descended slowly. He relaid his trap and waited, smiling to himself. A clock somewhere in the house was chiming twelve as the man came groping down the last flight, feeling his way in the dark. Aubrey heard him swearing under his breath. At the precise moment, when both his victim's feet were within the loop, Aubrey gave the wire a gigantic tug. The man fell like a safe, crashing against the banisters and landing in a sprawl on the floor. It was a terrific fall, and shook the house. He lay there groaning and cursing. Barely retaining his laughter, Aubrey struck a match and held it over the sprawling figure. The man lay with his face twisted against one out-spread arm, but the beard was unmistakable. It was the assistant chef again, and he seemed partly unconscious. "Burnt hair is a grand restorative," said Aubrey to himself, and applied the match to the bush of beard. He singed off a couple of inches of it with intense delight, and laid his carnations on the head of the stricken one. Then, hearing stirrings in the basement, he gathered up his wire and shoes and fled upstairs. He gained his room roaring with inward mirth, but entered cautiously, fearing some trap. Save for a strong tincture of cigar smoke, everything seemed correct. Listening at his door he heard Mrs. Schiller exclaiming shrilly in the hall, assisted by yappings from the pug. Doors upstairs were opened, and questions were called out. He heard guttural groans from the bearded one, mingled with oaths and some angry remark about having fallen downstairs. The pug, frenzied with excitement, yelled insanely. A female voice--possibly Mrs. J. F. Smith--cried out "What's that smell of burning?" Someone else said, "They're burning feathers under his nose to bring him to." "Yes, Hun's feathers," chuckled Aubrey to himself. He locked his door, and sat down by the window with his opera glasses. Chapter IX Again the Narrative is Retarded Roger had spent a quiet evening in the bookshop. Sitting at his desk under a fog of tobacco, he had honestly intended to do some writing on the twelfth chapter of his great work on bookselling. This chapter was to be an (alas, entirely conjectural) "Address Delivered by a Bookseller on Being Conferred the Honorary Degree of Doctor of Letters by a Leading University," and it presented so many alluring possibilities that Roger's mind always wandered from the paper into entranced visions of his imagined scene. He loved to build up in fancy the flattering details of that fine ceremony when bookselling would at last be properly recognized as one of the learned professions. He could see the great auditorium, filled with cultivated people: men with Emersonian profiles, ladies whispering behind their fluttering programmes. He could see the academic beadle, proctor, dean (or whatever he is, Roger was a little doubtful) pronouncing the august words of presentation-- A man who, in season and out of season, forgetting private gain for public weal, has laboured with Promethean and sacrificial ardour to instil the love of reasonable letters into countless thousands; to whom, and to whose colleagues, amid the perishable caducity of human affairs, is largely due the pullulation of literary taste; in honouring whom we seek to honour the noble and self-effacing profession of which he is so representative a member---- Then he could see the modest bookseller, somewhat clammy in his extremities and lost within his academic robe and hood, nervously fidgeting his mortar-board, haled forward by ushers, and tottering rubescent before the chancellor, provost, president (or whoever it might be) who hands out the diploma. Then (in Roger's vision) he could see the garlanded bibliopole turning to the expectant audience, giving his trailing gown a deft rearward kick as the ladies do on the stage, and uttering, without hesitation or embarrassment, with due interpolation of graceful pleasantry, that learned and unlaboured discourse on the delights of bookishness that he had often dreamed of. Then he could see the ensuing reception: the distinguished savants crowding round; the plates of macaroons, the cups of untasted tea; the ladies twittering, "Now there's something I want to ask you--why are there so many statues to generals, admirals, parsons, doctors, statesmen, scientists, artists, and authors, but no statues to booksellers?" Contemplation of this glittering scene always lured Roger into fantastic dreams. Ever since he had travelled country roads, some years before, selling books from a van drawn by a fat white horse, he had nourished a secret hope of some day founding a Parnassus on Wheels Corporation which would own a fleet of these vans and send them out into the rural byways where bookstores are unknown. He loved to imagine a great map of New York State, with the daily location of each travelling Parnassus marked by a coloured pin. He dreamed of himself, sitting in some vast central warehouse of second-hand books, poring over his map like a military chief of staff and forwarding cases of literary ammunition to various bases where his vans would re-stock. His idea was that his travelling salesmen could be recruited largely from college professors, parsons, and newspaper men, who were weary of their thankless tasks, and would welcome an opportunity to get out on the road. One of his hopes was that he might interest Mr. Chapman in this superb scheme, and he had a vision of the day when the shares of the Parnassus on Wheels Corporation would pay a handsome dividend and be much sought after by serious investors. These thoughts turned his mind toward his brother-in-law Andrew McGill, the author of several engaging books on the joys of country living, who dwells at the Sabine Farm in the green elbow of a Connecticut valley. The original Parnassus, a quaint old blue wagon in which Roger had lived and journeyed and sold books over several thousand miles of country roads in the days before his marriage, was now housed in Andrew's barn. Peg, his fat white horse, had lodging there also. It occurred to Roger that he owed Andrew a letter, and putting aside his notes for the bookseller's collegiate oration, he began to write: THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 163 Gissing Street, Brooklyn, November 30, 1918. MY DEAR ANDREW: It is scandalous not to have thanked you sooner for the annual cask of cider, which has given us even more than the customary pleasure. This has been an autumn when I have been hard put to it to keep up with my own thoughts, and I've written no letters at all. Like everyone else I am thinking constantly of this new peace that has marvellously come upon us. I trust we may have statesmen who will be able to turn it to the benefit of humanity. I wish there could be an international peace conference of booksellers, for (you will smile at this) my own conviction is that the future happiness of the world depends in no small measure on them and on the librarians. I wonder what a German bookseller is like? I've been reading The Education of Henry Adams and wish he might have lived long enough to give us his thoughts on the War. I fear it would have bowled him over. He thought that this is not a world "that sensitive and timid natures can regard without a shudder." What would he have said of the four-year shambles we have watched with sickened hearts? You remember my favourite poem--old George Herbert's Church Porch--where he says-- By all means use sometimes to be alone; Salute thyself; see what thy soul doth wear; Dare to look in thy chest, for 'tis thine own, And tumble up and down what thou find'st there-- Well, I've been tumbling my thoughts up and down a good deal. Melancholy, I suppose, is the curse of the thinking classes; but I confess my soul wears a great uneasiness these days! The sudden and amazing turnover in human affairs, dramatic beyond anything in history, already seems to be taken as a matter of course. My great fear is that humanity will forget the atrocious sufferings of the war, which have never been told. I am hoping and praying that men like Philip Gibbs may tell us what they really saw. You will not agree with me on what I am about to say, for I know you as a stubborn Republican; but I thank fortune that Wilson is going to the Peace Conference. I've been mulling over one of my favourite books--it lies beside me as I write--Cromwell's Letters and Speeches, edited by Carlyle, with what Carlyle amusingly calls "Elucidations." (Carlyle is not very good at "elucidating" anything!) I have heard somewhere or other that this is one of Wilson's favourite books, and indeed, there is much of the Cromwell in him. With what a grim, covenanting zeal he took up the sword when at last it was forced into his hand! And I have been thinking that what he will say to the Peace Conference will smack strongly of what old Oliver used to say to Parliament in 1657 and 1658--"If we will have Peace without a worm in it, lay we foundations of Justice and Righteousness." What makes Wilson so irritating to the unthoughtful is that he operates exclusively upon reason, not upon passion. He contradicts Kipling's famous lines, which apply to most men-- Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act. In this instance, I think, Reason is going to win. I feel the whole current of the world setting in that direction. It's quaint to think of old Woodrow, a kind of Cromwell-Wordsworth, going over to do his bit among the diplomatic shell-craters. What I'm waiting for is the day when he'll get back into private life and write a book about it. There's a job, if you like, for a man who might reasonably be supposed to be pretty tired in body and soul! When that book comes out I'll spend the rest of my life in selling it. I ask nothing better! Speaking of Wordsworth, I've often wondered whether Woodrow hasn't got some poems concealed somewhere among his papers! I've always imagined that he may have written poems on the sly. And by the way, you needn't make fun of me for being so devoted to George Herbert. Do you realize that two of the most familiar quotations in our language come from his pen, viz.: Wouldst thou both eat thy cake, and have it? and Dare to be true: nothing can need a ly; A fault, which needs it most, grows two thereby. Forgive this tedious sermon! My mind has been so tumbled up and down this autumn that I am in a queer state of mingled melancholy and exaltation. You know how much I live in and for books. Well, I have a curious feeling, a kind of premonition that there are great books coming out of this welter of human hopes and anguishes, perhaps A book in which the tempest-shaken soul of the race will speak out as it never has before. The Bible, you know, is rather a disappointment: it has never done for humanity what it should have done. I wonder why? Walt Whitman is going to do a great deal, but he is not quite what I mean. There is something coming--I don't know just what! I thank God I am a bookseller, trafficking in the dreams and beauties and curiosities of humanity rather than some mere huckster of merchandise. But how helpless we all are when we try to tell what goes on within us! I found this in one of Lafcadio Hearn's letters the other day--I marked the passage for you Baudelaire has a touching poem about an albatross, which you would like--describing the poet's soul superb in its own free azure--but helpless, insulted, ugly, clumsy when striving to walk on common earth--or rather, on a deck, where sailors torment it with tobacco pipes, etc. You can imagine what evenings I have here among my shelves, now the long dark nights are come! Of course until ten o'clock, when I shut up shop, I am constantly interrupted--as I have been during this letter, once to sell a copy of Helen's Babies and once to sell The Ballad of Reading Gaol, so you can see how varied are my clients' tastes! But later on, after we have had our evening cocoa and Helen has gone to bed, I prowl about the place, dipping into this and that, fuddling myself with speculation. How clear and bright the stream of the mind flows in those late hours, after all the sediment and floating trash of the day has drained off! Sometimes I seem to coast the very shore of Beauty or Truth, and hear the surf breaking on those shining sands. Then some offshore wind of weariness or prejudice bears me away again. Have you ever come across Andreyev's Confessions of a Little Man During Great Days? One of the honest books of the War. The Little Man ends his confession thus-- My anger has left me, my sadness returned, and once more the tears flow. Whom can I curse, whom can I judge, when we are all alike unfortunate? Suffering is universal; hands are outstretched to each other, and when they touch . . . the great solution will come. My heart is aglow, and I stretch out my hand and cry, "Come, let us join hands! I love you, I love you!" And of course, as soon as one puts one's self in that frame of mind someone comes along and picks your pocket. . . . I suppose we must teach ourselves to be too proud to mind having our pockets picked! Did it ever occur to you that the world is really governed by BOOKS? The course of this country in the War, for instance, has been largely determined by the books Wilson has read since he first began to think! If we could have a list of the principal books he has read since the War began, how interesting it would be. Here's something I'm just copying out to put up on my bulletin board for my customers to ponder. It was written by Charles Sorley, a young Englishman who was killed in France in 1915. He was only twenty years old-- TO GERMANY You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed, And no man claimed the conquest of your land. But gropers both through fields of thought confined We stumble and we do not understand. You only saw your future bigly planned, And we, the tapering paths of our own mind, And in each other's dearest ways we stand, And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind. When it is peace, then we may view again With new-won eyes each other's truer form And wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warm We'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain, When it is peace. But until peace, the storm The darkness and the thunder and the rain. Isn't that noble? You see what I am dumbly groping for--some way of thinking about the War that will make it seem (to future ages) a purification for humanity rather than a mere blackness of stinking cinders and tortured flesh and men shot to ribbons in marshes of blood and sewage. Out of such unspeakable desolation men MUST rise to some new conception of national neighbourhood. I hear so much apprehension that Germany won't be punished sufficiently for her crime. But how can any punishment be devised or imposed for such a huge panorama of sorrow? I think she has already punished herself horribly, and will continue to do so. My prayer is that what we have gone through will startle the world into some new realization of the sanctity of life--all life, animal as well as human. Don't you find that a visit to a zoo can humble and astound you with all that amazing and grotesque variety of living energy? What is it that we find in every form of life? Desire of some sort--some unexplained motive power that impels even the smallest insect on its queer travels. You must have watched some infinitesimal red spider on a fence rail, bustling along--why and whither? Who knows? And when you come to man, what a chaos of hungers and impulses keep thrusting him through his cycle of quaint tasks! And in every human heart you find some sorrow, some frustration, some lurking pang. I often think of Lafcadio Hearn's story of his Japanese cook. Hearn was talking of the Japanese habit of not showing their emotions on their faces. His cook was a smiling, healthy, agreeable-looking young fellow whose face was always cheerful. Then one day, by chance, Hearn happened to look through a hole in the wall and saw his cook alone. His face was not the same face. It was thin and drawn and showed strange lines worn by old hardships or sufferings. Hearn thought to himself, "He will look just like that when he is dead." He went into the kitchen to see him, and instantly the cook was all changed, young and happy again. Never again did Hearn see that face of trouble; but he knew the man wore it when he was alone. Don't you think there is a kind of parable there for the race as a whole? Have you ever met a man without wondering what shining sorrows he hides from the world, what contrast between vision and accomplishment torments him? Behind every smiling mask is there not some cryptic grimace of pain? Henry Adams puts it tersely. He says the human mind appears suddenly and inexplicably out of some unknown and unimaginable void. It passes half its known life in the mental chaos of sleep. Even when awake it is a victim of its own ill-adjustment, of disease, of age, of external suggestion, of nature's compulsions; it doubts its own sensations and trusts only in instruments and averages. After sixty years or so of growing astonishment the mind wakes to find itself looking blankly into the void of death. And, as Adams says, that it should profess itself pleased by this performance is all that the highest rules of good breeding can ask. That the mind should actually be satisfied would prove that it exists only as idiocy! I hope that you will write to tell me along what curves your mind is moving. For my own part I feel that we are on the verge of amazing things. Long ago I fell back on books as the only permanent consolers. They are the one stainless and unimpeachable achievement of the human race. It saddens me to think that I shall have to die with thousands of books unread that would have given me noble and unblemished happiness. I will tell you a secret. I have never read King Lear, and have purposely refrained from doing so. If I were ever very ill I would only need to say to myself "You can't die yet, you haven't read Lear." That would bring me round, I know it would. You see, books are the answer to all our perplexities! Henry Adams grinds his teeth at his inability to understand the universe. The best he can do is to suggest a "law of acceleration," which seems to mean that Nature is hustling man along at an ever-increasing rate so that he will either solve all her problems or else die of fever in the effort. But Adams' candid portrait of a mind grappling helplessly with its riddles is so triumphantly delightful that one forgets the futility of the struggle in the accuracy of the picture. Man is unconquerable because he can make even his helplessness so entertaining. His motto seems to be "Even though He slay me, yet will I make fun of Him!" Yes, books are man's supreme triumph, for they gather up and transmit all other triumphs. As Walter de la Mare writes, "How uncomprehendingly must an angel from heaven smile on a poor human sitting engrossed in a romance: angled upon his hams, motionless in his chair, spectacles on nose, his two feet as close together as the flukes of a merman's tail, only his strange eyes stirring in his time-worn face." Well, I've been scribbling away all this time and haven't given you any news whatever. Helen came back the other day from a visit to Boston where she enjoyed herself greatly. To-night she has gone out to the movies with a young protegee of ours, Miss Titania Chapman, an engaging damsel whom we have taken in as an apprentice bookseller. It's a quaint idea, done at the request of her father, Mr. Chapman, the proprietor of Chapman's Daintybits which you see advertised everywhere. He is a great booklover, and is very eager to have the zeal transmitted to his daughter. So you can imagine my glee to have a neophyte of my own to preach books at! Also it will enable me to get away from the shop a little more. I had a telephone call from Philadelphia this afternoon asking me to go over there on Monday evening to make an estimate of the value of a private collection that is to be sold. I was rather flattered because I can't imagine how they got hold of my name. Forgive this long, incoherent scrawl. How did you like Erewhon? It's pretty near closing time and I must say grace over the day's accounts. Yours ever, ROGER MIFFLIN. Chapter X Roger Raids the Ice-Box Roger had just put Carlyle's Cromwell back in its proper place in the History alcove when Helen and Titania returned from the movies. Bock, who had been dozing under his master's chair, rose politely and wagged a deferential tail. "I do think Bock has the darlingest manners," said Titania. "Yes," said Helen, "it's really a marvel that his wagging muscles aren't all worn out, he has abused them so." "Well," said Roger, "did you have a good time?" "An adorable time!" cried Titania, with a face and voice so sparkling that two musty habitues of the shop popped their heads out of the alcoves marked ESSAYS and THEOLOGY and peered in amazement. One of these even went so far as to purchase the copy of Leigh Hunt's Wishing Cap Papers he had been munching through, in order to have an excuse to approach the group and satisfy his bewildered eyes. When Miss Chapman took the book and wrapped it up for him, his astonishment was made complete. Unconscious that she was actually creating business, Titania resumed. "We met your friend Mr. Gilbert on the street," she said, "and he went to the movies with us. He says he's coming in on Monday to fix the furnace while you're away." "Well," said Roger, "these advertising agencies are certainly enterprising, aren't they? Think of sending a man over to attend to my furnace, just on the slim chance of getting my advertising account." "Did you have a quiet evening?" said Helen. "I spent most of the time writing to Andrew," said Roger. "One amusing thing happened, though. I actually sold that copy of Philip Dru." "No!" cried Helen. "A fact," said Roger. "A man

scolding

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

"friend and well-wisher" over the telephone. The other said something in German in a hoarse whisper. Having studied that language in college, Aubrey caught only two words--Thur and Schlussel, which he knew meant door and key. "Very well," said the first voice. "That will be all right, but we must act to-night. The damned thing must be finished to-morrow. Your idiotic stupidity--" Again followed some gargling in German, in a rapid undertone too fluent for Aubrey's grasp. The latch of the alley gate clicked once more, and his hand was on his revolver; but in a moment the two had passed on down the alley. The young advertising agent stood against the fence in silent horror, his heart bumping heavily. His hands were clammy, his feet seemed to have grown larger and taken root. What damnable complot was this? A sultry wave of anger passed over him. This bland, slick, talkative bookseller, was he arranging some blackmailing scheme to kidnap the girl and wring blood-money out of her father? And in league with Germans, too, the scoundrel! What an asinine thing for old Chapman to send an unprotected girl over here into the wilds of Brooklyn . . . and in the meantime, what was he to do? Patrol the back yard all night? No, the friend and well-wisher had said "We must find some other way." Besides, Aubrey remembered something having been said about the old terrier sleeping in the kitchen. He felt sure Bock would not let any German in at night without raising the roof. Probably the best way would be to watch the front of the shop. In miserable perplexity he waited several minutes until the two Germans would be well out of earshot. Then he unbolted the gate and stole up the alley on tiptoe, in the opposite direction. It led into Wordsworth Avenue just behind Weintraub's drug store, over the rear of which hung the great girders and trestles of the "L" station, a kind of Swiss chalet straddling the street on stilts. He thought it prudent to make a detour, so he turned east on Wordsworth Avenue until he reached Whittier Street, then sauntered easily down Whittier for a block, spying sharply for evidences of pursuit. Brooklyn was putting out its lights for the night, and all was quiet. He turned into Hazlitt Street and so back onto Gissing, noticing now that the Haunted Bookshop lights were off. It was nearly eleven o'clock: the last audience was filing out of the movie theatre, where two workmen were already perched on ladders taking down the Tarzan electric light sign, to substitute the illuminated lettering for the next feature. After some debate he decided that the best thing to do was to return to his room at Mrs. Schiller's, from which he could keep a sharp watch on the front door of the bookshop. By good fortune there was a lamp post almost directly in front of Mifflin's house, which cast plenty of light on the little sunken area before the door. With his opera glasses he could see from his bedroom whatever went on. As he crossed the street he cast his eyes upward at the facade of Mrs. Schiller's house. Two windows in the fourth storey were lit, and the gas burned minutely in the downstairs hall, elsewhere all was dark. And then, as he glanced at the window of his own chamber, where the curtain was still tucked back behind the pane, he noticed a curious thing. A small point of rosy light glowed, faded, and glowed again by the window. Someone was smoking a cigar in his room. Aubrey continued walking in even stride, as though he had seen nothing. Returning down the street, on the opposite side, he verified his first glance. The light was still there, and he judged himself not far out in assuming the smoker to be the friend and well-wisher or one of his gang. He had suspected the other man in the alley of being Weintraub, but he could not be sure. A cautious glance through the window of the drug store revealed Weintraub at his prescription counter. Aubrey determined to get even with the guttural gentleman who was waiting for him, certainly with no affectionate intent. He thanked the good fortune that had led him to stick the book cover in his overcoat pocket when leaving Mrs. Schiller's. Evidently, for reasons unknown, someone was very anxious to get hold of it. An idea occurred to him as he passed the little florist's shop, which was just closing. He entered and bought a dozen white carnations, and then, as if by an afterthought, asked "Have you any wire?" The florist produced a spool of the slender, tough wire that is sometimes used to nip the buds of expensive roses, to prevent them from blossoming too quickly. "Let me have about eight feet," said Aubrey. "I need some to-night and I guess the hardware stores are all closed." With this he returned to Mrs. Schiller's, picking his way carefully and close to the houses so as to be out of sight from the upstairs windows. He climbed the steps and unlatched the door with bated breath. It was half-past eleven, and he wondered how long he would have to wait for the well-wisher to descend. He could not help chuckling as he made his preparations, remembering an occasion at college somewhat similar in setting though far less serious in purpose. First he took off his shoes, laying them carefully to one side where he could find them again in a hurry. Then, choosing a banister about six feet from the bottom of the stairs he attached one end of the wire tightly to its base and spread the slack in a large loop over two of the stair treads. The remaining end of the wire he passed out through the banisters, twisting it into a small loop so that he could pull it easily. Then he turned out the hall gas and sat down in the dark to wait events. He sat for a long time, in some nervousness lest the pug dog might come prowling and find him. He was startled by a lady in a dressing gown--perhaps Mrs. J. F. Smith--who emerged from a ground-floor room passed very close to him in the dark, and muttered upstairs. He twitched his noose out of the way just in time. Presently, however, his patience was rewarded. He heard a door squeak above, and then the groaning of the staircase as someone descended slowly. He relaid his trap and waited, smiling to himself. A clock somewhere in the house was chiming twelve as the man came groping down the last flight, feeling his way in the dark. Aubrey heard him swearing under his breath. At the precise moment, when both his victim's feet were within the loop, Aubrey gave the wire a gigantic tug. The man fell like a safe, crashing against the banisters and landing in a sprawl on the floor. It was a terrific fall, and shook the house. He lay there groaning and cursing. Barely retaining his laughter, Aubrey struck a match and held it over the sprawling figure. The man lay with his face twisted against one out-spread arm, but the beard was unmistakable. It was the assistant chef again, and he seemed partly unconscious. "Burnt hair is a grand restorative," said Aubrey to himself, and applied the match to the bush of beard. He singed off a couple of inches of it with intense delight, and laid his carnations on the head of the stricken one. Then, hearing stirrings in the basement, he gathered up his wire and shoes and fled upstairs. He gained his room roaring with inward mirth, but entered cautiously, fearing some trap. Save for a strong tincture of cigar smoke, everything seemed correct. Listening at his door he heard Mrs. Schiller exclaiming shrilly in the hall, assisted by yappings from the pug. Doors upstairs were opened, and questions were called out. He heard guttural groans from the bearded one, mingled with oaths and some angry remark about having fallen downstairs. The pug, frenzied with excitement, yelled insanely. A female voice--possibly Mrs. J. F. Smith--cried out "What's that smell of burning?" Someone else said, "They're burning feathers under his nose to bring him to." "Yes, Hun's feathers," chuckled Aubrey to himself. He locked his door, and sat down by the window with his opera glasses. Chapter IX Again the Narrative is Retarded Roger had spent a quiet evening in the bookshop. Sitting at his desk under a fog of tobacco, he had honestly intended to do some writing on the twelfth chapter of his great work on bookselling. This chapter was to be an (alas, entirely conjectural) "Address Delivered by a Bookseller on Being Conferred the Honorary Degree of Doctor of Letters by a Leading University," and it presented so many alluring possibilities that Roger's mind always wandered from the paper into entranced visions of his imagined scene. He loved to build up in fancy the flattering details of that fine ceremony when bookselling would at last be properly recognized as one of the learned professions. He could see the great auditorium, filled with cultivated people: men with Emersonian profiles, ladies whispering behind their fluttering programmes. He could see the academic beadle, proctor, dean (or whatever he is, Roger was a little doubtful) pronouncing the august words of presentation-- A man who, in season and out of season, forgetting private gain for public weal, has laboured with Promethean and sacrificial ardour to instil the love of reasonable letters into countless thousands; to whom, and to whose colleagues, amid the perishable caducity of human affairs, is largely due the pullulation of literary taste; in honouring whom we seek to honour the noble and self-effacing profession of which he is so representative a member---- Then he could see the modest bookseller, somewhat clammy in his extremities and lost within his academic robe and hood, nervously fidgeting his mortar-board, haled forward by ushers, and tottering rubescent before the chancellor, provost, president (or whoever it might be) who hands out the diploma. Then (in Roger's vision) he could see the garlanded bibliopole turning to the expectant audience, giving his trailing gown a deft rearward kick as the ladies do on the stage, and uttering, without hesitation or embarrassment, with due interpolation of graceful pleasantry, that learned and unlaboured discourse on the delights of bookishness that he had often dreamed of. Then he could see the ensuing reception: the distinguished savants crowding round; the plates of macaroons, the cups of untasted tea; the ladies twittering, "Now there's something I want to ask you--why are there so many statues to generals, admirals, parsons, doctors, statesmen, scientists, artists, and authors, but no statues to booksellers?" Contemplation of this glittering scene always lured Roger into fantastic dreams. Ever since he had travelled country roads, some years before, selling books from a van drawn by a fat white horse, he had nourished a secret hope of some day founding a Parnassus on Wheels Corporation which would own a fleet of these vans and send them out into the rural byways where bookstores are unknown. He loved to imagine a great map of New York State, with the daily location of each travelling Parnassus marked by a coloured pin. He dreamed of himself, sitting in some vast central warehouse of second-hand books, poring over his map like a military chief of staff and forwarding cases of literary ammunition to various bases where his vans would re-stock. His idea was that his travelling salesmen could be recruited largely from college professors, parsons, and newspaper men, who were weary of their thankless tasks, and would welcome an opportunity to get out on the road. One of his hopes was that he might interest Mr. Chapman in this superb scheme, and he had a vision of the day when the shares of the Parnassus on Wheels Corporation would pay a handsome dividend and be much sought after by serious investors. These thoughts turned his mind toward his brother-in-law Andrew McGill, the author of several engaging books on the joys of country living, who dwells at the Sabine Farm in the green elbow of a Connecticut valley. The original Parnassus, a quaint old blue wagon in which Roger had lived and journeyed and sold books over several thousand miles of country roads in the days before his marriage, was now housed in Andrew's barn. Peg, his fat white horse, had lodging there also. It occurred to Roger that he owed Andrew a letter, and putting aside his notes for the bookseller's collegiate oration, he began to write: THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 163 Gissing Street, Brooklyn, November 30, 1918. MY DEAR ANDREW: It is scandalous not to have thanked you sooner for the annual cask of cider, which has given us even more than the customary pleasure. This has been an autumn when I have been hard put to it to keep up with my own thoughts, and I've written no letters at all. Like everyone else I am thinking constantly of this new peace that has marvellously come upon us. I trust we may have statesmen who will be able to turn it to the benefit of humanity. I wish there could be an international peace conference of booksellers, for (you will smile at this) my own conviction is that the future happiness of the world depends in no small measure on them and on the librarians. I wonder what a German bookseller is like? I've been reading The Education of Henry Adams and wish he might have lived long enough to give us his thoughts on the War. I fear it would have bowled him over. He thought that this is not a world "that sensitive and timid natures can regard without a shudder." What would he have said of the four-year shambles we have watched with sickened hearts? You remember my favourite poem--old George Herbert's Church Porch--where he says-- By all means use sometimes to be alone; Salute thyself; see what thy soul doth wear; Dare to look in thy chest, for 'tis thine own, And tumble up and down what thou find'st there-- Well, I've been tumbling my thoughts up and down a good deal. Melancholy, I suppose, is the curse of the thinking classes; but I confess my soul wears a great uneasiness these days! The sudden and amazing turnover in human affairs, dramatic beyond anything in history, already seems to be taken as a matter of course. My great fear is that humanity will forget the atrocious sufferings of the war, which have never been told. I am hoping and praying that men like Philip Gibbs may tell us what they really saw. You will not agree with me on what I am about to say, for I know you as a stubborn Republican; but I thank fortune that Wilson is going to the Peace Conference. I've been mulling over one of my favourite books--it lies beside me as I write--Cromwell's Letters and Speeches, edited by Carlyle, with what Carlyle amusingly calls "Elucidations." (Carlyle is not very good at "elucidating" anything!) I have heard somewhere or other that this is one of Wilson's favourite books, and indeed, there is much of the Cromwell in him. With what a grim, covenanting zeal he took up the sword when at last it was forced into his hand! And I have been thinking that what he will say to the Peace Conference will smack strongly of what old Oliver used to say to Parliament in 1657 and 1658--"If we will have Peace without a worm in it, lay we foundations of Justice and Righteousness." What makes Wilson so irritating to the unthoughtful is that he operates exclusively upon reason, not upon passion. He contradicts Kipling's famous lines, which apply to most men-- Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act. In this instance, I think, Reason is going to win. I feel the whole current of the world setting in that direction. It's quaint to think of old Woodrow, a kind of Cromwell-Wordsworth, going over to do his bit among the diplomatic shell-craters. What I'm waiting for is the day when he'll get back into private life and write a book about it. There's a job, if you like, for a man who might reasonably be supposed to be pretty tired in body and soul! When that book comes out I'll spend the rest of my life in selling it. I ask nothing better! Speaking of Wordsworth, I've often wondered whether Woodrow hasn't got some poems concealed somewhere among his papers! I've always imagined that he may have written poems on the sly. And by the way, you needn't make fun of me for being so devoted to George Herbert. Do you realize that two of the most familiar quotations in our language come from his pen, viz.: Wouldst thou both eat thy cake, and have it? and Dare to be true: nothing can need a ly; A fault, which needs it most, grows two thereby. Forgive this tedious sermon! My mind has been so tumbled up and down this autumn that I am in a queer state of mingled melancholy and exaltation. You know how much I live in and for books. Well, I have a curious feeling, a kind of premonition that there are great books coming out of this welter of human hopes and anguishes, perhaps A book in which the tempest-shaken soul of the race will speak out as it never has before. The Bible, you know, is rather a disappointment: it has never done for humanity what it should have done. I wonder why? Walt Whitman is going to do a great deal, but he is not quite what I mean. There is something coming--I don't know just what! I thank God I am a bookseller, trafficking in the dreams and beauties and curiosities of humanity rather than some mere huckster of merchandise. But how helpless we all are when we try to tell what goes on within us! I found this in one of Lafcadio Hearn's letters the other day--I marked the passage for you Baudelaire has a touching poem about an albatross, which you would like--describing the poet's soul superb in its own free azure--but helpless, insulted, ugly, clumsy when striving to walk on common earth--or rather, on a deck, where sailors torment it with tobacco pipes, etc. You can imagine what evenings I have here among my shelves, now the long dark nights are come! Of course until ten o'clock, when I shut up shop, I am constantly interrupted--as I have been during this letter, once to sell a copy of Helen's Babies and once to sell The Ballad of Reading Gaol, so you can see how varied are my clients' tastes! But later on, after we have had our evening cocoa and Helen has gone to bed, I prowl about the place, dipping into this and that, fuddling myself with speculation. How clear and bright the stream of the mind flows in those late hours, after all the sediment and floating trash of the day has drained off! Sometimes I seem to coast the very shore of Beauty or Truth, and hear the surf breaking on those shining sands. Then some offshore wind of weariness or prejudice bears me away again. Have you ever come across Andreyev's Confessions of a Little Man During Great Days? One of the honest books of the War. The Little Man ends his confession thus-- My anger has left me, my sadness returned, and once more the tears flow. Whom can I curse, whom can I judge, when we are all alike unfortunate? Suffering is universal; hands are outstretched to each other, and when they touch . . . the great solution will come. My heart is aglow, and I stretch out my hand and cry, "Come, let us join hands! I love you, I love you!" And of course, as soon as one puts one's self in that frame of mind someone comes along and picks your pocket. . . . I suppose we must teach ourselves to be too proud to mind having our pockets picked! Did it ever occur to you that the world is really governed by BOOKS? The course of this country in the War, for instance, has been largely determined by the books Wilson has read since he first began to think! If we could have a list of the principal books he has read since the War began, how interesting it would be. Here's something I'm just copying out to put up on my bulletin board for my customers to ponder. It was written by Charles Sorley, a young Englishman who was killed in France in 1915. He was only twenty years old-- TO GERMANY You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed, And no man claimed the conquest of your land. But gropers both through fields of thought confined We stumble and we do not understand. You only saw your future bigly planned, And we, the tapering paths of our own mind, And in each other's dearest ways we stand, And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind. When it is peace, then we may view again With new-won eyes each other's truer form And wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warm We'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain, When it is peace. But until peace, the storm The darkness and the thunder and the rain. Isn't that noble? You see what I am dumbly groping for--some way of thinking about the War that will make it seem (to future ages) a purification for humanity rather than a mere blackness of stinking cinders and tortured flesh and men shot to ribbons in marshes of blood and sewage. Out of such unspeakable desolation men MUST rise to some new conception of national neighbourhood. I hear so much apprehension that Germany won't be punished sufficiently for her crime. But how can any punishment be devised or imposed for such a huge panorama of sorrow? I think she has already punished herself horribly, and will continue to do so. My prayer is that what we have gone through will startle the world into some new realization of the sanctity of life--all life, animal as well as human. Don't you find that a visit to a zoo can humble and astound you with all that amazing and grotesque variety of living energy? What is it that we find in every form of life? Desire of some sort--some unexplained motive power that impels even the smallest insect on its queer travels. You must have watched some infinitesimal red spider on a fence rail, bustling along--why and whither? Who knows? And when you come to man, what a chaos of hungers and impulses keep thrusting him through his cycle of quaint tasks! And in every human heart you find some sorrow, some frustration, some lurking pang. I often think of Lafcadio Hearn's story of his Japanese cook. Hearn was talking of the Japanese habit of not showing their emotions on their faces. His cook was a smiling, healthy, agreeable-looking young fellow whose face was always cheerful. Then one day, by chance, Hearn happened to look through a hole in the wall and saw his cook alone. His face was not the same face. It was thin and drawn and showed strange lines worn by old hardships or sufferings. Hearn thought to himself, "He will look just like that when he is dead." He went into the kitchen to see him, and instantly the cook was all changed, young and happy again. Never again did Hearn see that face of trouble; but he knew the man wore it when he was alone. Don't you think there is a kind of parable there for the race as a whole? Have you ever met a man without wondering what shining sorrows he hides from the world, what contrast between vision and accomplishment torments him? Behind every smiling mask is there not some cryptic grimace of pain? Henry Adams puts it tersely. He says the human mind appears suddenly and inexplicably out of some unknown and unimaginable void. It passes half its known life in the mental chaos of sleep. Even when awake it is a victim of its own ill-adjustment, of disease, of age, of external suggestion, of nature's compulsions; it doubts its own sensations and trusts only in instruments and averages. After sixty years or so of growing astonishment the mind wakes to find itself looking blankly into the void of death. And, as Adams says, that it should profess itself pleased by this performance is all that the highest rules of good breeding can ask. That the mind should actually be satisfied would prove that it exists only as idiocy! I hope that you will write to tell me along what curves your mind is moving. For my own part I feel that we are on the verge of amazing things. Long ago I fell back on books as the only permanent consolers. They are the one stainless and unimpeachable achievement of the human race. It saddens me to think that I shall have to die with thousands of books unread that would have given me noble and unblemished happiness. I will tell you a secret. I have never read King Lear, and have purposely refrained from doing so. If I were ever very ill I would only need to say to myself "You can't die yet, you haven't read Lear." That would bring me round, I know it would. You see, books are the answer to all our perplexities! Henry Adams grinds his teeth at his inability to understand the universe. The best he can do is to suggest a "law of acceleration," which seems to mean that Nature is hustling man along at an ever-increasing rate so that he will either solve all her problems or else die of fever in the effort. But Adams' candid portrait of a mind grappling helplessly with its riddles is so triumphantly delightful that one forgets the futility of the struggle in the accuracy of the picture. Man is unconquerable because he can make even his helplessness so entertaining. His motto seems to be "Even though He slay me, yet will I make fun of Him!" Yes, books are man's supreme triumph, for they gather up and transmit all other triumphs. As Walter de la Mare writes, "How uncomprehendingly must an angel from heaven smile on a poor human sitting engrossed in a romance: angled upon his hams, motionless in his chair, spectacles on nose, his two feet as close together as the flukes of a merman's tail, only his strange eyes stirring in his time-worn face." Well, I've been scribbling away all this time and haven't given you any news whatever. Helen came back the other day from a visit to Boston where she enjoyed herself greatly. To-night she has gone out to the movies with a young protegee of ours, Miss Titania Chapman, an engaging damsel whom we have taken in as an apprentice bookseller. It's a quaint idea, done at the request of her father, Mr. Chapman, the proprietor of Chapman's Daintybits which you see advertised everywhere. He is a great booklover, and is very eager to have the zeal transmitted to his daughter. So you can imagine my glee to have a neophyte of my own to preach books at! Also it will enable me to get away from the shop a little more. I had a telephone call from Philadelphia this afternoon asking me to go over there on Monday evening to make an estimate of the value of a private collection that is to be sold. I was rather flattered because I can't imagine how they got hold of my name. Forgive this long, incoherent scrawl. How did you like Erewhon? It's pretty near closing time and I must say grace over the day's accounts. Yours ever, ROGER MIFFLIN. Chapter X Roger Raids the Ice-Box Roger had just put Carlyle's Cromwell back in its proper place in the History alcove when Helen and Titania returned from the movies. Bock, who had been dozing under his master's chair, rose politely and wagged a deferential tail. "I do think Bock has the darlingest manners," said Titania. "Yes," said Helen, "it's really a marvel that his wagging muscles aren't all worn out, he has abused them so." "Well," said Roger, "did you have a good time?" "An adorable time!" cried Titania, with a face and voice so sparkling that two musty habitues of the shop popped their heads out of the alcoves marked ESSAYS and THEOLOGY and peered in amazement. One of these even went so far as to purchase the copy of Leigh Hunt's Wishing Cap Papers he had been munching through, in order to have an excuse to approach the group and satisfy his bewildered eyes. When Miss Chapman took the book and wrapped it up for him, his astonishment was made complete. Unconscious that she was actually creating business, Titania resumed. "We met your friend Mr. Gilbert on the street," she said, "and he went to the movies with us. He says he's coming in on Monday to fix the furnace while you're away." "Well," said Roger, "these advertising agencies are certainly enterprising, aren't they? Think of sending a man over to attend to my furnace, just on the slim chance of getting my advertising account." "Did you have a quiet evening?" said Helen. "I spent most of the time writing to Andrew," said Roger. "One amusing thing happened, though. I actually sold that copy of Philip Dru." "No!" cried Helen. "A fact," said Roger. "A man

shook

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

"friend and well-wisher" over the telephone. The other said something in German in a hoarse whisper. Having studied that language in college, Aubrey caught only two words--Thur and Schlussel, which he knew meant door and key. "Very well," said the first voice. "That will be all right, but we must act to-night. The damned thing must be finished to-morrow. Your idiotic stupidity--" Again followed some gargling in German, in a rapid undertone too fluent for Aubrey's grasp. The latch of the alley gate clicked once more, and his hand was on his revolver; but in a moment the two had passed on down the alley. The young advertising agent stood against the fence in silent horror, his heart bumping heavily. His hands were clammy, his feet seemed to have grown larger and taken root. What damnable complot was this? A sultry wave of anger passed over him. This bland, slick, talkative bookseller, was he arranging some blackmailing scheme to kidnap the girl and wring blood-money out of her father? And in league with Germans, too, the scoundrel! What an asinine thing for old Chapman to send an unprotected girl over here into the wilds of Brooklyn . . . and in the meantime, what was he to do? Patrol the back yard all night? No, the friend and well-wisher had said "We must find some other way." Besides, Aubrey remembered something having been said about the old terrier sleeping in the kitchen. He felt sure Bock would not let any German in at night without raising the roof. Probably the best way would be to watch the front of the shop. In miserable perplexity he waited several minutes until the two Germans would be well out of earshot. Then he unbolted the gate and stole up the alley on tiptoe, in the opposite direction. It led into Wordsworth Avenue just behind Weintraub's drug store, over the rear of which hung the great girders and trestles of the "L" station, a kind of Swiss chalet straddling the street on stilts. He thought it prudent to make a detour, so he turned east on Wordsworth Avenue until he reached Whittier Street, then sauntered easily down Whittier for a block, spying sharply for evidences of pursuit. Brooklyn was putting out its lights for the night, and all was quiet. He turned into Hazlitt Street and so back onto Gissing, noticing now that the Haunted Bookshop lights were off. It was nearly eleven o'clock: the last audience was filing out of the movie theatre, where two workmen were already perched on ladders taking down the Tarzan electric light sign, to substitute the illuminated lettering for the next feature. After some debate he decided that the best thing to do was to return to his room at Mrs. Schiller's, from which he could keep a sharp watch on the front door of the bookshop. By good fortune there was a lamp post almost directly in front of Mifflin's house, which cast plenty of light on the little sunken area before the door. With his opera glasses he could see from his bedroom whatever went on. As he crossed the street he cast his eyes upward at the facade of Mrs. Schiller's house. Two windows in the fourth storey were lit, and the gas burned minutely in the downstairs hall, elsewhere all was dark. And then, as he glanced at the window of his own chamber, where the curtain was still tucked back behind the pane, he noticed a curious thing. A small point of rosy light glowed, faded, and glowed again by the window. Someone was smoking a cigar in his room. Aubrey continued walking in even stride, as though he had seen nothing. Returning down the street, on the opposite side, he verified his first glance. The light was still there, and he judged himself not far out in assuming the smoker to be the friend and well-wisher or one of his gang. He had suspected the other man in the alley of being Weintraub, but he could not be sure. A cautious glance through the window of the drug store revealed Weintraub at his prescription counter. Aubrey determined to get even with the guttural gentleman who was waiting for him, certainly with no affectionate intent. He thanked the good fortune that had led him to stick the book cover in his overcoat pocket when leaving Mrs. Schiller's. Evidently, for reasons unknown, someone was very anxious to get hold of it. An idea occurred to him as he passed the little florist's shop, which was just closing. He entered and bought a dozen white carnations, and then, as if by an afterthought, asked "Have you any wire?" The florist produced a spool of the slender, tough wire that is sometimes used to nip the buds of expensive roses, to prevent them from blossoming too quickly. "Let me have about eight feet," said Aubrey. "I need some to-night and I guess the hardware stores are all closed." With this he returned to Mrs. Schiller's, picking his way carefully and close to the houses so as to be out of sight from the upstairs windows. He climbed the steps and unlatched the door with bated breath. It was half-past eleven, and he wondered how long he would have to wait for the well-wisher to descend. He could not help chuckling as he made his preparations, remembering an occasion at college somewhat similar in setting though far less serious in purpose. First he took off his shoes, laying them carefully to one side where he could find them again in a hurry. Then, choosing a banister about six feet from the bottom of the stairs he attached one end of the wire tightly to its base and spread the slack in a large loop over two of the stair treads. The remaining end of the wire he passed out through the banisters, twisting it into a small loop so that he could pull it easily. Then he turned out the hall gas and sat down in the dark to wait events. He sat for a long time, in some nervousness lest the pug dog might come prowling and find him. He was startled by a lady in a dressing gown--perhaps Mrs. J. F. Smith--who emerged from a ground-floor room passed very close to him in the dark, and muttered upstairs. He twitched his noose out of the way just in time. Presently, however, his patience was rewarded. He heard a door squeak above, and then the groaning of the staircase as someone descended slowly. He relaid his trap and waited, smiling to himself. A clock somewhere in the house was chiming twelve as the man came groping down the last flight, feeling his way in the dark. Aubrey heard him swearing under his breath. At the precise moment, when both his victim's feet were within the loop, Aubrey gave the wire a gigantic tug. The man fell like a safe, crashing against the banisters and landing in a sprawl on the floor. It was a terrific fall, and shook the house. He lay there groaning and cursing. Barely retaining his laughter, Aubrey struck a match and held it over the sprawling figure. The man lay with his face twisted against one out-spread arm, but the beard was unmistakable. It was the assistant chef again, and he seemed partly unconscious. "Burnt hair is a grand restorative," said Aubrey to himself, and applied the match to the bush of beard. He singed off a couple of inches of it with intense delight, and laid his carnations on the head of the stricken one. Then, hearing stirrings in the basement, he gathered up his wire and shoes and fled upstairs. He gained his room roaring with inward mirth, but entered cautiously, fearing some trap. Save for a strong tincture of cigar smoke, everything seemed correct. Listening at his door he heard Mrs. Schiller exclaiming shrilly in the hall, assisted by yappings from the pug. Doors upstairs were opened, and questions were called out. He heard guttural groans from the bearded one, mingled with oaths and some angry remark about having fallen downstairs. The pug, frenzied with excitement, yelled insanely. A female voice--possibly Mrs. J. F. Smith--cried out "What's that smell of burning?" Someone else said, "They're burning feathers under his nose to bring him to." "Yes, Hun's feathers," chuckled Aubrey to himself. He locked his door, and sat down by the window with his opera glasses. Chapter IX Again the Narrative is Retarded Roger had spent a quiet evening in the bookshop. Sitting at his desk under a fog of tobacco, he had honestly intended to do some writing on the twelfth chapter of his great work on bookselling. This chapter was to be an (alas, entirely conjectural) "Address Delivered by a Bookseller on Being Conferred the Honorary Degree of Doctor of Letters by a Leading University," and it presented so many alluring possibilities that Roger's mind always wandered from the paper into entranced visions of his imagined scene. He loved to build up in fancy the flattering details of that fine ceremony when bookselling would at last be properly recognized as one of the learned professions. He could see the great auditorium, filled with cultivated people: men with Emersonian profiles, ladies whispering behind their fluttering programmes. He could see the academic beadle, proctor, dean (or whatever he is, Roger was a little doubtful) pronouncing the august words of presentation-- A man who, in season and out of season, forgetting private gain for public weal, has laboured with Promethean and sacrificial ardour to instil the love of reasonable letters into countless thousands; to whom, and to whose colleagues, amid the perishable caducity of human affairs, is largely due the pullulation of literary taste; in honouring whom we seek to honour the noble and self-effacing profession of which he is so representative a member---- Then he could see the modest bookseller, somewhat clammy in his extremities and lost within his academic robe and hood, nervously fidgeting his mortar-board, haled forward by ushers, and tottering rubescent before the chancellor, provost, president (or whoever it might be) who hands out the diploma. Then (in Roger's vision) he could see the garlanded bibliopole turning to the expectant audience, giving his trailing gown a deft rearward kick as the ladies do on the stage, and uttering, without hesitation or embarrassment, with due interpolation of graceful pleasantry, that learned and unlaboured discourse on the delights of bookishness that he had often dreamed of. Then he could see the ensuing reception: the distinguished savants crowding round; the plates of macaroons, the cups of untasted tea; the ladies twittering, "Now there's something I want to ask you--why are there so many statues to generals, admirals, parsons, doctors, statesmen, scientists, artists, and authors, but no statues to booksellers?" Contemplation of this glittering scene always lured Roger into fantastic dreams. Ever since he had travelled country roads, some years before, selling books from a van drawn by a fat white horse, he had nourished a secret hope of some day founding a Parnassus on Wheels Corporation which would own a fleet of these vans and send them out into the rural byways where bookstores are unknown. He loved to imagine a great map of New York State, with the daily location of each travelling Parnassus marked by a coloured pin. He dreamed of himself, sitting in some vast central warehouse of second-hand books, poring over his map like a military chief of staff and forwarding cases of literary ammunition to various bases where his vans would re-stock. His idea was that his travelling salesmen could be recruited largely from college professors, parsons, and newspaper men, who were weary of their thankless tasks, and would welcome an opportunity to get out on the road. One of his hopes was that he might interest Mr. Chapman in this superb scheme, and he had a vision of the day when the shares of the Parnassus on Wheels Corporation would pay a handsome dividend and be much sought after by serious investors. These thoughts turned his mind toward his brother-in-law Andrew McGill, the author of several engaging books on the joys of country living, who dwells at the Sabine Farm in the green elbow of a Connecticut valley. The original Parnassus, a quaint old blue wagon in which Roger had lived and journeyed and sold books over several thousand miles of country roads in the days before his marriage, was now housed in Andrew's barn. Peg, his fat white horse, had lodging there also. It occurred to Roger that he owed Andrew a letter, and putting aside his notes for the bookseller's collegiate oration, he began to write: THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 163 Gissing Street, Brooklyn, November 30, 1918. MY DEAR ANDREW: It is scandalous not to have thanked you sooner for the annual cask of cider, which has given us even more than the customary pleasure. This has been an autumn when I have been hard put to it to keep up with my own thoughts, and I've written no letters at all. Like everyone else I am thinking constantly of this new peace that has marvellously come upon us. I trust we may have statesmen who will be able to turn it to the benefit of humanity. I wish there could be an international peace conference of booksellers, for (you will smile at this) my own conviction is that the future happiness of the world depends in no small measure on them and on the librarians. I wonder what a German bookseller is like? I've been reading The Education of Henry Adams and wish he might have lived long enough to give us his thoughts on the War. I fear it would have bowled him over. He thought that this is not a world "that sensitive and timid natures can regard without a shudder." What would he have said of the four-year shambles we have watched with sickened hearts? You remember my favourite poem--old George Herbert's Church Porch--where he says-- By all means use sometimes to be alone; Salute thyself; see what thy soul doth wear; Dare to look in thy chest, for 'tis thine own, And tumble up and down what thou find'st there-- Well, I've been tumbling my thoughts up and down a good deal. Melancholy, I suppose, is the curse of the thinking classes; but I confess my soul wears a great uneasiness these days! The sudden and amazing turnover in human affairs, dramatic beyond anything in history, already seems to be taken as a matter of course. My great fear is that humanity will forget the atrocious sufferings of the war, which have never been told. I am hoping and praying that men like Philip Gibbs may tell us what they really saw. You will not agree with me on what I am about to say, for I know you as a stubborn Republican; but I thank fortune that Wilson is going to the Peace Conference. I've been mulling over one of my favourite books--it lies beside me as I write--Cromwell's Letters and Speeches, edited by Carlyle, with what Carlyle amusingly calls "Elucidations." (Carlyle is not very good at "elucidating" anything!) I have heard somewhere or other that this is one of Wilson's favourite books, and indeed, there is much of the Cromwell in him. With what a grim, covenanting zeal he took up the sword when at last it was forced into his hand! And I have been thinking that what he will say to the Peace Conference will smack strongly of what old Oliver used to say to Parliament in 1657 and 1658--"If we will have Peace without a worm in it, lay we foundations of Justice and Righteousness." What makes Wilson so irritating to the unthoughtful is that he operates exclusively upon reason, not upon passion. He contradicts Kipling's famous lines, which apply to most men-- Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act. In this instance, I think, Reason is going to win. I feel the whole current of the world setting in that direction. It's quaint to think of old Woodrow, a kind of Cromwell-Wordsworth, going over to do his bit among the diplomatic shell-craters. What I'm waiting for is the day when he'll get back into private life and write a book about it. There's a job, if you like, for a man who might reasonably be supposed to be pretty tired in body and soul! When that book comes out I'll spend the rest of my life in selling it. I ask nothing better! Speaking of Wordsworth, I've often wondered whether Woodrow hasn't got some poems concealed somewhere among his papers! I've always imagined that he may have written poems on the sly. And by the way, you needn't make fun of me for being so devoted to George Herbert. Do you realize that two of the most familiar quotations in our language come from his pen, viz.: Wouldst thou both eat thy cake, and have it? and Dare to be true: nothing can need a ly; A fault, which needs it most, grows two thereby. Forgive this tedious sermon! My mind has been so tumbled up and down this autumn that I am in a queer state of mingled melancholy and exaltation. You know how much I live in and for books. Well, I have a curious feeling, a kind of premonition that there are great books coming out of this welter of human hopes and anguishes, perhaps A book in which the tempest-shaken soul of the race will speak out as it never has before. The Bible, you know, is rather a disappointment: it has never done for humanity what it should have done. I wonder why? Walt Whitman is going to do a great deal, but he is not quite what I mean. There is something coming--I don't know just what! I thank God I am a bookseller, trafficking in the dreams and beauties and curiosities of humanity rather than some mere huckster of merchandise. But how helpless we all are when we try to tell what goes on within us! I found this in one of Lafcadio Hearn's letters the other day--I marked the passage for you Baudelaire has a touching poem about an albatross, which you would like--describing the poet's soul superb in its own free azure--but helpless, insulted, ugly, clumsy when striving to walk on common earth--or rather, on a deck, where sailors torment it with tobacco pipes, etc. You can imagine what evenings I have here among my shelves, now the long dark nights are come! Of course until ten o'clock, when I shut up shop, I am constantly interrupted--as I have been during this letter, once to sell a copy of Helen's Babies and once to sell The Ballad of Reading Gaol, so you can see how varied are my clients' tastes! But later on, after we have had our evening cocoa and Helen has gone to bed, I prowl about the place, dipping into this and that, fuddling myself with speculation. How clear and bright the stream of the mind flows in those late hours, after all the sediment and floating trash of the day has drained off! Sometimes I seem to coast the very shore of Beauty or Truth, and hear the surf breaking on those shining sands. Then some offshore wind of weariness or prejudice bears me away again. Have you ever come across Andreyev's Confessions of a Little Man During Great Days? One of the honest books of the War. The Little Man ends his confession thus-- My anger has left me, my sadness returned, and once more the tears flow. Whom can I curse, whom can I judge, when we are all alike unfortunate? Suffering is universal; hands are outstretched to each other, and when they touch . . . the great solution will come. My heart is aglow, and I stretch out my hand and cry, "Come, let us join hands! I love you, I love you!" And of course, as soon as one puts one's self in that frame of mind someone comes along and picks your pocket. . . . I suppose we must teach ourselves to be too proud to mind having our pockets picked! Did it ever occur to you that the world is really governed by BOOKS? The course of this country in the War, for instance, has been largely determined by the books Wilson has read since he first began to think! If we could have a list of the principal books he has read since the War began, how interesting it would be. Here's something I'm just copying out to put up on my bulletin board for my customers to ponder. It was written by Charles Sorley, a young Englishman who was killed in France in 1915. He was only twenty years old-- TO GERMANY You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed, And no man claimed the conquest of your land. But gropers both through fields of thought confined We stumble and we do not understand. You only saw your future bigly planned, And we, the tapering paths of our own mind, And in each other's dearest ways we stand, And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind. When it is peace, then we may view again With new-won eyes each other's truer form And wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warm We'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain, When it is peace. But until peace, the storm The darkness and the thunder and the rain. Isn't that noble? You see what I am dumbly groping for--some way of thinking about the War that will make it seem (to future ages) a purification for humanity rather than a mere blackness of stinking cinders and tortured flesh and men shot to ribbons in marshes of blood and sewage. Out of such unspeakable desolation men MUST rise to some new conception of national neighbourhood. I hear so much apprehension that Germany won't be punished sufficiently for her crime. But how can any punishment be devised or imposed for such a huge panorama of sorrow? I think she has already punished herself horribly, and will continue to do so. My prayer is that what we have gone through will startle the world into some new realization of the sanctity of life--all life, animal as well as human. Don't you find that a visit to a zoo can humble and astound you with all that amazing and grotesque variety of living energy? What is it that we find in every form of life? Desire of some sort--some unexplained motive power that impels even the smallest insect on its queer travels. You must have watched some infinitesimal red spider on a fence rail, bustling along--why and whither? Who knows? And when you come to man, what a chaos of hungers and impulses keep thrusting him through his cycle of quaint tasks! And in every human heart you find some sorrow, some frustration, some lurking pang. I often think of Lafcadio Hearn's story of his Japanese cook. Hearn was talking of the Japanese habit of not showing their emotions on their faces. His cook was a smiling, healthy, agreeable-looking young fellow whose face was always cheerful. Then one day, by chance, Hearn happened to look through a hole in the wall and saw his cook alone. His face was not the same face. It was thin and drawn and showed strange lines worn by old hardships or sufferings. Hearn thought to himself, "He will look just like that when he is dead." He went into the kitchen to see him, and instantly the cook was all changed, young and happy again. Never again did Hearn see that face of trouble; but he knew the man wore it when he was alone. Don't you think there is a kind of parable there for the race as a whole? Have you ever met a man without wondering what shining sorrows he hides from the world, what contrast between vision and accomplishment torments him? Behind every smiling mask is there not some cryptic grimace of pain? Henry Adams puts it tersely. He says the human mind appears suddenly and inexplicably out of some unknown and unimaginable void. It passes half its known life in the mental chaos of sleep. Even when awake it is a victim of its own ill-adjustment, of disease, of age, of external suggestion, of nature's compulsions; it doubts its own sensations and trusts only in instruments and averages. After sixty years or so of growing astonishment the mind wakes to find itself looking blankly into the void of death. And, as Adams says, that it should profess itself pleased by this performance is all that the highest rules of good breeding can ask. That the mind should actually be satisfied would prove that it exists only as idiocy! I hope that you will write to tell me along what curves your mind is moving. For my own part I feel that we are on the verge of amazing things. Long ago I fell back on books as the only permanent consolers. They are the one stainless and unimpeachable achievement of the human race. It saddens me to think that I shall have to die with thousands of books unread that would have given me noble and unblemished happiness. I will tell you a secret. I have never read King Lear, and have purposely refrained from doing so. If I were ever very ill I would only need to say to myself "You can't die yet, you haven't read Lear." That would bring me round, I know it would. You see, books are the answer to all our perplexities! Henry Adams grinds his teeth at his inability to understand the universe. The best he can do is to suggest a "law of acceleration," which seems to mean that Nature is hustling man along at an ever-increasing rate so that he will either solve all her problems or else die of fever in the effort. But Adams' candid portrait of a mind grappling helplessly with its riddles is so triumphantly delightful that one forgets the futility of the struggle in the accuracy of the picture. Man is unconquerable because he can make even his helplessness so entertaining. His motto seems to be "Even though He slay me, yet will I make fun of Him!" Yes, books are man's supreme triumph, for they gather up and transmit all other triumphs. As Walter de la Mare writes, "How uncomprehendingly must an angel from heaven smile on a poor human sitting engrossed in a romance: angled upon his hams, motionless in his chair, spectacles on nose, his two feet as close together as the flukes of a merman's tail, only his strange eyes stirring in his time-worn face." Well, I've been scribbling away all this time and haven't given you any news whatever. Helen came back the other day from a visit to Boston where she enjoyed herself greatly. To-night she has gone out to the movies with a young protegee of ours, Miss Titania Chapman, an engaging damsel whom we have taken in as an apprentice bookseller. It's a quaint idea, done at the request of her father, Mr. Chapman, the proprietor of Chapman's Daintybits which you see advertised everywhere. He is a great booklover, and is very eager to have the zeal transmitted to his daughter. So you can imagine my glee to have a neophyte of my own to preach books at! Also it will enable me to get away from the shop a little more. I had a telephone call from Philadelphia this afternoon asking me to go over there on Monday evening to make an estimate of the value of a private collection that is to be sold. I was rather flattered because I can't imagine how they got hold of my name. Forgive this long, incoherent scrawl. How did you like Erewhon? It's pretty near closing time and I must say grace over the day's accounts. Yours ever, ROGER MIFFLIN. Chapter X Roger Raids the Ice-Box Roger had just put Carlyle's Cromwell back in its proper place in the History alcove when Helen and Titania returned from the movies. Bock, who had been dozing under his master's chair, rose politely and wagged a deferential tail. "I do think Bock has the darlingest manners," said Titania. "Yes," said Helen, "it's really a marvel that his wagging muscles aren't all worn out, he has abused them so." "Well," said Roger, "did you have a good time?" "An adorable time!" cried Titania, with a face and voice so sparkling that two musty habitues of the shop popped their heads out of the alcoves marked ESSAYS and THEOLOGY and peered in amazement. One of these even went so far as to purchase the copy of Leigh Hunt's Wishing Cap Papers he had been munching through, in order to have an excuse to approach the group and satisfy his bewildered eyes. When Miss Chapman took the book and wrapped it up for him, his astonishment was made complete. Unconscious that she was actually creating business, Titania resumed. "We met your friend Mr. Gilbert on the street," she said, "and he went to the movies with us. He says he's coming in on Monday to fix the furnace while you're away." "Well," said Roger, "these advertising agencies are certainly enterprising, aren't they? Think of sending a man over to attend to my furnace, just on the slim chance of getting my advertising account." "Did you have a quiet evening?" said Helen. "I spent most of the time writing to Andrew," said Roger. "One amusing thing happened, though. I actually sold that copy of Philip Dru." "No!" cried Helen. "A fact," said Roger. "A man

mrs.

How many times the word 'mrs.' appears in the text?

"friend and well-wisher" over the telephone. The other said something in German in a hoarse whisper. Having studied that language in college, Aubrey caught only two words--Thur and Schlussel, which he knew meant door and key. "Very well," said the first voice. "That will be all right, but we must act to-night. The damned thing must be finished to-morrow. Your idiotic stupidity--" Again followed some gargling in German, in a rapid undertone too fluent for Aubrey's grasp. The latch of the alley gate clicked once more, and his hand was on his revolver; but in a moment the two had passed on down the alley. The young advertising agent stood against the fence in silent horror, his heart bumping heavily. His hands were clammy, his feet seemed to have grown larger and taken root. What damnable complot was this? A sultry wave of anger passed over him. This bland, slick, talkative bookseller, was he arranging some blackmailing scheme to kidnap the girl and wring blood-money out of her father? And in league with Germans, too, the scoundrel! What an asinine thing for old Chapman to send an unprotected girl over here into the wilds of Brooklyn . . . and in the meantime, what was he to do? Patrol the back yard all night? No, the friend and well-wisher had said "We must find some other way." Besides, Aubrey remembered something having been said about the old terrier sleeping in the kitchen. He felt sure Bock would not let any German in at night without raising the roof. Probably the best way would be to watch the front of the shop. In miserable perplexity he waited several minutes until the two Germans would be well out of earshot. Then he unbolted the gate and stole up the alley on tiptoe, in the opposite direction. It led into Wordsworth Avenue just behind Weintraub's drug store, over the rear of which hung the great girders and trestles of the "L" station, a kind of Swiss chalet straddling the street on stilts. He thought it prudent to make a detour, so he turned east on Wordsworth Avenue until he reached Whittier Street, then sauntered easily down Whittier for a block, spying sharply for evidences of pursuit. Brooklyn was putting out its lights for the night, and all was quiet. He turned into Hazlitt Street and so back onto Gissing, noticing now that the Haunted Bookshop lights were off. It was nearly eleven o'clock: the last audience was filing out of the movie theatre, where two workmen were already perched on ladders taking down the Tarzan electric light sign, to substitute the illuminated lettering for the next feature. After some debate he decided that the best thing to do was to return to his room at Mrs. Schiller's, from which he could keep a sharp watch on the front door of the bookshop. By good fortune there was a lamp post almost directly in front of Mifflin's house, which cast plenty of light on the little sunken area before the door. With his opera glasses he could see from his bedroom whatever went on. As he crossed the street he cast his eyes upward at the facade of Mrs. Schiller's house. Two windows in the fourth storey were lit, and the gas burned minutely in the downstairs hall, elsewhere all was dark. And then, as he glanced at the window of his own chamber, where the curtain was still tucked back behind the pane, he noticed a curious thing. A small point of rosy light glowed, faded, and glowed again by the window. Someone was smoking a cigar in his room. Aubrey continued walking in even stride, as though he had seen nothing. Returning down the street, on the opposite side, he verified his first glance. The light was still there, and he judged himself not far out in assuming the smoker to be the friend and well-wisher or one of his gang. He had suspected the other man in the alley of being Weintraub, but he could not be sure. A cautious glance through the window of the drug store revealed Weintraub at his prescription counter. Aubrey determined to get even with the guttural gentleman who was waiting for him, certainly with no affectionate intent. He thanked the good fortune that had led him to stick the book cover in his overcoat pocket when leaving Mrs. Schiller's. Evidently, for reasons unknown, someone was very anxious to get hold of it. An idea occurred to him as he passed the little florist's shop, which was just closing. He entered and bought a dozen white carnations, and then, as if by an afterthought, asked "Have you any wire?" The florist produced a spool of the slender, tough wire that is sometimes used to nip the buds of expensive roses, to prevent them from blossoming too quickly. "Let me have about eight feet," said Aubrey. "I need some to-night and I guess the hardware stores are all closed." With this he returned to Mrs. Schiller's, picking his way carefully and close to the houses so as to be out of sight from the upstairs windows. He climbed the steps and unlatched the door with bated breath. It was half-past eleven, and he wondered how long he would have to wait for the well-wisher to descend. He could not help chuckling as he made his preparations, remembering an occasion at college somewhat similar in setting though far less serious in purpose. First he took off his shoes, laying them carefully to one side where he could find them again in a hurry. Then, choosing a banister about six feet from the bottom of the stairs he attached one end of the wire tightly to its base and spread the slack in a large loop over two of the stair treads. The remaining end of the wire he passed out through the banisters, twisting it into a small loop so that he could pull it easily. Then he turned out the hall gas and sat down in the dark to wait events. He sat for a long time, in some nervousness lest the pug dog might come prowling and find him. He was startled by a lady in a dressing gown--perhaps Mrs. J. F. Smith--who emerged from a ground-floor room passed very close to him in the dark, and muttered upstairs. He twitched his noose out of the way just in time. Presently, however, his patience was rewarded. He heard a door squeak above, and then the groaning of the staircase as someone descended slowly. He relaid his trap and waited, smiling to himself. A clock somewhere in the house was chiming twelve as the man came groping down the last flight, feeling his way in the dark. Aubrey heard him swearing under his breath. At the precise moment, when both his victim's feet were within the loop, Aubrey gave the wire a gigantic tug. The man fell like a safe, crashing against the banisters and landing in a sprawl on the floor. It was a terrific fall, and shook the house. He lay there groaning and cursing. Barely retaining his laughter, Aubrey struck a match and held it over the sprawling figure. The man lay with his face twisted against one out-spread arm, but the beard was unmistakable. It was the assistant chef again, and he seemed partly unconscious. "Burnt hair is a grand restorative," said Aubrey to himself, and applied the match to the bush of beard. He singed off a couple of inches of it with intense delight, and laid his carnations on the head of the stricken one. Then, hearing stirrings in the basement, he gathered up his wire and shoes and fled upstairs. He gained his room roaring with inward mirth, but entered cautiously, fearing some trap. Save for a strong tincture of cigar smoke, everything seemed correct. Listening at his door he heard Mrs. Schiller exclaiming shrilly in the hall, assisted by yappings from the pug. Doors upstairs were opened, and questions were called out. He heard guttural groans from the bearded one, mingled with oaths and some angry remark about having fallen downstairs. The pug, frenzied with excitement, yelled insanely. A female voice--possibly Mrs. J. F. Smith--cried out "What's that smell of burning?" Someone else said, "They're burning feathers under his nose to bring him to." "Yes, Hun's feathers," chuckled Aubrey to himself. He locked his door, and sat down by the window with his opera glasses. Chapter IX Again the Narrative is Retarded Roger had spent a quiet evening in the bookshop. Sitting at his desk under a fog of tobacco, he had honestly intended to do some writing on the twelfth chapter of his great work on bookselling. This chapter was to be an (alas, entirely conjectural) "Address Delivered by a Bookseller on Being Conferred the Honorary Degree of Doctor of Letters by a Leading University," and it presented so many alluring possibilities that Roger's mind always wandered from the paper into entranced visions of his imagined scene. He loved to build up in fancy the flattering details of that fine ceremony when bookselling would at last be properly recognized as one of the learned professions. He could see the great auditorium, filled with cultivated people: men with Emersonian profiles, ladies whispering behind their fluttering programmes. He could see the academic beadle, proctor, dean (or whatever he is, Roger was a little doubtful) pronouncing the august words of presentation-- A man who, in season and out of season, forgetting private gain for public weal, has laboured with Promethean and sacrificial ardour to instil the love of reasonable letters into countless thousands; to whom, and to whose colleagues, amid the perishable caducity of human affairs, is largely due the pullulation of literary taste; in honouring whom we seek to honour the noble and self-effacing profession of which he is so representative a member---- Then he could see the modest bookseller, somewhat clammy in his extremities and lost within his academic robe and hood, nervously fidgeting his mortar-board, haled forward by ushers, and tottering rubescent before the chancellor, provost, president (or whoever it might be) who hands out the diploma. Then (in Roger's vision) he could see the garlanded bibliopole turning to the expectant audience, giving his trailing gown a deft rearward kick as the ladies do on the stage, and uttering, without hesitation or embarrassment, with due interpolation of graceful pleasantry, that learned and unlaboured discourse on the delights of bookishness that he had often dreamed of. Then he could see the ensuing reception: the distinguished savants crowding round; the plates of macaroons, the cups of untasted tea; the ladies twittering, "Now there's something I want to ask you--why are there so many statues to generals, admirals, parsons, doctors, statesmen, scientists, artists, and authors, but no statues to booksellers?" Contemplation of this glittering scene always lured Roger into fantastic dreams. Ever since he had travelled country roads, some years before, selling books from a van drawn by a fat white horse, he had nourished a secret hope of some day founding a Parnassus on Wheels Corporation which would own a fleet of these vans and send them out into the rural byways where bookstores are unknown. He loved to imagine a great map of New York State, with the daily location of each travelling Parnassus marked by a coloured pin. He dreamed of himself, sitting in some vast central warehouse of second-hand books, poring over his map like a military chief of staff and forwarding cases of literary ammunition to various bases where his vans would re-stock. His idea was that his travelling salesmen could be recruited largely from college professors, parsons, and newspaper men, who were weary of their thankless tasks, and would welcome an opportunity to get out on the road. One of his hopes was that he might interest Mr. Chapman in this superb scheme, and he had a vision of the day when the shares of the Parnassus on Wheels Corporation would pay a handsome dividend and be much sought after by serious investors. These thoughts turned his mind toward his brother-in-law Andrew McGill, the author of several engaging books on the joys of country living, who dwells at the Sabine Farm in the green elbow of a Connecticut valley. The original Parnassus, a quaint old blue wagon in which Roger had lived and journeyed and sold books over several thousand miles of country roads in the days before his marriage, was now housed in Andrew's barn. Peg, his fat white horse, had lodging there also. It occurred to Roger that he owed Andrew a letter, and putting aside his notes for the bookseller's collegiate oration, he began to write: THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 163 Gissing Street, Brooklyn, November 30, 1918. MY DEAR ANDREW: It is scandalous not to have thanked you sooner for the annual cask of cider, which has given us even more than the customary pleasure. This has been an autumn when I have been hard put to it to keep up with my own thoughts, and I've written no letters at all. Like everyone else I am thinking constantly of this new peace that has marvellously come upon us. I trust we may have statesmen who will be able to turn it to the benefit of humanity. I wish there could be an international peace conference of booksellers, for (you will smile at this) my own conviction is that the future happiness of the world depends in no small measure on them and on the librarians. I wonder what a German bookseller is like? I've been reading The Education of Henry Adams and wish he might have lived long enough to give us his thoughts on the War. I fear it would have bowled him over. He thought that this is not a world "that sensitive and timid natures can regard without a shudder." What would he have said of the four-year shambles we have watched with sickened hearts? You remember my favourite poem--old George Herbert's Church Porch--where he says-- By all means use sometimes to be alone; Salute thyself; see what thy soul doth wear; Dare to look in thy chest, for 'tis thine own, And tumble up and down what thou find'st there-- Well, I've been tumbling my thoughts up and down a good deal. Melancholy, I suppose, is the curse of the thinking classes; but I confess my soul wears a great uneasiness these days! The sudden and amazing turnover in human affairs, dramatic beyond anything in history, already seems to be taken as a matter of course. My great fear is that humanity will forget the atrocious sufferings of the war, which have never been told. I am hoping and praying that men like Philip Gibbs may tell us what they really saw. You will not agree with me on what I am about to say, for I know you as a stubborn Republican; but I thank fortune that Wilson is going to the Peace Conference. I've been mulling over one of my favourite books--it lies beside me as I write--Cromwell's Letters and Speeches, edited by Carlyle, with what Carlyle amusingly calls "Elucidations." (Carlyle is not very good at "elucidating" anything!) I have heard somewhere or other that this is one of Wilson's favourite books, and indeed, there is much of the Cromwell in him. With what a grim, covenanting zeal he took up the sword when at last it was forced into his hand! And I have been thinking that what he will say to the Peace Conference will smack strongly of what old Oliver used to say to Parliament in 1657 and 1658--"If we will have Peace without a worm in it, lay we foundations of Justice and Righteousness." What makes Wilson so irritating to the unthoughtful is that he operates exclusively upon reason, not upon passion. He contradicts Kipling's famous lines, which apply to most men-- Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act. In this instance, I think, Reason is going to win. I feel the whole current of the world setting in that direction. It's quaint to think of old Woodrow, a kind of Cromwell-Wordsworth, going over to do his bit among the diplomatic shell-craters. What I'm waiting for is the day when he'll get back into private life and write a book about it. There's a job, if you like, for a man who might reasonably be supposed to be pretty tired in body and soul! When that book comes out I'll spend the rest of my life in selling it. I ask nothing better! Speaking of Wordsworth, I've often wondered whether Woodrow hasn't got some poems concealed somewhere among his papers! I've always imagined that he may have written poems on the sly. And by the way, you needn't make fun of me for being so devoted to George Herbert. Do you realize that two of the most familiar quotations in our language come from his pen, viz.: Wouldst thou both eat thy cake, and have it? and Dare to be true: nothing can need a ly; A fault, which needs it most, grows two thereby. Forgive this tedious sermon! My mind has been so tumbled up and down this autumn that I am in a queer state of mingled melancholy and exaltation. You know how much I live in and for books. Well, I have a curious feeling, a kind of premonition that there are great books coming out of this welter of human hopes and anguishes, perhaps A book in which the tempest-shaken soul of the race will speak out as it never has before. The Bible, you know, is rather a disappointment: it has never done for humanity what it should have done. I wonder why? Walt Whitman is going to do a great deal, but he is not quite what I mean. There is something coming--I don't know just what! I thank God I am a bookseller, trafficking in the dreams and beauties and curiosities of humanity rather than some mere huckster of merchandise. But how helpless we all are when we try to tell what goes on within us! I found this in one of Lafcadio Hearn's letters the other day--I marked the passage for you Baudelaire has a touching poem about an albatross, which you would like--describing the poet's soul superb in its own free azure--but helpless, insulted, ugly, clumsy when striving to walk on common earth--or rather, on a deck, where sailors torment it with tobacco pipes, etc. You can imagine what evenings I have here among my shelves, now the long dark nights are come! Of course until ten o'clock, when I shut up shop, I am constantly interrupted--as I have been during this letter, once to sell a copy of Helen's Babies and once to sell The Ballad of Reading Gaol, so you can see how varied are my clients' tastes! But later on, after we have had our evening cocoa and Helen has gone to bed, I prowl about the place, dipping into this and that, fuddling myself with speculation. How clear and bright the stream of the mind flows in those late hours, after all the sediment and floating trash of the day has drained off! Sometimes I seem to coast the very shore of Beauty or Truth, and hear the surf breaking on those shining sands. Then some offshore wind of weariness or prejudice bears me away again. Have you ever come across Andreyev's Confessions of a Little Man During Great Days? One of the honest books of the War. The Little Man ends his confession thus-- My anger has left me, my sadness returned, and once more the tears flow. Whom can I curse, whom can I judge, when we are all alike unfortunate? Suffering is universal; hands are outstretched to each other, and when they touch . . . the great solution will come. My heart is aglow, and I stretch out my hand and cry, "Come, let us join hands! I love you, I love you!" And of course, as soon as one puts one's self in that frame of mind someone comes along and picks your pocket. . . . I suppose we must teach ourselves to be too proud to mind having our pockets picked! Did it ever occur to you that the world is really governed by BOOKS? The course of this country in the War, for instance, has been largely determined by the books Wilson has read since he first began to think! If we could have a list of the principal books he has read since the War began, how interesting it would be. Here's something I'm just copying out to put up on my bulletin board for my customers to ponder. It was written by Charles Sorley, a young Englishman who was killed in France in 1915. He was only twenty years old-- TO GERMANY You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed, And no man claimed the conquest of your land. But gropers both through fields of thought confined We stumble and we do not understand. You only saw your future bigly planned, And we, the tapering paths of our own mind, And in each other's dearest ways we stand, And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind. When it is peace, then we may view again With new-won eyes each other's truer form And wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warm We'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain, When it is peace. But until peace, the storm The darkness and the thunder and the rain. Isn't that noble? You see what I am dumbly groping for--some way of thinking about the War that will make it seem (to future ages) a purification for humanity rather than a mere blackness of stinking cinders and tortured flesh and men shot to ribbons in marshes of blood and sewage. Out of such unspeakable desolation men MUST rise to some new conception of national neighbourhood. I hear so much apprehension that Germany won't be punished sufficiently for her crime. But how can any punishment be devised or imposed for such a huge panorama of sorrow? I think she has already punished herself horribly, and will continue to do so. My prayer is that what we have gone through will startle the world into some new realization of the sanctity of life--all life, animal as well as human. Don't you find that a visit to a zoo can humble and astound you with all that amazing and grotesque variety of living energy? What is it that we find in every form of life? Desire of some sort--some unexplained motive power that impels even the smallest insect on its queer travels. You must have watched some infinitesimal red spider on a fence rail, bustling along--why and whither? Who knows? And when you come to man, what a chaos of hungers and impulses keep thrusting him through his cycle of quaint tasks! And in every human heart you find some sorrow, some frustration, some lurking pang. I often think of Lafcadio Hearn's story of his Japanese cook. Hearn was talking of the Japanese habit of not showing their emotions on their faces. His cook was a smiling, healthy, agreeable-looking young fellow whose face was always cheerful. Then one day, by chance, Hearn happened to look through a hole in the wall and saw his cook alone. His face was not the same face. It was thin and drawn and showed strange lines worn by old hardships or sufferings. Hearn thought to himself, "He will look just like that when he is dead." He went into the kitchen to see him, and instantly the cook was all changed, young and happy again. Never again did Hearn see that face of trouble; but he knew the man wore it when he was alone. Don't you think there is a kind of parable there for the race as a whole? Have you ever met a man without wondering what shining sorrows he hides from the world, what contrast between vision and accomplishment torments him? Behind every smiling mask is there not some cryptic grimace of pain? Henry Adams puts it tersely. He says the human mind appears suddenly and inexplicably out of some unknown and unimaginable void. It passes half its known life in the mental chaos of sleep. Even when awake it is a victim of its own ill-adjustment, of disease, of age, of external suggestion, of nature's compulsions; it doubts its own sensations and trusts only in instruments and averages. After sixty years or so of growing astonishment the mind wakes to find itself looking blankly into the void of death. And, as Adams says, that it should profess itself pleased by this performance is all that the highest rules of good breeding can ask. That the mind should actually be satisfied would prove that it exists only as idiocy! I hope that you will write to tell me along what curves your mind is moving. For my own part I feel that we are on the verge of amazing things. Long ago I fell back on books as the only permanent consolers. They are the one stainless and unimpeachable achievement of the human race. It saddens me to think that I shall have to die with thousands of books unread that would have given me noble and unblemished happiness. I will tell you a secret. I have never read King Lear, and have purposely refrained from doing so. If I were ever very ill I would only need to say to myself "You can't die yet, you haven't read Lear." That would bring me round, I know it would. You see, books are the answer to all our perplexities! Henry Adams grinds his teeth at his inability to understand the universe. The best he can do is to suggest a "law of acceleration," which seems to mean that Nature is hustling man along at an ever-increasing rate so that he will either solve all her problems or else die of fever in the effort. But Adams' candid portrait of a mind grappling helplessly with its riddles is so triumphantly delightful that one forgets the futility of the struggle in the accuracy of the picture. Man is unconquerable because he can make even his helplessness so entertaining. His motto seems to be "Even though He slay me, yet will I make fun of Him!" Yes, books are man's supreme triumph, for they gather up and transmit all other triumphs. As Walter de la Mare writes, "How uncomprehendingly must an angel from heaven smile on a poor human sitting engrossed in a romance: angled upon his hams, motionless in his chair, spectacles on nose, his two feet as close together as the flukes of a merman's tail, only his strange eyes stirring in his time-worn face." Well, I've been scribbling away all this time and haven't given you any news whatever. Helen came back the other day from a visit to Boston where she enjoyed herself greatly. To-night she has gone out to the movies with a young protegee of ours, Miss Titania Chapman, an engaging damsel whom we have taken in as an apprentice bookseller. It's a quaint idea, done at the request of her father, Mr. Chapman, the proprietor of Chapman's Daintybits which you see advertised everywhere. He is a great booklover, and is very eager to have the zeal transmitted to his daughter. So you can imagine my glee to have a neophyte of my own to preach books at! Also it will enable me to get away from the shop a little more. I had a telephone call from Philadelphia this afternoon asking me to go over there on Monday evening to make an estimate of the value of a private collection that is to be sold. I was rather flattered because I can't imagine how they got hold of my name. Forgive this long, incoherent scrawl. How did you like Erewhon? It's pretty near closing time and I must say grace over the day's accounts. Yours ever, ROGER MIFFLIN. Chapter X Roger Raids the Ice-Box Roger had just put Carlyle's Cromwell back in its proper place in the History alcove when Helen and Titania returned from the movies. Bock, who had been dozing under his master's chair, rose politely and wagged a deferential tail. "I do think Bock has the darlingest manners," said Titania. "Yes," said Helen, "it's really a marvel that his wagging muscles aren't all worn out, he has abused them so." "Well," said Roger, "did you have a good time?" "An adorable time!" cried Titania, with a face and voice so sparkling that two musty habitues of the shop popped their heads out of the alcoves marked ESSAYS and THEOLOGY and peered in amazement. One of these even went so far as to purchase the copy of Leigh Hunt's Wishing Cap Papers he had been munching through, in order to have an excuse to approach the group and satisfy his bewildered eyes. When Miss Chapman took the book and wrapped it up for him, his astonishment was made complete. Unconscious that she was actually creating business, Titania resumed. "We met your friend Mr. Gilbert on the street," she said, "and he went to the movies with us. He says he's coming in on Monday to fix the furnace while you're away." "Well," said Roger, "these advertising agencies are certainly enterprising, aren't they? Think of sending a man over to attend to my furnace, just on the slim chance of getting my advertising account." "Did you have a quiet evening?" said Helen. "I spent most of the time writing to Andrew," said Roger. "One amusing thing happened, though. I actually sold that copy of Philip Dru." "No!" cried Helen. "A fact," said Roger. "A man

recule

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

"friend and well-wisher" over the telephone. The other said something in German in a hoarse whisper. Having studied that language in college, Aubrey caught only two words--Thur and Schlussel, which he knew meant door and key. "Very well," said the first voice. "That will be all right, but we must act to-night. The damned thing must be finished to-morrow. Your idiotic stupidity--" Again followed some gargling in German, in a rapid undertone too fluent for Aubrey's grasp. The latch of the alley gate clicked once more, and his hand was on his revolver; but in a moment the two had passed on down the alley. The young advertising agent stood against the fence in silent horror, his heart bumping heavily. His hands were clammy, his feet seemed to have grown larger and taken root. What damnable complot was this? A sultry wave of anger passed over him. This bland, slick, talkative bookseller, was he arranging some blackmailing scheme to kidnap the girl and wring blood-money out of her father? And in league with Germans, too, the scoundrel! What an asinine thing for old Chapman to send an unprotected girl over here into the wilds of Brooklyn . . . and in the meantime, what was he to do? Patrol the back yard all night? No, the friend and well-wisher had said "We must find some other way." Besides, Aubrey remembered something having been said about the old terrier sleeping in the kitchen. He felt sure Bock would not let any German in at night without raising the roof. Probably the best way would be to watch the front of the shop. In miserable perplexity he waited several minutes until the two Germans would be well out of earshot. Then he unbolted the gate and stole up the alley on tiptoe, in the opposite direction. It led into Wordsworth Avenue just behind Weintraub's drug store, over the rear of which hung the great girders and trestles of the "L" station, a kind of Swiss chalet straddling the street on stilts. He thought it prudent to make a detour, so he turned east on Wordsworth Avenue until he reached Whittier Street, then sauntered easily down Whittier for a block, spying sharply for evidences of pursuit. Brooklyn was putting out its lights for the night, and all was quiet. He turned into Hazlitt Street and so back onto Gissing, noticing now that the Haunted Bookshop lights were off. It was nearly eleven o'clock: the last audience was filing out of the movie theatre, where two workmen were already perched on ladders taking down the Tarzan electric light sign, to substitute the illuminated lettering for the next feature. After some debate he decided that the best thing to do was to return to his room at Mrs. Schiller's, from which he could keep a sharp watch on the front door of the bookshop. By good fortune there was a lamp post almost directly in front of Mifflin's house, which cast plenty of light on the little sunken area before the door. With his opera glasses he could see from his bedroom whatever went on. As he crossed the street he cast his eyes upward at the facade of Mrs. Schiller's house. Two windows in the fourth storey were lit, and the gas burned minutely in the downstairs hall, elsewhere all was dark. And then, as he glanced at the window of his own chamber, where the curtain was still tucked back behind the pane, he noticed a curious thing. A small point of rosy light glowed, faded, and glowed again by the window. Someone was smoking a cigar in his room. Aubrey continued walking in even stride, as though he had seen nothing. Returning down the street, on the opposite side, he verified his first glance. The light was still there, and he judged himself not far out in assuming the smoker to be the friend and well-wisher or one of his gang. He had suspected the other man in the alley of being Weintraub, but he could not be sure. A cautious glance through the window of the drug store revealed Weintraub at his prescription counter. Aubrey determined to get even with the guttural gentleman who was waiting for him, certainly with no affectionate intent. He thanked the good fortune that had led him to stick the book cover in his overcoat pocket when leaving Mrs. Schiller's. Evidently, for reasons unknown, someone was very anxious to get hold of it. An idea occurred to him as he passed the little florist's shop, which was just closing. He entered and bought a dozen white carnations, and then, as if by an afterthought, asked "Have you any wire?" The florist produced a spool of the slender, tough wire that is sometimes used to nip the buds of expensive roses, to prevent them from blossoming too quickly. "Let me have about eight feet," said Aubrey. "I need some to-night and I guess the hardware stores are all closed." With this he returned to Mrs. Schiller's, picking his way carefully and close to the houses so as to be out of sight from the upstairs windows. He climbed the steps and unlatched the door with bated breath. It was half-past eleven, and he wondered how long he would have to wait for the well-wisher to descend. He could not help chuckling as he made his preparations, remembering an occasion at college somewhat similar in setting though far less serious in purpose. First he took off his shoes, laying them carefully to one side where he could find them again in a hurry. Then, choosing a banister about six feet from the bottom of the stairs he attached one end of the wire tightly to its base and spread the slack in a large loop over two of the stair treads. The remaining end of the wire he passed out through the banisters, twisting it into a small loop so that he could pull it easily. Then he turned out the hall gas and sat down in the dark to wait events. He sat for a long time, in some nervousness lest the pug dog might come prowling and find him. He was startled by a lady in a dressing gown--perhaps Mrs. J. F. Smith--who emerged from a ground-floor room passed very close to him in the dark, and muttered upstairs. He twitched his noose out of the way just in time. Presently, however, his patience was rewarded. He heard a door squeak above, and then the groaning of the staircase as someone descended slowly. He relaid his trap and waited, smiling to himself. A clock somewhere in the house was chiming twelve as the man came groping down the last flight, feeling his way in the dark. Aubrey heard him swearing under his breath. At the precise moment, when both his victim's feet were within the loop, Aubrey gave the wire a gigantic tug. The man fell like a safe, crashing against the banisters and landing in a sprawl on the floor. It was a terrific fall, and shook the house. He lay there groaning and cursing. Barely retaining his laughter, Aubrey struck a match and held it over the sprawling figure. The man lay with his face twisted against one out-spread arm, but the beard was unmistakable. It was the assistant chef again, and he seemed partly unconscious. "Burnt hair is a grand restorative," said Aubrey to himself, and applied the match to the bush of beard. He singed off a couple of inches of it with intense delight, and laid his carnations on the head of the stricken one. Then, hearing stirrings in the basement, he gathered up his wire and shoes and fled upstairs. He gained his room roaring with inward mirth, but entered cautiously, fearing some trap. Save for a strong tincture of cigar smoke, everything seemed correct. Listening at his door he heard Mrs. Schiller exclaiming shrilly in the hall, assisted by yappings from the pug. Doors upstairs were opened, and questions were called out. He heard guttural groans from the bearded one, mingled with oaths and some angry remark about having fallen downstairs. The pug, frenzied with excitement, yelled insanely. A female voice--possibly Mrs. J. F. Smith--cried out "What's that smell of burning?" Someone else said, "They're burning feathers under his nose to bring him to." "Yes, Hun's feathers," chuckled Aubrey to himself. He locked his door, and sat down by the window with his opera glasses. Chapter IX Again the Narrative is Retarded Roger had spent a quiet evening in the bookshop. Sitting at his desk under a fog of tobacco, he had honestly intended to do some writing on the twelfth chapter of his great work on bookselling. This chapter was to be an (alas, entirely conjectural) "Address Delivered by a Bookseller on Being Conferred the Honorary Degree of Doctor of Letters by a Leading University," and it presented so many alluring possibilities that Roger's mind always wandered from the paper into entranced visions of his imagined scene. He loved to build up in fancy the flattering details of that fine ceremony when bookselling would at last be properly recognized as one of the learned professions. He could see the great auditorium, filled with cultivated people: men with Emersonian profiles, ladies whispering behind their fluttering programmes. He could see the academic beadle, proctor, dean (or whatever he is, Roger was a little doubtful) pronouncing the august words of presentation-- A man who, in season and out of season, forgetting private gain for public weal, has laboured with Promethean and sacrificial ardour to instil the love of reasonable letters into countless thousands; to whom, and to whose colleagues, amid the perishable caducity of human affairs, is largely due the pullulation of literary taste; in honouring whom we seek to honour the noble and self-effacing profession of which he is so representative a member---- Then he could see the modest bookseller, somewhat clammy in his extremities and lost within his academic robe and hood, nervously fidgeting his mortar-board, haled forward by ushers, and tottering rubescent before the chancellor, provost, president (or whoever it might be) who hands out the diploma. Then (in Roger's vision) he could see the garlanded bibliopole turning to the expectant audience, giving his trailing gown a deft rearward kick as the ladies do on the stage, and uttering, without hesitation or embarrassment, with due interpolation of graceful pleasantry, that learned and unlaboured discourse on the delights of bookishness that he had often dreamed of. Then he could see the ensuing reception: the distinguished savants crowding round; the plates of macaroons, the cups of untasted tea; the ladies twittering, "Now there's something I want to ask you--why are there so many statues to generals, admirals, parsons, doctors, statesmen, scientists, artists, and authors, but no statues to booksellers?" Contemplation of this glittering scene always lured Roger into fantastic dreams. Ever since he had travelled country roads, some years before, selling books from a van drawn by a fat white horse, he had nourished a secret hope of some day founding a Parnassus on Wheels Corporation which would own a fleet of these vans and send them out into the rural byways where bookstores are unknown. He loved to imagine a great map of New York State, with the daily location of each travelling Parnassus marked by a coloured pin. He dreamed of himself, sitting in some vast central warehouse of second-hand books, poring over his map like a military chief of staff and forwarding cases of literary ammunition to various bases where his vans would re-stock. His idea was that his travelling salesmen could be recruited largely from college professors, parsons, and newspaper men, who were weary of their thankless tasks, and would welcome an opportunity to get out on the road. One of his hopes was that he might interest Mr. Chapman in this superb scheme, and he had a vision of the day when the shares of the Parnassus on Wheels Corporation would pay a handsome dividend and be much sought after by serious investors. These thoughts turned his mind toward his brother-in-law Andrew McGill, the author of several engaging books on the joys of country living, who dwells at the Sabine Farm in the green elbow of a Connecticut valley. The original Parnassus, a quaint old blue wagon in which Roger had lived and journeyed and sold books over several thousand miles of country roads in the days before his marriage, was now housed in Andrew's barn. Peg, his fat white horse, had lodging there also. It occurred to Roger that he owed Andrew a letter, and putting aside his notes for the bookseller's collegiate oration, he began to write: THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 163 Gissing Street, Brooklyn, November 30, 1918. MY DEAR ANDREW: It is scandalous not to have thanked you sooner for the annual cask of cider, which has given us even more than the customary pleasure. This has been an autumn when I have been hard put to it to keep up with my own thoughts, and I've written no letters at all. Like everyone else I am thinking constantly of this new peace that has marvellously come upon us. I trust we may have statesmen who will be able to turn it to the benefit of humanity. I wish there could be an international peace conference of booksellers, for (you will smile at this) my own conviction is that the future happiness of the world depends in no small measure on them and on the librarians. I wonder what a German bookseller is like? I've been reading The Education of Henry Adams and wish he might have lived long enough to give us his thoughts on the War. I fear it would have bowled him over. He thought that this is not a world "that sensitive and timid natures can regard without a shudder." What would he have said of the four-year shambles we have watched with sickened hearts? You remember my favourite poem--old George Herbert's Church Porch--where he says-- By all means use sometimes to be alone; Salute thyself; see what thy soul doth wear; Dare to look in thy chest, for 'tis thine own, And tumble up and down what thou find'st there-- Well, I've been tumbling my thoughts up and down a good deal. Melancholy, I suppose, is the curse of the thinking classes; but I confess my soul wears a great uneasiness these days! The sudden and amazing turnover in human affairs, dramatic beyond anything in history, already seems to be taken as a matter of course. My great fear is that humanity will forget the atrocious sufferings of the war, which have never been told. I am hoping and praying that men like Philip Gibbs may tell us what they really saw. You will not agree with me on what I am about to say, for I know you as a stubborn Republican; but I thank fortune that Wilson is going to the Peace Conference. I've been mulling over one of my favourite books--it lies beside me as I write--Cromwell's Letters and Speeches, edited by Carlyle, with what Carlyle amusingly calls "Elucidations." (Carlyle is not very good at "elucidating" anything!) I have heard somewhere or other that this is one of Wilson's favourite books, and indeed, there is much of the Cromwell in him. With what a grim, covenanting zeal he took up the sword when at last it was forced into his hand! And I have been thinking that what he will say to the Peace Conference will smack strongly of what old Oliver used to say to Parliament in 1657 and 1658--"If we will have Peace without a worm in it, lay we foundations of Justice and Righteousness." What makes Wilson so irritating to the unthoughtful is that he operates exclusively upon reason, not upon passion. He contradicts Kipling's famous lines, which apply to most men-- Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act. In this instance, I think, Reason is going to win. I feel the whole current of the world setting in that direction. It's quaint to think of old Woodrow, a kind of Cromwell-Wordsworth, going over to do his bit among the diplomatic shell-craters. What I'm waiting for is the day when he'll get back into private life and write a book about it. There's a job, if you like, for a man who might reasonably be supposed to be pretty tired in body and soul! When that book comes out I'll spend the rest of my life in selling it. I ask nothing better! Speaking of Wordsworth, I've often wondered whether Woodrow hasn't got some poems concealed somewhere among his papers! I've always imagined that he may have written poems on the sly. And by the way, you needn't make fun of me for being so devoted to George Herbert. Do you realize that two of the most familiar quotations in our language come from his pen, viz.: Wouldst thou both eat thy cake, and have it? and Dare to be true: nothing can need a ly; A fault, which needs it most, grows two thereby. Forgive this tedious sermon! My mind has been so tumbled up and down this autumn that I am in a queer state of mingled melancholy and exaltation. You know how much I live in and for books. Well, I have a curious feeling, a kind of premonition that there are great books coming out of this welter of human hopes and anguishes, perhaps A book in which the tempest-shaken soul of the race will speak out as it never has before. The Bible, you know, is rather a disappointment: it has never done for humanity what it should have done. I wonder why? Walt Whitman is going to do a great deal, but he is not quite what I mean. There is something coming--I don't know just what! I thank God I am a bookseller, trafficking in the dreams and beauties and curiosities of humanity rather than some mere huckster of merchandise. But how helpless we all are when we try to tell what goes on within us! I found this in one of Lafcadio Hearn's letters the other day--I marked the passage for you Baudelaire has a touching poem about an albatross, which you would like--describing the poet's soul superb in its own free azure--but helpless, insulted, ugly, clumsy when striving to walk on common earth--or rather, on a deck, where sailors torment it with tobacco pipes, etc. You can imagine what evenings I have here among my shelves, now the long dark nights are come! Of course until ten o'clock, when I shut up shop, I am constantly interrupted--as I have been during this letter, once to sell a copy of Helen's Babies and once to sell The Ballad of Reading Gaol, so you can see how varied are my clients' tastes! But later on, after we have had our evening cocoa and Helen has gone to bed, I prowl about the place, dipping into this and that, fuddling myself with speculation. How clear and bright the stream of the mind flows in those late hours, after all the sediment and floating trash of the day has drained off! Sometimes I seem to coast the very shore of Beauty or Truth, and hear the surf breaking on those shining sands. Then some offshore wind of weariness or prejudice bears me away again. Have you ever come across Andreyev's Confessions of a Little Man During Great Days? One of the honest books of the War. The Little Man ends his confession thus-- My anger has left me, my sadness returned, and once more the tears flow. Whom can I curse, whom can I judge, when we are all alike unfortunate? Suffering is universal; hands are outstretched to each other, and when they touch . . . the great solution will come. My heart is aglow, and I stretch out my hand and cry, "Come, let us join hands! I love you, I love you!" And of course, as soon as one puts one's self in that frame of mind someone comes along and picks your pocket. . . . I suppose we must teach ourselves to be too proud to mind having our pockets picked! Did it ever occur to you that the world is really governed by BOOKS? The course of this country in the War, for instance, has been largely determined by the books Wilson has read since he first began to think! If we could have a list of the principal books he has read since the War began, how interesting it would be. Here's something I'm just copying out to put up on my bulletin board for my customers to ponder. It was written by Charles Sorley, a young Englishman who was killed in France in 1915. He was only twenty years old-- TO GERMANY You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed, And no man claimed the conquest of your land. But gropers both through fields of thought confined We stumble and we do not understand. You only saw your future bigly planned, And we, the tapering paths of our own mind, And in each other's dearest ways we stand, And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind. When it is peace, then we may view again With new-won eyes each other's truer form And wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warm We'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain, When it is peace. But until peace, the storm The darkness and the thunder and the rain. Isn't that noble? You see what I am dumbly groping for--some way of thinking about the War that will make it seem (to future ages) a purification for humanity rather than a mere blackness of stinking cinders and tortured flesh and men shot to ribbons in marshes of blood and sewage. Out of such unspeakable desolation men MUST rise to some new conception of national neighbourhood. I hear so much apprehension that Germany won't be punished sufficiently for her crime. But how can any punishment be devised or imposed for such a huge panorama of sorrow? I think she has already punished herself horribly, and will continue to do so. My prayer is that what we have gone through will startle the world into some new realization of the sanctity of life--all life, animal as well as human. Don't you find that a visit to a zoo can humble and astound you with all that amazing and grotesque variety of living energy? What is it that we find in every form of life? Desire of some sort--some unexplained motive power that impels even the smallest insect on its queer travels. You must have watched some infinitesimal red spider on a fence rail, bustling along--why and whither? Who knows? And when you come to man, what a chaos of hungers and impulses keep thrusting him through his cycle of quaint tasks! And in every human heart you find some sorrow, some frustration, some lurking pang. I often think of Lafcadio Hearn's story of his Japanese cook. Hearn was talking of the Japanese habit of not showing their emotions on their faces. His cook was a smiling, healthy, agreeable-looking young fellow whose face was always cheerful. Then one day, by chance, Hearn happened to look through a hole in the wall and saw his cook alone. His face was not the same face. It was thin and drawn and showed strange lines worn by old hardships or sufferings. Hearn thought to himself, "He will look just like that when he is dead." He went into the kitchen to see him, and instantly the cook was all changed, young and happy again. Never again did Hearn see that face of trouble; but he knew the man wore it when he was alone. Don't you think there is a kind of parable there for the race as a whole? Have you ever met a man without wondering what shining sorrows he hides from the world, what contrast between vision and accomplishment torments him? Behind every smiling mask is there not some cryptic grimace of pain? Henry Adams puts it tersely. He says the human mind appears suddenly and inexplicably out of some unknown and unimaginable void. It passes half its known life in the mental chaos of sleep. Even when awake it is a victim of its own ill-adjustment, of disease, of age, of external suggestion, of nature's compulsions; it doubts its own sensations and trusts only in instruments and averages. After sixty years or so of growing astonishment the mind wakes to find itself looking blankly into the void of death. And, as Adams says, that it should profess itself pleased by this performance is all that the highest rules of good breeding can ask. That the mind should actually be satisfied would prove that it exists only as idiocy! I hope that you will write to tell me along what curves your mind is moving. For my own part I feel that we are on the verge of amazing things. Long ago I fell back on books as the only permanent consolers. They are the one stainless and unimpeachable achievement of the human race. It saddens me to think that I shall have to die with thousands of books unread that would have given me noble and unblemished happiness. I will tell you a secret. I have never read King Lear, and have purposely refrained from doing so. If I were ever very ill I would only need to say to myself "You can't die yet, you haven't read Lear." That would bring me round, I know it would. You see, books are the answer to all our perplexities! Henry Adams grinds his teeth at his inability to understand the universe. The best he can do is to suggest a "law of acceleration," which seems to mean that Nature is hustling man along at an ever-increasing rate so that he will either solve all her problems or else die of fever in the effort. But Adams' candid portrait of a mind grappling helplessly with its riddles is so triumphantly delightful that one forgets the futility of the struggle in the accuracy of the picture. Man is unconquerable because he can make even his helplessness so entertaining. His motto seems to be "Even though He slay me, yet will I make fun of Him!" Yes, books are man's supreme triumph, for they gather up and transmit all other triumphs. As Walter de la Mare writes, "How uncomprehendingly must an angel from heaven smile on a poor human sitting engrossed in a romance: angled upon his hams, motionless in his chair, spectacles on nose, his two feet as close together as the flukes of a merman's tail, only his strange eyes stirring in his time-worn face." Well, I've been scribbling away all this time and haven't given you any news whatever. Helen came back the other day from a visit to Boston where she enjoyed herself greatly. To-night she has gone out to the movies with a young protegee of ours, Miss Titania Chapman, an engaging damsel whom we have taken in as an apprentice bookseller. It's a quaint idea, done at the request of her father, Mr. Chapman, the proprietor of Chapman's Daintybits which you see advertised everywhere. He is a great booklover, and is very eager to have the zeal transmitted to his daughter. So you can imagine my glee to have a neophyte of my own to preach books at! Also it will enable me to get away from the shop a little more. I had a telephone call from Philadelphia this afternoon asking me to go over there on Monday evening to make an estimate of the value of a private collection that is to be sold. I was rather flattered because I can't imagine how they got hold of my name. Forgive this long, incoherent scrawl. How did you like Erewhon? It's pretty near closing time and I must say grace over the day's accounts. Yours ever, ROGER MIFFLIN. Chapter X Roger Raids the Ice-Box Roger had just put Carlyle's Cromwell back in its proper place in the History alcove when Helen and Titania returned from the movies. Bock, who had been dozing under his master's chair, rose politely and wagged a deferential tail. "I do think Bock has the darlingest manners," said Titania. "Yes," said Helen, "it's really a marvel that his wagging muscles aren't all worn out, he has abused them so." "Well," said Roger, "did you have a good time?" "An adorable time!" cried Titania, with a face and voice so sparkling that two musty habitues of the shop popped their heads out of the alcoves marked ESSAYS and THEOLOGY and peered in amazement. One of these even went so far as to purchase the copy of Leigh Hunt's Wishing Cap Papers he had been munching through, in order to have an excuse to approach the group and satisfy his bewildered eyes. When Miss Chapman took the book and wrapped it up for him, his astonishment was made complete. Unconscious that she was actually creating business, Titania resumed. "We met your friend Mr. Gilbert on the street," she said, "and he went to the movies with us. He says he's coming in on Monday to fix the furnace while you're away." "Well," said Roger, "these advertising agencies are certainly enterprising, aren't they? Think of sending a man over to attend to my furnace, just on the slim chance of getting my advertising account." "Did you have a quiet evening?" said Helen. "I spent most of the time writing to Andrew," said Roger. "One amusing thing happened, though. I actually sold that copy of Philip Dru." "No!" cried Helen. "A fact," said Roger. "A man

sence

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

"friend and well-wisher" over the telephone. The other said something in German in a hoarse whisper. Having studied that language in college, Aubrey caught only two words--Thur and Schlussel, which he knew meant door and key. "Very well," said the first voice. "That will be all right, but we must act to-night. The damned thing must be finished to-morrow. Your idiotic stupidity--" Again followed some gargling in German, in a rapid undertone too fluent for Aubrey's grasp. The latch of the alley gate clicked once more, and his hand was on his revolver; but in a moment the two had passed on down the alley. The young advertising agent stood against the fence in silent horror, his heart bumping heavily. His hands were clammy, his feet seemed to have grown larger and taken root. What damnable complot was this? A sultry wave of anger passed over him. This bland, slick, talkative bookseller, was he arranging some blackmailing scheme to kidnap the girl and wring blood-money out of her father? And in league with Germans, too, the scoundrel! What an asinine thing for old Chapman to send an unprotected girl over here into the wilds of Brooklyn . . . and in the meantime, what was he to do? Patrol the back yard all night? No, the friend and well-wisher had said "We must find some other way." Besides, Aubrey remembered something having been said about the old terrier sleeping in the kitchen. He felt sure Bock would not let any German in at night without raising the roof. Probably the best way would be to watch the front of the shop. In miserable perplexity he waited several minutes until the two Germans would be well out of earshot. Then he unbolted the gate and stole up the alley on tiptoe, in the opposite direction. It led into Wordsworth Avenue just behind Weintraub's drug store, over the rear of which hung the great girders and trestles of the "L" station, a kind of Swiss chalet straddling the street on stilts. He thought it prudent to make a detour, so he turned east on Wordsworth Avenue until he reached Whittier Street, then sauntered easily down Whittier for a block, spying sharply for evidences of pursuit. Brooklyn was putting out its lights for the night, and all was quiet. He turned into Hazlitt Street and so back onto Gissing, noticing now that the Haunted Bookshop lights were off. It was nearly eleven o'clock: the last audience was filing out of the movie theatre, where two workmen were already perched on ladders taking down the Tarzan electric light sign, to substitute the illuminated lettering for the next feature. After some debate he decided that the best thing to do was to return to his room at Mrs. Schiller's, from which he could keep a sharp watch on the front door of the bookshop. By good fortune there was a lamp post almost directly in front of Mifflin's house, which cast plenty of light on the little sunken area before the door. With his opera glasses he could see from his bedroom whatever went on. As he crossed the street he cast his eyes upward at the facade of Mrs. Schiller's house. Two windows in the fourth storey were lit, and the gas burned minutely in the downstairs hall, elsewhere all was dark. And then, as he glanced at the window of his own chamber, where the curtain was still tucked back behind the pane, he noticed a curious thing. A small point of rosy light glowed, faded, and glowed again by the window. Someone was smoking a cigar in his room. Aubrey continued walking in even stride, as though he had seen nothing. Returning down the street, on the opposite side, he verified his first glance. The light was still there, and he judged himself not far out in assuming the smoker to be the friend and well-wisher or one of his gang. He had suspected the other man in the alley of being Weintraub, but he could not be sure. A cautious glance through the window of the drug store revealed Weintraub at his prescription counter. Aubrey determined to get even with the guttural gentleman who was waiting for him, certainly with no affectionate intent. He thanked the good fortune that had led him to stick the book cover in his overcoat pocket when leaving Mrs. Schiller's. Evidently, for reasons unknown, someone was very anxious to get hold of it. An idea occurred to him as he passed the little florist's shop, which was just closing. He entered and bought a dozen white carnations, and then, as if by an afterthought, asked "Have you any wire?" The florist produced a spool of the slender, tough wire that is sometimes used to nip the buds of expensive roses, to prevent them from blossoming too quickly. "Let me have about eight feet," said Aubrey. "I need some to-night and I guess the hardware stores are all closed." With this he returned to Mrs. Schiller's, picking his way carefully and close to the houses so as to be out of sight from the upstairs windows. He climbed the steps and unlatched the door with bated breath. It was half-past eleven, and he wondered how long he would have to wait for the well-wisher to descend. He could not help chuckling as he made his preparations, remembering an occasion at college somewhat similar in setting though far less serious in purpose. First he took off his shoes, laying them carefully to one side where he could find them again in a hurry. Then, choosing a banister about six feet from the bottom of the stairs he attached one end of the wire tightly to its base and spread the slack in a large loop over two of the stair treads. The remaining end of the wire he passed out through the banisters, twisting it into a small loop so that he could pull it easily. Then he turned out the hall gas and sat down in the dark to wait events. He sat for a long time, in some nervousness lest the pug dog might come prowling and find him. He was startled by a lady in a dressing gown--perhaps Mrs. J. F. Smith--who emerged from a ground-floor room passed very close to him in the dark, and muttered upstairs. He twitched his noose out of the way just in time. Presently, however, his patience was rewarded. He heard a door squeak above, and then the groaning of the staircase as someone descended slowly. He relaid his trap and waited, smiling to himself. A clock somewhere in the house was chiming twelve as the man came groping down the last flight, feeling his way in the dark. Aubrey heard him swearing under his breath. At the precise moment, when both his victim's feet were within the loop, Aubrey gave the wire a gigantic tug. The man fell like a safe, crashing against the banisters and landing in a sprawl on the floor. It was a terrific fall, and shook the house. He lay there groaning and cursing. Barely retaining his laughter, Aubrey struck a match and held it over the sprawling figure. The man lay with his face twisted against one out-spread arm, but the beard was unmistakable. It was the assistant chef again, and he seemed partly unconscious. "Burnt hair is a grand restorative," said Aubrey to himself, and applied the match to the bush of beard. He singed off a couple of inches of it with intense delight, and laid his carnations on the head of the stricken one. Then, hearing stirrings in the basement, he gathered up his wire and shoes and fled upstairs. He gained his room roaring with inward mirth, but entered cautiously, fearing some trap. Save for a strong tincture of cigar smoke, everything seemed correct. Listening at his door he heard Mrs. Schiller exclaiming shrilly in the hall, assisted by yappings from the pug. Doors upstairs were opened, and questions were called out. He heard guttural groans from the bearded one, mingled with oaths and some angry remark about having fallen downstairs. The pug, frenzied with excitement, yelled insanely. A female voice--possibly Mrs. J. F. Smith--cried out "What's that smell of burning?" Someone else said, "They're burning feathers under his nose to bring him to." "Yes, Hun's feathers," chuckled Aubrey to himself. He locked his door, and sat down by the window with his opera glasses. Chapter IX Again the Narrative is Retarded Roger had spent a quiet evening in the bookshop. Sitting at his desk under a fog of tobacco, he had honestly intended to do some writing on the twelfth chapter of his great work on bookselling. This chapter was to be an (alas, entirely conjectural) "Address Delivered by a Bookseller on Being Conferred the Honorary Degree of Doctor of Letters by a Leading University," and it presented so many alluring possibilities that Roger's mind always wandered from the paper into entranced visions of his imagined scene. He loved to build up in fancy the flattering details of that fine ceremony when bookselling would at last be properly recognized as one of the learned professions. He could see the great auditorium, filled with cultivated people: men with Emersonian profiles, ladies whispering behind their fluttering programmes. He could see the academic beadle, proctor, dean (or whatever he is, Roger was a little doubtful) pronouncing the august words of presentation-- A man who, in season and out of season, forgetting private gain for public weal, has laboured with Promethean and sacrificial ardour to instil the love of reasonable letters into countless thousands; to whom, and to whose colleagues, amid the perishable caducity of human affairs, is largely due the pullulation of literary taste; in honouring whom we seek to honour the noble and self-effacing profession of which he is so representative a member---- Then he could see the modest bookseller, somewhat clammy in his extremities and lost within his academic robe and hood, nervously fidgeting his mortar-board, haled forward by ushers, and tottering rubescent before the chancellor, provost, president (or whoever it might be) who hands out the diploma. Then (in Roger's vision) he could see the garlanded bibliopole turning to the expectant audience, giving his trailing gown a deft rearward kick as the ladies do on the stage, and uttering, without hesitation or embarrassment, with due interpolation of graceful pleasantry, that learned and unlaboured discourse on the delights of bookishness that he had often dreamed of. Then he could see the ensuing reception: the distinguished savants crowding round; the plates of macaroons, the cups of untasted tea; the ladies twittering, "Now there's something I want to ask you--why are there so many statues to generals, admirals, parsons, doctors, statesmen, scientists, artists, and authors, but no statues to booksellers?" Contemplation of this glittering scene always lured Roger into fantastic dreams. Ever since he had travelled country roads, some years before, selling books from a van drawn by a fat white horse, he had nourished a secret hope of some day founding a Parnassus on Wheels Corporation which would own a fleet of these vans and send them out into the rural byways where bookstores are unknown. He loved to imagine a great map of New York State, with the daily location of each travelling Parnassus marked by a coloured pin. He dreamed of himself, sitting in some vast central warehouse of second-hand books, poring over his map like a military chief of staff and forwarding cases of literary ammunition to various bases where his vans would re-stock. His idea was that his travelling salesmen could be recruited largely from college professors, parsons, and newspaper men, who were weary of their thankless tasks, and would welcome an opportunity to get out on the road. One of his hopes was that he might interest Mr. Chapman in this superb scheme, and he had a vision of the day when the shares of the Parnassus on Wheels Corporation would pay a handsome dividend and be much sought after by serious investors. These thoughts turned his mind toward his brother-in-law Andrew McGill, the author of several engaging books on the joys of country living, who dwells at the Sabine Farm in the green elbow of a Connecticut valley. The original Parnassus, a quaint old blue wagon in which Roger had lived and journeyed and sold books over several thousand miles of country roads in the days before his marriage, was now housed in Andrew's barn. Peg, his fat white horse, had lodging there also. It occurred to Roger that he owed Andrew a letter, and putting aside his notes for the bookseller's collegiate oration, he began to write: THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 163 Gissing Street, Brooklyn, November 30, 1918. MY DEAR ANDREW: It is scandalous not to have thanked you sooner for the annual cask of cider, which has given us even more than the customary pleasure. This has been an autumn when I have been hard put to it to keep up with my own thoughts, and I've written no letters at all. Like everyone else I am thinking constantly of this new peace that has marvellously come upon us. I trust we may have statesmen who will be able to turn it to the benefit of humanity. I wish there could be an international peace conference of booksellers, for (you will smile at this) my own conviction is that the future happiness of the world depends in no small measure on them and on the librarians. I wonder what a German bookseller is like? I've been reading The Education of Henry Adams and wish he might have lived long enough to give us his thoughts on the War. I fear it would have bowled him over. He thought that this is not a world "that sensitive and timid natures can regard without a shudder." What would he have said of the four-year shambles we have watched with sickened hearts? You remember my favourite poem--old George Herbert's Church Porch--where he says-- By all means use sometimes to be alone; Salute thyself; see what thy soul doth wear; Dare to look in thy chest, for 'tis thine own, And tumble up and down what thou find'st there-- Well, I've been tumbling my thoughts up and down a good deal. Melancholy, I suppose, is the curse of the thinking classes; but I confess my soul wears a great uneasiness these days! The sudden and amazing turnover in human affairs, dramatic beyond anything in history, already seems to be taken as a matter of course. My great fear is that humanity will forget the atrocious sufferings of the war, which have never been told. I am hoping and praying that men like Philip Gibbs may tell us what they really saw. You will not agree with me on what I am about to say, for I know you as a stubborn Republican; but I thank fortune that Wilson is going to the Peace Conference. I've been mulling over one of my favourite books--it lies beside me as I write--Cromwell's Letters and Speeches, edited by Carlyle, with what Carlyle amusingly calls "Elucidations." (Carlyle is not very good at "elucidating" anything!) I have heard somewhere or other that this is one of Wilson's favourite books, and indeed, there is much of the Cromwell in him. With what a grim, covenanting zeal he took up the sword when at last it was forced into his hand! And I have been thinking that what he will say to the Peace Conference will smack strongly of what old Oliver used to say to Parliament in 1657 and 1658--"If we will have Peace without a worm in it, lay we foundations of Justice and Righteousness." What makes Wilson so irritating to the unthoughtful is that he operates exclusively upon reason, not upon passion. He contradicts Kipling's famous lines, which apply to most men-- Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act. In this instance, I think, Reason is going to win. I feel the whole current of the world setting in that direction. It's quaint to think of old Woodrow, a kind of Cromwell-Wordsworth, going over to do his bit among the diplomatic shell-craters. What I'm waiting for is the day when he'll get back into private life and write a book about it. There's a job, if you like, for a man who might reasonably be supposed to be pretty tired in body and soul! When that book comes out I'll spend the rest of my life in selling it. I ask nothing better! Speaking of Wordsworth, I've often wondered whether Woodrow hasn't got some poems concealed somewhere among his papers! I've always imagined that he may have written poems on the sly. And by the way, you needn't make fun of me for being so devoted to George Herbert. Do you realize that two of the most familiar quotations in our language come from his pen, viz.: Wouldst thou both eat thy cake, and have it? and Dare to be true: nothing can need a ly; A fault, which needs it most, grows two thereby. Forgive this tedious sermon! My mind has been so tumbled up and down this autumn that I am in a queer state of mingled melancholy and exaltation. You know how much I live in and for books. Well, I have a curious feeling, a kind of premonition that there are great books coming out of this welter of human hopes and anguishes, perhaps A book in which the tempest-shaken soul of the race will speak out as it never has before. The Bible, you know, is rather a disappointment: it has never done for humanity what it should have done. I wonder why? Walt Whitman is going to do a great deal, but he is not quite what I mean. There is something coming--I don't know just what! I thank God I am a bookseller, trafficking in the dreams and beauties and curiosities of humanity rather than some mere huckster of merchandise. But how helpless we all are when we try to tell what goes on within us! I found this in one of Lafcadio Hearn's letters the other day--I marked the passage for you Baudelaire has a touching poem about an albatross, which you would like--describing the poet's soul superb in its own free azure--but helpless, insulted, ugly, clumsy when striving to walk on common earth--or rather, on a deck, where sailors torment it with tobacco pipes, etc. You can imagine what evenings I have here among my shelves, now the long dark nights are come! Of course until ten o'clock, when I shut up shop, I am constantly interrupted--as I have been during this letter, once to sell a copy of Helen's Babies and once to sell The Ballad of Reading Gaol, so you can see how varied are my clients' tastes! But later on, after we have had our evening cocoa and Helen has gone to bed, I prowl about the place, dipping into this and that, fuddling myself with speculation. How clear and bright the stream of the mind flows in those late hours, after all the sediment and floating trash of the day has drained off! Sometimes I seem to coast the very shore of Beauty or Truth, and hear the surf breaking on those shining sands. Then some offshore wind of weariness or prejudice bears me away again. Have you ever come across Andreyev's Confessions of a Little Man During Great Days? One of the honest books of the War. The Little Man ends his confession thus-- My anger has left me, my sadness returned, and once more the tears flow. Whom can I curse, whom can I judge, when we are all alike unfortunate? Suffering is universal; hands are outstretched to each other, and when they touch . . . the great solution will come. My heart is aglow, and I stretch out my hand and cry, "Come, let us join hands! I love you, I love you!" And of course, as soon as one puts one's self in that frame of mind someone comes along and picks your pocket. . . . I suppose we must teach ourselves to be too proud to mind having our pockets picked! Did it ever occur to you that the world is really governed by BOOKS? The course of this country in the War, for instance, has been largely determined by the books Wilson has read since he first began to think! If we could have a list of the principal books he has read since the War began, how interesting it would be. Here's something I'm just copying out to put up on my bulletin board for my customers to ponder. It was written by Charles Sorley, a young Englishman who was killed in France in 1915. He was only twenty years old-- TO GERMANY You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed, And no man claimed the conquest of your land. But gropers both through fields of thought confined We stumble and we do not understand. You only saw your future bigly planned, And we, the tapering paths of our own mind, And in each other's dearest ways we stand, And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind. When it is peace, then we may view again With new-won eyes each other's truer form And wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warm We'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain, When it is peace. But until peace, the storm The darkness and the thunder and the rain. Isn't that noble? You see what I am dumbly groping for--some way of thinking about the War that will make it seem (to future ages) a purification for humanity rather than a mere blackness of stinking cinders and tortured flesh and men shot to ribbons in marshes of blood and sewage. Out of such unspeakable desolation men MUST rise to some new conception of national neighbourhood. I hear so much apprehension that Germany won't be punished sufficiently for her crime. But how can any punishment be devised or imposed for such a huge panorama of sorrow? I think she has already punished herself horribly, and will continue to do so. My prayer is that what we have gone through will startle the world into some new realization of the sanctity of life--all life, animal as well as human. Don't you find that a visit to a zoo can humble and astound you with all that amazing and grotesque variety of living energy? What is it that we find in every form of life? Desire of some sort--some unexplained motive power that impels even the smallest insect on its queer travels. You must have watched some infinitesimal red spider on a fence rail, bustling along--why and whither? Who knows? And when you come to man, what a chaos of hungers and impulses keep thrusting him through his cycle of quaint tasks! And in every human heart you find some sorrow, some frustration, some lurking pang. I often think of Lafcadio Hearn's story of his Japanese cook. Hearn was talking of the Japanese habit of not showing their emotions on their faces. His cook was a smiling, healthy, agreeable-looking young fellow whose face was always cheerful. Then one day, by chance, Hearn happened to look through a hole in the wall and saw his cook alone. His face was not the same face. It was thin and drawn and showed strange lines worn by old hardships or sufferings. Hearn thought to himself, "He will look just like that when he is dead." He went into the kitchen to see him, and instantly the cook was all changed, young and happy again. Never again did Hearn see that face of trouble; but he knew the man wore it when he was alone. Don't you think there is a kind of parable there for the race as a whole? Have you ever met a man without wondering what shining sorrows he hides from the world, what contrast between vision and accomplishment torments him? Behind every smiling mask is there not some cryptic grimace of pain? Henry Adams puts it tersely. He says the human mind appears suddenly and inexplicably out of some unknown and unimaginable void. It passes half its known life in the mental chaos of sleep. Even when awake it is a victim of its own ill-adjustment, of disease, of age, of external suggestion, of nature's compulsions; it doubts its own sensations and trusts only in instruments and averages. After sixty years or so of growing astonishment the mind wakes to find itself looking blankly into the void of death. And, as Adams says, that it should profess itself pleased by this performance is all that the highest rules of good breeding can ask. That the mind should actually be satisfied would prove that it exists only as idiocy! I hope that you will write to tell me along what curves your mind is moving. For my own part I feel that we are on the verge of amazing things. Long ago I fell back on books as the only permanent consolers. They are the one stainless and unimpeachable achievement of the human race. It saddens me to think that I shall have to die with thousands of books unread that would have given me noble and unblemished happiness. I will tell you a secret. I have never read King Lear, and have purposely refrained from doing so. If I were ever very ill I would only need to say to myself "You can't die yet, you haven't read Lear." That would bring me round, I know it would. You see, books are the answer to all our perplexities! Henry Adams grinds his teeth at his inability to understand the universe. The best he can do is to suggest a "law of acceleration," which seems to mean that Nature is hustling man along at an ever-increasing rate so that he will either solve all her problems or else die of fever in the effort. But Adams' candid portrait of a mind grappling helplessly with its riddles is so triumphantly delightful that one forgets the futility of the struggle in the accuracy of the picture. Man is unconquerable because he can make even his helplessness so entertaining. His motto seems to be "Even though He slay me, yet will I make fun of Him!" Yes, books are man's supreme triumph, for they gather up and transmit all other triumphs. As Walter de la Mare writes, "How uncomprehendingly must an angel from heaven smile on a poor human sitting engrossed in a romance: angled upon his hams, motionless in his chair, spectacles on nose, his two feet as close together as the flukes of a merman's tail, only his strange eyes stirring in his time-worn face." Well, I've been scribbling away all this time and haven't given you any news whatever. Helen came back the other day from a visit to Boston where she enjoyed herself greatly. To-night she has gone out to the movies with a young protegee of ours, Miss Titania Chapman, an engaging damsel whom we have taken in as an apprentice bookseller. It's a quaint idea, done at the request of her father, Mr. Chapman, the proprietor of Chapman's Daintybits which you see advertised everywhere. He is a great booklover, and is very eager to have the zeal transmitted to his daughter. So you can imagine my glee to have a neophyte of my own to preach books at! Also it will enable me to get away from the shop a little more. I had a telephone call from Philadelphia this afternoon asking me to go over there on Monday evening to make an estimate of the value of a private collection that is to be sold. I was rather flattered because I can't imagine how they got hold of my name. Forgive this long, incoherent scrawl. How did you like Erewhon? It's pretty near closing time and I must say grace over the day's accounts. Yours ever, ROGER MIFFLIN. Chapter X Roger Raids the Ice-Box Roger had just put Carlyle's Cromwell back in its proper place in the History alcove when Helen and Titania returned from the movies. Bock, who had been dozing under his master's chair, rose politely and wagged a deferential tail. "I do think Bock has the darlingest manners," said Titania. "Yes," said Helen, "it's really a marvel that his wagging muscles aren't all worn out, he has abused them so." "Well," said Roger, "did you have a good time?" "An adorable time!" cried Titania, with a face and voice so sparkling that two musty habitues of the shop popped their heads out of the alcoves marked ESSAYS and THEOLOGY and peered in amazement. One of these even went so far as to purchase the copy of Leigh Hunt's Wishing Cap Papers he had been munching through, in order to have an excuse to approach the group and satisfy his bewildered eyes. When Miss Chapman took the book and wrapped it up for him, his astonishment was made complete. Unconscious that she was actually creating business, Titania resumed. "We met your friend Mr. Gilbert on the street," she said, "and he went to the movies with us. He says he's coming in on Monday to fix the furnace while you're away." "Well," said Roger, "these advertising agencies are certainly enterprising, aren't they? Think of sending a man over to attend to my furnace, just on the slim chance of getting my advertising account." "Did you have a quiet evening?" said Helen. "I spent most of the time writing to Andrew," said Roger. "One amusing thing happened, though. I actually sold that copy of Philip Dru." "No!" cried Helen. "A fact," said Roger. "A man

ignore

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

"friend and well-wisher" over the telephone. The other said something in German in a hoarse whisper. Having studied that language in college, Aubrey caught only two words--Thur and Schlussel, which he knew meant door and key. "Very well," said the first voice. "That will be all right, but we must act to-night. The damned thing must be finished to-morrow. Your idiotic stupidity--" Again followed some gargling in German, in a rapid undertone too fluent for Aubrey's grasp. The latch of the alley gate clicked once more, and his hand was on his revolver; but in a moment the two had passed on down the alley. The young advertising agent stood against the fence in silent horror, his heart bumping heavily. His hands were clammy, his feet seemed to have grown larger and taken root. What damnable complot was this? A sultry wave of anger passed over him. This bland, slick, talkative bookseller, was he arranging some blackmailing scheme to kidnap the girl and wring blood-money out of her father? And in league with Germans, too, the scoundrel! What an asinine thing for old Chapman to send an unprotected girl over here into the wilds of Brooklyn . . . and in the meantime, what was he to do? Patrol the back yard all night? No, the friend and well-wisher had said "We must find some other way." Besides, Aubrey remembered something having been said about the old terrier sleeping in the kitchen. He felt sure Bock would not let any German in at night without raising the roof. Probably the best way would be to watch the front of the shop. In miserable perplexity he waited several minutes until the two Germans would be well out of earshot. Then he unbolted the gate and stole up the alley on tiptoe, in the opposite direction. It led into Wordsworth Avenue just behind Weintraub's drug store, over the rear of which hung the great girders and trestles of the "L" station, a kind of Swiss chalet straddling the street on stilts. He thought it prudent to make a detour, so he turned east on Wordsworth Avenue until he reached Whittier Street, then sauntered easily down Whittier for a block, spying sharply for evidences of pursuit. Brooklyn was putting out its lights for the night, and all was quiet. He turned into Hazlitt Street and so back onto Gissing, noticing now that the Haunted Bookshop lights were off. It was nearly eleven o'clock: the last audience was filing out of the movie theatre, where two workmen were already perched on ladders taking down the Tarzan electric light sign, to substitute the illuminated lettering for the next feature. After some debate he decided that the best thing to do was to return to his room at Mrs. Schiller's, from which he could keep a sharp watch on the front door of the bookshop. By good fortune there was a lamp post almost directly in front of Mifflin's house, which cast plenty of light on the little sunken area before the door. With his opera glasses he could see from his bedroom whatever went on. As he crossed the street he cast his eyes upward at the facade of Mrs. Schiller's house. Two windows in the fourth storey were lit, and the gas burned minutely in the downstairs hall, elsewhere all was dark. And then, as he glanced at the window of his own chamber, where the curtain was still tucked back behind the pane, he noticed a curious thing. A small point of rosy light glowed, faded, and glowed again by the window. Someone was smoking a cigar in his room. Aubrey continued walking in even stride, as though he had seen nothing. Returning down the street, on the opposite side, he verified his first glance. The light was still there, and he judged himself not far out in assuming the smoker to be the friend and well-wisher or one of his gang. He had suspected the other man in the alley of being Weintraub, but he could not be sure. A cautious glance through the window of the drug store revealed Weintraub at his prescription counter. Aubrey determined to get even with the guttural gentleman who was waiting for him, certainly with no affectionate intent. He thanked the good fortune that had led him to stick the book cover in his overcoat pocket when leaving Mrs. Schiller's. Evidently, for reasons unknown, someone was very anxious to get hold of it. An idea occurred to him as he passed the little florist's shop, which was just closing. He entered and bought a dozen white carnations, and then, as if by an afterthought, asked "Have you any wire?" The florist produced a spool of the slender, tough wire that is sometimes used to nip the buds of expensive roses, to prevent them from blossoming too quickly. "Let me have about eight feet," said Aubrey. "I need some to-night and I guess the hardware stores are all closed." With this he returned to Mrs. Schiller's, picking his way carefully and close to the houses so as to be out of sight from the upstairs windows. He climbed the steps and unlatched the door with bated breath. It was half-past eleven, and he wondered how long he would have to wait for the well-wisher to descend. He could not help chuckling as he made his preparations, remembering an occasion at college somewhat similar in setting though far less serious in purpose. First he took off his shoes, laying them carefully to one side where he could find them again in a hurry. Then, choosing a banister about six feet from the bottom of the stairs he attached one end of the wire tightly to its base and spread the slack in a large loop over two of the stair treads. The remaining end of the wire he passed out through the banisters, twisting it into a small loop so that he could pull it easily. Then he turned out the hall gas and sat down in the dark to wait events. He sat for a long time, in some nervousness lest the pug dog might come prowling and find him. He was startled by a lady in a dressing gown--perhaps Mrs. J. F. Smith--who emerged from a ground-floor room passed very close to him in the dark, and muttered upstairs. He twitched his noose out of the way just in time. Presently, however, his patience was rewarded. He heard a door squeak above, and then the groaning of the staircase as someone descended slowly. He relaid his trap and waited, smiling to himself. A clock somewhere in the house was chiming twelve as the man came groping down the last flight, feeling his way in the dark. Aubrey heard him swearing under his breath. At the precise moment, when both his victim's feet were within the loop, Aubrey gave the wire a gigantic tug. The man fell like a safe, crashing against the banisters and landing in a sprawl on the floor. It was a terrific fall, and shook the house. He lay there groaning and cursing. Barely retaining his laughter, Aubrey struck a match and held it over the sprawling figure. The man lay with his face twisted against one out-spread arm, but the beard was unmistakable. It was the assistant chef again, and he seemed partly unconscious. "Burnt hair is a grand restorative," said Aubrey to himself, and applied the match to the bush of beard. He singed off a couple of inches of it with intense delight, and laid his carnations on the head of the stricken one. Then, hearing stirrings in the basement, he gathered up his wire and shoes and fled upstairs. He gained his room roaring with inward mirth, but entered cautiously, fearing some trap. Save for a strong tincture of cigar smoke, everything seemed correct. Listening at his door he heard Mrs. Schiller exclaiming shrilly in the hall, assisted by yappings from the pug. Doors upstairs were opened, and questions were called out. He heard guttural groans from the bearded one, mingled with oaths and some angry remark about having fallen downstairs. The pug, frenzied with excitement, yelled insanely. A female voice--possibly Mrs. J. F. Smith--cried out "What's that smell of burning?" Someone else said, "They're burning feathers under his nose to bring him to." "Yes, Hun's feathers," chuckled Aubrey to himself. He locked his door, and sat down by the window with his opera glasses. Chapter IX Again the Narrative is Retarded Roger had spent a quiet evening in the bookshop. Sitting at his desk under a fog of tobacco, he had honestly intended to do some writing on the twelfth chapter of his great work on bookselling. This chapter was to be an (alas, entirely conjectural) "Address Delivered by a Bookseller on Being Conferred the Honorary Degree of Doctor of Letters by a Leading University," and it presented so many alluring possibilities that Roger's mind always wandered from the paper into entranced visions of his imagined scene. He loved to build up in fancy the flattering details of that fine ceremony when bookselling would at last be properly recognized as one of the learned professions. He could see the great auditorium, filled with cultivated people: men with Emersonian profiles, ladies whispering behind their fluttering programmes. He could see the academic beadle, proctor, dean (or whatever he is, Roger was a little doubtful) pronouncing the august words of presentation-- A man who, in season and out of season, forgetting private gain for public weal, has laboured with Promethean and sacrificial ardour to instil the love of reasonable letters into countless thousands; to whom, and to whose colleagues, amid the perishable caducity of human affairs, is largely due the pullulation of literary taste; in honouring whom we seek to honour the noble and self-effacing profession of which he is so representative a member---- Then he could see the modest bookseller, somewhat clammy in his extremities and lost within his academic robe and hood, nervously fidgeting his mortar-board, haled forward by ushers, and tottering rubescent before the chancellor, provost, president (or whoever it might be) who hands out the diploma. Then (in Roger's vision) he could see the garlanded bibliopole turning to the expectant audience, giving his trailing gown a deft rearward kick as the ladies do on the stage, and uttering, without hesitation or embarrassment, with due interpolation of graceful pleasantry, that learned and unlaboured discourse on the delights of bookishness that he had often dreamed of. Then he could see the ensuing reception: the distinguished savants crowding round; the plates of macaroons, the cups of untasted tea; the ladies twittering, "Now there's something I want to ask you--why are there so many statues to generals, admirals, parsons, doctors, statesmen, scientists, artists, and authors, but no statues to booksellers?" Contemplation of this glittering scene always lured Roger into fantastic dreams. Ever since he had travelled country roads, some years before, selling books from a van drawn by a fat white horse, he had nourished a secret hope of some day founding a Parnassus on Wheels Corporation which would own a fleet of these vans and send them out into the rural byways where bookstores are unknown. He loved to imagine a great map of New York State, with the daily location of each travelling Parnassus marked by a coloured pin. He dreamed of himself, sitting in some vast central warehouse of second-hand books, poring over his map like a military chief of staff and forwarding cases of literary ammunition to various bases where his vans would re-stock. His idea was that his travelling salesmen could be recruited largely from college professors, parsons, and newspaper men, who were weary of their thankless tasks, and would welcome an opportunity to get out on the road. One of his hopes was that he might interest Mr. Chapman in this superb scheme, and he had a vision of the day when the shares of the Parnassus on Wheels Corporation would pay a handsome dividend and be much sought after by serious investors. These thoughts turned his mind toward his brother-in-law Andrew McGill, the author of several engaging books on the joys of country living, who dwells at the Sabine Farm in the green elbow of a Connecticut valley. The original Parnassus, a quaint old blue wagon in which Roger had lived and journeyed and sold books over several thousand miles of country roads in the days before his marriage, was now housed in Andrew's barn. Peg, his fat white horse, had lodging there also. It occurred to Roger that he owed Andrew a letter, and putting aside his notes for the bookseller's collegiate oration, he began to write: THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 163 Gissing Street, Brooklyn, November 30, 1918. MY DEAR ANDREW: It is scandalous not to have thanked you sooner for the annual cask of cider, which has given us even more than the customary pleasure. This has been an autumn when I have been hard put to it to keep up with my own thoughts, and I've written no letters at all. Like everyone else I am thinking constantly of this new peace that has marvellously come upon us. I trust we may have statesmen who will be able to turn it to the benefit of humanity. I wish there could be an international peace conference of booksellers, for (you will smile at this) my own conviction is that the future happiness of the world depends in no small measure on them and on the librarians. I wonder what a German bookseller is like? I've been reading The Education of Henry Adams and wish he might have lived long enough to give us his thoughts on the War. I fear it would have bowled him over. He thought that this is not a world "that sensitive and timid natures can regard without a shudder." What would he have said of the four-year shambles we have watched with sickened hearts? You remember my favourite poem--old George Herbert's Church Porch--where he says-- By all means use sometimes to be alone; Salute thyself; see what thy soul doth wear; Dare to look in thy chest, for 'tis thine own, And tumble up and down what thou find'st there-- Well, I've been tumbling my thoughts up and down a good deal. Melancholy, I suppose, is the curse of the thinking classes; but I confess my soul wears a great uneasiness these days! The sudden and amazing turnover in human affairs, dramatic beyond anything in history, already seems to be taken as a matter of course. My great fear is that humanity will forget the atrocious sufferings of the war, which have never been told. I am hoping and praying that men like Philip Gibbs may tell us what they really saw. You will not agree with me on what I am about to say, for I know you as a stubborn Republican; but I thank fortune that Wilson is going to the Peace Conference. I've been mulling over one of my favourite books--it lies beside me as I write--Cromwell's Letters and Speeches, edited by Carlyle, with what Carlyle amusingly calls "Elucidations." (Carlyle is not very good at "elucidating" anything!) I have heard somewhere or other that this is one of Wilson's favourite books, and indeed, there is much of the Cromwell in him. With what a grim, covenanting zeal he took up the sword when at last it was forced into his hand! And I have been thinking that what he will say to the Peace Conference will smack strongly of what old Oliver used to say to Parliament in 1657 and 1658--"If we will have Peace without a worm in it, lay we foundations of Justice and Righteousness." What makes Wilson so irritating to the unthoughtful is that he operates exclusively upon reason, not upon passion. He contradicts Kipling's famous lines, which apply to most men-- Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act. In this instance, I think, Reason is going to win. I feel the whole current of the world setting in that direction. It's quaint to think of old Woodrow, a kind of Cromwell-Wordsworth, going over to do his bit among the diplomatic shell-craters. What I'm waiting for is the day when he'll get back into private life and write a book about it. There's a job, if you like, for a man who might reasonably be supposed to be pretty tired in body and soul! When that book comes out I'll spend the rest of my life in selling it. I ask nothing better! Speaking of Wordsworth, I've often wondered whether Woodrow hasn't got some poems concealed somewhere among his papers! I've always imagined that he may have written poems on the sly. And by the way, you needn't make fun of me for being so devoted to George Herbert. Do you realize that two of the most familiar quotations in our language come from his pen, viz.: Wouldst thou both eat thy cake, and have it? and Dare to be true: nothing can need a ly; A fault, which needs it most, grows two thereby. Forgive this tedious sermon! My mind has been so tumbled up and down this autumn that I am in a queer state of mingled melancholy and exaltation. You know how much I live in and for books. Well, I have a curious feeling, a kind of premonition that there are great books coming out of this welter of human hopes and anguishes, perhaps A book in which the tempest-shaken soul of the race will speak out as it never has before. The Bible, you know, is rather a disappointment: it has never done for humanity what it should have done. I wonder why? Walt Whitman is going to do a great deal, but he is not quite what I mean. There is something coming--I don't know just what! I thank God I am a bookseller, trafficking in the dreams and beauties and curiosities of humanity rather than some mere huckster of merchandise. But how helpless we all are when we try to tell what goes on within us! I found this in one of Lafcadio Hearn's letters the other day--I marked the passage for you Baudelaire has a touching poem about an albatross, which you would like--describing the poet's soul superb in its own free azure--but helpless, insulted, ugly, clumsy when striving to walk on common earth--or rather, on a deck, where sailors torment it with tobacco pipes, etc. You can imagine what evenings I have here among my shelves, now the long dark nights are come! Of course until ten o'clock, when I shut up shop, I am constantly interrupted--as I have been during this letter, once to sell a copy of Helen's Babies and once to sell The Ballad of Reading Gaol, so you can see how varied are my clients' tastes! But later on, after we have had our evening cocoa and Helen has gone to bed, I prowl about the place, dipping into this and that, fuddling myself with speculation. How clear and bright the stream of the mind flows in those late hours, after all the sediment and floating trash of the day has drained off! Sometimes I seem to coast the very shore of Beauty or Truth, and hear the surf breaking on those shining sands. Then some offshore wind of weariness or prejudice bears me away again. Have you ever come across Andreyev's Confessions of a Little Man During Great Days? One of the honest books of the War. The Little Man ends his confession thus-- My anger has left me, my sadness returned, and once more the tears flow. Whom can I curse, whom can I judge, when we are all alike unfortunate? Suffering is universal; hands are outstretched to each other, and when they touch . . . the great solution will come. My heart is aglow, and I stretch out my hand and cry, "Come, let us join hands! I love you, I love you!" And of course, as soon as one puts one's self in that frame of mind someone comes along and picks your pocket. . . . I suppose we must teach ourselves to be too proud to mind having our pockets picked! Did it ever occur to you that the world is really governed by BOOKS? The course of this country in the War, for instance, has been largely determined by the books Wilson has read since he first began to think! If we could have a list of the principal books he has read since the War began, how interesting it would be. Here's something I'm just copying out to put up on my bulletin board for my customers to ponder. It was written by Charles Sorley, a young Englishman who was killed in France in 1915. He was only twenty years old-- TO GERMANY You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed, And no man claimed the conquest of your land. But gropers both through fields of thought confined We stumble and we do not understand. You only saw your future bigly planned, And we, the tapering paths of our own mind, And in each other's dearest ways we stand, And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind. When it is peace, then we may view again With new-won eyes each other's truer form And wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warm We'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain, When it is peace. But until peace, the storm The darkness and the thunder and the rain. Isn't that noble? You see what I am dumbly groping for--some way of thinking about the War that will make it seem (to future ages) a purification for humanity rather than a mere blackness of stinking cinders and tortured flesh and men shot to ribbons in marshes of blood and sewage. Out of such unspeakable desolation men MUST rise to some new conception of national neighbourhood. I hear so much apprehension that Germany won't be punished sufficiently for her crime. But how can any punishment be devised or imposed for such a huge panorama of sorrow? I think she has already punished herself horribly, and will continue to do so. My prayer is that what we have gone through will startle the world into some new realization of the sanctity of life--all life, animal as well as human. Don't you find that a visit to a zoo can humble and astound you with all that amazing and grotesque variety of living energy? What is it that we find in every form of life? Desire of some sort--some unexplained motive power that impels even the smallest insect on its queer travels. You must have watched some infinitesimal red spider on a fence rail, bustling along--why and whither? Who knows? And when you come to man, what a chaos of hungers and impulses keep thrusting him through his cycle of quaint tasks! And in every human heart you find some sorrow, some frustration, some lurking pang. I often think of Lafcadio Hearn's story of his Japanese cook. Hearn was talking of the Japanese habit of not showing their emotions on their faces. His cook was a smiling, healthy, agreeable-looking young fellow whose face was always cheerful. Then one day, by chance, Hearn happened to look through a hole in the wall and saw his cook alone. His face was not the same face. It was thin and drawn and showed strange lines worn by old hardships or sufferings. Hearn thought to himself, "He will look just like that when he is dead." He went into the kitchen to see him, and instantly the cook was all changed, young and happy again. Never again did Hearn see that face of trouble; but he knew the man wore it when he was alone. Don't you think there is a kind of parable there for the race as a whole? Have you ever met a man without wondering what shining sorrows he hides from the world, what contrast between vision and accomplishment torments him? Behind every smiling mask is there not some cryptic grimace of pain? Henry Adams puts it tersely. He says the human mind appears suddenly and inexplicably out of some unknown and unimaginable void. It passes half its known life in the mental chaos of sleep. Even when awake it is a victim of its own ill-adjustment, of disease, of age, of external suggestion, of nature's compulsions; it doubts its own sensations and trusts only in instruments and averages. After sixty years or so of growing astonishment the mind wakes to find itself looking blankly into the void of death. And, as Adams says, that it should profess itself pleased by this performance is all that the highest rules of good breeding can ask. That the mind should actually be satisfied would prove that it exists only as idiocy! I hope that you will write to tell me along what curves your mind is moving. For my own part I feel that we are on the verge of amazing things. Long ago I fell back on books as the only permanent consolers. They are the one stainless and unimpeachable achievement of the human race. It saddens me to think that I shall have to die with thousands of books unread that would have given me noble and unblemished happiness. I will tell you a secret. I have never read King Lear, and have purposely refrained from doing so. If I were ever very ill I would only need to say to myself "You can't die yet, you haven't read Lear." That would bring me round, I know it would. You see, books are the answer to all our perplexities! Henry Adams grinds his teeth at his inability to understand the universe. The best he can do is to suggest a "law of acceleration," which seems to mean that Nature is hustling man along at an ever-increasing rate so that he will either solve all her problems or else die of fever in the effort. But Adams' candid portrait of a mind grappling helplessly with its riddles is so triumphantly delightful that one forgets the futility of the struggle in the accuracy of the picture. Man is unconquerable because he can make even his helplessness so entertaining. His motto seems to be "Even though He slay me, yet will I make fun of Him!" Yes, books are man's supreme triumph, for they gather up and transmit all other triumphs. As Walter de la Mare writes, "How uncomprehendingly must an angel from heaven smile on a poor human sitting engrossed in a romance: angled upon his hams, motionless in his chair, spectacles on nose, his two feet as close together as the flukes of a merman's tail, only his strange eyes stirring in his time-worn face." Well, I've been scribbling away all this time and haven't given you any news whatever. Helen came back the other day from a visit to Boston where she enjoyed herself greatly. To-night she has gone out to the movies with a young protegee of ours, Miss Titania Chapman, an engaging damsel whom we have taken in as an apprentice bookseller. It's a quaint idea, done at the request of her father, Mr. Chapman, the proprietor of Chapman's Daintybits which you see advertised everywhere. He is a great booklover, and is very eager to have the zeal transmitted to his daughter. So you can imagine my glee to have a neophyte of my own to preach books at! Also it will enable me to get away from the shop a little more. I had a telephone call from Philadelphia this afternoon asking me to go over there on Monday evening to make an estimate of the value of a private collection that is to be sold. I was rather flattered because I can't imagine how they got hold of my name. Forgive this long, incoherent scrawl. How did you like Erewhon? It's pretty near closing time and I must say grace over the day's accounts. Yours ever, ROGER MIFFLIN. Chapter X Roger Raids the Ice-Box Roger had just put Carlyle's Cromwell back in its proper place in the History alcove when Helen and Titania returned from the movies. Bock, who had been dozing under his master's chair, rose politely and wagged a deferential tail. "I do think Bock has the darlingest manners," said Titania. "Yes," said Helen, "it's really a marvel that his wagging muscles aren't all worn out, he has abused them so." "Well," said Roger, "did you have a good time?" "An adorable time!" cried Titania, with a face and voice so sparkling that two musty habitues of the shop popped their heads out of the alcoves marked ESSAYS and THEOLOGY and peered in amazement. One of these even went so far as to purchase the copy of Leigh Hunt's Wishing Cap Papers he had been munching through, in order to have an excuse to approach the group and satisfy his bewildered eyes. When Miss Chapman took the book and wrapped it up for him, his astonishment was made complete. Unconscious that she was actually creating business, Titania resumed. "We met your friend Mr. Gilbert on the street," she said, "and he went to the movies with us. He says he's coming in on Monday to fix the furnace while you're away." "Well," said Roger, "these advertising agencies are certainly enterprising, aren't they? Think of sending a man over to attend to my furnace, just on the slim chance of getting my advertising account." "Did you have a quiet evening?" said Helen. "I spent most of the time writing to Andrew," said Roger. "One amusing thing happened, though. I actually sold that copy of Philip Dru." "No!" cried Helen. "A fact," said Roger. "A man

two

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

"friend and well-wisher" over the telephone. The other said something in German in a hoarse whisper. Having studied that language in college, Aubrey caught only two words--Thur and Schlussel, which he knew meant door and key. "Very well," said the first voice. "That will be all right, but we must act to-night. The damned thing must be finished to-morrow. Your idiotic stupidity--" Again followed some gargling in German, in a rapid undertone too fluent for Aubrey's grasp. The latch of the alley gate clicked once more, and his hand was on his revolver; but in a moment the two had passed on down the alley. The young advertising agent stood against the fence in silent horror, his heart bumping heavily. His hands were clammy, his feet seemed to have grown larger and taken root. What damnable complot was this? A sultry wave of anger passed over him. This bland, slick, talkative bookseller, was he arranging some blackmailing scheme to kidnap the girl and wring blood-money out of her father? And in league with Germans, too, the scoundrel! What an asinine thing for old Chapman to send an unprotected girl over here into the wilds of Brooklyn . . . and in the meantime, what was he to do? Patrol the back yard all night? No, the friend and well-wisher had said "We must find some other way." Besides, Aubrey remembered something having been said about the old terrier sleeping in the kitchen. He felt sure Bock would not let any German in at night without raising the roof. Probably the best way would be to watch the front of the shop. In miserable perplexity he waited several minutes until the two Germans would be well out of earshot. Then he unbolted the gate and stole up the alley on tiptoe, in the opposite direction. It led into Wordsworth Avenue just behind Weintraub's drug store, over the rear of which hung the great girders and trestles of the "L" station, a kind of Swiss chalet straddling the street on stilts. He thought it prudent to make a detour, so he turned east on Wordsworth Avenue until he reached Whittier Street, then sauntered easily down Whittier for a block, spying sharply for evidences of pursuit. Brooklyn was putting out its lights for the night, and all was quiet. He turned into Hazlitt Street and so back onto Gissing, noticing now that the Haunted Bookshop lights were off. It was nearly eleven o'clock: the last audience was filing out of the movie theatre, where two workmen were already perched on ladders taking down the Tarzan electric light sign, to substitute the illuminated lettering for the next feature. After some debate he decided that the best thing to do was to return to his room at Mrs. Schiller's, from which he could keep a sharp watch on the front door of the bookshop. By good fortune there was a lamp post almost directly in front of Mifflin's house, which cast plenty of light on the little sunken area before the door. With his opera glasses he could see from his bedroom whatever went on. As he crossed the street he cast his eyes upward at the facade of Mrs. Schiller's house. Two windows in the fourth storey were lit, and the gas burned minutely in the downstairs hall, elsewhere all was dark. And then, as he glanced at the window of his own chamber, where the curtain was still tucked back behind the pane, he noticed a curious thing. A small point of rosy light glowed, faded, and glowed again by the window. Someone was smoking a cigar in his room. Aubrey continued walking in even stride, as though he had seen nothing. Returning down the street, on the opposite side, he verified his first glance. The light was still there, and he judged himself not far out in assuming the smoker to be the friend and well-wisher or one of his gang. He had suspected the other man in the alley of being Weintraub, but he could not be sure. A cautious glance through the window of the drug store revealed Weintraub at his prescription counter. Aubrey determined to get even with the guttural gentleman who was waiting for him, certainly with no affectionate intent. He thanked the good fortune that had led him to stick the book cover in his overcoat pocket when leaving Mrs. Schiller's. Evidently, for reasons unknown, someone was very anxious to get hold of it. An idea occurred to him as he passed the little florist's shop, which was just closing. He entered and bought a dozen white carnations, and then, as if by an afterthought, asked "Have you any wire?" The florist produced a spool of the slender, tough wire that is sometimes used to nip the buds of expensive roses, to prevent them from blossoming too quickly. "Let me have about eight feet," said Aubrey. "I need some to-night and I guess the hardware stores are all closed." With this he returned to Mrs. Schiller's, picking his way carefully and close to the houses so as to be out of sight from the upstairs windows. He climbed the steps and unlatched the door with bated breath. It was half-past eleven, and he wondered how long he would have to wait for the well-wisher to descend. He could not help chuckling as he made his preparations, remembering an occasion at college somewhat similar in setting though far less serious in purpose. First he took off his shoes, laying them carefully to one side where he could find them again in a hurry. Then, choosing a banister about six feet from the bottom of the stairs he attached one end of the wire tightly to its base and spread the slack in a large loop over two of the stair treads. The remaining end of the wire he passed out through the banisters, twisting it into a small loop so that he could pull it easily. Then he turned out the hall gas and sat down in the dark to wait events. He sat for a long time, in some nervousness lest the pug dog might come prowling and find him. He was startled by a lady in a dressing gown--perhaps Mrs. J. F. Smith--who emerged from a ground-floor room passed very close to him in the dark, and muttered upstairs. He twitched his noose out of the way just in time. Presently, however, his patience was rewarded. He heard a door squeak above, and then the groaning of the staircase as someone descended slowly. He relaid his trap and waited, smiling to himself. A clock somewhere in the house was chiming twelve as the man came groping down the last flight, feeling his way in the dark. Aubrey heard him swearing under his breath. At the precise moment, when both his victim's feet were within the loop, Aubrey gave the wire a gigantic tug. The man fell like a safe, crashing against the banisters and landing in a sprawl on the floor. It was a terrific fall, and shook the house. He lay there groaning and cursing. Barely retaining his laughter, Aubrey struck a match and held it over the sprawling figure. The man lay with his face twisted against one out-spread arm, but the beard was unmistakable. It was the assistant chef again, and he seemed partly unconscious. "Burnt hair is a grand restorative," said Aubrey to himself, and applied the match to the bush of beard. He singed off a couple of inches of it with intense delight, and laid his carnations on the head of the stricken one. Then, hearing stirrings in the basement, he gathered up his wire and shoes and fled upstairs. He gained his room roaring with inward mirth, but entered cautiously, fearing some trap. Save for a strong tincture of cigar smoke, everything seemed correct. Listening at his door he heard Mrs. Schiller exclaiming shrilly in the hall, assisted by yappings from the pug. Doors upstairs were opened, and questions were called out. He heard guttural groans from the bearded one, mingled with oaths and some angry remark about having fallen downstairs. The pug, frenzied with excitement, yelled insanely. A female voice--possibly Mrs. J. F. Smith--cried out "What's that smell of burning?" Someone else said, "They're burning feathers under his nose to bring him to." "Yes, Hun's feathers," chuckled Aubrey to himself. He locked his door, and sat down by the window with his opera glasses. Chapter IX Again the Narrative is Retarded Roger had spent a quiet evening in the bookshop. Sitting at his desk under a fog of tobacco, he had honestly intended to do some writing on the twelfth chapter of his great work on bookselling. This chapter was to be an (alas, entirely conjectural) "Address Delivered by a Bookseller on Being Conferred the Honorary Degree of Doctor of Letters by a Leading University," and it presented so many alluring possibilities that Roger's mind always wandered from the paper into entranced visions of his imagined scene. He loved to build up in fancy the flattering details of that fine ceremony when bookselling would at last be properly recognized as one of the learned professions. He could see the great auditorium, filled with cultivated people: men with Emersonian profiles, ladies whispering behind their fluttering programmes. He could see the academic beadle, proctor, dean (or whatever he is, Roger was a little doubtful) pronouncing the august words of presentation-- A man who, in season and out of season, forgetting private gain for public weal, has laboured with Promethean and sacrificial ardour to instil the love of reasonable letters into countless thousands; to whom, and to whose colleagues, amid the perishable caducity of human affairs, is largely due the pullulation of literary taste; in honouring whom we seek to honour the noble and self-effacing profession of which he is so representative a member---- Then he could see the modest bookseller, somewhat clammy in his extremities and lost within his academic robe and hood, nervously fidgeting his mortar-board, haled forward by ushers, and tottering rubescent before the chancellor, provost, president (or whoever it might be) who hands out the diploma. Then (in Roger's vision) he could see the garlanded bibliopole turning to the expectant audience, giving his trailing gown a deft rearward kick as the ladies do on the stage, and uttering, without hesitation or embarrassment, with due interpolation of graceful pleasantry, that learned and unlaboured discourse on the delights of bookishness that he had often dreamed of. Then he could see the ensuing reception: the distinguished savants crowding round; the plates of macaroons, the cups of untasted tea; the ladies twittering, "Now there's something I want to ask you--why are there so many statues to generals, admirals, parsons, doctors, statesmen, scientists, artists, and authors, but no statues to booksellers?" Contemplation of this glittering scene always lured Roger into fantastic dreams. Ever since he had travelled country roads, some years before, selling books from a van drawn by a fat white horse, he had nourished a secret hope of some day founding a Parnassus on Wheels Corporation which would own a fleet of these vans and send them out into the rural byways where bookstores are unknown. He loved to imagine a great map of New York State, with the daily location of each travelling Parnassus marked by a coloured pin. He dreamed of himself, sitting in some vast central warehouse of second-hand books, poring over his map like a military chief of staff and forwarding cases of literary ammunition to various bases where his vans would re-stock. His idea was that his travelling salesmen could be recruited largely from college professors, parsons, and newspaper men, who were weary of their thankless tasks, and would welcome an opportunity to get out on the road. One of his hopes was that he might interest Mr. Chapman in this superb scheme, and he had a vision of the day when the shares of the Parnassus on Wheels Corporation would pay a handsome dividend and be much sought after by serious investors. These thoughts turned his mind toward his brother-in-law Andrew McGill, the author of several engaging books on the joys of country living, who dwells at the Sabine Farm in the green elbow of a Connecticut valley. The original Parnassus, a quaint old blue wagon in which Roger had lived and journeyed and sold books over several thousand miles of country roads in the days before his marriage, was now housed in Andrew's barn. Peg, his fat white horse, had lodging there also. It occurred to Roger that he owed Andrew a letter, and putting aside his notes for the bookseller's collegiate oration, he began to write: THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 163 Gissing Street, Brooklyn, November 30, 1918. MY DEAR ANDREW: It is scandalous not to have thanked you sooner for the annual cask of cider, which has given us even more than the customary pleasure. This has been an autumn when I have been hard put to it to keep up with my own thoughts, and I've written no letters at all. Like everyone else I am thinking constantly of this new peace that has marvellously come upon us. I trust we may have statesmen who will be able to turn it to the benefit of humanity. I wish there could be an international peace conference of booksellers, for (you will smile at this) my own conviction is that the future happiness of the world depends in no small measure on them and on the librarians. I wonder what a German bookseller is like? I've been reading The Education of Henry Adams and wish he might have lived long enough to give us his thoughts on the War. I fear it would have bowled him over. He thought that this is not a world "that sensitive and timid natures can regard without a shudder." What would he have said of the four-year shambles we have watched with sickened hearts? You remember my favourite poem--old George Herbert's Church Porch--where he says-- By all means use sometimes to be alone; Salute thyself; see what thy soul doth wear; Dare to look in thy chest, for 'tis thine own, And tumble up and down what thou find'st there-- Well, I've been tumbling my thoughts up and down a good deal. Melancholy, I suppose, is the curse of the thinking classes; but I confess my soul wears a great uneasiness these days! The sudden and amazing turnover in human affairs, dramatic beyond anything in history, already seems to be taken as a matter of course. My great fear is that humanity will forget the atrocious sufferings of the war, which have never been told. I am hoping and praying that men like Philip Gibbs may tell us what they really saw. You will not agree with me on what I am about to say, for I know you as a stubborn Republican; but I thank fortune that Wilson is going to the Peace Conference. I've been mulling over one of my favourite books--it lies beside me as I write--Cromwell's Letters and Speeches, edited by Carlyle, with what Carlyle amusingly calls "Elucidations." (Carlyle is not very good at "elucidating" anything!) I have heard somewhere or other that this is one of Wilson's favourite books, and indeed, there is much of the Cromwell in him. With what a grim, covenanting zeal he took up the sword when at last it was forced into his hand! And I have been thinking that what he will say to the Peace Conference will smack strongly of what old Oliver used to say to Parliament in 1657 and 1658--"If we will have Peace without a worm in it, lay we foundations of Justice and Righteousness." What makes Wilson so irritating to the unthoughtful is that he operates exclusively upon reason, not upon passion. He contradicts Kipling's famous lines, which apply to most men-- Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act. In this instance, I think, Reason is going to win. I feel the whole current of the world setting in that direction. It's quaint to think of old Woodrow, a kind of Cromwell-Wordsworth, going over to do his bit among the diplomatic shell-craters. What I'm waiting for is the day when he'll get back into private life and write a book about it. There's a job, if you like, for a man who might reasonably be supposed to be pretty tired in body and soul! When that book comes out I'll spend the rest of my life in selling it. I ask nothing better! Speaking of Wordsworth, I've often wondered whether Woodrow hasn't got some poems concealed somewhere among his papers! I've always imagined that he may have written poems on the sly. And by the way, you needn't make fun of me for being so devoted to George Herbert. Do you realize that two of the most familiar quotations in our language come from his pen, viz.: Wouldst thou both eat thy cake, and have it? and Dare to be true: nothing can need a ly; A fault, which needs it most, grows two thereby. Forgive this tedious sermon! My mind has been so tumbled up and down this autumn that I am in a queer state of mingled melancholy and exaltation. You know how much I live in and for books. Well, I have a curious feeling, a kind of premonition that there are great books coming out of this welter of human hopes and anguishes, perhaps A book in which the tempest-shaken soul of the race will speak out as it never has before. The Bible, you know, is rather a disappointment: it has never done for humanity what it should have done. I wonder why? Walt Whitman is going to do a great deal, but he is not quite what I mean. There is something coming--I don't know just what! I thank God I am a bookseller, trafficking in the dreams and beauties and curiosities of humanity rather than some mere huckster of merchandise. But how helpless we all are when we try to tell what goes on within us! I found this in one of Lafcadio Hearn's letters the other day--I marked the passage for you Baudelaire has a touching poem about an albatross, which you would like--describing the poet's soul superb in its own free azure--but helpless, insulted, ugly, clumsy when striving to walk on common earth--or rather, on a deck, where sailors torment it with tobacco pipes, etc. You can imagine what evenings I have here among my shelves, now the long dark nights are come! Of course until ten o'clock, when I shut up shop, I am constantly interrupted--as I have been during this letter, once to sell a copy of Helen's Babies and once to sell The Ballad of Reading Gaol, so you can see how varied are my clients' tastes! But later on, after we have had our evening cocoa and Helen has gone to bed, I prowl about the place, dipping into this and that, fuddling myself with speculation. How clear and bright the stream of the mind flows in those late hours, after all the sediment and floating trash of the day has drained off! Sometimes I seem to coast the very shore of Beauty or Truth, and hear the surf breaking on those shining sands. Then some offshore wind of weariness or prejudice bears me away again. Have you ever come across Andreyev's Confessions of a Little Man During Great Days? One of the honest books of the War. The Little Man ends his confession thus-- My anger has left me, my sadness returned, and once more the tears flow. Whom can I curse, whom can I judge, when we are all alike unfortunate? Suffering is universal; hands are outstretched to each other, and when they touch . . . the great solution will come. My heart is aglow, and I stretch out my hand and cry, "Come, let us join hands! I love you, I love you!" And of course, as soon as one puts one's self in that frame of mind someone comes along and picks your pocket. . . . I suppose we must teach ourselves to be too proud to mind having our pockets picked! Did it ever occur to you that the world is really governed by BOOKS? The course of this country in the War, for instance, has been largely determined by the books Wilson has read since he first began to think! If we could have a list of the principal books he has read since the War began, how interesting it would be. Here's something I'm just copying out to put up on my bulletin board for my customers to ponder. It was written by Charles Sorley, a young Englishman who was killed in France in 1915. He was only twenty years old-- TO GERMANY You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed, And no man claimed the conquest of your land. But gropers both through fields of thought confined We stumble and we do not understand. You only saw your future bigly planned, And we, the tapering paths of our own mind, And in each other's dearest ways we stand, And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind. When it is peace, then we may view again With new-won eyes each other's truer form And wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warm We'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain, When it is peace. But until peace, the storm The darkness and the thunder and the rain. Isn't that noble? You see what I am dumbly groping for--some way of thinking about the War that will make it seem (to future ages) a purification for humanity rather than a mere blackness of stinking cinders and tortured flesh and men shot to ribbons in marshes of blood and sewage. Out of such unspeakable desolation men MUST rise to some new conception of national neighbourhood. I hear so much apprehension that Germany won't be punished sufficiently for her crime. But how can any punishment be devised or imposed for such a huge panorama of sorrow? I think she has already punished herself horribly, and will continue to do so. My prayer is that what we have gone through will startle the world into some new realization of the sanctity of life--all life, animal as well as human. Don't you find that a visit to a zoo can humble and astound you with all that amazing and grotesque variety of living energy? What is it that we find in every form of life? Desire of some sort--some unexplained motive power that impels even the smallest insect on its queer travels. You must have watched some infinitesimal red spider on a fence rail, bustling along--why and whither? Who knows? And when you come to man, what a chaos of hungers and impulses keep thrusting him through his cycle of quaint tasks! And in every human heart you find some sorrow, some frustration, some lurking pang. I often think of Lafcadio Hearn's story of his Japanese cook. Hearn was talking of the Japanese habit of not showing their emotions on their faces. His cook was a smiling, healthy, agreeable-looking young fellow whose face was always cheerful. Then one day, by chance, Hearn happened to look through a hole in the wall and saw his cook alone. His face was not the same face. It was thin and drawn and showed strange lines worn by old hardships or sufferings. Hearn thought to himself, "He will look just like that when he is dead." He went into the kitchen to see him, and instantly the cook was all changed, young and happy again. Never again did Hearn see that face of trouble; but he knew the man wore it when he was alone. Don't you think there is a kind of parable there for the race as a whole? Have you ever met a man without wondering what shining sorrows he hides from the world, what contrast between vision and accomplishment torments him? Behind every smiling mask is there not some cryptic grimace of pain? Henry Adams puts it tersely. He says the human mind appears suddenly and inexplicably out of some unknown and unimaginable void. It passes half its known life in the mental chaos of sleep. Even when awake it is a victim of its own ill-adjustment, of disease, of age, of external suggestion, of nature's compulsions; it doubts its own sensations and trusts only in instruments and averages. After sixty years or so of growing astonishment the mind wakes to find itself looking blankly into the void of death. And, as Adams says, that it should profess itself pleased by this performance is all that the highest rules of good breeding can ask. That the mind should actually be satisfied would prove that it exists only as idiocy! I hope that you will write to tell me along what curves your mind is moving. For my own part I feel that we are on the verge of amazing things. Long ago I fell back on books as the only permanent consolers. They are the one stainless and unimpeachable achievement of the human race. It saddens me to think that I shall have to die with thousands of books unread that would have given me noble and unblemished happiness. I will tell you a secret. I have never read King Lear, and have purposely refrained from doing so. If I were ever very ill I would only need to say to myself "You can't die yet, you haven't read Lear." That would bring me round, I know it would. You see, books are the answer to all our perplexities! Henry Adams grinds his teeth at his inability to understand the universe. The best he can do is to suggest a "law of acceleration," which seems to mean that Nature is hustling man along at an ever-increasing rate so that he will either solve all her problems or else die of fever in the effort. But Adams' candid portrait of a mind grappling helplessly with its riddles is so triumphantly delightful that one forgets the futility of the struggle in the accuracy of the picture. Man is unconquerable because he can make even his helplessness so entertaining. His motto seems to be "Even though He slay me, yet will I make fun of Him!" Yes, books are man's supreme triumph, for they gather up and transmit all other triumphs. As Walter de la Mare writes, "How uncomprehendingly must an angel from heaven smile on a poor human sitting engrossed in a romance: angled upon his hams, motionless in his chair, spectacles on nose, his two feet as close together as the flukes of a merman's tail, only his strange eyes stirring in his time-worn face." Well, I've been scribbling away all this time and haven't given you any news whatever. Helen came back the other day from a visit to Boston where she enjoyed herself greatly. To-night she has gone out to the movies with a young protegee of ours, Miss Titania Chapman, an engaging damsel whom we have taken in as an apprentice bookseller. It's a quaint idea, done at the request of her father, Mr. Chapman, the proprietor of Chapman's Daintybits which you see advertised everywhere. He is a great booklover, and is very eager to have the zeal transmitted to his daughter. So you can imagine my glee to have a neophyte of my own to preach books at! Also it will enable me to get away from the shop a little more. I had a telephone call from Philadelphia this afternoon asking me to go over there on Monday evening to make an estimate of the value of a private collection that is to be sold. I was rather flattered because I can't imagine how they got hold of my name. Forgive this long, incoherent scrawl. How did you like Erewhon? It's pretty near closing time and I must say grace over the day's accounts. Yours ever, ROGER MIFFLIN. Chapter X Roger Raids the Ice-Box Roger had just put Carlyle's Cromwell back in its proper place in the History alcove when Helen and Titania returned from the movies. Bock, who had been dozing under his master's chair, rose politely and wagged a deferential tail. "I do think Bock has the darlingest manners," said Titania. "Yes," said Helen, "it's really a marvel that his wagging muscles aren't all worn out, he has abused them so." "Well," said Roger, "did you have a good time?" "An adorable time!" cried Titania, with a face and voice so sparkling that two musty habitues of the shop popped their heads out of the alcoves marked ESSAYS and THEOLOGY and peered in amazement. One of these even went so far as to purchase the copy of Leigh Hunt's Wishing Cap Papers he had been munching through, in order to have an excuse to approach the group and satisfy his bewildered eyes. When Miss Chapman took the book and wrapped it up for him, his astonishment was made complete. Unconscious that she was actually creating business, Titania resumed. "We met your friend Mr. Gilbert on the street," she said, "and he went to the movies with us. He says he's coming in on Monday to fix the furnace while you're away." "Well," said Roger, "these advertising agencies are certainly enterprising, aren't they? Think of sending a man over to attend to my furnace, just on the slim chance of getting my advertising account." "Did you have a quiet evening?" said Helen. "I spent most of the time writing to Andrew," said Roger. "One amusing thing happened, though. I actually sold that copy of Philip Dru." "No!" cried Helen. "A fact," said Roger. "A man

remembering

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

"friend and well-wisher" over the telephone. The other said something in German in a hoarse whisper. Having studied that language in college, Aubrey caught only two words--Thur and Schlussel, which he knew meant door and key. "Very well," said the first voice. "That will be all right, but we must act to-night. The damned thing must be finished to-morrow. Your idiotic stupidity--" Again followed some gargling in German, in a rapid undertone too fluent for Aubrey's grasp. The latch of the alley gate clicked once more, and his hand was on his revolver; but in a moment the two had passed on down the alley. The young advertising agent stood against the fence in silent horror, his heart bumping heavily. His hands were clammy, his feet seemed to have grown larger and taken root. What damnable complot was this? A sultry wave of anger passed over him. This bland, slick, talkative bookseller, was he arranging some blackmailing scheme to kidnap the girl and wring blood-money out of her father? And in league with Germans, too, the scoundrel! What an asinine thing for old Chapman to send an unprotected girl over here into the wilds of Brooklyn . . . and in the meantime, what was he to do? Patrol the back yard all night? No, the friend and well-wisher had said "We must find some other way." Besides, Aubrey remembered something having been said about the old terrier sleeping in the kitchen. He felt sure Bock would not let any German in at night without raising the roof. Probably the best way would be to watch the front of the shop. In miserable perplexity he waited several minutes until the two Germans would be well out of earshot. Then he unbolted the gate and stole up the alley on tiptoe, in the opposite direction. It led into Wordsworth Avenue just behind Weintraub's drug store, over the rear of which hung the great girders and trestles of the "L" station, a kind of Swiss chalet straddling the street on stilts. He thought it prudent to make a detour, so he turned east on Wordsworth Avenue until he reached Whittier Street, then sauntered easily down Whittier for a block, spying sharply for evidences of pursuit. Brooklyn was putting out its lights for the night, and all was quiet. He turned into Hazlitt Street and so back onto Gissing, noticing now that the Haunted Bookshop lights were off. It was nearly eleven o'clock: the last audience was filing out of the movie theatre, where two workmen were already perched on ladders taking down the Tarzan electric light sign, to substitute the illuminated lettering for the next feature. After some debate he decided that the best thing to do was to return to his room at Mrs. Schiller's, from which he could keep a sharp watch on the front door of the bookshop. By good fortune there was a lamp post almost directly in front of Mifflin's house, which cast plenty of light on the little sunken area before the door. With his opera glasses he could see from his bedroom whatever went on. As he crossed the street he cast his eyes upward at the facade of Mrs. Schiller's house. Two windows in the fourth storey were lit, and the gas burned minutely in the downstairs hall, elsewhere all was dark. And then, as he glanced at the window of his own chamber, where the curtain was still tucked back behind the pane, he noticed a curious thing. A small point of rosy light glowed, faded, and glowed again by the window. Someone was smoking a cigar in his room. Aubrey continued walking in even stride, as though he had seen nothing. Returning down the street, on the opposite side, he verified his first glance. The light was still there, and he judged himself not far out in assuming the smoker to be the friend and well-wisher or one of his gang. He had suspected the other man in the alley of being Weintraub, but he could not be sure. A cautious glance through the window of the drug store revealed Weintraub at his prescription counter. Aubrey determined to get even with the guttural gentleman who was waiting for him, certainly with no affectionate intent. He thanked the good fortune that had led him to stick the book cover in his overcoat pocket when leaving Mrs. Schiller's. Evidently, for reasons unknown, someone was very anxious to get hold of it. An idea occurred to him as he passed the little florist's shop, which was just closing. He entered and bought a dozen white carnations, and then, as if by an afterthought, asked "Have you any wire?" The florist produced a spool of the slender, tough wire that is sometimes used to nip the buds of expensive roses, to prevent them from blossoming too quickly. "Let me have about eight feet," said Aubrey. "I need some to-night and I guess the hardware stores are all closed." With this he returned to Mrs. Schiller's, picking his way carefully and close to the houses so as to be out of sight from the upstairs windows. He climbed the steps and unlatched the door with bated breath. It was half-past eleven, and he wondered how long he would have to wait for the well-wisher to descend. He could not help chuckling as he made his preparations, remembering an occasion at college somewhat similar in setting though far less serious in purpose. First he took off his shoes, laying them carefully to one side where he could find them again in a hurry. Then, choosing a banister about six feet from the bottom of the stairs he attached one end of the wire tightly to its base and spread the slack in a large loop over two of the stair treads. The remaining end of the wire he passed out through the banisters, twisting it into a small loop so that he could pull it easily. Then he turned out the hall gas and sat down in the dark to wait events. He sat for a long time, in some nervousness lest the pug dog might come prowling and find him. He was startled by a lady in a dressing gown--perhaps Mrs. J. F. Smith--who emerged from a ground-floor room passed very close to him in the dark, and muttered upstairs. He twitched his noose out of the way just in time. Presently, however, his patience was rewarded. He heard a door squeak above, and then the groaning of the staircase as someone descended slowly. He relaid his trap and waited, smiling to himself. A clock somewhere in the house was chiming twelve as the man came groping down the last flight, feeling his way in the dark. Aubrey heard him swearing under his breath. At the precise moment, when both his victim's feet were within the loop, Aubrey gave the wire a gigantic tug. The man fell like a safe, crashing against the banisters and landing in a sprawl on the floor. It was a terrific fall, and shook the house. He lay there groaning and cursing. Barely retaining his laughter, Aubrey struck a match and held it over the sprawling figure. The man lay with his face twisted against one out-spread arm, but the beard was unmistakable. It was the assistant chef again, and he seemed partly unconscious. "Burnt hair is a grand restorative," said Aubrey to himself, and applied the match to the bush of beard. He singed off a couple of inches of it with intense delight, and laid his carnations on the head of the stricken one. Then, hearing stirrings in the basement, he gathered up his wire and shoes and fled upstairs. He gained his room roaring with inward mirth, but entered cautiously, fearing some trap. Save for a strong tincture of cigar smoke, everything seemed correct. Listening at his door he heard Mrs. Schiller exclaiming shrilly in the hall, assisted by yappings from the pug. Doors upstairs were opened, and questions were called out. He heard guttural groans from the bearded one, mingled with oaths and some angry remark about having fallen downstairs. The pug, frenzied with excitement, yelled insanely. A female voice--possibly Mrs. J. F. Smith--cried out "What's that smell of burning?" Someone else said, "They're burning feathers under his nose to bring him to." "Yes, Hun's feathers," chuckled Aubrey to himself. He locked his door, and sat down by the window with his opera glasses. Chapter IX Again the Narrative is Retarded Roger had spent a quiet evening in the bookshop. Sitting at his desk under a fog of tobacco, he had honestly intended to do some writing on the twelfth chapter of his great work on bookselling. This chapter was to be an (alas, entirely conjectural) "Address Delivered by a Bookseller on Being Conferred the Honorary Degree of Doctor of Letters by a Leading University," and it presented so many alluring possibilities that Roger's mind always wandered from the paper into entranced visions of his imagined scene. He loved to build up in fancy the flattering details of that fine ceremony when bookselling would at last be properly recognized as one of the learned professions. He could see the great auditorium, filled with cultivated people: men with Emersonian profiles, ladies whispering behind their fluttering programmes. He could see the academic beadle, proctor, dean (or whatever he is, Roger was a little doubtful) pronouncing the august words of presentation-- A man who, in season and out of season, forgetting private gain for public weal, has laboured with Promethean and sacrificial ardour to instil the love of reasonable letters into countless thousands; to whom, and to whose colleagues, amid the perishable caducity of human affairs, is largely due the pullulation of literary taste; in honouring whom we seek to honour the noble and self-effacing profession of which he is so representative a member---- Then he could see the modest bookseller, somewhat clammy in his extremities and lost within his academic robe and hood, nervously fidgeting his mortar-board, haled forward by ushers, and tottering rubescent before the chancellor, provost, president (or whoever it might be) who hands out the diploma. Then (in Roger's vision) he could see the garlanded bibliopole turning to the expectant audience, giving his trailing gown a deft rearward kick as the ladies do on the stage, and uttering, without hesitation or embarrassment, with due interpolation of graceful pleasantry, that learned and unlaboured discourse on the delights of bookishness that he had often dreamed of. Then he could see the ensuing reception: the distinguished savants crowding round; the plates of macaroons, the cups of untasted tea; the ladies twittering, "Now there's something I want to ask you--why are there so many statues to generals, admirals, parsons, doctors, statesmen, scientists, artists, and authors, but no statues to booksellers?" Contemplation of this glittering scene always lured Roger into fantastic dreams. Ever since he had travelled country roads, some years before, selling books from a van drawn by a fat white horse, he had nourished a secret hope of some day founding a Parnassus on Wheels Corporation which would own a fleet of these vans and send them out into the rural byways where bookstores are unknown. He loved to imagine a great map of New York State, with the daily location of each travelling Parnassus marked by a coloured pin. He dreamed of himself, sitting in some vast central warehouse of second-hand books, poring over his map like a military chief of staff and forwarding cases of literary ammunition to various bases where his vans would re-stock. His idea was that his travelling salesmen could be recruited largely from college professors, parsons, and newspaper men, who were weary of their thankless tasks, and would welcome an opportunity to get out on the road. One of his hopes was that he might interest Mr. Chapman in this superb scheme, and he had a vision of the day when the shares of the Parnassus on Wheels Corporation would pay a handsome dividend and be much sought after by serious investors. These thoughts turned his mind toward his brother-in-law Andrew McGill, the author of several engaging books on the joys of country living, who dwells at the Sabine Farm in the green elbow of a Connecticut valley. The original Parnassus, a quaint old blue wagon in which Roger had lived and journeyed and sold books over several thousand miles of country roads in the days before his marriage, was now housed in Andrew's barn. Peg, his fat white horse, had lodging there also. It occurred to Roger that he owed Andrew a letter, and putting aside his notes for the bookseller's collegiate oration, he began to write: THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 163 Gissing Street, Brooklyn, November 30, 1918. MY DEAR ANDREW: It is scandalous not to have thanked you sooner for the annual cask of cider, which has given us even more than the customary pleasure. This has been an autumn when I have been hard put to it to keep up with my own thoughts, and I've written no letters at all. Like everyone else I am thinking constantly of this new peace that has marvellously come upon us. I trust we may have statesmen who will be able to turn it to the benefit of humanity. I wish there could be an international peace conference of booksellers, for (you will smile at this) my own conviction is that the future happiness of the world depends in no small measure on them and on the librarians. I wonder what a German bookseller is like? I've been reading The Education of Henry Adams and wish he might have lived long enough to give us his thoughts on the War. I fear it would have bowled him over. He thought that this is not a world "that sensitive and timid natures can regard without a shudder." What would he have said of the four-year shambles we have watched with sickened hearts? You remember my favourite poem--old George Herbert's Church Porch--where he says-- By all means use sometimes to be alone; Salute thyself; see what thy soul doth wear; Dare to look in thy chest, for 'tis thine own, And tumble up and down what thou find'st there-- Well, I've been tumbling my thoughts up and down a good deal. Melancholy, I suppose, is the curse of the thinking classes; but I confess my soul wears a great uneasiness these days! The sudden and amazing turnover in human affairs, dramatic beyond anything in history, already seems to be taken as a matter of course. My great fear is that humanity will forget the atrocious sufferings of the war, which have never been told. I am hoping and praying that men like Philip Gibbs may tell us what they really saw. You will not agree with me on what I am about to say, for I know you as a stubborn Republican; but I thank fortune that Wilson is going to the Peace Conference. I've been mulling over one of my favourite books--it lies beside me as I write--Cromwell's Letters and Speeches, edited by Carlyle, with what Carlyle amusingly calls "Elucidations." (Carlyle is not very good at "elucidating" anything!) I have heard somewhere or other that this is one of Wilson's favourite books, and indeed, there is much of the Cromwell in him. With what a grim, covenanting zeal he took up the sword when at last it was forced into his hand! And I have been thinking that what he will say to the Peace Conference will smack strongly of what old Oliver used to say to Parliament in 1657 and 1658--"If we will have Peace without a worm in it, lay we foundations of Justice and Righteousness." What makes Wilson so irritating to the unthoughtful is that he operates exclusively upon reason, not upon passion. He contradicts Kipling's famous lines, which apply to most men-- Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act. In this instance, I think, Reason is going to win. I feel the whole current of the world setting in that direction. It's quaint to think of old Woodrow, a kind of Cromwell-Wordsworth, going over to do his bit among the diplomatic shell-craters. What I'm waiting for is the day when he'll get back into private life and write a book about it. There's a job, if you like, for a man who might reasonably be supposed to be pretty tired in body and soul! When that book comes out I'll spend the rest of my life in selling it. I ask nothing better! Speaking of Wordsworth, I've often wondered whether Woodrow hasn't got some poems concealed somewhere among his papers! I've always imagined that he may have written poems on the sly. And by the way, you needn't make fun of me for being so devoted to George Herbert. Do you realize that two of the most familiar quotations in our language come from his pen, viz.: Wouldst thou both eat thy cake, and have it? and Dare to be true: nothing can need a ly; A fault, which needs it most, grows two thereby. Forgive this tedious sermon! My mind has been so tumbled up and down this autumn that I am in a queer state of mingled melancholy and exaltation. You know how much I live in and for books. Well, I have a curious feeling, a kind of premonition that there are great books coming out of this welter of human hopes and anguishes, perhaps A book in which the tempest-shaken soul of the race will speak out as it never has before. The Bible, you know, is rather a disappointment: it has never done for humanity what it should have done. I wonder why? Walt Whitman is going to do a great deal, but he is not quite what I mean. There is something coming--I don't know just what! I thank God I am a bookseller, trafficking in the dreams and beauties and curiosities of humanity rather than some mere huckster of merchandise. But how helpless we all are when we try to tell what goes on within us! I found this in one of Lafcadio Hearn's letters the other day--I marked the passage for you Baudelaire has a touching poem about an albatross, which you would like--describing the poet's soul superb in its own free azure--but helpless, insulted, ugly, clumsy when striving to walk on common earth--or rather, on a deck, where sailors torment it with tobacco pipes, etc. You can imagine what evenings I have here among my shelves, now the long dark nights are come! Of course until ten o'clock, when I shut up shop, I am constantly interrupted--as I have been during this letter, once to sell a copy of Helen's Babies and once to sell The Ballad of Reading Gaol, so you can see how varied are my clients' tastes! But later on, after we have had our evening cocoa and Helen has gone to bed, I prowl about the place, dipping into this and that, fuddling myself with speculation. How clear and bright the stream of the mind flows in those late hours, after all the sediment and floating trash of the day has drained off! Sometimes I seem to coast the very shore of Beauty or Truth, and hear the surf breaking on those shining sands. Then some offshore wind of weariness or prejudice bears me away again. Have you ever come across Andreyev's Confessions of a Little Man During Great Days? One of the honest books of the War. The Little Man ends his confession thus-- My anger has left me, my sadness returned, and once more the tears flow. Whom can I curse, whom can I judge, when we are all alike unfortunate? Suffering is universal; hands are outstretched to each other, and when they touch . . . the great solution will come. My heart is aglow, and I stretch out my hand and cry, "Come, let us join hands! I love you, I love you!" And of course, as soon as one puts one's self in that frame of mind someone comes along and picks your pocket. . . . I suppose we must teach ourselves to be too proud to mind having our pockets picked! Did it ever occur to you that the world is really governed by BOOKS? The course of this country in the War, for instance, has been largely determined by the books Wilson has read since he first began to think! If we could have a list of the principal books he has read since the War began, how interesting it would be. Here's something I'm just copying out to put up on my bulletin board for my customers to ponder. It was written by Charles Sorley, a young Englishman who was killed in France in 1915. He was only twenty years old-- TO GERMANY You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed, And no man claimed the conquest of your land. But gropers both through fields of thought confined We stumble and we do not understand. You only saw your future bigly planned, And we, the tapering paths of our own mind, And in each other's dearest ways we stand, And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind. When it is peace, then we may view again With new-won eyes each other's truer form And wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warm We'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain, When it is peace. But until peace, the storm The darkness and the thunder and the rain. Isn't that noble? You see what I am dumbly groping for--some way of thinking about the War that will make it seem (to future ages) a purification for humanity rather than a mere blackness of stinking cinders and tortured flesh and men shot to ribbons in marshes of blood and sewage. Out of such unspeakable desolation men MUST rise to some new conception of national neighbourhood. I hear so much apprehension that Germany won't be punished sufficiently for her crime. But how can any punishment be devised or imposed for such a huge panorama of sorrow? I think she has already punished herself horribly, and will continue to do so. My prayer is that what we have gone through will startle the world into some new realization of the sanctity of life--all life, animal as well as human. Don't you find that a visit to a zoo can humble and astound you with all that amazing and grotesque variety of living energy? What is it that we find in every form of life? Desire of some sort--some unexplained motive power that impels even the smallest insect on its queer travels. You must have watched some infinitesimal red spider on a fence rail, bustling along--why and whither? Who knows? And when you come to man, what a chaos of hungers and impulses keep thrusting him through his cycle of quaint tasks! And in every human heart you find some sorrow, some frustration, some lurking pang. I often think of Lafcadio Hearn's story of his Japanese cook. Hearn was talking of the Japanese habit of not showing their emotions on their faces. His cook was a smiling, healthy, agreeable-looking young fellow whose face was always cheerful. Then one day, by chance, Hearn happened to look through a hole in the wall and saw his cook alone. His face was not the same face. It was thin and drawn and showed strange lines worn by old hardships or sufferings. Hearn thought to himself, "He will look just like that when he is dead." He went into the kitchen to see him, and instantly the cook was all changed, young and happy again. Never again did Hearn see that face of trouble; but he knew the man wore it when he was alone. Don't you think there is a kind of parable there for the race as a whole? Have you ever met a man without wondering what shining sorrows he hides from the world, what contrast between vision and accomplishment torments him? Behind every smiling mask is there not some cryptic grimace of pain? Henry Adams puts it tersely. He says the human mind appears suddenly and inexplicably out of some unknown and unimaginable void. It passes half its known life in the mental chaos of sleep. Even when awake it is a victim of its own ill-adjustment, of disease, of age, of external suggestion, of nature's compulsions; it doubts its own sensations and trusts only in instruments and averages. After sixty years or so of growing astonishment the mind wakes to find itself looking blankly into the void of death. And, as Adams says, that it should profess itself pleased by this performance is all that the highest rules of good breeding can ask. That the mind should actually be satisfied would prove that it exists only as idiocy! I hope that you will write to tell me along what curves your mind is moving. For my own part I feel that we are on the verge of amazing things. Long ago I fell back on books as the only permanent consolers. They are the one stainless and unimpeachable achievement of the human race. It saddens me to think that I shall have to die with thousands of books unread that would have given me noble and unblemished happiness. I will tell you a secret. I have never read King Lear, and have purposely refrained from doing so. If I were ever very ill I would only need to say to myself "You can't die yet, you haven't read Lear." That would bring me round, I know it would. You see, books are the answer to all our perplexities! Henry Adams grinds his teeth at his inability to understand the universe. The best he can do is to suggest a "law of acceleration," which seems to mean that Nature is hustling man along at an ever-increasing rate so that he will either solve all her problems or else die of fever in the effort. But Adams' candid portrait of a mind grappling helplessly with its riddles is so triumphantly delightful that one forgets the futility of the struggle in the accuracy of the picture. Man is unconquerable because he can make even his helplessness so entertaining. His motto seems to be "Even though He slay me, yet will I make fun of Him!" Yes, books are man's supreme triumph, for they gather up and transmit all other triumphs. As Walter de la Mare writes, "How uncomprehendingly must an angel from heaven smile on a poor human sitting engrossed in a romance: angled upon his hams, motionless in his chair, spectacles on nose, his two feet as close together as the flukes of a merman's tail, only his strange eyes stirring in his time-worn face." Well, I've been scribbling away all this time and haven't given you any news whatever. Helen came back the other day from a visit to Boston where she enjoyed herself greatly. To-night she has gone out to the movies with a young protegee of ours, Miss Titania Chapman, an engaging damsel whom we have taken in as an apprentice bookseller. It's a quaint idea, done at the request of her father, Mr. Chapman, the proprietor of Chapman's Daintybits which you see advertised everywhere. He is a great booklover, and is very eager to have the zeal transmitted to his daughter. So you can imagine my glee to have a neophyte of my own to preach books at! Also it will enable me to get away from the shop a little more. I had a telephone call from Philadelphia this afternoon asking me to go over there on Monday evening to make an estimate of the value of a private collection that is to be sold. I was rather flattered because I can't imagine how they got hold of my name. Forgive this long, incoherent scrawl. How did you like Erewhon? It's pretty near closing time and I must say grace over the day's accounts. Yours ever, ROGER MIFFLIN. Chapter X Roger Raids the Ice-Box Roger had just put Carlyle's Cromwell back in its proper place in the History alcove when Helen and Titania returned from the movies. Bock, who had been dozing under his master's chair, rose politely and wagged a deferential tail. "I do think Bock has the darlingest manners," said Titania. "Yes," said Helen, "it's really a marvel that his wagging muscles aren't all worn out, he has abused them so." "Well," said Roger, "did you have a good time?" "An adorable time!" cried Titania, with a face and voice so sparkling that two musty habitues of the shop popped their heads out of the alcoves marked ESSAYS and THEOLOGY and peered in amazement. One of these even went so far as to purchase the copy of Leigh Hunt's Wishing Cap Papers he had been munching through, in order to have an excuse to approach the group and satisfy his bewildered eyes. When Miss Chapman took the book and wrapped it up for him, his astonishment was made complete. Unconscious that she was actually creating business, Titania resumed. "We met your friend Mr. Gilbert on the street," she said, "and he went to the movies with us. He says he's coming in on Monday to fix the furnace while you're away." "Well," said Roger, "these advertising agencies are certainly enterprising, aren't they? Think of sending a man over to attend to my furnace, just on the slim chance of getting my advertising account." "Did you have a quiet evening?" said Helen. "I spent most of the time writing to Andrew," said Roger. "One amusing thing happened, though. I actually sold that copy of Philip Dru." "No!" cried Helen. "A fact," said Roger. "A man

door

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

"friend and well-wisher" over the telephone. The other said something in German in a hoarse whisper. Having studied that language in college, Aubrey caught only two words--Thur and Schlussel, which he knew meant door and key. "Very well," said the first voice. "That will be all right, but we must act to-night. The damned thing must be finished to-morrow. Your idiotic stupidity--" Again followed some gargling in German, in a rapid undertone too fluent for Aubrey's grasp. The latch of the alley gate clicked once more, and his hand was on his revolver; but in a moment the two had passed on down the alley. The young advertising agent stood against the fence in silent horror, his heart bumping heavily. His hands were clammy, his feet seemed to have grown larger and taken root. What damnable complot was this? A sultry wave of anger passed over him. This bland, slick, talkative bookseller, was he arranging some blackmailing scheme to kidnap the girl and wring blood-money out of her father? And in league with Germans, too, the scoundrel! What an asinine thing for old Chapman to send an unprotected girl over here into the wilds of Brooklyn . . . and in the meantime, what was he to do? Patrol the back yard all night? No, the friend and well-wisher had said "We must find some other way." Besides, Aubrey remembered something having been said about the old terrier sleeping in the kitchen. He felt sure Bock would not let any German in at night without raising the roof. Probably the best way would be to watch the front of the shop. In miserable perplexity he waited several minutes until the two Germans would be well out of earshot. Then he unbolted the gate and stole up the alley on tiptoe, in the opposite direction. It led into Wordsworth Avenue just behind Weintraub's drug store, over the rear of which hung the great girders and trestles of the "L" station, a kind of Swiss chalet straddling the street on stilts. He thought it prudent to make a detour, so he turned east on Wordsworth Avenue until he reached Whittier Street, then sauntered easily down Whittier for a block, spying sharply for evidences of pursuit. Brooklyn was putting out its lights for the night, and all was quiet. He turned into Hazlitt Street and so back onto Gissing, noticing now that the Haunted Bookshop lights were off. It was nearly eleven o'clock: the last audience was filing out of the movie theatre, where two workmen were already perched on ladders taking down the Tarzan electric light sign, to substitute the illuminated lettering for the next feature. After some debate he decided that the best thing to do was to return to his room at Mrs. Schiller's, from which he could keep a sharp watch on the front door of the bookshop. By good fortune there was a lamp post almost directly in front of Mifflin's house, which cast plenty of light on the little sunken area before the door. With his opera glasses he could see from his bedroom whatever went on. As he crossed the street he cast his eyes upward at the facade of Mrs. Schiller's house. Two windows in the fourth storey were lit, and the gas burned minutely in the downstairs hall, elsewhere all was dark. And then, as he glanced at the window of his own chamber, where the curtain was still tucked back behind the pane, he noticed a curious thing. A small point of rosy light glowed, faded, and glowed again by the window. Someone was smoking a cigar in his room. Aubrey continued walking in even stride, as though he had seen nothing. Returning down the street, on the opposite side, he verified his first glance. The light was still there, and he judged himself not far out in assuming the smoker to be the friend and well-wisher or one of his gang. He had suspected the other man in the alley of being Weintraub, but he could not be sure. A cautious glance through the window of the drug store revealed Weintraub at his prescription counter. Aubrey determined to get even with the guttural gentleman who was waiting for him, certainly with no affectionate intent. He thanked the good fortune that had led him to stick the book cover in his overcoat pocket when leaving Mrs. Schiller's. Evidently, for reasons unknown, someone was very anxious to get hold of it. An idea occurred to him as he passed the little florist's shop, which was just closing. He entered and bought a dozen white carnations, and then, as if by an afterthought, asked "Have you any wire?" The florist produced a spool of the slender, tough wire that is sometimes used to nip the buds of expensive roses, to prevent them from blossoming too quickly. "Let me have about eight feet," said Aubrey. "I need some to-night and I guess the hardware stores are all closed." With this he returned to Mrs. Schiller's, picking his way carefully and close to the houses so as to be out of sight from the upstairs windows. He climbed the steps and unlatched the door with bated breath. It was half-past eleven, and he wondered how long he would have to wait for the well-wisher to descend. He could not help chuckling as he made his preparations, remembering an occasion at college somewhat similar in setting though far less serious in purpose. First he took off his shoes, laying them carefully to one side where he could find them again in a hurry. Then, choosing a banister about six feet from the bottom of the stairs he attached one end of the wire tightly to its base and spread the slack in a large loop over two of the stair treads. The remaining end of the wire he passed out through the banisters, twisting it into a small loop so that he could pull it easily. Then he turned out the hall gas and sat down in the dark to wait events. He sat for a long time, in some nervousness lest the pug dog might come prowling and find him. He was startled by a lady in a dressing gown--perhaps Mrs. J. F. Smith--who emerged from a ground-floor room passed very close to him in the dark, and muttered upstairs. He twitched his noose out of the way just in time. Presently, however, his patience was rewarded. He heard a door squeak above, and then the groaning of the staircase as someone descended slowly. He relaid his trap and waited, smiling to himself. A clock somewhere in the house was chiming twelve as the man came groping down the last flight, feeling his way in the dark. Aubrey heard him swearing under his breath. At the precise moment, when both his victim's feet were within the loop, Aubrey gave the wire a gigantic tug. The man fell like a safe, crashing against the banisters and landing in a sprawl on the floor. It was a terrific fall, and shook the house. He lay there groaning and cursing. Barely retaining his laughter, Aubrey struck a match and held it over the sprawling figure. The man lay with his face twisted against one out-spread arm, but the beard was unmistakable. It was the assistant chef again, and he seemed partly unconscious. "Burnt hair is a grand restorative," said Aubrey to himself, and applied the match to the bush of beard. He singed off a couple of inches of it with intense delight, and laid his carnations on the head of the stricken one. Then, hearing stirrings in the basement, he gathered up his wire and shoes and fled upstairs. He gained his room roaring with inward mirth, but entered cautiously, fearing some trap. Save for a strong tincture of cigar smoke, everything seemed correct. Listening at his door he heard Mrs. Schiller exclaiming shrilly in the hall, assisted by yappings from the pug. Doors upstairs were opened, and questions were called out. He heard guttural groans from the bearded one, mingled with oaths and some angry remark about having fallen downstairs. The pug, frenzied with excitement, yelled insanely. A female voice--possibly Mrs. J. F. Smith--cried out "What's that smell of burning?" Someone else said, "They're burning feathers under his nose to bring him to." "Yes, Hun's feathers," chuckled Aubrey to himself. He locked his door, and sat down by the window with his opera glasses. Chapter IX Again the Narrative is Retarded Roger had spent a quiet evening in the bookshop. Sitting at his desk under a fog of tobacco, he had honestly intended to do some writing on the twelfth chapter of his great work on bookselling. This chapter was to be an (alas, entirely conjectural) "Address Delivered by a Bookseller on Being Conferred the Honorary Degree of Doctor of Letters by a Leading University," and it presented so many alluring possibilities that Roger's mind always wandered from the paper into entranced visions of his imagined scene. He loved to build up in fancy the flattering details of that fine ceremony when bookselling would at last be properly recognized as one of the learned professions. He could see the great auditorium, filled with cultivated people: men with Emersonian profiles, ladies whispering behind their fluttering programmes. He could see the academic beadle, proctor, dean (or whatever he is, Roger was a little doubtful) pronouncing the august words of presentation-- A man who, in season and out of season, forgetting private gain for public weal, has laboured with Promethean and sacrificial ardour to instil the love of reasonable letters into countless thousands; to whom, and to whose colleagues, amid the perishable caducity of human affairs, is largely due the pullulation of literary taste; in honouring whom we seek to honour the noble and self-effacing profession of which he is so representative a member---- Then he could see the modest bookseller, somewhat clammy in his extremities and lost within his academic robe and hood, nervously fidgeting his mortar-board, haled forward by ushers, and tottering rubescent before the chancellor, provost, president (or whoever it might be) who hands out the diploma. Then (in Roger's vision) he could see the garlanded bibliopole turning to the expectant audience, giving his trailing gown a deft rearward kick as the ladies do on the stage, and uttering, without hesitation or embarrassment, with due interpolation of graceful pleasantry, that learned and unlaboured discourse on the delights of bookishness that he had often dreamed of. Then he could see the ensuing reception: the distinguished savants crowding round; the plates of macaroons, the cups of untasted tea; the ladies twittering, "Now there's something I want to ask you--why are there so many statues to generals, admirals, parsons, doctors, statesmen, scientists, artists, and authors, but no statues to booksellers?" Contemplation of this glittering scene always lured Roger into fantastic dreams. Ever since he had travelled country roads, some years before, selling books from a van drawn by a fat white horse, he had nourished a secret hope of some day founding a Parnassus on Wheels Corporation which would own a fleet of these vans and send them out into the rural byways where bookstores are unknown. He loved to imagine a great map of New York State, with the daily location of each travelling Parnassus marked by a coloured pin. He dreamed of himself, sitting in some vast central warehouse of second-hand books, poring over his map like a military chief of staff and forwarding cases of literary ammunition to various bases where his vans would re-stock. His idea was that his travelling salesmen could be recruited largely from college professors, parsons, and newspaper men, who were weary of their thankless tasks, and would welcome an opportunity to get out on the road. One of his hopes was that he might interest Mr. Chapman in this superb scheme, and he had a vision of the day when the shares of the Parnassus on Wheels Corporation would pay a handsome dividend and be much sought after by serious investors. These thoughts turned his mind toward his brother-in-law Andrew McGill, the author of several engaging books on the joys of country living, who dwells at the Sabine Farm in the green elbow of a Connecticut valley. The original Parnassus, a quaint old blue wagon in which Roger had lived and journeyed and sold books over several thousand miles of country roads in the days before his marriage, was now housed in Andrew's barn. Peg, his fat white horse, had lodging there also. It occurred to Roger that he owed Andrew a letter, and putting aside his notes for the bookseller's collegiate oration, he began to write: THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 163 Gissing Street, Brooklyn, November 30, 1918. MY DEAR ANDREW: It is scandalous not to have thanked you sooner for the annual cask of cider, which has given us even more than the customary pleasure. This has been an autumn when I have been hard put to it to keep up with my own thoughts, and I've written no letters at all. Like everyone else I am thinking constantly of this new peace that has marvellously come upon us. I trust we may have statesmen who will be able to turn it to the benefit of humanity. I wish there could be an international peace conference of booksellers, for (you will smile at this) my own conviction is that the future happiness of the world depends in no small measure on them and on the librarians. I wonder what a German bookseller is like? I've been reading The Education of Henry Adams and wish he might have lived long enough to give us his thoughts on the War. I fear it would have bowled him over. He thought that this is not a world "that sensitive and timid natures can regard without a shudder." What would he have said of the four-year shambles we have watched with sickened hearts? You remember my favourite poem--old George Herbert's Church Porch--where he says-- By all means use sometimes to be alone; Salute thyself; see what thy soul doth wear; Dare to look in thy chest, for 'tis thine own, And tumble up and down what thou find'st there-- Well, I've been tumbling my thoughts up and down a good deal. Melancholy, I suppose, is the curse of the thinking classes; but I confess my soul wears a great uneasiness these days! The sudden and amazing turnover in human affairs, dramatic beyond anything in history, already seems to be taken as a matter of course. My great fear is that humanity will forget the atrocious sufferings of the war, which have never been told. I am hoping and praying that men like Philip Gibbs may tell us what they really saw. You will not agree with me on what I am about to say, for I know you as a stubborn Republican; but I thank fortune that Wilson is going to the Peace Conference. I've been mulling over one of my favourite books--it lies beside me as I write--Cromwell's Letters and Speeches, edited by Carlyle, with what Carlyle amusingly calls "Elucidations." (Carlyle is not very good at "elucidating" anything!) I have heard somewhere or other that this is one of Wilson's favourite books, and indeed, there is much of the Cromwell in him. With what a grim, covenanting zeal he took up the sword when at last it was forced into his hand! And I have been thinking that what he will say to the Peace Conference will smack strongly of what old Oliver used to say to Parliament in 1657 and 1658--"If we will have Peace without a worm in it, lay we foundations of Justice and Righteousness." What makes Wilson so irritating to the unthoughtful is that he operates exclusively upon reason, not upon passion. He contradicts Kipling's famous lines, which apply to most men-- Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act. In this instance, I think, Reason is going to win. I feel the whole current of the world setting in that direction. It's quaint to think of old Woodrow, a kind of Cromwell-Wordsworth, going over to do his bit among the diplomatic shell-craters. What I'm waiting for is the day when he'll get back into private life and write a book about it. There's a job, if you like, for a man who might reasonably be supposed to be pretty tired in body and soul! When that book comes out I'll spend the rest of my life in selling it. I ask nothing better! Speaking of Wordsworth, I've often wondered whether Woodrow hasn't got some poems concealed somewhere among his papers! I've always imagined that he may have written poems on the sly. And by the way, you needn't make fun of me for being so devoted to George Herbert. Do you realize that two of the most familiar quotations in our language come from his pen, viz.: Wouldst thou both eat thy cake, and have it? and Dare to be true: nothing can need a ly; A fault, which needs it most, grows two thereby. Forgive this tedious sermon! My mind has been so tumbled up and down this autumn that I am in a queer state of mingled melancholy and exaltation. You know how much I live in and for books. Well, I have a curious feeling, a kind of premonition that there are great books coming out of this welter of human hopes and anguishes, perhaps A book in which the tempest-shaken soul of the race will speak out as it never has before. The Bible, you know, is rather a disappointment: it has never done for humanity what it should have done. I wonder why? Walt Whitman is going to do a great deal, but he is not quite what I mean. There is something coming--I don't know just what! I thank God I am a bookseller, trafficking in the dreams and beauties and curiosities of humanity rather than some mere huckster of merchandise. But how helpless we all are when we try to tell what goes on within us! I found this in one of Lafcadio Hearn's letters the other day--I marked the passage for you Baudelaire has a touching poem about an albatross, which you would like--describing the poet's soul superb in its own free azure--but helpless, insulted, ugly, clumsy when striving to walk on common earth--or rather, on a deck, where sailors torment it with tobacco pipes, etc. You can imagine what evenings I have here among my shelves, now the long dark nights are come! Of course until ten o'clock, when I shut up shop, I am constantly interrupted--as I have been during this letter, once to sell a copy of Helen's Babies and once to sell The Ballad of Reading Gaol, so you can see how varied are my clients' tastes! But later on, after we have had our evening cocoa and Helen has gone to bed, I prowl about the place, dipping into this and that, fuddling myself with speculation. How clear and bright the stream of the mind flows in those late hours, after all the sediment and floating trash of the day has drained off! Sometimes I seem to coast the very shore of Beauty or Truth, and hear the surf breaking on those shining sands. Then some offshore wind of weariness or prejudice bears me away again. Have you ever come across Andreyev's Confessions of a Little Man During Great Days? One of the honest books of the War. The Little Man ends his confession thus-- My anger has left me, my sadness returned, and once more the tears flow. Whom can I curse, whom can I judge, when we are all alike unfortunate? Suffering is universal; hands are outstretched to each other, and when they touch . . . the great solution will come. My heart is aglow, and I stretch out my hand and cry, "Come, let us join hands! I love you, I love you!" And of course, as soon as one puts one's self in that frame of mind someone comes along and picks your pocket. . . . I suppose we must teach ourselves to be too proud to mind having our pockets picked! Did it ever occur to you that the world is really governed by BOOKS? The course of this country in the War, for instance, has been largely determined by the books Wilson has read since he first began to think! If we could have a list of the principal books he has read since the War began, how interesting it would be. Here's something I'm just copying out to put up on my bulletin board for my customers to ponder. It was written by Charles Sorley, a young Englishman who was killed in France in 1915. He was only twenty years old-- TO GERMANY You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed, And no man claimed the conquest of your land. But gropers both through fields of thought confined We stumble and we do not understand. You only saw your future bigly planned, And we, the tapering paths of our own mind, And in each other's dearest ways we stand, And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind. When it is peace, then we may view again With new-won eyes each other's truer form And wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warm We'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain, When it is peace. But until peace, the storm The darkness and the thunder and the rain. Isn't that noble? You see what I am dumbly groping for--some way of thinking about the War that will make it seem (to future ages) a purification for humanity rather than a mere blackness of stinking cinders and tortured flesh and men shot to ribbons in marshes of blood and sewage. Out of such unspeakable desolation men MUST rise to some new conception of national neighbourhood. I hear so much apprehension that Germany won't be punished sufficiently for her crime. But how can any punishment be devised or imposed for such a huge panorama of sorrow? I think she has already punished herself horribly, and will continue to do so. My prayer is that what we have gone through will startle the world into some new realization of the sanctity of life--all life, animal as well as human. Don't you find that a visit to a zoo can humble and astound you with all that amazing and grotesque variety of living energy? What is it that we find in every form of life? Desire of some sort--some unexplained motive power that impels even the smallest insect on its queer travels. You must have watched some infinitesimal red spider on a fence rail, bustling along--why and whither? Who knows? And when you come to man, what a chaos of hungers and impulses keep thrusting him through his cycle of quaint tasks! And in every human heart you find some sorrow, some frustration, some lurking pang. I often think of Lafcadio Hearn's story of his Japanese cook. Hearn was talking of the Japanese habit of not showing their emotions on their faces. His cook was a smiling, healthy, agreeable-looking young fellow whose face was always cheerful. Then one day, by chance, Hearn happened to look through a hole in the wall and saw his cook alone. His face was not the same face. It was thin and drawn and showed strange lines worn by old hardships or sufferings. Hearn thought to himself, "He will look just like that when he is dead." He went into the kitchen to see him, and instantly the cook was all changed, young and happy again. Never again did Hearn see that face of trouble; but he knew the man wore it when he was alone. Don't you think there is a kind of parable there for the race as a whole? Have you ever met a man without wondering what shining sorrows he hides from the world, what contrast between vision and accomplishment torments him? Behind every smiling mask is there not some cryptic grimace of pain? Henry Adams puts it tersely. He says the human mind appears suddenly and inexplicably out of some unknown and unimaginable void. It passes half its known life in the mental chaos of sleep. Even when awake it is a victim of its own ill-adjustment, of disease, of age, of external suggestion, of nature's compulsions; it doubts its own sensations and trusts only in instruments and averages. After sixty years or so of growing astonishment the mind wakes to find itself looking blankly into the void of death. And, as Adams says, that it should profess itself pleased by this performance is all that the highest rules of good breeding can ask. That the mind should actually be satisfied would prove that it exists only as idiocy! I hope that you will write to tell me along what curves your mind is moving. For my own part I feel that we are on the verge of amazing things. Long ago I fell back on books as the only permanent consolers. They are the one stainless and unimpeachable achievement of the human race. It saddens me to think that I shall have to die with thousands of books unread that would have given me noble and unblemished happiness. I will tell you a secret. I have never read King Lear, and have purposely refrained from doing so. If I were ever very ill I would only need to say to myself "You can't die yet, you haven't read Lear." That would bring me round, I know it would. You see, books are the answer to all our perplexities! Henry Adams grinds his teeth at his inability to understand the universe. The best he can do is to suggest a "law of acceleration," which seems to mean that Nature is hustling man along at an ever-increasing rate so that he will either solve all her problems or else die of fever in the effort. But Adams' candid portrait of a mind grappling helplessly with its riddles is so triumphantly delightful that one forgets the futility of the struggle in the accuracy of the picture. Man is unconquerable because he can make even his helplessness so entertaining. His motto seems to be "Even though He slay me, yet will I make fun of Him!" Yes, books are man's supreme triumph, for they gather up and transmit all other triumphs. As Walter de la Mare writes, "How uncomprehendingly must an angel from heaven smile on a poor human sitting engrossed in a romance: angled upon his hams, motionless in his chair, spectacles on nose, his two feet as close together as the flukes of a merman's tail, only his strange eyes stirring in his time-worn face." Well, I've been scribbling away all this time and haven't given you any news whatever. Helen came back the other day from a visit to Boston where she enjoyed herself greatly. To-night she has gone out to the movies with a young protegee of ours, Miss Titania Chapman, an engaging damsel whom we have taken in as an apprentice bookseller. It's a quaint idea, done at the request of her father, Mr. Chapman, the proprietor of Chapman's Daintybits which you see advertised everywhere. He is a great booklover, and is very eager to have the zeal transmitted to his daughter. So you can imagine my glee to have a neophyte of my own to preach books at! Also it will enable me to get away from the shop a little more. I had a telephone call from Philadelphia this afternoon asking me to go over there on Monday evening to make an estimate of the value of a private collection that is to be sold. I was rather flattered because I can't imagine how they got hold of my name. Forgive this long, incoherent scrawl. How did you like Erewhon? It's pretty near closing time and I must say grace over the day's accounts. Yours ever, ROGER MIFFLIN. Chapter X Roger Raids the Ice-Box Roger had just put Carlyle's Cromwell back in its proper place in the History alcove when Helen and Titania returned from the movies. Bock, who had been dozing under his master's chair, rose politely and wagged a deferential tail. "I do think Bock has the darlingest manners," said Titania. "Yes," said Helen, "it's really a marvel that his wagging muscles aren't all worn out, he has abused them so." "Well," said Roger, "did you have a good time?" "An adorable time!" cried Titania, with a face and voice so sparkling that two musty habitues of the shop popped their heads out of the alcoves marked ESSAYS and THEOLOGY and peered in amazement. One of these even went so far as to purchase the copy of Leigh Hunt's Wishing Cap Papers he had been munching through, in order to have an excuse to approach the group and satisfy his bewildered eyes. When Miss Chapman took the book and wrapped it up for him, his astonishment was made complete. Unconscious that she was actually creating business, Titania resumed. "We met your friend Mr. Gilbert on the street," she said, "and he went to the movies with us. He says he's coming in on Monday to fix the furnace while you're away." "Well," said Roger, "these advertising agencies are certainly enterprising, aren't they? Think of sending a man over to attend to my furnace, just on the slim chance of getting my advertising account." "Did you have a quiet evening?" said Helen. "I spent most of the time writing to Andrew," said Roger. "One amusing thing happened, though. I actually sold that copy of Philip Dru." "No!" cried Helen. "A fact," said Roger. "A man

drug

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

"friend and well-wisher" over the telephone. The other said something in German in a hoarse whisper. Having studied that language in college, Aubrey caught only two words--Thur and Schlussel, which he knew meant door and key. "Very well," said the first voice. "That will be all right, but we must act to-night. The damned thing must be finished to-morrow. Your idiotic stupidity--" Again followed some gargling in German, in a rapid undertone too fluent for Aubrey's grasp. The latch of the alley gate clicked once more, and his hand was on his revolver; but in a moment the two had passed on down the alley. The young advertising agent stood against the fence in silent horror, his heart bumping heavily. His hands were clammy, his feet seemed to have grown larger and taken root. What damnable complot was this? A sultry wave of anger passed over him. This bland, slick, talkative bookseller, was he arranging some blackmailing scheme to kidnap the girl and wring blood-money out of her father? And in league with Germans, too, the scoundrel! What an asinine thing for old Chapman to send an unprotected girl over here into the wilds of Brooklyn . . . and in the meantime, what was he to do? Patrol the back yard all night? No, the friend and well-wisher had said "We must find some other way." Besides, Aubrey remembered something having been said about the old terrier sleeping in the kitchen. He felt sure Bock would not let any German in at night without raising the roof. Probably the best way would be to watch the front of the shop. In miserable perplexity he waited several minutes until the two Germans would be well out of earshot. Then he unbolted the gate and stole up the alley on tiptoe, in the opposite direction. It led into Wordsworth Avenue just behind Weintraub's drug store, over the rear of which hung the great girders and trestles of the "L" station, a kind of Swiss chalet straddling the street on stilts. He thought it prudent to make a detour, so he turned east on Wordsworth Avenue until he reached Whittier Street, then sauntered easily down Whittier for a block, spying sharply for evidences of pursuit. Brooklyn was putting out its lights for the night, and all was quiet. He turned into Hazlitt Street and so back onto Gissing, noticing now that the Haunted Bookshop lights were off. It was nearly eleven o'clock: the last audience was filing out of the movie theatre, where two workmen were already perched on ladders taking down the Tarzan electric light sign, to substitute the illuminated lettering for the next feature. After some debate he decided that the best thing to do was to return to his room at Mrs. Schiller's, from which he could keep a sharp watch on the front door of the bookshop. By good fortune there was a lamp post almost directly in front of Mifflin's house, which cast plenty of light on the little sunken area before the door. With his opera glasses he could see from his bedroom whatever went on. As he crossed the street he cast his eyes upward at the facade of Mrs. Schiller's house. Two windows in the fourth storey were lit, and the gas burned minutely in the downstairs hall, elsewhere all was dark. And then, as he glanced at the window of his own chamber, where the curtain was still tucked back behind the pane, he noticed a curious thing. A small point of rosy light glowed, faded, and glowed again by the window. Someone was smoking a cigar in his room. Aubrey continued walking in even stride, as though he had seen nothing. Returning down the street, on the opposite side, he verified his first glance. The light was still there, and he judged himself not far out in assuming the smoker to be the friend and well-wisher or one of his gang. He had suspected the other man in the alley of being Weintraub, but he could not be sure. A cautious glance through the window of the drug store revealed Weintraub at his prescription counter. Aubrey determined to get even with the guttural gentleman who was waiting for him, certainly with no affectionate intent. He thanked the good fortune that had led him to stick the book cover in his overcoat pocket when leaving Mrs. Schiller's. Evidently, for reasons unknown, someone was very anxious to get hold of it. An idea occurred to him as he passed the little florist's shop, which was just closing. He entered and bought a dozen white carnations, and then, as if by an afterthought, asked "Have you any wire?" The florist produced a spool of the slender, tough wire that is sometimes used to nip the buds of expensive roses, to prevent them from blossoming too quickly. "Let me have about eight feet," said Aubrey. "I need some to-night and I guess the hardware stores are all closed." With this he returned to Mrs. Schiller's, picking his way carefully and close to the houses so as to be out of sight from the upstairs windows. He climbed the steps and unlatched the door with bated breath. It was half-past eleven, and he wondered how long he would have to wait for the well-wisher to descend. He could not help chuckling as he made his preparations, remembering an occasion at college somewhat similar in setting though far less serious in purpose. First he took off his shoes, laying them carefully to one side where he could find them again in a hurry. Then, choosing a banister about six feet from the bottom of the stairs he attached one end of the wire tightly to its base and spread the slack in a large loop over two of the stair treads. The remaining end of the wire he passed out through the banisters, twisting it into a small loop so that he could pull it easily. Then he turned out the hall gas and sat down in the dark to wait events. He sat for a long time, in some nervousness lest the pug dog might come prowling and find him. He was startled by a lady in a dressing gown--perhaps Mrs. J. F. Smith--who emerged from a ground-floor room passed very close to him in the dark, and muttered upstairs. He twitched his noose out of the way just in time. Presently, however, his patience was rewarded. He heard a door squeak above, and then the groaning of the staircase as someone descended slowly. He relaid his trap and waited, smiling to himself. A clock somewhere in the house was chiming twelve as the man came groping down the last flight, feeling his way in the dark. Aubrey heard him swearing under his breath. At the precise moment, when both his victim's feet were within the loop, Aubrey gave the wire a gigantic tug. The man fell like a safe, crashing against the banisters and landing in a sprawl on the floor. It was a terrific fall, and shook the house. He lay there groaning and cursing. Barely retaining his laughter, Aubrey struck a match and held it over the sprawling figure. The man lay with his face twisted against one out-spread arm, but the beard was unmistakable. It was the assistant chef again, and he seemed partly unconscious. "Burnt hair is a grand restorative," said Aubrey to himself, and applied the match to the bush of beard. He singed off a couple of inches of it with intense delight, and laid his carnations on the head of the stricken one. Then, hearing stirrings in the basement, he gathered up his wire and shoes and fled upstairs. He gained his room roaring with inward mirth, but entered cautiously, fearing some trap. Save for a strong tincture of cigar smoke, everything seemed correct. Listening at his door he heard Mrs. Schiller exclaiming shrilly in the hall, assisted by yappings from the pug. Doors upstairs were opened, and questions were called out. He heard guttural groans from the bearded one, mingled with oaths and some angry remark about having fallen downstairs. The pug, frenzied with excitement, yelled insanely. A female voice--possibly Mrs. J. F. Smith--cried out "What's that smell of burning?" Someone else said, "They're burning feathers under his nose to bring him to." "Yes, Hun's feathers," chuckled Aubrey to himself. He locked his door, and sat down by the window with his opera glasses. Chapter IX Again the Narrative is Retarded Roger had spent a quiet evening in the bookshop. Sitting at his desk under a fog of tobacco, he had honestly intended to do some writing on the twelfth chapter of his great work on bookselling. This chapter was to be an (alas, entirely conjectural) "Address Delivered by a Bookseller on Being Conferred the Honorary Degree of Doctor of Letters by a Leading University," and it presented so many alluring possibilities that Roger's mind always wandered from the paper into entranced visions of his imagined scene. He loved to build up in fancy the flattering details of that fine ceremony when bookselling would at last be properly recognized as one of the learned professions. He could see the great auditorium, filled with cultivated people: men with Emersonian profiles, ladies whispering behind their fluttering programmes. He could see the academic beadle, proctor, dean (or whatever he is, Roger was a little doubtful) pronouncing the august words of presentation-- A man who, in season and out of season, forgetting private gain for public weal, has laboured with Promethean and sacrificial ardour to instil the love of reasonable letters into countless thousands; to whom, and to whose colleagues, amid the perishable caducity of human affairs, is largely due the pullulation of literary taste; in honouring whom we seek to honour the noble and self-effacing profession of which he is so representative a member---- Then he could see the modest bookseller, somewhat clammy in his extremities and lost within his academic robe and hood, nervously fidgeting his mortar-board, haled forward by ushers, and tottering rubescent before the chancellor, provost, president (or whoever it might be) who hands out the diploma. Then (in Roger's vision) he could see the garlanded bibliopole turning to the expectant audience, giving his trailing gown a deft rearward kick as the ladies do on the stage, and uttering, without hesitation or embarrassment, with due interpolation of graceful pleasantry, that learned and unlaboured discourse on the delights of bookishness that he had often dreamed of. Then he could see the ensuing reception: the distinguished savants crowding round; the plates of macaroons, the cups of untasted tea; the ladies twittering, "Now there's something I want to ask you--why are there so many statues to generals, admirals, parsons, doctors, statesmen, scientists, artists, and authors, but no statues to booksellers?" Contemplation of this glittering scene always lured Roger into fantastic dreams. Ever since he had travelled country roads, some years before, selling books from a van drawn by a fat white horse, he had nourished a secret hope of some day founding a Parnassus on Wheels Corporation which would own a fleet of these vans and send them out into the rural byways where bookstores are unknown. He loved to imagine a great map of New York State, with the daily location of each travelling Parnassus marked by a coloured pin. He dreamed of himself, sitting in some vast central warehouse of second-hand books, poring over his map like a military chief of staff and forwarding cases of literary ammunition to various bases where his vans would re-stock. His idea was that his travelling salesmen could be recruited largely from college professors, parsons, and newspaper men, who were weary of their thankless tasks, and would welcome an opportunity to get out on the road. One of his hopes was that he might interest Mr. Chapman in this superb scheme, and he had a vision of the day when the shares of the Parnassus on Wheels Corporation would pay a handsome dividend and be much sought after by serious investors. These thoughts turned his mind toward his brother-in-law Andrew McGill, the author of several engaging books on the joys of country living, who dwells at the Sabine Farm in the green elbow of a Connecticut valley. The original Parnassus, a quaint old blue wagon in which Roger had lived and journeyed and sold books over several thousand miles of country roads in the days before his marriage, was now housed in Andrew's barn. Peg, his fat white horse, had lodging there also. It occurred to Roger that he owed Andrew a letter, and putting aside his notes for the bookseller's collegiate oration, he began to write: THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 163 Gissing Street, Brooklyn, November 30, 1918. MY DEAR ANDREW: It is scandalous not to have thanked you sooner for the annual cask of cider, which has given us even more than the customary pleasure. This has been an autumn when I have been hard put to it to keep up with my own thoughts, and I've written no letters at all. Like everyone else I am thinking constantly of this new peace that has marvellously come upon us. I trust we may have statesmen who will be able to turn it to the benefit of humanity. I wish there could be an international peace conference of booksellers, for (you will smile at this) my own conviction is that the future happiness of the world depends in no small measure on them and on the librarians. I wonder what a German bookseller is like? I've been reading The Education of Henry Adams and wish he might have lived long enough to give us his thoughts on the War. I fear it would have bowled him over. He thought that this is not a world "that sensitive and timid natures can regard without a shudder." What would he have said of the four-year shambles we have watched with sickened hearts? You remember my favourite poem--old George Herbert's Church Porch--where he says-- By all means use sometimes to be alone; Salute thyself; see what thy soul doth wear; Dare to look in thy chest, for 'tis thine own, And tumble up and down what thou find'st there-- Well, I've been tumbling my thoughts up and down a good deal. Melancholy, I suppose, is the curse of the thinking classes; but I confess my soul wears a great uneasiness these days! The sudden and amazing turnover in human affairs, dramatic beyond anything in history, already seems to be taken as a matter of course. My great fear is that humanity will forget the atrocious sufferings of the war, which have never been told. I am hoping and praying that men like Philip Gibbs may tell us what they really saw. You will not agree with me on what I am about to say, for I know you as a stubborn Republican; but I thank fortune that Wilson is going to the Peace Conference. I've been mulling over one of my favourite books--it lies beside me as I write--Cromwell's Letters and Speeches, edited by Carlyle, with what Carlyle amusingly calls "Elucidations." (Carlyle is not very good at "elucidating" anything!) I have heard somewhere or other that this is one of Wilson's favourite books, and indeed, there is much of the Cromwell in him. With what a grim, covenanting zeal he took up the sword when at last it was forced into his hand! And I have been thinking that what he will say to the Peace Conference will smack strongly of what old Oliver used to say to Parliament in 1657 and 1658--"If we will have Peace without a worm in it, lay we foundations of Justice and Righteousness." What makes Wilson so irritating to the unthoughtful is that he operates exclusively upon reason, not upon passion. He contradicts Kipling's famous lines, which apply to most men-- Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act. In this instance, I think, Reason is going to win. I feel the whole current of the world setting in that direction. It's quaint to think of old Woodrow, a kind of Cromwell-Wordsworth, going over to do his bit among the diplomatic shell-craters. What I'm waiting for is the day when he'll get back into private life and write a book about it. There's a job, if you like, for a man who might reasonably be supposed to be pretty tired in body and soul! When that book comes out I'll spend the rest of my life in selling it. I ask nothing better! Speaking of Wordsworth, I've often wondered whether Woodrow hasn't got some poems concealed somewhere among his papers! I've always imagined that he may have written poems on the sly. And by the way, you needn't make fun of me for being so devoted to George Herbert. Do you realize that two of the most familiar quotations in our language come from his pen, viz.: Wouldst thou both eat thy cake, and have it? and Dare to be true: nothing can need a ly; A fault, which needs it most, grows two thereby. Forgive this tedious sermon! My mind has been so tumbled up and down this autumn that I am in a queer state of mingled melancholy and exaltation. You know how much I live in and for books. Well, I have a curious feeling, a kind of premonition that there are great books coming out of this welter of human hopes and anguishes, perhaps A book in which the tempest-shaken soul of the race will speak out as it never has before. The Bible, you know, is rather a disappointment: it has never done for humanity what it should have done. I wonder why? Walt Whitman is going to do a great deal, but he is not quite what I mean. There is something coming--I don't know just what! I thank God I am a bookseller, trafficking in the dreams and beauties and curiosities of humanity rather than some mere huckster of merchandise. But how helpless we all are when we try to tell what goes on within us! I found this in one of Lafcadio Hearn's letters the other day--I marked the passage for you Baudelaire has a touching poem about an albatross, which you would like--describing the poet's soul superb in its own free azure--but helpless, insulted, ugly, clumsy when striving to walk on common earth--or rather, on a deck, where sailors torment it with tobacco pipes, etc. You can imagine what evenings I have here among my shelves, now the long dark nights are come! Of course until ten o'clock, when I shut up shop, I am constantly interrupted--as I have been during this letter, once to sell a copy of Helen's Babies and once to sell The Ballad of Reading Gaol, so you can see how varied are my clients' tastes! But later on, after we have had our evening cocoa and Helen has gone to bed, I prowl about the place, dipping into this and that, fuddling myself with speculation. How clear and bright the stream of the mind flows in those late hours, after all the sediment and floating trash of the day has drained off! Sometimes I seem to coast the very shore of Beauty or Truth, and hear the surf breaking on those shining sands. Then some offshore wind of weariness or prejudice bears me away again. Have you ever come across Andreyev's Confessions of a Little Man During Great Days? One of the honest books of the War. The Little Man ends his confession thus-- My anger has left me, my sadness returned, and once more the tears flow. Whom can I curse, whom can I judge, when we are all alike unfortunate? Suffering is universal; hands are outstretched to each other, and when they touch . . . the great solution will come. My heart is aglow, and I stretch out my hand and cry, "Come, let us join hands! I love you, I love you!" And of course, as soon as one puts one's self in that frame of mind someone comes along and picks your pocket. . . . I suppose we must teach ourselves to be too proud to mind having our pockets picked! Did it ever occur to you that the world is really governed by BOOKS? The course of this country in the War, for instance, has been largely determined by the books Wilson has read since he first began to think! If we could have a list of the principal books he has read since the War began, how interesting it would be. Here's something I'm just copying out to put up on my bulletin board for my customers to ponder. It was written by Charles Sorley, a young Englishman who was killed in France in 1915. He was only twenty years old-- TO GERMANY You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed, And no man claimed the conquest of your land. But gropers both through fields of thought confined We stumble and we do not understand. You only saw your future bigly planned, And we, the tapering paths of our own mind, And in each other's dearest ways we stand, And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind. When it is peace, then we may view again With new-won eyes each other's truer form And wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warm We'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain, When it is peace. But until peace, the storm The darkness and the thunder and the rain. Isn't that noble? You see what I am dumbly groping for--some way of thinking about the War that will make it seem (to future ages) a purification for humanity rather than a mere blackness of stinking cinders and tortured flesh and men shot to ribbons in marshes of blood and sewage. Out of such unspeakable desolation men MUST rise to some new conception of national neighbourhood. I hear so much apprehension that Germany won't be punished sufficiently for her crime. But how can any punishment be devised or imposed for such a huge panorama of sorrow? I think she has already punished herself horribly, and will continue to do so. My prayer is that what we have gone through will startle the world into some new realization of the sanctity of life--all life, animal as well as human. Don't you find that a visit to a zoo can humble and astound you with all that amazing and grotesque variety of living energy? What is it that we find in every form of life? Desire of some sort--some unexplained motive power that impels even the smallest insect on its queer travels. You must have watched some infinitesimal red spider on a fence rail, bustling along--why and whither? Who knows? And when you come to man, what a chaos of hungers and impulses keep thrusting him through his cycle of quaint tasks! And in every human heart you find some sorrow, some frustration, some lurking pang. I often think of Lafcadio Hearn's story of his Japanese cook. Hearn was talking of the Japanese habit of not showing their emotions on their faces. His cook was a smiling, healthy, agreeable-looking young fellow whose face was always cheerful. Then one day, by chance, Hearn happened to look through a hole in the wall and saw his cook alone. His face was not the same face. It was thin and drawn and showed strange lines worn by old hardships or sufferings. Hearn thought to himself, "He will look just like that when he is dead." He went into the kitchen to see him, and instantly the cook was all changed, young and happy again. Never again did Hearn see that face of trouble; but he knew the man wore it when he was alone. Don't you think there is a kind of parable there for the race as a whole? Have you ever met a man without wondering what shining sorrows he hides from the world, what contrast between vision and accomplishment torments him? Behind every smiling mask is there not some cryptic grimace of pain? Henry Adams puts it tersely. He says the human mind appears suddenly and inexplicably out of some unknown and unimaginable void. It passes half its known life in the mental chaos of sleep. Even when awake it is a victim of its own ill-adjustment, of disease, of age, of external suggestion, of nature's compulsions; it doubts its own sensations and trusts only in instruments and averages. After sixty years or so of growing astonishment the mind wakes to find itself looking blankly into the void of death. And, as Adams says, that it should profess itself pleased by this performance is all that the highest rules of good breeding can ask. That the mind should actually be satisfied would prove that it exists only as idiocy! I hope that you will write to tell me along what curves your mind is moving. For my own part I feel that we are on the verge of amazing things. Long ago I fell back on books as the only permanent consolers. They are the one stainless and unimpeachable achievement of the human race. It saddens me to think that I shall have to die with thousands of books unread that would have given me noble and unblemished happiness. I will tell you a secret. I have never read King Lear, and have purposely refrained from doing so. If I were ever very ill I would only need to say to myself "You can't die yet, you haven't read Lear." That would bring me round, I know it would. You see, books are the answer to all our perplexities! Henry Adams grinds his teeth at his inability to understand the universe. The best he can do is to suggest a "law of acceleration," which seems to mean that Nature is hustling man along at an ever-increasing rate so that he will either solve all her problems or else die of fever in the effort. But Adams' candid portrait of a mind grappling helplessly with its riddles is so triumphantly delightful that one forgets the futility of the struggle in the accuracy of the picture. Man is unconquerable because he can make even his helplessness so entertaining. His motto seems to be "Even though He slay me, yet will I make fun of Him!" Yes, books are man's supreme triumph, for they gather up and transmit all other triumphs. As Walter de la Mare writes, "How uncomprehendingly must an angel from heaven smile on a poor human sitting engrossed in a romance: angled upon his hams, motionless in his chair, spectacles on nose, his two feet as close together as the flukes of a merman's tail, only his strange eyes stirring in his time-worn face." Well, I've been scribbling away all this time and haven't given you any news whatever. Helen came back the other day from a visit to Boston where she enjoyed herself greatly. To-night she has gone out to the movies with a young protegee of ours, Miss Titania Chapman, an engaging damsel whom we have taken in as an apprentice bookseller. It's a quaint idea, done at the request of her father, Mr. Chapman, the proprietor of Chapman's Daintybits which you see advertised everywhere. He is a great booklover, and is very eager to have the zeal transmitted to his daughter. So you can imagine my glee to have a neophyte of my own to preach books at! Also it will enable me to get away from the shop a little more. I had a telephone call from Philadelphia this afternoon asking me to go over there on Monday evening to make an estimate of the value of a private collection that is to be sold. I was rather flattered because I can't imagine how they got hold of my name. Forgive this long, incoherent scrawl. How did you like Erewhon? It's pretty near closing time and I must say grace over the day's accounts. Yours ever, ROGER MIFFLIN. Chapter X Roger Raids the Ice-Box Roger had just put Carlyle's Cromwell back in its proper place in the History alcove when Helen and Titania returned from the movies. Bock, who had been dozing under his master's chair, rose politely and wagged a deferential tail. "I do think Bock has the darlingest manners," said Titania. "Yes," said Helen, "it's really a marvel that his wagging muscles aren't all worn out, he has abused them so." "Well," said Roger, "did you have a good time?" "An adorable time!" cried Titania, with a face and voice so sparkling that two musty habitues of the shop popped their heads out of the alcoves marked ESSAYS and THEOLOGY and peered in amazement. One of these even went so far as to purchase the copy of Leigh Hunt's Wishing Cap Papers he had been munching through, in order to have an excuse to approach the group and satisfy his bewildered eyes. When Miss Chapman took the book and wrapped it up for him, his astonishment was made complete. Unconscious that she was actually creating business, Titania resumed. "We met your friend Mr. Gilbert on the street," she said, "and he went to the movies with us. He says he's coming in on Monday to fix the furnace while you're away." "Well," said Roger, "these advertising agencies are certainly enterprising, aren't they? Think of sending a man over to attend to my furnace, just on the slim chance of getting my advertising account." "Did you have a quiet evening?" said Helen. "I spent most of the time writing to Andrew," said Roger. "One amusing thing happened, though. I actually sold that copy of Philip Dru." "No!" cried Helen. "A fact," said Roger. "A man

hung

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

"friend and well-wisher" over the telephone. The other said something in German in a hoarse whisper. Having studied that language in college, Aubrey caught only two words--Thur and Schlussel, which he knew meant door and key. "Very well," said the first voice. "That will be all right, but we must act to-night. The damned thing must be finished to-morrow. Your idiotic stupidity--" Again followed some gargling in German, in a rapid undertone too fluent for Aubrey's grasp. The latch of the alley gate clicked once more, and his hand was on his revolver; but in a moment the two had passed on down the alley. The young advertising agent stood against the fence in silent horror, his heart bumping heavily. His hands were clammy, his feet seemed to have grown larger and taken root. What damnable complot was this? A sultry wave of anger passed over him. This bland, slick, talkative bookseller, was he arranging some blackmailing scheme to kidnap the girl and wring blood-money out of her father? And in league with Germans, too, the scoundrel! What an asinine thing for old Chapman to send an unprotected girl over here into the wilds of Brooklyn . . . and in the meantime, what was he to do? Patrol the back yard all night? No, the friend and well-wisher had said "We must find some other way." Besides, Aubrey remembered something having been said about the old terrier sleeping in the kitchen. He felt sure Bock would not let any German in at night without raising the roof. Probably the best way would be to watch the front of the shop. In miserable perplexity he waited several minutes until the two Germans would be well out of earshot. Then he unbolted the gate and stole up the alley on tiptoe, in the opposite direction. It led into Wordsworth Avenue just behind Weintraub's drug store, over the rear of which hung the great girders and trestles of the "L" station, a kind of Swiss chalet straddling the street on stilts. He thought it prudent to make a detour, so he turned east on Wordsworth Avenue until he reached Whittier Street, then sauntered easily down Whittier for a block, spying sharply for evidences of pursuit. Brooklyn was putting out its lights for the night, and all was quiet. He turned into Hazlitt Street and so back onto Gissing, noticing now that the Haunted Bookshop lights were off. It was nearly eleven o'clock: the last audience was filing out of the movie theatre, where two workmen were already perched on ladders taking down the Tarzan electric light sign, to substitute the illuminated lettering for the next feature. After some debate he decided that the best thing to do was to return to his room at Mrs. Schiller's, from which he could keep a sharp watch on the front door of the bookshop. By good fortune there was a lamp post almost directly in front of Mifflin's house, which cast plenty of light on the little sunken area before the door. With his opera glasses he could see from his bedroom whatever went on. As he crossed the street he cast his eyes upward at the facade of Mrs. Schiller's house. Two windows in the fourth storey were lit, and the gas burned minutely in the downstairs hall, elsewhere all was dark. And then, as he glanced at the window of his own chamber, where the curtain was still tucked back behind the pane, he noticed a curious thing. A small point of rosy light glowed, faded, and glowed again by the window. Someone was smoking a cigar in his room. Aubrey continued walking in even stride, as though he had seen nothing. Returning down the street, on the opposite side, he verified his first glance. The light was still there, and he judged himself not far out in assuming the smoker to be the friend and well-wisher or one of his gang. He had suspected the other man in the alley of being Weintraub, but he could not be sure. A cautious glance through the window of the drug store revealed Weintraub at his prescription counter. Aubrey determined to get even with the guttural gentleman who was waiting for him, certainly with no affectionate intent. He thanked the good fortune that had led him to stick the book cover in his overcoat pocket when leaving Mrs. Schiller's. Evidently, for reasons unknown, someone was very anxious to get hold of it. An idea occurred to him as he passed the little florist's shop, which was just closing. He entered and bought a dozen white carnations, and then, as if by an afterthought, asked "Have you any wire?" The florist produced a spool of the slender, tough wire that is sometimes used to nip the buds of expensive roses, to prevent them from blossoming too quickly. "Let me have about eight feet," said Aubrey. "I need some to-night and I guess the hardware stores are all closed." With this he returned to Mrs. Schiller's, picking his way carefully and close to the houses so as to be out of sight from the upstairs windows. He climbed the steps and unlatched the door with bated breath. It was half-past eleven, and he wondered how long he would have to wait for the well-wisher to descend. He could not help chuckling as he made his preparations, remembering an occasion at college somewhat similar in setting though far less serious in purpose. First he took off his shoes, laying them carefully to one side where he could find them again in a hurry. Then, choosing a banister about six feet from the bottom of the stairs he attached one end of the wire tightly to its base and spread the slack in a large loop over two of the stair treads. The remaining end of the wire he passed out through the banisters, twisting it into a small loop so that he could pull it easily. Then he turned out the hall gas and sat down in the dark to wait events. He sat for a long time, in some nervousness lest the pug dog might come prowling and find him. He was startled by a lady in a dressing gown--perhaps Mrs. J. F. Smith--who emerged from a ground-floor room passed very close to him in the dark, and muttered upstairs. He twitched his noose out of the way just in time. Presently, however, his patience was rewarded. He heard a door squeak above, and then the groaning of the staircase as someone descended slowly. He relaid his trap and waited, smiling to himself. A clock somewhere in the house was chiming twelve as the man came groping down the last flight, feeling his way in the dark. Aubrey heard him swearing under his breath. At the precise moment, when both his victim's feet were within the loop, Aubrey gave the wire a gigantic tug. The man fell like a safe, crashing against the banisters and landing in a sprawl on the floor. It was a terrific fall, and shook the house. He lay there groaning and cursing. Barely retaining his laughter, Aubrey struck a match and held it over the sprawling figure. The man lay with his face twisted against one out-spread arm, but the beard was unmistakable. It was the assistant chef again, and he seemed partly unconscious. "Burnt hair is a grand restorative," said Aubrey to himself, and applied the match to the bush of beard. He singed off a couple of inches of it with intense delight, and laid his carnations on the head of the stricken one. Then, hearing stirrings in the basement, he gathered up his wire and shoes and fled upstairs. He gained his room roaring with inward mirth, but entered cautiously, fearing some trap. Save for a strong tincture of cigar smoke, everything seemed correct. Listening at his door he heard Mrs. Schiller exclaiming shrilly in the hall, assisted by yappings from the pug. Doors upstairs were opened, and questions were called out. He heard guttural groans from the bearded one, mingled with oaths and some angry remark about having fallen downstairs. The pug, frenzied with excitement, yelled insanely. A female voice--possibly Mrs. J. F. Smith--cried out "What's that smell of burning?" Someone else said, "They're burning feathers under his nose to bring him to." "Yes, Hun's feathers," chuckled Aubrey to himself. He locked his door, and sat down by the window with his opera glasses. Chapter IX Again the Narrative is Retarded Roger had spent a quiet evening in the bookshop. Sitting at his desk under a fog of tobacco, he had honestly intended to do some writing on the twelfth chapter of his great work on bookselling. This chapter was to be an (alas, entirely conjectural) "Address Delivered by a Bookseller on Being Conferred the Honorary Degree of Doctor of Letters by a Leading University," and it presented so many alluring possibilities that Roger's mind always wandered from the paper into entranced visions of his imagined scene. He loved to build up in fancy the flattering details of that fine ceremony when bookselling would at last be properly recognized as one of the learned professions. He could see the great auditorium, filled with cultivated people: men with Emersonian profiles, ladies whispering behind their fluttering programmes. He could see the academic beadle, proctor, dean (or whatever he is, Roger was a little doubtful) pronouncing the august words of presentation-- A man who, in season and out of season, forgetting private gain for public weal, has laboured with Promethean and sacrificial ardour to instil the love of reasonable letters into countless thousands; to whom, and to whose colleagues, amid the perishable caducity of human affairs, is largely due the pullulation of literary taste; in honouring whom we seek to honour the noble and self-effacing profession of which he is so representative a member---- Then he could see the modest bookseller, somewhat clammy in his extremities and lost within his academic robe and hood, nervously fidgeting his mortar-board, haled forward by ushers, and tottering rubescent before the chancellor, provost, president (or whoever it might be) who hands out the diploma. Then (in Roger's vision) he could see the garlanded bibliopole turning to the expectant audience, giving his trailing gown a deft rearward kick as the ladies do on the stage, and uttering, without hesitation or embarrassment, with due interpolation of graceful pleasantry, that learned and unlaboured discourse on the delights of bookishness that he had often dreamed of. Then he could see the ensuing reception: the distinguished savants crowding round; the plates of macaroons, the cups of untasted tea; the ladies twittering, "Now there's something I want to ask you--why are there so many statues to generals, admirals, parsons, doctors, statesmen, scientists, artists, and authors, but no statues to booksellers?" Contemplation of this glittering scene always lured Roger into fantastic dreams. Ever since he had travelled country roads, some years before, selling books from a van drawn by a fat white horse, he had nourished a secret hope of some day founding a Parnassus on Wheels Corporation which would own a fleet of these vans and send them out into the rural byways where bookstores are unknown. He loved to imagine a great map of New York State, with the daily location of each travelling Parnassus marked by a coloured pin. He dreamed of himself, sitting in some vast central warehouse of second-hand books, poring over his map like a military chief of staff and forwarding cases of literary ammunition to various bases where his vans would re-stock. His idea was that his travelling salesmen could be recruited largely from college professors, parsons, and newspaper men, who were weary of their thankless tasks, and would welcome an opportunity to get out on the road. One of his hopes was that he might interest Mr. Chapman in this superb scheme, and he had a vision of the day when the shares of the Parnassus on Wheels Corporation would pay a handsome dividend and be much sought after by serious investors. These thoughts turned his mind toward his brother-in-law Andrew McGill, the author of several engaging books on the joys of country living, who dwells at the Sabine Farm in the green elbow of a Connecticut valley. The original Parnassus, a quaint old blue wagon in which Roger had lived and journeyed and sold books over several thousand miles of country roads in the days before his marriage, was now housed in Andrew's barn. Peg, his fat white horse, had lodging there also. It occurred to Roger that he owed Andrew a letter, and putting aside his notes for the bookseller's collegiate oration, he began to write: THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 163 Gissing Street, Brooklyn, November 30, 1918. MY DEAR ANDREW: It is scandalous not to have thanked you sooner for the annual cask of cider, which has given us even more than the customary pleasure. This has been an autumn when I have been hard put to it to keep up with my own thoughts, and I've written no letters at all. Like everyone else I am thinking constantly of this new peace that has marvellously come upon us. I trust we may have statesmen who will be able to turn it to the benefit of humanity. I wish there could be an international peace conference of booksellers, for (you will smile at this) my own conviction is that the future happiness of the world depends in no small measure on them and on the librarians. I wonder what a German bookseller is like? I've been reading The Education of Henry Adams and wish he might have lived long enough to give us his thoughts on the War. I fear it would have bowled him over. He thought that this is not a world "that sensitive and timid natures can regard without a shudder." What would he have said of the four-year shambles we have watched with sickened hearts? You remember my favourite poem--old George Herbert's Church Porch--where he says-- By all means use sometimes to be alone; Salute thyself; see what thy soul doth wear; Dare to look in thy chest, for 'tis thine own, And tumble up and down what thou find'st there-- Well, I've been tumbling my thoughts up and down a good deal. Melancholy, I suppose, is the curse of the thinking classes; but I confess my soul wears a great uneasiness these days! The sudden and amazing turnover in human affairs, dramatic beyond anything in history, already seems to be taken as a matter of course. My great fear is that humanity will forget the atrocious sufferings of the war, which have never been told. I am hoping and praying that men like Philip Gibbs may tell us what they really saw. You will not agree with me on what I am about to say, for I know you as a stubborn Republican; but I thank fortune that Wilson is going to the Peace Conference. I've been mulling over one of my favourite books--it lies beside me as I write--Cromwell's Letters and Speeches, edited by Carlyle, with what Carlyle amusingly calls "Elucidations." (Carlyle is not very good at "elucidating" anything!) I have heard somewhere or other that this is one of Wilson's favourite books, and indeed, there is much of the Cromwell in him. With what a grim, covenanting zeal he took up the sword when at last it was forced into his hand! And I have been thinking that what he will say to the Peace Conference will smack strongly of what old Oliver used to say to Parliament in 1657 and 1658--"If we will have Peace without a worm in it, lay we foundations of Justice and Righteousness." What makes Wilson so irritating to the unthoughtful is that he operates exclusively upon reason, not upon passion. He contradicts Kipling's famous lines, which apply to most men-- Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act. In this instance, I think, Reason is going to win. I feel the whole current of the world setting in that direction. It's quaint to think of old Woodrow, a kind of Cromwell-Wordsworth, going over to do his bit among the diplomatic shell-craters. What I'm waiting for is the day when he'll get back into private life and write a book about it. There's a job, if you like, for a man who might reasonably be supposed to be pretty tired in body and soul! When that book comes out I'll spend the rest of my life in selling it. I ask nothing better! Speaking of Wordsworth, I've often wondered whether Woodrow hasn't got some poems concealed somewhere among his papers! I've always imagined that he may have written poems on the sly. And by the way, you needn't make fun of me for being so devoted to George Herbert. Do you realize that two of the most familiar quotations in our language come from his pen, viz.: Wouldst thou both eat thy cake, and have it? and Dare to be true: nothing can need a ly; A fault, which needs it most, grows two thereby. Forgive this tedious sermon! My mind has been so tumbled up and down this autumn that I am in a queer state of mingled melancholy and exaltation. You know how much I live in and for books. Well, I have a curious feeling, a kind of premonition that there are great books coming out of this welter of human hopes and anguishes, perhaps A book in which the tempest-shaken soul of the race will speak out as it never has before. The Bible, you know, is rather a disappointment: it has never done for humanity what it should have done. I wonder why? Walt Whitman is going to do a great deal, but he is not quite what I mean. There is something coming--I don't know just what! I thank God I am a bookseller, trafficking in the dreams and beauties and curiosities of humanity rather than some mere huckster of merchandise. But how helpless we all are when we try to tell what goes on within us! I found this in one of Lafcadio Hearn's letters the other day--I marked the passage for you Baudelaire has a touching poem about an albatross, which you would like--describing the poet's soul superb in its own free azure--but helpless, insulted, ugly, clumsy when striving to walk on common earth--or rather, on a deck, where sailors torment it with tobacco pipes, etc. You can imagine what evenings I have here among my shelves, now the long dark nights are come! Of course until ten o'clock, when I shut up shop, I am constantly interrupted--as I have been during this letter, once to sell a copy of Helen's Babies and once to sell The Ballad of Reading Gaol, so you can see how varied are my clients' tastes! But later on, after we have had our evening cocoa and Helen has gone to bed, I prowl about the place, dipping into this and that, fuddling myself with speculation. How clear and bright the stream of the mind flows in those late hours, after all the sediment and floating trash of the day has drained off! Sometimes I seem to coast the very shore of Beauty or Truth, and hear the surf breaking on those shining sands. Then some offshore wind of weariness or prejudice bears me away again. Have you ever come across Andreyev's Confessions of a Little Man During Great Days? One of the honest books of the War. The Little Man ends his confession thus-- My anger has left me, my sadness returned, and once more the tears flow. Whom can I curse, whom can I judge, when we are all alike unfortunate? Suffering is universal; hands are outstretched to each other, and when they touch . . . the great solution will come. My heart is aglow, and I stretch out my hand and cry, "Come, let us join hands! I love you, I love you!" And of course, as soon as one puts one's self in that frame of mind someone comes along and picks your pocket. . . . I suppose we must teach ourselves to be too proud to mind having our pockets picked! Did it ever occur to you that the world is really governed by BOOKS? The course of this country in the War, for instance, has been largely determined by the books Wilson has read since he first began to think! If we could have a list of the principal books he has read since the War began, how interesting it would be. Here's something I'm just copying out to put up on my bulletin board for my customers to ponder. It was written by Charles Sorley, a young Englishman who was killed in France in 1915. He was only twenty years old-- TO GERMANY You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed, And no man claimed the conquest of your land. But gropers both through fields of thought confined We stumble and we do not understand. You only saw your future bigly planned, And we, the tapering paths of our own mind, And in each other's dearest ways we stand, And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind. When it is peace, then we may view again With new-won eyes each other's truer form And wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warm We'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain, When it is peace. But until peace, the storm The darkness and the thunder and the rain. Isn't that noble? You see what I am dumbly groping for--some way of thinking about the War that will make it seem (to future ages) a purification for humanity rather than a mere blackness of stinking cinders and tortured flesh and men shot to ribbons in marshes of blood and sewage. Out of such unspeakable desolation men MUST rise to some new conception of national neighbourhood. I hear so much apprehension that Germany won't be punished sufficiently for her crime. But how can any punishment be devised or imposed for such a huge panorama of sorrow? I think she has already punished herself horribly, and will continue to do so. My prayer is that what we have gone through will startle the world into some new realization of the sanctity of life--all life, animal as well as human. Don't you find that a visit to a zoo can humble and astound you with all that amazing and grotesque variety of living energy? What is it that we find in every form of life? Desire of some sort--some unexplained motive power that impels even the smallest insect on its queer travels. You must have watched some infinitesimal red spider on a fence rail, bustling along--why and whither? Who knows? And when you come to man, what a chaos of hungers and impulses keep thrusting him through his cycle of quaint tasks! And in every human heart you find some sorrow, some frustration, some lurking pang. I often think of Lafcadio Hearn's story of his Japanese cook. Hearn was talking of the Japanese habit of not showing their emotions on their faces. His cook was a smiling, healthy, agreeable-looking young fellow whose face was always cheerful. Then one day, by chance, Hearn happened to look through a hole in the wall and saw his cook alone. His face was not the same face. It was thin and drawn and showed strange lines worn by old hardships or sufferings. Hearn thought to himself, "He will look just like that when he is dead." He went into the kitchen to see him, and instantly the cook was all changed, young and happy again. Never again did Hearn see that face of trouble; but he knew the man wore it when he was alone. Don't you think there is a kind of parable there for the race as a whole? Have you ever met a man without wondering what shining sorrows he hides from the world, what contrast between vision and accomplishment torments him? Behind every smiling mask is there not some cryptic grimace of pain? Henry Adams puts it tersely. He says the human mind appears suddenly and inexplicably out of some unknown and unimaginable void. It passes half its known life in the mental chaos of sleep. Even when awake it is a victim of its own ill-adjustment, of disease, of age, of external suggestion, of nature's compulsions; it doubts its own sensations and trusts only in instruments and averages. After sixty years or so of growing astonishment the mind wakes to find itself looking blankly into the void of death. And, as Adams says, that it should profess itself pleased by this performance is all that the highest rules of good breeding can ask. That the mind should actually be satisfied would prove that it exists only as idiocy! I hope that you will write to tell me along what curves your mind is moving. For my own part I feel that we are on the verge of amazing things. Long ago I fell back on books as the only permanent consolers. They are the one stainless and unimpeachable achievement of the human race. It saddens me to think that I shall have to die with thousands of books unread that would have given me noble and unblemished happiness. I will tell you a secret. I have never read King Lear, and have purposely refrained from doing so. If I were ever very ill I would only need to say to myself "You can't die yet, you haven't read Lear." That would bring me round, I know it would. You see, books are the answer to all our perplexities! Henry Adams grinds his teeth at his inability to understand the universe. The best he can do is to suggest a "law of acceleration," which seems to mean that Nature is hustling man along at an ever-increasing rate so that he will either solve all her problems or else die of fever in the effort. But Adams' candid portrait of a mind grappling helplessly with its riddles is so triumphantly delightful that one forgets the futility of the struggle in the accuracy of the picture. Man is unconquerable because he can make even his helplessness so entertaining. His motto seems to be "Even though He slay me, yet will I make fun of Him!" Yes, books are man's supreme triumph, for they gather up and transmit all other triumphs. As Walter de la Mare writes, "How uncomprehendingly must an angel from heaven smile on a poor human sitting engrossed in a romance: angled upon his hams, motionless in his chair, spectacles on nose, his two feet as close together as the flukes of a merman's tail, only his strange eyes stirring in his time-worn face." Well, I've been scribbling away all this time and haven't given you any news whatever. Helen came back the other day from a visit to Boston where she enjoyed herself greatly. To-night she has gone out to the movies with a young protegee of ours, Miss Titania Chapman, an engaging damsel whom we have taken in as an apprentice bookseller. It's a quaint idea, done at the request of her father, Mr. Chapman, the proprietor of Chapman's Daintybits which you see advertised everywhere. He is a great booklover, and is very eager to have the zeal transmitted to his daughter. So you can imagine my glee to have a neophyte of my own to preach books at! Also it will enable me to get away from the shop a little more. I had a telephone call from Philadelphia this afternoon asking me to go over there on Monday evening to make an estimate of the value of a private collection that is to be sold. I was rather flattered because I can't imagine how they got hold of my name. Forgive this long, incoherent scrawl. How did you like Erewhon? It's pretty near closing time and I must say grace over the day's accounts. Yours ever, ROGER MIFFLIN. Chapter X Roger Raids the Ice-Box Roger had just put Carlyle's Cromwell back in its proper place in the History alcove when Helen and Titania returned from the movies. Bock, who had been dozing under his master's chair, rose politely and wagged a deferential tail. "I do think Bock has the darlingest manners," said Titania. "Yes," said Helen, "it's really a marvel that his wagging muscles aren't all worn out, he has abused them so." "Well," said Roger, "did you have a good time?" "An adorable time!" cried Titania, with a face and voice so sparkling that two musty habitues of the shop popped their heads out of the alcoves marked ESSAYS and THEOLOGY and peered in amazement. One of these even went so far as to purchase the copy of Leigh Hunt's Wishing Cap Papers he had been munching through, in order to have an excuse to approach the group and satisfy his bewildered eyes. When Miss Chapman took the book and wrapped it up for him, his astonishment was made complete. Unconscious that she was actually creating business, Titania resumed. "We met your friend Mr. Gilbert on the street," she said, "and he went to the movies with us. He says he's coming in on Monday to fix the furnace while you're away." "Well," said Roger, "these advertising agencies are certainly enterprising, aren't they? Think of sending a man over to attend to my furnace, just on the slim chance of getting my advertising account." "Did you have a quiet evening?" said Helen. "I spent most of the time writing to Andrew," said Roger. "One amusing thing happened, though. I actually sold that copy of Philip Dru." "No!" cried Helen. "A fact," said Roger. "A man

flight

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

"friend and well-wisher" over the telephone. The other said something in German in a hoarse whisper. Having studied that language in college, Aubrey caught only two words--Thur and Schlussel, which he knew meant door and key. "Very well," said the first voice. "That will be all right, but we must act to-night. The damned thing must be finished to-morrow. Your idiotic stupidity--" Again followed some gargling in German, in a rapid undertone too fluent for Aubrey's grasp. The latch of the alley gate clicked once more, and his hand was on his revolver; but in a moment the two had passed on down the alley. The young advertising agent stood against the fence in silent horror, his heart bumping heavily. His hands were clammy, his feet seemed to have grown larger and taken root. What damnable complot was this? A sultry wave of anger passed over him. This bland, slick, talkative bookseller, was he arranging some blackmailing scheme to kidnap the girl and wring blood-money out of her father? And in league with Germans, too, the scoundrel! What an asinine thing for old Chapman to send an unprotected girl over here into the wilds of Brooklyn . . . and in the meantime, what was he to do? Patrol the back yard all night? No, the friend and well-wisher had said "We must find some other way." Besides, Aubrey remembered something having been said about the old terrier sleeping in the kitchen. He felt sure Bock would not let any German in at night without raising the roof. Probably the best way would be to watch the front of the shop. In miserable perplexity he waited several minutes until the two Germans would be well out of earshot. Then he unbolted the gate and stole up the alley on tiptoe, in the opposite direction. It led into Wordsworth Avenue just behind Weintraub's drug store, over the rear of which hung the great girders and trestles of the "L" station, a kind of Swiss chalet straddling the street on stilts. He thought it prudent to make a detour, so he turned east on Wordsworth Avenue until he reached Whittier Street, then sauntered easily down Whittier for a block, spying sharply for evidences of pursuit. Brooklyn was putting out its lights for the night, and all was quiet. He turned into Hazlitt Street and so back onto Gissing, noticing now that the Haunted Bookshop lights were off. It was nearly eleven o'clock: the last audience was filing out of the movie theatre, where two workmen were already perched on ladders taking down the Tarzan electric light sign, to substitute the illuminated lettering for the next feature. After some debate he decided that the best thing to do was to return to his room at Mrs. Schiller's, from which he could keep a sharp watch on the front door of the bookshop. By good fortune there was a lamp post almost directly in front of Mifflin's house, which cast plenty of light on the little sunken area before the door. With his opera glasses he could see from his bedroom whatever went on. As he crossed the street he cast his eyes upward at the facade of Mrs. Schiller's house. Two windows in the fourth storey were lit, and the gas burned minutely in the downstairs hall, elsewhere all was dark. And then, as he glanced at the window of his own chamber, where the curtain was still tucked back behind the pane, he noticed a curious thing. A small point of rosy light glowed, faded, and glowed again by the window. Someone was smoking a cigar in his room. Aubrey continued walking in even stride, as though he had seen nothing. Returning down the street, on the opposite side, he verified his first glance. The light was still there, and he judged himself not far out in assuming the smoker to be the friend and well-wisher or one of his gang. He had suspected the other man in the alley of being Weintraub, but he could not be sure. A cautious glance through the window of the drug store revealed Weintraub at his prescription counter. Aubrey determined to get even with the guttural gentleman who was waiting for him, certainly with no affectionate intent. He thanked the good fortune that had led him to stick the book cover in his overcoat pocket when leaving Mrs. Schiller's. Evidently, for reasons unknown, someone was very anxious to get hold of it. An idea occurred to him as he passed the little florist's shop, which was just closing. He entered and bought a dozen white carnations, and then, as if by an afterthought, asked "Have you any wire?" The florist produced a spool of the slender, tough wire that is sometimes used to nip the buds of expensive roses, to prevent them from blossoming too quickly. "Let me have about eight feet," said Aubrey. "I need some to-night and I guess the hardware stores are all closed." With this he returned to Mrs. Schiller's, picking his way carefully and close to the houses so as to be out of sight from the upstairs windows. He climbed the steps and unlatched the door with bated breath. It was half-past eleven, and he wondered how long he would have to wait for the well-wisher to descend. He could not help chuckling as he made his preparations, remembering an occasion at college somewhat similar in setting though far less serious in purpose. First he took off his shoes, laying them carefully to one side where he could find them again in a hurry. Then, choosing a banister about six feet from the bottom of the stairs he attached one end of the wire tightly to its base and spread the slack in a large loop over two of the stair treads. The remaining end of the wire he passed out through the banisters, twisting it into a small loop so that he could pull it easily. Then he turned out the hall gas and sat down in the dark to wait events. He sat for a long time, in some nervousness lest the pug dog might come prowling and find him. He was startled by a lady in a dressing gown--perhaps Mrs. J. F. Smith--who emerged from a ground-floor room passed very close to him in the dark, and muttered upstairs. He twitched his noose out of the way just in time. Presently, however, his patience was rewarded. He heard a door squeak above, and then the groaning of the staircase as someone descended slowly. He relaid his trap and waited, smiling to himself. A clock somewhere in the house was chiming twelve as the man came groping down the last flight, feeling his way in the dark. Aubrey heard him swearing under his breath. At the precise moment, when both his victim's feet were within the loop, Aubrey gave the wire a gigantic tug. The man fell like a safe, crashing against the banisters and landing in a sprawl on the floor. It was a terrific fall, and shook the house. He lay there groaning and cursing. Barely retaining his laughter, Aubrey struck a match and held it over the sprawling figure. The man lay with his face twisted against one out-spread arm, but the beard was unmistakable. It was the assistant chef again, and he seemed partly unconscious. "Burnt hair is a grand restorative," said Aubrey to himself, and applied the match to the bush of beard. He singed off a couple of inches of it with intense delight, and laid his carnations on the head of the stricken one. Then, hearing stirrings in the basement, he gathered up his wire and shoes and fled upstairs. He gained his room roaring with inward mirth, but entered cautiously, fearing some trap. Save for a strong tincture of cigar smoke, everything seemed correct. Listening at his door he heard Mrs. Schiller exclaiming shrilly in the hall, assisted by yappings from the pug. Doors upstairs were opened, and questions were called out. He heard guttural groans from the bearded one, mingled with oaths and some angry remark about having fallen downstairs. The pug, frenzied with excitement, yelled insanely. A female voice--possibly Mrs. J. F. Smith--cried out "What's that smell of burning?" Someone else said, "They're burning feathers under his nose to bring him to." "Yes, Hun's feathers," chuckled Aubrey to himself. He locked his door, and sat down by the window with his opera glasses. Chapter IX Again the Narrative is Retarded Roger had spent a quiet evening in the bookshop. Sitting at his desk under a fog of tobacco, he had honestly intended to do some writing on the twelfth chapter of his great work on bookselling. This chapter was to be an (alas, entirely conjectural) "Address Delivered by a Bookseller on Being Conferred the Honorary Degree of Doctor of Letters by a Leading University," and it presented so many alluring possibilities that Roger's mind always wandered from the paper into entranced visions of his imagined scene. He loved to build up in fancy the flattering details of that fine ceremony when bookselling would at last be properly recognized as one of the learned professions. He could see the great auditorium, filled with cultivated people: men with Emersonian profiles, ladies whispering behind their fluttering programmes. He could see the academic beadle, proctor, dean (or whatever he is, Roger was a little doubtful) pronouncing the august words of presentation-- A man who, in season and out of season, forgetting private gain for public weal, has laboured with Promethean and sacrificial ardour to instil the love of reasonable letters into countless thousands; to whom, and to whose colleagues, amid the perishable caducity of human affairs, is largely due the pullulation of literary taste; in honouring whom we seek to honour the noble and self-effacing profession of which he is so representative a member---- Then he could see the modest bookseller, somewhat clammy in his extremities and lost within his academic robe and hood, nervously fidgeting his mortar-board, haled forward by ushers, and tottering rubescent before the chancellor, provost, president (or whoever it might be) who hands out the diploma. Then (in Roger's vision) he could see the garlanded bibliopole turning to the expectant audience, giving his trailing gown a deft rearward kick as the ladies do on the stage, and uttering, without hesitation or embarrassment, with due interpolation of graceful pleasantry, that learned and unlaboured discourse on the delights of bookishness that he had often dreamed of. Then he could see the ensuing reception: the distinguished savants crowding round; the plates of macaroons, the cups of untasted tea; the ladies twittering, "Now there's something I want to ask you--why are there so many statues to generals, admirals, parsons, doctors, statesmen, scientists, artists, and authors, but no statues to booksellers?" Contemplation of this glittering scene always lured Roger into fantastic dreams. Ever since he had travelled country roads, some years before, selling books from a van drawn by a fat white horse, he had nourished a secret hope of some day founding a Parnassus on Wheels Corporation which would own a fleet of these vans and send them out into the rural byways where bookstores are unknown. He loved to imagine a great map of New York State, with the daily location of each travelling Parnassus marked by a coloured pin. He dreamed of himself, sitting in some vast central warehouse of second-hand books, poring over his map like a military chief of staff and forwarding cases of literary ammunition to various bases where his vans would re-stock. His idea was that his travelling salesmen could be recruited largely from college professors, parsons, and newspaper men, who were weary of their thankless tasks, and would welcome an opportunity to get out on the road. One of his hopes was that he might interest Mr. Chapman in this superb scheme, and he had a vision of the day when the shares of the Parnassus on Wheels Corporation would pay a handsome dividend and be much sought after by serious investors. These thoughts turned his mind toward his brother-in-law Andrew McGill, the author of several engaging books on the joys of country living, who dwells at the Sabine Farm in the green elbow of a Connecticut valley. The original Parnassus, a quaint old blue wagon in which Roger had lived and journeyed and sold books over several thousand miles of country roads in the days before his marriage, was now housed in Andrew's barn. Peg, his fat white horse, had lodging there also. It occurred to Roger that he owed Andrew a letter, and putting aside his notes for the bookseller's collegiate oration, he began to write: THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 163 Gissing Street, Brooklyn, November 30, 1918. MY DEAR ANDREW: It is scandalous not to have thanked you sooner for the annual cask of cider, which has given us even more than the customary pleasure. This has been an autumn when I have been hard put to it to keep up with my own thoughts, and I've written no letters at all. Like everyone else I am thinking constantly of this new peace that has marvellously come upon us. I trust we may have statesmen who will be able to turn it to the benefit of humanity. I wish there could be an international peace conference of booksellers, for (you will smile at this) my own conviction is that the future happiness of the world depends in no small measure on them and on the librarians. I wonder what a German bookseller is like? I've been reading The Education of Henry Adams and wish he might have lived long enough to give us his thoughts on the War. I fear it would have bowled him over. He thought that this is not a world "that sensitive and timid natures can regard without a shudder." What would he have said of the four-year shambles we have watched with sickened hearts? You remember my favourite poem--old George Herbert's Church Porch--where he says-- By all means use sometimes to be alone; Salute thyself; see what thy soul doth wear; Dare to look in thy chest, for 'tis thine own, And tumble up and down what thou find'st there-- Well, I've been tumbling my thoughts up and down a good deal. Melancholy, I suppose, is the curse of the thinking classes; but I confess my soul wears a great uneasiness these days! The sudden and amazing turnover in human affairs, dramatic beyond anything in history, already seems to be taken as a matter of course. My great fear is that humanity will forget the atrocious sufferings of the war, which have never been told. I am hoping and praying that men like Philip Gibbs may tell us what they really saw. You will not agree with me on what I am about to say, for I know you as a stubborn Republican; but I thank fortune that Wilson is going to the Peace Conference. I've been mulling over one of my favourite books--it lies beside me as I write--Cromwell's Letters and Speeches, edited by Carlyle, with what Carlyle amusingly calls "Elucidations." (Carlyle is not very good at "elucidating" anything!) I have heard somewhere or other that this is one of Wilson's favourite books, and indeed, there is much of the Cromwell in him. With what a grim, covenanting zeal he took up the sword when at last it was forced into his hand! And I have been thinking that what he will say to the Peace Conference will smack strongly of what old Oliver used to say to Parliament in 1657 and 1658--"If we will have Peace without a worm in it, lay we foundations of Justice and Righteousness." What makes Wilson so irritating to the unthoughtful is that he operates exclusively upon reason, not upon passion. He contradicts Kipling's famous lines, which apply to most men-- Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act. In this instance, I think, Reason is going to win. I feel the whole current of the world setting in that direction. It's quaint to think of old Woodrow, a kind of Cromwell-Wordsworth, going over to do his bit among the diplomatic shell-craters. What I'm waiting for is the day when he'll get back into private life and write a book about it. There's a job, if you like, for a man who might reasonably be supposed to be pretty tired in body and soul! When that book comes out I'll spend the rest of my life in selling it. I ask nothing better! Speaking of Wordsworth, I've often wondered whether Woodrow hasn't got some poems concealed somewhere among his papers! I've always imagined that he may have written poems on the sly. And by the way, you needn't make fun of me for being so devoted to George Herbert. Do you realize that two of the most familiar quotations in our language come from his pen, viz.: Wouldst thou both eat thy cake, and have it? and Dare to be true: nothing can need a ly; A fault, which needs it most, grows two thereby. Forgive this tedious sermon! My mind has been so tumbled up and down this autumn that I am in a queer state of mingled melancholy and exaltation. You know how much I live in and for books. Well, I have a curious feeling, a kind of premonition that there are great books coming out of this welter of human hopes and anguishes, perhaps A book in which the tempest-shaken soul of the race will speak out as it never has before. The Bible, you know, is rather a disappointment: it has never done for humanity what it should have done. I wonder why? Walt Whitman is going to do a great deal, but he is not quite what I mean. There is something coming--I don't know just what! I thank God I am a bookseller, trafficking in the dreams and beauties and curiosities of humanity rather than some mere huckster of merchandise. But how helpless we all are when we try to tell what goes on within us! I found this in one of Lafcadio Hearn's letters the other day--I marked the passage for you Baudelaire has a touching poem about an albatross, which you would like--describing the poet's soul superb in its own free azure--but helpless, insulted, ugly, clumsy when striving to walk on common earth--or rather, on a deck, where sailors torment it with tobacco pipes, etc. You can imagine what evenings I have here among my shelves, now the long dark nights are come! Of course until ten o'clock, when I shut up shop, I am constantly interrupted--as I have been during this letter, once to sell a copy of Helen's Babies and once to sell The Ballad of Reading Gaol, so you can see how varied are my clients' tastes! But later on, after we have had our evening cocoa and Helen has gone to bed, I prowl about the place, dipping into this and that, fuddling myself with speculation. How clear and bright the stream of the mind flows in those late hours, after all the sediment and floating trash of the day has drained off! Sometimes I seem to coast the very shore of Beauty or Truth, and hear the surf breaking on those shining sands. Then some offshore wind of weariness or prejudice bears me away again. Have you ever come across Andreyev's Confessions of a Little Man During Great Days? One of the honest books of the War. The Little Man ends his confession thus-- My anger has left me, my sadness returned, and once more the tears flow. Whom can I curse, whom can I judge, when we are all alike unfortunate? Suffering is universal; hands are outstretched to each other, and when they touch . . . the great solution will come. My heart is aglow, and I stretch out my hand and cry, "Come, let us join hands! I love you, I love you!" And of course, as soon as one puts one's self in that frame of mind someone comes along and picks your pocket. . . . I suppose we must teach ourselves to be too proud to mind having our pockets picked! Did it ever occur to you that the world is really governed by BOOKS? The course of this country in the War, for instance, has been largely determined by the books Wilson has read since he first began to think! If we could have a list of the principal books he has read since the War began, how interesting it would be. Here's something I'm just copying out to put up on my bulletin board for my customers to ponder. It was written by Charles Sorley, a young Englishman who was killed in France in 1915. He was only twenty years old-- TO GERMANY You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed, And no man claimed the conquest of your land. But gropers both through fields of thought confined We stumble and we do not understand. You only saw your future bigly planned, And we, the tapering paths of our own mind, And in each other's dearest ways we stand, And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind. When it is peace, then we may view again With new-won eyes each other's truer form And wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warm We'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain, When it is peace. But until peace, the storm The darkness and the thunder and the rain. Isn't that noble? You see what I am dumbly groping for--some way of thinking about the War that will make it seem (to future ages) a purification for humanity rather than a mere blackness of stinking cinders and tortured flesh and men shot to ribbons in marshes of blood and sewage. Out of such unspeakable desolation men MUST rise to some new conception of national neighbourhood. I hear so much apprehension that Germany won't be punished sufficiently for her crime. But how can any punishment be devised or imposed for such a huge panorama of sorrow? I think she has already punished herself horribly, and will continue to do so. My prayer is that what we have gone through will startle the world into some new realization of the sanctity of life--all life, animal as well as human. Don't you find that a visit to a zoo can humble and astound you with all that amazing and grotesque variety of living energy? What is it that we find in every form of life? Desire of some sort--some unexplained motive power that impels even the smallest insect on its queer travels. You must have watched some infinitesimal red spider on a fence rail, bustling along--why and whither? Who knows? And when you come to man, what a chaos of hungers and impulses keep thrusting him through his cycle of quaint tasks! And in every human heart you find some sorrow, some frustration, some lurking pang. I often think of Lafcadio Hearn's story of his Japanese cook. Hearn was talking of the Japanese habit of not showing their emotions on their faces. His cook was a smiling, healthy, agreeable-looking young fellow whose face was always cheerful. Then one day, by chance, Hearn happened to look through a hole in the wall and saw his cook alone. His face was not the same face. It was thin and drawn and showed strange lines worn by old hardships or sufferings. Hearn thought to himself, "He will look just like that when he is dead." He went into the kitchen to see him, and instantly the cook was all changed, young and happy again. Never again did Hearn see that face of trouble; but he knew the man wore it when he was alone. Don't you think there is a kind of parable there for the race as a whole? Have you ever met a man without wondering what shining sorrows he hides from the world, what contrast between vision and accomplishment torments him? Behind every smiling mask is there not some cryptic grimace of pain? Henry Adams puts it tersely. He says the human mind appears suddenly and inexplicably out of some unknown and unimaginable void. It passes half its known life in the mental chaos of sleep. Even when awake it is a victim of its own ill-adjustment, of disease, of age, of external suggestion, of nature's compulsions; it doubts its own sensations and trusts only in instruments and averages. After sixty years or so of growing astonishment the mind wakes to find itself looking blankly into the void of death. And, as Adams says, that it should profess itself pleased by this performance is all that the highest rules of good breeding can ask. That the mind should actually be satisfied would prove that it exists only as idiocy! I hope that you will write to tell me along what curves your mind is moving. For my own part I feel that we are on the verge of amazing things. Long ago I fell back on books as the only permanent consolers. They are the one stainless and unimpeachable achievement of the human race. It saddens me to think that I shall have to die with thousands of books unread that would have given me noble and unblemished happiness. I will tell you a secret. I have never read King Lear, and have purposely refrained from doing so. If I were ever very ill I would only need to say to myself "You can't die yet, you haven't read Lear." That would bring me round, I know it would. You see, books are the answer to all our perplexities! Henry Adams grinds his teeth at his inability to understand the universe. The best he can do is to suggest a "law of acceleration," which seems to mean that Nature is hustling man along at an ever-increasing rate so that he will either solve all her problems or else die of fever in the effort. But Adams' candid portrait of a mind grappling helplessly with its riddles is so triumphantly delightful that one forgets the futility of the struggle in the accuracy of the picture. Man is unconquerable because he can make even his helplessness so entertaining. His motto seems to be "Even though He slay me, yet will I make fun of Him!" Yes, books are man's supreme triumph, for they gather up and transmit all other triumphs. As Walter de la Mare writes, "How uncomprehendingly must an angel from heaven smile on a poor human sitting engrossed in a romance: angled upon his hams, motionless in his chair, spectacles on nose, his two feet as close together as the flukes of a merman's tail, only his strange eyes stirring in his time-worn face." Well, I've been scribbling away all this time and haven't given you any news whatever. Helen came back the other day from a visit to Boston where she enjoyed herself greatly. To-night she has gone out to the movies with a young protegee of ours, Miss Titania Chapman, an engaging damsel whom we have taken in as an apprentice bookseller. It's a quaint idea, done at the request of her father, Mr. Chapman, the proprietor of Chapman's Daintybits which you see advertised everywhere. He is a great booklover, and is very eager to have the zeal transmitted to his daughter. So you can imagine my glee to have a neophyte of my own to preach books at! Also it will enable me to get away from the shop a little more. I had a telephone call from Philadelphia this afternoon asking me to go over there on Monday evening to make an estimate of the value of a private collection that is to be sold. I was rather flattered because I can't imagine how they got hold of my name. Forgive this long, incoherent scrawl. How did you like Erewhon? It's pretty near closing time and I must say grace over the day's accounts. Yours ever, ROGER MIFFLIN. Chapter X Roger Raids the Ice-Box Roger had just put Carlyle's Cromwell back in its proper place in the History alcove when Helen and Titania returned from the movies. Bock, who had been dozing under his master's chair, rose politely and wagged a deferential tail. "I do think Bock has the darlingest manners," said Titania. "Yes," said Helen, "it's really a marvel that his wagging muscles aren't all worn out, he has abused them so." "Well," said Roger, "did you have a good time?" "An adorable time!" cried Titania, with a face and voice so sparkling that two musty habitues of the shop popped their heads out of the alcoves marked ESSAYS and THEOLOGY and peered in amazement. One of these even went so far as to purchase the copy of Leigh Hunt's Wishing Cap Papers he had been munching through, in order to have an excuse to approach the group and satisfy his bewildered eyes. When Miss Chapman took the book and wrapped it up for him, his astonishment was made complete. Unconscious that she was actually creating business, Titania resumed. "We met your friend Mr. Gilbert on the street," she said, "and he went to the movies with us. He says he's coming in on Monday to fix the furnace while you're away." "Well," said Roger, "these advertising agencies are certainly enterprising, aren't they? Think of sending a man over to attend to my furnace, just on the slim chance of getting my advertising account." "Did you have a quiet evening?" said Helen. "I spent most of the time writing to Andrew," said Roger. "One amusing thing happened, though. I actually sold that copy of Philip Dru." "No!" cried Helen. "A fact," said Roger. "A man

overcoat

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

"friend and well-wisher" over the telephone. The other said something in German in a hoarse whisper. Having studied that language in college, Aubrey caught only two words--Thur and Schlussel, which he knew meant door and key. "Very well," said the first voice. "That will be all right, but we must act to-night. The damned thing must be finished to-morrow. Your idiotic stupidity--" Again followed some gargling in German, in a rapid undertone too fluent for Aubrey's grasp. The latch of the alley gate clicked once more, and his hand was on his revolver; but in a moment the two had passed on down the alley. The young advertising agent stood against the fence in silent horror, his heart bumping heavily. His hands were clammy, his feet seemed to have grown larger and taken root. What damnable complot was this? A sultry wave of anger passed over him. This bland, slick, talkative bookseller, was he arranging some blackmailing scheme to kidnap the girl and wring blood-money out of her father? And in league with Germans, too, the scoundrel! What an asinine thing for old Chapman to send an unprotected girl over here into the wilds of Brooklyn . . . and in the meantime, what was he to do? Patrol the back yard all night? No, the friend and well-wisher had said "We must find some other way." Besides, Aubrey remembered something having been said about the old terrier sleeping in the kitchen. He felt sure Bock would not let any German in at night without raising the roof. Probably the best way would be to watch the front of the shop. In miserable perplexity he waited several minutes until the two Germans would be well out of earshot. Then he unbolted the gate and stole up the alley on tiptoe, in the opposite direction. It led into Wordsworth Avenue just behind Weintraub's drug store, over the rear of which hung the great girders and trestles of the "L" station, a kind of Swiss chalet straddling the street on stilts. He thought it prudent to make a detour, so he turned east on Wordsworth Avenue until he reached Whittier Street, then sauntered easily down Whittier for a block, spying sharply for evidences of pursuit. Brooklyn was putting out its lights for the night, and all was quiet. He turned into Hazlitt Street and so back onto Gissing, noticing now that the Haunted Bookshop lights were off. It was nearly eleven o'clock: the last audience was filing out of the movie theatre, where two workmen were already perched on ladders taking down the Tarzan electric light sign, to substitute the illuminated lettering for the next feature. After some debate he decided that the best thing to do was to return to his room at Mrs. Schiller's, from which he could keep a sharp watch on the front door of the bookshop. By good fortune there was a lamp post almost directly in front of Mifflin's house, which cast plenty of light on the little sunken area before the door. With his opera glasses he could see from his bedroom whatever went on. As he crossed the street he cast his eyes upward at the facade of Mrs. Schiller's house. Two windows in the fourth storey were lit, and the gas burned minutely in the downstairs hall, elsewhere all was dark. And then, as he glanced at the window of his own chamber, where the curtain was still tucked back behind the pane, he noticed a curious thing. A small point of rosy light glowed, faded, and glowed again by the window. Someone was smoking a cigar in his room. Aubrey continued walking in even stride, as though he had seen nothing. Returning down the street, on the opposite side, he verified his first glance. The light was still there, and he judged himself not far out in assuming the smoker to be the friend and well-wisher or one of his gang. He had suspected the other man in the alley of being Weintraub, but he could not be sure. A cautious glance through the window of the drug store revealed Weintraub at his prescription counter. Aubrey determined to get even with the guttural gentleman who was waiting for him, certainly with no affectionate intent. He thanked the good fortune that had led him to stick the book cover in his overcoat pocket when leaving Mrs. Schiller's. Evidently, for reasons unknown, someone was very anxious to get hold of it. An idea occurred to him as he passed the little florist's shop, which was just closing. He entered and bought a dozen white carnations, and then, as if by an afterthought, asked "Have you any wire?" The florist produced a spool of the slender, tough wire that is sometimes used to nip the buds of expensive roses, to prevent them from blossoming too quickly. "Let me have about eight feet," said Aubrey. "I need some to-night and I guess the hardware stores are all closed." With this he returned to Mrs. Schiller's, picking his way carefully and close to the houses so as to be out of sight from the upstairs windows. He climbed the steps and unlatched the door with bated breath. It was half-past eleven, and he wondered how long he would have to wait for the well-wisher to descend. He could not help chuckling as he made his preparations, remembering an occasion at college somewhat similar in setting though far less serious in purpose. First he took off his shoes, laying them carefully to one side where he could find them again in a hurry. Then, choosing a banister about six feet from the bottom of the stairs he attached one end of the wire tightly to its base and spread the slack in a large loop over two of the stair treads. The remaining end of the wire he passed out through the banisters, twisting it into a small loop so that he could pull it easily. Then he turned out the hall gas and sat down in the dark to wait events. He sat for a long time, in some nervousness lest the pug dog might come prowling and find him. He was startled by a lady in a dressing gown--perhaps Mrs. J. F. Smith--who emerged from a ground-floor room passed very close to him in the dark, and muttered upstairs. He twitched his noose out of the way just in time. Presently, however, his patience was rewarded. He heard a door squeak above, and then the groaning of the staircase as someone descended slowly. He relaid his trap and waited, smiling to himself. A clock somewhere in the house was chiming twelve as the man came groping down the last flight, feeling his way in the dark. Aubrey heard him swearing under his breath. At the precise moment, when both his victim's feet were within the loop, Aubrey gave the wire a gigantic tug. The man fell like a safe, crashing against the banisters and landing in a sprawl on the floor. It was a terrific fall, and shook the house. He lay there groaning and cursing. Barely retaining his laughter, Aubrey struck a match and held it over the sprawling figure. The man lay with his face twisted against one out-spread arm, but the beard was unmistakable. It was the assistant chef again, and he seemed partly unconscious. "Burnt hair is a grand restorative," said Aubrey to himself, and applied the match to the bush of beard. He singed off a couple of inches of it with intense delight, and laid his carnations on the head of the stricken one. Then, hearing stirrings in the basement, he gathered up his wire and shoes and fled upstairs. He gained his room roaring with inward mirth, but entered cautiously, fearing some trap. Save for a strong tincture of cigar smoke, everything seemed correct. Listening at his door he heard Mrs. Schiller exclaiming shrilly in the hall, assisted by yappings from the pug. Doors upstairs were opened, and questions were called out. He heard guttural groans from the bearded one, mingled with oaths and some angry remark about having fallen downstairs. The pug, frenzied with excitement, yelled insanely. A female voice--possibly Mrs. J. F. Smith--cried out "What's that smell of burning?" Someone else said, "They're burning feathers under his nose to bring him to." "Yes, Hun's feathers," chuckled Aubrey to himself. He locked his door, and sat down by the window with his opera glasses. Chapter IX Again the Narrative is Retarded Roger had spent a quiet evening in the bookshop. Sitting at his desk under a fog of tobacco, he had honestly intended to do some writing on the twelfth chapter of his great work on bookselling. This chapter was to be an (alas, entirely conjectural) "Address Delivered by a Bookseller on Being Conferred the Honorary Degree of Doctor of Letters by a Leading University," and it presented so many alluring possibilities that Roger's mind always wandered from the paper into entranced visions of his imagined scene. He loved to build up in fancy the flattering details of that fine ceremony when bookselling would at last be properly recognized as one of the learned professions. He could see the great auditorium, filled with cultivated people: men with Emersonian profiles, ladies whispering behind their fluttering programmes. He could see the academic beadle, proctor, dean (or whatever he is, Roger was a little doubtful) pronouncing the august words of presentation-- A man who, in season and out of season, forgetting private gain for public weal, has laboured with Promethean and sacrificial ardour to instil the love of reasonable letters into countless thousands; to whom, and to whose colleagues, amid the perishable caducity of human affairs, is largely due the pullulation of literary taste; in honouring whom we seek to honour the noble and self-effacing profession of which he is so representative a member---- Then he could see the modest bookseller, somewhat clammy in his extremities and lost within his academic robe and hood, nervously fidgeting his mortar-board, haled forward by ushers, and tottering rubescent before the chancellor, provost, president (or whoever it might be) who hands out the diploma. Then (in Roger's vision) he could see the garlanded bibliopole turning to the expectant audience, giving his trailing gown a deft rearward kick as the ladies do on the stage, and uttering, without hesitation or embarrassment, with due interpolation of graceful pleasantry, that learned and unlaboured discourse on the delights of bookishness that he had often dreamed of. Then he could see the ensuing reception: the distinguished savants crowding round; the plates of macaroons, the cups of untasted tea; the ladies twittering, "Now there's something I want to ask you--why are there so many statues to generals, admirals, parsons, doctors, statesmen, scientists, artists, and authors, but no statues to booksellers?" Contemplation of this glittering scene always lured Roger into fantastic dreams. Ever since he had travelled country roads, some years before, selling books from a van drawn by a fat white horse, he had nourished a secret hope of some day founding a Parnassus on Wheels Corporation which would own a fleet of these vans and send them out into the rural byways where bookstores are unknown. He loved to imagine a great map of New York State, with the daily location of each travelling Parnassus marked by a coloured pin. He dreamed of himself, sitting in some vast central warehouse of second-hand books, poring over his map like a military chief of staff and forwarding cases of literary ammunition to various bases where his vans would re-stock. His idea was that his travelling salesmen could be recruited largely from college professors, parsons, and newspaper men, who were weary of their thankless tasks, and would welcome an opportunity to get out on the road. One of his hopes was that he might interest Mr. Chapman in this superb scheme, and he had a vision of the day when the shares of the Parnassus on Wheels Corporation would pay a handsome dividend and be much sought after by serious investors. These thoughts turned his mind toward his brother-in-law Andrew McGill, the author of several engaging books on the joys of country living, who dwells at the Sabine Farm in the green elbow of a Connecticut valley. The original Parnassus, a quaint old blue wagon in which Roger had lived and journeyed and sold books over several thousand miles of country roads in the days before his marriage, was now housed in Andrew's barn. Peg, his fat white horse, had lodging there also. It occurred to Roger that he owed Andrew a letter, and putting aside his notes for the bookseller's collegiate oration, he began to write: THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 163 Gissing Street, Brooklyn, November 30, 1918. MY DEAR ANDREW: It is scandalous not to have thanked you sooner for the annual cask of cider, which has given us even more than the customary pleasure. This has been an autumn when I have been hard put to it to keep up with my own thoughts, and I've written no letters at all. Like everyone else I am thinking constantly of this new peace that has marvellously come upon us. I trust we may have statesmen who will be able to turn it to the benefit of humanity. I wish there could be an international peace conference of booksellers, for (you will smile at this) my own conviction is that the future happiness of the world depends in no small measure on them and on the librarians. I wonder what a German bookseller is like? I've been reading The Education of Henry Adams and wish he might have lived long enough to give us his thoughts on the War. I fear it would have bowled him over. He thought that this is not a world "that sensitive and timid natures can regard without a shudder." What would he have said of the four-year shambles we have watched with sickened hearts? You remember my favourite poem--old George Herbert's Church Porch--where he says-- By all means use sometimes to be alone; Salute thyself; see what thy soul doth wear; Dare to look in thy chest, for 'tis thine own, And tumble up and down what thou find'st there-- Well, I've been tumbling my thoughts up and down a good deal. Melancholy, I suppose, is the curse of the thinking classes; but I confess my soul wears a great uneasiness these days! The sudden and amazing turnover in human affairs, dramatic beyond anything in history, already seems to be taken as a matter of course. My great fear is that humanity will forget the atrocious sufferings of the war, which have never been told. I am hoping and praying that men like Philip Gibbs may tell us what they really saw. You will not agree with me on what I am about to say, for I know you as a stubborn Republican; but I thank fortune that Wilson is going to the Peace Conference. I've been mulling over one of my favourite books--it lies beside me as I write--Cromwell's Letters and Speeches, edited by Carlyle, with what Carlyle amusingly calls "Elucidations." (Carlyle is not very good at "elucidating" anything!) I have heard somewhere or other that this is one of Wilson's favourite books, and indeed, there is much of the Cromwell in him. With what a grim, covenanting zeal he took up the sword when at last it was forced into his hand! And I have been thinking that what he will say to the Peace Conference will smack strongly of what old Oliver used to say to Parliament in 1657 and 1658--"If we will have Peace without a worm in it, lay we foundations of Justice and Righteousness." What makes Wilson so irritating to the unthoughtful is that he operates exclusively upon reason, not upon passion. He contradicts Kipling's famous lines, which apply to most men-- Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act. In this instance, I think, Reason is going to win. I feel the whole current of the world setting in that direction. It's quaint to think of old Woodrow, a kind of Cromwell-Wordsworth, going over to do his bit among the diplomatic shell-craters. What I'm waiting for is the day when he'll get back into private life and write a book about it. There's a job, if you like, for a man who might reasonably be supposed to be pretty tired in body and soul! When that book comes out I'll spend the rest of my life in selling it. I ask nothing better! Speaking of Wordsworth, I've often wondered whether Woodrow hasn't got some poems concealed somewhere among his papers! I've always imagined that he may have written poems on the sly. And by the way, you needn't make fun of me for being so devoted to George Herbert. Do you realize that two of the most familiar quotations in our language come from his pen, viz.: Wouldst thou both eat thy cake, and have it? and Dare to be true: nothing can need a ly; A fault, which needs it most, grows two thereby. Forgive this tedious sermon! My mind has been so tumbled up and down this autumn that I am in a queer state of mingled melancholy and exaltation. You know how much I live in and for books. Well, I have a curious feeling, a kind of premonition that there are great books coming out of this welter of human hopes and anguishes, perhaps A book in which the tempest-shaken soul of the race will speak out as it never has before. The Bible, you know, is rather a disappointment: it has never done for humanity what it should have done. I wonder why? Walt Whitman is going to do a great deal, but he is not quite what I mean. There is something coming--I don't know just what! I thank God I am a bookseller, trafficking in the dreams and beauties and curiosities of humanity rather than some mere huckster of merchandise. But how helpless we all are when we try to tell what goes on within us! I found this in one of Lafcadio Hearn's letters the other day--I marked the passage for you Baudelaire has a touching poem about an albatross, which you would like--describing the poet's soul superb in its own free azure--but helpless, insulted, ugly, clumsy when striving to walk on common earth--or rather, on a deck, where sailors torment it with tobacco pipes, etc. You can imagine what evenings I have here among my shelves, now the long dark nights are come! Of course until ten o'clock, when I shut up shop, I am constantly interrupted--as I have been during this letter, once to sell a copy of Helen's Babies and once to sell The Ballad of Reading Gaol, so you can see how varied are my clients' tastes! But later on, after we have had our evening cocoa and Helen has gone to bed, I prowl about the place, dipping into this and that, fuddling myself with speculation. How clear and bright the stream of the mind flows in those late hours, after all the sediment and floating trash of the day has drained off! Sometimes I seem to coast the very shore of Beauty or Truth, and hear the surf breaking on those shining sands. Then some offshore wind of weariness or prejudice bears me away again. Have you ever come across Andreyev's Confessions of a Little Man During Great Days? One of the honest books of the War. The Little Man ends his confession thus-- My anger has left me, my sadness returned, and once more the tears flow. Whom can I curse, whom can I judge, when we are all alike unfortunate? Suffering is universal; hands are outstretched to each other, and when they touch . . . the great solution will come. My heart is aglow, and I stretch out my hand and cry, "Come, let us join hands! I love you, I love you!" And of course, as soon as one puts one's self in that frame of mind someone comes along and picks your pocket. . . . I suppose we must teach ourselves to be too proud to mind having our pockets picked! Did it ever occur to you that the world is really governed by BOOKS? The course of this country in the War, for instance, has been largely determined by the books Wilson has read since he first began to think! If we could have a list of the principal books he has read since the War began, how interesting it would be. Here's something I'm just copying out to put up on my bulletin board for my customers to ponder. It was written by Charles Sorley, a young Englishman who was killed in France in 1915. He was only twenty years old-- TO GERMANY You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed, And no man claimed the conquest of your land. But gropers both through fields of thought confined We stumble and we do not understand. You only saw your future bigly planned, And we, the tapering paths of our own mind, And in each other's dearest ways we stand, And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind. When it is peace, then we may view again With new-won eyes each other's truer form And wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warm We'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain, When it is peace. But until peace, the storm The darkness and the thunder and the rain. Isn't that noble? You see what I am dumbly groping for--some way of thinking about the War that will make it seem (to future ages) a purification for humanity rather than a mere blackness of stinking cinders and tortured flesh and men shot to ribbons in marshes of blood and sewage. Out of such unspeakable desolation men MUST rise to some new conception of national neighbourhood. I hear so much apprehension that Germany won't be punished sufficiently for her crime. But how can any punishment be devised or imposed for such a huge panorama of sorrow? I think she has already punished herself horribly, and will continue to do so. My prayer is that what we have gone through will startle the world into some new realization of the sanctity of life--all life, animal as well as human. Don't you find that a visit to a zoo can humble and astound you with all that amazing and grotesque variety of living energy? What is it that we find in every form of life? Desire of some sort--some unexplained motive power that impels even the smallest insect on its queer travels. You must have watched some infinitesimal red spider on a fence rail, bustling along--why and whither? Who knows? And when you come to man, what a chaos of hungers and impulses keep thrusting him through his cycle of quaint tasks! And in every human heart you find some sorrow, some frustration, some lurking pang. I often think of Lafcadio Hearn's story of his Japanese cook. Hearn was talking of the Japanese habit of not showing their emotions on their faces. His cook was a smiling, healthy, agreeable-looking young fellow whose face was always cheerful. Then one day, by chance, Hearn happened to look through a hole in the wall and saw his cook alone. His face was not the same face. It was thin and drawn and showed strange lines worn by old hardships or sufferings. Hearn thought to himself, "He will look just like that when he is dead." He went into the kitchen to see him, and instantly the cook was all changed, young and happy again. Never again did Hearn see that face of trouble; but he knew the man wore it when he was alone. Don't you think there is a kind of parable there for the race as a whole? Have you ever met a man without wondering what shining sorrows he hides from the world, what contrast between vision and accomplishment torments him? Behind every smiling mask is there not some cryptic grimace of pain? Henry Adams puts it tersely. He says the human mind appears suddenly and inexplicably out of some unknown and unimaginable void. It passes half its known life in the mental chaos of sleep. Even when awake it is a victim of its own ill-adjustment, of disease, of age, of external suggestion, of nature's compulsions; it doubts its own sensations and trusts only in instruments and averages. After sixty years or so of growing astonishment the mind wakes to find itself looking blankly into the void of death. And, as Adams says, that it should profess itself pleased by this performance is all that the highest rules of good breeding can ask. That the mind should actually be satisfied would prove that it exists only as idiocy! I hope that you will write to tell me along what curves your mind is moving. For my own part I feel that we are on the verge of amazing things. Long ago I fell back on books as the only permanent consolers. They are the one stainless and unimpeachable achievement of the human race. It saddens me to think that I shall have to die with thousands of books unread that would have given me noble and unblemished happiness. I will tell you a secret. I have never read King Lear, and have purposely refrained from doing so. If I were ever very ill I would only need to say to myself "You can't die yet, you haven't read Lear." That would bring me round, I know it would. You see, books are the answer to all our perplexities! Henry Adams grinds his teeth at his inability to understand the universe. The best he can do is to suggest a "law of acceleration," which seems to mean that Nature is hustling man along at an ever-increasing rate so that he will either solve all her problems or else die of fever in the effort. But Adams' candid portrait of a mind grappling helplessly with its riddles is so triumphantly delightful that one forgets the futility of the struggle in the accuracy of the picture. Man is unconquerable because he can make even his helplessness so entertaining. His motto seems to be "Even though He slay me, yet will I make fun of Him!" Yes, books are man's supreme triumph, for they gather up and transmit all other triumphs. As Walter de la Mare writes, "How uncomprehendingly must an angel from heaven smile on a poor human sitting engrossed in a romance: angled upon his hams, motionless in his chair, spectacles on nose, his two feet as close together as the flukes of a merman's tail, only his strange eyes stirring in his time-worn face." Well, I've been scribbling away all this time and haven't given you any news whatever. Helen came back the other day from a visit to Boston where she enjoyed herself greatly. To-night she has gone out to the movies with a young protegee of ours, Miss Titania Chapman, an engaging damsel whom we have taken in as an apprentice bookseller. It's a quaint idea, done at the request of her father, Mr. Chapman, the proprietor of Chapman's Daintybits which you see advertised everywhere. He is a great booklover, and is very eager to have the zeal transmitted to his daughter. So you can imagine my glee to have a neophyte of my own to preach books at! Also it will enable me to get away from the shop a little more. I had a telephone call from Philadelphia this afternoon asking me to go over there on Monday evening to make an estimate of the value of a private collection that is to be sold. I was rather flattered because I can't imagine how they got hold of my name. Forgive this long, incoherent scrawl. How did you like Erewhon? It's pretty near closing time and I must say grace over the day's accounts. Yours ever, ROGER MIFFLIN. Chapter X Roger Raids the Ice-Box Roger had just put Carlyle's Cromwell back in its proper place in the History alcove when Helen and Titania returned from the movies. Bock, who had been dozing under his master's chair, rose politely and wagged a deferential tail. "I do think Bock has the darlingest manners," said Titania. "Yes," said Helen, "it's really a marvel that his wagging muscles aren't all worn out, he has abused them so." "Well," said Roger, "did you have a good time?" "An adorable time!" cried Titania, with a face and voice so sparkling that two musty habitues of the shop popped their heads out of the alcoves marked ESSAYS and THEOLOGY and peered in amazement. One of these even went so far as to purchase the copy of Leigh Hunt's Wishing Cap Papers he had been munching through, in order to have an excuse to approach the group and satisfy his bewildered eyes. When Miss Chapman took the book and wrapped it up for him, his astonishment was made complete. Unconscious that she was actually creating business, Titania resumed. "We met your friend Mr. Gilbert on the street," she said, "and he went to the movies with us. He says he's coming in on Monday to fix the furnace while you're away." "Well," said Roger, "these advertising agencies are certainly enterprising, aren't they? Think of sending a man over to attend to my furnace, just on the slim chance of getting my advertising account." "Did you have a quiet evening?" said Helen. "I spent most of the time writing to Andrew," said Roger. "One amusing thing happened, though. I actually sold that copy of Philip Dru." "No!" cried Helen. "A fact," said Roger. "A man

marteau

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

'Bless me! I always imagined lords and ladies did nothing but ride round in a coach and six, go to balls, and be presented to the Queen in cocked hats, and trains and feathers,' exclaimed an artless young person from the wilds of Maine, whither an illustrated paper occasionally wandered. 'Not at all; Lord Abercrombie is over here studying up our American prison system, and my lady is busy with the schools--both very high-born, but the simplest and most sensible people I've met this long time. They are neither of them young nor handsome, and dress plainly; so don't expect anything splendid. Mr Laurence was telling me last night about a friend of his who met my lord in the hall, and owing to a rough greatcoat and a red face, mistook him for a coachman, and said: "Now, my man, what do you want here?" Lord Abercrombie mildly mentioned who he was, and that he had come to dinner. And the poor host was much afflicted, saying afterward: "Why didn't he wear his stars and garters? then a fellow would know he was a lord."' The girls laughed again, and a general rustle betrayed that each was prinking a bit before the titled guest arrived. Even Mrs Jo settled her collar, and Mrs Meg felt if her cap was right, while Bess shook out her curls and Josie boldly consulted the glass; for they were women, in spite of philosophy and philanthropy. 'Shall we all rise?' asked one girl, deeply impressed by the impending honour. 'It would be courteous.' 'Shall we shake hands?' 'No, I'll present you en masse, and your pleasant faces will be introduction enough.' 'I wish I'd worn my best dress. Ought to have told us,' whispered Sally. 'Won't my folks be surprised when I tell them we have had a real lady to call on us?' said another. 'Don't look as if you'd never seen a gentlewoman before, Milly. We are not all fresh from the wilderness,' added the stately damsel who, having Mayflower ancestors, felt that she was the equal of all the crowned heads of Europe. 'Hush, she's coming! Oh, my heart, what a bonnet!' cried the gay girl in a stage whisper; and every eye was demurely fixed upon the busy hands as the door opened to admit Mrs Laurence and her guest. It was rather a shock to find, after the general introduction was over, that this daughter of a hundred earls was a stout lady in a plain gown, and a rather weather-beaten bonnet, with a bag of papers in one hand and a note-book in the other. But the face was full of benevolence, the sonorous voice very kind, the genial manners very winning, and about the whole person an indescribable air of high breeding which made beauty of no consequence, costume soon forgotten, and the moment memorable to the keen-eyed girls whom nothing escaped. A little chat about the rise, growth, and success of this particular class, and then Mrs Jo led the conversation to the English lady's work, anxious to show her pupils how rank dignifies labour, and charity blesses wealth. It was good for these girls to hear of the evening-schools supported and taught by women whom they knew and honoured; of Miss Cobbe's eloquent protest winning the protection of the law for abused wives; Mrs Butler saving the lost; Mrs Taylor, who devoted one room in her historic house to a library for the servants; Lord Shaftesbury, busy with his new tenement-houses in the slums of London; of prison reforms; and all the brave work being done in God's name by the rich and great for the humble and the poor. It impressed them more than many quiet home lectures would have done, and roused an ambition to help when their time should come, well knowing that even in glorious America there is still plenty to be done before she is what she should be--truly just, and free, and great. They were also quick to see that Lady Abercrombie treated all there as her equals, from stately Mrs Laurence, to little Josie, taking notes of everything and privately resolving to have some thick-soled English boots as soon as possible. No one would have guessed that she had a big house in London, a castle in Wales, and a grand country seat in Scotland, as she spoke of Parnassus with admiration, Plumfield as a 'dear old home', and the college as an honour to all concerned in it. At that, of course, every head went up a little, and when my lady left, every hand was ready for the hearty shake the noble Englishwoman gave them, with words they long remembered: 'I am very pleased to see this much-neglected branch of a woman's education so well conducted here, and I have to thank my friend Mrs Laurence for one of the most charming pictures I've seen in America--Penelope among her maids.' A group of smiling faces watched the stout boots trudge away, respectful glances followed the shabby bonnet till it was out of sight, and the girls felt a truer respect for their titled guest than if she had come in the coach and six, with all her diamonds on. 'I feel better about the "odd jobs" now. I only wish I could do them as well as Lady Abercrombie does,' said one. 'I thanked my stars my buttonholes were nice, for she looked at them and said: "Quite workmanlike, upon my word," added another, feeling that her gingham gown had come to honour. 'Her manners were as sweet and kind as Mrs Brooke's. Not a bit stiff or condescending, as I expected. I see now what you meant, Mrs Bhaer, when you said once that well-bred people were the same all the world over.' Mrs Meg bowed her thanks for the compliment, and Mrs Bhaer said: 'I know them when I see them, but never shall be a model of deportment myself. I'm glad you enjoyed the little visit. Now, if you young people don't want England to get ahead of us in many ways, you must bestir yourselves and keep abreast; for our sisters are in earnest, you see, and don't waste time worrying about their sphere, but make it wherever duty calls them.' 'We will do our best, ma'am,' answered the girls heartily, and trooped away with their work-baskets, feeling that though they might never be Harriet Martineaus, Elizabeth Brownings, or George Eliots, they might become noble, useful, and independent women, and earn for themselves some sweet title from the grateful lips of the poor, better than any a queen could bestow. Chapter 18. CLASS DAY The clerk of the weather evidently has a regard for young people, and sends sunshine for class days as often as he can. An especially lovely one shone over Plumfield as this interesting anniversary came round, bringing the usual accompaniments of roses, strawberries, white-gowned girls, beaming youths, proud friends, and stately dignitaries full of well-earned satisfaction with the yearly harvest. As Laurence College was a mixed one, the presence of young women as students gave to the occasion a grace and animation entirely wanting where the picturesque half of creation appear merely as spectators. The hands that turned the pages of wise books also possessed the skill to decorate the hall with flowers; eyes tired with study shone with hospitable warmth on the assembling guests; and under the white muslins beat hearts as full of ambition, hope, and courage as those agitating the broadcloth of the ruling sex. College Hill, Parnassus, and old Plum swarmed with cheery faces, as guests, students, and professors hurried to and fro in the pleasant excitement of arriving and receiving. Everyone was welcomed cordially, whether he rolled up in a fine carriage, or trudged afoot to see the good son or daughter come to honour on the happy day that rewarded many a mutual sacrifice. Mr Laurie and his wife were on the reception committee, and their lovely house was overflowing. Mrs Meg, with Daisy and Jo as aides, was in demand among the girls, helping on belated toilettes, giving an eye to spreads, and directing the decorations. Mrs Jo had her hands full as President's lady, and the mother of Ted; for it took all the power and skill of that energetic woman to get her son into his Sunday best. Not that he objected to be well arrayed; far from it; he adored good clothes, and owing to his great height already revelled in a dress-suit, bequeathed him by a dandy friend. The effect was very funny; but he would wear it in spite of the jeers of his mates, and sighed vainly for a beaver, because his stern parent drew the line there. He pleaded that English lads of ten wore them and were 'no end nobby'; but his mother only answered, with a consoling pat of the yellow mane: 'My child, you are absurd enough now; if I let you add a tall hat, Plumfield wouldn't hold either of us, such would be the scorn and derision of all beholders. Content yourself with looking like the ghost of a waiter, and don't ask for the most ridiculous head-gear in the known world.' Denied this noble badge of manhood, Ted soothed his wounded soul by appearing in collars of an amazing height and stiffness, and ties which were the wonder of all female eyes. This freak was a sort of vengeance on his hard-hearted mother; for the collars drove the laundress to despair, never being just right, and the ties required such art in the tying that three women sometimes laboured long before--like Beau Brummel--he turned from a heap of 'failures' with the welcome words: 'That will do.' Rob was devoted on these trying occasions, his own toilet being distinguished only by its speed, simplicity, and neatness. Ted was usually in a frenzy before he was suited, and roars, whistles, commands, and groans were heard from the den wherein the Lion raged and the Lamb patiently toiled. Mrs Jo bore it till boots were hurled and a rain of hair-brushes set in, then, fearing for the safety of her eldest, she would go to the rescue, and by a wise mixture of fun and authority finally succeed in persuading Ted that he was 'a thing of beauty', if not 'a joy for ever'. At last he would stalk majestically forth, imprisoned in collars compared to which those worn by Dickens's afflicted Biler were trifles not worth mentioning. The dresscoat was a little loose in the shoulders, but allowed a noble expanse of glossy bosom to be seen, and with a delicate handkerchief negligently drooping at the proper angle, had a truly fine effect. Boots that shone, and likewise pinched, appeared at one end of the 'long, black clothes-pin'--as Josie called him---and a youthful but solemn face at the other, carried at an angle which, if long continued, would have resulted in spinal curvature. Light gloves, a cane, and--oh, bitter drop in the cup of joy!--an ignominious straw hat, not to mention a choice floweret in the buttonhole, and a festoon of watchguard below, finished off this impressive boy. 'How's that for style?' he asked, appearing to his mother and cousins whom he was to escort to the hall on this particular occasion. A shout of laughter greeted him, followed by exclamations of horror; for he had artfully added the little blond moustache he often wore when acting. It was very becoming, and seemed the only balm to heal the wound made by the loss of the beloved hat. 'Take it off this moment, you audacious boy! What would your father say to such a prank on this day when we must all behave our best?' said Mrs Jo, trying to frown, but privately thinking that among the many youths about her none were so beautiful and original as her long son. 'Let him wear it, Aunty; it's so becoming. No one will ever guess he isn't eighteen at least,' cried Josie, to whom disguise of any sort was always charming. 'Father won't observe it; he'll be absorbed in his big-wigs and the girls. No matter if he does, he'll enjoy the joke and introduce me as his oldest son. Rob is nowhere when I'm in full fig'; and Ted took the stage with a tragic stalk, like Hamlet in a tail-coat and choker. 'My son, obey me!' and when Mrs Jo spoke in that tone her word was law. Later, however, the moustache appeared, and many strangers firmly believed that there were three young Bhaers. So Ted found one ray of joy to light his gloom. Mr Bhaer was a proud and happy man when, at the appointed hour, he looked down upon the parterre of youthful faces before him, thinking of the 'little gardens' in which he had hopefully and faithfully sowed good seed years ago, and from which this beautiful harvest seemed to have sprung. Mr March's fine old face shone with the serenest satisfaction, for this was the dream of his life fulfilled after patient waiting; and the love and reverence in the countenances of the eager young men and women looking up at him plainly showed that the reward he coveted was his in fullest measure. Laurie always effaced himself on these occasions as much as courtesy would permit; for everyone spoke gratefully in ode, poem, and oration of the founder of the college and noble dispenser of his beneficence. The three sisters beamed with pride as they sat among the ladies, enjoying, as only women can, the honour done the men they loved; while 'the original Plums', as the younger ones called themselves, regarded the whole affair as their work, receiving the curious, admiring, or envious glances of strangers with a mixture of dignity and delight rather comical to behold. The music was excellent, and well it might be when Apollo waved the baton. The poems were--as usual on such occasions--of varied excellence, as the youthful speakers tried to put old truths into new words, and made them forceful by the enthusiasm of their earnest faces and fresh voices. It was beautiful to see the eager interest with which the girls listened to some brilliant brother-student, and applauded him with a rustle as of wind over a bed of flowers. It was still more significant and pleasant to watch the young men's faces when a slender white figure stood out against the background of black-coated dignitaries, and with cheeks that flushed and paled, and lips that trembled till earnest purpose conquered maiden fear, spoke to them straight out of a woman's heart and brain concerning the hopes and doubts, the aspirations and rewards all must know, desire, and labour for. This clear, sweet voice seemed to reach and rouse all that was noblest in the souls of these youths, and to set a seal upon the years of comradeship which made them sacred and memorable for ever. Alice Heath's oration was unanimously pronounced the success of the day; for without being flowery or sentimental, as is too apt to be the case with these first efforts of youthful orators, it was earnest, sensible, and so inspiring that she left the stage in a storm of applause, the good fellows being as much fired by her stirring appeal to 'march shoulder to shoulder', as if she had chanted the 'Marseillaise' then and there. One young man was so excited that he nearly rushed out of his seat to receive her as she hastened to hide herself among her mates, who welcomed her with faces full of tender pride and tearful eye. A prudent sister detained him, however, and in a moment he was able to listen with composure to the President's remarks. They were worth listening to, for Mr Bhaer spoke like a father to the children whom he was dismissing to the battle of life; and his tender, wise, and helpful words lingered in their hearts long after the praise was forgotten. Then came other exercises peculiar to Plumfield, and the end. Why the roof did not fly off when the sturdy lungs of the excited young men pealed out the closing hymn will for ever be a mystery; but it remained firm, and only the fading garlands vibrated as the waves of music rolled up and died away, leaving sweet echoes to haunt the place for another year. Dinners and spreads consumed the afternoon, and at sunset came a slight lull as everyone sought some brief repose before the festivities of the evening began. The President's reception was one of the enjoyable things in store, also dancing on Parnassus, and as much strolling, singing, and flirting, as could be compressed into a few hours by youths and maidens just out of school. Carriages were rolling about, and gay groups on piazzas, lawns, and window-seats idly speculated as to who the distinguished guests might be. The appearance of a very dusty vehicle loaded with trunks at Mr Bhaer's hospitably open door caused much curious comment among the loungers, especially as two rather foreign-looking gentlemen sprang out, followed by two young ladies, all four being greeted with cries of joy and much embracing by the Bhaers. Then they all disappeared into the house, the luggage followed, and the watchers were left to wonder who the mysterious strangers were, till a fair collegian declared that they must be the Professor's nephews, one of whom was expected on his wedding journey. She was right; Franz proudly presented his blonde and buxom bride, and she was hardly kissed and blessed when Emil led up his bonny English Mary, with the rapturous announcement: 'Uncle, Aunt Jo, here's another daughter! Have you room for my wife, too?' There could be no doubt of that; and Mary was with difficulty rescued from the glad embraces of her new relatives, who, remembering all the young pair had suffered together, felt that this was the natural and happy ending of the long voyage so perilously begun. 'But why not tell us, and let us be ready for two brides instead of one?' asked Mrs Jo, looking as usual rather demoralizing in a wrapper and crimping-pins, having rushed down from her chamber, where she was preparing for the labours of the evening. 'Well, I remembered what a good joke you all considered Uncle Laurie's marriage, and I thought I'd give you another nice little surprise,' laughed Emil. 'I'm off duty, and it seemed best to take advantage of wind and tide, and come along as convoy to the old boy here. We hoped to get in last night, but couldn't fetch it, so here we are in time for the end of the jollification, anyway.' 'Ah, my sons, it is too feeling-full to see you both so happy and again in the old home. I haf no words to outpour my gratitude, and can only ask of the dear Gott in Himmel to bless and keep you all,' cried Professor Bhaer, trying to gather all four into his arms at once, while tears rolled down his cheeks, and his English failed him. An April shower cleared the air and relieved the full hearts of the happy family; then of course everyone began to talk--Franz and Ludmilla in German with uncle, Emil and Mary with the aunts; and round this group gathered the young folk, clamouring to hear all about the wreck, and the rescue, and the homeward voyage. It was a very different story from the written one; and as they listened to Emil's graphic words, with Mary's soft voice breaking in now and then to add some fact that brought out the courage, patience, and self-sacrifice he so lightly touched upon, it became a solemn and pathetic thing to see and hear these happy creatures tell of that great danger and deliverance. 'I never hear the patter of rain now that I don't want to say my prayers; and as for women, I'd like to take my hat off to every one of 'em, for they are braver than any man I ever saw,' said Emil, with the new gravity that was as becoming to him as the new gentleness with which he treated everyone. 'If women are brave, some men are as tender and self-sacrificing as women. I know one who in the night slipped his share of food into a girl's pocket, though starving himself, and sat for hours rocking a sick man in his arms that he might get a little sleep. No, love, I will tell, and you must let me!' cried Mary, holding in both her own the hand he laid on her lips to silence her. 'Only did my duty. If that torment had lasted much longer I might have been as bad as poor Barry and the boatswain. Wasn't that an awful night?' And Emil shuddered as he recalled it. 'Don't think of it, dear. Tell about the happy days on the Urania, when papa grew better and we were all safe and homeward bound,' said Mary, with the trusting look and comforting touch which seemed to banish the dark and recall the bright side of that terrible experience. Emil cheered up at once, and sitting with his arm about his 'dear lass', in true sailor fashion told the happy ending of the tale. 'Such a jolly old time as we had at Hamburg! Uncle Hermann couldn't do enough for the captain, and while mamma took care of him, Mary looked after me. I had to go into dock for repairs; fire hurt my eyes, and watching for a sail and want of sleep made 'em as hazy as a London fog. She was pilot and brought me in all right, you see, only I couldn't part company, so she came aboard as first mate, and I'm bound straight for glory now.' 'Hush! that's silly, dear,' whispered Mary, trying in her turn to stop him, with English shyness about tender topics. But he took the soft hand in his, and proudly surveying the one ring it wore, went on with the air of an admiral aboard his flagship. 'The captain proposed waiting a spell; but I told him we weren't like to see any rougher weather than we'd pulled through together, and if we didn't know one another after such a year as this, we never should. I was sure I shouldn't be worth my pay without this hand on the wheel; so I had my way, and my brave little woman has shipped for the long voyage. God bless her!' 'Shall you really sail with him?' asked Daisy, admiring her courage, but shrinking with cat-like horror from the water. 'I'm not afraid,' answered Mary, with a loyal smile. 'I've proved my captain in fair weather and in foul, and if he is ever wrecked again, I'd rather be with him than waiting and watching ashore.' 'A true woman, and a born sailor's wife! You are a happy man, Emil, and I'm sure this trip will be a prosperous one,' cried Mrs Jo, delighted with the briny flavour of this courtship. 'Oh, my dear boy, I always felt you'd come back, and when everyone else despaired I never gave up, but insisted that you were clinging to the main-top jib somewhere on that dreadful sea'; and Mrs Jo illustrated her faith by grasping Emil with a truly Pillycoddian gesture. 'Of course I was!' answered Emil heartily; 'and my "main-top jib" in this case was the thought of what you and Uncle said to me. That kept me up; and among the million thoughts that came to me during those long nights none was clearer than the idea of the red strand, you remember--English navy, and all that. I liked the notion, and resolved that if a bit of my cable was left afloat, the red stripe should be there.' 'And it was, my dear, it was! Captain Hardy testifies to that, and here is your reward'; and Mrs Jo kissed Mary with a maternal tenderness which betrayed that she liked the English rose better than the blue-eyed German Kornblumen, sweet and modest though it was. Emil surveyed the little ceremony with complacency, saying, as he looked about the room which he never thought to see again: 'Odd, isn't it, how clearly trifles come back to one in times of danger? As we floated there, half-starved, and in despair, I used to think I heard the bells ringing here, and Ted tramping downstairs, and you calling, "Boys, boys, it's time to get up!" I actually smelt the coffee we used to have, and one night I nearly cried when I woke from a dream of Asia's ginger cookies. I declare, it was one of the bitterest disappointments of my life to face hunger with that spicy smell in my nostrils. If you've got any, do give me one!' A pitiful murmur broke from all the aunts and cousins, and Emil was at once borne away to feast on the desired cookies, a supply always being on hand. Mrs Jo and her sister joined the other group, glad to hear what Franz was saying about Nat. 'The minute I saw how thin and shabby he was, I knew that something was wrong; but he made light of it, and was so happy over our visit and news that I let him off with a brief confession, and went to Professor Baumgarten and Bergmann. From them I learned the whole story of his spending more money than he ought and trying to atone for it by unnecessary work and sacrifice. Baumgarten thought it would do him good, so kept his secret till I came. It did him good, and he's paid his debts and earned his bread by the sweat of his brow, like an honest fellow.' 'I like that much in Nat. It is, as I said, a lesson, and he learns it well. He proves himself a man, and has deserved the place Bergmann offers him,' said Mr Bhaer, looking well pleased as Franz added some facts already recorded. 'I told you, Meg, that he had good stuff in him, and love for Daisy would keep him straight. Dear lad, I wish I had him here this moment!' cried Mrs Jo, forgetting in delight the doubts and anxieties which had troubled her for months past. 'I am very glad, and suppose I shall give in as I always do, especially now that the epidemic rages so among us. You and Emil have set all their heads in a ferment, and Josie will be demanding a lover before I can turn round,' answered Mrs Meg, in a tone of despair. But her sister saw that she was touched by Nat's trials, and hastened to add the triumphs, that the victory might be complete, for success is always charming. 'This offer of Herr Bergmann is a good one, isn't it?' she asked, though Mr Laurie had already satisfied her on that point when Nat's letter brought the news. 'Very fine in every way. Nat will get capital drill in Bachmeister's orchestra, see London in a delightful way, and if he suits come home with them, well started among the violins. No great honour, but a sure thing and a step up. I congratulated him, and he was very jolly over it, saying, like the true lover he is: "Tell Daisy; be sure and tell her all about it." I'll leave that to you, Aunt Meg, and you can also break it gently to her that the old boy had a fine blond beard. Very becoming; hides his weak mouth, and gives a noble air to his big eyes and "Mendelssohnian brow", as a gushing girl called it. Ludmilla has a photo of it for you.' This amused them; and they listened to many other interesting bits of news which kind Franz, even in his own happiness, had not forgotten to remember for his friend's sake. He talked so well, and painted Nat's patient and pathetic shifts so vividly, that Mrs Meg was half won; though if she had learned of the Minna episode and the fiddling in beer-gardens and streets, she might not have relented so soon. She stored up all she heard, however, and, womanlike, promised herself a delicious talk with Daisy, in which she would allow herself to melt by degrees, and perhaps change the doubtful 'We shall see' to a cordial 'He has done well; be happy, dear'. In the midst of this agreeable chat the sudden striking of a clock recalled Mrs Jo from romance to reality, and she exclaimed, with a clutch at her crimping-pins: 'My blessed people, you must eat and rest; and I must dress, or receive in this disgraceful rig. Meg, will you take Ludmilla and Mary upstairs and see to them? Franz knows the way to the dining-room. Fritz, come with me and be made tidy, for what with heat and emotion, we are both perfect wrecks.' Chapter 19. WHITE ROSES While the travellers refreshed, and Mrs President struggled into her best gown, Josie ran into the garden to gather flowers for the brides. The sudden arrival of these interesting beings had quite enchanted the romantic girl, and her head was full of heroic rescues, tender admiration, dramatic situations, and feminine wonder as to whether the lovely creatures would wear their veils or not. She was standing before a great bush of white roses, culling the most perfect for the bouquets which she meant to tie with the ribbon festooned over her arm, and lay on the toilette tables of the new cousins, as a delicate attention. A step startled her, and looking up she saw her brother coming down the path with folded arms, bent head, and the absent air of one absorbed in deep thought. 'Sophy Wackles,' said the sharp child, with a superior smile, as she sucked

people

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

'Bless me! I always imagined lords and ladies did nothing but ride round in a coach and six, go to balls, and be presented to the Queen in cocked hats, and trains and feathers,' exclaimed an artless young person from the wilds of Maine, whither an illustrated paper occasionally wandered. 'Not at all; Lord Abercrombie is over here studying up our American prison system, and my lady is busy with the schools--both very high-born, but the simplest and most sensible people I've met this long time. They are neither of them young nor handsome, and dress plainly; so don't expect anything splendid. Mr Laurence was telling me last night about a friend of his who met my lord in the hall, and owing to a rough greatcoat and a red face, mistook him for a coachman, and said: "Now, my man, what do you want here?" Lord Abercrombie mildly mentioned who he was, and that he had come to dinner. And the poor host was much afflicted, saying afterward: "Why didn't he wear his stars and garters? then a fellow would know he was a lord."' The girls laughed again, and a general rustle betrayed that each was prinking a bit before the titled guest arrived. Even Mrs Jo settled her collar, and Mrs Meg felt if her cap was right, while Bess shook out her curls and Josie boldly consulted the glass; for they were women, in spite of philosophy and philanthropy. 'Shall we all rise?' asked one girl, deeply impressed by the impending honour. 'It would be courteous.' 'Shall we shake hands?' 'No, I'll present you en masse, and your pleasant faces will be introduction enough.' 'I wish I'd worn my best dress. Ought to have told us,' whispered Sally. 'Won't my folks be surprised when I tell them we have had a real lady to call on us?' said another. 'Don't look as if you'd never seen a gentlewoman before, Milly. We are not all fresh from the wilderness,' added the stately damsel who, having Mayflower ancestors, felt that she was the equal of all the crowned heads of Europe. 'Hush, she's coming! Oh, my heart, what a bonnet!' cried the gay girl in a stage whisper; and every eye was demurely fixed upon the busy hands as the door opened to admit Mrs Laurence and her guest. It was rather a shock to find, after the general introduction was over, that this daughter of a hundred earls was a stout lady in a plain gown, and a rather weather-beaten bonnet, with a bag of papers in one hand and a note-book in the other. But the face was full of benevolence, the sonorous voice very kind, the genial manners very winning, and about the whole person an indescribable air of high breeding which made beauty of no consequence, costume soon forgotten, and the moment memorable to the keen-eyed girls whom nothing escaped. A little chat about the rise, growth, and success of this particular class, and then Mrs Jo led the conversation to the English lady's work, anxious to show her pupils how rank dignifies labour, and charity blesses wealth. It was good for these girls to hear of the evening-schools supported and taught by women whom they knew and honoured; of Miss Cobbe's eloquent protest winning the protection of the law for abused wives; Mrs Butler saving the lost; Mrs Taylor, who devoted one room in her historic house to a library for the servants; Lord Shaftesbury, busy with his new tenement-houses in the slums of London; of prison reforms; and all the brave work being done in God's name by the rich and great for the humble and the poor. It impressed them more than many quiet home lectures would have done, and roused an ambition to help when their time should come, well knowing that even in glorious America there is still plenty to be done before she is what she should be--truly just, and free, and great. They were also quick to see that Lady Abercrombie treated all there as her equals, from stately Mrs Laurence, to little Josie, taking notes of everything and privately resolving to have some thick-soled English boots as soon as possible. No one would have guessed that she had a big house in London, a castle in Wales, and a grand country seat in Scotland, as she spoke of Parnassus with admiration, Plumfield as a 'dear old home', and the college as an honour to all concerned in it. At that, of course, every head went up a little, and when my lady left, every hand was ready for the hearty shake the noble Englishwoman gave them, with words they long remembered: 'I am very pleased to see this much-neglected branch of a woman's education so well conducted here, and I have to thank my friend Mrs Laurence for one of the most charming pictures I've seen in America--Penelope among her maids.' A group of smiling faces watched the stout boots trudge away, respectful glances followed the shabby bonnet till it was out of sight, and the girls felt a truer respect for their titled guest than if she had come in the coach and six, with all her diamonds on. 'I feel better about the "odd jobs" now. I only wish I could do them as well as Lady Abercrombie does,' said one. 'I thanked my stars my buttonholes were nice, for she looked at them and said: "Quite workmanlike, upon my word," added another, feeling that her gingham gown had come to honour. 'Her manners were as sweet and kind as Mrs Brooke's. Not a bit stiff or condescending, as I expected. I see now what you meant, Mrs Bhaer, when you said once that well-bred people were the same all the world over.' Mrs Meg bowed her thanks for the compliment, and Mrs Bhaer said: 'I know them when I see them, but never shall be a model of deportment myself. I'm glad you enjoyed the little visit. Now, if you young people don't want England to get ahead of us in many ways, you must bestir yourselves and keep abreast; for our sisters are in earnest, you see, and don't waste time worrying about their sphere, but make it wherever duty calls them.' 'We will do our best, ma'am,' answered the girls heartily, and trooped away with their work-baskets, feeling that though they might never be Harriet Martineaus, Elizabeth Brownings, or George Eliots, they might become noble, useful, and independent women, and earn for themselves some sweet title from the grateful lips of the poor, better than any a queen could bestow. Chapter 18. CLASS DAY The clerk of the weather evidently has a regard for young people, and sends sunshine for class days as often as he can. An especially lovely one shone over Plumfield as this interesting anniversary came round, bringing the usual accompaniments of roses, strawberries, white-gowned girls, beaming youths, proud friends, and stately dignitaries full of well-earned satisfaction with the yearly harvest. As Laurence College was a mixed one, the presence of young women as students gave to the occasion a grace and animation entirely wanting where the picturesque half of creation appear merely as spectators. The hands that turned the pages of wise books also possessed the skill to decorate the hall with flowers; eyes tired with study shone with hospitable warmth on the assembling guests; and under the white muslins beat hearts as full of ambition, hope, and courage as those agitating the broadcloth of the ruling sex. College Hill, Parnassus, and old Plum swarmed with cheery faces, as guests, students, and professors hurried to and fro in the pleasant excitement of arriving and receiving. Everyone was welcomed cordially, whether he rolled up in a fine carriage, or trudged afoot to see the good son or daughter come to honour on the happy day that rewarded many a mutual sacrifice. Mr Laurie and his wife were on the reception committee, and their lovely house was overflowing. Mrs Meg, with Daisy and Jo as aides, was in demand among the girls, helping on belated toilettes, giving an eye to spreads, and directing the decorations. Mrs Jo had her hands full as President's lady, and the mother of Ted; for it took all the power and skill of that energetic woman to get her son into his Sunday best. Not that he objected to be well arrayed; far from it; he adored good clothes, and owing to his great height already revelled in a dress-suit, bequeathed him by a dandy friend. The effect was very funny; but he would wear it in spite of the jeers of his mates, and sighed vainly for a beaver, because his stern parent drew the line there. He pleaded that English lads of ten wore them and were 'no end nobby'; but his mother only answered, with a consoling pat of the yellow mane: 'My child, you are absurd enough now; if I let you add a tall hat, Plumfield wouldn't hold either of us, such would be the scorn and derision of all beholders. Content yourself with looking like the ghost of a waiter, and don't ask for the most ridiculous head-gear in the known world.' Denied this noble badge of manhood, Ted soothed his wounded soul by appearing in collars of an amazing height and stiffness, and ties which were the wonder of all female eyes. This freak was a sort of vengeance on his hard-hearted mother; for the collars drove the laundress to despair, never being just right, and the ties required such art in the tying that three women sometimes laboured long before--like Beau Brummel--he turned from a heap of 'failures' with the welcome words: 'That will do.' Rob was devoted on these trying occasions, his own toilet being distinguished only by its speed, simplicity, and neatness. Ted was usually in a frenzy before he was suited, and roars, whistles, commands, and groans were heard from the den wherein the Lion raged and the Lamb patiently toiled. Mrs Jo bore it till boots were hurled and a rain of hair-brushes set in, then, fearing for the safety of her eldest, she would go to the rescue, and by a wise mixture of fun and authority finally succeed in persuading Ted that he was 'a thing of beauty', if not 'a joy for ever'. At last he would stalk majestically forth, imprisoned in collars compared to which those worn by Dickens's afflicted Biler were trifles not worth mentioning. The dresscoat was a little loose in the shoulders, but allowed a noble expanse of glossy bosom to be seen, and with a delicate handkerchief negligently drooping at the proper angle, had a truly fine effect. Boots that shone, and likewise pinched, appeared at one end of the 'long, black clothes-pin'--as Josie called him---and a youthful but solemn face at the other, carried at an angle which, if long continued, would have resulted in spinal curvature. Light gloves, a cane, and--oh, bitter drop in the cup of joy!--an ignominious straw hat, not to mention a choice floweret in the buttonhole, and a festoon of watchguard below, finished off this impressive boy. 'How's that for style?' he asked, appearing to his mother and cousins whom he was to escort to the hall on this particular occasion. A shout of laughter greeted him, followed by exclamations of horror; for he had artfully added the little blond moustache he often wore when acting. It was very becoming, and seemed the only balm to heal the wound made by the loss of the beloved hat. 'Take it off this moment, you audacious boy! What would your father say to such a prank on this day when we must all behave our best?' said Mrs Jo, trying to frown, but privately thinking that among the many youths about her none were so beautiful and original as her long son. 'Let him wear it, Aunty; it's so becoming. No one will ever guess he isn't eighteen at least,' cried Josie, to whom disguise of any sort was always charming. 'Father won't observe it; he'll be absorbed in his big-wigs and the girls. No matter if he does, he'll enjoy the joke and introduce me as his oldest son. Rob is nowhere when I'm in full fig'; and Ted took the stage with a tragic stalk, like Hamlet in a tail-coat and choker. 'My son, obey me!' and when Mrs Jo spoke in that tone her word was law. Later, however, the moustache appeared, and many strangers firmly believed that there were three young Bhaers. So Ted found one ray of joy to light his gloom. Mr Bhaer was a proud and happy man when, at the appointed hour, he looked down upon the parterre of youthful faces before him, thinking of the 'little gardens' in which he had hopefully and faithfully sowed good seed years ago, and from which this beautiful harvest seemed to have sprung. Mr March's fine old face shone with the serenest satisfaction, for this was the dream of his life fulfilled after patient waiting; and the love and reverence in the countenances of the eager young men and women looking up at him plainly showed that the reward he coveted was his in fullest measure. Laurie always effaced himself on these occasions as much as courtesy would permit; for everyone spoke gratefully in ode, poem, and oration of the founder of the college and noble dispenser of his beneficence. The three sisters beamed with pride as they sat among the ladies, enjoying, as only women can, the honour done the men they loved; while 'the original Plums', as the younger ones called themselves, regarded the whole affair as their work, receiving the curious, admiring, or envious glances of strangers with a mixture of dignity and delight rather comical to behold. The music was excellent, and well it might be when Apollo waved the baton. The poems were--as usual on such occasions--of varied excellence, as the youthful speakers tried to put old truths into new words, and made them forceful by the enthusiasm of their earnest faces and fresh voices. It was beautiful to see the eager interest with which the girls listened to some brilliant brother-student, and applauded him with a rustle as of wind over a bed of flowers. It was still more significant and pleasant to watch the young men's faces when a slender white figure stood out against the background of black-coated dignitaries, and with cheeks that flushed and paled, and lips that trembled till earnest purpose conquered maiden fear, spoke to them straight out of a woman's heart and brain concerning the hopes and doubts, the aspirations and rewards all must know, desire, and labour for. This clear, sweet voice seemed to reach and rouse all that was noblest in the souls of these youths, and to set a seal upon the years of comradeship which made them sacred and memorable for ever. Alice Heath's oration was unanimously pronounced the success of the day; for without being flowery or sentimental, as is too apt to be the case with these first efforts of youthful orators, it was earnest, sensible, and so inspiring that she left the stage in a storm of applause, the good fellows being as much fired by her stirring appeal to 'march shoulder to shoulder', as if she had chanted the 'Marseillaise' then and there. One young man was so excited that he nearly rushed out of his seat to receive her as she hastened to hide herself among her mates, who welcomed her with faces full of tender pride and tearful eye. A prudent sister detained him, however, and in a moment he was able to listen with composure to the President's remarks. They were worth listening to, for Mr Bhaer spoke like a father to the children whom he was dismissing to the battle of life; and his tender, wise, and helpful words lingered in their hearts long after the praise was forgotten. Then came other exercises peculiar to Plumfield, and the end. Why the roof did not fly off when the sturdy lungs of the excited young men pealed out the closing hymn will for ever be a mystery; but it remained firm, and only the fading garlands vibrated as the waves of music rolled up and died away, leaving sweet echoes to haunt the place for another year. Dinners and spreads consumed the afternoon, and at sunset came a slight lull as everyone sought some brief repose before the festivities of the evening began. The President's reception was one of the enjoyable things in store, also dancing on Parnassus, and as much strolling, singing, and flirting, as could be compressed into a few hours by youths and maidens just out of school. Carriages were rolling about, and gay groups on piazzas, lawns, and window-seats idly speculated as to who the distinguished guests might be. The appearance of a very dusty vehicle loaded with trunks at Mr Bhaer's hospitably open door caused much curious comment among the loungers, especially as two rather foreign-looking gentlemen sprang out, followed by two young ladies, all four being greeted with cries of joy and much embracing by the Bhaers. Then they all disappeared into the house, the luggage followed, and the watchers were left to wonder who the mysterious strangers were, till a fair collegian declared that they must be the Professor's nephews, one of whom was expected on his wedding journey. She was right; Franz proudly presented his blonde and buxom bride, and she was hardly kissed and blessed when Emil led up his bonny English Mary, with the rapturous announcement: 'Uncle, Aunt Jo, here's another daughter! Have you room for my wife, too?' There could be no doubt of that; and Mary was with difficulty rescued from the glad embraces of her new relatives, who, remembering all the young pair had suffered together, felt that this was the natural and happy ending of the long voyage so perilously begun. 'But why not tell us, and let us be ready for two brides instead of one?' asked Mrs Jo, looking as usual rather demoralizing in a wrapper and crimping-pins, having rushed down from her chamber, where she was preparing for the labours of the evening. 'Well, I remembered what a good joke you all considered Uncle Laurie's marriage, and I thought I'd give you another nice little surprise,' laughed Emil. 'I'm off duty, and it seemed best to take advantage of wind and tide, and come along as convoy to the old boy here. We hoped to get in last night, but couldn't fetch it, so here we are in time for the end of the jollification, anyway.' 'Ah, my sons, it is too feeling-full to see you both so happy and again in the old home. I haf no words to outpour my gratitude, and can only ask of the dear Gott in Himmel to bless and keep you all,' cried Professor Bhaer, trying to gather all four into his arms at once, while tears rolled down his cheeks, and his English failed him. An April shower cleared the air and relieved the full hearts of the happy family; then of course everyone began to talk--Franz and Ludmilla in German with uncle, Emil and Mary with the aunts; and round this group gathered the young folk, clamouring to hear all about the wreck, and the rescue, and the homeward voyage. It was a very different story from the written one; and as they listened to Emil's graphic words, with Mary's soft voice breaking in now and then to add some fact that brought out the courage, patience, and self-sacrifice he so lightly touched upon, it became a solemn and pathetic thing to see and hear these happy creatures tell of that great danger and deliverance. 'I never hear the patter of rain now that I don't want to say my prayers; and as for women, I'd like to take my hat off to every one of 'em, for they are braver than any man I ever saw,' said Emil, with the new gravity that was as becoming to him as the new gentleness with which he treated everyone. 'If women are brave, some men are as tender and self-sacrificing as women. I know one who in the night slipped his share of food into a girl's pocket, though starving himself, and sat for hours rocking a sick man in his arms that he might get a little sleep. No, love, I will tell, and you must let me!' cried Mary, holding in both her own the hand he laid on her lips to silence her. 'Only did my duty. If that torment had lasted much longer I might have been as bad as poor Barry and the boatswain. Wasn't that an awful night?' And Emil shuddered as he recalled it. 'Don't think of it, dear. Tell about the happy days on the Urania, when papa grew better and we were all safe and homeward bound,' said Mary, with the trusting look and comforting touch which seemed to banish the dark and recall the bright side of that terrible experience. Emil cheered up at once, and sitting with his arm about his 'dear lass', in true sailor fashion told the happy ending of the tale. 'Such a jolly old time as we had at Hamburg! Uncle Hermann couldn't do enough for the captain, and while mamma took care of him, Mary looked after me. I had to go into dock for repairs; fire hurt my eyes, and watching for a sail and want of sleep made 'em as hazy as a London fog. She was pilot and brought me in all right, you see, only I couldn't part company, so she came aboard as first mate, and I'm bound straight for glory now.' 'Hush! that's silly, dear,' whispered Mary, trying in her turn to stop him, with English shyness about tender topics. But he took the soft hand in his, and proudly surveying the one ring it wore, went on with the air of an admiral aboard his flagship. 'The captain proposed waiting a spell; but I told him we weren't like to see any rougher weather than we'd pulled through together, and if we didn't know one another after such a year as this, we never should. I was sure I shouldn't be worth my pay without this hand on the wheel; so I had my way, and my brave little woman has shipped for the long voyage. God bless her!' 'Shall you really sail with him?' asked Daisy, admiring her courage, but shrinking with cat-like horror from the water. 'I'm not afraid,' answered Mary, with a loyal smile. 'I've proved my captain in fair weather and in foul, and if he is ever wrecked again, I'd rather be with him than waiting and watching ashore.' 'A true woman, and a born sailor's wife! You are a happy man, Emil, and I'm sure this trip will be a prosperous one,' cried Mrs Jo, delighted with the briny flavour of this courtship. 'Oh, my dear boy, I always felt you'd come back, and when everyone else despaired I never gave up, but insisted that you were clinging to the main-top jib somewhere on that dreadful sea'; and Mrs Jo illustrated her faith by grasping Emil with a truly Pillycoddian gesture. 'Of course I was!' answered Emil heartily; 'and my "main-top jib" in this case was the thought of what you and Uncle said to me. That kept me up; and among the million thoughts that came to me during those long nights none was clearer than the idea of the red strand, you remember--English navy, and all that. I liked the notion, and resolved that if a bit of my cable was left afloat, the red stripe should be there.' 'And it was, my dear, it was! Captain Hardy testifies to that, and here is your reward'; and Mrs Jo kissed Mary with a maternal tenderness which betrayed that she liked the English rose better than the blue-eyed German Kornblumen, sweet and modest though it was. Emil surveyed the little ceremony with complacency, saying, as he looked about the room which he never thought to see again: 'Odd, isn't it, how clearly trifles come back to one in times of danger? As we floated there, half-starved, and in despair, I used to think I heard the bells ringing here, and Ted tramping downstairs, and you calling, "Boys, boys, it's time to get up!" I actually smelt the coffee we used to have, and one night I nearly cried when I woke from a dream of Asia's ginger cookies. I declare, it was one of the bitterest disappointments of my life to face hunger with that spicy smell in my nostrils. If you've got any, do give me one!' A pitiful murmur broke from all the aunts and cousins, and Emil was at once borne away to feast on the desired cookies, a supply always being on hand. Mrs Jo and her sister joined the other group, glad to hear what Franz was saying about Nat. 'The minute I saw how thin and shabby he was, I knew that something was wrong; but he made light of it, and was so happy over our visit and news that I let him off with a brief confession, and went to Professor Baumgarten and Bergmann. From them I learned the whole story of his spending more money than he ought and trying to atone for it by unnecessary work and sacrifice. Baumgarten thought it would do him good, so kept his secret till I came. It did him good, and he's paid his debts and earned his bread by the sweat of his brow, like an honest fellow.' 'I like that much in Nat. It is, as I said, a lesson, and he learns it well. He proves himself a man, and has deserved the place Bergmann offers him,' said Mr Bhaer, looking well pleased as Franz added some facts already recorded. 'I told you, Meg, that he had good stuff in him, and love for Daisy would keep him straight. Dear lad, I wish I had him here this moment!' cried Mrs Jo, forgetting in delight the doubts and anxieties which had troubled her for months past. 'I am very glad, and suppose I shall give in as I always do, especially now that the epidemic rages so among us. You and Emil have set all their heads in a ferment, and Josie will be demanding a lover before I can turn round,' answered Mrs Meg, in a tone of despair. But her sister saw that she was touched by Nat's trials, and hastened to add the triumphs, that the victory might be complete, for success is always charming. 'This offer of Herr Bergmann is a good one, isn't it?' she asked, though Mr Laurie had already satisfied her on that point when Nat's letter brought the news. 'Very fine in every way. Nat will get capital drill in Bachmeister's orchestra, see London in a delightful way, and if he suits come home with them, well started among the violins. No great honour, but a sure thing and a step up. I congratulated him, and he was very jolly over it, saying, like the true lover he is: "Tell Daisy; be sure and tell her all about it." I'll leave that to you, Aunt Meg, and you can also break it gently to her that the old boy had a fine blond beard. Very becoming; hides his weak mouth, and gives a noble air to his big eyes and "Mendelssohnian brow", as a gushing girl called it. Ludmilla has a photo of it for you.' This amused them; and they listened to many other interesting bits of news which kind Franz, even in his own happiness, had not forgotten to remember for his friend's sake. He talked so well, and painted Nat's patient and pathetic shifts so vividly, that Mrs Meg was half won; though if she had learned of the Minna episode and the fiddling in beer-gardens and streets, she might not have relented so soon. She stored up all she heard, however, and, womanlike, promised herself a delicious talk with Daisy, in which she would allow herself to melt by degrees, and perhaps change the doubtful 'We shall see' to a cordial 'He has done well; be happy, dear'. In the midst of this agreeable chat the sudden striking of a clock recalled Mrs Jo from romance to reality, and she exclaimed, with a clutch at her crimping-pins: 'My blessed people, you must eat and rest; and I must dress, or receive in this disgraceful rig. Meg, will you take Ludmilla and Mary upstairs and see to them? Franz knows the way to the dining-room. Fritz, come with me and be made tidy, for what with heat and emotion, we are both perfect wrecks.' Chapter 19. WHITE ROSES While the travellers refreshed, and Mrs President struggled into her best gown, Josie ran into the garden to gather flowers for the brides. The sudden arrival of these interesting beings had quite enchanted the romantic girl, and her head was full of heroic rescues, tender admiration, dramatic situations, and feminine wonder as to whether the lovely creatures would wear their veils or not. She was standing before a great bush of white roses, culling the most perfect for the bouquets which she meant to tie with the ribbon festooned over her arm, and lay on the toilette tables of the new cousins, as a delicate attention. A step startled her, and looking up she saw her brother coming down the path with folded arms, bent head, and the absent air of one absorbed in deep thought. 'Sophy Wackles,' said the sharp child, with a superior smile, as she sucked

gasped

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

'Bless me! I always imagined lords and ladies did nothing but ride round in a coach and six, go to balls, and be presented to the Queen in cocked hats, and trains and feathers,' exclaimed an artless young person from the wilds of Maine, whither an illustrated paper occasionally wandered. 'Not at all; Lord Abercrombie is over here studying up our American prison system, and my lady is busy with the schools--both very high-born, but the simplest and most sensible people I've met this long time. They are neither of them young nor handsome, and dress plainly; so don't expect anything splendid. Mr Laurence was telling me last night about a friend of his who met my lord in the hall, and owing to a rough greatcoat and a red face, mistook him for a coachman, and said: "Now, my man, what do you want here?" Lord Abercrombie mildly mentioned who he was, and that he had come to dinner. And the poor host was much afflicted, saying afterward: "Why didn't he wear his stars and garters? then a fellow would know he was a lord."' The girls laughed again, and a general rustle betrayed that each was prinking a bit before the titled guest arrived. Even Mrs Jo settled her collar, and Mrs Meg felt if her cap was right, while Bess shook out her curls and Josie boldly consulted the glass; for they were women, in spite of philosophy and philanthropy. 'Shall we all rise?' asked one girl, deeply impressed by the impending honour. 'It would be courteous.' 'Shall we shake hands?' 'No, I'll present you en masse, and your pleasant faces will be introduction enough.' 'I wish I'd worn my best dress. Ought to have told us,' whispered Sally. 'Won't my folks be surprised when I tell them we have had a real lady to call on us?' said another. 'Don't look as if you'd never seen a gentlewoman before, Milly. We are not all fresh from the wilderness,' added the stately damsel who, having Mayflower ancestors, felt that she was the equal of all the crowned heads of Europe. 'Hush, she's coming! Oh, my heart, what a bonnet!' cried the gay girl in a stage whisper; and every eye was demurely fixed upon the busy hands as the door opened to admit Mrs Laurence and her guest. It was rather a shock to find, after the general introduction was over, that this daughter of a hundred earls was a stout lady in a plain gown, and a rather weather-beaten bonnet, with a bag of papers in one hand and a note-book in the other. But the face was full of benevolence, the sonorous voice very kind, the genial manners very winning, and about the whole person an indescribable air of high breeding which made beauty of no consequence, costume soon forgotten, and the moment memorable to the keen-eyed girls whom nothing escaped. A little chat about the rise, growth, and success of this particular class, and then Mrs Jo led the conversation to the English lady's work, anxious to show her pupils how rank dignifies labour, and charity blesses wealth. It was good for these girls to hear of the evening-schools supported and taught by women whom they knew and honoured; of Miss Cobbe's eloquent protest winning the protection of the law for abused wives; Mrs Butler saving the lost; Mrs Taylor, who devoted one room in her historic house to a library for the servants; Lord Shaftesbury, busy with his new tenement-houses in the slums of London; of prison reforms; and all the brave work being done in God's name by the rich and great for the humble and the poor. It impressed them more than many quiet home lectures would have done, and roused an ambition to help when their time should come, well knowing that even in glorious America there is still plenty to be done before she is what she should be--truly just, and free, and great. They were also quick to see that Lady Abercrombie treated all there as her equals, from stately Mrs Laurence, to little Josie, taking notes of everything and privately resolving to have some thick-soled English boots as soon as possible. No one would have guessed that she had a big house in London, a castle in Wales, and a grand country seat in Scotland, as she spoke of Parnassus with admiration, Plumfield as a 'dear old home', and the college as an honour to all concerned in it. At that, of course, every head went up a little, and when my lady left, every hand was ready for the hearty shake the noble Englishwoman gave them, with words they long remembered: 'I am very pleased to see this much-neglected branch of a woman's education so well conducted here, and I have to thank my friend Mrs Laurence for one of the most charming pictures I've seen in America--Penelope among her maids.' A group of smiling faces watched the stout boots trudge away, respectful glances followed the shabby bonnet till it was out of sight, and the girls felt a truer respect for their titled guest than if she had come in the coach and six, with all her diamonds on. 'I feel better about the "odd jobs" now. I only wish I could do them as well as Lady Abercrombie does,' said one. 'I thanked my stars my buttonholes were nice, for she looked at them and said: "Quite workmanlike, upon my word," added another, feeling that her gingham gown had come to honour. 'Her manners were as sweet and kind as Mrs Brooke's. Not a bit stiff or condescending, as I expected. I see now what you meant, Mrs Bhaer, when you said once that well-bred people were the same all the world over.' Mrs Meg bowed her thanks for the compliment, and Mrs Bhaer said: 'I know them when I see them, but never shall be a model of deportment myself. I'm glad you enjoyed the little visit. Now, if you young people don't want England to get ahead of us in many ways, you must bestir yourselves and keep abreast; for our sisters are in earnest, you see, and don't waste time worrying about their sphere, but make it wherever duty calls them.' 'We will do our best, ma'am,' answered the girls heartily, and trooped away with their work-baskets, feeling that though they might never be Harriet Martineaus, Elizabeth Brownings, or George Eliots, they might become noble, useful, and independent women, and earn for themselves some sweet title from the grateful lips of the poor, better than any a queen could bestow. Chapter 18. CLASS DAY The clerk of the weather evidently has a regard for young people, and sends sunshine for class days as often as he can. An especially lovely one shone over Plumfield as this interesting anniversary came round, bringing the usual accompaniments of roses, strawberries, white-gowned girls, beaming youths, proud friends, and stately dignitaries full of well-earned satisfaction with the yearly harvest. As Laurence College was a mixed one, the presence of young women as students gave to the occasion a grace and animation entirely wanting where the picturesque half of creation appear merely as spectators. The hands that turned the pages of wise books also possessed the skill to decorate the hall with flowers; eyes tired with study shone with hospitable warmth on the assembling guests; and under the white muslins beat hearts as full of ambition, hope, and courage as those agitating the broadcloth of the ruling sex. College Hill, Parnassus, and old Plum swarmed with cheery faces, as guests, students, and professors hurried to and fro in the pleasant excitement of arriving and receiving. Everyone was welcomed cordially, whether he rolled up in a fine carriage, or trudged afoot to see the good son or daughter come to honour on the happy day that rewarded many a mutual sacrifice. Mr Laurie and his wife were on the reception committee, and their lovely house was overflowing. Mrs Meg, with Daisy and Jo as aides, was in demand among the girls, helping on belated toilettes, giving an eye to spreads, and directing the decorations. Mrs Jo had her hands full as President's lady, and the mother of Ted; for it took all the power and skill of that energetic woman to get her son into his Sunday best. Not that he objected to be well arrayed; far from it; he adored good clothes, and owing to his great height already revelled in a dress-suit, bequeathed him by a dandy friend. The effect was very funny; but he would wear it in spite of the jeers of his mates, and sighed vainly for a beaver, because his stern parent drew the line there. He pleaded that English lads of ten wore them and were 'no end nobby'; but his mother only answered, with a consoling pat of the yellow mane: 'My child, you are absurd enough now; if I let you add a tall hat, Plumfield wouldn't hold either of us, such would be the scorn and derision of all beholders. Content yourself with looking like the ghost of a waiter, and don't ask for the most ridiculous head-gear in the known world.' Denied this noble badge of manhood, Ted soothed his wounded soul by appearing in collars of an amazing height and stiffness, and ties which were the wonder of all female eyes. This freak was a sort of vengeance on his hard-hearted mother; for the collars drove the laundress to despair, never being just right, and the ties required such art in the tying that three women sometimes laboured long before--like Beau Brummel--he turned from a heap of 'failures' with the welcome words: 'That will do.' Rob was devoted on these trying occasions, his own toilet being distinguished only by its speed, simplicity, and neatness. Ted was usually in a frenzy before he was suited, and roars, whistles, commands, and groans were heard from the den wherein the Lion raged and the Lamb patiently toiled. Mrs Jo bore it till boots were hurled and a rain of hair-brushes set in, then, fearing for the safety of her eldest, she would go to the rescue, and by a wise mixture of fun and authority finally succeed in persuading Ted that he was 'a thing of beauty', if not 'a joy for ever'. At last he would stalk majestically forth, imprisoned in collars compared to which those worn by Dickens's afflicted Biler were trifles not worth mentioning. The dresscoat was a little loose in the shoulders, but allowed a noble expanse of glossy bosom to be seen, and with a delicate handkerchief negligently drooping at the proper angle, had a truly fine effect. Boots that shone, and likewise pinched, appeared at one end of the 'long, black clothes-pin'--as Josie called him---and a youthful but solemn face at the other, carried at an angle which, if long continued, would have resulted in spinal curvature. Light gloves, a cane, and--oh, bitter drop in the cup of joy!--an ignominious straw hat, not to mention a choice floweret in the buttonhole, and a festoon of watchguard below, finished off this impressive boy. 'How's that for style?' he asked, appearing to his mother and cousins whom he was to escort to the hall on this particular occasion. A shout of laughter greeted him, followed by exclamations of horror; for he had artfully added the little blond moustache he often wore when acting. It was very becoming, and seemed the only balm to heal the wound made by the loss of the beloved hat. 'Take it off this moment, you audacious boy! What would your father say to such a prank on this day when we must all behave our best?' said Mrs Jo, trying to frown, but privately thinking that among the many youths about her none were so beautiful and original as her long son. 'Let him wear it, Aunty; it's so becoming. No one will ever guess he isn't eighteen at least,' cried Josie, to whom disguise of any sort was always charming. 'Father won't observe it; he'll be absorbed in his big-wigs and the girls. No matter if he does, he'll enjoy the joke and introduce me as his oldest son. Rob is nowhere when I'm in full fig'; and Ted took the stage with a tragic stalk, like Hamlet in a tail-coat and choker. 'My son, obey me!' and when Mrs Jo spoke in that tone her word was law. Later, however, the moustache appeared, and many strangers firmly believed that there were three young Bhaers. So Ted found one ray of joy to light his gloom. Mr Bhaer was a proud and happy man when, at the appointed hour, he looked down upon the parterre of youthful faces before him, thinking of the 'little gardens' in which he had hopefully and faithfully sowed good seed years ago, and from which this beautiful harvest seemed to have sprung. Mr March's fine old face shone with the serenest satisfaction, for this was the dream of his life fulfilled after patient waiting; and the love and reverence in the countenances of the eager young men and women looking up at him plainly showed that the reward he coveted was his in fullest measure. Laurie always effaced himself on these occasions as much as courtesy would permit; for everyone spoke gratefully in ode, poem, and oration of the founder of the college and noble dispenser of his beneficence. The three sisters beamed with pride as they sat among the ladies, enjoying, as only women can, the honour done the men they loved; while 'the original Plums', as the younger ones called themselves, regarded the whole affair as their work, receiving the curious, admiring, or envious glances of strangers with a mixture of dignity and delight rather comical to behold. The music was excellent, and well it might be when Apollo waved the baton. The poems were--as usual on such occasions--of varied excellence, as the youthful speakers tried to put old truths into new words, and made them forceful by the enthusiasm of their earnest faces and fresh voices. It was beautiful to see the eager interest with which the girls listened to some brilliant brother-student, and applauded him with a rustle as of wind over a bed of flowers. It was still more significant and pleasant to watch the young men's faces when a slender white figure stood out against the background of black-coated dignitaries, and with cheeks that flushed and paled, and lips that trembled till earnest purpose conquered maiden fear, spoke to them straight out of a woman's heart and brain concerning the hopes and doubts, the aspirations and rewards all must know, desire, and labour for. This clear, sweet voice seemed to reach and rouse all that was noblest in the souls of these youths, and to set a seal upon the years of comradeship which made them sacred and memorable for ever. Alice Heath's oration was unanimously pronounced the success of the day; for without being flowery or sentimental, as is too apt to be the case with these first efforts of youthful orators, it was earnest, sensible, and so inspiring that she left the stage in a storm of applause, the good fellows being as much fired by her stirring appeal to 'march shoulder to shoulder', as if she had chanted the 'Marseillaise' then and there. One young man was so excited that he nearly rushed out of his seat to receive her as she hastened to hide herself among her mates, who welcomed her with faces full of tender pride and tearful eye. A prudent sister detained him, however, and in a moment he was able to listen with composure to the President's remarks. They were worth listening to, for Mr Bhaer spoke like a father to the children whom he was dismissing to the battle of life; and his tender, wise, and helpful words lingered in their hearts long after the praise was forgotten. Then came other exercises peculiar to Plumfield, and the end. Why the roof did not fly off when the sturdy lungs of the excited young men pealed out the closing hymn will for ever be a mystery; but it remained firm, and only the fading garlands vibrated as the waves of music rolled up and died away, leaving sweet echoes to haunt the place for another year. Dinners and spreads consumed the afternoon, and at sunset came a slight lull as everyone sought some brief repose before the festivities of the evening began. The President's reception was one of the enjoyable things in store, also dancing on Parnassus, and as much strolling, singing, and flirting, as could be compressed into a few hours by youths and maidens just out of school. Carriages were rolling about, and gay groups on piazzas, lawns, and window-seats idly speculated as to who the distinguished guests might be. The appearance of a very dusty vehicle loaded with trunks at Mr Bhaer's hospitably open door caused much curious comment among the loungers, especially as two rather foreign-looking gentlemen sprang out, followed by two young ladies, all four being greeted with cries of joy and much embracing by the Bhaers. Then they all disappeared into the house, the luggage followed, and the watchers were left to wonder who the mysterious strangers were, till a fair collegian declared that they must be the Professor's nephews, one of whom was expected on his wedding journey. She was right; Franz proudly presented his blonde and buxom bride, and she was hardly kissed and blessed when Emil led up his bonny English Mary, with the rapturous announcement: 'Uncle, Aunt Jo, here's another daughter! Have you room for my wife, too?' There could be no doubt of that; and Mary was with difficulty rescued from the glad embraces of her new relatives, who, remembering all the young pair had suffered together, felt that this was the natural and happy ending of the long voyage so perilously begun. 'But why not tell us, and let us be ready for two brides instead of one?' asked Mrs Jo, looking as usual rather demoralizing in a wrapper and crimping-pins, having rushed down from her chamber, where she was preparing for the labours of the evening. 'Well, I remembered what a good joke you all considered Uncle Laurie's marriage, and I thought I'd give you another nice little surprise,' laughed Emil. 'I'm off duty, and it seemed best to take advantage of wind and tide, and come along as convoy to the old boy here. We hoped to get in last night, but couldn't fetch it, so here we are in time for the end of the jollification, anyway.' 'Ah, my sons, it is too feeling-full to see you both so happy and again in the old home. I haf no words to outpour my gratitude, and can only ask of the dear Gott in Himmel to bless and keep you all,' cried Professor Bhaer, trying to gather all four into his arms at once, while tears rolled down his cheeks, and his English failed him. An April shower cleared the air and relieved the full hearts of the happy family; then of course everyone began to talk--Franz and Ludmilla in German with uncle, Emil and Mary with the aunts; and round this group gathered the young folk, clamouring to hear all about the wreck, and the rescue, and the homeward voyage. It was a very different story from the written one; and as they listened to Emil's graphic words, with Mary's soft voice breaking in now and then to add some fact that brought out the courage, patience, and self-sacrifice he so lightly touched upon, it became a solemn and pathetic thing to see and hear these happy creatures tell of that great danger and deliverance. 'I never hear the patter of rain now that I don't want to say my prayers; and as for women, I'd like to take my hat off to every one of 'em, for they are braver than any man I ever saw,' said Emil, with the new gravity that was as becoming to him as the new gentleness with which he treated everyone. 'If women are brave, some men are as tender and self-sacrificing as women. I know one who in the night slipped his share of food into a girl's pocket, though starving himself, and sat for hours rocking a sick man in his arms that he might get a little sleep. No, love, I will tell, and you must let me!' cried Mary, holding in both her own the hand he laid on her lips to silence her. 'Only did my duty. If that torment had lasted much longer I might have been as bad as poor Barry and the boatswain. Wasn't that an awful night?' And Emil shuddered as he recalled it. 'Don't think of it, dear. Tell about the happy days on the Urania, when papa grew better and we were all safe and homeward bound,' said Mary, with the trusting look and comforting touch which seemed to banish the dark and recall the bright side of that terrible experience. Emil cheered up at once, and sitting with his arm about his 'dear lass', in true sailor fashion told the happy ending of the tale. 'Such a jolly old time as we had at Hamburg! Uncle Hermann couldn't do enough for the captain, and while mamma took care of him, Mary looked after me. I had to go into dock for repairs; fire hurt my eyes, and watching for a sail and want of sleep made 'em as hazy as a London fog. She was pilot and brought me in all right, you see, only I couldn't part company, so she came aboard as first mate, and I'm bound straight for glory now.' 'Hush! that's silly, dear,' whispered Mary, trying in her turn to stop him, with English shyness about tender topics. But he took the soft hand in his, and proudly surveying the one ring it wore, went on with the air of an admiral aboard his flagship. 'The captain proposed waiting a spell; but I told him we weren't like to see any rougher weather than we'd pulled through together, and if we didn't know one another after such a year as this, we never should. I was sure I shouldn't be worth my pay without this hand on the wheel; so I had my way, and my brave little woman has shipped for the long voyage. God bless her!' 'Shall you really sail with him?' asked Daisy, admiring her courage, but shrinking with cat-like horror from the water. 'I'm not afraid,' answered Mary, with a loyal smile. 'I've proved my captain in fair weather and in foul, and if he is ever wrecked again, I'd rather be with him than waiting and watching ashore.' 'A true woman, and a born sailor's wife! You are a happy man, Emil, and I'm sure this trip will be a prosperous one,' cried Mrs Jo, delighted with the briny flavour of this courtship. 'Oh, my dear boy, I always felt you'd come back, and when everyone else despaired I never gave up, but insisted that you were clinging to the main-top jib somewhere on that dreadful sea'; and Mrs Jo illustrated her faith by grasping Emil with a truly Pillycoddian gesture. 'Of course I was!' answered Emil heartily; 'and my "main-top jib" in this case was the thought of what you and Uncle said to me. That kept me up; and among the million thoughts that came to me during those long nights none was clearer than the idea of the red strand, you remember--English navy, and all that. I liked the notion, and resolved that if a bit of my cable was left afloat, the red stripe should be there.' 'And it was, my dear, it was! Captain Hardy testifies to that, and here is your reward'; and Mrs Jo kissed Mary with a maternal tenderness which betrayed that she liked the English rose better than the blue-eyed German Kornblumen, sweet and modest though it was. Emil surveyed the little ceremony with complacency, saying, as he looked about the room which he never thought to see again: 'Odd, isn't it, how clearly trifles come back to one in times of danger? As we floated there, half-starved, and in despair, I used to think I heard the bells ringing here, and Ted tramping downstairs, and you calling, "Boys, boys, it's time to get up!" I actually smelt the coffee we used to have, and one night I nearly cried when I woke from a dream of Asia's ginger cookies. I declare, it was one of the bitterest disappointments of my life to face hunger with that spicy smell in my nostrils. If you've got any, do give me one!' A pitiful murmur broke from all the aunts and cousins, and Emil was at once borne away to feast on the desired cookies, a supply always being on hand. Mrs Jo and her sister joined the other group, glad to hear what Franz was saying about Nat. 'The minute I saw how thin and shabby he was, I knew that something was wrong; but he made light of it, and was so happy over our visit and news that I let him off with a brief confession, and went to Professor Baumgarten and Bergmann. From them I learned the whole story of his spending more money than he ought and trying to atone for it by unnecessary work and sacrifice. Baumgarten thought it would do him good, so kept his secret till I came. It did him good, and he's paid his debts and earned his bread by the sweat of his brow, like an honest fellow.' 'I like that much in Nat. It is, as I said, a lesson, and he learns it well. He proves himself a man, and has deserved the place Bergmann offers him,' said Mr Bhaer, looking well pleased as Franz added some facts already recorded. 'I told you, Meg, that he had good stuff in him, and love for Daisy would keep him straight. Dear lad, I wish I had him here this moment!' cried Mrs Jo, forgetting in delight the doubts and anxieties which had troubled her for months past. 'I am very glad, and suppose I shall give in as I always do, especially now that the epidemic rages so among us. You and Emil have set all their heads in a ferment, and Josie will be demanding a lover before I can turn round,' answered Mrs Meg, in a tone of despair. But her sister saw that she was touched by Nat's trials, and hastened to add the triumphs, that the victory might be complete, for success is always charming. 'This offer of Herr Bergmann is a good one, isn't it?' she asked, though Mr Laurie had already satisfied her on that point when Nat's letter brought the news. 'Very fine in every way. Nat will get capital drill in Bachmeister's orchestra, see London in a delightful way, and if he suits come home with them, well started among the violins. No great honour, but a sure thing and a step up. I congratulated him, and he was very jolly over it, saying, like the true lover he is: "Tell Daisy; be sure and tell her all about it." I'll leave that to you, Aunt Meg, and you can also break it gently to her that the old boy had a fine blond beard. Very becoming; hides his weak mouth, and gives a noble air to his big eyes and "Mendelssohnian brow", as a gushing girl called it. Ludmilla has a photo of it for you.' This amused them; and they listened to many other interesting bits of news which kind Franz, even in his own happiness, had not forgotten to remember for his friend's sake. He talked so well, and painted Nat's patient and pathetic shifts so vividly, that Mrs Meg was half won; though if she had learned of the Minna episode and the fiddling in beer-gardens and streets, she might not have relented so soon. She stored up all she heard, however, and, womanlike, promised herself a delicious talk with Daisy, in which she would allow herself to melt by degrees, and perhaps change the doubtful 'We shall see' to a cordial 'He has done well; be happy, dear'. In the midst of this agreeable chat the sudden striking of a clock recalled Mrs Jo from romance to reality, and she exclaimed, with a clutch at her crimping-pins: 'My blessed people, you must eat and rest; and I must dress, or receive in this disgraceful rig. Meg, will you take Ludmilla and Mary upstairs and see to them? Franz knows the way to the dining-room. Fritz, come with me and be made tidy, for what with heat and emotion, we are both perfect wrecks.' Chapter 19. WHITE ROSES While the travellers refreshed, and Mrs President struggled into her best gown, Josie ran into the garden to gather flowers for the brides. The sudden arrival of these interesting beings had quite enchanted the romantic girl, and her head was full of heroic rescues, tender admiration, dramatic situations, and feminine wonder as to whether the lovely creatures would wear their veils or not. She was standing before a great bush of white roses, culling the most perfect for the bouquets which she meant to tie with the ribbon festooned over her arm, and lay on the toilette tables of the new cousins, as a delicate attention. A step startled her, and looking up she saw her brother coming down the path with folded arms, bent head, and the absent air of one absorbed in deep thought. 'Sophy Wackles,' said the sharp child, with a superior smile, as she sucked

wilderness

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

'Bless me! I always imagined lords and ladies did nothing but ride round in a coach and six, go to balls, and be presented to the Queen in cocked hats, and trains and feathers,' exclaimed an artless young person from the wilds of Maine, whither an illustrated paper occasionally wandered. 'Not at all; Lord Abercrombie is over here studying up our American prison system, and my lady is busy with the schools--both very high-born, but the simplest and most sensible people I've met this long time. They are neither of them young nor handsome, and dress plainly; so don't expect anything splendid. Mr Laurence was telling me last night about a friend of his who met my lord in the hall, and owing to a rough greatcoat and a red face, mistook him for a coachman, and said: "Now, my man, what do you want here?" Lord Abercrombie mildly mentioned who he was, and that he had come to dinner. And the poor host was much afflicted, saying afterward: "Why didn't he wear his stars and garters? then a fellow would know he was a lord."' The girls laughed again, and a general rustle betrayed that each was prinking a bit before the titled guest arrived. Even Mrs Jo settled her collar, and Mrs Meg felt if her cap was right, while Bess shook out her curls and Josie boldly consulted the glass; for they were women, in spite of philosophy and philanthropy. 'Shall we all rise?' asked one girl, deeply impressed by the impending honour. 'It would be courteous.' 'Shall we shake hands?' 'No, I'll present you en masse, and your pleasant faces will be introduction enough.' 'I wish I'd worn my best dress. Ought to have told us,' whispered Sally. 'Won't my folks be surprised when I tell them we have had a real lady to call on us?' said another. 'Don't look as if you'd never seen a gentlewoman before, Milly. We are not all fresh from the wilderness,' added the stately damsel who, having Mayflower ancestors, felt that she was the equal of all the crowned heads of Europe. 'Hush, she's coming! Oh, my heart, what a bonnet!' cried the gay girl in a stage whisper; and every eye was demurely fixed upon the busy hands as the door opened to admit Mrs Laurence and her guest. It was rather a shock to find, after the general introduction was over, that this daughter of a hundred earls was a stout lady in a plain gown, and a rather weather-beaten bonnet, with a bag of papers in one hand and a note-book in the other. But the face was full of benevolence, the sonorous voice very kind, the genial manners very winning, and about the whole person an indescribable air of high breeding which made beauty of no consequence, costume soon forgotten, and the moment memorable to the keen-eyed girls whom nothing escaped. A little chat about the rise, growth, and success of this particular class, and then Mrs Jo led the conversation to the English lady's work, anxious to show her pupils how rank dignifies labour, and charity blesses wealth. It was good for these girls to hear of the evening-schools supported and taught by women whom they knew and honoured; of Miss Cobbe's eloquent protest winning the protection of the law for abused wives; Mrs Butler saving the lost; Mrs Taylor, who devoted one room in her historic house to a library for the servants; Lord Shaftesbury, busy with his new tenement-houses in the slums of London; of prison reforms; and all the brave work being done in God's name by the rich and great for the humble and the poor. It impressed them more than many quiet home lectures would have done, and roused an ambition to help when their time should come, well knowing that even in glorious America there is still plenty to be done before she is what she should be--truly just, and free, and great. They were also quick to see that Lady Abercrombie treated all there as her equals, from stately Mrs Laurence, to little Josie, taking notes of everything and privately resolving to have some thick-soled English boots as soon as possible. No one would have guessed that she had a big house in London, a castle in Wales, and a grand country seat in Scotland, as she spoke of Parnassus with admiration, Plumfield as a 'dear old home', and the college as an honour to all concerned in it. At that, of course, every head went up a little, and when my lady left, every hand was ready for the hearty shake the noble Englishwoman gave them, with words they long remembered: 'I am very pleased to see this much-neglected branch of a woman's education so well conducted here, and I have to thank my friend Mrs Laurence for one of the most charming pictures I've seen in America--Penelope among her maids.' A group of smiling faces watched the stout boots trudge away, respectful glances followed the shabby bonnet till it was out of sight, and the girls felt a truer respect for their titled guest than if she had come in the coach and six, with all her diamonds on. 'I feel better about the "odd jobs" now. I only wish I could do them as well as Lady Abercrombie does,' said one. 'I thanked my stars my buttonholes were nice, for she looked at them and said: "Quite workmanlike, upon my word," added another, feeling that her gingham gown had come to honour. 'Her manners were as sweet and kind as Mrs Brooke's. Not a bit stiff or condescending, as I expected. I see now what you meant, Mrs Bhaer, when you said once that well-bred people were the same all the world over.' Mrs Meg bowed her thanks for the compliment, and Mrs Bhaer said: 'I know them when I see them, but never shall be a model of deportment myself. I'm glad you enjoyed the little visit. Now, if you young people don't want England to get ahead of us in many ways, you must bestir yourselves and keep abreast; for our sisters are in earnest, you see, and don't waste time worrying about their sphere, but make it wherever duty calls them.' 'We will do our best, ma'am,' answered the girls heartily, and trooped away with their work-baskets, feeling that though they might never be Harriet Martineaus, Elizabeth Brownings, or George Eliots, they might become noble, useful, and independent women, and earn for themselves some sweet title from the grateful lips of the poor, better than any a queen could bestow. Chapter 18. CLASS DAY The clerk of the weather evidently has a regard for young people, and sends sunshine for class days as often as he can. An especially lovely one shone over Plumfield as this interesting anniversary came round, bringing the usual accompaniments of roses, strawberries, white-gowned girls, beaming youths, proud friends, and stately dignitaries full of well-earned satisfaction with the yearly harvest. As Laurence College was a mixed one, the presence of young women as students gave to the occasion a grace and animation entirely wanting where the picturesque half of creation appear merely as spectators. The hands that turned the pages of wise books also possessed the skill to decorate the hall with flowers; eyes tired with study shone with hospitable warmth on the assembling guests; and under the white muslins beat hearts as full of ambition, hope, and courage as those agitating the broadcloth of the ruling sex. College Hill, Parnassus, and old Plum swarmed with cheery faces, as guests, students, and professors hurried to and fro in the pleasant excitement of arriving and receiving. Everyone was welcomed cordially, whether he rolled up in a fine carriage, or trudged afoot to see the good son or daughter come to honour on the happy day that rewarded many a mutual sacrifice. Mr Laurie and his wife were on the reception committee, and their lovely house was overflowing. Mrs Meg, with Daisy and Jo as aides, was in demand among the girls, helping on belated toilettes, giving an eye to spreads, and directing the decorations. Mrs Jo had her hands full as President's lady, and the mother of Ted; for it took all the power and skill of that energetic woman to get her son into his Sunday best. Not that he objected to be well arrayed; far from it; he adored good clothes, and owing to his great height already revelled in a dress-suit, bequeathed him by a dandy friend. The effect was very funny; but he would wear it in spite of the jeers of his mates, and sighed vainly for a beaver, because his stern parent drew the line there. He pleaded that English lads of ten wore them and were 'no end nobby'; but his mother only answered, with a consoling pat of the yellow mane: 'My child, you are absurd enough now; if I let you add a tall hat, Plumfield wouldn't hold either of us, such would be the scorn and derision of all beholders. Content yourself with looking like the ghost of a waiter, and don't ask for the most ridiculous head-gear in the known world.' Denied this noble badge of manhood, Ted soothed his wounded soul by appearing in collars of an amazing height and stiffness, and ties which were the wonder of all female eyes. This freak was a sort of vengeance on his hard-hearted mother; for the collars drove the laundress to despair, never being just right, and the ties required such art in the tying that three women sometimes laboured long before--like Beau Brummel--he turned from a heap of 'failures' with the welcome words: 'That will do.' Rob was devoted on these trying occasions, his own toilet being distinguished only by its speed, simplicity, and neatness. Ted was usually in a frenzy before he was suited, and roars, whistles, commands, and groans were heard from the den wherein the Lion raged and the Lamb patiently toiled. Mrs Jo bore it till boots were hurled and a rain of hair-brushes set in, then, fearing for the safety of her eldest, she would go to the rescue, and by a wise mixture of fun and authority finally succeed in persuading Ted that he was 'a thing of beauty', if not 'a joy for ever'. At last he would stalk majestically forth, imprisoned in collars compared to which those worn by Dickens's afflicted Biler were trifles not worth mentioning. The dresscoat was a little loose in the shoulders, but allowed a noble expanse of glossy bosom to be seen, and with a delicate handkerchief negligently drooping at the proper angle, had a truly fine effect. Boots that shone, and likewise pinched, appeared at one end of the 'long, black clothes-pin'--as Josie called him---and a youthful but solemn face at the other, carried at an angle which, if long continued, would have resulted in spinal curvature. Light gloves, a cane, and--oh, bitter drop in the cup of joy!--an ignominious straw hat, not to mention a choice floweret in the buttonhole, and a festoon of watchguard below, finished off this impressive boy. 'How's that for style?' he asked, appearing to his mother and cousins whom he was to escort to the hall on this particular occasion. A shout of laughter greeted him, followed by exclamations of horror; for he had artfully added the little blond moustache he often wore when acting. It was very becoming, and seemed the only balm to heal the wound made by the loss of the beloved hat. 'Take it off this moment, you audacious boy! What would your father say to such a prank on this day when we must all behave our best?' said Mrs Jo, trying to frown, but privately thinking that among the many youths about her none were so beautiful and original as her long son. 'Let him wear it, Aunty; it's so becoming. No one will ever guess he isn't eighteen at least,' cried Josie, to whom disguise of any sort was always charming. 'Father won't observe it; he'll be absorbed in his big-wigs and the girls. No matter if he does, he'll enjoy the joke and introduce me as his oldest son. Rob is nowhere when I'm in full fig'; and Ted took the stage with a tragic stalk, like Hamlet in a tail-coat and choker. 'My son, obey me!' and when Mrs Jo spoke in that tone her word was law. Later, however, the moustache appeared, and many strangers firmly believed that there were three young Bhaers. So Ted found one ray of joy to light his gloom. Mr Bhaer was a proud and happy man when, at the appointed hour, he looked down upon the parterre of youthful faces before him, thinking of the 'little gardens' in which he had hopefully and faithfully sowed good seed years ago, and from which this beautiful harvest seemed to have sprung. Mr March's fine old face shone with the serenest satisfaction, for this was the dream of his life fulfilled after patient waiting; and the love and reverence in the countenances of the eager young men and women looking up at him plainly showed that the reward he coveted was his in fullest measure. Laurie always effaced himself on these occasions as much as courtesy would permit; for everyone spoke gratefully in ode, poem, and oration of the founder of the college and noble dispenser of his beneficence. The three sisters beamed with pride as they sat among the ladies, enjoying, as only women can, the honour done the men they loved; while 'the original Plums', as the younger ones called themselves, regarded the whole affair as their work, receiving the curious, admiring, or envious glances of strangers with a mixture of dignity and delight rather comical to behold. The music was excellent, and well it might be when Apollo waved the baton. The poems were--as usual on such occasions--of varied excellence, as the youthful speakers tried to put old truths into new words, and made them forceful by the enthusiasm of their earnest faces and fresh voices. It was beautiful to see the eager interest with which the girls listened to some brilliant brother-student, and applauded him with a rustle as of wind over a bed of flowers. It was still more significant and pleasant to watch the young men's faces when a slender white figure stood out against the background of black-coated dignitaries, and with cheeks that flushed and paled, and lips that trembled till earnest purpose conquered maiden fear, spoke to them straight out of a woman's heart and brain concerning the hopes and doubts, the aspirations and rewards all must know, desire, and labour for. This clear, sweet voice seemed to reach and rouse all that was noblest in the souls of these youths, and to set a seal upon the years of comradeship which made them sacred and memorable for ever. Alice Heath's oration was unanimously pronounced the success of the day; for without being flowery or sentimental, as is too apt to be the case with these first efforts of youthful orators, it was earnest, sensible, and so inspiring that she left the stage in a storm of applause, the good fellows being as much fired by her stirring appeal to 'march shoulder to shoulder', as if she had chanted the 'Marseillaise' then and there. One young man was so excited that he nearly rushed out of his seat to receive her as she hastened to hide herself among her mates, who welcomed her with faces full of tender pride and tearful eye. A prudent sister detained him, however, and in a moment he was able to listen with composure to the President's remarks. They were worth listening to, for Mr Bhaer spoke like a father to the children whom he was dismissing to the battle of life; and his tender, wise, and helpful words lingered in their hearts long after the praise was forgotten. Then came other exercises peculiar to Plumfield, and the end. Why the roof did not fly off when the sturdy lungs of the excited young men pealed out the closing hymn will for ever be a mystery; but it remained firm, and only the fading garlands vibrated as the waves of music rolled up and died away, leaving sweet echoes to haunt the place for another year. Dinners and spreads consumed the afternoon, and at sunset came a slight lull as everyone sought some brief repose before the festivities of the evening began. The President's reception was one of the enjoyable things in store, also dancing on Parnassus, and as much strolling, singing, and flirting, as could be compressed into a few hours by youths and maidens just out of school. Carriages were rolling about, and gay groups on piazzas, lawns, and window-seats idly speculated as to who the distinguished guests might be. The appearance of a very dusty vehicle loaded with trunks at Mr Bhaer's hospitably open door caused much curious comment among the loungers, especially as two rather foreign-looking gentlemen sprang out, followed by two young ladies, all four being greeted with cries of joy and much embracing by the Bhaers. Then they all disappeared into the house, the luggage followed, and the watchers were left to wonder who the mysterious strangers were, till a fair collegian declared that they must be the Professor's nephews, one of whom was expected on his wedding journey. She was right; Franz proudly presented his blonde and buxom bride, and she was hardly kissed and blessed when Emil led up his bonny English Mary, with the rapturous announcement: 'Uncle, Aunt Jo, here's another daughter! Have you room for my wife, too?' There could be no doubt of that; and Mary was with difficulty rescued from the glad embraces of her new relatives, who, remembering all the young pair had suffered together, felt that this was the natural and happy ending of the long voyage so perilously begun. 'But why not tell us, and let us be ready for two brides instead of one?' asked Mrs Jo, looking as usual rather demoralizing in a wrapper and crimping-pins, having rushed down from her chamber, where she was preparing for the labours of the evening. 'Well, I remembered what a good joke you all considered Uncle Laurie's marriage, and I thought I'd give you another nice little surprise,' laughed Emil. 'I'm off duty, and it seemed best to take advantage of wind and tide, and come along as convoy to the old boy here. We hoped to get in last night, but couldn't fetch it, so here we are in time for the end of the jollification, anyway.' 'Ah, my sons, it is too feeling-full to see you both so happy and again in the old home. I haf no words to outpour my gratitude, and can only ask of the dear Gott in Himmel to bless and keep you all,' cried Professor Bhaer, trying to gather all four into his arms at once, while tears rolled down his cheeks, and his English failed him. An April shower cleared the air and relieved the full hearts of the happy family; then of course everyone began to talk--Franz and Ludmilla in German with uncle, Emil and Mary with the aunts; and round this group gathered the young folk, clamouring to hear all about the wreck, and the rescue, and the homeward voyage. It was a very different story from the written one; and as they listened to Emil's graphic words, with Mary's soft voice breaking in now and then to add some fact that brought out the courage, patience, and self-sacrifice he so lightly touched upon, it became a solemn and pathetic thing to see and hear these happy creatures tell of that great danger and deliverance. 'I never hear the patter of rain now that I don't want to say my prayers; and as for women, I'd like to take my hat off to every one of 'em, for they are braver than any man I ever saw,' said Emil, with the new gravity that was as becoming to him as the new gentleness with which he treated everyone. 'If women are brave, some men are as tender and self-sacrificing as women. I know one who in the night slipped his share of food into a girl's pocket, though starving himself, and sat for hours rocking a sick man in his arms that he might get a little sleep. No, love, I will tell, and you must let me!' cried Mary, holding in both her own the hand he laid on her lips to silence her. 'Only did my duty. If that torment had lasted much longer I might have been as bad as poor Barry and the boatswain. Wasn't that an awful night?' And Emil shuddered as he recalled it. 'Don't think of it, dear. Tell about the happy days on the Urania, when papa grew better and we were all safe and homeward bound,' said Mary, with the trusting look and comforting touch which seemed to banish the dark and recall the bright side of that terrible experience. Emil cheered up at once, and sitting with his arm about his 'dear lass', in true sailor fashion told the happy ending of the tale. 'Such a jolly old time as we had at Hamburg! Uncle Hermann couldn't do enough for the captain, and while mamma took care of him, Mary looked after me. I had to go into dock for repairs; fire hurt my eyes, and watching for a sail and want of sleep made 'em as hazy as a London fog. She was pilot and brought me in all right, you see, only I couldn't part company, so she came aboard as first mate, and I'm bound straight for glory now.' 'Hush! that's silly, dear,' whispered Mary, trying in her turn to stop him, with English shyness about tender topics. But he took the soft hand in his, and proudly surveying the one ring it wore, went on with the air of an admiral aboard his flagship. 'The captain proposed waiting a spell; but I told him we weren't like to see any rougher weather than we'd pulled through together, and if we didn't know one another after such a year as this, we never should. I was sure I shouldn't be worth my pay without this hand on the wheel; so I had my way, and my brave little woman has shipped for the long voyage. God bless her!' 'Shall you really sail with him?' asked Daisy, admiring her courage, but shrinking with cat-like horror from the water. 'I'm not afraid,' answered Mary, with a loyal smile. 'I've proved my captain in fair weather and in foul, and if he is ever wrecked again, I'd rather be with him than waiting and watching ashore.' 'A true woman, and a born sailor's wife! You are a happy man, Emil, and I'm sure this trip will be a prosperous one,' cried Mrs Jo, delighted with the briny flavour of this courtship. 'Oh, my dear boy, I always felt you'd come back, and when everyone else despaired I never gave up, but insisted that you were clinging to the main-top jib somewhere on that dreadful sea'; and Mrs Jo illustrated her faith by grasping Emil with a truly Pillycoddian gesture. 'Of course I was!' answered Emil heartily; 'and my "main-top jib" in this case was the thought of what you and Uncle said to me. That kept me up; and among the million thoughts that came to me during those long nights none was clearer than the idea of the red strand, you remember--English navy, and all that. I liked the notion, and resolved that if a bit of my cable was left afloat, the red stripe should be there.' 'And it was, my dear, it was! Captain Hardy testifies to that, and here is your reward'; and Mrs Jo kissed Mary with a maternal tenderness which betrayed that she liked the English rose better than the blue-eyed German Kornblumen, sweet and modest though it was. Emil surveyed the little ceremony with complacency, saying, as he looked about the room which he never thought to see again: 'Odd, isn't it, how clearly trifles come back to one in times of danger? As we floated there, half-starved, and in despair, I used to think I heard the bells ringing here, and Ted tramping downstairs, and you calling, "Boys, boys, it's time to get up!" I actually smelt the coffee we used to have, and one night I nearly cried when I woke from a dream of Asia's ginger cookies. I declare, it was one of the bitterest disappointments of my life to face hunger with that spicy smell in my nostrils. If you've got any, do give me one!' A pitiful murmur broke from all the aunts and cousins, and Emil was at once borne away to feast on the desired cookies, a supply always being on hand. Mrs Jo and her sister joined the other group, glad to hear what Franz was saying about Nat. 'The minute I saw how thin and shabby he was, I knew that something was wrong; but he made light of it, and was so happy over our visit and news that I let him off with a brief confession, and went to Professor Baumgarten and Bergmann. From them I learned the whole story of his spending more money than he ought and trying to atone for it by unnecessary work and sacrifice. Baumgarten thought it would do him good, so kept his secret till I came. It did him good, and he's paid his debts and earned his bread by the sweat of his brow, like an honest fellow.' 'I like that much in Nat. It is, as I said, a lesson, and he learns it well. He proves himself a man, and has deserved the place Bergmann offers him,' said Mr Bhaer, looking well pleased as Franz added some facts already recorded. 'I told you, Meg, that he had good stuff in him, and love for Daisy would keep him straight. Dear lad, I wish I had him here this moment!' cried Mrs Jo, forgetting in delight the doubts and anxieties which had troubled her for months past. 'I am very glad, and suppose I shall give in as I always do, especially now that the epidemic rages so among us. You and Emil have set all their heads in a ferment, and Josie will be demanding a lover before I can turn round,' answered Mrs Meg, in a tone of despair. But her sister saw that she was touched by Nat's trials, and hastened to add the triumphs, that the victory might be complete, for success is always charming. 'This offer of Herr Bergmann is a good one, isn't it?' she asked, though Mr Laurie had already satisfied her on that point when Nat's letter brought the news. 'Very fine in every way. Nat will get capital drill in Bachmeister's orchestra, see London in a delightful way, and if he suits come home with them, well started among the violins. No great honour, but a sure thing and a step up. I congratulated him, and he was very jolly over it, saying, like the true lover he is: "Tell Daisy; be sure and tell her all about it." I'll leave that to you, Aunt Meg, and you can also break it gently to her that the old boy had a fine blond beard. Very becoming; hides his weak mouth, and gives a noble air to his big eyes and "Mendelssohnian brow", as a gushing girl called it. Ludmilla has a photo of it for you.' This amused them; and they listened to many other interesting bits of news which kind Franz, even in his own happiness, had not forgotten to remember for his friend's sake. He talked so well, and painted Nat's patient and pathetic shifts so vividly, that Mrs Meg was half won; though if she had learned of the Minna episode and the fiddling in beer-gardens and streets, she might not have relented so soon. She stored up all she heard, however, and, womanlike, promised herself a delicious talk with Daisy, in which she would allow herself to melt by degrees, and perhaps change the doubtful 'We shall see' to a cordial 'He has done well; be happy, dear'. In the midst of this agreeable chat the sudden striking of a clock recalled Mrs Jo from romance to reality, and she exclaimed, with a clutch at her crimping-pins: 'My blessed people, you must eat and rest; and I must dress, or receive in this disgraceful rig. Meg, will you take Ludmilla and Mary upstairs and see to them? Franz knows the way to the dining-room. Fritz, come with me and be made tidy, for what with heat and emotion, we are both perfect wrecks.' Chapter 19. WHITE ROSES While the travellers refreshed, and Mrs President struggled into her best gown, Josie ran into the garden to gather flowers for the brides. The sudden arrival of these interesting beings had quite enchanted the romantic girl, and her head was full of heroic rescues, tender admiration, dramatic situations, and feminine wonder as to whether the lovely creatures would wear their veils or not. She was standing before a great bush of white roses, culling the most perfect for the bouquets which she meant to tie with the ribbon festooned over her arm, and lay on the toilette tables of the new cousins, as a delicate attention. A step startled her, and looking up she saw her brother coming down the path with folded arms, bent head, and the absent air of one absorbed in deep thought. 'Sophy Wackles,' said the sharp child, with a superior smile, as she sucked

sweeping

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

'Bless me! I always imagined lords and ladies did nothing but ride round in a coach and six, go to balls, and be presented to the Queen in cocked hats, and trains and feathers,' exclaimed an artless young person from the wilds of Maine, whither an illustrated paper occasionally wandered. 'Not at all; Lord Abercrombie is over here studying up our American prison system, and my lady is busy with the schools--both very high-born, but the simplest and most sensible people I've met this long time. They are neither of them young nor handsome, and dress plainly; so don't expect anything splendid. Mr Laurence was telling me last night about a friend of his who met my lord in the hall, and owing to a rough greatcoat and a red face, mistook him for a coachman, and said: "Now, my man, what do you want here?" Lord Abercrombie mildly mentioned who he was, and that he had come to dinner. And the poor host was much afflicted, saying afterward: "Why didn't he wear his stars and garters? then a fellow would know he was a lord."' The girls laughed again, and a general rustle betrayed that each was prinking a bit before the titled guest arrived. Even Mrs Jo settled her collar, and Mrs Meg felt if her cap was right, while Bess shook out her curls and Josie boldly consulted the glass; for they were women, in spite of philosophy and philanthropy. 'Shall we all rise?' asked one girl, deeply impressed by the impending honour. 'It would be courteous.' 'Shall we shake hands?' 'No, I'll present you en masse, and your pleasant faces will be introduction enough.' 'I wish I'd worn my best dress. Ought to have told us,' whispered Sally. 'Won't my folks be surprised when I tell them we have had a real lady to call on us?' said another. 'Don't look as if you'd never seen a gentlewoman before, Milly. We are not all fresh from the wilderness,' added the stately damsel who, having Mayflower ancestors, felt that she was the equal of all the crowned heads of Europe. 'Hush, she's coming! Oh, my heart, what a bonnet!' cried the gay girl in a stage whisper; and every eye was demurely fixed upon the busy hands as the door opened to admit Mrs Laurence and her guest. It was rather a shock to find, after the general introduction was over, that this daughter of a hundred earls was a stout lady in a plain gown, and a rather weather-beaten bonnet, with a bag of papers in one hand and a note-book in the other. But the face was full of benevolence, the sonorous voice very kind, the genial manners very winning, and about the whole person an indescribable air of high breeding which made beauty of no consequence, costume soon forgotten, and the moment memorable to the keen-eyed girls whom nothing escaped. A little chat about the rise, growth, and success of this particular class, and then Mrs Jo led the conversation to the English lady's work, anxious to show her pupils how rank dignifies labour, and charity blesses wealth. It was good for these girls to hear of the evening-schools supported and taught by women whom they knew and honoured; of Miss Cobbe's eloquent protest winning the protection of the law for abused wives; Mrs Butler saving the lost; Mrs Taylor, who devoted one room in her historic house to a library for the servants; Lord Shaftesbury, busy with his new tenement-houses in the slums of London; of prison reforms; and all the brave work being done in God's name by the rich and great for the humble and the poor. It impressed them more than many quiet home lectures would have done, and roused an ambition to help when their time should come, well knowing that even in glorious America there is still plenty to be done before she is what she should be--truly just, and free, and great. They were also quick to see that Lady Abercrombie treated all there as her equals, from stately Mrs Laurence, to little Josie, taking notes of everything and privately resolving to have some thick-soled English boots as soon as possible. No one would have guessed that she had a big house in London, a castle in Wales, and a grand country seat in Scotland, as she spoke of Parnassus with admiration, Plumfield as a 'dear old home', and the college as an honour to all concerned in it. At that, of course, every head went up a little, and when my lady left, every hand was ready for the hearty shake the noble Englishwoman gave them, with words they long remembered: 'I am very pleased to see this much-neglected branch of a woman's education so well conducted here, and I have to thank my friend Mrs Laurence for one of the most charming pictures I've seen in America--Penelope among her maids.' A group of smiling faces watched the stout boots trudge away, respectful glances followed the shabby bonnet till it was out of sight, and the girls felt a truer respect for their titled guest than if she had come in the coach and six, with all her diamonds on. 'I feel better about the "odd jobs" now. I only wish I could do them as well as Lady Abercrombie does,' said one. 'I thanked my stars my buttonholes were nice, for she looked at them and said: "Quite workmanlike, upon my word," added another, feeling that her gingham gown had come to honour. 'Her manners were as sweet and kind as Mrs Brooke's. Not a bit stiff or condescending, as I expected. I see now what you meant, Mrs Bhaer, when you said once that well-bred people were the same all the world over.' Mrs Meg bowed her thanks for the compliment, and Mrs Bhaer said: 'I know them when I see them, but never shall be a model of deportment myself. I'm glad you enjoyed the little visit. Now, if you young people don't want England to get ahead of us in many ways, you must bestir yourselves and keep abreast; for our sisters are in earnest, you see, and don't waste time worrying about their sphere, but make it wherever duty calls them.' 'We will do our best, ma'am,' answered the girls heartily, and trooped away with their work-baskets, feeling that though they might never be Harriet Martineaus, Elizabeth Brownings, or George Eliots, they might become noble, useful, and independent women, and earn for themselves some sweet title from the grateful lips of the poor, better than any a queen could bestow. Chapter 18. CLASS DAY The clerk of the weather evidently has a regard for young people, and sends sunshine for class days as often as he can. An especially lovely one shone over Plumfield as this interesting anniversary came round, bringing the usual accompaniments of roses, strawberries, white-gowned girls, beaming youths, proud friends, and stately dignitaries full of well-earned satisfaction with the yearly harvest. As Laurence College was a mixed one, the presence of young women as students gave to the occasion a grace and animation entirely wanting where the picturesque half of creation appear merely as spectators. The hands that turned the pages of wise books also possessed the skill to decorate the hall with flowers; eyes tired with study shone with hospitable warmth on the assembling guests; and under the white muslins beat hearts as full of ambition, hope, and courage as those agitating the broadcloth of the ruling sex. College Hill, Parnassus, and old Plum swarmed with cheery faces, as guests, students, and professors hurried to and fro in the pleasant excitement of arriving and receiving. Everyone was welcomed cordially, whether he rolled up in a fine carriage, or trudged afoot to see the good son or daughter come to honour on the happy day that rewarded many a mutual sacrifice. Mr Laurie and his wife were on the reception committee, and their lovely house was overflowing. Mrs Meg, with Daisy and Jo as aides, was in demand among the girls, helping on belated toilettes, giving an eye to spreads, and directing the decorations. Mrs Jo had her hands full as President's lady, and the mother of Ted; for it took all the power and skill of that energetic woman to get her son into his Sunday best. Not that he objected to be well arrayed; far from it; he adored good clothes, and owing to his great height already revelled in a dress-suit, bequeathed him by a dandy friend. The effect was very funny; but he would wear it in spite of the jeers of his mates, and sighed vainly for a beaver, because his stern parent drew the line there. He pleaded that English lads of ten wore them and were 'no end nobby'; but his mother only answered, with a consoling pat of the yellow mane: 'My child, you are absurd enough now; if I let you add a tall hat, Plumfield wouldn't hold either of us, such would be the scorn and derision of all beholders. Content yourself with looking like the ghost of a waiter, and don't ask for the most ridiculous head-gear in the known world.' Denied this noble badge of manhood, Ted soothed his wounded soul by appearing in collars of an amazing height and stiffness, and ties which were the wonder of all female eyes. This freak was a sort of vengeance on his hard-hearted mother; for the collars drove the laundress to despair, never being just right, and the ties required such art in the tying that three women sometimes laboured long before--like Beau Brummel--he turned from a heap of 'failures' with the welcome words: 'That will do.' Rob was devoted on these trying occasions, his own toilet being distinguished only by its speed, simplicity, and neatness. Ted was usually in a frenzy before he was suited, and roars, whistles, commands, and groans were heard from the den wherein the Lion raged and the Lamb patiently toiled. Mrs Jo bore it till boots were hurled and a rain of hair-brushes set in, then, fearing for the safety of her eldest, she would go to the rescue, and by a wise mixture of fun and authority finally succeed in persuading Ted that he was 'a thing of beauty', if not 'a joy for ever'. At last he would stalk majestically forth, imprisoned in collars compared to which those worn by Dickens's afflicted Biler were trifles not worth mentioning. The dresscoat was a little loose in the shoulders, but allowed a noble expanse of glossy bosom to be seen, and with a delicate handkerchief negligently drooping at the proper angle, had a truly fine effect. Boots that shone, and likewise pinched, appeared at one end of the 'long, black clothes-pin'--as Josie called him---and a youthful but solemn face at the other, carried at an angle which, if long continued, would have resulted in spinal curvature. Light gloves, a cane, and--oh, bitter drop in the cup of joy!--an ignominious straw hat, not to mention a choice floweret in the buttonhole, and a festoon of watchguard below, finished off this impressive boy. 'How's that for style?' he asked, appearing to his mother and cousins whom he was to escort to the hall on this particular occasion. A shout of laughter greeted him, followed by exclamations of horror; for he had artfully added the little blond moustache he often wore when acting. It was very becoming, and seemed the only balm to heal the wound made by the loss of the beloved hat. 'Take it off this moment, you audacious boy! What would your father say to such a prank on this day when we must all behave our best?' said Mrs Jo, trying to frown, but privately thinking that among the many youths about her none were so beautiful and original as her long son. 'Let him wear it, Aunty; it's so becoming. No one will ever guess he isn't eighteen at least,' cried Josie, to whom disguise of any sort was always charming. 'Father won't observe it; he'll be absorbed in his big-wigs and the girls. No matter if he does, he'll enjoy the joke and introduce me as his oldest son. Rob is nowhere when I'm in full fig'; and Ted took the stage with a tragic stalk, like Hamlet in a tail-coat and choker. 'My son, obey me!' and when Mrs Jo spoke in that tone her word was law. Later, however, the moustache appeared, and many strangers firmly believed that there were three young Bhaers. So Ted found one ray of joy to light his gloom. Mr Bhaer was a proud and happy man when, at the appointed hour, he looked down upon the parterre of youthful faces before him, thinking of the 'little gardens' in which he had hopefully and faithfully sowed good seed years ago, and from which this beautiful harvest seemed to have sprung. Mr March's fine old face shone with the serenest satisfaction, for this was the dream of his life fulfilled after patient waiting; and the love and reverence in the countenances of the eager young men and women looking up at him plainly showed that the reward he coveted was his in fullest measure. Laurie always effaced himself on these occasions as much as courtesy would permit; for everyone spoke gratefully in ode, poem, and oration of the founder of the college and noble dispenser of his beneficence. The three sisters beamed with pride as they sat among the ladies, enjoying, as only women can, the honour done the men they loved; while 'the original Plums', as the younger ones called themselves, regarded the whole affair as their work, receiving the curious, admiring, or envious glances of strangers with a mixture of dignity and delight rather comical to behold. The music was excellent, and well it might be when Apollo waved the baton. The poems were--as usual on such occasions--of varied excellence, as the youthful speakers tried to put old truths into new words, and made them forceful by the enthusiasm of their earnest faces and fresh voices. It was beautiful to see the eager interest with which the girls listened to some brilliant brother-student, and applauded him with a rustle as of wind over a bed of flowers. It was still more significant and pleasant to watch the young men's faces when a slender white figure stood out against the background of black-coated dignitaries, and with cheeks that flushed and paled, and lips that trembled till earnest purpose conquered maiden fear, spoke to them straight out of a woman's heart and brain concerning the hopes and doubts, the aspirations and rewards all must know, desire, and labour for. This clear, sweet voice seemed to reach and rouse all that was noblest in the souls of these youths, and to set a seal upon the years of comradeship which made them sacred and memorable for ever. Alice Heath's oration was unanimously pronounced the success of the day; for without being flowery or sentimental, as is too apt to be the case with these first efforts of youthful orators, it was earnest, sensible, and so inspiring that she left the stage in a storm of applause, the good fellows being as much fired by her stirring appeal to 'march shoulder to shoulder', as if she had chanted the 'Marseillaise' then and there. One young man was so excited that he nearly rushed out of his seat to receive her as she hastened to hide herself among her mates, who welcomed her with faces full of tender pride and tearful eye. A prudent sister detained him, however, and in a moment he was able to listen with composure to the President's remarks. They were worth listening to, for Mr Bhaer spoke like a father to the children whom he was dismissing to the battle of life; and his tender, wise, and helpful words lingered in their hearts long after the praise was forgotten. Then came other exercises peculiar to Plumfield, and the end. Why the roof did not fly off when the sturdy lungs of the excited young men pealed out the closing hymn will for ever be a mystery; but it remained firm, and only the fading garlands vibrated as the waves of music rolled up and died away, leaving sweet echoes to haunt the place for another year. Dinners and spreads consumed the afternoon, and at sunset came a slight lull as everyone sought some brief repose before the festivities of the evening began. The President's reception was one of the enjoyable things in store, also dancing on Parnassus, and as much strolling, singing, and flirting, as could be compressed into a few hours by youths and maidens just out of school. Carriages were rolling about, and gay groups on piazzas, lawns, and window-seats idly speculated as to who the distinguished guests might be. The appearance of a very dusty vehicle loaded with trunks at Mr Bhaer's hospitably open door caused much curious comment among the loungers, especially as two rather foreign-looking gentlemen sprang out, followed by two young ladies, all four being greeted with cries of joy and much embracing by the Bhaers. Then they all disappeared into the house, the luggage followed, and the watchers were left to wonder who the mysterious strangers were, till a fair collegian declared that they must be the Professor's nephews, one of whom was expected on his wedding journey. She was right; Franz proudly presented his blonde and buxom bride, and she was hardly kissed and blessed when Emil led up his bonny English Mary, with the rapturous announcement: 'Uncle, Aunt Jo, here's another daughter! Have you room for my wife, too?' There could be no doubt of that; and Mary was with difficulty rescued from the glad embraces of her new relatives, who, remembering all the young pair had suffered together, felt that this was the natural and happy ending of the long voyage so perilously begun. 'But why not tell us, and let us be ready for two brides instead of one?' asked Mrs Jo, looking as usual rather demoralizing in a wrapper and crimping-pins, having rushed down from her chamber, where she was preparing for the labours of the evening. 'Well, I remembered what a good joke you all considered Uncle Laurie's marriage, and I thought I'd give you another nice little surprise,' laughed Emil. 'I'm off duty, and it seemed best to take advantage of wind and tide, and come along as convoy to the old boy here. We hoped to get in last night, but couldn't fetch it, so here we are in time for the end of the jollification, anyway.' 'Ah, my sons, it is too feeling-full to see you both so happy and again in the old home. I haf no words to outpour my gratitude, and can only ask of the dear Gott in Himmel to bless and keep you all,' cried Professor Bhaer, trying to gather all four into his arms at once, while tears rolled down his cheeks, and his English failed him. An April shower cleared the air and relieved the full hearts of the happy family; then of course everyone began to talk--Franz and Ludmilla in German with uncle, Emil and Mary with the aunts; and round this group gathered the young folk, clamouring to hear all about the wreck, and the rescue, and the homeward voyage. It was a very different story from the written one; and as they listened to Emil's graphic words, with Mary's soft voice breaking in now and then to add some fact that brought out the courage, patience, and self-sacrifice he so lightly touched upon, it became a solemn and pathetic thing to see and hear these happy creatures tell of that great danger and deliverance. 'I never hear the patter of rain now that I don't want to say my prayers; and as for women, I'd like to take my hat off to every one of 'em, for they are braver than any man I ever saw,' said Emil, with the new gravity that was as becoming to him as the new gentleness with which he treated everyone. 'If women are brave, some men are as tender and self-sacrificing as women. I know one who in the night slipped his share of food into a girl's pocket, though starving himself, and sat for hours rocking a sick man in his arms that he might get a little sleep. No, love, I will tell, and you must let me!' cried Mary, holding in both her own the hand he laid on her lips to silence her. 'Only did my duty. If that torment had lasted much longer I might have been as bad as poor Barry and the boatswain. Wasn't that an awful night?' And Emil shuddered as he recalled it. 'Don't think of it, dear. Tell about the happy days on the Urania, when papa grew better and we were all safe and homeward bound,' said Mary, with the trusting look and comforting touch which seemed to banish the dark and recall the bright side of that terrible experience. Emil cheered up at once, and sitting with his arm about his 'dear lass', in true sailor fashion told the happy ending of the tale. 'Such a jolly old time as we had at Hamburg! Uncle Hermann couldn't do enough for the captain, and while mamma took care of him, Mary looked after me. I had to go into dock for repairs; fire hurt my eyes, and watching for a sail and want of sleep made 'em as hazy as a London fog. She was pilot and brought me in all right, you see, only I couldn't part company, so she came aboard as first mate, and I'm bound straight for glory now.' 'Hush! that's silly, dear,' whispered Mary, trying in her turn to stop him, with English shyness about tender topics. But he took the soft hand in his, and proudly surveying the one ring it wore, went on with the air of an admiral aboard his flagship. 'The captain proposed waiting a spell; but I told him we weren't like to see any rougher weather than we'd pulled through together, and if we didn't know one another after such a year as this, we never should. I was sure I shouldn't be worth my pay without this hand on the wheel; so I had my way, and my brave little woman has shipped for the long voyage. God bless her!' 'Shall you really sail with him?' asked Daisy, admiring her courage, but shrinking with cat-like horror from the water. 'I'm not afraid,' answered Mary, with a loyal smile. 'I've proved my captain in fair weather and in foul, and if he is ever wrecked again, I'd rather be with him than waiting and watching ashore.' 'A true woman, and a born sailor's wife! You are a happy man, Emil, and I'm sure this trip will be a prosperous one,' cried Mrs Jo, delighted with the briny flavour of this courtship. 'Oh, my dear boy, I always felt you'd come back, and when everyone else despaired I never gave up, but insisted that you were clinging to the main-top jib somewhere on that dreadful sea'; and Mrs Jo illustrated her faith by grasping Emil with a truly Pillycoddian gesture. 'Of course I was!' answered Emil heartily; 'and my "main-top jib" in this case was the thought of what you and Uncle said to me. That kept me up; and among the million thoughts that came to me during those long nights none was clearer than the idea of the red strand, you remember--English navy, and all that. I liked the notion, and resolved that if a bit of my cable was left afloat, the red stripe should be there.' 'And it was, my dear, it was! Captain Hardy testifies to that, and here is your reward'; and Mrs Jo kissed Mary with a maternal tenderness which betrayed that she liked the English rose better than the blue-eyed German Kornblumen, sweet and modest though it was. Emil surveyed the little ceremony with complacency, saying, as he looked about the room which he never thought to see again: 'Odd, isn't it, how clearly trifles come back to one in times of danger? As we floated there, half-starved, and in despair, I used to think I heard the bells ringing here, and Ted tramping downstairs, and you calling, "Boys, boys, it's time to get up!" I actually smelt the coffee we used to have, and one night I nearly cried when I woke from a dream of Asia's ginger cookies. I declare, it was one of the bitterest disappointments of my life to face hunger with that spicy smell in my nostrils. If you've got any, do give me one!' A pitiful murmur broke from all the aunts and cousins, and Emil was at once borne away to feast on the desired cookies, a supply always being on hand. Mrs Jo and her sister joined the other group, glad to hear what Franz was saying about Nat. 'The minute I saw how thin and shabby he was, I knew that something was wrong; but he made light of it, and was so happy over our visit and news that I let him off with a brief confession, and went to Professor Baumgarten and Bergmann. From them I learned the whole story of his spending more money than he ought and trying to atone for it by unnecessary work and sacrifice. Baumgarten thought it would do him good, so kept his secret till I came. It did him good, and he's paid his debts and earned his bread by the sweat of his brow, like an honest fellow.' 'I like that much in Nat. It is, as I said, a lesson, and he learns it well. He proves himself a man, and has deserved the place Bergmann offers him,' said Mr Bhaer, looking well pleased as Franz added some facts already recorded. 'I told you, Meg, that he had good stuff in him, and love for Daisy would keep him straight. Dear lad, I wish I had him here this moment!' cried Mrs Jo, forgetting in delight the doubts and anxieties which had troubled her for months past. 'I am very glad, and suppose I shall give in as I always do, especially now that the epidemic rages so among us. You and Emil have set all their heads in a ferment, and Josie will be demanding a lover before I can turn round,' answered Mrs Meg, in a tone of despair. But her sister saw that she was touched by Nat's trials, and hastened to add the triumphs, that the victory might be complete, for success is always charming. 'This offer of Herr Bergmann is a good one, isn't it?' she asked, though Mr Laurie had already satisfied her on that point when Nat's letter brought the news. 'Very fine in every way. Nat will get capital drill in Bachmeister's orchestra, see London in a delightful way, and if he suits come home with them, well started among the violins. No great honour, but a sure thing and a step up. I congratulated him, and he was very jolly over it, saying, like the true lover he is: "Tell Daisy; be sure and tell her all about it." I'll leave that to you, Aunt Meg, and you can also break it gently to her that the old boy had a fine blond beard. Very becoming; hides his weak mouth, and gives a noble air to his big eyes and "Mendelssohnian brow", as a gushing girl called it. Ludmilla has a photo of it for you.' This amused them; and they listened to many other interesting bits of news which kind Franz, even in his own happiness, had not forgotten to remember for his friend's sake. He talked so well, and painted Nat's patient and pathetic shifts so vividly, that Mrs Meg was half won; though if she had learned of the Minna episode and the fiddling in beer-gardens and streets, she might not have relented so soon. She stored up all she heard, however, and, womanlike, promised herself a delicious talk with Daisy, in which she would allow herself to melt by degrees, and perhaps change the doubtful 'We shall see' to a cordial 'He has done well; be happy, dear'. In the midst of this agreeable chat the sudden striking of a clock recalled Mrs Jo from romance to reality, and she exclaimed, with a clutch at her crimping-pins: 'My blessed people, you must eat and rest; and I must dress, or receive in this disgraceful rig. Meg, will you take Ludmilla and Mary upstairs and see to them? Franz knows the way to the dining-room. Fritz, come with me and be made tidy, for what with heat and emotion, we are both perfect wrecks.' Chapter 19. WHITE ROSES While the travellers refreshed, and Mrs President struggled into her best gown, Josie ran into the garden to gather flowers for the brides. The sudden arrival of these interesting beings had quite enchanted the romantic girl, and her head was full of heroic rescues, tender admiration, dramatic situations, and feminine wonder as to whether the lovely creatures would wear their veils or not. She was standing before a great bush of white roses, culling the most perfect for the bouquets which she meant to tie with the ribbon festooned over her arm, and lay on the toilette tables of the new cousins, as a delicate attention. A step startled her, and looking up she saw her brother coming down the path with folded arms, bent head, and the absent air of one absorbed in deep thought. 'Sophy Wackles,' said the sharp child, with a superior smile, as she sucked

winning

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

'Bless me! I always imagined lords and ladies did nothing but ride round in a coach and six, go to balls, and be presented to the Queen in cocked hats, and trains and feathers,' exclaimed an artless young person from the wilds of Maine, whither an illustrated paper occasionally wandered. 'Not at all; Lord Abercrombie is over here studying up our American prison system, and my lady is busy with the schools--both very high-born, but the simplest and most sensible people I've met this long time. They are neither of them young nor handsome, and dress plainly; so don't expect anything splendid. Mr Laurence was telling me last night about a friend of his who met my lord in the hall, and owing to a rough greatcoat and a red face, mistook him for a coachman, and said: "Now, my man, what do you want here?" Lord Abercrombie mildly mentioned who he was, and that he had come to dinner. And the poor host was much afflicted, saying afterward: "Why didn't he wear his stars and garters? then a fellow would know he was a lord."' The girls laughed again, and a general rustle betrayed that each was prinking a bit before the titled guest arrived. Even Mrs Jo settled her collar, and Mrs Meg felt if her cap was right, while Bess shook out her curls and Josie boldly consulted the glass; for they were women, in spite of philosophy and philanthropy. 'Shall we all rise?' asked one girl, deeply impressed by the impending honour. 'It would be courteous.' 'Shall we shake hands?' 'No, I'll present you en masse, and your pleasant faces will be introduction enough.' 'I wish I'd worn my best dress. Ought to have told us,' whispered Sally. 'Won't my folks be surprised when I tell them we have had a real lady to call on us?' said another. 'Don't look as if you'd never seen a gentlewoman before, Milly. We are not all fresh from the wilderness,' added the stately damsel who, having Mayflower ancestors, felt that she was the equal of all the crowned heads of Europe. 'Hush, she's coming! Oh, my heart, what a bonnet!' cried the gay girl in a stage whisper; and every eye was demurely fixed upon the busy hands as the door opened to admit Mrs Laurence and her guest. It was rather a shock to find, after the general introduction was over, that this daughter of a hundred earls was a stout lady in a plain gown, and a rather weather-beaten bonnet, with a bag of papers in one hand and a note-book in the other. But the face was full of benevolence, the sonorous voice very kind, the genial manners very winning, and about the whole person an indescribable air of high breeding which made beauty of no consequence, costume soon forgotten, and the moment memorable to the keen-eyed girls whom nothing escaped. A little chat about the rise, growth, and success of this particular class, and then Mrs Jo led the conversation to the English lady's work, anxious to show her pupils how rank dignifies labour, and charity blesses wealth. It was good for these girls to hear of the evening-schools supported and taught by women whom they knew and honoured; of Miss Cobbe's eloquent protest winning the protection of the law for abused wives; Mrs Butler saving the lost; Mrs Taylor, who devoted one room in her historic house to a library for the servants; Lord Shaftesbury, busy with his new tenement-houses in the slums of London; of prison reforms; and all the brave work being done in God's name by the rich and great for the humble and the poor. It impressed them more than many quiet home lectures would have done, and roused an ambition to help when their time should come, well knowing that even in glorious America there is still plenty to be done before she is what she should be--truly just, and free, and great. They were also quick to see that Lady Abercrombie treated all there as her equals, from stately Mrs Laurence, to little Josie, taking notes of everything and privately resolving to have some thick-soled English boots as soon as possible. No one would have guessed that she had a big house in London, a castle in Wales, and a grand country seat in Scotland, as she spoke of Parnassus with admiration, Plumfield as a 'dear old home', and the college as an honour to all concerned in it. At that, of course, every head went up a little, and when my lady left, every hand was ready for the hearty shake the noble Englishwoman gave them, with words they long remembered: 'I am very pleased to see this much-neglected branch of a woman's education so well conducted here, and I have to thank my friend Mrs Laurence for one of the most charming pictures I've seen in America--Penelope among her maids.' A group of smiling faces watched the stout boots trudge away, respectful glances followed the shabby bonnet till it was out of sight, and the girls felt a truer respect for their titled guest than if she had come in the coach and six, with all her diamonds on. 'I feel better about the "odd jobs" now. I only wish I could do them as well as Lady Abercrombie does,' said one. 'I thanked my stars my buttonholes were nice, for she looked at them and said: "Quite workmanlike, upon my word," added another, feeling that her gingham gown had come to honour. 'Her manners were as sweet and kind as Mrs Brooke's. Not a bit stiff or condescending, as I expected. I see now what you meant, Mrs Bhaer, when you said once that well-bred people were the same all the world over.' Mrs Meg bowed her thanks for the compliment, and Mrs Bhaer said: 'I know them when I see them, but never shall be a model of deportment myself. I'm glad you enjoyed the little visit. Now, if you young people don't want England to get ahead of us in many ways, you must bestir yourselves and keep abreast; for our sisters are in earnest, you see, and don't waste time worrying about their sphere, but make it wherever duty calls them.' 'We will do our best, ma'am,' answered the girls heartily, and trooped away with their work-baskets, feeling that though they might never be Harriet Martineaus, Elizabeth Brownings, or George Eliots, they might become noble, useful, and independent women, and earn for themselves some sweet title from the grateful lips of the poor, better than any a queen could bestow. Chapter 18. CLASS DAY The clerk of the weather evidently has a regard for young people, and sends sunshine for class days as often as he can. An especially lovely one shone over Plumfield as this interesting anniversary came round, bringing the usual accompaniments of roses, strawberries, white-gowned girls, beaming youths, proud friends, and stately dignitaries full of well-earned satisfaction with the yearly harvest. As Laurence College was a mixed one, the presence of young women as students gave to the occasion a grace and animation entirely wanting where the picturesque half of creation appear merely as spectators. The hands that turned the pages of wise books also possessed the skill to decorate the hall with flowers; eyes tired with study shone with hospitable warmth on the assembling guests; and under the white muslins beat hearts as full of ambition, hope, and courage as those agitating the broadcloth of the ruling sex. College Hill, Parnassus, and old Plum swarmed with cheery faces, as guests, students, and professors hurried to and fro in the pleasant excitement of arriving and receiving. Everyone was welcomed cordially, whether he rolled up in a fine carriage, or trudged afoot to see the good son or daughter come to honour on the happy day that rewarded many a mutual sacrifice. Mr Laurie and his wife were on the reception committee, and their lovely house was overflowing. Mrs Meg, with Daisy and Jo as aides, was in demand among the girls, helping on belated toilettes, giving an eye to spreads, and directing the decorations. Mrs Jo had her hands full as President's lady, and the mother of Ted; for it took all the power and skill of that energetic woman to get her son into his Sunday best. Not that he objected to be well arrayed; far from it; he adored good clothes, and owing to his great height already revelled in a dress-suit, bequeathed him by a dandy friend. The effect was very funny; but he would wear it in spite of the jeers of his mates, and sighed vainly for a beaver, because his stern parent drew the line there. He pleaded that English lads of ten wore them and were 'no end nobby'; but his mother only answered, with a consoling pat of the yellow mane: 'My child, you are absurd enough now; if I let you add a tall hat, Plumfield wouldn't hold either of us, such would be the scorn and derision of all beholders. Content yourself with looking like the ghost of a waiter, and don't ask for the most ridiculous head-gear in the known world.' Denied this noble badge of manhood, Ted soothed his wounded soul by appearing in collars of an amazing height and stiffness, and ties which were the wonder of all female eyes. This freak was a sort of vengeance on his hard-hearted mother; for the collars drove the laundress to despair, never being just right, and the ties required such art in the tying that three women sometimes laboured long before--like Beau Brummel--he turned from a heap of 'failures' with the welcome words: 'That will do.' Rob was devoted on these trying occasions, his own toilet being distinguished only by its speed, simplicity, and neatness. Ted was usually in a frenzy before he was suited, and roars, whistles, commands, and groans were heard from the den wherein the Lion raged and the Lamb patiently toiled. Mrs Jo bore it till boots were hurled and a rain of hair-brushes set in, then, fearing for the safety of her eldest, she would go to the rescue, and by a wise mixture of fun and authority finally succeed in persuading Ted that he was 'a thing of beauty', if not 'a joy for ever'. At last he would stalk majestically forth, imprisoned in collars compared to which those worn by Dickens's afflicted Biler were trifles not worth mentioning. The dresscoat was a little loose in the shoulders, but allowed a noble expanse of glossy bosom to be seen, and with a delicate handkerchief negligently drooping at the proper angle, had a truly fine effect. Boots that shone, and likewise pinched, appeared at one end of the 'long, black clothes-pin'--as Josie called him---and a youthful but solemn face at the other, carried at an angle which, if long continued, would have resulted in spinal curvature. Light gloves, a cane, and--oh, bitter drop in the cup of joy!--an ignominious straw hat, not to mention a choice floweret in the buttonhole, and a festoon of watchguard below, finished off this impressive boy. 'How's that for style?' he asked, appearing to his mother and cousins whom he was to escort to the hall on this particular occasion. A shout of laughter greeted him, followed by exclamations of horror; for he had artfully added the little blond moustache he often wore when acting. It was very becoming, and seemed the only balm to heal the wound made by the loss of the beloved hat. 'Take it off this moment, you audacious boy! What would your father say to such a prank on this day when we must all behave our best?' said Mrs Jo, trying to frown, but privately thinking that among the many youths about her none were so beautiful and original as her long son. 'Let him wear it, Aunty; it's so becoming. No one will ever guess he isn't eighteen at least,' cried Josie, to whom disguise of any sort was always charming. 'Father won't observe it; he'll be absorbed in his big-wigs and the girls. No matter if he does, he'll enjoy the joke and introduce me as his oldest son. Rob is nowhere when I'm in full fig'; and Ted took the stage with a tragic stalk, like Hamlet in a tail-coat and choker. 'My son, obey me!' and when Mrs Jo spoke in that tone her word was law. Later, however, the moustache appeared, and many strangers firmly believed that there were three young Bhaers. So Ted found one ray of joy to light his gloom. Mr Bhaer was a proud and happy man when, at the appointed hour, he looked down upon the parterre of youthful faces before him, thinking of the 'little gardens' in which he had hopefully and faithfully sowed good seed years ago, and from which this beautiful harvest seemed to have sprung. Mr March's fine old face shone with the serenest satisfaction, for this was the dream of his life fulfilled after patient waiting; and the love and reverence in the countenances of the eager young men and women looking up at him plainly showed that the reward he coveted was his in fullest measure. Laurie always effaced himself on these occasions as much as courtesy would permit; for everyone spoke gratefully in ode, poem, and oration of the founder of the college and noble dispenser of his beneficence. The three sisters beamed with pride as they sat among the ladies, enjoying, as only women can, the honour done the men they loved; while 'the original Plums', as the younger ones called themselves, regarded the whole affair as their work, receiving the curious, admiring, or envious glances of strangers with a mixture of dignity and delight rather comical to behold. The music was excellent, and well it might be when Apollo waved the baton. The poems were--as usual on such occasions--of varied excellence, as the youthful speakers tried to put old truths into new words, and made them forceful by the enthusiasm of their earnest faces and fresh voices. It was beautiful to see the eager interest with which the girls listened to some brilliant brother-student, and applauded him with a rustle as of wind over a bed of flowers. It was still more significant and pleasant to watch the young men's faces when a slender white figure stood out against the background of black-coated dignitaries, and with cheeks that flushed and paled, and lips that trembled till earnest purpose conquered maiden fear, spoke to them straight out of a woman's heart and brain concerning the hopes and doubts, the aspirations and rewards all must know, desire, and labour for. This clear, sweet voice seemed to reach and rouse all that was noblest in the souls of these youths, and to set a seal upon the years of comradeship which made them sacred and memorable for ever. Alice Heath's oration was unanimously pronounced the success of the day; for without being flowery or sentimental, as is too apt to be the case with these first efforts of youthful orators, it was earnest, sensible, and so inspiring that she left the stage in a storm of applause, the good fellows being as much fired by her stirring appeal to 'march shoulder to shoulder', as if she had chanted the 'Marseillaise' then and there. One young man was so excited that he nearly rushed out of his seat to receive her as she hastened to hide herself among her mates, who welcomed her with faces full of tender pride and tearful eye. A prudent sister detained him, however, and in a moment he was able to listen with composure to the President's remarks. They were worth listening to, for Mr Bhaer spoke like a father to the children whom he was dismissing to the battle of life; and his tender, wise, and helpful words lingered in their hearts long after the praise was forgotten. Then came other exercises peculiar to Plumfield, and the end. Why the roof did not fly off when the sturdy lungs of the excited young men pealed out the closing hymn will for ever be a mystery; but it remained firm, and only the fading garlands vibrated as the waves of music rolled up and died away, leaving sweet echoes to haunt the place for another year. Dinners and spreads consumed the afternoon, and at sunset came a slight lull as everyone sought some brief repose before the festivities of the evening began. The President's reception was one of the enjoyable things in store, also dancing on Parnassus, and as much strolling, singing, and flirting, as could be compressed into a few hours by youths and maidens just out of school. Carriages were rolling about, and gay groups on piazzas, lawns, and window-seats idly speculated as to who the distinguished guests might be. The appearance of a very dusty vehicle loaded with trunks at Mr Bhaer's hospitably open door caused much curious comment among the loungers, especially as two rather foreign-looking gentlemen sprang out, followed by two young ladies, all four being greeted with cries of joy and much embracing by the Bhaers. Then they all disappeared into the house, the luggage followed, and the watchers were left to wonder who the mysterious strangers were, till a fair collegian declared that they must be the Professor's nephews, one of whom was expected on his wedding journey. She was right; Franz proudly presented his blonde and buxom bride, and she was hardly kissed and blessed when Emil led up his bonny English Mary, with the rapturous announcement: 'Uncle, Aunt Jo, here's another daughter! Have you room for my wife, too?' There could be no doubt of that; and Mary was with difficulty rescued from the glad embraces of her new relatives, who, remembering all the young pair had suffered together, felt that this was the natural and happy ending of the long voyage so perilously begun. 'But why not tell us, and let us be ready for two brides instead of one?' asked Mrs Jo, looking as usual rather demoralizing in a wrapper and crimping-pins, having rushed down from her chamber, where she was preparing for the labours of the evening. 'Well, I remembered what a good joke you all considered Uncle Laurie's marriage, and I thought I'd give you another nice little surprise,' laughed Emil. 'I'm off duty, and it seemed best to take advantage of wind and tide, and come along as convoy to the old boy here. We hoped to get in last night, but couldn't fetch it, so here we are in time for the end of the jollification, anyway.' 'Ah, my sons, it is too feeling-full to see you both so happy and again in the old home. I haf no words to outpour my gratitude, and can only ask of the dear Gott in Himmel to bless and keep you all,' cried Professor Bhaer, trying to gather all four into his arms at once, while tears rolled down his cheeks, and his English failed him. An April shower cleared the air and relieved the full hearts of the happy family; then of course everyone began to talk--Franz and Ludmilla in German with uncle, Emil and Mary with the aunts; and round this group gathered the young folk, clamouring to hear all about the wreck, and the rescue, and the homeward voyage. It was a very different story from the written one; and as they listened to Emil's graphic words, with Mary's soft voice breaking in now and then to add some fact that brought out the courage, patience, and self-sacrifice he so lightly touched upon, it became a solemn and pathetic thing to see and hear these happy creatures tell of that great danger and deliverance. 'I never hear the patter of rain now that I don't want to say my prayers; and as for women, I'd like to take my hat off to every one of 'em, for they are braver than any man I ever saw,' said Emil, with the new gravity that was as becoming to him as the new gentleness with which he treated everyone. 'If women are brave, some men are as tender and self-sacrificing as women. I know one who in the night slipped his share of food into a girl's pocket, though starving himself, and sat for hours rocking a sick man in his arms that he might get a little sleep. No, love, I will tell, and you must let me!' cried Mary, holding in both her own the hand he laid on her lips to silence her. 'Only did my duty. If that torment had lasted much longer I might have been as bad as poor Barry and the boatswain. Wasn't that an awful night?' And Emil shuddered as he recalled it. 'Don't think of it, dear. Tell about the happy days on the Urania, when papa grew better and we were all safe and homeward bound,' said Mary, with the trusting look and comforting touch which seemed to banish the dark and recall the bright side of that terrible experience. Emil cheered up at once, and sitting with his arm about his 'dear lass', in true sailor fashion told the happy ending of the tale. 'Such a jolly old time as we had at Hamburg! Uncle Hermann couldn't do enough for the captain, and while mamma took care of him, Mary looked after me. I had to go into dock for repairs; fire hurt my eyes, and watching for a sail and want of sleep made 'em as hazy as a London fog. She was pilot and brought me in all right, you see, only I couldn't part company, so she came aboard as first mate, and I'm bound straight for glory now.' 'Hush! that's silly, dear,' whispered Mary, trying in her turn to stop him, with English shyness about tender topics. But he took the soft hand in his, and proudly surveying the one ring it wore, went on with the air of an admiral aboard his flagship. 'The captain proposed waiting a spell; but I told him we weren't like to see any rougher weather than we'd pulled through together, and if we didn't know one another after such a year as this, we never should. I was sure I shouldn't be worth my pay without this hand on the wheel; so I had my way, and my brave little woman has shipped for the long voyage. God bless her!' 'Shall you really sail with him?' asked Daisy, admiring her courage, but shrinking with cat-like horror from the water. 'I'm not afraid,' answered Mary, with a loyal smile. 'I've proved my captain in fair weather and in foul, and if he is ever wrecked again, I'd rather be with him than waiting and watching ashore.' 'A true woman, and a born sailor's wife! You are a happy man, Emil, and I'm sure this trip will be a prosperous one,' cried Mrs Jo, delighted with the briny flavour of this courtship. 'Oh, my dear boy, I always felt you'd come back, and when everyone else despaired I never gave up, but insisted that you were clinging to the main-top jib somewhere on that dreadful sea'; and Mrs Jo illustrated her faith by grasping Emil with a truly Pillycoddian gesture. 'Of course I was!' answered Emil heartily; 'and my "main-top jib" in this case was the thought of what you and Uncle said to me. That kept me up; and among the million thoughts that came to me during those long nights none was clearer than the idea of the red strand, you remember--English navy, and all that. I liked the notion, and resolved that if a bit of my cable was left afloat, the red stripe should be there.' 'And it was, my dear, it was! Captain Hardy testifies to that, and here is your reward'; and Mrs Jo kissed Mary with a maternal tenderness which betrayed that she liked the English rose better than the blue-eyed German Kornblumen, sweet and modest though it was. Emil surveyed the little ceremony with complacency, saying, as he looked about the room which he never thought to see again: 'Odd, isn't it, how clearly trifles come back to one in times of danger? As we floated there, half-starved, and in despair, I used to think I heard the bells ringing here, and Ted tramping downstairs, and you calling, "Boys, boys, it's time to get up!" I actually smelt the coffee we used to have, and one night I nearly cried when I woke from a dream of Asia's ginger cookies. I declare, it was one of the bitterest disappointments of my life to face hunger with that spicy smell in my nostrils. If you've got any, do give me one!' A pitiful murmur broke from all the aunts and cousins, and Emil was at once borne away to feast on the desired cookies, a supply always being on hand. Mrs Jo and her sister joined the other group, glad to hear what Franz was saying about Nat. 'The minute I saw how thin and shabby he was, I knew that something was wrong; but he made light of it, and was so happy over our visit and news that I let him off with a brief confession, and went to Professor Baumgarten and Bergmann. From them I learned the whole story of his spending more money than he ought and trying to atone for it by unnecessary work and sacrifice. Baumgarten thought it would do him good, so kept his secret till I came. It did him good, and he's paid his debts and earned his bread by the sweat of his brow, like an honest fellow.' 'I like that much in Nat. It is, as I said, a lesson, and he learns it well. He proves himself a man, and has deserved the place Bergmann offers him,' said Mr Bhaer, looking well pleased as Franz added some facts already recorded. 'I told you, Meg, that he had good stuff in him, and love for Daisy would keep him straight. Dear lad, I wish I had him here this moment!' cried Mrs Jo, forgetting in delight the doubts and anxieties which had troubled her for months past. 'I am very glad, and suppose I shall give in as I always do, especially now that the epidemic rages so among us. You and Emil have set all their heads in a ferment, and Josie will be demanding a lover before I can turn round,' answered Mrs Meg, in a tone of despair. But her sister saw that she was touched by Nat's trials, and hastened to add the triumphs, that the victory might be complete, for success is always charming. 'This offer of Herr Bergmann is a good one, isn't it?' she asked, though Mr Laurie had already satisfied her on that point when Nat's letter brought the news. 'Very fine in every way. Nat will get capital drill in Bachmeister's orchestra, see London in a delightful way, and if he suits come home with them, well started among the violins. No great honour, but a sure thing and a step up. I congratulated him, and he was very jolly over it, saying, like the true lover he is: "Tell Daisy; be sure and tell her all about it." I'll leave that to you, Aunt Meg, and you can also break it gently to her that the old boy had a fine blond beard. Very becoming; hides his weak mouth, and gives a noble air to his big eyes and "Mendelssohnian brow", as a gushing girl called it. Ludmilla has a photo of it for you.' This amused them; and they listened to many other interesting bits of news which kind Franz, even in his own happiness, had not forgotten to remember for his friend's sake. He talked so well, and painted Nat's patient and pathetic shifts so vividly, that Mrs Meg was half won; though if she had learned of the Minna episode and the fiddling in beer-gardens and streets, she might not have relented so soon. She stored up all she heard, however, and, womanlike, promised herself a delicious talk with Daisy, in which she would allow herself to melt by degrees, and perhaps change the doubtful 'We shall see' to a cordial 'He has done well; be happy, dear'. In the midst of this agreeable chat the sudden striking of a clock recalled Mrs Jo from romance to reality, and she exclaimed, with a clutch at her crimping-pins: 'My blessed people, you must eat and rest; and I must dress, or receive in this disgraceful rig. Meg, will you take Ludmilla and Mary upstairs and see to them? Franz knows the way to the dining-room. Fritz, come with me and be made tidy, for what with heat and emotion, we are both perfect wrecks.' Chapter 19. WHITE ROSES While the travellers refreshed, and Mrs President struggled into her best gown, Josie ran into the garden to gather flowers for the brides. The sudden arrival of these interesting beings had quite enchanted the romantic girl, and her head was full of heroic rescues, tender admiration, dramatic situations, and feminine wonder as to whether the lovely creatures would wear their veils or not. She was standing before a great bush of white roses, culling the most perfect for the bouquets which she meant to tie with the ribbon festooned over her arm, and lay on the toilette tables of the new cousins, as a delicate attention. A step startled her, and looking up she saw her brother coming down the path with folded arms, bent head, and the absent air of one absorbed in deep thought. 'Sophy Wackles,' said the sharp child, with a superior smile, as she sucked

poor

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

'Bless me! I always imagined lords and ladies did nothing but ride round in a coach and six, go to balls, and be presented to the Queen in cocked hats, and trains and feathers,' exclaimed an artless young person from the wilds of Maine, whither an illustrated paper occasionally wandered. 'Not at all; Lord Abercrombie is over here studying up our American prison system, and my lady is busy with the schools--both very high-born, but the simplest and most sensible people I've met this long time. They are neither of them young nor handsome, and dress plainly; so don't expect anything splendid. Mr Laurence was telling me last night about a friend of his who met my lord in the hall, and owing to a rough greatcoat and a red face, mistook him for a coachman, and said: "Now, my man, what do you want here?" Lord Abercrombie mildly mentioned who he was, and that he had come to dinner. And the poor host was much afflicted, saying afterward: "Why didn't he wear his stars and garters? then a fellow would know he was a lord."' The girls laughed again, and a general rustle betrayed that each was prinking a bit before the titled guest arrived. Even Mrs Jo settled her collar, and Mrs Meg felt if her cap was right, while Bess shook out her curls and Josie boldly consulted the glass; for they were women, in spite of philosophy and philanthropy. 'Shall we all rise?' asked one girl, deeply impressed by the impending honour. 'It would be courteous.' 'Shall we shake hands?' 'No, I'll present you en masse, and your pleasant faces will be introduction enough.' 'I wish I'd worn my best dress. Ought to have told us,' whispered Sally. 'Won't my folks be surprised when I tell them we have had a real lady to call on us?' said another. 'Don't look as if you'd never seen a gentlewoman before, Milly. We are not all fresh from the wilderness,' added the stately damsel who, having Mayflower ancestors, felt that she was the equal of all the crowned heads of Europe. 'Hush, she's coming! Oh, my heart, what a bonnet!' cried the gay girl in a stage whisper; and every eye was demurely fixed upon the busy hands as the door opened to admit Mrs Laurence and her guest. It was rather a shock to find, after the general introduction was over, that this daughter of a hundred earls was a stout lady in a plain gown, and a rather weather-beaten bonnet, with a bag of papers in one hand and a note-book in the other. But the face was full of benevolence, the sonorous voice very kind, the genial manners very winning, and about the whole person an indescribable air of high breeding which made beauty of no consequence, costume soon forgotten, and the moment memorable to the keen-eyed girls whom nothing escaped. A little chat about the rise, growth, and success of this particular class, and then Mrs Jo led the conversation to the English lady's work, anxious to show her pupils how rank dignifies labour, and charity blesses wealth. It was good for these girls to hear of the evening-schools supported and taught by women whom they knew and honoured; of Miss Cobbe's eloquent protest winning the protection of the law for abused wives; Mrs Butler saving the lost; Mrs Taylor, who devoted one room in her historic house to a library for the servants; Lord Shaftesbury, busy with his new tenement-houses in the slums of London; of prison reforms; and all the brave work being done in God's name by the rich and great for the humble and the poor. It impressed them more than many quiet home lectures would have done, and roused an ambition to help when their time should come, well knowing that even in glorious America there is still plenty to be done before she is what she should be--truly just, and free, and great. They were also quick to see that Lady Abercrombie treated all there as her equals, from stately Mrs Laurence, to little Josie, taking notes of everything and privately resolving to have some thick-soled English boots as soon as possible. No one would have guessed that she had a big house in London, a castle in Wales, and a grand country seat in Scotland, as she spoke of Parnassus with admiration, Plumfield as a 'dear old home', and the college as an honour to all concerned in it. At that, of course, every head went up a little, and when my lady left, every hand was ready for the hearty shake the noble Englishwoman gave them, with words they long remembered: 'I am very pleased to see this much-neglected branch of a woman's education so well conducted here, and I have to thank my friend Mrs Laurence for one of the most charming pictures I've seen in America--Penelope among her maids.' A group of smiling faces watched the stout boots trudge away, respectful glances followed the shabby bonnet till it was out of sight, and the girls felt a truer respect for their titled guest than if she had come in the coach and six, with all her diamonds on. 'I feel better about the "odd jobs" now. I only wish I could do them as well as Lady Abercrombie does,' said one. 'I thanked my stars my buttonholes were nice, for she looked at them and said: "Quite workmanlike, upon my word," added another, feeling that her gingham gown had come to honour. 'Her manners were as sweet and kind as Mrs Brooke's. Not a bit stiff or condescending, as I expected. I see now what you meant, Mrs Bhaer, when you said once that well-bred people were the same all the world over.' Mrs Meg bowed her thanks for the compliment, and Mrs Bhaer said: 'I know them when I see them, but never shall be a model of deportment myself. I'm glad you enjoyed the little visit. Now, if you young people don't want England to get ahead of us in many ways, you must bestir yourselves and keep abreast; for our sisters are in earnest, you see, and don't waste time worrying about their sphere, but make it wherever duty calls them.' 'We will do our best, ma'am,' answered the girls heartily, and trooped away with their work-baskets, feeling that though they might never be Harriet Martineaus, Elizabeth Brownings, or George Eliots, they might become noble, useful, and independent women, and earn for themselves some sweet title from the grateful lips of the poor, better than any a queen could bestow. Chapter 18. CLASS DAY The clerk of the weather evidently has a regard for young people, and sends sunshine for class days as often as he can. An especially lovely one shone over Plumfield as this interesting anniversary came round, bringing the usual accompaniments of roses, strawberries, white-gowned girls, beaming youths, proud friends, and stately dignitaries full of well-earned satisfaction with the yearly harvest. As Laurence College was a mixed one, the presence of young women as students gave to the occasion a grace and animation entirely wanting where the picturesque half of creation appear merely as spectators. The hands that turned the pages of wise books also possessed the skill to decorate the hall with flowers; eyes tired with study shone with hospitable warmth on the assembling guests; and under the white muslins beat hearts as full of ambition, hope, and courage as those agitating the broadcloth of the ruling sex. College Hill, Parnassus, and old Plum swarmed with cheery faces, as guests, students, and professors hurried to and fro in the pleasant excitement of arriving and receiving. Everyone was welcomed cordially, whether he rolled up in a fine carriage, or trudged afoot to see the good son or daughter come to honour on the happy day that rewarded many a mutual sacrifice. Mr Laurie and his wife were on the reception committee, and their lovely house was overflowing. Mrs Meg, with Daisy and Jo as aides, was in demand among the girls, helping on belated toilettes, giving an eye to spreads, and directing the decorations. Mrs Jo had her hands full as President's lady, and the mother of Ted; for it took all the power and skill of that energetic woman to get her son into his Sunday best. Not that he objected to be well arrayed; far from it; he adored good clothes, and owing to his great height already revelled in a dress-suit, bequeathed him by a dandy friend. The effect was very funny; but he would wear it in spite of the jeers of his mates, and sighed vainly for a beaver, because his stern parent drew the line there. He pleaded that English lads of ten wore them and were 'no end nobby'; but his mother only answered, with a consoling pat of the yellow mane: 'My child, you are absurd enough now; if I let you add a tall hat, Plumfield wouldn't hold either of us, such would be the scorn and derision of all beholders. Content yourself with looking like the ghost of a waiter, and don't ask for the most ridiculous head-gear in the known world.' Denied this noble badge of manhood, Ted soothed his wounded soul by appearing in collars of an amazing height and stiffness, and ties which were the wonder of all female eyes. This freak was a sort of vengeance on his hard-hearted mother; for the collars drove the laundress to despair, never being just right, and the ties required such art in the tying that three women sometimes laboured long before--like Beau Brummel--he turned from a heap of 'failures' with the welcome words: 'That will do.' Rob was devoted on these trying occasions, his own toilet being distinguished only by its speed, simplicity, and neatness. Ted was usually in a frenzy before he was suited, and roars, whistles, commands, and groans were heard from the den wherein the Lion raged and the Lamb patiently toiled. Mrs Jo bore it till boots were hurled and a rain of hair-brushes set in, then, fearing for the safety of her eldest, she would go to the rescue, and by a wise mixture of fun and authority finally succeed in persuading Ted that he was 'a thing of beauty', if not 'a joy for ever'. At last he would stalk majestically forth, imprisoned in collars compared to which those worn by Dickens's afflicted Biler were trifles not worth mentioning. The dresscoat was a little loose in the shoulders, but allowed a noble expanse of glossy bosom to be seen, and with a delicate handkerchief negligently drooping at the proper angle, had a truly fine effect. Boots that shone, and likewise pinched, appeared at one end of the 'long, black clothes-pin'--as Josie called him---and a youthful but solemn face at the other, carried at an angle which, if long continued, would have resulted in spinal curvature. Light gloves, a cane, and--oh, bitter drop in the cup of joy!--an ignominious straw hat, not to mention a choice floweret in the buttonhole, and a festoon of watchguard below, finished off this impressive boy. 'How's that for style?' he asked, appearing to his mother and cousins whom he was to escort to the hall on this particular occasion. A shout of laughter greeted him, followed by exclamations of horror; for he had artfully added the little blond moustache he often wore when acting. It was very becoming, and seemed the only balm to heal the wound made by the loss of the beloved hat. 'Take it off this moment, you audacious boy! What would your father say to such a prank on this day when we must all behave our best?' said Mrs Jo, trying to frown, but privately thinking that among the many youths about her none were so beautiful and original as her long son. 'Let him wear it, Aunty; it's so becoming. No one will ever guess he isn't eighteen at least,' cried Josie, to whom disguise of any sort was always charming. 'Father won't observe it; he'll be absorbed in his big-wigs and the girls. No matter if he does, he'll enjoy the joke and introduce me as his oldest son. Rob is nowhere when I'm in full fig'; and Ted took the stage with a tragic stalk, like Hamlet in a tail-coat and choker. 'My son, obey me!' and when Mrs Jo spoke in that tone her word was law. Later, however, the moustache appeared, and many strangers firmly believed that there were three young Bhaers. So Ted found one ray of joy to light his gloom. Mr Bhaer was a proud and happy man when, at the appointed hour, he looked down upon the parterre of youthful faces before him, thinking of the 'little gardens' in which he had hopefully and faithfully sowed good seed years ago, and from which this beautiful harvest seemed to have sprung. Mr March's fine old face shone with the serenest satisfaction, for this was the dream of his life fulfilled after patient waiting; and the love and reverence in the countenances of the eager young men and women looking up at him plainly showed that the reward he coveted was his in fullest measure. Laurie always effaced himself on these occasions as much as courtesy would permit; for everyone spoke gratefully in ode, poem, and oration of the founder of the college and noble dispenser of his beneficence. The three sisters beamed with pride as they sat among the ladies, enjoying, as only women can, the honour done the men they loved; while 'the original Plums', as the younger ones called themselves, regarded the whole affair as their work, receiving the curious, admiring, or envious glances of strangers with a mixture of dignity and delight rather comical to behold. The music was excellent, and well it might be when Apollo waved the baton. The poems were--as usual on such occasions--of varied excellence, as the youthful speakers tried to put old truths into new words, and made them forceful by the enthusiasm of their earnest faces and fresh voices. It was beautiful to see the eager interest with which the girls listened to some brilliant brother-student, and applauded him with a rustle as of wind over a bed of flowers. It was still more significant and pleasant to watch the young men's faces when a slender white figure stood out against the background of black-coated dignitaries, and with cheeks that flushed and paled, and lips that trembled till earnest purpose conquered maiden fear, spoke to them straight out of a woman's heart and brain concerning the hopes and doubts, the aspirations and rewards all must know, desire, and labour for. This clear, sweet voice seemed to reach and rouse all that was noblest in the souls of these youths, and to set a seal upon the years of comradeship which made them sacred and memorable for ever. Alice Heath's oration was unanimously pronounced the success of the day; for without being flowery or sentimental, as is too apt to be the case with these first efforts of youthful orators, it was earnest, sensible, and so inspiring that she left the stage in a storm of applause, the good fellows being as much fired by her stirring appeal to 'march shoulder to shoulder', as if she had chanted the 'Marseillaise' then and there. One young man was so excited that he nearly rushed out of his seat to receive her as she hastened to hide herself among her mates, who welcomed her with faces full of tender pride and tearful eye. A prudent sister detained him, however, and in a moment he was able to listen with composure to the President's remarks. They were worth listening to, for Mr Bhaer spoke like a father to the children whom he was dismissing to the battle of life; and his tender, wise, and helpful words lingered in their hearts long after the praise was forgotten. Then came other exercises peculiar to Plumfield, and the end. Why the roof did not fly off when the sturdy lungs of the excited young men pealed out the closing hymn will for ever be a mystery; but it remained firm, and only the fading garlands vibrated as the waves of music rolled up and died away, leaving sweet echoes to haunt the place for another year. Dinners and spreads consumed the afternoon, and at sunset came a slight lull as everyone sought some brief repose before the festivities of the evening began. The President's reception was one of the enjoyable things in store, also dancing on Parnassus, and as much strolling, singing, and flirting, as could be compressed into a few hours by youths and maidens just out of school. Carriages were rolling about, and gay groups on piazzas, lawns, and window-seats idly speculated as to who the distinguished guests might be. The appearance of a very dusty vehicle loaded with trunks at Mr Bhaer's hospitably open door caused much curious comment among the loungers, especially as two rather foreign-looking gentlemen sprang out, followed by two young ladies, all four being greeted with cries of joy and much embracing by the Bhaers. Then they all disappeared into the house, the luggage followed, and the watchers were left to wonder who the mysterious strangers were, till a fair collegian declared that they must be the Professor's nephews, one of whom was expected on his wedding journey. She was right; Franz proudly presented his blonde and buxom bride, and she was hardly kissed and blessed when Emil led up his bonny English Mary, with the rapturous announcement: 'Uncle, Aunt Jo, here's another daughter! Have you room for my wife, too?' There could be no doubt of that; and Mary was with difficulty rescued from the glad embraces of her new relatives, who, remembering all the young pair had suffered together, felt that this was the natural and happy ending of the long voyage so perilously begun. 'But why not tell us, and let us be ready for two brides instead of one?' asked Mrs Jo, looking as usual rather demoralizing in a wrapper and crimping-pins, having rushed down from her chamber, where she was preparing for the labours of the evening. 'Well, I remembered what a good joke you all considered Uncle Laurie's marriage, and I thought I'd give you another nice little surprise,' laughed Emil. 'I'm off duty, and it seemed best to take advantage of wind and tide, and come along as convoy to the old boy here. We hoped to get in last night, but couldn't fetch it, so here we are in time for the end of the jollification, anyway.' 'Ah, my sons, it is too feeling-full to see you both so happy and again in the old home. I haf no words to outpour my gratitude, and can only ask of the dear Gott in Himmel to bless and keep you all,' cried Professor Bhaer, trying to gather all four into his arms at once, while tears rolled down his cheeks, and his English failed him. An April shower cleared the air and relieved the full hearts of the happy family; then of course everyone began to talk--Franz and Ludmilla in German with uncle, Emil and Mary with the aunts; and round this group gathered the young folk, clamouring to hear all about the wreck, and the rescue, and the homeward voyage. It was a very different story from the written one; and as they listened to Emil's graphic words, with Mary's soft voice breaking in now and then to add some fact that brought out the courage, patience, and self-sacrifice he so lightly touched upon, it became a solemn and pathetic thing to see and hear these happy creatures tell of that great danger and deliverance. 'I never hear the patter of rain now that I don't want to say my prayers; and as for women, I'd like to take my hat off to every one of 'em, for they are braver than any man I ever saw,' said Emil, with the new gravity that was as becoming to him as the new gentleness with which he treated everyone. 'If women are brave, some men are as tender and self-sacrificing as women. I know one who in the night slipped his share of food into a girl's pocket, though starving himself, and sat for hours rocking a sick man in his arms that he might get a little sleep. No, love, I will tell, and you must let me!' cried Mary, holding in both her own the hand he laid on her lips to silence her. 'Only did my duty. If that torment had lasted much longer I might have been as bad as poor Barry and the boatswain. Wasn't that an awful night?' And Emil shuddered as he recalled it. 'Don't think of it, dear. Tell about the happy days on the Urania, when papa grew better and we were all safe and homeward bound,' said Mary, with the trusting look and comforting touch which seemed to banish the dark and recall the bright side of that terrible experience. Emil cheered up at once, and sitting with his arm about his 'dear lass', in true sailor fashion told the happy ending of the tale. 'Such a jolly old time as we had at Hamburg! Uncle Hermann couldn't do enough for the captain, and while mamma took care of him, Mary looked after me. I had to go into dock for repairs; fire hurt my eyes, and watching for a sail and want of sleep made 'em as hazy as a London fog. She was pilot and brought me in all right, you see, only I couldn't part company, so she came aboard as first mate, and I'm bound straight for glory now.' 'Hush! that's silly, dear,' whispered Mary, trying in her turn to stop him, with English shyness about tender topics. But he took the soft hand in his, and proudly surveying the one ring it wore, went on with the air of an admiral aboard his flagship. 'The captain proposed waiting a spell; but I told him we weren't like to see any rougher weather than we'd pulled through together, and if we didn't know one another after such a year as this, we never should. I was sure I shouldn't be worth my pay without this hand on the wheel; so I had my way, and my brave little woman has shipped for the long voyage. God bless her!' 'Shall you really sail with him?' asked Daisy, admiring her courage, but shrinking with cat-like horror from the water. 'I'm not afraid,' answered Mary, with a loyal smile. 'I've proved my captain in fair weather and in foul, and if he is ever wrecked again, I'd rather be with him than waiting and watching ashore.' 'A true woman, and a born sailor's wife! You are a happy man, Emil, and I'm sure this trip will be a prosperous one,' cried Mrs Jo, delighted with the briny flavour of this courtship. 'Oh, my dear boy, I always felt you'd come back, and when everyone else despaired I never gave up, but insisted that you were clinging to the main-top jib somewhere on that dreadful sea'; and Mrs Jo illustrated her faith by grasping Emil with a truly Pillycoddian gesture. 'Of course I was!' answered Emil heartily; 'and my "main-top jib" in this case was the thought of what you and Uncle said to me. That kept me up; and among the million thoughts that came to me during those long nights none was clearer than the idea of the red strand, you remember--English navy, and all that. I liked the notion, and resolved that if a bit of my cable was left afloat, the red stripe should be there.' 'And it was, my dear, it was! Captain Hardy testifies to that, and here is your reward'; and Mrs Jo kissed Mary with a maternal tenderness which betrayed that she liked the English rose better than the blue-eyed German Kornblumen, sweet and modest though it was. Emil surveyed the little ceremony with complacency, saying, as he looked about the room which he never thought to see again: 'Odd, isn't it, how clearly trifles come back to one in times of danger? As we floated there, half-starved, and in despair, I used to think I heard the bells ringing here, and Ted tramping downstairs, and you calling, "Boys, boys, it's time to get up!" I actually smelt the coffee we used to have, and one night I nearly cried when I woke from a dream of Asia's ginger cookies. I declare, it was one of the bitterest disappointments of my life to face hunger with that spicy smell in my nostrils. If you've got any, do give me one!' A pitiful murmur broke from all the aunts and cousins, and Emil was at once borne away to feast on the desired cookies, a supply always being on hand. Mrs Jo and her sister joined the other group, glad to hear what Franz was saying about Nat. 'The minute I saw how thin and shabby he was, I knew that something was wrong; but he made light of it, and was so happy over our visit and news that I let him off with a brief confession, and went to Professor Baumgarten and Bergmann. From them I learned the whole story of his spending more money than he ought and trying to atone for it by unnecessary work and sacrifice. Baumgarten thought it would do him good, so kept his secret till I came. It did him good, and he's paid his debts and earned his bread by the sweat of his brow, like an honest fellow.' 'I like that much in Nat. It is, as I said, a lesson, and he learns it well. He proves himself a man, and has deserved the place Bergmann offers him,' said Mr Bhaer, looking well pleased as Franz added some facts already recorded. 'I told you, Meg, that he had good stuff in him, and love for Daisy would keep him straight. Dear lad, I wish I had him here this moment!' cried Mrs Jo, forgetting in delight the doubts and anxieties which had troubled her for months past. 'I am very glad, and suppose I shall give in as I always do, especially now that the epidemic rages so among us. You and Emil have set all their heads in a ferment, and Josie will be demanding a lover before I can turn round,' answered Mrs Meg, in a tone of despair. But her sister saw that she was touched by Nat's trials, and hastened to add the triumphs, that the victory might be complete, for success is always charming. 'This offer of Herr Bergmann is a good one, isn't it?' she asked, though Mr Laurie had already satisfied her on that point when Nat's letter brought the news. 'Very fine in every way. Nat will get capital drill in Bachmeister's orchestra, see London in a delightful way, and if he suits come home with them, well started among the violins. No great honour, but a sure thing and a step up. I congratulated him, and he was very jolly over it, saying, like the true lover he is: "Tell Daisy; be sure and tell her all about it." I'll leave that to you, Aunt Meg, and you can also break it gently to her that the old boy had a fine blond beard. Very becoming; hides his weak mouth, and gives a noble air to his big eyes and "Mendelssohnian brow", as a gushing girl called it. Ludmilla has a photo of it for you.' This amused them; and they listened to many other interesting bits of news which kind Franz, even in his own happiness, had not forgotten to remember for his friend's sake. He talked so well, and painted Nat's patient and pathetic shifts so vividly, that Mrs Meg was half won; though if she had learned of the Minna episode and the fiddling in beer-gardens and streets, she might not have relented so soon. She stored up all she heard, however, and, womanlike, promised herself a delicious talk with Daisy, in which she would allow herself to melt by degrees, and perhaps change the doubtful 'We shall see' to a cordial 'He has done well; be happy, dear'. In the midst of this agreeable chat the sudden striking of a clock recalled Mrs Jo from romance to reality, and she exclaimed, with a clutch at her crimping-pins: 'My blessed people, you must eat and rest; and I must dress, or receive in this disgraceful rig. Meg, will you take Ludmilla and Mary upstairs and see to them? Franz knows the way to the dining-room. Fritz, come with me and be made tidy, for what with heat and emotion, we are both perfect wrecks.' Chapter 19. WHITE ROSES While the travellers refreshed, and Mrs President struggled into her best gown, Josie ran into the garden to gather flowers for the brides. The sudden arrival of these interesting beings had quite enchanted the romantic girl, and her head was full of heroic rescues, tender admiration, dramatic situations, and feminine wonder as to whether the lovely creatures would wear their veils or not. She was standing before a great bush of white roses, culling the most perfect for the bouquets which she meant to tie with the ribbon festooned over her arm, and lay on the toilette tables of the new cousins, as a delicate attention. A step startled her, and looking up she saw her brother coming down the path with folded arms, bent head, and the absent air of one absorbed in deep thought. 'Sophy Wackles,' said the sharp child, with a superior smile, as she sucked

call

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

'Bless me! I always imagined lords and ladies did nothing but ride round in a coach and six, go to balls, and be presented to the Queen in cocked hats, and trains and feathers,' exclaimed an artless young person from the wilds of Maine, whither an illustrated paper occasionally wandered. 'Not at all; Lord Abercrombie is over here studying up our American prison system, and my lady is busy with the schools--both very high-born, but the simplest and most sensible people I've met this long time. They are neither of them young nor handsome, and dress plainly; so don't expect anything splendid. Mr Laurence was telling me last night about a friend of his who met my lord in the hall, and owing to a rough greatcoat and a red face, mistook him for a coachman, and said: "Now, my man, what do you want here?" Lord Abercrombie mildly mentioned who he was, and that he had come to dinner. And the poor host was much afflicted, saying afterward: "Why didn't he wear his stars and garters? then a fellow would know he was a lord."' The girls laughed again, and a general rustle betrayed that each was prinking a bit before the titled guest arrived. Even Mrs Jo settled her collar, and Mrs Meg felt if her cap was right, while Bess shook out her curls and Josie boldly consulted the glass; for they were women, in spite of philosophy and philanthropy. 'Shall we all rise?' asked one girl, deeply impressed by the impending honour. 'It would be courteous.' 'Shall we shake hands?' 'No, I'll present you en masse, and your pleasant faces will be introduction enough.' 'I wish I'd worn my best dress. Ought to have told us,' whispered Sally. 'Won't my folks be surprised when I tell them we have had a real lady to call on us?' said another. 'Don't look as if you'd never seen a gentlewoman before, Milly. We are not all fresh from the wilderness,' added the stately damsel who, having Mayflower ancestors, felt that she was the equal of all the crowned heads of Europe. 'Hush, she's coming! Oh, my heart, what a bonnet!' cried the gay girl in a stage whisper; and every eye was demurely fixed upon the busy hands as the door opened to admit Mrs Laurence and her guest. It was rather a shock to find, after the general introduction was over, that this daughter of a hundred earls was a stout lady in a plain gown, and a rather weather-beaten bonnet, with a bag of papers in one hand and a note-book in the other. But the face was full of benevolence, the sonorous voice very kind, the genial manners very winning, and about the whole person an indescribable air of high breeding which made beauty of no consequence, costume soon forgotten, and the moment memorable to the keen-eyed girls whom nothing escaped. A little chat about the rise, growth, and success of this particular class, and then Mrs Jo led the conversation to the English lady's work, anxious to show her pupils how rank dignifies labour, and charity blesses wealth. It was good for these girls to hear of the evening-schools supported and taught by women whom they knew and honoured; of Miss Cobbe's eloquent protest winning the protection of the law for abused wives; Mrs Butler saving the lost; Mrs Taylor, who devoted one room in her historic house to a library for the servants; Lord Shaftesbury, busy with his new tenement-houses in the slums of London; of prison reforms; and all the brave work being done in God's name by the rich and great for the humble and the poor. It impressed them more than many quiet home lectures would have done, and roused an ambition to help when their time should come, well knowing that even in glorious America there is still plenty to be done before she is what she should be--truly just, and free, and great. They were also quick to see that Lady Abercrombie treated all there as her equals, from stately Mrs Laurence, to little Josie, taking notes of everything and privately resolving to have some thick-soled English boots as soon as possible. No one would have guessed that she had a big house in London, a castle in Wales, and a grand country seat in Scotland, as she spoke of Parnassus with admiration, Plumfield as a 'dear old home', and the college as an honour to all concerned in it. At that, of course, every head went up a little, and when my lady left, every hand was ready for the hearty shake the noble Englishwoman gave them, with words they long remembered: 'I am very pleased to see this much-neglected branch of a woman's education so well conducted here, and I have to thank my friend Mrs Laurence for one of the most charming pictures I've seen in America--Penelope among her maids.' A group of smiling faces watched the stout boots trudge away, respectful glances followed the shabby bonnet till it was out of sight, and the girls felt a truer respect for their titled guest than if she had come in the coach and six, with all her diamonds on. 'I feel better about the "odd jobs" now. I only wish I could do them as well as Lady Abercrombie does,' said one. 'I thanked my stars my buttonholes were nice, for she looked at them and said: "Quite workmanlike, upon my word," added another, feeling that her gingham gown had come to honour. 'Her manners were as sweet and kind as Mrs Brooke's. Not a bit stiff or condescending, as I expected. I see now what you meant, Mrs Bhaer, when you said once that well-bred people were the same all the world over.' Mrs Meg bowed her thanks for the compliment, and Mrs Bhaer said: 'I know them when I see them, but never shall be a model of deportment myself. I'm glad you enjoyed the little visit. Now, if you young people don't want England to get ahead of us in many ways, you must bestir yourselves and keep abreast; for our sisters are in earnest, you see, and don't waste time worrying about their sphere, but make it wherever duty calls them.' 'We will do our best, ma'am,' answered the girls heartily, and trooped away with their work-baskets, feeling that though they might never be Harriet Martineaus, Elizabeth Brownings, or George Eliots, they might become noble, useful, and independent women, and earn for themselves some sweet title from the grateful lips of the poor, better than any a queen could bestow. Chapter 18. CLASS DAY The clerk of the weather evidently has a regard for young people, and sends sunshine for class days as often as he can. An especially lovely one shone over Plumfield as this interesting anniversary came round, bringing the usual accompaniments of roses, strawberries, white-gowned girls, beaming youths, proud friends, and stately dignitaries full of well-earned satisfaction with the yearly harvest. As Laurence College was a mixed one, the presence of young women as students gave to the occasion a grace and animation entirely wanting where the picturesque half of creation appear merely as spectators. The hands that turned the pages of wise books also possessed the skill to decorate the hall with flowers; eyes tired with study shone with hospitable warmth on the assembling guests; and under the white muslins beat hearts as full of ambition, hope, and courage as those agitating the broadcloth of the ruling sex. College Hill, Parnassus, and old Plum swarmed with cheery faces, as guests, students, and professors hurried to and fro in the pleasant excitement of arriving and receiving. Everyone was welcomed cordially, whether he rolled up in a fine carriage, or trudged afoot to see the good son or daughter come to honour on the happy day that rewarded many a mutual sacrifice. Mr Laurie and his wife were on the reception committee, and their lovely house was overflowing. Mrs Meg, with Daisy and Jo as aides, was in demand among the girls, helping on belated toilettes, giving an eye to spreads, and directing the decorations. Mrs Jo had her hands full as President's lady, and the mother of Ted; for it took all the power and skill of that energetic woman to get her son into his Sunday best. Not that he objected to be well arrayed; far from it; he adored good clothes, and owing to his great height already revelled in a dress-suit, bequeathed him by a dandy friend. The effect was very funny; but he would wear it in spite of the jeers of his mates, and sighed vainly for a beaver, because his stern parent drew the line there. He pleaded that English lads of ten wore them and were 'no end nobby'; but his mother only answered, with a consoling pat of the yellow mane: 'My child, you are absurd enough now; if I let you add a tall hat, Plumfield wouldn't hold either of us, such would be the scorn and derision of all beholders. Content yourself with looking like the ghost of a waiter, and don't ask for the most ridiculous head-gear in the known world.' Denied this noble badge of manhood, Ted soothed his wounded soul by appearing in collars of an amazing height and stiffness, and ties which were the wonder of all female eyes. This freak was a sort of vengeance on his hard-hearted mother; for the collars drove the laundress to despair, never being just right, and the ties required such art in the tying that three women sometimes laboured long before--like Beau Brummel--he turned from a heap of 'failures' with the welcome words: 'That will do.' Rob was devoted on these trying occasions, his own toilet being distinguished only by its speed, simplicity, and neatness. Ted was usually in a frenzy before he was suited, and roars, whistles, commands, and groans were heard from the den wherein the Lion raged and the Lamb patiently toiled. Mrs Jo bore it till boots were hurled and a rain of hair-brushes set in, then, fearing for the safety of her eldest, she would go to the rescue, and by a wise mixture of fun and authority finally succeed in persuading Ted that he was 'a thing of beauty', if not 'a joy for ever'. At last he would stalk majestically forth, imprisoned in collars compared to which those worn by Dickens's afflicted Biler were trifles not worth mentioning. The dresscoat was a little loose in the shoulders, but allowed a noble expanse of glossy bosom to be seen, and with a delicate handkerchief negligently drooping at the proper angle, had a truly fine effect. Boots that shone, and likewise pinched, appeared at one end of the 'long, black clothes-pin'--as Josie called him---and a youthful but solemn face at the other, carried at an angle which, if long continued, would have resulted in spinal curvature. Light gloves, a cane, and--oh, bitter drop in the cup of joy!--an ignominious straw hat, not to mention a choice floweret in the buttonhole, and a festoon of watchguard below, finished off this impressive boy. 'How's that for style?' he asked, appearing to his mother and cousins whom he was to escort to the hall on this particular occasion. A shout of laughter greeted him, followed by exclamations of horror; for he had artfully added the little blond moustache he often wore when acting. It was very becoming, and seemed the only balm to heal the wound made by the loss of the beloved hat. 'Take it off this moment, you audacious boy! What would your father say to such a prank on this day when we must all behave our best?' said Mrs Jo, trying to frown, but privately thinking that among the many youths about her none were so beautiful and original as her long son. 'Let him wear it, Aunty; it's so becoming. No one will ever guess he isn't eighteen at least,' cried Josie, to whom disguise of any sort was always charming. 'Father won't observe it; he'll be absorbed in his big-wigs and the girls. No matter if he does, he'll enjoy the joke and introduce me as his oldest son. Rob is nowhere when I'm in full fig'; and Ted took the stage with a tragic stalk, like Hamlet in a tail-coat and choker. 'My son, obey me!' and when Mrs Jo spoke in that tone her word was law. Later, however, the moustache appeared, and many strangers firmly believed that there were three young Bhaers. So Ted found one ray of joy to light his gloom. Mr Bhaer was a proud and happy man when, at the appointed hour, he looked down upon the parterre of youthful faces before him, thinking of the 'little gardens' in which he had hopefully and faithfully sowed good seed years ago, and from which this beautiful harvest seemed to have sprung. Mr March's fine old face shone with the serenest satisfaction, for this was the dream of his life fulfilled after patient waiting; and the love and reverence in the countenances of the eager young men and women looking up at him plainly showed that the reward he coveted was his in fullest measure. Laurie always effaced himself on these occasions as much as courtesy would permit; for everyone spoke gratefully in ode, poem, and oration of the founder of the college and noble dispenser of his beneficence. The three sisters beamed with pride as they sat among the ladies, enjoying, as only women can, the honour done the men they loved; while 'the original Plums', as the younger ones called themselves, regarded the whole affair as their work, receiving the curious, admiring, or envious glances of strangers with a mixture of dignity and delight rather comical to behold. The music was excellent, and well it might be when Apollo waved the baton. The poems were--as usual on such occasions--of varied excellence, as the youthful speakers tried to put old truths into new words, and made them forceful by the enthusiasm of their earnest faces and fresh voices. It was beautiful to see the eager interest with which the girls listened to some brilliant brother-student, and applauded him with a rustle as of wind over a bed of flowers. It was still more significant and pleasant to watch the young men's faces when a slender white figure stood out against the background of black-coated dignitaries, and with cheeks that flushed and paled, and lips that trembled till earnest purpose conquered maiden fear, spoke to them straight out of a woman's heart and brain concerning the hopes and doubts, the aspirations and rewards all must know, desire, and labour for. This clear, sweet voice seemed to reach and rouse all that was noblest in the souls of these youths, and to set a seal upon the years of comradeship which made them sacred and memorable for ever. Alice Heath's oration was unanimously pronounced the success of the day; for without being flowery or sentimental, as is too apt to be the case with these first efforts of youthful orators, it was earnest, sensible, and so inspiring that she left the stage in a storm of applause, the good fellows being as much fired by her stirring appeal to 'march shoulder to shoulder', as if she had chanted the 'Marseillaise' then and there. One young man was so excited that he nearly rushed out of his seat to receive her as she hastened to hide herself among her mates, who welcomed her with faces full of tender pride and tearful eye. A prudent sister detained him, however, and in a moment he was able to listen with composure to the President's remarks. They were worth listening to, for Mr Bhaer spoke like a father to the children whom he was dismissing to the battle of life; and his tender, wise, and helpful words lingered in their hearts long after the praise was forgotten. Then came other exercises peculiar to Plumfield, and the end. Why the roof did not fly off when the sturdy lungs of the excited young men pealed out the closing hymn will for ever be a mystery; but it remained firm, and only the fading garlands vibrated as the waves of music rolled up and died away, leaving sweet echoes to haunt the place for another year. Dinners and spreads consumed the afternoon, and at sunset came a slight lull as everyone sought some brief repose before the festivities of the evening began. The President's reception was one of the enjoyable things in store, also dancing on Parnassus, and as much strolling, singing, and flirting, as could be compressed into a few hours by youths and maidens just out of school. Carriages were rolling about, and gay groups on piazzas, lawns, and window-seats idly speculated as to who the distinguished guests might be. The appearance of a very dusty vehicle loaded with trunks at Mr Bhaer's hospitably open door caused much curious comment among the loungers, especially as two rather foreign-looking gentlemen sprang out, followed by two young ladies, all four being greeted with cries of joy and much embracing by the Bhaers. Then they all disappeared into the house, the luggage followed, and the watchers were left to wonder who the mysterious strangers were, till a fair collegian declared that they must be the Professor's nephews, one of whom was expected on his wedding journey. She was right; Franz proudly presented his blonde and buxom bride, and she was hardly kissed and blessed when Emil led up his bonny English Mary, with the rapturous announcement: 'Uncle, Aunt Jo, here's another daughter! Have you room for my wife, too?' There could be no doubt of that; and Mary was with difficulty rescued from the glad embraces of her new relatives, who, remembering all the young pair had suffered together, felt that this was the natural and happy ending of the long voyage so perilously begun. 'But why not tell us, and let us be ready for two brides instead of one?' asked Mrs Jo, looking as usual rather demoralizing in a wrapper and crimping-pins, having rushed down from her chamber, where she was preparing for the labours of the evening. 'Well, I remembered what a good joke you all considered Uncle Laurie's marriage, and I thought I'd give you another nice little surprise,' laughed Emil. 'I'm off duty, and it seemed best to take advantage of wind and tide, and come along as convoy to the old boy here. We hoped to get in last night, but couldn't fetch it, so here we are in time for the end of the jollification, anyway.' 'Ah, my sons, it is too feeling-full to see you both so happy and again in the old home. I haf no words to outpour my gratitude, and can only ask of the dear Gott in Himmel to bless and keep you all,' cried Professor Bhaer, trying to gather all four into his arms at once, while tears rolled down his cheeks, and his English failed him. An April shower cleared the air and relieved the full hearts of the happy family; then of course everyone began to talk--Franz and Ludmilla in German with uncle, Emil and Mary with the aunts; and round this group gathered the young folk, clamouring to hear all about the wreck, and the rescue, and the homeward voyage. It was a very different story from the written one; and as they listened to Emil's graphic words, with Mary's soft voice breaking in now and then to add some fact that brought out the courage, patience, and self-sacrifice he so lightly touched upon, it became a solemn and pathetic thing to see and hear these happy creatures tell of that great danger and deliverance. 'I never hear the patter of rain now that I don't want to say my prayers; and as for women, I'd like to take my hat off to every one of 'em, for they are braver than any man I ever saw,' said Emil, with the new gravity that was as becoming to him as the new gentleness with which he treated everyone. 'If women are brave, some men are as tender and self-sacrificing as women. I know one who in the night slipped his share of food into a girl's pocket, though starving himself, and sat for hours rocking a sick man in his arms that he might get a little sleep. No, love, I will tell, and you must let me!' cried Mary, holding in both her own the hand he laid on her lips to silence her. 'Only did my duty. If that torment had lasted much longer I might have been as bad as poor Barry and the boatswain. Wasn't that an awful night?' And Emil shuddered as he recalled it. 'Don't think of it, dear. Tell about the happy days on the Urania, when papa grew better and we were all safe and homeward bound,' said Mary, with the trusting look and comforting touch which seemed to banish the dark and recall the bright side of that terrible experience. Emil cheered up at once, and sitting with his arm about his 'dear lass', in true sailor fashion told the happy ending of the tale. 'Such a jolly old time as we had at Hamburg! Uncle Hermann couldn't do enough for the captain, and while mamma took care of him, Mary looked after me. I had to go into dock for repairs; fire hurt my eyes, and watching for a sail and want of sleep made 'em as hazy as a London fog. She was pilot and brought me in all right, you see, only I couldn't part company, so she came aboard as first mate, and I'm bound straight for glory now.' 'Hush! that's silly, dear,' whispered Mary, trying in her turn to stop him, with English shyness about tender topics. But he took the soft hand in his, and proudly surveying the one ring it wore, went on with the air of an admiral aboard his flagship. 'The captain proposed waiting a spell; but I told him we weren't like to see any rougher weather than we'd pulled through together, and if we didn't know one another after such a year as this, we never should. I was sure I shouldn't be worth my pay without this hand on the wheel; so I had my way, and my brave little woman has shipped for the long voyage. God bless her!' 'Shall you really sail with him?' asked Daisy, admiring her courage, but shrinking with cat-like horror from the water. 'I'm not afraid,' answered Mary, with a loyal smile. 'I've proved my captain in fair weather and in foul, and if he is ever wrecked again, I'd rather be with him than waiting and watching ashore.' 'A true woman, and a born sailor's wife! You are a happy man, Emil, and I'm sure this trip will be a prosperous one,' cried Mrs Jo, delighted with the briny flavour of this courtship. 'Oh, my dear boy, I always felt you'd come back, and when everyone else despaired I never gave up, but insisted that you were clinging to the main-top jib somewhere on that dreadful sea'; and Mrs Jo illustrated her faith by grasping Emil with a truly Pillycoddian gesture. 'Of course I was!' answered Emil heartily; 'and my "main-top jib" in this case was the thought of what you and Uncle said to me. That kept me up; and among the million thoughts that came to me during those long nights none was clearer than the idea of the red strand, you remember--English navy, and all that. I liked the notion, and resolved that if a bit of my cable was left afloat, the red stripe should be there.' 'And it was, my dear, it was! Captain Hardy testifies to that, and here is your reward'; and Mrs Jo kissed Mary with a maternal tenderness which betrayed that she liked the English rose better than the blue-eyed German Kornblumen, sweet and modest though it was. Emil surveyed the little ceremony with complacency, saying, as he looked about the room which he never thought to see again: 'Odd, isn't it, how clearly trifles come back to one in times of danger? As we floated there, half-starved, and in despair, I used to think I heard the bells ringing here, and Ted tramping downstairs, and you calling, "Boys, boys, it's time to get up!" I actually smelt the coffee we used to have, and one night I nearly cried when I woke from a dream of Asia's ginger cookies. I declare, it was one of the bitterest disappointments of my life to face hunger with that spicy smell in my nostrils. If you've got any, do give me one!' A pitiful murmur broke from all the aunts and cousins, and Emil was at once borne away to feast on the desired cookies, a supply always being on hand. Mrs Jo and her sister joined the other group, glad to hear what Franz was saying about Nat. 'The minute I saw how thin and shabby he was, I knew that something was wrong; but he made light of it, and was so happy over our visit and news that I let him off with a brief confession, and went to Professor Baumgarten and Bergmann. From them I learned the whole story of his spending more money than he ought and trying to atone for it by unnecessary work and sacrifice. Baumgarten thought it would do him good, so kept his secret till I came. It did him good, and he's paid his debts and earned his bread by the sweat of his brow, like an honest fellow.' 'I like that much in Nat. It is, as I said, a lesson, and he learns it well. He proves himself a man, and has deserved the place Bergmann offers him,' said Mr Bhaer, looking well pleased as Franz added some facts already recorded. 'I told you, Meg, that he had good stuff in him, and love for Daisy would keep him straight. Dear lad, I wish I had him here this moment!' cried Mrs Jo, forgetting in delight the doubts and anxieties which had troubled her for months past. 'I am very glad, and suppose I shall give in as I always do, especially now that the epidemic rages so among us. You and Emil have set all their heads in a ferment, and Josie will be demanding a lover before I can turn round,' answered Mrs Meg, in a tone of despair. But her sister saw that she was touched by Nat's trials, and hastened to add the triumphs, that the victory might be complete, for success is always charming. 'This offer of Herr Bergmann is a good one, isn't it?' she asked, though Mr Laurie had already satisfied her on that point when Nat's letter brought the news. 'Very fine in every way. Nat will get capital drill in Bachmeister's orchestra, see London in a delightful way, and if he suits come home with them, well started among the violins. No great honour, but a sure thing and a step up. I congratulated him, and he was very jolly over it, saying, like the true lover he is: "Tell Daisy; be sure and tell her all about it." I'll leave that to you, Aunt Meg, and you can also break it gently to her that the old boy had a fine blond beard. Very becoming; hides his weak mouth, and gives a noble air to his big eyes and "Mendelssohnian brow", as a gushing girl called it. Ludmilla has a photo of it for you.' This amused them; and they listened to many other interesting bits of news which kind Franz, even in his own happiness, had not forgotten to remember for his friend's sake. He talked so well, and painted Nat's patient and pathetic shifts so vividly, that Mrs Meg was half won; though if she had learned of the Minna episode and the fiddling in beer-gardens and streets, she might not have relented so soon. She stored up all she heard, however, and, womanlike, promised herself a delicious talk with Daisy, in which she would allow herself to melt by degrees, and perhaps change the doubtful 'We shall see' to a cordial 'He has done well; be happy, dear'. In the midst of this agreeable chat the sudden striking of a clock recalled Mrs Jo from romance to reality, and she exclaimed, with a clutch at her crimping-pins: 'My blessed people, you must eat and rest; and I must dress, or receive in this disgraceful rig. Meg, will you take Ludmilla and Mary upstairs and see to them? Franz knows the way to the dining-room. Fritz, come with me and be made tidy, for what with heat and emotion, we are both perfect wrecks.' Chapter 19. WHITE ROSES While the travellers refreshed, and Mrs President struggled into her best gown, Josie ran into the garden to gather flowers for the brides. The sudden arrival of these interesting beings had quite enchanted the romantic girl, and her head was full of heroic rescues, tender admiration, dramatic situations, and feminine wonder as to whether the lovely creatures would wear their veils or not. She was standing before a great bush of white roses, culling the most perfect for the bouquets which she meant to tie with the ribbon festooned over her arm, and lay on the toilette tables of the new cousins, as a delicate attention. A step startled her, and looking up she saw her brother coming down the path with folded arms, bent head, and the absent air of one absorbed in deep thought. 'Sophy Wackles,' said the sharp child, with a superior smile, as she sucked

ideas

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

'Bless me! I always imagined lords and ladies did nothing but ride round in a coach and six, go to balls, and be presented to the Queen in cocked hats, and trains and feathers,' exclaimed an artless young person from the wilds of Maine, whither an illustrated paper occasionally wandered. 'Not at all; Lord Abercrombie is over here studying up our American prison system, and my lady is busy with the schools--both very high-born, but the simplest and most sensible people I've met this long time. They are neither of them young nor handsome, and dress plainly; so don't expect anything splendid. Mr Laurence was telling me last night about a friend of his who met my lord in the hall, and owing to a rough greatcoat and a red face, mistook him for a coachman, and said: "Now, my man, what do you want here?" Lord Abercrombie mildly mentioned who he was, and that he had come to dinner. And the poor host was much afflicted, saying afterward: "Why didn't he wear his stars and garters? then a fellow would know he was a lord."' The girls laughed again, and a general rustle betrayed that each was prinking a bit before the titled guest arrived. Even Mrs Jo settled her collar, and Mrs Meg felt if her cap was right, while Bess shook out her curls and Josie boldly consulted the glass; for they were women, in spite of philosophy and philanthropy. 'Shall we all rise?' asked one girl, deeply impressed by the impending honour. 'It would be courteous.' 'Shall we shake hands?' 'No, I'll present you en masse, and your pleasant faces will be introduction enough.' 'I wish I'd worn my best dress. Ought to have told us,' whispered Sally. 'Won't my folks be surprised when I tell them we have had a real lady to call on us?' said another. 'Don't look as if you'd never seen a gentlewoman before, Milly. We are not all fresh from the wilderness,' added the stately damsel who, having Mayflower ancestors, felt that she was the equal of all the crowned heads of Europe. 'Hush, she's coming! Oh, my heart, what a bonnet!' cried the gay girl in a stage whisper; and every eye was demurely fixed upon the busy hands as the door opened to admit Mrs Laurence and her guest. It was rather a shock to find, after the general introduction was over, that this daughter of a hundred earls was a stout lady in a plain gown, and a rather weather-beaten bonnet, with a bag of papers in one hand and a note-book in the other. But the face was full of benevolence, the sonorous voice very kind, the genial manners very winning, and about the whole person an indescribable air of high breeding which made beauty of no consequence, costume soon forgotten, and the moment memorable to the keen-eyed girls whom nothing escaped. A little chat about the rise, growth, and success of this particular class, and then Mrs Jo led the conversation to the English lady's work, anxious to show her pupils how rank dignifies labour, and charity blesses wealth. It was good for these girls to hear of the evening-schools supported and taught by women whom they knew and honoured; of Miss Cobbe's eloquent protest winning the protection of the law for abused wives; Mrs Butler saving the lost; Mrs Taylor, who devoted one room in her historic house to a library for the servants; Lord Shaftesbury, busy with his new tenement-houses in the slums of London; of prison reforms; and all the brave work being done in God's name by the rich and great for the humble and the poor. It impressed them more than many quiet home lectures would have done, and roused an ambition to help when their time should come, well knowing that even in glorious America there is still plenty to be done before she is what she should be--truly just, and free, and great. They were also quick to see that Lady Abercrombie treated all there as her equals, from stately Mrs Laurence, to little Josie, taking notes of everything and privately resolving to have some thick-soled English boots as soon as possible. No one would have guessed that she had a big house in London, a castle in Wales, and a grand country seat in Scotland, as she spoke of Parnassus with admiration, Plumfield as a 'dear old home', and the college as an honour to all concerned in it. At that, of course, every head went up a little, and when my lady left, every hand was ready for the hearty shake the noble Englishwoman gave them, with words they long remembered: 'I am very pleased to see this much-neglected branch of a woman's education so well conducted here, and I have to thank my friend Mrs Laurence for one of the most charming pictures I've seen in America--Penelope among her maids.' A group of smiling faces watched the stout boots trudge away, respectful glances followed the shabby bonnet till it was out of sight, and the girls felt a truer respect for their titled guest than if she had come in the coach and six, with all her diamonds on. 'I feel better about the "odd jobs" now. I only wish I could do them as well as Lady Abercrombie does,' said one. 'I thanked my stars my buttonholes were nice, for she looked at them and said: "Quite workmanlike, upon my word," added another, feeling that her gingham gown had come to honour. 'Her manners were as sweet and kind as Mrs Brooke's. Not a bit stiff or condescending, as I expected. I see now what you meant, Mrs Bhaer, when you said once that well-bred people were the same all the world over.' Mrs Meg bowed her thanks for the compliment, and Mrs Bhaer said: 'I know them when I see them, but never shall be a model of deportment myself. I'm glad you enjoyed the little visit. Now, if you young people don't want England to get ahead of us in many ways, you must bestir yourselves and keep abreast; for our sisters are in earnest, you see, and don't waste time worrying about their sphere, but make it wherever duty calls them.' 'We will do our best, ma'am,' answered the girls heartily, and trooped away with their work-baskets, feeling that though they might never be Harriet Martineaus, Elizabeth Brownings, or George Eliots, they might become noble, useful, and independent women, and earn for themselves some sweet title from the grateful lips of the poor, better than any a queen could bestow. Chapter 18. CLASS DAY The clerk of the weather evidently has a regard for young people, and sends sunshine for class days as often as he can. An especially lovely one shone over Plumfield as this interesting anniversary came round, bringing the usual accompaniments of roses, strawberries, white-gowned girls, beaming youths, proud friends, and stately dignitaries full of well-earned satisfaction with the yearly harvest. As Laurence College was a mixed one, the presence of young women as students gave to the occasion a grace and animation entirely wanting where the picturesque half of creation appear merely as spectators. The hands that turned the pages of wise books also possessed the skill to decorate the hall with flowers; eyes tired with study shone with hospitable warmth on the assembling guests; and under the white muslins beat hearts as full of ambition, hope, and courage as those agitating the broadcloth of the ruling sex. College Hill, Parnassus, and old Plum swarmed with cheery faces, as guests, students, and professors hurried to and fro in the pleasant excitement of arriving and receiving. Everyone was welcomed cordially, whether he rolled up in a fine carriage, or trudged afoot to see the good son or daughter come to honour on the happy day that rewarded many a mutual sacrifice. Mr Laurie and his wife were on the reception committee, and their lovely house was overflowing. Mrs Meg, with Daisy and Jo as aides, was in demand among the girls, helping on belated toilettes, giving an eye to spreads, and directing the decorations. Mrs Jo had her hands full as President's lady, and the mother of Ted; for it took all the power and skill of that energetic woman to get her son into his Sunday best. Not that he objected to be well arrayed; far from it; he adored good clothes, and owing to his great height already revelled in a dress-suit, bequeathed him by a dandy friend. The effect was very funny; but he would wear it in spite of the jeers of his mates, and sighed vainly for a beaver, because his stern parent drew the line there. He pleaded that English lads of ten wore them and were 'no end nobby'; but his mother only answered, with a consoling pat of the yellow mane: 'My child, you are absurd enough now; if I let you add a tall hat, Plumfield wouldn't hold either of us, such would be the scorn and derision of all beholders. Content yourself with looking like the ghost of a waiter, and don't ask for the most ridiculous head-gear in the known world.' Denied this noble badge of manhood, Ted soothed his wounded soul by appearing in collars of an amazing height and stiffness, and ties which were the wonder of all female eyes. This freak was a sort of vengeance on his hard-hearted mother; for the collars drove the laundress to despair, never being just right, and the ties required such art in the tying that three women sometimes laboured long before--like Beau Brummel--he turned from a heap of 'failures' with the welcome words: 'That will do.' Rob was devoted on these trying occasions, his own toilet being distinguished only by its speed, simplicity, and neatness. Ted was usually in a frenzy before he was suited, and roars, whistles, commands, and groans were heard from the den wherein the Lion raged and the Lamb patiently toiled. Mrs Jo bore it till boots were hurled and a rain of hair-brushes set in, then, fearing for the safety of her eldest, she would go to the rescue, and by a wise mixture of fun and authority finally succeed in persuading Ted that he was 'a thing of beauty', if not 'a joy for ever'. At last he would stalk majestically forth, imprisoned in collars compared to which those worn by Dickens's afflicted Biler were trifles not worth mentioning. The dresscoat was a little loose in the shoulders, but allowed a noble expanse of glossy bosom to be seen, and with a delicate handkerchief negligently drooping at the proper angle, had a truly fine effect. Boots that shone, and likewise pinched, appeared at one end of the 'long, black clothes-pin'--as Josie called him---and a youthful but solemn face at the other, carried at an angle which, if long continued, would have resulted in spinal curvature. Light gloves, a cane, and--oh, bitter drop in the cup of joy!--an ignominious straw hat, not to mention a choice floweret in the buttonhole, and a festoon of watchguard below, finished off this impressive boy. 'How's that for style?' he asked, appearing to his mother and cousins whom he was to escort to the hall on this particular occasion. A shout of laughter greeted him, followed by exclamations of horror; for he had artfully added the little blond moustache he often wore when acting. It was very becoming, and seemed the only balm to heal the wound made by the loss of the beloved hat. 'Take it off this moment, you audacious boy! What would your father say to such a prank on this day when we must all behave our best?' said Mrs Jo, trying to frown, but privately thinking that among the many youths about her none were so beautiful and original as her long son. 'Let him wear it, Aunty; it's so becoming. No one will ever guess he isn't eighteen at least,' cried Josie, to whom disguise of any sort was always charming. 'Father won't observe it; he'll be absorbed in his big-wigs and the girls. No matter if he does, he'll enjoy the joke and introduce me as his oldest son. Rob is nowhere when I'm in full fig'; and Ted took the stage with a tragic stalk, like Hamlet in a tail-coat and choker. 'My son, obey me!' and when Mrs Jo spoke in that tone her word was law. Later, however, the moustache appeared, and many strangers firmly believed that there were three young Bhaers. So Ted found one ray of joy to light his gloom. Mr Bhaer was a proud and happy man when, at the appointed hour, he looked down upon the parterre of youthful faces before him, thinking of the 'little gardens' in which he had hopefully and faithfully sowed good seed years ago, and from which this beautiful harvest seemed to have sprung. Mr March's fine old face shone with the serenest satisfaction, for this was the dream of his life fulfilled after patient waiting; and the love and reverence in the countenances of the eager young men and women looking up at him plainly showed that the reward he coveted was his in fullest measure. Laurie always effaced himself on these occasions as much as courtesy would permit; for everyone spoke gratefully in ode, poem, and oration of the founder of the college and noble dispenser of his beneficence. The three sisters beamed with pride as they sat among the ladies, enjoying, as only women can, the honour done the men they loved; while 'the original Plums', as the younger ones called themselves, regarded the whole affair as their work, receiving the curious, admiring, or envious glances of strangers with a mixture of dignity and delight rather comical to behold. The music was excellent, and well it might be when Apollo waved the baton. The poems were--as usual on such occasions--of varied excellence, as the youthful speakers tried to put old truths into new words, and made them forceful by the enthusiasm of their earnest faces and fresh voices. It was beautiful to see the eager interest with which the girls listened to some brilliant brother-student, and applauded him with a rustle as of wind over a bed of flowers. It was still more significant and pleasant to watch the young men's faces when a slender white figure stood out against the background of black-coated dignitaries, and with cheeks that flushed and paled, and lips that trembled till earnest purpose conquered maiden fear, spoke to them straight out of a woman's heart and brain concerning the hopes and doubts, the aspirations and rewards all must know, desire, and labour for. This clear, sweet voice seemed to reach and rouse all that was noblest in the souls of these youths, and to set a seal upon the years of comradeship which made them sacred and memorable for ever. Alice Heath's oration was unanimously pronounced the success of the day; for without being flowery or sentimental, as is too apt to be the case with these first efforts of youthful orators, it was earnest, sensible, and so inspiring that she left the stage in a storm of applause, the good fellows being as much fired by her stirring appeal to 'march shoulder to shoulder', as if she had chanted the 'Marseillaise' then and there. One young man was so excited that he nearly rushed out of his seat to receive her as she hastened to hide herself among her mates, who welcomed her with faces full of tender pride and tearful eye. A prudent sister detained him, however, and in a moment he was able to listen with composure to the President's remarks. They were worth listening to, for Mr Bhaer spoke like a father to the children whom he was dismissing to the battle of life; and his tender, wise, and helpful words lingered in their hearts long after the praise was forgotten. Then came other exercises peculiar to Plumfield, and the end. Why the roof did not fly off when the sturdy lungs of the excited young men pealed out the closing hymn will for ever be a mystery; but it remained firm, and only the fading garlands vibrated as the waves of music rolled up and died away, leaving sweet echoes to haunt the place for another year. Dinners and spreads consumed the afternoon, and at sunset came a slight lull as everyone sought some brief repose before the festivities of the evening began. The President's reception was one of the enjoyable things in store, also dancing on Parnassus, and as much strolling, singing, and flirting, as could be compressed into a few hours by youths and maidens just out of school. Carriages were rolling about, and gay groups on piazzas, lawns, and window-seats idly speculated as to who the distinguished guests might be. The appearance of a very dusty vehicle loaded with trunks at Mr Bhaer's hospitably open door caused much curious comment among the loungers, especially as two rather foreign-looking gentlemen sprang out, followed by two young ladies, all four being greeted with cries of joy and much embracing by the Bhaers. Then they all disappeared into the house, the luggage followed, and the watchers were left to wonder who the mysterious strangers were, till a fair collegian declared that they must be the Professor's nephews, one of whom was expected on his wedding journey. She was right; Franz proudly presented his blonde and buxom bride, and she was hardly kissed and blessed when Emil led up his bonny English Mary, with the rapturous announcement: 'Uncle, Aunt Jo, here's another daughter! Have you room for my wife, too?' There could be no doubt of that; and Mary was with difficulty rescued from the glad embraces of her new relatives, who, remembering all the young pair had suffered together, felt that this was the natural and happy ending of the long voyage so perilously begun. 'But why not tell us, and let us be ready for two brides instead of one?' asked Mrs Jo, looking as usual rather demoralizing in a wrapper and crimping-pins, having rushed down from her chamber, where she was preparing for the labours of the evening. 'Well, I remembered what a good joke you all considered Uncle Laurie's marriage, and I thought I'd give you another nice little surprise,' laughed Emil. 'I'm off duty, and it seemed best to take advantage of wind and tide, and come along as convoy to the old boy here. We hoped to get in last night, but couldn't fetch it, so here we are in time for the end of the jollification, anyway.' 'Ah, my sons, it is too feeling-full to see you both so happy and again in the old home. I haf no words to outpour my gratitude, and can only ask of the dear Gott in Himmel to bless and keep you all,' cried Professor Bhaer, trying to gather all four into his arms at once, while tears rolled down his cheeks, and his English failed him. An April shower cleared the air and relieved the full hearts of the happy family; then of course everyone began to talk--Franz and Ludmilla in German with uncle, Emil and Mary with the aunts; and round this group gathered the young folk, clamouring to hear all about the wreck, and the rescue, and the homeward voyage. It was a very different story from the written one; and as they listened to Emil's graphic words, with Mary's soft voice breaking in now and then to add some fact that brought out the courage, patience, and self-sacrifice he so lightly touched upon, it became a solemn and pathetic thing to see and hear these happy creatures tell of that great danger and deliverance. 'I never hear the patter of rain now that I don't want to say my prayers; and as for women, I'd like to take my hat off to every one of 'em, for they are braver than any man I ever saw,' said Emil, with the new gravity that was as becoming to him as the new gentleness with which he treated everyone. 'If women are brave, some men are as tender and self-sacrificing as women. I know one who in the night slipped his share of food into a girl's pocket, though starving himself, and sat for hours rocking a sick man in his arms that he might get a little sleep. No, love, I will tell, and you must let me!' cried Mary, holding in both her own the hand he laid on her lips to silence her. 'Only did my duty. If that torment had lasted much longer I might have been as bad as poor Barry and the boatswain. Wasn't that an awful night?' And Emil shuddered as he recalled it. 'Don't think of it, dear. Tell about the happy days on the Urania, when papa grew better and we were all safe and homeward bound,' said Mary, with the trusting look and comforting touch which seemed to banish the dark and recall the bright side of that terrible experience. Emil cheered up at once, and sitting with his arm about his 'dear lass', in true sailor fashion told the happy ending of the tale. 'Such a jolly old time as we had at Hamburg! Uncle Hermann couldn't do enough for the captain, and while mamma took care of him, Mary looked after me. I had to go into dock for repairs; fire hurt my eyes, and watching for a sail and want of sleep made 'em as hazy as a London fog. She was pilot and brought me in all right, you see, only I couldn't part company, so she came aboard as first mate, and I'm bound straight for glory now.' 'Hush! that's silly, dear,' whispered Mary, trying in her turn to stop him, with English shyness about tender topics. But he took the soft hand in his, and proudly surveying the one ring it wore, went on with the air of an admiral aboard his flagship. 'The captain proposed waiting a spell; but I told him we weren't like to see any rougher weather than we'd pulled through together, and if we didn't know one another after such a year as this, we never should. I was sure I shouldn't be worth my pay without this hand on the wheel; so I had my way, and my brave little woman has shipped for the long voyage. God bless her!' 'Shall you really sail with him?' asked Daisy, admiring her courage, but shrinking with cat-like horror from the water. 'I'm not afraid,' answered Mary, with a loyal smile. 'I've proved my captain in fair weather and in foul, and if he is ever wrecked again, I'd rather be with him than waiting and watching ashore.' 'A true woman, and a born sailor's wife! You are a happy man, Emil, and I'm sure this trip will be a prosperous one,' cried Mrs Jo, delighted with the briny flavour of this courtship. 'Oh, my dear boy, I always felt you'd come back, and when everyone else despaired I never gave up, but insisted that you were clinging to the main-top jib somewhere on that dreadful sea'; and Mrs Jo illustrated her faith by grasping Emil with a truly Pillycoddian gesture. 'Of course I was!' answered Emil heartily; 'and my "main-top jib" in this case was the thought of what you and Uncle said to me. That kept me up; and among the million thoughts that came to me during those long nights none was clearer than the idea of the red strand, you remember--English navy, and all that. I liked the notion, and resolved that if a bit of my cable was left afloat, the red stripe should be there.' 'And it was, my dear, it was! Captain Hardy testifies to that, and here is your reward'; and Mrs Jo kissed Mary with a maternal tenderness which betrayed that she liked the English rose better than the blue-eyed German Kornblumen, sweet and modest though it was. Emil surveyed the little ceremony with complacency, saying, as he looked about the room which he never thought to see again: 'Odd, isn't it, how clearly trifles come back to one in times of danger? As we floated there, half-starved, and in despair, I used to think I heard the bells ringing here, and Ted tramping downstairs, and you calling, "Boys, boys, it's time to get up!" I actually smelt the coffee we used to have, and one night I nearly cried when I woke from a dream of Asia's ginger cookies. I declare, it was one of the bitterest disappointments of my life to face hunger with that spicy smell in my nostrils. If you've got any, do give me one!' A pitiful murmur broke from all the aunts and cousins, and Emil was at once borne away to feast on the desired cookies, a supply always being on hand. Mrs Jo and her sister joined the other group, glad to hear what Franz was saying about Nat. 'The minute I saw how thin and shabby he was, I knew that something was wrong; but he made light of it, and was so happy over our visit and news that I let him off with a brief confession, and went to Professor Baumgarten and Bergmann. From them I learned the whole story of his spending more money than he ought and trying to atone for it by unnecessary work and sacrifice. Baumgarten thought it would do him good, so kept his secret till I came. It did him good, and he's paid his debts and earned his bread by the sweat of his brow, like an honest fellow.' 'I like that much in Nat. It is, as I said, a lesson, and he learns it well. He proves himself a man, and has deserved the place Bergmann offers him,' said Mr Bhaer, looking well pleased as Franz added some facts already recorded. 'I told you, Meg, that he had good stuff in him, and love for Daisy would keep him straight. Dear lad, I wish I had him here this moment!' cried Mrs Jo, forgetting in delight the doubts and anxieties which had troubled her for months past. 'I am very glad, and suppose I shall give in as I always do, especially now that the epidemic rages so among us. You and Emil have set all their heads in a ferment, and Josie will be demanding a lover before I can turn round,' answered Mrs Meg, in a tone of despair. But her sister saw that she was touched by Nat's trials, and hastened to add the triumphs, that the victory might be complete, for success is always charming. 'This offer of Herr Bergmann is a good one, isn't it?' she asked, though Mr Laurie had already satisfied her on that point when Nat's letter brought the news. 'Very fine in every way. Nat will get capital drill in Bachmeister's orchestra, see London in a delightful way, and if he suits come home with them, well started among the violins. No great honour, but a sure thing and a step up. I congratulated him, and he was very jolly over it, saying, like the true lover he is: "Tell Daisy; be sure and tell her all about it." I'll leave that to you, Aunt Meg, and you can also break it gently to her that the old boy had a fine blond beard. Very becoming; hides his weak mouth, and gives a noble air to his big eyes and "Mendelssohnian brow", as a gushing girl called it. Ludmilla has a photo of it for you.' This amused them; and they listened to many other interesting bits of news which kind Franz, even in his own happiness, had not forgotten to remember for his friend's sake. He talked so well, and painted Nat's patient and pathetic shifts so vividly, that Mrs Meg was half won; though if she had learned of the Minna episode and the fiddling in beer-gardens and streets, she might not have relented so soon. She stored up all she heard, however, and, womanlike, promised herself a delicious talk with Daisy, in which she would allow herself to melt by degrees, and perhaps change the doubtful 'We shall see' to a cordial 'He has done well; be happy, dear'. In the midst of this agreeable chat the sudden striking of a clock recalled Mrs Jo from romance to reality, and she exclaimed, with a clutch at her crimping-pins: 'My blessed people, you must eat and rest; and I must dress, or receive in this disgraceful rig. Meg, will you take Ludmilla and Mary upstairs and see to them? Franz knows the way to the dining-room. Fritz, come with me and be made tidy, for what with heat and emotion, we are both perfect wrecks.' Chapter 19. WHITE ROSES While the travellers refreshed, and Mrs President struggled into her best gown, Josie ran into the garden to gather flowers for the brides. The sudden arrival of these interesting beings had quite enchanted the romantic girl, and her head was full of heroic rescues, tender admiration, dramatic situations, and feminine wonder as to whether the lovely creatures would wear their veils or not. She was standing before a great bush of white roses, culling the most perfect for the bouquets which she meant to tie with the ribbon festooned over her arm, and lay on the toilette tables of the new cousins, as a delicate attention. A step startled her, and looking up she saw her brother coming down the path with folded arms, bent head, and the absent air of one absorbed in deep thought. 'Sophy Wackles,' said the sharp child, with a superior smile, as she sucked

laurence

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

'Bless me! I always imagined lords and ladies did nothing but ride round in a coach and six, go to balls, and be presented to the Queen in cocked hats, and trains and feathers,' exclaimed an artless young person from the wilds of Maine, whither an illustrated paper occasionally wandered. 'Not at all; Lord Abercrombie is over here studying up our American prison system, and my lady is busy with the schools--both very high-born, but the simplest and most sensible people I've met this long time. They are neither of them young nor handsome, and dress plainly; so don't expect anything splendid. Mr Laurence was telling me last night about a friend of his who met my lord in the hall, and owing to a rough greatcoat and a red face, mistook him for a coachman, and said: "Now, my man, what do you want here?" Lord Abercrombie mildly mentioned who he was, and that he had come to dinner. And the poor host was much afflicted, saying afterward: "Why didn't he wear his stars and garters? then a fellow would know he was a lord."' The girls laughed again, and a general rustle betrayed that each was prinking a bit before the titled guest arrived. Even Mrs Jo settled her collar, and Mrs Meg felt if her cap was right, while Bess shook out her curls and Josie boldly consulted the glass; for they were women, in spite of philosophy and philanthropy. 'Shall we all rise?' asked one girl, deeply impressed by the impending honour. 'It would be courteous.' 'Shall we shake hands?' 'No, I'll present you en masse, and your pleasant faces will be introduction enough.' 'I wish I'd worn my best dress. Ought to have told us,' whispered Sally. 'Won't my folks be surprised when I tell them we have had a real lady to call on us?' said another. 'Don't look as if you'd never seen a gentlewoman before, Milly. We are not all fresh from the wilderness,' added the stately damsel who, having Mayflower ancestors, felt that she was the equal of all the crowned heads of Europe. 'Hush, she's coming! Oh, my heart, what a bonnet!' cried the gay girl in a stage whisper; and every eye was demurely fixed upon the busy hands as the door opened to admit Mrs Laurence and her guest. It was rather a shock to find, after the general introduction was over, that this daughter of a hundred earls was a stout lady in a plain gown, and a rather weather-beaten bonnet, with a bag of papers in one hand and a note-book in the other. But the face was full of benevolence, the sonorous voice very kind, the genial manners very winning, and about the whole person an indescribable air of high breeding which made beauty of no consequence, costume soon forgotten, and the moment memorable to the keen-eyed girls whom nothing escaped. A little chat about the rise, growth, and success of this particular class, and then Mrs Jo led the conversation to the English lady's work, anxious to show her pupils how rank dignifies labour, and charity blesses wealth. It was good for these girls to hear of the evening-schools supported and taught by women whom they knew and honoured; of Miss Cobbe's eloquent protest winning the protection of the law for abused wives; Mrs Butler saving the lost; Mrs Taylor, who devoted one room in her historic house to a library for the servants; Lord Shaftesbury, busy with his new tenement-houses in the slums of London; of prison reforms; and all the brave work being done in God's name by the rich and great for the humble and the poor. It impressed them more than many quiet home lectures would have done, and roused an ambition to help when their time should come, well knowing that even in glorious America there is still plenty to be done before she is what she should be--truly just, and free, and great. They were also quick to see that Lady Abercrombie treated all there as her equals, from stately Mrs Laurence, to little Josie, taking notes of everything and privately resolving to have some thick-soled English boots as soon as possible. No one would have guessed that she had a big house in London, a castle in Wales, and a grand country seat in Scotland, as she spoke of Parnassus with admiration, Plumfield as a 'dear old home', and the college as an honour to all concerned in it. At that, of course, every head went up a little, and when my lady left, every hand was ready for the hearty shake the noble Englishwoman gave them, with words they long remembered: 'I am very pleased to see this much-neglected branch of a woman's education so well conducted here, and I have to thank my friend Mrs Laurence for one of the most charming pictures I've seen in America--Penelope among her maids.' A group of smiling faces watched the stout boots trudge away, respectful glances followed the shabby bonnet till it was out of sight, and the girls felt a truer respect for their titled guest than if she had come in the coach and six, with all her diamonds on. 'I feel better about the "odd jobs" now. I only wish I could do them as well as Lady Abercrombie does,' said one. 'I thanked my stars my buttonholes were nice, for she looked at them and said: "Quite workmanlike, upon my word," added another, feeling that her gingham gown had come to honour. 'Her manners were as sweet and kind as Mrs Brooke's. Not a bit stiff or condescending, as I expected. I see now what you meant, Mrs Bhaer, when you said once that well-bred people were the same all the world over.' Mrs Meg bowed her thanks for the compliment, and Mrs Bhaer said: 'I know them when I see them, but never shall be a model of deportment myself. I'm glad you enjoyed the little visit. Now, if you young people don't want England to get ahead of us in many ways, you must bestir yourselves and keep abreast; for our sisters are in earnest, you see, and don't waste time worrying about their sphere, but make it wherever duty calls them.' 'We will do our best, ma'am,' answered the girls heartily, and trooped away with their work-baskets, feeling that though they might never be Harriet Martineaus, Elizabeth Brownings, or George Eliots, they might become noble, useful, and independent women, and earn for themselves some sweet title from the grateful lips of the poor, better than any a queen could bestow. Chapter 18. CLASS DAY The clerk of the weather evidently has a regard for young people, and sends sunshine for class days as often as he can. An especially lovely one shone over Plumfield as this interesting anniversary came round, bringing the usual accompaniments of roses, strawberries, white-gowned girls, beaming youths, proud friends, and stately dignitaries full of well-earned satisfaction with the yearly harvest. As Laurence College was a mixed one, the presence of young women as students gave to the occasion a grace and animation entirely wanting where the picturesque half of creation appear merely as spectators. The hands that turned the pages of wise books also possessed the skill to decorate the hall with flowers; eyes tired with study shone with hospitable warmth on the assembling guests; and under the white muslins beat hearts as full of ambition, hope, and courage as those agitating the broadcloth of the ruling sex. College Hill, Parnassus, and old Plum swarmed with cheery faces, as guests, students, and professors hurried to and fro in the pleasant excitement of arriving and receiving. Everyone was welcomed cordially, whether he rolled up in a fine carriage, or trudged afoot to see the good son or daughter come to honour on the happy day that rewarded many a mutual sacrifice. Mr Laurie and his wife were on the reception committee, and their lovely house was overflowing. Mrs Meg, with Daisy and Jo as aides, was in demand among the girls, helping on belated toilettes, giving an eye to spreads, and directing the decorations. Mrs Jo had her hands full as President's lady, and the mother of Ted; for it took all the power and skill of that energetic woman to get her son into his Sunday best. Not that he objected to be well arrayed; far from it; he adored good clothes, and owing to his great height already revelled in a dress-suit, bequeathed him by a dandy friend. The effect was very funny; but he would wear it in spite of the jeers of his mates, and sighed vainly for a beaver, because his stern parent drew the line there. He pleaded that English lads of ten wore them and were 'no end nobby'; but his mother only answered, with a consoling pat of the yellow mane: 'My child, you are absurd enough now; if I let you add a tall hat, Plumfield wouldn't hold either of us, such would be the scorn and derision of all beholders. Content yourself with looking like the ghost of a waiter, and don't ask for the most ridiculous head-gear in the known world.' Denied this noble badge of manhood, Ted soothed his wounded soul by appearing in collars of an amazing height and stiffness, and ties which were the wonder of all female eyes. This freak was a sort of vengeance on his hard-hearted mother; for the collars drove the laundress to despair, never being just right, and the ties required such art in the tying that three women sometimes laboured long before--like Beau Brummel--he turned from a heap of 'failures' with the welcome words: 'That will do.' Rob was devoted on these trying occasions, his own toilet being distinguished only by its speed, simplicity, and neatness. Ted was usually in a frenzy before he was suited, and roars, whistles, commands, and groans were heard from the den wherein the Lion raged and the Lamb patiently toiled. Mrs Jo bore it till boots were hurled and a rain of hair-brushes set in, then, fearing for the safety of her eldest, she would go to the rescue, and by a wise mixture of fun and authority finally succeed in persuading Ted that he was 'a thing of beauty', if not 'a joy for ever'. At last he would stalk majestically forth, imprisoned in collars compared to which those worn by Dickens's afflicted Biler were trifles not worth mentioning. The dresscoat was a little loose in the shoulders, but allowed a noble expanse of glossy bosom to be seen, and with a delicate handkerchief negligently drooping at the proper angle, had a truly fine effect. Boots that shone, and likewise pinched, appeared at one end of the 'long, black clothes-pin'--as Josie called him---and a youthful but solemn face at the other, carried at an angle which, if long continued, would have resulted in spinal curvature. Light gloves, a cane, and--oh, bitter drop in the cup of joy!--an ignominious straw hat, not to mention a choice floweret in the buttonhole, and a festoon of watchguard below, finished off this impressive boy. 'How's that for style?' he asked, appearing to his mother and cousins whom he was to escort to the hall on this particular occasion. A shout of laughter greeted him, followed by exclamations of horror; for he had artfully added the little blond moustache he often wore when acting. It was very becoming, and seemed the only balm to heal the wound made by the loss of the beloved hat. 'Take it off this moment, you audacious boy! What would your father say to such a prank on this day when we must all behave our best?' said Mrs Jo, trying to frown, but privately thinking that among the many youths about her none were so beautiful and original as her long son. 'Let him wear it, Aunty; it's so becoming. No one will ever guess he isn't eighteen at least,' cried Josie, to whom disguise of any sort was always charming. 'Father won't observe it; he'll be absorbed in his big-wigs and the girls. No matter if he does, he'll enjoy the joke and introduce me as his oldest son. Rob is nowhere when I'm in full fig'; and Ted took the stage with a tragic stalk, like Hamlet in a tail-coat and choker. 'My son, obey me!' and when Mrs Jo spoke in that tone her word was law. Later, however, the moustache appeared, and many strangers firmly believed that there were three young Bhaers. So Ted found one ray of joy to light his gloom. Mr Bhaer was a proud and happy man when, at the appointed hour, he looked down upon the parterre of youthful faces before him, thinking of the 'little gardens' in which he had hopefully and faithfully sowed good seed years ago, and from which this beautiful harvest seemed to have sprung. Mr March's fine old face shone with the serenest satisfaction, for this was the dream of his life fulfilled after patient waiting; and the love and reverence in the countenances of the eager young men and women looking up at him plainly showed that the reward he coveted was his in fullest measure. Laurie always effaced himself on these occasions as much as courtesy would permit; for everyone spoke gratefully in ode, poem, and oration of the founder of the college and noble dispenser of his beneficence. The three sisters beamed with pride as they sat among the ladies, enjoying, as only women can, the honour done the men they loved; while 'the original Plums', as the younger ones called themselves, regarded the whole affair as their work, receiving the curious, admiring, or envious glances of strangers with a mixture of dignity and delight rather comical to behold. The music was excellent, and well it might be when Apollo waved the baton. The poems were--as usual on such occasions--of varied excellence, as the youthful speakers tried to put old truths into new words, and made them forceful by the enthusiasm of their earnest faces and fresh voices. It was beautiful to see the eager interest with which the girls listened to some brilliant brother-student, and applauded him with a rustle as of wind over a bed of flowers. It was still more significant and pleasant to watch the young men's faces when a slender white figure stood out against the background of black-coated dignitaries, and with cheeks that flushed and paled, and lips that trembled till earnest purpose conquered maiden fear, spoke to them straight out of a woman's heart and brain concerning the hopes and doubts, the aspirations and rewards all must know, desire, and labour for. This clear, sweet voice seemed to reach and rouse all that was noblest in the souls of these youths, and to set a seal upon the years of comradeship which made them sacred and memorable for ever. Alice Heath's oration was unanimously pronounced the success of the day; for without being flowery or sentimental, as is too apt to be the case with these first efforts of youthful orators, it was earnest, sensible, and so inspiring that she left the stage in a storm of applause, the good fellows being as much fired by her stirring appeal to 'march shoulder to shoulder', as if she had chanted the 'Marseillaise' then and there. One young man was so excited that he nearly rushed out of his seat to receive her as she hastened to hide herself among her mates, who welcomed her with faces full of tender pride and tearful eye. A prudent sister detained him, however, and in a moment he was able to listen with composure to the President's remarks. They were worth listening to, for Mr Bhaer spoke like a father to the children whom he was dismissing to the battle of life; and his tender, wise, and helpful words lingered in their hearts long after the praise was forgotten. Then came other exercises peculiar to Plumfield, and the end. Why the roof did not fly off when the sturdy lungs of the excited young men pealed out the closing hymn will for ever be a mystery; but it remained firm, and only the fading garlands vibrated as the waves of music rolled up and died away, leaving sweet echoes to haunt the place for another year. Dinners and spreads consumed the afternoon, and at sunset came a slight lull as everyone sought some brief repose before the festivities of the evening began. The President's reception was one of the enjoyable things in store, also dancing on Parnassus, and as much strolling, singing, and flirting, as could be compressed into a few hours by youths and maidens just out of school. Carriages were rolling about, and gay groups on piazzas, lawns, and window-seats idly speculated as to who the distinguished guests might be. The appearance of a very dusty vehicle loaded with trunks at Mr Bhaer's hospitably open door caused much curious comment among the loungers, especially as two rather foreign-looking gentlemen sprang out, followed by two young ladies, all four being greeted with cries of joy and much embracing by the Bhaers. Then they all disappeared into the house, the luggage followed, and the watchers were left to wonder who the mysterious strangers were, till a fair collegian declared that they must be the Professor's nephews, one of whom was expected on his wedding journey. She was right; Franz proudly presented his blonde and buxom bride, and she was hardly kissed and blessed when Emil led up his bonny English Mary, with the rapturous announcement: 'Uncle, Aunt Jo, here's another daughter! Have you room for my wife, too?' There could be no doubt of that; and Mary was with difficulty rescued from the glad embraces of her new relatives, who, remembering all the young pair had suffered together, felt that this was the natural and happy ending of the long voyage so perilously begun. 'But why not tell us, and let us be ready for two brides instead of one?' asked Mrs Jo, looking as usual rather demoralizing in a wrapper and crimping-pins, having rushed down from her chamber, where she was preparing for the labours of the evening. 'Well, I remembered what a good joke you all considered Uncle Laurie's marriage, and I thought I'd give you another nice little surprise,' laughed Emil. 'I'm off duty, and it seemed best to take advantage of wind and tide, and come along as convoy to the old boy here. We hoped to get in last night, but couldn't fetch it, so here we are in time for the end of the jollification, anyway.' 'Ah, my sons, it is too feeling-full to see you both so happy and again in the old home. I haf no words to outpour my gratitude, and can only ask of the dear Gott in Himmel to bless and keep you all,' cried Professor Bhaer, trying to gather all four into his arms at once, while tears rolled down his cheeks, and his English failed him. An April shower cleared the air and relieved the full hearts of the happy family; then of course everyone began to talk--Franz and Ludmilla in German with uncle, Emil and Mary with the aunts; and round this group gathered the young folk, clamouring to hear all about the wreck, and the rescue, and the homeward voyage. It was a very different story from the written one; and as they listened to Emil's graphic words, with Mary's soft voice breaking in now and then to add some fact that brought out the courage, patience, and self-sacrifice he so lightly touched upon, it became a solemn and pathetic thing to see and hear these happy creatures tell of that great danger and deliverance. 'I never hear the patter of rain now that I don't want to say my prayers; and as for women, I'd like to take my hat off to every one of 'em, for they are braver than any man I ever saw,' said Emil, with the new gravity that was as becoming to him as the new gentleness with which he treated everyone. 'If women are brave, some men are as tender and self-sacrificing as women. I know one who in the night slipped his share of food into a girl's pocket, though starving himself, and sat for hours rocking a sick man in his arms that he might get a little sleep. No, love, I will tell, and you must let me!' cried Mary, holding in both her own the hand he laid on her lips to silence her. 'Only did my duty. If that torment had lasted much longer I might have been as bad as poor Barry and the boatswain. Wasn't that an awful night?' And Emil shuddered as he recalled it. 'Don't think of it, dear. Tell about the happy days on the Urania, when papa grew better and we were all safe and homeward bound,' said Mary, with the trusting look and comforting touch which seemed to banish the dark and recall the bright side of that terrible experience. Emil cheered up at once, and sitting with his arm about his 'dear lass', in true sailor fashion told the happy ending of the tale. 'Such a jolly old time as we had at Hamburg! Uncle Hermann couldn't do enough for the captain, and while mamma took care of him, Mary looked after me. I had to go into dock for repairs; fire hurt my eyes, and watching for a sail and want of sleep made 'em as hazy as a London fog. She was pilot and brought me in all right, you see, only I couldn't part company, so she came aboard as first mate, and I'm bound straight for glory now.' 'Hush! that's silly, dear,' whispered Mary, trying in her turn to stop him, with English shyness about tender topics. But he took the soft hand in his, and proudly surveying the one ring it wore, went on with the air of an admiral aboard his flagship. 'The captain proposed waiting a spell; but I told him we weren't like to see any rougher weather than we'd pulled through together, and if we didn't know one another after such a year as this, we never should. I was sure I shouldn't be worth my pay without this hand on the wheel; so I had my way, and my brave little woman has shipped for the long voyage. God bless her!' 'Shall you really sail with him?' asked Daisy, admiring her courage, but shrinking with cat-like horror from the water. 'I'm not afraid,' answered Mary, with a loyal smile. 'I've proved my captain in fair weather and in foul, and if he is ever wrecked again, I'd rather be with him than waiting and watching ashore.' 'A true woman, and a born sailor's wife! You are a happy man, Emil, and I'm sure this trip will be a prosperous one,' cried Mrs Jo, delighted with the briny flavour of this courtship. 'Oh, my dear boy, I always felt you'd come back, and when everyone else despaired I never gave up, but insisted that you were clinging to the main-top jib somewhere on that dreadful sea'; and Mrs Jo illustrated her faith by grasping Emil with a truly Pillycoddian gesture. 'Of course I was!' answered Emil heartily; 'and my "main-top jib" in this case was the thought of what you and Uncle said to me. That kept me up; and among the million thoughts that came to me during those long nights none was clearer than the idea of the red strand, you remember--English navy, and all that. I liked the notion, and resolved that if a bit of my cable was left afloat, the red stripe should be there.' 'And it was, my dear, it was! Captain Hardy testifies to that, and here is your reward'; and Mrs Jo kissed Mary with a maternal tenderness which betrayed that she liked the English rose better than the blue-eyed German Kornblumen, sweet and modest though it was. Emil surveyed the little ceremony with complacency, saying, as he looked about the room which he never thought to see again: 'Odd, isn't it, how clearly trifles come back to one in times of danger? As we floated there, half-starved, and in despair, I used to think I heard the bells ringing here, and Ted tramping downstairs, and you calling, "Boys, boys, it's time to get up!" I actually smelt the coffee we used to have, and one night I nearly cried when I woke from a dream of Asia's ginger cookies. I declare, it was one of the bitterest disappointments of my life to face hunger with that spicy smell in my nostrils. If you've got any, do give me one!' A pitiful murmur broke from all the aunts and cousins, and Emil was at once borne away to feast on the desired cookies, a supply always being on hand. Mrs Jo and her sister joined the other group, glad to hear what Franz was saying about Nat. 'The minute I saw how thin and shabby he was, I knew that something was wrong; but he made light of it, and was so happy over our visit and news that I let him off with a brief confession, and went to Professor Baumgarten and Bergmann. From them I learned the whole story of his spending more money than he ought and trying to atone for it by unnecessary work and sacrifice. Baumgarten thought it would do him good, so kept his secret till I came. It did him good, and he's paid his debts and earned his bread by the sweat of his brow, like an honest fellow.' 'I like that much in Nat. It is, as I said, a lesson, and he learns it well. He proves himself a man, and has deserved the place Bergmann offers him,' said Mr Bhaer, looking well pleased as Franz added some facts already recorded. 'I told you, Meg, that he had good stuff in him, and love for Daisy would keep him straight. Dear lad, I wish I had him here this moment!' cried Mrs Jo, forgetting in delight the doubts and anxieties which had troubled her for months past. 'I am very glad, and suppose I shall give in as I always do, especially now that the epidemic rages so among us. You and Emil have set all their heads in a ferment, and Josie will be demanding a lover before I can turn round,' answered Mrs Meg, in a tone of despair. But her sister saw that she was touched by Nat's trials, and hastened to add the triumphs, that the victory might be complete, for success is always charming. 'This offer of Herr Bergmann is a good one, isn't it?' she asked, though Mr Laurie had already satisfied her on that point when Nat's letter brought the news. 'Very fine in every way. Nat will get capital drill in Bachmeister's orchestra, see London in a delightful way, and if he suits come home with them, well started among the violins. No great honour, but a sure thing and a step up. I congratulated him, and he was very jolly over it, saying, like the true lover he is: "Tell Daisy; be sure and tell her all about it." I'll leave that to you, Aunt Meg, and you can also break it gently to her that the old boy had a fine blond beard. Very becoming; hides his weak mouth, and gives a noble air to his big eyes and "Mendelssohnian brow", as a gushing girl called it. Ludmilla has a photo of it for you.' This amused them; and they listened to many other interesting bits of news which kind Franz, even in his own happiness, had not forgotten to remember for his friend's sake. He talked so well, and painted Nat's patient and pathetic shifts so vividly, that Mrs Meg was half won; though if she had learned of the Minna episode and the fiddling in beer-gardens and streets, she might not have relented so soon. She stored up all she heard, however, and, womanlike, promised herself a delicious talk with Daisy, in which she would allow herself to melt by degrees, and perhaps change the doubtful 'We shall see' to a cordial 'He has done well; be happy, dear'. In the midst of this agreeable chat the sudden striking of a clock recalled Mrs Jo from romance to reality, and she exclaimed, with a clutch at her crimping-pins: 'My blessed people, you must eat and rest; and I must dress, or receive in this disgraceful rig. Meg, will you take Ludmilla and Mary upstairs and see to them? Franz knows the way to the dining-room. Fritz, come with me and be made tidy, for what with heat and emotion, we are both perfect wrecks.' Chapter 19. WHITE ROSES While the travellers refreshed, and Mrs President struggled into her best gown, Josie ran into the garden to gather flowers for the brides. The sudden arrival of these interesting beings had quite enchanted the romantic girl, and her head was full of heroic rescues, tender admiration, dramatic situations, and feminine wonder as to whether the lovely creatures would wear their veils or not. She was standing before a great bush of white roses, culling the most perfect for the bouquets which she meant to tie with the ribbon festooned over her arm, and lay on the toilette tables of the new cousins, as a delicate attention. A step startled her, and looking up she saw her brother coming down the path with folded arms, bent head, and the absent air of one absorbed in deep thought. 'Sophy Wackles,' said the sharp child, with a superior smile, as she sucked

exhausted

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

'Bless me! I always imagined lords and ladies did nothing but ride round in a coach and six, go to balls, and be presented to the Queen in cocked hats, and trains and feathers,' exclaimed an artless young person from the wilds of Maine, whither an illustrated paper occasionally wandered. 'Not at all; Lord Abercrombie is over here studying up our American prison system, and my lady is busy with the schools--both very high-born, but the simplest and most sensible people I've met this long time. They are neither of them young nor handsome, and dress plainly; so don't expect anything splendid. Mr Laurence was telling me last night about a friend of his who met my lord in the hall, and owing to a rough greatcoat and a red face, mistook him for a coachman, and said: "Now, my man, what do you want here?" Lord Abercrombie mildly mentioned who he was, and that he had come to dinner. And the poor host was much afflicted, saying afterward: "Why didn't he wear his stars and garters? then a fellow would know he was a lord."' The girls laughed again, and a general rustle betrayed that each was prinking a bit before the titled guest arrived. Even Mrs Jo settled her collar, and Mrs Meg felt if her cap was right, while Bess shook out her curls and Josie boldly consulted the glass; for they were women, in spite of philosophy and philanthropy. 'Shall we all rise?' asked one girl, deeply impressed by the impending honour. 'It would be courteous.' 'Shall we shake hands?' 'No, I'll present you en masse, and your pleasant faces will be introduction enough.' 'I wish I'd worn my best dress. Ought to have told us,' whispered Sally. 'Won't my folks be surprised when I tell them we have had a real lady to call on us?' said another. 'Don't look as if you'd never seen a gentlewoman before, Milly. We are not all fresh from the wilderness,' added the stately damsel who, having Mayflower ancestors, felt that she was the equal of all the crowned heads of Europe. 'Hush, she's coming! Oh, my heart, what a bonnet!' cried the gay girl in a stage whisper; and every eye was demurely fixed upon the busy hands as the door opened to admit Mrs Laurence and her guest. It was rather a shock to find, after the general introduction was over, that this daughter of a hundred earls was a stout lady in a plain gown, and a rather weather-beaten bonnet, with a bag of papers in one hand and a note-book in the other. But the face was full of benevolence, the sonorous voice very kind, the genial manners very winning, and about the whole person an indescribable air of high breeding which made beauty of no consequence, costume soon forgotten, and the moment memorable to the keen-eyed girls whom nothing escaped. A little chat about the rise, growth, and success of this particular class, and then Mrs Jo led the conversation to the English lady's work, anxious to show her pupils how rank dignifies labour, and charity blesses wealth. It was good for these girls to hear of the evening-schools supported and taught by women whom they knew and honoured; of Miss Cobbe's eloquent protest winning the protection of the law for abused wives; Mrs Butler saving the lost; Mrs Taylor, who devoted one room in her historic house to a library for the servants; Lord Shaftesbury, busy with his new tenement-houses in the slums of London; of prison reforms; and all the brave work being done in God's name by the rich and great for the humble and the poor. It impressed them more than many quiet home lectures would have done, and roused an ambition to help when their time should come, well knowing that even in glorious America there is still plenty to be done before she is what she should be--truly just, and free, and great. They were also quick to see that Lady Abercrombie treated all there as her equals, from stately Mrs Laurence, to little Josie, taking notes of everything and privately resolving to have some thick-soled English boots as soon as possible. No one would have guessed that she had a big house in London, a castle in Wales, and a grand country seat in Scotland, as she spoke of Parnassus with admiration, Plumfield as a 'dear old home', and the college as an honour to all concerned in it. At that, of course, every head went up a little, and when my lady left, every hand was ready for the hearty shake the noble Englishwoman gave them, with words they long remembered: 'I am very pleased to see this much-neglected branch of a woman's education so well conducted here, and I have to thank my friend Mrs Laurence for one of the most charming pictures I've seen in America--Penelope among her maids.' A group of smiling faces watched the stout boots trudge away, respectful glances followed the shabby bonnet till it was out of sight, and the girls felt a truer respect for their titled guest than if she had come in the coach and six, with all her diamonds on. 'I feel better about the "odd jobs" now. I only wish I could do them as well as Lady Abercrombie does,' said one. 'I thanked my stars my buttonholes were nice, for she looked at them and said: "Quite workmanlike, upon my word," added another, feeling that her gingham gown had come to honour. 'Her manners were as sweet and kind as Mrs Brooke's. Not a bit stiff or condescending, as I expected. I see now what you meant, Mrs Bhaer, when you said once that well-bred people were the same all the world over.' Mrs Meg bowed her thanks for the compliment, and Mrs Bhaer said: 'I know them when I see them, but never shall be a model of deportment myself. I'm glad you enjoyed the little visit. Now, if you young people don't want England to get ahead of us in many ways, you must bestir yourselves and keep abreast; for our sisters are in earnest, you see, and don't waste time worrying about their sphere, but make it wherever duty calls them.' 'We will do our best, ma'am,' answered the girls heartily, and trooped away with their work-baskets, feeling that though they might never be Harriet Martineaus, Elizabeth Brownings, or George Eliots, they might become noble, useful, and independent women, and earn for themselves some sweet title from the grateful lips of the poor, better than any a queen could bestow. Chapter 18. CLASS DAY The clerk of the weather evidently has a regard for young people, and sends sunshine for class days as often as he can. An especially lovely one shone over Plumfield as this interesting anniversary came round, bringing the usual accompaniments of roses, strawberries, white-gowned girls, beaming youths, proud friends, and stately dignitaries full of well-earned satisfaction with the yearly harvest. As Laurence College was a mixed one, the presence of young women as students gave to the occasion a grace and animation entirely wanting where the picturesque half of creation appear merely as spectators. The hands that turned the pages of wise books also possessed the skill to decorate the hall with flowers; eyes tired with study shone with hospitable warmth on the assembling guests; and under the white muslins beat hearts as full of ambition, hope, and courage as those agitating the broadcloth of the ruling sex. College Hill, Parnassus, and old Plum swarmed with cheery faces, as guests, students, and professors hurried to and fro in the pleasant excitement of arriving and receiving. Everyone was welcomed cordially, whether he rolled up in a fine carriage, or trudged afoot to see the good son or daughter come to honour on the happy day that rewarded many a mutual sacrifice. Mr Laurie and his wife were on the reception committee, and their lovely house was overflowing. Mrs Meg, with Daisy and Jo as aides, was in demand among the girls, helping on belated toilettes, giving an eye to spreads, and directing the decorations. Mrs Jo had her hands full as President's lady, and the mother of Ted; for it took all the power and skill of that energetic woman to get her son into his Sunday best. Not that he objected to be well arrayed; far from it; he adored good clothes, and owing to his great height already revelled in a dress-suit, bequeathed him by a dandy friend. The effect was very funny; but he would wear it in spite of the jeers of his mates, and sighed vainly for a beaver, because his stern parent drew the line there. He pleaded that English lads of ten wore them and were 'no end nobby'; but his mother only answered, with a consoling pat of the yellow mane: 'My child, you are absurd enough now; if I let you add a tall hat, Plumfield wouldn't hold either of us, such would be the scorn and derision of all beholders. Content yourself with looking like the ghost of a waiter, and don't ask for the most ridiculous head-gear in the known world.' Denied this noble badge of manhood, Ted soothed his wounded soul by appearing in collars of an amazing height and stiffness, and ties which were the wonder of all female eyes. This freak was a sort of vengeance on his hard-hearted mother; for the collars drove the laundress to despair, never being just right, and the ties required such art in the tying that three women sometimes laboured long before--like Beau Brummel--he turned from a heap of 'failures' with the welcome words: 'That will do.' Rob was devoted on these trying occasions, his own toilet being distinguished only by its speed, simplicity, and neatness. Ted was usually in a frenzy before he was suited, and roars, whistles, commands, and groans were heard from the den wherein the Lion raged and the Lamb patiently toiled. Mrs Jo bore it till boots were hurled and a rain of hair-brushes set in, then, fearing for the safety of her eldest, she would go to the rescue, and by a wise mixture of fun and authority finally succeed in persuading Ted that he was 'a thing of beauty', if not 'a joy for ever'. At last he would stalk majestically forth, imprisoned in collars compared to which those worn by Dickens's afflicted Biler were trifles not worth mentioning. The dresscoat was a little loose in the shoulders, but allowed a noble expanse of glossy bosom to be seen, and with a delicate handkerchief negligently drooping at the proper angle, had a truly fine effect. Boots that shone, and likewise pinched, appeared at one end of the 'long, black clothes-pin'--as Josie called him---and a youthful but solemn face at the other, carried at an angle which, if long continued, would have resulted in spinal curvature. Light gloves, a cane, and--oh, bitter drop in the cup of joy!--an ignominious straw hat, not to mention a choice floweret in the buttonhole, and a festoon of watchguard below, finished off this impressive boy. 'How's that for style?' he asked, appearing to his mother and cousins whom he was to escort to the hall on this particular occasion. A shout of laughter greeted him, followed by exclamations of horror; for he had artfully added the little blond moustache he often wore when acting. It was very becoming, and seemed the only balm to heal the wound made by the loss of the beloved hat. 'Take it off this moment, you audacious boy! What would your father say to such a prank on this day when we must all behave our best?' said Mrs Jo, trying to frown, but privately thinking that among the many youths about her none were so beautiful and original as her long son. 'Let him wear it, Aunty; it's so becoming. No one will ever guess he isn't eighteen at least,' cried Josie, to whom disguise of any sort was always charming. 'Father won't observe it; he'll be absorbed in his big-wigs and the girls. No matter if he does, he'll enjoy the joke and introduce me as his oldest son. Rob is nowhere when I'm in full fig'; and Ted took the stage with a tragic stalk, like Hamlet in a tail-coat and choker. 'My son, obey me!' and when Mrs Jo spoke in that tone her word was law. Later, however, the moustache appeared, and many strangers firmly believed that there were three young Bhaers. So Ted found one ray of joy to light his gloom. Mr Bhaer was a proud and happy man when, at the appointed hour, he looked down upon the parterre of youthful faces before him, thinking of the 'little gardens' in which he had hopefully and faithfully sowed good seed years ago, and from which this beautiful harvest seemed to have sprung. Mr March's fine old face shone with the serenest satisfaction, for this was the dream of his life fulfilled after patient waiting; and the love and reverence in the countenances of the eager young men and women looking up at him plainly showed that the reward he coveted was his in fullest measure. Laurie always effaced himself on these occasions as much as courtesy would permit; for everyone spoke gratefully in ode, poem, and oration of the founder of the college and noble dispenser of his beneficence. The three sisters beamed with pride as they sat among the ladies, enjoying, as only women can, the honour done the men they loved; while 'the original Plums', as the younger ones called themselves, regarded the whole affair as their work, receiving the curious, admiring, or envious glances of strangers with a mixture of dignity and delight rather comical to behold. The music was excellent, and well it might be when Apollo waved the baton. The poems were--as usual on such occasions--of varied excellence, as the youthful speakers tried to put old truths into new words, and made them forceful by the enthusiasm of their earnest faces and fresh voices. It was beautiful to see the eager interest with which the girls listened to some brilliant brother-student, and applauded him with a rustle as of wind over a bed of flowers. It was still more significant and pleasant to watch the young men's faces when a slender white figure stood out against the background of black-coated dignitaries, and with cheeks that flushed and paled, and lips that trembled till earnest purpose conquered maiden fear, spoke to them straight out of a woman's heart and brain concerning the hopes and doubts, the aspirations and rewards all must know, desire, and labour for. This clear, sweet voice seemed to reach and rouse all that was noblest in the souls of these youths, and to set a seal upon the years of comradeship which made them sacred and memorable for ever. Alice Heath's oration was unanimously pronounced the success of the day; for without being flowery or sentimental, as is too apt to be the case with these first efforts of youthful orators, it was earnest, sensible, and so inspiring that she left the stage in a storm of applause, the good fellows being as much fired by her stirring appeal to 'march shoulder to shoulder', as if she had chanted the 'Marseillaise' then and there. One young man was so excited that he nearly rushed out of his seat to receive her as she hastened to hide herself among her mates, who welcomed her with faces full of tender pride and tearful eye. A prudent sister detained him, however, and in a moment he was able to listen with composure to the President's remarks. They were worth listening to, for Mr Bhaer spoke like a father to the children whom he was dismissing to the battle of life; and his tender, wise, and helpful words lingered in their hearts long after the praise was forgotten. Then came other exercises peculiar to Plumfield, and the end. Why the roof did not fly off when the sturdy lungs of the excited young men pealed out the closing hymn will for ever be a mystery; but it remained firm, and only the fading garlands vibrated as the waves of music rolled up and died away, leaving sweet echoes to haunt the place for another year. Dinners and spreads consumed the afternoon, and at sunset came a slight lull as everyone sought some brief repose before the festivities of the evening began. The President's reception was one of the enjoyable things in store, also dancing on Parnassus, and as much strolling, singing, and flirting, as could be compressed into a few hours by youths and maidens just out of school. Carriages were rolling about, and gay groups on piazzas, lawns, and window-seats idly speculated as to who the distinguished guests might be. The appearance of a very dusty vehicle loaded with trunks at Mr Bhaer's hospitably open door caused much curious comment among the loungers, especially as two rather foreign-looking gentlemen sprang out, followed by two young ladies, all four being greeted with cries of joy and much embracing by the Bhaers. Then they all disappeared into the house, the luggage followed, and the watchers were left to wonder who the mysterious strangers were, till a fair collegian declared that they must be the Professor's nephews, one of whom was expected on his wedding journey. She was right; Franz proudly presented his blonde and buxom bride, and she was hardly kissed and blessed when Emil led up his bonny English Mary, with the rapturous announcement: 'Uncle, Aunt Jo, here's another daughter! Have you room for my wife, too?' There could be no doubt of that; and Mary was with difficulty rescued from the glad embraces of her new relatives, who, remembering all the young pair had suffered together, felt that this was the natural and happy ending of the long voyage so perilously begun. 'But why not tell us, and let us be ready for two brides instead of one?' asked Mrs Jo, looking as usual rather demoralizing in a wrapper and crimping-pins, having rushed down from her chamber, where she was preparing for the labours of the evening. 'Well, I remembered what a good joke you all considered Uncle Laurie's marriage, and I thought I'd give you another nice little surprise,' laughed Emil. 'I'm off duty, and it seemed best to take advantage of wind and tide, and come along as convoy to the old boy here. We hoped to get in last night, but couldn't fetch it, so here we are in time for the end of the jollification, anyway.' 'Ah, my sons, it is too feeling-full to see you both so happy and again in the old home. I haf no words to outpour my gratitude, and can only ask of the dear Gott in Himmel to bless and keep you all,' cried Professor Bhaer, trying to gather all four into his arms at once, while tears rolled down his cheeks, and his English failed him. An April shower cleared the air and relieved the full hearts of the happy family; then of course everyone began to talk--Franz and Ludmilla in German with uncle, Emil and Mary with the aunts; and round this group gathered the young folk, clamouring to hear all about the wreck, and the rescue, and the homeward voyage. It was a very different story from the written one; and as they listened to Emil's graphic words, with Mary's soft voice breaking in now and then to add some fact that brought out the courage, patience, and self-sacrifice he so lightly touched upon, it became a solemn and pathetic thing to see and hear these happy creatures tell of that great danger and deliverance. 'I never hear the patter of rain now that I don't want to say my prayers; and as for women, I'd like to take my hat off to every one of 'em, for they are braver than any man I ever saw,' said Emil, with the new gravity that was as becoming to him as the new gentleness with which he treated everyone. 'If women are brave, some men are as tender and self-sacrificing as women. I know one who in the night slipped his share of food into a girl's pocket, though starving himself, and sat for hours rocking a sick man in his arms that he might get a little sleep. No, love, I will tell, and you must let me!' cried Mary, holding in both her own the hand he laid on her lips to silence her. 'Only did my duty. If that torment had lasted much longer I might have been as bad as poor Barry and the boatswain. Wasn't that an awful night?' And Emil shuddered as he recalled it. 'Don't think of it, dear. Tell about the happy days on the Urania, when papa grew better and we were all safe and homeward bound,' said Mary, with the trusting look and comforting touch which seemed to banish the dark and recall the bright side of that terrible experience. Emil cheered up at once, and sitting with his arm about his 'dear lass', in true sailor fashion told the happy ending of the tale. 'Such a jolly old time as we had at Hamburg! Uncle Hermann couldn't do enough for the captain, and while mamma took care of him, Mary looked after me. I had to go into dock for repairs; fire hurt my eyes, and watching for a sail and want of sleep made 'em as hazy as a London fog. She was pilot and brought me in all right, you see, only I couldn't part company, so she came aboard as first mate, and I'm bound straight for glory now.' 'Hush! that's silly, dear,' whispered Mary, trying in her turn to stop him, with English shyness about tender topics. But he took the soft hand in his, and proudly surveying the one ring it wore, went on with the air of an admiral aboard his flagship. 'The captain proposed waiting a spell; but I told him we weren't like to see any rougher weather than we'd pulled through together, and if we didn't know one another after such a year as this, we never should. I was sure I shouldn't be worth my pay without this hand on the wheel; so I had my way, and my brave little woman has shipped for the long voyage. God bless her!' 'Shall you really sail with him?' asked Daisy, admiring her courage, but shrinking with cat-like horror from the water. 'I'm not afraid,' answered Mary, with a loyal smile. 'I've proved my captain in fair weather and in foul, and if he is ever wrecked again, I'd rather be with him than waiting and watching ashore.' 'A true woman, and a born sailor's wife! You are a happy man, Emil, and I'm sure this trip will be a prosperous one,' cried Mrs Jo, delighted with the briny flavour of this courtship. 'Oh, my dear boy, I always felt you'd come back, and when everyone else despaired I never gave up, but insisted that you were clinging to the main-top jib somewhere on that dreadful sea'; and Mrs Jo illustrated her faith by grasping Emil with a truly Pillycoddian gesture. 'Of course I was!' answered Emil heartily; 'and my "main-top jib" in this case was the thought of what you and Uncle said to me. That kept me up; and among the million thoughts that came to me during those long nights none was clearer than the idea of the red strand, you remember--English navy, and all that. I liked the notion, and resolved that if a bit of my cable was left afloat, the red stripe should be there.' 'And it was, my dear, it was! Captain Hardy testifies to that, and here is your reward'; and Mrs Jo kissed Mary with a maternal tenderness which betrayed that she liked the English rose better than the blue-eyed German Kornblumen, sweet and modest though it was. Emil surveyed the little ceremony with complacency, saying, as he looked about the room which he never thought to see again: 'Odd, isn't it, how clearly trifles come back to one in times of danger? As we floated there, half-starved, and in despair, I used to think I heard the bells ringing here, and Ted tramping downstairs, and you calling, "Boys, boys, it's time to get up!" I actually smelt the coffee we used to have, and one night I nearly cried when I woke from a dream of Asia's ginger cookies. I declare, it was one of the bitterest disappointments of my life to face hunger with that spicy smell in my nostrils. If you've got any, do give me one!' A pitiful murmur broke from all the aunts and cousins, and Emil was at once borne away to feast on the desired cookies, a supply always being on hand. Mrs Jo and her sister joined the other group, glad to hear what Franz was saying about Nat. 'The minute I saw how thin and shabby he was, I knew that something was wrong; but he made light of it, and was so happy over our visit and news that I let him off with a brief confession, and went to Professor Baumgarten and Bergmann. From them I learned the whole story of his spending more money than he ought and trying to atone for it by unnecessary work and sacrifice. Baumgarten thought it would do him good, so kept his secret till I came. It did him good, and he's paid his debts and earned his bread by the sweat of his brow, like an honest fellow.' 'I like that much in Nat. It is, as I said, a lesson, and he learns it well. He proves himself a man, and has deserved the place Bergmann offers him,' said Mr Bhaer, looking well pleased as Franz added some facts already recorded. 'I told you, Meg, that he had good stuff in him, and love for Daisy would keep him straight. Dear lad, I wish I had him here this moment!' cried Mrs Jo, forgetting in delight the doubts and anxieties which had troubled her for months past. 'I am very glad, and suppose I shall give in as I always do, especially now that the epidemic rages so among us. You and Emil have set all their heads in a ferment, and Josie will be demanding a lover before I can turn round,' answered Mrs Meg, in a tone of despair. But her sister saw that she was touched by Nat's trials, and hastened to add the triumphs, that the victory might be complete, for success is always charming. 'This offer of Herr Bergmann is a good one, isn't it?' she asked, though Mr Laurie had already satisfied her on that point when Nat's letter brought the news. 'Very fine in every way. Nat will get capital drill in Bachmeister's orchestra, see London in a delightful way, and if he suits come home with them, well started among the violins. No great honour, but a sure thing and a step up. I congratulated him, and he was very jolly over it, saying, like the true lover he is: "Tell Daisy; be sure and tell her all about it." I'll leave that to you, Aunt Meg, and you can also break it gently to her that the old boy had a fine blond beard. Very becoming; hides his weak mouth, and gives a noble air to his big eyes and "Mendelssohnian brow", as a gushing girl called it. Ludmilla has a photo of it for you.' This amused them; and they listened to many other interesting bits of news which kind Franz, even in his own happiness, had not forgotten to remember for his friend's sake. He talked so well, and painted Nat's patient and pathetic shifts so vividly, that Mrs Meg was half won; though if she had learned of the Minna episode and the fiddling in beer-gardens and streets, she might not have relented so soon. She stored up all she heard, however, and, womanlike, promised herself a delicious talk with Daisy, in which she would allow herself to melt by degrees, and perhaps change the doubtful 'We shall see' to a cordial 'He has done well; be happy, dear'. In the midst of this agreeable chat the sudden striking of a clock recalled Mrs Jo from romance to reality, and she exclaimed, with a clutch at her crimping-pins: 'My blessed people, you must eat and rest; and I must dress, or receive in this disgraceful rig. Meg, will you take Ludmilla and Mary upstairs and see to them? Franz knows the way to the dining-room. Fritz, come with me and be made tidy, for what with heat and emotion, we are both perfect wrecks.' Chapter 19. WHITE ROSES While the travellers refreshed, and Mrs President struggled into her best gown, Josie ran into the garden to gather flowers for the brides. The sudden arrival of these interesting beings had quite enchanted the romantic girl, and her head was full of heroic rescues, tender admiration, dramatic situations, and feminine wonder as to whether the lovely creatures would wear their veils or not. She was standing before a great bush of white roses, culling the most perfect for the bouquets which she meant to tie with the ribbon festooned over her arm, and lay on the toilette tables of the new cousins, as a delicate attention. A step startled her, and looking up she saw her brother coming down the path with folded arms, bent head, and the absent air of one absorbed in deep thought. 'Sophy Wackles,' said the sharp child, with a superior smile, as she sucked

endeavoured

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

'Bless me! I always imagined lords and ladies did nothing but ride round in a coach and six, go to balls, and be presented to the Queen in cocked hats, and trains and feathers,' exclaimed an artless young person from the wilds of Maine, whither an illustrated paper occasionally wandered. 'Not at all; Lord Abercrombie is over here studying up our American prison system, and my lady is busy with the schools--both very high-born, but the simplest and most sensible people I've met this long time. They are neither of them young nor handsome, and dress plainly; so don't expect anything splendid. Mr Laurence was telling me last night about a friend of his who met my lord in the hall, and owing to a rough greatcoat and a red face, mistook him for a coachman, and said: "Now, my man, what do you want here?" Lord Abercrombie mildly mentioned who he was, and that he had come to dinner. And the poor host was much afflicted, saying afterward: "Why didn't he wear his stars and garters? then a fellow would know he was a lord."' The girls laughed again, and a general rustle betrayed that each was prinking a bit before the titled guest arrived. Even Mrs Jo settled her collar, and Mrs Meg felt if her cap was right, while Bess shook out her curls and Josie boldly consulted the glass; for they were women, in spite of philosophy and philanthropy. 'Shall we all rise?' asked one girl, deeply impressed by the impending honour. 'It would be courteous.' 'Shall we shake hands?' 'No, I'll present you en masse, and your pleasant faces will be introduction enough.' 'I wish I'd worn my best dress. Ought to have told us,' whispered Sally. 'Won't my folks be surprised when I tell them we have had a real lady to call on us?' said another. 'Don't look as if you'd never seen a gentlewoman before, Milly. We are not all fresh from the wilderness,' added the stately damsel who, having Mayflower ancestors, felt that she was the equal of all the crowned heads of Europe. 'Hush, she's coming! Oh, my heart, what a bonnet!' cried the gay girl in a stage whisper; and every eye was demurely fixed upon the busy hands as the door opened to admit Mrs Laurence and her guest. It was rather a shock to find, after the general introduction was over, that this daughter of a hundred earls was a stout lady in a plain gown, and a rather weather-beaten bonnet, with a bag of papers in one hand and a note-book in the other. But the face was full of benevolence, the sonorous voice very kind, the genial manners very winning, and about the whole person an indescribable air of high breeding which made beauty of no consequence, costume soon forgotten, and the moment memorable to the keen-eyed girls whom nothing escaped. A little chat about the rise, growth, and success of this particular class, and then Mrs Jo led the conversation to the English lady's work, anxious to show her pupils how rank dignifies labour, and charity blesses wealth. It was good for these girls to hear of the evening-schools supported and taught by women whom they knew and honoured; of Miss Cobbe's eloquent protest winning the protection of the law for abused wives; Mrs Butler saving the lost; Mrs Taylor, who devoted one room in her historic house to a library for the servants; Lord Shaftesbury, busy with his new tenement-houses in the slums of London; of prison reforms; and all the brave work being done in God's name by the rich and great for the humble and the poor. It impressed them more than many quiet home lectures would have done, and roused an ambition to help when their time should come, well knowing that even in glorious America there is still plenty to be done before she is what she should be--truly just, and free, and great. They were also quick to see that Lady Abercrombie treated all there as her equals, from stately Mrs Laurence, to little Josie, taking notes of everything and privately resolving to have some thick-soled English boots as soon as possible. No one would have guessed that she had a big house in London, a castle in Wales, and a grand country seat in Scotland, as she spoke of Parnassus with admiration, Plumfield as a 'dear old home', and the college as an honour to all concerned in it. At that, of course, every head went up a little, and when my lady left, every hand was ready for the hearty shake the noble Englishwoman gave them, with words they long remembered: 'I am very pleased to see this much-neglected branch of a woman's education so well conducted here, and I have to thank my friend Mrs Laurence for one of the most charming pictures I've seen in America--Penelope among her maids.' A group of smiling faces watched the stout boots trudge away, respectful glances followed the shabby bonnet till it was out of sight, and the girls felt a truer respect for their titled guest than if she had come in the coach and six, with all her diamonds on. 'I feel better about the "odd jobs" now. I only wish I could do them as well as Lady Abercrombie does,' said one. 'I thanked my stars my buttonholes were nice, for she looked at them and said: "Quite workmanlike, upon my word," added another, feeling that her gingham gown had come to honour. 'Her manners were as sweet and kind as Mrs Brooke's. Not a bit stiff or condescending, as I expected. I see now what you meant, Mrs Bhaer, when you said once that well-bred people were the same all the world over.' Mrs Meg bowed her thanks for the compliment, and Mrs Bhaer said: 'I know them when I see them, but never shall be a model of deportment myself. I'm glad you enjoyed the little visit. Now, if you young people don't want England to get ahead of us in many ways, you must bestir yourselves and keep abreast; for our sisters are in earnest, you see, and don't waste time worrying about their sphere, but make it wherever duty calls them.' 'We will do our best, ma'am,' answered the girls heartily, and trooped away with their work-baskets, feeling that though they might never be Harriet Martineaus, Elizabeth Brownings, or George Eliots, they might become noble, useful, and independent women, and earn for themselves some sweet title from the grateful lips of the poor, better than any a queen could bestow. Chapter 18. CLASS DAY The clerk of the weather evidently has a regard for young people, and sends sunshine for class days as often as he can. An especially lovely one shone over Plumfield as this interesting anniversary came round, bringing the usual accompaniments of roses, strawberries, white-gowned girls, beaming youths, proud friends, and stately dignitaries full of well-earned satisfaction with the yearly harvest. As Laurence College was a mixed one, the presence of young women as students gave to the occasion a grace and animation entirely wanting where the picturesque half of creation appear merely as spectators. The hands that turned the pages of wise books also possessed the skill to decorate the hall with flowers; eyes tired with study shone with hospitable warmth on the assembling guests; and under the white muslins beat hearts as full of ambition, hope, and courage as those agitating the broadcloth of the ruling sex. College Hill, Parnassus, and old Plum swarmed with cheery faces, as guests, students, and professors hurried to and fro in the pleasant excitement of arriving and receiving. Everyone was welcomed cordially, whether he rolled up in a fine carriage, or trudged afoot to see the good son or daughter come to honour on the happy day that rewarded many a mutual sacrifice. Mr Laurie and his wife were on the reception committee, and their lovely house was overflowing. Mrs Meg, with Daisy and Jo as aides, was in demand among the girls, helping on belated toilettes, giving an eye to spreads, and directing the decorations. Mrs Jo had her hands full as President's lady, and the mother of Ted; for it took all the power and skill of that energetic woman to get her son into his Sunday best. Not that he objected to be well arrayed; far from it; he adored good clothes, and owing to his great height already revelled in a dress-suit, bequeathed him by a dandy friend. The effect was very funny; but he would wear it in spite of the jeers of his mates, and sighed vainly for a beaver, because his stern parent drew the line there. He pleaded that English lads of ten wore them and were 'no end nobby'; but his mother only answered, with a consoling pat of the yellow mane: 'My child, you are absurd enough now; if I let you add a tall hat, Plumfield wouldn't hold either of us, such would be the scorn and derision of all beholders. Content yourself with looking like the ghost of a waiter, and don't ask for the most ridiculous head-gear in the known world.' Denied this noble badge of manhood, Ted soothed his wounded soul by appearing in collars of an amazing height and stiffness, and ties which were the wonder of all female eyes. This freak was a sort of vengeance on his hard-hearted mother; for the collars drove the laundress to despair, never being just right, and the ties required such art in the tying that three women sometimes laboured long before--like Beau Brummel--he turned from a heap of 'failures' with the welcome words: 'That will do.' Rob was devoted on these trying occasions, his own toilet being distinguished only by its speed, simplicity, and neatness. Ted was usually in a frenzy before he was suited, and roars, whistles, commands, and groans were heard from the den wherein the Lion raged and the Lamb patiently toiled. Mrs Jo bore it till boots were hurled and a rain of hair-brushes set in, then, fearing for the safety of her eldest, she would go to the rescue, and by a wise mixture of fun and authority finally succeed in persuading Ted that he was 'a thing of beauty', if not 'a joy for ever'. At last he would stalk majestically forth, imprisoned in collars compared to which those worn by Dickens's afflicted Biler were trifles not worth mentioning. The dresscoat was a little loose in the shoulders, but allowed a noble expanse of glossy bosom to be seen, and with a delicate handkerchief negligently drooping at the proper angle, had a truly fine effect. Boots that shone, and likewise pinched, appeared at one end of the 'long, black clothes-pin'--as Josie called him---and a youthful but solemn face at the other, carried at an angle which, if long continued, would have resulted in spinal curvature. Light gloves, a cane, and--oh, bitter drop in the cup of joy!--an ignominious straw hat, not to mention a choice floweret in the buttonhole, and a festoon of watchguard below, finished off this impressive boy. 'How's that for style?' he asked, appearing to his mother and cousins whom he was to escort to the hall on this particular occasion. A shout of laughter greeted him, followed by exclamations of horror; for he had artfully added the little blond moustache he often wore when acting. It was very becoming, and seemed the only balm to heal the wound made by the loss of the beloved hat. 'Take it off this moment, you audacious boy! What would your father say to such a prank on this day when we must all behave our best?' said Mrs Jo, trying to frown, but privately thinking that among the many youths about her none were so beautiful and original as her long son. 'Let him wear it, Aunty; it's so becoming. No one will ever guess he isn't eighteen at least,' cried Josie, to whom disguise of any sort was always charming. 'Father won't observe it; he'll be absorbed in his big-wigs and the girls. No matter if he does, he'll enjoy the joke and introduce me as his oldest son. Rob is nowhere when I'm in full fig'; and Ted took the stage with a tragic stalk, like Hamlet in a tail-coat and choker. 'My son, obey me!' and when Mrs Jo spoke in that tone her word was law. Later, however, the moustache appeared, and many strangers firmly believed that there were three young Bhaers. So Ted found one ray of joy to light his gloom. Mr Bhaer was a proud and happy man when, at the appointed hour, he looked down upon the parterre of youthful faces before him, thinking of the 'little gardens' in which he had hopefully and faithfully sowed good seed years ago, and from which this beautiful harvest seemed to have sprung. Mr March's fine old face shone with the serenest satisfaction, for this was the dream of his life fulfilled after patient waiting; and the love and reverence in the countenances of the eager young men and women looking up at him plainly showed that the reward he coveted was his in fullest measure. Laurie always effaced himself on these occasions as much as courtesy would permit; for everyone spoke gratefully in ode, poem, and oration of the founder of the college and noble dispenser of his beneficence. The three sisters beamed with pride as they sat among the ladies, enjoying, as only women can, the honour done the men they loved; while 'the original Plums', as the younger ones called themselves, regarded the whole affair as their work, receiving the curious, admiring, or envious glances of strangers with a mixture of dignity and delight rather comical to behold. The music was excellent, and well it might be when Apollo waved the baton. The poems were--as usual on such occasions--of varied excellence, as the youthful speakers tried to put old truths into new words, and made them forceful by the enthusiasm of their earnest faces and fresh voices. It was beautiful to see the eager interest with which the girls listened to some brilliant brother-student, and applauded him with a rustle as of wind over a bed of flowers. It was still more significant and pleasant to watch the young men's faces when a slender white figure stood out against the background of black-coated dignitaries, and with cheeks that flushed and paled, and lips that trembled till earnest purpose conquered maiden fear, spoke to them straight out of a woman's heart and brain concerning the hopes and doubts, the aspirations and rewards all must know, desire, and labour for. This clear, sweet voice seemed to reach and rouse all that was noblest in the souls of these youths, and to set a seal upon the years of comradeship which made them sacred and memorable for ever. Alice Heath's oration was unanimously pronounced the success of the day; for without being flowery or sentimental, as is too apt to be the case with these first efforts of youthful orators, it was earnest, sensible, and so inspiring that she left the stage in a storm of applause, the good fellows being as much fired by her stirring appeal to 'march shoulder to shoulder', as if she had chanted the 'Marseillaise' then and there. One young man was so excited that he nearly rushed out of his seat to receive her as she hastened to hide herself among her mates, who welcomed her with faces full of tender pride and tearful eye. A prudent sister detained him, however, and in a moment he was able to listen with composure to the President's remarks. They were worth listening to, for Mr Bhaer spoke like a father to the children whom he was dismissing to the battle of life; and his tender, wise, and helpful words lingered in their hearts long after the praise was forgotten. Then came other exercises peculiar to Plumfield, and the end. Why the roof did not fly off when the sturdy lungs of the excited young men pealed out the closing hymn will for ever be a mystery; but it remained firm, and only the fading garlands vibrated as the waves of music rolled up and died away, leaving sweet echoes to haunt the place for another year. Dinners and spreads consumed the afternoon, and at sunset came a slight lull as everyone sought some brief repose before the festivities of the evening began. The President's reception was one of the enjoyable things in store, also dancing on Parnassus, and as much strolling, singing, and flirting, as could be compressed into a few hours by youths and maidens just out of school. Carriages were rolling about, and gay groups on piazzas, lawns, and window-seats idly speculated as to who the distinguished guests might be. The appearance of a very dusty vehicle loaded with trunks at Mr Bhaer's hospitably open door caused much curious comment among the loungers, especially as two rather foreign-looking gentlemen sprang out, followed by two young ladies, all four being greeted with cries of joy and much embracing by the Bhaers. Then they all disappeared into the house, the luggage followed, and the watchers were left to wonder who the mysterious strangers were, till a fair collegian declared that they must be the Professor's nephews, one of whom was expected on his wedding journey. She was right; Franz proudly presented his blonde and buxom bride, and she was hardly kissed and blessed when Emil led up his bonny English Mary, with the rapturous announcement: 'Uncle, Aunt Jo, here's another daughter! Have you room for my wife, too?' There could be no doubt of that; and Mary was with difficulty rescued from the glad embraces of her new relatives, who, remembering all the young pair had suffered together, felt that this was the natural and happy ending of the long voyage so perilously begun. 'But why not tell us, and let us be ready for two brides instead of one?' asked Mrs Jo, looking as usual rather demoralizing in a wrapper and crimping-pins, having rushed down from her chamber, where she was preparing for the labours of the evening. 'Well, I remembered what a good joke you all considered Uncle Laurie's marriage, and I thought I'd give you another nice little surprise,' laughed Emil. 'I'm off duty, and it seemed best to take advantage of wind and tide, and come along as convoy to the old boy here. We hoped to get in last night, but couldn't fetch it, so here we are in time for the end of the jollification, anyway.' 'Ah, my sons, it is too feeling-full to see you both so happy and again in the old home. I haf no words to outpour my gratitude, and can only ask of the dear Gott in Himmel to bless and keep you all,' cried Professor Bhaer, trying to gather all four into his arms at once, while tears rolled down his cheeks, and his English failed him. An April shower cleared the air and relieved the full hearts of the happy family; then of course everyone began to talk--Franz and Ludmilla in German with uncle, Emil and Mary with the aunts; and round this group gathered the young folk, clamouring to hear all about the wreck, and the rescue, and the homeward voyage. It was a very different story from the written one; and as they listened to Emil's graphic words, with Mary's soft voice breaking in now and then to add some fact that brought out the courage, patience, and self-sacrifice he so lightly touched upon, it became a solemn and pathetic thing to see and hear these happy creatures tell of that great danger and deliverance. 'I never hear the patter of rain now that I don't want to say my prayers; and as for women, I'd like to take my hat off to every one of 'em, for they are braver than any man I ever saw,' said Emil, with the new gravity that was as becoming to him as the new gentleness with which he treated everyone. 'If women are brave, some men are as tender and self-sacrificing as women. I know one who in the night slipped his share of food into a girl's pocket, though starving himself, and sat for hours rocking a sick man in his arms that he might get a little sleep. No, love, I will tell, and you must let me!' cried Mary, holding in both her own the hand he laid on her lips to silence her. 'Only did my duty. If that torment had lasted much longer I might have been as bad as poor Barry and the boatswain. Wasn't that an awful night?' And Emil shuddered as he recalled it. 'Don't think of it, dear. Tell about the happy days on the Urania, when papa grew better and we were all safe and homeward bound,' said Mary, with the trusting look and comforting touch which seemed to banish the dark and recall the bright side of that terrible experience. Emil cheered up at once, and sitting with his arm about his 'dear lass', in true sailor fashion told the happy ending of the tale. 'Such a jolly old time as we had at Hamburg! Uncle Hermann couldn't do enough for the captain, and while mamma took care of him, Mary looked after me. I had to go into dock for repairs; fire hurt my eyes, and watching for a sail and want of sleep made 'em as hazy as a London fog. She was pilot and brought me in all right, you see, only I couldn't part company, so she came aboard as first mate, and I'm bound straight for glory now.' 'Hush! that's silly, dear,' whispered Mary, trying in her turn to stop him, with English shyness about tender topics. But he took the soft hand in his, and proudly surveying the one ring it wore, went on with the air of an admiral aboard his flagship. 'The captain proposed waiting a spell; but I told him we weren't like to see any rougher weather than we'd pulled through together, and if we didn't know one another after such a year as this, we never should. I was sure I shouldn't be worth my pay without this hand on the wheel; so I had my way, and my brave little woman has shipped for the long voyage. God bless her!' 'Shall you really sail with him?' asked Daisy, admiring her courage, but shrinking with cat-like horror from the water. 'I'm not afraid,' answered Mary, with a loyal smile. 'I've proved my captain in fair weather and in foul, and if he is ever wrecked again, I'd rather be with him than waiting and watching ashore.' 'A true woman, and a born sailor's wife! You are a happy man, Emil, and I'm sure this trip will be a prosperous one,' cried Mrs Jo, delighted with the briny flavour of this courtship. 'Oh, my dear boy, I always felt you'd come back, and when everyone else despaired I never gave up, but insisted that you were clinging to the main-top jib somewhere on that dreadful sea'; and Mrs Jo illustrated her faith by grasping Emil with a truly Pillycoddian gesture. 'Of course I was!' answered Emil heartily; 'and my "main-top jib" in this case was the thought of what you and Uncle said to me. That kept me up; and among the million thoughts that came to me during those long nights none was clearer than the idea of the red strand, you remember--English navy, and all that. I liked the notion, and resolved that if a bit of my cable was left afloat, the red stripe should be there.' 'And it was, my dear, it was! Captain Hardy testifies to that, and here is your reward'; and Mrs Jo kissed Mary with a maternal tenderness which betrayed that she liked the English rose better than the blue-eyed German Kornblumen, sweet and modest though it was. Emil surveyed the little ceremony with complacency, saying, as he looked about the room which he never thought to see again: 'Odd, isn't it, how clearly trifles come back to one in times of danger? As we floated there, half-starved, and in despair, I used to think I heard the bells ringing here, and Ted tramping downstairs, and you calling, "Boys, boys, it's time to get up!" I actually smelt the coffee we used to have, and one night I nearly cried when I woke from a dream of Asia's ginger cookies. I declare, it was one of the bitterest disappointments of my life to face hunger with that spicy smell in my nostrils. If you've got any, do give me one!' A pitiful murmur broke from all the aunts and cousins, and Emil was at once borne away to feast on the desired cookies, a supply always being on hand. Mrs Jo and her sister joined the other group, glad to hear what Franz was saying about Nat. 'The minute I saw how thin and shabby he was, I knew that something was wrong; but he made light of it, and was so happy over our visit and news that I let him off with a brief confession, and went to Professor Baumgarten and Bergmann. From them I learned the whole story of his spending more money than he ought and trying to atone for it by unnecessary work and sacrifice. Baumgarten thought it would do him good, so kept his secret till I came. It did him good, and he's paid his debts and earned his bread by the sweat of his brow, like an honest fellow.' 'I like that much in Nat. It is, as I said, a lesson, and he learns it well. He proves himself a man, and has deserved the place Bergmann offers him,' said Mr Bhaer, looking well pleased as Franz added some facts already recorded. 'I told you, Meg, that he had good stuff in him, and love for Daisy would keep him straight. Dear lad, I wish I had him here this moment!' cried Mrs Jo, forgetting in delight the doubts and anxieties which had troubled her for months past. 'I am very glad, and suppose I shall give in as I always do, especially now that the epidemic rages so among us. You and Emil have set all their heads in a ferment, and Josie will be demanding a lover before I can turn round,' answered Mrs Meg, in a tone of despair. But her sister saw that she was touched by Nat's trials, and hastened to add the triumphs, that the victory might be complete, for success is always charming. 'This offer of Herr Bergmann is a good one, isn't it?' she asked, though Mr Laurie had already satisfied her on that point when Nat's letter brought the news. 'Very fine in every way. Nat will get capital drill in Bachmeister's orchestra, see London in a delightful way, and if he suits come home with them, well started among the violins. No great honour, but a sure thing and a step up. I congratulated him, and he was very jolly over it, saying, like the true lover he is: "Tell Daisy; be sure and tell her all about it." I'll leave that to you, Aunt Meg, and you can also break it gently to her that the old boy had a fine blond beard. Very becoming; hides his weak mouth, and gives a noble air to his big eyes and "Mendelssohnian brow", as a gushing girl called it. Ludmilla has a photo of it for you.' This amused them; and they listened to many other interesting bits of news which kind Franz, even in his own happiness, had not forgotten to remember for his friend's sake. He talked so well, and painted Nat's patient and pathetic shifts so vividly, that Mrs Meg was half won; though if she had learned of the Minna episode and the fiddling in beer-gardens and streets, she might not have relented so soon. She stored up all she heard, however, and, womanlike, promised herself a delicious talk with Daisy, in which she would allow herself to melt by degrees, and perhaps change the doubtful 'We shall see' to a cordial 'He has done well; be happy, dear'. In the midst of this agreeable chat the sudden striking of a clock recalled Mrs Jo from romance to reality, and she exclaimed, with a clutch at her crimping-pins: 'My blessed people, you must eat and rest; and I must dress, or receive in this disgraceful rig. Meg, will you take Ludmilla and Mary upstairs and see to them? Franz knows the way to the dining-room. Fritz, come with me and be made tidy, for what with heat and emotion, we are both perfect wrecks.' Chapter 19. WHITE ROSES While the travellers refreshed, and Mrs President struggled into her best gown, Josie ran into the garden to gather flowers for the brides. The sudden arrival of these interesting beings had quite enchanted the romantic girl, and her head was full of heroic rescues, tender admiration, dramatic situations, and feminine wonder as to whether the lovely creatures would wear their veils or not. She was standing before a great bush of white roses, culling the most perfect for the bouquets which she meant to tie with the ribbon festooned over her arm, and lay on the toilette tables of the new cousins, as a delicate attention. A step startled her, and looking up she saw her brother coming down the path with folded arms, bent head, and the absent air of one absorbed in deep thought. 'Sophy Wackles,' said the sharp child, with a superior smile, as she sucked

person

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

'Bless me! I always imagined lords and ladies did nothing but ride round in a coach and six, go to balls, and be presented to the Queen in cocked hats, and trains and feathers,' exclaimed an artless young person from the wilds of Maine, whither an illustrated paper occasionally wandered. 'Not at all; Lord Abercrombie is over here studying up our American prison system, and my lady is busy with the schools--both very high-born, but the simplest and most sensible people I've met this long time. They are neither of them young nor handsome, and dress plainly; so don't expect anything splendid. Mr Laurence was telling me last night about a friend of his who met my lord in the hall, and owing to a rough greatcoat and a red face, mistook him for a coachman, and said: "Now, my man, what do you want here?" Lord Abercrombie mildly mentioned who he was, and that he had come to dinner. And the poor host was much afflicted, saying afterward: "Why didn't he wear his stars and garters? then a fellow would know he was a lord."' The girls laughed again, and a general rustle betrayed that each was prinking a bit before the titled guest arrived. Even Mrs Jo settled her collar, and Mrs Meg felt if her cap was right, while Bess shook out her curls and Josie boldly consulted the glass; for they were women, in spite of philosophy and philanthropy. 'Shall we all rise?' asked one girl, deeply impressed by the impending honour. 'It would be courteous.' 'Shall we shake hands?' 'No, I'll present you en masse, and your pleasant faces will be introduction enough.' 'I wish I'd worn my best dress. Ought to have told us,' whispered Sally. 'Won't my folks be surprised when I tell them we have had a real lady to call on us?' said another. 'Don't look as if you'd never seen a gentlewoman before, Milly. We are not all fresh from the wilderness,' added the stately damsel who, having Mayflower ancestors, felt that she was the equal of all the crowned heads of Europe. 'Hush, she's coming! Oh, my heart, what a bonnet!' cried the gay girl in a stage whisper; and every eye was demurely fixed upon the busy hands as the door opened to admit Mrs Laurence and her guest. It was rather a shock to find, after the general introduction was over, that this daughter of a hundred earls was a stout lady in a plain gown, and a rather weather-beaten bonnet, with a bag of papers in one hand and a note-book in the other. But the face was full of benevolence, the sonorous voice very kind, the genial manners very winning, and about the whole person an indescribable air of high breeding which made beauty of no consequence, costume soon forgotten, and the moment memorable to the keen-eyed girls whom nothing escaped. A little chat about the rise, growth, and success of this particular class, and then Mrs Jo led the conversation to the English lady's work, anxious to show her pupils how rank dignifies labour, and charity blesses wealth. It was good for these girls to hear of the evening-schools supported and taught by women whom they knew and honoured; of Miss Cobbe's eloquent protest winning the protection of the law for abused wives; Mrs Butler saving the lost; Mrs Taylor, who devoted one room in her historic house to a library for the servants; Lord Shaftesbury, busy with his new tenement-houses in the slums of London; of prison reforms; and all the brave work being done in God's name by the rich and great for the humble and the poor. It impressed them more than many quiet home lectures would have done, and roused an ambition to help when their time should come, well knowing that even in glorious America there is still plenty to be done before she is what she should be--truly just, and free, and great. They were also quick to see that Lady Abercrombie treated all there as her equals, from stately Mrs Laurence, to little Josie, taking notes of everything and privately resolving to have some thick-soled English boots as soon as possible. No one would have guessed that she had a big house in London, a castle in Wales, and a grand country seat in Scotland, as she spoke of Parnassus with admiration, Plumfield as a 'dear old home', and the college as an honour to all concerned in it. At that, of course, every head went up a little, and when my lady left, every hand was ready for the hearty shake the noble Englishwoman gave them, with words they long remembered: 'I am very pleased to see this much-neglected branch of a woman's education so well conducted here, and I have to thank my friend Mrs Laurence for one of the most charming pictures I've seen in America--Penelope among her maids.' A group of smiling faces watched the stout boots trudge away, respectful glances followed the shabby bonnet till it was out of sight, and the girls felt a truer respect for their titled guest than if she had come in the coach and six, with all her diamonds on. 'I feel better about the "odd jobs" now. I only wish I could do them as well as Lady Abercrombie does,' said one. 'I thanked my stars my buttonholes were nice, for she looked at them and said: "Quite workmanlike, upon my word," added another, feeling that her gingham gown had come to honour. 'Her manners were as sweet and kind as Mrs Brooke's. Not a bit stiff or condescending, as I expected. I see now what you meant, Mrs Bhaer, when you said once that well-bred people were the same all the world over.' Mrs Meg bowed her thanks for the compliment, and Mrs Bhaer said: 'I know them when I see them, but never shall be a model of deportment myself. I'm glad you enjoyed the little visit. Now, if you young people don't want England to get ahead of us in many ways, you must bestir yourselves and keep abreast; for our sisters are in earnest, you see, and don't waste time worrying about their sphere, but make it wherever duty calls them.' 'We will do our best, ma'am,' answered the girls heartily, and trooped away with their work-baskets, feeling that though they might never be Harriet Martineaus, Elizabeth Brownings, or George Eliots, they might become noble, useful, and independent women, and earn for themselves some sweet title from the grateful lips of the poor, better than any a queen could bestow. Chapter 18. CLASS DAY The clerk of the weather evidently has a regard for young people, and sends sunshine for class days as often as he can. An especially lovely one shone over Plumfield as this interesting anniversary came round, bringing the usual accompaniments of roses, strawberries, white-gowned girls, beaming youths, proud friends, and stately dignitaries full of well-earned satisfaction with the yearly harvest. As Laurence College was a mixed one, the presence of young women as students gave to the occasion a grace and animation entirely wanting where the picturesque half of creation appear merely as spectators. The hands that turned the pages of wise books also possessed the skill to decorate the hall with flowers; eyes tired with study shone with hospitable warmth on the assembling guests; and under the white muslins beat hearts as full of ambition, hope, and courage as those agitating the broadcloth of the ruling sex. College Hill, Parnassus, and old Plum swarmed with cheery faces, as guests, students, and professors hurried to and fro in the pleasant excitement of arriving and receiving. Everyone was welcomed cordially, whether he rolled up in a fine carriage, or trudged afoot to see the good son or daughter come to honour on the happy day that rewarded many a mutual sacrifice. Mr Laurie and his wife were on the reception committee, and their lovely house was overflowing. Mrs Meg, with Daisy and Jo as aides, was in demand among the girls, helping on belated toilettes, giving an eye to spreads, and directing the decorations. Mrs Jo had her hands full as President's lady, and the mother of Ted; for it took all the power and skill of that energetic woman to get her son into his Sunday best. Not that he objected to be well arrayed; far from it; he adored good clothes, and owing to his great height already revelled in a dress-suit, bequeathed him by a dandy friend. The effect was very funny; but he would wear it in spite of the jeers of his mates, and sighed vainly for a beaver, because his stern parent drew the line there. He pleaded that English lads of ten wore them and were 'no end nobby'; but his mother only answered, with a consoling pat of the yellow mane: 'My child, you are absurd enough now; if I let you add a tall hat, Plumfield wouldn't hold either of us, such would be the scorn and derision of all beholders. Content yourself with looking like the ghost of a waiter, and don't ask for the most ridiculous head-gear in the known world.' Denied this noble badge of manhood, Ted soothed his wounded soul by appearing in collars of an amazing height and stiffness, and ties which were the wonder of all female eyes. This freak was a sort of vengeance on his hard-hearted mother; for the collars drove the laundress to despair, never being just right, and the ties required such art in the tying that three women sometimes laboured long before--like Beau Brummel--he turned from a heap of 'failures' with the welcome words: 'That will do.' Rob was devoted on these trying occasions, his own toilet being distinguished only by its speed, simplicity, and neatness. Ted was usually in a frenzy before he was suited, and roars, whistles, commands, and groans were heard from the den wherein the Lion raged and the Lamb patiently toiled. Mrs Jo bore it till boots were hurled and a rain of hair-brushes set in, then, fearing for the safety of her eldest, she would go to the rescue, and by a wise mixture of fun and authority finally succeed in persuading Ted that he was 'a thing of beauty', if not 'a joy for ever'. At last he would stalk majestically forth, imprisoned in collars compared to which those worn by Dickens's afflicted Biler were trifles not worth mentioning. The dresscoat was a little loose in the shoulders, but allowed a noble expanse of glossy bosom to be seen, and with a delicate handkerchief negligently drooping at the proper angle, had a truly fine effect. Boots that shone, and likewise pinched, appeared at one end of the 'long, black clothes-pin'--as Josie called him---and a youthful but solemn face at the other, carried at an angle which, if long continued, would have resulted in spinal curvature. Light gloves, a cane, and--oh, bitter drop in the cup of joy!--an ignominious straw hat, not to mention a choice floweret in the buttonhole, and a festoon of watchguard below, finished off this impressive boy. 'How's that for style?' he asked, appearing to his mother and cousins whom he was to escort to the hall on this particular occasion. A shout of laughter greeted him, followed by exclamations of horror; for he had artfully added the little blond moustache he often wore when acting. It was very becoming, and seemed the only balm to heal the wound made by the loss of the beloved hat. 'Take it off this moment, you audacious boy! What would your father say to such a prank on this day when we must all behave our best?' said Mrs Jo, trying to frown, but privately thinking that among the many youths about her none were so beautiful and original as her long son. 'Let him wear it, Aunty; it's so becoming. No one will ever guess he isn't eighteen at least,' cried Josie, to whom disguise of any sort was always charming. 'Father won't observe it; he'll be absorbed in his big-wigs and the girls. No matter if he does, he'll enjoy the joke and introduce me as his oldest son. Rob is nowhere when I'm in full fig'; and Ted took the stage with a tragic stalk, like Hamlet in a tail-coat and choker. 'My son, obey me!' and when Mrs Jo spoke in that tone her word was law. Later, however, the moustache appeared, and many strangers firmly believed that there were three young Bhaers. So Ted found one ray of joy to light his gloom. Mr Bhaer was a proud and happy man when, at the appointed hour, he looked down upon the parterre of youthful faces before him, thinking of the 'little gardens' in which he had hopefully and faithfully sowed good seed years ago, and from which this beautiful harvest seemed to have sprung. Mr March's fine old face shone with the serenest satisfaction, for this was the dream of his life fulfilled after patient waiting; and the love and reverence in the countenances of the eager young men and women looking up at him plainly showed that the reward he coveted was his in fullest measure. Laurie always effaced himself on these occasions as much as courtesy would permit; for everyone spoke gratefully in ode, poem, and oration of the founder of the college and noble dispenser of his beneficence. The three sisters beamed with pride as they sat among the ladies, enjoying, as only women can, the honour done the men they loved; while 'the original Plums', as the younger ones called themselves, regarded the whole affair as their work, receiving the curious, admiring, or envious glances of strangers with a mixture of dignity and delight rather comical to behold. The music was excellent, and well it might be when Apollo waved the baton. The poems were--as usual on such occasions--of varied excellence, as the youthful speakers tried to put old truths into new words, and made them forceful by the enthusiasm of their earnest faces and fresh voices. It was beautiful to see the eager interest with which the girls listened to some brilliant brother-student, and applauded him with a rustle as of wind over a bed of flowers. It was still more significant and pleasant to watch the young men's faces when a slender white figure stood out against the background of black-coated dignitaries, and with cheeks that flushed and paled, and lips that trembled till earnest purpose conquered maiden fear, spoke to them straight out of a woman's heart and brain concerning the hopes and doubts, the aspirations and rewards all must know, desire, and labour for. This clear, sweet voice seemed to reach and rouse all that was noblest in the souls of these youths, and to set a seal upon the years of comradeship which made them sacred and memorable for ever. Alice Heath's oration was unanimously pronounced the success of the day; for without being flowery or sentimental, as is too apt to be the case with these first efforts of youthful orators, it was earnest, sensible, and so inspiring that she left the stage in a storm of applause, the good fellows being as much fired by her stirring appeal to 'march shoulder to shoulder', as if she had chanted the 'Marseillaise' then and there. One young man was so excited that he nearly rushed out of his seat to receive her as she hastened to hide herself among her mates, who welcomed her with faces full of tender pride and tearful eye. A prudent sister detained him, however, and in a moment he was able to listen with composure to the President's remarks. They were worth listening to, for Mr Bhaer spoke like a father to the children whom he was dismissing to the battle of life; and his tender, wise, and helpful words lingered in their hearts long after the praise was forgotten. Then came other exercises peculiar to Plumfield, and the end. Why the roof did not fly off when the sturdy lungs of the excited young men pealed out the closing hymn will for ever be a mystery; but it remained firm, and only the fading garlands vibrated as the waves of music rolled up and died away, leaving sweet echoes to haunt the place for another year. Dinners and spreads consumed the afternoon, and at sunset came a slight lull as everyone sought some brief repose before the festivities of the evening began. The President's reception was one of the enjoyable things in store, also dancing on Parnassus, and as much strolling, singing, and flirting, as could be compressed into a few hours by youths and maidens just out of school. Carriages were rolling about, and gay groups on piazzas, lawns, and window-seats idly speculated as to who the distinguished guests might be. The appearance of a very dusty vehicle loaded with trunks at Mr Bhaer's hospitably open door caused much curious comment among the loungers, especially as two rather foreign-looking gentlemen sprang out, followed by two young ladies, all four being greeted with cries of joy and much embracing by the Bhaers. Then they all disappeared into the house, the luggage followed, and the watchers were left to wonder who the mysterious strangers were, till a fair collegian declared that they must be the Professor's nephews, one of whom was expected on his wedding journey. She was right; Franz proudly presented his blonde and buxom bride, and she was hardly kissed and blessed when Emil led up his bonny English Mary, with the rapturous announcement: 'Uncle, Aunt Jo, here's another daughter! Have you room for my wife, too?' There could be no doubt of that; and Mary was with difficulty rescued from the glad embraces of her new relatives, who, remembering all the young pair had suffered together, felt that this was the natural and happy ending of the long voyage so perilously begun. 'But why not tell us, and let us be ready for two brides instead of one?' asked Mrs Jo, looking as usual rather demoralizing in a wrapper and crimping-pins, having rushed down from her chamber, where she was preparing for the labours of the evening. 'Well, I remembered what a good joke you all considered Uncle Laurie's marriage, and I thought I'd give you another nice little surprise,' laughed Emil. 'I'm off duty, and it seemed best to take advantage of wind and tide, and come along as convoy to the old boy here. We hoped to get in last night, but couldn't fetch it, so here we are in time for the end of the jollification, anyway.' 'Ah, my sons, it is too feeling-full to see you both so happy and again in the old home. I haf no words to outpour my gratitude, and can only ask of the dear Gott in Himmel to bless and keep you all,' cried Professor Bhaer, trying to gather all four into his arms at once, while tears rolled down his cheeks, and his English failed him. An April shower cleared the air and relieved the full hearts of the happy family; then of course everyone began to talk--Franz and Ludmilla in German with uncle, Emil and Mary with the aunts; and round this group gathered the young folk, clamouring to hear all about the wreck, and the rescue, and the homeward voyage. It was a very different story from the written one; and as they listened to Emil's graphic words, with Mary's soft voice breaking in now and then to add some fact that brought out the courage, patience, and self-sacrifice he so lightly touched upon, it became a solemn and pathetic thing to see and hear these happy creatures tell of that great danger and deliverance. 'I never hear the patter of rain now that I don't want to say my prayers; and as for women, I'd like to take my hat off to every one of 'em, for they are braver than any man I ever saw,' said Emil, with the new gravity that was as becoming to him as the new gentleness with which he treated everyone. 'If women are brave, some men are as tender and self-sacrificing as women. I know one who in the night slipped his share of food into a girl's pocket, though starving himself, and sat for hours rocking a sick man in his arms that he might get a little sleep. No, love, I will tell, and you must let me!' cried Mary, holding in both her own the hand he laid on her lips to silence her. 'Only did my duty. If that torment had lasted much longer I might have been as bad as poor Barry and the boatswain. Wasn't that an awful night?' And Emil shuddered as he recalled it. 'Don't think of it, dear. Tell about the happy days on the Urania, when papa grew better and we were all safe and homeward bound,' said Mary, with the trusting look and comforting touch which seemed to banish the dark and recall the bright side of that terrible experience. Emil cheered up at once, and sitting with his arm about his 'dear lass', in true sailor fashion told the happy ending of the tale. 'Such a jolly old time as we had at Hamburg! Uncle Hermann couldn't do enough for the captain, and while mamma took care of him, Mary looked after me. I had to go into dock for repairs; fire hurt my eyes, and watching for a sail and want of sleep made 'em as hazy as a London fog. She was pilot and brought me in all right, you see, only I couldn't part company, so she came aboard as first mate, and I'm bound straight for glory now.' 'Hush! that's silly, dear,' whispered Mary, trying in her turn to stop him, with English shyness about tender topics. But he took the soft hand in his, and proudly surveying the one ring it wore, went on with the air of an admiral aboard his flagship. 'The captain proposed waiting a spell; but I told him we weren't like to see any rougher weather than we'd pulled through together, and if we didn't know one another after such a year as this, we never should. I was sure I shouldn't be worth my pay without this hand on the wheel; so I had my way, and my brave little woman has shipped for the long voyage. God bless her!' 'Shall you really sail with him?' asked Daisy, admiring her courage, but shrinking with cat-like horror from the water. 'I'm not afraid,' answered Mary, with a loyal smile. 'I've proved my captain in fair weather and in foul, and if he is ever wrecked again, I'd rather be with him than waiting and watching ashore.' 'A true woman, and a born sailor's wife! You are a happy man, Emil, and I'm sure this trip will be a prosperous one,' cried Mrs Jo, delighted with the briny flavour of this courtship. 'Oh, my dear boy, I always felt you'd come back, and when everyone else despaired I never gave up, but insisted that you were clinging to the main-top jib somewhere on that dreadful sea'; and Mrs Jo illustrated her faith by grasping Emil with a truly Pillycoddian gesture. 'Of course I was!' answered Emil heartily; 'and my "main-top jib" in this case was the thought of what you and Uncle said to me. That kept me up; and among the million thoughts that came to me during those long nights none was clearer than the idea of the red strand, you remember--English navy, and all that. I liked the notion, and resolved that if a bit of my cable was left afloat, the red stripe should be there.' 'And it was, my dear, it was! Captain Hardy testifies to that, and here is your reward'; and Mrs Jo kissed Mary with a maternal tenderness which betrayed that she liked the English rose better than the blue-eyed German Kornblumen, sweet and modest though it was. Emil surveyed the little ceremony with complacency, saying, as he looked about the room which he never thought to see again: 'Odd, isn't it, how clearly trifles come back to one in times of danger? As we floated there, half-starved, and in despair, I used to think I heard the bells ringing here, and Ted tramping downstairs, and you calling, "Boys, boys, it's time to get up!" I actually smelt the coffee we used to have, and one night I nearly cried when I woke from a dream of Asia's ginger cookies. I declare, it was one of the bitterest disappointments of my life to face hunger with that spicy smell in my nostrils. If you've got any, do give me one!' A pitiful murmur broke from all the aunts and cousins, and Emil was at once borne away to feast on the desired cookies, a supply always being on hand. Mrs Jo and her sister joined the other group, glad to hear what Franz was saying about Nat. 'The minute I saw how thin and shabby he was, I knew that something was wrong; but he made light of it, and was so happy over our visit and news that I let him off with a brief confession, and went to Professor Baumgarten and Bergmann. From them I learned the whole story of his spending more money than he ought and trying to atone for it by unnecessary work and sacrifice. Baumgarten thought it would do him good, so kept his secret till I came. It did him good, and he's paid his debts and earned his bread by the sweat of his brow, like an honest fellow.' 'I like that much in Nat. It is, as I said, a lesson, and he learns it well. He proves himself a man, and has deserved the place Bergmann offers him,' said Mr Bhaer, looking well pleased as Franz added some facts already recorded. 'I told you, Meg, that he had good stuff in him, and love for Daisy would keep him straight. Dear lad, I wish I had him here this moment!' cried Mrs Jo, forgetting in delight the doubts and anxieties which had troubled her for months past. 'I am very glad, and suppose I shall give in as I always do, especially now that the epidemic rages so among us. You and Emil have set all their heads in a ferment, and Josie will be demanding a lover before I can turn round,' answered Mrs Meg, in a tone of despair. But her sister saw that she was touched by Nat's trials, and hastened to add the triumphs, that the victory might be complete, for success is always charming. 'This offer of Herr Bergmann is a good one, isn't it?' she asked, though Mr Laurie had already satisfied her on that point when Nat's letter brought the news. 'Very fine in every way. Nat will get capital drill in Bachmeister's orchestra, see London in a delightful way, and if he suits come home with them, well started among the violins. No great honour, but a sure thing and a step up. I congratulated him, and he was very jolly over it, saying, like the true lover he is: "Tell Daisy; be sure and tell her all about it." I'll leave that to you, Aunt Meg, and you can also break it gently to her that the old boy had a fine blond beard. Very becoming; hides his weak mouth, and gives a noble air to his big eyes and "Mendelssohnian brow", as a gushing girl called it. Ludmilla has a photo of it for you.' This amused them; and they listened to many other interesting bits of news which kind Franz, even in his own happiness, had not forgotten to remember for his friend's sake. He talked so well, and painted Nat's patient and pathetic shifts so vividly, that Mrs Meg was half won; though if she had learned of the Minna episode and the fiddling in beer-gardens and streets, she might not have relented so soon. She stored up all she heard, however, and, womanlike, promised herself a delicious talk with Daisy, in which she would allow herself to melt by degrees, and perhaps change the doubtful 'We shall see' to a cordial 'He has done well; be happy, dear'. In the midst of this agreeable chat the sudden striking of a clock recalled Mrs Jo from romance to reality, and she exclaimed, with a clutch at her crimping-pins: 'My blessed people, you must eat and rest; and I must dress, or receive in this disgraceful rig. Meg, will you take Ludmilla and Mary upstairs and see to them? Franz knows the way to the dining-room. Fritz, come with me and be made tidy, for what with heat and emotion, we are both perfect wrecks.' Chapter 19. WHITE ROSES While the travellers refreshed, and Mrs President struggled into her best gown, Josie ran into the garden to gather flowers for the brides. The sudden arrival of these interesting beings had quite enchanted the romantic girl, and her head was full of heroic rescues, tender admiration, dramatic situations, and feminine wonder as to whether the lovely creatures would wear their veils or not. She was standing before a great bush of white roses, culling the most perfect for the bouquets which she meant to tie with the ribbon festooned over her arm, and lay on the toilette tables of the new cousins, as a delicate attention. A step startled her, and looking up she saw her brother coming down the path with folded arms, bent head, and the absent air of one absorbed in deep thought. 'Sophy Wackles,' said the sharp child, with a superior smile, as she sucked

busy

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

'Bless me! I always imagined lords and ladies did nothing but ride round in a coach and six, go to balls, and be presented to the Queen in cocked hats, and trains and feathers,' exclaimed an artless young person from the wilds of Maine, whither an illustrated paper occasionally wandered. 'Not at all; Lord Abercrombie is over here studying up our American prison system, and my lady is busy with the schools--both very high-born, but the simplest and most sensible people I've met this long time. They are neither of them young nor handsome, and dress plainly; so don't expect anything splendid. Mr Laurence was telling me last night about a friend of his who met my lord in the hall, and owing to a rough greatcoat and a red face, mistook him for a coachman, and said: "Now, my man, what do you want here?" Lord Abercrombie mildly mentioned who he was, and that he had come to dinner. And the poor host was much afflicted, saying afterward: "Why didn't he wear his stars and garters? then a fellow would know he was a lord."' The girls laughed again, and a general rustle betrayed that each was prinking a bit before the titled guest arrived. Even Mrs Jo settled her collar, and Mrs Meg felt if her cap was right, while Bess shook out her curls and Josie boldly consulted the glass; for they were women, in spite of philosophy and philanthropy. 'Shall we all rise?' asked one girl, deeply impressed by the impending honour. 'It would be courteous.' 'Shall we shake hands?' 'No, I'll present you en masse, and your pleasant faces will be introduction enough.' 'I wish I'd worn my best dress. Ought to have told us,' whispered Sally. 'Won't my folks be surprised when I tell them we have had a real lady to call on us?' said another. 'Don't look as if you'd never seen a gentlewoman before, Milly. We are not all fresh from the wilderness,' added the stately damsel who, having Mayflower ancestors, felt that she was the equal of all the crowned heads of Europe. 'Hush, she's coming! Oh, my heart, what a bonnet!' cried the gay girl in a stage whisper; and every eye was demurely fixed upon the busy hands as the door opened to admit Mrs Laurence and her guest. It was rather a shock to find, after the general introduction was over, that this daughter of a hundred earls was a stout lady in a plain gown, and a rather weather-beaten bonnet, with a bag of papers in one hand and a note-book in the other. But the face was full of benevolence, the sonorous voice very kind, the genial manners very winning, and about the whole person an indescribable air of high breeding which made beauty of no consequence, costume soon forgotten, and the moment memorable to the keen-eyed girls whom nothing escaped. A little chat about the rise, growth, and success of this particular class, and then Mrs Jo led the conversation to the English lady's work, anxious to show her pupils how rank dignifies labour, and charity blesses wealth. It was good for these girls to hear of the evening-schools supported and taught by women whom they knew and honoured; of Miss Cobbe's eloquent protest winning the protection of the law for abused wives; Mrs Butler saving the lost; Mrs Taylor, who devoted one room in her historic house to a library for the servants; Lord Shaftesbury, busy with his new tenement-houses in the slums of London; of prison reforms; and all the brave work being done in God's name by the rich and great for the humble and the poor. It impressed them more than many quiet home lectures would have done, and roused an ambition to help when their time should come, well knowing that even in glorious America there is still plenty to be done before she is what she should be--truly just, and free, and great. They were also quick to see that Lady Abercrombie treated all there as her equals, from stately Mrs Laurence, to little Josie, taking notes of everything and privately resolving to have some thick-soled English boots as soon as possible. No one would have guessed that she had a big house in London, a castle in Wales, and a grand country seat in Scotland, as she spoke of Parnassus with admiration, Plumfield as a 'dear old home', and the college as an honour to all concerned in it. At that, of course, every head went up a little, and when my lady left, every hand was ready for the hearty shake the noble Englishwoman gave them, with words they long remembered: 'I am very pleased to see this much-neglected branch of a woman's education so well conducted here, and I have to thank my friend Mrs Laurence for one of the most charming pictures I've seen in America--Penelope among her maids.' A group of smiling faces watched the stout boots trudge away, respectful glances followed the shabby bonnet till it was out of sight, and the girls felt a truer respect for their titled guest than if she had come in the coach and six, with all her diamonds on. 'I feel better about the "odd jobs" now. I only wish I could do them as well as Lady Abercrombie does,' said one. 'I thanked my stars my buttonholes were nice, for she looked at them and said: "Quite workmanlike, upon my word," added another, feeling that her gingham gown had come to honour. 'Her manners were as sweet and kind as Mrs Brooke's. Not a bit stiff or condescending, as I expected. I see now what you meant, Mrs Bhaer, when you said once that well-bred people were the same all the world over.' Mrs Meg bowed her thanks for the compliment, and Mrs Bhaer said: 'I know them when I see them, but never shall be a model of deportment myself. I'm glad you enjoyed the little visit. Now, if you young people don't want England to get ahead of us in many ways, you must bestir yourselves and keep abreast; for our sisters are in earnest, you see, and don't waste time worrying about their sphere, but make it wherever duty calls them.' 'We will do our best, ma'am,' answered the girls heartily, and trooped away with their work-baskets, feeling that though they might never be Harriet Martineaus, Elizabeth Brownings, or George Eliots, they might become noble, useful, and independent women, and earn for themselves some sweet title from the grateful lips of the poor, better than any a queen could bestow. Chapter 18. CLASS DAY The clerk of the weather evidently has a regard for young people, and sends sunshine for class days as often as he can. An especially lovely one shone over Plumfield as this interesting anniversary came round, bringing the usual accompaniments of roses, strawberries, white-gowned girls, beaming youths, proud friends, and stately dignitaries full of well-earned satisfaction with the yearly harvest. As Laurence College was a mixed one, the presence of young women as students gave to the occasion a grace and animation entirely wanting where the picturesque half of creation appear merely as spectators. The hands that turned the pages of wise books also possessed the skill to decorate the hall with flowers; eyes tired with study shone with hospitable warmth on the assembling guests; and under the white muslins beat hearts as full of ambition, hope, and courage as those agitating the broadcloth of the ruling sex. College Hill, Parnassus, and old Plum swarmed with cheery faces, as guests, students, and professors hurried to and fro in the pleasant excitement of arriving and receiving. Everyone was welcomed cordially, whether he rolled up in a fine carriage, or trudged afoot to see the good son or daughter come to honour on the happy day that rewarded many a mutual sacrifice. Mr Laurie and his wife were on the reception committee, and their lovely house was overflowing. Mrs Meg, with Daisy and Jo as aides, was in demand among the girls, helping on belated toilettes, giving an eye to spreads, and directing the decorations. Mrs Jo had her hands full as President's lady, and the mother of Ted; for it took all the power and skill of that energetic woman to get her son into his Sunday best. Not that he objected to be well arrayed; far from it; he adored good clothes, and owing to his great height already revelled in a dress-suit, bequeathed him by a dandy friend. The effect was very funny; but he would wear it in spite of the jeers of his mates, and sighed vainly for a beaver, because his stern parent drew the line there. He pleaded that English lads of ten wore them and were 'no end nobby'; but his mother only answered, with a consoling pat of the yellow mane: 'My child, you are absurd enough now; if I let you add a tall hat, Plumfield wouldn't hold either of us, such would be the scorn and derision of all beholders. Content yourself with looking like the ghost of a waiter, and don't ask for the most ridiculous head-gear in the known world.' Denied this noble badge of manhood, Ted soothed his wounded soul by appearing in collars of an amazing height and stiffness, and ties which were the wonder of all female eyes. This freak was a sort of vengeance on his hard-hearted mother; for the collars drove the laundress to despair, never being just right, and the ties required such art in the tying that three women sometimes laboured long before--like Beau Brummel--he turned from a heap of 'failures' with the welcome words: 'That will do.' Rob was devoted on these trying occasions, his own toilet being distinguished only by its speed, simplicity, and neatness. Ted was usually in a frenzy before he was suited, and roars, whistles, commands, and groans were heard from the den wherein the Lion raged and the Lamb patiently toiled. Mrs Jo bore it till boots were hurled and a rain of hair-brushes set in, then, fearing for the safety of her eldest, she would go to the rescue, and by a wise mixture of fun and authority finally succeed in persuading Ted that he was 'a thing of beauty', if not 'a joy for ever'. At last he would stalk majestically forth, imprisoned in collars compared to which those worn by Dickens's afflicted Biler were trifles not worth mentioning. The dresscoat was a little loose in the shoulders, but allowed a noble expanse of glossy bosom to be seen, and with a delicate handkerchief negligently drooping at the proper angle, had a truly fine effect. Boots that shone, and likewise pinched, appeared at one end of the 'long, black clothes-pin'--as Josie called him---and a youthful but solemn face at the other, carried at an angle which, if long continued, would have resulted in spinal curvature. Light gloves, a cane, and--oh, bitter drop in the cup of joy!--an ignominious straw hat, not to mention a choice floweret in the buttonhole, and a festoon of watchguard below, finished off this impressive boy. 'How's that for style?' he asked, appearing to his mother and cousins whom he was to escort to the hall on this particular occasion. A shout of laughter greeted him, followed by exclamations of horror; for he had artfully added the little blond moustache he often wore when acting. It was very becoming, and seemed the only balm to heal the wound made by the loss of the beloved hat. 'Take it off this moment, you audacious boy! What would your father say to such a prank on this day when we must all behave our best?' said Mrs Jo, trying to frown, but privately thinking that among the many youths about her none were so beautiful and original as her long son. 'Let him wear it, Aunty; it's so becoming. No one will ever guess he isn't eighteen at least,' cried Josie, to whom disguise of any sort was always charming. 'Father won't observe it; he'll be absorbed in his big-wigs and the girls. No matter if he does, he'll enjoy the joke and introduce me as his oldest son. Rob is nowhere when I'm in full fig'; and Ted took the stage with a tragic stalk, like Hamlet in a tail-coat and choker. 'My son, obey me!' and when Mrs Jo spoke in that tone her word was law. Later, however, the moustache appeared, and many strangers firmly believed that there were three young Bhaers. So Ted found one ray of joy to light his gloom. Mr Bhaer was a proud and happy man when, at the appointed hour, he looked down upon the parterre of youthful faces before him, thinking of the 'little gardens' in which he had hopefully and faithfully sowed good seed years ago, and from which this beautiful harvest seemed to have sprung. Mr March's fine old face shone with the serenest satisfaction, for this was the dream of his life fulfilled after patient waiting; and the love and reverence in the countenances of the eager young men and women looking up at him plainly showed that the reward he coveted was his in fullest measure. Laurie always effaced himself on these occasions as much as courtesy would permit; for everyone spoke gratefully in ode, poem, and oration of the founder of the college and noble dispenser of his beneficence. The three sisters beamed with pride as they sat among the ladies, enjoying, as only women can, the honour done the men they loved; while 'the original Plums', as the younger ones called themselves, regarded the whole affair as their work, receiving the curious, admiring, or envious glances of strangers with a mixture of dignity and delight rather comical to behold. The music was excellent, and well it might be when Apollo waved the baton. The poems were--as usual on such occasions--of varied excellence, as the youthful speakers tried to put old truths into new words, and made them forceful by the enthusiasm of their earnest faces and fresh voices. It was beautiful to see the eager interest with which the girls listened to some brilliant brother-student, and applauded him with a rustle as of wind over a bed of flowers. It was still more significant and pleasant to watch the young men's faces when a slender white figure stood out against the background of black-coated dignitaries, and with cheeks that flushed and paled, and lips that trembled till earnest purpose conquered maiden fear, spoke to them straight out of a woman's heart and brain concerning the hopes and doubts, the aspirations and rewards all must know, desire, and labour for. This clear, sweet voice seemed to reach and rouse all that was noblest in the souls of these youths, and to set a seal upon the years of comradeship which made them sacred and memorable for ever. Alice Heath's oration was unanimously pronounced the success of the day; for without being flowery or sentimental, as is too apt to be the case with these first efforts of youthful orators, it was earnest, sensible, and so inspiring that she left the stage in a storm of applause, the good fellows being as much fired by her stirring appeal to 'march shoulder to shoulder', as if she had chanted the 'Marseillaise' then and there. One young man was so excited that he nearly rushed out of his seat to receive her as she hastened to hide herself among her mates, who welcomed her with faces full of tender pride and tearful eye. A prudent sister detained him, however, and in a moment he was able to listen with composure to the President's remarks. They were worth listening to, for Mr Bhaer spoke like a father to the children whom he was dismissing to the battle of life; and his tender, wise, and helpful words lingered in their hearts long after the praise was forgotten. Then came other exercises peculiar to Plumfield, and the end. Why the roof did not fly off when the sturdy lungs of the excited young men pealed out the closing hymn will for ever be a mystery; but it remained firm, and only the fading garlands vibrated as the waves of music rolled up and died away, leaving sweet echoes to haunt the place for another year. Dinners and spreads consumed the afternoon, and at sunset came a slight lull as everyone sought some brief repose before the festivities of the evening began. The President's reception was one of the enjoyable things in store, also dancing on Parnassus, and as much strolling, singing, and flirting, as could be compressed into a few hours by youths and maidens just out of school. Carriages were rolling about, and gay groups on piazzas, lawns, and window-seats idly speculated as to who the distinguished guests might be. The appearance of a very dusty vehicle loaded with trunks at Mr Bhaer's hospitably open door caused much curious comment among the loungers, especially as two rather foreign-looking gentlemen sprang out, followed by two young ladies, all four being greeted with cries of joy and much embracing by the Bhaers. Then they all disappeared into the house, the luggage followed, and the watchers were left to wonder who the mysterious strangers were, till a fair collegian declared that they must be the Professor's nephews, one of whom was expected on his wedding journey. She was right; Franz proudly presented his blonde and buxom bride, and she was hardly kissed and blessed when Emil led up his bonny English Mary, with the rapturous announcement: 'Uncle, Aunt Jo, here's another daughter! Have you room for my wife, too?' There could be no doubt of that; and Mary was with difficulty rescued from the glad embraces of her new relatives, who, remembering all the young pair had suffered together, felt that this was the natural and happy ending of the long voyage so perilously begun. 'But why not tell us, and let us be ready for two brides instead of one?' asked Mrs Jo, looking as usual rather demoralizing in a wrapper and crimping-pins, having rushed down from her chamber, where she was preparing for the labours of the evening. 'Well, I remembered what a good joke you all considered Uncle Laurie's marriage, and I thought I'd give you another nice little surprise,' laughed Emil. 'I'm off duty, and it seemed best to take advantage of wind and tide, and come along as convoy to the old boy here. We hoped to get in last night, but couldn't fetch it, so here we are in time for the end of the jollification, anyway.' 'Ah, my sons, it is too feeling-full to see you both so happy and again in the old home. I haf no words to outpour my gratitude, and can only ask of the dear Gott in Himmel to bless and keep you all,' cried Professor Bhaer, trying to gather all four into his arms at once, while tears rolled down his cheeks, and his English failed him. An April shower cleared the air and relieved the full hearts of the happy family; then of course everyone began to talk--Franz and Ludmilla in German with uncle, Emil and Mary with the aunts; and round this group gathered the young folk, clamouring to hear all about the wreck, and the rescue, and the homeward voyage. It was a very different story from the written one; and as they listened to Emil's graphic words, with Mary's soft voice breaking in now and then to add some fact that brought out the courage, patience, and self-sacrifice he so lightly touched upon, it became a solemn and pathetic thing to see and hear these happy creatures tell of that great danger and deliverance. 'I never hear the patter of rain now that I don't want to say my prayers; and as for women, I'd like to take my hat off to every one of 'em, for they are braver than any man I ever saw,' said Emil, with the new gravity that was as becoming to him as the new gentleness with which he treated everyone. 'If women are brave, some men are as tender and self-sacrificing as women. I know one who in the night slipped his share of food into a girl's pocket, though starving himself, and sat for hours rocking a sick man in his arms that he might get a little sleep. No, love, I will tell, and you must let me!' cried Mary, holding in both her own the hand he laid on her lips to silence her. 'Only did my duty. If that torment had lasted much longer I might have been as bad as poor Barry and the boatswain. Wasn't that an awful night?' And Emil shuddered as he recalled it. 'Don't think of it, dear. Tell about the happy days on the Urania, when papa grew better and we were all safe and homeward bound,' said Mary, with the trusting look and comforting touch which seemed to banish the dark and recall the bright side of that terrible experience. Emil cheered up at once, and sitting with his arm about his 'dear lass', in true sailor fashion told the happy ending of the tale. 'Such a jolly old time as we had at Hamburg! Uncle Hermann couldn't do enough for the captain, and while mamma took care of him, Mary looked after me. I had to go into dock for repairs; fire hurt my eyes, and watching for a sail and want of sleep made 'em as hazy as a London fog. She was pilot and brought me in all right, you see, only I couldn't part company, so she came aboard as first mate, and I'm bound straight for glory now.' 'Hush! that's silly, dear,' whispered Mary, trying in her turn to stop him, with English shyness about tender topics. But he took the soft hand in his, and proudly surveying the one ring it wore, went on with the air of an admiral aboard his flagship. 'The captain proposed waiting a spell; but I told him we weren't like to see any rougher weather than we'd pulled through together, and if we didn't know one another after such a year as this, we never should. I was sure I shouldn't be worth my pay without this hand on the wheel; so I had my way, and my brave little woman has shipped for the long voyage. God bless her!' 'Shall you really sail with him?' asked Daisy, admiring her courage, but shrinking with cat-like horror from the water. 'I'm not afraid,' answered Mary, with a loyal smile. 'I've proved my captain in fair weather and in foul, and if he is ever wrecked again, I'd rather be with him than waiting and watching ashore.' 'A true woman, and a born sailor's wife! You are a happy man, Emil, and I'm sure this trip will be a prosperous one,' cried Mrs Jo, delighted with the briny flavour of this courtship. 'Oh, my dear boy, I always felt you'd come back, and when everyone else despaired I never gave up, but insisted that you were clinging to the main-top jib somewhere on that dreadful sea'; and Mrs Jo illustrated her faith by grasping Emil with a truly Pillycoddian gesture. 'Of course I was!' answered Emil heartily; 'and my "main-top jib" in this case was the thought of what you and Uncle said to me. That kept me up; and among the million thoughts that came to me during those long nights none was clearer than the idea of the red strand, you remember--English navy, and all that. I liked the notion, and resolved that if a bit of my cable was left afloat, the red stripe should be there.' 'And it was, my dear, it was! Captain Hardy testifies to that, and here is your reward'; and Mrs Jo kissed Mary with a maternal tenderness which betrayed that she liked the English rose better than the blue-eyed German Kornblumen, sweet and modest though it was. Emil surveyed the little ceremony with complacency, saying, as he looked about the room which he never thought to see again: 'Odd, isn't it, how clearly trifles come back to one in times of danger? As we floated there, half-starved, and in despair, I used to think I heard the bells ringing here, and Ted tramping downstairs, and you calling, "Boys, boys, it's time to get up!" I actually smelt the coffee we used to have, and one night I nearly cried when I woke from a dream of Asia's ginger cookies. I declare, it was one of the bitterest disappointments of my life to face hunger with that spicy smell in my nostrils. If you've got any, do give me one!' A pitiful murmur broke from all the aunts and cousins, and Emil was at once borne away to feast on the desired cookies, a supply always being on hand. Mrs Jo and her sister joined the other group, glad to hear what Franz was saying about Nat. 'The minute I saw how thin and shabby he was, I knew that something was wrong; but he made light of it, and was so happy over our visit and news that I let him off with a brief confession, and went to Professor Baumgarten and Bergmann. From them I learned the whole story of his spending more money than he ought and trying to atone for it by unnecessary work and sacrifice. Baumgarten thought it would do him good, so kept his secret till I came. It did him good, and he's paid his debts and earned his bread by the sweat of his brow, like an honest fellow.' 'I like that much in Nat. It is, as I said, a lesson, and he learns it well. He proves himself a man, and has deserved the place Bergmann offers him,' said Mr Bhaer, looking well pleased as Franz added some facts already recorded. 'I told you, Meg, that he had good stuff in him, and love for Daisy would keep him straight. Dear lad, I wish I had him here this moment!' cried Mrs Jo, forgetting in delight the doubts and anxieties which had troubled her for months past. 'I am very glad, and suppose I shall give in as I always do, especially now that the epidemic rages so among us. You and Emil have set all their heads in a ferment, and Josie will be demanding a lover before I can turn round,' answered Mrs Meg, in a tone of despair. But her sister saw that she was touched by Nat's trials, and hastened to add the triumphs, that the victory might be complete, for success is always charming. 'This offer of Herr Bergmann is a good one, isn't it?' she asked, though Mr Laurie had already satisfied her on that point when Nat's letter brought the news. 'Very fine in every way. Nat will get capital drill in Bachmeister's orchestra, see London in a delightful way, and if he suits come home with them, well started among the violins. No great honour, but a sure thing and a step up. I congratulated him, and he was very jolly over it, saying, like the true lover he is: "Tell Daisy; be sure and tell her all about it." I'll leave that to you, Aunt Meg, and you can also break it gently to her that the old boy had a fine blond beard. Very becoming; hides his weak mouth, and gives a noble air to his big eyes and "Mendelssohnian brow", as a gushing girl called it. Ludmilla has a photo of it for you.' This amused them; and they listened to many other interesting bits of news which kind Franz, even in his own happiness, had not forgotten to remember for his friend's sake. He talked so well, and painted Nat's patient and pathetic shifts so vividly, that Mrs Meg was half won; though if she had learned of the Minna episode and the fiddling in beer-gardens and streets, she might not have relented so soon. She stored up all she heard, however, and, womanlike, promised herself a delicious talk with Daisy, in which she would allow herself to melt by degrees, and perhaps change the doubtful 'We shall see' to a cordial 'He has done well; be happy, dear'. In the midst of this agreeable chat the sudden striking of a clock recalled Mrs Jo from romance to reality, and she exclaimed, with a clutch at her crimping-pins: 'My blessed people, you must eat and rest; and I must dress, or receive in this disgraceful rig. Meg, will you take Ludmilla and Mary upstairs and see to them? Franz knows the way to the dining-room. Fritz, come with me and be made tidy, for what with heat and emotion, we are both perfect wrecks.' Chapter 19. WHITE ROSES While the travellers refreshed, and Mrs President struggled into her best gown, Josie ran into the garden to gather flowers for the brides. The sudden arrival of these interesting beings had quite enchanted the romantic girl, and her head was full of heroic rescues, tender admiration, dramatic situations, and feminine wonder as to whether the lovely creatures would wear their veils or not. She was standing before a great bush of white roses, culling the most perfect for the bouquets which she meant to tie with the ribbon festooned over her arm, and lay on the toilette tables of the new cousins, as a delicate attention. A step startled her, and looking up she saw her brother coming down the path with folded arms, bent head, and the absent air of one absorbed in deep thought. 'Sophy Wackles,' said the sharp child, with a superior smile, as she sucked

premi

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

'Bless me! I always imagined lords and ladies did nothing but ride round in a coach and six, go to balls, and be presented to the Queen in cocked hats, and trains and feathers,' exclaimed an artless young person from the wilds of Maine, whither an illustrated paper occasionally wandered. 'Not at all; Lord Abercrombie is over here studying up our American prison system, and my lady is busy with the schools--both very high-born, but the simplest and most sensible people I've met this long time. They are neither of them young nor handsome, and dress plainly; so don't expect anything splendid. Mr Laurence was telling me last night about a friend of his who met my lord in the hall, and owing to a rough greatcoat and a red face, mistook him for a coachman, and said: "Now, my man, what do you want here?" Lord Abercrombie mildly mentioned who he was, and that he had come to dinner. And the poor host was much afflicted, saying afterward: "Why didn't he wear his stars and garters? then a fellow would know he was a lord."' The girls laughed again, and a general rustle betrayed that each was prinking a bit before the titled guest arrived. Even Mrs Jo settled her collar, and Mrs Meg felt if her cap was right, while Bess shook out her curls and Josie boldly consulted the glass; for they were women, in spite of philosophy and philanthropy. 'Shall we all rise?' asked one girl, deeply impressed by the impending honour. 'It would be courteous.' 'Shall we shake hands?' 'No, I'll present you en masse, and your pleasant faces will be introduction enough.' 'I wish I'd worn my best dress. Ought to have told us,' whispered Sally. 'Won't my folks be surprised when I tell them we have had a real lady to call on us?' said another. 'Don't look as if you'd never seen a gentlewoman before, Milly. We are not all fresh from the wilderness,' added the stately damsel who, having Mayflower ancestors, felt that she was the equal of all the crowned heads of Europe. 'Hush, she's coming! Oh, my heart, what a bonnet!' cried the gay girl in a stage whisper; and every eye was demurely fixed upon the busy hands as the door opened to admit Mrs Laurence and her guest. It was rather a shock to find, after the general introduction was over, that this daughter of a hundred earls was a stout lady in a plain gown, and a rather weather-beaten bonnet, with a bag of papers in one hand and a note-book in the other. But the face was full of benevolence, the sonorous voice very kind, the genial manners very winning, and about the whole person an indescribable air of high breeding which made beauty of no consequence, costume soon forgotten, and the moment memorable to the keen-eyed girls whom nothing escaped. A little chat about the rise, growth, and success of this particular class, and then Mrs Jo led the conversation to the English lady's work, anxious to show her pupils how rank dignifies labour, and charity blesses wealth. It was good for these girls to hear of the evening-schools supported and taught by women whom they knew and honoured; of Miss Cobbe's eloquent protest winning the protection of the law for abused wives; Mrs Butler saving the lost; Mrs Taylor, who devoted one room in her historic house to a library for the servants; Lord Shaftesbury, busy with his new tenement-houses in the slums of London; of prison reforms; and all the brave work being done in God's name by the rich and great for the humble and the poor. It impressed them more than many quiet home lectures would have done, and roused an ambition to help when their time should come, well knowing that even in glorious America there is still plenty to be done before she is what she should be--truly just, and free, and great. They were also quick to see that Lady Abercrombie treated all there as her equals, from stately Mrs Laurence, to little Josie, taking notes of everything and privately resolving to have some thick-soled English boots as soon as possible. No one would have guessed that she had a big house in London, a castle in Wales, and a grand country seat in Scotland, as she spoke of Parnassus with admiration, Plumfield as a 'dear old home', and the college as an honour to all concerned in it. At that, of course, every head went up a little, and when my lady left, every hand was ready for the hearty shake the noble Englishwoman gave them, with words they long remembered: 'I am very pleased to see this much-neglected branch of a woman's education so well conducted here, and I have to thank my friend Mrs Laurence for one of the most charming pictures I've seen in America--Penelope among her maids.' A group of smiling faces watched the stout boots trudge away, respectful glances followed the shabby bonnet till it was out of sight, and the girls felt a truer respect for their titled guest than if she had come in the coach and six, with all her diamonds on. 'I feel better about the "odd jobs" now. I only wish I could do them as well as Lady Abercrombie does,' said one. 'I thanked my stars my buttonholes were nice, for she looked at them and said: "Quite workmanlike, upon my word," added another, feeling that her gingham gown had come to honour. 'Her manners were as sweet and kind as Mrs Brooke's. Not a bit stiff or condescending, as I expected. I see now what you meant, Mrs Bhaer, when you said once that well-bred people were the same all the world over.' Mrs Meg bowed her thanks for the compliment, and Mrs Bhaer said: 'I know them when I see them, but never shall be a model of deportment myself. I'm glad you enjoyed the little visit. Now, if you young people don't want England to get ahead of us in many ways, you must bestir yourselves and keep abreast; for our sisters are in earnest, you see, and don't waste time worrying about their sphere, but make it wherever duty calls them.' 'We will do our best, ma'am,' answered the girls heartily, and trooped away with their work-baskets, feeling that though they might never be Harriet Martineaus, Elizabeth Brownings, or George Eliots, they might become noble, useful, and independent women, and earn for themselves some sweet title from the grateful lips of the poor, better than any a queen could bestow. Chapter 18. CLASS DAY The clerk of the weather evidently has a regard for young people, and sends sunshine for class days as often as he can. An especially lovely one shone over Plumfield as this interesting anniversary came round, bringing the usual accompaniments of roses, strawberries, white-gowned girls, beaming youths, proud friends, and stately dignitaries full of well-earned satisfaction with the yearly harvest. As Laurence College was a mixed one, the presence of young women as students gave to the occasion a grace and animation entirely wanting where the picturesque half of creation appear merely as spectators. The hands that turned the pages of wise books also possessed the skill to decorate the hall with flowers; eyes tired with study shone with hospitable warmth on the assembling guests; and under the white muslins beat hearts as full of ambition, hope, and courage as those agitating the broadcloth of the ruling sex. College Hill, Parnassus, and old Plum swarmed with cheery faces, as guests, students, and professors hurried to and fro in the pleasant excitement of arriving and receiving. Everyone was welcomed cordially, whether he rolled up in a fine carriage, or trudged afoot to see the good son or daughter come to honour on the happy day that rewarded many a mutual sacrifice. Mr Laurie and his wife were on the reception committee, and their lovely house was overflowing. Mrs Meg, with Daisy and Jo as aides, was in demand among the girls, helping on belated toilettes, giving an eye to spreads, and directing the decorations. Mrs Jo had her hands full as President's lady, and the mother of Ted; for it took all the power and skill of that energetic woman to get her son into his Sunday best. Not that he objected to be well arrayed; far from it; he adored good clothes, and owing to his great height already revelled in a dress-suit, bequeathed him by a dandy friend. The effect was very funny; but he would wear it in spite of the jeers of his mates, and sighed vainly for a beaver, because his stern parent drew the line there. He pleaded that English lads of ten wore them and were 'no end nobby'; but his mother only answered, with a consoling pat of the yellow mane: 'My child, you are absurd enough now; if I let you add a tall hat, Plumfield wouldn't hold either of us, such would be the scorn and derision of all beholders. Content yourself with looking like the ghost of a waiter, and don't ask for the most ridiculous head-gear in the known world.' Denied this noble badge of manhood, Ted soothed his wounded soul by appearing in collars of an amazing height and stiffness, and ties which were the wonder of all female eyes. This freak was a sort of vengeance on his hard-hearted mother; for the collars drove the laundress to despair, never being just right, and the ties required such art in the tying that three women sometimes laboured long before--like Beau Brummel--he turned from a heap of 'failures' with the welcome words: 'That will do.' Rob was devoted on these trying occasions, his own toilet being distinguished only by its speed, simplicity, and neatness. Ted was usually in a frenzy before he was suited, and roars, whistles, commands, and groans were heard from the den wherein the Lion raged and the Lamb patiently toiled. Mrs Jo bore it till boots were hurled and a rain of hair-brushes set in, then, fearing for the safety of her eldest, she would go to the rescue, and by a wise mixture of fun and authority finally succeed in persuading Ted that he was 'a thing of beauty', if not 'a joy for ever'. At last he would stalk majestically forth, imprisoned in collars compared to which those worn by Dickens's afflicted Biler were trifles not worth mentioning. The dresscoat was a little loose in the shoulders, but allowed a noble expanse of glossy bosom to be seen, and with a delicate handkerchief negligently drooping at the proper angle, had a truly fine effect. Boots that shone, and likewise pinched, appeared at one end of the 'long, black clothes-pin'--as Josie called him---and a youthful but solemn face at the other, carried at an angle which, if long continued, would have resulted in spinal curvature. Light gloves, a cane, and--oh, bitter drop in the cup of joy!--an ignominious straw hat, not to mention a choice floweret in the buttonhole, and a festoon of watchguard below, finished off this impressive boy. 'How's that for style?' he asked, appearing to his mother and cousins whom he was to escort to the hall on this particular occasion. A shout of laughter greeted him, followed by exclamations of horror; for he had artfully added the little blond moustache he often wore when acting. It was very becoming, and seemed the only balm to heal the wound made by the loss of the beloved hat. 'Take it off this moment, you audacious boy! What would your father say to such a prank on this day when we must all behave our best?' said Mrs Jo, trying to frown, but privately thinking that among the many youths about her none were so beautiful and original as her long son. 'Let him wear it, Aunty; it's so becoming. No one will ever guess he isn't eighteen at least,' cried Josie, to whom disguise of any sort was always charming. 'Father won't observe it; he'll be absorbed in his big-wigs and the girls. No matter if he does, he'll enjoy the joke and introduce me as his oldest son. Rob is nowhere when I'm in full fig'; and Ted took the stage with a tragic stalk, like Hamlet in a tail-coat and choker. 'My son, obey me!' and when Mrs Jo spoke in that tone her word was law. Later, however, the moustache appeared, and many strangers firmly believed that there were three young Bhaers. So Ted found one ray of joy to light his gloom. Mr Bhaer was a proud and happy man when, at the appointed hour, he looked down upon the parterre of youthful faces before him, thinking of the 'little gardens' in which he had hopefully and faithfully sowed good seed years ago, and from which this beautiful harvest seemed to have sprung. Mr March's fine old face shone with the serenest satisfaction, for this was the dream of his life fulfilled after patient waiting; and the love and reverence in the countenances of the eager young men and women looking up at him plainly showed that the reward he coveted was his in fullest measure. Laurie always effaced himself on these occasions as much as courtesy would permit; for everyone spoke gratefully in ode, poem, and oration of the founder of the college and noble dispenser of his beneficence. The three sisters beamed with pride as they sat among the ladies, enjoying, as only women can, the honour done the men they loved; while 'the original Plums', as the younger ones called themselves, regarded the whole affair as their work, receiving the curious, admiring, or envious glances of strangers with a mixture of dignity and delight rather comical to behold. The music was excellent, and well it might be when Apollo waved the baton. The poems were--as usual on such occasions--of varied excellence, as the youthful speakers tried to put old truths into new words, and made them forceful by the enthusiasm of their earnest faces and fresh voices. It was beautiful to see the eager interest with which the girls listened to some brilliant brother-student, and applauded him with a rustle as of wind over a bed of flowers. It was still more significant and pleasant to watch the young men's faces when a slender white figure stood out against the background of black-coated dignitaries, and with cheeks that flushed and paled, and lips that trembled till earnest purpose conquered maiden fear, spoke to them straight out of a woman's heart and brain concerning the hopes and doubts, the aspirations and rewards all must know, desire, and labour for. This clear, sweet voice seemed to reach and rouse all that was noblest in the souls of these youths, and to set a seal upon the years of comradeship which made them sacred and memorable for ever. Alice Heath's oration was unanimously pronounced the success of the day; for without being flowery or sentimental, as is too apt to be the case with these first efforts of youthful orators, it was earnest, sensible, and so inspiring that she left the stage in a storm of applause, the good fellows being as much fired by her stirring appeal to 'march shoulder to shoulder', as if she had chanted the 'Marseillaise' then and there. One young man was so excited that he nearly rushed out of his seat to receive her as she hastened to hide herself among her mates, who welcomed her with faces full of tender pride and tearful eye. A prudent sister detained him, however, and in a moment he was able to listen with composure to the President's remarks. They were worth listening to, for Mr Bhaer spoke like a father to the children whom he was dismissing to the battle of life; and his tender, wise, and helpful words lingered in their hearts long after the praise was forgotten. Then came other exercises peculiar to Plumfield, and the end. Why the roof did not fly off when the sturdy lungs of the excited young men pealed out the closing hymn will for ever be a mystery; but it remained firm, and only the fading garlands vibrated as the waves of music rolled up and died away, leaving sweet echoes to haunt the place for another year. Dinners and spreads consumed the afternoon, and at sunset came a slight lull as everyone sought some brief repose before the festivities of the evening began. The President's reception was one of the enjoyable things in store, also dancing on Parnassus, and as much strolling, singing, and flirting, as could be compressed into a few hours by youths and maidens just out of school. Carriages were rolling about, and gay groups on piazzas, lawns, and window-seats idly speculated as to who the distinguished guests might be. The appearance of a very dusty vehicle loaded with trunks at Mr Bhaer's hospitably open door caused much curious comment among the loungers, especially as two rather foreign-looking gentlemen sprang out, followed by two young ladies, all four being greeted with cries of joy and much embracing by the Bhaers. Then they all disappeared into the house, the luggage followed, and the watchers were left to wonder who the mysterious strangers were, till a fair collegian declared that they must be the Professor's nephews, one of whom was expected on his wedding journey. She was right; Franz proudly presented his blonde and buxom bride, and she was hardly kissed and blessed when Emil led up his bonny English Mary, with the rapturous announcement: 'Uncle, Aunt Jo, here's another daughter! Have you room for my wife, too?' There could be no doubt of that; and Mary was with difficulty rescued from the glad embraces of her new relatives, who, remembering all the young pair had suffered together, felt that this was the natural and happy ending of the long voyage so perilously begun. 'But why not tell us, and let us be ready for two brides instead of one?' asked Mrs Jo, looking as usual rather demoralizing in a wrapper and crimping-pins, having rushed down from her chamber, where she was preparing for the labours of the evening. 'Well, I remembered what a good joke you all considered Uncle Laurie's marriage, and I thought I'd give you another nice little surprise,' laughed Emil. 'I'm off duty, and it seemed best to take advantage of wind and tide, and come along as convoy to the old boy here. We hoped to get in last night, but couldn't fetch it, so here we are in time for the end of the jollification, anyway.' 'Ah, my sons, it is too feeling-full to see you both so happy and again in the old home. I haf no words to outpour my gratitude, and can only ask of the dear Gott in Himmel to bless and keep you all,' cried Professor Bhaer, trying to gather all four into his arms at once, while tears rolled down his cheeks, and his English failed him. An April shower cleared the air and relieved the full hearts of the happy family; then of course everyone began to talk--Franz and Ludmilla in German with uncle, Emil and Mary with the aunts; and round this group gathered the young folk, clamouring to hear all about the wreck, and the rescue, and the homeward voyage. It was a very different story from the written one; and as they listened to Emil's graphic words, with Mary's soft voice breaking in now and then to add some fact that brought out the courage, patience, and self-sacrifice he so lightly touched upon, it became a solemn and pathetic thing to see and hear these happy creatures tell of that great danger and deliverance. 'I never hear the patter of rain now that I don't want to say my prayers; and as for women, I'd like to take my hat off to every one of 'em, for they are braver than any man I ever saw,' said Emil, with the new gravity that was as becoming to him as the new gentleness with which he treated everyone. 'If women are brave, some men are as tender and self-sacrificing as women. I know one who in the night slipped his share of food into a girl's pocket, though starving himself, and sat for hours rocking a sick man in his arms that he might get a little sleep. No, love, I will tell, and you must let me!' cried Mary, holding in both her own the hand he laid on her lips to silence her. 'Only did my duty. If that torment had lasted much longer I might have been as bad as poor Barry and the boatswain. Wasn't that an awful night?' And Emil shuddered as he recalled it. 'Don't think of it, dear. Tell about the happy days on the Urania, when papa grew better and we were all safe and homeward bound,' said Mary, with the trusting look and comforting touch which seemed to banish the dark and recall the bright side of that terrible experience. Emil cheered up at once, and sitting with his arm about his 'dear lass', in true sailor fashion told the happy ending of the tale. 'Such a jolly old time as we had at Hamburg! Uncle Hermann couldn't do enough for the captain, and while mamma took care of him, Mary looked after me. I had to go into dock for repairs; fire hurt my eyes, and watching for a sail and want of sleep made 'em as hazy as a London fog. She was pilot and brought me in all right, you see, only I couldn't part company, so she came aboard as first mate, and I'm bound straight for glory now.' 'Hush! that's silly, dear,' whispered Mary, trying in her turn to stop him, with English shyness about tender topics. But he took the soft hand in his, and proudly surveying the one ring it wore, went on with the air of an admiral aboard his flagship. 'The captain proposed waiting a spell; but I told him we weren't like to see any rougher weather than we'd pulled through together, and if we didn't know one another after such a year as this, we never should. I was sure I shouldn't be worth my pay without this hand on the wheel; so I had my way, and my brave little woman has shipped for the long voyage. God bless her!' 'Shall you really sail with him?' asked Daisy, admiring her courage, but shrinking with cat-like horror from the water. 'I'm not afraid,' answered Mary, with a loyal smile. 'I've proved my captain in fair weather and in foul, and if he is ever wrecked again, I'd rather be with him than waiting and watching ashore.' 'A true woman, and a born sailor's wife! You are a happy man, Emil, and I'm sure this trip will be a prosperous one,' cried Mrs Jo, delighted with the briny flavour of this courtship. 'Oh, my dear boy, I always felt you'd come back, and when everyone else despaired I never gave up, but insisted that you were clinging to the main-top jib somewhere on that dreadful sea'; and Mrs Jo illustrated her faith by grasping Emil with a truly Pillycoddian gesture. 'Of course I was!' answered Emil heartily; 'and my "main-top jib" in this case was the thought of what you and Uncle said to me. That kept me up; and among the million thoughts that came to me during those long nights none was clearer than the idea of the red strand, you remember--English navy, and all that. I liked the notion, and resolved that if a bit of my cable was left afloat, the red stripe should be there.' 'And it was, my dear, it was! Captain Hardy testifies to that, and here is your reward'; and Mrs Jo kissed Mary with a maternal tenderness which betrayed that she liked the English rose better than the blue-eyed German Kornblumen, sweet and modest though it was. Emil surveyed the little ceremony with complacency, saying, as he looked about the room which he never thought to see again: 'Odd, isn't it, how clearly trifles come back to one in times of danger? As we floated there, half-starved, and in despair, I used to think I heard the bells ringing here, and Ted tramping downstairs, and you calling, "Boys, boys, it's time to get up!" I actually smelt the coffee we used to have, and one night I nearly cried when I woke from a dream of Asia's ginger cookies. I declare, it was one of the bitterest disappointments of my life to face hunger with that spicy smell in my nostrils. If you've got any, do give me one!' A pitiful murmur broke from all the aunts and cousins, and Emil was at once borne away to feast on the desired cookies, a supply always being on hand. Mrs Jo and her sister joined the other group, glad to hear what Franz was saying about Nat. 'The minute I saw how thin and shabby he was, I knew that something was wrong; but he made light of it, and was so happy over our visit and news that I let him off with a brief confession, and went to Professor Baumgarten and Bergmann. From them I learned the whole story of his spending more money than he ought and trying to atone for it by unnecessary work and sacrifice. Baumgarten thought it would do him good, so kept his secret till I came. It did him good, and he's paid his debts and earned his bread by the sweat of his brow, like an honest fellow.' 'I like that much in Nat. It is, as I said, a lesson, and he learns it well. He proves himself a man, and has deserved the place Bergmann offers him,' said Mr Bhaer, looking well pleased as Franz added some facts already recorded. 'I told you, Meg, that he had good stuff in him, and love for Daisy would keep him straight. Dear lad, I wish I had him here this moment!' cried Mrs Jo, forgetting in delight the doubts and anxieties which had troubled her for months past. 'I am very glad, and suppose I shall give in as I always do, especially now that the epidemic rages so among us. You and Emil have set all their heads in a ferment, and Josie will be demanding a lover before I can turn round,' answered Mrs Meg, in a tone of despair. But her sister saw that she was touched by Nat's trials, and hastened to add the triumphs, that the victory might be complete, for success is always charming. 'This offer of Herr Bergmann is a good one, isn't it?' she asked, though Mr Laurie had already satisfied her on that point when Nat's letter brought the news. 'Very fine in every way. Nat will get capital drill in Bachmeister's orchestra, see London in a delightful way, and if he suits come home with them, well started among the violins. No great honour, but a sure thing and a step up. I congratulated him, and he was very jolly over it, saying, like the true lover he is: "Tell Daisy; be sure and tell her all about it." I'll leave that to you, Aunt Meg, and you can also break it gently to her that the old boy had a fine blond beard. Very becoming; hides his weak mouth, and gives a noble air to his big eyes and "Mendelssohnian brow", as a gushing girl called it. Ludmilla has a photo of it for you.' This amused them; and they listened to many other interesting bits of news which kind Franz, even in his own happiness, had not forgotten to remember for his friend's sake. He talked so well, and painted Nat's patient and pathetic shifts so vividly, that Mrs Meg was half won; though if she had learned of the Minna episode and the fiddling in beer-gardens and streets, she might not have relented so soon. She stored up all she heard, however, and, womanlike, promised herself a delicious talk with Daisy, in which she would allow herself to melt by degrees, and perhaps change the doubtful 'We shall see' to a cordial 'He has done well; be happy, dear'. In the midst of this agreeable chat the sudden striking of a clock recalled Mrs Jo from romance to reality, and she exclaimed, with a clutch at her crimping-pins: 'My blessed people, you must eat and rest; and I must dress, or receive in this disgraceful rig. Meg, will you take Ludmilla and Mary upstairs and see to them? Franz knows the way to the dining-room. Fritz, come with me and be made tidy, for what with heat and emotion, we are both perfect wrecks.' Chapter 19. WHITE ROSES While the travellers refreshed, and Mrs President struggled into her best gown, Josie ran into the garden to gather flowers for the brides. The sudden arrival of these interesting beings had quite enchanted the romantic girl, and her head was full of heroic rescues, tender admiration, dramatic situations, and feminine wonder as to whether the lovely creatures would wear their veils or not. She was standing before a great bush of white roses, culling the most perfect for the bouquets which she meant to tie with the ribbon festooned over her arm, and lay on the toilette tables of the new cousins, as a delicate attention. A step startled her, and looking up she saw her brother coming down the path with folded arms, bent head, and the absent air of one absorbed in deep thought. 'Sophy Wackles,' said the sharp child, with a superior smile, as she sucked

apprise

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

'Bless me! I always imagined lords and ladies did nothing but ride round in a coach and six, go to balls, and be presented to the Queen in cocked hats, and trains and feathers,' exclaimed an artless young person from the wilds of Maine, whither an illustrated paper occasionally wandered. 'Not at all; Lord Abercrombie is over here studying up our American prison system, and my lady is busy with the schools--both very high-born, but the simplest and most sensible people I've met this long time. They are neither of them young nor handsome, and dress plainly; so don't expect anything splendid. Mr Laurence was telling me last night about a friend of his who met my lord in the hall, and owing to a rough greatcoat and a red face, mistook him for a coachman, and said: "Now, my man, what do you want here?" Lord Abercrombie mildly mentioned who he was, and that he had come to dinner. And the poor host was much afflicted, saying afterward: "Why didn't he wear his stars and garters? then a fellow would know he was a lord."' The girls laughed again, and a general rustle betrayed that each was prinking a bit before the titled guest arrived. Even Mrs Jo settled her collar, and Mrs Meg felt if her cap was right, while Bess shook out her curls and Josie boldly consulted the glass; for they were women, in spite of philosophy and philanthropy. 'Shall we all rise?' asked one girl, deeply impressed by the impending honour. 'It would be courteous.' 'Shall we shake hands?' 'No, I'll present you en masse, and your pleasant faces will be introduction enough.' 'I wish I'd worn my best dress. Ought to have told us,' whispered Sally. 'Won't my folks be surprised when I tell them we have had a real lady to call on us?' said another. 'Don't look as if you'd never seen a gentlewoman before, Milly. We are not all fresh from the wilderness,' added the stately damsel who, having Mayflower ancestors, felt that she was the equal of all the crowned heads of Europe. 'Hush, she's coming! Oh, my heart, what a bonnet!' cried the gay girl in a stage whisper; and every eye was demurely fixed upon the busy hands as the door opened to admit Mrs Laurence and her guest. It was rather a shock to find, after the general introduction was over, that this daughter of a hundred earls was a stout lady in a plain gown, and a rather weather-beaten bonnet, with a bag of papers in one hand and a note-book in the other. But the face was full of benevolence, the sonorous voice very kind, the genial manners very winning, and about the whole person an indescribable air of high breeding which made beauty of no consequence, costume soon forgotten, and the moment memorable to the keen-eyed girls whom nothing escaped. A little chat about the rise, growth, and success of this particular class, and then Mrs Jo led the conversation to the English lady's work, anxious to show her pupils how rank dignifies labour, and charity blesses wealth. It was good for these girls to hear of the evening-schools supported and taught by women whom they knew and honoured; of Miss Cobbe's eloquent protest winning the protection of the law for abused wives; Mrs Butler saving the lost; Mrs Taylor, who devoted one room in her historic house to a library for the servants; Lord Shaftesbury, busy with his new tenement-houses in the slums of London; of prison reforms; and all the brave work being done in God's name by the rich and great for the humble and the poor. It impressed them more than many quiet home lectures would have done, and roused an ambition to help when their time should come, well knowing that even in glorious America there is still plenty to be done before she is what she should be--truly just, and free, and great. They were also quick to see that Lady Abercrombie treated all there as her equals, from stately Mrs Laurence, to little Josie, taking notes of everything and privately resolving to have some thick-soled English boots as soon as possible. No one would have guessed that she had a big house in London, a castle in Wales, and a grand country seat in Scotland, as she spoke of Parnassus with admiration, Plumfield as a 'dear old home', and the college as an honour to all concerned in it. At that, of course, every head went up a little, and when my lady left, every hand was ready for the hearty shake the noble Englishwoman gave them, with words they long remembered: 'I am very pleased to see this much-neglected branch of a woman's education so well conducted here, and I have to thank my friend Mrs Laurence for one of the most charming pictures I've seen in America--Penelope among her maids.' A group of smiling faces watched the stout boots trudge away, respectful glances followed the shabby bonnet till it was out of sight, and the girls felt a truer respect for their titled guest than if she had come in the coach and six, with all her diamonds on. 'I feel better about the "odd jobs" now. I only wish I could do them as well as Lady Abercrombie does,' said one. 'I thanked my stars my buttonholes were nice, for she looked at them and said: "Quite workmanlike, upon my word," added another, feeling that her gingham gown had come to honour. 'Her manners were as sweet and kind as Mrs Brooke's. Not a bit stiff or condescending, as I expected. I see now what you meant, Mrs Bhaer, when you said once that well-bred people were the same all the world over.' Mrs Meg bowed her thanks for the compliment, and Mrs Bhaer said: 'I know them when I see them, but never shall be a model of deportment myself. I'm glad you enjoyed the little visit. Now, if you young people don't want England to get ahead of us in many ways, you must bestir yourselves and keep abreast; for our sisters are in earnest, you see, and don't waste time worrying about their sphere, but make it wherever duty calls them.' 'We will do our best, ma'am,' answered the girls heartily, and trooped away with their work-baskets, feeling that though they might never be Harriet Martineaus, Elizabeth Brownings, or George Eliots, they might become noble, useful, and independent women, and earn for themselves some sweet title from the grateful lips of the poor, better than any a queen could bestow. Chapter 18. CLASS DAY The clerk of the weather evidently has a regard for young people, and sends sunshine for class days as often as he can. An especially lovely one shone over Plumfield as this interesting anniversary came round, bringing the usual accompaniments of roses, strawberries, white-gowned girls, beaming youths, proud friends, and stately dignitaries full of well-earned satisfaction with the yearly harvest. As Laurence College was a mixed one, the presence of young women as students gave to the occasion a grace and animation entirely wanting where the picturesque half of creation appear merely as spectators. The hands that turned the pages of wise books also possessed the skill to decorate the hall with flowers; eyes tired with study shone with hospitable warmth on the assembling guests; and under the white muslins beat hearts as full of ambition, hope, and courage as those agitating the broadcloth of the ruling sex. College Hill, Parnassus, and old Plum swarmed with cheery faces, as guests, students, and professors hurried to and fro in the pleasant excitement of arriving and receiving. Everyone was welcomed cordially, whether he rolled up in a fine carriage, or trudged afoot to see the good son or daughter come to honour on the happy day that rewarded many a mutual sacrifice. Mr Laurie and his wife were on the reception committee, and their lovely house was overflowing. Mrs Meg, with Daisy and Jo as aides, was in demand among the girls, helping on belated toilettes, giving an eye to spreads, and directing the decorations. Mrs Jo had her hands full as President's lady, and the mother of Ted; for it took all the power and skill of that energetic woman to get her son into his Sunday best. Not that he objected to be well arrayed; far from it; he adored good clothes, and owing to his great height already revelled in a dress-suit, bequeathed him by a dandy friend. The effect was very funny; but he would wear it in spite of the jeers of his mates, and sighed vainly for a beaver, because his stern parent drew the line there. He pleaded that English lads of ten wore them and were 'no end nobby'; but his mother only answered, with a consoling pat of the yellow mane: 'My child, you are absurd enough now; if I let you add a tall hat, Plumfield wouldn't hold either of us, such would be the scorn and derision of all beholders. Content yourself with looking like the ghost of a waiter, and don't ask for the most ridiculous head-gear in the known world.' Denied this noble badge of manhood, Ted soothed his wounded soul by appearing in collars of an amazing height and stiffness, and ties which were the wonder of all female eyes. This freak was a sort of vengeance on his hard-hearted mother; for the collars drove the laundress to despair, never being just right, and the ties required such art in the tying that three women sometimes laboured long before--like Beau Brummel--he turned from a heap of 'failures' with the welcome words: 'That will do.' Rob was devoted on these trying occasions, his own toilet being distinguished only by its speed, simplicity, and neatness. Ted was usually in a frenzy before he was suited, and roars, whistles, commands, and groans were heard from the den wherein the Lion raged and the Lamb patiently toiled. Mrs Jo bore it till boots were hurled and a rain of hair-brushes set in, then, fearing for the safety of her eldest, she would go to the rescue, and by a wise mixture of fun and authority finally succeed in persuading Ted that he was 'a thing of beauty', if not 'a joy for ever'. At last he would stalk majestically forth, imprisoned in collars compared to which those worn by Dickens's afflicted Biler were trifles not worth mentioning. The dresscoat was a little loose in the shoulders, but allowed a noble expanse of glossy bosom to be seen, and with a delicate handkerchief negligently drooping at the proper angle, had a truly fine effect. Boots that shone, and likewise pinched, appeared at one end of the 'long, black clothes-pin'--as Josie called him---and a youthful but solemn face at the other, carried at an angle which, if long continued, would have resulted in spinal curvature. Light gloves, a cane, and--oh, bitter drop in the cup of joy!--an ignominious straw hat, not to mention a choice floweret in the buttonhole, and a festoon of watchguard below, finished off this impressive boy. 'How's that for style?' he asked, appearing to his mother and cousins whom he was to escort to the hall on this particular occasion. A shout of laughter greeted him, followed by exclamations of horror; for he had artfully added the little blond moustache he often wore when acting. It was very becoming, and seemed the only balm to heal the wound made by the loss of the beloved hat. 'Take it off this moment, you audacious boy! What would your father say to such a prank on this day when we must all behave our best?' said Mrs Jo, trying to frown, but privately thinking that among the many youths about her none were so beautiful and original as her long son. 'Let him wear it, Aunty; it's so becoming. No one will ever guess he isn't eighteen at least,' cried Josie, to whom disguise of any sort was always charming. 'Father won't observe it; he'll be absorbed in his big-wigs and the girls. No matter if he does, he'll enjoy the joke and introduce me as his oldest son. Rob is nowhere when I'm in full fig'; and Ted took the stage with a tragic stalk, like Hamlet in a tail-coat and choker. 'My son, obey me!' and when Mrs Jo spoke in that tone her word was law. Later, however, the moustache appeared, and many strangers firmly believed that there were three young Bhaers. So Ted found one ray of joy to light his gloom. Mr Bhaer was a proud and happy man when, at the appointed hour, he looked down upon the parterre of youthful faces before him, thinking of the 'little gardens' in which he had hopefully and faithfully sowed good seed years ago, and from which this beautiful harvest seemed to have sprung. Mr March's fine old face shone with the serenest satisfaction, for this was the dream of his life fulfilled after patient waiting; and the love and reverence in the countenances of the eager young men and women looking up at him plainly showed that the reward he coveted was his in fullest measure. Laurie always effaced himself on these occasions as much as courtesy would permit; for everyone spoke gratefully in ode, poem, and oration of the founder of the college and noble dispenser of his beneficence. The three sisters beamed with pride as they sat among the ladies, enjoying, as only women can, the honour done the men they loved; while 'the original Plums', as the younger ones called themselves, regarded the whole affair as their work, receiving the curious, admiring, or envious glances of strangers with a mixture of dignity and delight rather comical to behold. The music was excellent, and well it might be when Apollo waved the baton. The poems were--as usual on such occasions--of varied excellence, as the youthful speakers tried to put old truths into new words, and made them forceful by the enthusiasm of their earnest faces and fresh voices. It was beautiful to see the eager interest with which the girls listened to some brilliant brother-student, and applauded him with a rustle as of wind over a bed of flowers. It was still more significant and pleasant to watch the young men's faces when a slender white figure stood out against the background of black-coated dignitaries, and with cheeks that flushed and paled, and lips that trembled till earnest purpose conquered maiden fear, spoke to them straight out of a woman's heart and brain concerning the hopes and doubts, the aspirations and rewards all must know, desire, and labour for. This clear, sweet voice seemed to reach and rouse all that was noblest in the souls of these youths, and to set a seal upon the years of comradeship which made them sacred and memorable for ever. Alice Heath's oration was unanimously pronounced the success of the day; for without being flowery or sentimental, as is too apt to be the case with these first efforts of youthful orators, it was earnest, sensible, and so inspiring that she left the stage in a storm of applause, the good fellows being as much fired by her stirring appeal to 'march shoulder to shoulder', as if she had chanted the 'Marseillaise' then and there. One young man was so excited that he nearly rushed out of his seat to receive her as she hastened to hide herself among her mates, who welcomed her with faces full of tender pride and tearful eye. A prudent sister detained him, however, and in a moment he was able to listen with composure to the President's remarks. They were worth listening to, for Mr Bhaer spoke like a father to the children whom he was dismissing to the battle of life; and his tender, wise, and helpful words lingered in their hearts long after the praise was forgotten. Then came other exercises peculiar to Plumfield, and the end. Why the roof did not fly off when the sturdy lungs of the excited young men pealed out the closing hymn will for ever be a mystery; but it remained firm, and only the fading garlands vibrated as the waves of music rolled up and died away, leaving sweet echoes to haunt the place for another year. Dinners and spreads consumed the afternoon, and at sunset came a slight lull as everyone sought some brief repose before the festivities of the evening began. The President's reception was one of the enjoyable things in store, also dancing on Parnassus, and as much strolling, singing, and flirting, as could be compressed into a few hours by youths and maidens just out of school. Carriages were rolling about, and gay groups on piazzas, lawns, and window-seats idly speculated as to who the distinguished guests might be. The appearance of a very dusty vehicle loaded with trunks at Mr Bhaer's hospitably open door caused much curious comment among the loungers, especially as two rather foreign-looking gentlemen sprang out, followed by two young ladies, all four being greeted with cries of joy and much embracing by the Bhaers. Then they all disappeared into the house, the luggage followed, and the watchers were left to wonder who the mysterious strangers were, till a fair collegian declared that they must be the Professor's nephews, one of whom was expected on his wedding journey. She was right; Franz proudly presented his blonde and buxom bride, and she was hardly kissed and blessed when Emil led up his bonny English Mary, with the rapturous announcement: 'Uncle, Aunt Jo, here's another daughter! Have you room for my wife, too?' There could be no doubt of that; and Mary was with difficulty rescued from the glad embraces of her new relatives, who, remembering all the young pair had suffered together, felt that this was the natural and happy ending of the long voyage so perilously begun. 'But why not tell us, and let us be ready for two brides instead of one?' asked Mrs Jo, looking as usual rather demoralizing in a wrapper and crimping-pins, having rushed down from her chamber, where she was preparing for the labours of the evening. 'Well, I remembered what a good joke you all considered Uncle Laurie's marriage, and I thought I'd give you another nice little surprise,' laughed Emil. 'I'm off duty, and it seemed best to take advantage of wind and tide, and come along as convoy to the old boy here. We hoped to get in last night, but couldn't fetch it, so here we are in time for the end of the jollification, anyway.' 'Ah, my sons, it is too feeling-full to see you both so happy and again in the old home. I haf no words to outpour my gratitude, and can only ask of the dear Gott in Himmel to bless and keep you all,' cried Professor Bhaer, trying to gather all four into his arms at once, while tears rolled down his cheeks, and his English failed him. An April shower cleared the air and relieved the full hearts of the happy family; then of course everyone began to talk--Franz and Ludmilla in German with uncle, Emil and Mary with the aunts; and round this group gathered the young folk, clamouring to hear all about the wreck, and the rescue, and the homeward voyage. It was a very different story from the written one; and as they listened to Emil's graphic words, with Mary's soft voice breaking in now and then to add some fact that brought out the courage, patience, and self-sacrifice he so lightly touched upon, it became a solemn and pathetic thing to see and hear these happy creatures tell of that great danger and deliverance. 'I never hear the patter of rain now that I don't want to say my prayers; and as for women, I'd like to take my hat off to every one of 'em, for they are braver than any man I ever saw,' said Emil, with the new gravity that was as becoming to him as the new gentleness with which he treated everyone. 'If women are brave, some men are as tender and self-sacrificing as women. I know one who in the night slipped his share of food into a girl's pocket, though starving himself, and sat for hours rocking a sick man in his arms that he might get a little sleep. No, love, I will tell, and you must let me!' cried Mary, holding in both her own the hand he laid on her lips to silence her. 'Only did my duty. If that torment had lasted much longer I might have been as bad as poor Barry and the boatswain. Wasn't that an awful night?' And Emil shuddered as he recalled it. 'Don't think of it, dear. Tell about the happy days on the Urania, when papa grew better and we were all safe and homeward bound,' said Mary, with the trusting look and comforting touch which seemed to banish the dark and recall the bright side of that terrible experience. Emil cheered up at once, and sitting with his arm about his 'dear lass', in true sailor fashion told the happy ending of the tale. 'Such a jolly old time as we had at Hamburg! Uncle Hermann couldn't do enough for the captain, and while mamma took care of him, Mary looked after me. I had to go into dock for repairs; fire hurt my eyes, and watching for a sail and want of sleep made 'em as hazy as a London fog. She was pilot and brought me in all right, you see, only I couldn't part company, so she came aboard as first mate, and I'm bound straight for glory now.' 'Hush! that's silly, dear,' whispered Mary, trying in her turn to stop him, with English shyness about tender topics. But he took the soft hand in his, and proudly surveying the one ring it wore, went on with the air of an admiral aboard his flagship. 'The captain proposed waiting a spell; but I told him we weren't like to see any rougher weather than we'd pulled through together, and if we didn't know one another after such a year as this, we never should. I was sure I shouldn't be worth my pay without this hand on the wheel; so I had my way, and my brave little woman has shipped for the long voyage. God bless her!' 'Shall you really sail with him?' asked Daisy, admiring her courage, but shrinking with cat-like horror from the water. 'I'm not afraid,' answered Mary, with a loyal smile. 'I've proved my captain in fair weather and in foul, and if he is ever wrecked again, I'd rather be with him than waiting and watching ashore.' 'A true woman, and a born sailor's wife! You are a happy man, Emil, and I'm sure this trip will be a prosperous one,' cried Mrs Jo, delighted with the briny flavour of this courtship. 'Oh, my dear boy, I always felt you'd come back, and when everyone else despaired I never gave up, but insisted that you were clinging to the main-top jib somewhere on that dreadful sea'; and Mrs Jo illustrated her faith by grasping Emil with a truly Pillycoddian gesture. 'Of course I was!' answered Emil heartily; 'and my "main-top jib" in this case was the thought of what you and Uncle said to me. That kept me up; and among the million thoughts that came to me during those long nights none was clearer than the idea of the red strand, you remember--English navy, and all that. I liked the notion, and resolved that if a bit of my cable was left afloat, the red stripe should be there.' 'And it was, my dear, it was! Captain Hardy testifies to that, and here is your reward'; and Mrs Jo kissed Mary with a maternal tenderness which betrayed that she liked the English rose better than the blue-eyed German Kornblumen, sweet and modest though it was. Emil surveyed the little ceremony with complacency, saying, as he looked about the room which he never thought to see again: 'Odd, isn't it, how clearly trifles come back to one in times of danger? As we floated there, half-starved, and in despair, I used to think I heard the bells ringing here, and Ted tramping downstairs, and you calling, "Boys, boys, it's time to get up!" I actually smelt the coffee we used to have, and one night I nearly cried when I woke from a dream of Asia's ginger cookies. I declare, it was one of the bitterest disappointments of my life to face hunger with that spicy smell in my nostrils. If you've got any, do give me one!' A pitiful murmur broke from all the aunts and cousins, and Emil was at once borne away to feast on the desired cookies, a supply always being on hand. Mrs Jo and her sister joined the other group, glad to hear what Franz was saying about Nat. 'The minute I saw how thin and shabby he was, I knew that something was wrong; but he made light of it, and was so happy over our visit and news that I let him off with a brief confession, and went to Professor Baumgarten and Bergmann. From them I learned the whole story of his spending more money than he ought and trying to atone for it by unnecessary work and sacrifice. Baumgarten thought it would do him good, so kept his secret till I came. It did him good, and he's paid his debts and earned his bread by the sweat of his brow, like an honest fellow.' 'I like that much in Nat. It is, as I said, a lesson, and he learns it well. He proves himself a man, and has deserved the place Bergmann offers him,' said Mr Bhaer, looking well pleased as Franz added some facts already recorded. 'I told you, Meg, that he had good stuff in him, and love for Daisy would keep him straight. Dear lad, I wish I had him here this moment!' cried Mrs Jo, forgetting in delight the doubts and anxieties which had troubled her for months past. 'I am very glad, and suppose I shall give in as I always do, especially now that the epidemic rages so among us. You and Emil have set all their heads in a ferment, and Josie will be demanding a lover before I can turn round,' answered Mrs Meg, in a tone of despair. But her sister saw that she was touched by Nat's trials, and hastened to add the triumphs, that the victory might be complete, for success is always charming. 'This offer of Herr Bergmann is a good one, isn't it?' she asked, though Mr Laurie had already satisfied her on that point when Nat's letter brought the news. 'Very fine in every way. Nat will get capital drill in Bachmeister's orchestra, see London in a delightful way, and if he suits come home with them, well started among the violins. No great honour, but a sure thing and a step up. I congratulated him, and he was very jolly over it, saying, like the true lover he is: "Tell Daisy; be sure and tell her all about it." I'll leave that to you, Aunt Meg, and you can also break it gently to her that the old boy had a fine blond beard. Very becoming; hides his weak mouth, and gives a noble air to his big eyes and "Mendelssohnian brow", as a gushing girl called it. Ludmilla has a photo of it for you.' This amused them; and they listened to many other interesting bits of news which kind Franz, even in his own happiness, had not forgotten to remember for his friend's sake. He talked so well, and painted Nat's patient and pathetic shifts so vividly, that Mrs Meg was half won; though if she had learned of the Minna episode and the fiddling in beer-gardens and streets, she might not have relented so soon. She stored up all she heard, however, and, womanlike, promised herself a delicious talk with Daisy, in which she would allow herself to melt by degrees, and perhaps change the doubtful 'We shall see' to a cordial 'He has done well; be happy, dear'. In the midst of this agreeable chat the sudden striking of a clock recalled Mrs Jo from romance to reality, and she exclaimed, with a clutch at her crimping-pins: 'My blessed people, you must eat and rest; and I must dress, or receive in this disgraceful rig. Meg, will you take Ludmilla and Mary upstairs and see to them? Franz knows the way to the dining-room. Fritz, come with me and be made tidy, for what with heat and emotion, we are both perfect wrecks.' Chapter 19. WHITE ROSES While the travellers refreshed, and Mrs President struggled into her best gown, Josie ran into the garden to gather flowers for the brides. The sudden arrival of these interesting beings had quite enchanted the romantic girl, and her head was full of heroic rescues, tender admiration, dramatic situations, and feminine wonder as to whether the lovely creatures would wear their veils or not. She was standing before a great bush of white roses, culling the most perfect for the bouquets which she meant to tie with the ribbon festooned over her arm, and lay on the toilette tables of the new cousins, as a delicate attention. A step startled her, and looking up she saw her brother coming down the path with folded arms, bent head, and the absent air of one absorbed in deep thought. 'Sophy Wackles,' said the sharp child, with a superior smile, as she sucked

manners

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

'Bless me! I always imagined lords and ladies did nothing but ride round in a coach and six, go to balls, and be presented to the Queen in cocked hats, and trains and feathers,' exclaimed an artless young person from the wilds of Maine, whither an illustrated paper occasionally wandered. 'Not at all; Lord Abercrombie is over here studying up our American prison system, and my lady is busy with the schools--both very high-born, but the simplest and most sensible people I've met this long time. They are neither of them young nor handsome, and dress plainly; so don't expect anything splendid. Mr Laurence was telling me last night about a friend of his who met my lord in the hall, and owing to a rough greatcoat and a red face, mistook him for a coachman, and said: "Now, my man, what do you want here?" Lord Abercrombie mildly mentioned who he was, and that he had come to dinner. And the poor host was much afflicted, saying afterward: "Why didn't he wear his stars and garters? then a fellow would know he was a lord."' The girls laughed again, and a general rustle betrayed that each was prinking a bit before the titled guest arrived. Even Mrs Jo settled her collar, and Mrs Meg felt if her cap was right, while Bess shook out her curls and Josie boldly consulted the glass; for they were women, in spite of philosophy and philanthropy. 'Shall we all rise?' asked one girl, deeply impressed by the impending honour. 'It would be courteous.' 'Shall we shake hands?' 'No, I'll present you en masse, and your pleasant faces will be introduction enough.' 'I wish I'd worn my best dress. Ought to have told us,' whispered Sally. 'Won't my folks be surprised when I tell them we have had a real lady to call on us?' said another. 'Don't look as if you'd never seen a gentlewoman before, Milly. We are not all fresh from the wilderness,' added the stately damsel who, having Mayflower ancestors, felt that she was the equal of all the crowned heads of Europe. 'Hush, she's coming! Oh, my heart, what a bonnet!' cried the gay girl in a stage whisper; and every eye was demurely fixed upon the busy hands as the door opened to admit Mrs Laurence and her guest. It was rather a shock to find, after the general introduction was over, that this daughter of a hundred earls was a stout lady in a plain gown, and a rather weather-beaten bonnet, with a bag of papers in one hand and a note-book in the other. But the face was full of benevolence, the sonorous voice very kind, the genial manners very winning, and about the whole person an indescribable air of high breeding which made beauty of no consequence, costume soon forgotten, and the moment memorable to the keen-eyed girls whom nothing escaped. A little chat about the rise, growth, and success of this particular class, and then Mrs Jo led the conversation to the English lady's work, anxious to show her pupils how rank dignifies labour, and charity blesses wealth. It was good for these girls to hear of the evening-schools supported and taught by women whom they knew and honoured; of Miss Cobbe's eloquent protest winning the protection of the law for abused wives; Mrs Butler saving the lost; Mrs Taylor, who devoted one room in her historic house to a library for the servants; Lord Shaftesbury, busy with his new tenement-houses in the slums of London; of prison reforms; and all the brave work being done in God's name by the rich and great for the humble and the poor. It impressed them more than many quiet home lectures would have done, and roused an ambition to help when their time should come, well knowing that even in glorious America there is still plenty to be done before she is what she should be--truly just, and free, and great. They were also quick to see that Lady Abercrombie treated all there as her equals, from stately Mrs Laurence, to little Josie, taking notes of everything and privately resolving to have some thick-soled English boots as soon as possible. No one would have guessed that she had a big house in London, a castle in Wales, and a grand country seat in Scotland, as she spoke of Parnassus with admiration, Plumfield as a 'dear old home', and the college as an honour to all concerned in it. At that, of course, every head went up a little, and when my lady left, every hand was ready for the hearty shake the noble Englishwoman gave them, with words they long remembered: 'I am very pleased to see this much-neglected branch of a woman's education so well conducted here, and I have to thank my friend Mrs Laurence for one of the most charming pictures I've seen in America--Penelope among her maids.' A group of smiling faces watched the stout boots trudge away, respectful glances followed the shabby bonnet till it was out of sight, and the girls felt a truer respect for their titled guest than if she had come in the coach and six, with all her diamonds on. 'I feel better about the "odd jobs" now. I only wish I could do them as well as Lady Abercrombie does,' said one. 'I thanked my stars my buttonholes were nice, for she looked at them and said: "Quite workmanlike, upon my word," added another, feeling that her gingham gown had come to honour. 'Her manners were as sweet and kind as Mrs Brooke's. Not a bit stiff or condescending, as I expected. I see now what you meant, Mrs Bhaer, when you said once that well-bred people were the same all the world over.' Mrs Meg bowed her thanks for the compliment, and Mrs Bhaer said: 'I know them when I see them, but never shall be a model of deportment myself. I'm glad you enjoyed the little visit. Now, if you young people don't want England to get ahead of us in many ways, you must bestir yourselves and keep abreast; for our sisters are in earnest, you see, and don't waste time worrying about their sphere, but make it wherever duty calls them.' 'We will do our best, ma'am,' answered the girls heartily, and trooped away with their work-baskets, feeling that though they might never be Harriet Martineaus, Elizabeth Brownings, or George Eliots, they might become noble, useful, and independent women, and earn for themselves some sweet title from the grateful lips of the poor, better than any a queen could bestow. Chapter 18. CLASS DAY The clerk of the weather evidently has a regard for young people, and sends sunshine for class days as often as he can. An especially lovely one shone over Plumfield as this interesting anniversary came round, bringing the usual accompaniments of roses, strawberries, white-gowned girls, beaming youths, proud friends, and stately dignitaries full of well-earned satisfaction with the yearly harvest. As Laurence College was a mixed one, the presence of young women as students gave to the occasion a grace and animation entirely wanting where the picturesque half of creation appear merely as spectators. The hands that turned the pages of wise books also possessed the skill to decorate the hall with flowers; eyes tired with study shone with hospitable warmth on the assembling guests; and under the white muslins beat hearts as full of ambition, hope, and courage as those agitating the broadcloth of the ruling sex. College Hill, Parnassus, and old Plum swarmed with cheery faces, as guests, students, and professors hurried to and fro in the pleasant excitement of arriving and receiving. Everyone was welcomed cordially, whether he rolled up in a fine carriage, or trudged afoot to see the good son or daughter come to honour on the happy day that rewarded many a mutual sacrifice. Mr Laurie and his wife were on the reception committee, and their lovely house was overflowing. Mrs Meg, with Daisy and Jo as aides, was in demand among the girls, helping on belated toilettes, giving an eye to spreads, and directing the decorations. Mrs Jo had her hands full as President's lady, and the mother of Ted; for it took all the power and skill of that energetic woman to get her son into his Sunday best. Not that he objected to be well arrayed; far from it; he adored good clothes, and owing to his great height already revelled in a dress-suit, bequeathed him by a dandy friend. The effect was very funny; but he would wear it in spite of the jeers of his mates, and sighed vainly for a beaver, because his stern parent drew the line there. He pleaded that English lads of ten wore them and were 'no end nobby'; but his mother only answered, with a consoling pat of the yellow mane: 'My child, you are absurd enough now; if I let you add a tall hat, Plumfield wouldn't hold either of us, such would be the scorn and derision of all beholders. Content yourself with looking like the ghost of a waiter, and don't ask for the most ridiculous head-gear in the known world.' Denied this noble badge of manhood, Ted soothed his wounded soul by appearing in collars of an amazing height and stiffness, and ties which were the wonder of all female eyes. This freak was a sort of vengeance on his hard-hearted mother; for the collars drove the laundress to despair, never being just right, and the ties required such art in the tying that three women sometimes laboured long before--like Beau Brummel--he turned from a heap of 'failures' with the welcome words: 'That will do.' Rob was devoted on these trying occasions, his own toilet being distinguished only by its speed, simplicity, and neatness. Ted was usually in a frenzy before he was suited, and roars, whistles, commands, and groans were heard from the den wherein the Lion raged and the Lamb patiently toiled. Mrs Jo bore it till boots were hurled and a rain of hair-brushes set in, then, fearing for the safety of her eldest, she would go to the rescue, and by a wise mixture of fun and authority finally succeed in persuading Ted that he was 'a thing of beauty', if not 'a joy for ever'. At last he would stalk majestically forth, imprisoned in collars compared to which those worn by Dickens's afflicted Biler were trifles not worth mentioning. The dresscoat was a little loose in the shoulders, but allowed a noble expanse of glossy bosom to be seen, and with a delicate handkerchief negligently drooping at the proper angle, had a truly fine effect. Boots that shone, and likewise pinched, appeared at one end of the 'long, black clothes-pin'--as Josie called him---and a youthful but solemn face at the other, carried at an angle which, if long continued, would have resulted in spinal curvature. Light gloves, a cane, and--oh, bitter drop in the cup of joy!--an ignominious straw hat, not to mention a choice floweret in the buttonhole, and a festoon of watchguard below, finished off this impressive boy. 'How's that for style?' he asked, appearing to his mother and cousins whom he was to escort to the hall on this particular occasion. A shout of laughter greeted him, followed by exclamations of horror; for he had artfully added the little blond moustache he often wore when acting. It was very becoming, and seemed the only balm to heal the wound made by the loss of the beloved hat. 'Take it off this moment, you audacious boy! What would your father say to such a prank on this day when we must all behave our best?' said Mrs Jo, trying to frown, but privately thinking that among the many youths about her none were so beautiful and original as her long son. 'Let him wear it, Aunty; it's so becoming. No one will ever guess he isn't eighteen at least,' cried Josie, to whom disguise of any sort was always charming. 'Father won't observe it; he'll be absorbed in his big-wigs and the girls. No matter if he does, he'll enjoy the joke and introduce me as his oldest son. Rob is nowhere when I'm in full fig'; and Ted took the stage with a tragic stalk, like Hamlet in a tail-coat and choker. 'My son, obey me!' and when Mrs Jo spoke in that tone her word was law. Later, however, the moustache appeared, and many strangers firmly believed that there were three young Bhaers. So Ted found one ray of joy to light his gloom. Mr Bhaer was a proud and happy man when, at the appointed hour, he looked down upon the parterre of youthful faces before him, thinking of the 'little gardens' in which he had hopefully and faithfully sowed good seed years ago, and from which this beautiful harvest seemed to have sprung. Mr March's fine old face shone with the serenest satisfaction, for this was the dream of his life fulfilled after patient waiting; and the love and reverence in the countenances of the eager young men and women looking up at him plainly showed that the reward he coveted was his in fullest measure. Laurie always effaced himself on these occasions as much as courtesy would permit; for everyone spoke gratefully in ode, poem, and oration of the founder of the college and noble dispenser of his beneficence. The three sisters beamed with pride as they sat among the ladies, enjoying, as only women can, the honour done the men they loved; while 'the original Plums', as the younger ones called themselves, regarded the whole affair as their work, receiving the curious, admiring, or envious glances of strangers with a mixture of dignity and delight rather comical to behold. The music was excellent, and well it might be when Apollo waved the baton. The poems were--as usual on such occasions--of varied excellence, as the youthful speakers tried to put old truths into new words, and made them forceful by the enthusiasm of their earnest faces and fresh voices. It was beautiful to see the eager interest with which the girls listened to some brilliant brother-student, and applauded him with a rustle as of wind over a bed of flowers. It was still more significant and pleasant to watch the young men's faces when a slender white figure stood out against the background of black-coated dignitaries, and with cheeks that flushed and paled, and lips that trembled till earnest purpose conquered maiden fear, spoke to them straight out of a woman's heart and brain concerning the hopes and doubts, the aspirations and rewards all must know, desire, and labour for. This clear, sweet voice seemed to reach and rouse all that was noblest in the souls of these youths, and to set a seal upon the years of comradeship which made them sacred and memorable for ever. Alice Heath's oration was unanimously pronounced the success of the day; for without being flowery or sentimental, as is too apt to be the case with these first efforts of youthful orators, it was earnest, sensible, and so inspiring that she left the stage in a storm of applause, the good fellows being as much fired by her stirring appeal to 'march shoulder to shoulder', as if she had chanted the 'Marseillaise' then and there. One young man was so excited that he nearly rushed out of his seat to receive her as she hastened to hide herself among her mates, who welcomed her with faces full of tender pride and tearful eye. A prudent sister detained him, however, and in a moment he was able to listen with composure to the President's remarks. They were worth listening to, for Mr Bhaer spoke like a father to the children whom he was dismissing to the battle of life; and his tender, wise, and helpful words lingered in their hearts long after the praise was forgotten. Then came other exercises peculiar to Plumfield, and the end. Why the roof did not fly off when the sturdy lungs of the excited young men pealed out the closing hymn will for ever be a mystery; but it remained firm, and only the fading garlands vibrated as the waves of music rolled up and died away, leaving sweet echoes to haunt the place for another year. Dinners and spreads consumed the afternoon, and at sunset came a slight lull as everyone sought some brief repose before the festivities of the evening began. The President's reception was one of the enjoyable things in store, also dancing on Parnassus, and as much strolling, singing, and flirting, as could be compressed into a few hours by youths and maidens just out of school. Carriages were rolling about, and gay groups on piazzas, lawns, and window-seats idly speculated as to who the distinguished guests might be. The appearance of a very dusty vehicle loaded with trunks at Mr Bhaer's hospitably open door caused much curious comment among the loungers, especially as two rather foreign-looking gentlemen sprang out, followed by two young ladies, all four being greeted with cries of joy and much embracing by the Bhaers. Then they all disappeared into the house, the luggage followed, and the watchers were left to wonder who the mysterious strangers were, till a fair collegian declared that they must be the Professor's nephews, one of whom was expected on his wedding journey. She was right; Franz proudly presented his blonde and buxom bride, and she was hardly kissed and blessed when Emil led up his bonny English Mary, with the rapturous announcement: 'Uncle, Aunt Jo, here's another daughter! Have you room for my wife, too?' There could be no doubt of that; and Mary was with difficulty rescued from the glad embraces of her new relatives, who, remembering all the young pair had suffered together, felt that this was the natural and happy ending of the long voyage so perilously begun. 'But why not tell us, and let us be ready for two brides instead of one?' asked Mrs Jo, looking as usual rather demoralizing in a wrapper and crimping-pins, having rushed down from her chamber, where she was preparing for the labours of the evening. 'Well, I remembered what a good joke you all considered Uncle Laurie's marriage, and I thought I'd give you another nice little surprise,' laughed Emil. 'I'm off duty, and it seemed best to take advantage of wind and tide, and come along as convoy to the old boy here. We hoped to get in last night, but couldn't fetch it, so here we are in time for the end of the jollification, anyway.' 'Ah, my sons, it is too feeling-full to see you both so happy and again in the old home. I haf no words to outpour my gratitude, and can only ask of the dear Gott in Himmel to bless and keep you all,' cried Professor Bhaer, trying to gather all four into his arms at once, while tears rolled down his cheeks, and his English failed him. An April shower cleared the air and relieved the full hearts of the happy family; then of course everyone began to talk--Franz and Ludmilla in German with uncle, Emil and Mary with the aunts; and round this group gathered the young folk, clamouring to hear all about the wreck, and the rescue, and the homeward voyage. It was a very different story from the written one; and as they listened to Emil's graphic words, with Mary's soft voice breaking in now and then to add some fact that brought out the courage, patience, and self-sacrifice he so lightly touched upon, it became a solemn and pathetic thing to see and hear these happy creatures tell of that great danger and deliverance. 'I never hear the patter of rain now that I don't want to say my prayers; and as for women, I'd like to take my hat off to every one of 'em, for they are braver than any man I ever saw,' said Emil, with the new gravity that was as becoming to him as the new gentleness with which he treated everyone. 'If women are brave, some men are as tender and self-sacrificing as women. I know one who in the night slipped his share of food into a girl's pocket, though starving himself, and sat for hours rocking a sick man in his arms that he might get a little sleep. No, love, I will tell, and you must let me!' cried Mary, holding in both her own the hand he laid on her lips to silence her. 'Only did my duty. If that torment had lasted much longer I might have been as bad as poor Barry and the boatswain. Wasn't that an awful night?' And Emil shuddered as he recalled it. 'Don't think of it, dear. Tell about the happy days on the Urania, when papa grew better and we were all safe and homeward bound,' said Mary, with the trusting look and comforting touch which seemed to banish the dark and recall the bright side of that terrible experience. Emil cheered up at once, and sitting with his arm about his 'dear lass', in true sailor fashion told the happy ending of the tale. 'Such a jolly old time as we had at Hamburg! Uncle Hermann couldn't do enough for the captain, and while mamma took care of him, Mary looked after me. I had to go into dock for repairs; fire hurt my eyes, and watching for a sail and want of sleep made 'em as hazy as a London fog. She was pilot and brought me in all right, you see, only I couldn't part company, so she came aboard as first mate, and I'm bound straight for glory now.' 'Hush! that's silly, dear,' whispered Mary, trying in her turn to stop him, with English shyness about tender topics. But he took the soft hand in his, and proudly surveying the one ring it wore, went on with the air of an admiral aboard his flagship. 'The captain proposed waiting a spell; but I told him we weren't like to see any rougher weather than we'd pulled through together, and if we didn't know one another after such a year as this, we never should. I was sure I shouldn't be worth my pay without this hand on the wheel; so I had my way, and my brave little woman has shipped for the long voyage. God bless her!' 'Shall you really sail with him?' asked Daisy, admiring her courage, but shrinking with cat-like horror from the water. 'I'm not afraid,' answered Mary, with a loyal smile. 'I've proved my captain in fair weather and in foul, and if he is ever wrecked again, I'd rather be with him than waiting and watching ashore.' 'A true woman, and a born sailor's wife! You are a happy man, Emil, and I'm sure this trip will be a prosperous one,' cried Mrs Jo, delighted with the briny flavour of this courtship. 'Oh, my dear boy, I always felt you'd come back, and when everyone else despaired I never gave up, but insisted that you were clinging to the main-top jib somewhere on that dreadful sea'; and Mrs Jo illustrated her faith by grasping Emil with a truly Pillycoddian gesture. 'Of course I was!' answered Emil heartily; 'and my "main-top jib" in this case was the thought of what you and Uncle said to me. That kept me up; and among the million thoughts that came to me during those long nights none was clearer than the idea of the red strand, you remember--English navy, and all that. I liked the notion, and resolved that if a bit of my cable was left afloat, the red stripe should be there.' 'And it was, my dear, it was! Captain Hardy testifies to that, and here is your reward'; and Mrs Jo kissed Mary with a maternal tenderness which betrayed that she liked the English rose better than the blue-eyed German Kornblumen, sweet and modest though it was. Emil surveyed the little ceremony with complacency, saying, as he looked about the room which he never thought to see again: 'Odd, isn't it, how clearly trifles come back to one in times of danger? As we floated there, half-starved, and in despair, I used to think I heard the bells ringing here, and Ted tramping downstairs, and you calling, "Boys, boys, it's time to get up!" I actually smelt the coffee we used to have, and one night I nearly cried when I woke from a dream of Asia's ginger cookies. I declare, it was one of the bitterest disappointments of my life to face hunger with that spicy smell in my nostrils. If you've got any, do give me one!' A pitiful murmur broke from all the aunts and cousins, and Emil was at once borne away to feast on the desired cookies, a supply always being on hand. Mrs Jo and her sister joined the other group, glad to hear what Franz was saying about Nat. 'The minute I saw how thin and shabby he was, I knew that something was wrong; but he made light of it, and was so happy over our visit and news that I let him off with a brief confession, and went to Professor Baumgarten and Bergmann. From them I learned the whole story of his spending more money than he ought and trying to atone for it by unnecessary work and sacrifice. Baumgarten thought it would do him good, so kept his secret till I came. It did him good, and he's paid his debts and earned his bread by the sweat of his brow, like an honest fellow.' 'I like that much in Nat. It is, as I said, a lesson, and he learns it well. He proves himself a man, and has deserved the place Bergmann offers him,' said Mr Bhaer, looking well pleased as Franz added some facts already recorded. 'I told you, Meg, that he had good stuff in him, and love for Daisy would keep him straight. Dear lad, I wish I had him here this moment!' cried Mrs Jo, forgetting in delight the doubts and anxieties which had troubled her for months past. 'I am very glad, and suppose I shall give in as I always do, especially now that the epidemic rages so among us. You and Emil have set all their heads in a ferment, and Josie will be demanding a lover before I can turn round,' answered Mrs Meg, in a tone of despair. But her sister saw that she was touched by Nat's trials, and hastened to add the triumphs, that the victory might be complete, for success is always charming. 'This offer of Herr Bergmann is a good one, isn't it?' she asked, though Mr Laurie had already satisfied her on that point when Nat's letter brought the news. 'Very fine in every way. Nat will get capital drill in Bachmeister's orchestra, see London in a delightful way, and if he suits come home with them, well started among the violins. No great honour, but a sure thing and a step up. I congratulated him, and he was very jolly over it, saying, like the true lover he is: "Tell Daisy; be sure and tell her all about it." I'll leave that to you, Aunt Meg, and you can also break it gently to her that the old boy had a fine blond beard. Very becoming; hides his weak mouth, and gives a noble air to his big eyes and "Mendelssohnian brow", as a gushing girl called it. Ludmilla has a photo of it for you.' This amused them; and they listened to many other interesting bits of news which kind Franz, even in his own happiness, had not forgotten to remember for his friend's sake. He talked so well, and painted Nat's patient and pathetic shifts so vividly, that Mrs Meg was half won; though if she had learned of the Minna episode and the fiddling in beer-gardens and streets, she might not have relented so soon. She stored up all she heard, however, and, womanlike, promised herself a delicious talk with Daisy, in which she would allow herself to melt by degrees, and perhaps change the doubtful 'We shall see' to a cordial 'He has done well; be happy, dear'. In the midst of this agreeable chat the sudden striking of a clock recalled Mrs Jo from romance to reality, and she exclaimed, with a clutch at her crimping-pins: 'My blessed people, you must eat and rest; and I must dress, or receive in this disgraceful rig. Meg, will you take Ludmilla and Mary upstairs and see to them? Franz knows the way to the dining-room. Fritz, come with me and be made tidy, for what with heat and emotion, we are both perfect wrecks.' Chapter 19. WHITE ROSES While the travellers refreshed, and Mrs President struggled into her best gown, Josie ran into the garden to gather flowers for the brides. The sudden arrival of these interesting beings had quite enchanted the romantic girl, and her head was full of heroic rescues, tender admiration, dramatic situations, and feminine wonder as to whether the lovely creatures would wear their veils or not. She was standing before a great bush of white roses, culling the most perfect for the bouquets which she meant to tie with the ribbon festooned over her arm, and lay on the toilette tables of the new cousins, as a delicate attention. A step startled her, and looking up she saw her brother coming down the path with folded arms, bent head, and the absent air of one absorbed in deep thought. 'Sophy Wackles,' said the sharp child, with a superior smile, as she sucked

schools

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

'Bless me! I always imagined lords and ladies did nothing but ride round in a coach and six, go to balls, and be presented to the Queen in cocked hats, and trains and feathers,' exclaimed an artless young person from the wilds of Maine, whither an illustrated paper occasionally wandered. 'Not at all; Lord Abercrombie is over here studying up our American prison system, and my lady is busy with the schools--both very high-born, but the simplest and most sensible people I've met this long time. They are neither of them young nor handsome, and dress plainly; so don't expect anything splendid. Mr Laurence was telling me last night about a friend of his who met my lord in the hall, and owing to a rough greatcoat and a red face, mistook him for a coachman, and said: "Now, my man, what do you want here?" Lord Abercrombie mildly mentioned who he was, and that he had come to dinner. And the poor host was much afflicted, saying afterward: "Why didn't he wear his stars and garters? then a fellow would know he was a lord."' The girls laughed again, and a general rustle betrayed that each was prinking a bit before the titled guest arrived. Even Mrs Jo settled her collar, and Mrs Meg felt if her cap was right, while Bess shook out her curls and Josie boldly consulted the glass; for they were women, in spite of philosophy and philanthropy. 'Shall we all rise?' asked one girl, deeply impressed by the impending honour. 'It would be courteous.' 'Shall we shake hands?' 'No, I'll present you en masse, and your pleasant faces will be introduction enough.' 'I wish I'd worn my best dress. Ought to have told us,' whispered Sally. 'Won't my folks be surprised when I tell them we have had a real lady to call on us?' said another. 'Don't look as if you'd never seen a gentlewoman before, Milly. We are not all fresh from the wilderness,' added the stately damsel who, having Mayflower ancestors, felt that she was the equal of all the crowned heads of Europe. 'Hush, she's coming! Oh, my heart, what a bonnet!' cried the gay girl in a stage whisper; and every eye was demurely fixed upon the busy hands as the door opened to admit Mrs Laurence and her guest. It was rather a shock to find, after the general introduction was over, that this daughter of a hundred earls was a stout lady in a plain gown, and a rather weather-beaten bonnet, with a bag of papers in one hand and a note-book in the other. But the face was full of benevolence, the sonorous voice very kind, the genial manners very winning, and about the whole person an indescribable air of high breeding which made beauty of no consequence, costume soon forgotten, and the moment memorable to the keen-eyed girls whom nothing escaped. A little chat about the rise, growth, and success of this particular class, and then Mrs Jo led the conversation to the English lady's work, anxious to show her pupils how rank dignifies labour, and charity blesses wealth. It was good for these girls to hear of the evening-schools supported and taught by women whom they knew and honoured; of Miss Cobbe's eloquent protest winning the protection of the law for abused wives; Mrs Butler saving the lost; Mrs Taylor, who devoted one room in her historic house to a library for the servants; Lord Shaftesbury, busy with his new tenement-houses in the slums of London; of prison reforms; and all the brave work being done in God's name by the rich and great for the humble and the poor. It impressed them more than many quiet home lectures would have done, and roused an ambition to help when their time should come, well knowing that even in glorious America there is still plenty to be done before she is what she should be--truly just, and free, and great. They were also quick to see that Lady Abercrombie treated all there as her equals, from stately Mrs Laurence, to little Josie, taking notes of everything and privately resolving to have some thick-soled English boots as soon as possible. No one would have guessed that she had a big house in London, a castle in Wales, and a grand country seat in Scotland, as she spoke of Parnassus with admiration, Plumfield as a 'dear old home', and the college as an honour to all concerned in it. At that, of course, every head went up a little, and when my lady left, every hand was ready for the hearty shake the noble Englishwoman gave them, with words they long remembered: 'I am very pleased to see this much-neglected branch of a woman's education so well conducted here, and I have to thank my friend Mrs Laurence for one of the most charming pictures I've seen in America--Penelope among her maids.' A group of smiling faces watched the stout boots trudge away, respectful glances followed the shabby bonnet till it was out of sight, and the girls felt a truer respect for their titled guest than if she had come in the coach and six, with all her diamonds on. 'I feel better about the "odd jobs" now. I only wish I could do them as well as Lady Abercrombie does,' said one. 'I thanked my stars my buttonholes were nice, for she looked at them and said: "Quite workmanlike, upon my word," added another, feeling that her gingham gown had come to honour. 'Her manners were as sweet and kind as Mrs Brooke's. Not a bit stiff or condescending, as I expected. I see now what you meant, Mrs Bhaer, when you said once that well-bred people were the same all the world over.' Mrs Meg bowed her thanks for the compliment, and Mrs Bhaer said: 'I know them when I see them, but never shall be a model of deportment myself. I'm glad you enjoyed the little visit. Now, if you young people don't want England to get ahead of us in many ways, you must bestir yourselves and keep abreast; for our sisters are in earnest, you see, and don't waste time worrying about their sphere, but make it wherever duty calls them.' 'We will do our best, ma'am,' answered the girls heartily, and trooped away with their work-baskets, feeling that though they might never be Harriet Martineaus, Elizabeth Brownings, or George Eliots, they might become noble, useful, and independent women, and earn for themselves some sweet title from the grateful lips of the poor, better than any a queen could bestow. Chapter 18. CLASS DAY The clerk of the weather evidently has a regard for young people, and sends sunshine for class days as often as he can. An especially lovely one shone over Plumfield as this interesting anniversary came round, bringing the usual accompaniments of roses, strawberries, white-gowned girls, beaming youths, proud friends, and stately dignitaries full of well-earned satisfaction with the yearly harvest. As Laurence College was a mixed one, the presence of young women as students gave to the occasion a grace and animation entirely wanting where the picturesque half of creation appear merely as spectators. The hands that turned the pages of wise books also possessed the skill to decorate the hall with flowers; eyes tired with study shone with hospitable warmth on the assembling guests; and under the white muslins beat hearts as full of ambition, hope, and courage as those agitating the broadcloth of the ruling sex. College Hill, Parnassus, and old Plum swarmed with cheery faces, as guests, students, and professors hurried to and fro in the pleasant excitement of arriving and receiving. Everyone was welcomed cordially, whether he rolled up in a fine carriage, or trudged afoot to see the good son or daughter come to honour on the happy day that rewarded many a mutual sacrifice. Mr Laurie and his wife were on the reception committee, and their lovely house was overflowing. Mrs Meg, with Daisy and Jo as aides, was in demand among the girls, helping on belated toilettes, giving an eye to spreads, and directing the decorations. Mrs Jo had her hands full as President's lady, and the mother of Ted; for it took all the power and skill of that energetic woman to get her son into his Sunday best. Not that he objected to be well arrayed; far from it; he adored good clothes, and owing to his great height already revelled in a dress-suit, bequeathed him by a dandy friend. The effect was very funny; but he would wear it in spite of the jeers of his mates, and sighed vainly for a beaver, because his stern parent drew the line there. He pleaded that English lads of ten wore them and were 'no end nobby'; but his mother only answered, with a consoling pat of the yellow mane: 'My child, you are absurd enough now; if I let you add a tall hat, Plumfield wouldn't hold either of us, such would be the scorn and derision of all beholders. Content yourself with looking like the ghost of a waiter, and don't ask for the most ridiculous head-gear in the known world.' Denied this noble badge of manhood, Ted soothed his wounded soul by appearing in collars of an amazing height and stiffness, and ties which were the wonder of all female eyes. This freak was a sort of vengeance on his hard-hearted mother; for the collars drove the laundress to despair, never being just right, and the ties required such art in the tying that three women sometimes laboured long before--like Beau Brummel--he turned from a heap of 'failures' with the welcome words: 'That will do.' Rob was devoted on these trying occasions, his own toilet being distinguished only by its speed, simplicity, and neatness. Ted was usually in a frenzy before he was suited, and roars, whistles, commands, and groans were heard from the den wherein the Lion raged and the Lamb patiently toiled. Mrs Jo bore it till boots were hurled and a rain of hair-brushes set in, then, fearing for the safety of her eldest, she would go to the rescue, and by a wise mixture of fun and authority finally succeed in persuading Ted that he was 'a thing of beauty', if not 'a joy for ever'. At last he would stalk majestically forth, imprisoned in collars compared to which those worn by Dickens's afflicted Biler were trifles not worth mentioning. The dresscoat was a little loose in the shoulders, but allowed a noble expanse of glossy bosom to be seen, and with a delicate handkerchief negligently drooping at the proper angle, had a truly fine effect. Boots that shone, and likewise pinched, appeared at one end of the 'long, black clothes-pin'--as Josie called him---and a youthful but solemn face at the other, carried at an angle which, if long continued, would have resulted in spinal curvature. Light gloves, a cane, and--oh, bitter drop in the cup of joy!--an ignominious straw hat, not to mention a choice floweret in the buttonhole, and a festoon of watchguard below, finished off this impressive boy. 'How's that for style?' he asked, appearing to his mother and cousins whom he was to escort to the hall on this particular occasion. A shout of laughter greeted him, followed by exclamations of horror; for he had artfully added the little blond moustache he often wore when acting. It was very becoming, and seemed the only balm to heal the wound made by the loss of the beloved hat. 'Take it off this moment, you audacious boy! What would your father say to such a prank on this day when we must all behave our best?' said Mrs Jo, trying to frown, but privately thinking that among the many youths about her none were so beautiful and original as her long son. 'Let him wear it, Aunty; it's so becoming. No one will ever guess he isn't eighteen at least,' cried Josie, to whom disguise of any sort was always charming. 'Father won't observe it; he'll be absorbed in his big-wigs and the girls. No matter if he does, he'll enjoy the joke and introduce me as his oldest son. Rob is nowhere when I'm in full fig'; and Ted took the stage with a tragic stalk, like Hamlet in a tail-coat and choker. 'My son, obey me!' and when Mrs Jo spoke in that tone her word was law. Later, however, the moustache appeared, and many strangers firmly believed that there were three young Bhaers. So Ted found one ray of joy to light his gloom. Mr Bhaer was a proud and happy man when, at the appointed hour, he looked down upon the parterre of youthful faces before him, thinking of the 'little gardens' in which he had hopefully and faithfully sowed good seed years ago, and from which this beautiful harvest seemed to have sprung. Mr March's fine old face shone with the serenest satisfaction, for this was the dream of his life fulfilled after patient waiting; and the love and reverence in the countenances of the eager young men and women looking up at him plainly showed that the reward he coveted was his in fullest measure. Laurie always effaced himself on these occasions as much as courtesy would permit; for everyone spoke gratefully in ode, poem, and oration of the founder of the college and noble dispenser of his beneficence. The three sisters beamed with pride as they sat among the ladies, enjoying, as only women can, the honour done the men they loved; while 'the original Plums', as the younger ones called themselves, regarded the whole affair as their work, receiving the curious, admiring, or envious glances of strangers with a mixture of dignity and delight rather comical to behold. The music was excellent, and well it might be when Apollo waved the baton. The poems were--as usual on such occasions--of varied excellence, as the youthful speakers tried to put old truths into new words, and made them forceful by the enthusiasm of their earnest faces and fresh voices. It was beautiful to see the eager interest with which the girls listened to some brilliant brother-student, and applauded him with a rustle as of wind over a bed of flowers. It was still more significant and pleasant to watch the young men's faces when a slender white figure stood out against the background of black-coated dignitaries, and with cheeks that flushed and paled, and lips that trembled till earnest purpose conquered maiden fear, spoke to them straight out of a woman's heart and brain concerning the hopes and doubts, the aspirations and rewards all must know, desire, and labour for. This clear, sweet voice seemed to reach and rouse all that was noblest in the souls of these youths, and to set a seal upon the years of comradeship which made them sacred and memorable for ever. Alice Heath's oration was unanimously pronounced the success of the day; for without being flowery or sentimental, as is too apt to be the case with these first efforts of youthful orators, it was earnest, sensible, and so inspiring that she left the stage in a storm of applause, the good fellows being as much fired by her stirring appeal to 'march shoulder to shoulder', as if she had chanted the 'Marseillaise' then and there. One young man was so excited that he nearly rushed out of his seat to receive her as she hastened to hide herself among her mates, who welcomed her with faces full of tender pride and tearful eye. A prudent sister detained him, however, and in a moment he was able to listen with composure to the President's remarks. They were worth listening to, for Mr Bhaer spoke like a father to the children whom he was dismissing to the battle of life; and his tender, wise, and helpful words lingered in their hearts long after the praise was forgotten. Then came other exercises peculiar to Plumfield, and the end. Why the roof did not fly off when the sturdy lungs of the excited young men pealed out the closing hymn will for ever be a mystery; but it remained firm, and only the fading garlands vibrated as the waves of music rolled up and died away, leaving sweet echoes to haunt the place for another year. Dinners and spreads consumed the afternoon, and at sunset came a slight lull as everyone sought some brief repose before the festivities of the evening began. The President's reception was one of the enjoyable things in store, also dancing on Parnassus, and as much strolling, singing, and flirting, as could be compressed into a few hours by youths and maidens just out of school. Carriages were rolling about, and gay groups on piazzas, lawns, and window-seats idly speculated as to who the distinguished guests might be. The appearance of a very dusty vehicle loaded with trunks at Mr Bhaer's hospitably open door caused much curious comment among the loungers, especially as two rather foreign-looking gentlemen sprang out, followed by two young ladies, all four being greeted with cries of joy and much embracing by the Bhaers. Then they all disappeared into the house, the luggage followed, and the watchers were left to wonder who the mysterious strangers were, till a fair collegian declared that they must be the Professor's nephews, one of whom was expected on his wedding journey. She was right; Franz proudly presented his blonde and buxom bride, and she was hardly kissed and blessed when Emil led up his bonny English Mary, with the rapturous announcement: 'Uncle, Aunt Jo, here's another daughter! Have you room for my wife, too?' There could be no doubt of that; and Mary was with difficulty rescued from the glad embraces of her new relatives, who, remembering all the young pair had suffered together, felt that this was the natural and happy ending of the long voyage so perilously begun. 'But why not tell us, and let us be ready for two brides instead of one?' asked Mrs Jo, looking as usual rather demoralizing in a wrapper and crimping-pins, having rushed down from her chamber, where she was preparing for the labours of the evening. 'Well, I remembered what a good joke you all considered Uncle Laurie's marriage, and I thought I'd give you another nice little surprise,' laughed Emil. 'I'm off duty, and it seemed best to take advantage of wind and tide, and come along as convoy to the old boy here. We hoped to get in last night, but couldn't fetch it, so here we are in time for the end of the jollification, anyway.' 'Ah, my sons, it is too feeling-full to see you both so happy and again in the old home. I haf no words to outpour my gratitude, and can only ask of the dear Gott in Himmel to bless and keep you all,' cried Professor Bhaer, trying to gather all four into his arms at once, while tears rolled down his cheeks, and his English failed him. An April shower cleared the air and relieved the full hearts of the happy family; then of course everyone began to talk--Franz and Ludmilla in German with uncle, Emil and Mary with the aunts; and round this group gathered the young folk, clamouring to hear all about the wreck, and the rescue, and the homeward voyage. It was a very different story from the written one; and as they listened to Emil's graphic words, with Mary's soft voice breaking in now and then to add some fact that brought out the courage, patience, and self-sacrifice he so lightly touched upon, it became a solemn and pathetic thing to see and hear these happy creatures tell of that great danger and deliverance. 'I never hear the patter of rain now that I don't want to say my prayers; and as for women, I'd like to take my hat off to every one of 'em, for they are braver than any man I ever saw,' said Emil, with the new gravity that was as becoming to him as the new gentleness with which he treated everyone. 'If women are brave, some men are as tender and self-sacrificing as women. I know one who in the night slipped his share of food into a girl's pocket, though starving himself, and sat for hours rocking a sick man in his arms that he might get a little sleep. No, love, I will tell, and you must let me!' cried Mary, holding in both her own the hand he laid on her lips to silence her. 'Only did my duty. If that torment had lasted much longer I might have been as bad as poor Barry and the boatswain. Wasn't that an awful night?' And Emil shuddered as he recalled it. 'Don't think of it, dear. Tell about the happy days on the Urania, when papa grew better and we were all safe and homeward bound,' said Mary, with the trusting look and comforting touch which seemed to banish the dark and recall the bright side of that terrible experience. Emil cheered up at once, and sitting with his arm about his 'dear lass', in true sailor fashion told the happy ending of the tale. 'Such a jolly old time as we had at Hamburg! Uncle Hermann couldn't do enough for the captain, and while mamma took care of him, Mary looked after me. I had to go into dock for repairs; fire hurt my eyes, and watching for a sail and want of sleep made 'em as hazy as a London fog. She was pilot and brought me in all right, you see, only I couldn't part company, so she came aboard as first mate, and I'm bound straight for glory now.' 'Hush! that's silly, dear,' whispered Mary, trying in her turn to stop him, with English shyness about tender topics. But he took the soft hand in his, and proudly surveying the one ring it wore, went on with the air of an admiral aboard his flagship. 'The captain proposed waiting a spell; but I told him we weren't like to see any rougher weather than we'd pulled through together, and if we didn't know one another after such a year as this, we never should. I was sure I shouldn't be worth my pay without this hand on the wheel; so I had my way, and my brave little woman has shipped for the long voyage. God bless her!' 'Shall you really sail with him?' asked Daisy, admiring her courage, but shrinking with cat-like horror from the water. 'I'm not afraid,' answered Mary, with a loyal smile. 'I've proved my captain in fair weather and in foul, and if he is ever wrecked again, I'd rather be with him than waiting and watching ashore.' 'A true woman, and a born sailor's wife! You are a happy man, Emil, and I'm sure this trip will be a prosperous one,' cried Mrs Jo, delighted with the briny flavour of this courtship. 'Oh, my dear boy, I always felt you'd come back, and when everyone else despaired I never gave up, but insisted that you were clinging to the main-top jib somewhere on that dreadful sea'; and Mrs Jo illustrated her faith by grasping Emil with a truly Pillycoddian gesture. 'Of course I was!' answered Emil heartily; 'and my "main-top jib" in this case was the thought of what you and Uncle said to me. That kept me up; and among the million thoughts that came to me during those long nights none was clearer than the idea of the red strand, you remember--English navy, and all that. I liked the notion, and resolved that if a bit of my cable was left afloat, the red stripe should be there.' 'And it was, my dear, it was! Captain Hardy testifies to that, and here is your reward'; and Mrs Jo kissed Mary with a maternal tenderness which betrayed that she liked the English rose better than the blue-eyed German Kornblumen, sweet and modest though it was. Emil surveyed the little ceremony with complacency, saying, as he looked about the room which he never thought to see again: 'Odd, isn't it, how clearly trifles come back to one in times of danger? As we floated there, half-starved, and in despair, I used to think I heard the bells ringing here, and Ted tramping downstairs, and you calling, "Boys, boys, it's time to get up!" I actually smelt the coffee we used to have, and one night I nearly cried when I woke from a dream of Asia's ginger cookies. I declare, it was one of the bitterest disappointments of my life to face hunger with that spicy smell in my nostrils. If you've got any, do give me one!' A pitiful murmur broke from all the aunts and cousins, and Emil was at once borne away to feast on the desired cookies, a supply always being on hand. Mrs Jo and her sister joined the other group, glad to hear what Franz was saying about Nat. 'The minute I saw how thin and shabby he was, I knew that something was wrong; but he made light of it, and was so happy over our visit and news that I let him off with a brief confession, and went to Professor Baumgarten and Bergmann. From them I learned the whole story of his spending more money than he ought and trying to atone for it by unnecessary work and sacrifice. Baumgarten thought it would do him good, so kept his secret till I came. It did him good, and he's paid his debts and earned his bread by the sweat of his brow, like an honest fellow.' 'I like that much in Nat. It is, as I said, a lesson, and he learns it well. He proves himself a man, and has deserved the place Bergmann offers him,' said Mr Bhaer, looking well pleased as Franz added some facts already recorded. 'I told you, Meg, that he had good stuff in him, and love for Daisy would keep him straight. Dear lad, I wish I had him here this moment!' cried Mrs Jo, forgetting in delight the doubts and anxieties which had troubled her for months past. 'I am very glad, and suppose I shall give in as I always do, especially now that the epidemic rages so among us. You and Emil have set all their heads in a ferment, and Josie will be demanding a lover before I can turn round,' answered Mrs Meg, in a tone of despair. But her sister saw that she was touched by Nat's trials, and hastened to add the triumphs, that the victory might be complete, for success is always charming. 'This offer of Herr Bergmann is a good one, isn't it?' she asked, though Mr Laurie had already satisfied her on that point when Nat's letter brought the news. 'Very fine in every way. Nat will get capital drill in Bachmeister's orchestra, see London in a delightful way, and if he suits come home with them, well started among the violins. No great honour, but a sure thing and a step up. I congratulated him, and he was very jolly over it, saying, like the true lover he is: "Tell Daisy; be sure and tell her all about it." I'll leave that to you, Aunt Meg, and you can also break it gently to her that the old boy had a fine blond beard. Very becoming; hides his weak mouth, and gives a noble air to his big eyes and "Mendelssohnian brow", as a gushing girl called it. Ludmilla has a photo of it for you.' This amused them; and they listened to many other interesting bits of news which kind Franz, even in his own happiness, had not forgotten to remember for his friend's sake. He talked so well, and painted Nat's patient and pathetic shifts so vividly, that Mrs Meg was half won; though if she had learned of the Minna episode and the fiddling in beer-gardens and streets, she might not have relented so soon. She stored up all she heard, however, and, womanlike, promised herself a delicious talk with Daisy, in which she would allow herself to melt by degrees, and perhaps change the doubtful 'We shall see' to a cordial 'He has done well; be happy, dear'. In the midst of this agreeable chat the sudden striking of a clock recalled Mrs Jo from romance to reality, and she exclaimed, with a clutch at her crimping-pins: 'My blessed people, you must eat and rest; and I must dress, or receive in this disgraceful rig. Meg, will you take Ludmilla and Mary upstairs and see to them? Franz knows the way to the dining-room. Fritz, come with me and be made tidy, for what with heat and emotion, we are both perfect wrecks.' Chapter 19. WHITE ROSES While the travellers refreshed, and Mrs President struggled into her best gown, Josie ran into the garden to gather flowers for the brides. The sudden arrival of these interesting beings had quite enchanted the romantic girl, and her head was full of heroic rescues, tender admiration, dramatic situations, and feminine wonder as to whether the lovely creatures would wear their veils or not. She was standing before a great bush of white roses, culling the most perfect for the bouquets which she meant to tie with the ribbon festooned over her arm, and lay on the toilette tables of the new cousins, as a delicate attention. A step startled her, and looking up she saw her brother coming down the path with folded arms, bent head, and the absent air of one absorbed in deep thought. 'Sophy Wackles,' said the sharp child, with a superior smile, as she sucked

jobs

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

'Bless me! I always imagined lords and ladies did nothing but ride round in a coach and six, go to balls, and be presented to the Queen in cocked hats, and trains and feathers,' exclaimed an artless young person from the wilds of Maine, whither an illustrated paper occasionally wandered. 'Not at all; Lord Abercrombie is over here studying up our American prison system, and my lady is busy with the schools--both very high-born, but the simplest and most sensible people I've met this long time. They are neither of them young nor handsome, and dress plainly; so don't expect anything splendid. Mr Laurence was telling me last night about a friend of his who met my lord in the hall, and owing to a rough greatcoat and a red face, mistook him for a coachman, and said: "Now, my man, what do you want here?" Lord Abercrombie mildly mentioned who he was, and that he had come to dinner. And the poor host was much afflicted, saying afterward: "Why didn't he wear his stars and garters? then a fellow would know he was a lord."' The girls laughed again, and a general rustle betrayed that each was prinking a bit before the titled guest arrived. Even Mrs Jo settled her collar, and Mrs Meg felt if her cap was right, while Bess shook out her curls and Josie boldly consulted the glass; for they were women, in spite of philosophy and philanthropy. 'Shall we all rise?' asked one girl, deeply impressed by the impending honour. 'It would be courteous.' 'Shall we shake hands?' 'No, I'll present you en masse, and your pleasant faces will be introduction enough.' 'I wish I'd worn my best dress. Ought to have told us,' whispered Sally. 'Won't my folks be surprised when I tell them we have had a real lady to call on us?' said another. 'Don't look as if you'd never seen a gentlewoman before, Milly. We are not all fresh from the wilderness,' added the stately damsel who, having Mayflower ancestors, felt that she was the equal of all the crowned heads of Europe. 'Hush, she's coming! Oh, my heart, what a bonnet!' cried the gay girl in a stage whisper; and every eye was demurely fixed upon the busy hands as the door opened to admit Mrs Laurence and her guest. It was rather a shock to find, after the general introduction was over, that this daughter of a hundred earls was a stout lady in a plain gown, and a rather weather-beaten bonnet, with a bag of papers in one hand and a note-book in the other. But the face was full of benevolence, the sonorous voice very kind, the genial manners very winning, and about the whole person an indescribable air of high breeding which made beauty of no consequence, costume soon forgotten, and the moment memorable to the keen-eyed girls whom nothing escaped. A little chat about the rise, growth, and success of this particular class, and then Mrs Jo led the conversation to the English lady's work, anxious to show her pupils how rank dignifies labour, and charity blesses wealth. It was good for these girls to hear of the evening-schools supported and taught by women whom they knew and honoured; of Miss Cobbe's eloquent protest winning the protection of the law for abused wives; Mrs Butler saving the lost; Mrs Taylor, who devoted one room in her historic house to a library for the servants; Lord Shaftesbury, busy with his new tenement-houses in the slums of London; of prison reforms; and all the brave work being done in God's name by the rich and great for the humble and the poor. It impressed them more than many quiet home lectures would have done, and roused an ambition to help when their time should come, well knowing that even in glorious America there is still plenty to be done before she is what she should be--truly just, and free, and great. They were also quick to see that Lady Abercrombie treated all there as her equals, from stately Mrs Laurence, to little Josie, taking notes of everything and privately resolving to have some thick-soled English boots as soon as possible. No one would have guessed that she had a big house in London, a castle in Wales, and a grand country seat in Scotland, as she spoke of Parnassus with admiration, Plumfield as a 'dear old home', and the college as an honour to all concerned in it. At that, of course, every head went up a little, and when my lady left, every hand was ready for the hearty shake the noble Englishwoman gave them, with words they long remembered: 'I am very pleased to see this much-neglected branch of a woman's education so well conducted here, and I have to thank my friend Mrs Laurence for one of the most charming pictures I've seen in America--Penelope among her maids.' A group of smiling faces watched the stout boots trudge away, respectful glances followed the shabby bonnet till it was out of sight, and the girls felt a truer respect for their titled guest than if she had come in the coach and six, with all her diamonds on. 'I feel better about the "odd jobs" now. I only wish I could do them as well as Lady Abercrombie does,' said one. 'I thanked my stars my buttonholes were nice, for she looked at them and said: "Quite workmanlike, upon my word," added another, feeling that her gingham gown had come to honour. 'Her manners were as sweet and kind as Mrs Brooke's. Not a bit stiff or condescending, as I expected. I see now what you meant, Mrs Bhaer, when you said once that well-bred people were the same all the world over.' Mrs Meg bowed her thanks for the compliment, and Mrs Bhaer said: 'I know them when I see them, but never shall be a model of deportment myself. I'm glad you enjoyed the little visit. Now, if you young people don't want England to get ahead of us in many ways, you must bestir yourselves and keep abreast; for our sisters are in earnest, you see, and don't waste time worrying about their sphere, but make it wherever duty calls them.' 'We will do our best, ma'am,' answered the girls heartily, and trooped away with their work-baskets, feeling that though they might never be Harriet Martineaus, Elizabeth Brownings, or George Eliots, they might become noble, useful, and independent women, and earn for themselves some sweet title from the grateful lips of the poor, better than any a queen could bestow. Chapter 18. CLASS DAY The clerk of the weather evidently has a regard for young people, and sends sunshine for class days as often as he can. An especially lovely one shone over Plumfield as this interesting anniversary came round, bringing the usual accompaniments of roses, strawberries, white-gowned girls, beaming youths, proud friends, and stately dignitaries full of well-earned satisfaction with the yearly harvest. As Laurence College was a mixed one, the presence of young women as students gave to the occasion a grace and animation entirely wanting where the picturesque half of creation appear merely as spectators. The hands that turned the pages of wise books also possessed the skill to decorate the hall with flowers; eyes tired with study shone with hospitable warmth on the assembling guests; and under the white muslins beat hearts as full of ambition, hope, and courage as those agitating the broadcloth of the ruling sex. College Hill, Parnassus, and old Plum swarmed with cheery faces, as guests, students, and professors hurried to and fro in the pleasant excitement of arriving and receiving. Everyone was welcomed cordially, whether he rolled up in a fine carriage, or trudged afoot to see the good son or daughter come to honour on the happy day that rewarded many a mutual sacrifice. Mr Laurie and his wife were on the reception committee, and their lovely house was overflowing. Mrs Meg, with Daisy and Jo as aides, was in demand among the girls, helping on belated toilettes, giving an eye to spreads, and directing the decorations. Mrs Jo had her hands full as President's lady, and the mother of Ted; for it took all the power and skill of that energetic woman to get her son into his Sunday best. Not that he objected to be well arrayed; far from it; he adored good clothes, and owing to his great height already revelled in a dress-suit, bequeathed him by a dandy friend. The effect was very funny; but he would wear it in spite of the jeers of his mates, and sighed vainly for a beaver, because his stern parent drew the line there. He pleaded that English lads of ten wore them and were 'no end nobby'; but his mother only answered, with a consoling pat of the yellow mane: 'My child, you are absurd enough now; if I let you add a tall hat, Plumfield wouldn't hold either of us, such would be the scorn and derision of all beholders. Content yourself with looking like the ghost of a waiter, and don't ask for the most ridiculous head-gear in the known world.' Denied this noble badge of manhood, Ted soothed his wounded soul by appearing in collars of an amazing height and stiffness, and ties which were the wonder of all female eyes. This freak was a sort of vengeance on his hard-hearted mother; for the collars drove the laundress to despair, never being just right, and the ties required such art in the tying that three women sometimes laboured long before--like Beau Brummel--he turned from a heap of 'failures' with the welcome words: 'That will do.' Rob was devoted on these trying occasions, his own toilet being distinguished only by its speed, simplicity, and neatness. Ted was usually in a frenzy before he was suited, and roars, whistles, commands, and groans were heard from the den wherein the Lion raged and the Lamb patiently toiled. Mrs Jo bore it till boots were hurled and a rain of hair-brushes set in, then, fearing for the safety of her eldest, she would go to the rescue, and by a wise mixture of fun and authority finally succeed in persuading Ted that he was 'a thing of beauty', if not 'a joy for ever'. At last he would stalk majestically forth, imprisoned in collars compared to which those worn by Dickens's afflicted Biler were trifles not worth mentioning. The dresscoat was a little loose in the shoulders, but allowed a noble expanse of glossy bosom to be seen, and with a delicate handkerchief negligently drooping at the proper angle, had a truly fine effect. Boots that shone, and likewise pinched, appeared at one end of the 'long, black clothes-pin'--as Josie called him---and a youthful but solemn face at the other, carried at an angle which, if long continued, would have resulted in spinal curvature. Light gloves, a cane, and--oh, bitter drop in the cup of joy!--an ignominious straw hat, not to mention a choice floweret in the buttonhole, and a festoon of watchguard below, finished off this impressive boy. 'How's that for style?' he asked, appearing to his mother and cousins whom he was to escort to the hall on this particular occasion. A shout of laughter greeted him, followed by exclamations of horror; for he had artfully added the little blond moustache he often wore when acting. It was very becoming, and seemed the only balm to heal the wound made by the loss of the beloved hat. 'Take it off this moment, you audacious boy! What would your father say to such a prank on this day when we must all behave our best?' said Mrs Jo, trying to frown, but privately thinking that among the many youths about her none were so beautiful and original as her long son. 'Let him wear it, Aunty; it's so becoming. No one will ever guess he isn't eighteen at least,' cried Josie, to whom disguise of any sort was always charming. 'Father won't observe it; he'll be absorbed in his big-wigs and the girls. No matter if he does, he'll enjoy the joke and introduce me as his oldest son. Rob is nowhere when I'm in full fig'; and Ted took the stage with a tragic stalk, like Hamlet in a tail-coat and choker. 'My son, obey me!' and when Mrs Jo spoke in that tone her word was law. Later, however, the moustache appeared, and many strangers firmly believed that there were three young Bhaers. So Ted found one ray of joy to light his gloom. Mr Bhaer was a proud and happy man when, at the appointed hour, he looked down upon the parterre of youthful faces before him, thinking of the 'little gardens' in which he had hopefully and faithfully sowed good seed years ago, and from which this beautiful harvest seemed to have sprung. Mr March's fine old face shone with the serenest satisfaction, for this was the dream of his life fulfilled after patient waiting; and the love and reverence in the countenances of the eager young men and women looking up at him plainly showed that the reward he coveted was his in fullest measure. Laurie always effaced himself on these occasions as much as courtesy would permit; for everyone spoke gratefully in ode, poem, and oration of the founder of the college and noble dispenser of his beneficence. The three sisters beamed with pride as they sat among the ladies, enjoying, as only women can, the honour done the men they loved; while 'the original Plums', as the younger ones called themselves, regarded the whole affair as their work, receiving the curious, admiring, or envious glances of strangers with a mixture of dignity and delight rather comical to behold. The music was excellent, and well it might be when Apollo waved the baton. The poems were--as usual on such occasions--of varied excellence, as the youthful speakers tried to put old truths into new words, and made them forceful by the enthusiasm of their earnest faces and fresh voices. It was beautiful to see the eager interest with which the girls listened to some brilliant brother-student, and applauded him with a rustle as of wind over a bed of flowers. It was still more significant and pleasant to watch the young men's faces when a slender white figure stood out against the background of black-coated dignitaries, and with cheeks that flushed and paled, and lips that trembled till earnest purpose conquered maiden fear, spoke to them straight out of a woman's heart and brain concerning the hopes and doubts, the aspirations and rewards all must know, desire, and labour for. This clear, sweet voice seemed to reach and rouse all that was noblest in the souls of these youths, and to set a seal upon the years of comradeship which made them sacred and memorable for ever. Alice Heath's oration was unanimously pronounced the success of the day; for without being flowery or sentimental, as is too apt to be the case with these first efforts of youthful orators, it was earnest, sensible, and so inspiring that she left the stage in a storm of applause, the good fellows being as much fired by her stirring appeal to 'march shoulder to shoulder', as if she had chanted the 'Marseillaise' then and there. One young man was so excited that he nearly rushed out of his seat to receive her as she hastened to hide herself among her mates, who welcomed her with faces full of tender pride and tearful eye. A prudent sister detained him, however, and in a moment he was able to listen with composure to the President's remarks. They were worth listening to, for Mr Bhaer spoke like a father to the children whom he was dismissing to the battle of life; and his tender, wise, and helpful words lingered in their hearts long after the praise was forgotten. Then came other exercises peculiar to Plumfield, and the end. Why the roof did not fly off when the sturdy lungs of the excited young men pealed out the closing hymn will for ever be a mystery; but it remained firm, and only the fading garlands vibrated as the waves of music rolled up and died away, leaving sweet echoes to haunt the place for another year. Dinners and spreads consumed the afternoon, and at sunset came a slight lull as everyone sought some brief repose before the festivities of the evening began. The President's reception was one of the enjoyable things in store, also dancing on Parnassus, and as much strolling, singing, and flirting, as could be compressed into a few hours by youths and maidens just out of school. Carriages were rolling about, and gay groups on piazzas, lawns, and window-seats idly speculated as to who the distinguished guests might be. The appearance of a very dusty vehicle loaded with trunks at Mr Bhaer's hospitably open door caused much curious comment among the loungers, especially as two rather foreign-looking gentlemen sprang out, followed by two young ladies, all four being greeted with cries of joy and much embracing by the Bhaers. Then they all disappeared into the house, the luggage followed, and the watchers were left to wonder who the mysterious strangers were, till a fair collegian declared that they must be the Professor's nephews, one of whom was expected on his wedding journey. She was right; Franz proudly presented his blonde and buxom bride, and she was hardly kissed and blessed when Emil led up his bonny English Mary, with the rapturous announcement: 'Uncle, Aunt Jo, here's another daughter! Have you room for my wife, too?' There could be no doubt of that; and Mary was with difficulty rescued from the glad embraces of her new relatives, who, remembering all the young pair had suffered together, felt that this was the natural and happy ending of the long voyage so perilously begun. 'But why not tell us, and let us be ready for two brides instead of one?' asked Mrs Jo, looking as usual rather demoralizing in a wrapper and crimping-pins, having rushed down from her chamber, where she was preparing for the labours of the evening. 'Well, I remembered what a good joke you all considered Uncle Laurie's marriage, and I thought I'd give you another nice little surprise,' laughed Emil. 'I'm off duty, and it seemed best to take advantage of wind and tide, and come along as convoy to the old boy here. We hoped to get in last night, but couldn't fetch it, so here we are in time for the end of the jollification, anyway.' 'Ah, my sons, it is too feeling-full to see you both so happy and again in the old home. I haf no words to outpour my gratitude, and can only ask of the dear Gott in Himmel to bless and keep you all,' cried Professor Bhaer, trying to gather all four into his arms at once, while tears rolled down his cheeks, and his English failed him. An April shower cleared the air and relieved the full hearts of the happy family; then of course everyone began to talk--Franz and Ludmilla in German with uncle, Emil and Mary with the aunts; and round this group gathered the young folk, clamouring to hear all about the wreck, and the rescue, and the homeward voyage. It was a very different story from the written one; and as they listened to Emil's graphic words, with Mary's soft voice breaking in now and then to add some fact that brought out the courage, patience, and self-sacrifice he so lightly touched upon, it became a solemn and pathetic thing to see and hear these happy creatures tell of that great danger and deliverance. 'I never hear the patter of rain now that I don't want to say my prayers; and as for women, I'd like to take my hat off to every one of 'em, for they are braver than any man I ever saw,' said Emil, with the new gravity that was as becoming to him as the new gentleness with which he treated everyone. 'If women are brave, some men are as tender and self-sacrificing as women. I know one who in the night slipped his share of food into a girl's pocket, though starving himself, and sat for hours rocking a sick man in his arms that he might get a little sleep. No, love, I will tell, and you must let me!' cried Mary, holding in both her own the hand he laid on her lips to silence her. 'Only did my duty. If that torment had lasted much longer I might have been as bad as poor Barry and the boatswain. Wasn't that an awful night?' And Emil shuddered as he recalled it. 'Don't think of it, dear. Tell about the happy days on the Urania, when papa grew better and we were all safe and homeward bound,' said Mary, with the trusting look and comforting touch which seemed to banish the dark and recall the bright side of that terrible experience. Emil cheered up at once, and sitting with his arm about his 'dear lass', in true sailor fashion told the happy ending of the tale. 'Such a jolly old time as we had at Hamburg! Uncle Hermann couldn't do enough for the captain, and while mamma took care of him, Mary looked after me. I had to go into dock for repairs; fire hurt my eyes, and watching for a sail and want of sleep made 'em as hazy as a London fog. She was pilot and brought me in all right, you see, only I couldn't part company, so she came aboard as first mate, and I'm bound straight for glory now.' 'Hush! that's silly, dear,' whispered Mary, trying in her turn to stop him, with English shyness about tender topics. But he took the soft hand in his, and proudly surveying the one ring it wore, went on with the air of an admiral aboard his flagship. 'The captain proposed waiting a spell; but I told him we weren't like to see any rougher weather than we'd pulled through together, and if we didn't know one another after such a year as this, we never should. I was sure I shouldn't be worth my pay without this hand on the wheel; so I had my way, and my brave little woman has shipped for the long voyage. God bless her!' 'Shall you really sail with him?' asked Daisy, admiring her courage, but shrinking with cat-like horror from the water. 'I'm not afraid,' answered Mary, with a loyal smile. 'I've proved my captain in fair weather and in foul, and if he is ever wrecked again, I'd rather be with him than waiting and watching ashore.' 'A true woman, and a born sailor's wife! You are a happy man, Emil, and I'm sure this trip will be a prosperous one,' cried Mrs Jo, delighted with the briny flavour of this courtship. 'Oh, my dear boy, I always felt you'd come back, and when everyone else despaired I never gave up, but insisted that you were clinging to the main-top jib somewhere on that dreadful sea'; and Mrs Jo illustrated her faith by grasping Emil with a truly Pillycoddian gesture. 'Of course I was!' answered Emil heartily; 'and my "main-top jib" in this case was the thought of what you and Uncle said to me. That kept me up; and among the million thoughts that came to me during those long nights none was clearer than the idea of the red strand, you remember--English navy, and all that. I liked the notion, and resolved that if a bit of my cable was left afloat, the red stripe should be there.' 'And it was, my dear, it was! Captain Hardy testifies to that, and here is your reward'; and Mrs Jo kissed Mary with a maternal tenderness which betrayed that she liked the English rose better than the blue-eyed German Kornblumen, sweet and modest though it was. Emil surveyed the little ceremony with complacency, saying, as he looked about the room which he never thought to see again: 'Odd, isn't it, how clearly trifles come back to one in times of danger? As we floated there, half-starved, and in despair, I used to think I heard the bells ringing here, and Ted tramping downstairs, and you calling, "Boys, boys, it's time to get up!" I actually smelt the coffee we used to have, and one night I nearly cried when I woke from a dream of Asia's ginger cookies. I declare, it was one of the bitterest disappointments of my life to face hunger with that spicy smell in my nostrils. If you've got any, do give me one!' A pitiful murmur broke from all the aunts and cousins, and Emil was at once borne away to feast on the desired cookies, a supply always being on hand. Mrs Jo and her sister joined the other group, glad to hear what Franz was saying about Nat. 'The minute I saw how thin and shabby he was, I knew that something was wrong; but he made light of it, and was so happy over our visit and news that I let him off with a brief confession, and went to Professor Baumgarten and Bergmann. From them I learned the whole story of his spending more money than he ought and trying to atone for it by unnecessary work and sacrifice. Baumgarten thought it would do him good, so kept his secret till I came. It did him good, and he's paid his debts and earned his bread by the sweat of his brow, like an honest fellow.' 'I like that much in Nat. It is, as I said, a lesson, and he learns it well. He proves himself a man, and has deserved the place Bergmann offers him,' said Mr Bhaer, looking well pleased as Franz added some facts already recorded. 'I told you, Meg, that he had good stuff in him, and love for Daisy would keep him straight. Dear lad, I wish I had him here this moment!' cried Mrs Jo, forgetting in delight the doubts and anxieties which had troubled her for months past. 'I am very glad, and suppose I shall give in as I always do, especially now that the epidemic rages so among us. You and Emil have set all their heads in a ferment, and Josie will be demanding a lover before I can turn round,' answered Mrs Meg, in a tone of despair. But her sister saw that she was touched by Nat's trials, and hastened to add the triumphs, that the victory might be complete, for success is always charming. 'This offer of Herr Bergmann is a good one, isn't it?' she asked, though Mr Laurie had already satisfied her on that point when Nat's letter brought the news. 'Very fine in every way. Nat will get capital drill in Bachmeister's orchestra, see London in a delightful way, and if he suits come home with them, well started among the violins. No great honour, but a sure thing and a step up. I congratulated him, and he was very jolly over it, saying, like the true lover he is: "Tell Daisy; be sure and tell her all about it." I'll leave that to you, Aunt Meg, and you can also break it gently to her that the old boy had a fine blond beard. Very becoming; hides his weak mouth, and gives a noble air to his big eyes and "Mendelssohnian brow", as a gushing girl called it. Ludmilla has a photo of it for you.' This amused them; and they listened to many other interesting bits of news which kind Franz, even in his own happiness, had not forgotten to remember for his friend's sake. He talked so well, and painted Nat's patient and pathetic shifts so vividly, that Mrs Meg was half won; though if she had learned of the Minna episode and the fiddling in beer-gardens and streets, she might not have relented so soon. She stored up all she heard, however, and, womanlike, promised herself a delicious talk with Daisy, in which she would allow herself to melt by degrees, and perhaps change the doubtful 'We shall see' to a cordial 'He has done well; be happy, dear'. In the midst of this agreeable chat the sudden striking of a clock recalled Mrs Jo from romance to reality, and she exclaimed, with a clutch at her crimping-pins: 'My blessed people, you must eat and rest; and I must dress, or receive in this disgraceful rig. Meg, will you take Ludmilla and Mary upstairs and see to them? Franz knows the way to the dining-room. Fritz, come with me and be made tidy, for what with heat and emotion, we are both perfect wrecks.' Chapter 19. WHITE ROSES While the travellers refreshed, and Mrs President struggled into her best gown, Josie ran into the garden to gather flowers for the brides. The sudden arrival of these interesting beings had quite enchanted the romantic girl, and her head was full of heroic rescues, tender admiration, dramatic situations, and feminine wonder as to whether the lovely creatures would wear their veils or not. She was standing before a great bush of white roses, culling the most perfect for the bouquets which she meant to tie with the ribbon festooned over her arm, and lay on the toilette tables of the new cousins, as a delicate attention. A step startled her, and looking up she saw her brother coming down the path with folded arms, bent head, and the absent air of one absorbed in deep thought. 'Sophy Wackles,' said the sharp child, with a superior smile, as she sucked

bonnet

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

'Bless me! I always imagined lords and ladies did nothing but ride round in a coach and six, go to balls, and be presented to the Queen in cocked hats, and trains and feathers,' exclaimed an artless young person from the wilds of Maine, whither an illustrated paper occasionally wandered. 'Not at all; Lord Abercrombie is over here studying up our American prison system, and my lady is busy with the schools--both very high-born, but the simplest and most sensible people I've met this long time. They are neither of them young nor handsome, and dress plainly; so don't expect anything splendid. Mr Laurence was telling me last night about a friend of his who met my lord in the hall, and owing to a rough greatcoat and a red face, mistook him for a coachman, and said: "Now, my man, what do you want here?" Lord Abercrombie mildly mentioned who he was, and that he had come to dinner. And the poor host was much afflicted, saying afterward: "Why didn't he wear his stars and garters? then a fellow would know he was a lord."' The girls laughed again, and a general rustle betrayed that each was prinking a bit before the titled guest arrived. Even Mrs Jo settled her collar, and Mrs Meg felt if her cap was right, while Bess shook out her curls and Josie boldly consulted the glass; for they were women, in spite of philosophy and philanthropy. 'Shall we all rise?' asked one girl, deeply impressed by the impending honour. 'It would be courteous.' 'Shall we shake hands?' 'No, I'll present you en masse, and your pleasant faces will be introduction enough.' 'I wish I'd worn my best dress. Ought to have told us,' whispered Sally. 'Won't my folks be surprised when I tell them we have had a real lady to call on us?' said another. 'Don't look as if you'd never seen a gentlewoman before, Milly. We are not all fresh from the wilderness,' added the stately damsel who, having Mayflower ancestors, felt that she was the equal of all the crowned heads of Europe. 'Hush, she's coming! Oh, my heart, what a bonnet!' cried the gay girl in a stage whisper; and every eye was demurely fixed upon the busy hands as the door opened to admit Mrs Laurence and her guest. It was rather a shock to find, after the general introduction was over, that this daughter of a hundred earls was a stout lady in a plain gown, and a rather weather-beaten bonnet, with a bag of papers in one hand and a note-book in the other. But the face was full of benevolence, the sonorous voice very kind, the genial manners very winning, and about the whole person an indescribable air of high breeding which made beauty of no consequence, costume soon forgotten, and the moment memorable to the keen-eyed girls whom nothing escaped. A little chat about the rise, growth, and success of this particular class, and then Mrs Jo led the conversation to the English lady's work, anxious to show her pupils how rank dignifies labour, and charity blesses wealth. It was good for these girls to hear of the evening-schools supported and taught by women whom they knew and honoured; of Miss Cobbe's eloquent protest winning the protection of the law for abused wives; Mrs Butler saving the lost; Mrs Taylor, who devoted one room in her historic house to a library for the servants; Lord Shaftesbury, busy with his new tenement-houses in the slums of London; of prison reforms; and all the brave work being done in God's name by the rich and great for the humble and the poor. It impressed them more than many quiet home lectures would have done, and roused an ambition to help when their time should come, well knowing that even in glorious America there is still plenty to be done before she is what she should be--truly just, and free, and great. They were also quick to see that Lady Abercrombie treated all there as her equals, from stately Mrs Laurence, to little Josie, taking notes of everything and privately resolving to have some thick-soled English boots as soon as possible. No one would have guessed that she had a big house in London, a castle in Wales, and a grand country seat in Scotland, as she spoke of Parnassus with admiration, Plumfield as a 'dear old home', and the college as an honour to all concerned in it. At that, of course, every head went up a little, and when my lady left, every hand was ready for the hearty shake the noble Englishwoman gave them, with words they long remembered: 'I am very pleased to see this much-neglected branch of a woman's education so well conducted here, and I have to thank my friend Mrs Laurence for one of the most charming pictures I've seen in America--Penelope among her maids.' A group of smiling faces watched the stout boots trudge away, respectful glances followed the shabby bonnet till it was out of sight, and the girls felt a truer respect for their titled guest than if she had come in the coach and six, with all her diamonds on. 'I feel better about the "odd jobs" now. I only wish I could do them as well as Lady Abercrombie does,' said one. 'I thanked my stars my buttonholes were nice, for she looked at them and said: "Quite workmanlike, upon my word," added another, feeling that her gingham gown had come to honour. 'Her manners were as sweet and kind as Mrs Brooke's. Not a bit stiff or condescending, as I expected. I see now what you meant, Mrs Bhaer, when you said once that well-bred people were the same all the world over.' Mrs Meg bowed her thanks for the compliment, and Mrs Bhaer said: 'I know them when I see them, but never shall be a model of deportment myself. I'm glad you enjoyed the little visit. Now, if you young people don't want England to get ahead of us in many ways, you must bestir yourselves and keep abreast; for our sisters are in earnest, you see, and don't waste time worrying about their sphere, but make it wherever duty calls them.' 'We will do our best, ma'am,' answered the girls heartily, and trooped away with their work-baskets, feeling that though they might never be Harriet Martineaus, Elizabeth Brownings, or George Eliots, they might become noble, useful, and independent women, and earn for themselves some sweet title from the grateful lips of the poor, better than any a queen could bestow. Chapter 18. CLASS DAY The clerk of the weather evidently has a regard for young people, and sends sunshine for class days as often as he can. An especially lovely one shone over Plumfield as this interesting anniversary came round, bringing the usual accompaniments of roses, strawberries, white-gowned girls, beaming youths, proud friends, and stately dignitaries full of well-earned satisfaction with the yearly harvest. As Laurence College was a mixed one, the presence of young women as students gave to the occasion a grace and animation entirely wanting where the picturesque half of creation appear merely as spectators. The hands that turned the pages of wise books also possessed the skill to decorate the hall with flowers; eyes tired with study shone with hospitable warmth on the assembling guests; and under the white muslins beat hearts as full of ambition, hope, and courage as those agitating the broadcloth of the ruling sex. College Hill, Parnassus, and old Plum swarmed with cheery faces, as guests, students, and professors hurried to and fro in the pleasant excitement of arriving and receiving. Everyone was welcomed cordially, whether he rolled up in a fine carriage, or trudged afoot to see the good son or daughter come to honour on the happy day that rewarded many a mutual sacrifice. Mr Laurie and his wife were on the reception committee, and their lovely house was overflowing. Mrs Meg, with Daisy and Jo as aides, was in demand among the girls, helping on belated toilettes, giving an eye to spreads, and directing the decorations. Mrs Jo had her hands full as President's lady, and the mother of Ted; for it took all the power and skill of that energetic woman to get her son into his Sunday best. Not that he objected to be well arrayed; far from it; he adored good clothes, and owing to his great height already revelled in a dress-suit, bequeathed him by a dandy friend. The effect was very funny; but he would wear it in spite of the jeers of his mates, and sighed vainly for a beaver, because his stern parent drew the line there. He pleaded that English lads of ten wore them and were 'no end nobby'; but his mother only answered, with a consoling pat of the yellow mane: 'My child, you are absurd enough now; if I let you add a tall hat, Plumfield wouldn't hold either of us, such would be the scorn and derision of all beholders. Content yourself with looking like the ghost of a waiter, and don't ask for the most ridiculous head-gear in the known world.' Denied this noble badge of manhood, Ted soothed his wounded soul by appearing in collars of an amazing height and stiffness, and ties which were the wonder of all female eyes. This freak was a sort of vengeance on his hard-hearted mother; for the collars drove the laundress to despair, never being just right, and the ties required such art in the tying that three women sometimes laboured long before--like Beau Brummel--he turned from a heap of 'failures' with the welcome words: 'That will do.' Rob was devoted on these trying occasions, his own toilet being distinguished only by its speed, simplicity, and neatness. Ted was usually in a frenzy before he was suited, and roars, whistles, commands, and groans were heard from the den wherein the Lion raged and the Lamb patiently toiled. Mrs Jo bore it till boots were hurled and a rain of hair-brushes set in, then, fearing for the safety of her eldest, she would go to the rescue, and by a wise mixture of fun and authority finally succeed in persuading Ted that he was 'a thing of beauty', if not 'a joy for ever'. At last he would stalk majestically forth, imprisoned in collars compared to which those worn by Dickens's afflicted Biler were trifles not worth mentioning. The dresscoat was a little loose in the shoulders, but allowed a noble expanse of glossy bosom to be seen, and with a delicate handkerchief negligently drooping at the proper angle, had a truly fine effect. Boots that shone, and likewise pinched, appeared at one end of the 'long, black clothes-pin'--as Josie called him---and a youthful but solemn face at the other, carried at an angle which, if long continued, would have resulted in spinal curvature. Light gloves, a cane, and--oh, bitter drop in the cup of joy!--an ignominious straw hat, not to mention a choice floweret in the buttonhole, and a festoon of watchguard below, finished off this impressive boy. 'How's that for style?' he asked, appearing to his mother and cousins whom he was to escort to the hall on this particular occasion. A shout of laughter greeted him, followed by exclamations of horror; for he had artfully added the little blond moustache he often wore when acting. It was very becoming, and seemed the only balm to heal the wound made by the loss of the beloved hat. 'Take it off this moment, you audacious boy! What would your father say to such a prank on this day when we must all behave our best?' said Mrs Jo, trying to frown, but privately thinking that among the many youths about her none were so beautiful and original as her long son. 'Let him wear it, Aunty; it's so becoming. No one will ever guess he isn't eighteen at least,' cried Josie, to whom disguise of any sort was always charming. 'Father won't observe it; he'll be absorbed in his big-wigs and the girls. No matter if he does, he'll enjoy the joke and introduce me as his oldest son. Rob is nowhere when I'm in full fig'; and Ted took the stage with a tragic stalk, like Hamlet in a tail-coat and choker. 'My son, obey me!' and when Mrs Jo spoke in that tone her word was law. Later, however, the moustache appeared, and many strangers firmly believed that there were three young Bhaers. So Ted found one ray of joy to light his gloom. Mr Bhaer was a proud and happy man when, at the appointed hour, he looked down upon the parterre of youthful faces before him, thinking of the 'little gardens' in which he had hopefully and faithfully sowed good seed years ago, and from which this beautiful harvest seemed to have sprung. Mr March's fine old face shone with the serenest satisfaction, for this was the dream of his life fulfilled after patient waiting; and the love and reverence in the countenances of the eager young men and women looking up at him plainly showed that the reward he coveted was his in fullest measure. Laurie always effaced himself on these occasions as much as courtesy would permit; for everyone spoke gratefully in ode, poem, and oration of the founder of the college and noble dispenser of his beneficence. The three sisters beamed with pride as they sat among the ladies, enjoying, as only women can, the honour done the men they loved; while 'the original Plums', as the younger ones called themselves, regarded the whole affair as their work, receiving the curious, admiring, or envious glances of strangers with a mixture of dignity and delight rather comical to behold. The music was excellent, and well it might be when Apollo waved the baton. The poems were--as usual on such occasions--of varied excellence, as the youthful speakers tried to put old truths into new words, and made them forceful by the enthusiasm of their earnest faces and fresh voices. It was beautiful to see the eager interest with which the girls listened to some brilliant brother-student, and applauded him with a rustle as of wind over a bed of flowers. It was still more significant and pleasant to watch the young men's faces when a slender white figure stood out against the background of black-coated dignitaries, and with cheeks that flushed and paled, and lips that trembled till earnest purpose conquered maiden fear, spoke to them straight out of a woman's heart and brain concerning the hopes and doubts, the aspirations and rewards all must know, desire, and labour for. This clear, sweet voice seemed to reach and rouse all that was noblest in the souls of these youths, and to set a seal upon the years of comradeship which made them sacred and memorable for ever. Alice Heath's oration was unanimously pronounced the success of the day; for without being flowery or sentimental, as is too apt to be the case with these first efforts of youthful orators, it was earnest, sensible, and so inspiring that she left the stage in a storm of applause, the good fellows being as much fired by her stirring appeal to 'march shoulder to shoulder', as if she had chanted the 'Marseillaise' then and there. One young man was so excited that he nearly rushed out of his seat to receive her as she hastened to hide herself among her mates, who welcomed her with faces full of tender pride and tearful eye. A prudent sister detained him, however, and in a moment he was able to listen with composure to the President's remarks. They were worth listening to, for Mr Bhaer spoke like a father to the children whom he was dismissing to the battle of life; and his tender, wise, and helpful words lingered in their hearts long after the praise was forgotten. Then came other exercises peculiar to Plumfield, and the end. Why the roof did not fly off when the sturdy lungs of the excited young men pealed out the closing hymn will for ever be a mystery; but it remained firm, and only the fading garlands vibrated as the waves of music rolled up and died away, leaving sweet echoes to haunt the place for another year. Dinners and spreads consumed the afternoon, and at sunset came a slight lull as everyone sought some brief repose before the festivities of the evening began. The President's reception was one of the enjoyable things in store, also dancing on Parnassus, and as much strolling, singing, and flirting, as could be compressed into a few hours by youths and maidens just out of school. Carriages were rolling about, and gay groups on piazzas, lawns, and window-seats idly speculated as to who the distinguished guests might be. The appearance of a very dusty vehicle loaded with trunks at Mr Bhaer's hospitably open door caused much curious comment among the loungers, especially as two rather foreign-looking gentlemen sprang out, followed by two young ladies, all four being greeted with cries of joy and much embracing by the Bhaers. Then they all disappeared into the house, the luggage followed, and the watchers were left to wonder who the mysterious strangers were, till a fair collegian declared that they must be the Professor's nephews, one of whom was expected on his wedding journey. She was right; Franz proudly presented his blonde and buxom bride, and she was hardly kissed and blessed when Emil led up his bonny English Mary, with the rapturous announcement: 'Uncle, Aunt Jo, here's another daughter! Have you room for my wife, too?' There could be no doubt of that; and Mary was with difficulty rescued from the glad embraces of her new relatives, who, remembering all the young pair had suffered together, felt that this was the natural and happy ending of the long voyage so perilously begun. 'But why not tell us, and let us be ready for two brides instead of one?' asked Mrs Jo, looking as usual rather demoralizing in a wrapper and crimping-pins, having rushed down from her chamber, where she was preparing for the labours of the evening. 'Well, I remembered what a good joke you all considered Uncle Laurie's marriage, and I thought I'd give you another nice little surprise,' laughed Emil. 'I'm off duty, and it seemed best to take advantage of wind and tide, and come along as convoy to the old boy here. We hoped to get in last night, but couldn't fetch it, so here we are in time for the end of the jollification, anyway.' 'Ah, my sons, it is too feeling-full to see you both so happy and again in the old home. I haf no words to outpour my gratitude, and can only ask of the dear Gott in Himmel to bless and keep you all,' cried Professor Bhaer, trying to gather all four into his arms at once, while tears rolled down his cheeks, and his English failed him. An April shower cleared the air and relieved the full hearts of the happy family; then of course everyone began to talk--Franz and Ludmilla in German with uncle, Emil and Mary with the aunts; and round this group gathered the young folk, clamouring to hear all about the wreck, and the rescue, and the homeward voyage. It was a very different story from the written one; and as they listened to Emil's graphic words, with Mary's soft voice breaking in now and then to add some fact that brought out the courage, patience, and self-sacrifice he so lightly touched upon, it became a solemn and pathetic thing to see and hear these happy creatures tell of that great danger and deliverance. 'I never hear the patter of rain now that I don't want to say my prayers; and as for women, I'd like to take my hat off to every one of 'em, for they are braver than any man I ever saw,' said Emil, with the new gravity that was as becoming to him as the new gentleness with which he treated everyone. 'If women are brave, some men are as tender and self-sacrificing as women. I know one who in the night slipped his share of food into a girl's pocket, though starving himself, and sat for hours rocking a sick man in his arms that he might get a little sleep. No, love, I will tell, and you must let me!' cried Mary, holding in both her own the hand he laid on her lips to silence her. 'Only did my duty. If that torment had lasted much longer I might have been as bad as poor Barry and the boatswain. Wasn't that an awful night?' And Emil shuddered as he recalled it. 'Don't think of it, dear. Tell about the happy days on the Urania, when papa grew better and we were all safe and homeward bound,' said Mary, with the trusting look and comforting touch which seemed to banish the dark and recall the bright side of that terrible experience. Emil cheered up at once, and sitting with his arm about his 'dear lass', in true sailor fashion told the happy ending of the tale. 'Such a jolly old time as we had at Hamburg! Uncle Hermann couldn't do enough for the captain, and while mamma took care of him, Mary looked after me. I had to go into dock for repairs; fire hurt my eyes, and watching for a sail and want of sleep made 'em as hazy as a London fog. She was pilot and brought me in all right, you see, only I couldn't part company, so she came aboard as first mate, and I'm bound straight for glory now.' 'Hush! that's silly, dear,' whispered Mary, trying in her turn to stop him, with English shyness about tender topics. But he took the soft hand in his, and proudly surveying the one ring it wore, went on with the air of an admiral aboard his flagship. 'The captain proposed waiting a spell; but I told him we weren't like to see any rougher weather than we'd pulled through together, and if we didn't know one another after such a year as this, we never should. I was sure I shouldn't be worth my pay without this hand on the wheel; so I had my way, and my brave little woman has shipped for the long voyage. God bless her!' 'Shall you really sail with him?' asked Daisy, admiring her courage, but shrinking with cat-like horror from the water. 'I'm not afraid,' answered Mary, with a loyal smile. 'I've proved my captain in fair weather and in foul, and if he is ever wrecked again, I'd rather be with him than waiting and watching ashore.' 'A true woman, and a born sailor's wife! You are a happy man, Emil, and I'm sure this trip will be a prosperous one,' cried Mrs Jo, delighted with the briny flavour of this courtship. 'Oh, my dear boy, I always felt you'd come back, and when everyone else despaired I never gave up, but insisted that you were clinging to the main-top jib somewhere on that dreadful sea'; and Mrs Jo illustrated her faith by grasping Emil with a truly Pillycoddian gesture. 'Of course I was!' answered Emil heartily; 'and my "main-top jib" in this case was the thought of what you and Uncle said to me. That kept me up; and among the million thoughts that came to me during those long nights none was clearer than the idea of the red strand, you remember--English navy, and all that. I liked the notion, and resolved that if a bit of my cable was left afloat, the red stripe should be there.' 'And it was, my dear, it was! Captain Hardy testifies to that, and here is your reward'; and Mrs Jo kissed Mary with a maternal tenderness which betrayed that she liked the English rose better than the blue-eyed German Kornblumen, sweet and modest though it was. Emil surveyed the little ceremony with complacency, saying, as he looked about the room which he never thought to see again: 'Odd, isn't it, how clearly trifles come back to one in times of danger? As we floated there, half-starved, and in despair, I used to think I heard the bells ringing here, and Ted tramping downstairs, and you calling, "Boys, boys, it's time to get up!" I actually smelt the coffee we used to have, and one night I nearly cried when I woke from a dream of Asia's ginger cookies. I declare, it was one of the bitterest disappointments of my life to face hunger with that spicy smell in my nostrils. If you've got any, do give me one!' A pitiful murmur broke from all the aunts and cousins, and Emil was at once borne away to feast on the desired cookies, a supply always being on hand. Mrs Jo and her sister joined the other group, glad to hear what Franz was saying about Nat. 'The minute I saw how thin and shabby he was, I knew that something was wrong; but he made light of it, and was so happy over our visit and news that I let him off with a brief confession, and went to Professor Baumgarten and Bergmann. From them I learned the whole story of his spending more money than he ought and trying to atone for it by unnecessary work and sacrifice. Baumgarten thought it would do him good, so kept his secret till I came. It did him good, and he's paid his debts and earned his bread by the sweat of his brow, like an honest fellow.' 'I like that much in Nat. It is, as I said, a lesson, and he learns it well. He proves himself a man, and has deserved the place Bergmann offers him,' said Mr Bhaer, looking well pleased as Franz added some facts already recorded. 'I told you, Meg, that he had good stuff in him, and love for Daisy would keep him straight. Dear lad, I wish I had him here this moment!' cried Mrs Jo, forgetting in delight the doubts and anxieties which had troubled her for months past. 'I am very glad, and suppose I shall give in as I always do, especially now that the epidemic rages so among us. You and Emil have set all their heads in a ferment, and Josie will be demanding a lover before I can turn round,' answered Mrs Meg, in a tone of despair. But her sister saw that she was touched by Nat's trials, and hastened to add the triumphs, that the victory might be complete, for success is always charming. 'This offer of Herr Bergmann is a good one, isn't it?' she asked, though Mr Laurie had already satisfied her on that point when Nat's letter brought the news. 'Very fine in every way. Nat will get capital drill in Bachmeister's orchestra, see London in a delightful way, and if he suits come home with them, well started among the violins. No great honour, but a sure thing and a step up. I congratulated him, and he was very jolly over it, saying, like the true lover he is: "Tell Daisy; be sure and tell her all about it." I'll leave that to you, Aunt Meg, and you can also break it gently to her that the old boy had a fine blond beard. Very becoming; hides his weak mouth, and gives a noble air to his big eyes and "Mendelssohnian brow", as a gushing girl called it. Ludmilla has a photo of it for you.' This amused them; and they listened to many other interesting bits of news which kind Franz, even in his own happiness, had not forgotten to remember for his friend's sake. He talked so well, and painted Nat's patient and pathetic shifts so vividly, that Mrs Meg was half won; though if she had learned of the Minna episode and the fiddling in beer-gardens and streets, she might not have relented so soon. She stored up all she heard, however, and, womanlike, promised herself a delicious talk with Daisy, in which she would allow herself to melt by degrees, and perhaps change the doubtful 'We shall see' to a cordial 'He has done well; be happy, dear'. In the midst of this agreeable chat the sudden striking of a clock recalled Mrs Jo from romance to reality, and she exclaimed, with a clutch at her crimping-pins: 'My blessed people, you must eat and rest; and I must dress, or receive in this disgraceful rig. Meg, will you take Ludmilla and Mary upstairs and see to them? Franz knows the way to the dining-room. Fritz, come with me and be made tidy, for what with heat and emotion, we are both perfect wrecks.' Chapter 19. WHITE ROSES While the travellers refreshed, and Mrs President struggled into her best gown, Josie ran into the garden to gather flowers for the brides. The sudden arrival of these interesting beings had quite enchanted the romantic girl, and her head was full of heroic rescues, tender admiration, dramatic situations, and feminine wonder as to whether the lovely creatures would wear their veils or not. She was standing before a great bush of white roses, culling the most perfect for the bouquets which she meant to tie with the ribbon festooned over her arm, and lay on the toilette tables of the new cousins, as a delicate attention. A step startled her, and looking up she saw her brother coming down the path with folded arms, bent head, and the absent air of one absorbed in deep thought. 'Sophy Wackles,' said the sharp child, with a superior smile, as she sucked

glance

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

(harshly) How? She's even forgot her own language! MARTIN Debbie, you're comin' with us! Hear me? DEBBIE No... not now... not ever. These have been her first words in English... and they bring new hope to Martin. MARTIN I don't care what they've done to you... what happened... DEBBIE (angrily) They have done... nothing... They are my people... ETHAN Your people? They murdered your family! DEBBIE (reverting to Comanche) Ee-sap! (furiously) White men killed them - to steal cows! I was... little... I ran away... They find me... take care of me. MARTIN No Debbie! That ain't what happened! They been lyin' to you... DEBBIE You lie! All white men lie... and kill... MARTIN Debbie, think back! I'm Martin... remember? Remember how I used to let you ride my horse? Tell you stories? Don't you remember me, Debbie? DEBBIE I remember... from always... At first I prayed to you... come and get me... take me home... You didn't come... MARTIN I've come now... DEBBIE These are my people... (in Comanche) Unnt-meah! Go! Go! Please! ETHAN (grimly) Stand aside, boy... Martin turns as Ethan slowly reaches for his gun. It takes Martin a moment to realize what he is about to do. MARTIN Ethan -- NO! He moves quickly then to put himself between Ethan and the girl and in that instant there is the crack of a rifle. Ethan is hit in the leg. It goes out from under him. Martin swings and his gun is out and firing. 174-D EXT. SAND CREEK - FULL SHOT - INCLUDING THE DUNES - DAY A mounted Comanche is on the crest of the dune above them -- rifle raised. Martin's first shot brings him down the dune in a spectacular horse-and-man fall. Debbie goes running like a deer up the creek, away from Martin; in the same instant we hear the angry yells of distant Comanches charging from the far left. Martin turns to see Debbie running away. MARTIN Debbie! WAIT! Ethan is on his feet now and limping frantically toward their horses. He shoves Martin ahead of him. ETHAN (angrily) Never mind her! MOVE! They mount and take off, just as the vanguard of the attacking Comanches swings around a point of rock and comes charging toward the creek. EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE - LATE AFTERNOON as Ethan and Martin race their horses from the creek area and down a long incline, as -- from the heights above -- a dozen or more Comanches, led by Scar, come tearing after them. 175-A EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - MED. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - MOVING - DAY Ethan is swaying in his saddle, just barely hanging on, as Martin races up behind him -- driving Ethan's horse along. They swing past a huge outcrop of rock and go tearing along a vaulting wall of stone. Their hoofbeats and those of the pursuers bounce and echo off the canyon walls, and bullets whine and ricochet. 175-B EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - FULL MOVING SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY They swing around giant boulders, up-ended like pancakes. Ethan is lurching almost out of the saddle, barely conscious. Martin spots the cave -- ahead -- and drives his mount and Ethan's toward it. 175-C EXT. THE CAVE (MONUMENT) - FULL SHOT - THE TWO - DAY Martin pulls his horse in and swings off just as Ethan slides from his saddle. He runs toward one of the huge boulders, crouches and starts firing. 175-D EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE ON THE COMANCHES - DAY The Comanches are spread out but coming on fast. One goes down under Martin's fire.... another is hit in the arm. He pulls up and the other Comanches wheel away from the hidden marksman. 175-E EXT. THE CAVE - FULL SHOT - MARTIN AND ETHAN Martin runs back from his firing post toward where Ethan has fallen. ETHAN (angrily) Go on! Get out of here while you can... MARTIN (pointing to the cave) Over there! Ethan turns and sees what he means. He starts dragging himself to the cave as Martin grabs the rifles from their saddle scabbards, yanks off the water canteens and then drives their horses away. Then he too runs for the shelter of the cave. 175-F EXT. THE CANYON - ANGLING FROM BEHIND MARTIN AND ETHAN Both men are crouching, rifles ready. In the distance we see their horses running off -- pursued by some yelling Comanches. Four or six others come into sight, heading for the cave -- moving cautiously, uncertainly -- not seeing their quarry. Then the white men open fire and the Comanches bend low over their horses' necks and clear out of there. Ethan looks grimly at Martin. ETHAN They'll be back... MARTIN We won't be here... Come on! He gets an arm under Ethan and hauls him to his feet. DISSOLVE TO: 175-G EXT. THE GAP IN THE CLIFF - PANNING SHOT - SUNSET CAMERA PANS from the top of the rock chimney to where Martin is snaking his way through, carrying newly-filled water canteens. He stands there, listening and looking back the way he has come; and then, satisfied there has been no pursuit, he continues away. OMITTED INT. THE CAVE - MED. SHOT - ETHAN - HALF-LIGHT Ethan is lying on the hard earth, perhaps cushioned with some boughs. He is half delirious. A small fire is burning. Martin enters carrying the canteens. He looks unsympathetically toward Ethan, then continues to the fire, takes a knife and starts to sterilize it. Ethan gasps, mumbles and then a word comes clear. ETHAN Martha... Martha! Martin stares at him -- and now, perhaps for the first time, he is fitting pieces into the jig-saw puzzle. He shifts closer to Ethan and we see he is preparing to dig out the bullet. Ethan opens his eyes and looks at him. MARTIN I gotta open that leg and let the poison out... He poises the knife. ETHAN Wait... He fumbles in his shirt pocket, brings out a greasy folded piece of paper. ETHAN Just in case... Read it. Martin sets the knife down, takes the paper, opens it and slowly reads: MARTIN 'I, Ethan Edwards, being of sound mind and without any blood kin, do hereby bequeath all my property of any kind to Martin Pauley...' (he stares, then) I don't want your property.... 'Sides, what do you mean no 'blood kin?' Debbie's your blood kin... ETHAN Not no more. MARTIN (angrily) You can keep your will! (he thrusts it back into Ethan's shirt) I ain't forgettin' you was all set to shoot her yourself... What kind o' man are you, anyway. ETHAN (sitting up -- eyes blazing) She's been with the bucks! She's nothin' now but a... Martin shoves him back onto the ground. MARTIN (a shout) Shut your dirty mouth! He gets to his feet, trembling, and stands looking down at Ethan, his fists clenched at his sides and murder in his eyes. Then his eyes rove to the knife lying on the blanket. He picks it up and he looks again at the wounded man. MARTIN (slowly) I hope you die! And he kneels again to open the wound. DISSOLVE TO: EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY Martin is hauling an improvised travois over the ground in which, lashed by vines and some clothing, is the unconscious figure of Ethan. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - MARTIN - DAY Eyes shadowed, whiskered, drawn -- he is an implacable figure as he drags the weary miles home. He hears a groan from Ethan o.s. He barely lets his eyes drift to the sound. He doesn't stop. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - ETHAN IN THE TRAVOIS - DAY We see he is delirious, lips parched, strapped to the poles. The travois jolts over the ground. As he passes out of frame, the CAMERA HOLDS on the marks of the travois poles scraping across the desert. FADE OUT OMITTED FADE IN INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT - NIGHT A party is in progress. Fiddler and banjo-player are playing a lively square dance for one or two sets of dancers -- ranchers, their wives and daughters. Laurie is not in evidence. At the far end of the room is a table with a punch bowl set up and a cluster of men and women about. Jorgensen is at the door boisterously welcoming some new arrivals. Leading them into the room is Captain the Reverend Sam Clayton, with a bulky oil-skin package under his arm. With him is Charlie MacCorry, dressed in his best black suit and scrubbed until he looks raw. Behind them come three or four other competent-looking men -- Rangers all of them. JORGENSEN (shouting) They're here, mama... Come in, come in... INT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - FAVORING GROUP AT DOOR Clayton waits for Charlie to come abreast, then hits him on the back and drives him inside. CLAYTON Here he is, Lars... Combed, curried 'n washed behind the ears! Mrs. Jorgensen hurries over, beaming, to admire Charlie. MRS. JORGENSEN Why, Charlie, you look real handsome! CHARLIE (grinning) Yes'm... scarcely reck'nize myself... Where's Laurie? Mrs. Jorgensen smiles and playfully pushes him toward the guests. MRS. JORGENSEN You'll see her soon enough... Clayton -- and the other Rangers -- have been hanging gunbelts on pegs along the wall. Now he shakes out his parcel -- disclosing a green-black frock coat. CLAYTON (nodding to the music) Say, that music sounds so good it must be sinful... MRS. JORGENSEN Grab a partner, reverend! CLAYTON Well, now, a man of my age just can't haul off and dance in cold blood... but if there's any of that wild cherry brandy of yours, Lars... JORGENSEN (suddenly sober) Nooo... (change of heart) Yah, by golly... One jug left... I get it! Mrs. Jorgensen glares as he heads out. MRS. JORGENSEN Last winter that man swore up and down there wasn't a drop left -- and me with pneumoney!... Reverend, you'd better start clergyin' again! EXT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - NIGHT Horses, wagons fill the yard. We can hear the lively music of the square dance. As Jorgensen opens the door and sets out toward the barn, a battered dusty trap drives in -- and on it are Martin and Ethan. Jorgensen at first doesn't recognize them. JORGENSEN (hailing them) Hi!... You're late... hurry... And then he sees who they are, and his jaw drops. JORGENSEN (staring) Ethan... Martie... No, don't get down! ...You can't come in! They stare at him. JORGENSEN The Rangers are here! He says it as though that explains everything. ETHAN What's that got to do with us? MARTIN (eyeing the house) What's goin' on? JORGENSEN (who's forgotten they wouldn't know) Why, my Laurie's getting married... Martin throws the reins aside and jumps out. Jorgensen grabs his arm. JORGENSEN Wait! Don't you hear me! The Rangers... MARTIN So what? JORGENSEN You been posted for murder... both of you... That trader fella, the late Mister Futterman... Martin tries to break free. MARTIN I gotta see Laurie! JORGENSEN (desperately) Go around the side... the grandmother's room... I'll tell her... PLEASE! MARTIN You better! He heads around the side. Ethan meanwhile has climbed stiffly down, slightly favoring his leg. JORGENSEN Quick... hide in the barn, Ethan... ETHAN Hide? Why would I? He brushes past the little man and heads for the door. INT. THE JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLING FROM BEHIND ETHAN as he enters, with Jorgensen at his heels. For a moment, as he stands there, the party breezes on. Then first one, then another sees him. They gape, and the music falters and stops. Sam Clayton crosses to confront him across the width of the room. Jorgensen tries to be the easy, smiling host--and makes a very bad job of it. JORGENSEN Look everybody... Look who's... He can't even finish it but stands there making flapping gestures. INT. JORGENSEN ROOM - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND SAM -- others gaping. During the opening lines, Jorgensen will covertly back toward the door to the inner room -- Laurie's room. ETHAN (to all) Evenin'... evenin' Reverend... or do I call you 'Captain'...? CLAYTON Came here for a wedding, Ethan... Until that's over, I reckon 'reverend' will do... MRS. JORGENSEN (coming forward) And news of our little girl, Ethan? His face contorts and his smile is twisted. ETHAN She's not a little girl any more. MRS. JORGENSEN (eyes wide) You've seen her!... She's alive? ETHAN I've seen her... and she's alive. Mrs. Jorgensen throws herself against his chest, sobbing. Ethan looks past her at Clayton. And the faces of both men are grim. CUT TO: INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT The room is dark. Martin is pacing, eyes constantly turning to the inside door. And then it opens and Laurie is inside, holding a lamp. She is in her bridal gown and very obviously trying to keep from betraying the stress she is under. LAURIE (quietly) Hello, Martie.... He just stares at her -- very lovely, strangely remote. He suddenly is conscious of his dirty hands, his dusty, worn clothing. MARTIN I... I wrote you a letter... Reckon you didn't get it... LAURIE (setting the lamp down) One letter in five years... I read it till the paper dried up and the writing faded out... MARTIN It wasn't much of a letter... LAURIE No, it wasn't... You mighta said you loved me... You mighta asked me to wait... At least that'd have been something... MARTIN But I allus loved you... You know that, without my sayin' it... I couldn't bring myself to ask you to wait... the little I had... not knowin' how much longer until we found Debbie... LAURIE (breaking) It isn't fair... She sinks onto the bench. LAURIE (sobbing) It isn't fair, Martin Pauley, and you know it! She begins to cry, very softly. He is beside her and his arm goes around her shoulder comfortingly. MARTIN Don't cry, Laurie... I understand how it is... I'll just go 'way... LAURIE (spinning on him) You do and I'll die, Martie... I will! I'll just die! And they are kissing through her tears when the outer door is flung open by Charlie MacCorry. They part as he glares. CHARLIE I'll thank you to leave the room, Laurie. Martin stares at him, then at her. MARTIN (incredulous) Charlie MacCorry!... You weren't fixin' to marry HIM?? CHARLIE She sure is!... An' don't think your comin' back is goin' to change it! MARTIN As to that, I don't know, Charlie... We hadn't got around to talkin' marriage... CHARLIE What right you got to be talkin' marriage to any decent woman... MARTIN (angrily) If you're talkin' about that crazy murder charge... CHARLIE AND other things... Mebbe you thought you was gettin' away with being comical about that Indian wife you took... I bet she wasn't the first squaw you... Martin swings wildly but Charlie is a wily fighter. He side- steps and chops Martin in the jaw and drives him against the wall. Laurie runs between them. LAURIE Stop it! Both of you... I won't have any fighting in this house. Martin gently brushes her aside. MARTIN It's all right... Charlie, let's move outside. CHARLIE I ain't wearing no gun. Martin nods and unbuckles his gunbelt. The men head outside as Laurie runs to get help. EXT. THE JORGENSEN HOME - BREEZEWAY Charlie waits assuredly as Martin follows him outside. Martin makes a wild run, swings. The blow is neatly guarded by Charlie's left and countered with a crisp right that puts Martin down. Martin gets to his feet, more cautiously this time, and comes in at a crouch; he's fighting like an Indian, not a white man. The men from the wedding party come out now at a run. CLAYTON (yelling) Sergeant MacCorry! Charlie turns slightly and in that instant Martin springs and drives a straight right at his face -- almost as though there were a knife in the hand. MacCorry stumbles back into Clayton's arms. CLAYTON Is this in the line of duty, sergeant? CHARLIE (regaining his balance) No sir... pleasure. CLAYTON In that case, give the boys room... Martin waits at a crouch as Charlie comes in, feints his right and crosses his left. It is a hard blow but Martin recovers and waits... Charlie circles and starts to repeat. He feints his right but this time Martin springs in, ducks and -- as the left shoots out -- he grabs the wrist and throws Charlie over his head. What we are looking at, in effect, is a wrestler against a boxer. CLAYTON Fight fair, son... Use your fists! ETHAN (drily) Comanches don't use their fists, reverend... Let 'em alone... Charlie is on his feet and warily starts circling -- now trying to imitate Martin's crouch. Suddenly Martin feints a right swing and connects with a solid left -- reversing the order of business. Charlie staggers and Martin follows up with a wrestling hold, leaping behind Charlie, locking both legs around him and driving his arms upward behind his back so that his face is in the dirt and so he could -- under other circumstances -- be neatly and expeditiously scalped. With the hands locked, Martin then calmly draws a knife. He looks innocently into the aghast faces of the crowd. MARTIN Could scalp him... but I'll just count coup! With that he releases the paralyzed arms just long enough to grab a lock of Charlie's hair and neatly snip it off. He stands then and laughs as Charlie lamely gets to his feet -- easing the tortured arms. Clayton goes to Charlie's side. Laurie moves to Martin's side. CLAYTON You all right, sergeant? CHARLIE Dunno... Seems so. CLAYTON Well, go get cleaned up and we'll proceed with the weddin'... Charlie frowns and looks off at where Laurie and Martin are standing. CHARLIE Ain't goin' to be any weddin' -- not till we get a few things cleared up 'round here... He walks rather unsteadily away leaving a thunderstruck assembly, murmurous with surprise. WIPE TO: INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - LATER THAT NIGHT The last of the wedding guests is leaving: Ed Nesby carrying his bull fiddle and with his wife and daughter and two smaller children preceding him out the door. The Jorgensens stand by -- trying to put a good face on the wedding debacle. Charlie MacCorry is sitting dejectedly, studying a spot on the floor. Ethan is at the mantel. Laurie is in her room -- presumably changing out of her wedding gown. Martin is at a sink, bathing a cut on his lip. Clayton, still in his clerical coat, is near the door. NESBY (a grin) Well... it was a nice weddin' party... considerin' no one got married... 'Night. JORGENSEN Good night, Ed... Mrs. Jorgensen puts her handkerchief to her eyes -- letting down now that the guests have gone. Jorgensen crosses to her, pats her sympathetically. JORGENSEN Now, mamma!... He leads her away. Clayton faces Ethan. CLAYTON I got to ask you and Martin to ride to the State Capitol with me, Ethan. ETHAN This an invite to a necktie party, Reverend? CLAYTON Captain... Nope, wouldn't say that... Likely you had your reasons for killin' Futterman... Probably needed killin'... I'm speaking as a ranger now, not as a reverend... Fact that all three was shot in the back is the only thing that's raised some question -- that and a missin' gold piece known to have been on him just prior to his demise. Ethan casually reaches into his pocket, takes out a gold coin and spins it. ETHAN (casually) That so? Martin crosses to confront Clayton. MARTIN I ain't goin' to Austin, Reverend. Charlie gets to his feet and he has his gun in his hand. CHARLIE You're goin' if the captain says you're goin'... CLAYTON Now, now... let's not grow disputatious... Fast hoofbeats sound o.s. -- signalling the approach of a four-man cavalry detail. CLAYTON (turning) What's that? More company? He and Jorgensen head for the door. CLAYTON Kinda late getting here, aren't they? A voice hails from outside. LIEUTENANT'S VOICE Hello there! Captain Clayton? INT. - EXT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLE AT DOOR - NIGHT Clayton stands in the opened doorway, Jorgensen behind him, looking out. Drawn up outside is the four-man cavalry detail, led by a young and very crisp LIEUTENANT. We may or may not see the sixth man, slouched over his horse. The Lieutenant swings off and crosses. LIEUTENANT Is Captain Clayton here, Reverend? CLAYTON I'm Clayton. The Lieutenant gapes at Clayton's ministerial coat. LIEUTENANT (doubtfully) You're Captain Clayton?... Ethan chuckles, to Clayton's very obvious annoyance. LIEUTENANT (recovering, he salutes) Colonel Greenhill's compliments, sir. The Colonel wishes to know how soon you could put a company of Rangers in the field, fully armed and... CLAYTON Hold on, son... Who's this Colonel Greenhill you're talking about? LIEUTENANT Why Colonel Greenhill is Colonel Greenhill, sir... Commanding Officer, Fifth U.S. Cavalry... I'm Lieutenant Greenhill, sir. CLAYTON Oh... Now what's this your pa wants to know? LIEUTENANT My pa wants to know... Colonel Greenhill wants to know how soon you could put a company of your Rangers in the field, fully armed and equipped, for joint punitive action against the Comanches. CLAYTON JOINT action? LIEUTENANT Yes sir... We've received information about a band of Comanches under a chief named Scar... ETHAN What information? LIEUTENANT That maybe he's not far from here -- holed up somewhere, waiting his chance to get back over the border... He raided north about a month ago... ran into more army than he bargained for... Now he's running for cover, for keeps this time... CLAYTON And what makes you think he's in this territory? LIEUTENANT Yesterday, one of our patrols picked up a man claims he was a prisoner with Scar till only two days ago... He talks crazy but I brought him along... Says he lives here... keeps mentioning a rocking chair. ETHAN (half to himself) Mose... And then he is striding to the door, calling it: ETHAN MOSE! MOSE'S VOICE Ay-he?... Ay-eh?... And the old man totters in, half-supported by a trooper -- hollow-eyed, weak, almost delirious. MOSE Come f'r my rockin' chai'... ole Mose. ETHAN (shouting it) Where's Scar, Mose... SCAR? MARTIN Ask him about Debbie!... Is she all right, Mose? MOSE My rockin' chai'... MRS. JORGENSEN (bustling over) Leave the poor man be! Can't you see he's out of his mind... She tries to lead him away, but Ethan shoves her aside and grips the old man by his arms. ETHAN Mose... try to remember!... You were in Scar's camp... MOSE Ay-he... Made out I was crazy... (he giggles foolishly) Ate dirt... chewed grass... I fooled 'em, Ethan!... an' I got away... ETHAN Scar! Where's he holed in? MOSE Seven Fingers... ay-he... Seven... He staggers and this time Mrs. Jorgensen won't be denied. MRS. JORGENSEN Now that's enough! Here... by the fire... What you need's a good bowl of soup... She leads him away, at last to his rocker by the fire. During this, Ethan and Clayton have been mulling Mose's answer. ETHAN (blankly) Seven Fingers? LIEUTENANT That's what he told us... but there's no such place on the maps. MARTIN Wait a minute! Isn't that the Caddo name for where all those canyons branch on the Malapai? MOSE (from his rocker) Caddo or Kiowa... ay-he... ay-eh... Sam Clayton wheels on the Lieutenant. CLAYTON You tell your pa a company of Rangers -- all fourteen of 'em -- fully armed an' equipped will be in the field by daylight... headin' for the south end of the Malapai. If he can catch up with us, well an' good... LIEUTENANT But... but captain, we can't possibly take the field tomorrow... for your own protection... CLAYTON Sonny, yonder's a passel of murderers, complete with Texican scalps an' white girl captive... You want to protect us, you just get out of our way... Now skedaddle! The lieutenant skedaddles. Sam whirls on Martin and Ethan. CLAYTON Ethan, you an' Martin are hereby appointed civilian scouts -- without pay... Charlie, hightail it to headquarters an' spread the word... CHARLIE Yes sir... He leaves. Martin's hands go to his side -- recalling where he left his guns. MARTIN My guns... He heads for the inner door to the grandmother room. INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin enters and crosses to where he had dropped his gunbelt. Even before he reaches it, Laurie is in the room -- closing the door after her. LAURIE Martie... don't go! Not this time. MARTIN (staring) You crazy? LAURIE It's too late... She's a woman grown now... MARTIN I got to fetch her home... LAURIE Fetch what home?... The leavin's of Comanche bucks -- sold time an' again to the highest bidder?... With savage brats of her own, most like?... MARTIN (shouting it) Laurie! Shut your mouth! LAURIE Do you know what Ethan will do if he has a chance?... He'll put a bullet in her brain! And I tell you Martha would want him to! MARTIN Only if I'm dead! He strides out past her. INT. THE KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin re-enters. Ethan and Sam are waiting. Martin looks hard at Ethan. CLAYTON You ready? MARTIN (eyes never leaving Ethan's face) I'm ready. As they stride out, CUT TO: 204-A INT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - GRANDMOTHER ROOM - CLOSE SHOT - LAURIE - NIGHT as she stands at the window, in her bridal gown, and sadly watches Martin again going away. Softly the score reprises -- sadly now -- "Skip to My Lou." DISSOLVE TO: EXT. MESA COUNTRY - LONG SHOT - THE RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT A file of eighteen men and horses -- Rangers -- is walking under the shoulder of a mesa, keeping well below the skyline. FULL SHOT - THE FILE OF RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT They pass CAMERA one by one -- Sam Clayton in the lead, Martin behind him leading two horses, then the others -- grim- looking, capable men of varying ages; some with long drooping mustaches, some in need of shaves, some chawing tobacco. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT He is lying prone, his hat off, squinting down into a long reach of desert canyon at the Comanche encampment -- with tepees set up, a thin wisp of smoke rising from a fire, the horse herd penned in a draw cut off by an improvised corral of rawhide ropes. EXT. THE COMANCHE ENCAMPMENT - WIDE ANGLE SHOT - DAWN LIGHT The camp is sleeping. A dog yaps shrilly. One of the tepee flaps opens and Scar steps out. He picks up a stone or a chunk of wood and throws it. The dog yelps and runs off. Scar's air is troubled, suspicious. He heads for the horse herd. The camp sleeps on. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT His face betrays a bitter inner satisfaction. He looks back along the trail as faintly we hear the approach of the Ranger company. Then he squirms back, retrieving his hat. FULL SHOT - HEAD OF RANGER COLUMN - DAWN LIGHT Sam, seeing Ethan in the near distance, raises his hand in a signal for halt and waits. Ethan scrambles down the trail to join him. He takes the reins of his horse from Martin. ETHAN We can get within 500 yards... there's a hogback to the south. CLAYTON How many, would you say? ETHAN (drily) Enough to go around... I'd say about a dozen apiece... Mount 'em up! He moves as though to mount, but Martin steps forward. MARTIN Wait! We go chargin' in, they'll kill her... and you know it. ETHAN (calmly) It's what I'm countin' on. Sam stares at him, but Martin isn't surprised. MARTIN I know you are... Only it ain't goin' to be that way... she's alive... ETHAN Livin' with Comanches ain't bein' alive... MARTIN (same tone) She's alive... Better she's alive and livin' with Comanches than her brains bashed out... CLAYTON Now son, it's a bitter thing to say, but there's more than your sister at stake here. ETHAN There sure is! I'm going to tell you somethin'... I wasn't going to speak of it... But I'll tell you now. Did you notice them scalps strung on Scar's lance? (MARTIN NODS) Did you see the third scalp from the point of the lance? Long... wavy hair... MARTIN I saw it... And don't try to tell me it was Aunt Martha's or Lucy's... ETHAN You don't remember it, but I remember. That was your mother's scalp! Martin stares, quick disbelief in his eyes. But Ethan's eyes hold his and there is no doubting the truth in them. ETHAN I didn't want to tell you... but maybe it's your right to know. CLAYTON (quietly) Now mount up, son... Sam puts his hand on Martin's elbow -- as though to turn him to his duty. But Martin jerks the arm away. MARTIN It don't change it... All I'm askin' is a chance to sneak in there... an' try to get her out before you come chargin' in. CLAYTON What if you're caught? MARTIN It won't tell 'em anything, will it! Just a man alone... ETHAN I say NO! CLAYTON Go ahead, son... But at the first alarm, we're comin' in -- and we ain't goin' to have time to pick and choose our targets when we do... Ethan looks long and hard at Martin, then reaches into his shirt for the folded, dirty, dog-eared paper that was his will. Slowly he tears it into shreds. ETHAN It's your funeral... Martin squats and starts pulling off his boots. He glances up as Charlie MacCorry comes over, an Indian blanket in his hands. He tosses it onto Martin's shoulder. CHARLIE Here... you fight like a Comanch... Maybe this'll help ya pass as one. Then

rock

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

(harshly) How? She's even forgot her own language! MARTIN Debbie, you're comin' with us! Hear me? DEBBIE No... not now... not ever. These have been her first words in English... and they bring new hope to Martin. MARTIN I don't care what they've done to you... what happened... DEBBIE (angrily) They have done... nothing... They are my people... ETHAN Your people? They murdered your family! DEBBIE (reverting to Comanche) Ee-sap! (furiously) White men killed them - to steal cows! I was... little... I ran away... They find me... take care of me. MARTIN No Debbie! That ain't what happened! They been lyin' to you... DEBBIE You lie! All white men lie... and kill... MARTIN Debbie, think back! I'm Martin... remember? Remember how I used to let you ride my horse? Tell you stories? Don't you remember me, Debbie? DEBBIE I remember... from always... At first I prayed to you... come and get me... take me home... You didn't come... MARTIN I've come now... DEBBIE These are my people... (in Comanche) Unnt-meah! Go! Go! Please! ETHAN (grimly) Stand aside, boy... Martin turns as Ethan slowly reaches for his gun. It takes Martin a moment to realize what he is about to do. MARTIN Ethan -- NO! He moves quickly then to put himself between Ethan and the girl and in that instant there is the crack of a rifle. Ethan is hit in the leg. It goes out from under him. Martin swings and his gun is out and firing. 174-D EXT. SAND CREEK - FULL SHOT - INCLUDING THE DUNES - DAY A mounted Comanche is on the crest of the dune above them -- rifle raised. Martin's first shot brings him down the dune in a spectacular horse-and-man fall. Debbie goes running like a deer up the creek, away from Martin; in the same instant we hear the angry yells of distant Comanches charging from the far left. Martin turns to see Debbie running away. MARTIN Debbie! WAIT! Ethan is on his feet now and limping frantically toward their horses. He shoves Martin ahead of him. ETHAN (angrily) Never mind her! MOVE! They mount and take off, just as the vanguard of the attacking Comanches swings around a point of rock and comes charging toward the creek. EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE - LATE AFTERNOON as Ethan and Martin race their horses from the creek area and down a long incline, as -- from the heights above -- a dozen or more Comanches, led by Scar, come tearing after them. 175-A EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - MED. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - MOVING - DAY Ethan is swaying in his saddle, just barely hanging on, as Martin races up behind him -- driving Ethan's horse along. They swing past a huge outcrop of rock and go tearing along a vaulting wall of stone. Their hoofbeats and those of the pursuers bounce and echo off the canyon walls, and bullets whine and ricochet. 175-B EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - FULL MOVING SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY They swing around giant boulders, up-ended like pancakes. Ethan is lurching almost out of the saddle, barely conscious. Martin spots the cave -- ahead -- and drives his mount and Ethan's toward it. 175-C EXT. THE CAVE (MONUMENT) - FULL SHOT - THE TWO - DAY Martin pulls his horse in and swings off just as Ethan slides from his saddle. He runs toward one of the huge boulders, crouches and starts firing. 175-D EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE ON THE COMANCHES - DAY The Comanches are spread out but coming on fast. One goes down under Martin's fire.... another is hit in the arm. He pulls up and the other Comanches wheel away from the hidden marksman. 175-E EXT. THE CAVE - FULL SHOT - MARTIN AND ETHAN Martin runs back from his firing post toward where Ethan has fallen. ETHAN (angrily) Go on! Get out of here while you can... MARTIN (pointing to the cave) Over there! Ethan turns and sees what he means. He starts dragging himself to the cave as Martin grabs the rifles from their saddle scabbards, yanks off the water canteens and then drives their horses away. Then he too runs for the shelter of the cave. 175-F EXT. THE CANYON - ANGLING FROM BEHIND MARTIN AND ETHAN Both men are crouching, rifles ready. In the distance we see their horses running off -- pursued by some yelling Comanches. Four or six others come into sight, heading for the cave -- moving cautiously, uncertainly -- not seeing their quarry. Then the white men open fire and the Comanches bend low over their horses' necks and clear out of there. Ethan looks grimly at Martin. ETHAN They'll be back... MARTIN We won't be here... Come on! He gets an arm under Ethan and hauls him to his feet. DISSOLVE TO: 175-G EXT. THE GAP IN THE CLIFF - PANNING SHOT - SUNSET CAMERA PANS from the top of the rock chimney to where Martin is snaking his way through, carrying newly-filled water canteens. He stands there, listening and looking back the way he has come; and then, satisfied there has been no pursuit, he continues away. OMITTED INT. THE CAVE - MED. SHOT - ETHAN - HALF-LIGHT Ethan is lying on the hard earth, perhaps cushioned with some boughs. He is half delirious. A small fire is burning. Martin enters carrying the canteens. He looks unsympathetically toward Ethan, then continues to the fire, takes a knife and starts to sterilize it. Ethan gasps, mumbles and then a word comes clear. ETHAN Martha... Martha! Martin stares at him -- and now, perhaps for the first time, he is fitting pieces into the jig-saw puzzle. He shifts closer to Ethan and we see he is preparing to dig out the bullet. Ethan opens his eyes and looks at him. MARTIN I gotta open that leg and let the poison out... He poises the knife. ETHAN Wait... He fumbles in his shirt pocket, brings out a greasy folded piece of paper. ETHAN Just in case... Read it. Martin sets the knife down, takes the paper, opens it and slowly reads: MARTIN 'I, Ethan Edwards, being of sound mind and without any blood kin, do hereby bequeath all my property of any kind to Martin Pauley...' (he stares, then) I don't want your property.... 'Sides, what do you mean no 'blood kin?' Debbie's your blood kin... ETHAN Not no more. MARTIN (angrily) You can keep your will! (he thrusts it back into Ethan's shirt) I ain't forgettin' you was all set to shoot her yourself... What kind o' man are you, anyway. ETHAN (sitting up -- eyes blazing) She's been with the bucks! She's nothin' now but a... Martin shoves him back onto the ground. MARTIN (a shout) Shut your dirty mouth! He gets to his feet, trembling, and stands looking down at Ethan, his fists clenched at his sides and murder in his eyes. Then his eyes rove to the knife lying on the blanket. He picks it up and he looks again at the wounded man. MARTIN (slowly) I hope you die! And he kneels again to open the wound. DISSOLVE TO: EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY Martin is hauling an improvised travois over the ground in which, lashed by vines and some clothing, is the unconscious figure of Ethan. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - MARTIN - DAY Eyes shadowed, whiskered, drawn -- he is an implacable figure as he drags the weary miles home. He hears a groan from Ethan o.s. He barely lets his eyes drift to the sound. He doesn't stop. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - ETHAN IN THE TRAVOIS - DAY We see he is delirious, lips parched, strapped to the poles. The travois jolts over the ground. As he passes out of frame, the CAMERA HOLDS on the marks of the travois poles scraping across the desert. FADE OUT OMITTED FADE IN INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT - NIGHT A party is in progress. Fiddler and banjo-player are playing a lively square dance for one or two sets of dancers -- ranchers, their wives and daughters. Laurie is not in evidence. At the far end of the room is a table with a punch bowl set up and a cluster of men and women about. Jorgensen is at the door boisterously welcoming some new arrivals. Leading them into the room is Captain the Reverend Sam Clayton, with a bulky oil-skin package under his arm. With him is Charlie MacCorry, dressed in his best black suit and scrubbed until he looks raw. Behind them come three or four other competent-looking men -- Rangers all of them. JORGENSEN (shouting) They're here, mama... Come in, come in... INT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - FAVORING GROUP AT DOOR Clayton waits for Charlie to come abreast, then hits him on the back and drives him inside. CLAYTON Here he is, Lars... Combed, curried 'n washed behind the ears! Mrs. Jorgensen hurries over, beaming, to admire Charlie. MRS. JORGENSEN Why, Charlie, you look real handsome! CHARLIE (grinning) Yes'm... scarcely reck'nize myself... Where's Laurie? Mrs. Jorgensen smiles and playfully pushes him toward the guests. MRS. JORGENSEN You'll see her soon enough... Clayton -- and the other Rangers -- have been hanging gunbelts on pegs along the wall. Now he shakes out his parcel -- disclosing a green-black frock coat. CLAYTON (nodding to the music) Say, that music sounds so good it must be sinful... MRS. JORGENSEN Grab a partner, reverend! CLAYTON Well, now, a man of my age just can't haul off and dance in cold blood... but if there's any of that wild cherry brandy of yours, Lars... JORGENSEN (suddenly sober) Nooo... (change of heart) Yah, by golly... One jug left... I get it! Mrs. Jorgensen glares as he heads out. MRS. JORGENSEN Last winter that man swore up and down there wasn't a drop left -- and me with pneumoney!... Reverend, you'd better start clergyin' again! EXT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - NIGHT Horses, wagons fill the yard. We can hear the lively music of the square dance. As Jorgensen opens the door and sets out toward the barn, a battered dusty trap drives in -- and on it are Martin and Ethan. Jorgensen at first doesn't recognize them. JORGENSEN (hailing them) Hi!... You're late... hurry... And then he sees who they are, and his jaw drops. JORGENSEN (staring) Ethan... Martie... No, don't get down! ...You can't come in! They stare at him. JORGENSEN The Rangers are here! He says it as though that explains everything. ETHAN What's that got to do with us? MARTIN (eyeing the house) What's goin' on? JORGENSEN (who's forgotten they wouldn't know) Why, my Laurie's getting married... Martin throws the reins aside and jumps out. Jorgensen grabs his arm. JORGENSEN Wait! Don't you hear me! The Rangers... MARTIN So what? JORGENSEN You been posted for murder... both of you... That trader fella, the late Mister Futterman... Martin tries to break free. MARTIN I gotta see Laurie! JORGENSEN (desperately) Go around the side... the grandmother's room... I'll tell her... PLEASE! MARTIN You better! He heads around the side. Ethan meanwhile has climbed stiffly down, slightly favoring his leg. JORGENSEN Quick... hide in the barn, Ethan... ETHAN Hide? Why would I? He brushes past the little man and heads for the door. INT. THE JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLING FROM BEHIND ETHAN as he enters, with Jorgensen at his heels. For a moment, as he stands there, the party breezes on. Then first one, then another sees him. They gape, and the music falters and stops. Sam Clayton crosses to confront him across the width of the room. Jorgensen tries to be the easy, smiling host--and makes a very bad job of it. JORGENSEN Look everybody... Look who's... He can't even finish it but stands there making flapping gestures. INT. JORGENSEN ROOM - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND SAM -- others gaping. During the opening lines, Jorgensen will covertly back toward the door to the inner room -- Laurie's room. ETHAN (to all) Evenin'... evenin' Reverend... or do I call you 'Captain'...? CLAYTON Came here for a wedding, Ethan... Until that's over, I reckon 'reverend' will do... MRS. JORGENSEN (coming forward) And news of our little girl, Ethan? His face contorts and his smile is twisted. ETHAN She's not a little girl any more. MRS. JORGENSEN (eyes wide) You've seen her!... She's alive? ETHAN I've seen her... and she's alive. Mrs. Jorgensen throws herself against his chest, sobbing. Ethan looks past her at Clayton. And the faces of both men are grim. CUT TO: INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT The room is dark. Martin is pacing, eyes constantly turning to the inside door. And then it opens and Laurie is inside, holding a lamp. She is in her bridal gown and very obviously trying to keep from betraying the stress she is under. LAURIE (quietly) Hello, Martie.... He just stares at her -- very lovely, strangely remote. He suddenly is conscious of his dirty hands, his dusty, worn clothing. MARTIN I... I wrote you a letter... Reckon you didn't get it... LAURIE (setting the lamp down) One letter in five years... I read it till the paper dried up and the writing faded out... MARTIN It wasn't much of a letter... LAURIE No, it wasn't... You mighta said you loved me... You mighta asked me to wait... At least that'd have been something... MARTIN But I allus loved you... You know that, without my sayin' it... I couldn't bring myself to ask you to wait... the little I had... not knowin' how much longer until we found Debbie... LAURIE (breaking) It isn't fair... She sinks onto the bench. LAURIE (sobbing) It isn't fair, Martin Pauley, and you know it! She begins to cry, very softly. He is beside her and his arm goes around her shoulder comfortingly. MARTIN Don't cry, Laurie... I understand how it is... I'll just go 'way... LAURIE (spinning on him) You do and I'll die, Martie... I will! I'll just die! And they are kissing through her tears when the outer door is flung open by Charlie MacCorry. They part as he glares. CHARLIE I'll thank you to leave the room, Laurie. Martin stares at him, then at her. MARTIN (incredulous) Charlie MacCorry!... You weren't fixin' to marry HIM?? CHARLIE She sure is!... An' don't think your comin' back is goin' to change it! MARTIN As to that, I don't know, Charlie... We hadn't got around to talkin' marriage... CHARLIE What right you got to be talkin' marriage to any decent woman... MARTIN (angrily) If you're talkin' about that crazy murder charge... CHARLIE AND other things... Mebbe you thought you was gettin' away with being comical about that Indian wife you took... I bet she wasn't the first squaw you... Martin swings wildly but Charlie is a wily fighter. He side- steps and chops Martin in the jaw and drives him against the wall. Laurie runs between them. LAURIE Stop it! Both of you... I won't have any fighting in this house. Martin gently brushes her aside. MARTIN It's all right... Charlie, let's move outside. CHARLIE I ain't wearing no gun. Martin nods and unbuckles his gunbelt. The men head outside as Laurie runs to get help. EXT. THE JORGENSEN HOME - BREEZEWAY Charlie waits assuredly as Martin follows him outside. Martin makes a wild run, swings. The blow is neatly guarded by Charlie's left and countered with a crisp right that puts Martin down. Martin gets to his feet, more cautiously this time, and comes in at a crouch; he's fighting like an Indian, not a white man. The men from the wedding party come out now at a run. CLAYTON (yelling) Sergeant MacCorry! Charlie turns slightly and in that instant Martin springs and drives a straight right at his face -- almost as though there were a knife in the hand. MacCorry stumbles back into Clayton's arms. CLAYTON Is this in the line of duty, sergeant? CHARLIE (regaining his balance) No sir... pleasure. CLAYTON In that case, give the boys room... Martin waits at a crouch as Charlie comes in, feints his right and crosses his left. It is a hard blow but Martin recovers and waits... Charlie circles and starts to repeat. He feints his right but this time Martin springs in, ducks and -- as the left shoots out -- he grabs the wrist and throws Charlie over his head. What we are looking at, in effect, is a wrestler against a boxer. CLAYTON Fight fair, son... Use your fists! ETHAN (drily) Comanches don't use their fists, reverend... Let 'em alone... Charlie is on his feet and warily starts circling -- now trying to imitate Martin's crouch. Suddenly Martin feints a right swing and connects with a solid left -- reversing the order of business. Charlie staggers and Martin follows up with a wrestling hold, leaping behind Charlie, locking both legs around him and driving his arms upward behind his back so that his face is in the dirt and so he could -- under other circumstances -- be neatly and expeditiously scalped. With the hands locked, Martin then calmly draws a knife. He looks innocently into the aghast faces of the crowd. MARTIN Could scalp him... but I'll just count coup! With that he releases the paralyzed arms just long enough to grab a lock of Charlie's hair and neatly snip it off. He stands then and laughs as Charlie lamely gets to his feet -- easing the tortured arms. Clayton goes to Charlie's side. Laurie moves to Martin's side. CLAYTON You all right, sergeant? CHARLIE Dunno... Seems so. CLAYTON Well, go get cleaned up and we'll proceed with the weddin'... Charlie frowns and looks off at where Laurie and Martin are standing. CHARLIE Ain't goin' to be any weddin' -- not till we get a few things cleared up 'round here... He walks rather unsteadily away leaving a thunderstruck assembly, murmurous with surprise. WIPE TO: INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - LATER THAT NIGHT The last of the wedding guests is leaving: Ed Nesby carrying his bull fiddle and with his wife and daughter and two smaller children preceding him out the door. The Jorgensens stand by -- trying to put a good face on the wedding debacle. Charlie MacCorry is sitting dejectedly, studying a spot on the floor. Ethan is at the mantel. Laurie is in her room -- presumably changing out of her wedding gown. Martin is at a sink, bathing a cut on his lip. Clayton, still in his clerical coat, is near the door. NESBY (a grin) Well... it was a nice weddin' party... considerin' no one got married... 'Night. JORGENSEN Good night, Ed... Mrs. Jorgensen puts her handkerchief to her eyes -- letting down now that the guests have gone. Jorgensen crosses to her, pats her sympathetically. JORGENSEN Now, mamma!... He leads her away. Clayton faces Ethan. CLAYTON I got to ask you and Martin to ride to the State Capitol with me, Ethan. ETHAN This an invite to a necktie party, Reverend? CLAYTON Captain... Nope, wouldn't say that... Likely you had your reasons for killin' Futterman... Probably needed killin'... I'm speaking as a ranger now, not as a reverend... Fact that all three was shot in the back is the only thing that's raised some question -- that and a missin' gold piece known to have been on him just prior to his demise. Ethan casually reaches into his pocket, takes out a gold coin and spins it. ETHAN (casually) That so? Martin crosses to confront Clayton. MARTIN I ain't goin' to Austin, Reverend. Charlie gets to his feet and he has his gun in his hand. CHARLIE You're goin' if the captain says you're goin'... CLAYTON Now, now... let's not grow disputatious... Fast hoofbeats sound o.s. -- signalling the approach of a four-man cavalry detail. CLAYTON (turning) What's that? More company? He and Jorgensen head for the door. CLAYTON Kinda late getting here, aren't they? A voice hails from outside. LIEUTENANT'S VOICE Hello there! Captain Clayton? INT. - EXT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLE AT DOOR - NIGHT Clayton stands in the opened doorway, Jorgensen behind him, looking out. Drawn up outside is the four-man cavalry detail, led by a young and very crisp LIEUTENANT. We may or may not see the sixth man, slouched over his horse. The Lieutenant swings off and crosses. LIEUTENANT Is Captain Clayton here, Reverend? CLAYTON I'm Clayton. The Lieutenant gapes at Clayton's ministerial coat. LIEUTENANT (doubtfully) You're Captain Clayton?... Ethan chuckles, to Clayton's very obvious annoyance. LIEUTENANT (recovering, he salutes) Colonel Greenhill's compliments, sir. The Colonel wishes to know how soon you could put a company of Rangers in the field, fully armed and... CLAYTON Hold on, son... Who's this Colonel Greenhill you're talking about? LIEUTENANT Why Colonel Greenhill is Colonel Greenhill, sir... Commanding Officer, Fifth U.S. Cavalry... I'm Lieutenant Greenhill, sir. CLAYTON Oh... Now what's this your pa wants to know? LIEUTENANT My pa wants to know... Colonel Greenhill wants to know how soon you could put a company of your Rangers in the field, fully armed and equipped, for joint punitive action against the Comanches. CLAYTON JOINT action? LIEUTENANT Yes sir... We've received information about a band of Comanches under a chief named Scar... ETHAN What information? LIEUTENANT That maybe he's not far from here -- holed up somewhere, waiting his chance to get back over the border... He raided north about a month ago... ran into more army than he bargained for... Now he's running for cover, for keeps this time... CLAYTON And what makes you think he's in this territory? LIEUTENANT Yesterday, one of our patrols picked up a man claims he was a prisoner with Scar till only two days ago... He talks crazy but I brought him along... Says he lives here... keeps mentioning a rocking chair. ETHAN (half to himself) Mose... And then he is striding to the door, calling it: ETHAN MOSE! MOSE'S VOICE Ay-he?... Ay-eh?... And the old man totters in, half-supported by a trooper -- hollow-eyed, weak, almost delirious. MOSE Come f'r my rockin' chai'... ole Mose. ETHAN (shouting it) Where's Scar, Mose... SCAR? MARTIN Ask him about Debbie!... Is she all right, Mose? MOSE My rockin' chai'... MRS. JORGENSEN (bustling over) Leave the poor man be! Can't you see he's out of his mind... She tries to lead him away, but Ethan shoves her aside and grips the old man by his arms. ETHAN Mose... try to remember!... You were in Scar's camp... MOSE Ay-he... Made out I was crazy... (he giggles foolishly) Ate dirt... chewed grass... I fooled 'em, Ethan!... an' I got away... ETHAN Scar! Where's he holed in? MOSE Seven Fingers... ay-he... Seven... He staggers and this time Mrs. Jorgensen won't be denied. MRS. JORGENSEN Now that's enough! Here... by the fire... What you need's a good bowl of soup... She leads him away, at last to his rocker by the fire. During this, Ethan and Clayton have been mulling Mose's answer. ETHAN (blankly) Seven Fingers? LIEUTENANT That's what he told us... but there's no such place on the maps. MARTIN Wait a minute! Isn't that the Caddo name for where all those canyons branch on the Malapai? MOSE (from his rocker) Caddo or Kiowa... ay-he... ay-eh... Sam Clayton wheels on the Lieutenant. CLAYTON You tell your pa a company of Rangers -- all fourteen of 'em -- fully armed an' equipped will be in the field by daylight... headin' for the south end of the Malapai. If he can catch up with us, well an' good... LIEUTENANT But... but captain, we can't possibly take the field tomorrow... for your own protection... CLAYTON Sonny, yonder's a passel of murderers, complete with Texican scalps an' white girl captive... You want to protect us, you just get out of our way... Now skedaddle! The lieutenant skedaddles. Sam whirls on Martin and Ethan. CLAYTON Ethan, you an' Martin are hereby appointed civilian scouts -- without pay... Charlie, hightail it to headquarters an' spread the word... CHARLIE Yes sir... He leaves. Martin's hands go to his side -- recalling where he left his guns. MARTIN My guns... He heads for the inner door to the grandmother room. INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin enters and crosses to where he had dropped his gunbelt. Even before he reaches it, Laurie is in the room -- closing the door after her. LAURIE Martie... don't go! Not this time. MARTIN (staring) You crazy? LAURIE It's too late... She's a woman grown now... MARTIN I got to fetch her home... LAURIE Fetch what home?... The leavin's of Comanche bucks -- sold time an' again to the highest bidder?... With savage brats of her own, most like?... MARTIN (shouting it) Laurie! Shut your mouth! LAURIE Do you know what Ethan will do if he has a chance?... He'll put a bullet in her brain! And I tell you Martha would want him to! MARTIN Only if I'm dead! He strides out past her. INT. THE KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin re-enters. Ethan and Sam are waiting. Martin looks hard at Ethan. CLAYTON You ready? MARTIN (eyes never leaving Ethan's face) I'm ready. As they stride out, CUT TO: 204-A INT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - GRANDMOTHER ROOM - CLOSE SHOT - LAURIE - NIGHT as she stands at the window, in her bridal gown, and sadly watches Martin again going away. Softly the score reprises -- sadly now -- "Skip to My Lou." DISSOLVE TO: EXT. MESA COUNTRY - LONG SHOT - THE RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT A file of eighteen men and horses -- Rangers -- is walking under the shoulder of a mesa, keeping well below the skyline. FULL SHOT - THE FILE OF RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT They pass CAMERA one by one -- Sam Clayton in the lead, Martin behind him leading two horses, then the others -- grim- looking, capable men of varying ages; some with long drooping mustaches, some in need of shaves, some chawing tobacco. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT He is lying prone, his hat off, squinting down into a long reach of desert canyon at the Comanche encampment -- with tepees set up, a thin wisp of smoke rising from a fire, the horse herd penned in a draw cut off by an improvised corral of rawhide ropes. EXT. THE COMANCHE ENCAMPMENT - WIDE ANGLE SHOT - DAWN LIGHT The camp is sleeping. A dog yaps shrilly. One of the tepee flaps opens and Scar steps out. He picks up a stone or a chunk of wood and throws it. The dog yelps and runs off. Scar's air is troubled, suspicious. He heads for the horse herd. The camp sleeps on. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT His face betrays a bitter inner satisfaction. He looks back along the trail as faintly we hear the approach of the Ranger company. Then he squirms back, retrieving his hat. FULL SHOT - HEAD OF RANGER COLUMN - DAWN LIGHT Sam, seeing Ethan in the near distance, raises his hand in a signal for halt and waits. Ethan scrambles down the trail to join him. He takes the reins of his horse from Martin. ETHAN We can get within 500 yards... there's a hogback to the south. CLAYTON How many, would you say? ETHAN (drily) Enough to go around... I'd say about a dozen apiece... Mount 'em up! He moves as though to mount, but Martin steps forward. MARTIN Wait! We go chargin' in, they'll kill her... and you know it. ETHAN (calmly) It's what I'm countin' on. Sam stares at him, but Martin isn't surprised. MARTIN I know you are... Only it ain't goin' to be that way... she's alive... ETHAN Livin' with Comanches ain't bein' alive... MARTIN (same tone) She's alive... Better she's alive and livin' with Comanches than her brains bashed out... CLAYTON Now son, it's a bitter thing to say, but there's more than your sister at stake here. ETHAN There sure is! I'm going to tell you somethin'... I wasn't going to speak of it... But I'll tell you now. Did you notice them scalps strung on Scar's lance? (MARTIN NODS) Did you see the third scalp from the point of the lance? Long... wavy hair... MARTIN I saw it... And don't try to tell me it was Aunt Martha's or Lucy's... ETHAN You don't remember it, but I remember. That was your mother's scalp! Martin stares, quick disbelief in his eyes. But Ethan's eyes hold his and there is no doubting the truth in them. ETHAN I didn't want to tell you... but maybe it's your right to know. CLAYTON (quietly) Now mount up, son... Sam puts his hand on Martin's elbow -- as though to turn him to his duty. But Martin jerks the arm away. MARTIN It don't change it... All I'm askin' is a chance to sneak in there... an' try to get her out before you come chargin' in. CLAYTON What if you're caught? MARTIN It won't tell 'em anything, will it! Just a man alone... ETHAN I say NO! CLAYTON Go ahead, son... But at the first alarm, we're comin' in -- and we ain't goin' to have time to pick and choose our targets when we do... Ethan looks long and hard at Martin, then reaches into his shirt for the folded, dirty, dog-eared paper that was his will. Slowly he tears it into shreds. ETHAN It's your funeral... Martin squats and starts pulling off his boots. He glances up as Charlie MacCorry comes over, an Indian blanket in his hands. He tosses it onto Martin's shoulder. CHARLIE Here... you fight like a Comanch... Maybe this'll help ya pass as one. Then

means

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

(harshly) How? She's even forgot her own language! MARTIN Debbie, you're comin' with us! Hear me? DEBBIE No... not now... not ever. These have been her first words in English... and they bring new hope to Martin. MARTIN I don't care what they've done to you... what happened... DEBBIE (angrily) They have done... nothing... They are my people... ETHAN Your people? They murdered your family! DEBBIE (reverting to Comanche) Ee-sap! (furiously) White men killed them - to steal cows! I was... little... I ran away... They find me... take care of me. MARTIN No Debbie! That ain't what happened! They been lyin' to you... DEBBIE You lie! All white men lie... and kill... MARTIN Debbie, think back! I'm Martin... remember? Remember how I used to let you ride my horse? Tell you stories? Don't you remember me, Debbie? DEBBIE I remember... from always... At first I prayed to you... come and get me... take me home... You didn't come... MARTIN I've come now... DEBBIE These are my people... (in Comanche) Unnt-meah! Go! Go! Please! ETHAN (grimly) Stand aside, boy... Martin turns as Ethan slowly reaches for his gun. It takes Martin a moment to realize what he is about to do. MARTIN Ethan -- NO! He moves quickly then to put himself between Ethan and the girl and in that instant there is the crack of a rifle. Ethan is hit in the leg. It goes out from under him. Martin swings and his gun is out and firing. 174-D EXT. SAND CREEK - FULL SHOT - INCLUDING THE DUNES - DAY A mounted Comanche is on the crest of the dune above them -- rifle raised. Martin's first shot brings him down the dune in a spectacular horse-and-man fall. Debbie goes running like a deer up the creek, away from Martin; in the same instant we hear the angry yells of distant Comanches charging from the far left. Martin turns to see Debbie running away. MARTIN Debbie! WAIT! Ethan is on his feet now and limping frantically toward their horses. He shoves Martin ahead of him. ETHAN (angrily) Never mind her! MOVE! They mount and take off, just as the vanguard of the attacking Comanches swings around a point of rock and comes charging toward the creek. EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE - LATE AFTERNOON as Ethan and Martin race their horses from the creek area and down a long incline, as -- from the heights above -- a dozen or more Comanches, led by Scar, come tearing after them. 175-A EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - MED. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - MOVING - DAY Ethan is swaying in his saddle, just barely hanging on, as Martin races up behind him -- driving Ethan's horse along. They swing past a huge outcrop of rock and go tearing along a vaulting wall of stone. Their hoofbeats and those of the pursuers bounce and echo off the canyon walls, and bullets whine and ricochet. 175-B EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - FULL MOVING SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY They swing around giant boulders, up-ended like pancakes. Ethan is lurching almost out of the saddle, barely conscious. Martin spots the cave -- ahead -- and drives his mount and Ethan's toward it. 175-C EXT. THE CAVE (MONUMENT) - FULL SHOT - THE TWO - DAY Martin pulls his horse in and swings off just as Ethan slides from his saddle. He runs toward one of the huge boulders, crouches and starts firing. 175-D EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE ON THE COMANCHES - DAY The Comanches are spread out but coming on fast. One goes down under Martin's fire.... another is hit in the arm. He pulls up and the other Comanches wheel away from the hidden marksman. 175-E EXT. THE CAVE - FULL SHOT - MARTIN AND ETHAN Martin runs back from his firing post toward where Ethan has fallen. ETHAN (angrily) Go on! Get out of here while you can... MARTIN (pointing to the cave) Over there! Ethan turns and sees what he means. He starts dragging himself to the cave as Martin grabs the rifles from their saddle scabbards, yanks off the water canteens and then drives their horses away. Then he too runs for the shelter of the cave. 175-F EXT. THE CANYON - ANGLING FROM BEHIND MARTIN AND ETHAN Both men are crouching, rifles ready. In the distance we see their horses running off -- pursued by some yelling Comanches. Four or six others come into sight, heading for the cave -- moving cautiously, uncertainly -- not seeing their quarry. Then the white men open fire and the Comanches bend low over their horses' necks and clear out of there. Ethan looks grimly at Martin. ETHAN They'll be back... MARTIN We won't be here... Come on! He gets an arm under Ethan and hauls him to his feet. DISSOLVE TO: 175-G EXT. THE GAP IN THE CLIFF - PANNING SHOT - SUNSET CAMERA PANS from the top of the rock chimney to where Martin is snaking his way through, carrying newly-filled water canteens. He stands there, listening and looking back the way he has come; and then, satisfied there has been no pursuit, he continues away. OMITTED INT. THE CAVE - MED. SHOT - ETHAN - HALF-LIGHT Ethan is lying on the hard earth, perhaps cushioned with some boughs. He is half delirious. A small fire is burning. Martin enters carrying the canteens. He looks unsympathetically toward Ethan, then continues to the fire, takes a knife and starts to sterilize it. Ethan gasps, mumbles and then a word comes clear. ETHAN Martha... Martha! Martin stares at him -- and now, perhaps for the first time, he is fitting pieces into the jig-saw puzzle. He shifts closer to Ethan and we see he is preparing to dig out the bullet. Ethan opens his eyes and looks at him. MARTIN I gotta open that leg and let the poison out... He poises the knife. ETHAN Wait... He fumbles in his shirt pocket, brings out a greasy folded piece of paper. ETHAN Just in case... Read it. Martin sets the knife down, takes the paper, opens it and slowly reads: MARTIN 'I, Ethan Edwards, being of sound mind and without any blood kin, do hereby bequeath all my property of any kind to Martin Pauley...' (he stares, then) I don't want your property.... 'Sides, what do you mean no 'blood kin?' Debbie's your blood kin... ETHAN Not no more. MARTIN (angrily) You can keep your will! (he thrusts it back into Ethan's shirt) I ain't forgettin' you was all set to shoot her yourself... What kind o' man are you, anyway. ETHAN (sitting up -- eyes blazing) She's been with the bucks! She's nothin' now but a... Martin shoves him back onto the ground. MARTIN (a shout) Shut your dirty mouth! He gets to his feet, trembling, and stands looking down at Ethan, his fists clenched at his sides and murder in his eyes. Then his eyes rove to the knife lying on the blanket. He picks it up and he looks again at the wounded man. MARTIN (slowly) I hope you die! And he kneels again to open the wound. DISSOLVE TO: EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY Martin is hauling an improvised travois over the ground in which, lashed by vines and some clothing, is the unconscious figure of Ethan. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - MARTIN - DAY Eyes shadowed, whiskered, drawn -- he is an implacable figure as he drags the weary miles home. He hears a groan from Ethan o.s. He barely lets his eyes drift to the sound. He doesn't stop. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - ETHAN IN THE TRAVOIS - DAY We see he is delirious, lips parched, strapped to the poles. The travois jolts over the ground. As he passes out of frame, the CAMERA HOLDS on the marks of the travois poles scraping across the desert. FADE OUT OMITTED FADE IN INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT - NIGHT A party is in progress. Fiddler and banjo-player are playing a lively square dance for one or two sets of dancers -- ranchers, their wives and daughters. Laurie is not in evidence. At the far end of the room is a table with a punch bowl set up and a cluster of men and women about. Jorgensen is at the door boisterously welcoming some new arrivals. Leading them into the room is Captain the Reverend Sam Clayton, with a bulky oil-skin package under his arm. With him is Charlie MacCorry, dressed in his best black suit and scrubbed until he looks raw. Behind them come three or four other competent-looking men -- Rangers all of them. JORGENSEN (shouting) They're here, mama... Come in, come in... INT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - FAVORING GROUP AT DOOR Clayton waits for Charlie to come abreast, then hits him on the back and drives him inside. CLAYTON Here he is, Lars... Combed, curried 'n washed behind the ears! Mrs. Jorgensen hurries over, beaming, to admire Charlie. MRS. JORGENSEN Why, Charlie, you look real handsome! CHARLIE (grinning) Yes'm... scarcely reck'nize myself... Where's Laurie? Mrs. Jorgensen smiles and playfully pushes him toward the guests. MRS. JORGENSEN You'll see her soon enough... Clayton -- and the other Rangers -- have been hanging gunbelts on pegs along the wall. Now he shakes out his parcel -- disclosing a green-black frock coat. CLAYTON (nodding to the music) Say, that music sounds so good it must be sinful... MRS. JORGENSEN Grab a partner, reverend! CLAYTON Well, now, a man of my age just can't haul off and dance in cold blood... but if there's any of that wild cherry brandy of yours, Lars... JORGENSEN (suddenly sober) Nooo... (change of heart) Yah, by golly... One jug left... I get it! Mrs. Jorgensen glares as he heads out. MRS. JORGENSEN Last winter that man swore up and down there wasn't a drop left -- and me with pneumoney!... Reverend, you'd better start clergyin' again! EXT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - NIGHT Horses, wagons fill the yard. We can hear the lively music of the square dance. As Jorgensen opens the door and sets out toward the barn, a battered dusty trap drives in -- and on it are Martin and Ethan. Jorgensen at first doesn't recognize them. JORGENSEN (hailing them) Hi!... You're late... hurry... And then he sees who they are, and his jaw drops. JORGENSEN (staring) Ethan... Martie... No, don't get down! ...You can't come in! They stare at him. JORGENSEN The Rangers are here! He says it as though that explains everything. ETHAN What's that got to do with us? MARTIN (eyeing the house) What's goin' on? JORGENSEN (who's forgotten they wouldn't know) Why, my Laurie's getting married... Martin throws the reins aside and jumps out. Jorgensen grabs his arm. JORGENSEN Wait! Don't you hear me! The Rangers... MARTIN So what? JORGENSEN You been posted for murder... both of you... That trader fella, the late Mister Futterman... Martin tries to break free. MARTIN I gotta see Laurie! JORGENSEN (desperately) Go around the side... the grandmother's room... I'll tell her... PLEASE! MARTIN You better! He heads around the side. Ethan meanwhile has climbed stiffly down, slightly favoring his leg. JORGENSEN Quick... hide in the barn, Ethan... ETHAN Hide? Why would I? He brushes past the little man and heads for the door. INT. THE JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLING FROM BEHIND ETHAN as he enters, with Jorgensen at his heels. For a moment, as he stands there, the party breezes on. Then first one, then another sees him. They gape, and the music falters and stops. Sam Clayton crosses to confront him across the width of the room. Jorgensen tries to be the easy, smiling host--and makes a very bad job of it. JORGENSEN Look everybody... Look who's... He can't even finish it but stands there making flapping gestures. INT. JORGENSEN ROOM - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND SAM -- others gaping. During the opening lines, Jorgensen will covertly back toward the door to the inner room -- Laurie's room. ETHAN (to all) Evenin'... evenin' Reverend... or do I call you 'Captain'...? CLAYTON Came here for a wedding, Ethan... Until that's over, I reckon 'reverend' will do... MRS. JORGENSEN (coming forward) And news of our little girl, Ethan? His face contorts and his smile is twisted. ETHAN She's not a little girl any more. MRS. JORGENSEN (eyes wide) You've seen her!... She's alive? ETHAN I've seen her... and she's alive. Mrs. Jorgensen throws herself against his chest, sobbing. Ethan looks past her at Clayton. And the faces of both men are grim. CUT TO: INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT The room is dark. Martin is pacing, eyes constantly turning to the inside door. And then it opens and Laurie is inside, holding a lamp. She is in her bridal gown and very obviously trying to keep from betraying the stress she is under. LAURIE (quietly) Hello, Martie.... He just stares at her -- very lovely, strangely remote. He suddenly is conscious of his dirty hands, his dusty, worn clothing. MARTIN I... I wrote you a letter... Reckon you didn't get it... LAURIE (setting the lamp down) One letter in five years... I read it till the paper dried up and the writing faded out... MARTIN It wasn't much of a letter... LAURIE No, it wasn't... You mighta said you loved me... You mighta asked me to wait... At least that'd have been something... MARTIN But I allus loved you... You know that, without my sayin' it... I couldn't bring myself to ask you to wait... the little I had... not knowin' how much longer until we found Debbie... LAURIE (breaking) It isn't fair... She sinks onto the bench. LAURIE (sobbing) It isn't fair, Martin Pauley, and you know it! She begins to cry, very softly. He is beside her and his arm goes around her shoulder comfortingly. MARTIN Don't cry, Laurie... I understand how it is... I'll just go 'way... LAURIE (spinning on him) You do and I'll die, Martie... I will! I'll just die! And they are kissing through her tears when the outer door is flung open by Charlie MacCorry. They part as he glares. CHARLIE I'll thank you to leave the room, Laurie. Martin stares at him, then at her. MARTIN (incredulous) Charlie MacCorry!... You weren't fixin' to marry HIM?? CHARLIE She sure is!... An' don't think your comin' back is goin' to change it! MARTIN As to that, I don't know, Charlie... We hadn't got around to talkin' marriage... CHARLIE What right you got to be talkin' marriage to any decent woman... MARTIN (angrily) If you're talkin' about that crazy murder charge... CHARLIE AND other things... Mebbe you thought you was gettin' away with being comical about that Indian wife you took... I bet she wasn't the first squaw you... Martin swings wildly but Charlie is a wily fighter. He side- steps and chops Martin in the jaw and drives him against the wall. Laurie runs between them. LAURIE Stop it! Both of you... I won't have any fighting in this house. Martin gently brushes her aside. MARTIN It's all right... Charlie, let's move outside. CHARLIE I ain't wearing no gun. Martin nods and unbuckles his gunbelt. The men head outside as Laurie runs to get help. EXT. THE JORGENSEN HOME - BREEZEWAY Charlie waits assuredly as Martin follows him outside. Martin makes a wild run, swings. The blow is neatly guarded by Charlie's left and countered with a crisp right that puts Martin down. Martin gets to his feet, more cautiously this time, and comes in at a crouch; he's fighting like an Indian, not a white man. The men from the wedding party come out now at a run. CLAYTON (yelling) Sergeant MacCorry! Charlie turns slightly and in that instant Martin springs and drives a straight right at his face -- almost as though there were a knife in the hand. MacCorry stumbles back into Clayton's arms. CLAYTON Is this in the line of duty, sergeant? CHARLIE (regaining his balance) No sir... pleasure. CLAYTON In that case, give the boys room... Martin waits at a crouch as Charlie comes in, feints his right and crosses his left. It is a hard blow but Martin recovers and waits... Charlie circles and starts to repeat. He feints his right but this time Martin springs in, ducks and -- as the left shoots out -- he grabs the wrist and throws Charlie over his head. What we are looking at, in effect, is a wrestler against a boxer. CLAYTON Fight fair, son... Use your fists! ETHAN (drily) Comanches don't use their fists, reverend... Let 'em alone... Charlie is on his feet and warily starts circling -- now trying to imitate Martin's crouch. Suddenly Martin feints a right swing and connects with a solid left -- reversing the order of business. Charlie staggers and Martin follows up with a wrestling hold, leaping behind Charlie, locking both legs around him and driving his arms upward behind his back so that his face is in the dirt and so he could -- under other circumstances -- be neatly and expeditiously scalped. With the hands locked, Martin then calmly draws a knife. He looks innocently into the aghast faces of the crowd. MARTIN Could scalp him... but I'll just count coup! With that he releases the paralyzed arms just long enough to grab a lock of Charlie's hair and neatly snip it off. He stands then and laughs as Charlie lamely gets to his feet -- easing the tortured arms. Clayton goes to Charlie's side. Laurie moves to Martin's side. CLAYTON You all right, sergeant? CHARLIE Dunno... Seems so. CLAYTON Well, go get cleaned up and we'll proceed with the weddin'... Charlie frowns and looks off at where Laurie and Martin are standing. CHARLIE Ain't goin' to be any weddin' -- not till we get a few things cleared up 'round here... He walks rather unsteadily away leaving a thunderstruck assembly, murmurous with surprise. WIPE TO: INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - LATER THAT NIGHT The last of the wedding guests is leaving: Ed Nesby carrying his bull fiddle and with his wife and daughter and two smaller children preceding him out the door. The Jorgensens stand by -- trying to put a good face on the wedding debacle. Charlie MacCorry is sitting dejectedly, studying a spot on the floor. Ethan is at the mantel. Laurie is in her room -- presumably changing out of her wedding gown. Martin is at a sink, bathing a cut on his lip. Clayton, still in his clerical coat, is near the door. NESBY (a grin) Well... it was a nice weddin' party... considerin' no one got married... 'Night. JORGENSEN Good night, Ed... Mrs. Jorgensen puts her handkerchief to her eyes -- letting down now that the guests have gone. Jorgensen crosses to her, pats her sympathetically. JORGENSEN Now, mamma!... He leads her away. Clayton faces Ethan. CLAYTON I got to ask you and Martin to ride to the State Capitol with me, Ethan. ETHAN This an invite to a necktie party, Reverend? CLAYTON Captain... Nope, wouldn't say that... Likely you had your reasons for killin' Futterman... Probably needed killin'... I'm speaking as a ranger now, not as a reverend... Fact that all three was shot in the back is the only thing that's raised some question -- that and a missin' gold piece known to have been on him just prior to his demise. Ethan casually reaches into his pocket, takes out a gold coin and spins it. ETHAN (casually) That so? Martin crosses to confront Clayton. MARTIN I ain't goin' to Austin, Reverend. Charlie gets to his feet and he has his gun in his hand. CHARLIE You're goin' if the captain says you're goin'... CLAYTON Now, now... let's not grow disputatious... Fast hoofbeats sound o.s. -- signalling the approach of a four-man cavalry detail. CLAYTON (turning) What's that? More company? He and Jorgensen head for the door. CLAYTON Kinda late getting here, aren't they? A voice hails from outside. LIEUTENANT'S VOICE Hello there! Captain Clayton? INT. - EXT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLE AT DOOR - NIGHT Clayton stands in the opened doorway, Jorgensen behind him, looking out. Drawn up outside is the four-man cavalry detail, led by a young and very crisp LIEUTENANT. We may or may not see the sixth man, slouched over his horse. The Lieutenant swings off and crosses. LIEUTENANT Is Captain Clayton here, Reverend? CLAYTON I'm Clayton. The Lieutenant gapes at Clayton's ministerial coat. LIEUTENANT (doubtfully) You're Captain Clayton?... Ethan chuckles, to Clayton's very obvious annoyance. LIEUTENANT (recovering, he salutes) Colonel Greenhill's compliments, sir. The Colonel wishes to know how soon you could put a company of Rangers in the field, fully armed and... CLAYTON Hold on, son... Who's this Colonel Greenhill you're talking about? LIEUTENANT Why Colonel Greenhill is Colonel Greenhill, sir... Commanding Officer, Fifth U.S. Cavalry... I'm Lieutenant Greenhill, sir. CLAYTON Oh... Now what's this your pa wants to know? LIEUTENANT My pa wants to know... Colonel Greenhill wants to know how soon you could put a company of your Rangers in the field, fully armed and equipped, for joint punitive action against the Comanches. CLAYTON JOINT action? LIEUTENANT Yes sir... We've received information about a band of Comanches under a chief named Scar... ETHAN What information? LIEUTENANT That maybe he's not far from here -- holed up somewhere, waiting his chance to get back over the border... He raided north about a month ago... ran into more army than he bargained for... Now he's running for cover, for keeps this time... CLAYTON And what makes you think he's in this territory? LIEUTENANT Yesterday, one of our patrols picked up a man claims he was a prisoner with Scar till only two days ago... He talks crazy but I brought him along... Says he lives here... keeps mentioning a rocking chair. ETHAN (half to himself) Mose... And then he is striding to the door, calling it: ETHAN MOSE! MOSE'S VOICE Ay-he?... Ay-eh?... And the old man totters in, half-supported by a trooper -- hollow-eyed, weak, almost delirious. MOSE Come f'r my rockin' chai'... ole Mose. ETHAN (shouting it) Where's Scar, Mose... SCAR? MARTIN Ask him about Debbie!... Is she all right, Mose? MOSE My rockin' chai'... MRS. JORGENSEN (bustling over) Leave the poor man be! Can't you see he's out of his mind... She tries to lead him away, but Ethan shoves her aside and grips the old man by his arms. ETHAN Mose... try to remember!... You were in Scar's camp... MOSE Ay-he... Made out I was crazy... (he giggles foolishly) Ate dirt... chewed grass... I fooled 'em, Ethan!... an' I got away... ETHAN Scar! Where's he holed in? MOSE Seven Fingers... ay-he... Seven... He staggers and this time Mrs. Jorgensen won't be denied. MRS. JORGENSEN Now that's enough! Here... by the fire... What you need's a good bowl of soup... She leads him away, at last to his rocker by the fire. During this, Ethan and Clayton have been mulling Mose's answer. ETHAN (blankly) Seven Fingers? LIEUTENANT That's what he told us... but there's no such place on the maps. MARTIN Wait a minute! Isn't that the Caddo name for where all those canyons branch on the Malapai? MOSE (from his rocker) Caddo or Kiowa... ay-he... ay-eh... Sam Clayton wheels on the Lieutenant. CLAYTON You tell your pa a company of Rangers -- all fourteen of 'em -- fully armed an' equipped will be in the field by daylight... headin' for the south end of the Malapai. If he can catch up with us, well an' good... LIEUTENANT But... but captain, we can't possibly take the field tomorrow... for your own protection... CLAYTON Sonny, yonder's a passel of murderers, complete with Texican scalps an' white girl captive... You want to protect us, you just get out of our way... Now skedaddle! The lieutenant skedaddles. Sam whirls on Martin and Ethan. CLAYTON Ethan, you an' Martin are hereby appointed civilian scouts -- without pay... Charlie, hightail it to headquarters an' spread the word... CHARLIE Yes sir... He leaves. Martin's hands go to his side -- recalling where he left his guns. MARTIN My guns... He heads for the inner door to the grandmother room. INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin enters and crosses to where he had dropped his gunbelt. Even before he reaches it, Laurie is in the room -- closing the door after her. LAURIE Martie... don't go! Not this time. MARTIN (staring) You crazy? LAURIE It's too late... She's a woman grown now... MARTIN I got to fetch her home... LAURIE Fetch what home?... The leavin's of Comanche bucks -- sold time an' again to the highest bidder?... With savage brats of her own, most like?... MARTIN (shouting it) Laurie! Shut your mouth! LAURIE Do you know what Ethan will do if he has a chance?... He'll put a bullet in her brain! And I tell you Martha would want him to! MARTIN Only if I'm dead! He strides out past her. INT. THE KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin re-enters. Ethan and Sam are waiting. Martin looks hard at Ethan. CLAYTON You ready? MARTIN (eyes never leaving Ethan's face) I'm ready. As they stride out, CUT TO: 204-A INT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - GRANDMOTHER ROOM - CLOSE SHOT - LAURIE - NIGHT as she stands at the window, in her bridal gown, and sadly watches Martin again going away. Softly the score reprises -- sadly now -- "Skip to My Lou." DISSOLVE TO: EXT. MESA COUNTRY - LONG SHOT - THE RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT A file of eighteen men and horses -- Rangers -- is walking under the shoulder of a mesa, keeping well below the skyline. FULL SHOT - THE FILE OF RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT They pass CAMERA one by one -- Sam Clayton in the lead, Martin behind him leading two horses, then the others -- grim- looking, capable men of varying ages; some with long drooping mustaches, some in need of shaves, some chawing tobacco. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT He is lying prone, his hat off, squinting down into a long reach of desert canyon at the Comanche encampment -- with tepees set up, a thin wisp of smoke rising from a fire, the horse herd penned in a draw cut off by an improvised corral of rawhide ropes. EXT. THE COMANCHE ENCAMPMENT - WIDE ANGLE SHOT - DAWN LIGHT The camp is sleeping. A dog yaps shrilly. One of the tepee flaps opens and Scar steps out. He picks up a stone or a chunk of wood and throws it. The dog yelps and runs off. Scar's air is troubled, suspicious. He heads for the horse herd. The camp sleeps on. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT His face betrays a bitter inner satisfaction. He looks back along the trail as faintly we hear the approach of the Ranger company. Then he squirms back, retrieving his hat. FULL SHOT - HEAD OF RANGER COLUMN - DAWN LIGHT Sam, seeing Ethan in the near distance, raises his hand in a signal for halt and waits. Ethan scrambles down the trail to join him. He takes the reins of his horse from Martin. ETHAN We can get within 500 yards... there's a hogback to the south. CLAYTON How many, would you say? ETHAN (drily) Enough to go around... I'd say about a dozen apiece... Mount 'em up! He moves as though to mount, but Martin steps forward. MARTIN Wait! We go chargin' in, they'll kill her... and you know it. ETHAN (calmly) It's what I'm countin' on. Sam stares at him, but Martin isn't surprised. MARTIN I know you are... Only it ain't goin' to be that way... she's alive... ETHAN Livin' with Comanches ain't bein' alive... MARTIN (same tone) She's alive... Better she's alive and livin' with Comanches than her brains bashed out... CLAYTON Now son, it's a bitter thing to say, but there's more than your sister at stake here. ETHAN There sure is! I'm going to tell you somethin'... I wasn't going to speak of it... But I'll tell you now. Did you notice them scalps strung on Scar's lance? (MARTIN NODS) Did you see the third scalp from the point of the lance? Long... wavy hair... MARTIN I saw it... And don't try to tell me it was Aunt Martha's or Lucy's... ETHAN You don't remember it, but I remember. That was your mother's scalp! Martin stares, quick disbelief in his eyes. But Ethan's eyes hold his and there is no doubting the truth in them. ETHAN I didn't want to tell you... but maybe it's your right to know. CLAYTON (quietly) Now mount up, son... Sam puts his hand on Martin's elbow -- as though to turn him to his duty. But Martin jerks the arm away. MARTIN It don't change it... All I'm askin' is a chance to sneak in there... an' try to get her out before you come chargin' in. CLAYTON What if you're caught? MARTIN It won't tell 'em anything, will it! Just a man alone... ETHAN I say NO! CLAYTON Go ahead, son... But at the first alarm, we're comin' in -- and we ain't goin' to have time to pick and choose our targets when we do... Ethan looks long and hard at Martin, then reaches into his shirt for the folded, dirty, dog-eared paper that was his will. Slowly he tears it into shreds. ETHAN It's your funeral... Martin squats and starts pulling off his boots. He glances up as Charlie MacCorry comes over, an Indian blanket in his hands. He tosses it onto Martin's shoulder. CHARLIE Here... you fight like a Comanch... Maybe this'll help ya pass as one. Then

unaccountable

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

(harshly) How? She's even forgot her own language! MARTIN Debbie, you're comin' with us! Hear me? DEBBIE No... not now... not ever. These have been her first words in English... and they bring new hope to Martin. MARTIN I don't care what they've done to you... what happened... DEBBIE (angrily) They have done... nothing... They are my people... ETHAN Your people? They murdered your family! DEBBIE (reverting to Comanche) Ee-sap! (furiously) White men killed them - to steal cows! I was... little... I ran away... They find me... take care of me. MARTIN No Debbie! That ain't what happened! They been lyin' to you... DEBBIE You lie! All white men lie... and kill... MARTIN Debbie, think back! I'm Martin... remember? Remember how I used to let you ride my horse? Tell you stories? Don't you remember me, Debbie? DEBBIE I remember... from always... At first I prayed to you... come and get me... take me home... You didn't come... MARTIN I've come now... DEBBIE These are my people... (in Comanche) Unnt-meah! Go! Go! Please! ETHAN (grimly) Stand aside, boy... Martin turns as Ethan slowly reaches for his gun. It takes Martin a moment to realize what he is about to do. MARTIN Ethan -- NO! He moves quickly then to put himself between Ethan and the girl and in that instant there is the crack of a rifle. Ethan is hit in the leg. It goes out from under him. Martin swings and his gun is out and firing. 174-D EXT. SAND CREEK - FULL SHOT - INCLUDING THE DUNES - DAY A mounted Comanche is on the crest of the dune above them -- rifle raised. Martin's first shot brings him down the dune in a spectacular horse-and-man fall. Debbie goes running like a deer up the creek, away from Martin; in the same instant we hear the angry yells of distant Comanches charging from the far left. Martin turns to see Debbie running away. MARTIN Debbie! WAIT! Ethan is on his feet now and limping frantically toward their horses. He shoves Martin ahead of him. ETHAN (angrily) Never mind her! MOVE! They mount and take off, just as the vanguard of the attacking Comanches swings around a point of rock and comes charging toward the creek. EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE - LATE AFTERNOON as Ethan and Martin race their horses from the creek area and down a long incline, as -- from the heights above -- a dozen or more Comanches, led by Scar, come tearing after them. 175-A EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - MED. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - MOVING - DAY Ethan is swaying in his saddle, just barely hanging on, as Martin races up behind him -- driving Ethan's horse along. They swing past a huge outcrop of rock and go tearing along a vaulting wall of stone. Their hoofbeats and those of the pursuers bounce and echo off the canyon walls, and bullets whine and ricochet. 175-B EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - FULL MOVING SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY They swing around giant boulders, up-ended like pancakes. Ethan is lurching almost out of the saddle, barely conscious. Martin spots the cave -- ahead -- and drives his mount and Ethan's toward it. 175-C EXT. THE CAVE (MONUMENT) - FULL SHOT - THE TWO - DAY Martin pulls his horse in and swings off just as Ethan slides from his saddle. He runs toward one of the huge boulders, crouches and starts firing. 175-D EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE ON THE COMANCHES - DAY The Comanches are spread out but coming on fast. One goes down under Martin's fire.... another is hit in the arm. He pulls up and the other Comanches wheel away from the hidden marksman. 175-E EXT. THE CAVE - FULL SHOT - MARTIN AND ETHAN Martin runs back from his firing post toward where Ethan has fallen. ETHAN (angrily) Go on! Get out of here while you can... MARTIN (pointing to the cave) Over there! Ethan turns and sees what he means. He starts dragging himself to the cave as Martin grabs the rifles from their saddle scabbards, yanks off the water canteens and then drives their horses away. Then he too runs for the shelter of the cave. 175-F EXT. THE CANYON - ANGLING FROM BEHIND MARTIN AND ETHAN Both men are crouching, rifles ready. In the distance we see their horses running off -- pursued by some yelling Comanches. Four or six others come into sight, heading for the cave -- moving cautiously, uncertainly -- not seeing their quarry. Then the white men open fire and the Comanches bend low over their horses' necks and clear out of there. Ethan looks grimly at Martin. ETHAN They'll be back... MARTIN We won't be here... Come on! He gets an arm under Ethan and hauls him to his feet. DISSOLVE TO: 175-G EXT. THE GAP IN THE CLIFF - PANNING SHOT - SUNSET CAMERA PANS from the top of the rock chimney to where Martin is snaking his way through, carrying newly-filled water canteens. He stands there, listening and looking back the way he has come; and then, satisfied there has been no pursuit, he continues away. OMITTED INT. THE CAVE - MED. SHOT - ETHAN - HALF-LIGHT Ethan is lying on the hard earth, perhaps cushioned with some boughs. He is half delirious. A small fire is burning. Martin enters carrying the canteens. He looks unsympathetically toward Ethan, then continues to the fire, takes a knife and starts to sterilize it. Ethan gasps, mumbles and then a word comes clear. ETHAN Martha... Martha! Martin stares at him -- and now, perhaps for the first time, he is fitting pieces into the jig-saw puzzle. He shifts closer to Ethan and we see he is preparing to dig out the bullet. Ethan opens his eyes and looks at him. MARTIN I gotta open that leg and let the poison out... He poises the knife. ETHAN Wait... He fumbles in his shirt pocket, brings out a greasy folded piece of paper. ETHAN Just in case... Read it. Martin sets the knife down, takes the paper, opens it and slowly reads: MARTIN 'I, Ethan Edwards, being of sound mind and without any blood kin, do hereby bequeath all my property of any kind to Martin Pauley...' (he stares, then) I don't want your property.... 'Sides, what do you mean no 'blood kin?' Debbie's your blood kin... ETHAN Not no more. MARTIN (angrily) You can keep your will! (he thrusts it back into Ethan's shirt) I ain't forgettin' you was all set to shoot her yourself... What kind o' man are you, anyway. ETHAN (sitting up -- eyes blazing) She's been with the bucks! She's nothin' now but a... Martin shoves him back onto the ground. MARTIN (a shout) Shut your dirty mouth! He gets to his feet, trembling, and stands looking down at Ethan, his fists clenched at his sides and murder in his eyes. Then his eyes rove to the knife lying on the blanket. He picks it up and he looks again at the wounded man. MARTIN (slowly) I hope you die! And he kneels again to open the wound. DISSOLVE TO: EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY Martin is hauling an improvised travois over the ground in which, lashed by vines and some clothing, is the unconscious figure of Ethan. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - MARTIN - DAY Eyes shadowed, whiskered, drawn -- he is an implacable figure as he drags the weary miles home. He hears a groan from Ethan o.s. He barely lets his eyes drift to the sound. He doesn't stop. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - ETHAN IN THE TRAVOIS - DAY We see he is delirious, lips parched, strapped to the poles. The travois jolts over the ground. As he passes out of frame, the CAMERA HOLDS on the marks of the travois poles scraping across the desert. FADE OUT OMITTED FADE IN INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT - NIGHT A party is in progress. Fiddler and banjo-player are playing a lively square dance for one or two sets of dancers -- ranchers, their wives and daughters. Laurie is not in evidence. At the far end of the room is a table with a punch bowl set up and a cluster of men and women about. Jorgensen is at the door boisterously welcoming some new arrivals. Leading them into the room is Captain the Reverend Sam Clayton, with a bulky oil-skin package under his arm. With him is Charlie MacCorry, dressed in his best black suit and scrubbed until he looks raw. Behind them come three or four other competent-looking men -- Rangers all of them. JORGENSEN (shouting) They're here, mama... Come in, come in... INT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - FAVORING GROUP AT DOOR Clayton waits for Charlie to come abreast, then hits him on the back and drives him inside. CLAYTON Here he is, Lars... Combed, curried 'n washed behind the ears! Mrs. Jorgensen hurries over, beaming, to admire Charlie. MRS. JORGENSEN Why, Charlie, you look real handsome! CHARLIE (grinning) Yes'm... scarcely reck'nize myself... Where's Laurie? Mrs. Jorgensen smiles and playfully pushes him toward the guests. MRS. JORGENSEN You'll see her soon enough... Clayton -- and the other Rangers -- have been hanging gunbelts on pegs along the wall. Now he shakes out his parcel -- disclosing a green-black frock coat. CLAYTON (nodding to the music) Say, that music sounds so good it must be sinful... MRS. JORGENSEN Grab a partner, reverend! CLAYTON Well, now, a man of my age just can't haul off and dance in cold blood... but if there's any of that wild cherry brandy of yours, Lars... JORGENSEN (suddenly sober) Nooo... (change of heart) Yah, by golly... One jug left... I get it! Mrs. Jorgensen glares as he heads out. MRS. JORGENSEN Last winter that man swore up and down there wasn't a drop left -- and me with pneumoney!... Reverend, you'd better start clergyin' again! EXT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - NIGHT Horses, wagons fill the yard. We can hear the lively music of the square dance. As Jorgensen opens the door and sets out toward the barn, a battered dusty trap drives in -- and on it are Martin and Ethan. Jorgensen at first doesn't recognize them. JORGENSEN (hailing them) Hi!... You're late... hurry... And then he sees who they are, and his jaw drops. JORGENSEN (staring) Ethan... Martie... No, don't get down! ...You can't come in! They stare at him. JORGENSEN The Rangers are here! He says it as though that explains everything. ETHAN What's that got to do with us? MARTIN (eyeing the house) What's goin' on? JORGENSEN (who's forgotten they wouldn't know) Why, my Laurie's getting married... Martin throws the reins aside and jumps out. Jorgensen grabs his arm. JORGENSEN Wait! Don't you hear me! The Rangers... MARTIN So what? JORGENSEN You been posted for murder... both of you... That trader fella, the late Mister Futterman... Martin tries to break free. MARTIN I gotta see Laurie! JORGENSEN (desperately) Go around the side... the grandmother's room... I'll tell her... PLEASE! MARTIN You better! He heads around the side. Ethan meanwhile has climbed stiffly down, slightly favoring his leg. JORGENSEN Quick... hide in the barn, Ethan... ETHAN Hide? Why would I? He brushes past the little man and heads for the door. INT. THE JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLING FROM BEHIND ETHAN as he enters, with Jorgensen at his heels. For a moment, as he stands there, the party breezes on. Then first one, then another sees him. They gape, and the music falters and stops. Sam Clayton crosses to confront him across the width of the room. Jorgensen tries to be the easy, smiling host--and makes a very bad job of it. JORGENSEN Look everybody... Look who's... He can't even finish it but stands there making flapping gestures. INT. JORGENSEN ROOM - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND SAM -- others gaping. During the opening lines, Jorgensen will covertly back toward the door to the inner room -- Laurie's room. ETHAN (to all) Evenin'... evenin' Reverend... or do I call you 'Captain'...? CLAYTON Came here for a wedding, Ethan... Until that's over, I reckon 'reverend' will do... MRS. JORGENSEN (coming forward) And news of our little girl, Ethan? His face contorts and his smile is twisted. ETHAN She's not a little girl any more. MRS. JORGENSEN (eyes wide) You've seen her!... She's alive? ETHAN I've seen her... and she's alive. Mrs. Jorgensen throws herself against his chest, sobbing. Ethan looks past her at Clayton. And the faces of both men are grim. CUT TO: INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT The room is dark. Martin is pacing, eyes constantly turning to the inside door. And then it opens and Laurie is inside, holding a lamp. She is in her bridal gown and very obviously trying to keep from betraying the stress she is under. LAURIE (quietly) Hello, Martie.... He just stares at her -- very lovely, strangely remote. He suddenly is conscious of his dirty hands, his dusty, worn clothing. MARTIN I... I wrote you a letter... Reckon you didn't get it... LAURIE (setting the lamp down) One letter in five years... I read it till the paper dried up and the writing faded out... MARTIN It wasn't much of a letter... LAURIE No, it wasn't... You mighta said you loved me... You mighta asked me to wait... At least that'd have been something... MARTIN But I allus loved you... You know that, without my sayin' it... I couldn't bring myself to ask you to wait... the little I had... not knowin' how much longer until we found Debbie... LAURIE (breaking) It isn't fair... She sinks onto the bench. LAURIE (sobbing) It isn't fair, Martin Pauley, and you know it! She begins to cry, very softly. He is beside her and his arm goes around her shoulder comfortingly. MARTIN Don't cry, Laurie... I understand how it is... I'll just go 'way... LAURIE (spinning on him) You do and I'll die, Martie... I will! I'll just die! And they are kissing through her tears when the outer door is flung open by Charlie MacCorry. They part as he glares. CHARLIE I'll thank you to leave the room, Laurie. Martin stares at him, then at her. MARTIN (incredulous) Charlie MacCorry!... You weren't fixin' to marry HIM?? CHARLIE She sure is!... An' don't think your comin' back is goin' to change it! MARTIN As to that, I don't know, Charlie... We hadn't got around to talkin' marriage... CHARLIE What right you got to be talkin' marriage to any decent woman... MARTIN (angrily) If you're talkin' about that crazy murder charge... CHARLIE AND other things... Mebbe you thought you was gettin' away with being comical about that Indian wife you took... I bet she wasn't the first squaw you... Martin swings wildly but Charlie is a wily fighter. He side- steps and chops Martin in the jaw and drives him against the wall. Laurie runs between them. LAURIE Stop it! Both of you... I won't have any fighting in this house. Martin gently brushes her aside. MARTIN It's all right... Charlie, let's move outside. CHARLIE I ain't wearing no gun. Martin nods and unbuckles his gunbelt. The men head outside as Laurie runs to get help. EXT. THE JORGENSEN HOME - BREEZEWAY Charlie waits assuredly as Martin follows him outside. Martin makes a wild run, swings. The blow is neatly guarded by Charlie's left and countered with a crisp right that puts Martin down. Martin gets to his feet, more cautiously this time, and comes in at a crouch; he's fighting like an Indian, not a white man. The men from the wedding party come out now at a run. CLAYTON (yelling) Sergeant MacCorry! Charlie turns slightly and in that instant Martin springs and drives a straight right at his face -- almost as though there were a knife in the hand. MacCorry stumbles back into Clayton's arms. CLAYTON Is this in the line of duty, sergeant? CHARLIE (regaining his balance) No sir... pleasure. CLAYTON In that case, give the boys room... Martin waits at a crouch as Charlie comes in, feints his right and crosses his left. It is a hard blow but Martin recovers and waits... Charlie circles and starts to repeat. He feints his right but this time Martin springs in, ducks and -- as the left shoots out -- he grabs the wrist and throws Charlie over his head. What we are looking at, in effect, is a wrestler against a boxer. CLAYTON Fight fair, son... Use your fists! ETHAN (drily) Comanches don't use their fists, reverend... Let 'em alone... Charlie is on his feet and warily starts circling -- now trying to imitate Martin's crouch. Suddenly Martin feints a right swing and connects with a solid left -- reversing the order of business. Charlie staggers and Martin follows up with a wrestling hold, leaping behind Charlie, locking both legs around him and driving his arms upward behind his back so that his face is in the dirt and so he could -- under other circumstances -- be neatly and expeditiously scalped. With the hands locked, Martin then calmly draws a knife. He looks innocently into the aghast faces of the crowd. MARTIN Could scalp him... but I'll just count coup! With that he releases the paralyzed arms just long enough to grab a lock of Charlie's hair and neatly snip it off. He stands then and laughs as Charlie lamely gets to his feet -- easing the tortured arms. Clayton goes to Charlie's side. Laurie moves to Martin's side. CLAYTON You all right, sergeant? CHARLIE Dunno... Seems so. CLAYTON Well, go get cleaned up and we'll proceed with the weddin'... Charlie frowns and looks off at where Laurie and Martin are standing. CHARLIE Ain't goin' to be any weddin' -- not till we get a few things cleared up 'round here... He walks rather unsteadily away leaving a thunderstruck assembly, murmurous with surprise. WIPE TO: INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - LATER THAT NIGHT The last of the wedding guests is leaving: Ed Nesby carrying his bull fiddle and with his wife and daughter and two smaller children preceding him out the door. The Jorgensens stand by -- trying to put a good face on the wedding debacle. Charlie MacCorry is sitting dejectedly, studying a spot on the floor. Ethan is at the mantel. Laurie is in her room -- presumably changing out of her wedding gown. Martin is at a sink, bathing a cut on his lip. Clayton, still in his clerical coat, is near the door. NESBY (a grin) Well... it was a nice weddin' party... considerin' no one got married... 'Night. JORGENSEN Good night, Ed... Mrs. Jorgensen puts her handkerchief to her eyes -- letting down now that the guests have gone. Jorgensen crosses to her, pats her sympathetically. JORGENSEN Now, mamma!... He leads her away. Clayton faces Ethan. CLAYTON I got to ask you and Martin to ride to the State Capitol with me, Ethan. ETHAN This an invite to a necktie party, Reverend? CLAYTON Captain... Nope, wouldn't say that... Likely you had your reasons for killin' Futterman... Probably needed killin'... I'm speaking as a ranger now, not as a reverend... Fact that all three was shot in the back is the only thing that's raised some question -- that and a missin' gold piece known to have been on him just prior to his demise. Ethan casually reaches into his pocket, takes out a gold coin and spins it. ETHAN (casually) That so? Martin crosses to confront Clayton. MARTIN I ain't goin' to Austin, Reverend. Charlie gets to his feet and he has his gun in his hand. CHARLIE You're goin' if the captain says you're goin'... CLAYTON Now, now... let's not grow disputatious... Fast hoofbeats sound o.s. -- signalling the approach of a four-man cavalry detail. CLAYTON (turning) What's that? More company? He and Jorgensen head for the door. CLAYTON Kinda late getting here, aren't they? A voice hails from outside. LIEUTENANT'S VOICE Hello there! Captain Clayton? INT. - EXT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLE AT DOOR - NIGHT Clayton stands in the opened doorway, Jorgensen behind him, looking out. Drawn up outside is the four-man cavalry detail, led by a young and very crisp LIEUTENANT. We may or may not see the sixth man, slouched over his horse. The Lieutenant swings off and crosses. LIEUTENANT Is Captain Clayton here, Reverend? CLAYTON I'm Clayton. The Lieutenant gapes at Clayton's ministerial coat. LIEUTENANT (doubtfully) You're Captain Clayton?... Ethan chuckles, to Clayton's very obvious annoyance. LIEUTENANT (recovering, he salutes) Colonel Greenhill's compliments, sir. The Colonel wishes to know how soon you could put a company of Rangers in the field, fully armed and... CLAYTON Hold on, son... Who's this Colonel Greenhill you're talking about? LIEUTENANT Why Colonel Greenhill is Colonel Greenhill, sir... Commanding Officer, Fifth U.S. Cavalry... I'm Lieutenant Greenhill, sir. CLAYTON Oh... Now what's this your pa wants to know? LIEUTENANT My pa wants to know... Colonel Greenhill wants to know how soon you could put a company of your Rangers in the field, fully armed and equipped, for joint punitive action against the Comanches. CLAYTON JOINT action? LIEUTENANT Yes sir... We've received information about a band of Comanches under a chief named Scar... ETHAN What information? LIEUTENANT That maybe he's not far from here -- holed up somewhere, waiting his chance to get back over the border... He raided north about a month ago... ran into more army than he bargained for... Now he's running for cover, for keeps this time... CLAYTON And what makes you think he's in this territory? LIEUTENANT Yesterday, one of our patrols picked up a man claims he was a prisoner with Scar till only two days ago... He talks crazy but I brought him along... Says he lives here... keeps mentioning a rocking chair. ETHAN (half to himself) Mose... And then he is striding to the door, calling it: ETHAN MOSE! MOSE'S VOICE Ay-he?... Ay-eh?... And the old man totters in, half-supported by a trooper -- hollow-eyed, weak, almost delirious. MOSE Come f'r my rockin' chai'... ole Mose. ETHAN (shouting it) Where's Scar, Mose... SCAR? MARTIN Ask him about Debbie!... Is she all right, Mose? MOSE My rockin' chai'... MRS. JORGENSEN (bustling over) Leave the poor man be! Can't you see he's out of his mind... She tries to lead him away, but Ethan shoves her aside and grips the old man by his arms. ETHAN Mose... try to remember!... You were in Scar's camp... MOSE Ay-he... Made out I was crazy... (he giggles foolishly) Ate dirt... chewed grass... I fooled 'em, Ethan!... an' I got away... ETHAN Scar! Where's he holed in? MOSE Seven Fingers... ay-he... Seven... He staggers and this time Mrs. Jorgensen won't be denied. MRS. JORGENSEN Now that's enough! Here... by the fire... What you need's a good bowl of soup... She leads him away, at last to his rocker by the fire. During this, Ethan and Clayton have been mulling Mose's answer. ETHAN (blankly) Seven Fingers? LIEUTENANT That's what he told us... but there's no such place on the maps. MARTIN Wait a minute! Isn't that the Caddo name for where all those canyons branch on the Malapai? MOSE (from his rocker) Caddo or Kiowa... ay-he... ay-eh... Sam Clayton wheels on the Lieutenant. CLAYTON You tell your pa a company of Rangers -- all fourteen of 'em -- fully armed an' equipped will be in the field by daylight... headin' for the south end of the Malapai. If he can catch up with us, well an' good... LIEUTENANT But... but captain, we can't possibly take the field tomorrow... for your own protection... CLAYTON Sonny, yonder's a passel of murderers, complete with Texican scalps an' white girl captive... You want to protect us, you just get out of our way... Now skedaddle! The lieutenant skedaddles. Sam whirls on Martin and Ethan. CLAYTON Ethan, you an' Martin are hereby appointed civilian scouts -- without pay... Charlie, hightail it to headquarters an' spread the word... CHARLIE Yes sir... He leaves. Martin's hands go to his side -- recalling where he left his guns. MARTIN My guns... He heads for the inner door to the grandmother room. INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin enters and crosses to where he had dropped his gunbelt. Even before he reaches it, Laurie is in the room -- closing the door after her. LAURIE Martie... don't go! Not this time. MARTIN (staring) You crazy? LAURIE It's too late... She's a woman grown now... MARTIN I got to fetch her home... LAURIE Fetch what home?... The leavin's of Comanche bucks -- sold time an' again to the highest bidder?... With savage brats of her own, most like?... MARTIN (shouting it) Laurie! Shut your mouth! LAURIE Do you know what Ethan will do if he has a chance?... He'll put a bullet in her brain! And I tell you Martha would want him to! MARTIN Only if I'm dead! He strides out past her. INT. THE KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin re-enters. Ethan and Sam are waiting. Martin looks hard at Ethan. CLAYTON You ready? MARTIN (eyes never leaving Ethan's face) I'm ready. As they stride out, CUT TO: 204-A INT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - GRANDMOTHER ROOM - CLOSE SHOT - LAURIE - NIGHT as she stands at the window, in her bridal gown, and sadly watches Martin again going away. Softly the score reprises -- sadly now -- "Skip to My Lou." DISSOLVE TO: EXT. MESA COUNTRY - LONG SHOT - THE RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT A file of eighteen men and horses -- Rangers -- is walking under the shoulder of a mesa, keeping well below the skyline. FULL SHOT - THE FILE OF RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT They pass CAMERA one by one -- Sam Clayton in the lead, Martin behind him leading two horses, then the others -- grim- looking, capable men of varying ages; some with long drooping mustaches, some in need of shaves, some chawing tobacco. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT He is lying prone, his hat off, squinting down into a long reach of desert canyon at the Comanche encampment -- with tepees set up, a thin wisp of smoke rising from a fire, the horse herd penned in a draw cut off by an improvised corral of rawhide ropes. EXT. THE COMANCHE ENCAMPMENT - WIDE ANGLE SHOT - DAWN LIGHT The camp is sleeping. A dog yaps shrilly. One of the tepee flaps opens and Scar steps out. He picks up a stone or a chunk of wood and throws it. The dog yelps and runs off. Scar's air is troubled, suspicious. He heads for the horse herd. The camp sleeps on. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT His face betrays a bitter inner satisfaction. He looks back along the trail as faintly we hear the approach of the Ranger company. Then he squirms back, retrieving his hat. FULL SHOT - HEAD OF RANGER COLUMN - DAWN LIGHT Sam, seeing Ethan in the near distance, raises his hand in a signal for halt and waits. Ethan scrambles down the trail to join him. He takes the reins of his horse from Martin. ETHAN We can get within 500 yards... there's a hogback to the south. CLAYTON How many, would you say? ETHAN (drily) Enough to go around... I'd say about a dozen apiece... Mount 'em up! He moves as though to mount, but Martin steps forward. MARTIN Wait! We go chargin' in, they'll kill her... and you know it. ETHAN (calmly) It's what I'm countin' on. Sam stares at him, but Martin isn't surprised. MARTIN I know you are... Only it ain't goin' to be that way... she's alive... ETHAN Livin' with Comanches ain't bein' alive... MARTIN (same tone) She's alive... Better she's alive and livin' with Comanches than her brains bashed out... CLAYTON Now son, it's a bitter thing to say, but there's more than your sister at stake here. ETHAN There sure is! I'm going to tell you somethin'... I wasn't going to speak of it... But I'll tell you now. Did you notice them scalps strung on Scar's lance? (MARTIN NODS) Did you see the third scalp from the point of the lance? Long... wavy hair... MARTIN I saw it... And don't try to tell me it was Aunt Martha's or Lucy's... ETHAN You don't remember it, but I remember. That was your mother's scalp! Martin stares, quick disbelief in his eyes. But Ethan's eyes hold his and there is no doubting the truth in them. ETHAN I didn't want to tell you... but maybe it's your right to know. CLAYTON (quietly) Now mount up, son... Sam puts his hand on Martin's elbow -- as though to turn him to his duty. But Martin jerks the arm away. MARTIN It don't change it... All I'm askin' is a chance to sneak in there... an' try to get her out before you come chargin' in. CLAYTON What if you're caught? MARTIN It won't tell 'em anything, will it! Just a man alone... ETHAN I say NO! CLAYTON Go ahead, son... But at the first alarm, we're comin' in -- and we ain't goin' to have time to pick and choose our targets when we do... Ethan looks long and hard at Martin, then reaches into his shirt for the folded, dirty, dog-eared paper that was his will. Slowly he tears it into shreds. ETHAN It's your funeral... Martin squats and starts pulling off his boots. He glances up as Charlie MacCorry comes over, an Indian blanket in his hands. He tosses it onto Martin's shoulder. CHARLIE Here... you fight like a Comanch... Maybe this'll help ya pass as one. Then

cinquante

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

(harshly) How? She's even forgot her own language! MARTIN Debbie, you're comin' with us! Hear me? DEBBIE No... not now... not ever. These have been her first words in English... and they bring new hope to Martin. MARTIN I don't care what they've done to you... what happened... DEBBIE (angrily) They have done... nothing... They are my people... ETHAN Your people? They murdered your family! DEBBIE (reverting to Comanche) Ee-sap! (furiously) White men killed them - to steal cows! I was... little... I ran away... They find me... take care of me. MARTIN No Debbie! That ain't what happened! They been lyin' to you... DEBBIE You lie! All white men lie... and kill... MARTIN Debbie, think back! I'm Martin... remember? Remember how I used to let you ride my horse? Tell you stories? Don't you remember me, Debbie? DEBBIE I remember... from always... At first I prayed to you... come and get me... take me home... You didn't come... MARTIN I've come now... DEBBIE These are my people... (in Comanche) Unnt-meah! Go! Go! Please! ETHAN (grimly) Stand aside, boy... Martin turns as Ethan slowly reaches for his gun. It takes Martin a moment to realize what he is about to do. MARTIN Ethan -- NO! He moves quickly then to put himself between Ethan and the girl and in that instant there is the crack of a rifle. Ethan is hit in the leg. It goes out from under him. Martin swings and his gun is out and firing. 174-D EXT. SAND CREEK - FULL SHOT - INCLUDING THE DUNES - DAY A mounted Comanche is on the crest of the dune above them -- rifle raised. Martin's first shot brings him down the dune in a spectacular horse-and-man fall. Debbie goes running like a deer up the creek, away from Martin; in the same instant we hear the angry yells of distant Comanches charging from the far left. Martin turns to see Debbie running away. MARTIN Debbie! WAIT! Ethan is on his feet now and limping frantically toward their horses. He shoves Martin ahead of him. ETHAN (angrily) Never mind her! MOVE! They mount and take off, just as the vanguard of the attacking Comanches swings around a point of rock and comes charging toward the creek. EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE - LATE AFTERNOON as Ethan and Martin race their horses from the creek area and down a long incline, as -- from the heights above -- a dozen or more Comanches, led by Scar, come tearing after them. 175-A EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - MED. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - MOVING - DAY Ethan is swaying in his saddle, just barely hanging on, as Martin races up behind him -- driving Ethan's horse along. They swing past a huge outcrop of rock and go tearing along a vaulting wall of stone. Their hoofbeats and those of the pursuers bounce and echo off the canyon walls, and bullets whine and ricochet. 175-B EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - FULL MOVING SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY They swing around giant boulders, up-ended like pancakes. Ethan is lurching almost out of the saddle, barely conscious. Martin spots the cave -- ahead -- and drives his mount and Ethan's toward it. 175-C EXT. THE CAVE (MONUMENT) - FULL SHOT - THE TWO - DAY Martin pulls his horse in and swings off just as Ethan slides from his saddle. He runs toward one of the huge boulders, crouches and starts firing. 175-D EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE ON THE COMANCHES - DAY The Comanches are spread out but coming on fast. One goes down under Martin's fire.... another is hit in the arm. He pulls up and the other Comanches wheel away from the hidden marksman. 175-E EXT. THE CAVE - FULL SHOT - MARTIN AND ETHAN Martin runs back from his firing post toward where Ethan has fallen. ETHAN (angrily) Go on! Get out of here while you can... MARTIN (pointing to the cave) Over there! Ethan turns and sees what he means. He starts dragging himself to the cave as Martin grabs the rifles from their saddle scabbards, yanks off the water canteens and then drives their horses away. Then he too runs for the shelter of the cave. 175-F EXT. THE CANYON - ANGLING FROM BEHIND MARTIN AND ETHAN Both men are crouching, rifles ready. In the distance we see their horses running off -- pursued by some yelling Comanches. Four or six others come into sight, heading for the cave -- moving cautiously, uncertainly -- not seeing their quarry. Then the white men open fire and the Comanches bend low over their horses' necks and clear out of there. Ethan looks grimly at Martin. ETHAN They'll be back... MARTIN We won't be here... Come on! He gets an arm under Ethan and hauls him to his feet. DISSOLVE TO: 175-G EXT. THE GAP IN THE CLIFF - PANNING SHOT - SUNSET CAMERA PANS from the top of the rock chimney to where Martin is snaking his way through, carrying newly-filled water canteens. He stands there, listening and looking back the way he has come; and then, satisfied there has been no pursuit, he continues away. OMITTED INT. THE CAVE - MED. SHOT - ETHAN - HALF-LIGHT Ethan is lying on the hard earth, perhaps cushioned with some boughs. He is half delirious. A small fire is burning. Martin enters carrying the canteens. He looks unsympathetically toward Ethan, then continues to the fire, takes a knife and starts to sterilize it. Ethan gasps, mumbles and then a word comes clear. ETHAN Martha... Martha! Martin stares at him -- and now, perhaps for the first time, he is fitting pieces into the jig-saw puzzle. He shifts closer to Ethan and we see he is preparing to dig out the bullet. Ethan opens his eyes and looks at him. MARTIN I gotta open that leg and let the poison out... He poises the knife. ETHAN Wait... He fumbles in his shirt pocket, brings out a greasy folded piece of paper. ETHAN Just in case... Read it. Martin sets the knife down, takes the paper, opens it and slowly reads: MARTIN 'I, Ethan Edwards, being of sound mind and without any blood kin, do hereby bequeath all my property of any kind to Martin Pauley...' (he stares, then) I don't want your property.... 'Sides, what do you mean no 'blood kin?' Debbie's your blood kin... ETHAN Not no more. MARTIN (angrily) You can keep your will! (he thrusts it back into Ethan's shirt) I ain't forgettin' you was all set to shoot her yourself... What kind o' man are you, anyway. ETHAN (sitting up -- eyes blazing) She's been with the bucks! She's nothin' now but a... Martin shoves him back onto the ground. MARTIN (a shout) Shut your dirty mouth! He gets to his feet, trembling, and stands looking down at Ethan, his fists clenched at his sides and murder in his eyes. Then his eyes rove to the knife lying on the blanket. He picks it up and he looks again at the wounded man. MARTIN (slowly) I hope you die! And he kneels again to open the wound. DISSOLVE TO: EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY Martin is hauling an improvised travois over the ground in which, lashed by vines and some clothing, is the unconscious figure of Ethan. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - MARTIN - DAY Eyes shadowed, whiskered, drawn -- he is an implacable figure as he drags the weary miles home. He hears a groan from Ethan o.s. He barely lets his eyes drift to the sound. He doesn't stop. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - ETHAN IN THE TRAVOIS - DAY We see he is delirious, lips parched, strapped to the poles. The travois jolts over the ground. As he passes out of frame, the CAMERA HOLDS on the marks of the travois poles scraping across the desert. FADE OUT OMITTED FADE IN INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT - NIGHT A party is in progress. Fiddler and banjo-player are playing a lively square dance for one or two sets of dancers -- ranchers, their wives and daughters. Laurie is not in evidence. At the far end of the room is a table with a punch bowl set up and a cluster of men and women about. Jorgensen is at the door boisterously welcoming some new arrivals. Leading them into the room is Captain the Reverend Sam Clayton, with a bulky oil-skin package under his arm. With him is Charlie MacCorry, dressed in his best black suit and scrubbed until he looks raw. Behind them come three or four other competent-looking men -- Rangers all of them. JORGENSEN (shouting) They're here, mama... Come in, come in... INT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - FAVORING GROUP AT DOOR Clayton waits for Charlie to come abreast, then hits him on the back and drives him inside. CLAYTON Here he is, Lars... Combed, curried 'n washed behind the ears! Mrs. Jorgensen hurries over, beaming, to admire Charlie. MRS. JORGENSEN Why, Charlie, you look real handsome! CHARLIE (grinning) Yes'm... scarcely reck'nize myself... Where's Laurie? Mrs. Jorgensen smiles and playfully pushes him toward the guests. MRS. JORGENSEN You'll see her soon enough... Clayton -- and the other Rangers -- have been hanging gunbelts on pegs along the wall. Now he shakes out his parcel -- disclosing a green-black frock coat. CLAYTON (nodding to the music) Say, that music sounds so good it must be sinful... MRS. JORGENSEN Grab a partner, reverend! CLAYTON Well, now, a man of my age just can't haul off and dance in cold blood... but if there's any of that wild cherry brandy of yours, Lars... JORGENSEN (suddenly sober) Nooo... (change of heart) Yah, by golly... One jug left... I get it! Mrs. Jorgensen glares as he heads out. MRS. JORGENSEN Last winter that man swore up and down there wasn't a drop left -- and me with pneumoney!... Reverend, you'd better start clergyin' again! EXT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - NIGHT Horses, wagons fill the yard. We can hear the lively music of the square dance. As Jorgensen opens the door and sets out toward the barn, a battered dusty trap drives in -- and on it are Martin and Ethan. Jorgensen at first doesn't recognize them. JORGENSEN (hailing them) Hi!... You're late... hurry... And then he sees who they are, and his jaw drops. JORGENSEN (staring) Ethan... Martie... No, don't get down! ...You can't come in! They stare at him. JORGENSEN The Rangers are here! He says it as though that explains everything. ETHAN What's that got to do with us? MARTIN (eyeing the house) What's goin' on? JORGENSEN (who's forgotten they wouldn't know) Why, my Laurie's getting married... Martin throws the reins aside and jumps out. Jorgensen grabs his arm. JORGENSEN Wait! Don't you hear me! The Rangers... MARTIN So what? JORGENSEN You been posted for murder... both of you... That trader fella, the late Mister Futterman... Martin tries to break free. MARTIN I gotta see Laurie! JORGENSEN (desperately) Go around the side... the grandmother's room... I'll tell her... PLEASE! MARTIN You better! He heads around the side. Ethan meanwhile has climbed stiffly down, slightly favoring his leg. JORGENSEN Quick... hide in the barn, Ethan... ETHAN Hide? Why would I? He brushes past the little man and heads for the door. INT. THE JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLING FROM BEHIND ETHAN as he enters, with Jorgensen at his heels. For a moment, as he stands there, the party breezes on. Then first one, then another sees him. They gape, and the music falters and stops. Sam Clayton crosses to confront him across the width of the room. Jorgensen tries to be the easy, smiling host--and makes a very bad job of it. JORGENSEN Look everybody... Look who's... He can't even finish it but stands there making flapping gestures. INT. JORGENSEN ROOM - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND SAM -- others gaping. During the opening lines, Jorgensen will covertly back toward the door to the inner room -- Laurie's room. ETHAN (to all) Evenin'... evenin' Reverend... or do I call you 'Captain'...? CLAYTON Came here for a wedding, Ethan... Until that's over, I reckon 'reverend' will do... MRS. JORGENSEN (coming forward) And news of our little girl, Ethan? His face contorts and his smile is twisted. ETHAN She's not a little girl any more. MRS. JORGENSEN (eyes wide) You've seen her!... She's alive? ETHAN I've seen her... and she's alive. Mrs. Jorgensen throws herself against his chest, sobbing. Ethan looks past her at Clayton. And the faces of both men are grim. CUT TO: INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT The room is dark. Martin is pacing, eyes constantly turning to the inside door. And then it opens and Laurie is inside, holding a lamp. She is in her bridal gown and very obviously trying to keep from betraying the stress she is under. LAURIE (quietly) Hello, Martie.... He just stares at her -- very lovely, strangely remote. He suddenly is conscious of his dirty hands, his dusty, worn clothing. MARTIN I... I wrote you a letter... Reckon you didn't get it... LAURIE (setting the lamp down) One letter in five years... I read it till the paper dried up and the writing faded out... MARTIN It wasn't much of a letter... LAURIE No, it wasn't... You mighta said you loved me... You mighta asked me to wait... At least that'd have been something... MARTIN But I allus loved you... You know that, without my sayin' it... I couldn't bring myself to ask you to wait... the little I had... not knowin' how much longer until we found Debbie... LAURIE (breaking) It isn't fair... She sinks onto the bench. LAURIE (sobbing) It isn't fair, Martin Pauley, and you know it! She begins to cry, very softly. He is beside her and his arm goes around her shoulder comfortingly. MARTIN Don't cry, Laurie... I understand how it is... I'll just go 'way... LAURIE (spinning on him) You do and I'll die, Martie... I will! I'll just die! And they are kissing through her tears when the outer door is flung open by Charlie MacCorry. They part as he glares. CHARLIE I'll thank you to leave the room, Laurie. Martin stares at him, then at her. MARTIN (incredulous) Charlie MacCorry!... You weren't fixin' to marry HIM?? CHARLIE She sure is!... An' don't think your comin' back is goin' to change it! MARTIN As to that, I don't know, Charlie... We hadn't got around to talkin' marriage... CHARLIE What right you got to be talkin' marriage to any decent woman... MARTIN (angrily) If you're talkin' about that crazy murder charge... CHARLIE AND other things... Mebbe you thought you was gettin' away with being comical about that Indian wife you took... I bet she wasn't the first squaw you... Martin swings wildly but Charlie is a wily fighter. He side- steps and chops Martin in the jaw and drives him against the wall. Laurie runs between them. LAURIE Stop it! Both of you... I won't have any fighting in this house. Martin gently brushes her aside. MARTIN It's all right... Charlie, let's move outside. CHARLIE I ain't wearing no gun. Martin nods and unbuckles his gunbelt. The men head outside as Laurie runs to get help. EXT. THE JORGENSEN HOME - BREEZEWAY Charlie waits assuredly as Martin follows him outside. Martin makes a wild run, swings. The blow is neatly guarded by Charlie's left and countered with a crisp right that puts Martin down. Martin gets to his feet, more cautiously this time, and comes in at a crouch; he's fighting like an Indian, not a white man. The men from the wedding party come out now at a run. CLAYTON (yelling) Sergeant MacCorry! Charlie turns slightly and in that instant Martin springs and drives a straight right at his face -- almost as though there were a knife in the hand. MacCorry stumbles back into Clayton's arms. CLAYTON Is this in the line of duty, sergeant? CHARLIE (regaining his balance) No sir... pleasure. CLAYTON In that case, give the boys room... Martin waits at a crouch as Charlie comes in, feints his right and crosses his left. It is a hard blow but Martin recovers and waits... Charlie circles and starts to repeat. He feints his right but this time Martin springs in, ducks and -- as the left shoots out -- he grabs the wrist and throws Charlie over his head. What we are looking at, in effect, is a wrestler against a boxer. CLAYTON Fight fair, son... Use your fists! ETHAN (drily) Comanches don't use their fists, reverend... Let 'em alone... Charlie is on his feet and warily starts circling -- now trying to imitate Martin's crouch. Suddenly Martin feints a right swing and connects with a solid left -- reversing the order of business. Charlie staggers and Martin follows up with a wrestling hold, leaping behind Charlie, locking both legs around him and driving his arms upward behind his back so that his face is in the dirt and so he could -- under other circumstances -- be neatly and expeditiously scalped. With the hands locked, Martin then calmly draws a knife. He looks innocently into the aghast faces of the crowd. MARTIN Could scalp him... but I'll just count coup! With that he releases the paralyzed arms just long enough to grab a lock of Charlie's hair and neatly snip it off. He stands then and laughs as Charlie lamely gets to his feet -- easing the tortured arms. Clayton goes to Charlie's side. Laurie moves to Martin's side. CLAYTON You all right, sergeant? CHARLIE Dunno... Seems so. CLAYTON Well, go get cleaned up and we'll proceed with the weddin'... Charlie frowns and looks off at where Laurie and Martin are standing. CHARLIE Ain't goin' to be any weddin' -- not till we get a few things cleared up 'round here... He walks rather unsteadily away leaving a thunderstruck assembly, murmurous with surprise. WIPE TO: INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - LATER THAT NIGHT The last of the wedding guests is leaving: Ed Nesby carrying his bull fiddle and with his wife and daughter and two smaller children preceding him out the door. The Jorgensens stand by -- trying to put a good face on the wedding debacle. Charlie MacCorry is sitting dejectedly, studying a spot on the floor. Ethan is at the mantel. Laurie is in her room -- presumably changing out of her wedding gown. Martin is at a sink, bathing a cut on his lip. Clayton, still in his clerical coat, is near the door. NESBY (a grin) Well... it was a nice weddin' party... considerin' no one got married... 'Night. JORGENSEN Good night, Ed... Mrs. Jorgensen puts her handkerchief to her eyes -- letting down now that the guests have gone. Jorgensen crosses to her, pats her sympathetically. JORGENSEN Now, mamma!... He leads her away. Clayton faces Ethan. CLAYTON I got to ask you and Martin to ride to the State Capitol with me, Ethan. ETHAN This an invite to a necktie party, Reverend? CLAYTON Captain... Nope, wouldn't say that... Likely you had your reasons for killin' Futterman... Probably needed killin'... I'm speaking as a ranger now, not as a reverend... Fact that all three was shot in the back is the only thing that's raised some question -- that and a missin' gold piece known to have been on him just prior to his demise. Ethan casually reaches into his pocket, takes out a gold coin and spins it. ETHAN (casually) That so? Martin crosses to confront Clayton. MARTIN I ain't goin' to Austin, Reverend. Charlie gets to his feet and he has his gun in his hand. CHARLIE You're goin' if the captain says you're goin'... CLAYTON Now, now... let's not grow disputatious... Fast hoofbeats sound o.s. -- signalling the approach of a four-man cavalry detail. CLAYTON (turning) What's that? More company? He and Jorgensen head for the door. CLAYTON Kinda late getting here, aren't they? A voice hails from outside. LIEUTENANT'S VOICE Hello there! Captain Clayton? INT. - EXT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLE AT DOOR - NIGHT Clayton stands in the opened doorway, Jorgensen behind him, looking out. Drawn up outside is the four-man cavalry detail, led by a young and very crisp LIEUTENANT. We may or may not see the sixth man, slouched over his horse. The Lieutenant swings off and crosses. LIEUTENANT Is Captain Clayton here, Reverend? CLAYTON I'm Clayton. The Lieutenant gapes at Clayton's ministerial coat. LIEUTENANT (doubtfully) You're Captain Clayton?... Ethan chuckles, to Clayton's very obvious annoyance. LIEUTENANT (recovering, he salutes) Colonel Greenhill's compliments, sir. The Colonel wishes to know how soon you could put a company of Rangers in the field, fully armed and... CLAYTON Hold on, son... Who's this Colonel Greenhill you're talking about? LIEUTENANT Why Colonel Greenhill is Colonel Greenhill, sir... Commanding Officer, Fifth U.S. Cavalry... I'm Lieutenant Greenhill, sir. CLAYTON Oh... Now what's this your pa wants to know? LIEUTENANT My pa wants to know... Colonel Greenhill wants to know how soon you could put a company of your Rangers in the field, fully armed and equipped, for joint punitive action against the Comanches. CLAYTON JOINT action? LIEUTENANT Yes sir... We've received information about a band of Comanches under a chief named Scar... ETHAN What information? LIEUTENANT That maybe he's not far from here -- holed up somewhere, waiting his chance to get back over the border... He raided north about a month ago... ran into more army than he bargained for... Now he's running for cover, for keeps this time... CLAYTON And what makes you think he's in this territory? LIEUTENANT Yesterday, one of our patrols picked up a man claims he was a prisoner with Scar till only two days ago... He talks crazy but I brought him along... Says he lives here... keeps mentioning a rocking chair. ETHAN (half to himself) Mose... And then he is striding to the door, calling it: ETHAN MOSE! MOSE'S VOICE Ay-he?... Ay-eh?... And the old man totters in, half-supported by a trooper -- hollow-eyed, weak, almost delirious. MOSE Come f'r my rockin' chai'... ole Mose. ETHAN (shouting it) Where's Scar, Mose... SCAR? MARTIN Ask him about Debbie!... Is she all right, Mose? MOSE My rockin' chai'... MRS. JORGENSEN (bustling over) Leave the poor man be! Can't you see he's out of his mind... She tries to lead him away, but Ethan shoves her aside and grips the old man by his arms. ETHAN Mose... try to remember!... You were in Scar's camp... MOSE Ay-he... Made out I was crazy... (he giggles foolishly) Ate dirt... chewed grass... I fooled 'em, Ethan!... an' I got away... ETHAN Scar! Where's he holed in? MOSE Seven Fingers... ay-he... Seven... He staggers and this time Mrs. Jorgensen won't be denied. MRS. JORGENSEN Now that's enough! Here... by the fire... What you need's a good bowl of soup... She leads him away, at last to his rocker by the fire. During this, Ethan and Clayton have been mulling Mose's answer. ETHAN (blankly) Seven Fingers? LIEUTENANT That's what he told us... but there's no such place on the maps. MARTIN Wait a minute! Isn't that the Caddo name for where all those canyons branch on the Malapai? MOSE (from his rocker) Caddo or Kiowa... ay-he... ay-eh... Sam Clayton wheels on the Lieutenant. CLAYTON You tell your pa a company of Rangers -- all fourteen of 'em -- fully armed an' equipped will be in the field by daylight... headin' for the south end of the Malapai. If he can catch up with us, well an' good... LIEUTENANT But... but captain, we can't possibly take the field tomorrow... for your own protection... CLAYTON Sonny, yonder's a passel of murderers, complete with Texican scalps an' white girl captive... You want to protect us, you just get out of our way... Now skedaddle! The lieutenant skedaddles. Sam whirls on Martin and Ethan. CLAYTON Ethan, you an' Martin are hereby appointed civilian scouts -- without pay... Charlie, hightail it to headquarters an' spread the word... CHARLIE Yes sir... He leaves. Martin's hands go to his side -- recalling where he left his guns. MARTIN My guns... He heads for the inner door to the grandmother room. INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin enters and crosses to where he had dropped his gunbelt. Even before he reaches it, Laurie is in the room -- closing the door after her. LAURIE Martie... don't go! Not this time. MARTIN (staring) You crazy? LAURIE It's too late... She's a woman grown now... MARTIN I got to fetch her home... LAURIE Fetch what home?... The leavin's of Comanche bucks -- sold time an' again to the highest bidder?... With savage brats of her own, most like?... MARTIN (shouting it) Laurie! Shut your mouth! LAURIE Do you know what Ethan will do if he has a chance?... He'll put a bullet in her brain! And I tell you Martha would want him to! MARTIN Only if I'm dead! He strides out past her. INT. THE KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin re-enters. Ethan and Sam are waiting. Martin looks hard at Ethan. CLAYTON You ready? MARTIN (eyes never leaving Ethan's face) I'm ready. As they stride out, CUT TO: 204-A INT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - GRANDMOTHER ROOM - CLOSE SHOT - LAURIE - NIGHT as she stands at the window, in her bridal gown, and sadly watches Martin again going away. Softly the score reprises -- sadly now -- "Skip to My Lou." DISSOLVE TO: EXT. MESA COUNTRY - LONG SHOT - THE RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT A file of eighteen men and horses -- Rangers -- is walking under the shoulder of a mesa, keeping well below the skyline. FULL SHOT - THE FILE OF RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT They pass CAMERA one by one -- Sam Clayton in the lead, Martin behind him leading two horses, then the others -- grim- looking, capable men of varying ages; some with long drooping mustaches, some in need of shaves, some chawing tobacco. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT He is lying prone, his hat off, squinting down into a long reach of desert canyon at the Comanche encampment -- with tepees set up, a thin wisp of smoke rising from a fire, the horse herd penned in a draw cut off by an improvised corral of rawhide ropes. EXT. THE COMANCHE ENCAMPMENT - WIDE ANGLE SHOT - DAWN LIGHT The camp is sleeping. A dog yaps shrilly. One of the tepee flaps opens and Scar steps out. He picks up a stone or a chunk of wood and throws it. The dog yelps and runs off. Scar's air is troubled, suspicious. He heads for the horse herd. The camp sleeps on. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT His face betrays a bitter inner satisfaction. He looks back along the trail as faintly we hear the approach of the Ranger company. Then he squirms back, retrieving his hat. FULL SHOT - HEAD OF RANGER COLUMN - DAWN LIGHT Sam, seeing Ethan in the near distance, raises his hand in a signal for halt and waits. Ethan scrambles down the trail to join him. He takes the reins of his horse from Martin. ETHAN We can get within 500 yards... there's a hogback to the south. CLAYTON How many, would you say? ETHAN (drily) Enough to go around... I'd say about a dozen apiece... Mount 'em up! He moves as though to mount, but Martin steps forward. MARTIN Wait! We go chargin' in, they'll kill her... and you know it. ETHAN (calmly) It's what I'm countin' on. Sam stares at him, but Martin isn't surprised. MARTIN I know you are... Only it ain't goin' to be that way... she's alive... ETHAN Livin' with Comanches ain't bein' alive... MARTIN (same tone) She's alive... Better she's alive and livin' with Comanches than her brains bashed out... CLAYTON Now son, it's a bitter thing to say, but there's more than your sister at stake here. ETHAN There sure is! I'm going to tell you somethin'... I wasn't going to speak of it... But I'll tell you now. Did you notice them scalps strung on Scar's lance? (MARTIN NODS) Did you see the third scalp from the point of the lance? Long... wavy hair... MARTIN I saw it... And don't try to tell me it was Aunt Martha's or Lucy's... ETHAN You don't remember it, but I remember. That was your mother's scalp! Martin stares, quick disbelief in his eyes. But Ethan's eyes hold his and there is no doubting the truth in them. ETHAN I didn't want to tell you... but maybe it's your right to know. CLAYTON (quietly) Now mount up, son... Sam puts his hand on Martin's elbow -- as though to turn him to his duty. But Martin jerks the arm away. MARTIN It don't change it... All I'm askin' is a chance to sneak in there... an' try to get her out before you come chargin' in. CLAYTON What if you're caught? MARTIN It won't tell 'em anything, will it! Just a man alone... ETHAN I say NO! CLAYTON Go ahead, son... But at the first alarm, we're comin' in -- and we ain't goin' to have time to pick and choose our targets when we do... Ethan looks long and hard at Martin, then reaches into his shirt for the folded, dirty, dog-eared paper that was his will. Slowly he tears it into shreds. ETHAN It's your funeral... Martin squats and starts pulling off his boots. He glances up as Charlie MacCorry comes over, an Indian blanket in his hands. He tosses it onto Martin's shoulder. CHARLIE Here... you fight like a Comanch... Maybe this'll help ya pass as one. Then

goes

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

(harshly) How? She's even forgot her own language! MARTIN Debbie, you're comin' with us! Hear me? DEBBIE No... not now... not ever. These have been her first words in English... and they bring new hope to Martin. MARTIN I don't care what they've done to you... what happened... DEBBIE (angrily) They have done... nothing... They are my people... ETHAN Your people? They murdered your family! DEBBIE (reverting to Comanche) Ee-sap! (furiously) White men killed them - to steal cows! I was... little... I ran away... They find me... take care of me. MARTIN No Debbie! That ain't what happened! They been lyin' to you... DEBBIE You lie! All white men lie... and kill... MARTIN Debbie, think back! I'm Martin... remember? Remember how I used to let you ride my horse? Tell you stories? Don't you remember me, Debbie? DEBBIE I remember... from always... At first I prayed to you... come and get me... take me home... You didn't come... MARTIN I've come now... DEBBIE These are my people... (in Comanche) Unnt-meah! Go! Go! Please! ETHAN (grimly) Stand aside, boy... Martin turns as Ethan slowly reaches for his gun. It takes Martin a moment to realize what he is about to do. MARTIN Ethan -- NO! He moves quickly then to put himself between Ethan and the girl and in that instant there is the crack of a rifle. Ethan is hit in the leg. It goes out from under him. Martin swings and his gun is out and firing. 174-D EXT. SAND CREEK - FULL SHOT - INCLUDING THE DUNES - DAY A mounted Comanche is on the crest of the dune above them -- rifle raised. Martin's first shot brings him down the dune in a spectacular horse-and-man fall. Debbie goes running like a deer up the creek, away from Martin; in the same instant we hear the angry yells of distant Comanches charging from the far left. Martin turns to see Debbie running away. MARTIN Debbie! WAIT! Ethan is on his feet now and limping frantically toward their horses. He shoves Martin ahead of him. ETHAN (angrily) Never mind her! MOVE! They mount and take off, just as the vanguard of the attacking Comanches swings around a point of rock and comes charging toward the creek. EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE - LATE AFTERNOON as Ethan and Martin race their horses from the creek area and down a long incline, as -- from the heights above -- a dozen or more Comanches, led by Scar, come tearing after them. 175-A EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - MED. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - MOVING - DAY Ethan is swaying in his saddle, just barely hanging on, as Martin races up behind him -- driving Ethan's horse along. They swing past a huge outcrop of rock and go tearing along a vaulting wall of stone. Their hoofbeats and those of the pursuers bounce and echo off the canyon walls, and bullets whine and ricochet. 175-B EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - FULL MOVING SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY They swing around giant boulders, up-ended like pancakes. Ethan is lurching almost out of the saddle, barely conscious. Martin spots the cave -- ahead -- and drives his mount and Ethan's toward it. 175-C EXT. THE CAVE (MONUMENT) - FULL SHOT - THE TWO - DAY Martin pulls his horse in and swings off just as Ethan slides from his saddle. He runs toward one of the huge boulders, crouches and starts firing. 175-D EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE ON THE COMANCHES - DAY The Comanches are spread out but coming on fast. One goes down under Martin's fire.... another is hit in the arm. He pulls up and the other Comanches wheel away from the hidden marksman. 175-E EXT. THE CAVE - FULL SHOT - MARTIN AND ETHAN Martin runs back from his firing post toward where Ethan has fallen. ETHAN (angrily) Go on! Get out of here while you can... MARTIN (pointing to the cave) Over there! Ethan turns and sees what he means. He starts dragging himself to the cave as Martin grabs the rifles from their saddle scabbards, yanks off the water canteens and then drives their horses away. Then he too runs for the shelter of the cave. 175-F EXT. THE CANYON - ANGLING FROM BEHIND MARTIN AND ETHAN Both men are crouching, rifles ready. In the distance we see their horses running off -- pursued by some yelling Comanches. Four or six others come into sight, heading for the cave -- moving cautiously, uncertainly -- not seeing their quarry. Then the white men open fire and the Comanches bend low over their horses' necks and clear out of there. Ethan looks grimly at Martin. ETHAN They'll be back... MARTIN We won't be here... Come on! He gets an arm under Ethan and hauls him to his feet. DISSOLVE TO: 175-G EXT. THE GAP IN THE CLIFF - PANNING SHOT - SUNSET CAMERA PANS from the top of the rock chimney to where Martin is snaking his way through, carrying newly-filled water canteens. He stands there, listening and looking back the way he has come; and then, satisfied there has been no pursuit, he continues away. OMITTED INT. THE CAVE - MED. SHOT - ETHAN - HALF-LIGHT Ethan is lying on the hard earth, perhaps cushioned with some boughs. He is half delirious. A small fire is burning. Martin enters carrying the canteens. He looks unsympathetically toward Ethan, then continues to the fire, takes a knife and starts to sterilize it. Ethan gasps, mumbles and then a word comes clear. ETHAN Martha... Martha! Martin stares at him -- and now, perhaps for the first time, he is fitting pieces into the jig-saw puzzle. He shifts closer to Ethan and we see he is preparing to dig out the bullet. Ethan opens his eyes and looks at him. MARTIN I gotta open that leg and let the poison out... He poises the knife. ETHAN Wait... He fumbles in his shirt pocket, brings out a greasy folded piece of paper. ETHAN Just in case... Read it. Martin sets the knife down, takes the paper, opens it and slowly reads: MARTIN 'I, Ethan Edwards, being of sound mind and without any blood kin, do hereby bequeath all my property of any kind to Martin Pauley...' (he stares, then) I don't want your property.... 'Sides, what do you mean no 'blood kin?' Debbie's your blood kin... ETHAN Not no more. MARTIN (angrily) You can keep your will! (he thrusts it back into Ethan's shirt) I ain't forgettin' you was all set to shoot her yourself... What kind o' man are you, anyway. ETHAN (sitting up -- eyes blazing) She's been with the bucks! She's nothin' now but a... Martin shoves him back onto the ground. MARTIN (a shout) Shut your dirty mouth! He gets to his feet, trembling, and stands looking down at Ethan, his fists clenched at his sides and murder in his eyes. Then his eyes rove to the knife lying on the blanket. He picks it up and he looks again at the wounded man. MARTIN (slowly) I hope you die! And he kneels again to open the wound. DISSOLVE TO: EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY Martin is hauling an improvised travois over the ground in which, lashed by vines and some clothing, is the unconscious figure of Ethan. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - MARTIN - DAY Eyes shadowed, whiskered, drawn -- he is an implacable figure as he drags the weary miles home. He hears a groan from Ethan o.s. He barely lets his eyes drift to the sound. He doesn't stop. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - ETHAN IN THE TRAVOIS - DAY We see he is delirious, lips parched, strapped to the poles. The travois jolts over the ground. As he passes out of frame, the CAMERA HOLDS on the marks of the travois poles scraping across the desert. FADE OUT OMITTED FADE IN INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT - NIGHT A party is in progress. Fiddler and banjo-player are playing a lively square dance for one or two sets of dancers -- ranchers, their wives and daughters. Laurie is not in evidence. At the far end of the room is a table with a punch bowl set up and a cluster of men and women about. Jorgensen is at the door boisterously welcoming some new arrivals. Leading them into the room is Captain the Reverend Sam Clayton, with a bulky oil-skin package under his arm. With him is Charlie MacCorry, dressed in his best black suit and scrubbed until he looks raw. Behind them come three or four other competent-looking men -- Rangers all of them. JORGENSEN (shouting) They're here, mama... Come in, come in... INT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - FAVORING GROUP AT DOOR Clayton waits for Charlie to come abreast, then hits him on the back and drives him inside. CLAYTON Here he is, Lars... Combed, curried 'n washed behind the ears! Mrs. Jorgensen hurries over, beaming, to admire Charlie. MRS. JORGENSEN Why, Charlie, you look real handsome! CHARLIE (grinning) Yes'm... scarcely reck'nize myself... Where's Laurie? Mrs. Jorgensen smiles and playfully pushes him toward the guests. MRS. JORGENSEN You'll see her soon enough... Clayton -- and the other Rangers -- have been hanging gunbelts on pegs along the wall. Now he shakes out his parcel -- disclosing a green-black frock coat. CLAYTON (nodding to the music) Say, that music sounds so good it must be sinful... MRS. JORGENSEN Grab a partner, reverend! CLAYTON Well, now, a man of my age just can't haul off and dance in cold blood... but if there's any of that wild cherry brandy of yours, Lars... JORGENSEN (suddenly sober) Nooo... (change of heart) Yah, by golly... One jug left... I get it! Mrs. Jorgensen glares as he heads out. MRS. JORGENSEN Last winter that man swore up and down there wasn't a drop left -- and me with pneumoney!... Reverend, you'd better start clergyin' again! EXT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - NIGHT Horses, wagons fill the yard. We can hear the lively music of the square dance. As Jorgensen opens the door and sets out toward the barn, a battered dusty trap drives in -- and on it are Martin and Ethan. Jorgensen at first doesn't recognize them. JORGENSEN (hailing them) Hi!... You're late... hurry... And then he sees who they are, and his jaw drops. JORGENSEN (staring) Ethan... Martie... No, don't get down! ...You can't come in! They stare at him. JORGENSEN The Rangers are here! He says it as though that explains everything. ETHAN What's that got to do with us? MARTIN (eyeing the house) What's goin' on? JORGENSEN (who's forgotten they wouldn't know) Why, my Laurie's getting married... Martin throws the reins aside and jumps out. Jorgensen grabs his arm. JORGENSEN Wait! Don't you hear me! The Rangers... MARTIN So what? JORGENSEN You been posted for murder... both of you... That trader fella, the late Mister Futterman... Martin tries to break free. MARTIN I gotta see Laurie! JORGENSEN (desperately) Go around the side... the grandmother's room... I'll tell her... PLEASE! MARTIN You better! He heads around the side. Ethan meanwhile has climbed stiffly down, slightly favoring his leg. JORGENSEN Quick... hide in the barn, Ethan... ETHAN Hide? Why would I? He brushes past the little man and heads for the door. INT. THE JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLING FROM BEHIND ETHAN as he enters, with Jorgensen at his heels. For a moment, as he stands there, the party breezes on. Then first one, then another sees him. They gape, and the music falters and stops. Sam Clayton crosses to confront him across the width of the room. Jorgensen tries to be the easy, smiling host--and makes a very bad job of it. JORGENSEN Look everybody... Look who's... He can't even finish it but stands there making flapping gestures. INT. JORGENSEN ROOM - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND SAM -- others gaping. During the opening lines, Jorgensen will covertly back toward the door to the inner room -- Laurie's room. ETHAN (to all) Evenin'... evenin' Reverend... or do I call you 'Captain'...? CLAYTON Came here for a wedding, Ethan... Until that's over, I reckon 'reverend' will do... MRS. JORGENSEN (coming forward) And news of our little girl, Ethan? His face contorts and his smile is twisted. ETHAN She's not a little girl any more. MRS. JORGENSEN (eyes wide) You've seen her!... She's alive? ETHAN I've seen her... and she's alive. Mrs. Jorgensen throws herself against his chest, sobbing. Ethan looks past her at Clayton. And the faces of both men are grim. CUT TO: INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT The room is dark. Martin is pacing, eyes constantly turning to the inside door. And then it opens and Laurie is inside, holding a lamp. She is in her bridal gown and very obviously trying to keep from betraying the stress she is under. LAURIE (quietly) Hello, Martie.... He just stares at her -- very lovely, strangely remote. He suddenly is conscious of his dirty hands, his dusty, worn clothing. MARTIN I... I wrote you a letter... Reckon you didn't get it... LAURIE (setting the lamp down) One letter in five years... I read it till the paper dried up and the writing faded out... MARTIN It wasn't much of a letter... LAURIE No, it wasn't... You mighta said you loved me... You mighta asked me to wait... At least that'd have been something... MARTIN But I allus loved you... You know that, without my sayin' it... I couldn't bring myself to ask you to wait... the little I had... not knowin' how much longer until we found Debbie... LAURIE (breaking) It isn't fair... She sinks onto the bench. LAURIE (sobbing) It isn't fair, Martin Pauley, and you know it! She begins to cry, very softly. He is beside her and his arm goes around her shoulder comfortingly. MARTIN Don't cry, Laurie... I understand how it is... I'll just go 'way... LAURIE (spinning on him) You do and I'll die, Martie... I will! I'll just die! And they are kissing through her tears when the outer door is flung open by Charlie MacCorry. They part as he glares. CHARLIE I'll thank you to leave the room, Laurie. Martin stares at him, then at her. MARTIN (incredulous) Charlie MacCorry!... You weren't fixin' to marry HIM?? CHARLIE She sure is!... An' don't think your comin' back is goin' to change it! MARTIN As to that, I don't know, Charlie... We hadn't got around to talkin' marriage... CHARLIE What right you got to be talkin' marriage to any decent woman... MARTIN (angrily) If you're talkin' about that crazy murder charge... CHARLIE AND other things... Mebbe you thought you was gettin' away with being comical about that Indian wife you took... I bet she wasn't the first squaw you... Martin swings wildly but Charlie is a wily fighter. He side- steps and chops Martin in the jaw and drives him against the wall. Laurie runs between them. LAURIE Stop it! Both of you... I won't have any fighting in this house. Martin gently brushes her aside. MARTIN It's all right... Charlie, let's move outside. CHARLIE I ain't wearing no gun. Martin nods and unbuckles his gunbelt. The men head outside as Laurie runs to get help. EXT. THE JORGENSEN HOME - BREEZEWAY Charlie waits assuredly as Martin follows him outside. Martin makes a wild run, swings. The blow is neatly guarded by Charlie's left and countered with a crisp right that puts Martin down. Martin gets to his feet, more cautiously this time, and comes in at a crouch; he's fighting like an Indian, not a white man. The men from the wedding party come out now at a run. CLAYTON (yelling) Sergeant MacCorry! Charlie turns slightly and in that instant Martin springs and drives a straight right at his face -- almost as though there were a knife in the hand. MacCorry stumbles back into Clayton's arms. CLAYTON Is this in the line of duty, sergeant? CHARLIE (regaining his balance) No sir... pleasure. CLAYTON In that case, give the boys room... Martin waits at a crouch as Charlie comes in, feints his right and crosses his left. It is a hard blow but Martin recovers and waits... Charlie circles and starts to repeat. He feints his right but this time Martin springs in, ducks and -- as the left shoots out -- he grabs the wrist and throws Charlie over his head. What we are looking at, in effect, is a wrestler against a boxer. CLAYTON Fight fair, son... Use your fists! ETHAN (drily) Comanches don't use their fists, reverend... Let 'em alone... Charlie is on his feet and warily starts circling -- now trying to imitate Martin's crouch. Suddenly Martin feints a right swing and connects with a solid left -- reversing the order of business. Charlie staggers and Martin follows up with a wrestling hold, leaping behind Charlie, locking both legs around him and driving his arms upward behind his back so that his face is in the dirt and so he could -- under other circumstances -- be neatly and expeditiously scalped. With the hands locked, Martin then calmly draws a knife. He looks innocently into the aghast faces of the crowd. MARTIN Could scalp him... but I'll just count coup! With that he releases the paralyzed arms just long enough to grab a lock of Charlie's hair and neatly snip it off. He stands then and laughs as Charlie lamely gets to his feet -- easing the tortured arms. Clayton goes to Charlie's side. Laurie moves to Martin's side. CLAYTON You all right, sergeant? CHARLIE Dunno... Seems so. CLAYTON Well, go get cleaned up and we'll proceed with the weddin'... Charlie frowns and looks off at where Laurie and Martin are standing. CHARLIE Ain't goin' to be any weddin' -- not till we get a few things cleared up 'round here... He walks rather unsteadily away leaving a thunderstruck assembly, murmurous with surprise. WIPE TO: INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - LATER THAT NIGHT The last of the wedding guests is leaving: Ed Nesby carrying his bull fiddle and with his wife and daughter and two smaller children preceding him out the door. The Jorgensens stand by -- trying to put a good face on the wedding debacle. Charlie MacCorry is sitting dejectedly, studying a spot on the floor. Ethan is at the mantel. Laurie is in her room -- presumably changing out of her wedding gown. Martin is at a sink, bathing a cut on his lip. Clayton, still in his clerical coat, is near the door. NESBY (a grin) Well... it was a nice weddin' party... considerin' no one got married... 'Night. JORGENSEN Good night, Ed... Mrs. Jorgensen puts her handkerchief to her eyes -- letting down now that the guests have gone. Jorgensen crosses to her, pats her sympathetically. JORGENSEN Now, mamma!... He leads her away. Clayton faces Ethan. CLAYTON I got to ask you and Martin to ride to the State Capitol with me, Ethan. ETHAN This an invite to a necktie party, Reverend? CLAYTON Captain... Nope, wouldn't say that... Likely you had your reasons for killin' Futterman... Probably needed killin'... I'm speaking as a ranger now, not as a reverend... Fact that all three was shot in the back is the only thing that's raised some question -- that and a missin' gold piece known to have been on him just prior to his demise. Ethan casually reaches into his pocket, takes out a gold coin and spins it. ETHAN (casually) That so? Martin crosses to confront Clayton. MARTIN I ain't goin' to Austin, Reverend. Charlie gets to his feet and he has his gun in his hand. CHARLIE You're goin' if the captain says you're goin'... CLAYTON Now, now... let's not grow disputatious... Fast hoofbeats sound o.s. -- signalling the approach of a four-man cavalry detail. CLAYTON (turning) What's that? More company? He and Jorgensen head for the door. CLAYTON Kinda late getting here, aren't they? A voice hails from outside. LIEUTENANT'S VOICE Hello there! Captain Clayton? INT. - EXT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLE AT DOOR - NIGHT Clayton stands in the opened doorway, Jorgensen behind him, looking out. Drawn up outside is the four-man cavalry detail, led by a young and very crisp LIEUTENANT. We may or may not see the sixth man, slouched over his horse. The Lieutenant swings off and crosses. LIEUTENANT Is Captain Clayton here, Reverend? CLAYTON I'm Clayton. The Lieutenant gapes at Clayton's ministerial coat. LIEUTENANT (doubtfully) You're Captain Clayton?... Ethan chuckles, to Clayton's very obvious annoyance. LIEUTENANT (recovering, he salutes) Colonel Greenhill's compliments, sir. The Colonel wishes to know how soon you could put a company of Rangers in the field, fully armed and... CLAYTON Hold on, son... Who's this Colonel Greenhill you're talking about? LIEUTENANT Why Colonel Greenhill is Colonel Greenhill, sir... Commanding Officer, Fifth U.S. Cavalry... I'm Lieutenant Greenhill, sir. CLAYTON Oh... Now what's this your pa wants to know? LIEUTENANT My pa wants to know... Colonel Greenhill wants to know how soon you could put a company of your Rangers in the field, fully armed and equipped, for joint punitive action against the Comanches. CLAYTON JOINT action? LIEUTENANT Yes sir... We've received information about a band of Comanches under a chief named Scar... ETHAN What information? LIEUTENANT That maybe he's not far from here -- holed up somewhere, waiting his chance to get back over the border... He raided north about a month ago... ran into more army than he bargained for... Now he's running for cover, for keeps this time... CLAYTON And what makes you think he's in this territory? LIEUTENANT Yesterday, one of our patrols picked up a man claims he was a prisoner with Scar till only two days ago... He talks crazy but I brought him along... Says he lives here... keeps mentioning a rocking chair. ETHAN (half to himself) Mose... And then he is striding to the door, calling it: ETHAN MOSE! MOSE'S VOICE Ay-he?... Ay-eh?... And the old man totters in, half-supported by a trooper -- hollow-eyed, weak, almost delirious. MOSE Come f'r my rockin' chai'... ole Mose. ETHAN (shouting it) Where's Scar, Mose... SCAR? MARTIN Ask him about Debbie!... Is she all right, Mose? MOSE My rockin' chai'... MRS. JORGENSEN (bustling over) Leave the poor man be! Can't you see he's out of his mind... She tries to lead him away, but Ethan shoves her aside and grips the old man by his arms. ETHAN Mose... try to remember!... You were in Scar's camp... MOSE Ay-he... Made out I was crazy... (he giggles foolishly) Ate dirt... chewed grass... I fooled 'em, Ethan!... an' I got away... ETHAN Scar! Where's he holed in? MOSE Seven Fingers... ay-he... Seven... He staggers and this time Mrs. Jorgensen won't be denied. MRS. JORGENSEN Now that's enough! Here... by the fire... What you need's a good bowl of soup... She leads him away, at last to his rocker by the fire. During this, Ethan and Clayton have been mulling Mose's answer. ETHAN (blankly) Seven Fingers? LIEUTENANT That's what he told us... but there's no such place on the maps. MARTIN Wait a minute! Isn't that the Caddo name for where all those canyons branch on the Malapai? MOSE (from his rocker) Caddo or Kiowa... ay-he... ay-eh... Sam Clayton wheels on the Lieutenant. CLAYTON You tell your pa a company of Rangers -- all fourteen of 'em -- fully armed an' equipped will be in the field by daylight... headin' for the south end of the Malapai. If he can catch up with us, well an' good... LIEUTENANT But... but captain, we can't possibly take the field tomorrow... for your own protection... CLAYTON Sonny, yonder's a passel of murderers, complete with Texican scalps an' white girl captive... You want to protect us, you just get out of our way... Now skedaddle! The lieutenant skedaddles. Sam whirls on Martin and Ethan. CLAYTON Ethan, you an' Martin are hereby appointed civilian scouts -- without pay... Charlie, hightail it to headquarters an' spread the word... CHARLIE Yes sir... He leaves. Martin's hands go to his side -- recalling where he left his guns. MARTIN My guns... He heads for the inner door to the grandmother room. INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin enters and crosses to where he had dropped his gunbelt. Even before he reaches it, Laurie is in the room -- closing the door after her. LAURIE Martie... don't go! Not this time. MARTIN (staring) You crazy? LAURIE It's too late... She's a woman grown now... MARTIN I got to fetch her home... LAURIE Fetch what home?... The leavin's of Comanche bucks -- sold time an' again to the highest bidder?... With savage brats of her own, most like?... MARTIN (shouting it) Laurie! Shut your mouth! LAURIE Do you know what Ethan will do if he has a chance?... He'll put a bullet in her brain! And I tell you Martha would want him to! MARTIN Only if I'm dead! He strides out past her. INT. THE KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin re-enters. Ethan and Sam are waiting. Martin looks hard at Ethan. CLAYTON You ready? MARTIN (eyes never leaving Ethan's face) I'm ready. As they stride out, CUT TO: 204-A INT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - GRANDMOTHER ROOM - CLOSE SHOT - LAURIE - NIGHT as she stands at the window, in her bridal gown, and sadly watches Martin again going away. Softly the score reprises -- sadly now -- "Skip to My Lou." DISSOLVE TO: EXT. MESA COUNTRY - LONG SHOT - THE RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT A file of eighteen men and horses -- Rangers -- is walking under the shoulder of a mesa, keeping well below the skyline. FULL SHOT - THE FILE OF RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT They pass CAMERA one by one -- Sam Clayton in the lead, Martin behind him leading two horses, then the others -- grim- looking, capable men of varying ages; some with long drooping mustaches, some in need of shaves, some chawing tobacco. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT He is lying prone, his hat off, squinting down into a long reach of desert canyon at the Comanche encampment -- with tepees set up, a thin wisp of smoke rising from a fire, the horse herd penned in a draw cut off by an improvised corral of rawhide ropes. EXT. THE COMANCHE ENCAMPMENT - WIDE ANGLE SHOT - DAWN LIGHT The camp is sleeping. A dog yaps shrilly. One of the tepee flaps opens and Scar steps out. He picks up a stone or a chunk of wood and throws it. The dog yelps and runs off. Scar's air is troubled, suspicious. He heads for the horse herd. The camp sleeps on. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT His face betrays a bitter inner satisfaction. He looks back along the trail as faintly we hear the approach of the Ranger company. Then he squirms back, retrieving his hat. FULL SHOT - HEAD OF RANGER COLUMN - DAWN LIGHT Sam, seeing Ethan in the near distance, raises his hand in a signal for halt and waits. Ethan scrambles down the trail to join him. He takes the reins of his horse from Martin. ETHAN We can get within 500 yards... there's a hogback to the south. CLAYTON How many, would you say? ETHAN (drily) Enough to go around... I'd say about a dozen apiece... Mount 'em up! He moves as though to mount, but Martin steps forward. MARTIN Wait! We go chargin' in, they'll kill her... and you know it. ETHAN (calmly) It's what I'm countin' on. Sam stares at him, but Martin isn't surprised. MARTIN I know you are... Only it ain't goin' to be that way... she's alive... ETHAN Livin' with Comanches ain't bein' alive... MARTIN (same tone) She's alive... Better she's alive and livin' with Comanches than her brains bashed out... CLAYTON Now son, it's a bitter thing to say, but there's more than your sister at stake here. ETHAN There sure is! I'm going to tell you somethin'... I wasn't going to speak of it... But I'll tell you now. Did you notice them scalps strung on Scar's lance? (MARTIN NODS) Did you see the third scalp from the point of the lance? Long... wavy hair... MARTIN I saw it... And don't try to tell me it was Aunt Martha's or Lucy's... ETHAN You don't remember it, but I remember. That was your mother's scalp! Martin stares, quick disbelief in his eyes. But Ethan's eyes hold his and there is no doubting the truth in them. ETHAN I didn't want to tell you... but maybe it's your right to know. CLAYTON (quietly) Now mount up, son... Sam puts his hand on Martin's elbow -- as though to turn him to his duty. But Martin jerks the arm away. MARTIN It don't change it... All I'm askin' is a chance to sneak in there... an' try to get her out before you come chargin' in. CLAYTON What if you're caught? MARTIN It won't tell 'em anything, will it! Just a man alone... ETHAN I say NO! CLAYTON Go ahead, son... But at the first alarm, we're comin' in -- and we ain't goin' to have time to pick and choose our targets when we do... Ethan looks long and hard at Martin, then reaches into his shirt for the folded, dirty, dog-eared paper that was his will. Slowly he tears it into shreds. ETHAN It's your funeral... Martin squats and starts pulling off his boots. He glances up as Charlie MacCorry comes over, an Indian blanket in his hands. He tosses it onto Martin's shoulder. CHARLIE Here... you fight like a Comanch... Maybe this'll help ya pass as one. Then

grimly

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

(harshly) How? She's even forgot her own language! MARTIN Debbie, you're comin' with us! Hear me? DEBBIE No... not now... not ever. These have been her first words in English... and they bring new hope to Martin. MARTIN I don't care what they've done to you... what happened... DEBBIE (angrily) They have done... nothing... They are my people... ETHAN Your people? They murdered your family! DEBBIE (reverting to Comanche) Ee-sap! (furiously) White men killed them - to steal cows! I was... little... I ran away... They find me... take care of me. MARTIN No Debbie! That ain't what happened! They been lyin' to you... DEBBIE You lie! All white men lie... and kill... MARTIN Debbie, think back! I'm Martin... remember? Remember how I used to let you ride my horse? Tell you stories? Don't you remember me, Debbie? DEBBIE I remember... from always... At first I prayed to you... come and get me... take me home... You didn't come... MARTIN I've come now... DEBBIE These are my people... (in Comanche) Unnt-meah! Go! Go! Please! ETHAN (grimly) Stand aside, boy... Martin turns as Ethan slowly reaches for his gun. It takes Martin a moment to realize what he is about to do. MARTIN Ethan -- NO! He moves quickly then to put himself between Ethan and the girl and in that instant there is the crack of a rifle. Ethan is hit in the leg. It goes out from under him. Martin swings and his gun is out and firing. 174-D EXT. SAND CREEK - FULL SHOT - INCLUDING THE DUNES - DAY A mounted Comanche is on the crest of the dune above them -- rifle raised. Martin's first shot brings him down the dune in a spectacular horse-and-man fall. Debbie goes running like a deer up the creek, away from Martin; in the same instant we hear the angry yells of distant Comanches charging from the far left. Martin turns to see Debbie running away. MARTIN Debbie! WAIT! Ethan is on his feet now and limping frantically toward their horses. He shoves Martin ahead of him. ETHAN (angrily) Never mind her! MOVE! They mount and take off, just as the vanguard of the attacking Comanches swings around a point of rock and comes charging toward the creek. EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE - LATE AFTERNOON as Ethan and Martin race their horses from the creek area and down a long incline, as -- from the heights above -- a dozen or more Comanches, led by Scar, come tearing after them. 175-A EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - MED. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - MOVING - DAY Ethan is swaying in his saddle, just barely hanging on, as Martin races up behind him -- driving Ethan's horse along. They swing past a huge outcrop of rock and go tearing along a vaulting wall of stone. Their hoofbeats and those of the pursuers bounce and echo off the canyon walls, and bullets whine and ricochet. 175-B EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - FULL MOVING SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY They swing around giant boulders, up-ended like pancakes. Ethan is lurching almost out of the saddle, barely conscious. Martin spots the cave -- ahead -- and drives his mount and Ethan's toward it. 175-C EXT. THE CAVE (MONUMENT) - FULL SHOT - THE TWO - DAY Martin pulls his horse in and swings off just as Ethan slides from his saddle. He runs toward one of the huge boulders, crouches and starts firing. 175-D EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE ON THE COMANCHES - DAY The Comanches are spread out but coming on fast. One goes down under Martin's fire.... another is hit in the arm. He pulls up and the other Comanches wheel away from the hidden marksman. 175-E EXT. THE CAVE - FULL SHOT - MARTIN AND ETHAN Martin runs back from his firing post toward where Ethan has fallen. ETHAN (angrily) Go on! Get out of here while you can... MARTIN (pointing to the cave) Over there! Ethan turns and sees what he means. He starts dragging himself to the cave as Martin grabs the rifles from their saddle scabbards, yanks off the water canteens and then drives their horses away. Then he too runs for the shelter of the cave. 175-F EXT. THE CANYON - ANGLING FROM BEHIND MARTIN AND ETHAN Both men are crouching, rifles ready. In the distance we see their horses running off -- pursued by some yelling Comanches. Four or six others come into sight, heading for the cave -- moving cautiously, uncertainly -- not seeing their quarry. Then the white men open fire and the Comanches bend low over their horses' necks and clear out of there. Ethan looks grimly at Martin. ETHAN They'll be back... MARTIN We won't be here... Come on! He gets an arm under Ethan and hauls him to his feet. DISSOLVE TO: 175-G EXT. THE GAP IN THE CLIFF - PANNING SHOT - SUNSET CAMERA PANS from the top of the rock chimney to where Martin is snaking his way through, carrying newly-filled water canteens. He stands there, listening and looking back the way he has come; and then, satisfied there has been no pursuit, he continues away. OMITTED INT. THE CAVE - MED. SHOT - ETHAN - HALF-LIGHT Ethan is lying on the hard earth, perhaps cushioned with some boughs. He is half delirious. A small fire is burning. Martin enters carrying the canteens. He looks unsympathetically toward Ethan, then continues to the fire, takes a knife and starts to sterilize it. Ethan gasps, mumbles and then a word comes clear. ETHAN Martha... Martha! Martin stares at him -- and now, perhaps for the first time, he is fitting pieces into the jig-saw puzzle. He shifts closer to Ethan and we see he is preparing to dig out the bullet. Ethan opens his eyes and looks at him. MARTIN I gotta open that leg and let the poison out... He poises the knife. ETHAN Wait... He fumbles in his shirt pocket, brings out a greasy folded piece of paper. ETHAN Just in case... Read it. Martin sets the knife down, takes the paper, opens it and slowly reads: MARTIN 'I, Ethan Edwards, being of sound mind and without any blood kin, do hereby bequeath all my property of any kind to Martin Pauley...' (he stares, then) I don't want your property.... 'Sides, what do you mean no 'blood kin?' Debbie's your blood kin... ETHAN Not no more. MARTIN (angrily) You can keep your will! (he thrusts it back into Ethan's shirt) I ain't forgettin' you was all set to shoot her yourself... What kind o' man are you, anyway. ETHAN (sitting up -- eyes blazing) She's been with the bucks! She's nothin' now but a... Martin shoves him back onto the ground. MARTIN (a shout) Shut your dirty mouth! He gets to his feet, trembling, and stands looking down at Ethan, his fists clenched at his sides and murder in his eyes. Then his eyes rove to the knife lying on the blanket. He picks it up and he looks again at the wounded man. MARTIN (slowly) I hope you die! And he kneels again to open the wound. DISSOLVE TO: EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY Martin is hauling an improvised travois over the ground in which, lashed by vines and some clothing, is the unconscious figure of Ethan. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - MARTIN - DAY Eyes shadowed, whiskered, drawn -- he is an implacable figure as he drags the weary miles home. He hears a groan from Ethan o.s. He barely lets his eyes drift to the sound. He doesn't stop. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - ETHAN IN THE TRAVOIS - DAY We see he is delirious, lips parched, strapped to the poles. The travois jolts over the ground. As he passes out of frame, the CAMERA HOLDS on the marks of the travois poles scraping across the desert. FADE OUT OMITTED FADE IN INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT - NIGHT A party is in progress. Fiddler and banjo-player are playing a lively square dance for one or two sets of dancers -- ranchers, their wives and daughters. Laurie is not in evidence. At the far end of the room is a table with a punch bowl set up and a cluster of men and women about. Jorgensen is at the door boisterously welcoming some new arrivals. Leading them into the room is Captain the Reverend Sam Clayton, with a bulky oil-skin package under his arm. With him is Charlie MacCorry, dressed in his best black suit and scrubbed until he looks raw. Behind them come three or four other competent-looking men -- Rangers all of them. JORGENSEN (shouting) They're here, mama... Come in, come in... INT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - FAVORING GROUP AT DOOR Clayton waits for Charlie to come abreast, then hits him on the back and drives him inside. CLAYTON Here he is, Lars... Combed, curried 'n washed behind the ears! Mrs. Jorgensen hurries over, beaming, to admire Charlie. MRS. JORGENSEN Why, Charlie, you look real handsome! CHARLIE (grinning) Yes'm... scarcely reck'nize myself... Where's Laurie? Mrs. Jorgensen smiles and playfully pushes him toward the guests. MRS. JORGENSEN You'll see her soon enough... Clayton -- and the other Rangers -- have been hanging gunbelts on pegs along the wall. Now he shakes out his parcel -- disclosing a green-black frock coat. CLAYTON (nodding to the music) Say, that music sounds so good it must be sinful... MRS. JORGENSEN Grab a partner, reverend! CLAYTON Well, now, a man of my age just can't haul off and dance in cold blood... but if there's any of that wild cherry brandy of yours, Lars... JORGENSEN (suddenly sober) Nooo... (change of heart) Yah, by golly... One jug left... I get it! Mrs. Jorgensen glares as he heads out. MRS. JORGENSEN Last winter that man swore up and down there wasn't a drop left -- and me with pneumoney!... Reverend, you'd better start clergyin' again! EXT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - NIGHT Horses, wagons fill the yard. We can hear the lively music of the square dance. As Jorgensen opens the door and sets out toward the barn, a battered dusty trap drives in -- and on it are Martin and Ethan. Jorgensen at first doesn't recognize them. JORGENSEN (hailing them) Hi!... You're late... hurry... And then he sees who they are, and his jaw drops. JORGENSEN (staring) Ethan... Martie... No, don't get down! ...You can't come in! They stare at him. JORGENSEN The Rangers are here! He says it as though that explains everything. ETHAN What's that got to do with us? MARTIN (eyeing the house) What's goin' on? JORGENSEN (who's forgotten they wouldn't know) Why, my Laurie's getting married... Martin throws the reins aside and jumps out. Jorgensen grabs his arm. JORGENSEN Wait! Don't you hear me! The Rangers... MARTIN So what? JORGENSEN You been posted for murder... both of you... That trader fella, the late Mister Futterman... Martin tries to break free. MARTIN I gotta see Laurie! JORGENSEN (desperately) Go around the side... the grandmother's room... I'll tell her... PLEASE! MARTIN You better! He heads around the side. Ethan meanwhile has climbed stiffly down, slightly favoring his leg. JORGENSEN Quick... hide in the barn, Ethan... ETHAN Hide? Why would I? He brushes past the little man and heads for the door. INT. THE JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLING FROM BEHIND ETHAN as he enters, with Jorgensen at his heels. For a moment, as he stands there, the party breezes on. Then first one, then another sees him. They gape, and the music falters and stops. Sam Clayton crosses to confront him across the width of the room. Jorgensen tries to be the easy, smiling host--and makes a very bad job of it. JORGENSEN Look everybody... Look who's... He can't even finish it but stands there making flapping gestures. INT. JORGENSEN ROOM - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND SAM -- others gaping. During the opening lines, Jorgensen will covertly back toward the door to the inner room -- Laurie's room. ETHAN (to all) Evenin'... evenin' Reverend... or do I call you 'Captain'...? CLAYTON Came here for a wedding, Ethan... Until that's over, I reckon 'reverend' will do... MRS. JORGENSEN (coming forward) And news of our little girl, Ethan? His face contorts and his smile is twisted. ETHAN She's not a little girl any more. MRS. JORGENSEN (eyes wide) You've seen her!... She's alive? ETHAN I've seen her... and she's alive. Mrs. Jorgensen throws herself against his chest, sobbing. Ethan looks past her at Clayton. And the faces of both men are grim. CUT TO: INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT The room is dark. Martin is pacing, eyes constantly turning to the inside door. And then it opens and Laurie is inside, holding a lamp. She is in her bridal gown and very obviously trying to keep from betraying the stress she is under. LAURIE (quietly) Hello, Martie.... He just stares at her -- very lovely, strangely remote. He suddenly is conscious of his dirty hands, his dusty, worn clothing. MARTIN I... I wrote you a letter... Reckon you didn't get it... LAURIE (setting the lamp down) One letter in five years... I read it till the paper dried up and the writing faded out... MARTIN It wasn't much of a letter... LAURIE No, it wasn't... You mighta said you loved me... You mighta asked me to wait... At least that'd have been something... MARTIN But I allus loved you... You know that, without my sayin' it... I couldn't bring myself to ask you to wait... the little I had... not knowin' how much longer until we found Debbie... LAURIE (breaking) It isn't fair... She sinks onto the bench. LAURIE (sobbing) It isn't fair, Martin Pauley, and you know it! She begins to cry, very softly. He is beside her and his arm goes around her shoulder comfortingly. MARTIN Don't cry, Laurie... I understand how it is... I'll just go 'way... LAURIE (spinning on him) You do and I'll die, Martie... I will! I'll just die! And they are kissing through her tears when the outer door is flung open by Charlie MacCorry. They part as he glares. CHARLIE I'll thank you to leave the room, Laurie. Martin stares at him, then at her. MARTIN (incredulous) Charlie MacCorry!... You weren't fixin' to marry HIM?? CHARLIE She sure is!... An' don't think your comin' back is goin' to change it! MARTIN As to that, I don't know, Charlie... We hadn't got around to talkin' marriage... CHARLIE What right you got to be talkin' marriage to any decent woman... MARTIN (angrily) If you're talkin' about that crazy murder charge... CHARLIE AND other things... Mebbe you thought you was gettin' away with being comical about that Indian wife you took... I bet she wasn't the first squaw you... Martin swings wildly but Charlie is a wily fighter. He side- steps and chops Martin in the jaw and drives him against the wall. Laurie runs between them. LAURIE Stop it! Both of you... I won't have any fighting in this house. Martin gently brushes her aside. MARTIN It's all right... Charlie, let's move outside. CHARLIE I ain't wearing no gun. Martin nods and unbuckles his gunbelt. The men head outside as Laurie runs to get help. EXT. THE JORGENSEN HOME - BREEZEWAY Charlie waits assuredly as Martin follows him outside. Martin makes a wild run, swings. The blow is neatly guarded by Charlie's left and countered with a crisp right that puts Martin down. Martin gets to his feet, more cautiously this time, and comes in at a crouch; he's fighting like an Indian, not a white man. The men from the wedding party come out now at a run. CLAYTON (yelling) Sergeant MacCorry! Charlie turns slightly and in that instant Martin springs and drives a straight right at his face -- almost as though there were a knife in the hand. MacCorry stumbles back into Clayton's arms. CLAYTON Is this in the line of duty, sergeant? CHARLIE (regaining his balance) No sir... pleasure. CLAYTON In that case, give the boys room... Martin waits at a crouch as Charlie comes in, feints his right and crosses his left. It is a hard blow but Martin recovers and waits... Charlie circles and starts to repeat. He feints his right but this time Martin springs in, ducks and -- as the left shoots out -- he grabs the wrist and throws Charlie over his head. What we are looking at, in effect, is a wrestler against a boxer. CLAYTON Fight fair, son... Use your fists! ETHAN (drily) Comanches don't use their fists, reverend... Let 'em alone... Charlie is on his feet and warily starts circling -- now trying to imitate Martin's crouch. Suddenly Martin feints a right swing and connects with a solid left -- reversing the order of business. Charlie staggers and Martin follows up with a wrestling hold, leaping behind Charlie, locking both legs around him and driving his arms upward behind his back so that his face is in the dirt and so he could -- under other circumstances -- be neatly and expeditiously scalped. With the hands locked, Martin then calmly draws a knife. He looks innocently into the aghast faces of the crowd. MARTIN Could scalp him... but I'll just count coup! With that he releases the paralyzed arms just long enough to grab a lock of Charlie's hair and neatly snip it off. He stands then and laughs as Charlie lamely gets to his feet -- easing the tortured arms. Clayton goes to Charlie's side. Laurie moves to Martin's side. CLAYTON You all right, sergeant? CHARLIE Dunno... Seems so. CLAYTON Well, go get cleaned up and we'll proceed with the weddin'... Charlie frowns and looks off at where Laurie and Martin are standing. CHARLIE Ain't goin' to be any weddin' -- not till we get a few things cleared up 'round here... He walks rather unsteadily away leaving a thunderstruck assembly, murmurous with surprise. WIPE TO: INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - LATER THAT NIGHT The last of the wedding guests is leaving: Ed Nesby carrying his bull fiddle and with his wife and daughter and two smaller children preceding him out the door. The Jorgensens stand by -- trying to put a good face on the wedding debacle. Charlie MacCorry is sitting dejectedly, studying a spot on the floor. Ethan is at the mantel. Laurie is in her room -- presumably changing out of her wedding gown. Martin is at a sink, bathing a cut on his lip. Clayton, still in his clerical coat, is near the door. NESBY (a grin) Well... it was a nice weddin' party... considerin' no one got married... 'Night. JORGENSEN Good night, Ed... Mrs. Jorgensen puts her handkerchief to her eyes -- letting down now that the guests have gone. Jorgensen crosses to her, pats her sympathetically. JORGENSEN Now, mamma!... He leads her away. Clayton faces Ethan. CLAYTON I got to ask you and Martin to ride to the State Capitol with me, Ethan. ETHAN This an invite to a necktie party, Reverend? CLAYTON Captain... Nope, wouldn't say that... Likely you had your reasons for killin' Futterman... Probably needed killin'... I'm speaking as a ranger now, not as a reverend... Fact that all three was shot in the back is the only thing that's raised some question -- that and a missin' gold piece known to have been on him just prior to his demise. Ethan casually reaches into his pocket, takes out a gold coin and spins it. ETHAN (casually) That so? Martin crosses to confront Clayton. MARTIN I ain't goin' to Austin, Reverend. Charlie gets to his feet and he has his gun in his hand. CHARLIE You're goin' if the captain says you're goin'... CLAYTON Now, now... let's not grow disputatious... Fast hoofbeats sound o.s. -- signalling the approach of a four-man cavalry detail. CLAYTON (turning) What's that? More company? He and Jorgensen head for the door. CLAYTON Kinda late getting here, aren't they? A voice hails from outside. LIEUTENANT'S VOICE Hello there! Captain Clayton? INT. - EXT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLE AT DOOR - NIGHT Clayton stands in the opened doorway, Jorgensen behind him, looking out. Drawn up outside is the four-man cavalry detail, led by a young and very crisp LIEUTENANT. We may or may not see the sixth man, slouched over his horse. The Lieutenant swings off and crosses. LIEUTENANT Is Captain Clayton here, Reverend? CLAYTON I'm Clayton. The Lieutenant gapes at Clayton's ministerial coat. LIEUTENANT (doubtfully) You're Captain Clayton?... Ethan chuckles, to Clayton's very obvious annoyance. LIEUTENANT (recovering, he salutes) Colonel Greenhill's compliments, sir. The Colonel wishes to know how soon you could put a company of Rangers in the field, fully armed and... CLAYTON Hold on, son... Who's this Colonel Greenhill you're talking about? LIEUTENANT Why Colonel Greenhill is Colonel Greenhill, sir... Commanding Officer, Fifth U.S. Cavalry... I'm Lieutenant Greenhill, sir. CLAYTON Oh... Now what's this your pa wants to know? LIEUTENANT My pa wants to know... Colonel Greenhill wants to know how soon you could put a company of your Rangers in the field, fully armed and equipped, for joint punitive action against the Comanches. CLAYTON JOINT action? LIEUTENANT Yes sir... We've received information about a band of Comanches under a chief named Scar... ETHAN What information? LIEUTENANT That maybe he's not far from here -- holed up somewhere, waiting his chance to get back over the border... He raided north about a month ago... ran into more army than he bargained for... Now he's running for cover, for keeps this time... CLAYTON And what makes you think he's in this territory? LIEUTENANT Yesterday, one of our patrols picked up a man claims he was a prisoner with Scar till only two days ago... He talks crazy but I brought him along... Says he lives here... keeps mentioning a rocking chair. ETHAN (half to himself) Mose... And then he is striding to the door, calling it: ETHAN MOSE! MOSE'S VOICE Ay-he?... Ay-eh?... And the old man totters in, half-supported by a trooper -- hollow-eyed, weak, almost delirious. MOSE Come f'r my rockin' chai'... ole Mose. ETHAN (shouting it) Where's Scar, Mose... SCAR? MARTIN Ask him about Debbie!... Is she all right, Mose? MOSE My rockin' chai'... MRS. JORGENSEN (bustling over) Leave the poor man be! Can't you see he's out of his mind... She tries to lead him away, but Ethan shoves her aside and grips the old man by his arms. ETHAN Mose... try to remember!... You were in Scar's camp... MOSE Ay-he... Made out I was crazy... (he giggles foolishly) Ate dirt... chewed grass... I fooled 'em, Ethan!... an' I got away... ETHAN Scar! Where's he holed in? MOSE Seven Fingers... ay-he... Seven... He staggers and this time Mrs. Jorgensen won't be denied. MRS. JORGENSEN Now that's enough! Here... by the fire... What you need's a good bowl of soup... She leads him away, at last to his rocker by the fire. During this, Ethan and Clayton have been mulling Mose's answer. ETHAN (blankly) Seven Fingers? LIEUTENANT That's what he told us... but there's no such place on the maps. MARTIN Wait a minute! Isn't that the Caddo name for where all those canyons branch on the Malapai? MOSE (from his rocker) Caddo or Kiowa... ay-he... ay-eh... Sam Clayton wheels on the Lieutenant. CLAYTON You tell your pa a company of Rangers -- all fourteen of 'em -- fully armed an' equipped will be in the field by daylight... headin' for the south end of the Malapai. If he can catch up with us, well an' good... LIEUTENANT But... but captain, we can't possibly take the field tomorrow... for your own protection... CLAYTON Sonny, yonder's a passel of murderers, complete with Texican scalps an' white girl captive... You want to protect us, you just get out of our way... Now skedaddle! The lieutenant skedaddles. Sam whirls on Martin and Ethan. CLAYTON Ethan, you an' Martin are hereby appointed civilian scouts -- without pay... Charlie, hightail it to headquarters an' spread the word... CHARLIE Yes sir... He leaves. Martin's hands go to his side -- recalling where he left his guns. MARTIN My guns... He heads for the inner door to the grandmother room. INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin enters and crosses to where he had dropped his gunbelt. Even before he reaches it, Laurie is in the room -- closing the door after her. LAURIE Martie... don't go! Not this time. MARTIN (staring) You crazy? LAURIE It's too late... She's a woman grown now... MARTIN I got to fetch her home... LAURIE Fetch what home?... The leavin's of Comanche bucks -- sold time an' again to the highest bidder?... With savage brats of her own, most like?... MARTIN (shouting it) Laurie! Shut your mouth! LAURIE Do you know what Ethan will do if he has a chance?... He'll put a bullet in her brain! And I tell you Martha would want him to! MARTIN Only if I'm dead! He strides out past her. INT. THE KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin re-enters. Ethan and Sam are waiting. Martin looks hard at Ethan. CLAYTON You ready? MARTIN (eyes never leaving Ethan's face) I'm ready. As they stride out, CUT TO: 204-A INT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - GRANDMOTHER ROOM - CLOSE SHOT - LAURIE - NIGHT as she stands at the window, in her bridal gown, and sadly watches Martin again going away. Softly the score reprises -- sadly now -- "Skip to My Lou." DISSOLVE TO: EXT. MESA COUNTRY - LONG SHOT - THE RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT A file of eighteen men and horses -- Rangers -- is walking under the shoulder of a mesa, keeping well below the skyline. FULL SHOT - THE FILE OF RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT They pass CAMERA one by one -- Sam Clayton in the lead, Martin behind him leading two horses, then the others -- grim- looking, capable men of varying ages; some with long drooping mustaches, some in need of shaves, some chawing tobacco. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT He is lying prone, his hat off, squinting down into a long reach of desert canyon at the Comanche encampment -- with tepees set up, a thin wisp of smoke rising from a fire, the horse herd penned in a draw cut off by an improvised corral of rawhide ropes. EXT. THE COMANCHE ENCAMPMENT - WIDE ANGLE SHOT - DAWN LIGHT The camp is sleeping. A dog yaps shrilly. One of the tepee flaps opens and Scar steps out. He picks up a stone or a chunk of wood and throws it. The dog yelps and runs off. Scar's air is troubled, suspicious. He heads for the horse herd. The camp sleeps on. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT His face betrays a bitter inner satisfaction. He looks back along the trail as faintly we hear the approach of the Ranger company. Then he squirms back, retrieving his hat. FULL SHOT - HEAD OF RANGER COLUMN - DAWN LIGHT Sam, seeing Ethan in the near distance, raises his hand in a signal for halt and waits. Ethan scrambles down the trail to join him. He takes the reins of his horse from Martin. ETHAN We can get within 500 yards... there's a hogback to the south. CLAYTON How many, would you say? ETHAN (drily) Enough to go around... I'd say about a dozen apiece... Mount 'em up! He moves as though to mount, but Martin steps forward. MARTIN Wait! We go chargin' in, they'll kill her... and you know it. ETHAN (calmly) It's what I'm countin' on. Sam stares at him, but Martin isn't surprised. MARTIN I know you are... Only it ain't goin' to be that way... she's alive... ETHAN Livin' with Comanches ain't bein' alive... MARTIN (same tone) She's alive... Better she's alive and livin' with Comanches than her brains bashed out... CLAYTON Now son, it's a bitter thing to say, but there's more than your sister at stake here. ETHAN There sure is! I'm going to tell you somethin'... I wasn't going to speak of it... But I'll tell you now. Did you notice them scalps strung on Scar's lance? (MARTIN NODS) Did you see the third scalp from the point of the lance? Long... wavy hair... MARTIN I saw it... And don't try to tell me it was Aunt Martha's or Lucy's... ETHAN You don't remember it, but I remember. That was your mother's scalp! Martin stares, quick disbelief in his eyes. But Ethan's eyes hold his and there is no doubting the truth in them. ETHAN I didn't want to tell you... but maybe it's your right to know. CLAYTON (quietly) Now mount up, son... Sam puts his hand on Martin's elbow -- as though to turn him to his duty. But Martin jerks the arm away. MARTIN It don't change it... All I'm askin' is a chance to sneak in there... an' try to get her out before you come chargin' in. CLAYTON What if you're caught? MARTIN It won't tell 'em anything, will it! Just a man alone... ETHAN I say NO! CLAYTON Go ahead, son... But at the first alarm, we're comin' in -- and we ain't goin' to have time to pick and choose our targets when we do... Ethan looks long and hard at Martin, then reaches into his shirt for the folded, dirty, dog-eared paper that was his will. Slowly he tears it into shreds. ETHAN It's your funeral... Martin squats and starts pulling off his boots. He glances up as Charlie MacCorry comes over, an Indian blanket in his hands. He tosses it onto Martin's shoulder. CHARLIE Here... you fight like a Comanch... Maybe this'll help ya pass as one. Then

perhaps

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

(harshly) How? She's even forgot her own language! MARTIN Debbie, you're comin' with us! Hear me? DEBBIE No... not now... not ever. These have been her first words in English... and they bring new hope to Martin. MARTIN I don't care what they've done to you... what happened... DEBBIE (angrily) They have done... nothing... They are my people... ETHAN Your people? They murdered your family! DEBBIE (reverting to Comanche) Ee-sap! (furiously) White men killed them - to steal cows! I was... little... I ran away... They find me... take care of me. MARTIN No Debbie! That ain't what happened! They been lyin' to you... DEBBIE You lie! All white men lie... and kill... MARTIN Debbie, think back! I'm Martin... remember? Remember how I used to let you ride my horse? Tell you stories? Don't you remember me, Debbie? DEBBIE I remember... from always... At first I prayed to you... come and get me... take me home... You didn't come... MARTIN I've come now... DEBBIE These are my people... (in Comanche) Unnt-meah! Go! Go! Please! ETHAN (grimly) Stand aside, boy... Martin turns as Ethan slowly reaches for his gun. It takes Martin a moment to realize what he is about to do. MARTIN Ethan -- NO! He moves quickly then to put himself between Ethan and the girl and in that instant there is the crack of a rifle. Ethan is hit in the leg. It goes out from under him. Martin swings and his gun is out and firing. 174-D EXT. SAND CREEK - FULL SHOT - INCLUDING THE DUNES - DAY A mounted Comanche is on the crest of the dune above them -- rifle raised. Martin's first shot brings him down the dune in a spectacular horse-and-man fall. Debbie goes running like a deer up the creek, away from Martin; in the same instant we hear the angry yells of distant Comanches charging from the far left. Martin turns to see Debbie running away. MARTIN Debbie! WAIT! Ethan is on his feet now and limping frantically toward their horses. He shoves Martin ahead of him. ETHAN (angrily) Never mind her! MOVE! They mount and take off, just as the vanguard of the attacking Comanches swings around a point of rock and comes charging toward the creek. EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE - LATE AFTERNOON as Ethan and Martin race their horses from the creek area and down a long incline, as -- from the heights above -- a dozen or more Comanches, led by Scar, come tearing after them. 175-A EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - MED. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - MOVING - DAY Ethan is swaying in his saddle, just barely hanging on, as Martin races up behind him -- driving Ethan's horse along. They swing past a huge outcrop of rock and go tearing along a vaulting wall of stone. Their hoofbeats and those of the pursuers bounce and echo off the canyon walls, and bullets whine and ricochet. 175-B EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - FULL MOVING SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY They swing around giant boulders, up-ended like pancakes. Ethan is lurching almost out of the saddle, barely conscious. Martin spots the cave -- ahead -- and drives his mount and Ethan's toward it. 175-C EXT. THE CAVE (MONUMENT) - FULL SHOT - THE TWO - DAY Martin pulls his horse in and swings off just as Ethan slides from his saddle. He runs toward one of the huge boulders, crouches and starts firing. 175-D EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE ON THE COMANCHES - DAY The Comanches are spread out but coming on fast. One goes down under Martin's fire.... another is hit in the arm. He pulls up and the other Comanches wheel away from the hidden marksman. 175-E EXT. THE CAVE - FULL SHOT - MARTIN AND ETHAN Martin runs back from his firing post toward where Ethan has fallen. ETHAN (angrily) Go on! Get out of here while you can... MARTIN (pointing to the cave) Over there! Ethan turns and sees what he means. He starts dragging himself to the cave as Martin grabs the rifles from their saddle scabbards, yanks off the water canteens and then drives their horses away. Then he too runs for the shelter of the cave. 175-F EXT. THE CANYON - ANGLING FROM BEHIND MARTIN AND ETHAN Both men are crouching, rifles ready. In the distance we see their horses running off -- pursued by some yelling Comanches. Four or six others come into sight, heading for the cave -- moving cautiously, uncertainly -- not seeing their quarry. Then the white men open fire and the Comanches bend low over their horses' necks and clear out of there. Ethan looks grimly at Martin. ETHAN They'll be back... MARTIN We won't be here... Come on! He gets an arm under Ethan and hauls him to his feet. DISSOLVE TO: 175-G EXT. THE GAP IN THE CLIFF - PANNING SHOT - SUNSET CAMERA PANS from the top of the rock chimney to where Martin is snaking his way through, carrying newly-filled water canteens. He stands there, listening and looking back the way he has come; and then, satisfied there has been no pursuit, he continues away. OMITTED INT. THE CAVE - MED. SHOT - ETHAN - HALF-LIGHT Ethan is lying on the hard earth, perhaps cushioned with some boughs. He is half delirious. A small fire is burning. Martin enters carrying the canteens. He looks unsympathetically toward Ethan, then continues to the fire, takes a knife and starts to sterilize it. Ethan gasps, mumbles and then a word comes clear. ETHAN Martha... Martha! Martin stares at him -- and now, perhaps for the first time, he is fitting pieces into the jig-saw puzzle. He shifts closer to Ethan and we see he is preparing to dig out the bullet. Ethan opens his eyes and looks at him. MARTIN I gotta open that leg and let the poison out... He poises the knife. ETHAN Wait... He fumbles in his shirt pocket, brings out a greasy folded piece of paper. ETHAN Just in case... Read it. Martin sets the knife down, takes the paper, opens it and slowly reads: MARTIN 'I, Ethan Edwards, being of sound mind and without any blood kin, do hereby bequeath all my property of any kind to Martin Pauley...' (he stares, then) I don't want your property.... 'Sides, what do you mean no 'blood kin?' Debbie's your blood kin... ETHAN Not no more. MARTIN (angrily) You can keep your will! (he thrusts it back into Ethan's shirt) I ain't forgettin' you was all set to shoot her yourself... What kind o' man are you, anyway. ETHAN (sitting up -- eyes blazing) She's been with the bucks! She's nothin' now but a... Martin shoves him back onto the ground. MARTIN (a shout) Shut your dirty mouth! He gets to his feet, trembling, and stands looking down at Ethan, his fists clenched at his sides and murder in his eyes. Then his eyes rove to the knife lying on the blanket. He picks it up and he looks again at the wounded man. MARTIN (slowly) I hope you die! And he kneels again to open the wound. DISSOLVE TO: EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY Martin is hauling an improvised travois over the ground in which, lashed by vines and some clothing, is the unconscious figure of Ethan. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - MARTIN - DAY Eyes shadowed, whiskered, drawn -- he is an implacable figure as he drags the weary miles home. He hears a groan from Ethan o.s. He barely lets his eyes drift to the sound. He doesn't stop. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - ETHAN IN THE TRAVOIS - DAY We see he is delirious, lips parched, strapped to the poles. The travois jolts over the ground. As he passes out of frame, the CAMERA HOLDS on the marks of the travois poles scraping across the desert. FADE OUT OMITTED FADE IN INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT - NIGHT A party is in progress. Fiddler and banjo-player are playing a lively square dance for one or two sets of dancers -- ranchers, their wives and daughters. Laurie is not in evidence. At the far end of the room is a table with a punch bowl set up and a cluster of men and women about. Jorgensen is at the door boisterously welcoming some new arrivals. Leading them into the room is Captain the Reverend Sam Clayton, with a bulky oil-skin package under his arm. With him is Charlie MacCorry, dressed in his best black suit and scrubbed until he looks raw. Behind them come three or four other competent-looking men -- Rangers all of them. JORGENSEN (shouting) They're here, mama... Come in, come in... INT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - FAVORING GROUP AT DOOR Clayton waits for Charlie to come abreast, then hits him on the back and drives him inside. CLAYTON Here he is, Lars... Combed, curried 'n washed behind the ears! Mrs. Jorgensen hurries over, beaming, to admire Charlie. MRS. JORGENSEN Why, Charlie, you look real handsome! CHARLIE (grinning) Yes'm... scarcely reck'nize myself... Where's Laurie? Mrs. Jorgensen smiles and playfully pushes him toward the guests. MRS. JORGENSEN You'll see her soon enough... Clayton -- and the other Rangers -- have been hanging gunbelts on pegs along the wall. Now he shakes out his parcel -- disclosing a green-black frock coat. CLAYTON (nodding to the music) Say, that music sounds so good it must be sinful... MRS. JORGENSEN Grab a partner, reverend! CLAYTON Well, now, a man of my age just can't haul off and dance in cold blood... but if there's any of that wild cherry brandy of yours, Lars... JORGENSEN (suddenly sober) Nooo... (change of heart) Yah, by golly... One jug left... I get it! Mrs. Jorgensen glares as he heads out. MRS. JORGENSEN Last winter that man swore up and down there wasn't a drop left -- and me with pneumoney!... Reverend, you'd better start clergyin' again! EXT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - NIGHT Horses, wagons fill the yard. We can hear the lively music of the square dance. As Jorgensen opens the door and sets out toward the barn, a battered dusty trap drives in -- and on it are Martin and Ethan. Jorgensen at first doesn't recognize them. JORGENSEN (hailing them) Hi!... You're late... hurry... And then he sees who they are, and his jaw drops. JORGENSEN (staring) Ethan... Martie... No, don't get down! ...You can't come in! They stare at him. JORGENSEN The Rangers are here! He says it as though that explains everything. ETHAN What's that got to do with us? MARTIN (eyeing the house) What's goin' on? JORGENSEN (who's forgotten they wouldn't know) Why, my Laurie's getting married... Martin throws the reins aside and jumps out. Jorgensen grabs his arm. JORGENSEN Wait! Don't you hear me! The Rangers... MARTIN So what? JORGENSEN You been posted for murder... both of you... That trader fella, the late Mister Futterman... Martin tries to break free. MARTIN I gotta see Laurie! JORGENSEN (desperately) Go around the side... the grandmother's room... I'll tell her... PLEASE! MARTIN You better! He heads around the side. Ethan meanwhile has climbed stiffly down, slightly favoring his leg. JORGENSEN Quick... hide in the barn, Ethan... ETHAN Hide? Why would I? He brushes past the little man and heads for the door. INT. THE JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLING FROM BEHIND ETHAN as he enters, with Jorgensen at his heels. For a moment, as he stands there, the party breezes on. Then first one, then another sees him. They gape, and the music falters and stops. Sam Clayton crosses to confront him across the width of the room. Jorgensen tries to be the easy, smiling host--and makes a very bad job of it. JORGENSEN Look everybody... Look who's... He can't even finish it but stands there making flapping gestures. INT. JORGENSEN ROOM - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND SAM -- others gaping. During the opening lines, Jorgensen will covertly back toward the door to the inner room -- Laurie's room. ETHAN (to all) Evenin'... evenin' Reverend... or do I call you 'Captain'...? CLAYTON Came here for a wedding, Ethan... Until that's over, I reckon 'reverend' will do... MRS. JORGENSEN (coming forward) And news of our little girl, Ethan? His face contorts and his smile is twisted. ETHAN She's not a little girl any more. MRS. JORGENSEN (eyes wide) You've seen her!... She's alive? ETHAN I've seen her... and she's alive. Mrs. Jorgensen throws herself against his chest, sobbing. Ethan looks past her at Clayton. And the faces of both men are grim. CUT TO: INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT The room is dark. Martin is pacing, eyes constantly turning to the inside door. And then it opens and Laurie is inside, holding a lamp. She is in her bridal gown and very obviously trying to keep from betraying the stress she is under. LAURIE (quietly) Hello, Martie.... He just stares at her -- very lovely, strangely remote. He suddenly is conscious of his dirty hands, his dusty, worn clothing. MARTIN I... I wrote you a letter... Reckon you didn't get it... LAURIE (setting the lamp down) One letter in five years... I read it till the paper dried up and the writing faded out... MARTIN It wasn't much of a letter... LAURIE No, it wasn't... You mighta said you loved me... You mighta asked me to wait... At least that'd have been something... MARTIN But I allus loved you... You know that, without my sayin' it... I couldn't bring myself to ask you to wait... the little I had... not knowin' how much longer until we found Debbie... LAURIE (breaking) It isn't fair... She sinks onto the bench. LAURIE (sobbing) It isn't fair, Martin Pauley, and you know it! She begins to cry, very softly. He is beside her and his arm goes around her shoulder comfortingly. MARTIN Don't cry, Laurie... I understand how it is... I'll just go 'way... LAURIE (spinning on him) You do and I'll die, Martie... I will! I'll just die! And they are kissing through her tears when the outer door is flung open by Charlie MacCorry. They part as he glares. CHARLIE I'll thank you to leave the room, Laurie. Martin stares at him, then at her. MARTIN (incredulous) Charlie MacCorry!... You weren't fixin' to marry HIM?? CHARLIE She sure is!... An' don't think your comin' back is goin' to change it! MARTIN As to that, I don't know, Charlie... We hadn't got around to talkin' marriage... CHARLIE What right you got to be talkin' marriage to any decent woman... MARTIN (angrily) If you're talkin' about that crazy murder charge... CHARLIE AND other things... Mebbe you thought you was gettin' away with being comical about that Indian wife you took... I bet she wasn't the first squaw you... Martin swings wildly but Charlie is a wily fighter. He side- steps and chops Martin in the jaw and drives him against the wall. Laurie runs between them. LAURIE Stop it! Both of you... I won't have any fighting in this house. Martin gently brushes her aside. MARTIN It's all right... Charlie, let's move outside. CHARLIE I ain't wearing no gun. Martin nods and unbuckles his gunbelt. The men head outside as Laurie runs to get help. EXT. THE JORGENSEN HOME - BREEZEWAY Charlie waits assuredly as Martin follows him outside. Martin makes a wild run, swings. The blow is neatly guarded by Charlie's left and countered with a crisp right that puts Martin down. Martin gets to his feet, more cautiously this time, and comes in at a crouch; he's fighting like an Indian, not a white man. The men from the wedding party come out now at a run. CLAYTON (yelling) Sergeant MacCorry! Charlie turns slightly and in that instant Martin springs and drives a straight right at his face -- almost as though there were a knife in the hand. MacCorry stumbles back into Clayton's arms. CLAYTON Is this in the line of duty, sergeant? CHARLIE (regaining his balance) No sir... pleasure. CLAYTON In that case, give the boys room... Martin waits at a crouch as Charlie comes in, feints his right and crosses his left. It is a hard blow but Martin recovers and waits... Charlie circles and starts to repeat. He feints his right but this time Martin springs in, ducks and -- as the left shoots out -- he grabs the wrist and throws Charlie over his head. What we are looking at, in effect, is a wrestler against a boxer. CLAYTON Fight fair, son... Use your fists! ETHAN (drily) Comanches don't use their fists, reverend... Let 'em alone... Charlie is on his feet and warily starts circling -- now trying to imitate Martin's crouch. Suddenly Martin feints a right swing and connects with a solid left -- reversing the order of business. Charlie staggers and Martin follows up with a wrestling hold, leaping behind Charlie, locking both legs around him and driving his arms upward behind his back so that his face is in the dirt and so he could -- under other circumstances -- be neatly and expeditiously scalped. With the hands locked, Martin then calmly draws a knife. He looks innocently into the aghast faces of the crowd. MARTIN Could scalp him... but I'll just count coup! With that he releases the paralyzed arms just long enough to grab a lock of Charlie's hair and neatly snip it off. He stands then and laughs as Charlie lamely gets to his feet -- easing the tortured arms. Clayton goes to Charlie's side. Laurie moves to Martin's side. CLAYTON You all right, sergeant? CHARLIE Dunno... Seems so. CLAYTON Well, go get cleaned up and we'll proceed with the weddin'... Charlie frowns and looks off at where Laurie and Martin are standing. CHARLIE Ain't goin' to be any weddin' -- not till we get a few things cleared up 'round here... He walks rather unsteadily away leaving a thunderstruck assembly, murmurous with surprise. WIPE TO: INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - LATER THAT NIGHT The last of the wedding guests is leaving: Ed Nesby carrying his bull fiddle and with his wife and daughter and two smaller children preceding him out the door. The Jorgensens stand by -- trying to put a good face on the wedding debacle. Charlie MacCorry is sitting dejectedly, studying a spot on the floor. Ethan is at the mantel. Laurie is in her room -- presumably changing out of her wedding gown. Martin is at a sink, bathing a cut on his lip. Clayton, still in his clerical coat, is near the door. NESBY (a grin) Well... it was a nice weddin' party... considerin' no one got married... 'Night. JORGENSEN Good night, Ed... Mrs. Jorgensen puts her handkerchief to her eyes -- letting down now that the guests have gone. Jorgensen crosses to her, pats her sympathetically. JORGENSEN Now, mamma!... He leads her away. Clayton faces Ethan. CLAYTON I got to ask you and Martin to ride to the State Capitol with me, Ethan. ETHAN This an invite to a necktie party, Reverend? CLAYTON Captain... Nope, wouldn't say that... Likely you had your reasons for killin' Futterman... Probably needed killin'... I'm speaking as a ranger now, not as a reverend... Fact that all three was shot in the back is the only thing that's raised some question -- that and a missin' gold piece known to have been on him just prior to his demise. Ethan casually reaches into his pocket, takes out a gold coin and spins it. ETHAN (casually) That so? Martin crosses to confront Clayton. MARTIN I ain't goin' to Austin, Reverend. Charlie gets to his feet and he has his gun in his hand. CHARLIE You're goin' if the captain says you're goin'... CLAYTON Now, now... let's not grow disputatious... Fast hoofbeats sound o.s. -- signalling the approach of a four-man cavalry detail. CLAYTON (turning) What's that? More company? He and Jorgensen head for the door. CLAYTON Kinda late getting here, aren't they? A voice hails from outside. LIEUTENANT'S VOICE Hello there! Captain Clayton? INT. - EXT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLE AT DOOR - NIGHT Clayton stands in the opened doorway, Jorgensen behind him, looking out. Drawn up outside is the four-man cavalry detail, led by a young and very crisp LIEUTENANT. We may or may not see the sixth man, slouched over his horse. The Lieutenant swings off and crosses. LIEUTENANT Is Captain Clayton here, Reverend? CLAYTON I'm Clayton. The Lieutenant gapes at Clayton's ministerial coat. LIEUTENANT (doubtfully) You're Captain Clayton?... Ethan chuckles, to Clayton's very obvious annoyance. LIEUTENANT (recovering, he salutes) Colonel Greenhill's compliments, sir. The Colonel wishes to know how soon you could put a company of Rangers in the field, fully armed and... CLAYTON Hold on, son... Who's this Colonel Greenhill you're talking about? LIEUTENANT Why Colonel Greenhill is Colonel Greenhill, sir... Commanding Officer, Fifth U.S. Cavalry... I'm Lieutenant Greenhill, sir. CLAYTON Oh... Now what's this your pa wants to know? LIEUTENANT My pa wants to know... Colonel Greenhill wants to know how soon you could put a company of your Rangers in the field, fully armed and equipped, for joint punitive action against the Comanches. CLAYTON JOINT action? LIEUTENANT Yes sir... We've received information about a band of Comanches under a chief named Scar... ETHAN What information? LIEUTENANT That maybe he's not far from here -- holed up somewhere, waiting his chance to get back over the border... He raided north about a month ago... ran into more army than he bargained for... Now he's running for cover, for keeps this time... CLAYTON And what makes you think he's in this territory? LIEUTENANT Yesterday, one of our patrols picked up a man claims he was a prisoner with Scar till only two days ago... He talks crazy but I brought him along... Says he lives here... keeps mentioning a rocking chair. ETHAN (half to himself) Mose... And then he is striding to the door, calling it: ETHAN MOSE! MOSE'S VOICE Ay-he?... Ay-eh?... And the old man totters in, half-supported by a trooper -- hollow-eyed, weak, almost delirious. MOSE Come f'r my rockin' chai'... ole Mose. ETHAN (shouting it) Where's Scar, Mose... SCAR? MARTIN Ask him about Debbie!... Is she all right, Mose? MOSE My rockin' chai'... MRS. JORGENSEN (bustling over) Leave the poor man be! Can't you see he's out of his mind... She tries to lead him away, but Ethan shoves her aside and grips the old man by his arms. ETHAN Mose... try to remember!... You were in Scar's camp... MOSE Ay-he... Made out I was crazy... (he giggles foolishly) Ate dirt... chewed grass... I fooled 'em, Ethan!... an' I got away... ETHAN Scar! Where's he holed in? MOSE Seven Fingers... ay-he... Seven... He staggers and this time Mrs. Jorgensen won't be denied. MRS. JORGENSEN Now that's enough! Here... by the fire... What you need's a good bowl of soup... She leads him away, at last to his rocker by the fire. During this, Ethan and Clayton have been mulling Mose's answer. ETHAN (blankly) Seven Fingers? LIEUTENANT That's what he told us... but there's no such place on the maps. MARTIN Wait a minute! Isn't that the Caddo name for where all those canyons branch on the Malapai? MOSE (from his rocker) Caddo or Kiowa... ay-he... ay-eh... Sam Clayton wheels on the Lieutenant. CLAYTON You tell your pa a company of Rangers -- all fourteen of 'em -- fully armed an' equipped will be in the field by daylight... headin' for the south end of the Malapai. If he can catch up with us, well an' good... LIEUTENANT But... but captain, we can't possibly take the field tomorrow... for your own protection... CLAYTON Sonny, yonder's a passel of murderers, complete with Texican scalps an' white girl captive... You want to protect us, you just get out of our way... Now skedaddle! The lieutenant skedaddles. Sam whirls on Martin and Ethan. CLAYTON Ethan, you an' Martin are hereby appointed civilian scouts -- without pay... Charlie, hightail it to headquarters an' spread the word... CHARLIE Yes sir... He leaves. Martin's hands go to his side -- recalling where he left his guns. MARTIN My guns... He heads for the inner door to the grandmother room. INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin enters and crosses to where he had dropped his gunbelt. Even before he reaches it, Laurie is in the room -- closing the door after her. LAURIE Martie... don't go! Not this time. MARTIN (staring) You crazy? LAURIE It's too late... She's a woman grown now... MARTIN I got to fetch her home... LAURIE Fetch what home?... The leavin's of Comanche bucks -- sold time an' again to the highest bidder?... With savage brats of her own, most like?... MARTIN (shouting it) Laurie! Shut your mouth! LAURIE Do you know what Ethan will do if he has a chance?... He'll put a bullet in her brain! And I tell you Martha would want him to! MARTIN Only if I'm dead! He strides out past her. INT. THE KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin re-enters. Ethan and Sam are waiting. Martin looks hard at Ethan. CLAYTON You ready? MARTIN (eyes never leaving Ethan's face) I'm ready. As they stride out, CUT TO: 204-A INT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - GRANDMOTHER ROOM - CLOSE SHOT - LAURIE - NIGHT as she stands at the window, in her bridal gown, and sadly watches Martin again going away. Softly the score reprises -- sadly now -- "Skip to My Lou." DISSOLVE TO: EXT. MESA COUNTRY - LONG SHOT - THE RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT A file of eighteen men and horses -- Rangers -- is walking under the shoulder of a mesa, keeping well below the skyline. FULL SHOT - THE FILE OF RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT They pass CAMERA one by one -- Sam Clayton in the lead, Martin behind him leading two horses, then the others -- grim- looking, capable men of varying ages; some with long drooping mustaches, some in need of shaves, some chawing tobacco. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT He is lying prone, his hat off, squinting down into a long reach of desert canyon at the Comanche encampment -- with tepees set up, a thin wisp of smoke rising from a fire, the horse herd penned in a draw cut off by an improvised corral of rawhide ropes. EXT. THE COMANCHE ENCAMPMENT - WIDE ANGLE SHOT - DAWN LIGHT The camp is sleeping. A dog yaps shrilly. One of the tepee flaps opens and Scar steps out. He picks up a stone or a chunk of wood and throws it. The dog yelps and runs off. Scar's air is troubled, suspicious. He heads for the horse herd. The camp sleeps on. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT His face betrays a bitter inner satisfaction. He looks back along the trail as faintly we hear the approach of the Ranger company. Then he squirms back, retrieving his hat. FULL SHOT - HEAD OF RANGER COLUMN - DAWN LIGHT Sam, seeing Ethan in the near distance, raises his hand in a signal for halt and waits. Ethan scrambles down the trail to join him. He takes the reins of his horse from Martin. ETHAN We can get within 500 yards... there's a hogback to the south. CLAYTON How many, would you say? ETHAN (drily) Enough to go around... I'd say about a dozen apiece... Mount 'em up! He moves as though to mount, but Martin steps forward. MARTIN Wait! We go chargin' in, they'll kill her... and you know it. ETHAN (calmly) It's what I'm countin' on. Sam stares at him, but Martin isn't surprised. MARTIN I know you are... Only it ain't goin' to be that way... she's alive... ETHAN Livin' with Comanches ain't bein' alive... MARTIN (same tone) She's alive... Better she's alive and livin' with Comanches than her brains bashed out... CLAYTON Now son, it's a bitter thing to say, but there's more than your sister at stake here. ETHAN There sure is! I'm going to tell you somethin'... I wasn't going to speak of it... But I'll tell you now. Did you notice them scalps strung on Scar's lance? (MARTIN NODS) Did you see the third scalp from the point of the lance? Long... wavy hair... MARTIN I saw it... And don't try to tell me it was Aunt Martha's or Lucy's... ETHAN You don't remember it, but I remember. That was your mother's scalp! Martin stares, quick disbelief in his eyes. But Ethan's eyes hold his and there is no doubting the truth in them. ETHAN I didn't want to tell you... but maybe it's your right to know. CLAYTON (quietly) Now mount up, son... Sam puts his hand on Martin's elbow -- as though to turn him to his duty. But Martin jerks the arm away. MARTIN It don't change it... All I'm askin' is a chance to sneak in there... an' try to get her out before you come chargin' in. CLAYTON What if you're caught? MARTIN It won't tell 'em anything, will it! Just a man alone... ETHAN I say NO! CLAYTON Go ahead, son... But at the first alarm, we're comin' in -- and we ain't goin' to have time to pick and choose our targets when we do... Ethan looks long and hard at Martin, then reaches into his shirt for the folded, dirty, dog-eared paper that was his will. Slowly he tears it into shreds. ETHAN It's your funeral... Martin squats and starts pulling off his boots. He glances up as Charlie MacCorry comes over, an Indian blanket in his hands. He tosses it onto Martin's shoulder. CHARLIE Here... you fight like a Comanch... Maybe this'll help ya pass as one. Then

bit

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

(harshly) How? She's even forgot her own language! MARTIN Debbie, you're comin' with us! Hear me? DEBBIE No... not now... not ever. These have been her first words in English... and they bring new hope to Martin. MARTIN I don't care what they've done to you... what happened... DEBBIE (angrily) They have done... nothing... They are my people... ETHAN Your people? They murdered your family! DEBBIE (reverting to Comanche) Ee-sap! (furiously) White men killed them - to steal cows! I was... little... I ran away... They find me... take care of me. MARTIN No Debbie! That ain't what happened! They been lyin' to you... DEBBIE You lie! All white men lie... and kill... MARTIN Debbie, think back! I'm Martin... remember? Remember how I used to let you ride my horse? Tell you stories? Don't you remember me, Debbie? DEBBIE I remember... from always... At first I prayed to you... come and get me... take me home... You didn't come... MARTIN I've come now... DEBBIE These are my people... (in Comanche) Unnt-meah! Go! Go! Please! ETHAN (grimly) Stand aside, boy... Martin turns as Ethan slowly reaches for his gun. It takes Martin a moment to realize what he is about to do. MARTIN Ethan -- NO! He moves quickly then to put himself between Ethan and the girl and in that instant there is the crack of a rifle. Ethan is hit in the leg. It goes out from under him. Martin swings and his gun is out and firing. 174-D EXT. SAND CREEK - FULL SHOT - INCLUDING THE DUNES - DAY A mounted Comanche is on the crest of the dune above them -- rifle raised. Martin's first shot brings him down the dune in a spectacular horse-and-man fall. Debbie goes running like a deer up the creek, away from Martin; in the same instant we hear the angry yells of distant Comanches charging from the far left. Martin turns to see Debbie running away. MARTIN Debbie! WAIT! Ethan is on his feet now and limping frantically toward their horses. He shoves Martin ahead of him. ETHAN (angrily) Never mind her! MOVE! They mount and take off, just as the vanguard of the attacking Comanches swings around a point of rock and comes charging toward the creek. EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE - LATE AFTERNOON as Ethan and Martin race their horses from the creek area and down a long incline, as -- from the heights above -- a dozen or more Comanches, led by Scar, come tearing after them. 175-A EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - MED. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - MOVING - DAY Ethan is swaying in his saddle, just barely hanging on, as Martin races up behind him -- driving Ethan's horse along. They swing past a huge outcrop of rock and go tearing along a vaulting wall of stone. Their hoofbeats and those of the pursuers bounce and echo off the canyon walls, and bullets whine and ricochet. 175-B EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - FULL MOVING SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY They swing around giant boulders, up-ended like pancakes. Ethan is lurching almost out of the saddle, barely conscious. Martin spots the cave -- ahead -- and drives his mount and Ethan's toward it. 175-C EXT. THE CAVE (MONUMENT) - FULL SHOT - THE TWO - DAY Martin pulls his horse in and swings off just as Ethan slides from his saddle. He runs toward one of the huge boulders, crouches and starts firing. 175-D EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE ON THE COMANCHES - DAY The Comanches are spread out but coming on fast. One goes down under Martin's fire.... another is hit in the arm. He pulls up and the other Comanches wheel away from the hidden marksman. 175-E EXT. THE CAVE - FULL SHOT - MARTIN AND ETHAN Martin runs back from his firing post toward where Ethan has fallen. ETHAN (angrily) Go on! Get out of here while you can... MARTIN (pointing to the cave) Over there! Ethan turns and sees what he means. He starts dragging himself to the cave as Martin grabs the rifles from their saddle scabbards, yanks off the water canteens and then drives their horses away. Then he too runs for the shelter of the cave. 175-F EXT. THE CANYON - ANGLING FROM BEHIND MARTIN AND ETHAN Both men are crouching, rifles ready. In the distance we see their horses running off -- pursued by some yelling Comanches. Four or six others come into sight, heading for the cave -- moving cautiously, uncertainly -- not seeing their quarry. Then the white men open fire and the Comanches bend low over their horses' necks and clear out of there. Ethan looks grimly at Martin. ETHAN They'll be back... MARTIN We won't be here... Come on! He gets an arm under Ethan and hauls him to his feet. DISSOLVE TO: 175-G EXT. THE GAP IN THE CLIFF - PANNING SHOT - SUNSET CAMERA PANS from the top of the rock chimney to where Martin is snaking his way through, carrying newly-filled water canteens. He stands there, listening and looking back the way he has come; and then, satisfied there has been no pursuit, he continues away. OMITTED INT. THE CAVE - MED. SHOT - ETHAN - HALF-LIGHT Ethan is lying on the hard earth, perhaps cushioned with some boughs. He is half delirious. A small fire is burning. Martin enters carrying the canteens. He looks unsympathetically toward Ethan, then continues to the fire, takes a knife and starts to sterilize it. Ethan gasps, mumbles and then a word comes clear. ETHAN Martha... Martha! Martin stares at him -- and now, perhaps for the first time, he is fitting pieces into the jig-saw puzzle. He shifts closer to Ethan and we see he is preparing to dig out the bullet. Ethan opens his eyes and looks at him. MARTIN I gotta open that leg and let the poison out... He poises the knife. ETHAN Wait... He fumbles in his shirt pocket, brings out a greasy folded piece of paper. ETHAN Just in case... Read it. Martin sets the knife down, takes the paper, opens it and slowly reads: MARTIN 'I, Ethan Edwards, being of sound mind and without any blood kin, do hereby bequeath all my property of any kind to Martin Pauley...' (he stares, then) I don't want your property.... 'Sides, what do you mean no 'blood kin?' Debbie's your blood kin... ETHAN Not no more. MARTIN (angrily) You can keep your will! (he thrusts it back into Ethan's shirt) I ain't forgettin' you was all set to shoot her yourself... What kind o' man are you, anyway. ETHAN (sitting up -- eyes blazing) She's been with the bucks! She's nothin' now but a... Martin shoves him back onto the ground. MARTIN (a shout) Shut your dirty mouth! He gets to his feet, trembling, and stands looking down at Ethan, his fists clenched at his sides and murder in his eyes. Then his eyes rove to the knife lying on the blanket. He picks it up and he looks again at the wounded man. MARTIN (slowly) I hope you die! And he kneels again to open the wound. DISSOLVE TO: EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY Martin is hauling an improvised travois over the ground in which, lashed by vines and some clothing, is the unconscious figure of Ethan. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - MARTIN - DAY Eyes shadowed, whiskered, drawn -- he is an implacable figure as he drags the weary miles home. He hears a groan from Ethan o.s. He barely lets his eyes drift to the sound. He doesn't stop. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - ETHAN IN THE TRAVOIS - DAY We see he is delirious, lips parched, strapped to the poles. The travois jolts over the ground. As he passes out of frame, the CAMERA HOLDS on the marks of the travois poles scraping across the desert. FADE OUT OMITTED FADE IN INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT - NIGHT A party is in progress. Fiddler and banjo-player are playing a lively square dance for one or two sets of dancers -- ranchers, their wives and daughters. Laurie is not in evidence. At the far end of the room is a table with a punch bowl set up and a cluster of men and women about. Jorgensen is at the door boisterously welcoming some new arrivals. Leading them into the room is Captain the Reverend Sam Clayton, with a bulky oil-skin package under his arm. With him is Charlie MacCorry, dressed in his best black suit and scrubbed until he looks raw. Behind them come three or four other competent-looking men -- Rangers all of them. JORGENSEN (shouting) They're here, mama... Come in, come in... INT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - FAVORING GROUP AT DOOR Clayton waits for Charlie to come abreast, then hits him on the back and drives him inside. CLAYTON Here he is, Lars... Combed, curried 'n washed behind the ears! Mrs. Jorgensen hurries over, beaming, to admire Charlie. MRS. JORGENSEN Why, Charlie, you look real handsome! CHARLIE (grinning) Yes'm... scarcely reck'nize myself... Where's Laurie? Mrs. Jorgensen smiles and playfully pushes him toward the guests. MRS. JORGENSEN You'll see her soon enough... Clayton -- and the other Rangers -- have been hanging gunbelts on pegs along the wall. Now he shakes out his parcel -- disclosing a green-black frock coat. CLAYTON (nodding to the music) Say, that music sounds so good it must be sinful... MRS. JORGENSEN Grab a partner, reverend! CLAYTON Well, now, a man of my age just can't haul off and dance in cold blood... but if there's any of that wild cherry brandy of yours, Lars... JORGENSEN (suddenly sober) Nooo... (change of heart) Yah, by golly... One jug left... I get it! Mrs. Jorgensen glares as he heads out. MRS. JORGENSEN Last winter that man swore up and down there wasn't a drop left -- and me with pneumoney!... Reverend, you'd better start clergyin' again! EXT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - NIGHT Horses, wagons fill the yard. We can hear the lively music of the square dance. As Jorgensen opens the door and sets out toward the barn, a battered dusty trap drives in -- and on it are Martin and Ethan. Jorgensen at first doesn't recognize them. JORGENSEN (hailing them) Hi!... You're late... hurry... And then he sees who they are, and his jaw drops. JORGENSEN (staring) Ethan... Martie... No, don't get down! ...You can't come in! They stare at him. JORGENSEN The Rangers are here! He says it as though that explains everything. ETHAN What's that got to do with us? MARTIN (eyeing the house) What's goin' on? JORGENSEN (who's forgotten they wouldn't know) Why, my Laurie's getting married... Martin throws the reins aside and jumps out. Jorgensen grabs his arm. JORGENSEN Wait! Don't you hear me! The Rangers... MARTIN So what? JORGENSEN You been posted for murder... both of you... That trader fella, the late Mister Futterman... Martin tries to break free. MARTIN I gotta see Laurie! JORGENSEN (desperately) Go around the side... the grandmother's room... I'll tell her... PLEASE! MARTIN You better! He heads around the side. Ethan meanwhile has climbed stiffly down, slightly favoring his leg. JORGENSEN Quick... hide in the barn, Ethan... ETHAN Hide? Why would I? He brushes past the little man and heads for the door. INT. THE JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLING FROM BEHIND ETHAN as he enters, with Jorgensen at his heels. For a moment, as he stands there, the party breezes on. Then first one, then another sees him. They gape, and the music falters and stops. Sam Clayton crosses to confront him across the width of the room. Jorgensen tries to be the easy, smiling host--and makes a very bad job of it. JORGENSEN Look everybody... Look who's... He can't even finish it but stands there making flapping gestures. INT. JORGENSEN ROOM - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND SAM -- others gaping. During the opening lines, Jorgensen will covertly back toward the door to the inner room -- Laurie's room. ETHAN (to all) Evenin'... evenin' Reverend... or do I call you 'Captain'...? CLAYTON Came here for a wedding, Ethan... Until that's over, I reckon 'reverend' will do... MRS. JORGENSEN (coming forward) And news of our little girl, Ethan? His face contorts and his smile is twisted. ETHAN She's not a little girl any more. MRS. JORGENSEN (eyes wide) You've seen her!... She's alive? ETHAN I've seen her... and she's alive. Mrs. Jorgensen throws herself against his chest, sobbing. Ethan looks past her at Clayton. And the faces of both men are grim. CUT TO: INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT The room is dark. Martin is pacing, eyes constantly turning to the inside door. And then it opens and Laurie is inside, holding a lamp. She is in her bridal gown and very obviously trying to keep from betraying the stress she is under. LAURIE (quietly) Hello, Martie.... He just stares at her -- very lovely, strangely remote. He suddenly is conscious of his dirty hands, his dusty, worn clothing. MARTIN I... I wrote you a letter... Reckon you didn't get it... LAURIE (setting the lamp down) One letter in five years... I read it till the paper dried up and the writing faded out... MARTIN It wasn't much of a letter... LAURIE No, it wasn't... You mighta said you loved me... You mighta asked me to wait... At least that'd have been something... MARTIN But I allus loved you... You know that, without my sayin' it... I couldn't bring myself to ask you to wait... the little I had... not knowin' how much longer until we found Debbie... LAURIE (breaking) It isn't fair... She sinks onto the bench. LAURIE (sobbing) It isn't fair, Martin Pauley, and you know it! She begins to cry, very softly. He is beside her and his arm goes around her shoulder comfortingly. MARTIN Don't cry, Laurie... I understand how it is... I'll just go 'way... LAURIE (spinning on him) You do and I'll die, Martie... I will! I'll just die! And they are kissing through her tears when the outer door is flung open by Charlie MacCorry. They part as he glares. CHARLIE I'll thank you to leave the room, Laurie. Martin stares at him, then at her. MARTIN (incredulous) Charlie MacCorry!... You weren't fixin' to marry HIM?? CHARLIE She sure is!... An' don't think your comin' back is goin' to change it! MARTIN As to that, I don't know, Charlie... We hadn't got around to talkin' marriage... CHARLIE What right you got to be talkin' marriage to any decent woman... MARTIN (angrily) If you're talkin' about that crazy murder charge... CHARLIE AND other things... Mebbe you thought you was gettin' away with being comical about that Indian wife you took... I bet she wasn't the first squaw you... Martin swings wildly but Charlie is a wily fighter. He side- steps and chops Martin in the jaw and drives him against the wall. Laurie runs between them. LAURIE Stop it! Both of you... I won't have any fighting in this house. Martin gently brushes her aside. MARTIN It's all right... Charlie, let's move outside. CHARLIE I ain't wearing no gun. Martin nods and unbuckles his gunbelt. The men head outside as Laurie runs to get help. EXT. THE JORGENSEN HOME - BREEZEWAY Charlie waits assuredly as Martin follows him outside. Martin makes a wild run, swings. The blow is neatly guarded by Charlie's left and countered with a crisp right that puts Martin down. Martin gets to his feet, more cautiously this time, and comes in at a crouch; he's fighting like an Indian, not a white man. The men from the wedding party come out now at a run. CLAYTON (yelling) Sergeant MacCorry! Charlie turns slightly and in that instant Martin springs and drives a straight right at his face -- almost as though there were a knife in the hand. MacCorry stumbles back into Clayton's arms. CLAYTON Is this in the line of duty, sergeant? CHARLIE (regaining his balance) No sir... pleasure. CLAYTON In that case, give the boys room... Martin waits at a crouch as Charlie comes in, feints his right and crosses his left. It is a hard blow but Martin recovers and waits... Charlie circles and starts to repeat. He feints his right but this time Martin springs in, ducks and -- as the left shoots out -- he grabs the wrist and throws Charlie over his head. What we are looking at, in effect, is a wrestler against a boxer. CLAYTON Fight fair, son... Use your fists! ETHAN (drily) Comanches don't use their fists, reverend... Let 'em alone... Charlie is on his feet and warily starts circling -- now trying to imitate Martin's crouch. Suddenly Martin feints a right swing and connects with a solid left -- reversing the order of business. Charlie staggers and Martin follows up with a wrestling hold, leaping behind Charlie, locking both legs around him and driving his arms upward behind his back so that his face is in the dirt and so he could -- under other circumstances -- be neatly and expeditiously scalped. With the hands locked, Martin then calmly draws a knife. He looks innocently into the aghast faces of the crowd. MARTIN Could scalp him... but I'll just count coup! With that he releases the paralyzed arms just long enough to grab a lock of Charlie's hair and neatly snip it off. He stands then and laughs as Charlie lamely gets to his feet -- easing the tortured arms. Clayton goes to Charlie's side. Laurie moves to Martin's side. CLAYTON You all right, sergeant? CHARLIE Dunno... Seems so. CLAYTON Well, go get cleaned up and we'll proceed with the weddin'... Charlie frowns and looks off at where Laurie and Martin are standing. CHARLIE Ain't goin' to be any weddin' -- not till we get a few things cleared up 'round here... He walks rather unsteadily away leaving a thunderstruck assembly, murmurous with surprise. WIPE TO: INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - LATER THAT NIGHT The last of the wedding guests is leaving: Ed Nesby carrying his bull fiddle and with his wife and daughter and two smaller children preceding him out the door. The Jorgensens stand by -- trying to put a good face on the wedding debacle. Charlie MacCorry is sitting dejectedly, studying a spot on the floor. Ethan is at the mantel. Laurie is in her room -- presumably changing out of her wedding gown. Martin is at a sink, bathing a cut on his lip. Clayton, still in his clerical coat, is near the door. NESBY (a grin) Well... it was a nice weddin' party... considerin' no one got married... 'Night. JORGENSEN Good night, Ed... Mrs. Jorgensen puts her handkerchief to her eyes -- letting down now that the guests have gone. Jorgensen crosses to her, pats her sympathetically. JORGENSEN Now, mamma!... He leads her away. Clayton faces Ethan. CLAYTON I got to ask you and Martin to ride to the State Capitol with me, Ethan. ETHAN This an invite to a necktie party, Reverend? CLAYTON Captain... Nope, wouldn't say that... Likely you had your reasons for killin' Futterman... Probably needed killin'... I'm speaking as a ranger now, not as a reverend... Fact that all three was shot in the back is the only thing that's raised some question -- that and a missin' gold piece known to have been on him just prior to his demise. Ethan casually reaches into his pocket, takes out a gold coin and spins it. ETHAN (casually) That so? Martin crosses to confront Clayton. MARTIN I ain't goin' to Austin, Reverend. Charlie gets to his feet and he has his gun in his hand. CHARLIE You're goin' if the captain says you're goin'... CLAYTON Now, now... let's not grow disputatious... Fast hoofbeats sound o.s. -- signalling the approach of a four-man cavalry detail. CLAYTON (turning) What's that? More company? He and Jorgensen head for the door. CLAYTON Kinda late getting here, aren't they? A voice hails from outside. LIEUTENANT'S VOICE Hello there! Captain Clayton? INT. - EXT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLE AT DOOR - NIGHT Clayton stands in the opened doorway, Jorgensen behind him, looking out. Drawn up outside is the four-man cavalry detail, led by a young and very crisp LIEUTENANT. We may or may not see the sixth man, slouched over his horse. The Lieutenant swings off and crosses. LIEUTENANT Is Captain Clayton here, Reverend? CLAYTON I'm Clayton. The Lieutenant gapes at Clayton's ministerial coat. LIEUTENANT (doubtfully) You're Captain Clayton?... Ethan chuckles, to Clayton's very obvious annoyance. LIEUTENANT (recovering, he salutes) Colonel Greenhill's compliments, sir. The Colonel wishes to know how soon you could put a company of Rangers in the field, fully armed and... CLAYTON Hold on, son... Who's this Colonel Greenhill you're talking about? LIEUTENANT Why Colonel Greenhill is Colonel Greenhill, sir... Commanding Officer, Fifth U.S. Cavalry... I'm Lieutenant Greenhill, sir. CLAYTON Oh... Now what's this your pa wants to know? LIEUTENANT My pa wants to know... Colonel Greenhill wants to know how soon you could put a company of your Rangers in the field, fully armed and equipped, for joint punitive action against the Comanches. CLAYTON JOINT action? LIEUTENANT Yes sir... We've received information about a band of Comanches under a chief named Scar... ETHAN What information? LIEUTENANT That maybe he's not far from here -- holed up somewhere, waiting his chance to get back over the border... He raided north about a month ago... ran into more army than he bargained for... Now he's running for cover, for keeps this time... CLAYTON And what makes you think he's in this territory? LIEUTENANT Yesterday, one of our patrols picked up a man claims he was a prisoner with Scar till only two days ago... He talks crazy but I brought him along... Says he lives here... keeps mentioning a rocking chair. ETHAN (half to himself) Mose... And then he is striding to the door, calling it: ETHAN MOSE! MOSE'S VOICE Ay-he?... Ay-eh?... And the old man totters in, half-supported by a trooper -- hollow-eyed, weak, almost delirious. MOSE Come f'r my rockin' chai'... ole Mose. ETHAN (shouting it) Where's Scar, Mose... SCAR? MARTIN Ask him about Debbie!... Is she all right, Mose? MOSE My rockin' chai'... MRS. JORGENSEN (bustling over) Leave the poor man be! Can't you see he's out of his mind... She tries to lead him away, but Ethan shoves her aside and grips the old man by his arms. ETHAN Mose... try to remember!... You were in Scar's camp... MOSE Ay-he... Made out I was crazy... (he giggles foolishly) Ate dirt... chewed grass... I fooled 'em, Ethan!... an' I got away... ETHAN Scar! Where's he holed in? MOSE Seven Fingers... ay-he... Seven... He staggers and this time Mrs. Jorgensen won't be denied. MRS. JORGENSEN Now that's enough! Here... by the fire... What you need's a good bowl of soup... She leads him away, at last to his rocker by the fire. During this, Ethan and Clayton have been mulling Mose's answer. ETHAN (blankly) Seven Fingers? LIEUTENANT That's what he told us... but there's no such place on the maps. MARTIN Wait a minute! Isn't that the Caddo name for where all those canyons branch on the Malapai? MOSE (from his rocker) Caddo or Kiowa... ay-he... ay-eh... Sam Clayton wheels on the Lieutenant. CLAYTON You tell your pa a company of Rangers -- all fourteen of 'em -- fully armed an' equipped will be in the field by daylight... headin' for the south end of the Malapai. If he can catch up with us, well an' good... LIEUTENANT But... but captain, we can't possibly take the field tomorrow... for your own protection... CLAYTON Sonny, yonder's a passel of murderers, complete with Texican scalps an' white girl captive... You want to protect us, you just get out of our way... Now skedaddle! The lieutenant skedaddles. Sam whirls on Martin and Ethan. CLAYTON Ethan, you an' Martin are hereby appointed civilian scouts -- without pay... Charlie, hightail it to headquarters an' spread the word... CHARLIE Yes sir... He leaves. Martin's hands go to his side -- recalling where he left his guns. MARTIN My guns... He heads for the inner door to the grandmother room. INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin enters and crosses to where he had dropped his gunbelt. Even before he reaches it, Laurie is in the room -- closing the door after her. LAURIE Martie... don't go! Not this time. MARTIN (staring) You crazy? LAURIE It's too late... She's a woman grown now... MARTIN I got to fetch her home... LAURIE Fetch what home?... The leavin's of Comanche bucks -- sold time an' again to the highest bidder?... With savage brats of her own, most like?... MARTIN (shouting it) Laurie! Shut your mouth! LAURIE Do you know what Ethan will do if he has a chance?... He'll put a bullet in her brain! And I tell you Martha would want him to! MARTIN Only if I'm dead! He strides out past her. INT. THE KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin re-enters. Ethan and Sam are waiting. Martin looks hard at Ethan. CLAYTON You ready? MARTIN (eyes never leaving Ethan's face) I'm ready. As they stride out, CUT TO: 204-A INT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - GRANDMOTHER ROOM - CLOSE SHOT - LAURIE - NIGHT as she stands at the window, in her bridal gown, and sadly watches Martin again going away. Softly the score reprises -- sadly now -- "Skip to My Lou." DISSOLVE TO: EXT. MESA COUNTRY - LONG SHOT - THE RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT A file of eighteen men and horses -- Rangers -- is walking under the shoulder of a mesa, keeping well below the skyline. FULL SHOT - THE FILE OF RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT They pass CAMERA one by one -- Sam Clayton in the lead, Martin behind him leading two horses, then the others -- grim- looking, capable men of varying ages; some with long drooping mustaches, some in need of shaves, some chawing tobacco. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT He is lying prone, his hat off, squinting down into a long reach of desert canyon at the Comanche encampment -- with tepees set up, a thin wisp of smoke rising from a fire, the horse herd penned in a draw cut off by an improvised corral of rawhide ropes. EXT. THE COMANCHE ENCAMPMENT - WIDE ANGLE SHOT - DAWN LIGHT The camp is sleeping. A dog yaps shrilly. One of the tepee flaps opens and Scar steps out. He picks up a stone or a chunk of wood and throws it. The dog yelps and runs off. Scar's air is troubled, suspicious. He heads for the horse herd. The camp sleeps on. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT His face betrays a bitter inner satisfaction. He looks back along the trail as faintly we hear the approach of the Ranger company. Then he squirms back, retrieving his hat. FULL SHOT - HEAD OF RANGER COLUMN - DAWN LIGHT Sam, seeing Ethan in the near distance, raises his hand in a signal for halt and waits. Ethan scrambles down the trail to join him. He takes the reins of his horse from Martin. ETHAN We can get within 500 yards... there's a hogback to the south. CLAYTON How many, would you say? ETHAN (drily) Enough to go around... I'd say about a dozen apiece... Mount 'em up! He moves as though to mount, but Martin steps forward. MARTIN Wait! We go chargin' in, they'll kill her... and you know it. ETHAN (calmly) It's what I'm countin' on. Sam stares at him, but Martin isn't surprised. MARTIN I know you are... Only it ain't goin' to be that way... she's alive... ETHAN Livin' with Comanches ain't bein' alive... MARTIN (same tone) She's alive... Better she's alive and livin' with Comanches than her brains bashed out... CLAYTON Now son, it's a bitter thing to say, but there's more than your sister at stake here. ETHAN There sure is! I'm going to tell you somethin'... I wasn't going to speak of it... But I'll tell you now. Did you notice them scalps strung on Scar's lance? (MARTIN NODS) Did you see the third scalp from the point of the lance? Long... wavy hair... MARTIN I saw it... And don't try to tell me it was Aunt Martha's or Lucy's... ETHAN You don't remember it, but I remember. That was your mother's scalp! Martin stares, quick disbelief in his eyes. But Ethan's eyes hold his and there is no doubting the truth in them. ETHAN I didn't want to tell you... but maybe it's your right to know. CLAYTON (quietly) Now mount up, son... Sam puts his hand on Martin's elbow -- as though to turn him to his duty. But Martin jerks the arm away. MARTIN It don't change it... All I'm askin' is a chance to sneak in there... an' try to get her out before you come chargin' in. CLAYTON What if you're caught? MARTIN It won't tell 'em anything, will it! Just a man alone... ETHAN I say NO! CLAYTON Go ahead, son... But at the first alarm, we're comin' in -- and we ain't goin' to have time to pick and choose our targets when we do... Ethan looks long and hard at Martin, then reaches into his shirt for the folded, dirty, dog-eared paper that was his will. Slowly he tears it into shreds. ETHAN It's your funeral... Martin squats and starts pulling off his boots. He glances up as Charlie MacCorry comes over, an Indian blanket in his hands. He tosses it onto Martin's shoulder. CHARLIE Here... you fight like a Comanch... Maybe this'll help ya pass as one. Then

day

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

(harshly) How? She's even forgot her own language! MARTIN Debbie, you're comin' with us! Hear me? DEBBIE No... not now... not ever. These have been her first words in English... and they bring new hope to Martin. MARTIN I don't care what they've done to you... what happened... DEBBIE (angrily) They have done... nothing... They are my people... ETHAN Your people? They murdered your family! DEBBIE (reverting to Comanche) Ee-sap! (furiously) White men killed them - to steal cows! I was... little... I ran away... They find me... take care of me. MARTIN No Debbie! That ain't what happened! They been lyin' to you... DEBBIE You lie! All white men lie... and kill... MARTIN Debbie, think back! I'm Martin... remember? Remember how I used to let you ride my horse? Tell you stories? Don't you remember me, Debbie? DEBBIE I remember... from always... At first I prayed to you... come and get me... take me home... You didn't come... MARTIN I've come now... DEBBIE These are my people... (in Comanche) Unnt-meah! Go! Go! Please! ETHAN (grimly) Stand aside, boy... Martin turns as Ethan slowly reaches for his gun. It takes Martin a moment to realize what he is about to do. MARTIN Ethan -- NO! He moves quickly then to put himself between Ethan and the girl and in that instant there is the crack of a rifle. Ethan is hit in the leg. It goes out from under him. Martin swings and his gun is out and firing. 174-D EXT. SAND CREEK - FULL SHOT - INCLUDING THE DUNES - DAY A mounted Comanche is on the crest of the dune above them -- rifle raised. Martin's first shot brings him down the dune in a spectacular horse-and-man fall. Debbie goes running like a deer up the creek, away from Martin; in the same instant we hear the angry yells of distant Comanches charging from the far left. Martin turns to see Debbie running away. MARTIN Debbie! WAIT! Ethan is on his feet now and limping frantically toward their horses. He shoves Martin ahead of him. ETHAN (angrily) Never mind her! MOVE! They mount and take off, just as the vanguard of the attacking Comanches swings around a point of rock and comes charging toward the creek. EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE - LATE AFTERNOON as Ethan and Martin race their horses from the creek area and down a long incline, as -- from the heights above -- a dozen or more Comanches, led by Scar, come tearing after them. 175-A EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - MED. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - MOVING - DAY Ethan is swaying in his saddle, just barely hanging on, as Martin races up behind him -- driving Ethan's horse along. They swing past a huge outcrop of rock and go tearing along a vaulting wall of stone. Their hoofbeats and those of the pursuers bounce and echo off the canyon walls, and bullets whine and ricochet. 175-B EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - FULL MOVING SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY They swing around giant boulders, up-ended like pancakes. Ethan is lurching almost out of the saddle, barely conscious. Martin spots the cave -- ahead -- and drives his mount and Ethan's toward it. 175-C EXT. THE CAVE (MONUMENT) - FULL SHOT - THE TWO - DAY Martin pulls his horse in and swings off just as Ethan slides from his saddle. He runs toward one of the huge boulders, crouches and starts firing. 175-D EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE ON THE COMANCHES - DAY The Comanches are spread out but coming on fast. One goes down under Martin's fire.... another is hit in the arm. He pulls up and the other Comanches wheel away from the hidden marksman. 175-E EXT. THE CAVE - FULL SHOT - MARTIN AND ETHAN Martin runs back from his firing post toward where Ethan has fallen. ETHAN (angrily) Go on! Get out of here while you can... MARTIN (pointing to the cave) Over there! Ethan turns and sees what he means. He starts dragging himself to the cave as Martin grabs the rifles from their saddle scabbards, yanks off the water canteens and then drives their horses away. Then he too runs for the shelter of the cave. 175-F EXT. THE CANYON - ANGLING FROM BEHIND MARTIN AND ETHAN Both men are crouching, rifles ready. In the distance we see their horses running off -- pursued by some yelling Comanches. Four or six others come into sight, heading for the cave -- moving cautiously, uncertainly -- not seeing their quarry. Then the white men open fire and the Comanches bend low over their horses' necks and clear out of there. Ethan looks grimly at Martin. ETHAN They'll be back... MARTIN We won't be here... Come on! He gets an arm under Ethan and hauls him to his feet. DISSOLVE TO: 175-G EXT. THE GAP IN THE CLIFF - PANNING SHOT - SUNSET CAMERA PANS from the top of the rock chimney to where Martin is snaking his way through, carrying newly-filled water canteens. He stands there, listening and looking back the way he has come; and then, satisfied there has been no pursuit, he continues away. OMITTED INT. THE CAVE - MED. SHOT - ETHAN - HALF-LIGHT Ethan is lying on the hard earth, perhaps cushioned with some boughs. He is half delirious. A small fire is burning. Martin enters carrying the canteens. He looks unsympathetically toward Ethan, then continues to the fire, takes a knife and starts to sterilize it. Ethan gasps, mumbles and then a word comes clear. ETHAN Martha... Martha! Martin stares at him -- and now, perhaps for the first time, he is fitting pieces into the jig-saw puzzle. He shifts closer to Ethan and we see he is preparing to dig out the bullet. Ethan opens his eyes and looks at him. MARTIN I gotta open that leg and let the poison out... He poises the knife. ETHAN Wait... He fumbles in his shirt pocket, brings out a greasy folded piece of paper. ETHAN Just in case... Read it. Martin sets the knife down, takes the paper, opens it and slowly reads: MARTIN 'I, Ethan Edwards, being of sound mind and without any blood kin, do hereby bequeath all my property of any kind to Martin Pauley...' (he stares, then) I don't want your property.... 'Sides, what do you mean no 'blood kin?' Debbie's your blood kin... ETHAN Not no more. MARTIN (angrily) You can keep your will! (he thrusts it back into Ethan's shirt) I ain't forgettin' you was all set to shoot her yourself... What kind o' man are you, anyway. ETHAN (sitting up -- eyes blazing) She's been with the bucks! She's nothin' now but a... Martin shoves him back onto the ground. MARTIN (a shout) Shut your dirty mouth! He gets to his feet, trembling, and stands looking down at Ethan, his fists clenched at his sides and murder in his eyes. Then his eyes rove to the knife lying on the blanket. He picks it up and he looks again at the wounded man. MARTIN (slowly) I hope you die! And he kneels again to open the wound. DISSOLVE TO: EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY Martin is hauling an improvised travois over the ground in which, lashed by vines and some clothing, is the unconscious figure of Ethan. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - MARTIN - DAY Eyes shadowed, whiskered, drawn -- he is an implacable figure as he drags the weary miles home. He hears a groan from Ethan o.s. He barely lets his eyes drift to the sound. He doesn't stop. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - ETHAN IN THE TRAVOIS - DAY We see he is delirious, lips parched, strapped to the poles. The travois jolts over the ground. As he passes out of frame, the CAMERA HOLDS on the marks of the travois poles scraping across the desert. FADE OUT OMITTED FADE IN INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT - NIGHT A party is in progress. Fiddler and banjo-player are playing a lively square dance for one or two sets of dancers -- ranchers, their wives and daughters. Laurie is not in evidence. At the far end of the room is a table with a punch bowl set up and a cluster of men and women about. Jorgensen is at the door boisterously welcoming some new arrivals. Leading them into the room is Captain the Reverend Sam Clayton, with a bulky oil-skin package under his arm. With him is Charlie MacCorry, dressed in his best black suit and scrubbed until he looks raw. Behind them come three or four other competent-looking men -- Rangers all of them. JORGENSEN (shouting) They're here, mama... Come in, come in... INT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - FAVORING GROUP AT DOOR Clayton waits for Charlie to come abreast, then hits him on the back and drives him inside. CLAYTON Here he is, Lars... Combed, curried 'n washed behind the ears! Mrs. Jorgensen hurries over, beaming, to admire Charlie. MRS. JORGENSEN Why, Charlie, you look real handsome! CHARLIE (grinning) Yes'm... scarcely reck'nize myself... Where's Laurie? Mrs. Jorgensen smiles and playfully pushes him toward the guests. MRS. JORGENSEN You'll see her soon enough... Clayton -- and the other Rangers -- have been hanging gunbelts on pegs along the wall. Now he shakes out his parcel -- disclosing a green-black frock coat. CLAYTON (nodding to the music) Say, that music sounds so good it must be sinful... MRS. JORGENSEN Grab a partner, reverend! CLAYTON Well, now, a man of my age just can't haul off and dance in cold blood... but if there's any of that wild cherry brandy of yours, Lars... JORGENSEN (suddenly sober) Nooo... (change of heart) Yah, by golly... One jug left... I get it! Mrs. Jorgensen glares as he heads out. MRS. JORGENSEN Last winter that man swore up and down there wasn't a drop left -- and me with pneumoney!... Reverend, you'd better start clergyin' again! EXT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - NIGHT Horses, wagons fill the yard. We can hear the lively music of the square dance. As Jorgensen opens the door and sets out toward the barn, a battered dusty trap drives in -- and on it are Martin and Ethan. Jorgensen at first doesn't recognize them. JORGENSEN (hailing them) Hi!... You're late... hurry... And then he sees who they are, and his jaw drops. JORGENSEN (staring) Ethan... Martie... No, don't get down! ...You can't come in! They stare at him. JORGENSEN The Rangers are here! He says it as though that explains everything. ETHAN What's that got to do with us? MARTIN (eyeing the house) What's goin' on? JORGENSEN (who's forgotten they wouldn't know) Why, my Laurie's getting married... Martin throws the reins aside and jumps out. Jorgensen grabs his arm. JORGENSEN Wait! Don't you hear me! The Rangers... MARTIN So what? JORGENSEN You been posted for murder... both of you... That trader fella, the late Mister Futterman... Martin tries to break free. MARTIN I gotta see Laurie! JORGENSEN (desperately) Go around the side... the grandmother's room... I'll tell her... PLEASE! MARTIN You better! He heads around the side. Ethan meanwhile has climbed stiffly down, slightly favoring his leg. JORGENSEN Quick... hide in the barn, Ethan... ETHAN Hide? Why would I? He brushes past the little man and heads for the door. INT. THE JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLING FROM BEHIND ETHAN as he enters, with Jorgensen at his heels. For a moment, as he stands there, the party breezes on. Then first one, then another sees him. They gape, and the music falters and stops. Sam Clayton crosses to confront him across the width of the room. Jorgensen tries to be the easy, smiling host--and makes a very bad job of it. JORGENSEN Look everybody... Look who's... He can't even finish it but stands there making flapping gestures. INT. JORGENSEN ROOM - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND SAM -- others gaping. During the opening lines, Jorgensen will covertly back toward the door to the inner room -- Laurie's room. ETHAN (to all) Evenin'... evenin' Reverend... or do I call you 'Captain'...? CLAYTON Came here for a wedding, Ethan... Until that's over, I reckon 'reverend' will do... MRS. JORGENSEN (coming forward) And news of our little girl, Ethan? His face contorts and his smile is twisted. ETHAN She's not a little girl any more. MRS. JORGENSEN (eyes wide) You've seen her!... She's alive? ETHAN I've seen her... and she's alive. Mrs. Jorgensen throws herself against his chest, sobbing. Ethan looks past her at Clayton. And the faces of both men are grim. CUT TO: INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT The room is dark. Martin is pacing, eyes constantly turning to the inside door. And then it opens and Laurie is inside, holding a lamp. She is in her bridal gown and very obviously trying to keep from betraying the stress she is under. LAURIE (quietly) Hello, Martie.... He just stares at her -- very lovely, strangely remote. He suddenly is conscious of his dirty hands, his dusty, worn clothing. MARTIN I... I wrote you a letter... Reckon you didn't get it... LAURIE (setting the lamp down) One letter in five years... I read it till the paper dried up and the writing faded out... MARTIN It wasn't much of a letter... LAURIE No, it wasn't... You mighta said you loved me... You mighta asked me to wait... At least that'd have been something... MARTIN But I allus loved you... You know that, without my sayin' it... I couldn't bring myself to ask you to wait... the little I had... not knowin' how much longer until we found Debbie... LAURIE (breaking) It isn't fair... She sinks onto the bench. LAURIE (sobbing) It isn't fair, Martin Pauley, and you know it! She begins to cry, very softly. He is beside her and his arm goes around her shoulder comfortingly. MARTIN Don't cry, Laurie... I understand how it is... I'll just go 'way... LAURIE (spinning on him) You do and I'll die, Martie... I will! I'll just die! And they are kissing through her tears when the outer door is flung open by Charlie MacCorry. They part as he glares. CHARLIE I'll thank you to leave the room, Laurie. Martin stares at him, then at her. MARTIN (incredulous) Charlie MacCorry!... You weren't fixin' to marry HIM?? CHARLIE She sure is!... An' don't think your comin' back is goin' to change it! MARTIN As to that, I don't know, Charlie... We hadn't got around to talkin' marriage... CHARLIE What right you got to be talkin' marriage to any decent woman... MARTIN (angrily) If you're talkin' about that crazy murder charge... CHARLIE AND other things... Mebbe you thought you was gettin' away with being comical about that Indian wife you took... I bet she wasn't the first squaw you... Martin swings wildly but Charlie is a wily fighter. He side- steps and chops Martin in the jaw and drives him against the wall. Laurie runs between them. LAURIE Stop it! Both of you... I won't have any fighting in this house. Martin gently brushes her aside. MARTIN It's all right... Charlie, let's move outside. CHARLIE I ain't wearing no gun. Martin nods and unbuckles his gunbelt. The men head outside as Laurie runs to get help. EXT. THE JORGENSEN HOME - BREEZEWAY Charlie waits assuredly as Martin follows him outside. Martin makes a wild run, swings. The blow is neatly guarded by Charlie's left and countered with a crisp right that puts Martin down. Martin gets to his feet, more cautiously this time, and comes in at a crouch; he's fighting like an Indian, not a white man. The men from the wedding party come out now at a run. CLAYTON (yelling) Sergeant MacCorry! Charlie turns slightly and in that instant Martin springs and drives a straight right at his face -- almost as though there were a knife in the hand. MacCorry stumbles back into Clayton's arms. CLAYTON Is this in the line of duty, sergeant? CHARLIE (regaining his balance) No sir... pleasure. CLAYTON In that case, give the boys room... Martin waits at a crouch as Charlie comes in, feints his right and crosses his left. It is a hard blow but Martin recovers and waits... Charlie circles and starts to repeat. He feints his right but this time Martin springs in, ducks and -- as the left shoots out -- he grabs the wrist and throws Charlie over his head. What we are looking at, in effect, is a wrestler against a boxer. CLAYTON Fight fair, son... Use your fists! ETHAN (drily) Comanches don't use their fists, reverend... Let 'em alone... Charlie is on his feet and warily starts circling -- now trying to imitate Martin's crouch. Suddenly Martin feints a right swing and connects with a solid left -- reversing the order of business. Charlie staggers and Martin follows up with a wrestling hold, leaping behind Charlie, locking both legs around him and driving his arms upward behind his back so that his face is in the dirt and so he could -- under other circumstances -- be neatly and expeditiously scalped. With the hands locked, Martin then calmly draws a knife. He looks innocently into the aghast faces of the crowd. MARTIN Could scalp him... but I'll just count coup! With that he releases the paralyzed arms just long enough to grab a lock of Charlie's hair and neatly snip it off. He stands then and laughs as Charlie lamely gets to his feet -- easing the tortured arms. Clayton goes to Charlie's side. Laurie moves to Martin's side. CLAYTON You all right, sergeant? CHARLIE Dunno... Seems so. CLAYTON Well, go get cleaned up and we'll proceed with the weddin'... Charlie frowns and looks off at where Laurie and Martin are standing. CHARLIE Ain't goin' to be any weddin' -- not till we get a few things cleared up 'round here... He walks rather unsteadily away leaving a thunderstruck assembly, murmurous with surprise. WIPE TO: INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - LATER THAT NIGHT The last of the wedding guests is leaving: Ed Nesby carrying his bull fiddle and with his wife and daughter and two smaller children preceding him out the door. The Jorgensens stand by -- trying to put a good face on the wedding debacle. Charlie MacCorry is sitting dejectedly, studying a spot on the floor. Ethan is at the mantel. Laurie is in her room -- presumably changing out of her wedding gown. Martin is at a sink, bathing a cut on his lip. Clayton, still in his clerical coat, is near the door. NESBY (a grin) Well... it was a nice weddin' party... considerin' no one got married... 'Night. JORGENSEN Good night, Ed... Mrs. Jorgensen puts her handkerchief to her eyes -- letting down now that the guests have gone. Jorgensen crosses to her, pats her sympathetically. JORGENSEN Now, mamma!... He leads her away. Clayton faces Ethan. CLAYTON I got to ask you and Martin to ride to the State Capitol with me, Ethan. ETHAN This an invite to a necktie party, Reverend? CLAYTON Captain... Nope, wouldn't say that... Likely you had your reasons for killin' Futterman... Probably needed killin'... I'm speaking as a ranger now, not as a reverend... Fact that all three was shot in the back is the only thing that's raised some question -- that and a missin' gold piece known to have been on him just prior to his demise. Ethan casually reaches into his pocket, takes out a gold coin and spins it. ETHAN (casually) That so? Martin crosses to confront Clayton. MARTIN I ain't goin' to Austin, Reverend. Charlie gets to his feet and he has his gun in his hand. CHARLIE You're goin' if the captain says you're goin'... CLAYTON Now, now... let's not grow disputatious... Fast hoofbeats sound o.s. -- signalling the approach of a four-man cavalry detail. CLAYTON (turning) What's that? More company? He and Jorgensen head for the door. CLAYTON Kinda late getting here, aren't they? A voice hails from outside. LIEUTENANT'S VOICE Hello there! Captain Clayton? INT. - EXT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLE AT DOOR - NIGHT Clayton stands in the opened doorway, Jorgensen behind him, looking out. Drawn up outside is the four-man cavalry detail, led by a young and very crisp LIEUTENANT. We may or may not see the sixth man, slouched over his horse. The Lieutenant swings off and crosses. LIEUTENANT Is Captain Clayton here, Reverend? CLAYTON I'm Clayton. The Lieutenant gapes at Clayton's ministerial coat. LIEUTENANT (doubtfully) You're Captain Clayton?... Ethan chuckles, to Clayton's very obvious annoyance. LIEUTENANT (recovering, he salutes) Colonel Greenhill's compliments, sir. The Colonel wishes to know how soon you could put a company of Rangers in the field, fully armed and... CLAYTON Hold on, son... Who's this Colonel Greenhill you're talking about? LIEUTENANT Why Colonel Greenhill is Colonel Greenhill, sir... Commanding Officer, Fifth U.S. Cavalry... I'm Lieutenant Greenhill, sir. CLAYTON Oh... Now what's this your pa wants to know? LIEUTENANT My pa wants to know... Colonel Greenhill wants to know how soon you could put a company of your Rangers in the field, fully armed and equipped, for joint punitive action against the Comanches. CLAYTON JOINT action? LIEUTENANT Yes sir... We've received information about a band of Comanches under a chief named Scar... ETHAN What information? LIEUTENANT That maybe he's not far from here -- holed up somewhere, waiting his chance to get back over the border... He raided north about a month ago... ran into more army than he bargained for... Now he's running for cover, for keeps this time... CLAYTON And what makes you think he's in this territory? LIEUTENANT Yesterday, one of our patrols picked up a man claims he was a prisoner with Scar till only two days ago... He talks crazy but I brought him along... Says he lives here... keeps mentioning a rocking chair. ETHAN (half to himself) Mose... And then he is striding to the door, calling it: ETHAN MOSE! MOSE'S VOICE Ay-he?... Ay-eh?... And the old man totters in, half-supported by a trooper -- hollow-eyed, weak, almost delirious. MOSE Come f'r my rockin' chai'... ole Mose. ETHAN (shouting it) Where's Scar, Mose... SCAR? MARTIN Ask him about Debbie!... Is she all right, Mose? MOSE My rockin' chai'... MRS. JORGENSEN (bustling over) Leave the poor man be! Can't you see he's out of his mind... She tries to lead him away, but Ethan shoves her aside and grips the old man by his arms. ETHAN Mose... try to remember!... You were in Scar's camp... MOSE Ay-he... Made out I was crazy... (he giggles foolishly) Ate dirt... chewed grass... I fooled 'em, Ethan!... an' I got away... ETHAN Scar! Where's he holed in? MOSE Seven Fingers... ay-he... Seven... He staggers and this time Mrs. Jorgensen won't be denied. MRS. JORGENSEN Now that's enough! Here... by the fire... What you need's a good bowl of soup... She leads him away, at last to his rocker by the fire. During this, Ethan and Clayton have been mulling Mose's answer. ETHAN (blankly) Seven Fingers? LIEUTENANT That's what he told us... but there's no such place on the maps. MARTIN Wait a minute! Isn't that the Caddo name for where all those canyons branch on the Malapai? MOSE (from his rocker) Caddo or Kiowa... ay-he... ay-eh... Sam Clayton wheels on the Lieutenant. CLAYTON You tell your pa a company of Rangers -- all fourteen of 'em -- fully armed an' equipped will be in the field by daylight... headin' for the south end of the Malapai. If he can catch up with us, well an' good... LIEUTENANT But... but captain, we can't possibly take the field tomorrow... for your own protection... CLAYTON Sonny, yonder's a passel of murderers, complete with Texican scalps an' white girl captive... You want to protect us, you just get out of our way... Now skedaddle! The lieutenant skedaddles. Sam whirls on Martin and Ethan. CLAYTON Ethan, you an' Martin are hereby appointed civilian scouts -- without pay... Charlie, hightail it to headquarters an' spread the word... CHARLIE Yes sir... He leaves. Martin's hands go to his side -- recalling where he left his guns. MARTIN My guns... He heads for the inner door to the grandmother room. INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin enters and crosses to where he had dropped his gunbelt. Even before he reaches it, Laurie is in the room -- closing the door after her. LAURIE Martie... don't go! Not this time. MARTIN (staring) You crazy? LAURIE It's too late... She's a woman grown now... MARTIN I got to fetch her home... LAURIE Fetch what home?... The leavin's of Comanche bucks -- sold time an' again to the highest bidder?... With savage brats of her own, most like?... MARTIN (shouting it) Laurie! Shut your mouth! LAURIE Do you know what Ethan will do if he has a chance?... He'll put a bullet in her brain! And I tell you Martha would want him to! MARTIN Only if I'm dead! He strides out past her. INT. THE KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin re-enters. Ethan and Sam are waiting. Martin looks hard at Ethan. CLAYTON You ready? MARTIN (eyes never leaving Ethan's face) I'm ready. As they stride out, CUT TO: 204-A INT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - GRANDMOTHER ROOM - CLOSE SHOT - LAURIE - NIGHT as she stands at the window, in her bridal gown, and sadly watches Martin again going away. Softly the score reprises -- sadly now -- "Skip to My Lou." DISSOLVE TO: EXT. MESA COUNTRY - LONG SHOT - THE RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT A file of eighteen men and horses -- Rangers -- is walking under the shoulder of a mesa, keeping well below the skyline. FULL SHOT - THE FILE OF RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT They pass CAMERA one by one -- Sam Clayton in the lead, Martin behind him leading two horses, then the others -- grim- looking, capable men of varying ages; some with long drooping mustaches, some in need of shaves, some chawing tobacco. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT He is lying prone, his hat off, squinting down into a long reach of desert canyon at the Comanche encampment -- with tepees set up, a thin wisp of smoke rising from a fire, the horse herd penned in a draw cut off by an improvised corral of rawhide ropes. EXT. THE COMANCHE ENCAMPMENT - WIDE ANGLE SHOT - DAWN LIGHT The camp is sleeping. A dog yaps shrilly. One of the tepee flaps opens and Scar steps out. He picks up a stone or a chunk of wood and throws it. The dog yelps and runs off. Scar's air is troubled, suspicious. He heads for the horse herd. The camp sleeps on. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT His face betrays a bitter inner satisfaction. He looks back along the trail as faintly we hear the approach of the Ranger company. Then he squirms back, retrieving his hat. FULL SHOT - HEAD OF RANGER COLUMN - DAWN LIGHT Sam, seeing Ethan in the near distance, raises his hand in a signal for halt and waits. Ethan scrambles down the trail to join him. He takes the reins of his horse from Martin. ETHAN We can get within 500 yards... there's a hogback to the south. CLAYTON How many, would you say? ETHAN (drily) Enough to go around... I'd say about a dozen apiece... Mount 'em up! He moves as though to mount, but Martin steps forward. MARTIN Wait! We go chargin' in, they'll kill her... and you know it. ETHAN (calmly) It's what I'm countin' on. Sam stares at him, but Martin isn't surprised. MARTIN I know you are... Only it ain't goin' to be that way... she's alive... ETHAN Livin' with Comanches ain't bein' alive... MARTIN (same tone) She's alive... Better she's alive and livin' with Comanches than her brains bashed out... CLAYTON Now son, it's a bitter thing to say, but there's more than your sister at stake here. ETHAN There sure is! I'm going to tell you somethin'... I wasn't going to speak of it... But I'll tell you now. Did you notice them scalps strung on Scar's lance? (MARTIN NODS) Did you see the third scalp from the point of the lance? Long... wavy hair... MARTIN I saw it... And don't try to tell me it was Aunt Martha's or Lucy's... ETHAN You don't remember it, but I remember. That was your mother's scalp! Martin stares, quick disbelief in his eyes. But Ethan's eyes hold his and there is no doubting the truth in them. ETHAN I didn't want to tell you... but maybe it's your right to know. CLAYTON (quietly) Now mount up, son... Sam puts his hand on Martin's elbow -- as though to turn him to his duty. But Martin jerks the arm away. MARTIN It don't change it... All I'm askin' is a chance to sneak in there... an' try to get her out before you come chargin' in. CLAYTON What if you're caught? MARTIN It won't tell 'em anything, will it! Just a man alone... ETHAN I say NO! CLAYTON Go ahead, son... But at the first alarm, we're comin' in -- and we ain't goin' to have time to pick and choose our targets when we do... Ethan looks long and hard at Martin, then reaches into his shirt for the folded, dirty, dog-eared paper that was his will. Slowly he tears it into shreds. ETHAN It's your funeral... Martin squats and starts pulling off his boots. He glances up as Charlie MacCorry comes over, an Indian blanket in his hands. He tosses it onto Martin's shoulder. CHARLIE Here... you fight like a Comanch... Maybe this'll help ya pass as one. Then

toward

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

(harshly) How? She's even forgot her own language! MARTIN Debbie, you're comin' with us! Hear me? DEBBIE No... not now... not ever. These have been her first words in English... and they bring new hope to Martin. MARTIN I don't care what they've done to you... what happened... DEBBIE (angrily) They have done... nothing... They are my people... ETHAN Your people? They murdered your family! DEBBIE (reverting to Comanche) Ee-sap! (furiously) White men killed them - to steal cows! I was... little... I ran away... They find me... take care of me. MARTIN No Debbie! That ain't what happened! They been lyin' to you... DEBBIE You lie! All white men lie... and kill... MARTIN Debbie, think back! I'm Martin... remember? Remember how I used to let you ride my horse? Tell you stories? Don't you remember me, Debbie? DEBBIE I remember... from always... At first I prayed to you... come and get me... take me home... You didn't come... MARTIN I've come now... DEBBIE These are my people... (in Comanche) Unnt-meah! Go! Go! Please! ETHAN (grimly) Stand aside, boy... Martin turns as Ethan slowly reaches for his gun. It takes Martin a moment to realize what he is about to do. MARTIN Ethan -- NO! He moves quickly then to put himself between Ethan and the girl and in that instant there is the crack of a rifle. Ethan is hit in the leg. It goes out from under him. Martin swings and his gun is out and firing. 174-D EXT. SAND CREEK - FULL SHOT - INCLUDING THE DUNES - DAY A mounted Comanche is on the crest of the dune above them -- rifle raised. Martin's first shot brings him down the dune in a spectacular horse-and-man fall. Debbie goes running like a deer up the creek, away from Martin; in the same instant we hear the angry yells of distant Comanches charging from the far left. Martin turns to see Debbie running away. MARTIN Debbie! WAIT! Ethan is on his feet now and limping frantically toward their horses. He shoves Martin ahead of him. ETHAN (angrily) Never mind her! MOVE! They mount and take off, just as the vanguard of the attacking Comanches swings around a point of rock and comes charging toward the creek. EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE - LATE AFTERNOON as Ethan and Martin race their horses from the creek area and down a long incline, as -- from the heights above -- a dozen or more Comanches, led by Scar, come tearing after them. 175-A EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - MED. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - MOVING - DAY Ethan is swaying in his saddle, just barely hanging on, as Martin races up behind him -- driving Ethan's horse along. They swing past a huge outcrop of rock and go tearing along a vaulting wall of stone. Their hoofbeats and those of the pursuers bounce and echo off the canyon walls, and bullets whine and ricochet. 175-B EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - FULL MOVING SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY They swing around giant boulders, up-ended like pancakes. Ethan is lurching almost out of the saddle, barely conscious. Martin spots the cave -- ahead -- and drives his mount and Ethan's toward it. 175-C EXT. THE CAVE (MONUMENT) - FULL SHOT - THE TWO - DAY Martin pulls his horse in and swings off just as Ethan slides from his saddle. He runs toward one of the huge boulders, crouches and starts firing. 175-D EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE ON THE COMANCHES - DAY The Comanches are spread out but coming on fast. One goes down under Martin's fire.... another is hit in the arm. He pulls up and the other Comanches wheel away from the hidden marksman. 175-E EXT. THE CAVE - FULL SHOT - MARTIN AND ETHAN Martin runs back from his firing post toward where Ethan has fallen. ETHAN (angrily) Go on! Get out of here while you can... MARTIN (pointing to the cave) Over there! Ethan turns and sees what he means. He starts dragging himself to the cave as Martin grabs the rifles from their saddle scabbards, yanks off the water canteens and then drives their horses away. Then he too runs for the shelter of the cave. 175-F EXT. THE CANYON - ANGLING FROM BEHIND MARTIN AND ETHAN Both men are crouching, rifles ready. In the distance we see their horses running off -- pursued by some yelling Comanches. Four or six others come into sight, heading for the cave -- moving cautiously, uncertainly -- not seeing their quarry. Then the white men open fire and the Comanches bend low over their horses' necks and clear out of there. Ethan looks grimly at Martin. ETHAN They'll be back... MARTIN We won't be here... Come on! He gets an arm under Ethan and hauls him to his feet. DISSOLVE TO: 175-G EXT. THE GAP IN THE CLIFF - PANNING SHOT - SUNSET CAMERA PANS from the top of the rock chimney to where Martin is snaking his way through, carrying newly-filled water canteens. He stands there, listening and looking back the way he has come; and then, satisfied there has been no pursuit, he continues away. OMITTED INT. THE CAVE - MED. SHOT - ETHAN - HALF-LIGHT Ethan is lying on the hard earth, perhaps cushioned with some boughs. He is half delirious. A small fire is burning. Martin enters carrying the canteens. He looks unsympathetically toward Ethan, then continues to the fire, takes a knife and starts to sterilize it. Ethan gasps, mumbles and then a word comes clear. ETHAN Martha... Martha! Martin stares at him -- and now, perhaps for the first time, he is fitting pieces into the jig-saw puzzle. He shifts closer to Ethan and we see he is preparing to dig out the bullet. Ethan opens his eyes and looks at him. MARTIN I gotta open that leg and let the poison out... He poises the knife. ETHAN Wait... He fumbles in his shirt pocket, brings out a greasy folded piece of paper. ETHAN Just in case... Read it. Martin sets the knife down, takes the paper, opens it and slowly reads: MARTIN 'I, Ethan Edwards, being of sound mind and without any blood kin, do hereby bequeath all my property of any kind to Martin Pauley...' (he stares, then) I don't want your property.... 'Sides, what do you mean no 'blood kin?' Debbie's your blood kin... ETHAN Not no more. MARTIN (angrily) You can keep your will! (he thrusts it back into Ethan's shirt) I ain't forgettin' you was all set to shoot her yourself... What kind o' man are you, anyway. ETHAN (sitting up -- eyes blazing) She's been with the bucks! She's nothin' now but a... Martin shoves him back onto the ground. MARTIN (a shout) Shut your dirty mouth! He gets to his feet, trembling, and stands looking down at Ethan, his fists clenched at his sides and murder in his eyes. Then his eyes rove to the knife lying on the blanket. He picks it up and he looks again at the wounded man. MARTIN (slowly) I hope you die! And he kneels again to open the wound. DISSOLVE TO: EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY Martin is hauling an improvised travois over the ground in which, lashed by vines and some clothing, is the unconscious figure of Ethan. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - MARTIN - DAY Eyes shadowed, whiskered, drawn -- he is an implacable figure as he drags the weary miles home. He hears a groan from Ethan o.s. He barely lets his eyes drift to the sound. He doesn't stop. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - ETHAN IN THE TRAVOIS - DAY We see he is delirious, lips parched, strapped to the poles. The travois jolts over the ground. As he passes out of frame, the CAMERA HOLDS on the marks of the travois poles scraping across the desert. FADE OUT OMITTED FADE IN INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT - NIGHT A party is in progress. Fiddler and banjo-player are playing a lively square dance for one or two sets of dancers -- ranchers, their wives and daughters. Laurie is not in evidence. At the far end of the room is a table with a punch bowl set up and a cluster of men and women about. Jorgensen is at the door boisterously welcoming some new arrivals. Leading them into the room is Captain the Reverend Sam Clayton, with a bulky oil-skin package under his arm. With him is Charlie MacCorry, dressed in his best black suit and scrubbed until he looks raw. Behind them come three or four other competent-looking men -- Rangers all of them. JORGENSEN (shouting) They're here, mama... Come in, come in... INT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - FAVORING GROUP AT DOOR Clayton waits for Charlie to come abreast, then hits him on the back and drives him inside. CLAYTON Here he is, Lars... Combed, curried 'n washed behind the ears! Mrs. Jorgensen hurries over, beaming, to admire Charlie. MRS. JORGENSEN Why, Charlie, you look real handsome! CHARLIE (grinning) Yes'm... scarcely reck'nize myself... Where's Laurie? Mrs. Jorgensen smiles and playfully pushes him toward the guests. MRS. JORGENSEN You'll see her soon enough... Clayton -- and the other Rangers -- have been hanging gunbelts on pegs along the wall. Now he shakes out his parcel -- disclosing a green-black frock coat. CLAYTON (nodding to the music) Say, that music sounds so good it must be sinful... MRS. JORGENSEN Grab a partner, reverend! CLAYTON Well, now, a man of my age just can't haul off and dance in cold blood... but if there's any of that wild cherry brandy of yours, Lars... JORGENSEN (suddenly sober) Nooo... (change of heart) Yah, by golly... One jug left... I get it! Mrs. Jorgensen glares as he heads out. MRS. JORGENSEN Last winter that man swore up and down there wasn't a drop left -- and me with pneumoney!... Reverend, you'd better start clergyin' again! EXT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - NIGHT Horses, wagons fill the yard. We can hear the lively music of the square dance. As Jorgensen opens the door and sets out toward the barn, a battered dusty trap drives in -- and on it are Martin and Ethan. Jorgensen at first doesn't recognize them. JORGENSEN (hailing them) Hi!... You're late... hurry... And then he sees who they are, and his jaw drops. JORGENSEN (staring) Ethan... Martie... No, don't get down! ...You can't come in! They stare at him. JORGENSEN The Rangers are here! He says it as though that explains everything. ETHAN What's that got to do with us? MARTIN (eyeing the house) What's goin' on? JORGENSEN (who's forgotten they wouldn't know) Why, my Laurie's getting married... Martin throws the reins aside and jumps out. Jorgensen grabs his arm. JORGENSEN Wait! Don't you hear me! The Rangers... MARTIN So what? JORGENSEN You been posted for murder... both of you... That trader fella, the late Mister Futterman... Martin tries to break free. MARTIN I gotta see Laurie! JORGENSEN (desperately) Go around the side... the grandmother's room... I'll tell her... PLEASE! MARTIN You better! He heads around the side. Ethan meanwhile has climbed stiffly down, slightly favoring his leg. JORGENSEN Quick... hide in the barn, Ethan... ETHAN Hide? Why would I? He brushes past the little man and heads for the door. INT. THE JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLING FROM BEHIND ETHAN as he enters, with Jorgensen at his heels. For a moment, as he stands there, the party breezes on. Then first one, then another sees him. They gape, and the music falters and stops. Sam Clayton crosses to confront him across the width of the room. Jorgensen tries to be the easy, smiling host--and makes a very bad job of it. JORGENSEN Look everybody... Look who's... He can't even finish it but stands there making flapping gestures. INT. JORGENSEN ROOM - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND SAM -- others gaping. During the opening lines, Jorgensen will covertly back toward the door to the inner room -- Laurie's room. ETHAN (to all) Evenin'... evenin' Reverend... or do I call you 'Captain'...? CLAYTON Came here for a wedding, Ethan... Until that's over, I reckon 'reverend' will do... MRS. JORGENSEN (coming forward) And news of our little girl, Ethan? His face contorts and his smile is twisted. ETHAN She's not a little girl any more. MRS. JORGENSEN (eyes wide) You've seen her!... She's alive? ETHAN I've seen her... and she's alive. Mrs. Jorgensen throws herself against his chest, sobbing. Ethan looks past her at Clayton. And the faces of both men are grim. CUT TO: INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT The room is dark. Martin is pacing, eyes constantly turning to the inside door. And then it opens and Laurie is inside, holding a lamp. She is in her bridal gown and very obviously trying to keep from betraying the stress she is under. LAURIE (quietly) Hello, Martie.... He just stares at her -- very lovely, strangely remote. He suddenly is conscious of his dirty hands, his dusty, worn clothing. MARTIN I... I wrote you a letter... Reckon you didn't get it... LAURIE (setting the lamp down) One letter in five years... I read it till the paper dried up and the writing faded out... MARTIN It wasn't much of a letter... LAURIE No, it wasn't... You mighta said you loved me... You mighta asked me to wait... At least that'd have been something... MARTIN But I allus loved you... You know that, without my sayin' it... I couldn't bring myself to ask you to wait... the little I had... not knowin' how much longer until we found Debbie... LAURIE (breaking) It isn't fair... She sinks onto the bench. LAURIE (sobbing) It isn't fair, Martin Pauley, and you know it! She begins to cry, very softly. He is beside her and his arm goes around her shoulder comfortingly. MARTIN Don't cry, Laurie... I understand how it is... I'll just go 'way... LAURIE (spinning on him) You do and I'll die, Martie... I will! I'll just die! And they are kissing through her tears when the outer door is flung open by Charlie MacCorry. They part as he glares. CHARLIE I'll thank you to leave the room, Laurie. Martin stares at him, then at her. MARTIN (incredulous) Charlie MacCorry!... You weren't fixin' to marry HIM?? CHARLIE She sure is!... An' don't think your comin' back is goin' to change it! MARTIN As to that, I don't know, Charlie... We hadn't got around to talkin' marriage... CHARLIE What right you got to be talkin' marriage to any decent woman... MARTIN (angrily) If you're talkin' about that crazy murder charge... CHARLIE AND other things... Mebbe you thought you was gettin' away with being comical about that Indian wife you took... I bet she wasn't the first squaw you... Martin swings wildly but Charlie is a wily fighter. He side- steps and chops Martin in the jaw and drives him against the wall. Laurie runs between them. LAURIE Stop it! Both of you... I won't have any fighting in this house. Martin gently brushes her aside. MARTIN It's all right... Charlie, let's move outside. CHARLIE I ain't wearing no gun. Martin nods and unbuckles his gunbelt. The men head outside as Laurie runs to get help. EXT. THE JORGENSEN HOME - BREEZEWAY Charlie waits assuredly as Martin follows him outside. Martin makes a wild run, swings. The blow is neatly guarded by Charlie's left and countered with a crisp right that puts Martin down. Martin gets to his feet, more cautiously this time, and comes in at a crouch; he's fighting like an Indian, not a white man. The men from the wedding party come out now at a run. CLAYTON (yelling) Sergeant MacCorry! Charlie turns slightly and in that instant Martin springs and drives a straight right at his face -- almost as though there were a knife in the hand. MacCorry stumbles back into Clayton's arms. CLAYTON Is this in the line of duty, sergeant? CHARLIE (regaining his balance) No sir... pleasure. CLAYTON In that case, give the boys room... Martin waits at a crouch as Charlie comes in, feints his right and crosses his left. It is a hard blow but Martin recovers and waits... Charlie circles and starts to repeat. He feints his right but this time Martin springs in, ducks and -- as the left shoots out -- he grabs the wrist and throws Charlie over his head. What we are looking at, in effect, is a wrestler against a boxer. CLAYTON Fight fair, son... Use your fists! ETHAN (drily) Comanches don't use their fists, reverend... Let 'em alone... Charlie is on his feet and warily starts circling -- now trying to imitate Martin's crouch. Suddenly Martin feints a right swing and connects with a solid left -- reversing the order of business. Charlie staggers and Martin follows up with a wrestling hold, leaping behind Charlie, locking both legs around him and driving his arms upward behind his back so that his face is in the dirt and so he could -- under other circumstances -- be neatly and expeditiously scalped. With the hands locked, Martin then calmly draws a knife. He looks innocently into the aghast faces of the crowd. MARTIN Could scalp him... but I'll just count coup! With that he releases the paralyzed arms just long enough to grab a lock of Charlie's hair and neatly snip it off. He stands then and laughs as Charlie lamely gets to his feet -- easing the tortured arms. Clayton goes to Charlie's side. Laurie moves to Martin's side. CLAYTON You all right, sergeant? CHARLIE Dunno... Seems so. CLAYTON Well, go get cleaned up and we'll proceed with the weddin'... Charlie frowns and looks off at where Laurie and Martin are standing. CHARLIE Ain't goin' to be any weddin' -- not till we get a few things cleared up 'round here... He walks rather unsteadily away leaving a thunderstruck assembly, murmurous with surprise. WIPE TO: INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - LATER THAT NIGHT The last of the wedding guests is leaving: Ed Nesby carrying his bull fiddle and with his wife and daughter and two smaller children preceding him out the door. The Jorgensens stand by -- trying to put a good face on the wedding debacle. Charlie MacCorry is sitting dejectedly, studying a spot on the floor. Ethan is at the mantel. Laurie is in her room -- presumably changing out of her wedding gown. Martin is at a sink, bathing a cut on his lip. Clayton, still in his clerical coat, is near the door. NESBY (a grin) Well... it was a nice weddin' party... considerin' no one got married... 'Night. JORGENSEN Good night, Ed... Mrs. Jorgensen puts her handkerchief to her eyes -- letting down now that the guests have gone. Jorgensen crosses to her, pats her sympathetically. JORGENSEN Now, mamma!... He leads her away. Clayton faces Ethan. CLAYTON I got to ask you and Martin to ride to the State Capitol with me, Ethan. ETHAN This an invite to a necktie party, Reverend? CLAYTON Captain... Nope, wouldn't say that... Likely you had your reasons for killin' Futterman... Probably needed killin'... I'm speaking as a ranger now, not as a reverend... Fact that all three was shot in the back is the only thing that's raised some question -- that and a missin' gold piece known to have been on him just prior to his demise. Ethan casually reaches into his pocket, takes out a gold coin and spins it. ETHAN (casually) That so? Martin crosses to confront Clayton. MARTIN I ain't goin' to Austin, Reverend. Charlie gets to his feet and he has his gun in his hand. CHARLIE You're goin' if the captain says you're goin'... CLAYTON Now, now... let's not grow disputatious... Fast hoofbeats sound o.s. -- signalling the approach of a four-man cavalry detail. CLAYTON (turning) What's that? More company? He and Jorgensen head for the door. CLAYTON Kinda late getting here, aren't they? A voice hails from outside. LIEUTENANT'S VOICE Hello there! Captain Clayton? INT. - EXT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLE AT DOOR - NIGHT Clayton stands in the opened doorway, Jorgensen behind him, looking out. Drawn up outside is the four-man cavalry detail, led by a young and very crisp LIEUTENANT. We may or may not see the sixth man, slouched over his horse. The Lieutenant swings off and crosses. LIEUTENANT Is Captain Clayton here, Reverend? CLAYTON I'm Clayton. The Lieutenant gapes at Clayton's ministerial coat. LIEUTENANT (doubtfully) You're Captain Clayton?... Ethan chuckles, to Clayton's very obvious annoyance. LIEUTENANT (recovering, he salutes) Colonel Greenhill's compliments, sir. The Colonel wishes to know how soon you could put a company of Rangers in the field, fully armed and... CLAYTON Hold on, son... Who's this Colonel Greenhill you're talking about? LIEUTENANT Why Colonel Greenhill is Colonel Greenhill, sir... Commanding Officer, Fifth U.S. Cavalry... I'm Lieutenant Greenhill, sir. CLAYTON Oh... Now what's this your pa wants to know? LIEUTENANT My pa wants to know... Colonel Greenhill wants to know how soon you could put a company of your Rangers in the field, fully armed and equipped, for joint punitive action against the Comanches. CLAYTON JOINT action? LIEUTENANT Yes sir... We've received information about a band of Comanches under a chief named Scar... ETHAN What information? LIEUTENANT That maybe he's not far from here -- holed up somewhere, waiting his chance to get back over the border... He raided north about a month ago... ran into more army than he bargained for... Now he's running for cover, for keeps this time... CLAYTON And what makes you think he's in this territory? LIEUTENANT Yesterday, one of our patrols picked up a man claims he was a prisoner with Scar till only two days ago... He talks crazy but I brought him along... Says he lives here... keeps mentioning a rocking chair. ETHAN (half to himself) Mose... And then he is striding to the door, calling it: ETHAN MOSE! MOSE'S VOICE Ay-he?... Ay-eh?... And the old man totters in, half-supported by a trooper -- hollow-eyed, weak, almost delirious. MOSE Come f'r my rockin' chai'... ole Mose. ETHAN (shouting it) Where's Scar, Mose... SCAR? MARTIN Ask him about Debbie!... Is she all right, Mose? MOSE My rockin' chai'... MRS. JORGENSEN (bustling over) Leave the poor man be! Can't you see he's out of his mind... She tries to lead him away, but Ethan shoves her aside and grips the old man by his arms. ETHAN Mose... try to remember!... You were in Scar's camp... MOSE Ay-he... Made out I was crazy... (he giggles foolishly) Ate dirt... chewed grass... I fooled 'em, Ethan!... an' I got away... ETHAN Scar! Where's he holed in? MOSE Seven Fingers... ay-he... Seven... He staggers and this time Mrs. Jorgensen won't be denied. MRS. JORGENSEN Now that's enough! Here... by the fire... What you need's a good bowl of soup... She leads him away, at last to his rocker by the fire. During this, Ethan and Clayton have been mulling Mose's answer. ETHAN (blankly) Seven Fingers? LIEUTENANT That's what he told us... but there's no such place on the maps. MARTIN Wait a minute! Isn't that the Caddo name for where all those canyons branch on the Malapai? MOSE (from his rocker) Caddo or Kiowa... ay-he... ay-eh... Sam Clayton wheels on the Lieutenant. CLAYTON You tell your pa a company of Rangers -- all fourteen of 'em -- fully armed an' equipped will be in the field by daylight... headin' for the south end of the Malapai. If he can catch up with us, well an' good... LIEUTENANT But... but captain, we can't possibly take the field tomorrow... for your own protection... CLAYTON Sonny, yonder's a passel of murderers, complete with Texican scalps an' white girl captive... You want to protect us, you just get out of our way... Now skedaddle! The lieutenant skedaddles. Sam whirls on Martin and Ethan. CLAYTON Ethan, you an' Martin are hereby appointed civilian scouts -- without pay... Charlie, hightail it to headquarters an' spread the word... CHARLIE Yes sir... He leaves. Martin's hands go to his side -- recalling where he left his guns. MARTIN My guns... He heads for the inner door to the grandmother room. INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin enters and crosses to where he had dropped his gunbelt. Even before he reaches it, Laurie is in the room -- closing the door after her. LAURIE Martie... don't go! Not this time. MARTIN (staring) You crazy? LAURIE It's too late... She's a woman grown now... MARTIN I got to fetch her home... LAURIE Fetch what home?... The leavin's of Comanche bucks -- sold time an' again to the highest bidder?... With savage brats of her own, most like?... MARTIN (shouting it) Laurie! Shut your mouth! LAURIE Do you know what Ethan will do if he has a chance?... He'll put a bullet in her brain! And I tell you Martha would want him to! MARTIN Only if I'm dead! He strides out past her. INT. THE KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin re-enters. Ethan and Sam are waiting. Martin looks hard at Ethan. CLAYTON You ready? MARTIN (eyes never leaving Ethan's face) I'm ready. As they stride out, CUT TO: 204-A INT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - GRANDMOTHER ROOM - CLOSE SHOT - LAURIE - NIGHT as she stands at the window, in her bridal gown, and sadly watches Martin again going away. Softly the score reprises -- sadly now -- "Skip to My Lou." DISSOLVE TO: EXT. MESA COUNTRY - LONG SHOT - THE RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT A file of eighteen men and horses -- Rangers -- is walking under the shoulder of a mesa, keeping well below the skyline. FULL SHOT - THE FILE OF RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT They pass CAMERA one by one -- Sam Clayton in the lead, Martin behind him leading two horses, then the others -- grim- looking, capable men of varying ages; some with long drooping mustaches, some in need of shaves, some chawing tobacco. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT He is lying prone, his hat off, squinting down into a long reach of desert canyon at the Comanche encampment -- with tepees set up, a thin wisp of smoke rising from a fire, the horse herd penned in a draw cut off by an improvised corral of rawhide ropes. EXT. THE COMANCHE ENCAMPMENT - WIDE ANGLE SHOT - DAWN LIGHT The camp is sleeping. A dog yaps shrilly. One of the tepee flaps opens and Scar steps out. He picks up a stone or a chunk of wood and throws it. The dog yelps and runs off. Scar's air is troubled, suspicious. He heads for the horse herd. The camp sleeps on. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT His face betrays a bitter inner satisfaction. He looks back along the trail as faintly we hear the approach of the Ranger company. Then he squirms back, retrieving his hat. FULL SHOT - HEAD OF RANGER COLUMN - DAWN LIGHT Sam, seeing Ethan in the near distance, raises his hand in a signal for halt and waits. Ethan scrambles down the trail to join him. He takes the reins of his horse from Martin. ETHAN We can get within 500 yards... there's a hogback to the south. CLAYTON How many, would you say? ETHAN (drily) Enough to go around... I'd say about a dozen apiece... Mount 'em up! He moves as though to mount, but Martin steps forward. MARTIN Wait! We go chargin' in, they'll kill her... and you know it. ETHAN (calmly) It's what I'm countin' on. Sam stares at him, but Martin isn't surprised. MARTIN I know you are... Only it ain't goin' to be that way... she's alive... ETHAN Livin' with Comanches ain't bein' alive... MARTIN (same tone) She's alive... Better she's alive and livin' with Comanches than her brains bashed out... CLAYTON Now son, it's a bitter thing to say, but there's more than your sister at stake here. ETHAN There sure is! I'm going to tell you somethin'... I wasn't going to speak of it... But I'll tell you now. Did you notice them scalps strung on Scar's lance? (MARTIN NODS) Did you see the third scalp from the point of the lance? Long... wavy hair... MARTIN I saw it... And don't try to tell me it was Aunt Martha's or Lucy's... ETHAN You don't remember it, but I remember. That was your mother's scalp! Martin stares, quick disbelief in his eyes. But Ethan's eyes hold his and there is no doubting the truth in them. ETHAN I didn't want to tell you... but maybe it's your right to know. CLAYTON (quietly) Now mount up, son... Sam puts his hand on Martin's elbow -- as though to turn him to his duty. But Martin jerks the arm away. MARTIN It don't change it... All I'm askin' is a chance to sneak in there... an' try to get her out before you come chargin' in. CLAYTON What if you're caught? MARTIN It won't tell 'em anything, will it! Just a man alone... ETHAN I say NO! CLAYTON Go ahead, son... But at the first alarm, we're comin' in -- and we ain't goin' to have time to pick and choose our targets when we do... Ethan looks long and hard at Martin, then reaches into his shirt for the folded, dirty, dog-eared paper that was his will. Slowly he tears it into shreds. ETHAN It's your funeral... Martin squats and starts pulling off his boots. He glances up as Charlie MacCorry comes over, an Indian blanket in his hands. He tosses it onto Martin's shoulder. CHARLIE Here... you fight like a Comanch... Maybe this'll help ya pass as one. Then

shelter

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

(harshly) How? She's even forgot her own language! MARTIN Debbie, you're comin' with us! Hear me? DEBBIE No... not now... not ever. These have been her first words in English... and they bring new hope to Martin. MARTIN I don't care what they've done to you... what happened... DEBBIE (angrily) They have done... nothing... They are my people... ETHAN Your people? They murdered your family! DEBBIE (reverting to Comanche) Ee-sap! (furiously) White men killed them - to steal cows! I was... little... I ran away... They find me... take care of me. MARTIN No Debbie! That ain't what happened! They been lyin' to you... DEBBIE You lie! All white men lie... and kill... MARTIN Debbie, think back! I'm Martin... remember? Remember how I used to let you ride my horse? Tell you stories? Don't you remember me, Debbie? DEBBIE I remember... from always... At first I prayed to you... come and get me... take me home... You didn't come... MARTIN I've come now... DEBBIE These are my people... (in Comanche) Unnt-meah! Go! Go! Please! ETHAN (grimly) Stand aside, boy... Martin turns as Ethan slowly reaches for his gun. It takes Martin a moment to realize what he is about to do. MARTIN Ethan -- NO! He moves quickly then to put himself between Ethan and the girl and in that instant there is the crack of a rifle. Ethan is hit in the leg. It goes out from under him. Martin swings and his gun is out and firing. 174-D EXT. SAND CREEK - FULL SHOT - INCLUDING THE DUNES - DAY A mounted Comanche is on the crest of the dune above them -- rifle raised. Martin's first shot brings him down the dune in a spectacular horse-and-man fall. Debbie goes running like a deer up the creek, away from Martin; in the same instant we hear the angry yells of distant Comanches charging from the far left. Martin turns to see Debbie running away. MARTIN Debbie! WAIT! Ethan is on his feet now and limping frantically toward their horses. He shoves Martin ahead of him. ETHAN (angrily) Never mind her! MOVE! They mount and take off, just as the vanguard of the attacking Comanches swings around a point of rock and comes charging toward the creek. EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE - LATE AFTERNOON as Ethan and Martin race their horses from the creek area and down a long incline, as -- from the heights above -- a dozen or more Comanches, led by Scar, come tearing after them. 175-A EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - MED. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - MOVING - DAY Ethan is swaying in his saddle, just barely hanging on, as Martin races up behind him -- driving Ethan's horse along. They swing past a huge outcrop of rock and go tearing along a vaulting wall of stone. Their hoofbeats and those of the pursuers bounce and echo off the canyon walls, and bullets whine and ricochet. 175-B EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - FULL MOVING SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY They swing around giant boulders, up-ended like pancakes. Ethan is lurching almost out of the saddle, barely conscious. Martin spots the cave -- ahead -- and drives his mount and Ethan's toward it. 175-C EXT. THE CAVE (MONUMENT) - FULL SHOT - THE TWO - DAY Martin pulls his horse in and swings off just as Ethan slides from his saddle. He runs toward one of the huge boulders, crouches and starts firing. 175-D EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE ON THE COMANCHES - DAY The Comanches are spread out but coming on fast. One goes down under Martin's fire.... another is hit in the arm. He pulls up and the other Comanches wheel away from the hidden marksman. 175-E EXT. THE CAVE - FULL SHOT - MARTIN AND ETHAN Martin runs back from his firing post toward where Ethan has fallen. ETHAN (angrily) Go on! Get out of here while you can... MARTIN (pointing to the cave) Over there! Ethan turns and sees what he means. He starts dragging himself to the cave as Martin grabs the rifles from their saddle scabbards, yanks off the water canteens and then drives their horses away. Then he too runs for the shelter of the cave. 175-F EXT. THE CANYON - ANGLING FROM BEHIND MARTIN AND ETHAN Both men are crouching, rifles ready. In the distance we see their horses running off -- pursued by some yelling Comanches. Four or six others come into sight, heading for the cave -- moving cautiously, uncertainly -- not seeing their quarry. Then the white men open fire and the Comanches bend low over their horses' necks and clear out of there. Ethan looks grimly at Martin. ETHAN They'll be back... MARTIN We won't be here... Come on! He gets an arm under Ethan and hauls him to his feet. DISSOLVE TO: 175-G EXT. THE GAP IN THE CLIFF - PANNING SHOT - SUNSET CAMERA PANS from the top of the rock chimney to where Martin is snaking his way through, carrying newly-filled water canteens. He stands there, listening and looking back the way he has come; and then, satisfied there has been no pursuit, he continues away. OMITTED INT. THE CAVE - MED. SHOT - ETHAN - HALF-LIGHT Ethan is lying on the hard earth, perhaps cushioned with some boughs. He is half delirious. A small fire is burning. Martin enters carrying the canteens. He looks unsympathetically toward Ethan, then continues to the fire, takes a knife and starts to sterilize it. Ethan gasps, mumbles and then a word comes clear. ETHAN Martha... Martha! Martin stares at him -- and now, perhaps for the first time, he is fitting pieces into the jig-saw puzzle. He shifts closer to Ethan and we see he is preparing to dig out the bullet. Ethan opens his eyes and looks at him. MARTIN I gotta open that leg and let the poison out... He poises the knife. ETHAN Wait... He fumbles in his shirt pocket, brings out a greasy folded piece of paper. ETHAN Just in case... Read it. Martin sets the knife down, takes the paper, opens it and slowly reads: MARTIN 'I, Ethan Edwards, being of sound mind and without any blood kin, do hereby bequeath all my property of any kind to Martin Pauley...' (he stares, then) I don't want your property.... 'Sides, what do you mean no 'blood kin?' Debbie's your blood kin... ETHAN Not no more. MARTIN (angrily) You can keep your will! (he thrusts it back into Ethan's shirt) I ain't forgettin' you was all set to shoot her yourself... What kind o' man are you, anyway. ETHAN (sitting up -- eyes blazing) She's been with the bucks! She's nothin' now but a... Martin shoves him back onto the ground. MARTIN (a shout) Shut your dirty mouth! He gets to his feet, trembling, and stands looking down at Ethan, his fists clenched at his sides and murder in his eyes. Then his eyes rove to the knife lying on the blanket. He picks it up and he looks again at the wounded man. MARTIN (slowly) I hope you die! And he kneels again to open the wound. DISSOLVE TO: EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY Martin is hauling an improvised travois over the ground in which, lashed by vines and some clothing, is the unconscious figure of Ethan. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - MARTIN - DAY Eyes shadowed, whiskered, drawn -- he is an implacable figure as he drags the weary miles home. He hears a groan from Ethan o.s. He barely lets his eyes drift to the sound. He doesn't stop. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - ETHAN IN THE TRAVOIS - DAY We see he is delirious, lips parched, strapped to the poles. The travois jolts over the ground. As he passes out of frame, the CAMERA HOLDS on the marks of the travois poles scraping across the desert. FADE OUT OMITTED FADE IN INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT - NIGHT A party is in progress. Fiddler and banjo-player are playing a lively square dance for one or two sets of dancers -- ranchers, their wives and daughters. Laurie is not in evidence. At the far end of the room is a table with a punch bowl set up and a cluster of men and women about. Jorgensen is at the door boisterously welcoming some new arrivals. Leading them into the room is Captain the Reverend Sam Clayton, with a bulky oil-skin package under his arm. With him is Charlie MacCorry, dressed in his best black suit and scrubbed until he looks raw. Behind them come three or four other competent-looking men -- Rangers all of them. JORGENSEN (shouting) They're here, mama... Come in, come in... INT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - FAVORING GROUP AT DOOR Clayton waits for Charlie to come abreast, then hits him on the back and drives him inside. CLAYTON Here he is, Lars... Combed, curried 'n washed behind the ears! Mrs. Jorgensen hurries over, beaming, to admire Charlie. MRS. JORGENSEN Why, Charlie, you look real handsome! CHARLIE (grinning) Yes'm... scarcely reck'nize myself... Where's Laurie? Mrs. Jorgensen smiles and playfully pushes him toward the guests. MRS. JORGENSEN You'll see her soon enough... Clayton -- and the other Rangers -- have been hanging gunbelts on pegs along the wall. Now he shakes out his parcel -- disclosing a green-black frock coat. CLAYTON (nodding to the music) Say, that music sounds so good it must be sinful... MRS. JORGENSEN Grab a partner, reverend! CLAYTON Well, now, a man of my age just can't haul off and dance in cold blood... but if there's any of that wild cherry brandy of yours, Lars... JORGENSEN (suddenly sober) Nooo... (change of heart) Yah, by golly... One jug left... I get it! Mrs. Jorgensen glares as he heads out. MRS. JORGENSEN Last winter that man swore up and down there wasn't a drop left -- and me with pneumoney!... Reverend, you'd better start clergyin' again! EXT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - NIGHT Horses, wagons fill the yard. We can hear the lively music of the square dance. As Jorgensen opens the door and sets out toward the barn, a battered dusty trap drives in -- and on it are Martin and Ethan. Jorgensen at first doesn't recognize them. JORGENSEN (hailing them) Hi!... You're late... hurry... And then he sees who they are, and his jaw drops. JORGENSEN (staring) Ethan... Martie... No, don't get down! ...You can't come in! They stare at him. JORGENSEN The Rangers are here! He says it as though that explains everything. ETHAN What's that got to do with us? MARTIN (eyeing the house) What's goin' on? JORGENSEN (who's forgotten they wouldn't know) Why, my Laurie's getting married... Martin throws the reins aside and jumps out. Jorgensen grabs his arm. JORGENSEN Wait! Don't you hear me! The Rangers... MARTIN So what? JORGENSEN You been posted for murder... both of you... That trader fella, the late Mister Futterman... Martin tries to break free. MARTIN I gotta see Laurie! JORGENSEN (desperately) Go around the side... the grandmother's room... I'll tell her... PLEASE! MARTIN You better! He heads around the side. Ethan meanwhile has climbed stiffly down, slightly favoring his leg. JORGENSEN Quick... hide in the barn, Ethan... ETHAN Hide? Why would I? He brushes past the little man and heads for the door. INT. THE JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLING FROM BEHIND ETHAN as he enters, with Jorgensen at his heels. For a moment, as he stands there, the party breezes on. Then first one, then another sees him. They gape, and the music falters and stops. Sam Clayton crosses to confront him across the width of the room. Jorgensen tries to be the easy, smiling host--and makes a very bad job of it. JORGENSEN Look everybody... Look who's... He can't even finish it but stands there making flapping gestures. INT. JORGENSEN ROOM - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND SAM -- others gaping. During the opening lines, Jorgensen will covertly back toward the door to the inner room -- Laurie's room. ETHAN (to all) Evenin'... evenin' Reverend... or do I call you 'Captain'...? CLAYTON Came here for a wedding, Ethan... Until that's over, I reckon 'reverend' will do... MRS. JORGENSEN (coming forward) And news of our little girl, Ethan? His face contorts and his smile is twisted. ETHAN She's not a little girl any more. MRS. JORGENSEN (eyes wide) You've seen her!... She's alive? ETHAN I've seen her... and she's alive. Mrs. Jorgensen throws herself against his chest, sobbing. Ethan looks past her at Clayton. And the faces of both men are grim. CUT TO: INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT The room is dark. Martin is pacing, eyes constantly turning to the inside door. And then it opens and Laurie is inside, holding a lamp. She is in her bridal gown and very obviously trying to keep from betraying the stress she is under. LAURIE (quietly) Hello, Martie.... He just stares at her -- very lovely, strangely remote. He suddenly is conscious of his dirty hands, his dusty, worn clothing. MARTIN I... I wrote you a letter... Reckon you didn't get it... LAURIE (setting the lamp down) One letter in five years... I read it till the paper dried up and the writing faded out... MARTIN It wasn't much of a letter... LAURIE No, it wasn't... You mighta said you loved me... You mighta asked me to wait... At least that'd have been something... MARTIN But I allus loved you... You know that, without my sayin' it... I couldn't bring myself to ask you to wait... the little I had... not knowin' how much longer until we found Debbie... LAURIE (breaking) It isn't fair... She sinks onto the bench. LAURIE (sobbing) It isn't fair, Martin Pauley, and you know it! She begins to cry, very softly. He is beside her and his arm goes around her shoulder comfortingly. MARTIN Don't cry, Laurie... I understand how it is... I'll just go 'way... LAURIE (spinning on him) You do and I'll die, Martie... I will! I'll just die! And they are kissing through her tears when the outer door is flung open by Charlie MacCorry. They part as he glares. CHARLIE I'll thank you to leave the room, Laurie. Martin stares at him, then at her. MARTIN (incredulous) Charlie MacCorry!... You weren't fixin' to marry HIM?? CHARLIE She sure is!... An' don't think your comin' back is goin' to change it! MARTIN As to that, I don't know, Charlie... We hadn't got around to talkin' marriage... CHARLIE What right you got to be talkin' marriage to any decent woman... MARTIN (angrily) If you're talkin' about that crazy murder charge... CHARLIE AND other things... Mebbe you thought you was gettin' away with being comical about that Indian wife you took... I bet she wasn't the first squaw you... Martin swings wildly but Charlie is a wily fighter. He side- steps and chops Martin in the jaw and drives him against the wall. Laurie runs between them. LAURIE Stop it! Both of you... I won't have any fighting in this house. Martin gently brushes her aside. MARTIN It's all right... Charlie, let's move outside. CHARLIE I ain't wearing no gun. Martin nods and unbuckles his gunbelt. The men head outside as Laurie runs to get help. EXT. THE JORGENSEN HOME - BREEZEWAY Charlie waits assuredly as Martin follows him outside. Martin makes a wild run, swings. The blow is neatly guarded by Charlie's left and countered with a crisp right that puts Martin down. Martin gets to his feet, more cautiously this time, and comes in at a crouch; he's fighting like an Indian, not a white man. The men from the wedding party come out now at a run. CLAYTON (yelling) Sergeant MacCorry! Charlie turns slightly and in that instant Martin springs and drives a straight right at his face -- almost as though there were a knife in the hand. MacCorry stumbles back into Clayton's arms. CLAYTON Is this in the line of duty, sergeant? CHARLIE (regaining his balance) No sir... pleasure. CLAYTON In that case, give the boys room... Martin waits at a crouch as Charlie comes in, feints his right and crosses his left. It is a hard blow but Martin recovers and waits... Charlie circles and starts to repeat. He feints his right but this time Martin springs in, ducks and -- as the left shoots out -- he grabs the wrist and throws Charlie over his head. What we are looking at, in effect, is a wrestler against a boxer. CLAYTON Fight fair, son... Use your fists! ETHAN (drily) Comanches don't use their fists, reverend... Let 'em alone... Charlie is on his feet and warily starts circling -- now trying to imitate Martin's crouch. Suddenly Martin feints a right swing and connects with a solid left -- reversing the order of business. Charlie staggers and Martin follows up with a wrestling hold, leaping behind Charlie, locking both legs around him and driving his arms upward behind his back so that his face is in the dirt and so he could -- under other circumstances -- be neatly and expeditiously scalped. With the hands locked, Martin then calmly draws a knife. He looks innocently into the aghast faces of the crowd. MARTIN Could scalp him... but I'll just count coup! With that he releases the paralyzed arms just long enough to grab a lock of Charlie's hair and neatly snip it off. He stands then and laughs as Charlie lamely gets to his feet -- easing the tortured arms. Clayton goes to Charlie's side. Laurie moves to Martin's side. CLAYTON You all right, sergeant? CHARLIE Dunno... Seems so. CLAYTON Well, go get cleaned up and we'll proceed with the weddin'... Charlie frowns and looks off at where Laurie and Martin are standing. CHARLIE Ain't goin' to be any weddin' -- not till we get a few things cleared up 'round here... He walks rather unsteadily away leaving a thunderstruck assembly, murmurous with surprise. WIPE TO: INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - LATER THAT NIGHT The last of the wedding guests is leaving: Ed Nesby carrying his bull fiddle and with his wife and daughter and two smaller children preceding him out the door. The Jorgensens stand by -- trying to put a good face on the wedding debacle. Charlie MacCorry is sitting dejectedly, studying a spot on the floor. Ethan is at the mantel. Laurie is in her room -- presumably changing out of her wedding gown. Martin is at a sink, bathing a cut on his lip. Clayton, still in his clerical coat, is near the door. NESBY (a grin) Well... it was a nice weddin' party... considerin' no one got married... 'Night. JORGENSEN Good night, Ed... Mrs. Jorgensen puts her handkerchief to her eyes -- letting down now that the guests have gone. Jorgensen crosses to her, pats her sympathetically. JORGENSEN Now, mamma!... He leads her away. Clayton faces Ethan. CLAYTON I got to ask you and Martin to ride to the State Capitol with me, Ethan. ETHAN This an invite to a necktie party, Reverend? CLAYTON Captain... Nope, wouldn't say that... Likely you had your reasons for killin' Futterman... Probably needed killin'... I'm speaking as a ranger now, not as a reverend... Fact that all three was shot in the back is the only thing that's raised some question -- that and a missin' gold piece known to have been on him just prior to his demise. Ethan casually reaches into his pocket, takes out a gold coin and spins it. ETHAN (casually) That so? Martin crosses to confront Clayton. MARTIN I ain't goin' to Austin, Reverend. Charlie gets to his feet and he has his gun in his hand. CHARLIE You're goin' if the captain says you're goin'... CLAYTON Now, now... let's not grow disputatious... Fast hoofbeats sound o.s. -- signalling the approach of a four-man cavalry detail. CLAYTON (turning) What's that? More company? He and Jorgensen head for the door. CLAYTON Kinda late getting here, aren't they? A voice hails from outside. LIEUTENANT'S VOICE Hello there! Captain Clayton? INT. - EXT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLE AT DOOR - NIGHT Clayton stands in the opened doorway, Jorgensen behind him, looking out. Drawn up outside is the four-man cavalry detail, led by a young and very crisp LIEUTENANT. We may or may not see the sixth man, slouched over his horse. The Lieutenant swings off and crosses. LIEUTENANT Is Captain Clayton here, Reverend? CLAYTON I'm Clayton. The Lieutenant gapes at Clayton's ministerial coat. LIEUTENANT (doubtfully) You're Captain Clayton?... Ethan chuckles, to Clayton's very obvious annoyance. LIEUTENANT (recovering, he salutes) Colonel Greenhill's compliments, sir. The Colonel wishes to know how soon you could put a company of Rangers in the field, fully armed and... CLAYTON Hold on, son... Who's this Colonel Greenhill you're talking about? LIEUTENANT Why Colonel Greenhill is Colonel Greenhill, sir... Commanding Officer, Fifth U.S. Cavalry... I'm Lieutenant Greenhill, sir. CLAYTON Oh... Now what's this your pa wants to know? LIEUTENANT My pa wants to know... Colonel Greenhill wants to know how soon you could put a company of your Rangers in the field, fully armed and equipped, for joint punitive action against the Comanches. CLAYTON JOINT action? LIEUTENANT Yes sir... We've received information about a band of Comanches under a chief named Scar... ETHAN What information? LIEUTENANT That maybe he's not far from here -- holed up somewhere, waiting his chance to get back over the border... He raided north about a month ago... ran into more army than he bargained for... Now he's running for cover, for keeps this time... CLAYTON And what makes you think he's in this territory? LIEUTENANT Yesterday, one of our patrols picked up a man claims he was a prisoner with Scar till only two days ago... He talks crazy but I brought him along... Says he lives here... keeps mentioning a rocking chair. ETHAN (half to himself) Mose... And then he is striding to the door, calling it: ETHAN MOSE! MOSE'S VOICE Ay-he?... Ay-eh?... And the old man totters in, half-supported by a trooper -- hollow-eyed, weak, almost delirious. MOSE Come f'r my rockin' chai'... ole Mose. ETHAN (shouting it) Where's Scar, Mose... SCAR? MARTIN Ask him about Debbie!... Is she all right, Mose? MOSE My rockin' chai'... MRS. JORGENSEN (bustling over) Leave the poor man be! Can't you see he's out of his mind... She tries to lead him away, but Ethan shoves her aside and grips the old man by his arms. ETHAN Mose... try to remember!... You were in Scar's camp... MOSE Ay-he... Made out I was crazy... (he giggles foolishly) Ate dirt... chewed grass... I fooled 'em, Ethan!... an' I got away... ETHAN Scar! Where's he holed in? MOSE Seven Fingers... ay-he... Seven... He staggers and this time Mrs. Jorgensen won't be denied. MRS. JORGENSEN Now that's enough! Here... by the fire... What you need's a good bowl of soup... She leads him away, at last to his rocker by the fire. During this, Ethan and Clayton have been mulling Mose's answer. ETHAN (blankly) Seven Fingers? LIEUTENANT That's what he told us... but there's no such place on the maps. MARTIN Wait a minute! Isn't that the Caddo name for where all those canyons branch on the Malapai? MOSE (from his rocker) Caddo or Kiowa... ay-he... ay-eh... Sam Clayton wheels on the Lieutenant. CLAYTON You tell your pa a company of Rangers -- all fourteen of 'em -- fully armed an' equipped will be in the field by daylight... headin' for the south end of the Malapai. If he can catch up with us, well an' good... LIEUTENANT But... but captain, we can't possibly take the field tomorrow... for your own protection... CLAYTON Sonny, yonder's a passel of murderers, complete with Texican scalps an' white girl captive... You want to protect us, you just get out of our way... Now skedaddle! The lieutenant skedaddles. Sam whirls on Martin and Ethan. CLAYTON Ethan, you an' Martin are hereby appointed civilian scouts -- without pay... Charlie, hightail it to headquarters an' spread the word... CHARLIE Yes sir... He leaves. Martin's hands go to his side -- recalling where he left his guns. MARTIN My guns... He heads for the inner door to the grandmother room. INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin enters and crosses to where he had dropped his gunbelt. Even before he reaches it, Laurie is in the room -- closing the door after her. LAURIE Martie... don't go! Not this time. MARTIN (staring) You crazy? LAURIE It's too late... She's a woman grown now... MARTIN I got to fetch her home... LAURIE Fetch what home?... The leavin's of Comanche bucks -- sold time an' again to the highest bidder?... With savage brats of her own, most like?... MARTIN (shouting it) Laurie! Shut your mouth! LAURIE Do you know what Ethan will do if he has a chance?... He'll put a bullet in her brain! And I tell you Martha would want him to! MARTIN Only if I'm dead! He strides out past her. INT. THE KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin re-enters. Ethan and Sam are waiting. Martin looks hard at Ethan. CLAYTON You ready? MARTIN (eyes never leaving Ethan's face) I'm ready. As they stride out, CUT TO: 204-A INT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - GRANDMOTHER ROOM - CLOSE SHOT - LAURIE - NIGHT as she stands at the window, in her bridal gown, and sadly watches Martin again going away. Softly the score reprises -- sadly now -- "Skip to My Lou." DISSOLVE TO: EXT. MESA COUNTRY - LONG SHOT - THE RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT A file of eighteen men and horses -- Rangers -- is walking under the shoulder of a mesa, keeping well below the skyline. FULL SHOT - THE FILE OF RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT They pass CAMERA one by one -- Sam Clayton in the lead, Martin behind him leading two horses, then the others -- grim- looking, capable men of varying ages; some with long drooping mustaches, some in need of shaves, some chawing tobacco. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT He is lying prone, his hat off, squinting down into a long reach of desert canyon at the Comanche encampment -- with tepees set up, a thin wisp of smoke rising from a fire, the horse herd penned in a draw cut off by an improvised corral of rawhide ropes. EXT. THE COMANCHE ENCAMPMENT - WIDE ANGLE SHOT - DAWN LIGHT The camp is sleeping. A dog yaps shrilly. One of the tepee flaps opens and Scar steps out. He picks up a stone or a chunk of wood and throws it. The dog yelps and runs off. Scar's air is troubled, suspicious. He heads for the horse herd. The camp sleeps on. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT His face betrays a bitter inner satisfaction. He looks back along the trail as faintly we hear the approach of the Ranger company. Then he squirms back, retrieving his hat. FULL SHOT - HEAD OF RANGER COLUMN - DAWN LIGHT Sam, seeing Ethan in the near distance, raises his hand in a signal for halt and waits. Ethan scrambles down the trail to join him. He takes the reins of his horse from Martin. ETHAN We can get within 500 yards... there's a hogback to the south. CLAYTON How many, would you say? ETHAN (drily) Enough to go around... I'd say about a dozen apiece... Mount 'em up! He moves as though to mount, but Martin steps forward. MARTIN Wait! We go chargin' in, they'll kill her... and you know it. ETHAN (calmly) It's what I'm countin' on. Sam stares at him, but Martin isn't surprised. MARTIN I know you are... Only it ain't goin' to be that way... she's alive... ETHAN Livin' with Comanches ain't bein' alive... MARTIN (same tone) She's alive... Better she's alive and livin' with Comanches than her brains bashed out... CLAYTON Now son, it's a bitter thing to say, but there's more than your sister at stake here. ETHAN There sure is! I'm going to tell you somethin'... I wasn't going to speak of it... But I'll tell you now. Did you notice them scalps strung on Scar's lance? (MARTIN NODS) Did you see the third scalp from the point of the lance? Long... wavy hair... MARTIN I saw it... And don't try to tell me it was Aunt Martha's or Lucy's... ETHAN You don't remember it, but I remember. That was your mother's scalp! Martin stares, quick disbelief in his eyes. But Ethan's eyes hold his and there is no doubting the truth in them. ETHAN I didn't want to tell you... but maybe it's your right to know. CLAYTON (quietly) Now mount up, son... Sam puts his hand on Martin's elbow -- as though to turn him to his duty. But Martin jerks the arm away. MARTIN It don't change it... All I'm askin' is a chance to sneak in there... an' try to get her out before you come chargin' in. CLAYTON What if you're caught? MARTIN It won't tell 'em anything, will it! Just a man alone... ETHAN I say NO! CLAYTON Go ahead, son... But at the first alarm, we're comin' in -- and we ain't goin' to have time to pick and choose our targets when we do... Ethan looks long and hard at Martin, then reaches into his shirt for the folded, dirty, dog-eared paper that was his will. Slowly he tears it into shreds. ETHAN It's your funeral... Martin squats and starts pulling off his boots. He glances up as Charlie MacCorry comes over, an Indian blanket in his hands. He tosses it onto Martin's shoulder. CHARLIE Here... you fight like a Comanch... Maybe this'll help ya pass as one. Then

take

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

(harshly) How? She's even forgot her own language! MARTIN Debbie, you're comin' with us! Hear me? DEBBIE No... not now... not ever. These have been her first words in English... and they bring new hope to Martin. MARTIN I don't care what they've done to you... what happened... DEBBIE (angrily) They have done... nothing... They are my people... ETHAN Your people? They murdered your family! DEBBIE (reverting to Comanche) Ee-sap! (furiously) White men killed them - to steal cows! I was... little... I ran away... They find me... take care of me. MARTIN No Debbie! That ain't what happened! They been lyin' to you... DEBBIE You lie! All white men lie... and kill... MARTIN Debbie, think back! I'm Martin... remember? Remember how I used to let you ride my horse? Tell you stories? Don't you remember me, Debbie? DEBBIE I remember... from always... At first I prayed to you... come and get me... take me home... You didn't come... MARTIN I've come now... DEBBIE These are my people... (in Comanche) Unnt-meah! Go! Go! Please! ETHAN (grimly) Stand aside, boy... Martin turns as Ethan slowly reaches for his gun. It takes Martin a moment to realize what he is about to do. MARTIN Ethan -- NO! He moves quickly then to put himself between Ethan and the girl and in that instant there is the crack of a rifle. Ethan is hit in the leg. It goes out from under him. Martin swings and his gun is out and firing. 174-D EXT. SAND CREEK - FULL SHOT - INCLUDING THE DUNES - DAY A mounted Comanche is on the crest of the dune above them -- rifle raised. Martin's first shot brings him down the dune in a spectacular horse-and-man fall. Debbie goes running like a deer up the creek, away from Martin; in the same instant we hear the angry yells of distant Comanches charging from the far left. Martin turns to see Debbie running away. MARTIN Debbie! WAIT! Ethan is on his feet now and limping frantically toward their horses. He shoves Martin ahead of him. ETHAN (angrily) Never mind her! MOVE! They mount and take off, just as the vanguard of the attacking Comanches swings around a point of rock and comes charging toward the creek. EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE - LATE AFTERNOON as Ethan and Martin race their horses from the creek area and down a long incline, as -- from the heights above -- a dozen or more Comanches, led by Scar, come tearing after them. 175-A EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - MED. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - MOVING - DAY Ethan is swaying in his saddle, just barely hanging on, as Martin races up behind him -- driving Ethan's horse along. They swing past a huge outcrop of rock and go tearing along a vaulting wall of stone. Their hoofbeats and those of the pursuers bounce and echo off the canyon walls, and bullets whine and ricochet. 175-B EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - FULL MOVING SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY They swing around giant boulders, up-ended like pancakes. Ethan is lurching almost out of the saddle, barely conscious. Martin spots the cave -- ahead -- and drives his mount and Ethan's toward it. 175-C EXT. THE CAVE (MONUMENT) - FULL SHOT - THE TWO - DAY Martin pulls his horse in and swings off just as Ethan slides from his saddle. He runs toward one of the huge boulders, crouches and starts firing. 175-D EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE ON THE COMANCHES - DAY The Comanches are spread out but coming on fast. One goes down under Martin's fire.... another is hit in the arm. He pulls up and the other Comanches wheel away from the hidden marksman. 175-E EXT. THE CAVE - FULL SHOT - MARTIN AND ETHAN Martin runs back from his firing post toward where Ethan has fallen. ETHAN (angrily) Go on! Get out of here while you can... MARTIN (pointing to the cave) Over there! Ethan turns and sees what he means. He starts dragging himself to the cave as Martin grabs the rifles from their saddle scabbards, yanks off the water canteens and then drives their horses away. Then he too runs for the shelter of the cave. 175-F EXT. THE CANYON - ANGLING FROM BEHIND MARTIN AND ETHAN Both men are crouching, rifles ready. In the distance we see their horses running off -- pursued by some yelling Comanches. Four or six others come into sight, heading for the cave -- moving cautiously, uncertainly -- not seeing their quarry. Then the white men open fire and the Comanches bend low over their horses' necks and clear out of there. Ethan looks grimly at Martin. ETHAN They'll be back... MARTIN We won't be here... Come on! He gets an arm under Ethan and hauls him to his feet. DISSOLVE TO: 175-G EXT. THE GAP IN THE CLIFF - PANNING SHOT - SUNSET CAMERA PANS from the top of the rock chimney to where Martin is snaking his way through, carrying newly-filled water canteens. He stands there, listening and looking back the way he has come; and then, satisfied there has been no pursuit, he continues away. OMITTED INT. THE CAVE - MED. SHOT - ETHAN - HALF-LIGHT Ethan is lying on the hard earth, perhaps cushioned with some boughs. He is half delirious. A small fire is burning. Martin enters carrying the canteens. He looks unsympathetically toward Ethan, then continues to the fire, takes a knife and starts to sterilize it. Ethan gasps, mumbles and then a word comes clear. ETHAN Martha... Martha! Martin stares at him -- and now, perhaps for the first time, he is fitting pieces into the jig-saw puzzle. He shifts closer to Ethan and we see he is preparing to dig out the bullet. Ethan opens his eyes and looks at him. MARTIN I gotta open that leg and let the poison out... He poises the knife. ETHAN Wait... He fumbles in his shirt pocket, brings out a greasy folded piece of paper. ETHAN Just in case... Read it. Martin sets the knife down, takes the paper, opens it and slowly reads: MARTIN 'I, Ethan Edwards, being of sound mind and without any blood kin, do hereby bequeath all my property of any kind to Martin Pauley...' (he stares, then) I don't want your property.... 'Sides, what do you mean no 'blood kin?' Debbie's your blood kin... ETHAN Not no more. MARTIN (angrily) You can keep your will! (he thrusts it back into Ethan's shirt) I ain't forgettin' you was all set to shoot her yourself... What kind o' man are you, anyway. ETHAN (sitting up -- eyes blazing) She's been with the bucks! She's nothin' now but a... Martin shoves him back onto the ground. MARTIN (a shout) Shut your dirty mouth! He gets to his feet, trembling, and stands looking down at Ethan, his fists clenched at his sides and murder in his eyes. Then his eyes rove to the knife lying on the blanket. He picks it up and he looks again at the wounded man. MARTIN (slowly) I hope you die! And he kneels again to open the wound. DISSOLVE TO: EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY Martin is hauling an improvised travois over the ground in which, lashed by vines and some clothing, is the unconscious figure of Ethan. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - MARTIN - DAY Eyes shadowed, whiskered, drawn -- he is an implacable figure as he drags the weary miles home. He hears a groan from Ethan o.s. He barely lets his eyes drift to the sound. He doesn't stop. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - ETHAN IN THE TRAVOIS - DAY We see he is delirious, lips parched, strapped to the poles. The travois jolts over the ground. As he passes out of frame, the CAMERA HOLDS on the marks of the travois poles scraping across the desert. FADE OUT OMITTED FADE IN INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT - NIGHT A party is in progress. Fiddler and banjo-player are playing a lively square dance for one or two sets of dancers -- ranchers, their wives and daughters. Laurie is not in evidence. At the far end of the room is a table with a punch bowl set up and a cluster of men and women about. Jorgensen is at the door boisterously welcoming some new arrivals. Leading them into the room is Captain the Reverend Sam Clayton, with a bulky oil-skin package under his arm. With him is Charlie MacCorry, dressed in his best black suit and scrubbed until he looks raw. Behind them come three or four other competent-looking men -- Rangers all of them. JORGENSEN (shouting) They're here, mama... Come in, come in... INT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - FAVORING GROUP AT DOOR Clayton waits for Charlie to come abreast, then hits him on the back and drives him inside. CLAYTON Here he is, Lars... Combed, curried 'n washed behind the ears! Mrs. Jorgensen hurries over, beaming, to admire Charlie. MRS. JORGENSEN Why, Charlie, you look real handsome! CHARLIE (grinning) Yes'm... scarcely reck'nize myself... Where's Laurie? Mrs. Jorgensen smiles and playfully pushes him toward the guests. MRS. JORGENSEN You'll see her soon enough... Clayton -- and the other Rangers -- have been hanging gunbelts on pegs along the wall. Now he shakes out his parcel -- disclosing a green-black frock coat. CLAYTON (nodding to the music) Say, that music sounds so good it must be sinful... MRS. JORGENSEN Grab a partner, reverend! CLAYTON Well, now, a man of my age just can't haul off and dance in cold blood... but if there's any of that wild cherry brandy of yours, Lars... JORGENSEN (suddenly sober) Nooo... (change of heart) Yah, by golly... One jug left... I get it! Mrs. Jorgensen glares as he heads out. MRS. JORGENSEN Last winter that man swore up and down there wasn't a drop left -- and me with pneumoney!... Reverend, you'd better start clergyin' again! EXT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - NIGHT Horses, wagons fill the yard. We can hear the lively music of the square dance. As Jorgensen opens the door and sets out toward the barn, a battered dusty trap drives in -- and on it are Martin and Ethan. Jorgensen at first doesn't recognize them. JORGENSEN (hailing them) Hi!... You're late... hurry... And then he sees who they are, and his jaw drops. JORGENSEN (staring) Ethan... Martie... No, don't get down! ...You can't come in! They stare at him. JORGENSEN The Rangers are here! He says it as though that explains everything. ETHAN What's that got to do with us? MARTIN (eyeing the house) What's goin' on? JORGENSEN (who's forgotten they wouldn't know) Why, my Laurie's getting married... Martin throws the reins aside and jumps out. Jorgensen grabs his arm. JORGENSEN Wait! Don't you hear me! The Rangers... MARTIN So what? JORGENSEN You been posted for murder... both of you... That trader fella, the late Mister Futterman... Martin tries to break free. MARTIN I gotta see Laurie! JORGENSEN (desperately) Go around the side... the grandmother's room... I'll tell her... PLEASE! MARTIN You better! He heads around the side. Ethan meanwhile has climbed stiffly down, slightly favoring his leg. JORGENSEN Quick... hide in the barn, Ethan... ETHAN Hide? Why would I? He brushes past the little man and heads for the door. INT. THE JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLING FROM BEHIND ETHAN as he enters, with Jorgensen at his heels. For a moment, as he stands there, the party breezes on. Then first one, then another sees him. They gape, and the music falters and stops. Sam Clayton crosses to confront him across the width of the room. Jorgensen tries to be the easy, smiling host--and makes a very bad job of it. JORGENSEN Look everybody... Look who's... He can't even finish it but stands there making flapping gestures. INT. JORGENSEN ROOM - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND SAM -- others gaping. During the opening lines, Jorgensen will covertly back toward the door to the inner room -- Laurie's room. ETHAN (to all) Evenin'... evenin' Reverend... or do I call you 'Captain'...? CLAYTON Came here for a wedding, Ethan... Until that's over, I reckon 'reverend' will do... MRS. JORGENSEN (coming forward) And news of our little girl, Ethan? His face contorts and his smile is twisted. ETHAN She's not a little girl any more. MRS. JORGENSEN (eyes wide) You've seen her!... She's alive? ETHAN I've seen her... and she's alive. Mrs. Jorgensen throws herself against his chest, sobbing. Ethan looks past her at Clayton. And the faces of both men are grim. CUT TO: INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT The room is dark. Martin is pacing, eyes constantly turning to the inside door. And then it opens and Laurie is inside, holding a lamp. She is in her bridal gown and very obviously trying to keep from betraying the stress she is under. LAURIE (quietly) Hello, Martie.... He just stares at her -- very lovely, strangely remote. He suddenly is conscious of his dirty hands, his dusty, worn clothing. MARTIN I... I wrote you a letter... Reckon you didn't get it... LAURIE (setting the lamp down) One letter in five years... I read it till the paper dried up and the writing faded out... MARTIN It wasn't much of a letter... LAURIE No, it wasn't... You mighta said you loved me... You mighta asked me to wait... At least that'd have been something... MARTIN But I allus loved you... You know that, without my sayin' it... I couldn't bring myself to ask you to wait... the little I had... not knowin' how much longer until we found Debbie... LAURIE (breaking) It isn't fair... She sinks onto the bench. LAURIE (sobbing) It isn't fair, Martin Pauley, and you know it! She begins to cry, very softly. He is beside her and his arm goes around her shoulder comfortingly. MARTIN Don't cry, Laurie... I understand how it is... I'll just go 'way... LAURIE (spinning on him) You do and I'll die, Martie... I will! I'll just die! And they are kissing through her tears when the outer door is flung open by Charlie MacCorry. They part as he glares. CHARLIE I'll thank you to leave the room, Laurie. Martin stares at him, then at her. MARTIN (incredulous) Charlie MacCorry!... You weren't fixin' to marry HIM?? CHARLIE She sure is!... An' don't think your comin' back is goin' to change it! MARTIN As to that, I don't know, Charlie... We hadn't got around to talkin' marriage... CHARLIE What right you got to be talkin' marriage to any decent woman... MARTIN (angrily) If you're talkin' about that crazy murder charge... CHARLIE AND other things... Mebbe you thought you was gettin' away with being comical about that Indian wife you took... I bet she wasn't the first squaw you... Martin swings wildly but Charlie is a wily fighter. He side- steps and chops Martin in the jaw and drives him against the wall. Laurie runs between them. LAURIE Stop it! Both of you... I won't have any fighting in this house. Martin gently brushes her aside. MARTIN It's all right... Charlie, let's move outside. CHARLIE I ain't wearing no gun. Martin nods and unbuckles his gunbelt. The men head outside as Laurie runs to get help. EXT. THE JORGENSEN HOME - BREEZEWAY Charlie waits assuredly as Martin follows him outside. Martin makes a wild run, swings. The blow is neatly guarded by Charlie's left and countered with a crisp right that puts Martin down. Martin gets to his feet, more cautiously this time, and comes in at a crouch; he's fighting like an Indian, not a white man. The men from the wedding party come out now at a run. CLAYTON (yelling) Sergeant MacCorry! Charlie turns slightly and in that instant Martin springs and drives a straight right at his face -- almost as though there were a knife in the hand. MacCorry stumbles back into Clayton's arms. CLAYTON Is this in the line of duty, sergeant? CHARLIE (regaining his balance) No sir... pleasure. CLAYTON In that case, give the boys room... Martin waits at a crouch as Charlie comes in, feints his right and crosses his left. It is a hard blow but Martin recovers and waits... Charlie circles and starts to repeat. He feints his right but this time Martin springs in, ducks and -- as the left shoots out -- he grabs the wrist and throws Charlie over his head. What we are looking at, in effect, is a wrestler against a boxer. CLAYTON Fight fair, son... Use your fists! ETHAN (drily) Comanches don't use their fists, reverend... Let 'em alone... Charlie is on his feet and warily starts circling -- now trying to imitate Martin's crouch. Suddenly Martin feints a right swing and connects with a solid left -- reversing the order of business. Charlie staggers and Martin follows up with a wrestling hold, leaping behind Charlie, locking both legs around him and driving his arms upward behind his back so that his face is in the dirt and so he could -- under other circumstances -- be neatly and expeditiously scalped. With the hands locked, Martin then calmly draws a knife. He looks innocently into the aghast faces of the crowd. MARTIN Could scalp him... but I'll just count coup! With that he releases the paralyzed arms just long enough to grab a lock of Charlie's hair and neatly snip it off. He stands then and laughs as Charlie lamely gets to his feet -- easing the tortured arms. Clayton goes to Charlie's side. Laurie moves to Martin's side. CLAYTON You all right, sergeant? CHARLIE Dunno... Seems so. CLAYTON Well, go get cleaned up and we'll proceed with the weddin'... Charlie frowns and looks off at where Laurie and Martin are standing. CHARLIE Ain't goin' to be any weddin' -- not till we get a few things cleared up 'round here... He walks rather unsteadily away leaving a thunderstruck assembly, murmurous with surprise. WIPE TO: INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - LATER THAT NIGHT The last of the wedding guests is leaving: Ed Nesby carrying his bull fiddle and with his wife and daughter and two smaller children preceding him out the door. The Jorgensens stand by -- trying to put a good face on the wedding debacle. Charlie MacCorry is sitting dejectedly, studying a spot on the floor. Ethan is at the mantel. Laurie is in her room -- presumably changing out of her wedding gown. Martin is at a sink, bathing a cut on his lip. Clayton, still in his clerical coat, is near the door. NESBY (a grin) Well... it was a nice weddin' party... considerin' no one got married... 'Night. JORGENSEN Good night, Ed... Mrs. Jorgensen puts her handkerchief to her eyes -- letting down now that the guests have gone. Jorgensen crosses to her, pats her sympathetically. JORGENSEN Now, mamma!... He leads her away. Clayton faces Ethan. CLAYTON I got to ask you and Martin to ride to the State Capitol with me, Ethan. ETHAN This an invite to a necktie party, Reverend? CLAYTON Captain... Nope, wouldn't say that... Likely you had your reasons for killin' Futterman... Probably needed killin'... I'm speaking as a ranger now, not as a reverend... Fact that all three was shot in the back is the only thing that's raised some question -- that and a missin' gold piece known to have been on him just prior to his demise. Ethan casually reaches into his pocket, takes out a gold coin and spins it. ETHAN (casually) That so? Martin crosses to confront Clayton. MARTIN I ain't goin' to Austin, Reverend. Charlie gets to his feet and he has his gun in his hand. CHARLIE You're goin' if the captain says you're goin'... CLAYTON Now, now... let's not grow disputatious... Fast hoofbeats sound o.s. -- signalling the approach of a four-man cavalry detail. CLAYTON (turning) What's that? More company? He and Jorgensen head for the door. CLAYTON Kinda late getting here, aren't they? A voice hails from outside. LIEUTENANT'S VOICE Hello there! Captain Clayton? INT. - EXT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLE AT DOOR - NIGHT Clayton stands in the opened doorway, Jorgensen behind him, looking out. Drawn up outside is the four-man cavalry detail, led by a young and very crisp LIEUTENANT. We may or may not see the sixth man, slouched over his horse. The Lieutenant swings off and crosses. LIEUTENANT Is Captain Clayton here, Reverend? CLAYTON I'm Clayton. The Lieutenant gapes at Clayton's ministerial coat. LIEUTENANT (doubtfully) You're Captain Clayton?... Ethan chuckles, to Clayton's very obvious annoyance. LIEUTENANT (recovering, he salutes) Colonel Greenhill's compliments, sir. The Colonel wishes to know how soon you could put a company of Rangers in the field, fully armed and... CLAYTON Hold on, son... Who's this Colonel Greenhill you're talking about? LIEUTENANT Why Colonel Greenhill is Colonel Greenhill, sir... Commanding Officer, Fifth U.S. Cavalry... I'm Lieutenant Greenhill, sir. CLAYTON Oh... Now what's this your pa wants to know? LIEUTENANT My pa wants to know... Colonel Greenhill wants to know how soon you could put a company of your Rangers in the field, fully armed and equipped, for joint punitive action against the Comanches. CLAYTON JOINT action? LIEUTENANT Yes sir... We've received information about a band of Comanches under a chief named Scar... ETHAN What information? LIEUTENANT That maybe he's not far from here -- holed up somewhere, waiting his chance to get back over the border... He raided north about a month ago... ran into more army than he bargained for... Now he's running for cover, for keeps this time... CLAYTON And what makes you think he's in this territory? LIEUTENANT Yesterday, one of our patrols picked up a man claims he was a prisoner with Scar till only two days ago... He talks crazy but I brought him along... Says he lives here... keeps mentioning a rocking chair. ETHAN (half to himself) Mose... And then he is striding to the door, calling it: ETHAN MOSE! MOSE'S VOICE Ay-he?... Ay-eh?... And the old man totters in, half-supported by a trooper -- hollow-eyed, weak, almost delirious. MOSE Come f'r my rockin' chai'... ole Mose. ETHAN (shouting it) Where's Scar, Mose... SCAR? MARTIN Ask him about Debbie!... Is she all right, Mose? MOSE My rockin' chai'... MRS. JORGENSEN (bustling over) Leave the poor man be! Can't you see he's out of his mind... She tries to lead him away, but Ethan shoves her aside and grips the old man by his arms. ETHAN Mose... try to remember!... You were in Scar's camp... MOSE Ay-he... Made out I was crazy... (he giggles foolishly) Ate dirt... chewed grass... I fooled 'em, Ethan!... an' I got away... ETHAN Scar! Where's he holed in? MOSE Seven Fingers... ay-he... Seven... He staggers and this time Mrs. Jorgensen won't be denied. MRS. JORGENSEN Now that's enough! Here... by the fire... What you need's a good bowl of soup... She leads him away, at last to his rocker by the fire. During this, Ethan and Clayton have been mulling Mose's answer. ETHAN (blankly) Seven Fingers? LIEUTENANT That's what he told us... but there's no such place on the maps. MARTIN Wait a minute! Isn't that the Caddo name for where all those canyons branch on the Malapai? MOSE (from his rocker) Caddo or Kiowa... ay-he... ay-eh... Sam Clayton wheels on the Lieutenant. CLAYTON You tell your pa a company of Rangers -- all fourteen of 'em -- fully armed an' equipped will be in the field by daylight... headin' for the south end of the Malapai. If he can catch up with us, well an' good... LIEUTENANT But... but captain, we can't possibly take the field tomorrow... for your own protection... CLAYTON Sonny, yonder's a passel of murderers, complete with Texican scalps an' white girl captive... You want to protect us, you just get out of our way... Now skedaddle! The lieutenant skedaddles. Sam whirls on Martin and Ethan. CLAYTON Ethan, you an' Martin are hereby appointed civilian scouts -- without pay... Charlie, hightail it to headquarters an' spread the word... CHARLIE Yes sir... He leaves. Martin's hands go to his side -- recalling where he left his guns. MARTIN My guns... He heads for the inner door to the grandmother room. INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin enters and crosses to where he had dropped his gunbelt. Even before he reaches it, Laurie is in the room -- closing the door after her. LAURIE Martie... don't go! Not this time. MARTIN (staring) You crazy? LAURIE It's too late... She's a woman grown now... MARTIN I got to fetch her home... LAURIE Fetch what home?... The leavin's of Comanche bucks -- sold time an' again to the highest bidder?... With savage brats of her own, most like?... MARTIN (shouting it) Laurie! Shut your mouth! LAURIE Do you know what Ethan will do if he has a chance?... He'll put a bullet in her brain! And I tell you Martha would want him to! MARTIN Only if I'm dead! He strides out past her. INT. THE KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin re-enters. Ethan and Sam are waiting. Martin looks hard at Ethan. CLAYTON You ready? MARTIN (eyes never leaving Ethan's face) I'm ready. As they stride out, CUT TO: 204-A INT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - GRANDMOTHER ROOM - CLOSE SHOT - LAURIE - NIGHT as she stands at the window, in her bridal gown, and sadly watches Martin again going away. Softly the score reprises -- sadly now -- "Skip to My Lou." DISSOLVE TO: EXT. MESA COUNTRY - LONG SHOT - THE RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT A file of eighteen men and horses -- Rangers -- is walking under the shoulder of a mesa, keeping well below the skyline. FULL SHOT - THE FILE OF RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT They pass CAMERA one by one -- Sam Clayton in the lead, Martin behind him leading two horses, then the others -- grim- looking, capable men of varying ages; some with long drooping mustaches, some in need of shaves, some chawing tobacco. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT He is lying prone, his hat off, squinting down into a long reach of desert canyon at the Comanche encampment -- with tepees set up, a thin wisp of smoke rising from a fire, the horse herd penned in a draw cut off by an improvised corral of rawhide ropes. EXT. THE COMANCHE ENCAMPMENT - WIDE ANGLE SHOT - DAWN LIGHT The camp is sleeping. A dog yaps shrilly. One of the tepee flaps opens and Scar steps out. He picks up a stone or a chunk of wood and throws it. The dog yelps and runs off. Scar's air is troubled, suspicious. He heads for the horse herd. The camp sleeps on. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT His face betrays a bitter inner satisfaction. He looks back along the trail as faintly we hear the approach of the Ranger company. Then he squirms back, retrieving his hat. FULL SHOT - HEAD OF RANGER COLUMN - DAWN LIGHT Sam, seeing Ethan in the near distance, raises his hand in a signal for halt and waits. Ethan scrambles down the trail to join him. He takes the reins of his horse from Martin. ETHAN We can get within 500 yards... there's a hogback to the south. CLAYTON How many, would you say? ETHAN (drily) Enough to go around... I'd say about a dozen apiece... Mount 'em up! He moves as though to mount, but Martin steps forward. MARTIN Wait! We go chargin' in, they'll kill her... and you know it. ETHAN (calmly) It's what I'm countin' on. Sam stares at him, but Martin isn't surprised. MARTIN I know you are... Only it ain't goin' to be that way... she's alive... ETHAN Livin' with Comanches ain't bein' alive... MARTIN (same tone) She's alive... Better she's alive and livin' with Comanches than her brains bashed out... CLAYTON Now son, it's a bitter thing to say, but there's more than your sister at stake here. ETHAN There sure is! I'm going to tell you somethin'... I wasn't going to speak of it... But I'll tell you now. Did you notice them scalps strung on Scar's lance? (MARTIN NODS) Did you see the third scalp from the point of the lance? Long... wavy hair... MARTIN I saw it... And don't try to tell me it was Aunt Martha's or Lucy's... ETHAN You don't remember it, but I remember. That was your mother's scalp! Martin stares, quick disbelief in his eyes. But Ethan's eyes hold his and there is no doubting the truth in them. ETHAN I didn't want to tell you... but maybe it's your right to know. CLAYTON (quietly) Now mount up, son... Sam puts his hand on Martin's elbow -- as though to turn him to his duty. But Martin jerks the arm away. MARTIN It don't change it... All I'm askin' is a chance to sneak in there... an' try to get her out before you come chargin' in. CLAYTON What if you're caught? MARTIN It won't tell 'em anything, will it! Just a man alone... ETHAN I say NO! CLAYTON Go ahead, son... But at the first alarm, we're comin' in -- and we ain't goin' to have time to pick and choose our targets when we do... Ethan looks long and hard at Martin, then reaches into his shirt for the folded, dirty, dog-eared paper that was his will. Slowly he tears it into shreds. ETHAN It's your funeral... Martin squats and starts pulling off his boots. He glances up as Charlie MacCorry comes over, an Indian blanket in his hands. He tosses it onto Martin's shoulder. CHARLIE Here... you fight like a Comanch... Maybe this'll help ya pass as one. Then

inclined

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

(harshly) How? She's even forgot her own language! MARTIN Debbie, you're comin' with us! Hear me? DEBBIE No... not now... not ever. These have been her first words in English... and they bring new hope to Martin. MARTIN I don't care what they've done to you... what happened... DEBBIE (angrily) They have done... nothing... They are my people... ETHAN Your people? They murdered your family! DEBBIE (reverting to Comanche) Ee-sap! (furiously) White men killed them - to steal cows! I was... little... I ran away... They find me... take care of me. MARTIN No Debbie! That ain't what happened! They been lyin' to you... DEBBIE You lie! All white men lie... and kill... MARTIN Debbie, think back! I'm Martin... remember? Remember how I used to let you ride my horse? Tell you stories? Don't you remember me, Debbie? DEBBIE I remember... from always... At first I prayed to you... come and get me... take me home... You didn't come... MARTIN I've come now... DEBBIE These are my people... (in Comanche) Unnt-meah! Go! Go! Please! ETHAN (grimly) Stand aside, boy... Martin turns as Ethan slowly reaches for his gun. It takes Martin a moment to realize what he is about to do. MARTIN Ethan -- NO! He moves quickly then to put himself between Ethan and the girl and in that instant there is the crack of a rifle. Ethan is hit in the leg. It goes out from under him. Martin swings and his gun is out and firing. 174-D EXT. SAND CREEK - FULL SHOT - INCLUDING THE DUNES - DAY A mounted Comanche is on the crest of the dune above them -- rifle raised. Martin's first shot brings him down the dune in a spectacular horse-and-man fall. Debbie goes running like a deer up the creek, away from Martin; in the same instant we hear the angry yells of distant Comanches charging from the far left. Martin turns to see Debbie running away. MARTIN Debbie! WAIT! Ethan is on his feet now and limping frantically toward their horses. He shoves Martin ahead of him. ETHAN (angrily) Never mind her! MOVE! They mount and take off, just as the vanguard of the attacking Comanches swings around a point of rock and comes charging toward the creek. EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE - LATE AFTERNOON as Ethan and Martin race their horses from the creek area and down a long incline, as -- from the heights above -- a dozen or more Comanches, led by Scar, come tearing after them. 175-A EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - MED. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - MOVING - DAY Ethan is swaying in his saddle, just barely hanging on, as Martin races up behind him -- driving Ethan's horse along. They swing past a huge outcrop of rock and go tearing along a vaulting wall of stone. Their hoofbeats and those of the pursuers bounce and echo off the canyon walls, and bullets whine and ricochet. 175-B EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - FULL MOVING SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY They swing around giant boulders, up-ended like pancakes. Ethan is lurching almost out of the saddle, barely conscious. Martin spots the cave -- ahead -- and drives his mount and Ethan's toward it. 175-C EXT. THE CAVE (MONUMENT) - FULL SHOT - THE TWO - DAY Martin pulls his horse in and swings off just as Ethan slides from his saddle. He runs toward one of the huge boulders, crouches and starts firing. 175-D EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE ON THE COMANCHES - DAY The Comanches are spread out but coming on fast. One goes down under Martin's fire.... another is hit in the arm. He pulls up and the other Comanches wheel away from the hidden marksman. 175-E EXT. THE CAVE - FULL SHOT - MARTIN AND ETHAN Martin runs back from his firing post toward where Ethan has fallen. ETHAN (angrily) Go on! Get out of here while you can... MARTIN (pointing to the cave) Over there! Ethan turns and sees what he means. He starts dragging himself to the cave as Martin grabs the rifles from their saddle scabbards, yanks off the water canteens and then drives their horses away. Then he too runs for the shelter of the cave. 175-F EXT. THE CANYON - ANGLING FROM BEHIND MARTIN AND ETHAN Both men are crouching, rifles ready. In the distance we see their horses running off -- pursued by some yelling Comanches. Four or six others come into sight, heading for the cave -- moving cautiously, uncertainly -- not seeing their quarry. Then the white men open fire and the Comanches bend low over their horses' necks and clear out of there. Ethan looks grimly at Martin. ETHAN They'll be back... MARTIN We won't be here... Come on! He gets an arm under Ethan and hauls him to his feet. DISSOLVE TO: 175-G EXT. THE GAP IN THE CLIFF - PANNING SHOT - SUNSET CAMERA PANS from the top of the rock chimney to where Martin is snaking his way through, carrying newly-filled water canteens. He stands there, listening and looking back the way he has come; and then, satisfied there has been no pursuit, he continues away. OMITTED INT. THE CAVE - MED. SHOT - ETHAN - HALF-LIGHT Ethan is lying on the hard earth, perhaps cushioned with some boughs. He is half delirious. A small fire is burning. Martin enters carrying the canteens. He looks unsympathetically toward Ethan, then continues to the fire, takes a knife and starts to sterilize it. Ethan gasps, mumbles and then a word comes clear. ETHAN Martha... Martha! Martin stares at him -- and now, perhaps for the first time, he is fitting pieces into the jig-saw puzzle. He shifts closer to Ethan and we see he is preparing to dig out the bullet. Ethan opens his eyes and looks at him. MARTIN I gotta open that leg and let the poison out... He poises the knife. ETHAN Wait... He fumbles in his shirt pocket, brings out a greasy folded piece of paper. ETHAN Just in case... Read it. Martin sets the knife down, takes the paper, opens it and slowly reads: MARTIN 'I, Ethan Edwards, being of sound mind and without any blood kin, do hereby bequeath all my property of any kind to Martin Pauley...' (he stares, then) I don't want your property.... 'Sides, what do you mean no 'blood kin?' Debbie's your blood kin... ETHAN Not no more. MARTIN (angrily) You can keep your will! (he thrusts it back into Ethan's shirt) I ain't forgettin' you was all set to shoot her yourself... What kind o' man are you, anyway. ETHAN (sitting up -- eyes blazing) She's been with the bucks! She's nothin' now but a... Martin shoves him back onto the ground. MARTIN (a shout) Shut your dirty mouth! He gets to his feet, trembling, and stands looking down at Ethan, his fists clenched at his sides and murder in his eyes. Then his eyes rove to the knife lying on the blanket. He picks it up and he looks again at the wounded man. MARTIN (slowly) I hope you die! And he kneels again to open the wound. DISSOLVE TO: EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY Martin is hauling an improvised travois over the ground in which, lashed by vines and some clothing, is the unconscious figure of Ethan. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - MARTIN - DAY Eyes shadowed, whiskered, drawn -- he is an implacable figure as he drags the weary miles home. He hears a groan from Ethan o.s. He barely lets his eyes drift to the sound. He doesn't stop. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - ETHAN IN THE TRAVOIS - DAY We see he is delirious, lips parched, strapped to the poles. The travois jolts over the ground. As he passes out of frame, the CAMERA HOLDS on the marks of the travois poles scraping across the desert. FADE OUT OMITTED FADE IN INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT - NIGHT A party is in progress. Fiddler and banjo-player are playing a lively square dance for one or two sets of dancers -- ranchers, their wives and daughters. Laurie is not in evidence. At the far end of the room is a table with a punch bowl set up and a cluster of men and women about. Jorgensen is at the door boisterously welcoming some new arrivals. Leading them into the room is Captain the Reverend Sam Clayton, with a bulky oil-skin package under his arm. With him is Charlie MacCorry, dressed in his best black suit and scrubbed until he looks raw. Behind them come three or four other competent-looking men -- Rangers all of them. JORGENSEN (shouting) They're here, mama... Come in, come in... INT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - FAVORING GROUP AT DOOR Clayton waits for Charlie to come abreast, then hits him on the back and drives him inside. CLAYTON Here he is, Lars... Combed, curried 'n washed behind the ears! Mrs. Jorgensen hurries over, beaming, to admire Charlie. MRS. JORGENSEN Why, Charlie, you look real handsome! CHARLIE (grinning) Yes'm... scarcely reck'nize myself... Where's Laurie? Mrs. Jorgensen smiles and playfully pushes him toward the guests. MRS. JORGENSEN You'll see her soon enough... Clayton -- and the other Rangers -- have been hanging gunbelts on pegs along the wall. Now he shakes out his parcel -- disclosing a green-black frock coat. CLAYTON (nodding to the music) Say, that music sounds so good it must be sinful... MRS. JORGENSEN Grab a partner, reverend! CLAYTON Well, now, a man of my age just can't haul off and dance in cold blood... but if there's any of that wild cherry brandy of yours, Lars... JORGENSEN (suddenly sober) Nooo... (change of heart) Yah, by golly... One jug left... I get it! Mrs. Jorgensen glares as he heads out. MRS. JORGENSEN Last winter that man swore up and down there wasn't a drop left -- and me with pneumoney!... Reverend, you'd better start clergyin' again! EXT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - NIGHT Horses, wagons fill the yard. We can hear the lively music of the square dance. As Jorgensen opens the door and sets out toward the barn, a battered dusty trap drives in -- and on it are Martin and Ethan. Jorgensen at first doesn't recognize them. JORGENSEN (hailing them) Hi!... You're late... hurry... And then he sees who they are, and his jaw drops. JORGENSEN (staring) Ethan... Martie... No, don't get down! ...You can't come in! They stare at him. JORGENSEN The Rangers are here! He says it as though that explains everything. ETHAN What's that got to do with us? MARTIN (eyeing the house) What's goin' on? JORGENSEN (who's forgotten they wouldn't know) Why, my Laurie's getting married... Martin throws the reins aside and jumps out. Jorgensen grabs his arm. JORGENSEN Wait! Don't you hear me! The Rangers... MARTIN So what? JORGENSEN You been posted for murder... both of you... That trader fella, the late Mister Futterman... Martin tries to break free. MARTIN I gotta see Laurie! JORGENSEN (desperately) Go around the side... the grandmother's room... I'll tell her... PLEASE! MARTIN You better! He heads around the side. Ethan meanwhile has climbed stiffly down, slightly favoring his leg. JORGENSEN Quick... hide in the barn, Ethan... ETHAN Hide? Why would I? He brushes past the little man and heads for the door. INT. THE JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLING FROM BEHIND ETHAN as he enters, with Jorgensen at his heels. For a moment, as he stands there, the party breezes on. Then first one, then another sees him. They gape, and the music falters and stops. Sam Clayton crosses to confront him across the width of the room. Jorgensen tries to be the easy, smiling host--and makes a very bad job of it. JORGENSEN Look everybody... Look who's... He can't even finish it but stands there making flapping gestures. INT. JORGENSEN ROOM - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND SAM -- others gaping. During the opening lines, Jorgensen will covertly back toward the door to the inner room -- Laurie's room. ETHAN (to all) Evenin'... evenin' Reverend... or do I call you 'Captain'...? CLAYTON Came here for a wedding, Ethan... Until that's over, I reckon 'reverend' will do... MRS. JORGENSEN (coming forward) And news of our little girl, Ethan? His face contorts and his smile is twisted. ETHAN She's not a little girl any more. MRS. JORGENSEN (eyes wide) You've seen her!... She's alive? ETHAN I've seen her... and she's alive. Mrs. Jorgensen throws herself against his chest, sobbing. Ethan looks past her at Clayton. And the faces of both men are grim. CUT TO: INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT The room is dark. Martin is pacing, eyes constantly turning to the inside door. And then it opens and Laurie is inside, holding a lamp. She is in her bridal gown and very obviously trying to keep from betraying the stress she is under. LAURIE (quietly) Hello, Martie.... He just stares at her -- very lovely, strangely remote. He suddenly is conscious of his dirty hands, his dusty, worn clothing. MARTIN I... I wrote you a letter... Reckon you didn't get it... LAURIE (setting the lamp down) One letter in five years... I read it till the paper dried up and the writing faded out... MARTIN It wasn't much of a letter... LAURIE No, it wasn't... You mighta said you loved me... You mighta asked me to wait... At least that'd have been something... MARTIN But I allus loved you... You know that, without my sayin' it... I couldn't bring myself to ask you to wait... the little I had... not knowin' how much longer until we found Debbie... LAURIE (breaking) It isn't fair... She sinks onto the bench. LAURIE (sobbing) It isn't fair, Martin Pauley, and you know it! She begins to cry, very softly. He is beside her and his arm goes around her shoulder comfortingly. MARTIN Don't cry, Laurie... I understand how it is... I'll just go 'way... LAURIE (spinning on him) You do and I'll die, Martie... I will! I'll just die! And they are kissing through her tears when the outer door is flung open by Charlie MacCorry. They part as he glares. CHARLIE I'll thank you to leave the room, Laurie. Martin stares at him, then at her. MARTIN (incredulous) Charlie MacCorry!... You weren't fixin' to marry HIM?? CHARLIE She sure is!... An' don't think your comin' back is goin' to change it! MARTIN As to that, I don't know, Charlie... We hadn't got around to talkin' marriage... CHARLIE What right you got to be talkin' marriage to any decent woman... MARTIN (angrily) If you're talkin' about that crazy murder charge... CHARLIE AND other things... Mebbe you thought you was gettin' away with being comical about that Indian wife you took... I bet she wasn't the first squaw you... Martin swings wildly but Charlie is a wily fighter. He side- steps and chops Martin in the jaw and drives him against the wall. Laurie runs between them. LAURIE Stop it! Both of you... I won't have any fighting in this house. Martin gently brushes her aside. MARTIN It's all right... Charlie, let's move outside. CHARLIE I ain't wearing no gun. Martin nods and unbuckles his gunbelt. The men head outside as Laurie runs to get help. EXT. THE JORGENSEN HOME - BREEZEWAY Charlie waits assuredly as Martin follows him outside. Martin makes a wild run, swings. The blow is neatly guarded by Charlie's left and countered with a crisp right that puts Martin down. Martin gets to his feet, more cautiously this time, and comes in at a crouch; he's fighting like an Indian, not a white man. The men from the wedding party come out now at a run. CLAYTON (yelling) Sergeant MacCorry! Charlie turns slightly and in that instant Martin springs and drives a straight right at his face -- almost as though there were a knife in the hand. MacCorry stumbles back into Clayton's arms. CLAYTON Is this in the line of duty, sergeant? CHARLIE (regaining his balance) No sir... pleasure. CLAYTON In that case, give the boys room... Martin waits at a crouch as Charlie comes in, feints his right and crosses his left. It is a hard blow but Martin recovers and waits... Charlie circles and starts to repeat. He feints his right but this time Martin springs in, ducks and -- as the left shoots out -- he grabs the wrist and throws Charlie over his head. What we are looking at, in effect, is a wrestler against a boxer. CLAYTON Fight fair, son... Use your fists! ETHAN (drily) Comanches don't use their fists, reverend... Let 'em alone... Charlie is on his feet and warily starts circling -- now trying to imitate Martin's crouch. Suddenly Martin feints a right swing and connects with a solid left -- reversing the order of business. Charlie staggers and Martin follows up with a wrestling hold, leaping behind Charlie, locking both legs around him and driving his arms upward behind his back so that his face is in the dirt and so he could -- under other circumstances -- be neatly and expeditiously scalped. With the hands locked, Martin then calmly draws a knife. He looks innocently into the aghast faces of the crowd. MARTIN Could scalp him... but I'll just count coup! With that he releases the paralyzed arms just long enough to grab a lock of Charlie's hair and neatly snip it off. He stands then and laughs as Charlie lamely gets to his feet -- easing the tortured arms. Clayton goes to Charlie's side. Laurie moves to Martin's side. CLAYTON You all right, sergeant? CHARLIE Dunno... Seems so. CLAYTON Well, go get cleaned up and we'll proceed with the weddin'... Charlie frowns and looks off at where Laurie and Martin are standing. CHARLIE Ain't goin' to be any weddin' -- not till we get a few things cleared up 'round here... He walks rather unsteadily away leaving a thunderstruck assembly, murmurous with surprise. WIPE TO: INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - LATER THAT NIGHT The last of the wedding guests is leaving: Ed Nesby carrying his bull fiddle and with his wife and daughter and two smaller children preceding him out the door. The Jorgensens stand by -- trying to put a good face on the wedding debacle. Charlie MacCorry is sitting dejectedly, studying a spot on the floor. Ethan is at the mantel. Laurie is in her room -- presumably changing out of her wedding gown. Martin is at a sink, bathing a cut on his lip. Clayton, still in his clerical coat, is near the door. NESBY (a grin) Well... it was a nice weddin' party... considerin' no one got married... 'Night. JORGENSEN Good night, Ed... Mrs. Jorgensen puts her handkerchief to her eyes -- letting down now that the guests have gone. Jorgensen crosses to her, pats her sympathetically. JORGENSEN Now, mamma!... He leads her away. Clayton faces Ethan. CLAYTON I got to ask you and Martin to ride to the State Capitol with me, Ethan. ETHAN This an invite to a necktie party, Reverend? CLAYTON Captain... Nope, wouldn't say that... Likely you had your reasons for killin' Futterman... Probably needed killin'... I'm speaking as a ranger now, not as a reverend... Fact that all three was shot in the back is the only thing that's raised some question -- that and a missin' gold piece known to have been on him just prior to his demise. Ethan casually reaches into his pocket, takes out a gold coin and spins it. ETHAN (casually) That so? Martin crosses to confront Clayton. MARTIN I ain't goin' to Austin, Reverend. Charlie gets to his feet and he has his gun in his hand. CHARLIE You're goin' if the captain says you're goin'... CLAYTON Now, now... let's not grow disputatious... Fast hoofbeats sound o.s. -- signalling the approach of a four-man cavalry detail. CLAYTON (turning) What's that? More company? He and Jorgensen head for the door. CLAYTON Kinda late getting here, aren't they? A voice hails from outside. LIEUTENANT'S VOICE Hello there! Captain Clayton? INT. - EXT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLE AT DOOR - NIGHT Clayton stands in the opened doorway, Jorgensen behind him, looking out. Drawn up outside is the four-man cavalry detail, led by a young and very crisp LIEUTENANT. We may or may not see the sixth man, slouched over his horse. The Lieutenant swings off and crosses. LIEUTENANT Is Captain Clayton here, Reverend? CLAYTON I'm Clayton. The Lieutenant gapes at Clayton's ministerial coat. LIEUTENANT (doubtfully) You're Captain Clayton?... Ethan chuckles, to Clayton's very obvious annoyance. LIEUTENANT (recovering, he salutes) Colonel Greenhill's compliments, sir. The Colonel wishes to know how soon you could put a company of Rangers in the field, fully armed and... CLAYTON Hold on, son... Who's this Colonel Greenhill you're talking about? LIEUTENANT Why Colonel Greenhill is Colonel Greenhill, sir... Commanding Officer, Fifth U.S. Cavalry... I'm Lieutenant Greenhill, sir. CLAYTON Oh... Now what's this your pa wants to know? LIEUTENANT My pa wants to know... Colonel Greenhill wants to know how soon you could put a company of your Rangers in the field, fully armed and equipped, for joint punitive action against the Comanches. CLAYTON JOINT action? LIEUTENANT Yes sir... We've received information about a band of Comanches under a chief named Scar... ETHAN What information? LIEUTENANT That maybe he's not far from here -- holed up somewhere, waiting his chance to get back over the border... He raided north about a month ago... ran into more army than he bargained for... Now he's running for cover, for keeps this time... CLAYTON And what makes you think he's in this territory? LIEUTENANT Yesterday, one of our patrols picked up a man claims he was a prisoner with Scar till only two days ago... He talks crazy but I brought him along... Says he lives here... keeps mentioning a rocking chair. ETHAN (half to himself) Mose... And then he is striding to the door, calling it: ETHAN MOSE! MOSE'S VOICE Ay-he?... Ay-eh?... And the old man totters in, half-supported by a trooper -- hollow-eyed, weak, almost delirious. MOSE Come f'r my rockin' chai'... ole Mose. ETHAN (shouting it) Where's Scar, Mose... SCAR? MARTIN Ask him about Debbie!... Is she all right, Mose? MOSE My rockin' chai'... MRS. JORGENSEN (bustling over) Leave the poor man be! Can't you see he's out of his mind... She tries to lead him away, but Ethan shoves her aside and grips the old man by his arms. ETHAN Mose... try to remember!... You were in Scar's camp... MOSE Ay-he... Made out I was crazy... (he giggles foolishly) Ate dirt... chewed grass... I fooled 'em, Ethan!... an' I got away... ETHAN Scar! Where's he holed in? MOSE Seven Fingers... ay-he... Seven... He staggers and this time Mrs. Jorgensen won't be denied. MRS. JORGENSEN Now that's enough! Here... by the fire... What you need's a good bowl of soup... She leads him away, at last to his rocker by the fire. During this, Ethan and Clayton have been mulling Mose's answer. ETHAN (blankly) Seven Fingers? LIEUTENANT That's what he told us... but there's no such place on the maps. MARTIN Wait a minute! Isn't that the Caddo name for where all those canyons branch on the Malapai? MOSE (from his rocker) Caddo or Kiowa... ay-he... ay-eh... Sam Clayton wheels on the Lieutenant. CLAYTON You tell your pa a company of Rangers -- all fourteen of 'em -- fully armed an' equipped will be in the field by daylight... headin' for the south end of the Malapai. If he can catch up with us, well an' good... LIEUTENANT But... but captain, we can't possibly take the field tomorrow... for your own protection... CLAYTON Sonny, yonder's a passel of murderers, complete with Texican scalps an' white girl captive... You want to protect us, you just get out of our way... Now skedaddle! The lieutenant skedaddles. Sam whirls on Martin and Ethan. CLAYTON Ethan, you an' Martin are hereby appointed civilian scouts -- without pay... Charlie, hightail it to headquarters an' spread the word... CHARLIE Yes sir... He leaves. Martin's hands go to his side -- recalling where he left his guns. MARTIN My guns... He heads for the inner door to the grandmother room. INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin enters and crosses to where he had dropped his gunbelt. Even before he reaches it, Laurie is in the room -- closing the door after her. LAURIE Martie... don't go! Not this time. MARTIN (staring) You crazy? LAURIE It's too late... She's a woman grown now... MARTIN I got to fetch her home... LAURIE Fetch what home?... The leavin's of Comanche bucks -- sold time an' again to the highest bidder?... With savage brats of her own, most like?... MARTIN (shouting it) Laurie! Shut your mouth! LAURIE Do you know what Ethan will do if he has a chance?... He'll put a bullet in her brain! And I tell you Martha would want him to! MARTIN Only if I'm dead! He strides out past her. INT. THE KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin re-enters. Ethan and Sam are waiting. Martin looks hard at Ethan. CLAYTON You ready? MARTIN (eyes never leaving Ethan's face) I'm ready. As they stride out, CUT TO: 204-A INT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - GRANDMOTHER ROOM - CLOSE SHOT - LAURIE - NIGHT as she stands at the window, in her bridal gown, and sadly watches Martin again going away. Softly the score reprises -- sadly now -- "Skip to My Lou." DISSOLVE TO: EXT. MESA COUNTRY - LONG SHOT - THE RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT A file of eighteen men and horses -- Rangers -- is walking under the shoulder of a mesa, keeping well below the skyline. FULL SHOT - THE FILE OF RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT They pass CAMERA one by one -- Sam Clayton in the lead, Martin behind him leading two horses, then the others -- grim- looking, capable men of varying ages; some with long drooping mustaches, some in need of shaves, some chawing tobacco. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT He is lying prone, his hat off, squinting down into a long reach of desert canyon at the Comanche encampment -- with tepees set up, a thin wisp of smoke rising from a fire, the horse herd penned in a draw cut off by an improvised corral of rawhide ropes. EXT. THE COMANCHE ENCAMPMENT - WIDE ANGLE SHOT - DAWN LIGHT The camp is sleeping. A dog yaps shrilly. One of the tepee flaps opens and Scar steps out. He picks up a stone or a chunk of wood and throws it. The dog yelps and runs off. Scar's air is troubled, suspicious. He heads for the horse herd. The camp sleeps on. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT His face betrays a bitter inner satisfaction. He looks back along the trail as faintly we hear the approach of the Ranger company. Then he squirms back, retrieving his hat. FULL SHOT - HEAD OF RANGER COLUMN - DAWN LIGHT Sam, seeing Ethan in the near distance, raises his hand in a signal for halt and waits. Ethan scrambles down the trail to join him. He takes the reins of his horse from Martin. ETHAN We can get within 500 yards... there's a hogback to the south. CLAYTON How many, would you say? ETHAN (drily) Enough to go around... I'd say about a dozen apiece... Mount 'em up! He moves as though to mount, but Martin steps forward. MARTIN Wait! We go chargin' in, they'll kill her... and you know it. ETHAN (calmly) It's what I'm countin' on. Sam stares at him, but Martin isn't surprised. MARTIN I know you are... Only it ain't goin' to be that way... she's alive... ETHAN Livin' with Comanches ain't bein' alive... MARTIN (same tone) She's alive... Better she's alive and livin' with Comanches than her brains bashed out... CLAYTON Now son, it's a bitter thing to say, but there's more than your sister at stake here. ETHAN There sure is! I'm going to tell you somethin'... I wasn't going to speak of it... But I'll tell you now. Did you notice them scalps strung on Scar's lance? (MARTIN NODS) Did you see the third scalp from the point of the lance? Long... wavy hair... MARTIN I saw it... And don't try to tell me it was Aunt Martha's or Lucy's... ETHAN You don't remember it, but I remember. That was your mother's scalp! Martin stares, quick disbelief in his eyes. But Ethan's eyes hold his and there is no doubting the truth in them. ETHAN I didn't want to tell you... but maybe it's your right to know. CLAYTON (quietly) Now mount up, son... Sam puts his hand on Martin's elbow -- as though to turn him to his duty. But Martin jerks the arm away. MARTIN It don't change it... All I'm askin' is a chance to sneak in there... an' try to get her out before you come chargin' in. CLAYTON What if you're caught? MARTIN It won't tell 'em anything, will it! Just a man alone... ETHAN I say NO! CLAYTON Go ahead, son... But at the first alarm, we're comin' in -- and we ain't goin' to have time to pick and choose our targets when we do... Ethan looks long and hard at Martin, then reaches into his shirt for the folded, dirty, dog-eared paper that was his will. Slowly he tears it into shreds. ETHAN It's your funeral... Martin squats and starts pulling off his boots. He glances up as Charlie MacCorry comes over, an Indian blanket in his hands. He tosses it onto Martin's shoulder. CHARLIE Here... you fight like a Comanch... Maybe this'll help ya pass as one. Then

rifles

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

(harshly) How? She's even forgot her own language! MARTIN Debbie, you're comin' with us! Hear me? DEBBIE No... not now... not ever. These have been her first words in English... and they bring new hope to Martin. MARTIN I don't care what they've done to you... what happened... DEBBIE (angrily) They have done... nothing... They are my people... ETHAN Your people? They murdered your family! DEBBIE (reverting to Comanche) Ee-sap! (furiously) White men killed them - to steal cows! I was... little... I ran away... They find me... take care of me. MARTIN No Debbie! That ain't what happened! They been lyin' to you... DEBBIE You lie! All white men lie... and kill... MARTIN Debbie, think back! I'm Martin... remember? Remember how I used to let you ride my horse? Tell you stories? Don't you remember me, Debbie? DEBBIE I remember... from always... At first I prayed to you... come and get me... take me home... You didn't come... MARTIN I've come now... DEBBIE These are my people... (in Comanche) Unnt-meah! Go! Go! Please! ETHAN (grimly) Stand aside, boy... Martin turns as Ethan slowly reaches for his gun. It takes Martin a moment to realize what he is about to do. MARTIN Ethan -- NO! He moves quickly then to put himself between Ethan and the girl and in that instant there is the crack of a rifle. Ethan is hit in the leg. It goes out from under him. Martin swings and his gun is out and firing. 174-D EXT. SAND CREEK - FULL SHOT - INCLUDING THE DUNES - DAY A mounted Comanche is on the crest of the dune above them -- rifle raised. Martin's first shot brings him down the dune in a spectacular horse-and-man fall. Debbie goes running like a deer up the creek, away from Martin; in the same instant we hear the angry yells of distant Comanches charging from the far left. Martin turns to see Debbie running away. MARTIN Debbie! WAIT! Ethan is on his feet now and limping frantically toward their horses. He shoves Martin ahead of him. ETHAN (angrily) Never mind her! MOVE! They mount and take off, just as the vanguard of the attacking Comanches swings around a point of rock and comes charging toward the creek. EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE - LATE AFTERNOON as Ethan and Martin race their horses from the creek area and down a long incline, as -- from the heights above -- a dozen or more Comanches, led by Scar, come tearing after them. 175-A EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - MED. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - MOVING - DAY Ethan is swaying in his saddle, just barely hanging on, as Martin races up behind him -- driving Ethan's horse along. They swing past a huge outcrop of rock and go tearing along a vaulting wall of stone. Their hoofbeats and those of the pursuers bounce and echo off the canyon walls, and bullets whine and ricochet. 175-B EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - FULL MOVING SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY They swing around giant boulders, up-ended like pancakes. Ethan is lurching almost out of the saddle, barely conscious. Martin spots the cave -- ahead -- and drives his mount and Ethan's toward it. 175-C EXT. THE CAVE (MONUMENT) - FULL SHOT - THE TWO - DAY Martin pulls his horse in and swings off just as Ethan slides from his saddle. He runs toward one of the huge boulders, crouches and starts firing. 175-D EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE ON THE COMANCHES - DAY The Comanches are spread out but coming on fast. One goes down under Martin's fire.... another is hit in the arm. He pulls up and the other Comanches wheel away from the hidden marksman. 175-E EXT. THE CAVE - FULL SHOT - MARTIN AND ETHAN Martin runs back from his firing post toward where Ethan has fallen. ETHAN (angrily) Go on! Get out of here while you can... MARTIN (pointing to the cave) Over there! Ethan turns and sees what he means. He starts dragging himself to the cave as Martin grabs the rifles from their saddle scabbards, yanks off the water canteens and then drives their horses away. Then he too runs for the shelter of the cave. 175-F EXT. THE CANYON - ANGLING FROM BEHIND MARTIN AND ETHAN Both men are crouching, rifles ready. In the distance we see their horses running off -- pursued by some yelling Comanches. Four or six others come into sight, heading for the cave -- moving cautiously, uncertainly -- not seeing their quarry. Then the white men open fire and the Comanches bend low over their horses' necks and clear out of there. Ethan looks grimly at Martin. ETHAN They'll be back... MARTIN We won't be here... Come on! He gets an arm under Ethan and hauls him to his feet. DISSOLVE TO: 175-G EXT. THE GAP IN THE CLIFF - PANNING SHOT - SUNSET CAMERA PANS from the top of the rock chimney to where Martin is snaking his way through, carrying newly-filled water canteens. He stands there, listening and looking back the way he has come; and then, satisfied there has been no pursuit, he continues away. OMITTED INT. THE CAVE - MED. SHOT - ETHAN - HALF-LIGHT Ethan is lying on the hard earth, perhaps cushioned with some boughs. He is half delirious. A small fire is burning. Martin enters carrying the canteens. He looks unsympathetically toward Ethan, then continues to the fire, takes a knife and starts to sterilize it. Ethan gasps, mumbles and then a word comes clear. ETHAN Martha... Martha! Martin stares at him -- and now, perhaps for the first time, he is fitting pieces into the jig-saw puzzle. He shifts closer to Ethan and we see he is preparing to dig out the bullet. Ethan opens his eyes and looks at him. MARTIN I gotta open that leg and let the poison out... He poises the knife. ETHAN Wait... He fumbles in his shirt pocket, brings out a greasy folded piece of paper. ETHAN Just in case... Read it. Martin sets the knife down, takes the paper, opens it and slowly reads: MARTIN 'I, Ethan Edwards, being of sound mind and without any blood kin, do hereby bequeath all my property of any kind to Martin Pauley...' (he stares, then) I don't want your property.... 'Sides, what do you mean no 'blood kin?' Debbie's your blood kin... ETHAN Not no more. MARTIN (angrily) You can keep your will! (he thrusts it back into Ethan's shirt) I ain't forgettin' you was all set to shoot her yourself... What kind o' man are you, anyway. ETHAN (sitting up -- eyes blazing) She's been with the bucks! She's nothin' now but a... Martin shoves him back onto the ground. MARTIN (a shout) Shut your dirty mouth! He gets to his feet, trembling, and stands looking down at Ethan, his fists clenched at his sides and murder in his eyes. Then his eyes rove to the knife lying on the blanket. He picks it up and he looks again at the wounded man. MARTIN (slowly) I hope you die! And he kneels again to open the wound. DISSOLVE TO: EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY Martin is hauling an improvised travois over the ground in which, lashed by vines and some clothing, is the unconscious figure of Ethan. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - MARTIN - DAY Eyes shadowed, whiskered, drawn -- he is an implacable figure as he drags the weary miles home. He hears a groan from Ethan o.s. He barely lets his eyes drift to the sound. He doesn't stop. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - ETHAN IN THE TRAVOIS - DAY We see he is delirious, lips parched, strapped to the poles. The travois jolts over the ground. As he passes out of frame, the CAMERA HOLDS on the marks of the travois poles scraping across the desert. FADE OUT OMITTED FADE IN INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT - NIGHT A party is in progress. Fiddler and banjo-player are playing a lively square dance for one or two sets of dancers -- ranchers, their wives and daughters. Laurie is not in evidence. At the far end of the room is a table with a punch bowl set up and a cluster of men and women about. Jorgensen is at the door boisterously welcoming some new arrivals. Leading them into the room is Captain the Reverend Sam Clayton, with a bulky oil-skin package under his arm. With him is Charlie MacCorry, dressed in his best black suit and scrubbed until he looks raw. Behind them come three or four other competent-looking men -- Rangers all of them. JORGENSEN (shouting) They're here, mama... Come in, come in... INT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - FAVORING GROUP AT DOOR Clayton waits for Charlie to come abreast, then hits him on the back and drives him inside. CLAYTON Here he is, Lars... Combed, curried 'n washed behind the ears! Mrs. Jorgensen hurries over, beaming, to admire Charlie. MRS. JORGENSEN Why, Charlie, you look real handsome! CHARLIE (grinning) Yes'm... scarcely reck'nize myself... Where's Laurie? Mrs. Jorgensen smiles and playfully pushes him toward the guests. MRS. JORGENSEN You'll see her soon enough... Clayton -- and the other Rangers -- have been hanging gunbelts on pegs along the wall. Now he shakes out his parcel -- disclosing a green-black frock coat. CLAYTON (nodding to the music) Say, that music sounds so good it must be sinful... MRS. JORGENSEN Grab a partner, reverend! CLAYTON Well, now, a man of my age just can't haul off and dance in cold blood... but if there's any of that wild cherry brandy of yours, Lars... JORGENSEN (suddenly sober) Nooo... (change of heart) Yah, by golly... One jug left... I get it! Mrs. Jorgensen glares as he heads out. MRS. JORGENSEN Last winter that man swore up and down there wasn't a drop left -- and me with pneumoney!... Reverend, you'd better start clergyin' again! EXT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - NIGHT Horses, wagons fill the yard. We can hear the lively music of the square dance. As Jorgensen opens the door and sets out toward the barn, a battered dusty trap drives in -- and on it are Martin and Ethan. Jorgensen at first doesn't recognize them. JORGENSEN (hailing them) Hi!... You're late... hurry... And then he sees who they are, and his jaw drops. JORGENSEN (staring) Ethan... Martie... No, don't get down! ...You can't come in! They stare at him. JORGENSEN The Rangers are here! He says it as though that explains everything. ETHAN What's that got to do with us? MARTIN (eyeing the house) What's goin' on? JORGENSEN (who's forgotten they wouldn't know) Why, my Laurie's getting married... Martin throws the reins aside and jumps out. Jorgensen grabs his arm. JORGENSEN Wait! Don't you hear me! The Rangers... MARTIN So what? JORGENSEN You been posted for murder... both of you... That trader fella, the late Mister Futterman... Martin tries to break free. MARTIN I gotta see Laurie! JORGENSEN (desperately) Go around the side... the grandmother's room... I'll tell her... PLEASE! MARTIN You better! He heads around the side. Ethan meanwhile has climbed stiffly down, slightly favoring his leg. JORGENSEN Quick... hide in the barn, Ethan... ETHAN Hide? Why would I? He brushes past the little man and heads for the door. INT. THE JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLING FROM BEHIND ETHAN as he enters, with Jorgensen at his heels. For a moment, as he stands there, the party breezes on. Then first one, then another sees him. They gape, and the music falters and stops. Sam Clayton crosses to confront him across the width of the room. Jorgensen tries to be the easy, smiling host--and makes a very bad job of it. JORGENSEN Look everybody... Look who's... He can't even finish it but stands there making flapping gestures. INT. JORGENSEN ROOM - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND SAM -- others gaping. During the opening lines, Jorgensen will covertly back toward the door to the inner room -- Laurie's room. ETHAN (to all) Evenin'... evenin' Reverend... or do I call you 'Captain'...? CLAYTON Came here for a wedding, Ethan... Until that's over, I reckon 'reverend' will do... MRS. JORGENSEN (coming forward) And news of our little girl, Ethan? His face contorts and his smile is twisted. ETHAN She's not a little girl any more. MRS. JORGENSEN (eyes wide) You've seen her!... She's alive? ETHAN I've seen her... and she's alive. Mrs. Jorgensen throws herself against his chest, sobbing. Ethan looks past her at Clayton. And the faces of both men are grim. CUT TO: INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT The room is dark. Martin is pacing, eyes constantly turning to the inside door. And then it opens and Laurie is inside, holding a lamp. She is in her bridal gown and very obviously trying to keep from betraying the stress she is under. LAURIE (quietly) Hello, Martie.... He just stares at her -- very lovely, strangely remote. He suddenly is conscious of his dirty hands, his dusty, worn clothing. MARTIN I... I wrote you a letter... Reckon you didn't get it... LAURIE (setting the lamp down) One letter in five years... I read it till the paper dried up and the writing faded out... MARTIN It wasn't much of a letter... LAURIE No, it wasn't... You mighta said you loved me... You mighta asked me to wait... At least that'd have been something... MARTIN But I allus loved you... You know that, without my sayin' it... I couldn't bring myself to ask you to wait... the little I had... not knowin' how much longer until we found Debbie... LAURIE (breaking) It isn't fair... She sinks onto the bench. LAURIE (sobbing) It isn't fair, Martin Pauley, and you know it! She begins to cry, very softly. He is beside her and his arm goes around her shoulder comfortingly. MARTIN Don't cry, Laurie... I understand how it is... I'll just go 'way... LAURIE (spinning on him) You do and I'll die, Martie... I will! I'll just die! And they are kissing through her tears when the outer door is flung open by Charlie MacCorry. They part as he glares. CHARLIE I'll thank you to leave the room, Laurie. Martin stares at him, then at her. MARTIN (incredulous) Charlie MacCorry!... You weren't fixin' to marry HIM?? CHARLIE She sure is!... An' don't think your comin' back is goin' to change it! MARTIN As to that, I don't know, Charlie... We hadn't got around to talkin' marriage... CHARLIE What right you got to be talkin' marriage to any decent woman... MARTIN (angrily) If you're talkin' about that crazy murder charge... CHARLIE AND other things... Mebbe you thought you was gettin' away with being comical about that Indian wife you took... I bet she wasn't the first squaw you... Martin swings wildly but Charlie is a wily fighter. He side- steps and chops Martin in the jaw and drives him against the wall. Laurie runs between them. LAURIE Stop it! Both of you... I won't have any fighting in this house. Martin gently brushes her aside. MARTIN It's all right... Charlie, let's move outside. CHARLIE I ain't wearing no gun. Martin nods and unbuckles his gunbelt. The men head outside as Laurie runs to get help. EXT. THE JORGENSEN HOME - BREEZEWAY Charlie waits assuredly as Martin follows him outside. Martin makes a wild run, swings. The blow is neatly guarded by Charlie's left and countered with a crisp right that puts Martin down. Martin gets to his feet, more cautiously this time, and comes in at a crouch; he's fighting like an Indian, not a white man. The men from the wedding party come out now at a run. CLAYTON (yelling) Sergeant MacCorry! Charlie turns slightly and in that instant Martin springs and drives a straight right at his face -- almost as though there were a knife in the hand. MacCorry stumbles back into Clayton's arms. CLAYTON Is this in the line of duty, sergeant? CHARLIE (regaining his balance) No sir... pleasure. CLAYTON In that case, give the boys room... Martin waits at a crouch as Charlie comes in, feints his right and crosses his left. It is a hard blow but Martin recovers and waits... Charlie circles and starts to repeat. He feints his right but this time Martin springs in, ducks and -- as the left shoots out -- he grabs the wrist and throws Charlie over his head. What we are looking at, in effect, is a wrestler against a boxer. CLAYTON Fight fair, son... Use your fists! ETHAN (drily) Comanches don't use their fists, reverend... Let 'em alone... Charlie is on his feet and warily starts circling -- now trying to imitate Martin's crouch. Suddenly Martin feints a right swing and connects with a solid left -- reversing the order of business. Charlie staggers and Martin follows up with a wrestling hold, leaping behind Charlie, locking both legs around him and driving his arms upward behind his back so that his face is in the dirt and so he could -- under other circumstances -- be neatly and expeditiously scalped. With the hands locked, Martin then calmly draws a knife. He looks innocently into the aghast faces of the crowd. MARTIN Could scalp him... but I'll just count coup! With that he releases the paralyzed arms just long enough to grab a lock of Charlie's hair and neatly snip it off. He stands then and laughs as Charlie lamely gets to his feet -- easing the tortured arms. Clayton goes to Charlie's side. Laurie moves to Martin's side. CLAYTON You all right, sergeant? CHARLIE Dunno... Seems so. CLAYTON Well, go get cleaned up and we'll proceed with the weddin'... Charlie frowns and looks off at where Laurie and Martin are standing. CHARLIE Ain't goin' to be any weddin' -- not till we get a few things cleared up 'round here... He walks rather unsteadily away leaving a thunderstruck assembly, murmurous with surprise. WIPE TO: INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - LATER THAT NIGHT The last of the wedding guests is leaving: Ed Nesby carrying his bull fiddle and with his wife and daughter and two smaller children preceding him out the door. The Jorgensens stand by -- trying to put a good face on the wedding debacle. Charlie MacCorry is sitting dejectedly, studying a spot on the floor. Ethan is at the mantel. Laurie is in her room -- presumably changing out of her wedding gown. Martin is at a sink, bathing a cut on his lip. Clayton, still in his clerical coat, is near the door. NESBY (a grin) Well... it was a nice weddin' party... considerin' no one got married... 'Night. JORGENSEN Good night, Ed... Mrs. Jorgensen puts her handkerchief to her eyes -- letting down now that the guests have gone. Jorgensen crosses to her, pats her sympathetically. JORGENSEN Now, mamma!... He leads her away. Clayton faces Ethan. CLAYTON I got to ask you and Martin to ride to the State Capitol with me, Ethan. ETHAN This an invite to a necktie party, Reverend? CLAYTON Captain... Nope, wouldn't say that... Likely you had your reasons for killin' Futterman... Probably needed killin'... I'm speaking as a ranger now, not as a reverend... Fact that all three was shot in the back is the only thing that's raised some question -- that and a missin' gold piece known to have been on him just prior to his demise. Ethan casually reaches into his pocket, takes out a gold coin and spins it. ETHAN (casually) That so? Martin crosses to confront Clayton. MARTIN I ain't goin' to Austin, Reverend. Charlie gets to his feet and he has his gun in his hand. CHARLIE You're goin' if the captain says you're goin'... CLAYTON Now, now... let's not grow disputatious... Fast hoofbeats sound o.s. -- signalling the approach of a four-man cavalry detail. CLAYTON (turning) What's that? More company? He and Jorgensen head for the door. CLAYTON Kinda late getting here, aren't they? A voice hails from outside. LIEUTENANT'S VOICE Hello there! Captain Clayton? INT. - EXT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLE AT DOOR - NIGHT Clayton stands in the opened doorway, Jorgensen behind him, looking out. Drawn up outside is the four-man cavalry detail, led by a young and very crisp LIEUTENANT. We may or may not see the sixth man, slouched over his horse. The Lieutenant swings off and crosses. LIEUTENANT Is Captain Clayton here, Reverend? CLAYTON I'm Clayton. The Lieutenant gapes at Clayton's ministerial coat. LIEUTENANT (doubtfully) You're Captain Clayton?... Ethan chuckles, to Clayton's very obvious annoyance. LIEUTENANT (recovering, he salutes) Colonel Greenhill's compliments, sir. The Colonel wishes to know how soon you could put a company of Rangers in the field, fully armed and... CLAYTON Hold on, son... Who's this Colonel Greenhill you're talking about? LIEUTENANT Why Colonel Greenhill is Colonel Greenhill, sir... Commanding Officer, Fifth U.S. Cavalry... I'm Lieutenant Greenhill, sir. CLAYTON Oh... Now what's this your pa wants to know? LIEUTENANT My pa wants to know... Colonel Greenhill wants to know how soon you could put a company of your Rangers in the field, fully armed and equipped, for joint punitive action against the Comanches. CLAYTON JOINT action? LIEUTENANT Yes sir... We've received information about a band of Comanches under a chief named Scar... ETHAN What information? LIEUTENANT That maybe he's not far from here -- holed up somewhere, waiting his chance to get back over the border... He raided north about a month ago... ran into more army than he bargained for... Now he's running for cover, for keeps this time... CLAYTON And what makes you think he's in this territory? LIEUTENANT Yesterday, one of our patrols picked up a man claims he was a prisoner with Scar till only two days ago... He talks crazy but I brought him along... Says he lives here... keeps mentioning a rocking chair. ETHAN (half to himself) Mose... And then he is striding to the door, calling it: ETHAN MOSE! MOSE'S VOICE Ay-he?... Ay-eh?... And the old man totters in, half-supported by a trooper -- hollow-eyed, weak, almost delirious. MOSE Come f'r my rockin' chai'... ole Mose. ETHAN (shouting it) Where's Scar, Mose... SCAR? MARTIN Ask him about Debbie!... Is she all right, Mose? MOSE My rockin' chai'... MRS. JORGENSEN (bustling over) Leave the poor man be! Can't you see he's out of his mind... She tries to lead him away, but Ethan shoves her aside and grips the old man by his arms. ETHAN Mose... try to remember!... You were in Scar's camp... MOSE Ay-he... Made out I was crazy... (he giggles foolishly) Ate dirt... chewed grass... I fooled 'em, Ethan!... an' I got away... ETHAN Scar! Where's he holed in? MOSE Seven Fingers... ay-he... Seven... He staggers and this time Mrs. Jorgensen won't be denied. MRS. JORGENSEN Now that's enough! Here... by the fire... What you need's a good bowl of soup... She leads him away, at last to his rocker by the fire. During this, Ethan and Clayton have been mulling Mose's answer. ETHAN (blankly) Seven Fingers? LIEUTENANT That's what he told us... but there's no such place on the maps. MARTIN Wait a minute! Isn't that the Caddo name for where all those canyons branch on the Malapai? MOSE (from his rocker) Caddo or Kiowa... ay-he... ay-eh... Sam Clayton wheels on the Lieutenant. CLAYTON You tell your pa a company of Rangers -- all fourteen of 'em -- fully armed an' equipped will be in the field by daylight... headin' for the south end of the Malapai. If he can catch up with us, well an' good... LIEUTENANT But... but captain, we can't possibly take the field tomorrow... for your own protection... CLAYTON Sonny, yonder's a passel of murderers, complete with Texican scalps an' white girl captive... You want to protect us, you just get out of our way... Now skedaddle! The lieutenant skedaddles. Sam whirls on Martin and Ethan. CLAYTON Ethan, you an' Martin are hereby appointed civilian scouts -- without pay... Charlie, hightail it to headquarters an' spread the word... CHARLIE Yes sir... He leaves. Martin's hands go to his side -- recalling where he left his guns. MARTIN My guns... He heads for the inner door to the grandmother room. INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin enters and crosses to where he had dropped his gunbelt. Even before he reaches it, Laurie is in the room -- closing the door after her. LAURIE Martie... don't go! Not this time. MARTIN (staring) You crazy? LAURIE It's too late... She's a woman grown now... MARTIN I got to fetch her home... LAURIE Fetch what home?... The leavin's of Comanche bucks -- sold time an' again to the highest bidder?... With savage brats of her own, most like?... MARTIN (shouting it) Laurie! Shut your mouth! LAURIE Do you know what Ethan will do if he has a chance?... He'll put a bullet in her brain! And I tell you Martha would want him to! MARTIN Only if I'm dead! He strides out past her. INT. THE KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin re-enters. Ethan and Sam are waiting. Martin looks hard at Ethan. CLAYTON You ready? MARTIN (eyes never leaving Ethan's face) I'm ready. As they stride out, CUT TO: 204-A INT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - GRANDMOTHER ROOM - CLOSE SHOT - LAURIE - NIGHT as she stands at the window, in her bridal gown, and sadly watches Martin again going away. Softly the score reprises -- sadly now -- "Skip to My Lou." DISSOLVE TO: EXT. MESA COUNTRY - LONG SHOT - THE RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT A file of eighteen men and horses -- Rangers -- is walking under the shoulder of a mesa, keeping well below the skyline. FULL SHOT - THE FILE OF RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT They pass CAMERA one by one -- Sam Clayton in the lead, Martin behind him leading two horses, then the others -- grim- looking, capable men of varying ages; some with long drooping mustaches, some in need of shaves, some chawing tobacco. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT He is lying prone, his hat off, squinting down into a long reach of desert canyon at the Comanche encampment -- with tepees set up, a thin wisp of smoke rising from a fire, the horse herd penned in a draw cut off by an improvised corral of rawhide ropes. EXT. THE COMANCHE ENCAMPMENT - WIDE ANGLE SHOT - DAWN LIGHT The camp is sleeping. A dog yaps shrilly. One of the tepee flaps opens and Scar steps out. He picks up a stone or a chunk of wood and throws it. The dog yelps and runs off. Scar's air is troubled, suspicious. He heads for the horse herd. The camp sleeps on. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT His face betrays a bitter inner satisfaction. He looks back along the trail as faintly we hear the approach of the Ranger company. Then he squirms back, retrieving his hat. FULL SHOT - HEAD OF RANGER COLUMN - DAWN LIGHT Sam, seeing Ethan in the near distance, raises his hand in a signal for halt and waits. Ethan scrambles down the trail to join him. He takes the reins of his horse from Martin. ETHAN We can get within 500 yards... there's a hogback to the south. CLAYTON How many, would you say? ETHAN (drily) Enough to go around... I'd say about a dozen apiece... Mount 'em up! He moves as though to mount, but Martin steps forward. MARTIN Wait! We go chargin' in, they'll kill her... and you know it. ETHAN (calmly) It's what I'm countin' on. Sam stares at him, but Martin isn't surprised. MARTIN I know you are... Only it ain't goin' to be that way... she's alive... ETHAN Livin' with Comanches ain't bein' alive... MARTIN (same tone) She's alive... Better she's alive and livin' with Comanches than her brains bashed out... CLAYTON Now son, it's a bitter thing to say, but there's more than your sister at stake here. ETHAN There sure is! I'm going to tell you somethin'... I wasn't going to speak of it... But I'll tell you now. Did you notice them scalps strung on Scar's lance? (MARTIN NODS) Did you see the third scalp from the point of the lance? Long... wavy hair... MARTIN I saw it... And don't try to tell me it was Aunt Martha's or Lucy's... ETHAN You don't remember it, but I remember. That was your mother's scalp! Martin stares, quick disbelief in his eyes. But Ethan's eyes hold his and there is no doubting the truth in them. ETHAN I didn't want to tell you... but maybe it's your right to know. CLAYTON (quietly) Now mount up, son... Sam puts his hand on Martin's elbow -- as though to turn him to his duty. But Martin jerks the arm away. MARTIN It don't change it... All I'm askin' is a chance to sneak in there... an' try to get her out before you come chargin' in. CLAYTON What if you're caught? MARTIN It won't tell 'em anything, will it! Just a man alone... ETHAN I say NO! CLAYTON Go ahead, son... But at the first alarm, we're comin' in -- and we ain't goin' to have time to pick and choose our targets when we do... Ethan looks long and hard at Martin, then reaches into his shirt for the folded, dirty, dog-eared paper that was his will. Slowly he tears it into shreds. ETHAN It's your funeral... Martin squats and starts pulling off his boots. He glances up as Charlie MacCorry comes over, an Indian blanket in his hands. He tosses it onto Martin's shoulder. CHARLIE Here... you fight like a Comanch... Maybe this'll help ya pass as one. Then

attempting

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

(harshly) How? She's even forgot her own language! MARTIN Debbie, you're comin' with us! Hear me? DEBBIE No... not now... not ever. These have been her first words in English... and they bring new hope to Martin. MARTIN I don't care what they've done to you... what happened... DEBBIE (angrily) They have done... nothing... They are my people... ETHAN Your people? They murdered your family! DEBBIE (reverting to Comanche) Ee-sap! (furiously) White men killed them - to steal cows! I was... little... I ran away... They find me... take care of me. MARTIN No Debbie! That ain't what happened! They been lyin' to you... DEBBIE You lie! All white men lie... and kill... MARTIN Debbie, think back! I'm Martin... remember? Remember how I used to let you ride my horse? Tell you stories? Don't you remember me, Debbie? DEBBIE I remember... from always... At first I prayed to you... come and get me... take me home... You didn't come... MARTIN I've come now... DEBBIE These are my people... (in Comanche) Unnt-meah! Go! Go! Please! ETHAN (grimly) Stand aside, boy... Martin turns as Ethan slowly reaches for his gun. It takes Martin a moment to realize what he is about to do. MARTIN Ethan -- NO! He moves quickly then to put himself between Ethan and the girl and in that instant there is the crack of a rifle. Ethan is hit in the leg. It goes out from under him. Martin swings and his gun is out and firing. 174-D EXT. SAND CREEK - FULL SHOT - INCLUDING THE DUNES - DAY A mounted Comanche is on the crest of the dune above them -- rifle raised. Martin's first shot brings him down the dune in a spectacular horse-and-man fall. Debbie goes running like a deer up the creek, away from Martin; in the same instant we hear the angry yells of distant Comanches charging from the far left. Martin turns to see Debbie running away. MARTIN Debbie! WAIT! Ethan is on his feet now and limping frantically toward their horses. He shoves Martin ahead of him. ETHAN (angrily) Never mind her! MOVE! They mount and take off, just as the vanguard of the attacking Comanches swings around a point of rock and comes charging toward the creek. EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE - LATE AFTERNOON as Ethan and Martin race their horses from the creek area and down a long incline, as -- from the heights above -- a dozen or more Comanches, led by Scar, come tearing after them. 175-A EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - MED. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - MOVING - DAY Ethan is swaying in his saddle, just barely hanging on, as Martin races up behind him -- driving Ethan's horse along. They swing past a huge outcrop of rock and go tearing along a vaulting wall of stone. Their hoofbeats and those of the pursuers bounce and echo off the canyon walls, and bullets whine and ricochet. 175-B EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - FULL MOVING SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY They swing around giant boulders, up-ended like pancakes. Ethan is lurching almost out of the saddle, barely conscious. Martin spots the cave -- ahead -- and drives his mount and Ethan's toward it. 175-C EXT. THE CAVE (MONUMENT) - FULL SHOT - THE TWO - DAY Martin pulls his horse in and swings off just as Ethan slides from his saddle. He runs toward one of the huge boulders, crouches and starts firing. 175-D EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE ON THE COMANCHES - DAY The Comanches are spread out but coming on fast. One goes down under Martin's fire.... another is hit in the arm. He pulls up and the other Comanches wheel away from the hidden marksman. 175-E EXT. THE CAVE - FULL SHOT - MARTIN AND ETHAN Martin runs back from his firing post toward where Ethan has fallen. ETHAN (angrily) Go on! Get out of here while you can... MARTIN (pointing to the cave) Over there! Ethan turns and sees what he means. He starts dragging himself to the cave as Martin grabs the rifles from their saddle scabbards, yanks off the water canteens and then drives their horses away. Then he too runs for the shelter of the cave. 175-F EXT. THE CANYON - ANGLING FROM BEHIND MARTIN AND ETHAN Both men are crouching, rifles ready. In the distance we see their horses running off -- pursued by some yelling Comanches. Four or six others come into sight, heading for the cave -- moving cautiously, uncertainly -- not seeing their quarry. Then the white men open fire and the Comanches bend low over their horses' necks and clear out of there. Ethan looks grimly at Martin. ETHAN They'll be back... MARTIN We won't be here... Come on! He gets an arm under Ethan and hauls him to his feet. DISSOLVE TO: 175-G EXT. THE GAP IN THE CLIFF - PANNING SHOT - SUNSET CAMERA PANS from the top of the rock chimney to where Martin is snaking his way through, carrying newly-filled water canteens. He stands there, listening and looking back the way he has come; and then, satisfied there has been no pursuit, he continues away. OMITTED INT. THE CAVE - MED. SHOT - ETHAN - HALF-LIGHT Ethan is lying on the hard earth, perhaps cushioned with some boughs. He is half delirious. A small fire is burning. Martin enters carrying the canteens. He looks unsympathetically toward Ethan, then continues to the fire, takes a knife and starts to sterilize it. Ethan gasps, mumbles and then a word comes clear. ETHAN Martha... Martha! Martin stares at him -- and now, perhaps for the first time, he is fitting pieces into the jig-saw puzzle. He shifts closer to Ethan and we see he is preparing to dig out the bullet. Ethan opens his eyes and looks at him. MARTIN I gotta open that leg and let the poison out... He poises the knife. ETHAN Wait... He fumbles in his shirt pocket, brings out a greasy folded piece of paper. ETHAN Just in case... Read it. Martin sets the knife down, takes the paper, opens it and slowly reads: MARTIN 'I, Ethan Edwards, being of sound mind and without any blood kin, do hereby bequeath all my property of any kind to Martin Pauley...' (he stares, then) I don't want your property.... 'Sides, what do you mean no 'blood kin?' Debbie's your blood kin... ETHAN Not no more. MARTIN (angrily) You can keep your will! (he thrusts it back into Ethan's shirt) I ain't forgettin' you was all set to shoot her yourself... What kind o' man are you, anyway. ETHAN (sitting up -- eyes blazing) She's been with the bucks! She's nothin' now but a... Martin shoves him back onto the ground. MARTIN (a shout) Shut your dirty mouth! He gets to his feet, trembling, and stands looking down at Ethan, his fists clenched at his sides and murder in his eyes. Then his eyes rove to the knife lying on the blanket. He picks it up and he looks again at the wounded man. MARTIN (slowly) I hope you die! And he kneels again to open the wound. DISSOLVE TO: EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY Martin is hauling an improvised travois over the ground in which, lashed by vines and some clothing, is the unconscious figure of Ethan. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - MARTIN - DAY Eyes shadowed, whiskered, drawn -- he is an implacable figure as he drags the weary miles home. He hears a groan from Ethan o.s. He barely lets his eyes drift to the sound. He doesn't stop. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - ETHAN IN THE TRAVOIS - DAY We see he is delirious, lips parched, strapped to the poles. The travois jolts over the ground. As he passes out of frame, the CAMERA HOLDS on the marks of the travois poles scraping across the desert. FADE OUT OMITTED FADE IN INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT - NIGHT A party is in progress. Fiddler and banjo-player are playing a lively square dance for one or two sets of dancers -- ranchers, their wives and daughters. Laurie is not in evidence. At the far end of the room is a table with a punch bowl set up and a cluster of men and women about. Jorgensen is at the door boisterously welcoming some new arrivals. Leading them into the room is Captain the Reverend Sam Clayton, with a bulky oil-skin package under his arm. With him is Charlie MacCorry, dressed in his best black suit and scrubbed until he looks raw. Behind them come three or four other competent-looking men -- Rangers all of them. JORGENSEN (shouting) They're here, mama... Come in, come in... INT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - FAVORING GROUP AT DOOR Clayton waits for Charlie to come abreast, then hits him on the back and drives him inside. CLAYTON Here he is, Lars... Combed, curried 'n washed behind the ears! Mrs. Jorgensen hurries over, beaming, to admire Charlie. MRS. JORGENSEN Why, Charlie, you look real handsome! CHARLIE (grinning) Yes'm... scarcely reck'nize myself... Where's Laurie? Mrs. Jorgensen smiles and playfully pushes him toward the guests. MRS. JORGENSEN You'll see her soon enough... Clayton -- and the other Rangers -- have been hanging gunbelts on pegs along the wall. Now he shakes out his parcel -- disclosing a green-black frock coat. CLAYTON (nodding to the music) Say, that music sounds so good it must be sinful... MRS. JORGENSEN Grab a partner, reverend! CLAYTON Well, now, a man of my age just can't haul off and dance in cold blood... but if there's any of that wild cherry brandy of yours, Lars... JORGENSEN (suddenly sober) Nooo... (change of heart) Yah, by golly... One jug left... I get it! Mrs. Jorgensen glares as he heads out. MRS. JORGENSEN Last winter that man swore up and down there wasn't a drop left -- and me with pneumoney!... Reverend, you'd better start clergyin' again! EXT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - NIGHT Horses, wagons fill the yard. We can hear the lively music of the square dance. As Jorgensen opens the door and sets out toward the barn, a battered dusty trap drives in -- and on it are Martin and Ethan. Jorgensen at first doesn't recognize them. JORGENSEN (hailing them) Hi!... You're late... hurry... And then he sees who they are, and his jaw drops. JORGENSEN (staring) Ethan... Martie... No, don't get down! ...You can't come in! They stare at him. JORGENSEN The Rangers are here! He says it as though that explains everything. ETHAN What's that got to do with us? MARTIN (eyeing the house) What's goin' on? JORGENSEN (who's forgotten they wouldn't know) Why, my Laurie's getting married... Martin throws the reins aside and jumps out. Jorgensen grabs his arm. JORGENSEN Wait! Don't you hear me! The Rangers... MARTIN So what? JORGENSEN You been posted for murder... both of you... That trader fella, the late Mister Futterman... Martin tries to break free. MARTIN I gotta see Laurie! JORGENSEN (desperately) Go around the side... the grandmother's room... I'll tell her... PLEASE! MARTIN You better! He heads around the side. Ethan meanwhile has climbed stiffly down, slightly favoring his leg. JORGENSEN Quick... hide in the barn, Ethan... ETHAN Hide? Why would I? He brushes past the little man and heads for the door. INT. THE JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLING FROM BEHIND ETHAN as he enters, with Jorgensen at his heels. For a moment, as he stands there, the party breezes on. Then first one, then another sees him. They gape, and the music falters and stops. Sam Clayton crosses to confront him across the width of the room. Jorgensen tries to be the easy, smiling host--and makes a very bad job of it. JORGENSEN Look everybody... Look who's... He can't even finish it but stands there making flapping gestures. INT. JORGENSEN ROOM - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND SAM -- others gaping. During the opening lines, Jorgensen will covertly back toward the door to the inner room -- Laurie's room. ETHAN (to all) Evenin'... evenin' Reverend... or do I call you 'Captain'...? CLAYTON Came here for a wedding, Ethan... Until that's over, I reckon 'reverend' will do... MRS. JORGENSEN (coming forward) And news of our little girl, Ethan? His face contorts and his smile is twisted. ETHAN She's not a little girl any more. MRS. JORGENSEN (eyes wide) You've seen her!... She's alive? ETHAN I've seen her... and she's alive. Mrs. Jorgensen throws herself against his chest, sobbing. Ethan looks past her at Clayton. And the faces of both men are grim. CUT TO: INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT The room is dark. Martin is pacing, eyes constantly turning to the inside door. And then it opens and Laurie is inside, holding a lamp. She is in her bridal gown and very obviously trying to keep from betraying the stress she is under. LAURIE (quietly) Hello, Martie.... He just stares at her -- very lovely, strangely remote. He suddenly is conscious of his dirty hands, his dusty, worn clothing. MARTIN I... I wrote you a letter... Reckon you didn't get it... LAURIE (setting the lamp down) One letter in five years... I read it till the paper dried up and the writing faded out... MARTIN It wasn't much of a letter... LAURIE No, it wasn't... You mighta said you loved me... You mighta asked me to wait... At least that'd have been something... MARTIN But I allus loved you... You know that, without my sayin' it... I couldn't bring myself to ask you to wait... the little I had... not knowin' how much longer until we found Debbie... LAURIE (breaking) It isn't fair... She sinks onto the bench. LAURIE (sobbing) It isn't fair, Martin Pauley, and you know it! She begins to cry, very softly. He is beside her and his arm goes around her shoulder comfortingly. MARTIN Don't cry, Laurie... I understand how it is... I'll just go 'way... LAURIE (spinning on him) You do and I'll die, Martie... I will! I'll just die! And they are kissing through her tears when the outer door is flung open by Charlie MacCorry. They part as he glares. CHARLIE I'll thank you to leave the room, Laurie. Martin stares at him, then at her. MARTIN (incredulous) Charlie MacCorry!... You weren't fixin' to marry HIM?? CHARLIE She sure is!... An' don't think your comin' back is goin' to change it! MARTIN As to that, I don't know, Charlie... We hadn't got around to talkin' marriage... CHARLIE What right you got to be talkin' marriage to any decent woman... MARTIN (angrily) If you're talkin' about that crazy murder charge... CHARLIE AND other things... Mebbe you thought you was gettin' away with being comical about that Indian wife you took... I bet she wasn't the first squaw you... Martin swings wildly but Charlie is a wily fighter. He side- steps and chops Martin in the jaw and drives him against the wall. Laurie runs between them. LAURIE Stop it! Both of you... I won't have any fighting in this house. Martin gently brushes her aside. MARTIN It's all right... Charlie, let's move outside. CHARLIE I ain't wearing no gun. Martin nods and unbuckles his gunbelt. The men head outside as Laurie runs to get help. EXT. THE JORGENSEN HOME - BREEZEWAY Charlie waits assuredly as Martin follows him outside. Martin makes a wild run, swings. The blow is neatly guarded by Charlie's left and countered with a crisp right that puts Martin down. Martin gets to his feet, more cautiously this time, and comes in at a crouch; he's fighting like an Indian, not a white man. The men from the wedding party come out now at a run. CLAYTON (yelling) Sergeant MacCorry! Charlie turns slightly and in that instant Martin springs and drives a straight right at his face -- almost as though there were a knife in the hand. MacCorry stumbles back into Clayton's arms. CLAYTON Is this in the line of duty, sergeant? CHARLIE (regaining his balance) No sir... pleasure. CLAYTON In that case, give the boys room... Martin waits at a crouch as Charlie comes in, feints his right and crosses his left. It is a hard blow but Martin recovers and waits... Charlie circles and starts to repeat. He feints his right but this time Martin springs in, ducks and -- as the left shoots out -- he grabs the wrist and throws Charlie over his head. What we are looking at, in effect, is a wrestler against a boxer. CLAYTON Fight fair, son... Use your fists! ETHAN (drily) Comanches don't use their fists, reverend... Let 'em alone... Charlie is on his feet and warily starts circling -- now trying to imitate Martin's crouch. Suddenly Martin feints a right swing and connects with a solid left -- reversing the order of business. Charlie staggers and Martin follows up with a wrestling hold, leaping behind Charlie, locking both legs around him and driving his arms upward behind his back so that his face is in the dirt and so he could -- under other circumstances -- be neatly and expeditiously scalped. With the hands locked, Martin then calmly draws a knife. He looks innocently into the aghast faces of the crowd. MARTIN Could scalp him... but I'll just count coup! With that he releases the paralyzed arms just long enough to grab a lock of Charlie's hair and neatly snip it off. He stands then and laughs as Charlie lamely gets to his feet -- easing the tortured arms. Clayton goes to Charlie's side. Laurie moves to Martin's side. CLAYTON You all right, sergeant? CHARLIE Dunno... Seems so. CLAYTON Well, go get cleaned up and we'll proceed with the weddin'... Charlie frowns and looks off at where Laurie and Martin are standing. CHARLIE Ain't goin' to be any weddin' -- not till we get a few things cleared up 'round here... He walks rather unsteadily away leaving a thunderstruck assembly, murmurous with surprise. WIPE TO: INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - LATER THAT NIGHT The last of the wedding guests is leaving: Ed Nesby carrying his bull fiddle and with his wife and daughter and two smaller children preceding him out the door. The Jorgensens stand by -- trying to put a good face on the wedding debacle. Charlie MacCorry is sitting dejectedly, studying a spot on the floor. Ethan is at the mantel. Laurie is in her room -- presumably changing out of her wedding gown. Martin is at a sink, bathing a cut on his lip. Clayton, still in his clerical coat, is near the door. NESBY (a grin) Well... it was a nice weddin' party... considerin' no one got married... 'Night. JORGENSEN Good night, Ed... Mrs. Jorgensen puts her handkerchief to her eyes -- letting down now that the guests have gone. Jorgensen crosses to her, pats her sympathetically. JORGENSEN Now, mamma!... He leads her away. Clayton faces Ethan. CLAYTON I got to ask you and Martin to ride to the State Capitol with me, Ethan. ETHAN This an invite to a necktie party, Reverend? CLAYTON Captain... Nope, wouldn't say that... Likely you had your reasons for killin' Futterman... Probably needed killin'... I'm speaking as a ranger now, not as a reverend... Fact that all three was shot in the back is the only thing that's raised some question -- that and a missin' gold piece known to have been on him just prior to his demise. Ethan casually reaches into his pocket, takes out a gold coin and spins it. ETHAN (casually) That so? Martin crosses to confront Clayton. MARTIN I ain't goin' to Austin, Reverend. Charlie gets to his feet and he has his gun in his hand. CHARLIE You're goin' if the captain says you're goin'... CLAYTON Now, now... let's not grow disputatious... Fast hoofbeats sound o.s. -- signalling the approach of a four-man cavalry detail. CLAYTON (turning) What's that? More company? He and Jorgensen head for the door. CLAYTON Kinda late getting here, aren't they? A voice hails from outside. LIEUTENANT'S VOICE Hello there! Captain Clayton? INT. - EXT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLE AT DOOR - NIGHT Clayton stands in the opened doorway, Jorgensen behind him, looking out. Drawn up outside is the four-man cavalry detail, led by a young and very crisp LIEUTENANT. We may or may not see the sixth man, slouched over his horse. The Lieutenant swings off and crosses. LIEUTENANT Is Captain Clayton here, Reverend? CLAYTON I'm Clayton. The Lieutenant gapes at Clayton's ministerial coat. LIEUTENANT (doubtfully) You're Captain Clayton?... Ethan chuckles, to Clayton's very obvious annoyance. LIEUTENANT (recovering, he salutes) Colonel Greenhill's compliments, sir. The Colonel wishes to know how soon you could put a company of Rangers in the field, fully armed and... CLAYTON Hold on, son... Who's this Colonel Greenhill you're talking about? LIEUTENANT Why Colonel Greenhill is Colonel Greenhill, sir... Commanding Officer, Fifth U.S. Cavalry... I'm Lieutenant Greenhill, sir. CLAYTON Oh... Now what's this your pa wants to know? LIEUTENANT My pa wants to know... Colonel Greenhill wants to know how soon you could put a company of your Rangers in the field, fully armed and equipped, for joint punitive action against the Comanches. CLAYTON JOINT action? LIEUTENANT Yes sir... We've received information about a band of Comanches under a chief named Scar... ETHAN What information? LIEUTENANT That maybe he's not far from here -- holed up somewhere, waiting his chance to get back over the border... He raided north about a month ago... ran into more army than he bargained for... Now he's running for cover, for keeps this time... CLAYTON And what makes you think he's in this territory? LIEUTENANT Yesterday, one of our patrols picked up a man claims he was a prisoner with Scar till only two days ago... He talks crazy but I brought him along... Says he lives here... keeps mentioning a rocking chair. ETHAN (half to himself) Mose... And then he is striding to the door, calling it: ETHAN MOSE! MOSE'S VOICE Ay-he?... Ay-eh?... And the old man totters in, half-supported by a trooper -- hollow-eyed, weak, almost delirious. MOSE Come f'r my rockin' chai'... ole Mose. ETHAN (shouting it) Where's Scar, Mose... SCAR? MARTIN Ask him about Debbie!... Is she all right, Mose? MOSE My rockin' chai'... MRS. JORGENSEN (bustling over) Leave the poor man be! Can't you see he's out of his mind... She tries to lead him away, but Ethan shoves her aside and grips the old man by his arms. ETHAN Mose... try to remember!... You were in Scar's camp... MOSE Ay-he... Made out I was crazy... (he giggles foolishly) Ate dirt... chewed grass... I fooled 'em, Ethan!... an' I got away... ETHAN Scar! Where's he holed in? MOSE Seven Fingers... ay-he... Seven... He staggers and this time Mrs. Jorgensen won't be denied. MRS. JORGENSEN Now that's enough! Here... by the fire... What you need's a good bowl of soup... She leads him away, at last to his rocker by the fire. During this, Ethan and Clayton have been mulling Mose's answer. ETHAN (blankly) Seven Fingers? LIEUTENANT That's what he told us... but there's no such place on the maps. MARTIN Wait a minute! Isn't that the Caddo name for where all those canyons branch on the Malapai? MOSE (from his rocker) Caddo or Kiowa... ay-he... ay-eh... Sam Clayton wheels on the Lieutenant. CLAYTON You tell your pa a company of Rangers -- all fourteen of 'em -- fully armed an' equipped will be in the field by daylight... headin' for the south end of the Malapai. If he can catch up with us, well an' good... LIEUTENANT But... but captain, we can't possibly take the field tomorrow... for your own protection... CLAYTON Sonny, yonder's a passel of murderers, complete with Texican scalps an' white girl captive... You want to protect us, you just get out of our way... Now skedaddle! The lieutenant skedaddles. Sam whirls on Martin and Ethan. CLAYTON Ethan, you an' Martin are hereby appointed civilian scouts -- without pay... Charlie, hightail it to headquarters an' spread the word... CHARLIE Yes sir... He leaves. Martin's hands go to his side -- recalling where he left his guns. MARTIN My guns... He heads for the inner door to the grandmother room. INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin enters and crosses to where he had dropped his gunbelt. Even before he reaches it, Laurie is in the room -- closing the door after her. LAURIE Martie... don't go! Not this time. MARTIN (staring) You crazy? LAURIE It's too late... She's a woman grown now... MARTIN I got to fetch her home... LAURIE Fetch what home?... The leavin's of Comanche bucks -- sold time an' again to the highest bidder?... With savage brats of her own, most like?... MARTIN (shouting it) Laurie! Shut your mouth! LAURIE Do you know what Ethan will do if he has a chance?... He'll put a bullet in her brain! And I tell you Martha would want him to! MARTIN Only if I'm dead! He strides out past her. INT. THE KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin re-enters. Ethan and Sam are waiting. Martin looks hard at Ethan. CLAYTON You ready? MARTIN (eyes never leaving Ethan's face) I'm ready. As they stride out, CUT TO: 204-A INT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - GRANDMOTHER ROOM - CLOSE SHOT - LAURIE - NIGHT as she stands at the window, in her bridal gown, and sadly watches Martin again going away. Softly the score reprises -- sadly now -- "Skip to My Lou." DISSOLVE TO: EXT. MESA COUNTRY - LONG SHOT - THE RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT A file of eighteen men and horses -- Rangers -- is walking under the shoulder of a mesa, keeping well below the skyline. FULL SHOT - THE FILE OF RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT They pass CAMERA one by one -- Sam Clayton in the lead, Martin behind him leading two horses, then the others -- grim- looking, capable men of varying ages; some with long drooping mustaches, some in need of shaves, some chawing tobacco. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT He is lying prone, his hat off, squinting down into a long reach of desert canyon at the Comanche encampment -- with tepees set up, a thin wisp of smoke rising from a fire, the horse herd penned in a draw cut off by an improvised corral of rawhide ropes. EXT. THE COMANCHE ENCAMPMENT - WIDE ANGLE SHOT - DAWN LIGHT The camp is sleeping. A dog yaps shrilly. One of the tepee flaps opens and Scar steps out. He picks up a stone or a chunk of wood and throws it. The dog yelps and runs off. Scar's air is troubled, suspicious. He heads for the horse herd. The camp sleeps on. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT His face betrays a bitter inner satisfaction. He looks back along the trail as faintly we hear the approach of the Ranger company. Then he squirms back, retrieving his hat. FULL SHOT - HEAD OF RANGER COLUMN - DAWN LIGHT Sam, seeing Ethan in the near distance, raises his hand in a signal for halt and waits. Ethan scrambles down the trail to join him. He takes the reins of his horse from Martin. ETHAN We can get within 500 yards... there's a hogback to the south. CLAYTON How many, would you say? ETHAN (drily) Enough to go around... I'd say about a dozen apiece... Mount 'em up! He moves as though to mount, but Martin steps forward. MARTIN Wait! We go chargin' in, they'll kill her... and you know it. ETHAN (calmly) It's what I'm countin' on. Sam stares at him, but Martin isn't surprised. MARTIN I know you are... Only it ain't goin' to be that way... she's alive... ETHAN Livin' with Comanches ain't bein' alive... MARTIN (same tone) She's alive... Better she's alive and livin' with Comanches than her brains bashed out... CLAYTON Now son, it's a bitter thing to say, but there's more than your sister at stake here. ETHAN There sure is! I'm going to tell you somethin'... I wasn't going to speak of it... But I'll tell you now. Did you notice them scalps strung on Scar's lance? (MARTIN NODS) Did you see the third scalp from the point of the lance? Long... wavy hair... MARTIN I saw it... And don't try to tell me it was Aunt Martha's or Lucy's... ETHAN You don't remember it, but I remember. That was your mother's scalp! Martin stares, quick disbelief in his eyes. But Ethan's eyes hold his and there is no doubting the truth in them. ETHAN I didn't want to tell you... but maybe it's your right to know. CLAYTON (quietly) Now mount up, son... Sam puts his hand on Martin's elbow -- as though to turn him to his duty. But Martin jerks the arm away. MARTIN It don't change it... All I'm askin' is a chance to sneak in there... an' try to get her out before you come chargin' in. CLAYTON What if you're caught? MARTIN It won't tell 'em anything, will it! Just a man alone... ETHAN I say NO! CLAYTON Go ahead, son... But at the first alarm, we're comin' in -- and we ain't goin' to have time to pick and choose our targets when we do... Ethan looks long and hard at Martin, then reaches into his shirt for the folded, dirty, dog-eared paper that was his will. Slowly he tears it into shreds. ETHAN It's your funeral... Martin squats and starts pulling off his boots. He glances up as Charlie MacCorry comes over, an Indian blanket in his hands. He tosses it onto Martin's shoulder. CHARLIE Here... you fight like a Comanch... Maybe this'll help ya pass as one. Then

dune

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

(harshly) How? She's even forgot her own language! MARTIN Debbie, you're comin' with us! Hear me? DEBBIE No... not now... not ever. These have been her first words in English... and they bring new hope to Martin. MARTIN I don't care what they've done to you... what happened... DEBBIE (angrily) They have done... nothing... They are my people... ETHAN Your people? They murdered your family! DEBBIE (reverting to Comanche) Ee-sap! (furiously) White men killed them - to steal cows! I was... little... I ran away... They find me... take care of me. MARTIN No Debbie! That ain't what happened! They been lyin' to you... DEBBIE You lie! All white men lie... and kill... MARTIN Debbie, think back! I'm Martin... remember? Remember how I used to let you ride my horse? Tell you stories? Don't you remember me, Debbie? DEBBIE I remember... from always... At first I prayed to you... come and get me... take me home... You didn't come... MARTIN I've come now... DEBBIE These are my people... (in Comanche) Unnt-meah! Go! Go! Please! ETHAN (grimly) Stand aside, boy... Martin turns as Ethan slowly reaches for his gun. It takes Martin a moment to realize what he is about to do. MARTIN Ethan -- NO! He moves quickly then to put himself between Ethan and the girl and in that instant there is the crack of a rifle. Ethan is hit in the leg. It goes out from under him. Martin swings and his gun is out and firing. 174-D EXT. SAND CREEK - FULL SHOT - INCLUDING THE DUNES - DAY A mounted Comanche is on the crest of the dune above them -- rifle raised. Martin's first shot brings him down the dune in a spectacular horse-and-man fall. Debbie goes running like a deer up the creek, away from Martin; in the same instant we hear the angry yells of distant Comanches charging from the far left. Martin turns to see Debbie running away. MARTIN Debbie! WAIT! Ethan is on his feet now and limping frantically toward their horses. He shoves Martin ahead of him. ETHAN (angrily) Never mind her! MOVE! They mount and take off, just as the vanguard of the attacking Comanches swings around a point of rock and comes charging toward the creek. EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE - LATE AFTERNOON as Ethan and Martin race their horses from the creek area and down a long incline, as -- from the heights above -- a dozen or more Comanches, led by Scar, come tearing after them. 175-A EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - MED. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - MOVING - DAY Ethan is swaying in his saddle, just barely hanging on, as Martin races up behind him -- driving Ethan's horse along. They swing past a huge outcrop of rock and go tearing along a vaulting wall of stone. Their hoofbeats and those of the pursuers bounce and echo off the canyon walls, and bullets whine and ricochet. 175-B EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - FULL MOVING SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY They swing around giant boulders, up-ended like pancakes. Ethan is lurching almost out of the saddle, barely conscious. Martin spots the cave -- ahead -- and drives his mount and Ethan's toward it. 175-C EXT. THE CAVE (MONUMENT) - FULL SHOT - THE TWO - DAY Martin pulls his horse in and swings off just as Ethan slides from his saddle. He runs toward one of the huge boulders, crouches and starts firing. 175-D EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE ON THE COMANCHES - DAY The Comanches are spread out but coming on fast. One goes down under Martin's fire.... another is hit in the arm. He pulls up and the other Comanches wheel away from the hidden marksman. 175-E EXT. THE CAVE - FULL SHOT - MARTIN AND ETHAN Martin runs back from his firing post toward where Ethan has fallen. ETHAN (angrily) Go on! Get out of here while you can... MARTIN (pointing to the cave) Over there! Ethan turns and sees what he means. He starts dragging himself to the cave as Martin grabs the rifles from their saddle scabbards, yanks off the water canteens and then drives their horses away. Then he too runs for the shelter of the cave. 175-F EXT. THE CANYON - ANGLING FROM BEHIND MARTIN AND ETHAN Both men are crouching, rifles ready. In the distance we see their horses running off -- pursued by some yelling Comanches. Four or six others come into sight, heading for the cave -- moving cautiously, uncertainly -- not seeing their quarry. Then the white men open fire and the Comanches bend low over their horses' necks and clear out of there. Ethan looks grimly at Martin. ETHAN They'll be back... MARTIN We won't be here... Come on! He gets an arm under Ethan and hauls him to his feet. DISSOLVE TO: 175-G EXT. THE GAP IN THE CLIFF - PANNING SHOT - SUNSET CAMERA PANS from the top of the rock chimney to where Martin is snaking his way through, carrying newly-filled water canteens. He stands there, listening and looking back the way he has come; and then, satisfied there has been no pursuit, he continues away. OMITTED INT. THE CAVE - MED. SHOT - ETHAN - HALF-LIGHT Ethan is lying on the hard earth, perhaps cushioned with some boughs. He is half delirious. A small fire is burning. Martin enters carrying the canteens. He looks unsympathetically toward Ethan, then continues to the fire, takes a knife and starts to sterilize it. Ethan gasps, mumbles and then a word comes clear. ETHAN Martha... Martha! Martin stares at him -- and now, perhaps for the first time, he is fitting pieces into the jig-saw puzzle. He shifts closer to Ethan and we see he is preparing to dig out the bullet. Ethan opens his eyes and looks at him. MARTIN I gotta open that leg and let the poison out... He poises the knife. ETHAN Wait... He fumbles in his shirt pocket, brings out a greasy folded piece of paper. ETHAN Just in case... Read it. Martin sets the knife down, takes the paper, opens it and slowly reads: MARTIN 'I, Ethan Edwards, being of sound mind and without any blood kin, do hereby bequeath all my property of any kind to Martin Pauley...' (he stares, then) I don't want your property.... 'Sides, what do you mean no 'blood kin?' Debbie's your blood kin... ETHAN Not no more. MARTIN (angrily) You can keep your will! (he thrusts it back into Ethan's shirt) I ain't forgettin' you was all set to shoot her yourself... What kind o' man are you, anyway. ETHAN (sitting up -- eyes blazing) She's been with the bucks! She's nothin' now but a... Martin shoves him back onto the ground. MARTIN (a shout) Shut your dirty mouth! He gets to his feet, trembling, and stands looking down at Ethan, his fists clenched at his sides and murder in his eyes. Then his eyes rove to the knife lying on the blanket. He picks it up and he looks again at the wounded man. MARTIN (slowly) I hope you die! And he kneels again to open the wound. DISSOLVE TO: EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY Martin is hauling an improvised travois over the ground in which, lashed by vines and some clothing, is the unconscious figure of Ethan. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - MARTIN - DAY Eyes shadowed, whiskered, drawn -- he is an implacable figure as he drags the weary miles home. He hears a groan from Ethan o.s. He barely lets his eyes drift to the sound. He doesn't stop. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - ETHAN IN THE TRAVOIS - DAY We see he is delirious, lips parched, strapped to the poles. The travois jolts over the ground. As he passes out of frame, the CAMERA HOLDS on the marks of the travois poles scraping across the desert. FADE OUT OMITTED FADE IN INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT - NIGHT A party is in progress. Fiddler and banjo-player are playing a lively square dance for one or two sets of dancers -- ranchers, their wives and daughters. Laurie is not in evidence. At the far end of the room is a table with a punch bowl set up and a cluster of men and women about. Jorgensen is at the door boisterously welcoming some new arrivals. Leading them into the room is Captain the Reverend Sam Clayton, with a bulky oil-skin package under his arm. With him is Charlie MacCorry, dressed in his best black suit and scrubbed until he looks raw. Behind them come three or four other competent-looking men -- Rangers all of them. JORGENSEN (shouting) They're here, mama... Come in, come in... INT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - FAVORING GROUP AT DOOR Clayton waits for Charlie to come abreast, then hits him on the back and drives him inside. CLAYTON Here he is, Lars... Combed, curried 'n washed behind the ears! Mrs. Jorgensen hurries over, beaming, to admire Charlie. MRS. JORGENSEN Why, Charlie, you look real handsome! CHARLIE (grinning) Yes'm... scarcely reck'nize myself... Where's Laurie? Mrs. Jorgensen smiles and playfully pushes him toward the guests. MRS. JORGENSEN You'll see her soon enough... Clayton -- and the other Rangers -- have been hanging gunbelts on pegs along the wall. Now he shakes out his parcel -- disclosing a green-black frock coat. CLAYTON (nodding to the music) Say, that music sounds so good it must be sinful... MRS. JORGENSEN Grab a partner, reverend! CLAYTON Well, now, a man of my age just can't haul off and dance in cold blood... but if there's any of that wild cherry brandy of yours, Lars... JORGENSEN (suddenly sober) Nooo... (change of heart) Yah, by golly... One jug left... I get it! Mrs. Jorgensen glares as he heads out. MRS. JORGENSEN Last winter that man swore up and down there wasn't a drop left -- and me with pneumoney!... Reverend, you'd better start clergyin' again! EXT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - NIGHT Horses, wagons fill the yard. We can hear the lively music of the square dance. As Jorgensen opens the door and sets out toward the barn, a battered dusty trap drives in -- and on it are Martin and Ethan. Jorgensen at first doesn't recognize them. JORGENSEN (hailing them) Hi!... You're late... hurry... And then he sees who they are, and his jaw drops. JORGENSEN (staring) Ethan... Martie... No, don't get down! ...You can't come in! They stare at him. JORGENSEN The Rangers are here! He says it as though that explains everything. ETHAN What's that got to do with us? MARTIN (eyeing the house) What's goin' on? JORGENSEN (who's forgotten they wouldn't know) Why, my Laurie's getting married... Martin throws the reins aside and jumps out. Jorgensen grabs his arm. JORGENSEN Wait! Don't you hear me! The Rangers... MARTIN So what? JORGENSEN You been posted for murder... both of you... That trader fella, the late Mister Futterman... Martin tries to break free. MARTIN I gotta see Laurie! JORGENSEN (desperately) Go around the side... the grandmother's room... I'll tell her... PLEASE! MARTIN You better! He heads around the side. Ethan meanwhile has climbed stiffly down, slightly favoring his leg. JORGENSEN Quick... hide in the barn, Ethan... ETHAN Hide? Why would I? He brushes past the little man and heads for the door. INT. THE JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLING FROM BEHIND ETHAN as he enters, with Jorgensen at his heels. For a moment, as he stands there, the party breezes on. Then first one, then another sees him. They gape, and the music falters and stops. Sam Clayton crosses to confront him across the width of the room. Jorgensen tries to be the easy, smiling host--and makes a very bad job of it. JORGENSEN Look everybody... Look who's... He can't even finish it but stands there making flapping gestures. INT. JORGENSEN ROOM - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND SAM -- others gaping. During the opening lines, Jorgensen will covertly back toward the door to the inner room -- Laurie's room. ETHAN (to all) Evenin'... evenin' Reverend... or do I call you 'Captain'...? CLAYTON Came here for a wedding, Ethan... Until that's over, I reckon 'reverend' will do... MRS. JORGENSEN (coming forward) And news of our little girl, Ethan? His face contorts and his smile is twisted. ETHAN She's not a little girl any more. MRS. JORGENSEN (eyes wide) You've seen her!... She's alive? ETHAN I've seen her... and she's alive. Mrs. Jorgensen throws herself against his chest, sobbing. Ethan looks past her at Clayton. And the faces of both men are grim. CUT TO: INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT The room is dark. Martin is pacing, eyes constantly turning to the inside door. And then it opens and Laurie is inside, holding a lamp. She is in her bridal gown and very obviously trying to keep from betraying the stress she is under. LAURIE (quietly) Hello, Martie.... He just stares at her -- very lovely, strangely remote. He suddenly is conscious of his dirty hands, his dusty, worn clothing. MARTIN I... I wrote you a letter... Reckon you didn't get it... LAURIE (setting the lamp down) One letter in five years... I read it till the paper dried up and the writing faded out... MARTIN It wasn't much of a letter... LAURIE No, it wasn't... You mighta said you loved me... You mighta asked me to wait... At least that'd have been something... MARTIN But I allus loved you... You know that, without my sayin' it... I couldn't bring myself to ask you to wait... the little I had... not knowin' how much longer until we found Debbie... LAURIE (breaking) It isn't fair... She sinks onto the bench. LAURIE (sobbing) It isn't fair, Martin Pauley, and you know it! She begins to cry, very softly. He is beside her and his arm goes around her shoulder comfortingly. MARTIN Don't cry, Laurie... I understand how it is... I'll just go 'way... LAURIE (spinning on him) You do and I'll die, Martie... I will! I'll just die! And they are kissing through her tears when the outer door is flung open by Charlie MacCorry. They part as he glares. CHARLIE I'll thank you to leave the room, Laurie. Martin stares at him, then at her. MARTIN (incredulous) Charlie MacCorry!... You weren't fixin' to marry HIM?? CHARLIE She sure is!... An' don't think your comin' back is goin' to change it! MARTIN As to that, I don't know, Charlie... We hadn't got around to talkin' marriage... CHARLIE What right you got to be talkin' marriage to any decent woman... MARTIN (angrily) If you're talkin' about that crazy murder charge... CHARLIE AND other things... Mebbe you thought you was gettin' away with being comical about that Indian wife you took... I bet she wasn't the first squaw you... Martin swings wildly but Charlie is a wily fighter. He side- steps and chops Martin in the jaw and drives him against the wall. Laurie runs between them. LAURIE Stop it! Both of you... I won't have any fighting in this house. Martin gently brushes her aside. MARTIN It's all right... Charlie, let's move outside. CHARLIE I ain't wearing no gun. Martin nods and unbuckles his gunbelt. The men head outside as Laurie runs to get help. EXT. THE JORGENSEN HOME - BREEZEWAY Charlie waits assuredly as Martin follows him outside. Martin makes a wild run, swings. The blow is neatly guarded by Charlie's left and countered with a crisp right that puts Martin down. Martin gets to his feet, more cautiously this time, and comes in at a crouch; he's fighting like an Indian, not a white man. The men from the wedding party come out now at a run. CLAYTON (yelling) Sergeant MacCorry! Charlie turns slightly and in that instant Martin springs and drives a straight right at his face -- almost as though there were a knife in the hand. MacCorry stumbles back into Clayton's arms. CLAYTON Is this in the line of duty, sergeant? CHARLIE (regaining his balance) No sir... pleasure. CLAYTON In that case, give the boys room... Martin waits at a crouch as Charlie comes in, feints his right and crosses his left. It is a hard blow but Martin recovers and waits... Charlie circles and starts to repeat. He feints his right but this time Martin springs in, ducks and -- as the left shoots out -- he grabs the wrist and throws Charlie over his head. What we are looking at, in effect, is a wrestler against a boxer. CLAYTON Fight fair, son... Use your fists! ETHAN (drily) Comanches don't use their fists, reverend... Let 'em alone... Charlie is on his feet and warily starts circling -- now trying to imitate Martin's crouch. Suddenly Martin feints a right swing and connects with a solid left -- reversing the order of business. Charlie staggers and Martin follows up with a wrestling hold, leaping behind Charlie, locking both legs around him and driving his arms upward behind his back so that his face is in the dirt and so he could -- under other circumstances -- be neatly and expeditiously scalped. With the hands locked, Martin then calmly draws a knife. He looks innocently into the aghast faces of the crowd. MARTIN Could scalp him... but I'll just count coup! With that he releases the paralyzed arms just long enough to grab a lock of Charlie's hair and neatly snip it off. He stands then and laughs as Charlie lamely gets to his feet -- easing the tortured arms. Clayton goes to Charlie's side. Laurie moves to Martin's side. CLAYTON You all right, sergeant? CHARLIE Dunno... Seems so. CLAYTON Well, go get cleaned up and we'll proceed with the weddin'... Charlie frowns and looks off at where Laurie and Martin are standing. CHARLIE Ain't goin' to be any weddin' -- not till we get a few things cleared up 'round here... He walks rather unsteadily away leaving a thunderstruck assembly, murmurous with surprise. WIPE TO: INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - LATER THAT NIGHT The last of the wedding guests is leaving: Ed Nesby carrying his bull fiddle and with his wife and daughter and two smaller children preceding him out the door. The Jorgensens stand by -- trying to put a good face on the wedding debacle. Charlie MacCorry is sitting dejectedly, studying a spot on the floor. Ethan is at the mantel. Laurie is in her room -- presumably changing out of her wedding gown. Martin is at a sink, bathing a cut on his lip. Clayton, still in his clerical coat, is near the door. NESBY (a grin) Well... it was a nice weddin' party... considerin' no one got married... 'Night. JORGENSEN Good night, Ed... Mrs. Jorgensen puts her handkerchief to her eyes -- letting down now that the guests have gone. Jorgensen crosses to her, pats her sympathetically. JORGENSEN Now, mamma!... He leads her away. Clayton faces Ethan. CLAYTON I got to ask you and Martin to ride to the State Capitol with me, Ethan. ETHAN This an invite to a necktie party, Reverend? CLAYTON Captain... Nope, wouldn't say that... Likely you had your reasons for killin' Futterman... Probably needed killin'... I'm speaking as a ranger now, not as a reverend... Fact that all three was shot in the back is the only thing that's raised some question -- that and a missin' gold piece known to have been on him just prior to his demise. Ethan casually reaches into his pocket, takes out a gold coin and spins it. ETHAN (casually) That so? Martin crosses to confront Clayton. MARTIN I ain't goin' to Austin, Reverend. Charlie gets to his feet and he has his gun in his hand. CHARLIE You're goin' if the captain says you're goin'... CLAYTON Now, now... let's not grow disputatious... Fast hoofbeats sound o.s. -- signalling the approach of a four-man cavalry detail. CLAYTON (turning) What's that? More company? He and Jorgensen head for the door. CLAYTON Kinda late getting here, aren't they? A voice hails from outside. LIEUTENANT'S VOICE Hello there! Captain Clayton? INT. - EXT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLE AT DOOR - NIGHT Clayton stands in the opened doorway, Jorgensen behind him, looking out. Drawn up outside is the four-man cavalry detail, led by a young and very crisp LIEUTENANT. We may or may not see the sixth man, slouched over his horse. The Lieutenant swings off and crosses. LIEUTENANT Is Captain Clayton here, Reverend? CLAYTON I'm Clayton. The Lieutenant gapes at Clayton's ministerial coat. LIEUTENANT (doubtfully) You're Captain Clayton?... Ethan chuckles, to Clayton's very obvious annoyance. LIEUTENANT (recovering, he salutes) Colonel Greenhill's compliments, sir. The Colonel wishes to know how soon you could put a company of Rangers in the field, fully armed and... CLAYTON Hold on, son... Who's this Colonel Greenhill you're talking about? LIEUTENANT Why Colonel Greenhill is Colonel Greenhill, sir... Commanding Officer, Fifth U.S. Cavalry... I'm Lieutenant Greenhill, sir. CLAYTON Oh... Now what's this your pa wants to know? LIEUTENANT My pa wants to know... Colonel Greenhill wants to know how soon you could put a company of your Rangers in the field, fully armed and equipped, for joint punitive action against the Comanches. CLAYTON JOINT action? LIEUTENANT Yes sir... We've received information about a band of Comanches under a chief named Scar... ETHAN What information? LIEUTENANT That maybe he's not far from here -- holed up somewhere, waiting his chance to get back over the border... He raided north about a month ago... ran into more army than he bargained for... Now he's running for cover, for keeps this time... CLAYTON And what makes you think he's in this territory? LIEUTENANT Yesterday, one of our patrols picked up a man claims he was a prisoner with Scar till only two days ago... He talks crazy but I brought him along... Says he lives here... keeps mentioning a rocking chair. ETHAN (half to himself) Mose... And then he is striding to the door, calling it: ETHAN MOSE! MOSE'S VOICE Ay-he?... Ay-eh?... And the old man totters in, half-supported by a trooper -- hollow-eyed, weak, almost delirious. MOSE Come f'r my rockin' chai'... ole Mose. ETHAN (shouting it) Where's Scar, Mose... SCAR? MARTIN Ask him about Debbie!... Is she all right, Mose? MOSE My rockin' chai'... MRS. JORGENSEN (bustling over) Leave the poor man be! Can't you see he's out of his mind... She tries to lead him away, but Ethan shoves her aside and grips the old man by his arms. ETHAN Mose... try to remember!... You were in Scar's camp... MOSE Ay-he... Made out I was crazy... (he giggles foolishly) Ate dirt... chewed grass... I fooled 'em, Ethan!... an' I got away... ETHAN Scar! Where's he holed in? MOSE Seven Fingers... ay-he... Seven... He staggers and this time Mrs. Jorgensen won't be denied. MRS. JORGENSEN Now that's enough! Here... by the fire... What you need's a good bowl of soup... She leads him away, at last to his rocker by the fire. During this, Ethan and Clayton have been mulling Mose's answer. ETHAN (blankly) Seven Fingers? LIEUTENANT That's what he told us... but there's no such place on the maps. MARTIN Wait a minute! Isn't that the Caddo name for where all those canyons branch on the Malapai? MOSE (from his rocker) Caddo or Kiowa... ay-he... ay-eh... Sam Clayton wheels on the Lieutenant. CLAYTON You tell your pa a company of Rangers -- all fourteen of 'em -- fully armed an' equipped will be in the field by daylight... headin' for the south end of the Malapai. If he can catch up with us, well an' good... LIEUTENANT But... but captain, we can't possibly take the field tomorrow... for your own protection... CLAYTON Sonny, yonder's a passel of murderers, complete with Texican scalps an' white girl captive... You want to protect us, you just get out of our way... Now skedaddle! The lieutenant skedaddles. Sam whirls on Martin and Ethan. CLAYTON Ethan, you an' Martin are hereby appointed civilian scouts -- without pay... Charlie, hightail it to headquarters an' spread the word... CHARLIE Yes sir... He leaves. Martin's hands go to his side -- recalling where he left his guns. MARTIN My guns... He heads for the inner door to the grandmother room. INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin enters and crosses to where he had dropped his gunbelt. Even before he reaches it, Laurie is in the room -- closing the door after her. LAURIE Martie... don't go! Not this time. MARTIN (staring) You crazy? LAURIE It's too late... She's a woman grown now... MARTIN I got to fetch her home... LAURIE Fetch what home?... The leavin's of Comanche bucks -- sold time an' again to the highest bidder?... With savage brats of her own, most like?... MARTIN (shouting it) Laurie! Shut your mouth! LAURIE Do you know what Ethan will do if he has a chance?... He'll put a bullet in her brain! And I tell you Martha would want him to! MARTIN Only if I'm dead! He strides out past her. INT. THE KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin re-enters. Ethan and Sam are waiting. Martin looks hard at Ethan. CLAYTON You ready? MARTIN (eyes never leaving Ethan's face) I'm ready. As they stride out, CUT TO: 204-A INT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - GRANDMOTHER ROOM - CLOSE SHOT - LAURIE - NIGHT as she stands at the window, in her bridal gown, and sadly watches Martin again going away. Softly the score reprises -- sadly now -- "Skip to My Lou." DISSOLVE TO: EXT. MESA COUNTRY - LONG SHOT - THE RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT A file of eighteen men and horses -- Rangers -- is walking under the shoulder of a mesa, keeping well below the skyline. FULL SHOT - THE FILE OF RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT They pass CAMERA one by one -- Sam Clayton in the lead, Martin behind him leading two horses, then the others -- grim- looking, capable men of varying ages; some with long drooping mustaches, some in need of shaves, some chawing tobacco. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT He is lying prone, his hat off, squinting down into a long reach of desert canyon at the Comanche encampment -- with tepees set up, a thin wisp of smoke rising from a fire, the horse herd penned in a draw cut off by an improvised corral of rawhide ropes. EXT. THE COMANCHE ENCAMPMENT - WIDE ANGLE SHOT - DAWN LIGHT The camp is sleeping. A dog yaps shrilly. One of the tepee flaps opens and Scar steps out. He picks up a stone or a chunk of wood and throws it. The dog yelps and runs off. Scar's air is troubled, suspicious. He heads for the horse herd. The camp sleeps on. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT His face betrays a bitter inner satisfaction. He looks back along the trail as faintly we hear the approach of the Ranger company. Then he squirms back, retrieving his hat. FULL SHOT - HEAD OF RANGER COLUMN - DAWN LIGHT Sam, seeing Ethan in the near distance, raises his hand in a signal for halt and waits. Ethan scrambles down the trail to join him. He takes the reins of his horse from Martin. ETHAN We can get within 500 yards... there's a hogback to the south. CLAYTON How many, would you say? ETHAN (drily) Enough to go around... I'd say about a dozen apiece... Mount 'em up! He moves as though to mount, but Martin steps forward. MARTIN Wait! We go chargin' in, they'll kill her... and you know it. ETHAN (calmly) It's what I'm countin' on. Sam stares at him, but Martin isn't surprised. MARTIN I know you are... Only it ain't goin' to be that way... she's alive... ETHAN Livin' with Comanches ain't bein' alive... MARTIN (same tone) She's alive... Better she's alive and livin' with Comanches than her brains bashed out... CLAYTON Now son, it's a bitter thing to say, but there's more than your sister at stake here. ETHAN There sure is! I'm going to tell you somethin'... I wasn't going to speak of it... But I'll tell you now. Did you notice them scalps strung on Scar's lance? (MARTIN NODS) Did you see the third scalp from the point of the lance? Long... wavy hair... MARTIN I saw it... And don't try to tell me it was Aunt Martha's or Lucy's... ETHAN You don't remember it, but I remember. That was your mother's scalp! Martin stares, quick disbelief in his eyes. But Ethan's eyes hold his and there is no doubting the truth in them. ETHAN I didn't want to tell you... but maybe it's your right to know. CLAYTON (quietly) Now mount up, son... Sam puts his hand on Martin's elbow -- as though to turn him to his duty. But Martin jerks the arm away. MARTIN It don't change it... All I'm askin' is a chance to sneak in there... an' try to get her out before you come chargin' in. CLAYTON What if you're caught? MARTIN It won't tell 'em anything, will it! Just a man alone... ETHAN I say NO! CLAYTON Go ahead, son... But at the first alarm, we're comin' in -- and we ain't goin' to have time to pick and choose our targets when we do... Ethan looks long and hard at Martin, then reaches into his shirt for the folded, dirty, dog-eared paper that was his will. Slowly he tears it into shreds. ETHAN It's your funeral... Martin squats and starts pulling off his boots. He glances up as Charlie MacCorry comes over, an Indian blanket in his hands. He tosses it onto Martin's shoulder. CHARLIE Here... you fight like a Comanch... Maybe this'll help ya pass as one. Then

water

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

(harshly) How? She's even forgot her own language! MARTIN Debbie, you're comin' with us! Hear me? DEBBIE No... not now... not ever. These have been her first words in English... and they bring new hope to Martin. MARTIN I don't care what they've done to you... what happened... DEBBIE (angrily) They have done... nothing... They are my people... ETHAN Your people? They murdered your family! DEBBIE (reverting to Comanche) Ee-sap! (furiously) White men killed them - to steal cows! I was... little... I ran away... They find me... take care of me. MARTIN No Debbie! That ain't what happened! They been lyin' to you... DEBBIE You lie! All white men lie... and kill... MARTIN Debbie, think back! I'm Martin... remember? Remember how I used to let you ride my horse? Tell you stories? Don't you remember me, Debbie? DEBBIE I remember... from always... At first I prayed to you... come and get me... take me home... You didn't come... MARTIN I've come now... DEBBIE These are my people... (in Comanche) Unnt-meah! Go! Go! Please! ETHAN (grimly) Stand aside, boy... Martin turns as Ethan slowly reaches for his gun. It takes Martin a moment to realize what he is about to do. MARTIN Ethan -- NO! He moves quickly then to put himself between Ethan and the girl and in that instant there is the crack of a rifle. Ethan is hit in the leg. It goes out from under him. Martin swings and his gun is out and firing. 174-D EXT. SAND CREEK - FULL SHOT - INCLUDING THE DUNES - DAY A mounted Comanche is on the crest of the dune above them -- rifle raised. Martin's first shot brings him down the dune in a spectacular horse-and-man fall. Debbie goes running like a deer up the creek, away from Martin; in the same instant we hear the angry yells of distant Comanches charging from the far left. Martin turns to see Debbie running away. MARTIN Debbie! WAIT! Ethan is on his feet now and limping frantically toward their horses. He shoves Martin ahead of him. ETHAN (angrily) Never mind her! MOVE! They mount and take off, just as the vanguard of the attacking Comanches swings around a point of rock and comes charging toward the creek. EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE - LATE AFTERNOON as Ethan and Martin race their horses from the creek area and down a long incline, as -- from the heights above -- a dozen or more Comanches, led by Scar, come tearing after them. 175-A EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - MED. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - MOVING - DAY Ethan is swaying in his saddle, just barely hanging on, as Martin races up behind him -- driving Ethan's horse along. They swing past a huge outcrop of rock and go tearing along a vaulting wall of stone. Their hoofbeats and those of the pursuers bounce and echo off the canyon walls, and bullets whine and ricochet. 175-B EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - FULL MOVING SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY They swing around giant boulders, up-ended like pancakes. Ethan is lurching almost out of the saddle, barely conscious. Martin spots the cave -- ahead -- and drives his mount and Ethan's toward it. 175-C EXT. THE CAVE (MONUMENT) - FULL SHOT - THE TWO - DAY Martin pulls his horse in and swings off just as Ethan slides from his saddle. He runs toward one of the huge boulders, crouches and starts firing. 175-D EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE ON THE COMANCHES - DAY The Comanches are spread out but coming on fast. One goes down under Martin's fire.... another is hit in the arm. He pulls up and the other Comanches wheel away from the hidden marksman. 175-E EXT. THE CAVE - FULL SHOT - MARTIN AND ETHAN Martin runs back from his firing post toward where Ethan has fallen. ETHAN (angrily) Go on! Get out of here while you can... MARTIN (pointing to the cave) Over there! Ethan turns and sees what he means. He starts dragging himself to the cave as Martin grabs the rifles from their saddle scabbards, yanks off the water canteens and then drives their horses away. Then he too runs for the shelter of the cave. 175-F EXT. THE CANYON - ANGLING FROM BEHIND MARTIN AND ETHAN Both men are crouching, rifles ready. In the distance we see their horses running off -- pursued by some yelling Comanches. Four or six others come into sight, heading for the cave -- moving cautiously, uncertainly -- not seeing their quarry. Then the white men open fire and the Comanches bend low over their horses' necks and clear out of there. Ethan looks grimly at Martin. ETHAN They'll be back... MARTIN We won't be here... Come on! He gets an arm under Ethan and hauls him to his feet. DISSOLVE TO: 175-G EXT. THE GAP IN THE CLIFF - PANNING SHOT - SUNSET CAMERA PANS from the top of the rock chimney to where Martin is snaking his way through, carrying newly-filled water canteens. He stands there, listening and looking back the way he has come; and then, satisfied there has been no pursuit, he continues away. OMITTED INT. THE CAVE - MED. SHOT - ETHAN - HALF-LIGHT Ethan is lying on the hard earth, perhaps cushioned with some boughs. He is half delirious. A small fire is burning. Martin enters carrying the canteens. He looks unsympathetically toward Ethan, then continues to the fire, takes a knife and starts to sterilize it. Ethan gasps, mumbles and then a word comes clear. ETHAN Martha... Martha! Martin stares at him -- and now, perhaps for the first time, he is fitting pieces into the jig-saw puzzle. He shifts closer to Ethan and we see he is preparing to dig out the bullet. Ethan opens his eyes and looks at him. MARTIN I gotta open that leg and let the poison out... He poises the knife. ETHAN Wait... He fumbles in his shirt pocket, brings out a greasy folded piece of paper. ETHAN Just in case... Read it. Martin sets the knife down, takes the paper, opens it and slowly reads: MARTIN 'I, Ethan Edwards, being of sound mind and without any blood kin, do hereby bequeath all my property of any kind to Martin Pauley...' (he stares, then) I don't want your property.... 'Sides, what do you mean no 'blood kin?' Debbie's your blood kin... ETHAN Not no more. MARTIN (angrily) You can keep your will! (he thrusts it back into Ethan's shirt) I ain't forgettin' you was all set to shoot her yourself... What kind o' man are you, anyway. ETHAN (sitting up -- eyes blazing) She's been with the bucks! She's nothin' now but a... Martin shoves him back onto the ground. MARTIN (a shout) Shut your dirty mouth! He gets to his feet, trembling, and stands looking down at Ethan, his fists clenched at his sides and murder in his eyes. Then his eyes rove to the knife lying on the blanket. He picks it up and he looks again at the wounded man. MARTIN (slowly) I hope you die! And he kneels again to open the wound. DISSOLVE TO: EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY Martin is hauling an improvised travois over the ground in which, lashed by vines and some clothing, is the unconscious figure of Ethan. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - MARTIN - DAY Eyes shadowed, whiskered, drawn -- he is an implacable figure as he drags the weary miles home. He hears a groan from Ethan o.s. He barely lets his eyes drift to the sound. He doesn't stop. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - ETHAN IN THE TRAVOIS - DAY We see he is delirious, lips parched, strapped to the poles. The travois jolts over the ground. As he passes out of frame, the CAMERA HOLDS on the marks of the travois poles scraping across the desert. FADE OUT OMITTED FADE IN INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT - NIGHT A party is in progress. Fiddler and banjo-player are playing a lively square dance for one or two sets of dancers -- ranchers, their wives and daughters. Laurie is not in evidence. At the far end of the room is a table with a punch bowl set up and a cluster of men and women about. Jorgensen is at the door boisterously welcoming some new arrivals. Leading them into the room is Captain the Reverend Sam Clayton, with a bulky oil-skin package under his arm. With him is Charlie MacCorry, dressed in his best black suit and scrubbed until he looks raw. Behind them come three or four other competent-looking men -- Rangers all of them. JORGENSEN (shouting) They're here, mama... Come in, come in... INT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - FAVORING GROUP AT DOOR Clayton waits for Charlie to come abreast, then hits him on the back and drives him inside. CLAYTON Here he is, Lars... Combed, curried 'n washed behind the ears! Mrs. Jorgensen hurries over, beaming, to admire Charlie. MRS. JORGENSEN Why, Charlie, you look real handsome! CHARLIE (grinning) Yes'm... scarcely reck'nize myself... Where's Laurie? Mrs. Jorgensen smiles and playfully pushes him toward the guests. MRS. JORGENSEN You'll see her soon enough... Clayton -- and the other Rangers -- have been hanging gunbelts on pegs along the wall. Now he shakes out his parcel -- disclosing a green-black frock coat. CLAYTON (nodding to the music) Say, that music sounds so good it must be sinful... MRS. JORGENSEN Grab a partner, reverend! CLAYTON Well, now, a man of my age just can't haul off and dance in cold blood... but if there's any of that wild cherry brandy of yours, Lars... JORGENSEN (suddenly sober) Nooo... (change of heart) Yah, by golly... One jug left... I get it! Mrs. Jorgensen glares as he heads out. MRS. JORGENSEN Last winter that man swore up and down there wasn't a drop left -- and me with pneumoney!... Reverend, you'd better start clergyin' again! EXT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - NIGHT Horses, wagons fill the yard. We can hear the lively music of the square dance. As Jorgensen opens the door and sets out toward the barn, a battered dusty trap drives in -- and on it are Martin and Ethan. Jorgensen at first doesn't recognize them. JORGENSEN (hailing them) Hi!... You're late... hurry... And then he sees who they are, and his jaw drops. JORGENSEN (staring) Ethan... Martie... No, don't get down! ...You can't come in! They stare at him. JORGENSEN The Rangers are here! He says it as though that explains everything. ETHAN What's that got to do with us? MARTIN (eyeing the house) What's goin' on? JORGENSEN (who's forgotten they wouldn't know) Why, my Laurie's getting married... Martin throws the reins aside and jumps out. Jorgensen grabs his arm. JORGENSEN Wait! Don't you hear me! The Rangers... MARTIN So what? JORGENSEN You been posted for murder... both of you... That trader fella, the late Mister Futterman... Martin tries to break free. MARTIN I gotta see Laurie! JORGENSEN (desperately) Go around the side... the grandmother's room... I'll tell her... PLEASE! MARTIN You better! He heads around the side. Ethan meanwhile has climbed stiffly down, slightly favoring his leg. JORGENSEN Quick... hide in the barn, Ethan... ETHAN Hide? Why would I? He brushes past the little man and heads for the door. INT. THE JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLING FROM BEHIND ETHAN as he enters, with Jorgensen at his heels. For a moment, as he stands there, the party breezes on. Then first one, then another sees him. They gape, and the music falters and stops. Sam Clayton crosses to confront him across the width of the room. Jorgensen tries to be the easy, smiling host--and makes a very bad job of it. JORGENSEN Look everybody... Look who's... He can't even finish it but stands there making flapping gestures. INT. JORGENSEN ROOM - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND SAM -- others gaping. During the opening lines, Jorgensen will covertly back toward the door to the inner room -- Laurie's room. ETHAN (to all) Evenin'... evenin' Reverend... or do I call you 'Captain'...? CLAYTON Came here for a wedding, Ethan... Until that's over, I reckon 'reverend' will do... MRS. JORGENSEN (coming forward) And news of our little girl, Ethan? His face contorts and his smile is twisted. ETHAN She's not a little girl any more. MRS. JORGENSEN (eyes wide) You've seen her!... She's alive? ETHAN I've seen her... and she's alive. Mrs. Jorgensen throws herself against his chest, sobbing. Ethan looks past her at Clayton. And the faces of both men are grim. CUT TO: INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT The room is dark. Martin is pacing, eyes constantly turning to the inside door. And then it opens and Laurie is inside, holding a lamp. She is in her bridal gown and very obviously trying to keep from betraying the stress she is under. LAURIE (quietly) Hello, Martie.... He just stares at her -- very lovely, strangely remote. He suddenly is conscious of his dirty hands, his dusty, worn clothing. MARTIN I... I wrote you a letter... Reckon you didn't get it... LAURIE (setting the lamp down) One letter in five years... I read it till the paper dried up and the writing faded out... MARTIN It wasn't much of a letter... LAURIE No, it wasn't... You mighta said you loved me... You mighta asked me to wait... At least that'd have been something... MARTIN But I allus loved you... You know that, without my sayin' it... I couldn't bring myself to ask you to wait... the little I had... not knowin' how much longer until we found Debbie... LAURIE (breaking) It isn't fair... She sinks onto the bench. LAURIE (sobbing) It isn't fair, Martin Pauley, and you know it! She begins to cry, very softly. He is beside her and his arm goes around her shoulder comfortingly. MARTIN Don't cry, Laurie... I understand how it is... I'll just go 'way... LAURIE (spinning on him) You do and I'll die, Martie... I will! I'll just die! And they are kissing through her tears when the outer door is flung open by Charlie MacCorry. They part as he glares. CHARLIE I'll thank you to leave the room, Laurie. Martin stares at him, then at her. MARTIN (incredulous) Charlie MacCorry!... You weren't fixin' to marry HIM?? CHARLIE She sure is!... An' don't think your comin' back is goin' to change it! MARTIN As to that, I don't know, Charlie... We hadn't got around to talkin' marriage... CHARLIE What right you got to be talkin' marriage to any decent woman... MARTIN (angrily) If you're talkin' about that crazy murder charge... CHARLIE AND other things... Mebbe you thought you was gettin' away with being comical about that Indian wife you took... I bet she wasn't the first squaw you... Martin swings wildly but Charlie is a wily fighter. He side- steps and chops Martin in the jaw and drives him against the wall. Laurie runs between them. LAURIE Stop it! Both of you... I won't have any fighting in this house. Martin gently brushes her aside. MARTIN It's all right... Charlie, let's move outside. CHARLIE I ain't wearing no gun. Martin nods and unbuckles his gunbelt. The men head outside as Laurie runs to get help. EXT. THE JORGENSEN HOME - BREEZEWAY Charlie waits assuredly as Martin follows him outside. Martin makes a wild run, swings. The blow is neatly guarded by Charlie's left and countered with a crisp right that puts Martin down. Martin gets to his feet, more cautiously this time, and comes in at a crouch; he's fighting like an Indian, not a white man. The men from the wedding party come out now at a run. CLAYTON (yelling) Sergeant MacCorry! Charlie turns slightly and in that instant Martin springs and drives a straight right at his face -- almost as though there were a knife in the hand. MacCorry stumbles back into Clayton's arms. CLAYTON Is this in the line of duty, sergeant? CHARLIE (regaining his balance) No sir... pleasure. CLAYTON In that case, give the boys room... Martin waits at a crouch as Charlie comes in, feints his right and crosses his left. It is a hard blow but Martin recovers and waits... Charlie circles and starts to repeat. He feints his right but this time Martin springs in, ducks and -- as the left shoots out -- he grabs the wrist and throws Charlie over his head. What we are looking at, in effect, is a wrestler against a boxer. CLAYTON Fight fair, son... Use your fists! ETHAN (drily) Comanches don't use their fists, reverend... Let 'em alone... Charlie is on his feet and warily starts circling -- now trying to imitate Martin's crouch. Suddenly Martin feints a right swing and connects with a solid left -- reversing the order of business. Charlie staggers and Martin follows up with a wrestling hold, leaping behind Charlie, locking both legs around him and driving his arms upward behind his back so that his face is in the dirt and so he could -- under other circumstances -- be neatly and expeditiously scalped. With the hands locked, Martin then calmly draws a knife. He looks innocently into the aghast faces of the crowd. MARTIN Could scalp him... but I'll just count coup! With that he releases the paralyzed arms just long enough to grab a lock of Charlie's hair and neatly snip it off. He stands then and laughs as Charlie lamely gets to his feet -- easing the tortured arms. Clayton goes to Charlie's side. Laurie moves to Martin's side. CLAYTON You all right, sergeant? CHARLIE Dunno... Seems so. CLAYTON Well, go get cleaned up and we'll proceed with the weddin'... Charlie frowns and looks off at where Laurie and Martin are standing. CHARLIE Ain't goin' to be any weddin' -- not till we get a few things cleared up 'round here... He walks rather unsteadily away leaving a thunderstruck assembly, murmurous with surprise. WIPE TO: INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - LATER THAT NIGHT The last of the wedding guests is leaving: Ed Nesby carrying his bull fiddle and with his wife and daughter and two smaller children preceding him out the door. The Jorgensens stand by -- trying to put a good face on the wedding debacle. Charlie MacCorry is sitting dejectedly, studying a spot on the floor. Ethan is at the mantel. Laurie is in her room -- presumably changing out of her wedding gown. Martin is at a sink, bathing a cut on his lip. Clayton, still in his clerical coat, is near the door. NESBY (a grin) Well... it was a nice weddin' party... considerin' no one got married... 'Night. JORGENSEN Good night, Ed... Mrs. Jorgensen puts her handkerchief to her eyes -- letting down now that the guests have gone. Jorgensen crosses to her, pats her sympathetically. JORGENSEN Now, mamma!... He leads her away. Clayton faces Ethan. CLAYTON I got to ask you and Martin to ride to the State Capitol with me, Ethan. ETHAN This an invite to a necktie party, Reverend? CLAYTON Captain... Nope, wouldn't say that... Likely you had your reasons for killin' Futterman... Probably needed killin'... I'm speaking as a ranger now, not as a reverend... Fact that all three was shot in the back is the only thing that's raised some question -- that and a missin' gold piece known to have been on him just prior to his demise. Ethan casually reaches into his pocket, takes out a gold coin and spins it. ETHAN (casually) That so? Martin crosses to confront Clayton. MARTIN I ain't goin' to Austin, Reverend. Charlie gets to his feet and he has his gun in his hand. CHARLIE You're goin' if the captain says you're goin'... CLAYTON Now, now... let's not grow disputatious... Fast hoofbeats sound o.s. -- signalling the approach of a four-man cavalry detail. CLAYTON (turning) What's that? More company? He and Jorgensen head for the door. CLAYTON Kinda late getting here, aren't they? A voice hails from outside. LIEUTENANT'S VOICE Hello there! Captain Clayton? INT. - EXT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLE AT DOOR - NIGHT Clayton stands in the opened doorway, Jorgensen behind him, looking out. Drawn up outside is the four-man cavalry detail, led by a young and very crisp LIEUTENANT. We may or may not see the sixth man, slouched over his horse. The Lieutenant swings off and crosses. LIEUTENANT Is Captain Clayton here, Reverend? CLAYTON I'm Clayton. The Lieutenant gapes at Clayton's ministerial coat. LIEUTENANT (doubtfully) You're Captain Clayton?... Ethan chuckles, to Clayton's very obvious annoyance. LIEUTENANT (recovering, he salutes) Colonel Greenhill's compliments, sir. The Colonel wishes to know how soon you could put a company of Rangers in the field, fully armed and... CLAYTON Hold on, son... Who's this Colonel Greenhill you're talking about? LIEUTENANT Why Colonel Greenhill is Colonel Greenhill, sir... Commanding Officer, Fifth U.S. Cavalry... I'm Lieutenant Greenhill, sir. CLAYTON Oh... Now what's this your pa wants to know? LIEUTENANT My pa wants to know... Colonel Greenhill wants to know how soon you could put a company of your Rangers in the field, fully armed and equipped, for joint punitive action against the Comanches. CLAYTON JOINT action? LIEUTENANT Yes sir... We've received information about a band of Comanches under a chief named Scar... ETHAN What information? LIEUTENANT That maybe he's not far from here -- holed up somewhere, waiting his chance to get back over the border... He raided north about a month ago... ran into more army than he bargained for... Now he's running for cover, for keeps this time... CLAYTON And what makes you think he's in this territory? LIEUTENANT Yesterday, one of our patrols picked up a man claims he was a prisoner with Scar till only two days ago... He talks crazy but I brought him along... Says he lives here... keeps mentioning a rocking chair. ETHAN (half to himself) Mose... And then he is striding to the door, calling it: ETHAN MOSE! MOSE'S VOICE Ay-he?... Ay-eh?... And the old man totters in, half-supported by a trooper -- hollow-eyed, weak, almost delirious. MOSE Come f'r my rockin' chai'... ole Mose. ETHAN (shouting it) Where's Scar, Mose... SCAR? MARTIN Ask him about Debbie!... Is she all right, Mose? MOSE My rockin' chai'... MRS. JORGENSEN (bustling over) Leave the poor man be! Can't you see he's out of his mind... She tries to lead him away, but Ethan shoves her aside and grips the old man by his arms. ETHAN Mose... try to remember!... You were in Scar's camp... MOSE Ay-he... Made out I was crazy... (he giggles foolishly) Ate dirt... chewed grass... I fooled 'em, Ethan!... an' I got away... ETHAN Scar! Where's he holed in? MOSE Seven Fingers... ay-he... Seven... He staggers and this time Mrs. Jorgensen won't be denied. MRS. JORGENSEN Now that's enough! Here... by the fire... What you need's a good bowl of soup... She leads him away, at last to his rocker by the fire. During this, Ethan and Clayton have been mulling Mose's answer. ETHAN (blankly) Seven Fingers? LIEUTENANT That's what he told us... but there's no such place on the maps. MARTIN Wait a minute! Isn't that the Caddo name for where all those canyons branch on the Malapai? MOSE (from his rocker) Caddo or Kiowa... ay-he... ay-eh... Sam Clayton wheels on the Lieutenant. CLAYTON You tell your pa a company of Rangers -- all fourteen of 'em -- fully armed an' equipped will be in the field by daylight... headin' for the south end of the Malapai. If he can catch up with us, well an' good... LIEUTENANT But... but captain, we can't possibly take the field tomorrow... for your own protection... CLAYTON Sonny, yonder's a passel of murderers, complete with Texican scalps an' white girl captive... You want to protect us, you just get out of our way... Now skedaddle! The lieutenant skedaddles. Sam whirls on Martin and Ethan. CLAYTON Ethan, you an' Martin are hereby appointed civilian scouts -- without pay... Charlie, hightail it to headquarters an' spread the word... CHARLIE Yes sir... He leaves. Martin's hands go to his side -- recalling where he left his guns. MARTIN My guns... He heads for the inner door to the grandmother room. INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin enters and crosses to where he had dropped his gunbelt. Even before he reaches it, Laurie is in the room -- closing the door after her. LAURIE Martie... don't go! Not this time. MARTIN (staring) You crazy? LAURIE It's too late... She's a woman grown now... MARTIN I got to fetch her home... LAURIE Fetch what home?... The leavin's of Comanche bucks -- sold time an' again to the highest bidder?... With savage brats of her own, most like?... MARTIN (shouting it) Laurie! Shut your mouth! LAURIE Do you know what Ethan will do if he has a chance?... He'll put a bullet in her brain! And I tell you Martha would want him to! MARTIN Only if I'm dead! He strides out past her. INT. THE KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin re-enters. Ethan and Sam are waiting. Martin looks hard at Ethan. CLAYTON You ready? MARTIN (eyes never leaving Ethan's face) I'm ready. As they stride out, CUT TO: 204-A INT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - GRANDMOTHER ROOM - CLOSE SHOT - LAURIE - NIGHT as she stands at the window, in her bridal gown, and sadly watches Martin again going away. Softly the score reprises -- sadly now -- "Skip to My Lou." DISSOLVE TO: EXT. MESA COUNTRY - LONG SHOT - THE RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT A file of eighteen men and horses -- Rangers -- is walking under the shoulder of a mesa, keeping well below the skyline. FULL SHOT - THE FILE OF RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT They pass CAMERA one by one -- Sam Clayton in the lead, Martin behind him leading two horses, then the others -- grim- looking, capable men of varying ages; some with long drooping mustaches, some in need of shaves, some chawing tobacco. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT He is lying prone, his hat off, squinting down into a long reach of desert canyon at the Comanche encampment -- with tepees set up, a thin wisp of smoke rising from a fire, the horse herd penned in a draw cut off by an improvised corral of rawhide ropes. EXT. THE COMANCHE ENCAMPMENT - WIDE ANGLE SHOT - DAWN LIGHT The camp is sleeping. A dog yaps shrilly. One of the tepee flaps opens and Scar steps out. He picks up a stone or a chunk of wood and throws it. The dog yelps and runs off. Scar's air is troubled, suspicious. He heads for the horse herd. The camp sleeps on. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT His face betrays a bitter inner satisfaction. He looks back along the trail as faintly we hear the approach of the Ranger company. Then he squirms back, retrieving his hat. FULL SHOT - HEAD OF RANGER COLUMN - DAWN LIGHT Sam, seeing Ethan in the near distance, raises his hand in a signal for halt and waits. Ethan scrambles down the trail to join him. He takes the reins of his horse from Martin. ETHAN We can get within 500 yards... there's a hogback to the south. CLAYTON How many, would you say? ETHAN (drily) Enough to go around... I'd say about a dozen apiece... Mount 'em up! He moves as though to mount, but Martin steps forward. MARTIN Wait! We go chargin' in, they'll kill her... and you know it. ETHAN (calmly) It's what I'm countin' on. Sam stares at him, but Martin isn't surprised. MARTIN I know you are... Only it ain't goin' to be that way... she's alive... ETHAN Livin' with Comanches ain't bein' alive... MARTIN (same tone) She's alive... Better she's alive and livin' with Comanches than her brains bashed out... CLAYTON Now son, it's a bitter thing to say, but there's more than your sister at stake here. ETHAN There sure is! I'm going to tell you somethin'... I wasn't going to speak of it... But I'll tell you now. Did you notice them scalps strung on Scar's lance? (MARTIN NODS) Did you see the third scalp from the point of the lance? Long... wavy hair... MARTIN I saw it... And don't try to tell me it was Aunt Martha's or Lucy's... ETHAN You don't remember it, but I remember. That was your mother's scalp! Martin stares, quick disbelief in his eyes. But Ethan's eyes hold his and there is no doubting the truth in them. ETHAN I didn't want to tell you... but maybe it's your right to know. CLAYTON (quietly) Now mount up, son... Sam puts his hand on Martin's elbow -- as though to turn him to his duty. But Martin jerks the arm away. MARTIN It don't change it... All I'm askin' is a chance to sneak in there... an' try to get her out before you come chargin' in. CLAYTON What if you're caught? MARTIN It won't tell 'em anything, will it! Just a man alone... ETHAN I say NO! CLAYTON Go ahead, son... But at the first alarm, we're comin' in -- and we ain't goin' to have time to pick and choose our targets when we do... Ethan looks long and hard at Martin, then reaches into his shirt for the folded, dirty, dog-eared paper that was his will. Slowly he tears it into shreds. ETHAN It's your funeral... Martin squats and starts pulling off his boots. He glances up as Charlie MacCorry comes over, an Indian blanket in his hands. He tosses it onto Martin's shoulder. CHARLIE Here... you fight like a Comanch... Maybe this'll help ya pass as one. Then

dunes

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

(harshly) How? She's even forgot her own language! MARTIN Debbie, you're comin' with us! Hear me? DEBBIE No... not now... not ever. These have been her first words in English... and they bring new hope to Martin. MARTIN I don't care what they've done to you... what happened... DEBBIE (angrily) They have done... nothing... They are my people... ETHAN Your people? They murdered your family! DEBBIE (reverting to Comanche) Ee-sap! (furiously) White men killed them - to steal cows! I was... little... I ran away... They find me... take care of me. MARTIN No Debbie! That ain't what happened! They been lyin' to you... DEBBIE You lie! All white men lie... and kill... MARTIN Debbie, think back! I'm Martin... remember? Remember how I used to let you ride my horse? Tell you stories? Don't you remember me, Debbie? DEBBIE I remember... from always... At first I prayed to you... come and get me... take me home... You didn't come... MARTIN I've come now... DEBBIE These are my people... (in Comanche) Unnt-meah! Go! Go! Please! ETHAN (grimly) Stand aside, boy... Martin turns as Ethan slowly reaches for his gun. It takes Martin a moment to realize what he is about to do. MARTIN Ethan -- NO! He moves quickly then to put himself between Ethan and the girl and in that instant there is the crack of a rifle. Ethan is hit in the leg. It goes out from under him. Martin swings and his gun is out and firing. 174-D EXT. SAND CREEK - FULL SHOT - INCLUDING THE DUNES - DAY A mounted Comanche is on the crest of the dune above them -- rifle raised. Martin's first shot brings him down the dune in a spectacular horse-and-man fall. Debbie goes running like a deer up the creek, away from Martin; in the same instant we hear the angry yells of distant Comanches charging from the far left. Martin turns to see Debbie running away. MARTIN Debbie! WAIT! Ethan is on his feet now and limping frantically toward their horses. He shoves Martin ahead of him. ETHAN (angrily) Never mind her! MOVE! They mount and take off, just as the vanguard of the attacking Comanches swings around a point of rock and comes charging toward the creek. EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE - LATE AFTERNOON as Ethan and Martin race their horses from the creek area and down a long incline, as -- from the heights above -- a dozen or more Comanches, led by Scar, come tearing after them. 175-A EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - MED. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - MOVING - DAY Ethan is swaying in his saddle, just barely hanging on, as Martin races up behind him -- driving Ethan's horse along. They swing past a huge outcrop of rock and go tearing along a vaulting wall of stone. Their hoofbeats and those of the pursuers bounce and echo off the canyon walls, and bullets whine and ricochet. 175-B EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - FULL MOVING SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY They swing around giant boulders, up-ended like pancakes. Ethan is lurching almost out of the saddle, barely conscious. Martin spots the cave -- ahead -- and drives his mount and Ethan's toward it. 175-C EXT. THE CAVE (MONUMENT) - FULL SHOT - THE TWO - DAY Martin pulls his horse in and swings off just as Ethan slides from his saddle. He runs toward one of the huge boulders, crouches and starts firing. 175-D EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE ON THE COMANCHES - DAY The Comanches are spread out but coming on fast. One goes down under Martin's fire.... another is hit in the arm. He pulls up and the other Comanches wheel away from the hidden marksman. 175-E EXT. THE CAVE - FULL SHOT - MARTIN AND ETHAN Martin runs back from his firing post toward where Ethan has fallen. ETHAN (angrily) Go on! Get out of here while you can... MARTIN (pointing to the cave) Over there! Ethan turns and sees what he means. He starts dragging himself to the cave as Martin grabs the rifles from their saddle scabbards, yanks off the water canteens and then drives their horses away. Then he too runs for the shelter of the cave. 175-F EXT. THE CANYON - ANGLING FROM BEHIND MARTIN AND ETHAN Both men are crouching, rifles ready. In the distance we see their horses running off -- pursued by some yelling Comanches. Four or six others come into sight, heading for the cave -- moving cautiously, uncertainly -- not seeing their quarry. Then the white men open fire and the Comanches bend low over their horses' necks and clear out of there. Ethan looks grimly at Martin. ETHAN They'll be back... MARTIN We won't be here... Come on! He gets an arm under Ethan and hauls him to his feet. DISSOLVE TO: 175-G EXT. THE GAP IN THE CLIFF - PANNING SHOT - SUNSET CAMERA PANS from the top of the rock chimney to where Martin is snaking his way through, carrying newly-filled water canteens. He stands there, listening and looking back the way he has come; and then, satisfied there has been no pursuit, he continues away. OMITTED INT. THE CAVE - MED. SHOT - ETHAN - HALF-LIGHT Ethan is lying on the hard earth, perhaps cushioned with some boughs. He is half delirious. A small fire is burning. Martin enters carrying the canteens. He looks unsympathetically toward Ethan, then continues to the fire, takes a knife and starts to sterilize it. Ethan gasps, mumbles and then a word comes clear. ETHAN Martha... Martha! Martin stares at him -- and now, perhaps for the first time, he is fitting pieces into the jig-saw puzzle. He shifts closer to Ethan and we see he is preparing to dig out the bullet. Ethan opens his eyes and looks at him. MARTIN I gotta open that leg and let the poison out... He poises the knife. ETHAN Wait... He fumbles in his shirt pocket, brings out a greasy folded piece of paper. ETHAN Just in case... Read it. Martin sets the knife down, takes the paper, opens it and slowly reads: MARTIN 'I, Ethan Edwards, being of sound mind and without any blood kin, do hereby bequeath all my property of any kind to Martin Pauley...' (he stares, then) I don't want your property.... 'Sides, what do you mean no 'blood kin?' Debbie's your blood kin... ETHAN Not no more. MARTIN (angrily) You can keep your will! (he thrusts it back into Ethan's shirt) I ain't forgettin' you was all set to shoot her yourself... What kind o' man are you, anyway. ETHAN (sitting up -- eyes blazing) She's been with the bucks! She's nothin' now but a... Martin shoves him back onto the ground. MARTIN (a shout) Shut your dirty mouth! He gets to his feet, trembling, and stands looking down at Ethan, his fists clenched at his sides and murder in his eyes. Then his eyes rove to the knife lying on the blanket. He picks it up and he looks again at the wounded man. MARTIN (slowly) I hope you die! And he kneels again to open the wound. DISSOLVE TO: EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY Martin is hauling an improvised travois over the ground in which, lashed by vines and some clothing, is the unconscious figure of Ethan. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - MARTIN - DAY Eyes shadowed, whiskered, drawn -- he is an implacable figure as he drags the weary miles home. He hears a groan from Ethan o.s. He barely lets his eyes drift to the sound. He doesn't stop. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - ETHAN IN THE TRAVOIS - DAY We see he is delirious, lips parched, strapped to the poles. The travois jolts over the ground. As he passes out of frame, the CAMERA HOLDS on the marks of the travois poles scraping across the desert. FADE OUT OMITTED FADE IN INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT - NIGHT A party is in progress. Fiddler and banjo-player are playing a lively square dance for one or two sets of dancers -- ranchers, their wives and daughters. Laurie is not in evidence. At the far end of the room is a table with a punch bowl set up and a cluster of men and women about. Jorgensen is at the door boisterously welcoming some new arrivals. Leading them into the room is Captain the Reverend Sam Clayton, with a bulky oil-skin package under his arm. With him is Charlie MacCorry, dressed in his best black suit and scrubbed until he looks raw. Behind them come three or four other competent-looking men -- Rangers all of them. JORGENSEN (shouting) They're here, mama... Come in, come in... INT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - FAVORING GROUP AT DOOR Clayton waits for Charlie to come abreast, then hits him on the back and drives him inside. CLAYTON Here he is, Lars... Combed, curried 'n washed behind the ears! Mrs. Jorgensen hurries over, beaming, to admire Charlie. MRS. JORGENSEN Why, Charlie, you look real handsome! CHARLIE (grinning) Yes'm... scarcely reck'nize myself... Where's Laurie? Mrs. Jorgensen smiles and playfully pushes him toward the guests. MRS. JORGENSEN You'll see her soon enough... Clayton -- and the other Rangers -- have been hanging gunbelts on pegs along the wall. Now he shakes out his parcel -- disclosing a green-black frock coat. CLAYTON (nodding to the music) Say, that music sounds so good it must be sinful... MRS. JORGENSEN Grab a partner, reverend! CLAYTON Well, now, a man of my age just can't haul off and dance in cold blood... but if there's any of that wild cherry brandy of yours, Lars... JORGENSEN (suddenly sober) Nooo... (change of heart) Yah, by golly... One jug left... I get it! Mrs. Jorgensen glares as he heads out. MRS. JORGENSEN Last winter that man swore up and down there wasn't a drop left -- and me with pneumoney!... Reverend, you'd better start clergyin' again! EXT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - NIGHT Horses, wagons fill the yard. We can hear the lively music of the square dance. As Jorgensen opens the door and sets out toward the barn, a battered dusty trap drives in -- and on it are Martin and Ethan. Jorgensen at first doesn't recognize them. JORGENSEN (hailing them) Hi!... You're late... hurry... And then he sees who they are, and his jaw drops. JORGENSEN (staring) Ethan... Martie... No, don't get down! ...You can't come in! They stare at him. JORGENSEN The Rangers are here! He says it as though that explains everything. ETHAN What's that got to do with us? MARTIN (eyeing the house) What's goin' on? JORGENSEN (who's forgotten they wouldn't know) Why, my Laurie's getting married... Martin throws the reins aside and jumps out. Jorgensen grabs his arm. JORGENSEN Wait! Don't you hear me! The Rangers... MARTIN So what? JORGENSEN You been posted for murder... both of you... That trader fella, the late Mister Futterman... Martin tries to break free. MARTIN I gotta see Laurie! JORGENSEN (desperately) Go around the side... the grandmother's room... I'll tell her... PLEASE! MARTIN You better! He heads around the side. Ethan meanwhile has climbed stiffly down, slightly favoring his leg. JORGENSEN Quick... hide in the barn, Ethan... ETHAN Hide? Why would I? He brushes past the little man and heads for the door. INT. THE JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLING FROM BEHIND ETHAN as he enters, with Jorgensen at his heels. For a moment, as he stands there, the party breezes on. Then first one, then another sees him. They gape, and the music falters and stops. Sam Clayton crosses to confront him across the width of the room. Jorgensen tries to be the easy, smiling host--and makes a very bad job of it. JORGENSEN Look everybody... Look who's... He can't even finish it but stands there making flapping gestures. INT. JORGENSEN ROOM - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND SAM -- others gaping. During the opening lines, Jorgensen will covertly back toward the door to the inner room -- Laurie's room. ETHAN (to all) Evenin'... evenin' Reverend... or do I call you 'Captain'...? CLAYTON Came here for a wedding, Ethan... Until that's over, I reckon 'reverend' will do... MRS. JORGENSEN (coming forward) And news of our little girl, Ethan? His face contorts and his smile is twisted. ETHAN She's not a little girl any more. MRS. JORGENSEN (eyes wide) You've seen her!... She's alive? ETHAN I've seen her... and she's alive. Mrs. Jorgensen throws herself against his chest, sobbing. Ethan looks past her at Clayton. And the faces of both men are grim. CUT TO: INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT The room is dark. Martin is pacing, eyes constantly turning to the inside door. And then it opens and Laurie is inside, holding a lamp. She is in her bridal gown and very obviously trying to keep from betraying the stress she is under. LAURIE (quietly) Hello, Martie.... He just stares at her -- very lovely, strangely remote. He suddenly is conscious of his dirty hands, his dusty, worn clothing. MARTIN I... I wrote you a letter... Reckon you didn't get it... LAURIE (setting the lamp down) One letter in five years... I read it till the paper dried up and the writing faded out... MARTIN It wasn't much of a letter... LAURIE No, it wasn't... You mighta said you loved me... You mighta asked me to wait... At least that'd have been something... MARTIN But I allus loved you... You know that, without my sayin' it... I couldn't bring myself to ask you to wait... the little I had... not knowin' how much longer until we found Debbie... LAURIE (breaking) It isn't fair... She sinks onto the bench. LAURIE (sobbing) It isn't fair, Martin Pauley, and you know it! She begins to cry, very softly. He is beside her and his arm goes around her shoulder comfortingly. MARTIN Don't cry, Laurie... I understand how it is... I'll just go 'way... LAURIE (spinning on him) You do and I'll die, Martie... I will! I'll just die! And they are kissing through her tears when the outer door is flung open by Charlie MacCorry. They part as he glares. CHARLIE I'll thank you to leave the room, Laurie. Martin stares at him, then at her. MARTIN (incredulous) Charlie MacCorry!... You weren't fixin' to marry HIM?? CHARLIE She sure is!... An' don't think your comin' back is goin' to change it! MARTIN As to that, I don't know, Charlie... We hadn't got around to talkin' marriage... CHARLIE What right you got to be talkin' marriage to any decent woman... MARTIN (angrily) If you're talkin' about that crazy murder charge... CHARLIE AND other things... Mebbe you thought you was gettin' away with being comical about that Indian wife you took... I bet she wasn't the first squaw you... Martin swings wildly but Charlie is a wily fighter. He side- steps and chops Martin in the jaw and drives him against the wall. Laurie runs between them. LAURIE Stop it! Both of you... I won't have any fighting in this house. Martin gently brushes her aside. MARTIN It's all right... Charlie, let's move outside. CHARLIE I ain't wearing no gun. Martin nods and unbuckles his gunbelt. The men head outside as Laurie runs to get help. EXT. THE JORGENSEN HOME - BREEZEWAY Charlie waits assuredly as Martin follows him outside. Martin makes a wild run, swings. The blow is neatly guarded by Charlie's left and countered with a crisp right that puts Martin down. Martin gets to his feet, more cautiously this time, and comes in at a crouch; he's fighting like an Indian, not a white man. The men from the wedding party come out now at a run. CLAYTON (yelling) Sergeant MacCorry! Charlie turns slightly and in that instant Martin springs and drives a straight right at his face -- almost as though there were a knife in the hand. MacCorry stumbles back into Clayton's arms. CLAYTON Is this in the line of duty, sergeant? CHARLIE (regaining his balance) No sir... pleasure. CLAYTON In that case, give the boys room... Martin waits at a crouch as Charlie comes in, feints his right and crosses his left. It is a hard blow but Martin recovers and waits... Charlie circles and starts to repeat. He feints his right but this time Martin springs in, ducks and -- as the left shoots out -- he grabs the wrist and throws Charlie over his head. What we are looking at, in effect, is a wrestler against a boxer. CLAYTON Fight fair, son... Use your fists! ETHAN (drily) Comanches don't use their fists, reverend... Let 'em alone... Charlie is on his feet and warily starts circling -- now trying to imitate Martin's crouch. Suddenly Martin feints a right swing and connects with a solid left -- reversing the order of business. Charlie staggers and Martin follows up with a wrestling hold, leaping behind Charlie, locking both legs around him and driving his arms upward behind his back so that his face is in the dirt and so he could -- under other circumstances -- be neatly and expeditiously scalped. With the hands locked, Martin then calmly draws a knife. He looks innocently into the aghast faces of the crowd. MARTIN Could scalp him... but I'll just count coup! With that he releases the paralyzed arms just long enough to grab a lock of Charlie's hair and neatly snip it off. He stands then and laughs as Charlie lamely gets to his feet -- easing the tortured arms. Clayton goes to Charlie's side. Laurie moves to Martin's side. CLAYTON You all right, sergeant? CHARLIE Dunno... Seems so. CLAYTON Well, go get cleaned up and we'll proceed with the weddin'... Charlie frowns and looks off at where Laurie and Martin are standing. CHARLIE Ain't goin' to be any weddin' -- not till we get a few things cleared up 'round here... He walks rather unsteadily away leaving a thunderstruck assembly, murmurous with surprise. WIPE TO: INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - LATER THAT NIGHT The last of the wedding guests is leaving: Ed Nesby carrying his bull fiddle and with his wife and daughter and two smaller children preceding him out the door. The Jorgensens stand by -- trying to put a good face on the wedding debacle. Charlie MacCorry is sitting dejectedly, studying a spot on the floor. Ethan is at the mantel. Laurie is in her room -- presumably changing out of her wedding gown. Martin is at a sink, bathing a cut on his lip. Clayton, still in his clerical coat, is near the door. NESBY (a grin) Well... it was a nice weddin' party... considerin' no one got married... 'Night. JORGENSEN Good night, Ed... Mrs. Jorgensen puts her handkerchief to her eyes -- letting down now that the guests have gone. Jorgensen crosses to her, pats her sympathetically. JORGENSEN Now, mamma!... He leads her away. Clayton faces Ethan. CLAYTON I got to ask you and Martin to ride to the State Capitol with me, Ethan. ETHAN This an invite to a necktie party, Reverend? CLAYTON Captain... Nope, wouldn't say that... Likely you had your reasons for killin' Futterman... Probably needed killin'... I'm speaking as a ranger now, not as a reverend... Fact that all three was shot in the back is the only thing that's raised some question -- that and a missin' gold piece known to have been on him just prior to his demise. Ethan casually reaches into his pocket, takes out a gold coin and spins it. ETHAN (casually) That so? Martin crosses to confront Clayton. MARTIN I ain't goin' to Austin, Reverend. Charlie gets to his feet and he has his gun in his hand. CHARLIE You're goin' if the captain says you're goin'... CLAYTON Now, now... let's not grow disputatious... Fast hoofbeats sound o.s. -- signalling the approach of a four-man cavalry detail. CLAYTON (turning) What's that? More company? He and Jorgensen head for the door. CLAYTON Kinda late getting here, aren't they? A voice hails from outside. LIEUTENANT'S VOICE Hello there! Captain Clayton? INT. - EXT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLE AT DOOR - NIGHT Clayton stands in the opened doorway, Jorgensen behind him, looking out. Drawn up outside is the four-man cavalry detail, led by a young and very crisp LIEUTENANT. We may or may not see the sixth man, slouched over his horse. The Lieutenant swings off and crosses. LIEUTENANT Is Captain Clayton here, Reverend? CLAYTON I'm Clayton. The Lieutenant gapes at Clayton's ministerial coat. LIEUTENANT (doubtfully) You're Captain Clayton?... Ethan chuckles, to Clayton's very obvious annoyance. LIEUTENANT (recovering, he salutes) Colonel Greenhill's compliments, sir. The Colonel wishes to know how soon you could put a company of Rangers in the field, fully armed and... CLAYTON Hold on, son... Who's this Colonel Greenhill you're talking about? LIEUTENANT Why Colonel Greenhill is Colonel Greenhill, sir... Commanding Officer, Fifth U.S. Cavalry... I'm Lieutenant Greenhill, sir. CLAYTON Oh... Now what's this your pa wants to know? LIEUTENANT My pa wants to know... Colonel Greenhill wants to know how soon you could put a company of your Rangers in the field, fully armed and equipped, for joint punitive action against the Comanches. CLAYTON JOINT action? LIEUTENANT Yes sir... We've received information about a band of Comanches under a chief named Scar... ETHAN What information? LIEUTENANT That maybe he's not far from here -- holed up somewhere, waiting his chance to get back over the border... He raided north about a month ago... ran into more army than he bargained for... Now he's running for cover, for keeps this time... CLAYTON And what makes you think he's in this territory? LIEUTENANT Yesterday, one of our patrols picked up a man claims he was a prisoner with Scar till only two days ago... He talks crazy but I brought him along... Says he lives here... keeps mentioning a rocking chair. ETHAN (half to himself) Mose... And then he is striding to the door, calling it: ETHAN MOSE! MOSE'S VOICE Ay-he?... Ay-eh?... And the old man totters in, half-supported by a trooper -- hollow-eyed, weak, almost delirious. MOSE Come f'r my rockin' chai'... ole Mose. ETHAN (shouting it) Where's Scar, Mose... SCAR? MARTIN Ask him about Debbie!... Is she all right, Mose? MOSE My rockin' chai'... MRS. JORGENSEN (bustling over) Leave the poor man be! Can't you see he's out of his mind... She tries to lead him away, but Ethan shoves her aside and grips the old man by his arms. ETHAN Mose... try to remember!... You were in Scar's camp... MOSE Ay-he... Made out I was crazy... (he giggles foolishly) Ate dirt... chewed grass... I fooled 'em, Ethan!... an' I got away... ETHAN Scar! Where's he holed in? MOSE Seven Fingers... ay-he... Seven... He staggers and this time Mrs. Jorgensen won't be denied. MRS. JORGENSEN Now that's enough! Here... by the fire... What you need's a good bowl of soup... She leads him away, at last to his rocker by the fire. During this, Ethan and Clayton have been mulling Mose's answer. ETHAN (blankly) Seven Fingers? LIEUTENANT That's what he told us... but there's no such place on the maps. MARTIN Wait a minute! Isn't that the Caddo name for where all those canyons branch on the Malapai? MOSE (from his rocker) Caddo or Kiowa... ay-he... ay-eh... Sam Clayton wheels on the Lieutenant. CLAYTON You tell your pa a company of Rangers -- all fourteen of 'em -- fully armed an' equipped will be in the field by daylight... headin' for the south end of the Malapai. If he can catch up with us, well an' good... LIEUTENANT But... but captain, we can't possibly take the field tomorrow... for your own protection... CLAYTON Sonny, yonder's a passel of murderers, complete with Texican scalps an' white girl captive... You want to protect us, you just get out of our way... Now skedaddle! The lieutenant skedaddles. Sam whirls on Martin and Ethan. CLAYTON Ethan, you an' Martin are hereby appointed civilian scouts -- without pay... Charlie, hightail it to headquarters an' spread the word... CHARLIE Yes sir... He leaves. Martin's hands go to his side -- recalling where he left his guns. MARTIN My guns... He heads for the inner door to the grandmother room. INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin enters and crosses to where he had dropped his gunbelt. Even before he reaches it, Laurie is in the room -- closing the door after her. LAURIE Martie... don't go! Not this time. MARTIN (staring) You crazy? LAURIE It's too late... She's a woman grown now... MARTIN I got to fetch her home... LAURIE Fetch what home?... The leavin's of Comanche bucks -- sold time an' again to the highest bidder?... With savage brats of her own, most like?... MARTIN (shouting it) Laurie! Shut your mouth! LAURIE Do you know what Ethan will do if he has a chance?... He'll put a bullet in her brain! And I tell you Martha would want him to! MARTIN Only if I'm dead! He strides out past her. INT. THE KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin re-enters. Ethan and Sam are waiting. Martin looks hard at Ethan. CLAYTON You ready? MARTIN (eyes never leaving Ethan's face) I'm ready. As they stride out, CUT TO: 204-A INT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - GRANDMOTHER ROOM - CLOSE SHOT - LAURIE - NIGHT as she stands at the window, in her bridal gown, and sadly watches Martin again going away. Softly the score reprises -- sadly now -- "Skip to My Lou." DISSOLVE TO: EXT. MESA COUNTRY - LONG SHOT - THE RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT A file of eighteen men and horses -- Rangers -- is walking under the shoulder of a mesa, keeping well below the skyline. FULL SHOT - THE FILE OF RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT They pass CAMERA one by one -- Sam Clayton in the lead, Martin behind him leading two horses, then the others -- grim- looking, capable men of varying ages; some with long drooping mustaches, some in need of shaves, some chawing tobacco. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT He is lying prone, his hat off, squinting down into a long reach of desert canyon at the Comanche encampment -- with tepees set up, a thin wisp of smoke rising from a fire, the horse herd penned in a draw cut off by an improvised corral of rawhide ropes. EXT. THE COMANCHE ENCAMPMENT - WIDE ANGLE SHOT - DAWN LIGHT The camp is sleeping. A dog yaps shrilly. One of the tepee flaps opens and Scar steps out. He picks up a stone or a chunk of wood and throws it. The dog yelps and runs off. Scar's air is troubled, suspicious. He heads for the horse herd. The camp sleeps on. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT His face betrays a bitter inner satisfaction. He looks back along the trail as faintly we hear the approach of the Ranger company. Then he squirms back, retrieving his hat. FULL SHOT - HEAD OF RANGER COLUMN - DAWN LIGHT Sam, seeing Ethan in the near distance, raises his hand in a signal for halt and waits. Ethan scrambles down the trail to join him. He takes the reins of his horse from Martin. ETHAN We can get within 500 yards... there's a hogback to the south. CLAYTON How many, would you say? ETHAN (drily) Enough to go around... I'd say about a dozen apiece... Mount 'em up! He moves as though to mount, but Martin steps forward. MARTIN Wait! We go chargin' in, they'll kill her... and you know it. ETHAN (calmly) It's what I'm countin' on. Sam stares at him, but Martin isn't surprised. MARTIN I know you are... Only it ain't goin' to be that way... she's alive... ETHAN Livin' with Comanches ain't bein' alive... MARTIN (same tone) She's alive... Better she's alive and livin' with Comanches than her brains bashed out... CLAYTON Now son, it's a bitter thing to say, but there's more than your sister at stake here. ETHAN There sure is! I'm going to tell you somethin'... I wasn't going to speak of it... But I'll tell you now. Did you notice them scalps strung on Scar's lance? (MARTIN NODS) Did you see the third scalp from the point of the lance? Long... wavy hair... MARTIN I saw it... And don't try to tell me it was Aunt Martha's or Lucy's... ETHAN You don't remember it, but I remember. That was your mother's scalp! Martin stares, quick disbelief in his eyes. But Ethan's eyes hold his and there is no doubting the truth in them. ETHAN I didn't want to tell you... but maybe it's your right to know. CLAYTON (quietly) Now mount up, son... Sam puts his hand on Martin's elbow -- as though to turn him to his duty. But Martin jerks the arm away. MARTIN It don't change it... All I'm askin' is a chance to sneak in there... an' try to get her out before you come chargin' in. CLAYTON What if you're caught? MARTIN It won't tell 'em anything, will it! Just a man alone... ETHAN I say NO! CLAYTON Go ahead, son... But at the first alarm, we're comin' in -- and we ain't goin' to have time to pick and choose our targets when we do... Ethan looks long and hard at Martin, then reaches into his shirt for the folded, dirty, dog-eared paper that was his will. Slowly he tears it into shreds. ETHAN It's your funeral... Martin squats and starts pulling off his boots. He glances up as Charlie MacCorry comes over, an Indian blanket in his hands. He tosses it onto Martin's shoulder. CHARLIE Here... you fight like a Comanch... Maybe this'll help ya pass as one. Then

silently

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

(harshly) How? She's even forgot her own language! MARTIN Debbie, you're comin' with us! Hear me? DEBBIE No... not now... not ever. These have been her first words in English... and they bring new hope to Martin. MARTIN I don't care what they've done to you... what happened... DEBBIE (angrily) They have done... nothing... They are my people... ETHAN Your people? They murdered your family! DEBBIE (reverting to Comanche) Ee-sap! (furiously) White men killed them - to steal cows! I was... little... I ran away... They find me... take care of me. MARTIN No Debbie! That ain't what happened! They been lyin' to you... DEBBIE You lie! All white men lie... and kill... MARTIN Debbie, think back! I'm Martin... remember? Remember how I used to let you ride my horse? Tell you stories? Don't you remember me, Debbie? DEBBIE I remember... from always... At first I prayed to you... come and get me... take me home... You didn't come... MARTIN I've come now... DEBBIE These are my people... (in Comanche) Unnt-meah! Go! Go! Please! ETHAN (grimly) Stand aside, boy... Martin turns as Ethan slowly reaches for his gun. It takes Martin a moment to realize what he is about to do. MARTIN Ethan -- NO! He moves quickly then to put himself between Ethan and the girl and in that instant there is the crack of a rifle. Ethan is hit in the leg. It goes out from under him. Martin swings and his gun is out and firing. 174-D EXT. SAND CREEK - FULL SHOT - INCLUDING THE DUNES - DAY A mounted Comanche is on the crest of the dune above them -- rifle raised. Martin's first shot brings him down the dune in a spectacular horse-and-man fall. Debbie goes running like a deer up the creek, away from Martin; in the same instant we hear the angry yells of distant Comanches charging from the far left. Martin turns to see Debbie running away. MARTIN Debbie! WAIT! Ethan is on his feet now and limping frantically toward their horses. He shoves Martin ahead of him. ETHAN (angrily) Never mind her! MOVE! They mount and take off, just as the vanguard of the attacking Comanches swings around a point of rock and comes charging toward the creek. EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE - LATE AFTERNOON as Ethan and Martin race their horses from the creek area and down a long incline, as -- from the heights above -- a dozen or more Comanches, led by Scar, come tearing after them. 175-A EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - MED. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - MOVING - DAY Ethan is swaying in his saddle, just barely hanging on, as Martin races up behind him -- driving Ethan's horse along. They swing past a huge outcrop of rock and go tearing along a vaulting wall of stone. Their hoofbeats and those of the pursuers bounce and echo off the canyon walls, and bullets whine and ricochet. 175-B EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - FULL MOVING SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY They swing around giant boulders, up-ended like pancakes. Ethan is lurching almost out of the saddle, barely conscious. Martin spots the cave -- ahead -- and drives his mount and Ethan's toward it. 175-C EXT. THE CAVE (MONUMENT) - FULL SHOT - THE TWO - DAY Martin pulls his horse in and swings off just as Ethan slides from his saddle. He runs toward one of the huge boulders, crouches and starts firing. 175-D EXT. CANYON COUNTRY - WIDE ANGLE ON THE COMANCHES - DAY The Comanches are spread out but coming on fast. One goes down under Martin's fire.... another is hit in the arm. He pulls up and the other Comanches wheel away from the hidden marksman. 175-E EXT. THE CAVE - FULL SHOT - MARTIN AND ETHAN Martin runs back from his firing post toward where Ethan has fallen. ETHAN (angrily) Go on! Get out of here while you can... MARTIN (pointing to the cave) Over there! Ethan turns and sees what he means. He starts dragging himself to the cave as Martin grabs the rifles from their saddle scabbards, yanks off the water canteens and then drives their horses away. Then he too runs for the shelter of the cave. 175-F EXT. THE CANYON - ANGLING FROM BEHIND MARTIN AND ETHAN Both men are crouching, rifles ready. In the distance we see their horses running off -- pursued by some yelling Comanches. Four or six others come into sight, heading for the cave -- moving cautiously, uncertainly -- not seeing their quarry. Then the white men open fire and the Comanches bend low over their horses' necks and clear out of there. Ethan looks grimly at Martin. ETHAN They'll be back... MARTIN We won't be here... Come on! He gets an arm under Ethan and hauls him to his feet. DISSOLVE TO: 175-G EXT. THE GAP IN THE CLIFF - PANNING SHOT - SUNSET CAMERA PANS from the top of the rock chimney to where Martin is snaking his way through, carrying newly-filled water canteens. He stands there, listening and looking back the way he has come; and then, satisfied there has been no pursuit, he continues away. OMITTED INT. THE CAVE - MED. SHOT - ETHAN - HALF-LIGHT Ethan is lying on the hard earth, perhaps cushioned with some boughs. He is half delirious. A small fire is burning. Martin enters carrying the canteens. He looks unsympathetically toward Ethan, then continues to the fire, takes a knife and starts to sterilize it. Ethan gasps, mumbles and then a word comes clear. ETHAN Martha... Martha! Martin stares at him -- and now, perhaps for the first time, he is fitting pieces into the jig-saw puzzle. He shifts closer to Ethan and we see he is preparing to dig out the bullet. Ethan opens his eyes and looks at him. MARTIN I gotta open that leg and let the poison out... He poises the knife. ETHAN Wait... He fumbles in his shirt pocket, brings out a greasy folded piece of paper. ETHAN Just in case... Read it. Martin sets the knife down, takes the paper, opens it and slowly reads: MARTIN 'I, Ethan Edwards, being of sound mind and without any blood kin, do hereby bequeath all my property of any kind to Martin Pauley...' (he stares, then) I don't want your property.... 'Sides, what do you mean no 'blood kin?' Debbie's your blood kin... ETHAN Not no more. MARTIN (angrily) You can keep your will! (he thrusts it back into Ethan's shirt) I ain't forgettin' you was all set to shoot her yourself... What kind o' man are you, anyway. ETHAN (sitting up -- eyes blazing) She's been with the bucks! She's nothin' now but a... Martin shoves him back onto the ground. MARTIN (a shout) Shut your dirty mouth! He gets to his feet, trembling, and stands looking down at Ethan, his fists clenched at his sides and murder in his eyes. Then his eyes rove to the knife lying on the blanket. He picks it up and he looks again at the wounded man. MARTIN (slowly) I hope you die! And he kneels again to open the wound. DISSOLVE TO: EXT. DESERT COUNTRY - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND MARTIN - DAY Martin is hauling an improvised travois over the ground in which, lashed by vines and some clothing, is the unconscious figure of Ethan. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - MARTIN - DAY Eyes shadowed, whiskered, drawn -- he is an implacable figure as he drags the weary miles home. He hears a groan from Ethan o.s. He barely lets his eyes drift to the sound. He doesn't stop. CLOSE SHOT - MOVING - ETHAN IN THE TRAVOIS - DAY We see he is delirious, lips parched, strapped to the poles. The travois jolts over the ground. As he passes out of frame, the CAMERA HOLDS on the marks of the travois poles scraping across the desert. FADE OUT OMITTED FADE IN INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT - NIGHT A party is in progress. Fiddler and banjo-player are playing a lively square dance for one or two sets of dancers -- ranchers, their wives and daughters. Laurie is not in evidence. At the far end of the room is a table with a punch bowl set up and a cluster of men and women about. Jorgensen is at the door boisterously welcoming some new arrivals. Leading them into the room is Captain the Reverend Sam Clayton, with a bulky oil-skin package under his arm. With him is Charlie MacCorry, dressed in his best black suit and scrubbed until he looks raw. Behind them come three or four other competent-looking men -- Rangers all of them. JORGENSEN (shouting) They're here, mama... Come in, come in... INT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - FAVORING GROUP AT DOOR Clayton waits for Charlie to come abreast, then hits him on the back and drives him inside. CLAYTON Here he is, Lars... Combed, curried 'n washed behind the ears! Mrs. Jorgensen hurries over, beaming, to admire Charlie. MRS. JORGENSEN Why, Charlie, you look real handsome! CHARLIE (grinning) Yes'm... scarcely reck'nize myself... Where's Laurie? Mrs. Jorgensen smiles and playfully pushes him toward the guests. MRS. JORGENSEN You'll see her soon enough... Clayton -- and the other Rangers -- have been hanging gunbelts on pegs along the wall. Now he shakes out his parcel -- disclosing a green-black frock coat. CLAYTON (nodding to the music) Say, that music sounds so good it must be sinful... MRS. JORGENSEN Grab a partner, reverend! CLAYTON Well, now, a man of my age just can't haul off and dance in cold blood... but if there's any of that wild cherry brandy of yours, Lars... JORGENSEN (suddenly sober) Nooo... (change of heart) Yah, by golly... One jug left... I get it! Mrs. Jorgensen glares as he heads out. MRS. JORGENSEN Last winter that man swore up and down there wasn't a drop left -- and me with pneumoney!... Reverend, you'd better start clergyin' again! EXT. JORGENSEN HOME - FULL SHOT - NIGHT Horses, wagons fill the yard. We can hear the lively music of the square dance. As Jorgensen opens the door and sets out toward the barn, a battered dusty trap drives in -- and on it are Martin and Ethan. Jorgensen at first doesn't recognize them. JORGENSEN (hailing them) Hi!... You're late... hurry... And then he sees who they are, and his jaw drops. JORGENSEN (staring) Ethan... Martie... No, don't get down! ...You can't come in! They stare at him. JORGENSEN The Rangers are here! He says it as though that explains everything. ETHAN What's that got to do with us? MARTIN (eyeing the house) What's goin' on? JORGENSEN (who's forgotten they wouldn't know) Why, my Laurie's getting married... Martin throws the reins aside and jumps out. Jorgensen grabs his arm. JORGENSEN Wait! Don't you hear me! The Rangers... MARTIN So what? JORGENSEN You been posted for murder... both of you... That trader fella, the late Mister Futterman... Martin tries to break free. MARTIN I gotta see Laurie! JORGENSEN (desperately) Go around the side... the grandmother's room... I'll tell her... PLEASE! MARTIN You better! He heads around the side. Ethan meanwhile has climbed stiffly down, slightly favoring his leg. JORGENSEN Quick... hide in the barn, Ethan... ETHAN Hide? Why would I? He brushes past the little man and heads for the door. INT. THE JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLING FROM BEHIND ETHAN as he enters, with Jorgensen at his heels. For a moment, as he stands there, the party breezes on. Then first one, then another sees him. They gape, and the music falters and stops. Sam Clayton crosses to confront him across the width of the room. Jorgensen tries to be the easy, smiling host--and makes a very bad job of it. JORGENSEN Look everybody... Look who's... He can't even finish it but stands there making flapping gestures. INT. JORGENSEN ROOM - FULL SHOT - ETHAN AND SAM -- others gaping. During the opening lines, Jorgensen will covertly back toward the door to the inner room -- Laurie's room. ETHAN (to all) Evenin'... evenin' Reverend... or do I call you 'Captain'...? CLAYTON Came here for a wedding, Ethan... Until that's over, I reckon 'reverend' will do... MRS. JORGENSEN (coming forward) And news of our little girl, Ethan? His face contorts and his smile is twisted. ETHAN She's not a little girl any more. MRS. JORGENSEN (eyes wide) You've seen her!... She's alive? ETHAN I've seen her... and she's alive. Mrs. Jorgensen throws herself against his chest, sobbing. Ethan looks past her at Clayton. And the faces of both men are grim. CUT TO: INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT The room is dark. Martin is pacing, eyes constantly turning to the inside door. And then it opens and Laurie is inside, holding a lamp. She is in her bridal gown and very obviously trying to keep from betraying the stress she is under. LAURIE (quietly) Hello, Martie.... He just stares at her -- very lovely, strangely remote. He suddenly is conscious of his dirty hands, his dusty, worn clothing. MARTIN I... I wrote you a letter... Reckon you didn't get it... LAURIE (setting the lamp down) One letter in five years... I read it till the paper dried up and the writing faded out... MARTIN It wasn't much of a letter... LAURIE No, it wasn't... You mighta said you loved me... You mighta asked me to wait... At least that'd have been something... MARTIN But I allus loved you... You know that, without my sayin' it... I couldn't bring myself to ask you to wait... the little I had... not knowin' how much longer until we found Debbie... LAURIE (breaking) It isn't fair... She sinks onto the bench. LAURIE (sobbing) It isn't fair, Martin Pauley, and you know it! She begins to cry, very softly. He is beside her and his arm goes around her shoulder comfortingly. MARTIN Don't cry, Laurie... I understand how it is... I'll just go 'way... LAURIE (spinning on him) You do and I'll die, Martie... I will! I'll just die! And they are kissing through her tears when the outer door is flung open by Charlie MacCorry. They part as he glares. CHARLIE I'll thank you to leave the room, Laurie. Martin stares at him, then at her. MARTIN (incredulous) Charlie MacCorry!... You weren't fixin' to marry HIM?? CHARLIE She sure is!... An' don't think your comin' back is goin' to change it! MARTIN As to that, I don't know, Charlie... We hadn't got around to talkin' marriage... CHARLIE What right you got to be talkin' marriage to any decent woman... MARTIN (angrily) If you're talkin' about that crazy murder charge... CHARLIE AND other things... Mebbe you thought you was gettin' away with being comical about that Indian wife you took... I bet she wasn't the first squaw you... Martin swings wildly but Charlie is a wily fighter. He side- steps and chops Martin in the jaw and drives him against the wall. Laurie runs between them. LAURIE Stop it! Both of you... I won't have any fighting in this house. Martin gently brushes her aside. MARTIN It's all right... Charlie, let's move outside. CHARLIE I ain't wearing no gun. Martin nods and unbuckles his gunbelt. The men head outside as Laurie runs to get help. EXT. THE JORGENSEN HOME - BREEZEWAY Charlie waits assuredly as Martin follows him outside. Martin makes a wild run, swings. The blow is neatly guarded by Charlie's left and countered with a crisp right that puts Martin down. Martin gets to his feet, more cautiously this time, and comes in at a crouch; he's fighting like an Indian, not a white man. The men from the wedding party come out now at a run. CLAYTON (yelling) Sergeant MacCorry! Charlie turns slightly and in that instant Martin springs and drives a straight right at his face -- almost as though there were a knife in the hand. MacCorry stumbles back into Clayton's arms. CLAYTON Is this in the line of duty, sergeant? CHARLIE (regaining his balance) No sir... pleasure. CLAYTON In that case, give the boys room... Martin waits at a crouch as Charlie comes in, feints his right and crosses his left. It is a hard blow but Martin recovers and waits... Charlie circles and starts to repeat. He feints his right but this time Martin springs in, ducks and -- as the left shoots out -- he grabs the wrist and throws Charlie over his head. What we are looking at, in effect, is a wrestler against a boxer. CLAYTON Fight fair, son... Use your fists! ETHAN (drily) Comanches don't use their fists, reverend... Let 'em alone... Charlie is on his feet and warily starts circling -- now trying to imitate Martin's crouch. Suddenly Martin feints a right swing and connects with a solid left -- reversing the order of business. Charlie staggers and Martin follows up with a wrestling hold, leaping behind Charlie, locking both legs around him and driving his arms upward behind his back so that his face is in the dirt and so he could -- under other circumstances -- be neatly and expeditiously scalped. With the hands locked, Martin then calmly draws a knife. He looks innocently into the aghast faces of the crowd. MARTIN Could scalp him... but I'll just count coup! With that he releases the paralyzed arms just long enough to grab a lock of Charlie's hair and neatly snip it off. He stands then and laughs as Charlie lamely gets to his feet -- easing the tortured arms. Clayton goes to Charlie's side. Laurie moves to Martin's side. CLAYTON You all right, sergeant? CHARLIE Dunno... Seems so. CLAYTON Well, go get cleaned up and we'll proceed with the weddin'... Charlie frowns and looks off at where Laurie and Martin are standing. CHARLIE Ain't goin' to be any weddin' -- not till we get a few things cleared up 'round here... He walks rather unsteadily away leaving a thunderstruck assembly, murmurous with surprise. WIPE TO: INT. JORGENSEN KEEPING ROOM - LATER THAT NIGHT The last of the wedding guests is leaving: Ed Nesby carrying his bull fiddle and with his wife and daughter and two smaller children preceding him out the door. The Jorgensens stand by -- trying to put a good face on the wedding debacle. Charlie MacCorry is sitting dejectedly, studying a spot on the floor. Ethan is at the mantel. Laurie is in her room -- presumably changing out of her wedding gown. Martin is at a sink, bathing a cut on his lip. Clayton, still in his clerical coat, is near the door. NESBY (a grin) Well... it was a nice weddin' party... considerin' no one got married... 'Night. JORGENSEN Good night, Ed... Mrs. Jorgensen puts her handkerchief to her eyes -- letting down now that the guests have gone. Jorgensen crosses to her, pats her sympathetically. JORGENSEN Now, mamma!... He leads her away. Clayton faces Ethan. CLAYTON I got to ask you and Martin to ride to the State Capitol with me, Ethan. ETHAN This an invite to a necktie party, Reverend? CLAYTON Captain... Nope, wouldn't say that... Likely you had your reasons for killin' Futterman... Probably needed killin'... I'm speaking as a ranger now, not as a reverend... Fact that all three was shot in the back is the only thing that's raised some question -- that and a missin' gold piece known to have been on him just prior to his demise. Ethan casually reaches into his pocket, takes out a gold coin and spins it. ETHAN (casually) That so? Martin crosses to confront Clayton. MARTIN I ain't goin' to Austin, Reverend. Charlie gets to his feet and he has his gun in his hand. CHARLIE You're goin' if the captain says you're goin'... CLAYTON Now, now... let's not grow disputatious... Fast hoofbeats sound o.s. -- signalling the approach of a four-man cavalry detail. CLAYTON (turning) What's that? More company? He and Jorgensen head for the door. CLAYTON Kinda late getting here, aren't they? A voice hails from outside. LIEUTENANT'S VOICE Hello there! Captain Clayton? INT. - EXT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - ANGLE AT DOOR - NIGHT Clayton stands in the opened doorway, Jorgensen behind him, looking out. Drawn up outside is the four-man cavalry detail, led by a young and very crisp LIEUTENANT. We may or may not see the sixth man, slouched over his horse. The Lieutenant swings off and crosses. LIEUTENANT Is Captain Clayton here, Reverend? CLAYTON I'm Clayton. The Lieutenant gapes at Clayton's ministerial coat. LIEUTENANT (doubtfully) You're Captain Clayton?... Ethan chuckles, to Clayton's very obvious annoyance. LIEUTENANT (recovering, he salutes) Colonel Greenhill's compliments, sir. The Colonel wishes to know how soon you could put a company of Rangers in the field, fully armed and... CLAYTON Hold on, son... Who's this Colonel Greenhill you're talking about? LIEUTENANT Why Colonel Greenhill is Colonel Greenhill, sir... Commanding Officer, Fifth U.S. Cavalry... I'm Lieutenant Greenhill, sir. CLAYTON Oh... Now what's this your pa wants to know? LIEUTENANT My pa wants to know... Colonel Greenhill wants to know how soon you could put a company of your Rangers in the field, fully armed and equipped, for joint punitive action against the Comanches. CLAYTON JOINT action? LIEUTENANT Yes sir... We've received information about a band of Comanches under a chief named Scar... ETHAN What information? LIEUTENANT That maybe he's not far from here -- holed up somewhere, waiting his chance to get back over the border... He raided north about a month ago... ran into more army than he bargained for... Now he's running for cover, for keeps this time... CLAYTON And what makes you think he's in this territory? LIEUTENANT Yesterday, one of our patrols picked up a man claims he was a prisoner with Scar till only two days ago... He talks crazy but I brought him along... Says he lives here... keeps mentioning a rocking chair. ETHAN (half to himself) Mose... And then he is striding to the door, calling it: ETHAN MOSE! MOSE'S VOICE Ay-he?... Ay-eh?... And the old man totters in, half-supported by a trooper -- hollow-eyed, weak, almost delirious. MOSE Come f'r my rockin' chai'... ole Mose. ETHAN (shouting it) Where's Scar, Mose... SCAR? MARTIN Ask him about Debbie!... Is she all right, Mose? MOSE My rockin' chai'... MRS. JORGENSEN (bustling over) Leave the poor man be! Can't you see he's out of his mind... She tries to lead him away, but Ethan shoves her aside and grips the old man by his arms. ETHAN Mose... try to remember!... You were in Scar's camp... MOSE Ay-he... Made out I was crazy... (he giggles foolishly) Ate dirt... chewed grass... I fooled 'em, Ethan!... an' I got away... ETHAN Scar! Where's he holed in? MOSE Seven Fingers... ay-he... Seven... He staggers and this time Mrs. Jorgensen won't be denied. MRS. JORGENSEN Now that's enough! Here... by the fire... What you need's a good bowl of soup... She leads him away, at last to his rocker by the fire. During this, Ethan and Clayton have been mulling Mose's answer. ETHAN (blankly) Seven Fingers? LIEUTENANT That's what he told us... but there's no such place on the maps. MARTIN Wait a minute! Isn't that the Caddo name for where all those canyons branch on the Malapai? MOSE (from his rocker) Caddo or Kiowa... ay-he... ay-eh... Sam Clayton wheels on the Lieutenant. CLAYTON You tell your pa a company of Rangers -- all fourteen of 'em -- fully armed an' equipped will be in the field by daylight... headin' for the south end of the Malapai. If he can catch up with us, well an' good... LIEUTENANT But... but captain, we can't possibly take the field tomorrow... for your own protection... CLAYTON Sonny, yonder's a passel of murderers, complete with Texican scalps an' white girl captive... You want to protect us, you just get out of our way... Now skedaddle! The lieutenant skedaddles. Sam whirls on Martin and Ethan. CLAYTON Ethan, you an' Martin are hereby appointed civilian scouts -- without pay... Charlie, hightail it to headquarters an' spread the word... CHARLIE Yes sir... He leaves. Martin's hands go to his side -- recalling where he left his guns. MARTIN My guns... He heads for the inner door to the grandmother room. INT. THE GRANDMOTHER ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin enters and crosses to where he had dropped his gunbelt. Even before he reaches it, Laurie is in the room -- closing the door after her. LAURIE Martie... don't go! Not this time. MARTIN (staring) You crazy? LAURIE It's too late... She's a woman grown now... MARTIN I got to fetch her home... LAURIE Fetch what home?... The leavin's of Comanche bucks -- sold time an' again to the highest bidder?... With savage brats of her own, most like?... MARTIN (shouting it) Laurie! Shut your mouth! LAURIE Do you know what Ethan will do if he has a chance?... He'll put a bullet in her brain! And I tell you Martha would want him to! MARTIN Only if I'm dead! He strides out past her. INT. THE KEEPING ROOM - FULL SHOT as Martin re-enters. Ethan and Sam are waiting. Martin looks hard at Ethan. CLAYTON You ready? MARTIN (eyes never leaving Ethan's face) I'm ready. As they stride out, CUT TO: 204-A INT. JORGENSEN HOUSE - GRANDMOTHER ROOM - CLOSE SHOT - LAURIE - NIGHT as she stands at the window, in her bridal gown, and sadly watches Martin again going away. Softly the score reprises -- sadly now -- "Skip to My Lou." DISSOLVE TO: EXT. MESA COUNTRY - LONG SHOT - THE RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT A file of eighteen men and horses -- Rangers -- is walking under the shoulder of a mesa, keeping well below the skyline. FULL SHOT - THE FILE OF RANGERS - DAWN LIGHT They pass CAMERA one by one -- Sam Clayton in the lead, Martin behind him leading two horses, then the others -- grim- looking, capable men of varying ages; some with long drooping mustaches, some in need of shaves, some chawing tobacco. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT He is lying prone, his hat off, squinting down into a long reach of desert canyon at the Comanche encampment -- with tepees set up, a thin wisp of smoke rising from a fire, the horse herd penned in a draw cut off by an improvised corral of rawhide ropes. EXT. THE COMANCHE ENCAMPMENT - WIDE ANGLE SHOT - DAWN LIGHT The camp is sleeping. A dog yaps shrilly. One of the tepee flaps opens and Scar steps out. He picks up a stone or a chunk of wood and throws it. The dog yelps and runs off. Scar's air is troubled, suspicious. He heads for the horse herd. The camp sleeps on. CLOSE SHOT - ETHAN - AT RIM OF A MESA - DAWN LIGHT His face betrays a bitter inner satisfaction. He looks back along the trail as faintly we hear the approach of the Ranger company. Then he squirms back, retrieving his hat. FULL SHOT - HEAD OF RANGER COLUMN - DAWN LIGHT Sam, seeing Ethan in the near distance, raises his hand in a signal for halt and waits. Ethan scrambles down the trail to join him. He takes the reins of his horse from Martin. ETHAN We can get within 500 yards... there's a hogback to the south. CLAYTON How many, would you say? ETHAN (drily) Enough to go around... I'd say about a dozen apiece... Mount 'em up! He moves as though to mount, but Martin steps forward. MARTIN Wait! We go chargin' in, they'll kill her... and you know it. ETHAN (calmly) It's what I'm countin' on. Sam stares at him, but Martin isn't surprised. MARTIN I know you are... Only it ain't goin' to be that way... she's alive... ETHAN Livin' with Comanches ain't bein' alive... MARTIN (same tone) She's alive... Better she's alive and livin' with Comanches than her brains bashed out... CLAYTON Now son, it's a bitter thing to say, but there's more than your sister at stake here. ETHAN There sure is! I'm going to tell you somethin'... I wasn't going to speak of it... But I'll tell you now. Did you notice them scalps strung on Scar's lance? (MARTIN NODS) Did you see the third scalp from the point of the lance? Long... wavy hair... MARTIN I saw it... And don't try to tell me it was Aunt Martha's or Lucy's... ETHAN You don't remember it, but I remember. That was your mother's scalp! Martin stares, quick disbelief in his eyes. But Ethan's eyes hold his and there is no doubting the truth in them. ETHAN I didn't want to tell you... but maybe it's your right to know. CLAYTON (quietly) Now mount up, son... Sam puts his hand on Martin's elbow -- as though to turn him to his duty. But Martin jerks the arm away. MARTIN It don't change it... All I'm askin' is a chance to sneak in there... an' try to get her out before you come chargin' in. CLAYTON What if you're caught? MARTIN It won't tell 'em anything, will it! Just a man alone... ETHAN I say NO! CLAYTON Go ahead, son... But at the first alarm, we're comin' in -- and we ain't goin' to have time to pick and choose our targets when we do... Ethan looks long and hard at Martin, then reaches into his shirt for the folded, dirty, dog-eared paper that was his will. Slowly he tears it into shreds. ETHAN It's your funeral... Martin squats and starts pulling off his boots. He glances up as Charlie MacCorry comes over, an Indian blanket in his hands. He tosses it onto Martin's shoulder. CHARLIE Here... you fight like a Comanch... Maybe this'll help ya pass as one. Then

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